#short fantasy story

[mimimar]

the woman who holds the moon

prints available here. my cover for this month's issue of baffling magazine.

[lynnwriting]

Sneaking in here on a Thursday evening instead of my usual Wednesday morning to share a brief update!

No blog post this week, just announcing my first Jewish fantasy short fiction will be published to my website January 2024! (Can you believe it’s less than a week away?!)

Stay tuned for more this next year!!!!

[thestuffedalligator]

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin. They both looked down at the crumpled shape of the Overlord, His Unholy Majesty, in his obsidian armor.

His final spasms had been mesmerizingly acrobatic. The fall down the steps leading up to his iron throne had pretzelled his body quite impressively, both arms folded behind his back and one leg bent at a jaunty angle.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

"We're likely to get blamed for this," the goblin said. She walked over to the head of the glittering mangled heap and started pulling the helmet off.

"It's not our fault," the orc said. "It's hard to help someone choking when they wear two-hundred pounds of spiked armor at all times."

"Yeah, well," the goblin grunted. The helmet came free, and the bald head of the Overlord bounced on the stone with a hollow, coconut noise. "You know how it is in this bloody country - thieves get their heads cut off so they can't think about thieving, and all that." She fished in the Overlord's mouth with a finger and pulled out the obstructing olive on the end of her claw.

She popped it into her mouth and chewed. "What do you reckon they do for a regicide?" she said.

"We should run," the orc said. She had started bouncing her leg. "I hear that there's some places in the Alliance where they just kill you and let you stay dead. That's got to be nicer than what'll happen if we stay here."

The goblin started to nod - and then her gaze fell on the helmet.

It looked like a pineapple designed by a deranged blacksmith. It was all thorns and spikes and hard edges, as though the maker had been very determined to not let pigeons roost on it. The only bits that weren't solid iron were eyeholes. Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face.

She held up the helmet and squinted from it to the orc. One of the thorns had been bent badly in the fall.

Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face...

"Right," she muttered. "Right. Could work - or."

The orc had a sudden vision of the immediate future. "No," she said.

"I mean you're about his height-"

"No."

"It would just be for a-"

"Absolutely not."

"Just hear me out," the goblin said. "Outside of this room are two-thousand men and orcs and goblins who are absolutely gonzo about this man, and there's a whole country of them outside of the castle, and at any moment someone's going to walk in that door and see one dead tit in black armor and two unbelievably dead idiots next to him.

"Or." She tossed the helmet up like a basketball to the orc, who fumbled and tried to find somewhere to hold it that wasn't a knife's edge. "We chuck him out the window now, walk out the door in the armor, and ditch the armor as soon as nobody sees us."

The orc had started bouncing her leg again. "They'll know something's up the second I walk out of the room."

"No worries," said the goblin. "Leave that to me."

---

It had been a very strange year for the Empire.

Change had rolled across the land as slow and inevitable as a glacier. Roads and bridges carved the gray, blasted wildlands, and a number of social reforms had made the country a place where you could be miserable, yes, but miserable in comfort and safety, and that was an improvement.

Barely anyone got boiled alive in molten metal, and even if the disgusted sun never rose to light the Empire, at least you had a roof over your head to protect yourself from the acid rain.

"Your empire flourishes, Your Unholy Majesty," the magician said over her wine glass. She looked down from the tower's balcony over the gleaming stone battlements. Some work had been done to line the castle and surrounding city with sizzling, crackling alchemical lights at night. The whole thing glowed like something dangerously radioactive.

The suit of armor waved a languid, glittering gauntlet over to the goblin, who bowed.

"His Abominable Gloriousness Thanks You," the goblin recited. "The Prosperity Of His Empire Can Only Be Achieved Through The Prosperity Of His People."

"If I may be so bold, I am quite pleased that you had chosen to take my counsel under consideration," said the magician. "We have accomplished many things together."

Another wave. Another bow. "The Overlord, May His Presence Swallow The Sun And Stars, Thanks You As Well."

"It was quite gratifying to see you change your mind, after so many centuries of denial." The wine was swirled. "Tell me, what was it that finally gave you cause to listen to me?"

There was the slightest hesitation. The goblin's eyes flicked to the armor, then to the magician. She puffed out her chest. "Do you question the wisdom of His Austere Lugubriousness?" she asked.

The magician looked at the goblin. She looked at the armor. She tipped her head back and drank the wine too quickly.

She looked back at the armor. "I know you're the orc, you moron," she said.

The room went deathly still. An alchemical light fizzled.

The orc pulled off the helmet, sending long, untied hair down tangling, and said: "How could you possibly-"

"Because you're both idiots!" the magician said. The goblin jumped. The orc jumped with a noise like a dropped stove. "What kind of a plan was this?! If it wasn't for me, you would have been turned into fertilizer months ago."

She closed her eyes. She took a long, dramatic breath. She set the wine glass down on the balcony rail.

"How did the Overlord die?" she asked when she seemed like she had gotten a hold over herself.

"Choked on an olive," said the goblin.

"Threw his body out the window," said the orc.

"You don't have to mention the window," said the goblin.

"Right," said the orc. "Sorry."

The magician looked out over the city, hand curled thoughtfully under her nose. "Who knows about this?"

"Just us. And, uh. You. Apparently."

"And why did you accept my counsel?"

The orc blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why did you accept my counsel?" the magician repeated.

"Well," the orc said. "Well - you seemed like you had good ideas-"

"Great ideas!" the goblin said with an edge of desperation. "Don't know why the old bastard didn't listen to you!"

"Right - right," said the orc. "And when we figured we were stuck doing this - well, it just made sense, really."

The magician seemed to absorb this. She nodded. "All right," she said, striding between the two and grabbing the crystal decanter.

"Um," said the orc. "Sorry. What happens now?"

"What happens is that you two will continue to serve as Overlord," said the magician. "You will continue to take my counsel. We will continue to reform this bloody country, and gods willing, we will turn it into the crown jewel of the world by next Midwinter."

The orc looked at the goblin. The goblin looked at the orc.

"Really?" the goblin asked.

"Oh yes," said the magician. "I've worked hard to be counsel to the Overlord, and I have no reason to stop now. And besides-"

She looked the orc up and down with a deliberate slowness, poring over every microscopic detail, eyes tracing over every jagged line, and grinned like a panther.

