PavellumPendulum
honey believe me, ill have your heart on a platter
Original poster
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Romance, modern, comedy, post-apocalyptic, slice of life.
Welcome one and all to the first TFI!
I'm so happy to get this going and show off all the talent that Iwaku members have to offer. The submission period has ended and we have multiple cool reads for you to peruse and decide on as the best written and best interpretations of one or more of this event's theme. The two winners will have a choice between either a free art piece from me, or from @Rook.
As a reminder, this TFI's themes were:
- The illusion of power
- Unconditional love
- Mercy
Please vote in the poll up top for your favourite piece and don't forget to join the Iwaku Discord server in order to attend the live reading and discussion of these pieces on Sunday, July 18th starting at 4 PM CST. The winners will also be announced during the call.
Before you start reading and giving feedback, please remember that this is not meant to be a thread where we viciously attack people's writing. Criticism is allowed as long as it is constructive and not an attack on the writer themselves. Let people know what they did right (they were brave enough to share their writing with us, after all!) and if there's anything that you think they could improve on, but do so in a respectful way! Here are some possible questions you can answer with your reflections on each submission:
- Are the themes apparent in the piece? Do they fit well?
- What struck you about the writing style?
- Did it surprise you at any point? Is the interpretation original or unique?
Please avoid assigning number or letter grades to submissions, since they are not only completely subjective, but they don't really add anything to your critique of anyone's work.
Without further ado, here are the submissions!
By: Anonymous
Title of the piece: Left Alone
Word Count: 730
Chosen theme(s): The illusion of power
Chosen format: Short story
Aaron scanned the page, back pressed into his headboard, pillows beneath him. The lights were off, the setting sun currently painting his room a dirty yellow still enough to read by. A quarter-full glass of hard lemonade sat on his nightstand, precipitation kept from leaving a ring on the piece by a coaster filled with pressed flowers. He reread the last paragraph.
'You need to get help.'
Aaron turned the thick cream page, small black serif font swimming across. He was going to drown himself in this book's pages. It would've been easier if every word on the page didn't send that phrase rattling through his brain. Maybe he should try a different book, but this was the one he'd chosen from the stack in his closet, so this was the one he'd read. He picked up his lemonade slowly, an affected kind of careless, and took a sip. Ice clinked weakly against the side of the cup as he swirled it. The bare walls of his room stared at him, the empty orderliness for once digging into his skin.
'You need to get help.' That's what she'd said. And how could he have let himself expect anything better?
He sank into his bed, sheets giving easily, and tried to go back to feeling nothing. It wasn't easy, yes, but it had gotten easier over the years. Surely he was self-disciplined enough to stop ruminating on this.
She'd kept swirling her dark plum tea, the light shining in through the window beside them, leaving her in sharp focus. Fresh roast coffee permeated the air. It would have been an excellent place to work. She'd tugged at her lip, scrunching her lip gloss together. It stuck to her lips, making the pop of her mouth opening and shutting all the more audible for it. It had popped a lot that day.
There were all the little pleasantries of hello, how are you, how's work. She'd gotten him talking about maybe getting a cat again, had shown him more pictures of the place her and her collaborators were discussing transforming into a studio, a place they could go to work, to have some time to themselves without their housemates. They'd been eager to clarify they loved their housemates, were glad to have so many friends and connections. Had looked Aaron right in the eye when she said that she didn't think she'd be here if she hadn't made friends.
And then she'd gotten quiet. "You need to get help."
In retrospect, it was a setup he should have seen coming a mile away: A traditional play based on the flawed idea that if she just eased Aaron into it with kind words and her own lived experience, he'd somehow see the error of his ways and join her in fantasy land. What she never seemed to remember was that Aaron was still waiting for this to explode and leave shrapnel digging into her that he'd have to pull out only for even worse scars than before to form.
And now he was thinking about it like he'd said he wouldn't. He needed a stronger drink for this. If Casper were here, she'd be giving him that look again, her brow halfway to crinkled, lips tugged down in a frown he hadn't even known her capable of. Where had she learned that? When? His finger twitched.
What had followed Aaron could only term as a fight, not that anyone in the coffee shop noticed–Casper had always been quiet about her anger and Aaron was smart enough to keep it off his face. He hadn't said anything Casper would put in her broad category of 'mean', at most committing the crime of curtness, and that wasn't enough to stop Casper from delivering a parting blow as he left.
"Aren't you sick of being so damned miserable all the time?"
He hadn't answered. Just because she wanted to put her well-being in the hands of people with no reason not to hurt her didn't mean Aaron had to do the same.
And it still hurt. Still left his fingers trembling so minutely his book wasn't even shaking. And maybe he couldn't expect better from his brother, but he'd at least expected better from himself. He finished the glass of lemonade, finally staring back at the walls.
Fuck it, he was getting a stronger drink.
Title of the piece: Left Alone
Word Count: 730
Chosen theme(s): The illusion of power
Chosen format: Short story
Aaron scanned the page, back pressed into his headboard, pillows beneath him. The lights were off, the setting sun currently painting his room a dirty yellow still enough to read by. A quarter-full glass of hard lemonade sat on his nightstand, precipitation kept from leaving a ring on the piece by a coaster filled with pressed flowers. He reread the last paragraph.
'You need to get help.'
Aaron turned the thick cream page, small black serif font swimming across. He was going to drown himself in this book's pages. It would've been easier if every word on the page didn't send that phrase rattling through his brain. Maybe he should try a different book, but this was the one he'd chosen from the stack in his closet, so this was the one he'd read. He picked up his lemonade slowly, an affected kind of careless, and took a sip. Ice clinked weakly against the side of the cup as he swirled it. The bare walls of his room stared at him, the empty orderliness for once digging into his skin.
'You need to get help.' That's what she'd said. And how could he have let himself expect anything better?
He sank into his bed, sheets giving easily, and tried to go back to feeling nothing. It wasn't easy, yes, but it had gotten easier over the years. Surely he was self-disciplined enough to stop ruminating on this.
She'd kept swirling her dark plum tea, the light shining in through the window beside them, leaving her in sharp focus. Fresh roast coffee permeated the air. It would have been an excellent place to work. She'd tugged at her lip, scrunching her lip gloss together. It stuck to her lips, making the pop of her mouth opening and shutting all the more audible for it. It had popped a lot that day.
There were all the little pleasantries of hello, how are you, how's work. She'd gotten him talking about maybe getting a cat again, had shown him more pictures of the place her and her collaborators were discussing transforming into a studio, a place they could go to work, to have some time to themselves without their housemates. They'd been eager to clarify they loved their housemates, were glad to have so many friends and connections. Had looked Aaron right in the eye when she said that she didn't think she'd be here if she hadn't made friends.
And then she'd gotten quiet. "You need to get help."
In retrospect, it was a setup he should have seen coming a mile away: A traditional play based on the flawed idea that if she just eased Aaron into it with kind words and her own lived experience, he'd somehow see the error of his ways and join her in fantasy land. What she never seemed to remember was that Aaron was still waiting for this to explode and leave shrapnel digging into her that he'd have to pull out only for even worse scars than before to form.
And now he was thinking about it like he'd said he wouldn't. He needed a stronger drink for this. If Casper were here, she'd be giving him that look again, her brow halfway to crinkled, lips tugged down in a frown he hadn't even known her capable of. Where had she learned that? When? His finger twitched.
What had followed Aaron could only term as a fight, not that anyone in the coffee shop noticed–Casper had always been quiet about her anger and Aaron was smart enough to keep it off his face. He hadn't said anything Casper would put in her broad category of 'mean', at most committing the crime of curtness, and that wasn't enough to stop Casper from delivering a parting blow as he left.
