I have often thought

About alternate timelines

How they might collide

Twin souls reaching out

Searching for one another

Across time and space

What would happen then?

When their journey finally ends

But they do not fit?

Do they twist and bend

Trying to fill the spaces

Content with embers?

Or do they retreat

Back into oblivion

Yearning for what could?

Musical pairing:

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It started out being your run-of-the-mill FF group chat, but it quickly grew into something more. We’ve become friends! Friends that talk about pretty much everything besides football.

In one of our many manic conversations, we decided we wanted to make secret-santa-style “mix tapes” for each other, like we used to back in the good ol’ days. put together a randomizer, and we all got our assigned crush.

We all spent the week overthinking our playlists, restarting them from scratch multiple times, and listening to them over and over again to make sure they were just right. And now, today is the day for the reveals.

Without further ado, here is the playlist I created for my crush. If you’re not in our league, this probably means nothing to you, but for my FF homies: who do you think my secret Substack crush is?

And to my crush: I hope you enjoy what I made for you, and I hope you have a crush on me back <3

P.S. Here’s a bonus track for

Character Profile:

Elspeth Wick, who owns the butcher shop opposite the inn and has the strongest arms in town despite insisting that she has never exercised a day in her life. Elspeth sings while she works. The songs come to her as she goes about her day, and sometimes, if her path crosses the path of someone else, she will sing about the person, her thoughts about them, as good or as bad these thoughts may be.

If you knock on the back door at night, you’ll leave with something wrapped in paper, but everyone knows not to ask where she got it from or what it is. It always tastes amazing in stew, though.

Elspeth is a frequent guest at the inn but never steps foot into church (but she would if they’d serve drinks there). She makes upsetting Father Corvin a sport, and every bad word the Lantern Boy knows has been taught to him by Elspeth herself.

Prompt 1:

Night set over the town as I finished cleaning my cleaver; I hummed a minor tune as I watched the blood swirling down the drain in crimson pinwheels. Once I had it good as new, I checked my reflection in its glimmering steel, set it down along my menagerie of sharp, pointy things, and hung up my apron. I stepped out of my butcher shop into the cool night, attempting to lock the door behind me, but I fumbled with my keys.

Fuck, I can’t see for shit.

I turned around and squinted out into the darkness.

Why the fuck aren’t the lanterns on yet?

“Why aren’t the lanterns lit?” It was Father Corvin’s raspy, condescending voice that echoed my thoughts.

Father Corvin. Ugh. The man really grated on my last fucking nerve. I could see past his holier-than-thou bullshit; His eyes gave everything away. Those hazel-green eyes—I could see the longing in them, and the fire that blazed as I’d bait him into a raging fit. Oh, how I loved to upset him so.

A tingle coursed through my loins at the thought.

My cheeks warmed, and embarrassment churned in my chest. Where did that come from?

I shook the feeling off and started walking toward where Corvin’s hissy fit was coming from. There in the shadows was my precious Lantern Boy, trying with all his might to light the lanterns. He pulled out match after match, but nothing caught light.

“Leave the poor boy alone, can’t you see he’s trying?” I chastised the pompous, self-righteous priest.

As I headed towards the boy to help him, the lantern just outside the old, rundown bakery spontaneously ignited.

“Here, boy, look. That one’s lit.”

He rushed over, the lantern in his hand clanking as it jostled back and forth. He transferred the flame and went down the line of lanterns, casting the town in a soft amber glow. We followed him down towards the harbor to his favorite lantern. More of the townspeople have joined us now: the ferryman, the town fool, the man who sells nothing, Old Brindlewick, and, of course, the lovely innkeeper and my best friend, Mara May.

We watched as the final lantern was lit. The flame erupted, and for a moment the colored glass threw strange shapes across the harbor, like dancing technicolor bubbles, and suddenly I was overtaken by a vision.

He’s younger, broader. His silver hair returned to its original deep brunette shade. But his eyes—those hazel-green eyes—were just the same. He towered above me, saying something I couldn’t make out.

Then, it just vanished. Poof.

I walked over to Mara. “What the fuck just happened?”

But she didn’t hear me. She just stared blankly ahead through the crowd out into the harbor.

Alabaster wings

Gliding across the water

Pretty, fragile things

Quiet is the night

A hunter’s admiration

The unknowing gull

Locked in venery

Beauty is all consuming

Awe is turned to greed

The bow is loosened

Stained are alabaster wings

Scarlet blooming there

Sinking and drowning

Then ripped from evening tides

Slowing, dying heart

Alabaster wings

Yoked across hunter shoulders

Pretty, fragile things

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According to the Catholic Church, there are two distinct types of sin: mortal and venial. A mortal sin separates a person from God’s saving grace, and three conditions must be met for a sin to be considered mortal: the act must involve a grave matter, be committed with full knowledge, and be performed with full and deliberate consent. Then there are venial sins, which weaken a person’s relationship with God instead of completely severing it. Father Quinn had become increasingly burdened by the latter in recent years, and his current penitent was no different.

Maeve arrived at precisely nine in the morning wearing a dark knit sweater that clashed against her pallid skin, and a water-sodden umbrella in hand. Her soil-covered wellies squelched along the tile floor as Father Quinn guided her over to the confessional.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she whispered. “It has been three days since my last confession.”

Father Quinn leaned back against the mahogany, head tilted up toward the heavens, and quietly let out an exasperated breath.

“It’s Aoife again, Father. She won’t stop leaving her bins out, and I-I cursed her, Father.” Her words came barreling out of her, growing louder until they echoed throughout the church. She paused for a beat to regain her composure. “For these and all of the sins of my past life, I am truly sorry.”

He rolled his head toward the screen. “You cursed her for leaving her bins out?”

“Yes, Father. You see, they smell something awfully terrible, and they block the road.” He could hear the rustling of her umbrella as she absentmindedly twirled it in her hands.

“God has commanded us to love our neighbors, Maeve. Your penance will be one of charity.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Take Aoife’s bins up to her house after the rubbish is collected for four weeks.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You may make the Act of Contrition.”

She took in a deep breath. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”

As Maeve left the confessional, Quinn massaged his temples. These sorts of confessions were all too routine in his parish. If it wasn’t Maeve’s vendetta against Aoife, it was Aoife’s against Maeve. Or Old Man Cassidy’s addiction to buying rubber ducks. These mundanities plagued him day in and day out. Luckily, there was never a shortage of wine in the Catholic Church to mend his fraying edges.

***

The storm raged as Father Quinn entered his private office at half-past eleven. He set his nightly bottle of wine that he took from the church’s cellar onto his desk, removed his collar, and unbuttoned his shirt down to the bottom of his sternum. He took a seat and watched as the rain beat against the stained-glass window in heavy sheets, and flashes of lightning illuminated the otherwise unlit room. This is how he always preferred to end his days after dealing with the town numpties—alone, quiet, and in the dark.

He found it ironic that doing the Lord’s work was slowly ripping apart his soul. The sour taste of regret coated his tongue; he lamented his decision to go to seminary and longed for a life where others’ salvation was of no importance to him. He uncorked the bottle and guzzled it down, letting the sweet wine fill the hole in his chest.

Before Quinn could take another swig, the heavy oak door to his office drifted open.

“Father, may I come in?” A soft, velvety voice came from the shadowy depths of the hallway.

“Confessions are done for the day. Come back in the morning,” he quipped, his lips lightly grazing the mouth of the bottle.

“I fear it is urgent.” A flash of lightning revealed the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen standing in the doorway.

“How can I help you then?”

Another flash, and in the split second of darkness, she closed the distance—appearing right before his desk. The scent of fresh summer grass and salty ocean tide flooded the room. Quinn became acutely aware of his bared chest, his fingers stumbling over every button as he scrambled to restore his facade of pious priest.

“I’m actually here to assist you.”

He cleared his throat. “With what exactly, miss–”

“You may call me Leannan.” She leaned her hands on his desk, her eyes glinting in the dark. “And I am here to assist with that crushing, suffocating weight sitting on your shoulders, Father.”

“I need no such help. Now, please leave. I must return to my work.”

“Work?” she scoffed, a low laugh vibrating in her chest. “Tell me, priest, have you found fulfillment in serving your Lord? Because the sacrilegious bottle at your lips tells me otherwise.”

“I don’t see how you could help me.”

“You spend your mornings granting absolution for fights over rubbish bins, your afternoons maintaining crumbling stone, and your evenings hiding in the dark.”

A muscle ticked in Quinn’s jaw.

“I can give you what you really want—a life outside of the pathetic parish.”

He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers, palms pressed against his abdomen. “How?”

A delicate, clawed hand caressed his mind.

The wooden desk cleared with a single sweep of his arm. She lay back upon its surface, her legs parted for him. He pulled his belt loose from his pants in a frenzy and sank deep inside her, her hands tangled in his dark hair as he licked the salt off her bare breasts.

The vision elicited the same response in him as the ones he’d fantasized about every night. The ones he chased in secret as he stroked himself in the shower. His vow of celibacy had nearly driven him mad over the years; for the past decade, the only pleasure he’d felt had come from his own hand.

The fall from grace would be easy—she was right there, daring him to bed her. He could have her right now on his desk as the vision had promised, acting with full knowledge and with full and deliberate consent. The soft heat of her skin would finally replace the roughness of his own palm, and the mere thought of it had his manhood aching.

“No,” he muttered, his voice raspy but firm. He couldn’t believe he was refusing this. Had his years in the church taken root this deep?

“Come now, Quinn,” she coaxed. “ Bring yourself to me, and you can have what you wish for most.”

No. He wouldn’t do this again. He’d already surrendered his life, his body, and his youth to one deity; he was damned if he’d do it again. Freedom would be on his own terms.

Quinn gritted his teeth, meeting her shadowed gaze without flinching. “Leave. Now.”

Leannan paused. “Well, well, Father. A strength of will like yours is a rare, terrible thing.”

What kind of game was she playing?

She leaned in close until her breath brushed his ear. “My Lord, my soul is yours to keep.”

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The sun was setting as the Uber pulled up to a sprawling manor in the middle of the woods. Apparently, the only venue that would hold Monster Lovers Con was out in the middle of nowhere.

We had driven miles on gravel roads hedged so densely with trees and boughs of Spanish moss that any pockets of sky were few and far between. I had listened to Ice Planet Barbarians to pass the time, imagining what I would do if I was abducted by aliens and taken to a strange, unknown world.

The car rounded the lantern-lined driveway toward a grand stone staircase leading to the entrance. The place itself was enchanting; white-paneled siding, large, curved balconies on every level, and shuttered windows—all juxtaposed by intricate corbels of spider silk.

“Thank you!” I called out, shutting the car door. I turned and headed up the steps, grabbing the skirt of my milkmaid style dress.

I found myself already winded as I reached the front door of the manor thanks to the floral corset I wore (and definitely not due to my current lack of exercise). It made my boobs look amazing, but my insides felt like a tube of pressurized biscuits ready to explode. Breasts heaving, I grabbed the iron door handle and tentatively entered the manor.

Instead of a traditional entryway, the door opened into an open-air courtyard surrounded by doors leading to other parts of the manor. People milled about, and the air was thick with the scent of earthy tobacco smoke and… blueberries?

There were plenty of people dressed similarly to me: maidens in corsets with chin-high breasts, braided coronets of hair, and flushed cheeks. Others wore tunics and pants, complete with pointed ears and fake swords at their sides. But then, there were the ones who came dressed as monsters.