"You look much better in the armor than he ever did," she said. Dark robes swirled like a becleavaged thundercloud, and she strode out through the high iron doors, decanter in hand.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

[ephemeralleviathan]

Acorns

A fantasy short story.

TW list: fire, storm/lightning, children, mob, burning alive

This is a happy story about old friends! Feel free to critique, and I would love some new ideas! Read at your own discretion. The story starts below the break! Happy reading!

    I surveyed the kids around the campfire. There were rows and rows of twelve year olds whose parents had decided to send them away for a couple of weeks and had just happened upon Diana’s Summer Camp. I knew some of them didn’t want to be here, in fact, most of the boys hated it here, but even so, I had all of them wrapped up in my stories. These kids got so excited to hear my tales at the end of every night that even the ones that decided to skip every other activity were present for the evening bonfires. I waited for the hush that swept over them as I stood to start my story for the night.

    “Once upon a time, there was a simple farm girl,” I started. “She was just like all her peers; she had a modest living, average looks and height, and only sometimes did she engage in mischief making.”

    I got a few chuckles for that, so I continued, “Only this girl had a big oak tree just in front of her house. It was so big that there were many swings held aloft by its branches and the other children that lived near her always came to play in the shade of her huge tree. In the summer, this tree was a blessing so all who came to her house could get out of the blistering sun for a while. But one day, during a particularly nasty storm, lightning struck the tree, splitting it down the middle and killing it.”

    I threw some sawdust into the fire to make it spark and billow as I described the storm, and some of the listeners gasped as the fire licked out and then quickly receded. Once they all quieted down again I continued the story.

    “The tree burned down, leaving only a pile of ash and a few burned charcoal logs. That, and a single acorn. The girl scavenged what was left of her beloved oak tree, tossing the charcoal into her woodpile and picking up the single acorn.”

    I fished into my pocket and held a large acorn up above my head and said, “An acorn just like this. She kept this acorn close to her out of mourning for her beloved tree, whether she kept it in the front pocket of her dress close to her heart or on her nightstand when she slept, she always kept this little acorn near to her like the large oak tree had been near and dear to her heart.”

    I bent over and picked up a small basket of acorns and dropped the one I was holding into it. I gave it to the nearest child to me, asking the children to take one and pass the basket down, then I kept telling the story.

    “When she worked in the field, the acorn was by her side, when she tended her animals, the acorn was always with her, even when she went to swim in the creek she took the acorn with her and left it on the shore for safekeeping. One night, even though she was careful with the acorn, she set it on her nightstand as she always did to find that the acorn had a large crack running from the top to the bottom. She gently picked up the acorn from her nightstand, but even as gentle as she was the acorn split in two in her hands. What fell out of the split shell was not the nut that should’ve been inside of the acorn however, but what looked like a tiny wooden baby.”

    Some of the kids started looking for cracks on their acorns, but others sat on the edges of their seats eagerly awaiting the rest of the story. I reached behind me again and retrieved another prop for my story.

    “At first the girl didn’t know what to do; this wasn’t a fairy for it had no wings, and plus she didn’t want to just give give the tiny baby back to the oak, the great oak was just a pile of ash now. The girl decided to care for the baby like it was one of her dolls, but she had to learn how to care for a living baby first. She fashioned a tiny bassinette out of one half of the acorn shells and set the little thing inside, and seeing as it fit just fine before, with a little cushion from spare wool, the tiny baby curled up inside the acorn shell.”

    I held up a cradle I had made out of an acorn shell for the kids to see; it looked old and worn, like it had gone through many stories before, and there was a small crack in the side.

    “The girl consulted the older women she knew on how to care for a baby, and they told her to feed it when it cries and sing it to sleep to keep evil away from the baby. The older women laughed at her because they thought that a girl of her age could have no child of her own, but the girl still returned to the baby and followed their instructions to the letter. She would feed the baby a tiny drop of milk when it was hungry and every night she sang songs of myth and legend to ward off evil. But still, the baby grew fast, faster than any human baby, and it grew and grew until it broke out of the cradle the girl had made for it. The girl started sewing tiny dresses for the little acorn child and created it a larger bed out of an old sandal.”

    I held up a sandal with tufts of wool sewn into the leather of the sandal and a little fabric blanket. It too looked worn and tired like the acorn cradle, but this was not broken, just stretched out in some places.

    “The girl would still take the acorn with her when she worked and when she played, teaching the tiny child everything she knew as best she could. One day the girl left the child at her home now that the child was too big to just carry around or put in the girls pocket. She had been doing this for quite some time, where it was normal for the girl and the wood-like child would be seen together. The child didn’t speak, but she sang just like the girl did when she was smaller. The townspeople thought there was something off about the acorn child, though. They didn’t trust that the acorn child was safe for the girl or had good intentions for their humble village. So one day, when the girl left to tend to her animals and fields, the townspeople formed a mob for the acorn child. The acorn child was the same size as the girl that raised her, but the acorn child had dark eyes whereas the girl had piercing green eyes. That, and the acorn child had an almost wooden complexion with grains and knots like the bark of a great oak.”

    “The villagers swarmed the girls house as soon as they knew she wasn’t there. They knew the girl would’ve protected the acorn child like a mother bear, but they thought that the acorn child had somehow charmed the girl. They attacked the acorn child, who ran and ran and called for the girl the only way she knew how: singing of legends like the girl had done for her. The villagers hated the song simply because it was coming from the child’s mouth, thinking the child was trying to curse them too, so they threw their torches at the acorn child just as they reached the girl’s field.”

    The kids listening seemed to all lean forward in anticipation; they knew my stories never ended boring. I paused dramatically, then I continued.

    “The girl ran to the acorn child, who quickly started to burn as the fire licked the child’s wooden skin. The girl patted out the flames with the hem of her dress and burned her hands on the hot fire of the acorn child. The child saw the girl burn her hands for the child, and suddenly roots and trees shot up from the ground and ensnarled the angry villagers. The fires that they threw and the fires that they still held started to burn the roots and trees they were trapped in. The acorn child scooped the girl up and ran to their house, wrapping the girls burnt hands. The girl picked up the acorn shell, the half that was left behind from making the cradle for the child, and tied twine around the stem of it, making it into a necklace.”

