Hello, Fighters from all walks of life!
Have you ever experienced anything that was really scary? And even though you stayed strong in that moment, once it ended, you realized how terrified you really were? Maybe in a battle or something? If you have the time, I’d like to hear of your experiences, because…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
The Glass Sword
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
This prompt has been in the running for a while, and what a prompt it is! Now, a prompt like this might seem very basic, limited even. But that’s not the case at all.
Of course, you’re welcome to take the literal route. Perhaps you choose a lone adventurer, pressing on through their travels in search of a fabled weapon. Why do they seek it? To overthrow the ruler of their land? To protect their home from an enemy they thought long gone? Or were they just sent to get the sword for a large sum of money in return? Maybe you choose a king’s loyal knight, his most trusted warrior and their sole unique weapon, which has ended many a war. Does the knight learn something terrible and great about the king they fought for without question, and turn their sword on him? Do they finally crumble in a great battle? If so, perhaps their sword finally shatters… or is picked up by a new master, determined to follow in the knight’s footsteps.
There’s plenty of literal ways to write this prompt. But, as is the case with most, if we just tilt our heads and squint a little, there’s something else a prompt like this can mean.
It doesn’t have to be literal at all. You could choose to write about a mage, fighting in an incredible battle against a mighty foe. Seeing that they and their party are losing, they decide to use the one spell they only ever saved for emergencies to even the odds… even if it results in them being unable to fight on any longer. Perhaps you choose someone finally standing up for themselves to a bully, but the conflict leaves them drained and trembling, as they knew they had to finally say something, but feared the response. Maybe you choose someone who is normally very guarded finally managing to visit a therapist, and that strong, prickly facade crumbling as they at last get to pour their heart out. Or perhaps you choose to write about the friend who stays strong for everyone around them, yet at home, by themselves, falls apart from the weight of their own problems. Because while they know how to be open for others, they cannot open up to others about their own issues out of fear or anxiety.
So see, while the literal sense can be fun, there’s an underlying meaning to this prompt.
Strong, but fragile.
Now, take up your pens, quills, and keyboards. Arm yourselves, and write us a journey unlike any other. Good luck, and Godspeed.
—Shawna
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Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.
Rules and Guidelines
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“Fragile Alliances”
By King_Nix
The Sun set once more on the unforgiving Winter of the Ukraine. Beneath a facade of calm, Arthur raged. The plans for his Crusade had been halted when the Russian broke their truce. It had taken the full might of the Holy Roman Empire, in addition to swift negotiations with Bazorig Khan of Mongolia and the raising of a whole three new Legions, to merely halt the Russian advance. That was two years ago, and the Empire’s forces had only this morning taken hold of Crimea.
“My absence has emboldened these rebels,” said Björn. “What good to you are my oaths if my kingdom is destroyed because of them?” More complications. Swedish and Finnish insurgents had taken advantage of the war to make a bid for independence. Now every day, Scandinavian forces were being bled from the Russian frontier to put them down.
“I understand, my son,” Arthur took some satisfaction at the face Björn, twenty-odd years his elder, made, “but will it be necessary to deprive the front of the entire Varangian Guard?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I thought otherwise.”
Arthur sighed. “Then your new orders are to take the Legion to Scandinavia and deal with the rebels swiftly – mercifully if you can manage it, you represent Rome, after all. God be with you, my son. You are dismissed.” With a nod, Björn left.
“The men won’t like this,” Arthur’s brother Renault, silent until now, said. “The line’s already stretched too thin, and without your guards you’ll be exposed.”
“I’ll manage it. The Varangians are indispensable, and cut through the enemy like a blade that never dulls. Yet, our alliance is tenuous – should I push too hard or attempt to bend Björn’s will, the blade will shatter like the finest crystal, and the shards will rip through the alliances of Holy Rome and unmake everything we’ve striven to build.”
“And if he forgets his oaths regardless, with your armies occupied, and decides to wait out the war?”
“That’s why I’ve decided to send you as my personal representative. Take a Century of the American Legion as an honor guard. It’ll be a good show of support from the Emperor.” A hesitant nod from Renault was all Arthur needed. He smiled, “And besides, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the opportunity to see Eira again.”
Scowling, Renault said. “I’ll start making the arrangements then. God be with you.” With that, he was gone, leaving Arthur alone.
Yes. Tying Björn to him by blood might just rectify this whole mess.
The Lone Tree
By Alexsander Edwards (EddySc)
Four men circled the lone elder like hungry wolves. Each wielding their own weapon and grinning menacingly as they looked at their victim-to-be’s long robes and impeccably polished wooden rings and necklace.
The old man, for his part, held onto a thin walking stick with trembling hands, his long white beard nearly touching the ground, painting an image that fit more a corpse than an actual living being.
“Give over your stuff, old man!” one of the thieves yelled. “If it’s worth coin, you live. No tricking us, you hear?”
“Uram.”
The elder barely opened his mouth, though the voice appeared to come from the entire forest encircling them, as a strong thunderstorm suddenly formed, covering everything in darkness.
“Gebo.”
In a flash, the man’s feeble walking stick turned into a tall yew staff adorned with a gem constantly switching between many colors. The elder looked up at the bandits and continued his incantations without blinking.
“Dagaz.”
A strong light followed, blinding his assailants. The man pointed his left hand at one of them.
“Raido Ansuz.”
The thief suddenly flew backwards, a wisp of light leaving his body towards the skies. Before the other men could understand what happened, the elder continued his barrage.
“Sowilo.”
A ball of flame engulfed another bandit, burning him alive.
“Isaz.”
The elder pointed his staff at another thief, freezing his attacker in place.
“Laguz.”
The final man dropped to his knees in realization. “Oh gods, what have we-”
The man stopped mid-sentence, grabbing his neck and gasping desperately for air before fully collapsing, as water spurted from his mouth.
Content that none remained to challenge him, the old man transformed his staff back into a simple walking stick and continued his journey through the world as a feeble hermit. Where he’d stood for the entire encounter, a series of engravings now marked the ground.
ᚢ ᚷ ᛞ ᚱ ᚨ ᛋ ᛁ ᛚ
U G D R A S I L
The Sword in the…Glass?