"Aren't you sick of being so damned miserable all the time?"
He hadn't answered. Just because she wanted to put her well-being in the hands of people with no reason not to hurt her didn't mean Aaron had to do the same.
And it still hurt. Still left his fingers trembling so minutely his book wasn't even shaking. And maybe he couldn't expect better from his brother, but he'd at least expected better from himself. He finished the glass of lemonade, finally staring back at the walls.
Fuck it, he was getting a stronger drink.
By: Anonymous
Title of the piece: You Are a Particle of Stars.
Word Count: 294.
Chosen theme(s): Unconditional love; Mercy.
Chosen format: Poem.
You are a particle of stars,
shimmering like swans,
in the midsummer blue.
I would like to touch the Heavens;
to kiss every drop of you,
that descends into my arms.
You are the essence,
With pearls of nascence
adorning your empyreal core.
Danties and wonderments;
Graces and sentiments,
conceived by palms of Angels.
Like the canopy above mortals,
and the soil nursing feet,
You envelop me;
under streams of ardor,
like petals of ipomoeas,
blooming under the radiance,
of gold and silver Deities.
On what fate did I earn this zeal?
Your insurmountable tenderness?
The gift of your timbres,
beautifying my name with weakness?
The frailty of your smiles,
flexing emotions from anima,
with subtle embraces?
Could it be a dream;
that even with my vices and plainness;
of spirits, visions, and allurement,
I am cherished like pardoned sinner,
in a deep, goodless monsoon?
I am a penumbra;
specks of nebula setting to glimmer,
amidst the existential vacuum.
Journeying in trudging quiver,
for the zest of your glow.
You are a particle of stars,
shimmering like swans,
in the midsummer blue.
I am an umbrage;
remote and crumbling,
palpitating in rummage,
for the vacant niche
that is your devotion.
You are the canopy above my alienation,
and the soil that nourishes my resolution,
where in my flaws and blemishes,
dredge beneath your cherubic love.
You are the essence,
With pearls of nascence
adorning your empyreal core.
Unveiling the boons of solace,
With the gift of your spheres;
With the relish of your beams,
spurned pneuma and sores.
You are the particle of stars,
shimmering like swans,
in the dreamless midsummer blue.
I am the dusk,
pulsing in ruthless breadth.
Yearning for warmth;
to kiss every drop of you,
that descends into my arms.
Title of the piece: You Are a Particle of Stars.
Word Count: 294.
Chosen theme(s): Unconditional love; Mercy.
Chosen format: Poem.
You are a particle of stars,
shimmering like swans,
in the midsummer blue.
I would like to touch the Heavens;
to kiss every drop of you,
that descends into my arms.
You are the essence,
With pearls of nascence
adorning your empyreal core.
Danties and wonderments;
Graces and sentiments,
conceived by palms of Angels.
Like the canopy above mortals,
and the soil nursing feet,
You envelop me;
under streams of ardor,
like petals of ipomoeas,
blooming under the radiance,
of gold and silver Deities.
On what fate did I earn this zeal?
Your insurmountable tenderness?
The gift of your timbres,
beautifying my name with weakness?
The frailty of your smiles,
flexing emotions from anima,
with subtle embraces?
Could it be a dream;
that even with my vices and plainness;
of spirits, visions, and allurement,
I am cherished like pardoned sinner,
in a deep, goodless monsoon?
I am a penumbra;
specks of nebula setting to glimmer,
amidst the existential vacuum.
Journeying in trudging quiver,
for the zest of your glow.
You are a particle of stars,
shimmering like swans,
in the midsummer blue.
I am an umbrage;
remote and crumbling,
palpitating in rummage,
for the vacant niche
that is your devotion.
You are the canopy above my alienation,
and the soil that nourishes my resolution,
where in my flaws and blemishes,
dredge beneath your cherubic love.
You are the essence,
With pearls of nascence
adorning your empyreal core.
Unveiling the boons of solace,
With the gift of your spheres;
With the relish of your beams,
spurned pneuma and sores.
You are the particle of stars,
shimmering like swans,
in the dreamless midsummer blue.
I am the dusk,
pulsing in ruthless breadth.
Yearning for warmth;
to kiss every drop of you,
that descends into my arms.
By: @Childish Grumpino
Title of the piece: Trinity's Downfall
Word Count: 1563
Chosen theme(s): The Illusion of Power, Mercy
Chosen format: Short Story
Clutched in my hands is the power to end lives on a mass scale. All I need is to press a button, and in the next moment 250 of the greatest minds this generation has ever produced will be snuffed out.
A reflection of what they themselves are working on, in microcosm.
It is July, 1944. I am hidden away in a small bastion of civilisation tucked into a corner of New Mexico's mountains, watching a tall man standing outside a laboratory as he smokes what is likely to be his twentieth cigarette of the day. He possesses the kind of face that one would think is better suited to an actor than scientist, all refined high cheek-bones. His face is not one that many would recognise at this moment in time, but in the decades to come it will be a fixture on the popular consciousness.
He looks troubled, and I know he has every reason to be. Not because of me, of course. I am a threat he remains blissfully ignorant of. But I know he has spent the last few years up here in the mountains, cut off from his children. His wife, Kitty, is estranged from him at this time, and this weighs on him heavily. He knows about her drinking, about her deteriorating mental condition. He knows that, if he wasn't so consumed by the work before him, he could do more to help. In the years to come, when his work here is concluded, the two will eventually reconcile. They will discover a mutual love of sailing, and live out their days on the waters of St John.
I see all this, flowing out like an ever morphing flower from this moment in time. Just as I can see this man from my hidden vantage point in July 1944 I can follow the flow of time to see him less than a year later, sitting in a secure bunker hidden within the Jornada del Muerto desert. I watch as he gazes out upon the birth of his creation, a mushroom cloud erupting up into the sky with the force of 22 tons of TNT. The first test of a weapon that will go on to destroy cities within a few months of this moment, two attacks that will render entire sections of Hiroshima and Nagasaki down into their base components. And these are just the basic stages of the technology he is creating, the first gasps of a giant that will one day have the power to end the entire world.
I gaze upon the father of the atomic age, knowing that I have in my hands the power to spare everyone from the thing he helps create.
All I need to do is press the button, and it will be as though he and his fellows never existed.
Understand that I don't hate this man. Nothing could be further from the truth: I admire him deeply. He is as much philosopher as he is scientist, and the work he and his team are conducting here in the mountains of New Mexico keeps him up at night. In the years to come, what they achieve will haunt him. Him, most of all. He will appear on national television quoting the Bhagavad-Gita, reciting the moment Vishnu takes on his terrifying multi-armed form.
"Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."
If it were as simple a matter as following a static line through time to see what this man and his team will unleash, then I would have already pressed the button. But this power is not so simple, nor is it that kind. Time is not a static line but a fractal shape, shifting and changing with each decision made. As I stare down at the detonator I can see the lines and paths that will stem from it being pressed. I can see the consequences of my possible decision playing out before me, showing me that there are no easy solutions to the choice I face.
-
It is January, 1946. I am standing in the burning inferno that was once the city of Kyoto, watching a mother desperately attempt to free her son from the ruins that, until a few minutes ago, were their home. Above them, American warplanes fly almost wing to wing as they unleash their salvos on the city. Incendiaries fall from the sky like rain, carpeting the land below in a blanket of fire. The incessant firebombing, combined with high winds sweeping through this area, have merged into an unholy fusion of heat and destruction: a firestorm that will consume the city whole. She can hear it, even as she struggles to free her child, a clamouring howl that rises above the chaos, above the screams of her neighbours. Elsewhere in the city, the temperatures reach such heights that people quite literally melt, or else burst into flames as their clothing and hair ignites from a heat to rival the surface of the sun.