    I passed strands of twine to the children, showing them how to tie it just like the girl did, though it was a little difficult for me to tie the twine because of the burn scars on my hands. The kids almost immediately put the acorn necklaces on as I finished the story.

    “The girl put the makeshift necklace around the neck of the acorn child, then they both escaped into the forest as their former village burned down. Some say they still wander the forests together.”

    The kids started a loud round of applause before other camp counsellors rounded them up and escorted them to their various cabins. I sat by the fire, watching it burn down as the camp settled into a sleepy silence. I heard the melodious singing of myths and legends of yore, and I joined the singing as I stood to greet my old friend.

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Short Stories: Too Late For Remorse

(Prequel)

Yandere Ex Husband x Countess Fem Reader

TW: time regression, cheating (mentioned), yandere, delusional behavior, etc.

“No!” (Your name) shot up from her bed, body covered in a cold sheen of sweat. Her lungs were on fire while her breathing was labored. Her hands fumbled at her neck as her heart pounded in her chest harder than a hammer against wood. She was alive… but how? She had been poisoned by her husband’s mistress…

(Your name) clambered from her silken sheets. The young lady nearly tripped on the fabric from her haste, but she had to scramble to the mirror… she had to make sure.

(Your name) gasped at her reflection in shock. She was twenty again… no longer was she the sullen, neglected thirty year old wife of Duke Blackburn. She was once again the young Countess (Last name)! She had the means to start over again.

(Your name) sunk to her knees as she smiled at her ceiling. A few tears fell down her cheeks as she sucked in a shaky breath. She wouldn’t waste this second chance, no. She’d get her engagement annulled and live a peaceful life this time… no matter who she had to eliminate. (Your name) would pay her fiancé and his mistress back ten fold for their betrayal.

.

.

.

(Your name) cut up her breakfast with the smallest of smiles on her lips. A week had passed since her time regression and her personality has done a complete one eighty.

No longer was Countess (your name) naive and meek, she was a brighter existence with a determination to learn more knowledge. A change that startled the people around her… especially her father.

Her father, the count, seemed quite curious on the sudden change in his only daughter. (Your name) had always been a young woman interested in romance and fairytales, yet that girl was no longer sat in front of him… she was a stranger now.

“My dear, are you not interested in any sweets?” Count (last name) softly asked his daughter who hadn’t touched any of the desserts presented before her. “These have always been your favorite…”

“I’m sorry, I’m just not interested in sweets anymore.” (Your name) gave her father a soft smile. It wasn’t a lie, she lost her love of sweets in her past life when her husband had made constant comments on her body over the years.

Count (last name) frowned before he sighed. “You also haven’t sent Trishan any letters recently… is everything okay between you two?”

Ah yes… Trishan was his name. (Your name) had called him Duke Blackburn for so long that she had forgotten his name…

“I don’t think he liked me that much is all, father.” (Your name) replied softly. “Plus he’s been awfully close to Lady Serpico’s daughter, Lady Gia.”

Count (last name)’s expression quickly darkened at the mention of Lady Serpico. That nightmare of a woman had damaged the reputation of his wife many years ago before they had gotten married… could she have sent her daughter to try to do the same to his darling (your name)? Was this why she had been acting so strange? Had Duke Blackburn made his daughter feel inferior to a snake?

“I will look into it, my dear daughter.” Her father rose from the table to pat his daughter’s head in an affectionate manner. “I love you so much dear… don’t you ever forget that.”

Of course (your name) hadn’t forgotten that, that’s why she used her father’s love to her advantage. Perhaps he could free her from this fate if he annulled the engagement once he found out about the affair?

(Your name) calmly slipped her tea as a ghost of a smile crawled on her lips. She’s moved her first chest piece, she wondered if her dear fiancé would enjoy the shame?

.

.

.

Trishan shoved all the papers off his desk, his hands clutched at his chest while he struggled to breathe. Where was his fiancée? His darling fiancée?

Trishan’s blue eyes scanned the papers in hopes to spot a letter from her, the ones she used to always send him during this time.

He’s returned to the past before he was blinded by greed… before his long affair with Gia Sherpico… before (your name)’s murder. He could make it all right now since he had the chance to be the husband his beautiful, loyal wife deserved!

Trishan frowned when he hadn’t found any new letters. Was (your name) in good health? She was always such a frail woman… perhaps he should go visit her? Yes! She’d probably be so happy, she always had such a beautiful smile.

Trishan began to gather up all of the papers with a smile on his face. He had already ended things with lady Gia the moment he returned to the past, that snakelike woman wouldn’t pull the rug under him this time! He would not let her sweet lies fill his head and turn him against his darling wife. His innocent wife who had done nothing but love him…

Trishan couldn’t bear to find (your name)’s cold body again… he couldn’t live with himself if she died again. If her lips were blue and she laid in a pile of her own blood like some grotesque halo. No, he would protect her this time!

Trishan sighed dreamily at the thought of this second chance. He’d visit her this weekend with her favorite flowers, baby’s breath! They do mean every lasting love, after all!

A shame Trishan failed to realize was that a large bundle of baby’s breath smelled like feet…

.

.

.

“I’m sorry, but my daughter doesn’t wish to see you.” Trishan felt his blood run cold when he was denied entry into the Count’s home. (Your name) didn’t want to see him? This had to be some sort of sick joke! Yes… that was it.

“Very funny, Count (last name).” Trishan waved off the count as he tried to enter the estate anyways. His large bouquet of baby’s breath caused Count (Last name) even more ire.“(Your name) will be thrilled I’m here-“

“My daughter doesn’t deserve a man who can’t keep it in his pants and someone who’s gift her a bouquet that smells like feet.” The count shoved Duke Blackburn back a few steps, the baby’s breath now laid in a puddle of petals at his feet. “Good day to you!”

Trishan could only stand there in shock, his hands clutched at his chest while his breathing was ragged. It wasn’t supposed to be like this… they were supposed to start over. They were meant to be.

Trishan tried to gather up the flowers in haste but they were already too trampled to fix… he’d have to get her a new bouquet. Perhaps a better scented one at that?

