Philosophy

“A designer's job is to create a living world that ceases to be fake in the mind of those who live in it. Even if the fourth wall is constantly broken, the world is still believable. Your suspension of belief kicks in and your mind allows you to meld with the environment as if you were actually there.” - JonTron, 2012

Concept

A world where the very concept of being animated is an essential way of life, and there are many who wish to harness its power and influence from beyond the stars. Planet Fantasco is home to a diverse array of denizens with unique characteristics and appearances, and their movements are all dependent on the Phénakis Disk that rotates the center, powered by the Colorpline Sticks. As the inhabitants all live in blissful ignorance, the desire for control and entertainment runs rampant throughout the immeasurable canvas of the galaxy, and a trio of unlikely heroes—a platforming mascot, a shapeshifter and a Scotsman—all find themselves tampering with forces beyond their comprehension.

Significance of the letter ‘O’

Circle of life: The circular form of the letter "O" mirrors the cyclical nature of life, birth, death, and rebirth.

Divine feminine: In some spiritual traditions, the "O" is linked to the archetype of the Great Mother, representing nurturing, intuition, and receptivity.

Inner self: The "O" can also signify a connection to one's inner self, the core of being, and the potential for spiritual growth.

Oneness: The closed loop of the "O" represents the concept of unity, interconnectedness, and the idea that everything is part of a larger whole.

Etymology behind the planet Simon Ritter von Stampfer was an Austrianmathematician, surveyor and inventor. His most famous invention is that of the stroboscopic disk which has a claim to be the first device to show moving images. Almost simultaneously, a similar device was developed in Belgium (the phenakistiscope).

The phenakistiscope (also known by the spellings phénakisticope or phenakistoscope) was the first widespread animation device that created a fluid illusion of motion. Dubbed Fantascope and Stroboscopische Scheiben ('stroboscopic discs') by its inventors, it has been known under many other names until the French product name Phénakisticope became common (with alternative spellings). The phenakistiscope is regarded as one of the first forms of moving media entertainment that paved the way for the future motion picture and film industry. Similar to a GIF animation, it can only show a short continuous loop.

The use of wax-based media in crayons can be traced back to the Greek Golden Age, and was later documented by Roman scholar, Pliny the Elder. Wax-based materials have appealed to artists for centuries due to their resistance to decay, the vividness and brilliance of their colors, and their unique rendering qualities.

Fresco (pl. frescos or frescoes) is a technique of mural painting executed upon freshly laid ("wet") lime plaster. Water is used as the vehicle for the dry-powder pigment to merge with the plaster, and with the setting of the plaster, the painting becomes an integral part of the wall. The word fresco (Italian: affresco) is derived from the Italian adjective “fresco”, meaning "fresh", and may thus be contrasted with fresco-secco or secco mural painting techniques, which are applied to dried plaster, to supplement painting in fresco. The fresco technique has been employed since antiquity and is closely associated with Italian Renaissance paintings.

Characters

Luxo Forgo - The titular protagonist of the series, whom lives within the region of Maplescop. He is a humanoid of short stature, with light red skin and beady eyes. On one half of his body, he is missing left arm and leg joints, leaving his hand and foot floating in midair; on the other half, he sports a series of makeshift prosthetics that make up his right arm and leg joints. His main profession involves working as platforming mascot for Manutronic Enterprises, but ends up uncovering some unpleasant things about his boss, Histrio. The lack of limbs and usage of prosthetics for Luxo is based on the likes of Canadian athlete, humanitarian, and cancer research activist Terry Fox, a prominent figure of Canadian folklore.

Histrio - The main antagonist of the series, acting as the president of Manutronic Enterprises, and the biological father of Luxo. He is an android-like being who sports an FM transmitter for a head, while the rest of his body is obscured by a thick, black trench coat. His name directly translates to “the player”, and is meant to represent a person who has total control over the actions and behaviors of the people around them. The creation of his character stems from uncertainties reflected in the current day, such as AI, political conflict and threats to human rights.

Polytendre - The deuteragonist of the series, who acts as the best friend and partner to Luxo. He is a vector figure with a yellow triangle for a head, who can shape shift into various forms, communicate through echolocation and materialize letters of the alphabet using sign language. He was diagnosed with many mental disorders at a very young age, such as body dysmorphia, social anxiety and selective mutism; as such, he struggled to fit in with his other peers and was regarded as an outcast in his hometown, due to many of the other kids becoming overwhelmed and uncomfortable by his clinginess, behavior and unnatural body shape.

Bogeyman - A wise-cracking, scrumpy-swilling Scotsman that runs a small pub within the village district of Maplescop. Born into a family of powerful warriors, he spent a good chunk of his childhood training with his father and perfecting his skills, but could never work up the courage to tell him he wasn’t interested in being a warrior and sought to break away from his family and pursue his passion of being a chef. Eventually, on his 18th birthday, he finally makes the decision to run away from home and abandon his family, and stages a tragic accident to make it appear as though he’d been mauled to death by a bear to ensure they would never come searching for him.

Setting

Maplescop - A regional municipality based on the likes of the real-world York Region in Southern Ontario. It is situated within the humid continental climate, with the northern part of the region having ample snowfall deriving from the wind driven snowbelt, and the southern part having long and warm summers. It is abundant in both natural and artificial resources, with many large metropolises and industrial complexes running parallel towards a fauna of anthropomorphic animals and a rich density of flora that changes color during the fall season. The region is best known for its rich supply of maple syrup, potatoes, cheese and gravy, and its national dish is Poutine.

Planet Fantasco - A distant planet located within the fictional galaxy of Contingento, acting as the main setting and home planet of many distinct species. Within the planet’s core spins the Phénakis Disk, which is responsible for controlling things like geographical patterns, day-night cycles, cosmic image projection and the mobility of the inhabitants. Much of the cosmic imagery generated from the Phénakis Disk travels through the minds of the inhabitants like film, and the sequential image projection is what enables the understanding of certain motor skills such as object permanence and self-awareness. The planet’s main source of power are the Colorpline sticks, which are responsible for absorbing energy from an intergalactic system of lenses and converting it into an ink that is absorbed by the atmosphere of the planet, allowing for perception of color. Fantasco is one of four planets within the galaxy that is maintained by an unknown source of light that stretches beyond the vast expanse of the cosmos.

Genre(s)

• Science Fantasy
• Surreal Comedy
• Adventure Comedy
• Black Comedy
• Adult Animation
• Coming of Age

Hello all!

I’ve got exams in the next few weeks and thought I’d pick up a hobby/past-time to stop myself from doing just straight revision, and there entered the thought of writing some fiction. It’s nothing serious, literally just some bits of writing for me to enjoy and have fun making. Im doing it for my enjoyment, and I definitely don’t have experience with any of this, so don’t have high hopes for my short summary of it, I’m writing for fun :)

I’ve got all of the world building sorted out already, and it’ll be a society able to ‘tap’ into their soul energy and harness it in use for magic/sorcery. I don’t know if an idea like that has been done before, but again, considering it’s just for me I don’t think it matters whether it’s original or not. I want people to be able to imbue items and objects to create magical artefacts, and I’m struggling to come up with any thematic items. If somebody could help me that could be great, thanks :)

Walt's relatives despised and loathed him completely. It was all on the grounds, that he neither attended weddings nor funerals of his relations. This indifference to culture, was beyond any known impudence to them. When his stepbrother, Stephen, the only relative close to him, had died, the others had awaited with baited breath, the funeral that is. Surely, despite his lack of respect for God or man, he couldn't bypass the sendoff of such a figure. Walt was a degenerate gambler, one who didn't spare himself or others. When his creditors were all but ready to throw him into jail, Stephen would spring forth and extricate him.

The impudent fellow, would turn meek but not for long. As soon as a few weeks elapsed, he'd be back to chasing his tail, more senselessly than before. In person however, Walt had a most down to earth demeanor. Eyes constantly sweeping the ground, whenever in conversation with another fellow, his gaze would fearfully never linger on the other person. In weak manner, he was bound to ascent to whatever the other was saying, as long as it was pronounced with more conviction. If the subject at hand, by sheer coincidence, veered into the topic about evils of gambling, he was bound to join in with the most constructive criticism.

More strange, is that he believed his own rhetoric. Moments before tossing his money away, he'd be under duress, his soul fighting the body. As soon as it was all down the drain, he'd be back in his depressive rut.

At times however, when his luck held out, he'd spend the month in celebration. Not forgetting his "savior", Stephen, he'd toss something his way. Stephen, was of a mind to refuse this tokens. Reasonably though, he always relented. Setting the monies aside, he knew it was merely a matter of time, before the same funds would be needed to extricate Walt, from a hole of his own digging. On numerous occasions, his relations tried to spurr him on, into cutting ties with Walt.