The fires draw closer. She can feel it on her skin. She struggles harder, unable to save her child. Unwilling to leave. I can find both of their remains if I return to the bombed out husk of Kyoto just a day later, carbonised fossils that barely resemble the people they once were.
This is only part of the horror I will bring into being, if I press the button.
-
It is February, 1946. I am peering into the dugout of an American position within the Japanese Home Islands, staring down at the young American marine within it. He has been at war for so long now he has given up on any hopes of seeing home again. Such a dream cannot survive the ordeal he has experienced. On the frontlines of Operation Downfall, he has witnessed firsthand the tenacity that the Japanese will be willing to fight with, without their Emperor being spurred into surrender by the threat of the Atomic bomb. He is not taking part in a war, but an extermination. Every inch of land is contested by the remnants of the Imperial Japanese Army, every mile claimed at the cost of hundreds of American lives. His friends. His comrades. He has the thousand yard stare of a man who's country has asked too much of him. He has lived through the nightly raids of Japanese infiltration units, hearing the sounds of his comrades as they are slaughtered in their foxholes. He has been made to stand his ground against suicidal charge after suicidal charge by the enemy, acutely aware that their ranks now consist of little more than women and children. What's more, he knows that this will only get worse before it ends, and that the Soviets have begun their own landings on the northern islands of Japan. Another front developing on the coming conflagration between US and USSR, unrestrained by the shadow of the atomic age.
He doesn't know it yet, but this young soldier will return home to the United States by the end of the year. A broken shell of a man, who's mind will never truly leave the home islands of Japan and all the horror it witnessed there. One of a broken generation of fighting men, many of whom will be called up again in the wars to come.
And all this, too, will be the result of my decision. My choice to press the button. To bury the nuclear giant, I will condemn millions to death and suffering.
-
It is once again July, 1944, and my fist clenches tighter around the detonator I hold. As I watch the paths of time bloom and shift before me, with all the horror that I am at the verge of bringing into being, I realise that this is not a power I have been gifted with. This is a burden. A duty. I must choose what I deem to be the lesser of two evils, then live with the consequences. I can let the man I have been watching in this isolated military compound live to complete his work, knowing that it will cast a shadow across the rest of human history that stretches beyond even my ability to see. A shadow that could, at any moment, come crashing down to swallow all of humanity whole. Or I could cut his research short with the simple press of a button, stopping that shadow from ever growing. All it would cost is another century of death and conflict, as ideologies clash and untold numbers of people are consumed in the fighting. I would condemn millions, in the hopes of saving everyone.
Which is the kinder of the two? Which is more merciful? Can what I am about to decide even be called 'mercy', truly?
Before me, the scientist has finished his cigarette. He flicks it's remains off into the sand just as something catches his eye. He blinks, his eyes falling upon the spot that I have been lurking in. Falling upon me. He stares for a moment, eyes narrowing. This is it, I realise. My time for deliberation is up. This is the focal point where the shape of time converges, the paths linking and combining together into a knot. This is when I must choose.
My eyes meet his, in the instant my finger reaches for the trigger.
Title of the piece: Trinity's Downfall
Word Count: 1563
Chosen theme(s): The Illusion of Power, Mercy
Chosen format: Short Story
Clutched in my hands is the power to end lives on a mass scale. All I need is to press a button, and in the next moment 250 of the greatest minds this generation has ever produced will be snuffed out.
A reflection of what they themselves are working on, in microcosm.
It is July, 1944. I am hidden away in a small bastion of civilisation tucked into a corner of New Mexico's mountains, watching a tall man standing outside a laboratory as he smokes what is likely to be his twentieth cigarette of the day. He possesses the kind of face that one would think is better suited to an actor than scientist, all refined high cheek-bones. His face is not one that many would recognise at this moment in time, but in the decades to come it will be a fixture on the popular consciousness.
He looks troubled, and I know he has every reason to be. Not because of me, of course. I am a threat he remains blissfully ignorant of. But I know he has spent the last few years up here in the mountains, cut off from his children. His wife, Kitty, is estranged from him at this time, and this weighs on him heavily. He knows about her drinking, about her deteriorating mental condition. He knows that, if he wasn't so consumed by the work before him, he could do more to help. In the years to come, when his work here is concluded, the two will eventually reconcile. They will discover a mutual love of sailing, and live out their days on the waters of St John.
I see all this, flowing out like an ever morphing flower from this moment in time. Just as I can see this man from my hidden vantage point in July 1944 I can follow the flow of time to see him less than a year later, sitting in a secure bunker hidden within the Jornada del Muerto desert. I watch as he gazes out upon the birth of his creation, a mushroom cloud erupting up into the sky with the force of 22 tons of TNT. The first test of a weapon that will go on to destroy cities within a few months of this moment, two attacks that will render entire sections of Hiroshima and Nagasaki down into their base components. And these are just the basic stages of the technology he is creating, the first gasps of a giant that will one day have the power to end the entire world.
I gaze upon the father of the atomic age, knowing that I have in my hands the power to spare everyone from the thing he helps create.
All I need to do is press the button, and it will be as though he and his fellows never existed.
Understand that I don't hate this man. Nothing could be further from the truth: I admire him deeply. He is as much philosopher as he is scientist, and the work he and his team are conducting here in the mountains of New Mexico keeps him up at night. In the years to come, what they achieve will haunt him. Him, most of all. He will appear on national television quoting the Bhagavad-Gita, reciting the moment Vishnu takes on his terrifying multi-armed form.
"Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."
If it were as simple a matter as following a static line through time to see what this man and his team will unleash, then I would have already pressed the button. But this power is not so simple, nor is it that kind. Time is not a static line but a fractal shape, shifting and changing with each decision made. As I stare down at the detonator I can see the lines and paths that will stem from it being pressed. I can see the consequences of my possible decision playing out before me, showing me that there are no easy solutions to the choice I face.
-
It is January, 1946. I am standing in the burning inferno that was once the city of Kyoto, watching a mother desperately attempt to free her son from the ruins that, until a few minutes ago, were their home. Above them, American warplanes fly almost wing to wing as they unleash their salvos on the city. Incendiaries fall from the sky like rain, carpeting the land below in a blanket of fire. The incessant firebombing, combined with high winds sweeping through this area, have merged into an unholy fusion of heat and destruction: a firestorm that will consume the city whole. She can hear it, even as she struggles to free her child, a clamouring howl that rises above the chaos, above the screams of her neighbours. Elsewhere in the city, the temperatures reach such heights that people quite literally melt, or else burst into flames as their clothing and hair ignites from a heat to rival the surface of the sun.
The fires draw closer. She can feel it on her skin. She struggles harder, unable to save her child. Unwilling to leave. I can find both of their remains if I return to the bombed out husk of Kyoto just a day later, carbonised fossils that barely resemble the people they once were.
This is only part of the horror I will bring into being, if I press the button.
