Short Story Challenge: So, you don’t know how to land.

(This is part of an exercise on the site Imgur where I write a short story based on the most upvoted picture, the winner was @elbowdeepinahorse who chose a picture made by @selenophileart)

So, it came to this. You don’t know how to land. Was it worth it? Sure, you felt some satisfaction in tricking that fairy. Ok, you felt a lot of satisfaction. It felt great, it was superb, you got wings, the power to fly, the skies are now your domain, you can feel the air coursing beneath your tummy, your mane sways like a flag beneath the cerulean above and all it took was a bag of peanuts and making Hard Hoof work twenty years on the fairy glitter mines. But he sort of deserved it, messing with your cap collection was the last straw and being five years old is no excuse.

But you kinda forgot that there is more to the fae than it meets the eye, don’t you? Just like transformers, and fandoms. To deal with a Fae is like to show a mirror of yourself: How strong are you? How clever? What about that pimple beneath your chin, is it hubris, or just that veiled hatred for those kelpie bastards? Regardless, you bit the deal, and now you realized that the cookie was coated in raisins, not chocolate chips, and you have only yourself to blame. Not looking closer, not asking questions. And, lets be honest, you were dealing with the fae, you should have expecting it, kinda like playing a Bethesda game. It will always be buggy and not even remotely as great as the trailers shown. Hell, even the trailers are crappy if you pay attention.

Ok, that’s enough of beating yourself with a stick, don’t panic.

You have a lot of time to think about how to survive. More or less. Are you still flapping your wings like a maniac or you learned to glide? If the latter, you have till you get tired before plunging into the earth like a meteor, and thus its advisable to stretch those damn wings and learn how to glide or hope that deus ex machina is in your favor. Just stretch your wings and feel the air currents, like floating after learning how to swim! But twice as awesome and five times more lethal. If you learn how to glide, you have till you get tired of stretching your wings. Or hit a plane, or a Chinese spy balloon. In fact, much like doing taxes or going to Christmas dinner during election year, gliding to the ground is a matter of enduring. Think of something nice, something distracting, like that movie with Tom Hooves where he gallops for forty five minutes straight, but not TOO distracting, lest you forget you’re actually struggling for your life, so don’t think about how Tom Fillystone’s smile in Avengers, Neighgame.

Still with us? Good, this means that you’re still alive, the lack of screaming is always good. Except where in situations not covered by this PG13 survival guide. Just don’t look down. Wait, actually, you have to look down, you know? Its always good to at least peek into the abyss. How far are the trees? Are they still a mass of green, something that a kid would draw, or can you see the individual leaves? If you can see the individual leaves, congratulations, either you actually landed, or some other pegasus pranked you by tossing leaves on your face mid-air for views in the internet. You could actually try diving, but then you remember how much you hate kelpies, and their luscious scales, and multicolored fins (how dare they be so pretty) and you prefer to be pony pomodoro against the ground rather than be caught in their embrace.

Wait, what were we talking about again?

The minnow and the world.

There was the existence, with everything, literally everything, what is known and what isn’t, the good the bad the ugly the silly and beyond, what lies inside the mind of a person and what is so far above that not even a thousand lives of a thousand planets would discover. There was the planet, spinning unfathomably fast, more far and wide than the sight will ever see, with the blue skies of of the tender clouds, screaming birds and the tearing planes attempting to.

Below, the earth, the health and the strength, the rocks and the trees, the cacophony of colors and shapes each one covered with lives within lives within lives spinning and weaving in a system so complex not even a computer with the heart of an artist could delineate. Between the rocks and the soil, dipped by the roots of the trees, there was the lake, so far and wide that a person would need a full day to traverse if it was on foot, and three if it were to walk languidly along its shores, its crystalline waters promising sights that only a poet, or a daft, would be able to fully appreciate.

And within this lake, laid the minnow, its tiny saucer eyes glimmering with youth and joyful arrogance, not even bathed in all the sights the lake could offer. Its tiny gaping mouth promising himself, “I’m gonna change the world!”. Yet, the minnow, who couldn’t see the lake, who couldn’t understand the breathing air of the forest above the earth, who couldn’t comprehend the blue skies of birds and planes, who couldn’t even have the spark of a thought about what laid beyond, already had changed the world, and himself. For even in his speck of an insignificance, for the minnow, he wasn’t a cog in this infinite breathing living machine of concepts and grand minutiae. He was a lever.

