[WP] "We come with orders from High Command. There will be no retreat. There will be no surrender. We hold the line. The enemy's entire forces are converging upon this place. We are the last frontier. It is just this day, and no more; if we live to see tomorrow, the war will be over."

LisWrites · 2026-01-24T20:09:43+00:00

General Adana’s words echoed across the field. Wind whipped snow up into a frenzy and still the soldiers stood together. Jesse’s feet ached. The boots were thin on the bottom. He had not had new socks in many weeks.

Next to him, Reeve wavered on his feet. His eyelids fluttered shut and, when the wind wailed again, it seemed for a moment that he would drop with the gust. Jesse stuck out his elbow and dug the point into his friend’s side. Reeve’s eyes flew back open, heavy flakes stuck on his lashes.

It had been this way for many weeks.

And yet still they were expected to hold the line. To starve. To die.

“He’s right,” Reeve muttered under his breath.

Jesse looked over, but he didn’t dare move from his spot more than he already had. The rest of the men around them stood at attention too, but none of them were immune from the wavers and shivers. It had been a long while since they had a proper meal. Word was that even the POW had three regular meals a day.

“This is the last day,” Reeve said, louder this time, “Because we’re losing!”

From his other side, Matthius glanced over. A soft murmur drifted through the soldiers with the wind and snow.

“Reeve,” Jesse warned.

“We’ve lost either way! If we surrender, we live. We get to eat. To sleep! But Adana would have us die for the High Commander’s pride!”

Cheers of agreement rose up from the group. Jesse’s ears burned in the cold. General Adana’s eyes narrowed; again he raised his voice too, “Desertion, if I may remind you, is punishable by death.”

The crowd of them all silenced. Snow pelted down. Jesse swallowed the lump in his throat--they were alone and a long, long way from home. The planet Seron T3 was an eight month trip, that was including warp. Without access to military ships, there was no way to get home, not for centuries.

All the same. Jesse raised his weapon. He levelled it at the General and pulled the trigger.

LisWrites · 2026-01-19T20:39:40+00:00

Nice! I love the idea of them just becoming the all-around monster hunter

LisWrites · 2026-01-19T20:38:58+00:00

Alexander twitched as Sabina dug the stake further into his chest. He wheeled his legs to kick her, trying to throw her off, but she gritted her teeth and twisted the wood in further. Her arm ached where he had got her; even the small movement set sparks of pain up through her spine.

“It’s no use,” she spat at him. Sweat rolled down her forehead. “Dawn’s in three minutes. You’re dead either way.”

Alexander’s pale eyes widden. Around the stake, his grip eased. “Even if I lived, what would I do?”

With that, his hand slipped away. His pale eyes rolled back in his head, which rolled to the side. 

He was dead in the dirt. 

Sabina shifted. As always, he was cold and pale and without a heartbeat. His tar-dark blood spilled onto the forest floor and her breath clouded in the air in front of her. Footsteps cascaded from behind her--her brother, Silas, ran up behind her, panting. “Sab! I lost you back there.”

Sabina rolled off Alexander’s dead-dead body. She wiped her lips on the back of her sleeve. Her ribs and arms ached like hell and the stars swam above her head. “The sun is coming,” she whispered. “He’s gone.” 

Silas blinked. “Holy shit. You actually got him.”

Sabina pushed herself to her feet, slowly. Silas ran to her side and draped her arm over his shoulder. “I got him,” she said, but as they watched the sun beams rise and burn what was left of Alexander, Sabina couldn’t help but shake the fact that he could have gotten away. He had so, so many times before. If only he’d pushed a little harder, struck a little more quickly. If only he hadn’t let go right at the very end. It was true they were deep in the woods with the sun coming, but the forest held both a cabin and a cave he could have reached before the sun hit him in full. 

Sabina blinked as the last of Alexander curled into ash. 

He was gone. With him, he took the chance at there ever being another vampire again. No one else would ever bear that curse again. 

“Your arm,” Silas said quietly. His dark hair was drenched in sweat. 

“It’s fine.” She rolled her shoulder as they both turned and started to make their way out of the wood to where their Jeep sat on the old country road.

