Seven Candids
by Brickosaur

Image ID:

Seven photos taken in rapid succession, accompanied by a dented disposable camera.

Photo 1: Two adults sitting in short canvas chairs, facing each other and smiling. In the chairs’ arms are glasses filled with a translucent golden-brown liquid. One is wearing a purple pointed hat with a wide brim, matching robes, and sunglasses. The other is in a pink tank top and khaki pants. He is severely sunburned. In the background is a half-collapsed tent and various trees commonly found in rainforests.

Photo 2: Both heads are turned toward the camera. Their poses are otherwise unchanged. The tip of a long, shiny, red tail can be seen in the top left corner of the image.

Photo 3: The pair is standing and facing front. One chair has been knocked onto its back, the liquid spilling across the dirt. The woman in purple is brandishing a polished stick, approximately eight inches long. She has an angry expression, and appears to be shouting. The other one is running toward the camera with his hands out.

Photo 4: The sunburned person is much closer to the camera. His face and hands suggest a placating gesture. The woman is pointing her stick at him with an accusatory glare. Her hat is falling toward the ground.

Photo 5: An unintelligible blur of colors and forms.

Photo 6: Close-up of a reptilian face, upside-down. The animal has bright red scales, wide eyes, and an open mouth with several sharp fangs.

Photo 7: A blurry shot, apparently taken sideways. A small, red, winged creature appears to be running toward shadowy brown shapes in the near distance, presumably trees. Several small figures are flying out of the trees, into a clear, cerulean sky.

End image ID.

Crossroads (Tales from Adfidem – Book of Boghos)
By Alan Baker

Ahita burst into the room where Perchuhi and Almast were sitting at a small table. Velvet curtains closed of separated alcoves and silk cushions lay strewn all over the floor.

“The most amazing thing just happened,” Ahita exclaimed, trying to catch her breath.

Almast rolled her eyes at Perchuhi. “What is it?” she said in an exasperated but resigned voice.

“I was out on my way to our favourite inn when I bumped into this man.” She paused. “Well, when I say bumped I really mean I walked right into him knocking him to the ground. I was about to help him up when I noticed his ring, solid gold bearing the royal seal.”

“You just bowled over a member of the royal family and came back here?” cried Almast sending her stool crashing to the floor.

“Don’t worry. I was about to run away before he could get up, but then he spoke. His voice was so peaceful. ‘Be not afraid, child.’ He said. I looked back, and his eyes stopped me in my tracks. Not angry or resentful but kind. I started blurting apologies as he was getting up. I couldn’t stop myself. ‘No harm done. Where might a lovely thing like you be going?’ he asked, but I felt he already knew. I felt myself turning red and didn’t answer. ‘Would you show me the way to the palace?’ he continued. ‘You a nobleman need directions to the king’s halls? Wouldn’t it be better if you showed the way?. I answered. ‘My way leads through a lonely desert, but on the other side, an oasis of freedom awaits.’ He said, and I answered: ‘Tell me of this way so I may also reach this oasis.’ And he answered:’I see that your soul yearns to change the path your body is choosing. Go, take this ring. Use it to pay your debts and come and follow me.’

Ahita took out the ring and showed it to them. ‘We should go and find him.’

The Radiant Artist
by Gamesolotl

The air was thick and hazy with methane. The universe had cooled down enough to allow for the formation of planets and stars a while ago, and this collision-scarred planet only just got the memo to follow suit. This was nothing new to the visiting Deity, who had visited thousands of planets like it before. They had been travelling to completely random places to observe the progress of this art project for billions of years.

The Deity radiated a divine energy, causing the molecules around them to shoot around randomly. Violent crashes between atoms created new molecules not seen on this planet before, and the molecules in the ground under them occasionally combined into long chains. This resulted in a white glow around their presence.

The most unique thing about this planet was the water. Water was not an uncommon element, but it was rare to see it in liquid form. Underwater, a crack in the planet’s crust spewed hot chemicals into the soup. The Deity observed for decades, which was only a moment for them. The radiant energy was not kind to the chemicals in the water, either. Nitrogen, sulphur, and carbon smashed together to form RNA. Amino acids were knocked into impossible configurations. Sometimes these configurations would interact with other amino acid arrangements, the RNA, and a plethora of other new molecules that also formed by chance. One of these complexes could even make a clone of RNA. Another complex could create impossible amino acid arrangements itself. Lipid bubbles would bump into molecules and swallow them whole. The Deity wreaked havoc on the soup, not even realizing it.