-
It is February, 1946. I am peering into the dugout of an American position within the Japanese Home Islands, staring down at the young American marine within it. He has been at war for so long now he has given up on any hopes of seeing home again. Such a dream cannot survive the ordeal he has experienced. On the frontlines of Operation Downfall, he has witnessed firsthand the tenacity that the Japanese will be willing to fight with, without their Emperor being spurred into surrender by the threat of the Atomic bomb. He is not taking part in a war, but an extermination. Every inch of land is contested by the remnants of the Imperial Japanese Army, every mile claimed at the cost of hundreds of American lives. His friends. His comrades. He has the thousand yard stare of a man who's country has asked too much of him. He has lived through the nightly raids of Japanese infiltration units, hearing the sounds of his comrades as they are slaughtered in their foxholes. He has been made to stand his ground against suicidal charge after suicidal charge by the enemy, acutely aware that their ranks now consist of little more than women and children. What's more, he knows that this will only get worse before it ends, and that the Soviets have begun their own landings on the northern islands of Japan. Another front developing on the coming conflagration between US and USSR, unrestrained by the shadow of the atomic age.
He doesn't know it yet, but this young soldier will return home to the United States by the end of the year. A broken shell of a man, who's mind will never truly leave the home islands of Japan and all the horror it witnessed there. One of a broken generation of fighting men, many of whom will be called up again in the wars to come.
And all this, too, will be the result of my decision. My choice to press the button. To bury the nuclear giant, I will condemn millions to death and suffering.
-
It is once again July, 1944, and my fist clenches tighter around the detonator I hold. As I watch the paths of time bloom and shift before me, with all the horror that I am at the verge of bringing into being, I realise that this is not a power I have been gifted with. This is a burden. A duty. I must choose what I deem to be the lesser of two evils, then live with the consequences. I can let the man I have been watching in this isolated military compound live to complete his work, knowing that it will cast a shadow across the rest of human history that stretches beyond even my ability to see. A shadow that could, at any moment, come crashing down to swallow all of humanity whole. Or I could cut his research short with the simple press of a button, stopping that shadow from ever growing. All it would cost is another century of death and conflict, as ideologies clash and untold numbers of people are consumed in the fighting. I would condemn millions, in the hopes of saving everyone.
Which is the kinder of the two? Which is more merciful? Can what I am about to decide even be called 'mercy', truly?
Before me, the scientist has finished his cigarette. He flicks it's remains off into the sand just as something catches his eye. He blinks, his eyes falling upon the spot that I have been lurking in. Falling upon me. He stares for a moment, eyes narrowing. This is it, I realise. My time for deliberation is up. This is the focal point where the shape of time converges, the paths linking and combining together into a knot. This is when I must choose.
My eyes meet his, in the instant my finger reaches for the trigger.
By: @TerraBooma
Title of the piece: Honour and Glory
Word Count: 1808
Chosen theme(s): Mercy
Chosen format: Short Story
Honour and glory were useless, on an empty stomach.
It had been eight months since the war had ended, yet the famine still clung to the empire like a plague. The priests had called the war a sin. The famine was a divine punishment for the empire that dared to expand its borders. To bring its gifts to the world. Like an eagle flying too close to the heavens, they had risen, found a current, and all too soon plummeted from grace. Now there was nothing.
Kalrick had thought that you'd grow used to the pain. The twisting knots of your stomach, the
Protest of defilement from a body infuriated with its commander. But there would be no relief. Another day of wasting away in front of the city walls. The cracked stonework of the mountain stronghold still hadn't been repaired since the siege a few months ago. It was a common theme Kalrick had found- border cities like Yldenvale were often the first to be targeted by an invading...or in this case, counter attacking force. During the war, there hadn't been any time to repair the more superficial damage. Scaffolding did little to stop a trebuchets' special delivery from slamming into the stonework after all, and now that the war was over, nobody wanted to do the work. Not like money was any good anyway, there just wasn't any food to buy. A king's fortune was a useful as a pauper's purse. Least, that was the way Kalrick thought it'd be. His wages had done him a fat lot of good in the end at least.
He'd joined up straight out of school, eager for a promise of riches and fame. Eight years of watching his friends die, of standing in the common ranks and praying to gods the sharpened stick they allegedly called a spear would be enough to save his life. And he had nothing to show for it. All the money he'd saved was worthless now, couldn't so much as buy a loaf of bread should one magically appear in the bakers window. As for the glory, that much was simple. Turns out there was no glory in losing a war. He'd had to shave his head to stand a chance against the bugs. His armor- standard regulation leather, with the Kingdom's pride emblazoned on his shoulder was all but tarnished. Cracked and frail from repeated blows, with even said insignia barely a whisper. The Fox had been a symbol of cunning, they'd told him. Now it wasn't much of anything. Course, since he was acting as a guard now, nobody bothered to think about replacing it.
His stomach growled again, tearing itself up in the search for something to eat. He winced and leaned back against the cool stone, glancing down at the dry grass beneath his feet, as if it might be able to stave off the hunger. But grass wasn't much good for eating, it was hard to keep down, and it didn't hold off the hunger long enough for it to matter. He never thought he'd miss the company's cooking. Complaining about the food had been about as integral an experience in his time as a soldier to actually fighting with the neighboring alliance. But as gritty and tasteless as the cooks seemed to make just about any meal, it was consistent. Long as you kept winning, you kept getting to eat. A fair enough system as any, he reckoned, even if winning too much meant you didn't get to eat either. Still, in enemy territory, there had been plenty of food to take, even if the wagons had dried up. He'd grown quite the appreciation of foriegn lands. The Wine of the Lotus Kingdom, the Bread of the Micefolk, even the strange fish of the Underfolk had grown on him. Gamey, but tender if you knew what to do with it. He could feel himself salivating at the thought of those foreign meals. Then they'd just been his due reward, his plunder to take and pleasure from.
When he was feeling particularly reflective, he wondered how hungry his enemy had felt. When he and his comrades had stolen their grain and meat, burned their fields and salted them to ruin. How hungry had then been? Was there any food left? Could they get it? Could Kalrick have it instead? Hunger was a sobering pain. A constant presence that required considerable thinking effort to ignore. Effort that he could spend since people had stopped doing much of anything.
When the war ended, there was a celebration. A wasteful one, he saw that now. But people thought the famine surely would have ended then. The priests said so, didn't they? That the famine was a punishment of the gods, that the only way to appease them was to return to peace. The Emperor ignored them of course. Called them all fools, and marched his empire onward until the Empire could march no more.
But the famine hadn't ended then, even with peace. No crops came, no rain fell.
People started getting desperate, angry. Riots broke out in the streets, and he'd been plenty busy then. His spear put to work against other hungry people that he'd been fighting for in the first place. He'd have felt sick at the prospect if there was anything left in his system to be sick about.
But the famine hadn't ended then, even with riots. No crops came, no rain fell.
Eventually, the rioting stopped. Not for lack of trying, but people didn't have the energy to fight anymore. There were rumors about cities, far away, that had simply walked into their lords keep and declared themselves in charge. Of some cities turning to darker, desperate attempts to find food, eating people as nothing else arrived. But here, in Yldenvale none of that had happened. Everything had just stopped, and now the streets were all but empty at every hour of the day.
But the famine hadn't ended then, even with desolation. No crops came, no rain fell.
Kalrick didn't think there would ever be food again, if he was being honest. Sometimes, he wondered if the gods had just decided to wipe the empire out. To leave them with nothing so they would just wither away and be done with it all. He was waiting for the end, now, watching the rolling hills just beyond his mountain home. He'd decided he'd rather starve to death with a view of the countryside than in his own bed. As his stomach twisted again, he felt his head spin, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground. Had he fallen over? He didn't think he was going to get back up. At least if someone ever came to check on him, they'd know he hadn't deserted.