(written as part of a practice challenge, inspired by the falseknees comic seen here https://falseknees.com/338.html )

Hell of a thousand cuts.

There are thousands of hells, unending, going as far as imagination goes. But beings that we are, relenting, we think of our woes to be the only ones. So to share not only our gifts, we give in to our griefs, and think of a single life, the one that is the worst. But what about that that lies in the middle? Suffering still unending, but uncrippled, softened but continuous. Is it not another hell, but one not of brimstone, but a thousand cuts?

Its the thought of a world unchanging, unstable, where you see the ultimate destination, but not how it will go.

But don’t complain. The right for such is sacred, only those whose yells can’t be heard should have it, even though the hands from above are raised to the skies while the boots unravel the earth to bury them further.

No, you must be silent for your pain.

You’re afraid of the future, silence. The march goes on, the threads go further, the world is ending. Where should I go? To your little happiness, to your little friends. But those who surround you are the last ones, don’t lose them, tightly hold them no matter how many thorns they sustain.

Go on forward with your work, not too fast. You idiot, that’s too slow. You will be fired, you will be fined, and every day without fail, the lash that not with a whip, but a scream. The wounds of the soul going continuous. Till the mind thickens its skin.

To the point you’re oblivious.

To the world that surrounds you.

But silence, I tell you. The right to scream isn’t for you. Its for those whom you cannot reach. For those who shan’t be let go. Who shall be our shield, our meat, and the blood within our gears.

So suffer in silence.

For your pain isn’t the highest. It’s you who are low. It could be better, why to complain when its just your

And the suffer piles on. Every single cut.

I don’t know where to go.

Tomorrow holds the mystery, will I eat, will I be let go? Did I do the right thing? Was the path that I love the wrong one? Silence I tell you. I’m afraid too. For the fear of this cycling, of a thread that begins, but bundles so, that the ending isn’t near, but forever is its fear, that hovers ahead, by the side and below.

But above lies a roof, no matter how low, ahead lies a door, by the sides are the walls, no matter how thin, no matter how close, no matter how everything breaks down. So you need to breath in.

And continue.

I was sick with an idea.

And it won’t let me rest.

One can say that the body succumbs to illness, that viruses and bacteria spread, but few think of the things that fill a mind.It started with a simple question: “What you’d do if you could travel back in time? If you could become ten years old again with the knowledge you already have?”

The doors to my mind blew open with a torrent of thoughts cascading the valleys of my time. I thought of the now, I thought of the small miseries that fill the day and the bigger ones that cripple my back. I thought of things that I’d do, of things that I’d rebuild and make last. I thought of relationships that I’d abandon, plans that I’d cancel, faiths that I’d let crack. Ah, to return to my youth, to relieve the nice and gorgeous days. To sit at home with the rain caressing the windows and before me, my sega genesis game. The cracking of the tv while it turns on, the smell of recently bought comics. To look outside and see your friends running and the urge to join them crawling up your limbs and making you run, to deliciously waste the afternoon away.

But alas, it was not meant to be, time is an arrow, not a circle, and with the shake of my head I tried to continue with my life.

The problem was, the thought wouldn’t leave. It would crept back into my skull the moment my attention was drifting away. “Which shares you’d buy?” it would ask, “But you’d also need money to buy those, you’d need to work from early age!” it would say. Thoughts such as these were useless, overstaying their welcome and turning nostalgia into a grime that wouldn’t be cleansed away. No matter how much I insisted on doing other things, no matter what logic I tried to use it, there it stood, like a pustule, like a mole inside my brain.

And during the half-sleepless night I realized, it was like a flu, a flu for the mind. Irritation, clogged thoughts, uneasiness of attention like the breathing that struggles to leave the lungs. And such as a flu, a small annoying pest that kills two or three days before disappearing, this thought too would burn its time before waning. There was nothing to do but wait.

In my half-brained wasted day, I pondered… how many ideas are viruses too? Memes are transmittable, but don’t occupy much time, ideologies… would those be virulent, attacking weak minds? If so, would books be considered vaccines, giving small samples of awful things that may come? And between innocent thoughts that wondered, the thought died out and, with a relieved breath that I didn’t realize was doing, I slumbered.

