Short Stories and Art. Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Horror and Post-Apocalyptic.  Header: A digital painting of the head and shoulders of a gigantic golden dragon in profile, facing to the left, looking down with an arched neck. It has two long curved black horns, red eyes lacking pupils and a long golden beard. Part of one gray wing is visible behind the head. Icon: A traditional painting of the skull of this same dragon against a coffee-stained background and text too small to be legible.]Â
I created this account for the purpose of linking my short stories to Facebook for the benefit of my Facebook-friends. My main blog reads as spam to Facebook for some reason thatâs beyond me. This is also a place to keep my stories, themselves, clean from all of the random tumblr-nonsense reblogs I like to do on my main site-viewer-blog. Â
Youâll find stories of the Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Apocalyptic / Post-Apocalyptic and Horror here. Some of it doesnât fit neatly into categorization.Â
All illustrations on the stories with header-illustrations are my own. I utilize a variety of art techniques including drawing, painting, digital work and occasional simple photography. Â
For my art-blog / artblr, go here:Â Â https://www.tumblr.com/shadsiesartattic
Accessibility image IDs written after a quick-guide I found on antimonarchy.  I am new to it and apologize for imperfections.Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Promotion on my books starting April 17 and running for a week!
Visit my Amazon author profile.
Malarkey and Belinda (basic and deluxe editions) - the only difference is the illustrations - black and white ink or fully painted color. (Personally, I'd recommend the cheaper edition. I like my ink-work better).
and
A World of Rusted Dreams
Both are fantasy genre. Profiles on the pages. Give 'em a look!
Summary: The tale of a person who falls into another world with an entirely different set of physics. A cosmic entity is soon to eat the sun and it is up to her to change the world's thinking by her very presence in time to change it's fabric and to save it. (Based on a dream I had, old work).
The Indifferent World
Shadsie
âMy universe doesnât work this way.â
âHow, pray tell, does it work?â
âIt is mostly indifferent.âÂ
The man guiding Kris gave her a perplexed look, furrowing his brow even as he passed a viciously-pointed stave into her hands. Explaining âhomeâ had been hard enough so far in a world where the laws of physics as Kris had known them seemed to be at work only in selective intervals. Certainly swords and poleaxes worked the same way here as they did at home, as did horses and wind and the general layout of architecture. Gravity worked, for the most part, and the birds looked and worked like normal birds although the young woman had found some things to use as improbable gliders when trying to escape the ramparts of the castle where she was being held. Sheâd have probably broken bones if that aspect hadnât been at least a little bit as âcartoonishâ as it was, although she was caught and brought back again, anyway.Â
She was not treated poorly here, quite the opposite, but she wished to go home. There had to be a way, she only had to find it and suspected it lay somewhere in the Eastern Woods, where she had first arrived. There were no light portals or swirly things. She suspected she was asleep because her arrival here seemed to coincide with her getting droopy-eyed while doing a painting. Around-and-around her brush went over a circle of yellow-white paint representing a fading sun in a darkened sky â around-and-around until sheâd felt as if sheâd been drawn into the world of the painting, stepping out into a dappled wood.Â
She vaguely remembered an old book series sheâd read. Yeah, the Pevensie children got into Narnia by staring at a painting in one of those Faerie stories. Kris had been actually creating a painting. She was sure she was not high at the time: At least as not as long as fumes from the linseed oil and turpentine werenât getting to her too much. She always worked in well-ventilated areas. She was also pretty sure that this wasnât Narnia.
Her captors called their world âEarth.â It wasnât home, though - it definitely wasnât home.Â
When sheâd found herself fully upright rather than sitting at her easel and her boots were crunching the dried detritus of a forest floor, what she could see beyond the upper trees was blue. Â It wasnât the sky of her painting, although the trees were similar. When the soldiers had arrested her and taken her out into the fields surrounding Highwater Castle, the sky was as blue as any sheâd seen, dotted with puffy clouds that seemed to mirror the numerous sheep grazing the lawns.Â
The sky was rust-bloody red now and the sun was dim. Pietro, the guardsman with her, regarded her seriously in the stormlight as he strapped plates of armor over her arms and shins. âHow is it different?â he asked, wondering if she had some kind of answer that would win the coming battle.  Perhaps he was trying to goad her, to get her mind to work the way the people here wanted it to.
âFor one thing,â she answered, âour sun and the light that it gives us is not tied to the welfare of a maiden.â
âEven so, Outlander, if you continue to value your life,â the man said with a shiver, âyou will assist in protecting Lady Umbra â even if you do not think she should exist.âÂ
Kris could not tell anyone entirely how sheâd wound up at a Medieval-looking fortress in some alternate version of Earth and the Universe â or wherever she was. Sheâd tried waking up several times. Pain was real here and she could tell time and read books without the numbers and words jumbling together. She pinched herself and water was cold and she was still here. Most things worked by regular logic, save those few things that were very different, but differed in the way of a constructed world â like that of a book or a game or a film. The ârules,â even the ones that did not make sense to her, were consistent. One thing that she knew that was strangest of things about this place was that all the people here spoke and wrote in perfect English in the style of her era, so she had no problem communicating here.Â
The other thing she knew was that the world was about to end.
She looked up at the wounded sky to the dying sun. People were screaming behind her. There were rally-shouts to defend the castle and its inmost sanctum where the ailing Sun Maiden was guarded. The clouds moved like black smoke over the red face of the sky. Kris could have sworn she saw the darkest of them form into a maw with fangs briefly over the sun before a wind blew them back into something paler and more amorphous. The forces of Darkness had been winning most of the battles of late. Smoke-Ghosts, eyeless beasts and human troops of surrounding kingdoms who were loyal to the End for their own mysterious reasons had taken the mountain fortresses and were quickly encroaching upon the Center of the World. The war seemed nearly at an end, one that would see humankind and most animal and plant life defeated and eventually extinct.Â
The Beast of Entropy was nearly upon the Kingdom of Light. If the Beast swallowed up the Maiden or if she died from the bombardment of malevolent energies surrounding them all, the sun itself would die forever, flickering out like the flame of a spent candle. First would come the heat as the Beast would revel in his destruction, stirring up the fire-mountains with his great paws. Of course, the people would scramble to build fires to keep themselves warm and lit for as long as possible from any consumable source, fighting the Night as living things do by mad instinct. After that, the cold would come and then the bitter deep chill. After that the silence would fall.Â
The laughter of Entropy filled the air, although nothing was seen of any great creature. Kris wondered at what the personification of a cosmic force was supposed to look like, anyway. The myths sheâd been told described this particular god as being both draconic and catlike, but that he could take the form of any fear. It seemed kind of hokey to Kris. Then again, just a few days ago sheâd met a young woman close to her age whose fate was connected to the sun and whose life guaranteed its place in the sky.Â
As soon as sheâd arrived in this world, sheâd been taken by soldiers to Highwater Castle where the local royalty were inexplicably quick to make friends with her. Apparently, she was a part of some sort of prophecy. Theyâd spoke of having âOutworldersâ arrive before â typically from other planets with other suns that were guarded by Maidens. Only a few came from places such as hers where the laws were different and it was only people who came from these places that had a chance, they believed, of âbreaking the Cycle.â Â
She was set to be one of the guardians of a woman named Lady Umbra. Sheâd met Glace and Matilda, the girlsâ other bodyguards and both natives of the land. Glace experimented in something she called âscienceâ that seemed much more to Kris like magic â mainly in developing technology to control her naturally-occurring ice-powers. Matilda was a standard ax-wielding warrioress. Their charge, the Lady Umbra, was a pale-skinned, dark-haired, dark eyed youth and was slated to succeed the previous Keeper of the Sun. She was to become nothing less than a goddess â âSol-53,â to be precise, after her powers fully manifested and after a ceremony. âSol-52,â her predecessor, had passed away recently from the Darkness-sickness before the girl could become a full-fledged replacement.Â
The Beast of Entropy had sensed this weakness and had sped across the Void to begin his assault upon this Earthâs sun and its light.Â
