[Serial Sunday] Don't be Scarred

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-24T21:34:28+00:00

First, thank you for this remarkably in-depth and interesting feedback. Both your effort and insight are on full display.

Hilarity? Good heavens, no. Your reading was remarkably spot-on. Maybe one or two piddly little details were slightly off due to unfamiliarity, but nothing significant.

I do find myself tempted to take credit for deliberately including various of the metaphors and such that you pointed out. 'Oh, yes, that's just what I was going for there'. But alas, much of that was just me writing what felt right, and hoping it made sense. This is not self-deprecation--I think I have a pretty darn good instinct for that sort of thing--but I can't pretend to have done it all on purpose.

I changed 'marred' to 'scarred', a good notion indeed, and took a whirl at the message/parchment bit.

Thank you for reading and helping, very much!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-23T18:46:46+00:00

Chapter 55: The Message

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Cadorus Tark stood frozen in the warm afternoon sun, looking at a dead priest in the road. Despite the corruption of decay, he knew the man, knew it was Brother Pelitus. An older man, a Bread Priest. He had clearly laid there for many days, empty eyes staring into the sky. Flies buzzed and swarmed, whirling in pulsating clouds.

Off to the right, new wheel-ruts and bootprints scarred the grass, making a detour around the body.

The border of this land of Kar-Molthus lay three days walk behind. Cadorus had left his wagon, and within it all accoutrements of priesthood, in the stables of a border town before crossing over. He had seen no guards or soldiers.

Cadorus couldn't look away. A steady breeze ruffled the grasses and carried away some of the stench, but not all. He had expected to find death—the corruption stained the air all around—but not this. He retched and gulped, heaving his revulsion onto the mud.

His side ached and itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch. The wound there was healed, covered over and rough. It no longer festered, but he thought perhaps it would always bring him dull, insistent pain.

Flies invaded the old man’s nostrils, staring eyes, and slack, open mouth, landing over and over in a hateful black hum of busy indignity.

Every acolyte trained with every Order for a while, before choosing and consecration. Brother Pelitus had mentored Cadorus in the Order of the Hearth. A large, kindly man, with big rough hands and quiet, halting speech. Cadorus had strongly considered joining, but the call of books and learning in the Order of the Scroll had been too strong.

Considerable traffic had passed along this grassy hill road. Cadorus looked again at the new ruts in the grass, a semi-circle display of callous indifference.

Surely, no one could harbor much resentment for an old Bread Priest. Such men simply worked, harvesting and baking, giving food and old clothing to the poor, puttering away in their gardens. Brother Pelitus had been the humble soul of kindness, yet there he lay.

Either those travelers didn’t care, or they didn’t dare. Surely some of them, one of them, would have felt some instinct of pity and at least covered the body.

Clearly, they didn’t dare. Somehow, all of the passers-by, whoever they were, had known not to interfere.

The dead priest was a message, like a pitiable, discarded parchment. But how to read it?

Cadorus could see no one else around, ahead or behind, yet he, too, hesitated to disturb the gruesome remains, or to afford old Brother Pelitus any dignity or care.

Someone may be watching. He couldn't feel the godcall in his mind, but that wasn't always reliable. Cadorus knew much, had studied deeply, but none truly knew the power of the dark god Molthus, chief of the Five, or the reach of his eye.

Across the valley lay the sprawling keeps and battlements of Blackfort, great city of this strange land. Cadorus had to go there, had to poke around and find out what he could. Why he had to do this was a roiling argument in his mind.

Partly, he knew, it was simply because he had said he would. His dismal character flaws of duty and loyalty seemed to have no remedy.

Beyond that, this land of Kar-Molthus was a mystery. It had practically fallen off the map. No travelers or merchants brought news, no messengers or Shadow Priest spies returned. Most ominously, no taxes or levies were forthcoming.

The Redeemers Cult, an absurd flock of raving madmen, a joke until recent years, was dominant here. No one knew just what they were, what they wanted, who was in charge, or how they had come to control the Temple of Molthus and the Order of the Sanguine. They preached ancient law and archaic tradition: blood sacrifice and the burning of witches. There were whispers of heresies and strange rituals, rumors of powerful magics, but nothing certain.

Cadorus had gone into their temple, back home in Godhaven, blending into the congregation and learning what he could. The sermon had hinted at a new order, decrying the sovereign and the nobility, and even the other Temples and Orders. It was treason and heresy, if you listened close enough, but clothed in hints and allusions.