The Voice of God

(Writer’s note: This is was written before the sudden surge of the alt-right spilling their vile content across the net and crying foul whenever they were criticized. It’s less about “omg I can’t say what I want!” and more about sudden gut overreactions escalating into damaging innocent lives due to slight mistakes that would be tolerable, even today.)

There was no warning.

There was just the axe.

It descended against the door without care, and it was more than enough to destroy the dreams of Jonathan and wake him up with the same violence the ones outside the door promised him. The thud of his body against the carpet seemed to be the trigger of hell on earth, for thousands of voices screamed behind the walls of his apartment. There was a mob outside, a mob asking for his blood, thumping on the concrete, shaking the very foundations of the building like the heavens parting to destroy Sodom.

The gargled breathing of one awakened out of nowhere mixed with the haste of fear and frantic eyes sought something to alleviate the confusion. They found nothing, nothing but the pictures on his walls crashing down, the axe falling against the door again, again, again. They knew his name, his full name, and they cursed it, they spilled it alongside profanities and anger, they claimed that they were here to kill him, to rip his body apart with the same ease one tears pages from a book, nails scratching the paint of the walls and palms banging on it in a deafening cacophony.
It was more than enough to wake him up, to trip him on the carpet and slam his chin on the ground, standing up with a whine as bare feet squeezed distances in frantic movement. The only thing he was able to seize before tossing himself in the small corridor before his bedroom was the cellphone.

The fire escape of his office, the small glimmer of hope coursing through his mind as he slammed his body on a corner and ran between ragged breaths. The chants followed him every step, the door resisting to the last creak and crack of wood as the bolts were removed from the hinges by fire extinguishers and axes swung with violence.

The window nearly had to be broken, for his shaky fingers could not pull the bolt out under the frantic screams behind him, but he moved it up, and rolled onto the fire escape, only to see that the crowd was also outside.

They were many, they filled the small alley, and they wanted his blood. Screams from a mass of people that rose their hands in fury, tossing bottles, rocks and trash in an attempt at a lucky shot to kill him, there was no escape down, the only chance at surviving would come from above. And with bare feet he climbed, his fingers now ramming onto the glass of the phone, desperately calling the emergency services.

“911, what’s your emergency?”
“They are coming to kill me!” He yelled with a broken breath, every syllable tinged with despair .
“Who is coming to kill you, sir?”
“Everyone! There is a bunch of people here!” One floor up, two floors up…
“Calm down sir, help is on the way, where are you?”
“I live in the- the fifth avenue! With the twelfth! I’m in the-”
“Gutenberg building?”
“Yes! Oh gods thank you, yes! Plea-”
“Are you Jonathan Levy?”
“Y-yes! How-”
“I hope you rot in hell, you bastard.”

And nothing but silence. The desperation fills him with enough strength to climb the top rail of the stairs and hop over the upper edge of the building, rolling on his back over the rooftop. The access was locked, but the mob had the axe, and the same stairs he used. And again he tries to call the emergency services, nothing, calling the police takes precious seconds, but no one comes to his aid. Finally, something changes, someone calls him, he doesn’t know the number.

“Jonathan?”
“Mack! Oh gods, man, what the hell is going on!? I thought-”
“Shut up and listen! I’m speaking from a burner phone, you need to get out! You lost your job and-”
“How the hell am I going to get out man!? These madmen surrounded my building! They want my blood!”

The other building was too far away, but he had to try.

“Fuck, already!? They were fast! Alright, I will think of something-”

He could hear them coming, their feet on the steel of the stairs, the hateful blabbering getting louder, closer.

“Why are they after me, man!?”
“You pissed them off!”
“How!? Last night everything was fine! I didn’t kill anyone, I just got back home and went to sleep! I- Shit, shit, shit! Hang on man!”

He has to, he wasn’t athletic, he wasn’t good, he didn’t train, but he had to try. From the other side of the roof Jonathan runs, bare feet over concrete, huffing, puffing, swinging his arms wildly before he climbs the edge and jumps, just like in the movies. But the movies don’t tell about balance, the movies don’t tell about proper ways of landing. He feels his feet bending in ways they shouldn’t, his ankles twist, his knees fall too hard against the floor, and he yells.