Trishan glanced up at the door, hopeful that this was all a big misunderstanding. (Your name) could never hate him… her father must be keeping her away from him.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

A guy doing marine research into phytoplankton is far out to sea and waiting for the samples to be ready when he spots a fast-moving ripple in the water up ahead.

Fully aware that this spot is home to a migratory orca pod, he assumes he's stumbled across an orca hunting a seal and settles against the railing to watch, because it's not every day you get to see that.

The ripples get closer, the shadows in the water more defined, the water choppier, and suddenly the orca and its unfortunate prey are zooming directly towards the boat and he's waiting, breath held, for them to duck right underneath--

When the water breaks, the ocean sprays, and he's suddenly smacked fully in the face by a very wet, very confused, and very pretty merman, throwing them both down onto the deck while the boat rocks as a confused and now quite hungry orca dives beneath it.

The merman, it turns out, thought that the boat was an ice float and didn't realise his mistake until it was too late. But he's very thankful for the impromptu rescue, and wow don't you have nice arms, and holy shit you've got legs, can I touch them? Is that weird? Can I touch them anyway? And your hair--

So of course they get to talking because they're both utterly fascinated with the other, and soon the sun has set and the samples are long-since ready and the moonlight is making the ocean look black and they part with the knowledge that they'll never meet again, and a kiss, and a lingering look over the shoulder for all the things that can't be...

And the researcher gets back to land, moors his boat, readies his samples. He packs up his things, shoves them into his bags, and prepares to go home. He steps onto the jetty boards and thinks of the merman and the solid wood beneath his feet seems to sway for more than one reason.

There's a splash. He turns, pulled as if by the tide, and there's a ripple in the water. A face. A pair of eyes made black by the moonlight.

And this is how the researcher acquires a merman boyfriend who helps him find samples and the merman acquires a human boyfriend who rescues him from whales.

[story-scraps]

slayer and saviour

short story/story snippet fantasy stay at home husband malcolm faces a difficult decision after discovering a newly hatched dragon 2981 words written by story-scraps, published (unprofessionally) Monday, January 9th Do not repost

this is the first time i've ever written something to be posted and read by anyone so bear with me about the quality on this one haha, i sorta got sick of the story by the end (you'll probably realise that as you read) but im rambling now and all i wanted to say was thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy the story! -story scraps

Malcolm had no idea how he was going to explain away the dragon once it was discovered. ‘Discovered’ might even have been a strong word for it since to discover something it had to be hidden first.

He wondered whether he could call the dragon hatchling ‘hidden.' Wrapped as it is under a frayed blanket, trying to get comfortable in the wooden cradle Malcolm had dropped it in.

‘The cradle Claire carved,’ the irony wasn’t lost on him. But he couldn’t think of anywhere better to put the little monster.

Malcolm still couldn’t understand what compelled him to take the hatchling home with him. Why didn’t he kill it immediately? Or at least walk away?

But he knew that was impossible, he couldn’t have ignored it. No, he doomed himself the moment he spotted the glint of its golden eggshell.

He’d been out on a stroll that morning, enjoying the fine weather. He wandered around the serene meadows that surrounded the cottage. The spring was in full swing and the fields were bursting with life. The tall grass was a striking emerald against the blue sky. Its perfect green was only broken up by the smattering of wildflowers that dotted the ground. Here and there, Malcolm would spot a little vole or mouse burrowing around the underbrush. Or catch a glimpse of a colourfull bird flying overhead, chirping sweetly as it did.

He was struck by the sound of running water then and curious, tried to find where it came from. Thus, he found himself beside a narrow stream cutting through the meadow. It's water swift as it flowed over the silver rocks and stones that lined its sides.

Malcolm paused there, watching the current and basking in the warm sunlight and the gentle breeze blowing through his hair.

Then he spotted it, something flashing at the edge of his vision. Malcolm furrowed his brow and glanced down at his feet. There it was again, shining in the grass. He reached down and his hand closed around something. It was smooth, round, and pulling it up he gasped in surprise.

It was an egg, but not like any he’d seen before. Large and golden and warm, there was something alive inside it, something shifting, pulsing even.

He brought it closer to his face, examining it quizzically. Then, to his astonishment, a crack no wider than a hair broke across its surface! He almost dropped it in surprise as it widened and splintered with flecks of the shell began to break off.

Malcolm wasn’t sure how long he stood there frozen in amazement and wonder as he watched the egg hatching right there in his hands.

Here a flash of the body, there a glimpse of an eye, and all a sudden there was a tiny head trying to nudge its way into the open. Before he could process what he was seeing, the egg continued to crumble until the shell fell from his hands. Instead, he now had in his palm a little green, scaled thing with thin wings, two blunt horns atop its head and a curling, point-tipped tail. It looked up at him with big, beady black eyes and chirped, the barest and lightest sound from its beaked mouth.

The joy of watching something come to life that had overwhelmed him a moment before vanished. Now, there was only terror in its place.

It was a dragon. A baby one, only-just hatched, but a dragon nonetheless.

How did it end up here? And more importantly, what was he supposed to do with it now?

Malcolm’s first instinct was to drop it and run. But then what? Go find Claire, yes that was right, she’d know what to do. But after what had happened, what she’d been through, how would she react to the sight of a dragon? She was already in such a delicate state…

A thought crept up on him then.

He could kill it himself.

It was a tiny thing, it wasn’t like it could fight back. Was he so incompetent that he couldn’t even do that? A quick twist of its neck, that was all. He could even just drop it into the stream and be done with it.

Yes, that was the best course of action, he knew that. He had to pull himself together, to swallow down his nausea at the thought of killing it. If he didn't, who knew how much suffering and destruction the little dragon could cause once it grew up? How many lives and how much land could be saved with one simple act.

The hatchling chirped again, and the sound broke Malcolm away from his thoughts. It huffed and a little puff of smoke burst from its nostrils. Then, it shifted and twirled around in his hold until it curled up in a tight ball. Before Malcolm could process what he was seeing, the hatchlings fell asleep. Just like that.

Dragons were monsters. Horrible, violent beasts. Malcolm knew this, he’d seen with his own eyes the kind of terror and horror they could inflict.