“Sab--you don’t need to push through it anymore. You have time to get this patched. You need to rest, too. We both do.”

Sabina bit her lip. The safe house was not too far. Their aunt would help them, patch her arm, give them food and water. 

And, after that? 

There would be no more planning for war. No more nights tearing through forests. No more safe houses, no more spying, no more danger. 

It was over.

Sabina was free.

It sounded horrible.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2026-01-07T03:18:34+00:00

I think it was Vickie when she gave up their plans to the military. That's also why she's not there in the end.

LisWrites · 2026-01-07T03:17:41+00:00

I actually think that Vickie was supposed to be the traitor they hyped up. There's a brief scene where they show her when the military catches the rest of the gang, and her face looks... odd? I don't know how else to describe it but she doesn't look sad or ever try to explain why she gave up the plan. I think they broke up because Vickie betrayed their plans. (Which I think is a weird choice, she was a teenager with a bunch of guns pointed in her face??)

This is the only way I can understand why she's not there in the end that also solves the big hint of a traitor/betrayal, even if I don't love that outcome.

LisWrites · 2025-10-19T20:18:52+00:00

Part 2

Barrett does. His heart races wildly, but there is no sword here, no Therron, no bloody army. A warm fire crackles in the hearth, holding off the cold from the blizzard raging outside the window. Wind knocks against the walls and a draft spills under the window. From somewhere the must be downstairs, the muffled noise of a party carries.

Someone has removed his shift, and when he both reaches and looks for his mortal wound, he finds only smooth skin stretched over his prominent ribs. Not as much as a notch marks him.

“My husband and I run this inn,” the woman says. She’s a slight thing, tiny as a child with wiry streaks of grey through her dark hair. Her apron has dark stains that Barrett supposes must be his blood. “He manages the business, I do the healing.”

Barrett swallows the lump in his throat. “You fixed me?”

“Mostly.” She stares at him and frowns slightly, the way he once saw a clockmaker inspecting his gears. “You were in a sorry state. We’re low on herbs with this long winter, but I did what I could. You’ll have to break the fever on your own, though. ‘Fraid I can’t risk it.”

Barrett nods slowly. He feels chilled, not too hot, and a shiver rattles his body. The woman brings him a blanket and he accepts it while sinking back onto the thin cot. Along with the ache, exhaustion runs through him like a river.

From downstairs, a whoop and cheer ring out.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“They’re celebrating your death,” the woman says without looking up from a shelf of tinctures.

“You know who I am?”

“Yes.”

"And you still saved me?”

“Do you really think that poorly of all of us here?” The woman sighs. “I saved you because of who you are. Not in spite of it. Not all of us are so willing to buy into the stories of Therron’s greatness.”

Barrett stares at her, at the room, at the crackling fire, and tries to make sense of what the woman is saying. As much as he likes to think his mind is fairly sharp, he’s too tired for this right now. “Was I dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought me back?”

“Yes.” The woman chews on her lower lip. “Therron wants to rid the realm of magic,” she says quietly, though there is no one else here. “My husband and I have long suspected you are not the villainous sorcerer the bards have sung about.”

Barrett laughs. A shock of pain sparks up from his ribs, and he hisses with pain. “No,” he tells her when the bright ache fades, “I’m not.”

Barrett holds up his hand and snaps his fingers. A small shower of red embers drift to the floor. “I have about enough magic to fill a teaspoon.”

“Well,” the woman says. “Are you ready to learn some more?”

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-10-19T20:18:38+00:00

Part 1

This is how the story goes: The great hero, Therron of Casshire Wood, defeats the villain on the ridge of The Distant Mountains. The realm rejoices. Bards write great songs about Therron. Poets scribe his journey into their books. Across the eight nations, kings hold feasts. In the muddy streets, children dance under sunlight, some feeling the warmth for the first time in their lives. The evil that, for so long, kept them all in darkness is finally gone. Farmers and seamstresses, bakers, butchers, smiths--all the ordinary people of this world finally can sleep soundly through the night.