A gas cloud on the other side of the universe gave birth to a star. This place was a lot more interesting to the Deity, who had abandoned the young planet. There was no reason to stay for longer than a few moments, as the universe was filled with way more fascinating objects. As the Deity bathed in the fresh star’s heat, the first cell division occurred in the primordial soup on the young Earth they had just left.

Baby Blues
By Michael Word

To say that Julia Simmons’ life had gone downhill in the past year would have been the understatement of the century. No, her life hadn’t just gone downhill, it had taken a headfirst dive off of a cliff, somehow surviving by landing in a giant pile of dirty diapers rank with the smell of urine and feces.

Speaking of diapers, it sounded to Julia like her son needed a fresh one. She could hear him shrieking in his playpen from all the way across her parents house. Grabbing her baby bag and slinging it over one should, Julia made her way toward the noise.

It had all started the night of her senior prom. Julia and her boyfriend of the time, Jason Jenkins, had been caught up in the moment. Both had been dizzy from the magic of the night (and the various bottles of alcohol being sneakily passed around in the restrooms) and they’d decided to finally go “all the way.” Tom had accidentally forgotten to wear protection and Julia had accidentally forgotten to care.

One short, awkward romp in the back of Jason’s ’98 Ford later and the two of them had unknowingly conceived their future son, William Michael Jenkins. They’d accidentally gotten pregnant.

Jason had run off almost as soon as he had gotten news of the pregnancy. Julia’s dad wanted to “kill the little deadbeat,” as he would so elegantly put it at most dinner table conversations. Julia had been allowed to continue living with her parents after graduation, all three of them agreeing that it would be a temporary arrangement until the new mother got things sorted out, though nobody could quite define what “things sorted out” looked like.

Julia had reached the doorway of her and her son’s shared bedroom. Lying in the crib was little Billy, her “pride and joy,” her “little angel.” His face had turned a deep purple with the strain of how hard he was crying. Julia tried to take a step forward, but she found she couldn’t do it.

There was no maternal bond, no great welling of love for her child, nothing like that. Julia found nothing but a seething rage filling her chest as she continued to stare at the shrieking, hateful little thing before her. The cause of all of her problems, in a five pound, nineteen inches long package of flesh and excrement and piss.

Julia’s eyes slid their gaze from the crib to her bed. Her attention was focused on the pillows laid atop her sheets. Her thoughts screamed and tore through her mind like a hurricane, but one in particular was at the forefront as she continued to stare at the pillows;

Maybe this was one accident that she could take back.

You Always Remember Your First(CW: Domestic Abuse)
By Makokam

Jonathan turned the corner towards his home and walked down the alley behind the houses. Ahead he saw a man arguing loudly with his wife, again.

He was furious about something, as usual. The wife was sobbing, as usual. He grabbed her by the throat and growled something at her before pushing her back through the high fence’s gate and slamming it shut. He turned, picked up a bag and threw it into the trunk of his car.

Jonathan tensed as he walked closer to the man, and couldn’t help glaring at him as he passed. The man looked down at him, “What’re you looking at you little brat?”

Jonathan sneered, “A pile of shit that walks like a man.”

The man’s eyes widened and his nose flared, “Fuck you! You disrespectful punk!”

The thoughts came roaring to the surface of his mind, as clear as a voice whispering in his ear. Rip his throat out. Tear his limbs from his body. Crush his skull. Jonathan’s fists clenched as he tried to resist the strongest the impulses had ever been.

“Oh? You wanna take a swing at me? Come on, I’ll beat you until you know you place!” The last word came out more as a yelp as Jonathan closed the distance between them instantly. The man flinched back at the cold fury in the boy’s eyes. The man reached out to shove him back. Johnathan’s fist snapped up faster than a blink, hit the man in the jaw, and knocked him off his feet.