“It’s your fucking message, man! Your stupid joke, man! Run! They-”

They had found their way up to the roof, the door bursting with an eery synchronization as the first of they stepped from the fire escape ladder. And they found him, helpless, whimpering, with ankles swelling with pain and knees that could be fractured, in the opposite building. They, who approached with grins and snarls, preparing to jump if needed with complete disregard to their own safety. They, that in the span of seven hours and half, gazed upon his message, a stupid joke, done after a boring night, with scorn. Scorn that turned into anger, that turned into the need for punishment. And they found who he was, where he lived, where he worked, woke up his boss in the middle of the night, terrorized his girlfriend in the middle of her dreams, and gathered to tear his door and hunt him down, and now invaded the building he had fled to. ‘You can’t kill black women through their necks, they crank their necks every day, their necks are unbreakable.’, he wrote, and they answered.

They, the people, they, the voice of god.

Warhammer 40k: To Change or Not to Change

The walls pulsated, literally.

One of the most remarkable things about humankind is its adaptability. Humans can thrive and get used to any sort of scenario or situation, provided there is enough time to do so. Thus, the robed gentlemen discussing under an arch that was covered in living veins pulsating with some unholy concoction did so as if it was simply their office, which, in a sense, was true.

– Tom…

– Yeah?

– I’ve been thinking…

– Oh, here we go…

– No, no, seriously!

– Asmodeus, we have been through this before. Guard duty is important for our masters, and no, I’m not bored.

It should be noted that, in a galaxy spanning quadrillions of gentlemen like them, Tom and Asmodeus ended with the proverbial short end of the stick. Humans are natural survivors, they seek to thrive in any kind of place, but every kind of place has its proverbial pyramid of hierarchy. Both came from similar backgrounds: Asmodeus came from a rather quaint yet crammed society where entire families lived in an apartment of the size of a literal closet, while Tom came from a flourishing and lively planet filled to the brim with terrifying animals and cannibalism. Both abandoned their respective places at the bottom of said pyramids to lodge into the bottom of another: The cult of Tzeentch. In their lives marred by boredom and stagnation, joining a cult whose sole purpose was to change things was quite thrilling! After all, if every single punishment in cosmos is a shot to the head, why not go all the way and try to change? But in their hope and desperation, like many, many others, they forgot that every pyramid has a bottom, even a forever-shifting one.

– It’s not about that!

– Then what is it?

– I’ve been thinking…

– Here we go again…

– No! I mean… I was returning to the shifting cult in the morning…

– Yes…

– But I forgot to take the memo that said that it had been shifted to the afternoon.

– So what?

– Lemme explain!

– Ok, sorry.

– You always interrupt me when I’m speaking!

– I said I’m sorry.

– I mean, I never finish-

– Can you tell me this bloody tale or not?

– Oh, yes, yes. I mean, I was a tad lost because of all the shifting thing and while walking back home I stumbled upon the morning orgy of the neighboring Slaaneshi cult.

– Yes, those noisy bastards.

– Literal bastards.

– You know what I mean!

– Yes, yes, go on.

– So, I give a peek through the cracked window and gaze upon the endless orgy that is going within marinated with drugs, and think…

– Oh my Tzeentch…

– Why not to join them?

– Asmodeus, what you’re saying is heresy.

– Tom, we are heretics.

– I know! I mean, treason!

– Yeah, but here is what I was thinking about…

– What?

– Is it really treason? I mean, I’d be changing sides…

– Yeah, and?

– We serve the lord of change!

-That’s different!

– How is it different? I mean, Isn’t Tzeentch the lord of change?

– Yeah, and?

– He adapts and changes according the situation!

– Well, that was what the giant bird said…

– And wouldn’t changing our position be according to his plan? I mean, technically, we’d be evolving!

– Evolving how?

– Oh please, Slaanesh cultists have lengthy orgies, a nonstop supply of drugs and are the only ones in this blasted universe to listen to anything that isn’t gothic chorus. All Tzeentch ever gave you was a tumor!

– It’s an extra arm!

– It’s a chicken stump!

– You’re just jealous because I have an extra arm and you got dandruff.

– Oh please, it’s just a small chicken-shaped tentacle on your belly! It can’t even hold a pistol! It’s useless!

– Well, it’s useful to spread butter over my toast…

– Nevermind, what I mean is: Won’t changing from Tzeentch to Slaanesh technically be according to what Tzeentch says? We’d be evolving, changing! Here we are stagnated at this weird guarding duty!

