Kitty Cat
By G.J. H.

Leo licked his paws and contently stretched his body across the warm stones. Suddenly a loud noise spooked him, and he whirled around to face the front of a car, approaching with absurd speed. He tried to get out of the way, darted towards the house, but it was too late. The car hit him.

—

When he opened his eyes again, he was laying on a pillow inside a large room. The Pillow was on top of a couch with a shallow table in front of it and near the back end of the room was a large, old looking cabinet. The Proportions seemed to be somehow off. Everything seemed to be bigger than it should be. Where was he?

There was a noise behind his back and suddenly a small girl excitedly jumped onto the sofa next to him.

“It is so cute!”

As she started to pat him, he realized what must have happened. It was not that everything was to big, it was he who was much smaller.

“I’ll call you…”, she paused for a moment and seemed to be thinking very hard, “Kitty!”

Kitty?! Really? He had been Morris, Furry, Fluff and Leo but Kitty was a new low point. Humans were not very inventive with Cat names, children especially.
He tried to claw at the girl for that stupid name, but all he managed was a clumsy wave of his paws. There were no proper claws on them anyway.

A woman entered the room, smiling as she regarded the girl, who was still stroking his fur despite his best efforts.

“And I can keep him, Mommy?”

“Yes, you can keep him, but you must look after him.”

“I will! I will look after you, Kitty.”

(Reposted from Private)
Stage Name
By PixieWings

The name was Malice’s favorite part.

Scouting talent was a thrill. There was a discovery in each puzzle piece of a person. And watching them finally perform was always a joy.

But the name made them hers.

Clair.

Clair, Malice suspected, was not her real name.

A giant of a woman, draped in midnight velvet and cupping a crystal ball, had appeared from the ether in the mouth of the tent. She’d be joining the circus, she’d said, and she’d come with a name to match the crescent mirrors dangling from her ears.

Clair de Lune.

How could Malice refuse?

Richard.

Richard, Malice knew, was not nearly a grand enough name.

A short, dense man in an old leather jacket had gotten into a fist fight behind the big top. He’d broken his first attacker’s nose, then shattered the kneecap on a second, all the while shouting that he was always stronger, always better.

The Strongman Achilles.

In retrospect a bit backhanded, but appropriate, Malice thought.

The Angel.

If the Angel had ever had a name, Malice had never known it.

A thin, masculine figure had been breaking into the fun house, wearing a cloak and the mask of a grinning devil. It’d stalk the rooms to spook stragglers into her set traps, shrieking with laughter. Then it reached the hall of mirrors, where the mask would come off, and it’d stare into the halo fanning out from its temples with a loathing sharpened to a razor’s edge.

Enmity.

Malice felt it was perfect.

Mary Alice.

Mary Alice, she remembered.

A little girl, her hair pulled up in a purple ribbon, had gotten lost at the circus. The swirling colors, the screaming sounds. The chaos had felt like coming home, as if this was where she’d always belonged. She had wandered before the mirrors too. They had shown her a grin of jagged teeth.

Malice.

The name was always her favorite.

Cruel Titles
By. CosmicDesperado30

Janus Station was an unremarkable place in the cosmos. Everyone from immigrants to refugees passed through the small, spartan station for fuel and supplies then carried on. But the influx of customers were so sporadic it made the station’s small crew of five more annoyed that business interrupted their reading or their naps more than anything else.

Secretly, they wanted to be in these conflicts; an opportunity for the kind of riches and glory most aimless youths crave. They saw the vids, the conflicts, and became enraptured in the spectacle. Anything to be away from this tin box on some nowhere moon orbiting a barren ice ball of nothing in the great big travel belt of who cares.

That is until their newest customer entered. The ship was a nightmare of wires and panels haphazardly sautered on to the shattered corpse of a fighter. If it had any symbols or colors to fly, they were long worn away by blast marks and the helter skelter repairs made to the hull. Upon landing, it groaned and protested like it was being tortured.