Weak hands reached into his pocket, pulling out a small necklace. A carved fox's head dangling limp from a frayed and weak looking piece of twine. It had been his childhood treasure. A gift from a very dear friend, now he was just sad it wasn't edible.
His stomach just hurt now, constantly. Or maybe it'd always been hurting, and he just had managed to not pay attention to it. He felt tired, and just wanted to go to bed now. Go to bed and wake up somewhere nice, with the smell of freshly baked bread wafting over the wind. He felt a meek smile crawl over his exhausted face, tickled by crunchy and itchy strands of brown grass. Freshly baked bread. That was right, there'd be a fresh loaf, just for him, and enough Jam to make him sick. Then a cider to wash it all down and a tart for dessert. That would be nice.
The real world however, refused to let him go to sleep with his fantasy meal. The sensation of dying clawing rudely against the thin veneer of fantasy that he'd been able to construct. The prickle of dry grass against his body. The cold fall air brushing against his face, making his nose itch. Wagon wheels rattling past him, horses hooves. The sound of lively voices barking at each other. A mix of a half dozen languages.
Wait, what?
Nobody had come down the main road in weeks, and no wagons had come for months. The entire empire had been crippled by this famine, who still had the energy to travel? Slowly, he willed his dying head to turn. To gaze upon the visitors that dared traverse his road. It was hard for him to make out details. Faces blinking past him on mass. Dozens of faces, hundreds. A whole caravan of wagons riding into town at speed. Each wagon had something painted on the side- Lotuses, A Mousefolk's face, a fish cut in half by a sharp stone. His aching mind took far too long to process it, but eventually he realized it. The flags of the alliance. Wagons of the alliance. Crates and crates of food thundering past in greater numbers than he'd seen in the last few weeks combined. The sight of the crates alone was enough to make him cry, a humble affair of silent tears as he lacked the energy to do anything as dramatic as sob.
Why? They didn't deserve this. This was their punishment from the gods. Their sins of expansion brought down upon the populace of a villainous empire.
He'd been in their lands
Footsteps stepped towards him, he felt someone press their hand to his neck.
He'd taken their food.
There was shouting, more of that singsongy language.
He'd taken their lives!
He felt himself lift, saw the world tumble around as he was suddenly facing the ground, swaying movements as he was carried somewhere away from his post. He felt his throat try to protest, he didn't want to get in trouble for deserting, but he didn't have the strength. He was dropped- roughly, into one of the wagons, it started moving again, and someone approached his field of view. He could recognize the small physique and telltale whiskers of a mousefolk, but in his eyes, they were more than that. An angel, no, a god. Because in their hand was the largest loaf of bread he'd ever seen. They offered it to him, and in that moment, he heard his sergeant's voice ring around in his head.
"It's dishonour to accept gifts from the enemy!"
Still, he didn't even hesitate. He ripped into the loaf of bread with the ferocity of a caged dog, tearing at the fluffy grain with all the vigor a starving man could muster. He didn't care anymore. All that mattered was the food. He took turns equally eating, laughing incredulously, and sobbing. It was embarrassing, but who cared?
Honour and Glory were useless on an empty stomach.
Title of the piece: Honour and Glory
Word Count: 1808
Chosen theme(s): Mercy
Chosen format: Short Story
Honour and glory were useless, on an empty stomach.
It had been eight months since the war had ended, yet the famine still clung to the empire like a plague. The priests had called the war a sin. The famine was a divine punishment for the empire that dared to expand its borders. To bring its gifts to the world. Like an eagle flying too close to the heavens, they had risen, found a current, and all too soon plummeted from grace. Now there was nothing.
Kalrick had thought that you'd grow used to the pain. The twisting knots of your stomach, the
Protest of defilement from a body infuriated with its commander. But there would be no relief. Another day of wasting away in front of the city walls. The cracked stonework of the mountain stronghold still hadn't been repaired since the siege a few months ago. It was a common theme Kalrick had found- border cities like Yldenvale were often the first to be targeted by an invading...or in this case, counter attacking force. During the war, there hadn't been any time to repair the more superficial damage. Scaffolding did little to stop a trebuchets' special delivery from slamming into the stonework after all, and now that the war was over, nobody wanted to do the work. Not like money was any good anyway, there just wasn't any food to buy. A king's fortune was a useful as a pauper's purse. Least, that was the way Kalrick thought it'd be. His wages had done him a fat lot of good in the end at least.
He'd joined up straight out of school, eager for a promise of riches and fame. Eight years of watching his friends die, of standing in the common ranks and praying to gods the sharpened stick they allegedly called a spear would be enough to save his life. And he had nothing to show for it. All the money he'd saved was worthless now, couldn't so much as buy a loaf of bread should one magically appear in the bakers window. As for the glory, that much was simple. Turns out there was no glory in losing a war. He'd had to shave his head to stand a chance against the bugs. His armor- standard regulation leather, with the Kingdom's pride emblazoned on his shoulder was all but tarnished. Cracked and frail from repeated blows, with even said insignia barely a whisper. The Fox had been a symbol of cunning, they'd told him. Now it wasn't much of anything. Course, since he was acting as a guard now, nobody bothered to think about replacing it.
His stomach growled again, tearing itself up in the search for something to eat. He winced and leaned back against the cool stone, glancing down at the dry grass beneath his feet, as if it might be able to stave off the hunger. But grass wasn't much good for eating, it was hard to keep down, and it didn't hold off the hunger long enough for it to matter. He never thought he'd miss the company's cooking. Complaining about the food had been about as integral an experience in his time as a soldier to actually fighting with the neighboring alliance. But as gritty and tasteless as the cooks seemed to make just about any meal, it was consistent. Long as you kept winning, you kept getting to eat. A fair enough system as any, he reckoned, even if winning too much meant you didn't get to eat either. Still, in enemy territory, there had been plenty of food to take, even if the wagons had dried up. He'd grown quite the appreciation of foriegn lands. The Wine of the Lotus Kingdom, the Bread of the Micefolk, even the strange fish of the Underfolk had grown on him. Gamey, but tender if you knew what to do with it. He could feel himself salivating at the thought of those foreign meals. Then they'd just been his due reward, his plunder to take and pleasure from.
When he was feeling particularly reflective, he wondered how hungry his enemy had felt. When he and his comrades had stolen their grain and meat, burned their fields and salted them to ruin. How hungry had then been? Was there any food left? Could they get it? Could Kalrick have it instead? Hunger was a sobering pain. A constant presence that required considerable thinking effort to ignore. Effort that he could spend since people had stopped doing much of anything.
When the war ended, there was a celebration. A wasteful one, he saw that now. But people thought the famine surely would have ended then. The priests said so, didn't they? That the famine was a punishment of the gods, that the only way to appease them was to return to peace. The Emperor ignored them of course. Called them all fools, and marched his empire onward until the Empire could march no more.
But the famine hadn't ended then, even with peace. No crops came, no rain fell.
People started getting desperate, angry. Riots broke out in the streets, and he'd been plenty busy then. His spear put to work against other hungry people that he'd been fighting for in the first place. He'd have felt sick at the prospect if there was anything left in his system to be sick about.
But the famine hadn't ended then, even with riots. No crops came, no rain fell.
Eventually, the rioting stopped. Not for lack of trying, but people didn't have the energy to fight anymore. There were rumors about cities, far away, that had simply walked into their lords keep and declared themselves in charge. Of some cities turning to darker, desperate attempts to find food, eating people as nothing else arrived. But here, in Yldenvale none of that had happened. Everything had just stopped, and now the streets were all but empty at every hour of the day.