Lady Umbra had not been trained to her destiny specifically. She was, however, since birth, heavily scrutinized along with many other girls as a member of a genetic line from which any member displaying certain attributes could be chosen. Her mother and father had named her âUmbraâ â a name denoting shadows â specifically to try to spare her the âblessingâ of being chosen to become a goddess of the sun. Unfortunately for her, she had the correct traits for it in the end and had been born in a world enslaved to Fate.Â
âSo you are the latest one they dragged in to try to break the chains of Fate?â Umbra asked as she poured Kris a dainty cup of tea from a delicate ceramic teapot painted with pink roses. Kris took the cup, unsure of proper teatime etiquette. Sheâd had plenty of tea in her time, but it was typically Southern iced sweet-tea or it was hot but taken in a huge coffee mug because even while Kris preferred tea to coffee, she was a less-than-polite American who liked all drinks that sat beside her while she worked to be nice and big for the sake of not having to take refills. Â
âI guess so,â she replied. âI just really want to go home, actually. Even exploring this world outside these halls and towers would be nice, but it seems that I am a prisoner until I serve some kind of use. I am confused by all of this.âÂ
âEveryone is,â Umbra said as she sipped her cup of spiced oolong. âThe king and the priests just love when someone crosses over from a world where stars are not connected to people such as me and you said that you come from such a place, correct?â
âI do,â Kris answered. âWhere I come from, the sun is a mass of fire.â She wasnât entirely sure if this was the correct terminology â she was certain that it wasnât and that it would make anyone she knew who had any kind of interest in even rudimentary astrophysics tear their hair out in frustration with her. She thought it best to keep the conversation simple. âWhat I learned in my childhood schooling, anyway, is my worldâs sun is a ball of burning gases. It sometimes flares up, causing problems in our⌠communication-magic. But⌠itâs not connected to anyoneâs life. Our lives depend upon it, but it doesnât depend upon us at all. It was there before we were and will spin on long after we are gone. Itâs set to die one day, but long in the future â likely after my people will meet extinction by natural causes or after our descendants have colonized other worlds and have transformed into different kinds of beings.âÂ
âOur priests pray for our world to become such an indifferent one.â Umbra stated.Â
âWhatâs funny,â Kris replied, âIs that so many of my people get the existential shivers when they think of how indifferent our universe is to them. The sun and the stars will spin on long after them. Some of the distant stars they see in the sky are long dead, themselves, the light oblivious to their watching even if those stars were ever conscious to begin with. Entropy exists, but not as a beast with a will to destroy. It is indifferent, as well.â
âDoes your world not have gods?â
âWe have gods⌠sort of. There are many kinds of beliefs in my world, many gods, one, none⌠Itâs nothing like what this world runs under. No one seems to be sure of anything and people who act all cocksure that only they are right are the people Iâm most suspicious of. Thatâs just my personal view, though.â
âHmmm.âÂ
âWhat Iâm trying to say is that, no, we do not have Sun Maidens or Star Maidens. If youâd been born in my world, the sun would give its light with or without you. You wouldnât have any powers over it. Youâd have to find some other thing to carry for people to count on you.âÂ
Kris said this last bit with a smile, a full believer in the concept of kindness carrying kindness and that no one was ever a hero or a villain on their own, but shaped by the circumstances and other people in their lives. Sheâd wanted to find something to do to be helpful to the world. So far, she was only an art student, having chosen that field over anything her parents thought was useful. Her aunt whoâd once been a graphic designer had actually tried to discourage her, telling her that the working world with that was a âplane full of predatorsâ that would chew her up and spit her out. It was true that she could have tried for something better suited to her world like becoming a doctor or joining the military â things most people thought âcounted,â but she was drawn to the pencil and the paintbrush in a way that wouldnâtâ be denied. She mused that she might be as much a prisoner to her âcallingâ as the Sun Maiden was to hers.Â
The difference, of course, was that her curses were taken on by choice. They had not been forced upon her.Â
âSo, in your world, I would be freeâŚâ Umbra said softly.Â
âProbably not entirely,â Kris said, âbecause no one is. Limits exist everywhere, even in my world, but, as much as any living creature can have freedom, Iâm sure you would be free if youâd lived in my world.âÂ
âI never asked to become the sun,â Umbra said ruefully. âI never asked to be its light in human form upon the Earth, to convey to it the needs of the people. Those are the duties set before me once I become strong. The sun will give its power to me to protect my people with divine Fire and Light, to protect my people from the Darkness. I will be given higher regard than the king and the queen â but I never wanted it. My parents are merchants. Is it strange that I desired a peasantâs life?âÂ
âNot at all.âÂ
âI like chickens. I wanted just to have a cottage somewhere and raise chickens. I know all about different breeds and the different kinds of eggs they lay. Iâm not ashamed to clean a coop.â
âA simple life is as proud as any other.âÂ
âI also wanted to know what having sex might be like someday.âÂ
Kris snorted and spit out all of her tea.Â
Umbra laughed. âToo blunt?â
âA little. You mean, you dreamed of marriage to some gallant young man and all that?âÂ
âNot necessarily. As the Sun Keeper, I am slated to remain âpure.â Itâs said that when the sun chose young men that it was the same deal for them â the whole virginity thing.â
âIâve never actually been much interested in losing it in a hurry, myself,â Kris said. âI havenât found the right person, I guess, but since I became an adult, Iâve at least had the choice in that.âÂ
Matilda entered the room without knocking. âIt is time your bed rest, MâLady,â she told Umbra.Â
âYes, Maâam,â the girl replied.Â
âThe Outworlder shall leave to her own quarters at once.âÂ
With a glare, Kris departed as asked, to be led by Glace, who was waiting at the door. Neither of them trusted her completely, but they seemed to have an awareness that she could be the key to their worldâs salvation â and the salvation of their beloved young mistress.Â
Kris thought about it as she was taken back to her chambers. She was a prisoner not because she was a threat, but because she was a commodity. In her months here, she had learned all she could â or at least, all that her captors would tell her.Â
People from worlds without celestial Keepers were said to potentially possess the power to undo the cosmic Fate simply by not believing in it. There was some prophecy in the ancient archives that held that when the right Outworlder came along, one coming from a world in which the sun, the moon and the stars operated completely without tether to any mortalâs soul nor to any of the cities or kingdoms, their sheer disbelief in the world they now walked in could loose the sun and free its goddess to remain a mortal.Â
In other words, it was Krisâ own logic, imagination and her very longing for her own world that could defeat the ages-old threat of the willful Beast of Entropy.Â
As it was, the sun and the Light were vulnerable prey. Even when any Sun Keeper came into her own as a physical goddess, there were things that could kill her â such as sicknesses with their origins in dark energies. The blades of swords might bounce off her milk-soft skin when she came to that point, but the energies were always present and were always in danger of growing â particularly with their connections with the morality of the local people and their morale in general. Â
As it was, Lady Umbra was still fully mortal. She felt not only the bombardment of cruel energies, but could be slain by any means that would kill any other young girl.Â
Kris tried for the sake of them all to imagine herself out of this quagmire. She thought of home and let her sickness for it consume her hours in hopes that she would find it, but also that this world would become more like it. This was an entire world full of desperate people. She could not blame them for trying to use her. It was also a fact that she liked Lady Umbra a great deal. Her visits with the kind, intelligent and occasionally blunt young woman were the highlight of her days even as the girl was ill often and the skies grew ever darker.Â
Kris tried to imagine the Beast away, but the more she tried, the more she saw his shadow on the moon and the more she saw him in the clouds. The ancient scribes that had illustrated the ancient texts she was given to read did not help. Theyâd drawn the damnable thing â as a dragon mixed with a cat, full of horns and hair and razor-spines jutting off its shoulders. It was a big-eared whiskered demon.Â
The artist imagined the creature taking the sun up as ball and batting it around like a cat does with a toy. She immediately regretted it when she was sure she saw the noonday sun flicker outside her tower window. No, the sun was still there and not being batted around like a ball. There was a cry from Lady Umbraâs chamber, as if the girl was having a nightmare.Â
No⌠she couldnât give him power. She couldnât give the ways of this world power. She had to free it. She was in a world that was unbelievable. It was a world like a book, a game or a film. âThis cannot be a real world,â she told herself, âThat is the only way I can change it â if I keep thinking of it as unreal.âÂ
She was escorted to the castleâs altar-area where the Kingdom of Lightâs priests prayed for an indifferent world â not caring that such a world could make someone feel utterly alone. Kris did wish she could go back to being insignificant again. She preferred it to having a world set upon her shoulders.