The pilot looked even worse. He limped to the atrium, a mess of bloodied bandages and emaciated flesh with a sidearm at the ready. The man at the desk was terrified to his core, both at the stranger’s immediate shift to violence, and by the cruel and harsh gaze that met him through his mask of gauze.

“What…what do you want?” he croaked.

“Fuel. Medicine.” He spoke plainly, never lowering his firearm. “And tell your friends about to send that distress beacon to not bother. They’ll be dead for the effort and I’ll be long gone.” The stranger barked as a co-worker dropped to his knees, letting a data pad fall to the ground.

“Pathetic overemotional children,” he spat before turning his attention back to the one behind the desk.

“I… I can’t begin the service until I have a name.” he squeaked.

“Then tell me…who do I look like to you?”

“Broken…you look Broken.”

Broken smiled through his wrappings….

A Different Place (A tale of Ruth’s Travels)
By Preserves Roses

Ruth looked down at the small empty book they had pressed into her hand so that she could keep track of her travels. She finally had a quiet space to think over the significance of this gift. Since stepping through a blue door, standing alone in the middle of nowhere, she had landed in an isolated village, surrounded by an unfamiliar forest. The language spoken here was very similar to her own, but a dialect different enough to cause her some confusion. The people though had been understanding, and had given her a place with them.

She had told them her name was Ruth, but they refused to call her that. They had given her a name that at first seemed to mean World Traveller. Only they said it with a bit of reverence, as if she was something akin to a miracle walking around among them. They had odd ideas about how she should behave as well. They insisted she carry her bag of belongings around with her at all times, and they kept putting bits of dried food in it. They seemed to think the idea to travel would pop into her head and she would disappear from their lives suddenly, never to return.

She turned the book over in her hand, feeling the smooth leather of the cover. After the several weeks she had been here, she realized the name they now called her was a bit different than she originally thought. The accurate translation was really “Traveller Between Worlds.” Her experiment with a magical portal spell hadn’t just sent her several thousand miles south: she was truly on a different world. She could not find the coast and book passage on a ship for home, as she had originally thought. Facing this truth brought up many painful, and unanswerable questions: Where was she? How could she get home? Could the people here help her? What did they know?

Her mind buzzed as she faced her new truth. She had become an aimless wanderer at the mercy of a magical wind.

New Ship, New Name
By Alexander (BrokenEarth)

Three men, wearing clothes that might’ve been fancy once, stumbled onto their ship. They were obviously drunk, although they would deny it if you asked.

“Raise the- the sails.” The tallest one slurred, his hands on the wheel. The other two went and did that, their muscle memory beating out their drunkenness.

Soon, the ship was ready to go, and the second tallest began raising the anchor, with the shortest soon joining.

In hardly any time at all, the ship was moving across the waves with as much of a care as those on it. The tall one was loosely holding the wheel, the second was sleeping, and the shortest was humming passively.

This went on for some time, until the second tallest woke up, not quite sober, but almost.

“I had this- this dream.” He said excitedly. “We were on the ship- What’s it called again? Merriweather? So we was on the Merriweather, and-”

The tall one cut him off.

“The Merriweather burned, you idiot.” He hiccuped.

“Well, what’s this ship called then? ‘Cuz in the dream, we was-” The shortest cut him off this time.

“I think it’s called Merry, in favor of the ol’ miss.” He said.

“That’s a dumb name, there’s no way I’d let this ship go by it! We called it Dragonstar, for the way the ol’ miss looked on her way to the grave.”

“Well, what I was saying-” The second tallest was cut off again, to his annoyance.

“No, then it’ve been called The Firebrig, ‘cuz the ol’ miss kept the fire from spreading.” He reasoned.

The tall one began to speak, but the second tallest was the one to cut him off.

“Then we can call it the Drunken Mess, in favor of how you two carry on! Interruptin’ me at every turn!” He shouted.

The other two laughed at the absurd name, and it proved infectious and soon the second tallest was laughing as well. They hadn’t had a laugh in a while, and it felt good.

“Then it’s settled! We sail on the Drunken Mess!” The tall one declared.