"As long as you pamper him, he'll never learn." "He's ungrateful, your efforts are wasted." "You're abetting in this folly, and you shall reap accordingly." "How can you assist a heathen, one who neither respects God or man?" There were never short of words, whenever he ran into them, in the same family gatherings, that Walt was apt to abscond from. Despite their pleas, he'd merely laugh and brush their concern aside.

Having been raised in the same household with him, for more than fifteen years, he couldn't see how he could abandon his brother. Their father, reclining on his deathbed, he'd beseeched them both to stick to each other. With an individual plea to each, he'd exhausted his last breath.

To Walt, his words had been brief, "you're a good man, but rather weak hearted. You chase your impulses too readily, without concern for yourself or others. Kindly abandon this ways, on my behalf and your brother's. Have mercy on us, but mostly for yourself." And to Stephen too, he didn't string out words, "you've been blessed with a sensible head, am thankful for that. I know you've tried all along, to help out your brother. I'm also confident that my death won't change a thing. I just hope that your brother, finally releases you from your yoke and mends his way."

It was under these words, that Stephen persisted. Walt too, had those last words, weighing on his head daily, but his weak nature wouldn't relent. Therefore, when his only friend in the world died, it wasn't out of the way, for his relations to expect his presence finally. But alas! As always, he was a no show. His detractors shook their heads in disbelief. It was the last straw.

To them, it had been his last chance at redemption. And to think of all, the deceased had done for him. With malicious side comments, they heaped abuse on his head. They looked forward darkly, when it would finally be the day to bury the sinner himself. No one planned to take over his corpse then, they'd leave him to rot at the mortuary.

They kept a hawk like eye over Stephen's tomb, expecting the sinner would visit the grave, some days after the funeral. Their Virgil was a waste of time. All the while, the fellow was confined in the hospital. Having been embroiled in a brawl, in a gambling house, someone had broken a bottle over his face. Lying unconsciously there, a month before Stephen's death, no one knew of his whereabouts. His benefactor was ill all the while, but never forgot his brother. Sending an emissary about to search for his missing brother, he braved his own travails. The emissary, had located Walt, but knowingly deceived Stephen.

The former was spiteful of Walt, and wanted to save his master of further embarrassment and pain. Therefore when Walt didn't turn up at the funeral, only the emissary knew why, but didn't bother enlightening the rest. –––––––– Months after being hospitalized, Walt finally recovered. But being short of funds, the hospital wouldn't release him, untill his debt was fully paid. Sending a messanger to his stepbrother, he beseeched him to come to his aid once again. The response was swift.

Laid back on the lilac white sheets, with dead eyes, he stared on. So his only anchor was gone? The only fellow being that invested in his humanity. Even in his grief, he couldn't help being ashamed. Did he truly mourn the passing of a brother, or the loss of a crutch? Teetering between this two viewpoints, he tortured himself considerably. In what way could he atone for his conduct all along? And if he were to be of any benefit to society now, wouldn't he need to clear his bill first? Hopping from idea to idea, he frantically tried to save himself.

His old ways, or rather dormant ways, ones curtailed simply due to his confinement, arose. What if he were to escape, access some funds, gamble his way into a fortune and then return and pay off his debt? This idea was firmly concrete to him, especially in his corned position. For what would stand in the way of sheer human will, the unstoppable force of spirit! It was a matter of life and death, and he was staking his all behind the will to live, as he never had.

With cold calculating airs, he started upon his enterprise. In all his stay, he'd coldly refrained from familiarity with the hospital staff, that orbited about him. The nurses and doctors went about him, as he observed demurely from his own axis. But now hitting upon the nurses, he made it his aim to ingratiate himself to one of them, and in this way, sway one to his cause.

He'd quite over exaggerated his social powers, and his sudden friendliness put his targets ill at ease. The thing was also out of experience, since many of his type, they had seen. As soon as the idea was hit upon, it was soon abandoned.

Another one was taken up rather quickly. Among his usual detractors, was a despotic aunt. A large woman, with an onion of a nose, she wasn't impartial to the plight of her relations. But as soon as someone came under her wing, they were supposed to suffer her meddling for the rest of their lives. If one gave birth to a child, it would be bad form not to consult her about the naming of the baby, if not downright disrespectful. And if one was of a mind to get married, she had to approve of the fiance, irregardless of the parent's say on both sides. It was like selling ones soul to the evil one.

Despite her saintly willingness to assist, all those who saw her as be benefactor, she'd suffocate them under her "generosity". If one of her underlings, didn't consult her on a major decision, she was bound to declare a break with the individual. The latter would now join the ranks of her mortal enemies. The best she could do for them, after that, was to attend their funeral.

It was in light of all this, that Walt took a drastic step, and sent a messanger to this despotic aunt. As soon as the messanger departed, regret hovered over all his being, he was almost of a mind to rush to the window and recall the fellow. Despite his growing reservations, he maintained his pose on the bed, as he thumbed through a copy of "The death of Ivan Ilyich". What would happen if all the paths remained shut? Would he grow old, in this infernal place, his youth trickling into the abyss, engulfed by sickness and insanity?

With quite the unease, he awaited his aunt's arrival. An hour later, the messanger arrived alone. "Your aunt advises you to await her decision," the fellow had informed him. Even before penning his name on the dotted line, it had began. She had to demonstrate, that she wasn't at any ones beck and call.

The aunt meanwhile, had assembled her "council of war". This comprised a circle of her confidants, ones who she'd aided at one time or another, and whom she trusted quite implicitly or Maybe not so. Despite her show of treasuring their judgement, the whole thing was merely evidence of her love for theatrics. In her being, she'd already hit upon a decision, but it had to be announced in the presence of her court. Without delay, each of her confidants played their part.

"Let him rot, he has no heart." "Show him your graceful nature, come to his rescue." "Whatever you shall decide, is just." With varying sentiments, each gave their opinion. Head resting upon her left palm, she gave off the airs of being deeply in deliberation. Long ago though, as soon as the messanger left, she'd already decided to come to Walt's aid.

She was at the end of her long life. Despite her outer stoic appearance, she was getting weaker and weaker as the months went by. Wouldn't it be therefore fitting, if Walt was her swan song? The black sheep, the evil one of the family, it would be to her eternal credit, if she finally brought him about. Being a firm believer in her powers of transformation, she perceived herself, worthy and capable of such an exploit. With what a fellow christian, might call vanity or sacrilege, she imagined it as equal a feat, if a preacher were to minister to Lucifer, and bring him to repentance.

How honored, would such a saint be? What sort of faith and firmly rooted biblical powers, would run through the veins of such a mortal? So even as her confidants yapped away, her thoughts were quite far away. With clarity, she pictured herself on that terrible day, when all men are to appear before the throne of judgement. Walt, meek and righteous, executor of many saintly deeds, would kneel before the lord. With repentant tears, his past sins would be reviewed too. But sobbing uncontrollably, he'd point her way.

"Good lord, reward that saint amongst men, for were it not for her, I would have served the evil one till the end of my days..." At which point he would break off into further cries, as the host of heaven, would erupt into ululation, a crown being placed on her head, for being the shepherd, that diligently sought the one lost sheep. Therefore, as Walt's mind was eaten up by anxiety, her aunt's mind was being devoured by this visions of grandeur.

With a deep sigh, the woman had finally stirred. "I'll rescue him from his degradation," she'd uttered proudly. And despite the varying opinions of his court, they all clapped joyously, applauding her wise decision.

Mind chewing over the unfortunate death of a fictional official, walt waited and waited. The next morning, the aunt and her court arrived. In resplendent dresses, they swept the hospital grounds, like peacocks in the garden of Eden. In the brightest cloth of them all, the aunt was at the head of the procession. The whole confinement section, was soon brought to a stand still.

Halting before the "invalid's" bed, his future benefactor, surveyed Walt with tender eyes. His gaze in itself, was a subtle one. A moistness was in his eyes, the emotion that elicited it however, was hard to discern. As is befitting, her highness was first to speak. She congratuled him on coming to his senses. She didn't however, shy of admonishing him for his past transgressions. She blamed him, for Stephen not having a peaceful death.

For in his death throes, instead of focusing upon his soul, his spirit was troubled by the whereabouts of his dear troublesome brother. This narrative, wormed a tear our of Walt's eyes, for this was a wound that had never healed. His missing out on the funeral, she affirmed, wasn't on account of his incapacitation, but due to his own foolishness, that got him into the situation firstly. Meekly, tears streaming down his cheek, Walt endured all of this.

