The Oven
By C.W. Spalding

On the oven hung a sign which read “Do Not Enter.” Petre passed it every day as he loaded up the trolleys. The wheeled devices were so heavy, running in their treads like a train on a rail, and each one was chocked full of uncooked morsels of chicken. Each trolley was filled, pushed in, sealed up, and then set to bake.

“You about done?” Wurman asked.

“Just ’bout,” Petre replied.

He wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his plaid shirt and placed the last basket of legs on the cart. Wurman turned away to his own baskets; his quota was not nearly finished.

Man, it was hot. And loud. The industrial fans did little to quell the intense heat of the ovens’ baking.

“I’ve gotta piss,” Wurman said.

He was already behind.

“Hurry back,” Petre said warningly.

Wurman went hobbling off and Petre turned to push in his cart. But as he put his shoulder to the edge of the trolley, it didn’t budge. That was odd. He grunted with effort, pushing with his hips too. Still nothing. So, he glanced into the dark long tube of the oven.

There must be something on the rail.

When he stepped inside, the oven was cool. The tube was stale with the smell of grease. It muffled the monotonous roar of the factory. As Petre peered into the darkness, he pulled out his mini-flashlight.

Oh, there was the source of his troubles. A stray basket which must have fallen off the night before lay wedged with its corner in the rail’s divot. Quickly, he went inside to grab it. And he chuckled as he picked it up. Stupid thing.

But then he heard a rumble and he turned to get a face full of trolley as it was pushed in.

“Wurman?! Wurman!”

He could see the door, over the trolley. He cried out. But not louder than the factory’s noise. The last thing he saw was Wurman smiling, having done a good deed for his friend Petre, as the door… swung shut. The oven hurred to life.

Chronicles of The Dragon: No OSHA Compliance
By Makokam

Jonathan walked through a tunnel along a cluttered walkway, gracefully slipping passed rock crumbling from the ceiling. The tunnel opened into a chasm, and it was now that he noticed the lack of any sort of railing as it crossed to the other side. He glanced over and was unable to see the bottom. He dropped a ball of fire, and after several seconds he couldn’t tell if it had hit bottom or dissipated on it’s own. He shrugged and continued on.

Not much further he could hear the sound of machinery and cracking stone, and a minute after that the tunnel opened up again. This cavern was exceptionally large, and dozens of people were working to make it larger. The room was lit to the bare minimum for the work to be done, with cables snaking all across the floor, and stacks of supplies stacked seemingly at random. The supports seemed to be insufficient for the size of the room, based on the frequency of stone falling from the roof.

Standing on a platform at the end of the tunnel, he found the target of his search; Lady Death.

He walked up beside her, taking a long drag on a cigarette. Looking out at the crews working to expand the cavern he said, “Ya know, before I thought you just didn’t care. Now, I’m thinking this place is a death trap on purpose.”

She slowly turned her head towards him, a small smile on her face that gradually grew into a feral grin. “Why on earth would you think that?” the necromancer asked.

Ignoring that question, he asked another, “So is it for people that try to stop you, or are you expecting the people working here to die so you can take their souls or whatever you do?”

She shrugged, seeming as pleased with herself as he’d ever seen her, “A little of Column A, a little of Column B.”

He nodded.

Ero came in then and sneered at Jonathan, “Why do you smell like a brothel?”

“Well, when a man and a woman love each other-”

A Notice (Oneiron Universe) [Private Repost]
By: Insania404, Proofread by RVMPLSTLSKN and Lunabear

Alfred hoped that his rapid promotion to director would be a temporary one, but nonetheless, he couldn’t stand how cluttered his friend had allowed the desk to become. It was during this impulsive cleaning that he noticed the pink slip of paper, dated exactly one year ago, nestled in one of the many small wooden drawers. His eyes caught only a glimpse and the note latched onto his mind, filling it with a dark truth:

Director Jameson Pulchant,

I, Isaac Burgess regretfully inform you that my employment at Oneiron Technologies Ltd must come to a close. As you know, my condition has been worsening for the past few weeks and I am sure you are as aware as I am regarding the negative influence it has had on my work. This condition is more than simple exhaustion and insomnia. It feels as if literal shadows are taking over my mind, clouding my judgement.

Until such time that I can determine what the cause of my ailment is, I will be taking immediate leave from this facility. I fear I will carry the burden of last week’s incident forever and I do not wish to cause any further harm. Please, do not inform the rest of the company of the extent of my illness. I do not wish to worry them.

Sincerely,

Isaac Burgess, content writer

Alfred’s heart sunk into his stomach once the wave of truth washed over him, drowning out the reality that he knew of his friend. “You knew about this for at least a year? Jamie, why didn’t you do something to stop it?”