By The Missing Link
Arthur stared up at the legendary blade. It was a bit different than he was told, well more than a bit. He could see the full blade through the stone. This gave him pause, but every hero needs a sword. All the legends, all the fairy tales, all the heroes had swords. He couldn’t be the only one without. No, Arthur felt he had been chosen by this one in particular. It gleamed in its encasement as he put his hand upon the stone, smooth, almost flawless save a gash off to the side.
There was something magical about it, this sword Arthur’s dreams had told him must be pulled from the stone. Stories told around bedtime flashed through his head, “Whoever pulls the sword from the stone shall be king. He knew he would be a good king. Of what, where… he had no idea. However, what he was sure of was that as king, he would save the world. As for how… he’d cross that bridge when he got there.
For now, he had to focus on the task at hand, to free the sword from the stone. He thought on names as he scoped the stone for weaknesses, Durandal? No, too French. Excalibur, too dry. “It needs a name,” he mumbled as he found a hard sphere a few feet from the base of the stone, another bridge to cross later. He had figured out how to free his destiny.
Arthur lifted the sphere and prepared to throw it when a loud voice broke out across the room, “Hands off the exhibit kid.”
The Unintended Test
By Oathgiver
She carefully heaved against the heavy wooden doors. Once they were open enough for her to slip though, she stopped, and stepped inside the ancient chamber. It looked still, without all the torches lit, all the decorations were gone. A remnant of the heavy smelling incense lingered like a memory of honor and glory. A single shaft of moonlight shone down from the opening in the top of the dome. it shone on the weathered flagstone floor. But not in the place of honor, no. The ceremony was nearly two months ago. And even in this dim moon light she could see the blade. It seemed to have a faint light all its own. she had never noticed it in the past. All the torch light and smoke from the incense masked its gentile radiance. It almost had a twinkle, like starlight. Like silver blue starlight.
Without realizing it she found herself standing at the altar. She shook her head for a moment to bring her mind back to the present. Looking cautiously over her shoulder. Olney a sliver of torch light far behind her, gave any indication that the rest of the world existed. She turned back to the crystalline blade.
As she looked on it, memories started to flood her mind. In so many years past, so many warriors have held this blade as their final test. And not all had passed. Nearly all grimaced upon grasping the haft, some broke out in a cold sweat, others cried out, and some faltered. Dropping to their knees, jaw clenched. In the heavy haze of these memories she did not notice that her own hand was now slowly drifting toward the grip of the sacred weapon. As an indifferent, cold wind urged her hand forward.
Olney half a moment too late did she realize what was happening. Before she could recall her hand it was on the haft of the sacred blade, fixed there as by an unseen force. From somewhere in history thousands of voices spoke as one in her mind. “THE TEST HAS BEGUN”
Pride
By Alan Baker
I will not lower this mask I wear. I will not show the broken life I live. I put on a play for them to see. A perfect life, a perfect lie.
The Devil laughs.
Even if I see they too are broken, my guard I do not lower. Is it their judgment I now fear, even when before they did not laugh? What has changed since last we shared our troubles? What stands between us sharing truth? The sin that topples nations.
The Devil laughs.
To march in winter in summer clothes. Condemn a man to keep one’s face. Let millions bleed to feed our lies. Poison truth to hide one’s bonds. This is our world. This is my life.
The Devil laughs.
Small battles I may have won. In six sins, I am repentant. One hides and grows within my soul, for years unseen or left unchecked.
The Devil laughs.
I forge it into every word I speak. I carry it to conquer lands I never wanted, to beat down those who have already lost.
The Devil laughs.
This sin, I have not shared. The sin holds me down. Its roots so long, I cannot pull them up alone. Sunk so deep they hold my world.
The Devil Laughs.
It is the dagger at my throat. With it, he cuts away my fighting words. Laughing as I walk away from those who might help burn my pride away. To smash the dagger at my throat. To build my house on solid stone.
And so he laughs forevermore.
Rancor Chips Away
by Lunabear
This was Tibbin’s most hated time of year. It only brought cold; it lacked happiness and cheer. No trimmings adorned the empty hearth. There were no gifts nor trees; nothing of mirth.
He slouched with a sneer. No loved ones, as they didn’t want him near.
‘Your fault’, their haunting voices echoed. ‘You were terribly selfish! You hurt us so!’
Tibbin launched the glass from his hand, amber liquid and shards raining upon the bricks.
“See if I care, you great sniveling twits!”
Four successive knocks resounded from the door.
“Who dares to intrude,” he barked, his bare feet finding the floor.
An uppercut from the icy wind, but to its will, he did not bend. A lone package lay on his stair. Upon it, he visited his most hateful glare.
It was addressed to him with no other name. Tibbin’s scowl deepened. “What is this game?!”
With reluctance, and because of the chilly bite, he brought the package out of the unforgiving night.
Setting it on a nearby table, he racked his brain. His thoughts collided like speeding trains.
He pondered aloud, “Is this an illusion?” He stroked his jaw. “No,” he mused. It didn’t explain this festive inclusion.
“It could be a trick,” he relented. “They never TRULY believed me,” he further consented.
His emotions stoked higher, Tibbin gathered materials for a fire.
“This would be just like them!” he bellowed while striking a match. Grabbing the package, his plan he wished to enact.
One tear along its wrapping gave him pause. “That’s queer,” he whispered, staring in awe.
Unwrapping it fully and opening the box, Tibbin’s mouth fell open in shock.
“Is this true,” he exclaimed, his voice holding such denial. It was a kaleidoscope with colors meant to beguile.
Passed from his mother’s father, Tibbin had cherished it. Until it was stolen by Robbie, the foul little git!
A note within the box explained how Robbie had felt great shame. He hoped his wrong could be amended, for he longed to see the brother he had offended.
Tibbin’s bitterness fled; memories of home filled his head.
Get it? (Chronicles of The Dragon)
By Makokam
The fireplace was gas, but that didn’t make it any less nice. It made it feel very…homey. But in a not horrible way.
The wine helped. As did Charles’s arm around her.
