Famine by Adrian S.
Hunger woke Johnny up at four-thirty three a.m. and wouldn’t let him rest till it was satisfied. His younger sister, Sarai, lay next to him and whimpered. Johnny looked at her and although her head was covered in a tangle of messy hair, it couldn’t hide the pain on her face or mask the sound of her hungry moaning.

I ate and she didn’t, Johnny thought. Sarai’s stomach groaned and she sobbed in her sleep. Johnny flinched. The sounds were like an accusation. “Why didn’t you save me a slice?” they seemed to ask.

Mom put you to bed and dad didn’t want to wake you up, he said without speaking. Dad said it meant more for us, he thought. But this was an excuse and he knew it. He had been selfish. He always was when it came to food. A week before Sarai had given him half of her candy-bar and he hadn’t shared his taffy with her. She was dumb for sharing. He turned over to try to sleep — but couldn’t.

Sarai’s pitiful cries made it impossible.

Hunger was a painful thing. And it had become a normal thing in their apartment. Their father, Ray, had not worked for a long time. So when he arrived home with a box of pizza it had been a surprise. Johnny’s mother had already given Sarai her cough syrup and put her to bed. The syrup was often the only way she would sleep.

Ray had served himself half the pizza and gave Johnny and his mother a slice each. When Johnny had reached for another his father grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. “That’s mine,” Ray had said.

If I take dad’s pizza, I’m gonna have a black-eye like mom. Johnny thought and continued to consider the cost. I think Sarai would do it for me. She always does things for me.

Johnny left the bed.

For a long while the apartment was silent, but soon it came alive with the faint sounds of a brother and sister giggling between bites of pizza.

Daughter Dearest
By Makokam

They leapt from rooftop to rooftop, clashing every other step as they sought higher ground or an advantageous position.

Each impact was like thunder, the roofs shaking and cracking. Bursts of fire punctuated the fight, though the flames quickly died.

Brick and concrete shattered though their bones didn’t so much as crack.

They paused as they reached the top of the tallest building in the area, looking no worse than if they’d taken a casual stroll.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said.

“I want you DEAD,” she spat.

“I’m well aware. And you should know by now your anger is based on a lie.”

“You still killed my mother.”

“I loved your Mother. I killed your abductor.”

“She was the only mother I ever knew! She raised me! Took care of me!”

“To turn you into a weapon against your parents. Because she had some ridiculous idea that we were abominations needing to be destroyed.”

She snorted, “And was she wrong!?”

He clenched his jaw. “Your Mother’s circumstance was out of her control. She didn’t even know what she was. I’m doing the best I can with the hand I was dealt.”

She let out a bark of laughter, “Says the man who glassed half of the middle east.”

His fingers clenched and flexed, “I wasn’t in control of myself. What you have been doing is all you.”

“Damn right it is! You’re a monster! And this whole world deserves to burn as well!”

“You know that’s not true. I know you were marri-”

She screamed and a torrent of fire surged from her, which he brushed aside.

“You shut the fuck up,” she said. “You don’t know ANYTHING.”

“I know you’ve suffered. I know you’re hurting and you don’t know how to deal with it.”

Her fists clenched as her whole body shook.

“Let me be a Father to you.”

“You can fuck off,” she hissed. “Soon I’ll be stronger than you. Then you will die and this world will burn.”

He shook his head, “You aren’t even close,” and his eyes began to glow.

You Don’t Have to Like Me (also in private)
By MysteryElement

“Your landing was sloppy, Elise” Antoine’s voice grated my ears. “I’m surprised you haven’t broken your leg.”

“You’re right, but you also released my hand too early.”

We’d worked on our new trapeze routine for weeks, and still couldn’t nail the timing.

“Even if I hadn’t, your landing would’ve been sloppy with that form. You have the grace of an adolescent ostrich.”

“Oh, my heart!” I sighed dramatically, sarcasm lacing every word. “You wound me! How shall I ever recover from your shallow excuse of an insult?”

“Bite me.” was the only reply I got before he turned to wash up. The water in the bucket was probably ice cold, but didn’t seem to bother him.

Since the day we met, years ago, I’d hated his guts. I felt bad about it until I realised it was mutual. No rhyme or reason to it, we just mixed like water and oil.

“Let’s go again.” he called, heading back to the wires.

We’d made it about halfway through when, in a crucial moment, I froze and missed Antoine’s outstretched hand. I don’t know what it had been, the angle, or the lighting, but memory flooded my mind. Nico’s eyes, my precious partner, as he dropped me. I had loved him, trusted him. Why had he done that? Should I have apologised? Given him more attention, or respect? All this flooded my mind as I fell, time slowing painfully.