Never in my life had I seen such intricate costuming. Everything was so realistic. Every piece of fur, scale, tusk, and claw, was created with such craftsmanship that it left my jaw on the floor—or it would be if these luscious lady lumps weren’t in the way.

I wove through the other attendees, admiring the incredible costumes on my way toward the massive tree standing in the center of the courtyard. Its branches spread so wide they nearly reached the second-floor balconies on either side, and were adorned with glowing lanterns and decorative birdcages. What really caught my eye was the gargoyle statue that stood beneath its canopy.

He was the hellish version of Doryphoros. My eyes roamed over his broad shoulders and rippling stone-hewn muscles, but what set him apart from his Greek counterpart were the massive wings tucked in behind his back and a face that was half man, half beast.

“I wouldn’t mind cracking this fine piece of marble.” I whispered. God, I was no better than a man—objectifying a fucking statue. Disgusting.

“What was that?” A deep voice rumbled from inside the gargoyle as its head swiveled toward me.

I startled, nearly falling to the floor. “Oh, shit. Sorry, sir, I thought you were a statue.”

“And you wanted to ‘crack’ me? That’s a bit violent, is it not?”

“Uh, well… that’s not exactly what I meant.”

“What else could it mean?”

Before I could even begin getting myself out of the hole I dug myself into, a man dressed as a minotaur drunkenly stumbled into me, spilling the wine from his goblet down the front of my dress.

The dark fabric clung instantly to my skin. The gargoyle’s stone eyes dropped, tracking the wet stain before lingering right over my chest. My cheeks flared hot.

“Apologize, you drunken bovine.” he growled.

“My ‘pologies, Goliath.” the minotaur man slurred.

“To her, not to me, you fool.”

He took a deep, swaying bow. “Forgive me—” he hiccupped “—miss.”

My eyes darted between them. Why the hell was he bowing?

“Hey, accidents happen. No need to bow.”

As the minotaur man retreated back into the crowd, Goliath gave me another once-over. “Should we continue our conversation somewhere more private? These beasts get a little unruly.”

“I would like that,” I managed to say, my voice suddenly very small.

Goliath held out both hands in invitation, and I placed mine into his gray palms. My breath hitched as our skin met—his hands were cold and rough, like actual stone. My head spun as a wild realization hit me: these weren’t cosplayers. I suddenly found myself in a strange, unknown world of real life monsters, and I have to admit I was a little ashamed of the thrill that coursed through me.

His wings flared, snapping wide behind him. He pulled me flush against his chest and catapulted us into the air. Cold wind whipped through my hair as the courtyard dropped away in a blur.

As quickly as we took flight, we touched down on the rooftop balcony overlooking the surrounding woods. The golden sunset had faded, replaced with an indigo sky filled with twinkling stars and a full moon.

We talked on that roof for what felt like hours and minutes all at once—laughing, stealing subtle glances at each other under the moonlight. As time ticked by, we kept drawing closer, the cold stone railing at our backs and the distance between us shrinking until our shoulders brushed.

“I am enjoying my time with you tonight—oh goodness, I don’t believe I ever learned your name.”

I giggled. “It’s Constance.”

“Constance,” he repeated, his voice deeper and smokier than before. My heart hammered against my ribs at the sound of my name on his lips. “I am enjoying my evening with you.”

“But everyone calls me Connie.”

“Well, I am not everyone, am I?” He turned to face me fully, his gaze narrowing on my lips. “May I kiss you, Constance?”

I nodded.

Our lips met softly at first, giving me time to grow accustomed to the cold texture of a monster made of stone. As I found my rhythm, our pace quickened. I wound my arms around his neck, and at that, he closed whatever distance remained between us, trapping me against the balcony railing with his broad arms on either side.

His lips strayed down my throat before tracing back up to my ear.

“Turn around,” he whispered, his gravelly voice vibrating against my skin.

I happily did as I was told.

He pressed against my backside, letting me feel exactly how he was reacting to me—and my God, the name Goliath was an understatement. His claws snagged the lacing of my corset, loosening the ties until my again heaving breasts spilled free of their cage.

He cupped and kneaded my skin, drawing a breathy moan from my throat as his stone-rough hands began roaming further south. For fuck’s sake, was this actually happening?

Goliath let out a low, stony growl of his own, but as I cracked my eyes open, something caught my attention at the tree line.

Its presence instantly doused the heat pooling in my core. Its skin was a pale, translucent white, and the creature possessed no eyes. Though it stood upright on two legs like a man, its long arms reached nearly to the ground. Even from our height, I could tell it was easily over seven feet tall.

Goliath sensed the shift in my body and stepped back. “Have I done something wrong, Constance?”

“Is that one… supposed to be here?”

Another growl vibrated deep in Goliath’s chest, but this time, there was no pleasure in it. “No. That one is not supposed to be here.”

He snapped his wings wide, launching into the night sky before diving straight down toward the tree line where the creature bolted into the dark. Seconds later, bloodcurdling wails echoed through the trees.

Goliath returned to the rooftop covered in dark green slime.

There must be something really clinically wrong with me because the sight of it did not frighten me in the slightest. If anything, seeing him stand there with fresh death dripping from his hands only made me want him more.

I sauntered over to him, reached down, and loosened the loincloth hanging from his hips.

And then? I cracked the absolute fuck out of that gargoyle.

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Cigarette smoke wreathed the interior of La Lune in a grey shroud. Large candelabras, set against deep maroon velvet, served as beacons in the haze; their flames flickering and dancing while thick, glistening rivulets dripped down the tall white candlesticks. A saccharine blend of peach and lime filled the air.

A stage sat front and center of the club, the patrons hypnotized by the scantily clad women prancing about it. Their masterfully choreographed routine featured kisses and winks peppered between high kicks, swooshing skirts, and swaying hips.

Henri followed closely behind René and Jean-Claude as they snaked through the circular tables. His attention caught on every inch of soft, supple skin that flashed before him, his ears rang with every note the band played, and his pulse hammered against his chest.

The trio finally arrived at a booth tucked away in the corner of the club.

Henri slid into his seat on one side of the table while René and Jean-Claude seated themselves across from him. He leaned back against the velvet cushions, pulling out a comb from his suit pocket. He quickly ran it through his meticulously slick-backed hair, and released a long, exaggerated breath. René propped his elbows on the wooden table, peering up through his brow with a roguish smile.

“So, Henri, did you tell Camille where you were going tonight?” René teased.

“Hardly.” Henri shrugged, slipping the comb back into his pocket. “I gave her the same lie I’m sure you told Margot and Élise. We are all very dedicated to the office tonight, aren’t we?” He could taste the guilt that bubbled up inside him in the back of his throat. It was sour and rotten. He swallowed hard, trying to wash it away.

“Indeed, we are,” Jean-Claude murmured. His gaze had drifted, snagging on something through the shifting veil of smoke.

A woman emerged from the club’s depths, sauntering up to the table. Her milky-blonde hair was set in chin-length fingerwaves that caught the dim light in sleek ripples. She wore a red bejeweled corset that pressed against her curves, while crimson fishnets traced the long, lean lines of her legs.

Her full rouged lips parted, “Champagne?” Her voice was smooth and warm like honey.

The three men raked their eyes over the waitress, drinking her in with slow, deliberate approval. Henri had to admit he’d never seen a woman so drop dead gorgeous before in his life—not even his Camille. The thought had him reaching for his comb once again, although this time his hand fumbled ever so slightly.

“Oh absolutely, but only if we could have you too, mon chèri.” Jean-Claude replied, but his gaze still lingered on her voluptuous body.

Her darkened lashes dipped low over heavy-lidded eyes, the corners of her mouth curling into a slight smile. “Right away, sir.”

With a fluid turn she disappeared back into the smoke.

René let out a low whistle, “How about that hot piece of ass? Eh, Henri?”

Henri caught the amusement in René’s eyes. He was testing him, but he wouldn’t let him see his shame.

“She’s not really my type.”

Liar. He was a liar. He was lying now, and he lied to Camille when he called her earlier that afternoon. Camille who was home alone with their infant child. Guilt rose up higher in his throat, but she’d become so sad and disinterested in him. What was a man to do?

“No, no. Of course. How could I forget? You prefer them more plain and boring than that.”

Beneath the table, Henri’s grip tightened around the plastic comb until it snapped cleanly in the palm of his fist, but before he could lash out a voice purred through the club.

“Gentlemen, now is the time you have all been waiting for… please, put your hands together for the one, the only, Lilith!”

Their attention snapped to the stage, leaving the inevitable fight for a later time. From the rafters, a crescent moon descended over the stage and the spotlight shone on a tall woman with long, dark hair that swept over her body in soft waves. She stood at the microphone, her dress a sheer silver, mimicking the appearance of moonlight bathing her naked form. Dancers adorned with large ostrich feathers trailed in from the wings, making their way down into the crowd.

“Your champagne.”

The honeyed voice was right at Henri’s ear, pulling him back from the stage.

“Oh, yes. Thank you..” he trailed off not knowing her name.

She leaned in close to set a crystal coupe on the table before him. Henri couldn’t help but glance down at what she was so conveniently putting into view. “Camille. My name is Camille.”

The bile in Henri’s throat threatened to cross the precipice then. He gripped the comb once more, welcoming the sharp bite into his skin.

Her fingers glided deliberately across the front of his jacket, trailing a feather-light path over his chest and shoulder as she smoothed herself upright.

Jean-Claude tipped his coupe toward her. “Weren’t you part of the deal?”

“Don’t worry, handsome. I didn’t forget.”

She slipped away into the crowd, returning a moment later with one of the ostrich-feathered dancers, the two of them carrying over a pair of heavy wooden chairs.

“Time for your show.” Camille extended a delicate hand, gesturing for the men to step out of the booth.

René and Jean-Claude rose, doing their best to mask their eager grins beneath a veil of cool nonchalance. The moment they sat, the women straddled their laps, their bodies writhing in slow, intoxicating rhythm with the music.

Henri’s gaze drifted toward the stage. Lilith sang to the room with her arms stretched wide, commanding every breath in the house. The brass section surged into a crescendo, and then faded away, leaving only the low, rumble of a single upright bass.

Lilith leaned into the microphone, her voice dropping to a low, raspy purr.

“Now is the time for the real show. Now, my daughters... you may feast.”

Henri turned back to his friends, his stomach dropping. For a split second, he swore he saw Camille—his actual Camille—sitting atop René’s lap, nipping at his earlobe. He blinked hard, trying to purge the guilt-driven hallucination, but her plain, mousey-brown hair remained. Her freckled skin replaced the unblemished porcelain of the waitress. She stared directly at him while her fingers tangled into René’s grease-laden curls, gripping them tightly as she forcefully tilted his head back. She trailed her pale lips along René’s exposed throat, her dark eyes never once breaking contact with Henri.

Cold sweat beaded along Henri’s brow. He crossed himself. What kind of hell was this place? He needed to run—he shouldn’t be here in the first place.

He lunged upward out of the booth, but before his feet could catch the floor, a scream ripped from Jean-Claude’s throat, and a warm spray of crimson hit Henri square across the face.

Camille rose from her perch, smearing the crimson from her mouth with the back of her hand. She lunged forward, seizing Henri by the lapels of his jacket and slamming him flat onto the table. His head cracked against the wood, resting in a pool of spilt champagne and shattered glass.

She straddled his chest, pinning him down. Gone was his quiet, plain wife; towering over him now was a snarling, bat-faced demon. It drove its fangs deep into Henri’s throat, drinking him in slowly. Deliberately.

Fire bloomed beneath his skin, burning him from the inside out.

As his life faded from the world, two final words sputtered through the blood choking his throat.