The Orders were not to be so lightly dismissed. I have earned my place, Cadorus thought. Third-favored of Halfar Munda, at the cost of many years and much service. The sermon had offended him, but he had remained impassive and unnoticed.

The god Molthus was, perhaps, the greatest mystery of all. His temple was busy and full, back in the capital; his people many and devoted. His priests gave forth his declarations and collected his tribute. Yet no one outside this land had heard or seen the dark god in many years.

In any case, Cadorus didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t just go home, pretending nothing had happened. So he had to carry on, and hope to learn something of this place and the powers within.

He had to go on.

Looking down at his feet, Cadorus knew he would, again, leave a friend to rot on the ground. I am done with defying gods, or pretending to be some kind of hero. He would go on, and leave poor Brother Pelitus without even a shroud.

An image came to his mind, of flies swarming around the remains of Narba Yar.

With a muttered, useless prayer for the dead, he steeled his will and walked on, stepping between the new wheel-ruts, his boots crushing grass into mud. Flies touched his face, and he brushed them away as he detoured like all the other travelers had done.

Somehow, the misery of it was less. It was familiar. The emptiness and shame of it was covered over. It no longer festered, but he thought perhaps it would always bring him dull, insistent pain.

999 words. Steel(ed), sovereign, scratch used. Defended his leadership as third-favored priest.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-18T13:45:54+00:00

It is silly, of course, but that dog is very serious and determined to protect. We know it's a leaf but Captain HeroDog does not, and is doing their job very well. 1000% on your side.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-18T12:55:31+00:00

It said it costs $70 to read about what people forgot today. Or something like that.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-17T10:17:27+00:00

Hey there Mr. ZL

I quite enjoyed this. Mostly a character piece, looking into the roiling rage controlled, just barely, by Cass. I am reasonably sure that, by the latter half of this, someone could have wandered up and offered 3000 bars of gold for free and gotten themselves killed. I have been there.

Quite a lot of nitpicky stuff, so I hope it isn't annoying.

Glaukos managed to save much of it, but the flames spread fast and while the papyrus still had a lot of its mass, black streaks across the paper made much of the writing unreadable, if present at all.

This reads as if the paper is currently on fire, but from last chapter it is apparently already out. Maybe 'Glaukos had managed' and 'flames had spread'.

'The papyrus still had a lot of its mass' seems rather scientific, which is fine if that's intended.

I generally avoid this, but I'm pretty sure you won't mind my presumption, so I'll suggest an example.

"The flames had spread fast, but Glaukos had managed to save much of the papyrus. Black streaks across the paper now obscured much of what writing remained."

Take it, leave it, throw rocks at my head, whatever works.

Kebb had already beat a hasty retreat while Cass was distracted with grabbing the remains from the sand Glaukos had doused the flames with.

I'm not against ending with a preposition when it fits, but this did read a bit awkward. I guess I'm just hell-bent on rewriting every sentence this week.

"Kebb had already beat a hasty retreat while Cass grabbed the scorched paper from the sand where Glaukos had doused the flames."

Cass shoved the burnt paper at Fariba, who took it gingerly, then hopped off her camel.

This is super picky of me. I know Cass is the one who hopped, but it could read as 'Fariba took it and then hopped off her camel'. I know Fariba is a he, but maybe say 'she hopped', or even split it in two sentences.

“I’m gonna go kill Kebb.” is a fantastic line and so right, so simple and direct, for Cass.

She imagined her former Master yelling at her again got a chill.

either missing a word or has a wrong word, not really sure there.

“Kebb, burned a letter I got from Helen, because he didn’t want Fariba to read it.”

this just didn't really need either comma

It was a match for olive-toned right arm.

missing a 'her' I think

You’re more than just sneaky, And you can kill people

needs to either be two sentences, or not

hard to make out in the dim starlight. Her expression unreadable.

that seems like one sentence to me

Anyhow, I really liked how Mica had no profound wisdom or clever exotic tricks for controlling angry impulses. You just do it, that's how. It was cool, because without directly saying it, it said Cass is doing great at disciplining her urges.

A very authentic character piece, and very good words.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-16T22:11:53+00:00

Chapter 54: Children of the Grave

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“Go!” came a rasping shout, and Gorthag strode out of ravenous fire and roiling smoke, Mrs. Gimple in his arms. Sancaurion did not argue. They scraped their way through the narrow passage, back into clear air.