As quickly as the fall began, it halted. I’m jerked back to reality as Antoine caught me, lowering us to the ground with one of the spare pulleys. Antoine, not Nico. I feel lightheaded with relief.

“I am surprised you didn’t let me fall.” I could practically hear my attempted joke fall flat on the ground, my opaque mockery of a chuckle ringing hollow in my ears.

Antoine’s warm hands lead my face to his, forcing our eyes to meet. His eyes were not warm, his voice was not tender, but I will never forget what he said to me.

“You are my partner, I would never let you fall.”

“Finding the way”

By Arith_Winterfell

“Father,” I say.

The shade before me, in the summoning circle, is indistinct and wavering like ripples of water. It seems to somehow turn its head to face me as I speak, but does not or cannot answer me.

“I have summoned you to say some things that need to be said.”

I pause gathering myself, “I am . . . sorry. Sorry I could not follow where you walked in your faith.”

“I have no faith, and I worship no gods. I feel alone now, and I miss you very much. The warmth of your hand. Your kindness. Your support of me, even when I turned away from belief in the glory of an almighty divine. I never heard you condemn me, even though I know my beliefs were so alien to you.”

I pause here to listen for a response, but none come.

“I chose learning, as we both loved that spirit of discovery. I learned father, the art of magic, and I am powerful! I wield the very monsters of the darkness and bind them to my will.”

I gesture and the candles about the circle grow in light, casting strange and twisted shadows on the walls.

“I know you would fear for my soul for working with such things. I in turn worry for yours. I cannot forget the faithful’s self-centeredness and the suffering you took on for the sake of others.”

I turn and face the shade.

“I cannot live as a martyr as you did. I will not bear their millstone around my neck nor their arrogance. I have to walk my own path. I have to walk away.”

“Dad,” I say softly, “I love you. Goodbye.”

The shade fades from sight and is gone. The candles gutter. Darkness fills the room. I am alone. I know that I will find my own way.

The Journey is Fun
By Mango Gravy

“Tears of a weeping willow…”

Grindelwind was hard at work, as he had been almost every hour of nearly every day for the past fifty years.

“Precipitate of tangible frustration…”

He toiled, in an effort to create what may be the most important potion in Wizarding history. A potion renowned, not only for how difficult the ingredients are to obtain, but for its purpose. Everwake.

“A splash of a dragon’s liquefied morning breath…”

The first entry in the Book of Droogs, it supposedly rids the drinker of the need to sleep, a godsend for any active researcher.

“Urine of a mountain god…”

The precise proportions of the ludicrous reagents had yet to be worked out, since repeated experimentation quickly depletes what little stock one may have gathered, prompting the collection of yet more ingredients at great risk to themselves.

“Shredded hyphae of a doom shroom…”

Grindelwind was dead set on solving this puzzle that many Wizards had given up on. He spent forty years gathering a veritable mass of the necessary ingredients and the last ten mixing and swirling and suffering the consequences of every failure. It was agonising, but he had something that few other Wizards seemed to have.

A love for the process.

“And a smidgen of liquid masochism.” He grabbed a recording device and spoke into it, “That’s the last of my stock for most of the ingredients. I’ll have to go on another expedition to gather more, if this doesn’t work.”

Grindelwind was unsurprised when the mixture made his torso violently separate itself from his lower half. He pulled a potion from his sleeve and sipped it, almost instantly restoring himself and his clothes to an undamaged state. He stood up, dusted himself off, and laughed. When he spoke into his recording device, his voice wasn’t morose. It was gleeful.

“My bags are already packed. Another adventure, another dance.” He looked at the recipe, pasted to the wall beside his alchemy desk, and smiled wholeheartedly at the challenge.

Because even though each failure stung, the battle itself was invigorating. It’s what he lived for.

A Friend? Or an Enemy? It’s Hard to Tell.
By Zerokz

“I know I haven’t always been the greatest, geez, I’m really not. But I really do want to work as a team, together. This past year, we have nooooot gotten along. I know you’re blaming me, for all our, uh, troubles…”

She paced the ongoing floor. It seemed to stretch for miles, just like her apology. “What else should I say? Maybe talk about why it’s all my fault? But it’s really not!” She banged her head against the wall.

Maybe an apology wasn’t the way to go? “I’ll give them both something to complain about! I’ll yell and vocalize my opinions, just like I was taught! And I’ll—” She yelled but the floor beneath her slipped away, and she tumbled to the empty ground. Pulling herself up against the wall, she looked up. A gentle breeze drifted from above, through the empty ceiling. The sky was so dark, so scary, but so beautiful at the same time. She tucked her knees under her chin.