But the famine hadn't ended then, even with desolation. No crops came, no rain fell.
Kalrick didn't think there would ever be food again, if he was being honest. Sometimes, he wondered if the gods had just decided to wipe the empire out. To leave them with nothing so they would just wither away and be done with it all. He was waiting for the end, now, watching the rolling hills just beyond his mountain home. He'd decided he'd rather starve to death with a view of the countryside than in his own bed. As his stomach twisted again, he felt his head spin, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground. Had he fallen over? He didn't think he was going to get back up. At least if someone ever came to check on him, they'd know he hadn't deserted.
Weak hands reached into his pocket, pulling out a small necklace. A carved fox's head dangling limp from a frayed and weak looking piece of twine. It had been his childhood treasure. A gift from a very dear friend, now he was just sad it wasn't edible.
His stomach just hurt now, constantly. Or maybe it'd always been hurting, and he just had managed to not pay attention to it. He felt tired, and just wanted to go to bed now. Go to bed and wake up somewhere nice, with the smell of freshly baked bread wafting over the wind. He felt a meek smile crawl over his exhausted face, tickled by crunchy and itchy strands of brown grass. Freshly baked bread. That was right, there'd be a fresh loaf, just for him, and enough Jam to make him sick. Then a cider to wash it all down and a tart for dessert. That would be nice.
The real world however, refused to let him go to sleep with his fantasy meal. The sensation of dying clawing rudely against the thin veneer of fantasy that he'd been able to construct. The prickle of dry grass against his body. The cold fall air brushing against his face, making his nose itch. Wagon wheels rattling past him, horses hooves. The sound of lively voices barking at each other. A mix of a half dozen languages.
Wait, what?
Nobody had come down the main road in weeks, and no wagons had come for months. The entire empire had been crippled by this famine, who still had the energy to travel? Slowly, he willed his dying head to turn. To gaze upon the visitors that dared traverse his road. It was hard for him to make out details. Faces blinking past him on mass. Dozens of faces, hundreds. A whole caravan of wagons riding into town at speed. Each wagon had something painted on the side- Lotuses, A Mousefolk's face, a fish cut in half by a sharp stone. His aching mind took far too long to process it, but eventually he realized it. The flags of the alliance. Wagons of the alliance. Crates and crates of food thundering past in greater numbers than he'd seen in the last few weeks combined. The sight of the crates alone was enough to make him cry, a humble affair of silent tears as he lacked the energy to do anything as dramatic as sob.
Why? They didn't deserve this. This was their punishment from the gods. Their sins of expansion brought down upon the populace of a villainous empire.
He'd been in their lands
Footsteps stepped towards him, he felt someone press their hand to his neck.
He'd taken their food.
There was shouting, more of that singsongy language.
He'd taken their lives!
He felt himself lift, saw the world tumble around as he was suddenly facing the ground, swaying movements as he was carried somewhere away from his post. He felt his throat try to protest, he didn't want to get in trouble for deserting, but he didn't have the strength. He was dropped- roughly, into one of the wagons, it started moving again, and someone approached his field of view. He could recognize the small physique and telltale whiskers of a mousefolk, but in his eyes, they were more than that. An angel, no, a god. Because in their hand was the largest loaf of bread he'd ever seen. They offered it to him, and in that moment, he heard his sergeant's voice ring around in his head.
"It's dishonour to accept gifts from the enemy!"
Still, he didn't even hesitate. He ripped into the loaf of bread with the ferocity of a caged dog, tearing at the fluffy grain with all the vigor a starving man could muster. He didn't care anymore. All that mattered was the food. He took turns equally eating, laughing incredulously, and sobbing. It was embarrassing, but who cared?
Honour and Glory were useless on an empty stomach.
By: @Baddamobs
Title of the piece: World-State-Changer
Word Count: 1995
Chosen theme(s): All three, though 'The illusion of power' was the most deciding one.
Chosen format: Short Story
The child lifted his hand, and the mountain rose from the earth in response.
Crumbling and groaning, with a tremor that sent what felt like the entire world shaking, the mountain floated free from it's place on the ground, departing from where it had rested for eons beyond counting to become a fixture in the sky. It's peak, once merely brushing against the firmament, now pierced through the clouds, the mist and fog of its summit lost entirely to a space higher than any living thing could hope to reach. And the child, a tiny speck on the ground before the spectacle, watched with wonder at the result of the mere motion of his hand.
"When I said lift something, I was thinking more of a rock or even just a tree, but I suppose that will do."
The child looked around, finally tearing his eyes from what he had accomplished with merely a thought, to his father.
Standing a little to one side, looking up impassively at the uncountable tonnes of rocks that were floating miles upwards in front of him, the boy's father turned to his give his son a pointedly unimpressed look. The façade of disapproval didn't last long however: despite his efforts, a smile soon twitched its way onto the warn features of the man's face, crinkling the dark circles under his eyes.
"Very impressive, Robin. You've exceeded even my wildest imagination."
"Ah – really, Popa?!" Robin all but jumped in place at this, not even noticing that the wild motion caused the mountain to shift precariously to one side, sending one whole edge crashing downward in an accidental strike that more or less wiped out an entire forest. Robin's father (after he had regained his footing), reached out a hand to carefully pat down Robin's unruly mop of hair.
"Yes really, though try to keep some of that enthusiasm for later, alright?"
For a while, both father and son stood gazing up at the now lop-sided mountain. Robin kept intermittingly looking down at his hands, like he couldn't quite believe that they were a part of him, while his Popa kept his gaze steady on the tilted giant of rock. While his stance was relaxed, his fingers tugged at his sleeves, his eyes distracted. Finally, he turned back to Robin with a slight smile, and asked,
"Do you remember the other trick I showed you? Can you still do it?"
The boy hesitated, before screwing up his face and puffing out his cheeks as he concentrated. After a few breaths, he floated up from the ground, his bare feet dangling several hands-width from the lush grass.
"Very good." Robin's father gently took hold of his hand, and followed suit in levitating upwards, carefully towing his boy as he ascended higher than the tree tops. "Now hold on tight, okay?"
Robin, perhaps a little fearfully, nodded. Starting slowly but quickly building speed, the two figures began flying in a great looping arc around the mountain, the wind whistling through their ears and sending their hair blowing every which way. Robin spent most of the early part of the flight with his eyes firmly shut, almost whimpering as the air grew cooler. But after a while, he started to slowly peep from one eye, and then the other, and it wasn't long before he was gazing wide-eyed at what he saw.
The entire world was spread out before him. A great patchwork of verdant greens and shimmering blues, mountain ranges that from this great height seemed as small as toys, all joined together in one unimaginable sight. From this edge of the sky, the world was a single giant picture that spread from one horizon to the next, filled with movement and life: crashing waves, waving trees and flocks of birds that drifted across the azure sky.
Robin let out a whoop and laugh, craning his neck this way and that to look around, before he noticed something – their ascent hadn't slowed.
"Uh, Popa!?" He had to shout to be heard over the cry of the wind as they hurtled through the air. His father squeezed his hand.
"Just trust me, we're almost there!"
The clouds and the very roof of the world were rapidly approaching. Robin clung to his father's hand like a lifeline, and flinched as they zipped through fluffy white clouds. When he finally dared to peep his eyes open, he once again found himself struck dumb.
Before them, a field of stars beyond counting. Glowing and twinkling with clarity unobtainable anywhere on the ground, the sky was a masterpiece of shining lights and shooting stars, glowing constellations and deep colours.