Well, not like home. Better than home.
Home.
Kat looked around the penthouse. Was this her home now? She had certainly spent enough time here. And she didn’t really have a home outside of this place. But was this her home now?
“What are you thinking about?”
She considered it for a moment before nestling against him. “Home.”
“You don’t talk about your home much,” he said, sitting up straighter.
“And I’m not going to,” she said, and sipped her wine with a smirk.
He started to move out from under her and she could tell he was going to get serious on her. She stood up and walked across the room and started looking at the art pieces and collectibles.
One that always caught her attention but she hadn’t asked about was a sword that seemed to be made of glass sitting in a case.
“You like that one, don’t you?” he asked her.
“I like weapons,” she said. “And this might be the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen.”
“Funny thing about that. It’s not a weapon.”
She paused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what do you think would happen if you tried to use it like one?”
She gave the sword a closer look. It was very sharp, but also very… “It’d probably break as soon as you tried to swing it. Let alone hit anything.”
“Exactly. So what is it?”
“It’s just an art piece then.”
“Wrong.”
She looked back at him. “What is it then?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
She looked even more confused than before.
“To not destroy yourself trying to get what you want.”
“A Little Rain Shall Fall”
By: Arith_Winterfell
There’s a flash of pain as I awaken. The warm sticky dampness of blood dribbling down my fingers washed away by the falling rain. I can’t move. Too weak, probably from blood loss. I’m dizzy. Then it dawns on me, I’m going to die here. In the dark and alone.
A surge of adrenaline rushes through me in response. I try to rise from lying on my side only for my hand to slip in my own blood sending me sprawling on the ground again. My life’s going to end here, like a candle extinguished. My death is meaningless, done in by some nameless thugs for what little money I had. I can’t even scream for help.
I think about how I never had a wife or children of my own. Is the whole journey of my life for nothing. All I can think about is how small I am to the vast edifices that tower above me in this alley. How small the spark of my life has been in the vastness of space. Do any of us mean anything at all?
Like a scrambled transmission, is all my life a voice just lost in static? At least, there were the people’s lives that I touched. Those to who I showed kindness. I want to believe something of me lives on there. Even if it’s only tiny parts of me. Maybe the best parts.
I feel so fragile here in the rain. So brittle. There is nothing but oblivion waiting for me now. I wish I could rise like a sharp-edged light, ending in some meaningful end. But I lie here, cold and broken. It’s in the striving for something more that meant something, not how it ended. Right?
I can’t see so clearly now. I hope . . .
A Dance of Ebony and Scarlet (Repost from Private)
By ThatWeirdFish
Foils clashed in the light of stars and an orange moon. One of the duelers, Edmund, wore a grin that glinted as brightly as his sequined half mask.
Prince Melburn had invited him to his Masquerade Tournament, much to his surprise given his uncle’s… reputation. No matter, to refuse a prince’s good graces even if it meant an insufferable night of snide remarks and belittling was not good form. Yet here in this opponent, this “Scarlet Fencer,” he found one more interested in crossing blades and wit than gossip. A refreshing change from the norm.
“Where did you get such armaments?” Edmund asked as he parried their rapier. Its blade was a strange metal that shimmered like obsidian and paired with a dagger of identical make.
The stranger chuckled behind the embroidered scarlet sash tied around the lower half of his face. “A secret of House Crofton, I’m afraid,” He feinted and thrust again.
“I will trim your beard for trimming my cloak’s mantle,” Edmund teased and closed the distance. “House Crofton? As in the merchant lord and his forge bride?” He locked the obsidian sword between his dagger and rapier. “I was not aware they had a son.”
“Ah…” The Scarlet Fencer’s brown eyes fixed onto Edmund’s blues as his voice faltered. “There’s a long story about that….”
“Do tell?” Edmund arched an eyebrow, taking a step forward.
“Y-yes… it’s….” The Scarlet Fencer flinched as the clock struck on the hour. He swore suddenly and dropped his sword before fleeing into the night.
“Your blade, my good man!” Edmund yelled as the rapier clattered to the ground. He sheathed his dagger and grabbed the pommel of the black sword. “Nay leave such-ah!” He dropped both swords as the stranger’s pommel seared his hand with intense heat through his leather glove.
“What ails you, Heir of Westfarland?” One of the prince’s attendants asked as they hastily approached.
“A mystery…” Edmund mused, rubbing his hand as he glanced down at the obsidian rapier. He smiled as he looked towards the forest where the scarlet-clad stranger had fled. “A curious mystery indeed.”
The Sword’s Glass (Broken; A disconnected universe of tragedies)
by Mysten Noire Silver
The Sword of the Empire.
That was how everyone viewed him. Lord Marselli Dreysius was unparalleled on the battlefield and considered the strongest knight of the Alven Empire. He was the most loyal of the Emperor’s warlords and an excellent commander. He himself didn’t acknowledge these claims, but everyone did.
That fated night twelve years ago, Lord Dreysius stumbled into my isolated alchemy garden, drunken and distraught.
Since then, he kept visiting, drunkenly spilling his deepest thoughts and worries. I remembered the time when Lord Dreysius came in the evening, finally sober yet flushed in embarrassment as he gave me a basket of alchemic ingredients that I had offhandedly told him about. He began bringing me gifts whenever he could. He was the strongest knight and the kindest man. I smiled as I reminisced the past, thinking all about Marselli.
We confessed and became lovers four years ago.
I felt a tear fall to the side of my face as I gazed at the moon above me, ignoring the way that flames framed the beautiful night sky. I coughed and tried to frown at the thick blood in my mouth but failed to tense the necessary muscles. I could feel my body relaxing into the steel swords pinning me to the wall, the pain barely there anymore.
As I thought of how much hotter it needed to be to burn an alchemist’s body, I saw a panting figure flash into my view. Marselli stood on the door ahead. He rushed to me, yet I could do nothing but fall into his trembling arms.
I managed a smile as I listened to the familiar sobs.
“Lord Dreysius… shouldn’t cry so much.”