“Okay. I’ll try again.” She breathed in and out, readying herself to try to recite this apology one more time.

“Hey. I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know the two of you—” she sighed. “I know you both blame me for how everything’s gone down. I wanna apologize… I really, really do. But this ain’t my fault. You keep blaming everything on me,” she sniffled. “When it’s really how you keep overreacting. Maybe if—”

“Okay. I can assure you, I will make an effort.”

“What?” She popped her head up, and looked towards the voice. “You… how long have you been there?”

“The whole time.”

“Oh.” She pulled herself in. “You weren’t supposed to hear any of that yet.” She squeezed her eyes shut, overthinking all the possibilities.

A warm body wrapped its arms around her. It was all safe and warm. And no matter how dark they may have been, in her eyes, it could all be so beautiful too.

The Thrill of Battle
By Elver Galarga

“You know what your worst enemy will always be during a battle, boy?” would ask the man in black to his pupil the following day, “The thrill of battle, the boiling of your blood in your veins as you face death and grasp for life, what some may even call enjoyment.” That would be his last lesson as he’d submit to his wounds dealt by the man in red.

The man in red. The last he’d remember of the previous day, and of most of his life. He had been chasing him far and wide through the country, losing many of his comerades, men he had come to know as friends,. But it was finally over. The two men finally met in the middle of autumn, surrounded by trees with barely any leaves left and with no other sound than that of the wind.

The man in black raised his sword and his oponent followed. A couple seconds went by in which the warriors did nothing but stare at the other, then their blades met.
The man in black’s strikes were pricise, calculated, each blow delivered to be the last, the scarlet man, on the contrary, always made sure to be as fast as possible and strike as much as possible, his blade moved as fast as thunder making it impossible for his adversary to block all attacks, but none seemed to touch him, none seemed to hurt him. The man in black only required one blow and the scarlet armour of the man he’d hunt for so long was cut like paper, so was his wearer who fell to the ground and stood there forever.

It wasn’t long before the man in black fell too, once the thrill of the fight wore off he noticed his multiple wounds. His pupil tried the best to safe him but it was useless.
In his final moments he tried to remember the friends he’d avenged, but his only thoughts went to the man in red, to his cold blade, fast as thunder.
He closed his eyes and faced one last time.

A Letter Found Among the Stars
By: Claire Aslesen

My dear brother, Arone,

How long has it been? Decades, centuries? Ah, what does time matter to immortals like you and me? I know those mortals of yours have treated you well. But how have the others treated you? Probably as a hero, right? A conqueror over their “evil” brother.

Yet enough platitudes. Down to business.

As you read this, you can tell by the infernal scrawl of my hand that I am free. How or why is of no consequence. What is, though, is that the time has come to play again, younger brother.

And it is my turn.

This dance that we are in, this tangle of fate, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Chaos and order flung together and in their wake, creation. We are opposites. Yet, we cannot indeed exist without the other’s presence. One only knows light because of the darkness behind it.

It is a hard lesson to learn, yes. And eventually, you shall come to understand it as did I. The key to bringing balance is not to extinguish the vile flames but to let them burn brightly. Let them consume, let them feast.

And feast they shall! What chaos has wormed out of my dreams and morphed into action to thrust upon your precious mortal world! You will fight it, of course. But once, just this once, try to enjoy it. For your brother? Your endless vows of vengeance are frankly dull. As is your “perfect” world, but that is an argument for another time.

Now, it’s time to play. I shall begin with a plague-you’ll hate it, I’m sure; it’s a nasty thing-in the port city. You know the one. As you read this, death should already be ferrying a few hundred young souls to the afterlife.

Your move, brother.

Zeroth

Champagne
By Ouroboros

The sound of falling bombs thundered in the distance, we knew they weren’t coming for us but it brought the war home. Even though the frontlines were hundreds of miles away, it reminded me of what we were fighting for, what was at stake.

The night was that of a bitter and cold December, the chill that ran through the air only bringing us closer together. As we lay in bed together, I looked at her large azure eyes shining in the moonlight and I knew that I would love her forever. I ran my fingers through her red curling locks before making love as only those that straddle the line between life and death can.

After our two souls became one we lay there in perfect rapture, the lassitude we shared dissolved all earthly barriers between us. She turned over to face me and said, “Will you marry me… When this is all over?”. I didn’t know how to react.

“What do you mean? How can we possibly make any plans in all… this?” More explosions echoed in the distance.

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t say this but, at the lab, we’re working on something, something big. The sort of thing that could put an end to this dreadful war.”