The man hit the ground and scrambled back, reaching for something on his belt. Jonathan launched at him, wrapping his fingers around the man’s throat and squeezing. The man’s eyes started bulging out of his face. He heard a loud bang, felt something dripping down his fingers, and could smell burning…and then he heard several cracks and his hands came together and the man went limp.

Jonathan blinked, and leapt back, horrified. He stared at the body for a moment then bolted away in a blink.

He wouldn’t notice he’d been shot for several hours.

Creation’s Heart
By The Assassin

I sit silently before an empty page. The world around me stills, calm, a breath before the storm. I raise my pen, a sword of truth ready to carve the cosmos. Infinite possibilities swirl around me, stretching into forever. Creation’s heart beats.

A story is a world of woven words, and I am the weaver. Worlds, characters, and ideas blossom, singing to my soul. The fabrics of reality wrap around me. The strings of destiny my instrument to strum and play, to make of it what I desire.

The infinitudes beyond, the reality of worlds within words, coalesce. Their dance gaining shape, taking form. My hand trembles. The world beyond, the dance, the song ever singing, becoming one, merging into a singularity.

The tip of my pen, the gateway. My hand, the guide. Creation’s heart beats. I look into that world, so close, so distant, just beyond reach. In it, I shape beauty, colours swirling to lives emerging. To create; to destroy: my duty.

My hand moves. My pen, my sword, my truths abound in the ink yet to drip. The vastness of realities eternal. Manifested in mind; to manifest in life. Creation’s heart beats.

My pen touches page, the brush for paint of ink. For a moment, all the realities beyond converge, a single vision, a single idea, a perfect world. I grasp that world, distilling it through pen and onto page and…

And…

Nothing.

Creation’s heart stills.

Reality spins again. I see my paper, blank as though never touched. I feel my pen, cold as though never held. I hear the world around me, lively as though never stilled.

I stare at the empty page.

The ink yet to flow; worlds yet to live. I reach for what once was yet find nothing. I search for a spark to rekindle the flame, yet I see only ash.

And I weep.

I weep for the words I do not know, for the ideas that will never be.

The Devil on Red River
The sun sank below the tree line, leaving us in inky blackness. They assigned Private Nelson and me the first watch that night. The last few nights had been hot and miserable but quiet. We made camp, and I set up my rifle for a long few hours.

Nelson and I took shifts. I went first, watching the river. The heat and the exhaustion lulled me to sleep—the sound of distant gunfire cut through the buzz of summer insects.

My eyelids snapped open, and my heart beat faster. I quickly glanced around to find Nelson snoring nearby. I checked my watch, 0300. It was well over Nelson’s turn for the night watch. As I nudged him awake, I heard a rustle in the nearby vegetation.

Nelson shot awake as well, aiming his rifle in the darkness. The Red River was ink-black in the evening, and we saw what looked like a raft floating on it.

“Sh,” said Nelson, putting his fingers to his lips.

I nodded as we saw the raft head toward the other side of the river—the shadow disappearing into the darkness.

“VC?” I asked.

Nelson nodded.

“I’m going to scout it out,” he said.

“Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Nothin’ here is safe. I’ll take my chances.”

He got up to leave. I kept my post until I heard a blood-curdling scream cut through the night. It was Nelson. Running toward’s them, I listened to his howls growing louder and louder.

“Watch out for the hole, Cox!”

I looked down and saw that Nelson was at the bottom of a pit. Sharp punji sticks carved out of bamboo skewered through him. The smell of blood cut through the acrid smell of the jungle.

“Nelson!” I screamed.

“Tell mama I love her. I want my mom. Mom,” he whimpered through tears.

“I will,” I said. Aiming my rifle carefully, I put Nelson out of his misery.

Screaming, I ran toward the river and saw the mysterious raft on the water. Just as it was about to slink off into the night, I fired my rifle into the darkness. A tall shadow on the raft slumped over before splashing into the water.

“Cox!” screamed Seargent Banks as he tackled me to the ground.

“Man down, we have a man down,” Banks screamed into his radio. “Friendly Fire.”

The raft belonged to a neighboring platoon across the river. Another soldier was scouting the area for VC. I would return home with the sick on the Jolly Green Giant tomorrow and await my court-martial.