And yet, looking down at the napping hatchling in his palms shook his surety in that fact. This baby animal was nothing like the hulking, terrifying monsters he knew. It was so fragile in his hands, being only a baby after all. It wasn’t like it could kill anything.

Malcolm couldn't tell how long he spent standing there, wallowing in his indecision. At some point, he finally made up his mind and ended up carrying the hatchling home with him. He also wasn’t sure what drove him to do that, only that he did and it made the situation worse.

How could he explain this to Claire? What if it hurt her, seeing one of the monsters that destroyed her life in their own home? How could he do that to her?

And just as things were finally beginning to get better for her as well…

He’d even spot it sometimes, flickering behind the clear blue of Claire’s eyes. That spark of spirit, like a stray ember from the fire that used to light up all her face, all her being. That fire that fueled her desperation for adventure and glory.

When he’d first come into contact with that fire, all those years ago, he was certain it would burn him.

He’d been watching her from the moment she and her comrades had stepped into the old tea shop where he worked. Their silver armour gleamed in the light. Their swords swung at their hips and their navy cloaks billowed as they strode in. As they did, Malcolm spotted the crest emblazoned onto them. It was of a dragon curved in on itself, a sword piercing its chest.

Dragon Knights. Malcolm almost didn’t believe it.

They were heroes of the kingdom. The elite order of imperial knights dedicated to eradicating the giant lindworms that ravaged the borders of the earth. They protected not only the kingdom of Etterstadt, but the whole continent. They were heroes, legends even. There was not a single child in the kingdom who wasn’t raised on the stories of the adventures of the Dragon Knights. They were the pride and joy of all Etterstadt and, by the way these knights carried themselves, exuding such strength and authority, they knew it. But Claire, she shone brighter than them all.

Malcolm couldn’t take his eyes off her as she and her friends sat at a table in the corner. Her messy, straw blonde hair was cropped to her chin and her cheeks were flushed a vibrant, ruddy red. What was exposed of her fair skin was littered with cuts and the occasional bruise and as she talked, Malcolm found himself watching in particular a small scar on her upper lip.

She was like the sun, even as Malcolm tried to tear his gaze away and focus on his work, he couldn’t avoid her light at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t stop his heart quickening at the sound of her hearty, loud laughter or the harsh edge of her voice and inevitably he found himself watching her again.

Her comrades must have been caught in her orbit as well, from the way they looked at her with such admiration and hung onto every word she spoke.

Malcolm had become so captivated by the sight of her and how she commanded the attention of the group that he hadn’t even noticed he was staring. He certainly didn’t notice she was staring back.

Not until she hollered,  “Hey, you there!”

Malcolm startled and with a lurch in his stomach realised she meant him.

“Five black teas to go around and say, you wouldn’t be able to slip anything stronger in, would you?”

“Afraid not,” he called back, trying desperately to keep the tremble from his voice and from his hands as he began brewing their drinks. When he finally went over to serve them to the group, he thanked the saints he didn’t spill anything.

As he set the tray ladened with two steaming pots and a collection of cups down, one of the other knights spoke up.

“You know,” he began and flicked a stray lock of rust-red hair from his beady eyes, “I’d frequent tea shops more often if I knew all the servers would look as lovely as you do," he said with a lazy grin.

Malcolm felt heat rising to his cheeks. He tried to play it off, chuckling and muttering a quiet ‘thanks’ under his breath. He spotted one of the other knights rolling their eyes across the table.

“And you know…”

‘Oh saints,’ Malcolm thought, ‘is he still going?’

The knight propped an elbow on the table and leaned closer, his grin widening, “I could think of a few other places we could go that involve steam and hot water.”

The table erupted into a chorus of exasperated groans as Malcolm’s face turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Congratulations Larsson,” said the knight who had been rolling her eyes before, “That was, by far, the worst line you’ve come up with yet.”

Their remark roused approving laughter from the group.

The rust-haired knight, Larsson, scoffed irritably.

“Come on! That one was good!” he insisted.

It was her, the blonde knight, that spoke up next.

“No, no it was not and look,” she gestured towards Malcolm, who still stood awkwardly at the edge of the table, clutching the empty tray. “You’ve embarrassed the poor man!”

She shifted then, turning her whole attention towards him, “don’t mind Larsson,” she assured, “he’s just like that.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it either!” another knight spoke up, “we took him to every doctor in Etterstadt and they all said his horrible flirting is incurable!”

Another round of laughter passed around the group. Malcolm saw his chance and took the opportunity to slip away back to the counter.

Nobody seemed to have noticed. Yet, he could still feel the blonde knight’s intense gaze tracking him for the better half of an hour.

It wasn’t until her friends had paid and packed up to leave that she got up and strode over to the front of the shop where Malcolm stood sorting tea leaves.

“Would you like anything else before you go?” Malcolm asked and tried not to gawk at how the dim light of the shop glowed against her cheeks.

“No, no,” she answered and leaned casually against the counter. “I just thought I’d apologise again on Larsson’s behalf, he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”

“Yeah, he shouldn’t have,” it spilled out before he could think of what he was saying. Then, all of a sudden she was laughing, a curt, rough sound that made his stomach flip.

“How about I make it up to you then?”

“Oh?” Malcolm asked, “and how do you intend to do that?”

“By treating you to dinner, if you’ll let me.”

Even then, he could never say no to her.

Everything that followed seemed straight out of a daydream to Malcolm. Candlelit dinners at local restaurants. Trading bites of warm bread while strolling arm-in-arm through the town square. Long, starlit conversations on his balcony that drew into the early hours of the morning. The fear that plagued him whenever Claire went off on missions, leaving him holding his breath. The relief when she’d saunter back into the shop weeks later, freshly scarred but still blessedly alive. Still grinning like she’d beaten death in a bar fight. No matter how dangerous the mission or how terrifying the beast, Claire always ended up victorious. She was a marvel, the youngest knight to ever receive a medal of chivalry by the king himself.

Passing secrets and a bottle of wine on the rooftop at midnight. Proposing outside the tea shop. A small spring wedding in the meadows outside the town.

The quaint cottage in the countryside, a place of their own, their new home together.

It still unnerved him sometimes, how quickly things turned for the worst.

Claire had been away on another mission. It wasn't even particularly special or dangerous. Only an investigation into a reported lindworm sighting.