Despite being so different, Robin was suddenly struck with the thought that the vastness of space seemed just as alive as the earth they had left behind.
"Pretty cool, huh?"
"Yea…" Robin spoke absently, before jolting in shock. "W-wait, how can you speak? How can I speak!? How can we breathe?!"
"Haha, you lifted a mountain and this is what you're confused about?" Robin's father once again patted the crown of his son's head, before gesturing to a strange white shape poking out of the clouds. "Let's settle down over there, and I'll explain."
They drifted over to what Robin eventually realized was the peak of the mountain from before. He had dropped it at such an angle that it's very summit was higher than before, to the point of reaching this far edge of the world. He and his father drifted down, landing on the icy peak that strangely didn't feel particularly cold.
Sitting with a huff, Robin's Popa was silent for a moment, seeming to consider the endless stars while Robin himself settled himself by his father's side, chin resting atop his knees. His mind was spinning, wondering how this was all possible. Still, Robin sat in dutiful quiet as his father sought out whatever words he was looking for amongst the stars.
"…Before I can explain how this all works, first I need to know if you remember how this began. Can you remember anything of when you were younger?"
Robin didn't answer for a long stretch, more confused by the question than struggling for an answer, but eventually said.
"I remember a white room, and a man with a scary face. He had this weird thingy around his neck, that ended in a metal circle." Robin shuddered a little. "I remember feeling really…heavy. Like my arms and legs were difficult to move."
Robin's father made a noise of acknowledgement, unsurprised though his body tensed as Robin spoke. The boy watched, curious as his Popa took a long breath.
"Things weren't…you weren't ready back then." His father said slowly, gaze still fixed to the edge of the world. "You were very sick for a long time, because your body was still adjusting to the great power it had within itself. We are singular amongst the people of this world, Robin. We can do things that others could only dream of, have the power to do anything."
At last, Robin's father turned back to him, a severe look in his eye.
"There is nothing in this world that could ever hurt you, Robin, and everything is yours to change."
"…Like, a super hero?"
Robin's father blinked. After a long moment, he smiled.
"Yes, exactly like a super hero."
"…Whoa."
For some reason Robin couldn't place, his father laughed a bit at that.
For a time, the two of them simply sat there, above the clouds and against the roof of the world, watching the stars slowly drift across the sky. Robin wasn't sure what to think, or even how to feel, but this new revelation filled him with excitement. His spirit felt as free and soaring as the vast universe before him.
A sudden, loud beeping barked into life, and Robin's father looked down at his wrist. His watch (had he always been wearing a watch?) was flashing a bold red colour, and letting out a sharp noise every second. The man's face crumpled at the sight, and he turned without eagerness to Robin.
"I…need to go, just for a while. Your Popa just needs to get a few things sorted, and quickly. I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise."
Robin's stomach lurched, and he latched on to his father's sleeve.
"W-w-wait, you can't just leave me up here!"
"Like I said, there's nothing you can't do: when you're ready you can just fly back down to the ground." Despite this assurance, his father looked reluctant to go. "Just remember, no matter what, I'll come back, alright?"
Slowly, Robin nodded, and let go of his father. In the very next moment, the man simply vanished, like he had been whooshed out of existence.
Robin was scared for a while, but soon his gaze turned back to the sky. His fear ebbed away, replaced with wonder. To be able to do anything…
Robin sat there for a long time, gaze locked with the endless sky.
========================
A hiss, like a threat from a snake.
"User safely disengaged. Please remove the WSC headset."
A voice coldly reassuring and absolutely artificial.
Robin's father took a breath – the sweet and strange air he had been breathing replaced with a thick, musty quality. He slowly pushed himself up, lifting hands filled with numbness to lift the heavy device still clamped around his head.
He blinked as he looked about the room. Filled with bulky machinery and blinking lights, the whirr of devices in motion dominated the space. Everywhere one looked were wires, wires upon bundles of wires, snaking their way all about memory banks and servers that surrounded the two beds that marked the room's only real furniture. Robin's father pushed himself from the one he had occupied, blinking as he saw a figure silhouetted in the blinking lights.
A woman stood by a glowing console, tapping at the screen. She spoke impassively, not bothering to look up from her work.
"You know, that system warning exists for a reason. Your lad's headset might allow him to go under indefinitely, but yours will just turn your brains into scrambled eggs. And I'll be the one that catches the flak, especially if it's before you've -"
Robin's father just huffed, ignoring the familiar tirade. He had turned to look at the occupant of the other bed, his expression dark.
A small figure – a child – lay in the middle of the bed, though you would have almost missed him from the uncountable wires and machinery plugged into him. Thin tubes ran directly to the centre of his chest, raising and falling with his weak breathe, strange metallic nodes rested on the intersection between each of his joints, and his face was almost entirely buried underneath metal that shone like polished brass. Hesitantly, like one who's handling delicate glass, Robin's father moved his hand to rest over the boy's.
The woman watched the display silently, though her rhythmic tapping had slowed slightly. After a long stretch, she said,
"You still have a few hours before he's fully integrated, you know. After that, it will be entirely impossible for him to disengage with the system and live."
"… 'And live?'" Robin's father spoke the words like they weren't even from language he recognised. "Live in what, a world that was already cruel enough to tear his body and damn near everything else from him? No. No, to take him from the machine would be a cruelty, not a kindness. This is all I can do for him."
The room fell back into near silence, the quiet hum of active machines becoming the only sound. The woman dropped her gaze down, looking back to console. The screen was filled with numbers and statics, a thousand, thousand notifications and observations, but the only thing she saw was the tiny window right in the corner, of a small boy gazing up with wonder at the stars.
Title of the piece: World-State-Changer
Word Count: 1995
Chosen theme(s): All three, though 'The illusion of power' was the most deciding one.
Chosen format: Short Story
The child lifted his hand, and the mountain rose from the earth in response.
Crumbling and groaning, with a tremor that sent what felt like the entire world shaking, the mountain floated free from it's place on the ground, departing from where it had rested for eons beyond counting to become a fixture in the sky. It's peak, once merely brushing against the firmament, now pierced through the clouds, the mist and fog of its summit lost entirely to a space higher than any living thing could hope to reach. And the child, a tiny speck on the ground before the spectacle, watched with wonder at the result of the mere motion of his hand.
"When I said lift something, I was thinking more of a rock or even just a tree, but I suppose that will do."
The child looked around, finally tearing his eyes from what he had accomplished with merely a thought, to his father.
Standing a little to one side, looking up impassively at the uncountable tonnes of rocks that were floating miles upwards in front of him, the boy's father turned to his give his son a pointedly unimpressed look. The façade of disapproval didn't last long however: despite his efforts, a smile soon twitched its way onto the warn features of the man's face, crinkling the dark circles under his eyes.
"Very impressive, Robin. You've exceeded even my wildest imagination."
"Ah – really, Popa?!" Robin all but jumped in place at this, not even noticing that the wild motion caused the mountain to shift precariously to one side, sending one whole edge crashing downward in an accidental strike that more or less wiped out an entire forest. Robin's father (after he had regained his footing), reached out a hand to carefully pat down Robin's unruly mop of hair.
"Yes really, though try to keep some of that enthusiasm for later, alright?"
For a while, both father and son stood gazing up at the now lop-sided mountain. Robin kept intermittingly looking down at his hands, like he couldn't quite believe that they were a part of him, while his Popa kept his gaze steady on the tilted giant of rock. While his stance was relaxed, his fingers tugged at his sleeves, his eyes distracted. Finally, he turned back to Robin with a slight smile, and asked,
"Do you remember the other trick I showed you? Can you still do it?"