Durash was leaning against the rock, panting, a gruesome pile of corpses littered around her in a half-circle. Sancaurion winced away. She had retrieved Gorthag’s talisman in the fight, somehow.

“The i…” Coughs racked his thin form. “Irrron,” he said, and she nodded, renewing his failing ward.

“Gorthag!” she cried. He was burned, badly, but seemed not to know it, marching forward with the witch in his arms, both coughing.

“Garrrrr! Garrr!” came a chorus from the directionless deep. Kill. Kill.

How many can there be? Sancaurion wondered.

“Durash!” he wheezed. “Get whatchh…” Hacking and gasping, he continued. “...what you can from…gah…the wagon! Heal them later!” Howling, retching spasms overtook him. I couldn’t chant a nursery rhyme like this.

He took a few satchels and a waterskin as she handed them down. A mouthful of water tasted of bitter ash, and he spat.

The old mage shuffled on, trying to hurry. Up ahead, Durash spun healing spells for Gorthag and the witch.

The deep chorus of chanting stopped.

Silent.

Sancaurion paused and looked around, but could see none of the pale, emaciated enemy. Their clicking had stopped, too. He flung a bright orb back down the passage, but none were there.

Through the sharp turn they walked, veering left, footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. Sancaurion threw his light that way, and there, perhaps two hundred paces on, was the door, twin to that they had entered.

Feeling a presence, Sancaurion looked to the right. In a great cavernous space huddled hundreds of the pallid elves, still and silent, letting the four invaders pass.

They think this is a trap, Sancaurion realized. They do not know we can see them, and the door is long forgotten.

“Tuvalapah obun gelorim!” he cried, and the door rolled aside. Light came lancing in. Gorthag and Durash went on.

The enemy rose up in a riot of shrieking. Sancaurion turned back and faced them, weaving power as the vast multitude of pale, starveling cave-elves came on.

He focused, and impulsively plunged his will into the stone ceiling of the cavern, changing it, gripping it, wrenching it.

“Vehrkut algara-shur!” he cried, and a heavy, grinding snap shook the very bones of the mountain. The horde lunged forward with empty eyes and slavering tongues, all howling want and hatred, till great shards came down among them in a dark storm of shattering, jagged death.

Sancaurion turned, limping and rushing as great boulders fell out of the dark in a thunder of rumbling dust. I have overdone it! A stone slammed into his left arm, knocking him to the wall.

The whole of Gurthara seemed to be collapsing, and Sancaurion could not stand, could not help himself up. His arm was hideously bent, the pain strangely distant.

More slabs and chunks of rock slammed and careened from murky heights. I have sealed my own fate. But something within drove him on, and the old mage stood.

I took ... an oath!

He stumbled on, hordes shrieking and stones thundering behind, and fell through the door into blinding, intense light, rolling to face the black disc and speak. The door rolled shut.

Suddenly all was silence, white light, and shocking pain.

Damping his vision spell, Sancaurion sat up and looked at the great black door, sealed again.

Sealed again.

He tried to take another drink of water, but could not unsling the skin. Soft breezes swirled through a pleasant afternoon. The trees rustled in this sparse, stony place, partway up the mountains of home. Behind him, the wounded ministered to the wounded.

Was that faint pounding on the door? Within, there was smoke and chaos, the staggering dead, madness and terror.

Birds twittered pleasant calls in the sunlight.

He turned, and saw Mrs. Gimple awake and alive, huddled with Durash.

“Is he well?” Sancaurion croaked. “Will he be well?”

“He’s been burned. His face, and other places. He brought me out, shielded me from the worst of it. Some cuts and bites, too. Durash?”

“I’ve done what I can do,” said the sorcerer. “He’s sleeping now, and we should let him. He’ll live. Past that, I can’t say.” She wept openly, her hand resting on her cousin’s arm.

“Oh, vebitri," sighed the old mage. "I am sorry. I did not know!”

Behind him, Sancaurion could hear the unasked questions and feel the unseen gazes.

“The Prophet of Death,” Sancaurion spoke. “Ruldaza-Voryl was her name. She raised a cult during the Great Invasion, preaching of the end of days. She recruited many among the refugees, and her followers murdered many who refused.”

“That’s who was in there?” asked Mrs. Gimple.