It was early in the evening when it happened. Malcolm could still taste the perfumed air that wafted across the porch where he sat, watching the sunset drip gold into the sky. The clopping of the galloping horse’s hooves against the dirt road. The courier, Larsson of all people's, grim expression as he told him the news.

The ride to the field hospital. The hours of waiting. The oppressive, suffocating fear.

Trying to hold back tears by her bedside once she finally woke up.

The healers said she was lucky to be alive. A new scar across her chin, a leg that would never fully mend, an honourable dismal from the knighthood. Her partner hadn’t been so fortunate.

She wasn’t herself for months afterwards. How could she be? With her dreams as shredded and bloodied as her partner’s corpse? The goal that had fueled her every move since she was a child, destroyed in one night.

Claire became a ghost of her former self. She turned away any visitors or well-wishers and refused to leave the cottage for weeks at a time. Malcolm did his best to try and console her, try to ease her back into some semblance of normal daily life. Seeing her was like looking at a ghost. Pale and cloudy eyed with drawn cheeks and dark shadows across her face. The same face that once overflowed with life and energy.

Although Malcolm would never dare voice it, he was relieved. Relieved that her career as a knight ended with a broken leg rather than a coffin. A life derailed was still better than a life cut short.

Of course, it still ate away at him, watching her suffer. Nothing pained him more than knowing how little he could do to help. He could not reshape her life with only loving whispers and gentle hands. He could never carry the burden of Claire's pain for her no matter how much he wanted to.

She’d taken up woodcarving in the long months of recovery. Her deftness with swords and knives lent well to the craft and soon the cottage was littered with figurines, followed by lopsided chairs, a side table and her latest project, a cradle to gift to their pregnant neighbour.

Malcolm glanced back to the cradle now. The hatchling was still curled up inside in a tight ball with its winding tail tucked between its claws. With each deep breath it exhaled puffs of smoke from its nostrils.

The sun was setting outside, flooding the room with a warm, golden light. The mug of tea he made upon getting home had gone cold in his hands.

‘I could just let it out,’ he mused, ‘take it back to the river and leave it there. It’s a beast, it deserves to be in the wild.’

His gaze darted to the fast darkening sky outside and back to the sleeping dragon. No, he realised, no there were beasts far more vicious than it lurking in the night. How could he leave the poor thing out there to fall prey to wolves or foxes? It would surely die in the wild without anything to protect it.

‘And it will surely die here if Claire finds it,’ he continued bitterly. ‘Though at least with Claire it’s death will be quick.’ It was a horrible thought but it was true. Claire was a professional, she’d kill it quickly, cleanly. At least that was better than it getting torn apart by wild animals, wasn’t it?

Malcolm stared at the snoozing beast. How could something so small, so peaceful, grow into a murderous monster? How could he send it to its death?

He pushed back from the table, the chair legs screeching across the wooden floor, and stood up to walk over to the cradle.

Could he bring himself to lie to Claire? The idea itself made his stomach churn, but what other options were there?

‘If I were to lie to her, how long could I do it?’ he wondered, ‘it's not like I can raise it to adulthood, she’ll find out somehow.’

Was it better if she heard it from him? Could he convince her to spare the little dragon? Even if he could, what then?

Malcolm groaned in frustration and carded his hands through his hair.

Claire would be back soon. He’d tell her. He knew he would in the end, it was impossible to try and convince himself to betray her to any degree. And if she decided the dragon had to die… could he stop her?

Malcolm tried not to dwell too hard on that thought. No, whatever they would decide, they’d do it together.

The dragon chirped again and shifted in its cradle.

Malcolm knew he’d follow Claire in the end.

Even if it meant killing that baby.

That beast.

and that's it really. if you liked the story please don't hesitate to leave some comments or just a heart or anything! if you didn't them then i'm sorry i guess. i'll definetly post more stuff on here if the stars ever aligned again and im able to write properly, i've been thinking of making a sort of novellete to update in chapters but thats still very much in the works thank you so much for putting up with me and reading this far if you have!!!! you have no idea how much it means to writers like me thanks again and i hope you go enjoy some better stories after this one haha :)

-story scraps

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! I love your writing

Could you do something like the villain finding out his nemesis hero is member of his nearly extinct (fantasy?) species?

Like the villain thought he was the last of his kin?

"You..." The villain's eyes widened. "You're..."

Between wearing either heavy make-up and coloured contacts in his civilian guise, or his hero mask when he wasn't, the hero could usually pass as human.

Unfortunately, his mask rested utterly useless in the villain's hands and he hadn't had time to do a full face before rushing out the door. The inhumanity of him was thus blatantly visible beneath the villain's devouring gaze.

"A monster?" the hero snapped. "That's rich coming from you, you-"

The villain reached up and, with the careful press of a button, his own mask slid away.

The hero froze.

The hero stared.

The whole world, and all that he was fighting for dropped away as his heart leapt and his mouth went dry and it felt like every atom in his body hummed with recognition.

The villain's eyes were the same purple shade as his own - a dark orchid-esque colour that humans couldn't quite filter properly and had no entirely accurate name for. The line of his cheek had the same glimmer of scales, though the villain's were a shimmering pearl compared to the hero's blue. He hadn't filed his teeth down to blend in like the hero had either. They were carnivore-sharp.

Dragon. In his more humanoid form, certainly, but a dragon nonetheless.

Just like the hero.

Several key facts slid into place.

"Oh," the hero said, breathless. The old language suddenly felt ready and perched on his tongue like a waterfall. He swallowed it down.

"I thought I was the only one left."

The hero's brain churned, as he struggled to compute the astounding evidence in front of him. Because he couldn't - the villain couldn't - except he obviously was.

Had he been stealing for his hoard?

"I thought I was alone," the villain said. "Are there others?!"

Mutely, dumbstruck, the hero shook his head.

He'd thought he was alone too. For so long, so very very long, he'd thought he was the only one left. And now - now. The hero scrambled belatedly to his feet, with a groan of pain. He could feel panic rising. Panic and hope and fury and longing.

The villain closed the gap in an instant, as if scared the hero might run. He curled one hand around the front of the hero's suit to hold him in place, pinning him back against the wall with a matching strength that suddenly made so much more sense. The wall behind them gave an ominous shudder.