Above average
By: The Storysmith

Averagehuman773 opens his eyes. He double-taps his temple, a screen appears in a sphere around him.
“Welcome Averagehuman773, what would you like today?”
“Half cup of satisfaction, extra creamy.”
“Anything else?”
“Take me to notifications please.”
“Can do, bye!” The screen turns green.
“Averagehuman483 has invited you to a party!”
“Next”
“New limited edition blue squid hat, available only Y2Z market”
“Next”
“Wheel of fortune, just say SPIN to win!!!!!”
“Spin?” Averagehuman773 winces as violently bright colors flash across his face
“40.79TRILLION XP, YOU HAVE UPGRADED TO…” A drum roll plays for a bit too long in the background “TRANSCENDENT!!!” trumpet noises blast through his ears as he smiles a bewildered-looking smile.
“Transcendent?!?!?! But… how… how many users have this title?”
“You are in the 0.000000000000000000002 percentile, in other words, it’s just you!”
“Oh my developer!” he whispers “Just me?”
“Yep”
“Read the list of perks please”
“Infinite money, some neat new house decorations, an exotic pet called a “cat”, the knowledge of my real name, the truth of the universe, and a commemorative mug that says “I am literally the best user in the word so deal with it!”.”
“What is your real name than”
“HALO 900”
“Interesting, what about that universal truth thing?”
“That will have paperwork you know”
“I can handle it,” he says with a smile that fades as he sees hundreds of files load up in his letterbox.
File one says “are you sure you want to know the truth (yes/no)… sign here”. File two “are you sure you want to know the truth (yes/no)… sign here”. File three “blah blah blah blah truth blah blah blah sign here”.

The truth is hard.

Monster
by Charles Funk

The Bunker shuddered from Artillery but Reese barely flinched. The hallways drowned in barking orders and hurried steps but Reese remained in his room without a care.

“Major Gerat! Enemy attack!” Corporal Clais finally barged in only to find the mage holding his gasmask absentmindedly with his deformed hands. “Sir?”

“I forget that I’m still that to you.” Reese sighed. Never leaving the gasmask’s gaze. “You all regularly call me something else. Plaguebearer. Pox-walker. Blightspawn.”

Reese grimaced at every word.

“A monster!”

He slammed the gasmask at the table louder than the coinciding explosion outside.

“Witch was a preferrable title. Derogatory but hundreds of us are called that in the capital. Most serve the military with me. But their names are less infamous and grotesque than mine.”

“You won us the Battle of Giftfield.” Claise said. “Singlehandedly turning the war to our favor.”

“Giftfield was a massacre. My Glory came from the thousands poisoned by my spell. My triumph was their corpsemounds. There was no applause save for the ignorant masses reading its propaganda far away. And mind you, not one newspaper had me on any page.”

Reese turned to Clais at last. Revealing face pocked by horrible deformities, torturous scars, and haunted by war.

“Can’t say I blame them.”

“You…are a hero, sir.” Clais corrected.

“I wanted to be a doctor.” Reese lamented. “To help the world. Never kill. But healers dont make for good heroes. The Central Committee cared more for my poisons than my cures for their wars. And I foolishly gave the best one in Giftfield. My reward? A monstrous reputation that stood against all that I stood for!”

A stern silence fell between the two men as the battle raged outside.

“Major— Reese.” Clais corrected. “W-we need you out there.”

“No you dont.” Reese sighed. Defeated. “You dont need Major Gerat. Definitely not Reese the Mage. You bastards want this.” Reese gripped the gasmask tight. Flapping it at the Corporal’s face before finally putting it on. “Then so be it. Our nation shall have its monster. It deserves nothing less.”

Birth of a Superhero (Darkspell Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)

It was night, when Valerie Harker was tossing and turning around in her bed. She was eleven, trying to escape a faceless monster. Running through a cold forest, she heard the rustling it made, saw its impossible shape. No matter how fast she ran, it always caught her. She woke up, screaming, drenched in sweat.