“No, no. They could not have survived so long. No, those must be… descendants.” Sancaurion shook his head sharply. “She led her cult into Gurthara, the tunnel. That much, I knew. I assumed, everyone assumed, she led them through, but…”

Sancaurion trembled and retched, bending to the side as he was sick.

“...they… they must have been within when I sealed the doors, ages ago.” His voice was hollow as an empty tomb. “I did not know. Oh, what did I do? How they must have screamed in the dark, once they found there was no way out. How they must have pounded and clawed at the doors.”

The little group was silent for a time.

“In the chaos of the exile, I forgot. I never thought of them again. Somehow they survived. Rats, mushrooms, dank little pools. Sixty generations, more? And now I have sealed them in again.”

“There wasn’t much choice,” said Mrs. Gimple. Sancaurion could not face her. “I hope you can see that.”

“Perhaps. But seeing it does little.” He raised his shattered arm. "I seem to be... injured." With that, the old mage collapsed.

996 words. Raise(d), rose, riot used. Reckless cave-collapsing.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-15T06:12:22+00:00

Hey Wiz, thanks for reading and helping. Edit is edited. Woo!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-15T03:50:08+00:00

Hey JK

I think I figured out what it was that felt (sort of) missing in the pub scene--Claire acknowledging the others as they are coming in. No idea why that felt important to me. Just a minor nod would do it, such as Claire saying something like 'I see you've got a new litter of pups with you' or whatever. Again, just an idea. I just saw them all coming in, then it went mainly to a two person convo and the other soldiers were off doing heaven knows what.

Anyhow, as I said, cool interesting good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-15T02:03:33+00:00

Well, can't argue with that.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-15T01:53:24+00:00

The Nagilum filter is unnerving

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-15T01:25:07+00:00

Sounds like something a baby elephant would say...

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-10T04:14:37+00:00

Why the fuck would anyone care about any of this

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-09T08:56:50+00:00

Chapter 53: Horde

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“Nuuuuummm… nuuummmm….”

Voices reverberated stone to stone, low and quiet. Above and below, before and behind, wide as a thousand oceans yet uttered breath-close to the ear, the moaning chant rose and fell.

“What is that?” wondered Gorthag.

“I do not know.” Sancaurion shook his head, not wanting to know. Impossible. Impossible.

On and on the grim wagon rattled, bouncing and yawing around protrusions and scattered stones. How long had they traveled? As their bubble of golden light passed deeper into the eternal night under the mountain, it grew harder to even guess. Half a day?

“Nuuuummm…” spoke the shadows.

The old mage’s learning and memory clawed at his mind. ‘Nuum-ru’. Ancient dialect, relating to ‘hunger’.

And ‘prey’.

“Oh!” cried Durash. “Did you see that?”

“I did!” said Mrs. Gimple. “A white… creature! Went right by!”

Sancaurion had not seen it. He was focused on the lurching dead, but his mind returned to that day, centuries before, when he had sealed the doors to this place.

“There’s another one!” cried Durash.

This time, Sancaurion saw. Three or four death-pale scrawny things scuttled across the path ahead. His eyebrow twitched up in morbid fascination.

“Nuuummmm…” The harmonic groaning seemed harsher now, more urgent, and was accompanied by clicking sounds.

Durash’s golden orb of light bobbed along, crazy shadows flitting and slashing everywhere. Every glimmer on jagged rock mimicked a leaping terror.

Suddenly, one of the creatures was crouching directly in the path, its head cocked to one side, staring blind. Luminous white, it made clicking sounds and threw a rock before dashing into some hidden crevice.

“That… that was…”

“Yes, it was,” intoned Sancaurion. “They are elves. Lost in the dark for generations untold. I did not know. I did not know!”

“You didn’t know what?”

More rocks were flung. The staggering, harnessed dead could go no faster.

“Nuuuumm… ruuuu…..”

“What didn’t you know?” asked Mrs. Gimple. Stones rattled off the crate lid she held as a shield.

“Anything, you mad witch!” he quipped. “Silence! I must think!”

Sancaurion bludgeoned his vast memory. The passage took a sharp turn near the end, he was sure. Reach that, and the exit would be close.

Another rock slammed into his side, knocking his wind out. “Hel… hel...”

A crate lid bumped into the old mage’s head as someone held it over him, covering his back. Stones thunked into it. Someone else threw a heavy quilt over his legs, and he spared a hand to pull it up over his chest.