His stare raked over the hero's body, like he could slip beneath his clothes and perform a full catalogue or history, before snapping back to the hero's mouth. His teeth.

"What did they do to you?"

"They didn't do anything. I -" There were too many questions, it was too big. The hero had no idea where to start. He reached out to grab his mask back from the villain.

The villain hurled it aside, well out of the way. His freshly-freed hand gripped the hero's wrist. Tight. Possessive.

"Why are you protecting humans?" the villain sounded somewhere between bewildered and livid. "What's wrong with you?"

The hero bristled, the fury clearing his head a little bit too. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you? You nearly torched half of London, are you insane?"

"They hunted us. I thought I was the only one left. Are you -"

The villain swore in old tongue. Fire-tongue, though the hero had guessed that much.

He could practically feel the heat rising off the villain, sudden and foreboding. His instincts swerved this way and that; torn between the violence of enmity, of every vicious memory they shared, and all the sheer longings of a home he'd thought lost forever.

Before he'd even fully realised it, he'd reached out, palm searching the villain's chest in turn, finding his heartbeat. Slow. Much slower than a human's could ever be.

Dragon, dragon, dragon.

Kin.

The same.

His.

"Oh, god," the hero said.

"You even sound like them," the villain said, tone not quite kind enough to be wonder. "I really thought you were human. What did they do to you?"

"They didn't do anything! Just - shut up. For one second, just shut up. I need to think. Because you - you're - oh god."

There were many arguments the hero could have made, never mind that the whole point of a secret identity was to fit in, but all he could focus on was the enormity of it.

He wasn't alone.

They weren't alone.

He didn't have to be alone.

The villain's hands moved up to his face, clutching his jaw, cradling him. The purple of his eyes began to deepen to flame.

"Come with me," he said, fully switching to the old tongue. "We shouldn't be fighting each other. You're young - you must be young if you're on their side - we'll talk. You'll tell me everything."

The worst person the hero knew was the only one who could possibly begin to understand.

It was all too much.

The hero ripped himself free, and bolted.

[whereserpentswalk]

People don't realize how liminal it is to be a time traveler. How you don't ever really feel like you're in the time you are. Even when you're in your own time, everything is off, your coat was something you bought in interwar France, the book you're reading on the train is from a bookstore you had to visit in Victorian London, even your necklace was given to you by a Neolithic shaman, from a culture the rest of the world can never know. You find yourself acting strange even when in the present, much less in the past you have to work in.

You remember meeting a eunuch in 10th century China, and having him be one of the only people smart and observant enough to realize you were from a diffrent time. You could talk honestly with him, though still you couldn't reveal too much about your time. And it was still so strange hearing him talk casually about work and mention plotting assassinations. You're not allowed to but you still visit him sometimes.

You remember that the few times you were allowed to tell someone everything it was tragic. You knew a young woman who lived in Pompeii, who you had gotten close to, a few days before she would inevitably die. On your last day there you looked into her eyes, knowing soon they'd be stone and ash, that the beauty of her hair would be washed away by burning magma. And you hugged her, and told her that you wanted her to be safe, and told her she was wonderful and that you wanted her to be comfortable and happy. And you let her tongue know the joy of 21st century chocolate, and her eyes see the beauty of animation, knowing she deserved to have those joys, knowing it wouldn't matter soon. And you hugged her the last time, and told her she deserved happiness. And when you left without taking her it was like you were killing her yourself.

You want to take home everyone you're attached to. There's a college student you befriended in eighteen fifties Boston. And you can't help but see him try to solve problems you know humanity is centuries away from solving. And you just want to tell him. And it's not just that, the way he talked about the books and plays he likes, his sense of humor. There's so many people you want him to meet.

You feel the same way about a young woman you met on a viking age longship. She tells stories to her fellow warriors and traders, stories that will never fully get written down, stories that she tells so uniquely and so well. She has so many great ideas. You want so dearly to take her to somewhere she can share her stories, or where she can take classes with other writers, where she can be somewhere safe instead of being out at sea. She'll talk about wanting to be able to do something, or meet people, and you know you're so close to being able to take her, but you never can, unless she accidently finds out way too much then you can't.

You remember the longship that you met that young storyteller on. You were there before, two years ago for you, ten years later for the people on it. The young woman who told you stories wasn't there ten years later, you had been told why then but you only realize now, her uncle, who ran the ship, had been one of the first people to convert to Christianity in his nation. He killed her, either for not converting or for sleeping with women, you're not sure, but he killed her, and bragged about it when you met him ten years later.

You talk to the storyteller on the longship, ask her about the myths you're there to ask her about, the myths that she loves to tell. You look into her eyes knowing it's probably less then a year until her uncle takes her life. You ask her if you think that those who die of murder go to Valhalla. She tells you she hopes not, she doesn't see Valhalla as a gift but as a duty, she hopes for herself to go to Hel, where she wouldn't have to fight anymore. You slip and admit you're talking about her, telling her that you hope that's where she goes when she's killed. You hope to yourself you'll be forced to take her to the twenty first century, you're tempted even to make it worse, you want to have ruined her enough to be able to save her.

[authorisedgardian]

I feel like this a lot. In a way it's a nice and a bad feeling. Nice because there is so much I want to write about. Bad because I worry if I'll get the time to write it all. Overall though I'm glad I'll be able to add to my world for the very foreseeable future.

[redglassbird]

I will NEVER get over the fact that I can write stories. Like I can weave threads of whimsy in a whole new world and make people feel things if I weave them well enough???? Stories are worth so much!!! Lines of poetry are literally currency to me like I get to write little lines and then writing little lines helps me notice things when I read other peoples' lines????? Magic! Whimsy! Characters! Words! Words! Words!

[twinkle-art]

we are thee and thou art us

[thestuffedalligator]

“I thought this city didn’t have any gods.”

The pigeon grinned a beak full of dog’s teeth. “Ha. They say there aren’t. They even kept most of them out for a while.”

“How did you make it?”

“By being smart. By hiding.”

She gave the one-legged, feral feathered thing a sideways look. “As a pigeon?”