– Where did you learned this word?

– I heard the wizard saying it once.

– Which wizard?

– The one that has a beak for a nose.

– The toucan?

– No, the toucan changed into a pig.

– Didn’t the rat-faced one turn into a pig?

– Oh, him too.

– Her.

– I mean, her too. But he got better.

– She.

– No, he. Anyway, I heard the wizard saying that ‘stagnation was the worst thing you could do to Tzeentch’ and this made me think…- Oh boy…

– We should change, for Tzeentch! Betraying Tzeentch would be actually within Tzeentch’s plan!

– Wait, wait a minute. Technically if what you say is true, everyone who -didn’t- betray Tzeentch is actually a traitor because they didn’t changed?

– Pretty mu- actually, I haven’t thought about it… I don’t think it’s important.

– What you mean it’s not important!? You’re saying that literally every bloody cultist who lets a demon play with their intestines as if it was pasta in order to achieve enlightenment is actually -against- Tzeentch?

– Well, not really, I mean, they are still letting the demons change them in a way…

– You know what? You got me. I’m sold.

– Really?

– No, not really. But you got me angry enough to just flip the table. You know what? Sure, let’s go. Let’s ditch this miserable job and be at least a tad happy before inevitably my face is blown up by either a corpse-god-lover, a drugged berserker or Tzeentch-knows-what.

And thus they walked, turning their backs momentarily to the living temple and the ever-shifting chant… They walked slowly the streets of battered ferrocrete that had been rebuilt time after time, the corpses that were replaced time after time in the ever-spinning motion of the cosmos.

– This made me think…

– Oh no, not again. We’ve just made two steps out of the temple and you have more ideas?

– I can’t help it! I mean… what if this is what Tzeentch really, REALLY wants?

– What do you mean?

– We are just two cultists, right?

– Right.

-And Tzeentch is also the god of Chaos, right?

– Right.

– And what if this just means that he just… likes to stare to all this shit unfold and blow up? What if he doesn’t care about us as acolytes and more like, us as whiny balls of stupidity? After all, the whole ‘betrayal’ thing is highly antithetic…

– You’re full of strange words today…

– Yeah! I was even thinking in read a boo-

But as they made the third step towards a small amount of pleasure and comfort, the grand scheme of the universe caught on with them. No one would be able to hear such a tale or ponder the origins and temptations of Tzeentch, after all, no one can argue with a stray laser shot to the mouth. Both bodies fell to the floor as the inquisitorial team slipped into the ever-shifting temple in order to purge change with fire, and thus change it to cinders.

Just as planned.

The Library of a Single Story.

Once upon a time, amidst the dusty mountains that once stood where now lies hills and roads, there was a manor.

Used by the nobility of yore to hunt hares and foxes on the woods between the mountains during summer, it was sturdy and tall, with gargoyles on top forever watching for intruders and peons, as legends said, now, it was nothing else, nothing more than a library of a single story.

All that lied within, its pictures, lavish tables of hardwood, drawers painted with care, beds with curtains and mattresses filled with goose feathers, even the inner doors had been sold, long ago, to buy books.

Blank books, and the shelves to house them.

Tall books, short books, square books, even round books and scrolls, they now littered the place from floor to ceiling, piled up or neatly arranged, covers of wood, leather, vellum or paper, and in the midst of it all, the old man. His beard now reached his belly, he had learned how to basically live with a pea per day and the water gathered by the gargoyles at dawn, his entire wardrobe bit by bit becoming a single robe made from all the tatters. For years he did nothing but to write as soon the first sliver of light poured through the old, cracked windows, and only stopped when the night arrived and the cold seeped into his old bones, forcing him to light a fire and sleep curled onto the floor close to the fireplace.

This went on day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, until the books were piled up on the corners and next to the doorways. Travelers would visit the place to stare at the oddities, on the promise that nothing would be touched, and in exchange giving him ink and food. Whenever there wasn’t any ink, his own blood would be used if necessary. If there were no pens, no quills, he’d use his long nails.

Until one day, after a deep breath, he smiled, slamming the last codex closed. Filled up to the middle, leaving everything else blank, but nothing else was needed. He had completed his plan.