When the Smoke-Ghosts and the Dark Alliance breached the Kingdom of Lightâs mountain passes, they came upon Castle Highwater like a wave. This is how Kris the Outworlder found herself in the broken armory with the old soldier named Pietro.  This was how she found herself trying to explain what she already had tried to convey to many others.Â
She thanked the man and took spear heâd given her. She ran back toward Umbraâs chambers over rubble and the ruin. Her ears rang with cannon-fire as Hightowerâs soldiers tried to combat the physical dimensions of the onslaught. She looked above and saw the clouds form into lithe and dark cat-shapes to play and dance and hide in a disturbing manner. Â
Kris tried to avoid the fighting, not being trained from youth in melee combat in the same manner as the men defending the fortress. She was not a magical creature, either and felt like she was carrying the spear as a prop. She decapitated a Smoke-Ghost and watched it dissipate into the ether. Two formed from the shimmering air in its place.Â
A roar shook the castle and a wall fell. Instead of running from the disaster, she ran toward it because she spied Lady Umbra â carried in the arms of Glace, who was fighting off a group of eyeless lizards with the ice-channeling guns on her wrists.Â
âI am trying as hard as I can to make sense of this!â Kris called as she ran toward the two. âI am so sorry! My mind cannot seem to stop this!â
âDonât worry, just fight!â Glace shouted.Â
Kris held her spear out before her, certain that if this was a dream that it must be her death-dream, either that or she was going to awaken as soon as she died â that tended to happen to her whenever she dreamed of her own death, which was why she never believed in that whole âYou die in your dream, you die in real lifeâ malarkey. At the same time, she did care â at least for Umbra â just a little and did not want to just vanish and leave the girl to her fate.Â
That was when the smoke of hundreds of Smoke-Ghosts turned upon the wind and gathered into an enormous, beastly shape. It roared and was blacker than black, deeper than night â Kris felt like she was staring into a black hole when she beheld its flowing fur which strangely shimmered in the outlines of its windblown locks. It was a giant cat â though its muzzle was burly and wide, resembling the snout and mouth on certain kinds of dogs. It had four long horns like those of a four-horned ram, two upright, two curved back and forward like hooks. Its eyes glowed like a pale winter moon until they flashed âoutâ into a deeper black-hole void than its wild hair.Â
It rounded upon the figures standing in the rubble of the castle, including Kris. She trembled. She found within herself a fiery will, a sudden surge of passion.Â
âYou arenât supposed to exist!â she screamed. âYou are just a force! You shouldnât have a will of your own! You are no breathing beast!âÂ
Before she knew what she was doing, she was running forward with her spear and thrust it right into the giant cat-nose of the Beast of Entropy. It shook its great head in annoyance and shifted around her, opening its maw and showing its teeth. When she thought she hadnât seen anything blacker, she beheld the Beastâs throat.Â
The last thing she heard was a horrific crunch as Light went out.Â
________________________________________________________
Kris and Pietro wandered around for neither of them knew how long â hours or days. Â The last survivors of Highwater were scattered and they didnât see another soul, even when they could find enough fuel for torches.Â
The image of Lady Umbra and her guardian Glace at once being taken by Entropy haunted Krisâ memory. It was her last flash of daylight-sight before the Darkness had fallen like iron. She did not know why the creature left her alone â perhaps it was because he had gotten what heâd came to this world for. The sun had vanished in an instant, dying with the Maiden. None could tell what was going on in the precious little light to see by the torches and fires raging on the castle grounds in this new deep night. Entropy and his forces had vanished completely, leaving the world to die off. Presumably, he was off to other planets that hung in this universe, to other suns, to devour other Sun Maidens.Â
Pietro, the soldier, didnât even have the will to kill her. She had failed to protect Lady Umbra, but all he could do was to walk with her and to rest at will, not that there was anywhere to go. Â
Kris watched her companion lay down beyond the last embers of a dying campfire. The last bits of orange glow upon the hills had long gone out. The heat of high summer was fading quickly, although Kris was surprised at how long it was lingering. Sheâd failed in her duty â the role having been thrust upon her without much knowledge aside.  Â
She remembered the words that everyone had feared â âFirst the heat, then the cold, then the <i>deep chill</i> and then the silence.â Â
At present, the night was cavernous. The only light was from the pitiful campfire, losing the last of its fuel and of the distant stars. Perhaps other worlds in this universe would have better luck with their own Sun Keepers â if that is the way it worked. Kris wondered if any of those stars was the one connected to her Earth, shining into this universe somehow. If she could not go home she could at least dream of it.Â
It was strange, she thought, how so many of the people here had prayed for an indifferent world, a world like hers where the celestial bodies spun along without anyoneâs life or death being involved and long after anyoneâs lifespan. She thought, ruefully, that they had gotten an indifferent world of a differing kind. Entropy had his way â stalking in on cat-feet to pad away, leaving any survivors to an enduring darkness. The air was already growing cold enough for Kris to shiver beneath the wool blankets that sheâd hastily grabbed along with the other early survivors, wondering when the shivering would fail to warm her body and wondering when sheâd just go numb. She was already so tired.Â
âSee you in the morning,â her companion said from behind the almost-dead fire. Both of them knew that there would be no actual morning. It was doubtful that either of them would get through the requisite sleeping hours.Â
The last of the summer crickets chirped â just one playing his song to some mate that would not hear him in the deepening darkness. Kris listened to the bright chirp-chirps until they grew more distant with a greater gap of time in between.Â
A response to a writing prompt from one of the writersâ prompt sites that I wrote up a while back for my old blog. Â
Prompt: You come home one night during the holidays to find Santa Claus in your living room. Â He informs you that your child wanted one gift this year: Â For him to talk with you. Â
Tumblr keeps borking up the Keep Reading tag, but now they have the post-shortner by default, so plain-post. Â
A Gift From Santa
It was Christmas Eve Eve and David was very tired. Â Heâd gotten both the holiday-eve and the holiday off, but the night before, while his wealthier, office-work inclined neighbors whoâd managed to score their weekâs vacations were preparing to enjoy their Feast of the Seven Fishes or a night of caroling or going to the local Holiday Market Square, heâd had to unload a supply-truck of all of the clothing and doo-dads and various promotions to be set up the day after Christmas at the store. Â The life of a manager was not all supervision, after all, it was sore backs and foot problems and every other old-man ailment he was getting far too young. Â Heâd planned to spend Christmas Eve in an armchair watching his sonâs favorite Christmas-movies with him and moving his aching bones as little as possible until it came time to wrap the gifts from Santa to put under their small, artificial tree and to munch the cookies and the carrot left out for him and the reindeer.
Little Gavin should be tucked into bed by now tonight and David thought that the shadow he saw sitting on the couch was the neighbor, Betty â and the shadow resembled her large, pleasant frame. She and her wife, Sarah, took turns babysitting Gavin as they were interested in adopting a child and looked to the job as a fine bit of practice. Â David joked with them that they didnât have to adopt âanother kidâ because they were practically raising Gavin in his stead with how much the store needed him. Â Theyâd helped him with the gifts this year â most of the presents he could handle on his own, but the video game console and set of games that he knew would knock Gavinâs socks off (and keep him believing in Santa for at least another year) was made possible by their chipping in. Â
âBetty?â Â David asked, âWhy are you sitting in the dark? Â You donât even have the TV on. Â Is something wrong?â Â
âI sent her home,â a deep masculine voice said. âDonât scream. Â Please donât scream. Â You will wake your son.â Â
David stiffened and did a mental check for anything he knew to be by the door that could be used as an improvised weapon. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, wondering if he could dial 911 by touch. Â
âI mean no harm. Â Turn on the light.â Â
David reached for the light switch. Â What he beheld on the couch was a portly man dressed in red with white fur trim, big black boots and a big black belt with a golden buckle. Â He had a long white beard. Â The man was dressed exactly like the American-version of Santa Claus. Â The beard was genuine, that much David could tell. The stranger looked like heâd walked right out of a Coca-Cola advertisement to sit on his couch. Â It made him wonder if there was a be-scarfed polar bear shut up in the bathroom. Â
David startled, as can be expected. Â
âI know what you are thinking,â the stranger assessed, âbut I am not off-duty from some mall. Â I am as you see me.â Â
âI am as you see meâŚâ David repeated.  âI donât know who you are buddy,â he said with a stiffened stance, âbut if you have hurt Gavin, I swear to God IâllâŚâ
âRip out your intestines and strangle you with them?â the man in red finished for him with a cocked eyebrow, âQuite the naughty thought, but I will not mark it against you. Â It is the natural reaction from a loving father and trust me; I know that Gavin is your entire world. Â He is the reason why you work so hard at a job that is killing your body and your soul. Â It is because you cannot just pick up and âget a better oneâ right now and it is because you cannot take the risk of losing the insurance-plan for either of you.â
âKeeping us off the streetâŚâ David replied, thoroughly uncomfortable with how much this stranger apparently knew about him, much less with how he was effortlessly reading his thoughts.  A song popped into his head, unbidden.  âHe knows when you are sleeping; he knows when youâre awake. He knows when youâve been bad or good, so be good for goodnessâ sake!â  It melded with images of the Elf on the Shelf, a thing he had never gotten for Gavin as it was a Christmas tradition that heâd never grown up with nor needed himself and he frankly thought that an unblinking little spy-doll hanging around in oneâs home for the entire season to be rather creepy. Heâd always had some problems with the Santa-myth for similar reasons, but deemed Santa himself harmless enough in the end.  The man on the couch calmly held out one gloved hand and conjured a tiny blizzard within the palm. Snow floated and danced.  In an instant, David felt a gale of snow around him, and yet it did not wet or freeze anything in the apartment.  Wind whipped around him fresh and cool and the air smelled of cinnamon, apple and cloves.  âDo you need any more convincing?â the man asked as he slammed his palm closed and the indoor-blizzard suddenly vanished, leaving no traces save a few sparkling flakes on Davidâs coat.  It had not been snowing outside â too warm, one of those Christmas-week warm-spells that were becoming far too common (not that heâd minded it too much, as heâd grown up in southern California). Â
âButâŚbut!â David protested, âIt is parents, older siblings, uncles, aunts and neighbors that get children their presents! Iâve never had you waltz on in here and drop presents for Gavin!  Also, this is an apartment â no chimney!â Â
Santa pulled a small card from his pocket and held it with a smile before putting it back. Â âDidnât you tell him that I have a special magical key-card for apartments?â he said with a rosy grin that bespoke secrets. Â âMy ways are many. Â âAnd I think you misunderstand how I operate, young man. Â I do not always provide the gifts themselves; instead, I imbue them with a special kind of magic. Â I provide the magic for the memories to the gifts that the children will treasure all of their lives. Â Call me a guardian of nostalgia, if you will.â Â
âHmmm,â David murmured. âIt seems like a lot of nothing, like well-wishes that donât do anything physical.â Â
âAh! Â A humbug!â Santa laughed. Â It was a laugh as deep as a winterâs night and as soft as falling snowflakes. Â âI also foster generosity,â he said. Â âThose little miracles among adults that make gifts happen for children. Â I think that I may be more for adults than for children sometimes. Â Do you remember the little bonus you got that you were not expecting? Â Or the ten dollar bill on the sidewalk without an apparent owner that everyone else just walked on by that seemed to be there just for you when you needed it most? Â Do you recall how your neighbors just knew exactly what you wanted to get for Gavin as his main present and how you were struggling to get it?â
âThat was because they know him,â David asserted. Â âHeâs been jabbering on about wanting it for months.â Â
Santa Claus winked, a sparkle appearing on his left cheek as he did so. Â âDonât be surprised if Gavin finds some games for it that neither you nor your neighbors remember buying for him.â Â
âAs long as theyâre the right format.â Â
âDonât you think I know exactly what good children want?â Â Santa asked. âAnd you have been a good boy this year, David, a very good boy. Â The reason that I am here is because what your son really wants more than anything this year is something that cannot be wrapped and put under a tree.â Â
David was dumbfounded. Â âIâm afraid that I donât think that world peace is achievable,â he said flatly. Â Â
âLet us not get into something bordering on theodicy here,â Santa Claus intoned, reaching for a ginger-cookie on a plate on the lamp-table beside the couch. Â Funny, David did not remember placing a plate of cookies there, nor the glass of milk beside it. Â Those were things that Gavin wanted to set out tomorrow night. Â
Santa continued. âEven magical beings and guardians of nostalgia have their limits. Â No, no, no. Â Gavin merely wished for me to talk to you.â Â
David was taken aback. Â He staggered until he found himself tripping into the living-room chair. Â He flopped back into it and decided to stay there. Â He curled over and put his elbows on his knees â his position for intense conversations with friends â well, when he had any.