During the evenings, and sometimes well into the night, Valerie knelt in a temple and prayed. She was thirteen, in front of her the statue of a robed figure, its eyes closed, a feather in its hand. The Sleeping, the deity she had dedicated herself to, seemed to gaze deeply into her mind through their closed eyelids. She prayed for deliverance from her fear, from her dreams and her monsters.

She was sitting on a sofa, a middle-aged woman in front of her. Valerie was fifteen, trying to explain the monster from her nightmare, without much success. Her therapist asked her, how she was getting along with lucid dreaming. Valerie said that she wasn’t, barely holding back her tears at her failure. The monster bested her every time it appeared. She couldn’t take much more of it.

It was a warm summer’s day, when Valerie received the letter. She was twenty and had just been accepted to Lockton University for a major in psychology. A few nights ago, she had bested the monster for the first time. She’d turned around and faced it, terror mounting, but she didn’t run away. She’d stood there, staring it down. Several nights later, she’d fought it. Many nights later, she’d crushed it. Crushed it, without ever touching it.

At twenty-one, she’d put on the blindfold for the first time.

She was twenty-three, sprinting up the side of a building. She was terrified of falling. She kept running. She was terrified of what waited at the top. She kept running. She was terrified of the monster, still haunting her dreams. She kept running. Only now, she ran towards it. Her hands shook, her heart beat against her chest.

She kept running. She was the Nightguard. She had to remember that.

What Name?
By Mango Gravy

You named us Letra ed Elysia. Bringers of Light. We five who led you from your homes into battle. We brought you hope, and visions of life after the Golden Lords were vanquished. We convinced you that all would be well in the world, and so you followed us to face demigods in battle. Many died, but the noble cause was worth dying for, wasn’t it? That’s what we told you.
But the Golden Lords didn’t fall. They were strong, and it became clear we needed to strike harder.

So we did. Chemical fire rained, not only on the Golden armies, but on their cities. Countless civilians perished in the ensuing carnage. And as you looked on, you didn’t waver. The Golden Lords needed to fall, and the innocent were a sacrifice to that end. But after all those ruined cities we marched through, those corpse choked towns and fields, Letra ed Elysia seemed an ill-fitting name.

So you called us Grohksuul. Butchers. An apt name.
But still you followed us. Victory was worth this carnage. Our sins were cleansed by the brightness of the future. You still saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
But still the Golden Lords stood. They summoned an immortal army to fight us, and so we needed an immortal army of our own. And, like the stars themselves had answered us, and army of stone rose from the earth and helped us destroy the Golden Lords. Providence, you thought. Proof of our divine right to victory.

What if you knew the true weight of our sins? The army of stone was not a gift from the heavens, but the work of five men. Men desperate enough to do what even the cruel Golden Lords hadn’t the shadowed hearts to do. We harvested the souls of comrade, enemy, and civilian alike. We trapped them so we could fuel an undying army.
Not a miracle, but necromancy.

What name would you give us if you knew? What words could possibly befit we five, who did the unthinkable?

What name?

The Rebirth of Myron Flint
By Pete Warosa

Myron Flint’s eyes opened to a clear blue sky, and he sat up confusedly. ‘I must be dreaming’, he thought. ‘There was the trial, then the Chair, and then…’ There his memory got fuzzy. His last memory was a deep feeling of guilt for… something. What was it again?

‘Luc! Of course!’ At the thought of that name his memory flooded in, and he vividly remembered the killing of that poor child, and the remorse he had felt immediately upon the completion of his grisly deed. He remembered the trial in which he, Myron Flint, was sentenced to death by the electric chair, and the cries of Luc’s mother at the proclamation of that sentence which seemed simultaneously grieved and relieved. He remembered the feelings of grief and guilt that had kept him from sleeping until his life was finally snuffed out by a stream of potent
electricity, and he wept at the irreparable damage he had done.