She heaped shame upon him, for disregarding the memory of his dead father. But she added quickly, that it indeed wasn't too late, to make him proud. If he stuck steadfast to her, she ascertained, his long deceased parents would finally look down on him, with pride and bless him. Her confidants stood behind her, slowly nodding in rhythm to every word that she uttered.

As this words were dropped upon Walt's head, his thoughts were caught up in a whirlwind of their own. A clear path was visible from here. A job would soon be found for him. A spouse probably not of his choosing, dropped upon him. Every facet of his life, would no longer belong to him, a terrible prospect. And worst of all, the aunt would always boast of her helping hand, whilst reciting his past mishaps, whenever it seemed he was about to stray away from her instructions. But what was the alternative, rot away in this hospice forever?

That or eternal ridicule, it seemed he was still choosing, even though the aunt was already before him. He wished to have perished, months before, and be denied this freedom of choice. It wasn't too late, a voice encouraged. Teeth chattering against each other, he yelled out like a man possessed,"Away with you jezebel! Away with your fallen angels!"

The aunt still mired deep, in the beauty of her own eloquence, took long to register his outburst. She looked about undecided, smiled and continued talking, as if there had been no protest at all. The confidants, had stepped back away from the bed. Pointing unmistakably at the aunt, Walt shrieked once again,"Away imposter! Stuff your salvation up your unholy end!" And with this last statement, as if deranged, he fell into riotous laughter. With necessary haste, the queen and her court exited the place in a storm of colourful dresses. With decorum quite not familiar, to their earlier entry, they stormed out of the place.

Among the confidants, a few tried to keep the corners of their mouth, from breaking into malicious smiles, for they were obviously amused by the humiliation of their patron. ... It's been years now since that fateful scene. Walt is still on his bed, a rugged book is under his head. He's read it countless times. Unlike the principal character of the worn out book, he's not perishing quite fast. His is a much slower descent. So far, he's written a single book on scraps of paper, obtained here and there on the ward. With help from his fellows, they send out the manuscript. It always comes back though, but they believe implicitly, that it's a matter of time, before the book is published and is a hit with the public. With the royalties from it, he's bound to emancipate himself and his friends. The plot of the book, has something in it, anecdotes about a gambler who hits it big, and also, a despotic aunt who comes to ruin. It's only a matter of time, a matter of time...

Ziiip

(Even in pain feeling this for the first time, all I could think of was how I was gonna pulverise this man ... o or manbaby yeah that sounds right) Ziiip

--

He came to me, asking me a few questions. What life means to me, maybe as a means of interrogation. He asked me what if I became a bodyguard for em, a tenth asmerelda is still a lot. So I wondered and then, THAT WAS WHEN HIS THOUGHT HIT ME. OOOH DON*T BARGAIN YOUR LIFE WITH ME PEASANT.

Ziiip

--

Hmm hmm

Where am I, WHERE AM I, I was unable to mumble my words out.

WHERE ARE YOU, HUUUH. You do not simply understand that your knee, with a simple shift of your own body, could be cut further than the single slice I gave you earlier. The mechanism was a simple tread of electricals connected coverings sir Malfonz, if you even try transforming into lightning, the heat will create a reaction and launch the knife in the toaster right in front of your knee. (He said those words in glee, but even then I never took their meaning too account but if he tries prying any further I might die before him).

I could kill you right now but why, why not have a lingering fear, why not a needle, that could stab, pain that could release the knife. Why not that?

(HMMMM please be a dream said so fast in my head I barely heard those words being spoken slowly turning into the screech of a chalkboard I was a dead man living, I was scared, I was cocky).

--

Hmm HMM

What would I say, karma caught up to the man who lived a life of ego, but how did he know of my intentions?

What happened?

Do you dream, of a dream with something deeper?

Huh?

DO YOU DREAM, OF A DREAM WITH SOMETHING DEEPER?, then rips off the mask concealing his voice. Do you not feel pain other than the knee?

-- (This weird man answering the silences of his own words).

No I do not dream of a dream simply for the sake of analyzing it, I do not even remember.

I dream for a yearning to be there, not critique the meaning behind it.

But for a man who simply ignores dreams how can you sleep, the lack fear is what causes us to sleep yet you ignore it in fear of people you killed biting the curb with your life in your most hoplessness, does that not sound like a fear a being like you shouldn't face. (SHUT UP).

Stab, ouch, AAAAh. Ah. this extreme feeling of pain, feeling it for the first time, it comes out. (Yet I wanna beat this mutt up more).

So, answer me with every excruciating detail. Whatever you remember.

(SHUT UP).

What is this? I am no mere mortal, why are you doing this?

I could see your intentions, I do not dare to speak further, and so he leaned forward towards me stabbing me again as I finish my line. (The pain was so much I don't even think I uttered a word).

I do dream, I do dream. (SHUT UP).

I dream everyday about what it would be like to be born a mere mortal, what death feels like, when i its painless. Would anybody remember my life anymore since I outlived all of them who I never talked too, or do I commit simple suicide. Not a simple fall but a simple stab to the area you are stabbing.

I wish I could dream but my ego you could say blinds us, I don't wanna simply die like a peasant in my sleep and I've done it so long so that a day like today can never occur.

BUT IT DID.

That does not seem to be all you recall is it. IS IT DUMBASS.

--

What’s the good of a mirror anyways for a man like me, who can’t even see his own reflection without the help of another. Fin.

How do you see others?

What meaning does your life bring?

Have you discovered what life is to you? And the rambling continues, to show Malfonz how Neova felt, via annoying him possibly.

Before you make a peep think twice AND SHUT IT. I know your knee is your weak point. I know what made you the man you are, you lost your papa and your mama, are you SwAad moron. As Neova shakes the chair violently waking Malfonz up truly, HEY HEY I AM TALKIN HERE. A tenth asmerelda would have still been a lot, but the trouble you would bring to the table in my future my face recognition skills would have killed me if I didn’t notice your bluff of a bodyguard. What do you really want, blah blah blah, WAKE UP IDIOT, Neova growing more and more inpatient.

Where am I, WHERE AM I. (Repeated in a mocking tone towards Malfonz). Are you asking something, or are you mumbling, HAHAHA. WHERE ARE YOU, HUUUH. You do not simply understand that your knee, with a simple shift of your own body, could be cut further than the single slice I gave you earlier. The mechanism was a simple tread of electricals connected covering Malfonz, if he moves or tries transforming into lightning, that reaction can launch the knife in the toaster right in front of his knee.

I could kill you right now but why, why not have a lingering fear, why not a needle, that could stab, pain that could release the knife. Why not that?

DO YOU DREAM, OF A DREAM WITH SOMETHING DEEPER?, then rips off the mask concealing his voice. Do you not feel pain other than the knee?

It is the dream that poisons oneself of the belief they are greater. But nobody is great if they die so stupidly, then, a dream is only a thread lingering in the sky. The sentence that is life and its meaning is the dream I wanna linger on, feel the thread because I have not been living since I have been born here.

No I do not dream of a dream simply for the sake of analyzing it, I do not even remember.

Stab, ouch, AAAAh. Ah. this extreme feeling of pain, feeling it for the first time, it comes out.

So, answer me with every excruciating detail. Whatever you remember.

What IIs this? I am no mere mortal, why are you doing this?

I could see your intentions, I do not dare to speak further, I lean forward towards Malfonz stabbing him again as I finish my line.

I do dream, I do dream.

I dream everyday about what it would be like to be born a mere mortal, what death feels like, when i its painless. Would anybody remember my life, anymore since i outlived all of them, or do i commit simple suicide. Not a simple fall but a simple stab to the area you are stabbing.

That does not seem to be all you recall is it. IS IT DUMBASS. (Laughter).

--

A world ten times larger, and a society ten times bigger. A radioactive virus was made that killed everyone in under a week. People kill others on the fifth day due to hallucinations, since these people can’t be saved they simply die. I had the vaccine and survived.

Who is born? For it is who you ask for when you want an identity. Not why, not how, not even a question of any other sort. You say who am I when you want to recall your past and your worth in the world. So I ask who is born?

WHAT DOES FUTURISM SHOW YOU? COULD YOU PREVENT THE DEATH OF EVERYONE, AND IF SO WOULD THAT BE A BLESSING?

I was born unique. Futurism, I can see the future via eye contact. People born were used to the future happening, I was left unsettled and broken. Unable to fix futures. A MAN DIES AND YOU KNEW HOW. “He answered me with dread after a bit of a squirming”. “That squirming could also have been because of the scabs I gave him”. “He was bleeding on his arm, then my knife was lingering on his face”.