“Ansoli! Please stay awake, I- I can get your pills and-”
“Won’t work… They made sure… of it,” I took in the view of Marselli’s tearful blue eyes and leaned on him, “I’m sorry… for being your only weakness… Mar.”
As everything faded away, my heart and soul ached.
“The day he died, the Alven Empire was also wiped from the map.”
“Then I left to see my Ansoli.”
The sword of truth
By Amber
It was a simple weapon. Its handle is wrapped in dull leather without decorations. It would be completely unfit to lie on such an altar. The two men look at it while the priestess steps beside the altar.
“This is the last test?” The bright Guile says dumbfounded. “A sword of glass. It would break at the first impact.”
“The glass sword is your ultimate test. Cut through the pedestal’s shadow and you become king.” Axiom nods to the priestess’s words, his obsidian eyes shining determined.
“Shadows can’t be cut, foolish woman! They are there forever.”
“Cut through it, and you become king.” The priestess says, looking at Guile.
Cursing under his breath, Guile grabs the sword and walks to the shadows behind the altar. He slices at the shadow. With a loud shattering noise, the sword breaks in two. Guile drops the sword, surprised, as it breaks into more shards.
“Unworthy.” The priestess declares, walking to the sword and putting the pieces back together.
Guile glares at her furiously. “You must be joking. There was something wrong with the sword. I am the new king, say it!” he says.
Guile whiles when Axiom grabs his arm, raised and ready to hit the priestess. He grips the wrist; the hand turning white. “Don’t hit a woman who did nothing wrong. You aren’t worthy to be the king. Accept it.”
Guile looks at him with hate burning in his amber eyes. Axiom lets go of the hand and walks towards the priestess, helping her put the pieces together. “Your turn, Sir Axiom.”
Axiom grabs the sword and lifts it in the air, as it is whole again. Light glimmers off the weapon and with a swoosh, the sword goes to the shadow. Cutting right through it. The shadow lays split on the ground as the priestess walks towards Axiom and bows in front of him.
“The glass sword, the sword of honesty, allowed you to cut through the shadow of lies. I declare you, our new king.”
Glass Knife
By Lantis Armstrong
The night stalking serial killer strikes again – homicide of teenage girl confirmed after autopsy! The headline of the article stood out to Jess as she scrolled down her timeline; she paused here, because this was her home city.
Jess’s attention was pulled from her phone when she heard the nearby barista audibly sob abruptly, before biting his lip and forcing himself quiet again. He didn’t seem to notice that she’d seen his composure break, what little composure yet remained – he was still shaking, breathing in short, haggard breaths.
Orange light poured through the windows of the coffee shop, making Jess’s table and the barista’s countertop shine in the dying light of the evening sun. She couldn’t see his face clearly in this light, but could see him holding himself with both arms as his head slouched forward, almost as though he were about to drop his forehead on the counter.
“Are you okay?” Jess asked.
He flinched when she spoke, snapping out of his trance. He looked over at her, and she could see that he was several years older than her, perhaps in his early 20s.
“I just don’t think I can make it through another night of work.”
Jess smirked, “I didn’t even know this place stayed open all night.”
“Just tell me I can quit, and I’ll walk out of here right now. You’ll never see me again,” the barista said to her.
“No way. Everyone has stuff they have to do that they don’t want to. Just suck it up, you’ll be fine.”
Teeth chattering, he replied, “okay. One more night then.”
The last embers of daylight sank behind the skyline. Feeling a bit anxious about walking home after dark, Jess left the coffee shop and began to hurry home. The barista, meanwhile, took off his apron and told his boss he was headed out.
“Sounds good, see you in the morning,” his boss replied.
The barista walked out to his car to retrieve his mask and knife, and followed after Jess into the dark of night.
The Shock
By: Hastaw
I was holding the sword. Next thing I knew, I felt a blaze. I don’t know what happened. I just wanted to feel the hilt material, and the weight of the sword.
I never expected, or really understood, what happened next.
All of a sudden, my eyes were on fire. It felt like the sun was focusing it’s energy into my brain. I felt things I found unsettling, to say the least. “Aaaaaahhh!” Was all my mind could conjure.
I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Everything felt overwhelming and huge, in a different way.
“Is this what it feels like to see?” I thought. Do people understand how amazing it is? The world feels! It’s like listening to a silent symphony!
The weirdest feeling, though, was when motion hit my eyes. They followed everything, up, down, left, right, like there were strings attached to them.
“I need to figure out how to stop seeing, just until I can get a handle on this.” I murmur quietly to myself. I figured if my eyes were reacting to the light, then I need something to block it out.
Cloth seemed to block it adequately.
I attempted to put the sword back, but it shattered. I thought that “this sword was made of the toughest metals in history, supposedly from the center of the earth itself!”
Shoot.
I found a normal sword, and took the crystal sword out of view. I panicked and ran, but it was too late.
“Oy!” One of the guards shouted. “Whass a runt like ye doin’ ‘ere?” He reeked of beer.
I was both cringing at the loss of his dignity, and gleefully rejoicing in the fact that I might not have to fight my way out of here.
But the sword, apparently, had other ideas!
I heard a clasp, then a loud “clunk!” Whereas I just groaned. I might have thought someone else had found it, if it didn’t force itself into my hand, and try to fight all by itself.
I’m just glad he was too drunk to remember.
The weapon dragged my hand along with it, attempting to force me to mimic its movements. I pulled, it pushed. I pried, it pinned itself deeper into my hand.
I run, concealing the weapon which wouldn’t let go of me. From the distance, I hear,”Arthur has grasped the sword from the stone!” Or something like that.
I don’t remember.
All I remember is running for my life.
My new life.
With new eyes.
A Candle Against The Sky (Corespace Universe)
By Calliope Rannis
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Clev looked away from the wires and mechanics he had been analysing for the last hour. He saw Ember nearby, casually leaning against a railing of Emergence Station’s docking bay.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Ember continued, “but is examining Cindy really the only thing you want to do with your time? We can’t stay long.”
“Uh- that’s not our ship’s name.”
“Well I’d like it to be. We don’t need to keep the old name, in fact we really should change it considering its stolen and all-”
Clev made a worried noise and shushed her, looking worriedly around him.