“Sometimes,” said the pigeon. “Sometimes I’m graffiti on a wall. Sometimes I’m a coin dropped in a beggar’s hand. I am neon at night, the rain in the light. I am the song the busker sings. I listen to the prayers of those who come to the city with big dreams.”

“And in return?”

It grinned again. Steam rolled off its feathers, smelling of cigarettes. “I eat their despair.”

“That’s cruel.”

It moved its wings in something like a shrug. “That’s the big city for you.”

[atomic-chronoscaph]

The October Country - art by Joseph Mugnaini (1955)

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Head Canons:

Love After Death

Yandere Skeleton x Fem Reader

I’m obsessed with Kate Bush’s song ‘Army Dreamers.’ So I decided to write a story about a soldier who died during a war, but he came back to life just to fulfill his promise of coming home to his lover…

There was a Great War many years ago between monsters and humans. A war that took countless innocent lives all due to the human’s greed. A war that took the life of your lover, Zered. Your childhood sweetheart.

Zered was a young sorcerer from the magic tower. A prodigy and pioneer of magic with a heart of gold. He was the man you had planned to spend the rest of your life with. You wanted to run your fingers through those blonde curls until the two of you were balding and wrinkly. To look into those sea foam eyes until you couldn’t. To press soft kisses against his full lips until your lungs burned. You loved that man more than anything in this world… but the war took him from you.

Zered may have died a hero of the empire, but you couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped its fingers into your heart. Your beloved was no nothing more of a war story. A great sorcerer who was able to take down the dragon enemies to give time for reinforcements to arrive. A war hero. And they couldn’t even bring a single remain of him back to you…

You sighed as you sipped on some homemade ale. Your eyes glanced at the sun’s rays that danced across the hay fields in sorrow. This was the cottage the two of you were going to live in for the rest of your days. The one you’d start a family in that was now cold and empty. It didn’t matter that the sun hit it perfectly each time, Zered wasn’t here.

You rock back and forth in the rocking chair. The birds weren’t singing their melodic tunes like they normally did. Which was odd. Why weren’t the birds singing- you almost screamed when you see a dark figure slink through the meadow towards your cabin. What on earth was an undead doing here?!

You quickly sprang up from your chair and fell over since you were a bit tipsy. Crap. Crap. Crap! You needed to head inside before that creature got to you.

You let out a shrill shriek of terror when the skeleton stood in your porch. Its red eyes stared into your very soul as it tilted its head to the side. Oh god… this was it. This was the end. You were going to be ripped apart by this hideous creature-

You went still when the creature threw itself into your arms as it released weeping noises. The skeleton whined and shook as its arms wrapped around your body in a tight hug.

“H-home. I… home.” The skeleton’s voice was a spin chilling rasp. A small tuft of blonde on its head showed that it was once human.

What did it mean by being home- wait. This cousin possibly be?

“Zered?” You gasped when the skeleton pressed its teeth onto your cheek like it wanted for press a kiss against your cheeks. “Zered, what happened?”

“Home… home.” Zered was barely to rasp out legible words. The skeleton cupped your face in its palms. “Love you… I home.”

[sophia-sol]

Every year at about this time (...very approximately) I post a reclist of 10 short stories I particularly enjoyed reading in the last year, all of which can be read online for free. Here's the latest list, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

1. Sestu Hunts the Last Deer in Heaven - MH Cheung Beautiful and odd. A story of what happens after you've killed the gods, the unexpected realities and the things you have to live with. I love stories about after the climactic things traditional fantasy narratives are about, and this one excels!

2. If You Find Yourself Speaking to God, Address God with the Informal You - John Chu Two butch Asian weightlifter dudes bonding with each other and then dating, and one of them happens to have superpowers, but the superpowers aren't the focus. This is SO charming!!

3. Two Hands, Wrapped in Gold - SB Divya This is a really cool retelling of the classic fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin from the Rumpelstiltskin character's pov, building out the world and his background and making him a sympathetic character with a specific history. Haven't seen a fairy tale retelling quite like this before and it's great! And I say that as a connoisseur of fairy tale retellings.

4. A Farce to Suit the New Girl - Rebecca Fraimow A troupe of Jewish actors in Russia, in a time of political upheaval. This story has such a good and powerful feeling of activity and forward momentum, and of the way a community supports people even if things are weird or complicated! I love every single character and how firmly they are themselves.

5. Sheri, At This Very Moment - Bianca Sayan The sacrifices you make to spend time with the ones you love - a snapshot of one brief visit together, out of two lives that only rarely get to align. Made me teary the first time I read it!

6. Spirochete - Anneke Schwob An engaging second-person pov story about possession and identity. It has such a great sense of timing! And the last line GOT me even on second read when I hypothetically knew what was coming!

7. To Embody a Wildfire Starting - Iona Datt Sharma Ahhhhhh this story is so good at embodying the horrible complexities of the choices people make in the worst of situations, that good and bad and divine and evil and just plain personness can all reside in one being. Also it's about a dragon society and the revolutionary humans who tried to make everyone into dragons, and also about parent-child relationships, and also about a bunch of other things. God it's good.

8. Obsolesce - Nadine Aurora Tabing Is it really me if I don't have at least ONE story about robots in my rec lists? (actually I just went back and checked and in multiple previous years I inexplicably didn't, maybe it wasn't me writing the reclist in those years lol) ANYWAY who wants to have sad feelings about robots again! I know I always do! In a world where anyone who has a physical body instead of having their consciousness transferred is more and more obsolete, no matter if your body is human or robot, what do you hold onto? This one has a real good melancholy tone.

9. Letters from a Travelling Man - WJ Tattersdill ....does what it says on the tin. Letters to a dear friend, from a man travelling for the first time to the unfamiliar part of the world that friend comes from. I love the sense of place you get from the letters, as well as the deep and abiding importance of this friendship in both their lives. Another one I cried over!

10. Texts from the Ghost War - Alex Yuschik Another epistolary one, but this time in text messages instead of letters, and between characters who start the story antagonistically! About mech pilots in a ghost war, and making connections, and finding things to care about, even when stuff sucks. I love them!! (also, I am inescapably me, whoops, it took me until I read some fanfic of this story to realize that almost certainly the story was meant to be canonically shipping the two leads, I never notice romance unless there's anvil-sized indications.) Anyway this is a really good story!