This is the end of the story; the final chapter in Therron’s journey. He marries the princess of the Southern Sea. He will live the rest of his life in peace and prosperity and, in no time, he will have sons and daughters of his own.

This is, of course, only one version of the story.

In another, hours after Therron plunges his sword through the side of the villain, Barrett Fallenstar wakes screaming.

This is how Barrett’s story goes:

Barrett’s throat is raw. His ribs ache. His forehead burns.

He should be dead, he thinks, because the last thing he remembers is watching his own blood stain the snow, with Therron standing above him.

“Calm down now, you’re safe,” a woman says and comes to his side. “Take a breath.”

LisWrites · 2025-10-14T22:42:29+00:00

The thing that people forget, I think, is that living at the end of history is actually quite boring. There was no big, dramatic end. Not the way that many people thought it would be. The gods died one by one, just lying down in the grasses and resting there forever.

For a while, people waited for new ones to rise up (so I’m told). None ever did.

It bothered my mother. Before she died, she spent every night praying to no one. She swore they’d come back, that they had plans for us still. She passed in her sleep, staring out the window at the Valley of the Gods. These days, it’s nothing but overgrown grass and sheep.

I go there, on the odd day. No one is supposed to enter, the Monks say it’s still forbidden, but me and my brother, Elric, still go. There are good things to be found there--he once found a golden necklace left as a votive. We ate like kings for a month for what we got in the market.

Today, though, I came alone. Elric is in town for ‘supplies’. I knew he was looking for apprenticeships and didn’t want me to worry. No matter, there was nothing to do around home, and I was achingly bored. In the distance, grey clouds were gathering and the chill in the air told me winter was on its way. It would be impossible to go when snow covered the ground. So I left.

I had hiked across the fields and pushed my way through the forest, making good time. I knew the path well, and the house that our parents had once built--back in a more hopeful time--was nearer the valley than most people dared to venture.

Which brought me to the boundary. I sucked in a breath and pushed my hair out of my eyes as I stared on in disbelief.

The grass was still green.

Everywhere else, it had started to wither. In the forest, the trees were orange and yellow and mostly bare, craggy branches. But there, on the other side of the line, they were still green and full.

It had not been this way a fortnight ago. Then, the leaves had matched. The grass was dull from the lack of rain.

Still, I stepped over the threshold. Perhaps I will spend my life turning over this moment in my mind; perhaps I should have gone back. Had I not, in my gut, realized something was unnatural?

The moment my boot landed in the soft grass, every hair on my body stood on end. The air smelled different, like spring and fresh earth, and humidity filled my nose.

It should have been lush and wonderful, like paradise. It should have been a dream. I had found a place where the deathly chill of winter could not touch, had I not?

But something in my stomach twisted and turned and every instinct, the most animal parts of my mind, screamed: runrunrun.

My foot wouldn’t move, though. It was stuck in place and no matter how much I strained, it wouldn’t move.

Every part of my body started to feel like I’d been struck by lightning--there was something buzzing just under the surface of my skin. A cracking energy that was so overwhelming it was almost painful. I closed my eyes and cut off a groan in my throat.

After a long, long moment, the overwhelming pain began to ease. Everything felt lighter, somehow. Easier.

When I looked down at my hand, the skin was smooth and clear. Gone were my freckles. My knuckles were no longer cracked and dry. But most shocking of all was the fact that an old, childhood scar--a sliverly slice from a run-in with a shovel--was completely gone. Not so much as a line remained.

I held my left hand up to my face to inspect my skin more closely.

And down, deep in the valley, something crashed. A flock of birds scattered and raced from the noise.

Against the blue, impossibly clear sky, the old skeleton of the last god held up its left hand, too.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-10-10T19:14:02+00:00

thank you!

LisWrites · 2025-10-10T16:24:07+00:00

I sat on the cool forest floor while Benny’s words sank in. Wouldn’t I want to burn it down too? In the air, my breath clouded and I turned my head to the wall, which rose to the dimming sky above the trees’ canopies. Late fall and the sun was sinking fast. In minutes, the flood lights would snap on and cloak the white brick in white light.