“Forgive... me.”

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My Uncle Charlie and I have always shared a special bond. He would visit every Christmas, and we spent our summers road-tripping to his cabin. I loved when he’d take us out on the lake in his fancy boat, whipping us around on the tube until our arms gave out. Even now, he’s the only person who can make me snort-laugh with his Donald Duck impression. So I was thrilled, if a little surprised, when my parents told me he’d be visiting Presidents Day weekend.

“Smells good in here, Pa!” I called out to my dad, who was working diligently in the kitchen as I bounced down the stairs. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Steak and potatoes—my specialty!” He looked over at me with steam-coated glasses. And it was. This man had spent his entire adult life perfecting the most mouthwatering, melted-in-your-mouth steak and potatoes you’d ever have, I guarantee it.

“What time is Uncle Charlie supposed to get here?” I asked as I hoisted myself up to sit on the island in front of where my father was cooking.

He glanced down at his watch. “Should be here any minute.”

“Why’s he visiting anyway?”

“Dunno.” He turned around with a plate full of steaks. “Could you put these on the table for me?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I hopped down from my perch and carried the steaks into the dining room. The table is perfectly set with an Americana-themed tablescape. That’s what my mom called it when she did up the table with fancy centerpieces she crafted. She was obsessed with watching Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee on the Food Network.

“You know, I worry about him these days.” He set the casserole dish of warm and gooey Cheesy Potatoes onto the red gingham-clothed table.

“Oh yeah? How come?”

“He’s getting older, and he’s all alone up there in his cabin. I’m sure it gets lonely.”

“C’mon, Dad, it’s Charlie. You know how he is.”

“Content in his solitude,” we said in unison.

The doorbell rang, followed by a pitter-patter of footsteps.

“Hey! You made it! How was the drive?” My mom’s voice carried down the hallway. “You’ve made it just in time, Rob and Rebecca just put the food on the table.”

Mom and Uncle Charlie emerged from the dimly lit hallway; she always avoided using the “big lights” whenever possible.

“Look who’s here!” she said in sing-song, waving her hands next to Uncle Charlie like a magician who’s just made someone reappear.

I rounded the table in a near sprint and greeted him with our usual bear hug. Instead of reciprocating, he just stood there and gently patted my back 3 times. Awkward. I knew I should have grown out of it by then, but it was Charlie. It was our thing.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I gotta eat!” Dad said, rubbing large circles over his stomach. “Plus, Charlie must be starving after his trip. Huh, Chuck?”

“Yes. Food sounds pleasant.”

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” My mom pulled out a chair for Charlie and then took her own next to Dad.

Charlie remained in the doorway.

“Are you gonna sit down, Uncle Charlie?”

“Yes.” He chose the seat directly across from me; the seat my mother pulled out remained ignored. Mom did her usual fake laugh—the one she used when something awkward happened and she didn’t know what to say.

Mom and Dad helped plate everyone, piling up heaping mounds of Cheesy Potatoes. We all dug in—well, everyone except for Charlie.

“So, Chuckie, how’s the snow up there?” Dad said through a mouthful of steak.

Charlie stared at his plate, tenderly smushing the potatoes with his fork. “Snow is good.”

Strange. Uncle Charlie was an avid skier; you usually couldn’t get him to shut up about the “pow.” One Christmas, he spent an hour lecturing us on the various styles of ski gear and their purposes.

The man who sat in front of me looked like Uncle Charlie. He had the same dark salt-and-pepper hair. He wore his favorite Patagonia pull-over and khaki pants. Like Charlie did.

“Aw, phooey!” I said in my best attempt at a Donald Duck voice.

Charlie looked up at me. Hope rose in my chest.

“Does something ail you, child?”

My heart plummeted.

“That’s not Charlie.” I slammed my hands down on the table, rattling the glasses and silverware.

“Rebecca Marie!” Mom scolded me. “I’m sure Charlie is just going through something.”

“Yeah, what’s going on, Chaz?” Dad put his fork down.

Charlie hung his head.

“Charles, is everything okay? Look, man, Wendy and I can help you. Whatever it is.”

Charlie began muttering under his breath as his body convulsed.

“Honey, maybe we need to take him to a hospital.” Mom placed her hand on top of Dad’s.

Slimy, puce-colored tentacles slithered onto the table from where Charlie’s hands had been, weaving around the picture-perfect Americana.

“What the hell is that!” We all jumped out of our chairs. The tentacles rushed towards mom and dad, wrapped around their ankles, and wound up and around their bodies. They forced their way into their mouths. Their muffled cries lasted only a few seconds before their body went limp.

A blood-curdling scream tore out of me. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t escape. Fear had me in a wicked vice.

Charlie’s head turned slowly towards me, and he opened his mouth, completely agape. A choir of voices—male and female, young and old—spoke through his unmoving lips.

“We wait for you, child.”

This story was inspired by s prompt: “The thing that used to be Uncle Charlie smiled at me. Only it and I knew the truth.”

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Seven prisoners guilty of Great Sins are led through a mystical veil to the lake of Yr Wythnos, where a priest forces them into a deadly trial for absolution.

Read Part One

Our heads bobbed in the center of the lake, and our mouths quivered from the icy waters. Ida swam next to me, her bronze skin blanched with fear. Ahead of us were Eris, Cain, and Ardon.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five… Where was Bruis?

“What are we supposed to do?” Ida muttered through her tears, her lips already turning blue.

“We have to kill a fish. What do you fucking think we have to do?” Eris turned and snapped back at her.

“She’s scared, Eris,” I retorted.

I placed my trembling hand on Ida’s shoulder. “We are going to figure it out. Don’t worry.”

Bubbles erupted in the waves before us.

“Holy shit, we are gonna be eaten alive!” Ida cried, splashing frantically.

Slowly, something emerged from the depths.

“I caught one! I caught one!” Bruis cheered as he finally crested the water, one hand held proudly over his bald head, clutching the Bloat-Scale. The fish was grotesque—its belly was a large, translucent sack of gunk, its mouth oversized and gasping.

Eris scoffed. “How did you do it, lard-arse?”

“That’s enough,” I said sternly.

“Shut up, cunt. Why do you think you’re in charge?” Eris sneered, his eyes narrow and cold. “We are all gonna die. No sense in playing nice.”

I shrugged off his insults and turned back to Bruis. “Ignore him. How did you do it, Bruis? How did you stay down so long?”

“The vial the priest gave us.. i—it must make it so we can breathe under water.”

“Oh, great. Let’s prolong the inevitable.” Ida whined, raking her hands through her raven-black curls.

Bruis chuckled, “I swam down for a bit, and then I saw one. It just let me catch it—the bastard didn’t even put up a fight.”

Cain swam forward, his face twisting. “How were you able to catch one so easily? You don’t even deserve it.”

“Hell I do!” Bruis barked.

Partake of its flesh, and you will be pardoned. The priest’s words echoed in my mind.

“Take a bite, Bruis.” I urged.

“Yeah, lard-arse, eat up.” Eris and Cain jeered in unison.

“No, arseholes,” I snapped. “Remember what the priest said. Partake of its flesh and you will be pardoned. You have to eat it.”

Without hesitation, Bruis bit deeply into the side of the Bloat-Scale, tearing out a chunk of grey, fatty flesh.

“Mmm. I-it’s delicious!” He took another bite, slime coating his chin. “Tastes like roasted hog!” He tore into it again. “And my mother’s blueberry pie!”

My brows knitted together.

Dark, necrotic veins started crawling up the sides of Bruis’s neck. His skin began to swell, his face turned a sickening hue of aubergine, and his eyes glazed over.

“Bruis! You have to stop!” I panicked, reaching out.

“I can’t!” He choked out, his eyes were bulging, the whites of his eyes turning red as tears ran down his face. “I can’t stop! Help me!”

Before I could reach him, Bruis’s eyes rolled into his skull. He tipped back, belly-up, the half-eaten fish still in hand.

“My gods,” Ardon whispered.

“I can’t do this.” Ida was sobbing, then her body simply slipped beneath the surface.

I dove in after her.

The water tasted like mud and iron. I hesitated to take a breath, my instincts fighting to keep me alive. But when my lungs finally began to burn, I took a tentative breath. Bruis had been right; the potion’s magical properties allowed me to breathe underwater as easily as breathing mountain air.

Below, Ida’s limp body drifted down towards a jagged trench.

I kicked hard until I could wrap my hand around her bicep. I tried to yank her back towards the surface, but she thrashed against me.

“Let me go!” Her words were muffled, bubbling through the water, but the rejection was clear.

I released my grip.

How could she give up so easily?

She drifted the last few feet, her bottom finally touching the silty floor. A dark shadow erupted from the rocks—a creature of stone and algae.

The Rock-Scale.

She was gone in the blink of an eye. The Rock-Scale didn’t even have to hunt her; it just had to wait long enough for someone to stop trying.

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Trigger warning: Body Horror, Blood Mention, Mind Reading/Invasion of Privacy, Biting/Marking, and Male/Male/Female Dynamic

The transformation was, above all else, remarkably beautiful. The bride’s ribs cracked and reshaped beneath the white lace of her dress; a masterful ballet of sinew and claw. The Great Hall of Blackwood Abbey was illuminated by candlelight and the soft, factured mosaic of moonlight through the stained glass. The sound of the rhythmic, wet thrum of shifting anatomy echoed throughout the cavernous space. This primal cadence was met only by the shallow, steady breathing of the sole human witness.

Isabella did not flee, nor did she scream. She merely watched as the ceremony transfigured from the expected elegance of the Ton to beastly ferality that knew nothing of status nor decorum.

Sublime, she pondered to herself, her eyes heavy with dark fascination as she looked around the hall. She noticed a wide array of queer creatures: some with matted fur and gnashing teeth, while others scarcely appeared much different from their human forms, save for the predatory glint in their eyes.

An orchestra of strings and drums began a low, bouncing tune as the housemaids and butlers began trickling in, carrying plates and large chalices with mechanical precision. Isabella felt a thrill of icy curiosity prickle her skin.

What do the damned consume?

“Blood, mostly,” a voice, silken and warm, whispered near her ear. “But I am not familiar with the eating habits of Minotaurs nor Banshees.”

With a sharp inhale, Isabella turned to face the voice. She was met with the visage of a strikingly handsome man; his sandy brown hair was perfectly coiffed, and his skin was so pale and flawless it resembled the white marble of the floor. He wore the attire of a high-ranking gentleman, yet his amber eyes held a depth of centuries that no mere Lord could possess.

His thumb swiped a stray, dark droplet from the corner of his mouth, and he slowly licked it clean.

“My apologies, it seems I have forgotten my manners in the thrill of it all,” he laughed, his gaze dropping to the pulse leaping in her throat, “I am Edward, the Lord of Crowley. And you, Miss Isabella, are the only thing in this depraved hall that still smells of the living.”

“How are you aware of my name—and not to mention my thoughts?” she asked hurriedly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

Edward’s lips curved into a sly, sophisticated smile. “My kind is given unique gifts. I happen to be able to reach into the mind of others, and yours is quite impossible to ignore, I fear.”

“Showing off again, I see,” a new voice rumbled. It was deeper and huskier than Edward’s.

Isabella turned to find a man who looked like he had been sculpted from the earth. His waistcoat was unbuttoned just enough to hint at the powerful, broad chest beneath. Unlike Edward’s marble-cool skin, this man radiated a feverish warmth.

Never in her life did Isabella think she would garner the attention of two strikingly handsome suitors in the same night—let alone two Otherworldly men.