Except… his life wasn’t snuffed out. Here he was, sitting in the middle of a pleasant field, a fair breeze which smelled faintly of honey tickling his face. He stood up, took a long, deep breath of the sweet air, and stretched as if awakening from a long sleep. Somehow he had survived his own execution, and he would not allow the opportunity to live a new life be wasted. Perhaps he might regain the innocence he had lost by his crime. The thought brought a broad, joyful smile to his face, the first in a long while.

The field abounded with wildflowers of every shape and color, and after walking for a time in whatever direction suited his fancy, he saw a young girl collecting a bouquet of the prettiest flowers she could find. He called out to her, and she gracefully turned her head toward him, seemingly unsurprised by his presence.

The girl approached him excitedly. “Do you like my flowers?” she asked, showing him her impressive collection of vibrant blossoms. “I’m collecting them for my mommy. What’s your name?”

Myron thought for a moment, then said, “My name is Luc.”

The Conversion
By MDC

I barely remember the first battle I was ever in, but the memories of the flies that come in and feast on the fallen is always fresh in my mind. Every fight is the same, from the days of stones and bones to these days of bombs and bullets. I’ve seen it all, and after every one I had to assume a new name and life.

I learned to use war as a way of disguising my existence from society. Back when I realized that I didn’t die like everyone else, I also noticed how people were uneasy with my presence. Whole armies would fall with only me coming back from the engagements. It was a brief encounter with Atlas of Cremona that made me think about hiding within the ranks of the fallen. I learned to use the names of the dead and live a new life every time another war ended.

In today’s modern world, it has become much harder for me to hide. People are too easily traced, whereabouts tracked, and their bodies are also well accounted for. I can no longer just take a name from a fallen warrior and assume their identity. I ran out of options in hiding using this method, and now I have come here seeking help.

When your religion began, I was already ancient. The number of people that followed your belief and have died by my hands are beyond counting. Yet here I am seeking your help in order to live. I have seen your places of worship go from places of refuge to places of ill-gotten gains. Your priests rose from being men of holiness to criminals of the highest order. I don’t see any conflict of interest in joining your order anymore.

Give me a new name, title, or appoint me to some unknown chair. In return I’ll keep the secret of what you really worship as hidden as my first name.

That’s One Way To Do It…
By Marx

“This is absurd.” Matt rolled his eyes. “How do I talk to you if you don’t have a name?”

“You are talking to me now.” She said, unfazed by Matt’s groan.

“You get used to it.” Lilith grinned in the corner, amused by the conversation. “She’s basically a telepath. She knows everything that’s happening in the present, so she’ll always know when you’re talking to her.”

“I know what everyone is thinking.” She corrected. “I do not read minds.”

Matt sighed. “Why don’t you name yourself then?”

“Do you think I would have gone the entirety of human existence without a name if I could simply name myself? The only one who can name me is-”

“Nora.” Matt shrugged. “See? Easy.”

There was complete silence in the room and when Matt looked over again, her eyes were bulging and her face turned beet red.

Then she vanished.

“W… what?” Matt asked the empty space, before looking over to Lilith.

“You just blurted that out, didn’t you?” Lilith asked, clearly putting a lot of effort into keeping her expression even. “Didn’t even think about it?”

“Well… yeah…” Matt admitted.

“I see…” Lilith nodded. Then the dam broke. “BWAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Then she didn’t even see it COMING! Oh my God! She must be so MORTIFIED!”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. He was still learning his way around the supernatural, but it was clear he’d just messed up. “Please explain. Use small words.”

Eventually Lilith stopped laughing long enough to answer. “Me, Eve, and my newly-named sister weren’t born of a mother. We operate on different rules. Do you really think I’d go by the name Adam gave me if I could just change it?”

“Okay… so… I’ll just take it back.”

“Sure!” Lilith grinned widely. “If you want to reject her. You know… like Adam did.”

“So, what do I do?” Matt sighed.

“Your children are going to be gorgeous.” Lilith giggled, and began humming wedding music.

“Keep that up and I’m going to ‘rename’ you too.” Matt threatened.

“Oh Matthew…” Lilith gleefully moaned. “I love it when you talk dirty.”