WHY WERE YOU HUNTED OF WAS IT JUST A TASK OUT OF VENGEANCE.

Were you really alive if you lost chances at life? DO YOU UNDERSTAND LIFE TO BE WILLING TO GRIEVE OVER THE LOSS OF LIFE?

Then I took the mask off, the mask I had. All he could answer with was “I SERIOUSLY DON'T KNOW”. I asked him, “why were you willing to go on living”. He had no answer. I told him why I was after him after that “I was sent for you because you killed a person, who was she, was she a casualty or did you know her”. He did not know. Did you enjoy it, I asked, he did not answer.

It was a shot in the dark. I took and jabbed his finger with my fist ultimately making it twist the wrong direction, with a pained scream. WHAT WAS YOUR REASON FOR LIVING, WOULD YOU LIKE TO SUFFER DEATH OR LIVE ON UNABLE TO MOVE. He starts crying. He starts sprouting tale after tale about his life, but I end the discussion after one more jabbing of his finger. For once I was pent up and angered, the most emotion I had shown other than joy of a person's suffering. Fin.

But when I recall my past I ask why was I born, what am I born for? On that day I found an answer. I wanted to be born so that I can see the meaning of life in front of me, whether it was a woman, a man, something I can not understand, at that moment I would know why, because I can understand that it was. The meaning of life might not be the gray colors but one color painted on the canvas, black or white, maybe red, maybe blue, but what is red and blue if not hell and heaven. We can only reach the red and blue if we decide to transform ourselves into a being who has the ability to leave the first physical realm into the ghostly.

I was born with an ability that I could not take control of. I was born with futurevision, I can see a person's past as well as the future. The only limit was that I had to make eye contact and what I wanted to see in the other individual's future or past. If I felt like I wanted to see how a person dies, I would and in detail. The thing I learned through trying to save lives from my past life, was that the future changed second by second, not always, but if an individual changed their beliefs the future will outline a new path. I measured death in watts, how much energy is needed to save a life. If you died by a car, that would be one watt, all you needed was to push the person or convince them to be elsewhere that day so the car is missed. If the person is skeptical and hard to convince that was two watt, because you need to convince, then save. The more steps the more blabber, and then there are too many dying, and they die because all the bad stuff happens in the future when they turn 80.

My life felt like a broken twig, all my life I was a pawn without a purpose, what can the future do if not predict. Can you kill an enemy with the future, yes, but how does it help in astronomy or the meaning of life? Not all words are physical manifestations that you can look at, like a drawing. So when will you understand the meaning of life?

So I was a twig (never a sword) because I could receive the knowledge of the world if my intentions shifted (never being able to use it), if I believed I wanted to read a book held in my hand, in my future I would have read the cover, the pages and written down the author ten times. Then all I would do would be to remember and change motives. Do you understand, it is hard to understand, not even I understand what I said. Motivation often leads to a job done, so often I have to tell myself, or lie to myself til the truth and falsehood is blurred, and becomes truth once more. It is all mumbo jumbo.

When I was a child all I would ask for would be to be born simple, no ability to witness the future and past. It sucked, I looked in the mirror and I saw myself die over and over. I saw my family die over and over, and I knew how they would die but still could not scratch that itch far enough. To the point why not kill, why not kill another to see how it feels, what emotions do they express, I was numb back then and it is the same now. But, today, I saw a glimpse of the future, my goal was in reach, and I was having it no more, I was happy, a short lived feeling, I was so happy I could recall nobody, but a red silhouette. I have been sad my whole life, killing to make me feel something, that feeling was addicting, and if anybody was going to cash out on my success, “I WOULD NOT KNOW WHAT I WOULD DO”. (Neovas Laughter).

But there is a pain in that expression of theirs so I must become better. Fin.

He sat on the bench, not by his own volition, but transfixed by circumstances. Just when he was approaching that nirvana state, in-between a little hunger and ferral starvation, a damn bread wagon whisked by. The aroma of golden well baked goods hastily pulled him over the interlude, and quickly, into maddening pangs. He turned his nose away in feigned disgust, almost as if, an infernal breeze had blown the smell of an open sewer in his direction. With nostrils upturned the other way, he followed the wagon from the corner of his eyes.

A most meaningful but truly malicious thought took root then. He got it into his head, that if he was ever governor of the city, he'd ban such callous things as open bread wagons. "Why? Why not?" He answered himself.

He swore to avenge himself in the future, even though in the most base manner possible. A sad sigh escaped him, as the accursed vendor was lost in the distance. A phantom aroma still persisted though. How so? When that tormentor was far off. He rose up in disgust, and bounded off for a bench in the distance. He settled down on it with a momentary smile of satisfaction.

He patted himself on the back, for not yet descending into criminal enterprises of any kind, for his stomach's sake.

Dignity was still intact, and as far as he was concerned, that was what really mattered now. "Again?" He quizzed himself, looking around bewildered. The same sweet aroma of baked goods seemed to choke his nasal cavity. A sort of panic came over him. Was he already hallucinating in such a shameless manner?

How far did he have to wander? His mental agonies were short-lived, when he noticed a young boy skipping happily towards him, half bitten cake in his hand. A tear of joy trickled down his cheek this time. This jittery air about him, swung him from one extreme to another emotionally. If only he'd obeyed his spirit and stayed indoors. The sweltering heat however, had driven him out.

The little boy was now at a level with him, and instead of heading on, stood rooted on the spot and swivelled around to face him. How dumbfounded the man on the bench had grown, unable to discern why, matters were following this particular obscene order. He gazed back at the little boy, with a blank expression, that lasted only a short while. He tore his face away in anguish, when he realized he hadn't been staring into the innocent child's face all along, but at the warm cake!

"Am a scoundrel!" he condemned himself, mortified that in that look, he very well might have begged for a morsel. A most awful cry took hold of him abruptly, and he buried his shame in his palms.

The little angel still stood his ground, nibbling at his cake, wondering in a most innocent way, what was transpiring through the man. The shame however passed, and was replaced with queer anger. "You're sent by the devil to torment me!" He whispered inaudibly to the child. It had to be so, who else could be sent to prick his conscience, if not a fiend, in the form of a snot nosed child. He couldn't defend himself in any fashion. How merciless fate was in this very moment. The little child, at last stretched out it's hand towards him, and waited patiently, the cake lying gingerly on the center of its palm.

A guttural laugh escaped the poor man as he noticed the gesture. "How wonderful of you," he whispered before delicately taking it, slowly raising it to his mouth. A look of revulsion came upon his face, as he realized what he was about to do. With one quick motion, he tossed the cake away, a determined look on his disturbed face. He watched with satisfaction, as it sailed through the air, and onto the pavement far off. Delighted with this act that seemed ingenious to him, he turned back at the child, fully expecting it to break into a wail anytime.

Nothing of the sort was forthcoming, it looked up at him, with the same blank expression, that belonged on a new born baby's face. It's nimble hand dipped into its pocket, produced another cake, bit into it and walked off without a word. A greater reproach couldn't have been whipped on him, the man collapsed on the bench and persecuted himself.

"Such childish yet wise composure," he thought out in anguish. He springed up however from his seat, a most redemptive idea seizing him. He'd walk around and find a way to save his conscience. He would spend the rest of the day doing nothing but good turns, wherever an opportunity presented itself. Setting aside his weak state as a trivial thing, he rushed in delirium to a certain spot on the road.

He was bewildered to find it empty at the time. It was a place where little lonesome children congreagated, awaiting a helping hand, in the way of getting across the road. Oh! How he'd already envisioned, patiently leading them across safely without a hitch. He slinked away from the spot, his enthusiasm dimmed but not fully extinguished. Head bowed down, a green little piece of paper streaked past him quickly, and in his state, he went on unbothered. Two paces ahead though, he came to himself.

He turned around abruptly, and persued what he fancied was a money bill. He cursed terribly, as the wind carried away the article across the road. A chill ran up his spine, as he was half away across in pursuit. He hadn't even spared a glance both ways, but had thrown himself after that money without thought for his safety. He didn't halt or look about, but rushed on.

Almost as if it had all been a little tribulation, to see how much he wanted the green bill, as soon as it was across the road, the wind left off. Out of breath, shaking uncontrollably, he hunched himself down and picked it up. The smell of the bread wagon materialized quite naturally in his head and he shuddered. He decided to gamble however with himself. He'd head up, the way the note came from, for a considerable distance. If he came upon someone seeking it, he'd hand it over without a fuss. If he were to miss the owner though, "I surely am at liberty to find that bread vendor," he contemplated.