“My name is Jacob,” he leaned down, his breath hot against her cheek, “and while the Lord here likes to listen to your heart, I’d much rather feel it racing against mine.”

His eyes traced the curve of her bosom as he reached for her hand. The orchestra reached a crescendo, the drums mimicking the frantic thud of her pulse, as liquid heat bloomed in her core.

“Unfortunately for you, Jacob, Miss Isabella, and I are in the middle of a most intriguing conversation,” Edward said, his voice dropping an octave. “And it would be most rude of you to interrupt.”

“Everything is intriguing to you, Edward.” Jacob sighed, stepping closer. “And Miss Isabella is her own woman, not a prize to be won. She is free to choose whoever she fancies.”

They both turned their gazes on her simultaneously. Isabella drank both of them in—one ice, one fire. The cacophony of the Great Hall faded into the background, and the air grew heavy with the cloying scent of jasmine and iron. She took a deep breath and gave her answer before her courage could falter.

“Why choose?” She whispered, “I am no maiden, I assure you, and I have long since ceased to shy away from scandal.”

The drums began anew, a primitive driving beat. Their gazes darkened instantly, fueled by raw, animalistic desire.

“Perhaps,” Edward murmured, tucking yet another stray hair behind Isabella’s ear. “We should retire somewhere quieter. Somewhere… private”

“The library,” Jacob growled, his hand tightening at the small of her back as he began to steer her toward the door.

The door to the library shut with a heavy thump, severing the sound of the Great Hall. Before a breath could escape her, ice-cold lips clashed into hers, and fiery hands worked with a frantic urgency on the stays of her dress. A gasp escaped her mouth as the stays finally gave way—her silk gown pooled at her feet—and the cool air of the library hit her skin.

Calloused hands kneaded her supple curves, “You are absolutely decadent, Isabella.” Jacob whispered into her ear.

Isabella’s head fell back against Jacob’s chest as Edward nipped at the cord in her neck. The sting was sharp but intoxicating, causing her body to go languid in their arms.

“She is more than decadent,” Edward said against her skin. “But tell me, Miss Isabella—you may not shy away from scandal, but are you willing to be utterly ruined?”

This story is in response to ’s Story Time prompt! I hope you enjoyed this Twilight fanfiction hehe.

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I wondered if the Veil went on for miles, but slowly, the world bled back into focus.

The grey mist succumbed to the verdant hues of Yr Wythnos. Sour lemon gave way to petrichor and earth. The ground squelched under my bare feet, caking my legs in thick, heavy mud. The silence was replaced by an orchestra of croaks and raven calls, punctuated by the rhythmic clank of our shackles.

The priest led the seven of us to the bank. The frigid water bit testingly at my toes; its opacity was a veil in its own right, refusing to betray what lurked beneath.

“As you know,” the priest began, his voice thin and dry, “the seven of you have been found guilty of a Great Sin by Our Lady of the Lake and condemned to the trial of Yr Wythnos.”

I looked to the man to my left: tall, brutish, his features chiseled into a permanent sneer. His ochre eyes glared with a savage fire, and his hands were balled into fists as they white-knuckled the chains.

“The trial is simple: catch the fish of your respective sin, partake of its flesh, and you will be pardoned. Fail, and your sentence is death.”

The priest clutched his robes as he stepped toward the first in line, drawing an iron key from his pocket.

“Bruis Barlow, guilty of gluttony. To receive absolution, you must partake of the Bloat-Scale.” The shackles fell with a heavy clank, but Bruis stood frozen.

“Come then, Bruis,” the priest chortled, tapping the man’s hanging belly with the key. “Enjoy your swim.”

“Gold! There! Out in the water!” the lanky man beside Bruis shouted. “If lard-arse won’t go, I will!”

Before the priest could turn the lock, the man lunged into the lake.

“Look!” He plunged his bound hands into the murk. “Wait. This is not—”

Before he could finish, he was jerked beneath the surface. A bloom of crimson erupted where he had stood.

“Antoni Turner, guilty of greed,” the priest sighed. “A clever fish, the Gold-Scale. It mimics the glint of coin to lure their prey, then consumes them in seconds.” He turned back to Bruis. “Now, lad, let us hope you are more clever than the fish. Oh! Lest I forget your potion!”

He pulled a vial of inky liquid from his robes and forced it past Bruis’s teeth. Then, clamping a hand on the back of the man’s neck, he shoved him into the reddened water. “Let’s get on with it then!”

Next came Ardon Finch—lust. Cain Picket—envy. Ida Walsh—sloth. Eris Parker—wrath.

One by one, they waded into the depths. Finally, it was my turn.

“Nyssa Morris, guilty of pride. To receive absolution, you must partake of the Omega-Scale.” The priest’s lips curved into a knowing smile.

The shackles fell. The priest reached to seize my face, but I caught his wrist mid-air. “I’ll do it.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

I snatched the vial from his rough palm and drained it. I didn’t wait for his command. I stepped away from the bank, the mud-stained linen trailing in the water like a discarded skin. Behind me, the priest was but a fading shadow.

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This story is in response to s story time prompt (image above)! I quickly slapped this story together, so my apologies for any mistakes hehe

It was 5 in the afternoon, and Luke Montgomery had never been more cheesed in his life.

The captain had called him into his office earlier that morning and explained to him that he had a new partner–Thanatos was his name–green as grass out of the academy. He was to be his charge and show him the ropes.

Now, he stood in front of a bus stop, pulling his case of Copenhagen’s from the back pocket of his favorite pair of jeans. He slid a pouch under his top lip and savored the slightly light-headed sensation that washed over him.

“Have you watched Heated Rivalry? Ugh, it’s my new favorite show. I’m an Ilya guy in the show, but in real life, I really love Hudson Williams. That guy is a hoot and a half. I think I’ll read the book now, and I think they just announced another one coming out.”

Thanatos had not shut up since the moment they left the precinct, and it was really starting to wear Luke down.

Initially, Luke had been intimidated by Thanatos. In fact, he almost crapped his pants when they first met. Thanatos was death incarnate—literally. He stood at probably 7ft at least, and wore a long, black, gauzy robe that covered him entirely save for his skeletal hands. But that all went out the window once he began chattering away.

“Oh, what about Trisha Paytas? You know, people think her first child is Queen Elizabeth incarnated? Of course, I’m not gonna confirm or deny anything, but let’s just say—”

“My god, what did I do to deserve this?” Luke groaned, gently banging his head against the side of the bus stop enclosure.

“Well, actually, that’s kind of why I’m here.”

With his forehead still pressed to the glass, Luke slowly turned his toward Thanatos. “What do you mean, that’s why I’m here?”

“Are you familiar with a woman named Virginia Johannson?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, she’s not too happy with you, buddy. I take it women don’t love it when you’re a–how did she put it? Oh yes–a no-good, two-timing son of a bitch!” His tone was strangely nonchalant, maybe even borderline cheerful.

“And so she made a deal with you to make my life a living hell?” Luke replied mockingly.

“Yep! So, back to Trisha…”

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Man, there is nothing I love more than coming up to my attic after a long day. Now I know what you are probably thinking… your attic? But I must assure you that my attic is the coolest attic you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Think Home Alone, but even cooler. I’ve got a pool table, string lights, around 6-7 guitars, and even a fridge for my vast assortment of beverages.

I flick on the lights, hot pizza in hand, and head over to the brown leather couch in the center of the room. I set the pizza down on the coffee table as my rump sinks into the depths of the perfectly worn-in cushions. My hands rub together—Mr. Burns style—before I dive into the grease-laden pie.

I wolf down a couple of slices and a few bites of my very special chocolate bar before I realize I didn’t grab a bevvy. I pad over in my white tube socks, grab an orange Fanta from my fridge, head back to my spot, and grab the TV remote.

Now, you need to promise not to judge me on this, but I love watching E! News. It’s my guilty pleasure. There’s something about celebrity gossip that I just can’t get enough of. Tonight, they are discussing Timothée Chalamet and his Marty Supreme red carpet look.

Anyway, I prop my feet up on the coffee table and rest my hands in the elastic of my gray sweat pants.

“Holy hell, get a load-a this guy,” a small but bristly voice calls out from the other side of the couch.

My eyes slowly slide from the television over to the source of the sound. Nestled in the crack where the back cushion meets the seat cushion, sits a large rat. He’s perched upright like a human, pink paws scratching at his round pot belly. His whiskers pulled back in a sneer.

“This dude does, like, 3 movies, and he walks around like a total jackass,” the mysterious rodent continues. “Don’t get me wrong–I guess he’s a pretty good actor–but have some decorum, buddy.”

What the actual fuck?

I slap my hand on the wrapper of my chocolate bar and turn it around in my hands. Only 10mg, like I thought. So what the hell is happening?

“And look at that fuckin’ suit,” he adds. “He looks like a fuckin’ bottle of Fanta. No offense,” he turns to me, holding out his paw in apology.

“None taken,” I mutter, my body completely frozen.

The rat leans over and plucks a slice of pizza out of the box. “I hate that the kids these days call him a rat boy. My culture is not a costume, for Pete’s sake!”

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“You’ve done well, my King.” Brannon strolled up beside me, bracing his hands atop the stone railing. “It wasn’t long ago that everything lay in flaming ruins.”

He looked different than he did all those years ago; his mousey brown hair was now streaked with salt and pepper, his belly much rounder, and fine creases framed his deep mahogany eyes.

“I couldn’t have done it without you at my side,” I said, placing my hand firmly on his shoulder. “Thank you again for saving me that day.”

Brannon stared out into the forest. A flock of birds abandoned their perches within the canopy and flew into the amethyst sky.

“I’ve pondered many nights as I lay awake in bed, how one act of kindness took me from being a prisoner in your very dungeon to being your closest advisor.” He cleared his throat and handed me a parchment from his jacket pocket. “I have received word from Kellick. I wanted you to read it first.”

“Ah, hopefully he’s having the time of his life with his sheep out on the Ithram steppe,” I chuckled, unrolling the parchment. But as I scanned the words, my breath caught in my throat.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” Brannon’s greying brows furrow.

“I’ve told you, Bran. Call me Xavier,” I mumbled, re-reading the curling script over and over. Finally, I extended the parchment toward Brannon, my arm shaking. “Perhaps you should—”

“Your Majesty,” A guard appeared in the doorway to my study, face flushed with exertion. “We have guests who request an audience with you. They are waiting in the great hall.”

“Of course,” I nodded, “I’ll meet them in the throne room.”

“I will escort them there,” The guard said with a bow, one hand on the hilt of his gilded sword. He turned on his heel and stalked away.

“Well, then,” I took in one last view of the sun setting over the new Eaveton’s Hold, inhaling sharply. As I turned back to Brannon, I tried to hide the anxiety that now formed a knot in my belly. “Shall we see what this is about?”

The cool gold of my throne felt still too indulgent as I sat down, awaiting the guards to introduce our visitors. Brannon had not read the parchment yet, still clutching the rolled missive in his large tanned hand. Perhaps it was for the best. Chewing at my bottom lip, I fiddled nervously with my father’s signet ring — the one he’d left me the night Eaveton’s Hold fell and Brannon and Kellick escaped with me, unconscious and too young to understand the horror. Sometimes, I swore that I could hear my father’s voice, his bellowing laughter, echo off the halls of the palace. Nevermind the fact that nothing but fragments of the foundation remained after that night. It still felt as though his very essence permeated the ground we rebuilt upon.