“Really?” I was stunned. She nodded with an ambiguous smile. “Then of course I’ll marry you, I don’t have a ring but… maybe we could celebrate with that bottle of champagne?”

“I’ll go get the glasses.” Her smile stretched from ear to ear. She pressed her lips against mine as she slinked out of the bed.

She put on her nighty as she walked out into the hallway. Without her noticing, I crept behind her as she was making her way over to the stairs. With a single forceful thrust, she tumbled forcefully down the stairwell. I made it look like an accident just as I was taught. I photographed the documents in her bag and removed any trace that I was ever there. I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. I was only following orders.

We shall always be Friends (Darkspell Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)

Rachel jumped, as she heard footsteps approach. She brandished her sickle against the silhouette in front of her.

“Relax. It’s just me.”

She breathed as her fellow reaper, Felix, stepped into the dim light of the crypt.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she chastised, shifting to shield the room behind her from view. “I thought you were a Syndicate enforcer.”

“Sorry. I’m not used to working with someone anymore.”

At this, Rachel’s gaze fell to the floor. She hadn’t realized, how much she’d missed Felix.

“What’s taking so long?” he asked. “We’re ready to move.”

“Yeah, just give me a minute. Wanna make sure there aren’t any stragglers.”

“Alright. I just…”

Felix broke off, avoiding her gaze. Rachel walked up to him.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I… just hurry, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

She moved closer to the room behind her, further obscuring Felix’ vision. He eyed her, before turning around and making his way back upstairs.

“Felix!” she called after him. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”

Rachel practically tasted the falseness of her words. She hoped, Felix never took her up on that offer. It would only complicate matters. For once, she felt glad that her best friend wasn’t the talkative sort.

She couldn’t tell him what she was doing. She didn’t think she could take his hatred and disgust, if he ever found out. As much as it hurt, she had to think of him as a potential adversary.

Felix simply nodded and walked further up the stairs. His back was to her. One strike with her sickle and he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. No risk of him ever getting too close. He’d never even feel it. She could easily pin it on a Syndicate hedge witch.

As he rounded a corner, Rachel turned into the room, where the mutilated bodies of three humans and the remnants of several obliterated souls decorated the scenery. All failed experiments, tortured for nothing. But she had to keep trying.

The reapers would die, if she didn’t figure out how to make more.

Dearest Enemy
By RVMPLSTLSKN (A Tale from Hizkanamun’s Flesh)(Repost from Private)

There are two windows to every soul so there are two ways to see every soul. One way is slow and wending, for the distillation of our essence requires time to see. The other is the harder travail and can only be seen from within, soully.

They say gods use neither way. This is true of Hafit, whose soul communes with those Unforgotten he carries.

No longer is he called Warlord, not yet God. He wears nothing. Where nakedness is taboo, his bare metallic bones are profane.

A wind that is not a wind blows through his ribs. If he had flesh, it would shiver.

He asks the Unforgotten, What is it?

Among the cacophony of honored dead, he listens to only two.

Adyn: The Brightlings come.

Tsaji: One final chance.

-I’ll be victorious.

Tsaji: You’ve never beaten them.

-I’ve been cursed to fight them, but I’ve always beaten you. Your plans end here, so I’ll be victorious, foreteller.

Adyn: I pray Mornghynia herself comes for you.

He meant, “I wish death and immolation upon us all.”

Hafit’s grim grin was all the acknowledgement he would give in the gathering mountain winds.

-What’ll they call me after this, Tsaji?

He felt her essence withdraw.

Tsaji: They will say gods fought here.
-And?

Tsaji: I refuse to speak.

-You see Beyond. I honor you in death by giving you life and I expect what is mine for that blessing.

Tsaji: I would rather die.

Hafit reached within his chest and removed a glowing skystone.

-That can be arranged.

He pressed his mind and Called on that crystalline prison. What more could he do?

Tsaji begged then—what more could she do, she wanted for death—and Hafit knew he’d win.

-But who would I fight after? I’ll defeat this Brightling and you’ll still be my favorite opponent.

The wind coalesced. Hafit felt his curse manifest. It was Time.

A Brightening stepped from the winds, her form bare as Hafit’s. This is how a goddess walks to war: clothed only in power, in pride.

Adyn: Mornghynia.

Hafit could have smiled.

-Finally, a worthy challenge.

An Age of Development (Set in the Crossroads City Canon)
By Fredrick H. (challeng3r22)

With a thud the knight settled into place to strike down the king.

“Checkmate, Chosen One,” the wizened old librarian stated.

“I lost. Then again, I wasn’t around for the games inception, Zenodotus,” the young lady replied.