Alfred rummaged through the other small papers in the drawers and on the surface of the desk, ignoring bills and other worthless trash that echoed the petty struggles of the world before the Madness. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but his fingers found the damning evidence he’d been seeking. He brought the simple note into view and read the small message:

Despite my best efforts, I have failed. Even the CiRFiS cannot force us to dream again.

The Audit

By G.J. H.

“Oh, I almost forgot about the audit tomorrow! Did you fix that unsecured gas container of yours?”

“Sure, I did.”

“But wasn’t the container cabinet full already?”

“Yeah, I secured it with sticky tape against the Table.”

Tom burst out laughing, “Not exactly secure by the textbook.”

Jeph turned around in his chair. “I won’t take advice from someone who just fixed the dangers of his ragtag deep temperature reaction apparatus by attaching a note saying, do not touch.”

“That’s an official work instruction sheet!”

“It’s a scrap of paper with text marker writing on it..”

They both looked up at the sound of the door and saw Professor Gelick blinking in disbelief at the state of the laboratory.

“Didn’t I tell you to prepare everything for the audit? That apparatus of yours is still there, Tom! And is that sticky tape there on the gas container? Are you stupid?!”

“Well the cabinet was full, so I thought that’s the best way to secure it.”

“If someone sees that, It will be classified as a safety hazard. Take that tape of and put the container in the corner behind the cardboard. And Tom, dismantle that apparatus of yours and store it away. You can install it again the day after tomorrow.”

With that, he turned around and left the laboratory.

“Jeph?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever wonder whether we’re doing this safety right?”

“No. I’ve stopped wondering”

Alphabet Soup
By T.E.

Early morning. I scrolled mindlessly through the inbox. Almost a hundred emails had been received during the night. Couldn’t production achieve anything without supervision?

Peter strolled into the room. Dark rings underneath his eyes. Probably hungover, again. “There are ants in the coffee machine,” he said.

The words didn’t quite sink into my mushy brain. “Come again?”

“Look. The thing is swarming with the things.” He sat down at the desk next to mine and showed me the cup. A thick layer of many-limbed corpses covered his morning elixir. A myriad of shapes. Some forming words.

“Those aren’t ants, Peter. They’re letters.”

I was no expert. I’d never encountered coffee-ants or letters before. But they had to come from somewhere. I leaned forward, focused my gaze on the screen. The letters seemed to crawl, the serifs grew into little legs which carried the letters offscreen. Were they getting bigger?

“They’re crawling out of the damn screen!”

I nodded in silent agreement. “They do, don’t they.”

The letters covered the entire desk now. The morning’s memo had spawned its own brood to join those from the inbox. Only the two of us in the office. Tired. The caffeine withdrawal began to set in. Not the optimal circumstances to deal with hours of administration, even less so for dealing with an infestation of letter-bugs.

“Let’s try keeping them on the desk,” I said. “We need to get all this sorted before lunch.”

“But, how?”

I had an idea. “Coffee.”

I shambled to the kitchen. A post-it on the coffee machine read: “Don’t drink. Ants.” The machine worked perfectly. Even though I got as many dead letters as coffee. I filled every cup I could find and took them back two at a time.

The letters kept to the desk, dove into the cups. “Well, let’s get to sorting,” I said and began picking the scalded letters one at a time from the black liquid, trying to make sense of the mess.

Another day at work. I had to filter my coffee through my teeth.

Standards Apply Posthumously
By: VeryBoringName

His long dark robe made him nearly trip, those dress codes are gonna kill him one, he thought to himself, of course, he meant it metaphorically, he doubted he could get much more dead than now. He looked again upon his dark clipboard, the days of carrying scythes have passed since they needed to adapt to modernity after all, what would their clients think when seeing a scythe, though, not that they had much choice of company.

“Ah finally!”

He exclaimed excitedly when he finally came upon their latest client, amongst strewn around boxes, with his head in an unnatural position, as a reply Reaper only got some gurgling. He extended his hand to his client, helping him onto his feet, before helping him with his head.

“Who are you?”

The recently deceased asked.

“Reaper Ignatius Psychopomp, R.I.P to friends”

Reaper answered, trying to ignore the slight chuckling of his client, he never got why they did this. Reaper handed the deceased man his clipboard.

“Sign here, it’s the official contract of employment at Light at the End of the Tunnel Inc.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, you can vanish into nothingness!”

Reaper cheerfully replied, still seemingly oblivious to the weight of what he was saying, the client, for his part, hearing his only other option, hurriedly signed the contract. Client’s clothes were exchanged for stylish white-collar attire, and they were immediately transported into the immaterial office space.

“Welcome to our headquarters, your job is filling in the details of newly deceased for the likes of field operators like me!”