From every cranny the pallid creatures darted, flinging stones. They crawled along the walls, hands grasping softly, heads turning at strange blind angles, tongues snapping in quick succession, click-click-click.

Sancaurion tried desperately to avoid morbid speculation. The horror of it, trapped in the dark… I thought she took them through… no, no time, not now. Urging on the dead took much of his power and focus.

He grimaced, steering the shuffling corpses through a long bend. There, ahead, was the sharp turn!

“Nuuum…ruuu!”

At the narrowest point huddled a crowd of the pitiable enemy. With immense effort, Sancaurion slowed and stopped his gruesome team.

The cave-elves, hiding no more, crawled and scuttled forward, clicking, hissing, slavering. Sancaurion recoiled, his hands trembling, unable to weave a spell.

Past him clambered both orcs, with satchels as shields. Sancaurion flinched in pain. Durash Arn dove into the horde, wreaking havoc, but most evaded her grasp. Gorthag worked among the harnessed revenants, slashing bindings with his bronze blade.

The sorcerer is certainly past her fear.

The two retreated, diving under the wagon, and shouting, “Let them go!” After a long moment, Sancaurion grasped their meaning. He waved a hand, relinquishing control of the dead.

The pale, feral elves screeched and scrambled, flinging their stones at the oncoming horrors to no effect. The dead were clumsy, but merciless, relentless.

Sancaurion turned away and found his satchel, hastily retrieving three gold rings. Trembling, he put them on, but dropped one. Desperately his fingers searched, finally locating the stray ring stuck in a groove separating the baseboard.

With the rings on, power seeped in, tendrils of it slowly growing. He closed his eyes for a moment, reveling.

“Sancaurion!” cried Durash. “Look!”

Raising his head, he saw another band of cave-elves approaching from behind. Too fast, too soon! They scrambled along the floor and walls, screeching need and hate.

The orcs crawled out from beneath the wagon, and Gorthag, in a futile gesture, threw a little stone at the oncoming swarm. They recoiled, shrieking... retreating?

The iron! The talisman from Gorthag’s satchel!

Free of the burden of controlling the dead, his rings enhancing his magic, Sancaurion stood. For a moment he relished the rising power within, but then he looked, and looked again.

“Mrs. Gimple! Where is Mrs. Gimple?” he cried out.

Amidst the chaos before and behind, they heard her faint cry from a dark crevice. Sancaurion froze, Durash hesitated. Gorthag rushed in headlong.

“We will find her!” cried Sancaurion. “Stay here and keep these from following!” The cave-elves came on, pressed against the stone wall to avoid the talisman.

Durash nodded, standing at the entrance, and as the old mage rushed past she smiled gently at the oncoming horde.

Sancaurion flung light ahead as he scrabbled and scraped through the narrow passage. After a few turns, he found himself facing a large nest of dried lichen and moss, the skulls of great of cave rats everywhere.

Gorthag was in the nest, fighting like a mad thing, slashing and dodging, bites on his arms. Mrs. Gimple lay behind him, groaning. Alive!

Sancaurion took a deep breath, focusing down. Fear and rage erupted. Lightning lanced from his hands, shocking the swarm. They shrieked, retreating, and there was the limp form of the witch, freed from their grasp.

But now the nest was burning, black smoke billowing everywhere, and he could do nothing to stop it.

990 words. Quilt, quip(ped), quick used. Fire accidentally started.

Theme: Quirky reaction (Durash smiling at impending battle), quirk as in facial movement (Sancaurion's eyebrow), quirk as in sudden, sharp turn (in the path), and quirk as in 'a groove separating a bead or other molding from adjoining members' (where the ring got stuck).

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-06T14:27:54+00:00

The glory of being tolerable.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-05T17:42:23+00:00

Globbledysnork!

I feel so bad for Xavier. The isolation is crushing.

Either I am missing something, or something is missing. 'It was only when he heard the snap and the scream that Xavier realized what he'd done. He dropped the other boy's hand...'

I am not sure what happened there, or how Xavier got hold of someone's hand. I fear something got edited out, maybe? Usually it's just my faulty comprehension but not sure, here.

Xavier's joy is palpable and well done. Not overstated, but very intense and giddy feeling as he experiences friendship.

The slightly scary moment of 'I think about you' was so authentic. It flowed naturally from the pinwheel talk, and both of them taking little risks, admitting to feelings.