“What? Oh come on Clev, it’s not like security can listen to every single conversation.”
“Can’t they?” He said in a strained whisper.
Ember’s face softened in realisation. She went over to Clev, crouching down close beside him. “It’s going to be okay. Really.” She said quietly. “I know everything must be a lot for you. You aren’t used to this kind of stress, I get it. But we already did the hard part, eh?” She smiled reassuringly. “We just have to keep moving, and nobody’s gonna find us. Yeah?”
Clev’s face was still strained, his hands clenched tightly together. Turning back towards their ship, he said “The Diamondlight is incredible. Just as Astra said. I thought installing a FTL drive into a light spacecraft this small would be impossible.”
He looked down. “But my examination has exposed many weaknesses. The shielding is much weaker, several standard safety modules are absent…I can’t even find backup systems for power or life support.”
He turned back to Ember. “This ship is unsafe. Extremely unsafe. If something goes wrong mid-flight, we’ll die.” His lip quivered a little.
Ember held her smile. “Well, then I guess we’ll have to make sure nothing goes wrong then, won’t we? I’m a good pilot, and you’re a very good engineer. I think we can manage.” She looked back upon the ship that they had invested so much stress and risk into, and sighed. Why were beautiful things always so dangerous to touch?
Embrace the Moment
By Tamela Redfin
I hung up the call with Keely. So that’s what I was, a dimension traveler. How would I find my way back to my dimension? But I also needed to check in on Cecilia.
A few weeks passed and I was informed I had a package. Since it wasn’t Christmas, I knew what it was. But how to fool Feldspar Augen? Well, he was a man of science and if I told him it was to get Radon Cecilia used to “normal nails”, he’d buy it hook, line, and sinker!
As night came, I walked over to Radon Cecilia’s house. It was the Western Roltian holiday of Westmas, so cyphas would be busy. I knocked on the shack door.
“Cece, someone’s knocking on the door.”
“Stand back, Sapphira.” The door was thrust open, revealing the beautiful cypha. “Cameron?”
“Hello Cecilia.”I smiled, “I… have something for you.”
“I don’t trust you humans!” Sapphira snapped.
“Shh, he’s helping me.” Cecilia looked at Sapphira. “He got me a new arm.”
“Ew!” Sapphira shrieked.
I chuckled and opened the box. “The model is named Aspasia, so I was told. May I see your arm?”
She gave me her stump and I read how to attach the arm. Sapphira looked suspicious but it didn’t deter me. At last it was on.
Cecilia grabbed me and held me into a tight embrace and I felt my cheeks heat up. I could almost kiss her. But I pulled myself away.
I left with Cecilia and Sapphira to celebrate Westmas, but trouble was afoot.
“Hey Radon Cecilia,” A guard walked over, smirking. “Where’s that arm from?”
Fury boiled in my skin.
“It came from HowaboutIscratchya!” Cecilia snapped.
“Aw Cecilia, I thought you were nicer.” He cooed, lifting up her chin and smiling seductively.
“That’s enough Radon Miklos! I was told to give her that arm. Come along, let’s celebrate Westmas.”
“With them?”
“Yes, with them.” Had I been too out there?I added, “They should learn about Westmas and the egg hunt.” Then again, Miklos was drunk, likely. Or was he? Maybe he was onto my little lie all along.
The Download (Tomorrow Retaken)
by Lee Strangely
The high winds howled and nipped at Victor’s body as he climbed the icy rungs. The only light he had was that of the moon and blinking guide-lights along the com-tower. Occasionally he would stop only to look at a mass or dark clouds that approached. They growled at him, sometimes flashing bolts seemingly to intimidate him.
“UPDATE: outdoor conditions are deteriorating,” the robotic head tied to his belt stated aloud, “shelter is recommended.”
“I’m aware,” Victor halfheartedly replied. It took all of his concentration to avoid slipping. The very top pierced the cloud cover. It was cold up there, but the sight it produced was beautiful.
Victor pulled out the robot and connected it to the tower via a cable, “Alright Wilson, we only got one shot at this.” He then locked the machine onto a port that stuck out from the main structure.
“Some mechanical fortune-teller isn’t going to tell me my life is doomed, or anyone else for that matter. Let’s see if the prophecy machine predicts this!”
“UPDATE: download in progress,” Wilson stated.
The storm grew ever closer as Victor waited for him.
…
Lightning could be heard and seen rather close by, and considering where Victor currently stood it was reasonable to say it was about time he left. Looking at Wilson he noticed his green eyes flickering.
“Wilson, are you okay?” he asked
“Download, n-n-n-n-n-nearly complete.”
Victor took notice of the storm, “Wilson?”
“This un-n-n-nit was not outfitted for colder climates.”
“Maybe I should take you down.”
“Not ne-e-e-e-cessary. Download incomplete.”
Victor tried to pull him anyway, but the head didn’t budge. “Wilson you’re frozen.”
“C-correct. It is also recommended that you leave immediately.”
He tried to pull again, “I’m not leaving without you.”
“UPDATE: fr-fr-fr-frost damage is too extensive. This unit cannot be salvaged.”
“Don’t say that, we can-”
“Leave.”
“Wilson I’m not going to-”
CRACK!
A massive bolt of lightning struck nearby.
“Leave.”
Victor cried as he began to carefully make his way back down.
“UPDATE: download comple-e-e-e-ete. STATEMENT: goodbye, Victoooooooooor…” Wilson’s eyes went black as Victor disappeared back below the clouds.
The Blade
By Wingman
The blade is paper thin and visible only at the right angle. The broad side so transparent it almost isn’t there and the edge so thin it is easy to look past. The case it is in makes it appear to glow through a trick of the light. It has to be feather light but there are stories of all the men it has slain. The original owner had been a magnificent fighter, so good he died of old age, despite fighting his entire life. A single error would have broken it and been his demise. Its presence here now speaks for all those who used it in the last three hundred years.
My hand twitches toward the handle. The hilt is wrapped in a well maintained leather – not original of course. The handle itself is a continuous piece, one with the blade. If it had been made of wood one would have thought it was a mid-level child’s toy. Sleek but not ornate. Undoubtedly the leather would give it a nicer grip.