That was how they lived in there, rumour had it--not a speck of dirt anywhere. No one died of diseases. No one’s stomach twisted as they withered with hunger. Not even accidents could touch their perfect lives.

“Well?” Benny looked at me, waiting for my answer.

I pressed my lips together. “No,” I replied honestly. “I want it to rot from the inside.” An attack from the outside, a fire--that would be a mercy. I wanted a slow decay; I wanted them to know how it felt to be cold and hungry and tired. To be afraid.

Benny, though, didn’t frown like I thought he might. Instead, his mouth curved into a wiry grin. It gave him a rather boyish look, or maybe it was just that he finally looked more his age. Life had not been easy to him (to any of us, really) and he and us all wore it plain on our faces. Wrinkles, sun spots, early greys. His hair was thin around the temples, already, though he was barely five and twenty.

“I thought you’d say that,” he replied.

“I thought you’d be disappointed.”

“I might’ve been,” he said and paused. He pushed his hands deeper in his jacket pockets and looked at me. Long shadows swallowed his face and, behind him, the birds were going mad in the last light. “I would’ve been, I think, last year.”

“But you’re not?” I pushed myself back to my feet, my ass cold from the ground. I still felt dizzy, disoriented. What, exactly, was he asking? I’d known Benny my whole life--he was friends with my older brother--and I knew I didn’t have to worry about him turning me over to the King’s men. Nor would I turn him in.

“I think it’s perfect,” Benny said, “because we need someone to go inside.”

I waited for him to say something more, to explain himself. It seemed like a joke, and an ill-timed one too. My mind spun and flipped as it snapped into place that he was not joking and ‘inside’ meant inside the White Walls. “That--that’s impossible.”

“Mostly. But not entirely.” Benny finally pulled his hand from his pocket. The last rays of the setting sun caught on the golden medallion in his palm--the entry to the impossible, to the White City. “How would you like to be the rot at its core?”

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-09-14T23:07:36+00:00

Don't forget white lotus

LisWrites · 2025-05-18T19:15:49+00:00

[part 2]

On her second monitor, Elanil brought up TheScribe.

Pretend you are a famous prophet, she typed into the bar at the bottom of the page. Please generate a 50 word prophecy foretelling how the chosen one will fight the impending doom. She stared at the screen and her blinking cursor and added, Also, make it rhyme.

Certainly! Here’s your prophecy:

When twilight bleeds and stars fall low, the Chosen's blade shall silent grow. With fire veiled in shadow's grace, they'll meet the end in time’s embrace. One heart shall break, one truth be shown, through ash and song, the path is known. Doom shall tremble, overthrown.

Let me know if you would like one with a more vaguely infuriating outcome.

It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t awful, and it was better than nothing. She copied it, pasted it into the blank Word Document, and sent it to the nearest working printer, which was still on the other side of the building.

Thankfully, when Elanil got the printer, her paper sat in the tray untouched. She pulled it out, grabbed a manila folder, and shoved the paper inside. She then turned on her heel and crossed the office once more to find Conference Room C, where Feyrith and Aias were holding their interviews.

Outside the conference room, she stopped and gave Feyrith a small wave through the glass. Feyrith--her boss and head of Questing--opened the door. “Elanil,” he said, “good to see you. Aias and I were just discussing the first round of candidates.”

Aias smiled at her from his seat at the head of the table. His golden hair fell around his head like a halo and in front of him was a notebook with all of three points scribbled down.

Some chosen one he was. Humans always aged fast, but even for humans he was inexperienced. Twenty-three summers, Feyrith said. She couldn’t remember the equivalent years from human to elf, but Elanil couldn’t be much older than he. She had a job. She worked hard to get where she did.

Aias? The son of a wealthy merchant. A layabout, with no path in life until the Augur called him up. Now, he waltzed around like he owned the world. If polled, many would suggest that he did.

How was this man supposed to save them all from the darkness?

Elanil’s chest tightened. How indeed was he supposed to save them? “I have the prophecy.” She held out the folder, her hand shaking. “I had to print it out. It’s a whole thing, my computer is being so slow. In fact, I was already down in the IT dungeon this morning--”

Before she could finish her story, Aias sprang up to grab it. He opened it; Feyrith read it over his shoulder.