The charged silence stretched on. Finally, the massive mahogany doors to the throne room opened with a groan. The guards ushered in Kellick, older, yet still muscled and kissed by the rays of the Ithram sun. Next to him hobbled in a cloaked figure. I glanced at Bannon with trepidation, suddenly wishing he’d had time to read the letter.

“Kellick,” Brannon ran to his friend, throwing his arms around the man’s thick neck. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Kellick’s onyx eyes flitted to mine. I nodded, deciding to let him handle this.

“Bran,” Kellick’s voice dropped, “As you know, Thalsvir has finally fallen. There’s someone who needs refuge.” He motioned to the hunched cloaked figure.

“Of course, Eaveton’s Hold will gladly—”

“You haven’t read my letter, have you?” Kellick asked. “I would have waited for you to respond, but with the isolation of my farm, I do not have the proper access to healers for what she needs.”

Brannon’s eyes darted to the refugee beside Kellick, scanning her up and down.

“What is her ailment?”

“She was under powerful sorcery for many years, under the curse of a royal witch doctor,” Kellick explained. “Her mind…well, her memories were tampered with, her mind twisted. All so that the King of Thalsvir could control her powers.”

Brannon staggered back a few steps. My heart pounded in my chest and I watched realization crash into him like a wave on Eaveton’s white sand shore.

Kellick gently pulled back the hood of the woman next to him. Her skin was sallow. Her long, stringy greying hair framed her gaunt face. But her eyes. Those violet eyes. They were sharper than any blade, more vivid than the hues of sunrise.

Brannon inhaled sharply, falling to his knees. “Elira!”

Seven Years Later…

Brannon:

Love is a cruel mystery.

I have always been one to love fiercely. Which is why it was so terribly hard to leave Xavier once Elira’s treatments were complete. As I held him in my arms that crisp autumn morn, breathing in his jasmine scent, I remembered the young orphan that I carried on horseback. He grew into the young man who would fight to rebuild his parent’s legacy. The young man who would now soon be a parent himself.

The royal wedding had been lovely, extravagant — as most royal weddings are. I remember watching Xavier with his new bride, so young and in love as they danced under a canopy of stars in the palace garden. A few months later, in that same garden, witnessed only by the King and Kellick, Elira and I were married, as well.

She was frailer, her limbs wispy as a weeping willow. Her skin no longer held the vigor of her warrior days, her muscles shrunken. Yet her eyes still held the same spirit, the same fight. For two years, I watched her struggle as Eaveton Hold’s healers helped her battle the Thalsvirian witch doctor’s curse. I held her through many ups and downs before she regained most of her sanity back. There were nights she fell into my arms, wanting to lose herself in the urgent passion of our once young love. Then, in the morning, I’d awaken to a blade at my throat, her mind telling her I was the enemy.

“Come now, Elira,” I’d soothe, grasping her weak, shaky hand. “It’s me. It’s your Bran.”

Those moments became less and less frequent until they ceased altogether. Her mind still isn’t as sharp as it once was, her body nowhere near as strong. But to be honest, neither can be said for me. We both boasted grey in our black locks, creases around our eyes, lines across our foreheads. But when I looked into those piercing eyes of hers, I felt like a young man once more.

It was years that I resigned myself to never love again. I was happy in service to my King. Happy to be a part of rebuilding Eaveton’s Hold. Happy to leave behind the homeland that had betrayed me. Though my heart broke at Elira’s betrayal that fateful dawn, something deep within my soul told me it wasn’t the end.

What do they always say? It’s darkest before dawn? It must get worse before it gets better? Well, whoever they were, they were right. But what they don’t tell you is that if you just wait up, the sunrise will be the most magnificent thing you’ll ever behold.

“Enjoy the sheep, Bran,” the young King chuckled, patting my shoulder.

“Good luck with the youngling,” I smiled at him, “I only hope your future heir can be half the man you are.”

“No, Bran,” Xavier grinned, “I’d much rather him be more than half the man you are.”

He was too kind.

“Time to go, Bran,” Kellick motioned to the carriage that will take us back to his farm on the Ithram Steppe. The healers said it would be better for Elira to reside there, in the fresh air, far from any painful memories.

“Ready to go, my love?” I took her wrinkled hand, her wedding ring still too large for her thin ring finger.

“Where are we going again, Bran?” she asked, a somewhat vacant look in her violet eyes. I knew her memory had slipped again. “This isn’t another one of your hairbrained stealth missions, is it?”

“Actually,” I grinned, feeling only slightly bad for joking when she was clearly lost on what decade it currently was. “I heard there’s a farmer nearby with some rare sheep whose wool could be worth a fortune. Figured we might—”

“If you lay a finger on my sheep, Bran, I’ll have your head,” Kellick laughed.

“Sheep,” Elira smiled dreamily as I helped her into the carriage. “Sheep sound lovely.”

“Not as lovely as you, my dear,” I smiled as I slid into the cushioned seat next to her.

Kellick closed the carriage door and I put my arm around Elira as it jerked forward, leaving Eaveton’s Hold and the last twenty-seven years of my life behind. Her head drooped softly to my shoulder, her arm draping across my lap. Peeking out from the sleeve of her gown, I could see the remnants of the tattoo. She’d never told me much about her marriage to the Prince of Thalsvir, other than that she really hated to think of it. I never asked questions. I decided I didn’t need to know.

“I’m sorry, Bran,” she said, for the fourth time this morning. “I never should have tried to double-cross the king. I thought I could save us both. But then, then…I can’t remember anything after that except hating you. But, I’m better now, Bran. I’m going to do better by you, I promise.”

As I pressed my lips to her silvery hair, her lavender and vanilla scent filled my nostrils. Closing my eyes, I dipped my head down and whispered into her ear:

“I’ve told you once, but I’ll tell you as many times as you need me to hear it. It wasn’t your fault, my love.”

The End

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Fabled Lines: Fantasy, Poetry, & Prose

Stories, poems, and musings ranging from realistic to fantastic.

By Hallie J Townsend

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The trembling earth roused me from sleep, and I blinked my eyes open. But the pitch black dungeon cell gave nothing away. Then other sounds reached me—unfamiliar sounds—floating down from the world above.

I scurried from my cosy nook of pilfered straw, and crept along the passageway toward the stairs. Just as I reached the bottom, feet came clattering down, forcing me to slink back into the shadows. But it was just a boy. A skinny, emaciated young boy. The right side of his body was coated in blood. Its sharp iron scent rolled my stomach. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his filthy hands.

This was my chance to escape. I shot past him and clambered up the steps into the dark night, darting around pools of blood, and hiding behind the empty stable block. Up here, humans were wailing, yelling, and scurrying for cover. Angry voices and a clashing of swords were carried by the wind from beyond the castle walls.

As I watched on, the King emerged from the keep and descended the steps, his royal aides at his heels. His emotionless face surveyed the bloody mess.

“Stop!” he shouted, as his soldiers dragged bodies to fill the holes in the damaged drawbridge.

Where was his Queen? In all my months living below the castle, I’d never seen her away from his side. Then a voice from behind startled me. It was the boy.

“Father?” he called, and the King looked toward him, sweat and rain mingling on his brow. “Where’s Mother?”

The King shook his head once, and the boy, again, crumbled to the ground. The wail escaping from deep within was enough to set my fur on end. What the hell had happened here?

Well, whatever horrors had unfolded here were none of my concern.

I had been trapped here for far too long, this was not my fight, not my grief. My only thought was to slip back into the night and find my way home, to my own kingdom far from this carnage.

I pressed myself flat against the chill of the interior wall, ears flicking at the uproar beyond. Slipping from the hallway’s shadow, my paws made no sound on the cold stone as I crept to a narrow window, only to be met with a sight so unthinkably horrific it stole the breath from my lungs.

The kingdom had incurred the fury of the Gods themselves. The heavens raged, torn open by a storm that hurled bolts of lightning with cruel precision, striking men and women as if they were nothing more than insects to be scorched from the earth. Fire devoured the streets, screaming voices swallowed by the roar of collapsing towers. And above it all, shapes moved, vast, celestial horrors clawing their way through the clouds, tearing the night apart as they descended.

This kingdom was beyond saving.

I had known its heart was rotten, but not even in my darkest moments would I have wished such a fate, such utter annihilation, upon anyone, let alone an entire realm.

“Amarriah, help them.” I prayed to the god of mercy.

“Brannon!” A voice cut through the sounds of screams and terror, only one person in this kingdom knew who I was in this form.

I spun around to find the head guard, Kellick, my dearest friend. Against all odds, he still lived, and for a fleeting heartbeat that sparked a fragile ember of hope. If ever this kingdom had a soul worth saving, it was him.

“You’d better get out of here before this whole place crumbles to ash!” he shouted over the chaos.

I couldn’t speak in this form, but I let out a fierce, urgent yowl, as if to tell him, “Run, Kellick, run while you still can.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but before a single word could fall, darkness swallowed everything, and the world went black.

When I came to, I was sprawled atop a jagged mound of rubble. Kellick was gone. For miles in every direction, nothing stirred. No birds, no voices, not even the whisper of movement. It was as if a hurricane had swept through and stripped the land of life itself. How I had survived was a mystery I couldn’t begin to fathom.

A rasping cough rose from somewhere beneath the wreckage, and my heart lurched. Please… let it be Kellick.

There was no longer any reason to hide. I shed my other form and stood as myself; large statured, strong, built to lift more than my own weight. If someone still clung to life down there, I would drag them free.

I heaved a slab of broken stone aside, dust choking the air, and uncovered a slight figure curled beneath.

Not Kellick.

The boy. The prince.

“Oh, gods, I thought”, a chill running through me, “what a cruel, wretched way to survive.”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed, and I dragged him into the open…then, without thinking, I pulled the enemy’s prince into my arms.

His rich sienna skin and cropped silver hair were now coated with a thick layer of blood and dust. Each breath came in a gasping rasp as he choked on his blood; he clung to consciousness by a thread.

Rain continued to fall, slowly at first, creating a gentle rhythm against the prince’s silver armor. Then it swelled into a wild tempest—sheets of rain thrashed with the howling wind.

I looked out into the fray, and through the mist stood a towering shadow with luminous yellow eyes. It watched me for a moment, standing with unnatural stillness. Dread pooled in my gut, and my heart raced with the fury of a hundred noble steeds.

Its bat-like wings unfurled from its sides as its maw widened. Flames lashed through its jagged, pointed teeth.

Through the ringing in my ears, the sound of pounding hooves broke through. A riderless horse barreled towards us. Hope cracked through the leaden panic, like flowers growing between cobblestones.

“We might live yet, prince.” I groaned as I lifted his body over my shoulder.

I seized the reins of the dapple-gray horse and hauled the prince and myself into the saddle. With a sharp kick to its sides, we launched toward the forest.

Flames roared behind us as we vanished into the treeline.

The forest blurred around us as we raced through the trees. It had been years since I last felt the wind on my face, and as much as I relished the feeling, I desperately wished my freedom had come under different circumstances.

I dared a glance back toward what remained of Eaveton Hold, but instead of a wall of flame, I was surprised to find another rider emerging from the smoke.

He looked much like the prince; his usually polished armor was now tarnished by soot, his olive face was streaked by blood, and his violet eyes were wide in horror. But he was alive.

Kellick was alive.

A deafening roar ripped through the air, carried on a singed and acrid wind. The heat of it lashed through the trees, curling the leaves in its wake.

Faster, we need to move faster. Digging my heels into the mare she lurched forward with renewed speed, flames licking our heels.

“Kellick,” I screamed above the growing thunder, “the coast.” Sending a silent prayer to Zevrion, god of luck, I tuck the prince's limp body closer into my chest and lean into the mare as she barrels toward the growing coastline.