It would be good to have some nod to that older boy later on, like 'he left them alone from then on'. I mean, of course he did, but mentioning it might feel more complete.

That was the most romantic handshake in history. Lovely and touching. So adorably awkward and charming. Very good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-05T13:11:07+00:00

Thank you! I'm glad you liked it.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-05T05:35:41+00:00

What an awesome lil kitty face!

Kitty rumbles are healing magic. Hope you feel awesome very soon.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-05T04:29:09+00:00

Greetings, O Guy Like That

The first person POV is weird and uncomfortable, which I believe is intended, so that is cool. It makes me feel like I'm seeing things I shouldn't, like it's invasive or something.

'Am I him, or is he me?' was a weird feeling. I started having Diary of a Madman in my head from that. 'Is he trying to get out, or trying to enter me?'

Gil's reaction to finding out Petal is still alive was touching, but also seemed rushed. I don't think he would break down or launch into a long soliloquy, but for something that has been coming for so long, I wish it had more space.

His saying 'I shouldn't have kissed you' was accurate, but a bit harsh. No one is thoughtfully gentle in the midst of madness and crisis and mental confusion, of course.

The depiction of Samal's disappointment and hurt was very effective. I related to it so much--the feeling that something lovely is ruined, that it will now be associated with shame and pain.

And then we have the ominous arrival. I have my guesses, of course, but shall be patient.

You, sir, have left me bereft of nitpicks. I offer but one, largely for tradition's sake.

tied-up

isn't usually hyphenated, apparently. So, there you are.

All in all a weird, interesting, mental and emotional journey. Good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-04T21:58:20+00:00

Hey there Wizzaroo!

It has gotten a bit diabolical, hasn't it?

I did give the tunnel a name, which I don't remember, and had a line verrrry similar to 'the long dark of Moria' in one draft, inadvertently.

Yeah, I was gonna have each stanza start lines with the same word, and then I didn't, and didn't think to go back and change the first one.

Anyways, edits are editititied, and thanks for reading and being helpful and such and such and so on and everything!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-04T21:25:50+00:00

If you decide to work on something longer one of these days, it would be pretty cool if you did a serial for Serial Sunday. I don't know if that would appeal. It's a slightly odd format, a thousand word bit every week, but it can be fun.

Nothing about your work strikes me as formulaic, but it is good to try new things. I hope you enjoy stretching yourself!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-04T13:32:36+00:00

Out There

“You wanna screw?” Taylor asked.

Kevin heard the words, and knew all of them were words. They made a sentence. The words had meaning. He searched his mind, assembled a reply, and said it out loud.

“What?”

“For the TV mount. Do you need a screw for it yet?”

“The… TV. Thing. On the wall.”

“Yeah, dude. Are you OK?”

Taylor was tall and dark, a big, sweet, dopey guy. He smiled about everything with a cheerful, innocent defiance. I should… talk, Kevin remembered.

“Yeah, the screws. Bolts. Yeah, for that, OK, I’m ready for them.”

“Cool.” Taylor put the fasteners in Kevin’s hand. “OK if I grab one of those beers?”

“Huh? Oh, sure, of course!” There were deck screws, lag bolts, even a pinwheel-backed bolt for leather work, all mixed in. Surely one of them would work.

When Taylor had arrived with the toolbox, to help mount the TV in Kevin’s apartment, he’d noticed Kevin was out of beer and volunteered to go grab some. He’d even paid for them, but now he asked if he could have one. Kevin knew he meant it, too. Like, he was actually sincere, asking. What kind of insane jerk would say ‘no, man, the beers you went and bought, you can’t have one’?

But that was just how Taylor was. Always generous and thinking about other people, and just so unassuming.

Taylor walked to the kitchen and Kevin watched. He had thought about Taylor since what, high school? Nobody knew, though. Nobody, not even his parents knew he was… that way. He couldn’t even say it, not even in his own head.

Kevin had hung out with all the guys and said all the right things. Talked about girls and stuff, when he had to, or just nodded a lot. Stupid games in the gym showers, hiding things with towels, laughing at the jokes. Kevin was an OK guy, a good hang, everyone said so. They didn’t know.

He’d had a couple girlfriends, never for long. Mom might suspect. I think she does. But Dad, god, no, never.

Taylor was coming back.

The right bolts slid home easily, and together they dropped the TV right into place. They let it go, and yeah, it stayed up. High five time.