Another man of circumstance, just like me. Another mother would get the news that I killed her son. Another girl left, cold and alone. Another father without a son to carry his legacy, another brother went. I had made a terrible mistake not burning my draft ticket.

A Monster
By: Kim
Charlie, tapped her foot by the floor, awaiting her mother. Crossing her arms, sitting on a dull bench. She groaned. Thinking about it.

Ever since Dad died, Charlie’s mother was traumatized. Planning on something, by destroying dad’s native town and lied to the mayor that she wanted to remodel the town, but she plans to destroy it. Why won’t her mother just live her life?

About a minute, her mother passed her, and Charlie came slithering after her. “Mom, don’t do this. Please. Have you ever considered to sit and think about it?” Asks Charlie.

“It’s for Dad. Besides, I ordered the mayor to evacuate the area.” Charlie yanked her mother’s wrist.

“Please.”

Her mother quickly tottered to a laboratory while her daughter chased her. “Mooom.” She called and noticed. Of course, her mother will supply nuclear bombs for the town. “MOTHER!”

Charlie’s mother turned her head to glare at her. “Please.”

“It’s for your father. So shut up.”

“Bullshit! Would you think father would like this if you destroy his home?”

“Honey, I have too.”

“I know your plans. And you went too far, mom.”

“Honey, please. Don’t-,” it’s just then when Charlie noticed an off button.

Her fingers slightly went for the button, as her mom came shouting, “DON’T!”

Charlie quickly clicked the button as her mother gaped at her hands as a bottle of liquid knocked over her. Charlie groaned as Charlie’s mom was pale dead. What has she done?

Red fur grows in Charlie, cat ears popped, a raccoon tail swing, as she becomes a monster. Her mother stepped back. Charlie roared and knocked over some tables, as she gave a glare for a minute at her mother. She roared once more and headed for the walls, crashed through, as she disappeared through the darkness. She’s gone.

Charlie’s mom couldn’t forgive herself but kept looking at the hole in the walls. SHE was the real monster. She fell to her knees and sobbed. Her child was a creature all because of her. Tears fell from her eyes.

Charlie’s mom huffed and breathed out, “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

Accidental Challenger
By RVMPLSTLSKN (repost from Private)

“You’re familiar with the idea of dragon psychology, of course?” The advocate asked.

Colton out of place in the gray and wood room. The dark desk matched the leather chairs, both with polished brass points. The metal was warming under his sweaty palms.

“Of course. Hoarding and prestige, for its own sake,” Colton said. His gaze flicked to the paintings above them. They were fakes; not prints, but copies hand-painted by a skilled amateur.

“Good,” the advocate across the desk nodded. “Now, how about tyrant philosophy?”

“Uh, can’t say I’m familiar.” Colton refocused on the balding, confident man. He’d done well in art and psychology. Philosophy always felt too soft for him, intangible. Well, unless he was talking about politics with a potential client, which he desperately tried not to do. He just had one of those faces, he supposed.

“It is very simple; tyrant philosophy states that everyone has the moral duty to challenge each other. Only the victors can rise and the victors are the tyrants who rule.” The advocate lifted his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, ‘how inefficient!’
“It is. This is how so-called ‘problem patriarchs’ are made.”

“I don’t see how this is relevant to my situation,” Colton said. “Are you saying my father is a problem patria—.”

“Your father is dead. He was, however, a dragon. He spent his wealth hoarding art, lesser pieces mostly. But all by skilled and well known artists, with a couple exceptions.
“Your sister is the tyrant. You are a challenger. Do you understand?”

“You make it sound like we’ll be fighting.” Colton laughed. The idea played out like a DBZ episode in his head.

The advocate leaned forward. “You will.”

Colton’s smile faded.

“Not physically, but you’re claiming to be older than her and her father—your father—was very particular about his Will. It aligns with his heritage. Sons get equal shares, but the oldest takes two shares and takes care of the unwed daughters.”

“But I thought she was the only child.”

The advocate sighed and leaned back in his chair. “So does she, Colton. So does she.”