The boy hesitated, before screwing up his face and puffing out his cheeks as he concentrated. After a few breaths, he floated up from the ground, his bare feet dangling several hands-width from the lush grass.
"Very good." Robin's father gently took hold of his hand, and followed suit in levitating upwards, carefully towing his boy as he ascended higher than the tree tops. "Now hold on tight, okay?"
Robin, perhaps a little fearfully, nodded. Starting slowly but quickly building speed, the two figures began flying in a great looping arc around the mountain, the wind whistling through their ears and sending their hair blowing every which way. Robin spent most of the early part of the flight with his eyes firmly shut, almost whimpering as the air grew cooler. But after a while, he started to slowly peep from one eye, and then the other, and it wasn't long before he was gazing wide-eyed at what he saw.
The entire world was spread out before him. A great patchwork of verdant greens and shimmering blues, mountain ranges that from this great height seemed as small as toys, all joined together in one unimaginable sight. From this edge of the sky, the world was a single giant picture that spread from one horizon to the next, filled with movement and life: crashing waves, waving trees and flocks of birds that drifted across the azure sky.
Robin let out a whoop and laugh, craning his neck this way and that to look around, before he noticed something – their ascent hadn't slowed.
"Uh, Popa!?" He had to shout to be heard over the cry of the wind as they hurtled through the air. His father squeezed his hand.
"Just trust me, we're almost there!"
The clouds and the very roof of the world were rapidly approaching. Robin clung to his father's hand like a lifeline, and flinched as they zipped through fluffy white clouds. When he finally dared to peep his eyes open, he once again found himself struck dumb.
Before them, a field of stars beyond counting. Glowing and twinkling with clarity unobtainable anywhere on the ground, the sky was a masterpiece of shining lights and shooting stars, glowing constellations and deep colours.
Despite being so different, Robin was suddenly struck with the thought that the vastness of space seemed just as alive as the earth they had left behind.
"Pretty cool, huh?"
"Yea…" Robin spoke absently, before jolting in shock. "W-wait, how can you speak? How can I speak!? How can we breathe?!"
"Haha, you lifted a mountain and this is what you're confused about?" Robin's father once again patted the crown of his son's head, before gesturing to a strange white shape poking out of the clouds. "Let's settle down over there, and I'll explain."
They drifted over to what Robin eventually realized was the peak of the mountain from before. He had dropped it at such an angle that it's very summit was higher than before, to the point of reaching this far edge of the world. He and his father drifted down, landing on the icy peak that strangely didn't feel particularly cold.
Sitting with a huff, Robin's Popa was silent for a moment, seeming to consider the endless stars while Robin himself settled himself by his father's side, chin resting atop his knees. His mind was spinning, wondering how this was all possible. Still, Robin sat in dutiful quiet as his father sought out whatever words he was looking for amongst the stars.
"…Before I can explain how this all works, first I need to know if you remember how this began. Can you remember anything of when you were younger?"
Robin didn't answer for a long stretch, more confused by the question than struggling for an answer, but eventually said.
"I remember a white room, and a man with a scary face. He had this weird thingy around his neck, that ended in a metal circle." Robin shuddered a little. "I remember feeling really…heavy. Like my arms and legs were difficult to move."
Robin's father made a noise of acknowledgement, unsurprised though his body tensed as Robin spoke. The boy watched, curious as his Popa took a long breath.
"Things weren't…you weren't ready back then." His father said slowly, gaze still fixed to the edge of the world. "You were very sick for a long time, because your body was still adjusting to the great power it had within itself. We are singular amongst the people of this world, Robin. We can do things that others could only dream of, have the power to do anything."
At last, Robin's father turned back to him, a severe look in his eye.
"There is nothing in this world that could ever hurt you, Robin, and everything is yours to change."
"…Like, a super hero?"
Robin's father blinked. After a long moment, he smiled.
"Yes, exactly like a super hero."
"…Whoa."
For some reason Robin couldn't place, his father laughed a bit at that.
For a time, the two of them simply sat there, above the clouds and against the roof of the world, watching the stars slowly drift across the sky. Robin wasn't sure what to think, or even how to feel, but this new revelation filled him with excitement. His spirit felt as free and soaring as the vast universe before him.
A sudden, loud beeping barked into life, and Robin's father looked down at his wrist. His watch (had he always been wearing a watch?) was flashing a bold red colour, and letting out a sharp noise every second. The man's face crumpled at the sight, and he turned without eagerness to Robin.
"I…need to go, just for a while. Your Popa just needs to get a few things sorted, and quickly. I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise."
Robin's stomach lurched, and he latched on to his father's sleeve.
"W-w-wait, you can't just leave me up here!"
"Like I said, there's nothing you can't do: when you're ready you can just fly back down to the ground." Despite this assurance, his father looked reluctant to go. "Just remember, no matter what, I'll come back, alright?"
Slowly, Robin nodded, and let go of his father. In the very next moment, the man simply vanished, like he had been whooshed out of existence.
Robin was scared for a while, but soon his gaze turned back to the sky. His fear ebbed away, replaced with wonder. To be able to do anything…
Robin sat there for a long time, gaze locked with the endless sky.
========================
A hiss, like a threat from a snake.
"User safely disengaged. Please remove the WSC headset."
A voice coldly reassuring and absolutely artificial.
Robin's father took a breath – the sweet and strange air he had been breathing replaced with a thick, musty quality. He slowly pushed himself up, lifting hands filled with numbness to lift the heavy device still clamped around his head.
He blinked as he looked about the room. Filled with bulky machinery and blinking lights, the whirr of devices in motion dominated the space. Everywhere one looked were wires, wires upon bundles of wires, snaking their way all about memory banks and servers that surrounded the two beds that marked the room's only real furniture. Robin's father pushed himself from the one he had occupied, blinking as he saw a figure silhouetted in the blinking lights.
A woman stood by a glowing console, tapping at the screen. She spoke impassively, not bothering to look up from her work.
"You know, that system warning exists for a reason. Your lad's headset might allow him to go under indefinitely, but yours will just turn your brains into scrambled eggs. And I'll be the one that catches the flak, especially if it's before you've -"
Robin's father just huffed, ignoring the familiar tirade. He had turned to look at the occupant of the other bed, his expression dark.
A small figure – a child – lay in the middle of the bed, though you would have almost missed him from the uncountable wires and machinery plugged into him. Thin tubes ran directly to the centre of his chest, raising and falling with his weak breathe, strange metallic nodes rested on the intersection between each of his joints, and his face was almost entirely buried underneath metal that shone like polished brass. Hesitantly, like one who's handling delicate glass, Robin's father moved his hand to rest over the boy's.
The woman watched the display silently, though her rhythmic tapping had slowed slightly. After a long stretch, she said,
"You still have a few hours before he's fully integrated, you know. After that, it will be entirely impossible for him to disengage with the system and live."
"… 'And live?'" Robin's father spoke the words like they weren't even from language he recognised. "Live in what, a world that was already cruel enough to tear his body and damn near everything else from him? No. No, to take him from the machine would be a cruelty, not a kindness. This is all I can do for him."
The room fell back into near silence, the quiet hum of active machines becoming the only sound. The woman dropped her gaze down, looking back to console. The screen was filled with numbers and statics, a thousand, thousand notifications and observations, but the only thing she saw was the tiny window right in the corner, of a small boy gazing up with wonder at the stars.
Thanks to all of these people for their participation and for sharing their writing with us! Have a great day everyone and see y'all in the call on the 18th <3