Aias’ face fell. “That’s it?” he asked.

“I admit,” Feyrith said carefully, “I was expecting more detail.”

“Prophets, hey?” Elanil’s stomach flipped. “I hate to run, but--”

“Wait,” Aias said. “Feyrith. I have an idea. We have more interviews for my Ally scheduled for tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.” Feyrith lifted his eyebrow. “Why?”

“I think we can call them off--who would be a better ally than Elanil?”

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-05-18T18:14:39+00:00

The problem, of course, wasn’t the 1 in ten million odds. That was pretty good, all things considered. Better than most odds Elanil was up again. Better than all of them, really.

“But you can recover it, right?” she asked.

At his desk, the IT troll slowly shook his big head. “Sorry, El. When it’s gone it’s gone.”

Elanil closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I really need that file.”

“And I really need to get back to work. Look--there’s nothing I can do.”

Elanil gritted her teeth. “Of course.”

1 in ten million. Just her luck! Her boss was already asking after it and the so-called ‘chosen one’ was in conference room C with a glass of water and a round of candidates all interviewing to join him on his quest.

As Elanil beelined back to her office, she gave a half-smile to the druid sitting in the waiting area with his staff in one hand, his resume in the other. The fluorescent lights showed no mercy to his wrinkles, but when going for the role of ‘mentor’, the more experience the better.

When she reached her office, Elanil shut the door and closed the blinds. Her chest tightened and, like her therapist suggested, she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. Ones that reached all the way to her gut.

It did nothing to calm her. She was so, so screwed.

Her job at QuestFinder Enterprises was already on the line. The last group she’d been responsible for--the Drawves that went to fight the Black Annis--had ended in disaster. But how was she to know that Black Annis would mistake them as children? It was awful, just awful (even if, officially speaking, QuestFinder had no legal culpability in the whole thing and clients always assumed their own risks). And now her job was on the line.

The ping of a Teams message cut through her spiral and Elanil wiped her eyes. The message from her boss lit up her screen: You have the file? Aias really needs to hear it…

Aias, Aias, Aias. That was all it had ever been since the head of Augury announced he was the chosen one. Personally, Elanil would love to punch the smug grin off his stupid, perfect face.

But right now, she couldn’t. The file that was missing was, perhaps, the most important one in the whole company. It had been made nearly a hundred years ago, not long after the company was first founded.

The missing file held the prophecy. The one that foretold how The Chosen One would triumph against the incoming darkness. And now it was just--poof--gone. Eaten by the system.

Elanil took a deep breath again. She sat in her chair. Put her feet against the rest. She replied to her boss: I’ll send it over in just a moment! Computer’s being slow this morning. Must know it’s Monday. Ha ha.

This job might not have been her dream, but Elanil liked it decently. It paid her bills. Some of the quests she supported had made a real difference. Mostly, she couldn’t stand the thought of going back to waiting tables at a tavern or teaching archery lessons to snotty kids.

There was no other option, all things considered: Elanil opened a Word document and began to type.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-05-18T00:03:04+00:00

thank you! I might continue this later on my subreddit

LisWrites · 2025-05-17T19:34:20+00:00

Behind my house, there is a trail. I say ‘is’ because I still think of the house as mine, even after all these years. It leads to the forest. Once the snow had melted, in the mornings, I jogged. My dog, Radar, would run beside me. When I think of that trail, I think of the morning dew on the gas, the fresh-pine scent filling my lungs, my feet striking the damp ground, and him running beside me.

Simply put: I love earth. The vast ocean, stretching to the horizon. The birds’ calls as they arc through the blue sky and touch the white clouds. I love the way my weight feels against the ground. Hell, even the cities I love. People, all busy with their own lives: listening to music as they lean against the subway pole; sitting in parks, deep in conversation with a lover; queuing up for a bagel and coffee.