Reaper said enthusiastically, before noticing how the office space looked like, at least 3 junior deaths were making paper planes out of heavenly paper, and everyone else was so much worse.

“Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you don’t have to behave!”

He heard a quiet oh-oh from the new employee.

“How did you die?”

He asked.

“OSHA violations”

Employee replied timidly, Reaper facepalmed himself, this is gonna be a long day.

No Rest for the Wicked
By Karl Aegnor

Entering the warehouse, Naish took note of the exits. Several windows, only one door. Good. He readied his gun and crouched behind some boxes. If the intel from June was good, this would be the easiest bounty he’d bagged in a while.

“Hiya, mister!”

Naish wheeled around. Behind him was a girl, she couldn’t have been older than ten. Rosy-cheeked, with a vibrant smile, though she turned pale when she saw the pistol pointed at her face. Naish stood and lowered his gun, though he kept it in hand. “What are you doing here?” He asked, trying to sound as gentle as he could. The girl only managed to produce a few stammering sounds. Crouching down, he tried again. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you scared me, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here.”

“W-well that makes sense.” The girl continued, “I was just here to give my daddy something he forgot. He usually comes here when he has ‘business.’”

Naish concocted a simple lie. “Well, I’m a friend of you daddy’s. Why don’t you give me whatever it is, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“What’s your name?” The girl asked, “If he doesn’t have it when he gets home, I need to know who’s still got it.” Naish grimaced at that.

After a moment, he responded. “Naish.”

The girl cocked her head. “Nay-sh?”

“Short for Ignatius. Iggy was never my style. Now go home, I’ll give it to him.” Naish said, holding out his hand.

“Well, alright.” The girl put a small, metallic object in his hand and headed towards the door. Naish breathed a sigh of relief, he hadn’t though his performance was that convincing. His relief was short-lived, the girl’s father came in.

***

Naish tossed something to June, a pocket watch of antique design. “What’s this?”

“For the bounty, some sort of good luck charm. For us, dinner.”

June inspected the watch. “Why didn’t you bring him in? Did he get away?”

Naish lit himself a cigarette, and stood a few moments before answering. “Nah. I just thought I’d save my ammo.”

Schlong
By Mango Gravy

The Book of Droogs had in it every alchemical recipe known to Wizardkind. Unfortunately, it had been lost to time and rediscovered a hundred times over and many of its pages were long gone, and others were barely recovered. It was the lifelong purpose of many Alchemists to find what was lost and, in doing so, rewrite the venerable book.

“Holy fuck. I’ve gone and bloody done it,” yelled Gripwood, ecstatic at his achievement, “Master! Get your sorry arse in here!”

“I do say,” muttered Aldieb as he rushed into the laboratory, silver beard thrown over his shoulder and flowing behind him, “you must regain control of your tongue, young man.”

“Drink this shit and we’ll see what you have to say about it you old fart.”

Aldieb was apprehensive, on account of the foul language, but his apprentice was a fine lad and had the makings of a legendary wizard in him. So he took the goblet in his protege’s hand and downed the liquid.

“Not the worst tasting potion I’ve ever drunk,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “Still tastes like hot piss.” His hand shot to his mouth, astounded that he uttered such an… unprofessional word.

“Say something you wrinkly c-”

“Entry sixty nine! The vulgarity potion. Merlin’s balls, you’ve done it, boy.”

“Bet your hairy butt I did,” said Gripwood as he stumbled over to his notebook, violently flipped through it and slammed his finger down on a checklist.

Aldieb followed, an excited smile stretching across his face. When he spoke he chose his words carefully. “What was… missing … from the f-… damned book?”

“Read it you old coot.”

Aldieb reached into his sleeve and pulled out a pair of eyeglasses, then bent down to skim over the page. Suddenly he reeled back, hands clasped over his mouth until he could compose himself.

“Troll’s fingers roasted alongside a veil woven from spider webs. Trolls and web, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Aldieb caught himself on another curse and slowly continued. “How long will this… ordeal last.”

Gripwood shrugged, “Fuck if I know.”

The Garden Soyl
By RVMPLSTLTSKN (From the City of Meat)(repost from private)

The first Soyl to be laid in the garden wasn’t called Soyl. The name was given, as were the last rites, by the Carnomancers Baculli. They were a troublesome pair of brothers who loved and laughed and faced the Plight with a grin.

‘Soyl,’ they said as they laid him down. ‘This is better than you deserve.’

The garden was a place chosen for its isolation and high walls. The great veins were nearby, feeding from the upper coronary artery. Soyl would, as no citizen should, live forever.