Hopping off from the small stool from the desk, he ran with all haste, nearly tripping several times, till he found behind the entrance door a piece of chalk he had long ago stored for this specific purpose. With photographic memory he drew a summoning circle, and upon completing it, chuckled, and drew another. Kneeling before it he spoke a tongue long forgotten, smoke and fire of an unseen color sprouting from its middle. From there, the demon arrived.

“Who calls my name, with my symbol, with my tongue?” The demon hissed from amidst the smoke.
“Ti’s I, oh lord, a simple writer, and the owner of these books.”

“And you know what is the price for summoning me?”
“Yes, sire. A month of my nights to be filled by your direst nightmares.”

“And you know what shall be asked for anything that you ask?”

“Yes, sire. My immortal soul that belongs to no one else besides me, not even the creator itself may decide where I go, only judge me worthy.”

The demon smiled, he was known by many names and summoned by many for many purposes, always something so feeble, so material… he could even guess what the old man would desire: Eternal youth that soon would be marred by the passage of time by everyone whom he loved, unlimited wealth that would be rendered useless by the shift of what was considered important…

“Then, what is thy wish?”

“This all, sire.” The old man waved openly towards the halls, the rooms, the spaces filled to the brim with books.

The demon stopped, opening his eyes wide.

“What do you mean, mortal? If this is some kind of folly, I shall burn your flesh to cinders, and chew your soul like a piece of old leather as it is taken by death itself!”

“No folly at all, sire. My wish is within those books…” The old man limped his way through the corridors, followed by the gaze of the fiend, and he disappeared within the cellar. From there, a tome covered in dust, sooth and webs was produced and laid upon the aged desk with vaulted marks left by his arms that rested there. “If you may, begin reading this one.”

The demon opened the old book and read it inhumanly fast. A book that would take months to read was finished in a blink of an eye. Only to be faced by another book offered by the old man. And another, and another, book by book was fed to his hands as something never felt before by the demon crept through his ethereal veins…

He felt dread.

The books described the old man’s wish with unseen perfection. Word by word detailed the minutiae of the wish, how it should be done, to which effect, the first shelf of books was the first part alone, referencing events that happened upon those lands as examples, counter-referencing previous wishbearers that the demon had fooled before, bringing stories and fables in order to seal everything. The demon read faster, faster, he reached from within the circle every single book in succession in a desperate attempt to find any turn, any twist, any wrong word that he could use to his advantage, anything that could destroy the old man and turn his desire and ambition into despair and regret.
Nothing.

All those books in the library told the demon a single story, the story of a wish that could not be thwarted or twisted, broken or bent. In all the eons he existed, in all the wishbearers that he corrupted, something such as this was never witnessed. By the end of five minutes the demon had read everything that took a lifetime to write. His eyes were mesmerized, his mind boiling with attempts at possibilities…

And then he read every single book again. And again. And again. The night risked to turn into day with the demon tortured in the eternity of three hours reading and re-reading the books and finding nothing to exploit. There was nothing to be done except decide between two options, one never even considered until now. Taking a deep breath that even in such incorporeal, otherworldly state would express the immense anger capable of crushing nations, enough frustration to rot all the lands, the demon uttered words of unbearable humiliation.

“I refuse to fulfill your wish. Keep thy soul and thy nights of the month, but I shall not enter this bargain.”

The old man smiled… and then chuckled… and then cackled while the air turned red, the walls between the planes crackled and fizzled like smoke. The demon reeled within his own tiny circle, such might and power overcame even his. And from the depths of the abyss between dimensions, the gargantuan deity of forgotten legends stood, enormous arms bearing galaxies stretching to encompass the tiny infinity that was the house.

“I thought you would do so, sire. That’s why I made a bet with him.”

“Foolish mortal! What have you done!?” The demon yelled.

“A simple bet. I know that the difference between you and him is the same between you and me, and as you seek small pleasures in tormenting mortals to alleviate your boredom, he also seeks to alleviate his. My soul is a speckle of dust for him, so I offered him something far more pleasurable. I made a bet with him that you wouldn’t accept the terms of my wish. If I failed, he’d have destroyed all these lands, burned my library casting me to anonymity and denying me a foothold to this plane.”

“And what if you won!?” The demon asked, having finally touched the same despair he had imbued his victims for so long.