The Silver Apples
by Johnny Saguaroseed

The thwack of his shot yet echoed through the pavilion as Eurybotas, disguised, bowed to the lady paramount. Nine arrows he had placed in the center of the mark and should he place one more he would win the prize—the princess’s hand and with it half the kingdom, the restoration of his good name and entitlement to his family’s ancestral home, and, most importantly, the silver apples the king had promised to any man who could land ten bull’s-eyes at a distance of 500 yards. There were three reasons why Eurybotas would not miss his final shot, which are as follows:

1. He was Eurybotas.

2. His bow was made from a branch of Irminsul, secreted away and kept hidden by Saxon pagans after its destruction by Charlemagne.

3. The fletching on his arrows came from Scandinavian geese, which are not born from eggs but arise from fir timber tossed by the sea.

Yet as I watched Eurybotas test the wind and secure his footing for the upshot it occurred to me that Time and Fortuity have often played games with the maturation of natural species. At any time an accident of ordering in the betwined genetic ladders of the Barnacle Goose, which—despite the opinion of Vincent of Beauvais—emerge from eggs like any other bird, might have an influence on the properties of lift and buoyancy their feathers achieve, and might distract an arrow from its true flight. And so, with thoughts of how the fate of Troy could be traced to Helen’s pulchritudinous nucleotides, I watched Eurybotas select his final arrow.

It Will Never Happen Again (Nyssa’s Story)
By Calliope Rannis

The room was suffocatingly dark. Nyssa could barely see Professor Sianairra from across the table. Her old Elven superior sat with her right side to Nyssa, staring into the featureless black with a cold blue eye.

“You never listened to anything I said, did you,” the Professor said, a sharp certainty to her voice. “Nothing of any actual importance, in any case.”

Nyssa shuddered. “I-I thought, I thought that it would just–”

“That it would just be you? That nobody else would be hurt? That you could utterly desecrate not just your own body, but also the holy artefact of a God, and then just amble off to the afterlife like none of that would matter?” A harsh laugh. “You were always a stubborn, self-centred brat.”

“If I had known that the effects would spread–” Nyssa’s voice shook.

“You did not know. You could never have known, but you did it regardless. Renovaire and its people are ruined and drowned, because of YOU.” The Professor’s head turned towards her, and Nyssa tried to look away from that awful face, but the darkness wouldn’t let her.

“Quelvara…I promise you, I’ll do everything, everything to make this right – I’ll help everyone I can, I’ll try to save lives, I’ll make this world a better place – I-I’ll never cause such destruction ever aga–”

Another acidic laugh. “Do you expect me to believe anything you say? You lied to everyone for years, and you lie to yourself just as easily.” She leaned a little forwards, her half-crushed features becoming clearer. “If you REALLY wanted it to never happen again, you would have burnt your notes, consigned your dire machine’s memory to ash. Instead, you keep them. You modify them. You IMPROVE them.”

“-No, it’s not like–”

“You want this. You want to try AGAIN.”

“No!”

“You will never change. You will never help anyone but yourself. You should just end it now, before you–”

“STOP!!!” The room was suddenly drowned in light, and Quelvara Sianairra was gone. The only thing left was Nyssa lying in her bed, blinking blearily in the morning sunlight.

The Academy
By LewdCharizard

“Don’t worry Bell, I’m sure you’ll make that jump by the end of the year, or die trying!”
Bell laughed. The professor laughed. My fellow students laughed.
I wasn’t supposed to be there.

One week earlier—

I watched the courtyard from my hiding spot in the trees. It was a tough looking building to crack. A sprawling wood thing with a jumble of architectures. But, if I didn’t make my move tonight, Johannes would nab the psychic ball. He was a Southern District native and damn good at the finding game. He knew it, too; the smug bastard. Last time our ball had materialized in his district, he had it before the end of the day. Well, this time the ante was two B-grade ration tickets, and I was hungry.

I could see guardsmen by moonlight. Seven in total, and four blind spots. Three of those spots would have guards if they knew what they were doing. Still, the yard looked built for breaking into. The garden shed unwatched on the west side, the patch of grass, the long shadow of the mansion itself, the ground level window leading to the basement… It wouldn’t be without risk; I could see the tip of a sheath under the nearest guard’s cloak. But, I could outrun swords if I had to.