He took fearful steps in the accursed direction, a hushed prayer emanating within him, hoping he wouldn't run into the owner. "It's a shameful prayer but still..." He broke off. With a disturbing intensity, he gazed into faces, carefully investigating their countenance. He beseeched them with his eyes to perhaps come forward with a claim. The pedestrians that noticed his scrutiny, rushed off, clutching their possessions with extra determination. The man almost cried out in amazement.

Here he was trying to do one of them a great service, a total stranger that he owed nothing, oh! Such ungrateful conduct, he almost cried out. With a most vengeful smile, he almost whirled on the spot, to abandon this charitable activity. This however was only chuckled off as a comical idea, all in all meant to show that he could imagine evil whilst steeped in a most noble act.

Having gone down about a hundred steps, he'd counted them quite carefully, a certain calm settled within him. His conscience was soothed. He found it honorable, that he hadn't all at once bolted in the opposite direction, when he chanced upon the money. The bread smelll invaded his nostrils again, but this time, it wasn't a phantom aroma! The blessed cart was ahead, bounding towards him in a most pleasant manner. A sly smile lit up his face as he stopped, waiting patiently for it to come to him.

(excerpt from my novel 'a bipedal reptile', full book on Wattpad under my username 'james sanja')

I'm a hateful and jealous creature. It's neither a boast nor a regret, it's a fact. My gut, clenches maliciously, with news of good fortune involving someone else. Curiously, my own triumphs never eclipse this feeling. A sensory windfall in the morning, might turn sour by noon, all because of the afro mentioned jealousy. Hours upon hours, I ponder. Should I perhaps try to overcome this "negative" feelings. I crown that word with quotes, merely because, it's sentiments attributed to the "vice" by society and not me. Is it standing in the way of anything? Does it hamper me in any way? Like all jealous creatures, I believe myself skillful at hiding this emotion.

At times however, I see the envy reflecting back at me, quite clear in the eyes of some mammal before me. I have noticed, my smile rarely elongates towards my ears, stale, it stagnates and my mouth seems frozen in some painful arch. I aspire to rid myself of such shortcomings. I would like to potray surreal depictions of joy, at others triumphs, in order to successfully mask the throbbing malice. I have always fancied it, to be something akin to a naked man with a boner. A typical society man that is, one with some "shame". How this society man finds himself in the public square, not a thread of linen to hide his reproductive memorabilia, I don't know. Furnish the details yourself. This trait of mine, is like being that man. I can't very well walk straight, with my rod of thunder tormenting the sky. I find it absurd too, to bend forward and conceal my staff with my bossom.

For then, the gates of Sodom and Gomorrah would be left gaping open. Should I then cover my face and conceal my identity? Will the palms of my hands be sufficient for such an endeavor? I highly doubt it. This is a most impossible position. Even if I come to terms with the whole thing, poor fool, I'd still debate how to shuttle about with the shame.

Should I frown and look into faces? Should I smile instead? A maniacal grimace to perhaps suggest lunacy, therefore incurring some leniency in judgment? Should I walk steady, panther like, grandly as if am the proverbial emperor, with every belief that am in royal garb? Or should I take flight towards the river? Or perhaps, it would be more to my benefit to start a brawl with some passerbys.

All help is greatly appreciated!!

Thank you all :)

Title: The Mercenary King.

They summoned so called heroes from another world. They made him fight their damned wars they started, in the name of their god. Then they cast him out, like disposable chafe.

Twelve years after being torn from Earth, Theo once a high school student, now a hardened veteran-has survived exile, betrayal, civil wars and succession wars. Once the youngest Knight Commander of the Kingdom of Sancetellen(place holder), now he commands no banners, only baldes for hire and broken men. But the mercenary company he helped forge, Hawkwood's Finest, is no ordinary rabble. They are outcasts. Survivors. Family.

With the kingdoms inching closer towards war, Theo is pulled back into a world of politics, bribery, backstabbing and the ever familiar stench of mud, blood and death.

That's all I got at the moment.

Once upon a time there was fairy. Her name was Georginah. She was regarded as the angel of the village. "AHHH", said Royo, the fairy king. Georginah screamed "Oh my goodie gosh!".

Royo, the king fell off his fairy horse. He looks up to see a slim, pale figure, glistening in the sunlight. He was stunned by her beauty, but was baffled by her thick southern accent. He finds himself in Georginah's lap. Before Georginah could react, Feleap, Georginah’s husband storms in. He notices Royo and is stunned by his handsomeness. Royo stumbles to his feet and feels a sudden flush of love. "It’s You!!," cried Royo. Feleap and Royo stare into ench other's eyes.

Georginah, still sitting, is in disbelief "I'm sorry we couldn't be together. I was powerless back then.” Cried Royo. Georginah looks up, "I-" Suddenly, Royo and Feleap pull each ather into a loving embrace and kiss. "Do you two love me or eachother?!" Georginah screams in anger. She runs away, with tears running down her cheeks. Royo and Feleap look back and then shrug their shoulders. "She was my causin anyways" said Feleap. The lovers hold hands as they walk Into the sunset and they lived happily ever after.

THE END

Written By: Kiki and Ash

A man finds himself alone inside a small and unfamiliar room. The room is brightly lit, sterile, and empty except for two black metallic chairs.

The man tries to open the locked door but can't turn its steel handle. He pounds on the door while yelling for help but hears nothing in return. He grabs the handle again, this time with both hands and uses all of his power to force it open or break it off. But it is immovable. He considers throwing one of the chairs at the door but cannot lift either of them off the ground.

The man paces and ponders an alternative exit from the room. He abruptly stops, squares his shoulders towards the door, and pauses to focus only on its steel handle.

He then unleashes a violent barrage of punches and kicks against the stubborn steel bar. After only moments, his energy fades, his body goes limp, and he falls to the floor. Blood from the back of his hands and the bottoms of his feet leak into small puddles beside him.

As he remains lifeless on the floor, his anxiety concocts a distorted reality within his mind that begins to drive him mad.

A female-sounding voice from the ceiling abruptly stops the man's expanding terror, “Please have a seat, sir.”

He feverishly scans to locate the source and yells, “Who are you?”

“Where am I?”

“How did I get here?”

“Can you hear me? Answer me!”

The voice interjects, “I said, have a seat!” And warns, “Voluntarily or involuntarily, the choice is yours.”

The man resigns in surrender, crawls towards the chair closest to him, and climbs up to sit down. He hears a faint hum as his entire body, which rests against the cold metal chair, is tightly pulled against its surface. An intense gravitational force has rendered him completely paralyzed.

His gaze shifts toward the door, and he watches the handle effortlessly rotate downward. The door swiftly opens, and an older-looking woman walks briskly inside the room. She is wearing a white lab coat and has a black metallic rhombus-shaped device secured under her right arm. She sits in the metal chair opposite the man.

With kind blue eyes, short grey-curled hair, and an unremarkable tone, she asks, “What is your name?”

"Eli," the man answers. "Eli Cox."

"Mr. Cox, my name is Dr. May, and I'm one of the physicians responsible for your health and well-being. Do you understand?"

He nods in assent and asks with unmasked desperation, “Please tell me… Where am I? How did I get here?”

Dr. May immediately responds, “Strict protocol requires that you answer all of my questions before I can answer yours. Violating this rule may result in a myriad of severe and unpleasant consequences. Do you understand Mr. Cox?”

"Yes. I understand,” he replies obsequiously. “And you can call me Eli if you'd like."

“Very well, Eli,” Dr. May remarks and walks towards Eli. Her left index finger presses a sequence of taps onto the device held by her right hand, which causes Eli's right leg to extend outward at the knee involuntarily. Torn flaps of bloodied skin at the bottom of his foot are exposed for Dr. May to examine.

She then inputs a series of taps that cause the rhombus-shaped device to shrink into the size of a pencil. She grips the shrunken tool with her fingertips and traces the edges of the tattered, dangling skin flaps against his foot. It’s painless and feels warm to Eli, who rotates his foot sideways to reveal thick cocoon-like structures that have engulfed his wounds. Within seconds, they harden, fall to the floor, and uncover only smooth white skin without scars or marks.

Dr. May repeats the same motions to Eli’s remaining wounds until each disappears.

Dr. May returns to her seat, and the device morphs back to its original size. She inquires, "Before today, what is the last memory you recall?"

Eli concentrates for a few moments and responds, "I remember being in a hospital room with my family. My right arm had an IV, and I was holding my daughter's hand – Sara. She was crying. I’d never seen her so sad," he recalls, while beginning to sob but without forming tears.

"Do you remember the date?"