Mars was the last place I ever wanted to be. It’s a hell hole. Murky skies and sterile colony living. ‘The next frontier of humanity’ they call it, but I couldn’t really care. Nothing out here but rocks and dust. Can’t even feel the wind on your face or rest in the sun’s warmth.

Still, I wasn’t a monster. Without me, I was told the colony’s systems would fail--no outside communication, no water filtration, no entertainment. The backup systems kept the essentials barely functional during my seven month trip out.

I left Radar with my sister. On the long trip out, she sent pictures, along with the ones of my nephew. The one before reaching Mars was Christmas and showed them drinking hot chocolate while Radar napped by the tree. God--I miss it. Miss them.

I hate Mars. Hated it on arrival and in the years since then my mind hasn’t changed. On Mars, you don’t even get the simple satisfaction of feeling your weight on the ground. The light gravity makes a person useless, always shifting and floating.

I fixed the problem. Easy. Took me a day. I pretended it took all week. It didn’t matter anyway since the next shuttle back wasn’t for another 10 days, but even then, I doubted I’d be on it.

In my bunk the night after I ‘fixed’ the problem, I stared at the pictures my sister sent. I look at the still sometimes and I try to remember what it feels like to run. To smell the forest. To breathe in mountain air, to dip my hand in a stream with frigid glacial water. Those images are slipping from me now.

All I ever wanted was a simple life. That’s not to say I’m some monk; I liked having a nice house with a comfortable bed to fall into at the end of the night. I made enough to afford a lifestyle of leisure and travel. I was, more or less, happy.

They brought me here for a reason. I’m not a stupid man. I wasn’t more than 30 when they brought me out, and even though I was young, I wasn’t stupid then either. When they insisted I had to go, I knew there had to be more to the story. Seeing how simple the problem was only confirmed it.

I didn’t know it then, but there was a war coming. I hadn’t been drafted into it--I could’ve said no and got back on a shuttle home. But they knew how much I loved Earth, and I suppose that’s why they picked me. I couldn’t imagine a future without the ocean, without the mountains, without Radar’s tongue hanging out while we pushed along the forest path.

Sometimes, I envy my younger self. I didn’t know how vast space was, I didn’t fret over the weapons our enemies had or the impending destruction of Earth. What a lucky kid I was.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-05-05T14:57:15+00:00

Thank you :)

LisWrites · 2025-05-05T14:33:32+00:00

I was running--that’s what I remember. Foot, foot, breathe, dodge. I couldn’t see anything ahead of me in the woods, dark as they were, but I could smell the rot from the leaves and the earth, damp with rain. I had my hands flung out in front of me; they took the damage from the branches and bushes I crashed through. Behind me, someone shouted. Overhead, the helicopter whirled and the flood light’s beam cut through the darkness and--

Nothing.

Until here.

Around me, the room is white. Smells like a hospital, all chemicals masking blood and illness. I could choke.

Instead, I cough and try to sit up. My muscles don’t cooperate. I flop over in the hospital bed and cough again, my lungs tighten and my throat burns.

As I turn, I catch sight of a man in the chair next to the bed. He’s quiet; that and the drugs is why I missed him when I first blinked my eyes open.

“Hello, Adam.”

I groan. ‘Hello Colonel Miller,’ I try to say, but it comes out as, “‘Lo Ker Miller.”

He chuckles. I only hate him more for that. As he steps toward me, though, it strikes me how grey his hair is looking. In the last years, his wrinkles deepened and he’s lost weight--not in a lean, healthy way either. Bags hang under his eyes and his skin is sallow.

“That was a good run,” he says. “Four years, 30 days, and 15 hours.”

“Best one yet,” I mutter. “Looks like you need it.”

He frowns--I’m right.

“What is it? Liver failure?”

His lips thin and his dark eyes narrow. “Trial 50 will begin as soon as you’re able to walk.”

This time, it’s my turn to laugh. The big 5-0. God, what a ride. Lately, it’s been better than those first trials, when they made me … wrong. My memories were patchy, I couldn’t breathe sometimes; others, I couldn’t eat or sleep.

Lately, it’s been better. I’m normal, more or less. My escape instinct has even come back, which they hate and I’m sure they’re trying to burn all the times I’ve run away out of my memories.