Only slowing once the thunderous bellows were drowned out by crashing waves along the shore, I glanced over my shoulder to see Kellick slumped over his horse. Cursing under my breath, I pulled sharply on the reins and circled back toward him.

I may have been blessed and cursed by the gods for my strength and ability to shift forms v, but I doubt I will be able to keep two unconscious bodies safe on a journey across the Strait of Ithram. The narrow boats needed didn’t allow room for error, and if they wake and begin to thrash…

That’s a problem for future Brannon, I remind myself, and shift the prince to ease his weight in my arms. Deal with what’s in front of you now. I must find a way to return home and not allow myself to deviate from my mission, not again. That’s how I ended up in the infernal dungeon to begin with. My restless, fickle heart.

Reaching Kellick I lift his head to find his pulse, please be alive, letting out a breath of relief I feel his heartbeat still strong. He’s alive, for now. “I’ve got you friend; I’ll find us a way out of this mess.” I promise, allowing my heart to overrule my head once again.

As I allow my heart to feel again, my memories of Elira start rushing in. I know that now is not the time for me to reminisce about the love of my life. I know I shouldn't lose focus but I just can’t help it. I broke my promise to return to her in a week by getting trapped in that godforsaken dungeon for years.

Is she still waiting for me? I don’t deserve to have any expectations after going on this stupid mission even though she begged me not to. How could I possibly face her if I manage to cross the strait of Ithram and finally step foot in my homeland after all this time? Is it better if I never get back?

Doubts and guilt consume me. They weigh me down more than the scars and all the blood shed I had to endure. “What do you think you’re doing?”, a faint voice brings me back to the present moment. It was Kellick!

“Oh Kellick! You’re back. The gods have shown us some mercy after all!”

“Yes, I’ll thank the gods for sure because you seemed to be totally out of it. We are on the run for our lives right now and we have an unconscious prince with us. Can you please postpone your day dreams to another time? If we get out of this alive, that is!”

“Well, pardon me for taking a minute to think about my Elira after all that I’ve gone through to catch a glimpse of her once again. You, however, seem to be doing fine seeing how you’re back to your jolly sarcastic self again”

“Jolly? Who’s the sarcastic one now, eh?”

Our brief time of normality was interrupted by a gathering sound of horses galloping towards us. We looked at each other and nodded as we knew exactly what to do next. Or so we thought!

“By the Gods,” I muttered under my breath as the riders’ silhouettes appeared on the horizon. Dawn was breaking over the strait of Ithram, the golden towers of the bridge to my homeland of Thalsvir glimmering in the early light.

So close. I was so close to my home. To my love.

But with this unexpected brigade directly in our path, creating plumes of dust against the watercolor horizon, my heart plummeted to my boots.

“Maybe they’re simply a traveling band of performers out for a pleasure ride in the wee hours of the morning into war-torn territory?” Kellick quipped. He had always been one to mask his fear with humor.

“Unfortunately for us,” I groaned under the weight of the sleeping boy slumped against me. “We have the enemy prince in tow. Something tells me that the king of Thalsvir will not be sympathetic. He’s been waiting years for Eaveton’s Hold to fall.”

“Yet he chose to stay behind his gold palisades, claiming neutrality, while he let other provinces’ armies do his dirty work?” Kellick raised an eyebrow.

“This is my home we’re talking about, Kellick,” I grunted. “Tread lightly.”

“Some homeland. The king never cared to recover his top intelligence agent from behind enemy lines,” Kellick spat, “He chose to let you rot in the dungeons of Eaveton’s Hold, knowing it was only a matter of time before it was torched.”

“We’re wasting time discussing politics,” I hissed as the distance between us and the shadowy riders closed. “We need to deal with whatever this is so we can get across the strait.”

“And what are we going to do with the boy?” Kellick argued. “You just said you don’t think the king will be sympathetic to him.”

“Shh,” I hushed him as the riders approached, multiple bronze clad figures appearing through the fog in front of us.

“Ho, there!” A voice rang out through the misty air as the horses approached. “From where do you hail?”

“We are merely lost travelers seeking shelter,” I called out tentatively, hoping they wouldn’t look too closely at the prince.

“From where do you hail?” The voice said firmly. “I will not ask again.”

There was something eerily familiar about that tone, almost lyrical. As the riders approached, I saw they were a group of female warriors—the pride and joy of Thalsvir’s military. My heart leapt into my throat.

“We’re from Doranth,” I lied, holding the prince close, covering as much of his silver hair as I could.

“Shut up, Bran,” Kellick hissed.

“You never have been a good liar, have you?” The warrior snickered.

My breath caught, chest tight. As she rode closer, her horse neck-and-neck with mine, I caught a glimpse of the deep-set violet eyes beneath her bronze helmet.

“What kind of trouble have you managed to stir up now, Brannon?” Came the honeyed voice of Elira, warrior-in-chief of Thalsvir—and my once-upon-a-time lover.

H. T. DARROW

“E—Elira?” I stumbled over my words. This couldn’t be happening. After so long, I thought I’d have to search for her. “You’re here?”

Elira took her helmet off, shaking out her long, black hair, glinting blue as the sunlight caressed her curls. “Still so eloquent with your words, I see.” She smiled as she stepped closer to me, her bright white teeth glinting in the morning light. I was dumbstruck, as always in her presence. Who wouldn’t be?

“I mean, here. Gods, I thought I would have to search all of Thalsvir to find you. Even further if the king learned of your . . .” I stopped myself. I didn’t know the guards behind her, and I wasn’t about to betray her secret.

“Ah yes. A lot has changed over the years. That’s no longer a secret.” She crossed her arms and stared out over the lapping waves. “I digress. What are you doing here, Brannon?”

“I’m coming home. Eaveton Hold is—”

“Destroyed. Yes, we know.” The gravel along the shore crunched under her boots.

I tensed, hoping she wouldn’t look down and notice the shock of silver hair.

“You know and you . . .” I paused. We hadn’t yet crossed the Straight. We hadn’t yet reached the boats to cross. What was she doing on Eaveton’s shores?

The Prince shifted and groaned.

Elira stared at the Prince before turning to me, her smile turning vicious. “What are you doing here, Brannon?” she whispered.

And I remembered I didn’t—playfully back then—nickname her “Blue Viper” for no reason.

She wasn’t to be messed with; her tone told me all I needed to know. I pulled myself up taller and shifted the weight of the Prince; no need to hide him now.

“Elira,” I returned her hard stare, “How do you know Eaveton Hold has been destroyed?”

Her sharp violet eyes narrowed their stare, focusing on the Prince, “You think I destroyed it.” Not a question, a statement, those violet eyes moved to mine. “You’d be correct. I am the Warrier-in-Chief of Thalsvir, like I said, things have changed since you abandoned our city.”

My childhood friend and the young woman I fell in love with, completely absent from the woman in front of me. I have never seen her look so cruel. She is worlds away from the soft, carefree woman I had once pulled into my arms and kissed.

“Answer my question, Bran, what are you doing here on the edge of our territory? You abandoned the kingdom a long time ago. What makes you think you are welcome back?” I could see Kellick shift in his saddle under the weight of her words. Twice now, she has used the term 'abandoned.' She believes I was never coming home, that I lied to her to escape the secrets that hung around our necks like a noose threatening to strangle.

“First of all, Elira,” I used her name as she had used mine; it made her smart, her back straightened in response, “I would have never abandoned Thalsvir, I would never have abandoned you.” I dared to take a step closer, feeling the familiar pull despite the icy wall she had built around her. “I’ll play. You know I went to rescue your mother from the clutches of King Doret. I went for you.” Elira swallowed hard. “I was too late, Elira. I’m sorry. I was caught in a trap and held in the dungeons. Not abandoned, imprisoned. Now, if you will, your turn, if our King knows your secret, tell me, how are you not lying in a grave?”

Elira opens her mouth, only for nothing to come out, avoiding eye contact.

A bloom of satisfaction warms my chest, but only for an instant, chased with the ache of mourning the woman I’ve done all of this for. The woman that no longer exists behind her once soft eyes.

She spoke so quietly, her voice was almost completely washed away under the sound of the ocean. “You’re still the exact same man, aren’t you, Bran?”

It was gentle and kind. I yearn for her to look up at me again. For her eyes to lock with mine again after so long. But despite the ache, I hold my ground. “Answer my question.”

The world exhales around us and everything else melts away as she—finally—looks at me. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done to hold my ground and not melt into what once was.

“It’s quite a long story,” she begins.

“And we have plenty of time,” Kellick adds with his usual flair of sarcasm.

A glare is shot in Kellick’s direction, her violet eyes blazing and bright. “I’ll be brief.”

She takes another breath, unaware—or maybe simply unsympathetic—of the anticipation boiling alongside the grief within me and threatening to spill out over my eyelids, getting harder and harder to contain with each passing second.

“I made a deal with our beloved king,” she starts. “See, we had two needs that had the same solution. Mine, escape from death in any way possible. His? Well, you remember his godawful son. This son needed a bride. Suddenly, my tainted blood sparkled with riches and the end of mocking glances towards our king.” She slowly removes her golden gauntlet, revealing the permanent markings that signified marriage.

At the sight of it, my chest tightens and I lose control over the tears flooding my eyes. She continues, “Immediately following the ceremony, the king held a private meeting with some phony witchdoctor in hopes to remove my magic. He and all his dimwitted Thalsvian knights believed it worked. I’ve simply continued to hide it as it’s the only reason I stand before you today.”

She sees my tears but offers no pity. Her voice is steady, her tone solid. She is telling the truth.

Everything has changed.

The prince shifts in my arms. Oh gods, I forgot he is here too, adding another dark and heavy layer to all of this.

“What do you plan on doing with him?” Elira asks coldly, her tongue sharp as her gaze.

“I—“ I stammer. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. First was to get somewhere safe, then care for anything wounded.

Kellick intervenes, saving me. “We were planning on taking him to Thalsvir, to turn him in with hopes of welcoming arms in return.”

He states it with such confidence, like it was the plan all along. However, even my nodding agreement doesn’t convince Elira. Her gaggle of knights hop off their steeds and draw their blades.

“See, the thing is, when I was sent to demolish Eaveton Hold, the royal family was to go down with it. You,” gauntlet returning to her hand, she unsheaths her own golden sword, “are currently holding a fugitive, and may be fugitives yourself. I advise that you surrender and come peacefully.”

It becomes fully realized to me now, soaked all the way through, that this person before me is brand new; I am meeting her for the first time.

I retract the step I made previously, away from the false warmth I now know full well, pulling the prince closer to my chest. This poor boy who’s lost his parents, his home. I’m not going to let him lose his life too.

Mustering the strength of anger riding the tail end of grief, I say, “I pray Amarriah has his hand over you, after all that you have done.”

Elira sighs, advancing to close the distance. Kellick jumps off his horse, prepared to fight.

“Then it’s time to put you where you should’ve gone, all those years ago.”

A war cry erupts from her throat and past her once beautiful but now poisonous lips, echoed in turn by her knights.

I’m not even conscious of what happens next, amongst the flurry of gold and blood and rage. I can’t find it in me to even care. The only thing that kept me going all those years is dead. And now, so am I.

Thanks for reading! And as always, check out other authors featured in this story! They are all truly so talented!

Story Tag is a fun, collaborative writing challenge where one person writes a piece of the story and then tags the next person to continue from where they left off! Anyone is more than welcome to host their own Story Tags, but if you’re interested in joining one of mine, you should go check out where I will be hosting them from now on!