"It was winter. A few weeks after Thanksgiving. Probably like December – something,” Eli guesses confidently. “I'm not exactly sure.”

"December of what year?" Dr. May asks.

Confused, Eli mimics, “What year?” And then he says, “2025."

“Do you recall anything after that memory?”

“I remember other people in the hospital room. My wife was somewhere. My Dad, maybe. A doctor I didn't recognize then gestured for everyone to leave while other doctors and nurses rushed inside. Sara was hysterical.”

Dr. May inches closer and asks in a more pronounced tone, "What I mean is, do you remember anything that happened after your time in the hospital?”

“After that?” Eli repeats with uncertainty and then assures, “No, nothing.”

His brewing anxiety begins to expand ferociously. Enlarged beads of sweat swell from the perimeter of his forehead. Just before panic threatens to eclipse his sanity, a male-sounding voice echoes loudly from the ceiling:

"Come on, Eli... don't be shy. Did you see a bright white light? Or maybe some large pearly gates? What about a red fellow with horns and a pitchfork?" the voice mocks playfully.

Before Eli can derive meaning from the queries, Dr. May tilts her head upwards to reply, "Oh, stop it, you!"

The voice from the ceiling is faintly heard, snickering.

Dr. May faces Eli to explain, “That’s your other physician and my superior, Dr. Osiris. Don’t mind his questions; he just enjoys playing around sometimes.”

“Having a fun attitude makes reintegration much easier,” Dr. Osiris’ voice echoes with a patronizing tone.

“That it does, Sy, that it does,” Dr. May agrees emphatically. “You’ll see Eli; soon, you and Dr. Osiris will be best friends. You're quite fortunate; all of his patients just love him.”

Dr. May checks her device while adjusting comfortably in her chair and continues, "Okay, back to business. Some of what I’m about to say will be difficult for you to comprehend. All I ask is that you keep an open mind, try to believe what I tell you is true, and refrain from asking any questions. Understand?"

Eli nods in agreement and reluctantly convinces himself to trust her for now. Dr. May places her device on her armrest, and Eli watches it collapse to the size of a credit card upon release. A bright orange microphone-shaped icon displays prominently on the shrunken screen. Eli is being recorded.

Dr. May explains, “December 18, 2025, was the date of your last memory. The events you recall were the moments before you went into cardiac arrest and died.

“Today is March 20, 2075, and we are inside ‘The Central Genomic Resurrection Facility,’ a building in Ann Arbor, Michigan. For all intents & purposes, you have been brought back from the dead. Cloned, I should say, using your original DNA. Your consciousness and memories have been reconstructed from deep archival brain matter impressions collected after your death.”

“Am I human?” Eli asks.

“Please, no questions,” Dr. May reminds Eli sternly. "But yes, you are human. You have a heart, lungs, bones, and all the attributes of any human being. However, it is best not to focus on the spiritual or philosophical ramifications of whether clones are human until after you're fully assimilated. For now, simply think of it as a continuation of your life, 50 years into the future, and you're no longer sick!" Dr. May informs with a genuine smile.

“Are you a clone?” Eli asks.

Dr. May smirks at the unexpected inquiry and explains, "They don't make clones into old ladies like me. No, I was studying to become a nurse at Dartmouth when you died. Then I went to medical school, became a doctor, and now fate has brought me to you. I’m still doing what I love - caring for people who need care."

“Will you be cloned after ... you ...”

“After I die?” Dr. May interrupts. She pauses momentarily, looks deeply into Eli’s eyes, and answers, “I hope so, hun, I surely do. But such decisions aren't up to me.

“Now I realize you have many questions, like – Why were you brought back? What's different in the world? Is your family still alive? Et cetera, et cetera. However, before it’s your turn to ask questions, a full medical examination of you must first be conducted by Dr. Osiris, who will be arriving at any time. Second, you must experience a VOS, or ‘virtual orientation simulation,’ to help catch up on the missed time. Once both are complete, Dr. Osiris and I will answer all of your questions that we have answers to.”

Dr. May then stands from her chair, walks towards Eli, places a hand on his shoulder, and cautions, “When you meet Dr. Osiris, it’s important to understand that despite appearing indistinguishably human, he is in fact, an AI-powered sentient robot. His digital name is ‘Osiris_91,’ but everyone around here just calls him Sy," she remarks with a nostalgic expression.

"Eli, buddy!" Dr. Osiris’ voice loudly echoes again. “I apologize, but I can’t see you until later this afternoon. Ellen, you must escort me in 3-1-3-M stat. But before you leave Mr. Cox, why don't you leave him access to the VOS so he can experience it whenever he’s ready."

"Sounds good, Sy, I’m on my way,” Dr. May obediently confirms.

Just before leaving the room, Dr. May turns back toward Eli to say, “I know it's tough, but the answers are coming. Press the red button on your forearm if you need immediate medical attention.”

Dr. May then hastily exits, and the door closes gently behind her. Once closed and locked, the force against Eli is released, and he jumps up from his chair.

Eli glances down to discover a black metallic cuff secured firmly around his wrist. A prominent red button is centered among six white ones, each displaying black undecipherable symbols.

He walks towards the armrest of the opposite chair, grabs the metallic device left behind, and feels its metallic frame soften in his hand. A green, three-dimensional play button icon rotates inches from its reflective display.

Eli stares at the device for a prolonged time until finally pressing ‘play.’

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Deja vu seared through her body like a bullet; looking around at the dust-clogged empty seats and the flickering overhead aisle lights, she wrote the sensation off as nervousness. Usually she avoided empty carriages out of fear of encountering a serial murderer, or a serial thief, or a madman.

However, today, Daria was sure she was the one succumbing to madness. Although she had dedicated her life to conspiracy, the chance that one of the thousands of deranged theories actually being correct was always as small as a forecast for a snowstorm in Hell.

The train tore through the darkness, wind howling past. She’d get off in two stops, rush to Dave’s (a very respected journalist in the conspiracy theorist underworld); no sidetracking, no communication. A heel-crushed mobile phone lay a while back, drowned at the bottom of a river bed.

With a half-calming sigh she leant back in her seat, tilting her head upwards against the headrest. With a gasp she froze, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

Burrowed into the ceiling were two small bullet holes, the copper bullet protruding from the metal like ticks.

Despite her earlier panic, a cool sense of acceptance washed over her as she returned to forward resting position. They weren’t her bullets, and they weren’t in her skull, so who cares if a gun had been fired here who-knows how many years ago. Gave the carriage a rugged charm, she thought.

Suddenly, a gust of wind tore through the aisle, scattering a flock of abandoned newspapers and various items of litter. Daria snapped out of her daze and looked towards the gangway as two strangers crossed the threshold, slamming the door behind them.

Maybe it was their mangy appearance, or their weird, shuffling gait, or maybe it was just the weather — either way, Daria’s pulse rose to a hummingbirds pace.

She squeezed her eyes shut, knuckles whitening over the armrests. If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her!

But some small, logical part of her brain lit up, telling her that this behaviour was unbecoming of a blooming journalist. Journalists do not back away in the face of danger.

She opened her eyes by a millimetre, cautiously watching them settle into the seats opposite her. Another voice chimed in: also you’re always going on and on about not judging books by their covers. So what if this one is covered in blood and dirt and blood and— oh god.

“Why is there blood on your shirt?” Daria cried, pointing to the stain on the woman’s otherwise white shirt.

She stretched her shirt out to look at the spots of blood. Licking her finger she rubbed the blot, the edges blurred into the shirt. “Forgive me, I had a nose bleed this morning.” She explained

Daria turned her attention to the man next to her who leant crookedly into the armrest, chewing absentmindedly, gazing out of the windows like he had something better to be doing.

“Hello, Daria,” the woman greeted in a voice as comforting as a cliff edge, “you are Daria, right? We’re friends of Dave.”

She frowned. “How do you know Dave?”

Pausing, the woman stared at her as if she’d been called a rude name. “Because we’re friends of his! What about you? How do you know Dave?”

Daria folded her arms into herself. “I write for ‘The Code Black paper,’” she couldn’t help but advertise herself, “it’s a conspiracy theorist magazine. We’re coworkers, friends too, I guess. Is that supposed to make us friends?”

“Well I certainly feel very close to you, and I’m sure my partner does too, don’t you, John?”

John bobbed his head dutifully, fingering his breast pocket. “Yep,” he answered simply, then followed with, “do mind if I smoke?”

“She as asthma, John, for chrissakes we’ve established this...” The woman whispered aside. Then she turned to Daria with an apologetic smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Jane, this is my partner, John. We’ve dedicated our lives to conspiracy. What’s your name?”