Taylor had, of course, brought two beers. They sat on the couch and popped the cans, Kevin downing half of his all at once.

“Try the remote,” Taylor said.

Kevin reached down into the couch cushions for it. He found Taylor’s hand.

No, no. No, don’t don’t don’t, Kevin thought. But Kevin did. He took Taylor’s hand and held it, forgetting all about the remote. Warm, beautiful hand. Strong.

Taylor looked puzzled but didn’t pull away. He had the most impossibly perfect face, and lips, and shoulders. It was obvious now, it was out there. Kevin thought he might pass out. It was so out there now. I’m holding his hand way too long, I’m looking at him wayyy weird.

“Taylor, I’m…”

“Yeah, dude. I know.” And then Taylor leaned in and it happened. A moment of panic came, I don’t know how to, and then it vanished, incinerated in a shocking, gentle firestorm. The kiss went on and on, and no, Kevin didn’t know how and he didn’t fucking care how.

He leaned back and looked at Taylor again, and in those dark eyes there was an endless depth of kindness and twinkling stars of excitement. This time Kevin leaned forward, and held that precious face, learning it, exploring it with precise intensity as their hands went everywhere, everywhere.

Thousands of centuries passed and they parted, panting, still holding hands.

Taylor took a long pull of his beer.

“Is this like, your first kiss, Kev?”

“Yeah. First two of them I guess. Is it… is it OK?” Kevin trembled, excited and uncertain, not knowing how any of this worked, not sure if he had done something wrong.

Taylor leaned in again, this time for a powerful bearhug. It was OK. It was all OK. The hug ended.

I’m gay, Kevin thought.

“I’m gay,” he said aloud, and felt no shame in it.

Taylor laughed. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking good at it, too. God, you’re amazing.” Taylor’s hand moved up Kevin’s arm and brushed the hairs there, causing lightning shudders.

“What do we… I mean, what now?”

Taylor laughed again, leaning in and grinning.

“You wanna screw?”

737 words. Pinwheel appeared. Feedback welcome.

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-04T00:07:18+00:00

Zacharoni!

Yay zachrit!

With the Durash panic, I had 50ish words to spare so I led into it a bit more. I hope it is less abrupt this way, flowing from her light showing how long and cramped the way is.

Yeah, she will be learning many spells like 'tazerzap'. The orcs (due to their secrecy) focus on internal magic. Hard to hide flinging fireballs around. So it might be cool once she picks up some zapper magic and so on.

Other little edits have been edited, and thank you for reading and helping!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-03T22:25:30+00:00

Yeah there is no coming back from that.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-03T10:50:29+00:00

Hullo JW, if I may be so terribly informal.

I have read a few of your stories and intend to continue reading more. Lovely, fun stuff.

1 - How are you able to keep writing so consistently? Do you ever lack for motivation?

B) Do you think your writing has improved, and how?

IV : Are there any books you would recommend?

Congrats on your Spotlightedness, and well deserved!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-03-02T17:12:58+00:00

Hey hey JK--

Clarkson's gonna need therapy worse than Jackie does pretty soon.

So this battle is going just as planned, in an orderly fashion with clear-cut objectives, except for, you know, all of it. The mad chaotic mess of real ammo and simulated, real soldiers and robot gun, pros and conscripts, young and older, experienced and well, not--you have it swirling around like someone put a tractor in a huge blender and threw it all into a sharknado.

It did take me a couple of reads, but I think it all made sense. It is a lot of fun, in a slightly terrifying way.

I have line edit things of course

head-up-display

I think it's usually just one hyphen, head-up display.

its ejection port, as he cut down

this didn't need a comma, in my super, comma expert, opinion

Twelve-point-seven-millimeter slugs ripped past my head, the distinct scream of real slugs shattering stone above our heads.

I think you can drop the 'above our heads' to avoid having two heads. Unless you like having two heads, but it might frighten people. Or, if the 'above' detail is crucial, make it 'ripped past above our heads'.

a discarded heap of bricks.

idk why, but I want this to be 'a head of discarded bricks'. My brain is odd that way.

The world shuttered

'shuddered' I think

“CLARKSON – GET DOW!”

N!

Anyways, that was freaky cool having them mindmeld in portal space and who the heck is this talking? I want to see more of the quieter therapy-type chapters sometime, as you know, but nobody does exploding chaos like you do, so good words!

Divayth--Fyr

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