The Round Table Zine

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Finn was already halfway across, expertly jumping from one boulder to the next, a bright red flush brightening his cheeks. Oliver, never as agile as Finn, was following closely behind, wobbling with each step as he struggled to get his footing quite right.

“Parker! Are you comin’ or what?” Finn called over the rushing waters.

I gulped nervously. The three of us had planned this adventure for months… I couldn’t back out now.

Noticing my hesitation, Finn scaled the boulders once again back to my side of the river.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help ya, bud.” He said, offering a freckled hand.

Together, we crossed the mighty river.

As I stepped onto the riverbank, I noticed something felt off about this side of the forest. It was dense and overgrown. Moss hung from the branches like billowing sleeves. I kept my feelings of unease to myself as we continued our journey deeper into the forest.

We hiked up a steep hill, climbing over fallen trees and even more precarious boulders, and eventually came to a clearing.

We found a good spot, opened up our knapsacks, and eagerly retrieved our lunches. I packed myself a simple but reliable lunch of PB&J, apple slices, and a refreshing bottle of water.

I glanced up to see what my friends had packed. Finn, predictably, packed a bag of sour gummy worms and a tall-boy of Coca-Cola—undoubtedly bought from the neighborhood gas station earlier that morning.

“Seriously, Finn?” I shot him a playful scowl.

“What? I already ate my Slim Jim on the way here,” he said through a mouthful of half-chewed fluorescent green and pink gummies.

A large cloud drifted over the sun, suddenly casting everything in shadow.

“Huh. The weatherman said there wouldn’t be any clouds today,” Oliver said, squinting up at the sky through his large, round glasses.

“Guys... I don’t think that’s a cloud.” Finn muttered, a blue worm dropping from his open mouth.

The not-cloud swirled in the sky, dropping and rising with intense speed, before it plummeted down into the clearing beside us.

The three of us yelled profanities that would have definitely gotten us grounded.

The not-cloud stared back at us with bright yellow eyes—its deep, red scales shimmered in the sunlight. Two bat-like wings protruded from its side, and four legs featured razor-sharp talons. Horns of varying lengths crowned its head and lined its back down to its flicking tail.

“I-i-its a f-f-fucking d-d-dragon.” Oliver stammered, clutching his bologna sandwich so tightly that mustard oozed down his fingers.

The dragon let out a loud exhale through its nostrils, blowing back my dark brown hair.

Finn stepped forward, holding out a sour-crystal-coated hand.

“Finn, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper-screamed.

“I don’t know! Maybe it's a nice?”

“It’s a dragon, not a dog!” Oliver hissed—finally, someone with some common sense.

But Finn ignored our warnings and inched closer to the dragon.

The dragon craned down his neck and sniffed Finn’s hand.

I slapped both hands over my eyes. If Finn was about to get his hand bitten off, I didn’t want to watch.

“Hahaha! I told you guys–he’s nice!”

Peeking through my fingers, I saw the dragon licking Finn’s hand with its large, grayish blue tongue.

“Who’s the idiot for bringing gummy worms now? Huh, Parker?”

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The Sunshine Blogger Award Rules:

-Display the Award’s official logo somewhere on your blog.

-Thank the person who nominated you.

-Provide a link to your nominator’s blog.

-Answer your nominator’s questions.

-Nominate up to 11 bloggers.

Ummm, wow, this is crazy???? Thank you for the nomination, !

Tamsin was one of the first people I subscribed to here. We connected through a short story contest and have been rooting for each other ever since! The thing that sticks out to me the most about Tamsin’s writing is her voice. Like, I’m pretty sure I could pick out her work out of a lineup. She writes the coziest, most whimsical stories ever with such wit and charm! I like to think of her as the orange cat to my black cat, hehe.

Check out her publication here.

Q&A:

Do you ever narrate your life like it’s a novel, or are you mentally stable?

Okay, this question is crazy because I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot lately. I TOTALLY DO.

What’s your villain origin story?

I’m one criticism away from setting fire to the world.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve Googled at 2am for “research”?

This wasn’t really for research, but one time I googled the entomology origins for the word ‘guacamole’.

How do you balance writing with being a human being? Or… do you just not?

I don’t write nearly as much as I would like. Some days I can get away with neglecting my responsibilities, but I try not to let myself do that too often.

If a stranger read your drafts, what would they assume about your mental health?

Hmm.. I only have a few. Maybe they’d assume I have my shit together, but I assure you, I MOST DEFINITELY DO NOT.

What’s your 'I swear I’m normal' writing habit that proves you are, in fact, not?

Well, I don’t think I have any writing habits, but I feel like writing in itself is not that normal? When I explain my ideas to my family or friends, I kind of get the “okay, crazy lady” vibes.

What's the color of your toothbrush?

It’s red!

When you were a child, how did you play? Were you lost in pretend worlds, muddy adventures, wild games of chase, or team sports beneath the sun?

I was a mix of imaginary play and sports! In 5th grade, me and a couple of friends would play vampires every recess. I was 100% convinced I was actually a vampire.

If you came across your favorite magical creature in real life, what would it be, and what would you do?

As much as I want to be a bad-ass FMC, I think I would shit my pants if I were to ever come face-to-face with a dragon.

Best read of this year so far?

I’ve been in a reading slump for the last little while. I just haven’t been in the mood for it, or just would rather be writing or doing something else. But I recently read books 1&2 of The Kindred’s Curse Saga by Penn Cole and just started The Knight and the Moth by Rachel Gillig.

Not really a question, but give a heartfelt compliment to someone on Substack.

Because loves compliments, I need to give her more flowers. Guys, she’s so nice and supportive! She is one of the people who make showing up on here a delight! And again, so talented at her craft. AND SHE’S AN ARTIST?! This girl can do it all!

Nominations:

I’m a fan girl for these (but not limited to) wonderfully creative people:

My Questions:

1. What do you listen to while you write?

2. What’s a small joy or ritual that you’ve been enjoying lately?

3. What’s a weird or unexpected hobby you have?

4. What’s one belief or motto that’s stuck with you?

5. What book or movie do you go back to when you need a reset?

6. What was your favorite childhood cartoon?

7. What book character has resonated the most with you?

8. What’s a skill you wish you had?

9. If you won the lottery, what would you do with your winnings?

10. What do you hope your readers get from your work?

11. What word would you name your hypothetical child if it didn’t mean what it means.

“Ahh, so we meet again, old foe.” Aerona sauntered up to the old, vine-covered vending machine as she rummaged in her leather pouch for two silver pieces. She fed them, one at a time, into the coin slot, sending them clanking down through the machine's rusted guts.

She scanned the selection, her eyes squinting from the harsh yellow light.

“C’mon, c’mon… Aha!”

She found it—her favorite drink: Gery Parray’s Strawberry Fizz.

She selected E9 on the number pad, and the machine began to whirr.

She waited with bated breath as the coil behind the bright pink bottle began to turn, sending Gery Parray’s Strawberry Fizz slowly over the edge. However, in its descent, the bottle became lodged against the glass.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Aerona drew her broad-bladed sword from its sheath at her back and began whacking its hilt against the side of the machine. “You better give me my Fizz this time, or I swear on my elven bloodline and all that is holy, I will take you apart myself!”

THUNK.

The coveted bottle of Gery Parray’s Strawberry Fizz fell into the receptacle. Victory was hers.

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It was pretty much impossible for me to write over the holiday weekend, but here I am! I’m ready to recommitt (famous last words)

Join ’s July Challenge:

The room, lined with obsidian stone, was dark, and the stagnant smoke reeked of ash and incense.

Klaus and Ren knelt before the dais of Ahoma, the Goddess of Fate and Free Will, shackles bound their arms behind their backs, and strips of fabric silenced their mouths

Ahoma sat on her throne, cloaked in onyx robes, with one leg crossed over the other. Gossamer bandages tightly wrapped her body, hiding the scars that fissured her inky skin.

“I have been waiting for your arrival, Ren,” Ahoma’s silky voice echoed around the room. “And my dear Klaus, it is so very nice to see you again after all this time.”

Klaus’s body tensed as he let out a low growl. He gazed up at the goddess with a steely rage. He always imagined what he would do if he ever came across Ahoma. How he would slowly rip her apart, piece by piece, for taking his mother all those years ago.

“I’m sure you’re wondering where your sister is,” she continued, her bandaged face turned towards Ren. “You will see her soon enough, but first I want to have some fun.”

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I don’t have a whole lot of time for writing today, but I didn’t want to fall off the wagon so soon, so my entry for ’s July Challenge is a bit short!

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:

Ashwin waited in the shadow of a weathered oak as he staked out the opening of the mysterious cave.

It appeared three months ago. Or perhaps, it had been there all along. After the worst drought Valdris had ever seen, the marshland marking the human-elf border had dried out. The massive drop in water levels revealed the uncharted cavern. It sat directly on the treaty line, becoming another point of contention between the humans of Valdris and the Elves of Silverwood.

He’d waited nearly all day. Now seemed as good a time as any to investigate.

Ashwin crept slowly toward the opening, sword drawn. Withered marsh grass crunched under his boots. He winced at his own lack of stealth. As he approached, the air subtly shifted. A shiver ran through him. None of the humans had dared to enter the cave’s dark maw. Ashwin would be the first.

A branch snapped behind him. He whirled, blade drawn. There was nothing--just swaying trees and late afternoon shadows. Sighing with relief, he turned back toward the cave.

The relief was short-lived.

“Fancy meeting you here, Ashwin Birch,” Delphine’s smirk was infuriating, yet somehow charming. Her elegant silver braid draped over one shoulder, ornate bow and quiver slung across her back.

“Lady Delphine of the House of Silverwood,” Ashwin bowed with mock reverence. “Have you come to claim this cave as your Elven birthright, or some such nonsense?”

“What would a human grunt officer know about Elven birthrights?” Delphine eyed him coolly, surveying the strange markings that lined the arched stone passage ahead of them. “Our borders need no validation. I came here on my own, to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“Ah, I see,” Ashwin replied, crossing his freckled arms. “I suppose you’d like to stake it out to see how you might decorate it with your fancy gilded furniture once you move in?”

Delphine huffed, about to snap back with her own retort, when a deep rumble echoed from the belly of the cavern. The earth beneath their feet trembled, and an eerie green glow stretched toward them.

They exchanged wary glances. Delphine knocked her bow. Ashwin tried to raise his blade without trembling.

“You want to prove yourself, Ashwin? Come with me,” Delphine said decidedly, then marched straight in.

Ashwin hoped she didn’t hear his gulp as they crept through the winding stone tunnels. More strange markings appeared, glowing to light their way as they ventured further. Finally, they came upon a large chamber. Sparkling jagged stalactites hung over a massive pool of luminescent green water.

“What is this place?” Ashwin breathed.

“Somewhere ancient,” Delphine whispered, her voice unusually shaky.

As if acknowledging intruders, the pool began to bubble furiously, rising to the level of the stone ledge on which they stood.

It kept rising. As the strangely phosphorescent water encircled their ankles, Ashwin instinctively moved closer to Delphine.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered.

:

The rising water began to swell, defying all laws of nature, and transfigured into an enormous watery visage before them. What appeared to be flowing white hair framed its aged yet angular features.

“WHO DARES ENTER MY CAVERN?” A deep, booming voice rumbled through the chamber, causing Ashwin and Delphine to grab on to one another.

“I am Lady Delphine of the House of Silverwood.” Delphine replied as she released her grip from Ashwin's vest, taking a step towards the imposing form.