I looked around the room, it’s dark with the rest of the house sleeping. They would never know I was here if I left now. The sword still drew me in. Their family heirloom; sitting here on display. I could feel its thirst for blood as my own. Pulling me away from the door and towards the case. This gorgeous sword deserves to glint in the light of battle. I can picture the deep red blood almost floating on the glass.
The alarm sounds as I lift it. To battle. To bloodshed.
Water Like Glass (Alchemy’s Kin Universe)
By MacBoiZen
How did it come to this?
Eleven-year-old Phoenix didn’t have an answer for that question racing through his mind. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought. It was impossible.
At least, it shouldn’t have. Not to her.
The memory of playing and messing around with her in her parents’ garden felt all too fresh. The big sakura tree had rained petals down as they showed one another the new tricks they’d learned with their powers. Phoenix remembered being extraordinarily proud of himself for summoning a little spark of flame from his hand, dividing it into three, and making them dance like fireflies around his friend. She’d been a bit frightened at first, but only a moment after, her face broke into the happiest smile he’d seen.
He couldn’t forget that.
He recalled that she’d pestered him about wanting to show him something. He’d caved, although somewhat reluctantly. She’d walked over the bridge above the ring-shaped pond to the cherry blossom tree, him following slightly after, sat down on a small cloth, and closed her eyes. He’d wondered if it was some sort of prank, but when the entire pool of water started to rise and flow gently around the enclosure to the sway of her hands, that idea was quickly dispelled.
Phoenix had stood amazed at his friend’s display of power.
So how?
How could it be that that same girl was now in his home, hanging on his shoulder, hands streaked with blood, tears falling unfettered down her face?
“You doing okay, kid?” one of the policemen asked him, putting a blanket around the girl’s shaking form.
“I….I don’t know…” he replied.
“Both of you will be alright. We’re gonna figure out what happened to your parents, Sayaka, I promise you,” the officer tried to reassure them before stepping back to the blinking colored lights outside.
“I-i-it’s all my f-fault…” came Sayaka’s fragile voice. “I c-couldn’t s-save…”
Her words evaporated into pained cries again.
Phoenix held her closer in response. “It’s okay…I…I’m gonna protect you.”
The Hand of the Goddess, Broken
By Jen Vanderputten
Liath prayed as she climbed obsidian steps dappled with amber reflections of lanterns mounted along the walls. The last of Maeve’s gift flowed into her, and the wyvern’s gash on her shoulder ceased its constant drip of blood, though it still ached. It did not matter. She needed only the strength to kill the mage that dwelt here, to fulfill her oath. Her own ending could come afterward, if that was her fate.
She reached the apex and strode through the archway that led into a massive chamber, a circular room of the same making as the stairwell. Here, lanterns floated, so numerous they were like stars dotting the domed ceiling. Everything glowed, even her armor, despite the ichor smeared across it.
She waited.
Flickers of light formed in front of her, swirling into a column as a figure formed within. A tall, pale man stood before her, hands locked behind him, his visage bearing hazel eyes and cutting features that she knew all too well.
He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was inevitable. You are my singular match in every way. To hide this from you was to purchase more time with you, and I do not regret it, despite the pain I see on your face. The decision is yours. I will not resist it. Kill me or join me. End me or make me your home, as you’ve done so many times before.”
The power that gripped her chest did not issue from anything arcane. She struggled for breath as she stared at him. His scent enveloped her. His gaze pierced her as sharply as the first time they’d met.
She begged for Maeve’s forgiveness as metal clattered to the floor.
Rescuing the Glass Sword
By VTRwriter
“That sword belongs in a museum!” Ford Jones yelled.
“No way, Jones!” Cyber Cyrus said. “Elegant pieces like these belong in the hands of adventurers!”
“Like yourself?”
“What can I say? I’m the best adventurer.”
Cyrus rushed towards Jones, pointing the Glass Sword in his direction.
In the world of Ituante, magic and technology didn’t go eye to eye, almost being long-time rivals. Cyber Cyrus was dangerous for knowing how to use both at the same time, and use them well. His implants helped him have a supernatural aim, and now, the invisible Glass Sword gave him the advantage of surprise, for it was impossible to see how long the blade was.
Ford Jones dodged the best he could, his adventurer’s reflexes giving him many close-calls and lots of small cuts. But Cyrus’ barrage of attacks was unrelenting. Many “whooshes” and “swishes” passed too close to Jones’ head for his liking. So much attention he paid to the sword, he didn’t notice Cyrus casting a burning ray spell on his leg until too late. Jones kneeled with pain.
“Bye-bye!” Cyrus yelled, the blade going full speed towards Jones’ head from above.
But Ford Jones had his own advantage.
He raised his hand, and the blade, instead of slicing flesh, collided with a hard substance. The impact was enough to dispel the invisibility spell on Jones’ hand, revealing a strange stone gauntlet, much to Cyrus’s confusion.
“Meet the Hand of Titans!” Jones smiled. “Not only is it unbreakable, it gives me super-strength!”
“No, let go!” Cyrus tried to pull the sword from the grip to no avail. With his free hand, Jones knocked Cyrus out with a single powerful punch on his jaw. The battle was over.
“You’re no adventurer, Cyrus. Only an arrogant thief. And now, you’re…”
Crack!
The Hand of Titans indeed gave the user super-strength, but made the user’s hand a bit numb, making it impossible to know how much pressure was used. Now, the invisible Glass Sword was plainly visible on the floor. And in pieces.
Jones’ spine shivered.
“Crap.”
The Last Symphony
By Ann W. T
He was, once, the greatest musician of all time. There was something in the notes he played, the way his fingers would move on violins and cellos’ string, the way they would touch the piano- once seen, once heard it would never again be forgotten. His music had its own way to enter people’s soul, reach their heart’s deepest desires and fears and bring them to light, alive. However, what was not known was how that man managed to do such things, how was he able to create such art, such music. The answer was his audience. His music fed on people’s misery, their insecurities, their weaknesses and fragilities and as the man touched their cores with his music the artist himself would grow stronger, a mystical figure that no human could believe it existed, playing with people’s own feelings to create grandness.