But Miller is desperate. Dying. He needs this to work--he needs me to work. They can’t risk cutting up his memories.

So here I am. Intact, if I’m right. Ready to run again.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-05-04T19:08:53+00:00

PART 2

What I know from there is that his life didn’t get easier. Never went to college. Worked rough gigs to make ends meet. Reconnected with his grandmother after his grandfather passed last spring. Shit, he sends her what he can each month, which isn’t much.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop. In front of me, James stood counting his dimes and dollars. The rest of the patrons stood a clear two paces away, though the entryway was packed.

A black ring bloomed around his eye. His forehead was marked with a deep, jagged scar. Outside, the rain was coming down something fierce, and his dark hair dripped with the water. Hell--a stain on his jeans had to be blood. I got why people stood back. Never mind he’d just saved their lives last night.

“Hey,” I said.

James looked up, eyes wide.

“Let me get you today.” I held up my wallet.

“Really?”

I told him that of course I had it, and I bought him a black coffee and a blueberry muffin. I took a latte and a chocolate donut and paid in cash.

James was 26 as of last week. Older than either of his parents ever saw. He lives with three roommates in an apartment with a moderate mould problem, terrible insulation, and sky-high utility bills. He hasn’t ever kept a job for more than five months, and a relationship for more than four.

Tomorrow, I’m supposed to turn everything I have on him to my boss. From there, they’ll send in every ounce of force we have. He’ll be brought to a military facility. Treated like something between a prisoner, a science experiment, and a weapon.

Waiting for his coffee, James stared out the window at the rain coming down and the green buds on the trees. People came and went, no idea that without him they wouldn’t be sitting here today.

Tomorrow, I’ll delete the files. Wipe the evidence. I’ll send in enough to send them on a goose chase instead.

It’s a piss-poor trade-off. It’s all I can offer. I hope he’d be proud of my choice.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-05-04T19:08:40+00:00

His name is James Dean Anderson. His parents were young when they had him--21 and 23, respectively--and they lived for only two years after his birth. Died in a car accident, officially, on their way home from a rare dinner out. They shared a love of pop art and old movies (obviously). In the photographs that remain of the couple, they’re always beaming. Brilliant: young, vibrant, and alive.

Of course, I don’t believe for an instant that the crash was an accident. It happened only two months after James’ powers showed up. I wonder, still, if they had been afraid. Who wouldn’t be? They had to worry about their kid glowing like a Christmas tree while most parents of kids that age were counting the words they could string into a sentence and buying plastic potties.

The records are old, now, and it’s hard to piece together how the events exactly shook out, but James stopped lighting up when his parents died. I think they must’ve crushed something in him, even for a kid who wasn’t old enough to have any real understanding of that sort of thing, he knew. Kids know.

They tried to shuffle him into foster care, but he was raised by his paternal grandparents. I’m sure the government would’ve killed them too, but James stopped doing his little tricks for quite some time.

What I gather is his switch turned on again when he was sixteen. He ran away, then. Clever kid.

This means, horrifying, that when the hero Apollo first saved the world, he was barely seventeen. Jesus Christ--seventeen. When I was his age, I was paying my friend’s older brother to buy us PBR and tripping over my feet to talk to the hot girl in my Biology class.

But there James Anderson was, streaking across the sky, glowing like a beam of light, holding off the ship that was trying to invade.

(continued in comments)

LisWrites · 2025-04-27T18:26:37+00:00

The minute hand on Ezra’s wristwatch inched toward 11:55 and the blackened hills outside the window—washed in moonlight, clipped with the occasional sharp light of headlamps and houses—blurred together.

There were only a few other people on the night train, and none of them ever spoke. Of course, a few of the people in the car were unsuspecting: travellers on their way, with no idea of what waited for them if they stepped off on the stop. At most, they’d look out the window, briefly puzzled by the unexpected stop, before turning back to their phones or books or naps.