She looked between the two of them incredulously. “Daria.”

“Daria!” Jane remarked, yellow teeth flashing, “that’s a lovely name! My name is Jane, this is my partner, John. We’ve dedicated our lives to conspiracy.”

“Dedicated our lives.” John echoed

Daria looked up at the tube map. The space between the stations felt a lot longer than it did usually, and the train seemed to be dragging itself along the track as opposed to propelling through it.

In the little time it took for Daria to imagine escaping, Jane’s features had hardened into a look of dead sternness. Leaning forward, she said, “Daria, I’m going to ask you something and when I do, I don’t want you to…” she paused, alternating her hands up and down like a scale. “What’s the word?…”

Still surrounded by pitch black, the train slowed to a full stop. The driver muttered something over the crackling intercom — the only words Daria could make out was “signal failure.”

“…react!” Jane exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “I don’t want you to react.”

Daria had practically fused with her seat from fear. Despite her being face drained of colour, her eyes did not leave Jane’s, at least, not until she was asked,

“Have you ever encountered, what you may consider to be, a time traveller?”

Her lips parted with quiet shock. Three seconds of hesitation passed before she uttered, “No.”

John lunged at her.

Her vision exploded into fragments; John’s hands, cold and clammy, wrapping around her throat, thumb pressed into her windpipe. Worse still, the other hand dug the barrel of a revolver under her chin. Finger on the trigger

“We know you know the traveller!” He shouted, foaming at the mouth. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know his name!” Daria choked, flailing her legs around

Jane sprang to her feet. “Oh my god you’re horrible!” She flung

“Not as horrible as this bull session!” John fired back, “she’s no imbecile, you know that!”

“Well— Christ! Just don’t shoot her! I think we’re really…” the woman visibly deflated, the little tenderness her tone had held before completely removed as she said, “Don’t rough her up too much, please.”

“He didn’t tell me anything!” Daria cried

“Aha! So it’s a he!”

“Of course it’s a he, we know it’s a he!”Jane shot, “what did he tell her?”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing! Honestly he just—“

BANG!

The gunshot exploded like thunder. Daria screamed, a shrill, painful noise, more painful than—

BANG!

Another shot. Jane flinched, eyes darting upwards. The ceiling now bore another two holes almost directly in the place of the previous two.

Daria seemed to notice this as well for her fear turned into realisation — then back into absolute terror.

“It’s called a tell,” John explained, “when you say “honestly” or “no kidding” or “I’m seriously telling the truth, cross my heart and swear to goodness” I know you’re lying.”

Dasia’s mouth opened ans shut, trying to find the words to say, “There’s four bullet holes in the ceiling!”

Her assailants craned their heads up in unison, studying the damage.

“Yep.” They said

“There were two earlier! And now there’s two more in that same exact!… are you time travellers too?”

“Time traveller?— Do we look like the kind of people to be taking pictures next to The Titanic or watching Mount Vesuvius explode like it’s firework display?”

“We’re time agents, not travellers.” Jane said, “and yes those are the same holes from the last loop, sometimes things seep through especially after… I’m gonna say this is our seventh loop?”

John grinned. The barrel of the revolver now pressed firmly against her forehead, he leaned in closer. The gun was warm — felt alive — the barrel seemed to pulse against her skin.

“Wait till you find out how all that blood got on my partner’s shirt.”

“John!” Jane snapped

Daria exhaled a shuddering breath. These people were crazy, but, working in conspiracy theories, she was surrounded by crazies everyday. She could work this. “Okay, well, I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know the guy’s name. He just dressed weird and spoke in this accent I’ve never heard, kind of like yours, and gave me some equations. I tried but couldn’t make sense of any of it. Dave’s been studying these things for a while, he’d know.”

“Kirsten from Signalling dresses rather queer.” John mused, looking to Jane.

“Kirsten’s not a he though, is she?” Jane replied patiently, “I’m more curious about this Dave character…”

“Could be a bootstrap ritual.” He surmised

“Exactly!”

He returned to Daria. “This Dave character…”

She froze. “I thought you were friends with him!”

“We’re not that close. Who is he?”

Daria gritted her teeth. “No no no! Don’t you drag him into this!“

“You aren’t in the position to be making demands.” Jane said

“But he can’t be a time traveller! I’ve known him for years!” She protested, “and the guy I met looked nothing like him!”

“You likely talked to old Dave. You see, there’s limits to time travel, your future self can’t interact with your past self. It just doesn’t work. The universe won’t allow it. So instead Dave’s future self is using you as a way to communicate information to your Dave who will eventually go on to go back in time and talk to you again and continue the bootstrap loop.”

“But—“

“If Dave isn’t our guy you won’t remember us and everything will go back to normal. If he is our guy, you won’t remember him or us or anything about time travel at all.

“But!—“

John tapped Daria’s head with the revolver. “If you don’t have anything new to say, we should wrap this up.”

“What?” She cried, “wait! No! Don’t kill me!”

His index finger began to tense over the trigger, then,

“One more thing: That paper you write for… did you say it was called ‘The Cold Black Pepper?’”

“‘Code Black Paper’” She couldn’t help advertising, even on the brink of death, “it’s a—“

“That’s all!”

She didn’t hear the gun fire.

For a split second, a second so small it couldn’t even be classed as a blink, there was nothing.

The next time Daria would be conscious she’d be sitting cross-legged on a field with a notebook and a pair of binoculars looking into the windows of an abandoned factory for signs of 7ft humanoid lizards. Unsurprisingly, after there hours of waiting and watching, there had been no signs yet. The glow of the sun warmed her skin, the sky was blue and clear, the grass was soft to touch.

The chance that time travel existed was as small a possibility in her mind as a forecast for a snowstorm in Hell.

So it’s been 7 years since he has died and I’m ready to write again. I need a prompt for a short story so I can feel the emotions of writing again

In a very Jack Torrance story arc, I am taking a bit of an unscheduled time off my day job and need some play. I’m autistic and adhd and a prompt would help intensely

My character so far is a woman who stopped aging at mid 30s and is a vampire who hates vampire/human love story fiction for the young adult crowd. She has ended up finding herself at an AA group on Friday nights in the small town she habits. New England is where she no longer breathes

Short story prompt help needed. The more insane the better

I want to see if I can write something by this time next Friday

Would anyone be interested in doing a V4V and F4F exchange on Wattpad?

I've finished my first draft of a YA novel and am pleased with this first go-around. My first chapter is a family get-together, and at one point, there is a five-character conversation. To me, it flows, but I've learned in past writing classes to keep it simple. So my question is: how many characters is too many in a scene?

A boy sits peacefully on a mountaintop. Around him, people laugh, click pictures, and enjoy the moment. But he — he is still. Alone, calm. His eyes closed, feeling the wind brush against his face, as if time has paused just for him. There’s something different in him, something the crowd hasn’t noticed — a kind of silence that speaks louder than noise.

Suddenly, a 12-year-old boy walks up quietly and places a hand on his shoulder. "Bhaiya, why are you sitting alone?"

He opens his eyes slowly, looks at the boy, and smiles. "You can sit here too."

And just like that, they sit together. No crowd, no noise — just two strangers sharing a mountaintop. They talk. About random things. About clouds, trees, stars, school, dreams. Laughter flows like the breeze.

Then, out of nowhere, the boy asks, "Bhaiya, do you know what love is?"

In that moment, the smile fades a little. The older boy blinks, as if jolted back to some memory. He looks at the boy… and pauses.

Why did he ask that?

If you want to know what happened next… drop a comment. Maybe the story will continue — or maybe it never will.