âWhy would he ask this?â David wondered.
âHe is getting to an age where he is noticing more about his father,â Santa said with a small smile, laced with sadness. âHe knows that you get lonely and sad this time of year. Â He was too young to form lasting memories of his mother, but he knows that there is something missing.â Â
David sighed and grabbed his hair at his forehead. Â âMarcie died in January. Â I hate that month worse than December, but no, no, no, this is all wrong! Â He knows that his mother is in Heaven, but he doesnât know when it happened. Â Iâve always wanted to keep the holidays â all of them, but Christmas especially, special to him.â Â
âIn Heavenâ you say?â the figure in red said as he shifted his seat after finishing his cookie. Â âYou feel like that may be a little lie you tell the child â and yourself, too, much like tales of me.â Â Santa sat back and took a little sip of milk from the glass that was next to the cookies. Â He put it down and thought about his words carefully, scratching his beard. âI have watched your family. Â You have always made the best effort to keep things merry and bright. Â You stuff down your own nostalgia and grief because you want your son to know only joy and to develop positive memories. Â You keep carefully matters of money and shield him from the sorrows of this world the best as you can. Â You are a very good boy, David, a very good boy.â Â
Tears started forming in Davidâs eyes and streaming down his cheeks. Â They were light â guarded manly tears - Â but it was the most heâd cried in front of another person for a very long time. Â âHeâs seeing the cracks in the armor, isnât he?â Â David choked. Â
âYes,â Santa replied. Â He senses the sadness you try to cover this time of year. He knows that you struggle more than you let on. Â He was worried. Â He is almost eight years old, after all, and very smart. Â Heâs tried to talk to his âauntâ Betty and âauntâ Sarah about it, but they tell him not to worry. Â Adults can be dreadfully dismissive of children at times. Â It is well-meaning. Â You want to protect them, but you need to take care of yourselves as you take care of them. Â
âIt was long ago.  I had someone to talk toâŚback then⌠but therapy is something I have neither the time nor the money for.  I do Gavin a disservice, donât I?â Â
âPlease donât worry about it,â Santa replied. âScars of the heart fade with time, but they never go away. Â If they did, you would not be the person you are and are becoming.â Â
âMarcie⌠do you know⌠where she is? If she is happy?â Â
âI cannot answer that question for you,â Santa said with a shake of his head. Â He raised a finger. Â âAh, yes, it is one of the other magical entities that may have a chance of answering that, but you will have to wait until Halloween before they are on duty again. âBut for now, I am here. Â Gavin wanted you to have a friend, someone you could talk to â someone you could feel comfortable talking to.â Â
The bearded man smiled fondly. Â âI was the first person he thought of. Â He talked to Betty about getting in touch with me because he thinks all adults know me but didnât want you to know about it. He even put a letter addressed to the North Pole in the mail â bless him. He wanted the video games, but he wanted you to be less lonely more. Â If I did nothing else intangible for a child this year, I decided that I would at least try to do this â to help a boyâs father be a little less sad.â Â
Perhaps it was a magic heâd felt in the air that had him budging from his seat, but David was possessed with a sudden urge to lurch up from his chair. Â He opened his arms and hugged Santa Claus. Â He let his tears flow freely â built up over season after season of keeping himself from breaking for his sonâs sake. Â Somehow, Santaâs presence â perhaps it was a spell placed over him â allowed him to break. Â Santa held the grown man as tenderly as a child and let him weep. Â
They talked long into the night until the guardian of childrenâs Christmases told him that he must leave to prepare for the following night. Â By the time dawn broke, David was left drying his tears, wondering if heâd dreamed the entire thing. Â
The scents of cinnamon, apple and cloves lingered all over the small apartment. Â
A "Humanity Fuck Yeah!" "Humans are Space Orcs" type of story, except that instead of an alien species admiring us for our ability to endure physical hardships, they admire us for our ability to endure grief.
Love is InevitableÂ
In the ages since contact had been made with the Earth and the human species, the other rational races of the Pan-Galactic Alliance had their various reasons for either abhorring or admiring them. A great many of the peoples admired Humanity for their general physical endurance â the ability to recover quickly from wounds and to withstand conditions that would kill a great many beings. However, the Mhrrâah held them in awe for a very different kind of endurance.Â
First contact between the two species was a bit awkward because humans could not help but compare the Mhrrâah to a certain kind of pet animal they kept. âKitty!â - They resembled bipedal cats save for the small horns upon their heads, longer, boxier faces and notable biological differences such as reproduction through eggs. In turn, the Mhrrâah compared humans to the golb, a small, bald, purplish-colored animal they kept as friends, although they were arguably more pig-like or doggish.
Their respective choice of pets, strangely, was what had started conversation which led to the Mhrrâah thinking of humans as particularly tough.Â
The Mhrrâah were rather appalled that humans kept companion animals that did not match their own lifespans. They were even more confounded by the ability of human beings to pick up and keep working and living after the loss of kin. The Mhrrâah were highly emotional beings. As soon as they had grown, they tended to part ways with their parents, but stayed in touch with their clutch-mates. They formed attachments with mates and friends of similar health-status and age (and they did live long, by the human reckoning) so as to maximize the likelihood of a life together. Most forms of conflict on their planet were a distant memory of ancestral forms because of this peculiar type of empathy.Â
If one Mhrrâah in a friend or family group died, the rest of their strong attachments was sure to follow. It was almost unheard of for one to lose a life-mate and not to have their own body shut down in pure despair within months of the event.Â
Conversations with humans brought up widows, those who had lost brothers, best friends, parents and animal companions time and again. Humans spoke to them of Stages of Grief and of the ways theyâd sought out each other to support themselves through it. They spoke of ghost stories and mythical lands of the dead where some hoped to be reunited someday with those theyâd loved. The Mhrrâah, who did not understand how one could fall, but not the others in oneâs chosen circle would bow their heads in salute to the resilient human explorers and tradesmen theyâd met if they ever had a sad story. Â
And that is to say nothing of other tales the humans told them â the loss of homes, the loss of friends though things other than death, various mental breakdowns that they could recover from.Â
This, to them, was far more impressive than any physical endurance that humans ever had.Â
The Mhrrâah were a people who were careful to keep to small circles and careful to keep themselves safe. They tried to distance themselves from forming friendships with humans even as theyâd formed partnerships of mutual benefit simply because they knew that humans felt strong emotions, too, but were shorter lived than they were. A human might keep a Mhrrâah in their memory if theyâd loved and lost a friend, but a Mhrrâah would not be capable of it for long. In the end, theyâd even formed attachments with pets knowing that they would outlive them by many spans.Â
When asked, the humans said something that resonated with all Mhrrâah. âWe really canât help it. Love is inevitable.âÂ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Iâm pretty sure the tumblr community is well aware of this problem and probably loads of other people have already made posts about this, so Iâll keep it brief.
So recently blogs like this keep appearing in my followers list (these are recent ones)
Now when you get a spam blogs or p*rn bots youâre supposed to blog them. But some these blogs are actual people who are new on tumblr and have the default icon, so youâre supposed to check before who block them. But hereâs the problemâŚ
some of these blogs donât have anything. No posts, No description, No title. So youâre gonna automatically assume that these are spam and block them.
Now I hate fact that some of these blogs belong to actual people and Iâve been blocking and reporting on blogs like these for the past few days, and that theyâre probably wondering why there being blocked or reported. ( sorry to the people who own blogs like these that I blocked you)
So a couple of tips for new blogs on this site,
1.You could change the title (a catchphrase, a favorite quote, a random sentence etc.) or type small description, or whatever random stuff you like!
2. You could change the your avator or icon (it be a picture of you, a cartoon, again itâs your choice do whatever)
3.If youâre not planning to frequently post stuff and just sign in to check out other peopleâs stuff, just put a put a post something like this just to show youâre new here.(again u can write down anything)
if youâre reading this and new to this website I hope you found these suggestions useful and should stop you from getting blocked immediately. Happy posting.