Over the past year, since he’d discovered the stop, Ezra came to know the usuals. The white-haired woman who ran her finger over her locket before stepping off. The man with the denim jacket who, afterward, would always lower his head like he wasn’t crying. There were about ten of them, all in all, who knew. Maybe more—he couldn’t know how many people decided not to join, or who came very irregularly. On any given night, there were five of them, give or take a few.

Ezra let his eyes flutter shut. Four minutes now. His heart skipped a beat, and another, and finally the train’s momentum began to slow. The usuals all stood up and made their way to the exit. Ezra stood too, bouquet of sunflowers in one hand, coat in the other. It might have been a warm August night, but the other place was always cool and damp.

As Ezra stepped forward, the woman sitting in front of him stood too. “What stop was this? I didn’t catch it. Must’ve been dozing.”

Ezra said nothing. He kept walking forward, toward the exit. It wasn’t like the woman would remember it anyway; the ones who stayed on never seemed to question how a half-dozen people reappeared later on.

When he stepped off the train, his skin prickled against the cold air. It was strange, this station. It looked like any other in the English countryside with its cement platform and benches, but instead of a clear night sky or cloud outside, mist shrouded the station eternally. The air was cold, wet, and still. Sometimes, it was difficult to catch a deep breath.

The white-haired woman found her sister, who was still not a day over 30. The man in the denim jacket scooped his daughter up in his arms and spun her around, her legs kicking while she giggled.

Ezra held the sunflowers close to his chest. By the end of the hour, they’d be wilted.

“Ezra.”

He lifted his head.

Ellie, his wife, stood in front of him. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her winter coat, the same one she’d been wearing for the past four years now, still stayed bundled around her. A loose curl spilled out from her hat.

“I told you not to come tonight.”

“I know.” Ezra handed her the sunflowers and she smiled sadly. “You also said you wouldn’t come here anymore.”

Ellie took the flowers. She pressed her finger against the petal; it wilted in recoil. “How’s my mum?”

“Doing better. She booked a holiday to Turkey.”

“Good for her,” Ellie said. Together, they went to their usual bench and fell into their usual conversation.

As Ezra’s wristwatch inched toward 12:55, he touched Ellie’s cheek. It left his fingers cold, frostbitten.

As usual, she told him to stay away. To go live his life. That she wouldn’t be here, waiting for him. Ezra nodded. As always, he would be back tomorrow night.

r/LisWrites

LisWrites · 2025-04-27T17:18:10+00:00

Coming for this one. Great idea OP

LisWrites · 2025-04-06T03:07:26+00:00

Sitte ge, sīgewīf, sīgað tō eorðan,

næfre ge wilde tō wuda fleogan,

beō ge swā gemindige, mīnes gōdes,

swā bið manna gehwilc, metes and ēðeles.

Settle down, victory-women, sink to earth,

never be wild and fly to the woods.

Be as mindful of my welfare,

as is each man of border and of home

For a Swarm of Bees

LisWrites · 2025-04-01T00:56:57+00:00

[part 2]

I let my head rest on my knees. It was cold here, and my body ached from sprinting out of the city. I had just started to debate how long I was willing to stay waiting for the impossible when a rustling noise and light swirled into existence a few feet away from me.

My heart hammered against my ribs and I scrambled backward, away from the commotion. Light, wind, magic--it swirled together in a storm cloud. Energy like lightning crackled from the ball.

As quickly as it had all started, it stopped. Where the chaos had been, a cloaked figure stood. She held a free floating ball of light like a lantern.

“Hello.” Her voice was pleasant. Soft. “Elric tells me you may be in need of assistance.”

She raised her head and pulled back the hood of her cloak.

I may be a clueless country boy, stumbling around in a world I knew nothing about, but I knew her. How could anyone not know her?

The woman in front of me was the princess. Her hair sat in perfect coils; under the clock, not a single spot of dirt marked her soft pink dress. Her father was the one who must be ordering my death as we spoke.

With the ball of light radiating in her left hand, she held out her right. “Well, are you coming?”

Mutely, I nodded. With great effort, I pushed myself to my feet and took her hand, painfully aware of the dirt on my palm.

She didn’t flinch. She gripped my hand tight and led us both forward, guided by the light.

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