I reached the window in good time, but as I crouched about to gain access, I heard a yelp. I scanned the yard and- yes there, in one of the blind spots! There was a person writhing on the ground. Please, not Johannes. One guard walked towards the body, crossbow in hand. There was no alarm. No shouting. Even so, they would be scanning more closely. Shit and whiskers! I opened the window and dropped inside. It was cave-black, and blood pulsed in my ears, deafening me. I let my eyes acclimate to the dark. Was that…

“Congratulations, and let me be the first to welcome you to our academy!”

His shadow-clad figure leaned forward conspiratorially.

“You’re the fourth, you know. Excellent work.”

Anything but Friendly
By Lucas Sanchez

Snipers never work alone. They have spotters, for the purpose of identifying targets, helping the rifleman adjust aim, and essentially everything that a gunman with unwavering attention isolated to a small plot of land through 20x magnification wouldn’t be able to do alone.

Sniper teams could be paired with the same people with whom they trained with during basic, but this was the exception rather than the rule. More often than not, the selection was randomized, and sniper teams were assigned regardless of the comfort they felt with one another. That hadn’t been the case with Perez and me. Fate had decided that I would be paired with the same man I trained with, with the same man I knew since elementary, with the same man I felt most comfortable with in this world. His mother, his father-family I felt closer to than even my own, and Perez, my brother.

It was an early Thursday evening, the sun already setting, when it came time. Perez was late, as usual, so I took the job of setting up into my own hands: deployed the tripod, mounted the rifle, ran a brief inspection-short jobs that could be done without him.

Only a quarter of the sun remained when a new burst of light erupted by the horizon. An explosion, a UAV strike likely, which would mean fleeing bogies, an opportunity I couldn’t miss. I trained my sights on the outskirts of the village from where the explosion had erupted and took fire on the first armed silhouette I saw fleeing.

I was proud at first, confused when I saw troops from our nearby camp rush to the scene, mortified when they rushed to the body I’d gunned down. I was horrified enough at the thought of a civilian casualty, until I heard the words over radio, “Perez is down.”

Snipers never work alone. They work with partners, and I had killed mine, my best friend, my brother. I decided that night that I would only shoot one more bullet for as long as I lived, and this time, I wouldn’t miss.

So… Is One Of You Going To Pay For That Door?
By Marx

Shayna huffed in frustration, crossing her arms in front of the door. “I get that I’m the only mortal here but I’m a demon hunter! This is LITERALLY what I do.”

“I know.” Matt said warmly, petting the human’s head. “You have nothing to prove.”

“We got this. We’re just more suited for the front line.” Mara said eagerly. Her claws were out, her spade-tipped tail whipped back and forth, and her bat-like wings were quivering in the excitement of her demonic bloodlust as she faced the door.

Shayna pouted but stepped back, though she never lowered her weapon, just in case. Her training wouldn’t allow for such carelessness, even with her powerful comrades.

Matt nodded and raised his hand to the door before magically shattering it. The two magical beings launched into the room, catching the inhabitants by surprise.

Matt went for the male and Mara went for the female. The fight was as brutal as it was short-lived. Matt trusted in his familiar to do her part and put all his focus on overwhelming the demon he was currently throttling against the wall. He’d expected this to be much harder.

The demon fought his losing battle and even seemed forlorn when he saw that his companion wasn’t faring much better. Glaring back, he spat in Matt’s face. “You can tell Alex to go fuck himself.”

Matt paused. “…You’re not Alex?”

“Of course he’s not Alex!” The girl demon shrieked in Mara’s grip. “Will isn’t even a full demon! Please let him go! I’m the one you want!”

Mara’s eyes narrowed as she locked eyes with the pleading demon. Her magic then pierced into her mind. The demon had a human soul. And yet all Mara could feel from her was pain. There was fear and guilt as well, but the pain overshadowed it. Someone had thoroughly and truly messed this girl up. Mara immediately released her. “You poor creature… I’m so sorry…”

“I have an idea.” Matt sighed, releasing his opponent. “How about we talk?”

“Talking sounds good…” Will wheezed.

“Ugh!” Shayna groaned from outside, lowering her weapon.