The aquatic man’s unyielding eyes shifted over to where Ashwin stood.

Ashwin cleared his throat and puffed his chest. “And I am Ashwin Birch of Valdris,” his voice cracked, betraying his feigned confidence.

“And who are you?” Delphine demanded, her chin held high in her typical Elven arrogance.

The man's bushy brows furrowed, and his eyes blazed in aggravation. A low growl rumbled from the depths, causing the cavern to begin to shake. Stalactites crumbled, and debris rained all around them. An orb of aquamarine rose from the water’s surface, enveloping Delphine.

She whirled toward Ashwin in a panic, her eyes wide, and hastily probed the bubble in an attempt to escape. “Ashwin! Help me!” She called, her voice muffled behind the barrier.

Before Ashwin could react, the bubble rose and drifted back to the pool of water. The man’s form disappeared beneath the surface, Delphine following closely behind, the briny water spraying Ashwin in their wake.

“Delphine!” He called back, searching the water, so sure she would escape and return to the surface—she was an Elven noble for crying out loud.

But when she didn’t appear, a cold dread washed over him. Without another thought, Ashwin sheathed his sword and dove into the frothy phosphorescent water.

:

At once, the water began to draw the warmth from Ashwin’s core, replacing it with the chill of the luminescent green depths. It wrapped around him like tendrils pulling him downward, deeper, guiding him into the shadowed throat of an underwater cave system.

In flickering glimpses, glowing sea anemones and trails of bioluminescent algae lit the path as he drifted past, reminiscent of the clusters of stars in the sky. The anemones’ tendrils grazed his skin, clinging with a faint tacky resistance.

Ever more downward, the pressure gathered behind his eyes and across his temples, a slow, mounting ache. The last morsel of breath held tightly in his chest, thinning and fading fast.

Panic flushed through his system, and his body began to convulse. He wasn’t ready to die. Not like this. Not without…

A massive hand reached into the tunnel, seized him like he was nothing more than a play thing, and yanked him forward out of the depths and into open air.

Ashwin collapsed against the wet stoney floor gasping for air. Whatever courage had driven him into the depths was gone now, washed away by the crushing weight of the unknown and the fire in his chest. He pressed a shaking hand to the rock beneath him, grounding himself in the only solid thing he could feel.

He was in a different part of the cave, it was much darker. The only light came from the softly glowing water at his back, casting rippling reflections across the damp stone walls.

“You foolish human,” the voice echoed and bounced off the cavern walls, “You saw what I am, and still you dove willingly into my domain, knowing full well it is ruled by something beyond your power or understanding.”

Ashwin looked up, blinking seawater from his lashes.

The enormous figure from before now stood just ten paces away, but he was now shaped like a man. Curling pieces of kelp wove through a crown of coral that spiraled upward like antlers. His sea glass blue eyes glowed with a calmer light. Though his presence still radiated immense power, the malice was gone. Now, he resembled less a raging storm and more the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

Ashwin, still trying to refill his lungs, said breathlessly, “Where is Delphine?”

“You should not have followed your Elvish friend,” the figure replied, voice like a tide pulling back. “She remains safe, cradled within the bubble’s embrace. She will be returned once my dealings with her are complete.”

His tone shifted then, quiet and absolute.

“But you… there is no path back now.”

Ashwin’s breath caught as if he was drowning once more.

“You’ll remain here,” the figure continued, “for the rest of your days.”

:

With mounting despair, Ashwin dropped his face into his shivering hands. His forearm passed through the empty space where the hilt of his sheathed sword should be. His head snapped back up. Panic gripped his already tight chest. Had it tumbled away as he’d drifted through the suffocating water?

As Ashwin desperately searched the dim cavern for a means of escape, the watery figure closed his eyes and clasped his hands together as if in prayer. Mumbled, guttural words bubbled up from within him, and the floor started to rock from side to side.

“What are you doing?” Ashwin cried, jumping to his feet and throwing his arms out for balance, while renewing his fevered scrutiny of the cave.

A green glow cut through the darkness to his left—a hue identical to that emanating from the cave’s earlier passageways. With the chanting figure still distracted, and the rocking beneath his feet intensifying, Ashwin rushed toward the eerie patch of light.

It was his sword! With dizzying relief, he knelt before it, gently cradling the hilt in his hands. Its familiar curves refilled his internal well of courage. But why was it glowing? His fingertips traced the blade, where the light flared from markings etched into its center. Markings that had never been visible before, but were somehow familiar…

“Stop!” the imposing voice of the figure boomed, cutting through Ashwin’s thoughts.

But, had a trickle of fear entered it?

Ashwin gripped the sword’s hilt with both hands and raised it off the ground. He stood and turned slowly toward the translucent figure. As their eyes locked, a liquid, green energy rose from the sword and up into Ashwin’s arms, swelling like a tsunami in his chest.

“Stop!” the man ordered again, but more feebly this time. He shrank back, away from Ashwin, raising his hands in defense. Long curls of kelp slipped from his coral crown and dried to a crisp the moment they touched the floor. Starfish crawled from his hairline, meandered over his body and disappeared into the rippling water lapping at his heels.

“Bring me Delphine!” Ashwin commanded with a strength of voice he’d never owned before.

:

"Where did you get that sword?" The man's voice quivered with disbelief.

Angling the sword tip toward him, Ashwin saw that the markings from the sword, from the cave entrance, trailed along his hands and across his forearms. His freckles morphed and swirled, their glow momentarily distracting him from the man before him. Water lashed against his hands, attempting to free the sword from his grasp.

"I asked you a question," the being grew larger with each clipped word. "Where did you get that sword?" The cavern walls rumbled with his bellow.

Ashwin yanked his hands free as the markings glowed brighter. The temperature in the cave became sweltering. Steam rises from the water, lapping against the stone floor. The air felt heavy against his exposed skin. "It was my father's sword." Ashwin's voice hummed with the power filling his body.

The being before him shrank back with his words, "Your blood is not that of Valdris, as no mere human could wield such power."

"I don't care where you think my blood is from," Ashwin stared down the tip of his sword toward the man, trying to hide the slight tremble in his hands. "Bring me Delphine and release us." The power within Ashwin emboldens his words and strains to break free.

"You dare to make demands from the Guardian of the sea?" The man, no Guardian, shook his head in disbelief. A crab skittered from under his beard before disappearing behind a large piece of kelp trailing down his shoulder.

The blade began to pulse power into Ashwin. A roaring, like a hurricane, began to fill his ears as wave after wave of power beat against him. Steam billowed from the phosphorescent water, filling the cavern with glowing mist. Ashwin's grip on the blade faltered as another wave of power pulsed against him, causing the sword to tumble from his hands.

As the steam subsided, Ashwin and the Guardian were no longer alone.

:

“Hello, Elos,” a voice murmured from behind Ashwin. It sounded like silk against one’s skin, raindrops on a roof, wind through the leaves. Elos froze, his jaw open showing the barnacles on his tongue. Ashwin’s chest released, and his eyes drooped ever so slightly. Every sensation of power was gone the minute he dropped the sword, leaving him empty.

The figure stepped forward, placing a delicate hand on Ashwin’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Ashwin turned to look at the person, about to ask why he, of all people, was being thanked. He had done nothing but get himself trapped, but was rendered speechless. The person—woman—had finer features than any Elf. Every angle of her face ended in a delicate point. And she glowed with moonlight. She smiled, and Ashwin somehow knew each tooth was sharp enough to shred through lies and cut memories.

“No,” Elos mumbled, coming to his senses and finally closing . “No! You cannot be here. You were—”

“Trapped? Confined? Imprisoned for all eternity?” the woman said with an eye roll. “You really think your pathetic charms could do that?” She scoffed. “And a sword. Really? Could you have picked anything more cliché?” She stepped forward, mist trailed behind her like a long train. Ashwin rapidly looked from one to the other, his own feet frozen to the ground and covered by mist.

Elos’ eyes widened as he stumbled backward. “You were bound. There was no way you could ever free yourself, Odona!”

Odona’s smile turned vicious. “You don’t remember?”—she chuckled—“Of course you don’t. It’s hard to remember something, especially when I took the memory.” Odona stalked toward Elos and twirled one of his kelp curls around her finger.

“Who are you?” Ashwin yelled, a bit louder than necessary. “Where’s Delphine?”

:

A smirk took hold on her lips. “Oh your little elven friend? I do sense her presence nearby.”

She cocked her head, letting her hair cascade off of her shoulders. She was frighteningly beautiful. A face that seemed to reject any imperfection-- paled skin, nearly white hair, and eyes so bright they seemed to glow the darkened cave.

While her pointed ears alluded to her elven nature, there was something different. Odana was something more-- a creature beyond Ashwin’s own comprehension of the world itself.

Like Elos, there was something old about her-- a piece of history that was forgotten by the cruelty of time.

“Imprisoned for all eternity?” Ashwin thought to himself.

How long was she really there, trapped in that little piece of metal? And how did he, a human, come to such power to release the creature? And where the hell was Delphine!?

Her velvety laugh cut through his daze, as he snapped back to the reality around him-- a mysterious cavern, the elven creature, and a bewildered guardian of the sea.

“Don’t worry.” Her silkened voice lingered through the air. “You’re not the first to be entranced by the likes of me.” She straightened-- taller, and somehow more grand. “You wish for your little elf, Delphine?”

“Odana.” Elos growled, barely restrained. Rage flickered behind his watery eyes. “The human and elf belong to me.”

Her pout was a mockery. “Awww, Elos. Still so possessive? Still playing protector of your little sea cave?” She clicked her tongue. “That’s not very polite of you to trap them, ya know.”

The sea creature's eyes kept locked on the elven beauty. “Do not listen to a word she says, Ashwin. She is not to be trusted.” A warning. “She is not what she seems.”

Elos’ restraint crumbled and he could no longer contain himself. The guardian surged forward, fury in every step.

Magic snapped the air. Elos froze, locked mid-stride.

“Oh stop it now you old fool. I was just about to give our Ashwin a gift.” She cooed.

Her eyes drifted back to the human boy-- frozen not by magic, but by the fear he hated to admit to.

“Delphine. Bring her back” Was all he said.

He didn’t know who was the real evil in the room. But if he could just get Delphine back…

“Hmm,” Odana mused. “I suppose it’s the least I could do for setting me free.”

:

Odana snapped her fingers, and then everything went black.

Ashwin's head swam with a throbbing pain. He felt warmth sinking into his body, and a cool breeze flowing over him. He cracked open his eyes, wincing at the sun's overwhelming light.

The sun.

His eyes shot open at the realization, and he bolted upright, analyzing his surroundings.

He was back in the marsh, surrounded by tall grass, free of Elos and Odana. But he was alone. A feeling of trepidation fell over him, making his hands shake. Had he been tricked by Odana? Of course he had. What a silly, foolish human he was—falling for the oldest trick in the book. Delphine was now a prisoner because of him. Because he was not clever enough to deal with those ancient beings. A sob broke loose from his chest.

“I am so sorry, Delphine,” he whispered through ragged breaths. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

“Ashwin?” a familiar voice chimed behind him. “Are you crying?”

He spun around in elation. “Delphine?”

But it wasn’t Delphine, not really. Her pointed ears were now rounded like his, her unblemished skin was now spotted with hundreds of tiny freckles, and even her silver hair seemed dull. But, despite all this, she was still the most beautiful being he had ever seen. Another sob broke loose, but this time it was tears of joy that ran down his face. He rushed towards her and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

Thanks for reading! And as always, check out all the other authors featured in this story! They are all so talented!

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