Soyl, they joked, was inert. They meant this to say he was no carnomancer, to reference a dim memory they shared of earthen floors instead of callused flesh, but really they wanted to feel safe. Truth, they were as blackhearted as Soyl and they felt like they were losing.

‘Soyl,’ they said as the meat quivered. ‘This is not justice.’

But it was the arbiter’s orders; the sociavore would service society instead of preying on it. Death would lead only to sickness and rot. This would not serve the city.

But neither did Soyl, so they laid him down in the meat and their garden was planted.

A carnomancer’s work is slow, methodical, each piece attached surgically and magically fuse. It is as much art as skill; this is why they chose the floor for Soyl. A pun and punishment as the great eye above watched him forever. The city is eternal.

But there is sloppy work too. The brothers Baculi are not known for sloppiness, those telltale signs of scarring and deterioration. There are things to remember that even most experienced valvemen would not think of; gall, acid, waste and air. Yes, always air.

They work slow, these two, cleaning and leaving no place for rot to infect the city. Under them, muscles trembled and bones clicked and the City lived. They were proud of their work and Soyl was now a pair of eyes in the meat.

‘Soyl,’ they said as meat joined the city. ‘We wish we could give you kindness, but then we would be like you.’

All for Wine (Sword Isles)
By Connor A.

Oberon sat in front of the fire pit he set in the middle of his cave. He was mending one of the bows his followers offered to him when he heard his falcons screech. Assuming it was a trespasser, he paid no mind to it.

“Hey! High King!”

The hunting god jumped at the voice. He haphazardly tossed the bow aside and ran out to the mouth of the cave to spot a fur-clad person shielding himself from the falcons’ talons. Oberon whistled for the falcons to come to him, and they promptly obeyed.

The person straightened up and revealed a Wyld Lord’s mask. He chuckled and said, “Been awhile.”

Oberon snapped out of his shock when he realized who it was. “Lord Vio, people give their offerings at my shrines for a reason. The Hilt is dangerous.” He sent his falcons off and motioned for Vio to come inside.

As they entered the cave, Vio adjusted his gloves. “Yeah yeah, no magic and all that.”

Oberon turned around and stared Vio down. “I am serious. You have no protection beyond the Blade. Humans will not show you mercy out here.”

“Well, I’m still alive, right?” Vio reached into his coat and pulled out a wine bottle. “I know how you are about offerings from outside the Isles, but I don’t know when I’ll get my hands on Tu wine again.”

Oberon’s stare turned to the bottle. He took it by its neck and walked back to his seat. “I will make sure your departure goes smoothly. For now, share some of this wine with me.”

Vio took off his gloves and rubbed the webbing in between his fingers. “Thanks.”

He would never admit it, but Oberon held these small visits higher than any material offering. It was a comfort in a land he no longer recognized, and he would take it whenever he could.

Oberon poured a cup and handed it to Vio as he sat across from him. When he poured his cup, he toasted Vio and drank the surprisingly sweet wine.

You’ve Done It Now, You’ve Gone and Made a Big Mistake
By Marx

Lilith sighed as her office door opened. She knew who it was immediately and chose to keep her attention on her computer monitor.

“Mother…” Alex greeted curtly.

“Alexandros.” Lilith replied, matching his tone. “Should I assume this visit is because of a certain herald to the apocalypse who you provoked?”

“Firstly, he started it with me. All I did was feed.”

Lilith let out a chuckle. “Is that all? I could have sworn you kidnapped one of his group and used them as a bargaining chip. After torturing them.”

“He’s too powerful to fight head on! I’d be dead by now if I hadn’t!” Alex growled in frustration.

“That would be such a shame…”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Anyway… I heard you were part of his group now. I need to know if you’re going to be a problem.”

This caused Lilith to look away from the monitor and flash her progeny a predatory grin. “And just what would you do against me if I were?”

Alex took a cautious step back. “I didn’t mean it that way, Mother. I just need to know how deep in this I am.”

“He’s LITERALLY the destined mate of Death.”

“Exactly.” Alex stewed. “So, I have to keep him out of my hair without trying to kill him. Death made herself VERY clear on that from the last time.”

“That poor fairy.” Lilith said, almost with genuine sympathy. “May I offer you some advice?”

“Please do…”

“I am, in fact, NOT with Matthew anymore. I come with strings to Hell and he chose to be neutral.”

“Smart boy.”

“Here’s the thing.” Lilith leaned in. “I gave him a secondary offer. I’d take you out myself. All I asked was for him to spare me in the apocalypse. One he continues to deny will happen.”

“And?”

“He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come out even though he wanted them to. My advice, my stupid son… is that Matthew is going to kill us all anyway. Your death is just going to be personal.”

“…Thanks for the help.”

“Don’t mention it.” Lilith smirked, watching Alex leave.