Yet one night, when the wind was colder and the stars darker, another mystical being came to visit the grand musician. It was Death itself, coming to take the artist soul after so many years being tainted and corrupted by his own grandeur, after decades feeding and leeching on other’s depravities and torments. Desperate the man fell on his knees, crying and pleading that Death would spare him.
“Play with your own tune. Please me and I shall leave you be.” The Death replied.
The man begun to play yet this time there was no audience. He begun using his own fears and desperation to fill his music, to carry his notes and fed his power. Every touch on the instrument was a like a tear inside his heart, every melody that escaped from the chords were screams directly from his soul. Soon his own music was consuming him, his mind losing itself amidst so much pain, terror and anguish. Suddenly the musician realized he could not stop playing for he was already lost, Death now laughing as his eyes and fingers bled while his music showed nothing but darkness. Madness. Death let the man play until there was no more music to be listened.
Nor man.
A Question of Honor (Neolithas)
By Sire von Shrubbery (aka berserker47)
They saw the guard standing in front of the tower. Challa wondered whether they should sneak past her or just get in the building somehow else. The tower did indeed belong to Challa’s buyer, not only was his name written across it in big letters, but also his face was decoratively projected into the sky in front of it.
Challa slid her little dagger out of her sleeve, and made her way to the far side of the building. To the right, there was a barely traversed alleyway mostly inhabited by city rats and trash left on the sidewalk. Challa was just as good at their job as their brother was, even though he would definitely say otherwise. While their brother relied more on his natural talents, Challa achieved their abilities through hard training and crafting of exquisite items. They knew about the entrance on the back side, the one for the ridiculously underpaid workers. Challa had scouted the surroundings of the tower for some weeks now.
Challa knew that they could have just gone in frontside, along the other customers of the big man they were selling the jar to. But they would rather die than go by that monkey’s rules.
The dagger still in their hand, Challa was finally at the kytech doorway. The blade wasn’t made for stabbing anyone, it would very likely break just by touching kyarmor, but it was a very useful tool. Focusing their energy through the little, well-shaped shard of glass, they deactivated the security measures of the door. Voila.
The Exiled Squire (Exile Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)
Pressed against a wall, the Duke desperately tried to ignore the screams of mortality, echoing through the halls of the stronghold. His elite corps, masterful warriors responsible for the extermination of entire towns each, were now dying like terrified sheep, massacred by a hungry wolf.
In his panic, he had ran himself into a dead end. All he could do was stand there and wait; wait in agony, as he pictured his end.
He didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.
Frantically, he searched for a door or a corridor. There had to be one, there just had to be.
In front of him, steel shattered and creatures screamed. Some of them begged. Others shouted in desperate attacks. The Duke pressed himself against the stone wall, pulling out a broadsword with his shivering arms.
Ahead, he saw an armoured soldier fall from a corridor, clutching his face, as metal splinters from his visor dug deep into his eyes. Yellow, puss-like blood oozed to the floor.
He saw the shadow first. Slowly it grew larger and larger, until the thing that threw it stepped into view.
If it hadn’t had a tail, it could have passed as human. It turned its face to him, eyes obscured by a feathered cap, a rapier by its side. A fresh wave of resolve filled the Duke. His sword was broad and powerful. He’d break this needle of a weapon like glass.
Before he could react, the hunter was upon him. With a terrified scream, the Duke brought his broadsword down on him, hearing the shattering of metal, seeing the hunter’s rapier break. As he opened his eyes, he realized his mistake. It wasn’t the hunter’s sword that had broken. It was his.
The Duke thrust his pitiful remnant of a blade forward, as his neck was skewered by the thin rapier’s tip.
The last thing he saw was a black tongue licking fangs and piercing white eyes, burrowing into his.
Daimyn sheathed his rapier, letting his prey fall to the ground with a sigh. Some hunts just provided some mild entertainment.
Teens with Swords (Fae Wish)
By Connor A.
Stephanie and Akari stared at the sword resting on Akari’s kotatsu. While the blade was almost completely transparent, the handle looked more like frosted glass. Aside from that, there was nothing to separate it from other fae swords they came across.
“Any idea what this one’s supposed to do?” Akari finally asked as she rested her elbows close to the sword. “Make someone invisible? Maybe curse whoever’s holding it?”
“Why would anyone want a sword that would curse them?” Stephanie held her chin between her pointer finger and thumb, staring at the sword in hopes of finding some sort of engraving that could explain what it does. “The only thing I can really think of is some sort of glass cannon.”
“Because it looks like glass?”
“Let me have this.”
Akari rolled her eyes and pushed herself up. “Well, I’m gonna steal some snacks before my parents get back. Let me know if you figure something out.”
When she left, Stephanie began fidgeting with the brass necklace around her neck. Neither of them tried to use it since they found it, so there was a possibility that it could rebound in some way. If it was a glass cannon like she thought, then the blade would probably shatter…
When Akari came back with food in both arms, she saw Stephanie standing on the balcony, wearing brass-colored armor and weakly swinging the sword as to not hit anything.
Stephanie looked over at Akari and shot her a nervous grin. “Just to be safe?”
Akari stared at her for a moment. She snapped back to the food and set everything down, sifting through everything before settling on an unopened bag of chips. “Think fast.”
She threw them at Stephanie without warning. As expected, Stephanie panicked and swung the sword like a bat.
But what came to a surprise was how the bag froze upon contact. Stephanie lowered the sword and stared at the bag, but started when it burst into many smaller pieces, taking the blade with it.
After a beat of silence, the two laughed at what they saw.
I’m Not Standing Still, I’m Lying in Wait
By Marx
“I hate this!” Shayna ranted, pacing back and forth, angrily flipping an ornate butterfly knife open and closed.
“They didn’t mean to slight you, child.” Teriana stated calmly, watching the weapon with intrigue. “You were left here for your own protection.”
“Against demons!” Shayna stamped her feet. “I’m a demon hunter! It’s literally what I DO! It’s an insult! Also, I’m not a child!”
Teriana smiled warmly. “I see all mortals as children.”