âI wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after oneâs own taste instead of reading other peopleâs! Homemade books must be so nice.â
For the last year, youâve been enjoying the life of adventure and heroism in a fantasy world that youâve always dreamed of. That is, until the healer in your party accidentally removed a perception curse thatâs been with you since the day of your summoning.
Awake
Tiffâs hand shook and her grip slackened on the hilt of her sword. Â It dropped to the ground with a dull thump in the dust and ashes. Â
The weapon was a simple arming-sword, easy to use for a novice from another world, although its edges glowed brilliant white when unsheathed and it was imbued with supernatural power. Supposedly, it could only be wielded by someone from another world â the Plane of the Creators. Â
When sheâd arrived in this place, waking up groggy after being nearly hit by a truck when being a city-tourist with a couple of friends, Tiffany Prescott had been told that her work-boredom daydreams had a hand in fueling the ambient magic present all over Avaris. Â In her day to day life, she was a grill-jockey at a burger joint, a soulless job that didnât pay the bills, but was her best option after college for the time being as she sought better. Â In Avaris, she had a place as the worldâs Chosen Heroine. Â She wasnât some inanely-named random âTiffanyâ here. Â She was âTiff of Shining Justice,â wielder of the ironically-named âGreat Mercyâ and of the sacred bow âThe Light-Stagâs Heart.â Â
It was a good gig â like any number of video games she had played and books sheâd read. She didnât want to go back, even if a way was made for her. Â She missed her family and friends, but as many an isekai anime went, sheâd probably been hit by that errant truck and had been buried or burnt and scattered by now. (Sheâd never written up funeral plans, feeling that her family would do whatever comforted them the most). Â This was her life now, or her afterlife, or whatever it was. Â Not that she couldnât die here, as well, and she did not know where sheâd go if she did.
But this world needed saving, so it was said, and after Myrna and the group had found her and gotten her healed up and oriented, the tales of the Litch Queen made her burn with a sense of justice. The powerful sorceress had been bringing plague upon plague upon the land, driving people from their homes and farms and murdering countless good beings with her armies of the undead. That was the Litch Queenâs goal â to make the living world into a death world, to destroy the color and the life and to render everything to reflect the darkness of her heart. Â She wanted to create a world where only bones wandered. And so Tiff had seen. Â Many of the places her group had taken back under the kind rule of Good King Rupert for the sake of resettlement had to be fully burned out to get rid of the zombies, skeletons and assorted amalgamations. Myrna assured Tiffany that their job was not only to create spaces for the living, but to put violated souls to rest.
Tiff had been awash in the sheer beauty of Avaris â it was a world abundant in magic, in color and had such gentle people in it.  There was the funny little man in his little pony-drawn traveling wagon that she met every now and again who peddled potions and other arcane wares⌠There were the people in her party, Myrna, the healer, Lindis, the Knight, Orcus the elemental mage, Trapta who crafted armors and automata and hailed from a great technological city to the north.  Trapta was the only person unimpressed by Tiffâs tales of home.  The city of Gears had flying cars, after all.  Tiffâs Philadelphia did not have flying cars. Â
Tiff, as well as the Chosen Heroine, âTiff of Shining Justice,â was also known as âTiff the Humanâ here, or âTiff the Manâ until sheâd corrected her companions to please, please address her as a woman. Â They used âManâ as a catch-all term for human, with no differentiation between the genders, but it felt incredibly awkward. Â Everyone else here was somewhat deer-like or goat-like â having long ears that ended in points and horns, usually small, but powerful mages like Orcus and Myrna sported some impressive headgear. Â Orcus had branching antlers crowning a head that seemed too thin to carry them and Myrna had horns more like those of an ibex, long, swept back and ornamented with a white gem in the center. Â They had long tails tipped in flags of hair â like old illustrations of unicorns. Â
Tiff was taller than them, too. Â She made the perfect Warrior From Another World, mighty and strong. Â Trapta had outfitted her and Lindis taught her how to handle weapons. She had taken to them as quickly as if she were a character in a video game. Â She had no magic whatsoever and so had no aptitude for anything that Orcus knew and often â too often â partook in Myrnaâs healing skills. Â
Sheâd been hurt badly the last time theyâd liberated a town from the Litch Queenâs forces. Â Sheâd felt funny after Myrna had healed her. Â Her wounds were mended, even though theyâd left marks, but something felt off. Â In the back of her mind, Tiff hoped that she hadnât contracted tetanus or some other grave infection from the rusty swords that the skeleton-marauders had wielded. Sheâdâ gotten stabbed through pretty good as well as some fierce slices and Myrna had taken a full day and a half to stave off her death. Â Had she been clocked upside the head, too and did not remember it? Â Something felt strange with her vision, as if the world was brighter â the difference between a summer day and a winter day. Â
The group returned to the village. Â The orders from Good King Rupert were to make sure that all of the villages they had retaken recently had been fully cleared out. Â The Litch Queenâs monsters were re-settling in some areas, making the return of the local populace impossible. Â
And that is where we find Tiff, shaking and dropping her sword.  The ground among the ruins was colored in drying blood.  A small person hugged their child and looked up at her. Wait.  A moment before, they were both monsters!  Their skull-faces kept shifting back and forth between undead warriors and people â just regular⌠the regular people of this world. Â
And these people scattered to the various buildings that were broken but still standing. Â âThe Man-Beast is back! Â Arm yourselves or run!â Â
The mother held her young one close, curling her arms and her tail protectively around them.  She looked up at Tiff with watery eyes.  âTake my life, if you must, Just as you did my husbandâs, but spare my childâŚâ Â
âYouâreâŚyouâre not already dead!â Tiff of Shining Justice gasped.
âOf course we arenât!â Â some impetuous young one shouted, stomping up the road. They put their hands on their hips and glared at Tiffany. Â âNot yet, anyway! Â Youâre obviously here to finish the job! Â Weâll give you an even harder fight than last time! Â This is OUR land and the asshole that you work for cannot have it!â Â
âNoâŚnoâŚâ Tiffany said, stepping back, leaving the âsacred swordâ in the dust. She heard her party riding up behind her.
âDammit, Myrna! Â I think you overworked the spell!â Lindis groused as he brought his horse to a stop and dismounted. Â âWhen you were healing her head-wound you must have taken off the Cloud!â
âIâm sorry! Iâm sorry!â Â Myrna cried. Â
âIs there a way to go back? Â I could always remove her brain and put it in a Machine-Knight,â Trapta suggested.