“Well, sire… If I won… He’d grant me the wish I originally asked to you…”

And that’s how I lost my powers. Somewhere, the small writer cackles, and somewhere, the bearer of galaxies stares amused.

The Writers

The writer’s meeting took place in a quaint and simple room, painted in white, with a table in the middle, five chairs, a big window to the street below, and coffee… a lot of coffee.

– So, sir, have you read the new Simone de Beauvoir’s translation?

– I don’t read translations, I only read books in their original language. – The first said.

– Wait a minute, you told me you were reading Marx…

– Yes, I had to learn German.

– Pff, you’re nothing! I only read books in their original language, in their original print! – Said the second.

– You’re both fools! I only read books in their original language, in their original print, in their original country!

– You three are simpletons, I read books in the original language, in their original print, in their original country of origin, written by the author’s original hand!

– You’re a quartet of fools, I only read books by synthesizing the neurons straight from the author’s head!

– What do you mean?

– I eat brains.

It was then when they realized that the door was, in fact, locked.

 

The Bread and the Tales: The teller and the seller.

At the crossroads of infinity, under a bench of stars, I waited for the cosmic railway.

At first laid down, bored and sad I sat, looking towards aeons of infinite possibilities and unlimited probabilities. Stars paved the road, calculations were the rails. I had to reach my destination, but alas, I waited, to no avail.

Though by luck or azar, I see approaching in the distance, through a door of black holes, one of the old peddlers of stories.

“Lo and so.” He raises one of his many hands, and greets me in a ragged voice, as if billions said such in a single yell. “I see you waiting for the cosmic railway, fear not, traveler, for I come in peace, and all I ask is for your time, for stories I do buy and sell.”

I quirked a brow, watching such strange creature, it was said that they had a hand for every world that they visited, each one holding a lantern that shone with millions of stories lost and unwritten. He had as many arms as he needed, covered with the tatters of civilizations, fabrics of all kind woven in a single holed robe that with such unfathomable weight was swollen, but whom the greatest light came from under that cowl.

“Sure.” Well, when you’re waiting for the cosmic railway sat over a bench of stars, what was there to do, except to trade stories with a strange being from a strange dimension and an improbable time? “What’s your price?”

“A loaf of improbable bread, if you have such.”

“Well, I only have one loaf of improbable bread, which I may need later. How about a lil’ bet? I know your kind likes and feeds from stranger stories. You can choose your bread now, and tell me one tale, or I can tell mine now, and you shall see if it’s worth it.”

The creature brought one hand with too many fingers above, hanging it’s lantern on the tip of a pinkie. Long pale digits disappeared under the hood, brushing something that, by the sound of it, was rasp and quirky.

“Let me think about this wager…”

The Song of the Damned

The wind didn’t stop, but the sails did. Instead it whispered coldly, promising pain, torture and a jolly good time. The ship didn’t move an inch, as if the sea itself turned into an abysmal hand to hold it’s wooden carcass.

“Who!? Who did this!? Who summoned them!?” Yelled the captain with a cutlass on one hand, and a pistol in the other. His yells drowned by the frantic movement of his sailors, pulling ropes, readying cannons, though every single living soul on that boat knew that every single action was fruitless, doomed. But humans are tenacious and desperate by nature, and would fight to the bitter end.

“Who lied to me!? Who summoned them!?”

Amongst the crewmembers who ran and despaired, there was one who disrespected the sacred rules of that ocean, thus dooming, for that was the Cape of the Rushing Father.

But he wouldn’t answer, fear gripping his soul too tight, and revealing himself wouldn’t help nor make things worse, it would simply condemn him to a different kind of hands. From the oceans, a bridge of stone burst through, locking onto the side of the vessel, breaking and barging, and leading the legion of damned that clawed their way to be seen under the moonlight and its black sails. With spectral hands gloved or showing bony fingers, they stood, and with boots filled with hole or bare skeletal feet, they marched on, clothes draped in phantasmal energy, burning cold and blue, waved with the wind as if they were the ones living. Leading them, as usual, the captain grinning eternally without lips, crimson cape like blood swaying alongside his cutlasses, and his halberdiers.

Raising his left hand, pointing one of his cutlasses towards the one who started it all, he chanted. Without opening his mouth, as if announcing his entrance and reason for arriving, he chanted. Echoed by his men, echoed by the night, the chant of a pained father that arrived too late.

“Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday… to you…”