“Now that you’ve bribed me with an easy victory. What is it you’d like to inquire that you were too lazy to research yourself?”

“More of an inquiry into the reasoning behind my stronger foes actions that I doubt I could so easily find in a book.”

“Ah,” the century-worn bibliophile exclaimed. “You’re wondering why none of them have actually tried to kill you yet. This is best described with a diagram.”

From his pocket he withdrew a piece of parchment and fountain pen. Quickly, he sketched out a simplistic sword.

“This is the chosen blade of this era and space.”

Hastily, he drew branching lines off of the blade that reached the edge of the page.

“This blade is connected to the very fabric of reality. Allowing it to withdraw great powers beyond that which unselected mortals can use.”

Finally, he outlined a heart attached to the hilt.

“Now, as you have probably seen, the blade essentially acts as an extension of yourself. If you were to fall to the ideas deemed profitable by the darker powers like pride or self-doubt this piece of reality would be simple to push one way or the other.”

“So I’ll never face a proper challenge? Then why did they bother with the manual?”

“Correction. You won’t face a proper challenge, yet. Once you end your currently turbulent age known as adolescence they’ll begin to focus on the task of killing you, to begin the era of the next chosen one.”

Our City
By Alexander (BrokenEarth)

“It’s over now. We can’t fix it.” I said softly. My bitter rival, my greatest enemy, my brother, looked at me with sad, broken eyes.

“Look what they’ve done to our city.” He said, and he cried.

All the battles we’d fought, good versus evil, superhero versus super villain, and it ended like this? With the city I swore to protect, and he vowed to rule, in ashes?

I pulled him onto the pile of rubble to stand level with me.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.” I hated myself for that. What kind of hero admits defeat? What kind of hero sat amidst the destruction of everything they love, and gives up?

“I… I know. I’m not here to ask for help, or beg forgiveness. You’re the only one left I can go to. Everything I’ve worked for…”

“I know.”

“But there’s one bright side to this,” He wiped away his tears, and looked at me with resolve in his eyes, resolve and hatred. “Now we have nothing left to lose.”

I widened my eyes for a moment, then nodded. We’d both held back in the past, to keep damage down and keep the innocent people out of our fight. Now there was nothing we could hurt. I wondered, then, what the true limit of my power was?

“And you’re ready?” I asked.

“I am.” He answered.

“Then let’s give them a one-way ticket to the afterlife.”

He chuckled. “You won’t curse, even now? Some things never change.”

Then we took off, into the sky, leaving the rubble as dust and the ground a crater in our wake. The sound barrier broke in an instant.

A titanic machine stood before us, and when we struck it was as though two atomic bombs had gone off. Punches flew at nearly the speed of light, as the two of us pushed ourselves to the limit with one single goal: Destroy the beast that ruined our home.

And maybe he became a hero that day, or maybe I became a villain.

In the end, I don’t think either of us cared.

Giving Up (Mary’s Story)
By Calliope Rannis

“Wait – Father wait, come back!”

Through the bars of Mary’s cell, the gaunt face of her father turned to face her. “What IS it, my dear?”

“……I, I give up. I won’t misbehave anymore.”

A long pause, as his distant eyes peered suspiciously. “You won’t simply run for the woods?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Pointless. Your servants would find me and drag me back. Or you would just,” she glanced at the gnarled staff he held, “control me. Make me walk all the way here myself. So no, I won’t run.”

He continued to stare. “Are you really telling the truth, my dear? Let me look at your face. I always know when you lie, Mary.”

Gesturing with a shrivelled hand, the zombie by his side started turning a crank. Mary retreated as her manacled arms were pulled against the back wall, before her father entered her domain.

“So, my daughter…do you promise to behave?”

“I-I won’t shout, or scream at you. I won’t say those terrible things I said to you before. And I won’t, I won’t run from you anymore.”

His dim eyes brightened. “My dear…it is wonderful to finally hear you say these words.” A frail smile. “My beautiful Mary…I will never let you die, again…You will never leave me, again…

She smiled sadly. “No. I won’t.” Then she pulled hard against her chains, where the manacles held her hands tightly in place.

Or they would have done, if she hadn’t intentionally broken both her wrists.

Her hands crunching as they slipped free, she slammed her father to the ground, pinning his arms. Before he could make another sound, her teeth were tearing into his throat, his blood drenching her face, biting and biting and biting until the snap of bone in her mouth brought her back.

She recoiled as his head fell, completely severed from his body. Then, with ugly, tearless sobs, she cradled his remains.

Mary had never wanted this. She had hoped that the person she loved so dearly could still come back.

But eventually, she had given up.