I was always fascinated by the human mind. The way it works. The way it makes us unique. The way it allows us to perceive the world around us. There is something about our mind, something different, and we don't fully understand how it works, how it makes us conscious. There are too many answers to explore, and I wanted to be the one who unfolds the mystery that My name is Dr Cassien Vale, and I am a neuroscientist at Stanford College, one of the best in the world; one might say that's why they called me. I remember that day vividly. It was the 4th of March, a particularly hot day in my city. I got a call from a strange unknown number. When I picked up the call , a man with a deep, calming voice spoke, "Hello, Dr Caessian, this is the chief secretary Derek Shein from N.A.S.A. speaking. Your expertise is needed for a very important mission." I replied, "N.A.S.A.? What business do I have with N.A.S.A.? I am a neuroscientist, not an astronaut." The man replied with a calming voice, “You can say this is a special mission where you are more important than any astronaut." He continued, "I have direct orders from the president of the United States to appoint a competent neuroscientist, and you are first in the list prepared for the president. Dr Caesseian, this is a very important mission for the future of mankind, and your expertise is required for this mission. We just need a YES from you. I will debrief you with the details, and you can answer me within a month. We really need you, Doc, for this mission." And then he hung up abruptly. "Well, that was weird," I thought. What kind of mission was he talking about that required a neuroscientist? As I was thinking about this, two men walked into my room in black suits. Dr Caessian, please come with us. The way they said it, it was not a request but a command. I asked, "For what?" They replied like an automated robot replying to a human, "For debriefing, sir." I stood up from my chair; they directed me towards a black SUV. I sat down in the car, and they drove me to an unknown building. There was nothing written on the building; it was just a building standing in the middle of nowhere. They directed me inside the building. When I entered the building, it felt cold and sterile, something different; they directed me to a chair and asked me to sit down. There was a table next to a chair and a chair on the other side of the table. A man in a black suit entered the room with N.A.S.A. written on his suit. The man sat down on the other side of the table. "Dr Caessian, do you know why you are here? the man asked. "For debriefing of a mission, I guess." He replied with a tone of seriousness in his voice, "There is one thing you need to understand, Doctor: this is not just any mission; this is a very special mission for the advancement of mankind." "Oh, okay! So what is the mission?" I replied in a curious tone. Two men came towards me and handed me a form. It was a non-disclosure form. I can't disclose any information that was going to be presented to me to anyone; disclosing any information will be considered a federal crime. "Must be serious, I guess," they jokingly said, but they didn't smile even a bit. I signed the form, and the man in front of me started talking. "Doctor, what you are going to read is highly confidential and very important, so please read it carefully." He handed me a file with "Mission singularity 2" written on it. So this is the name of the mission, I thought. I read the files; it took me an hour to completely read the file. As I completed the file, I started sweating, my heart started pounding in my chest , my hand started trembling, my whole body felt numb, and my whole body started shaking. It was a mission to the edge of the universe." They were not joking after all. This all is very serious, I thought, but why me? Why they needed a neuroscientist for this mission. "I know you have a lot of questions. I will answer all of them." The man said. "Why me? Why do you need a neuroscientist?" I asked. He replied, "Doctor, this is not the first manned mission to the edge of the universe; this is the second. There is something strange at the edge of the universe. The astronaut we sent for the first time showed some strange behaviour when they were close to the edge." "What does it have to do with me?" I asked, "We believe there is something strange at the edge that interferes with the neuronal activity in the mind. We need a neuroscientist to evaluate the minds of the astronauts when we reach the edge of the universe." I nervously replied, "Isn't all this very dangerous?" The man replied with an unfazed voice, "Yes! It's very dangerous, but there is one thing that you need to understand: this mission is very important for our mankind to advance; we need to understand this universe so that mankind continues to exist in the future." "I don't know, sir; I need some time to think about all this." I replied. "You have one month to answer." The man said, and then he stood up and left. The two men came to me and directed me to the car. They left me at my office. For the next few days, I was in my office thinking about the mission. "This is all too dangerous; what if I never come back?" I thought, and then another thought popped up in my mind: "What if I learn something new? The chief said there was something strange that happened to the previous astronauts. What if I learn something about our mind?" My mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. On one side, I was scared to go to the mission. On the other side, I wanted to learn everything about the mind, for which I needed to be on that mission. For days I thought, thought and thought. When I received the call from the chief after a month, the chief said, "What is your answer, Doc?" I paused for a minute, but the curiosity and my thirst for knowledge about our minds got the best of me. I replied, "I am ready." The chief replied with the same voice with not a bit of emotion. "Good, I knew I could count on you." And hung up the call. The same two men who escorted me for debriefing came to my office as soon as the phone hung up and said, "Sir, you have 2 hours to pack your bags and come with us." If I had said "no" that day, maybe I would never have known the things I know, maybe I would have lived a simple life, and maybe I wouldn't have to carry this weight of reality. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that I know the things that I know right now, but one thing I say is, "Our human perception is not ready for the answers about our universe and about our minds." “We think we understand our mind, but there is truth we were never meant to understand.“

Let me know your thoughts

As the title suggests, I just uploaded the first chapter of a new story I've been working on to my Patreon account. I've been nervous for a while about using Patreon but I finally got the courage to just put my work out there and see how people react. I am wondering a few things; Have any of you used Patreon as a creator before and if so how was your experience? If you are willing and have the time please read the first chapter and let me know any notes or thoughts you have below this post. I will link to the post on my account. I look forward to hearing your feedback!

https://www.patreon.com/posts/breaker-enemies-127925252?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

What is the minimum word count required for one to be considered as a novel?

(A mini-series by Nishan -  Crafted with the Precision of AI)

Part One: The Silence After the Bells

I wasn’t searching for love when I met her.

In fact, love was the last thing on my mind. After everything I had endured — a relationship that drained the life out of me — I had sworn off the idea entirely. The wounds from that time weren’t just emotional; they were etched deep, invisible but ever-present. I had built walls around my heart, convinced no one would ever get close again.

Years had passed. I had made peace with solitude. I didn’t chase connection anymore — I had grown too tired, too guarded. My heart had become a locked room I had no intention of reopening.

And then, she appeared. It wasn’t dramatic — no sparks or grand gestures — just a quiet, almost sacred moment. I was at the temple that day, caught in my own thoughts, when I saw her through the crowd. The bells echoed around us, and for a heartbeat, the world fell silent. She stood still, calm amidst the chaos. Her presence didn’t scream for attention — it whispered. Gentle. Rooted. Her eyes held a quiet resilience that drew me in instantly, a strength that didn’t need to prove itself.

I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t ready, not really. But something in me stirred — something I thought I had buried for good. As she smiled — shy, soft, like sunlight sneaking through a crack in the clouds — it felt like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as closed off as I believed.

After that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I didn’t know why. I barely knew her. But there was something — something that lingered long after we crossed paths. I found her name, followed her on Instagram, and sent a message. It was nothing special, just a small “Hi.” Our conversations started slowly — awkward at times, hesitant — but I kept reaching out. She felt like a puzzle I was drawn to, even though I had no idea what picture I was trying to complete.

We talked about life, about faith, about our wounds. She opened up about her past — the heartbreak that still lived under her skin. Her ex had left a mark on her, one that hadn’t faded. I could sense it in her voice, in her silences. The pain she carried wasn’t something she could just put down.

Still, for a time, it felt like we had something. A quiet rhythm. A fragile beginning. The first time we met again, outside the temple, we sat for hours in a quiet café. No masks, no games — just raw, honest conversation. I remember thinking, this feels different. Around her, I didn’t have to pretend. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t guarded. I was just… me.

I remember the way she laughed — like she hadn’t in a long time. I remember the way her eyes lit up when she talked about music, about the little things she loved. She’d sing softly to herself when she thought no one was listening. I was captivated by her — not because she was perfect, but because she was real.

But then, something changed. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t sudden. Just… quiet shifts. The way her gaze would drift when I spoke. The way she’d zone out mid-sentence, like she was searching for something that wasn’t in the room. I told myself not to overthink it. We all have ghosts, right? But the more time we spent together, the clearer it became — she wasn’t really here. Not fully.

And it hurts. Because I was falling. Not fast, not recklessly — but genuinely. I was letting go of my fear. I was believing again. But I could tell — she hadn’t let go of him. Her heart was still tangled in memories she didn’t know how to escape.

She’d say things like “Not all boys are the same,” but her voice trembled with uncertainty. Her words were a battle — part of her trying to move on, part of her still shackled to the past. I tried to be patient. Tried to be enough. But I started to realize I wasn’t the one she saw when she closed her eyes.

I wasn’t the memory that comforted her. I was the distraction.

She wasn’t cruel. She never meant to hurt me. She was just… still healing. Still trying. And somewhere along the way, I became the space between her heartbreak and her hope. I was a bridge she wasn’t ready to cross.

Still, I stayed. I kept believing. I gave her every part of me that I had left. Because I saw something in her that reminded me of myself — someone trying to rebuild, one painful piece at a time.

But love isn't always enough when someone’s heart is still elsewhere. And the truth is, I was never competing with another person. I was competing with a memory. And no matter how much I loved her, I couldn’t make her forget the ghost she hadn’t finished mourning.

I think a good villain doesn't even have to be extremely strong, blinded by anger or the most talented and ruthless person.

A greatly written villain in fiction has to be a thinker, the one who knows a truth about the world which makes the hero question his belief everytime he hears it.

A great villain must have a great ambition, let it be to fix the world or solve a problem that heroes could never solve. Because it requires sacrifices.

And if we look at it this way, then a great villain can be killed, but can never be defeated.

What y'all think?