“I’m the same age as Matt.”
“Matt is not mortal.”
Shayna scowled. “How are you so okay with being left behind all the time?! You’re a literal goddess! Doesn’t it make you feel-?”
“Useless?” Teriana nodded. “Of course it does. The difference is that I don’t see that as a bad thing.”
“…how-?”
“Because, child… Laila was literally created for combat. Mara was born in Hell and had to fight for everything. They have both the power…” Teriana motioned to herself. “…as well as the inclination to fight.” She motioned to Shayna.
Shayna rolled her eyes. “I get that it makes logical sense, but I don’t see why I should be happy about it. If you don’t want to fight because you’re a hippie plant lady or whatever, knock yourself out. But I was born for this too. I had to fight all my life too. I have power too!”
“Of course you do, child.” Teriana smiled. “I fully believe that you wouldn’t be here without a reason. Your time will come. As will mine. For now, we wait. We remain diligent. We look for our moment. And when it comes… we seize it. Be it a moment of triumph or a moment to go out in a blaze of glory.”
Shayna narrowed her gaze. “I don’t think I like that implication being the mortal of the two of us…”
“Death comes for us all, child.” Teriana placed a reassuring hand on Shayna’s shoulder. “Even those who claim immortality. Our lives are merely longer. Our end goal is the same. To look for those moments to leave our mark and grab them before she can grab us.”
Touch of time
By: VeryBoringName
She picked up the sword and placed it on a nearby table, it was truly a mighty sword. She remembered everything the weapon went through, and she was sad that its King has stopped using it for such a long time. But at the same time, she remembered a new place and glory of a different kind awaits it.
She placed her hand gently on the blade, and ran her finger on the edge, dulling it, the compacted steel at last relaxed, letting itself breath. And with that she took a bit of ochre powder, and mixed it with water. She took a small brush and painted lines with the paint.
To anyone that would not be able to look within the blade, it would seem normal, but a network, a webbing of thin, interconnected lines now chewed at the core of it, perhaps one could spot just at the surface, the faintest hint of it.
Then she looked at the handle, and sensed the wood and animal skin in it wanting to finally go to rest, and while many of them could not yet let their bonds go and become something new. But every cell that could be freed was by her hand.
And then she finally let the sword rest on the table, it was not as it once was, it was no longer a mighty blade, touched by time indeed it was through and through, not much better in its ability than a sword of glass now. The King of the land entered screaming to his chamber. He leapt to his trusty mighty sword, his hand passing through her neck, before going back the way it entered with the sword.
She, unfazed, stood up, and passed through the King, and the soldiers chasing after him, she remembered she would no longer need to concern herself with him. The heir to the kingdom meanwhile, she remembered, now needed urgent attention, after all, the young man will soon be crowned, and hairs would not grow grey, and the skin would not wrinkle by itselfl.
I Want to Speak to my Rules Lawyer
C. M. Weller
The heart of evil shall not be stopped by a weapon made of metal or stone or wood, the seers said. Not by a weapon made by the hand of man, not by a weapon made in the night or the day, and not by a weapon wielded by a man or a woman.
Thus the corrupting heart of Henkoryx beat secure in his rotten chest, as he believed that only time would stop him. Even then, there was magic to draw life out for even longer. Well. What passes for life.
He had no fear of any team of heroes coming to end his reign of terror. He used them to extend his existence, devouring their power and making decorations out of the weapons they tried to end him with.
This hero seemed no different. Their sword was black, and allowed light to show through it in an oddly red-brown hue. What it was amused him.
“Let me guess,” scoffed Henkoryx. “An obsidian blade forged during a solar eclipse? I have a dozen. Have you seen my chandeliers?” He gestured up towards some seemingly black shards, arranged around the glowing soul-light that lit this arena. “I cannot be defeated by a weapon wielded by a man or a woman. And yes, underaged ones count.”
He didn’t put up a fight, just spread his arms in welcome. “Nobody can meet ALL the expectations, don’t feel bad,” he said. “That’s for later.”
The hero charged. They always did. Henkoryx enjoyed the looks on their faces when they realised it wasn’t going to work. It was almost as good as the shocked horror as he sucked out their souls to further fuel his existence.
The soul-light had been growing a little dim. Too long between heroes.
The obsidian blade pierced his heart, but this one didn’t shatter when the hilt hit his breastbone.
The hero sneered. “I was born intersex,” they said. “And I’m agender.”
This time, the sword foretold stopped his rotten and blackened heart, and all was still.
Through Grit Teeth
By SunflowerBoi
Percy’s heart broke at the sight and about a million different emotions came flooding in his mind at once. He caught a worried eye at the battered and bruised boy who was leaning against the doorway. Upon his reaction, Elliot turned his head to the floor as if that would be good cover to hide that blackened eye.
“They had it coming.” The boy mumbled out.
“I bet they did.” Percy sighed as he began to rummage around the flat for a first aid kit. “Come in and sit yourself on the couch, will you?”
After a few minutes, Percy returned to the boy sitting stiff on the couch with a teal box in hand. Slumping the weight of his body onto the opposite side of the couch, he tore the lid of the kit and started scanning for anything useful.
“Anything broken?”
“No, nothing is broken.”
“Good. Now, you mind telling me what happened?”
“I got into a fight.”
“No. Really? I thought that black eye was just for show. How did you get into a fight, Elliot?”
Elliot fell silent with his head still hung low.
“Well?” Percy’s words grew as thin as his patience.
“The usual suspects, Liam and Alya, were talking smack about Caleb.” Elliot caved at his uncle’s gaze. “He’s gone through enough already, and he’s my friend. I told them to keep their mouths shut if they didn’t want to get punched in the throat, but no. No, they just kept raving on like hounds. So I went over to Liam, I gave a good swing to him first. Then, they both swung at me and the rest is history.”
“I see.” Snapping the lid shut, Percy heaved out another sigh as he held a few wraps of bandages and an ice pack in his hands. “You sure nothing is broken?”
“Nothing is broken, old man.”
“Aye! First off, do not call me old, you scamp. Second, come here so I can see that black eye.”