âNo going back,â Orcus groused. Â âGood old propaganda might be in order?â Â
âGodsdammit,â Lindis growled. Â âHow are we going to drive out the natives now?â Â
âWell, it just doesnât seemâŚethical.â Your friend slowly says to you. âEthical?â You yell back at him. âWho cares about morals when I have created a masterpiece! A book that learns what the reader likes and changes its script accordingly. Imagine that, the perfect book!â
But Have You Thought AboutâŚÂ
Here was Matthew trying to harsh my buzz. I knew that I was going to have a best-seller on my hands. Â
âWe. Will. Finally. Have. Money.â I iterated to him. âMe, your uncle, you⌠weâll have so much fuck-off-money that we will not have to worry about our health care or bill collectors or unexpected expenses ever again! We can get the food you want all the time! Iâll be famous! Not that I care about the fame, I just⌠want us to not have to WORRY about things anymore! And with a bestseller⌠Oh, Matt, itâs going to be the ULTIMATE best-seller!â Â
I danced around, throwing out my arms. âItâs for us, too! Have you ever read a book with a disappointing ending? Or one where a character you loved died and it made no frigginâ sense?â Â
âDonât you torture and kill your characters all the time?â Matt contended, âYou brag about it!â Â
âEnough about me and my dark writerâs tastes and my love of drinking up salty reader-tears!â I shouted. Iâd pinned a towel to the shoulders of my tee-shirt like a superhero cape - or a villain-cape. I felt like I needed a cape for this moment for some reason, and since capes were not exactly fashionable, a towel would have to do.  âAnyway⌠I kill off characters when it makes sense!  But, you know what? Iâll concede this. Some readers may not think it makes sense. They wonât have to say goodbye to their favorite characters anymore! Itâs perfect for everyone!â Â
âDo you know how much porn you just created?â Â
âI live on the Internet, of course I do. This shores up one of my weaknesses! You know my asexual, sex-repulsed ass cannot write good porn! And I know from being in fanfiction circles that itâs what soooo many people want! This book will read their thoughts and if they want it, they get it! And I do not have to worry about my lack of skill!â Â
âUh⌠you do remember that toy-commercial we just saw on Nostalgia Critic about the dancing unicorn-toddlers singing about poop, right? Youâre just going to unleash more of THAT into the world!â Â
I sighed.  âAs long as it keeps people in their weird little corners. If a reader wants that, it will happen in their heads. The book is not universal.â Â
âYOU JUST CREATED AN SCP!!!!â Â
âUm⌠Itâs not designed to literally suck anyone into the story and give them a life that they never want to come back from. The Story that Writes Itself will remain words on the page.â Â
âITâS STILL AN SCP!â Â
âThe SCP Foundation is not real.â Â
Matt sat down heavily in the gamer-chair in the living-room.  âWhat happens when someone wants to make a movie out of your book, Shads? No one will agree on what movie to make!â Â
âI told you about tumblr and âGoncharav,â right? Itâll be like that! Itâll be fun!â Â
âPeople will fight about it! Youâve been in fandom! Youâve been cyberbullied in fandom! You know what fandom is like! Itâs crazy!â Â
I briefly contemplated the concept of âMisery.â Iâd never seen the film in whole, nor had I read the book, but I knew of the concept. I mean, my book would be absolutely made to prevent such happenings by crazy fans because what happens to the characters are exactly what they want to happen, and perhaps, for a few readers, the story would be neverending. You know, not like that movie I loved from my childhood that actually frickinâ ended and had the most horrific, low-budget sequels imaginable. False advertising and the eventual ending of the franchise was a mercy. Crazy-evil ladies with sledgehammers would be safely ensconced in reading my book, with no need to come after me or to engage in the crazy fandom behavior that characterizes most fandoms when they disagree on interpretations of characters and plots. Â
But Matt was right⌠A book that was different for every reader WOULD cause untold arguments and fandom-fights. Â
âWhat if people are so interested in reading it that they stop working?â Â
âWork sucks,â I said.  âYou know Iâm a socialist at heart. Maybe my book will worm its way into the hearts of people who secretly feel the same way as i do and inspire them to overthrow the ruling class and create a more equitable society.â Â
âYouâre crazy, Shads⌠well, crazier than usual. Also, what if it doesnât go that way? If people read what they want? What if the book is about Donald Trump being a superhero for some of them?âÂ
Oh shit. Oh shit, oh, shit, oh shit! Â
I had been following a Letâs Read on Youtube in which the reader was subjecting himself to a book someone had written arguing that Donald Trump was the true Messiah.  Oh, no, no, noâŚ.Â
My book⌠indeed would belong in the halls of the SCP, if it existed. I would inspire its fandom to tear each other apart! It would keep people reading, reading, reading to the point where theyâd forget to feed themselves! Theyâd be trapped in their own ideas instead of being exposed to the fresh ideas of fresh authors! It might deify horrible, horrible people because, letâs face it, many people in the world are horribleâŚÂ
I couldnât publish this book. At leastâŚnot until Iâd worked out the kinks! Â
Wow. Re-reading this makes me wistful. Â
This is one of my fiction-autobiographical pieces - like, literally imagining myself and my people in the situation. Matthew referenced here is (was) a real person. He had read this and approved of my shenanigans - deeming that I had written him in-character. It is full of so many references to things we enjoyed together, such as the SCP Foundation. Â
Matthew died suddenly and unexpectedly in January 2023. Â
We were close. Iâve been...dealing with it... but I look over my old posts like this, things of which he was a part and thoughts and the feelings of loss just come barreling back. Â
For folks wondering about the tags on the last post of âforbidden fantasy titlesâ where I answered in the tags that one of my books has a title involving a word that is now heavily associated with Joe Biden?Â
I am not even kidding. Â
Yes, there is a reason for one of the main characters to have that name. Yes, I do a double-take whenever I hear the President on television use the word. Aw, my gryphon canât help you build back better? Itâs like I started associating the word with my character and when Biden stared trying to bring it back into fashion, I almost forgot that it was an actual word. Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Fantasy authors are now banned from titling their books anything to do with crowns, thorns, precious metals, roses, blood or bones. You hauve to think of something else now.
A little blonde girl. She cannot be more than eight or nine years old. She is desperately skinny. She is wearing a pink âBarbieâ themed backpack and is clutching a dirty plush of an Eevee. Â
Deity who's unacquainted with concept of evolution creating a world with, like, twelve different kinds of creatures, thinking "yes, that's a good number â nice and symmetrical", then going on vacation for a couple million years and being very upset at what's waiting for them when they get back.
They were not pleased. The world was meant to be unchanging with the Twelve Breeds replicating each according to their Kind. Â As it was, there was only one of the original Kind left and a few of them that were not at least mildly altered, at that. Â (The Last of Original Kind was a brainless ocean-drifter to whom the Deity had gifted immortality because They thought it was funny. Certainly it was a type of being that would not be able to appreciate the gift, given it anyway, therein was the joke). Â Even that Kind had birthed other Kinds, however, some of which had inexplicably developed central nervous systems and minds and might have appreciated the gift that only their still-living ancestors retained. Â
There were Terrestrial Flyers that had lost their wings and had become fully terrestrial! Â Some were even quadrupeds now! Â The Deity didnât even know what to make of the Furry Water-Paddler that had developed venom!
And, then, of course, were the Clever Ones. What were they DOING?  They were penning up other creatures?  Not only hunting them, but cutting them up and stuffing them into other creatures and mixing them up with plants and putting them to mild fire to make entirely new things before they ate them?  And they were RIDING other creatures! And wandering into environments the Deity had never meant their ancestors to occupy because they were sewing together skins and weaving plants to protect themselves and they were just⌠what were they DOING? Â
Were they trying to talk to Them, too? What was this?!  They were meant to be content beings dancing among the trees with simple minds and now they were all⌠angsty!  Even edgier than the Toothed Swimmers (which had diverged and changed little, but had done enough to be obnoxious, too)! Â
Twelve was a nice, even number.  Now there were millions and the Deity didnât even know how to count them, much less what to make of thisâŚwarped creation. Â
And yet, They didnât have the heart to wipe it all out and start again.  There was something charming in thisâŚunforeseen mess.
[IMAGE ID: The front half of a robotic dragon in profile. It has forelegs of bunched artificial muscles and circular machine-components over which there is gauntlet-armor. Itâs body is covered in many steel / chrome scales. Its underbelly has purple elements were machine-light is shining through. It has horns made of polished amethyst. It has a pair of wings made up of thin machine-fingers like bat-wings while the skin-type part is made up of purple hard-light with lines of electricity crackling through them. Pen and ink and watercolor. / END IMAGE ID.]Â
In the same universe as Valley and Hunter. It is not necessary to read those, as it is a loosely-connected universe. It is my future-world where the world is divided into mortals and immortals who mind-surf into robotic forms and hunt mortals for sport. Â
______________
The Dragonâs Destiny
The mindlink was sharp. Â It always felt that way, like a needle entering the skin. White light washed over him, a strange unconsciousness that lacked either dream or darkness. Â
When he came to, the first thing that Destin did was shake his neck. Â The multitude of metal scales rattled and chimed. Â He felt cool air in between the plates and the sound was like rain in the wind. He snapped them in place as he stretched; armor clamping tight over a serpentine form, shining shields over insulated wiring and artificial muscles. Â He looked down at his forelimbs, flexing them in turn as he shifted weight to his haunches. Â It always took him a few minutes to orient himself, even in a frequently-used machine.
He favored the dragon over all else. Destin had been dogs, monkeys, cats, multi-limbed horses and even, at times, piloted an android that was not too different in appearance from his natural form. Â Time and time again he came back to the dragon. Â
The young man-within-beast settled upon all four of his legs and dug his sizeable talons into the soft, muddy earth. Destin swung his massive tail and reveled in the rattle of the scales on it before they locked into place. Â He deployed his wings: From a compartment on his back they unfurled, a steel-colored skeletal-frame. Electricity crackled between the rods forming the âbones.â Â It solidified into a type of hard light, pale purple and like glass that caged lightning.
He stretched and gave them an experimental flap. Â The link was working well. Â He could feel all six limbs and his tail without trouble. Â It wasnât quite like what he felt in his human body. Â His forelegs felt roughly analogous to arms and his back legs felt like his legs and feet in an entirely different configuration. Â It felt like the flats of his feet were elongated and that he was walking firmly upon his toes. Â Most of the quadruped machines he piloted felt this way. Â The wings were a new sensation relative to his natural form. They felt like an additional set of hands with stretched and splayed-out fingers. Â
Destin experienced basic perception and orientation but no pain. Â He had systems that alerted him of damage if he took any, but they were merely a reminder â something akin to hearing a loud sound and receiving a text-message in his mind. If he lost a scale or ploughed his tail into a tree he was cognizant of it, but it did not hurt like an injury to the flesh and bone did. Â Â Destin thought about making his disembodied mind situation permanent. Â He spent most of his âdowntimeâ in his cityâs cloud among the network of other Immortals. Â When not in a sleep state he traveled through the many constructed worlds available to his access. Â He was still a young man and traversing the physical world in his organic body still had its pleasures. Â He hesitated to call the physical world the âreal worldâ like many did. Â The constructs were just as real in terms of perception and sensation. Â Heâd been in and out of them since he was a child â his fifth birthday, to be exact. Children were assessed at age five or six years as to how well they would take to the mindlinks. Â One went through various child-friendly simulations and kindergartens before learning to pilot simple toys. Â
In his adult life, lately, Destin was spending much more time in the dragon alone, let alone the network and the constructs than in his currently stasis-bound flesh. Â
He enjoyed the weight of his polished amethyst horns. Many aspects of the robotic-dragon existed for aesthetics alone. Destinâs dragon-eyes were pale-purple, without pupils and lit when he was inside the creature. Â The beast had â in addition to its main eyes â which were situated on the sides of its face, two much smaller optics on the front that were partially-hidden and made to look like decorative features. Â They would appear to eyes untrained in the upkeep of high-city mechanisms to be budding horns or glass scales. Â They provided the binocular-vision of a predator while the main eyes gave Destin a panoramic view. Â He could switch between views at will. Â When he employed both views at once he often felt dizzy. Â
He marched in place â a final check of his systems â before thundering into a run, flapping his massive energy-wings and taking to the sky. Â
The firmament was like aquamarine. Destin could detect that the early afternoon air was âwarmâ even if it did not feel quite the same way as it did on skin or how it was registered in a constructed world. Â Sensors picked up scents; the âgreenâ smell of trees freshly in leaf and the soft, sweet aromas of flowers. Â The cherry blossoms on the tall, wide trees below him were as subtle in scent as they were forthcoming in visual-display. Â Destin dipped low, letting his fore-talons brush the top of the canopy, sending petals and twigs into the air. Â He tucked his wings close and rolled through the pale pink and white storm.
He flew over a still lake. Â Its surface was like glass and his image shone in it brightly. Â Destin beheld a shimmering silver beast with translucent horns and wings made of purple sheets of light and lightning. Lavender light glowed through any cracks in armor and scale, brilliant displays of power and otherness. Â He was magnificent! Magnificent! Â He released pent-up gas from the storage-tank deep within his chest. Â (Perhaps it was too close to the mindlink-processor and the general processing-unit for the motor-skill controls, but he didnât worry about it). Fumes pushed through his throat and he engaged the lighter at the back of his mouth. Â Destin sent forth a jet of flame, announcing his presence to all creatures within sight of the forest-edge. Â
Perhaps that was why people were ready to meet him when he landed in a village at the far side of the Valley. Â Some of the mortals scattered into their homes â as if it would do any good against the size and fire of a dragon. Â
Destin did not âhuntâ often, but he had heard a rumor that this nest was getting to be quite populous.  There was also a rumor that the people of this town had been quite rude to some Immortals that had come to them in android-form, something about not wanting  to relinquish one of their more intelligent children to the city-school.  Immortals bestowed mercy upon the descendants of those they had left behind.  A few of them caught the attention of the Watchers every now and again and could become eligible for conversion. Â
Destin didnât know much about that from a personal angle. Â He was neither a Firstling nor an Elevated. Â His parents and grandparents were Immortal. Â He thought about his motherâs framed skin on the wall of the living-room of the family home. Â She had chosen to uplink herself into the cloud and to robot-hop permanently quite recently. Â Her natural body had borne a large tattoo of a phoenix on its back that she had liked, so she had a leatherworker preserve it. Â Such ornamentation for homes was common, with some eternal network-rovers going so far as to have taxidermy made of their own heads, but Destin was unlikely to leave anything behind when he made the Leap. Â A mounted radius and ulna, perhaps? Â Heâd always found limb-bones elegant. Â He lacked the tattoos to display as actual art and didnât care to obtain any. Â
At present, he decided upon a day of fun. He flexed his tail and his claws and issued a mighty roar. Â People wobbled on their feet, their hearing and balance in a state of distortion. Destin could scarcely believe that these beings and he were the same species. Â It was a mere technicality. Â Unlike his kind, these bipedal beasts had brief lives. Â Even the young men among them, trying to damage his optics with their firearms in a futile attempt to protect their town were âsoon to die,â from his perspective, anyway. Â What did such short lives mean, anyway? Â
There were debates among Immortals over what place the mortals occupied â if they retained a status as âpeopleâ or if they were more akin to animals. Â Some held that they were at a livestock or even insect-level. Â They would never gain the intelligence, knowledge or wisdom of the Immortals simply because their time was too limited.
Destin swatted the gathered rabble as if he were swatting flies. Â He felt a pike between his finger-plates. Someone had rammed a farming-hoe into him. It was not painful to his artificial body, but the pressure irritated him. The audacity irritated him even further.
Bullets rattled off his back-scales. Â He craned his neck and dove his massive head through the crowd. Â He ploughed his jaws through the front windows of one of the houses. His teeth speared through a couch, which he shattered and shook free. Â
The little humans surrounded him. There were screams of terror and absolute rage when he began digging like a dog into the floor of the house heâd just destroyed. Â The townsfolk knew he was trying to get into the basement where some of the most vulnerable people were hiding. Â
Destin did love toying with his prey. Â He liked enlivening the survival-instincts and community-instincts within them. Â It was delightful to behold. Â In the end his jaws, talons and crushing force, he thought, were more merciful than the age, disease and starvation they would all inevitably die of, anyway. Â The only tool at his disposal that he did not consider a greater mercy was his flamethrower, but even a death by that was a quick demise rather than a lingering one. Â
The smallfolk were growing a little too numerous in this area. Â If left to their own devices they might start scavenging or stealing high-city resources. It was not Destinâs job to do culls, but it was a pleasure. Â
Heâd done sport-hunting in smaller forms; wolves, big cats and the like for picking off a few trophies. Â Nothing did a mass-cull as well as a dragon. Destinâs claws crunched through a basement. He dug the small family that was huddled inside out of it carelessly. A woman and two little boys were flung across the mud like tiny dolls along with broken wood and chunks of brick and concrete. Â
The dragon turned about and sent a jet of flame among the crowd as he heard another barrage of gunfire tinkering off his posterior. Â People ducked and fled, but regrouped. Â Roofs were set ablaze and immediately there were men and women grabbing whatever hollow objects they could, dipping them in the nearby river and trying to douse the fires before they completely devoured the homes. Destin could not help but to admire the tenacity of the little creatures. Â They fought their fate with remarkable ferocity. Â He relished the odor of blood. Â His talons were coated in it by now. Â
He heard a loud noise and felt a pressure over his head. Â A sparkling bit of purple stone fell to the earth. Â One of the townspeople had damaged his left horn with a lucky gunshot. He roared and unleashed a torrent of fire so long and fierce that he depleted his gas-store. Â
The shotgun-spatter and tossed pitchforks and stones began to annoy him. Â A brick pattered off his face, close to one of his optics. Â One screaming woman had found a sword â an honest-to-goodness double-edged sword of all things, an item used only as ornament and for ceremonies in this age â and managed to bury it to the hilt in between a pair of his chest-plates. Â The sword was stopped by his secondary-armor and the plastic coating over his artificial-muscles before it did any significant damage to him, but he felt fear for just a moment. Â He could feel that the very tip of it had come too close to where his processors were located for him to remain nonchalant. Â
If the mindlink were to be damaged, he could be shunted back violently into the city-loud with a âwhiplashâ effect, leaving him disoriented or even in a sleep-state for days and that was the best-case scenario. Â Likely events resulting from processor-compromise could leave his mind damaged due to a loss of data; a destruction of memories or processing capabilities. Â At the apex of worst, all of his data â and therefore him â could have been completely destroyed. Â
He was already angry about the damage to his horn. Â How could these little beasts have such little respect for one far more beautiful than they? Coming close to having his main processor ruined put him â perhaps for the first time â in fear for his life!
Destin turned and ran. Â With shouts and continued gunfire after him, as well as a steel sword still lodged in his chest, he unfurled his electric-wings and flew. He knew that the people would fail to chase him beyond the Valley-rim. Â Many of their houses were on fire and they would inevitably find it more important to take care of their wounded and their dead. Â
Those that remained had won their lives this day. Â Â
Destin would eventually have his dragon fully-repaired, but a certain scar on the outer chest-plate would never buff out. He never returned to that particular town. Â No constructed world freed his mind of the nightmares heâd occasionally have from getting a taste of the fear of death. Â
It was the justice of the powerless, one might suppose. Â
Â
You are constantly mocked for having such a weird superpower by all the other heroes. âThe power to make anything into perfectly cooked soupâ⌠One day, a massive meteor is barreling towards earth. As all the other heroes are panicking, you wait perfectly calm, at the impact zone, bowl in hand.
Soup-er PowerÂ
Stella Campbell had been laughed out of her cityâs League of Heroesâ Hall long ago when sheâd attempted to join. Sheâd been interviewed by Ten-Ton Man (whose power was that he could lift anything and everything up to ten-tons in weight) and heâd suggested that sheâd go work in a charity kitchen - that her power wasnât impressive enough to become one of Metrovaniaâs stalwart protectors. Â
So, thatâs what she did. It was doing good, right? After all, Metrovania still had impoverished people on its hands - people who hadnât quite benefited from Truth, Justice and the American Way. She suspected it was because most of the American Way involved Capitalism, which, in excess, always guaranteed freezing bodies coming in from the cold into the cityâs soup-kitchens for a hot meal - provided that they were not too ashamed of their lot in life to do so. Itâs not like the kitchens didnât serve more than soup, but it was the age-old claim to a name and Stellaâs specialty, ever since sheâd learned how to boil down a picked-over poultry-carcass into a fine broth by her mother. Perhaps it was a superpower enough to know how to cook and to feed oneâs family and friends, and because she was so community-minded, to apply her skills to a charity. Sheâd thought of joining one of those mobile chefsâ organizations, the ones that went to war zones and disaster areas to provide hot meals. She certainly had great skill in taking simple and inexpensive ingredients - a few potatoes and a little milk, perhaps, and making the âbest soup I ever had!â according to people sheâd fed. Â
Campbell had discovered early on that sheâd had a genuine superpower, too - the kind that could be registered among âEmergent Anomalous Propertiesâ as they were being called on a census-list. It had happened when she was ten years old or so. Sheâd been helping her mother make the family-recipe for stone soup. Anyone whoâs ever heard of it knows that itâs generally a vegetable stew made with just about anything one can find in oneâs garden or pantry (an old country recipe) and that the special ingredient is a smooth, clean stone - preferably one from a river - to be cooked in the soup. The idea of it is that the stone has some magic in it and will impart a special flavor. (No one expected to eat the actual stone). It was a way for a poor family to make a pot of soup look bigger, she supposed, or to give a child a special role in making dinner. Â
When little Stella had added the freshly-scrubbed stone into the pot of broth bubbling with carrots and turnips, an amazing thing happened: The stone itself had melted and incorporated itself into the soup! Â
Both her mother and her father had screamed and shouted âDonât eat it!â but she had already grabbed a large spoon to taste the results. Instead of getting some kind of mineral-poisoning or broken teeth... the soup was good. Really, really good! Â
Stella Campbellâs subsequent experiments with making little pots of stone soup yielded actual meals. She could get anything out of the stones. Sometimes they turned into beef meatballs when thrown into the pot. Sometimes theyâd turned into a hearty grain, such as rice or a pasta. Her parents arranged for her powers to be tested. Anything she threw into a pot with a little water - scraps of wood, rusty nails, bits of plastic... it all turned into food - actual, real food - usually a protein of some kind, meat or beans. Â
Her tire-chunks and broken glass chili was to die for. Â
It wasnât entirely predictable what bits and bobs would turn into, but it was always, always delicious. And it always seemed to turn into whatever soup someone wanted. She could feed vegetarians and omnivores alike out of the same kinds of trash thrown into different pots!Â
Her family was never hungry, although they did get rather bored of soup. Â
As she grew into a young woman, instead of seeking college, she thought that she might just join the League right away. After all, didnât she have a power that could solve world hunger? It turns out that they valued the flashier powers - things that were more marketable. Ten-Ton Man had marketing deals for a cleaning-products company and frequented commercials where the carpet-shampoo and dishwashing detergent were âas strong as he wasâ and âas tough on dirt as he was on the bad guys.â Monsoon Mike always provided good shots for the local news when he streaked across the sky. He movie and fashion deals. The same with Rocketeer, although she didnât even actually have any natural superpowers! She was just a wealthy engineer who made a lot of flashy inventions! Â
Making soup out of trash was just...unglamorous, she supposed, but Campbell grew to enjoy her charity-work. Â
And then the reports of the Meteor came. It was, supposedly, a world-ender, like the Dinosaur-Killer. It was headed straight for the central park of Metrovania! The DART-project had detected it too late to deflect it. The League had been called in to deal with it, but none of their powers would suffice. Ten-Ton Man was too weak, ironically - the meteor was estimated to weigh in-excess of ten tons. None of Rocketeerâs rockets, including the jet packs she flew around on had enough thrust to get rid of it. Monsson Mike could only electrocute the thing with his lightning, which would have done nothing at all. Everyone else assessed their powers and all came up short. Â
Until Stella Campbell stood alone in the estimated Ground Zero of impact, an enormous cookpot full of fresh water carried in both her hands. Bags of pasta, beans and spices were at her feet. Â
The only thing she saw was a nice, spicy meatball, perfect for a pasta soup! Â
The entire city of Metrovania was going to love it!Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
"Well, it just doesn't seemâŚethical." Your friend slowly says to you. "Ethical?" You yell back at him. "Who cares about morals when I have created a masterpiece! A book that learns what the reader likes and changes its script accordingly. Imagine that, the perfect book!"
But Have You Thought About...Â
Here was Matthew trying to harsh my buzz. I knew that I was going to have a best-seller on my hands. Â
âWe. Will. Finally. Have. Money.â I iterated to him. âMe, your uncle, you... weâll have so much fuck-off-money that we will not have to worry about our health care or bill collectors or unexpected expenses ever again! We can get the food you want all the time! Iâll be famous! Not that I care about the fame, I just... want us to not have to WORRY about things anymore! And with a bestseller... Oh, Matt, itâs going to be the ULTIMATE best-seller!â Â
I danced around, throwing out my arms. âItâs for us, too! Have you ever read a book with a disappointing ending? Or one where a character you loved died and it made no frigginâ sense?â Â
âDonât you torture and kill your characters all the time?â Matt contended, âYou brag about it!â Â
âEnough about me and my dark writerâs tastes and my love of drinking up salty reader-tears!â I shouted. Iâd pinned a towel to the shoulders of my tee-shirt like a superhero cape - or a villain-cape. I felt like I needed a cape for this moment for some reason, and since capes were not exactly fashionable, a towel would have to do.  âAnyway... I kill off characters when it makes sense!  But, you know what? Iâll concede this. Some readers may not think it makes sense. They wonât have to say goodbye to their favorite characters anymore! Itâs perfect for everyone!â Â
âDo you know how much porn you just created?â Â
âI live on the Internet, of course I do. This shores up one of my weaknesses! You know my asexual, sex-repulsed ass cannot write good porn! And I know from being in fanfiction circles that itâs what soooo many people want! This book will read their thoughts and if they want it, they get it! And I do not have to worry about my lack of skill!â Â
âUh... you do remember that toy-commercial we just saw on Nostalgia Critic about the dancing unicorn-toddlers singing about poop, right? Youâre just going to unleash more of THAT into the world!â Â
I sighed.  âAs long as it keeps people in their weird little corners. If a reader wants that, it will happen in their heads. The book is not universal.â Â
âYOU JUST CREATED AN SCP!!!!â Â
âUm... Itâs not designed to literally suck anyone into the story and give them a life that they never want to come back from. The Story that Writes Itself will remain words on the page.â Â
âITâS STILL AN SCP!â Â
âThe SCP Foundation is not real.â Â
Matt sat down heavily in the gamer-chair in the living-room.  âWhat happens when someone wants to make a movie out of your book, Shads? No one will agree on what movie to make!â Â
âI told you about tumblr and âGoncharav,â right? Itâll be like that! Itâll be fun!â Â
âPeople will fight about it! Youâve been in fandom! Youâve been cyberbullied in fandom! You know what fandom is like! Itâs crazy!â Â
I briefly contemplated the concept of âMisery.â Iâd never seen the film in whole, nor had I read the book, but I knew of the concept. I mean, my book would be absolutely made to prevent such happenings by crazy fans because what happens to the characters are exactly what they want to happen, and perhaps, for a few readers, the story would be neverending. You know, not like that movie I loved from my childhood that actually frickinâ ended and had the most horrific, low-budget sequels imaginable. False advertising and the eventual ending of the franchise was a mercy. Crazy-evil ladies with sledgehammers would be safely ensconced in reading my book, with no need to come after me or to engage in the crazy fandom behavior that characterizes most fandoms when they disagree on interpretations of characters and plots. Â
But Matt was right... A book that was different for every reader WOULD cause untold arguments and fandom-fights. Â
âWhat if people are so interested in reading it that they stop working?â Â
âWork sucks,â I said.  âYou know Iâm a socialist at heart. Maybe my book will worm its way into the hearts of people who secretly feel the same way as i do and inspire them to overthrow the ruling class and create a more equitable society.â Â
âYouâre crazy, Shads... well, crazier than usual. Also, what if it doesnât go that way? If people read what they want? What if the book is about Donald Trump being a superhero for some of them?âÂ
Oh shit. Oh shit, oh, shit, oh shit! Â
I had been following a Letâs Read on Youtube in which the reader was subjecting himself to a book someone had written arguing that Donald Trump was the true Messiah.  Oh, no, no, no....Â
My book... indeed would belong in the halls of the SCP, if it existed. I would inspire its fandom to tear each other apart! It would keep people reading, reading, reading to the point where theyâd forget to feed themselves! Theyâd be trapped in their own ideas instead of being exposed to the fresh ideas of fresh authors! It might deify horrible, horrible people because, letâs face it, many people in the world are horrible...Â
I couldnât publish this book. At least...not until Iâd worked out the kinks! Â
Encouragment for writers that I know seems discouraging at first but I promise itâs motivational-
⢠Those emotioal scenes youâve planned will never be as good on page as they are in your head. To YOU. Your audience, however, is eating it up. Just because you canât articulate the emotion of a scene to your satisfaction doesnât mean itâs not impacting the reader.Â
⢠Sometimes a sentence, a paragraph, or even a whole scene will not be salvagable. Either it wasnât necessary to the story to begin with, or you can put it to the side and re-write it later, but for now itâs gotta go. It doesnât make you a bad writer to have to trim, it makes you a good writer to know to trim.
⢠There are several stories just like yours. And thatâs okay, thereâs no story in existence of completely original concepts. What makes your story âoriginalâ is that itâs yours. No one else can write your story the way you can.
⢠You have writing weaknesses. Everyone does. But donât accept your writing weaknesses as unchanging facts about yourself. Donât be content with being crap at description, dialogue, world building, etc. Writers that are comfortable being crap at things wonât improve, and thatâs not you. Itâs going to burn, but work that muscle. I promise youâll like the outcome.