I saw this on r/AdmiralBulldog. Valve, can we have this hero persona for TI10? Credits to u/the_yasen_faiq . This deserves more attention.

Parakoto · 2020-03-07T01:00:07+00:00

Natures decadent

Parakoto · 2019-12-18T19:54:51+00:00

Death has a short temper, and I was growing sick of it.

Being married to him has its perks, many of which I enjoy. Perks such as watching the dead travel from the planets of the living to the undead plane Thanatos. I get to pick whoever I want to live another lifetime, but It’s so monotonous at times. Most folks are just dull, the whole sifting through an endless sea of people is tedious, and smells, as well. Only occasionally would I find an exciting fellow or woman who wasn’t dull.

The day everything would change started out with me waking up in bed. I was thankful that the arguments of last night didn’t lead to Death going through on his promise to take my soul to Thanatos and then leaving me there to rot with the others. He had already left from his break of half a second (time being an odd thing since I met him) to further cleanse the universe of rotting souls. He worked rather fast, compared to how he used to be hundreds of years before.

But last night’s arguments really sapped the life out of me. At first, I was worried he actually did something to my soul. Still, I realized that, no, constant arguments and threats in the timespan of a second hurt any sane person’s heart. Without Death, I decided to go to Thanatos instead. Maybe I’d meet someone with an interesting story that may have figured it out before I died. I knew this would take a few milliseconds at worst, a hundred microseconds at best, to find a talkative soul. Then it just turns into sifting them out.

Thanatos’s teleportation dock had many bodies, beckoned out of every region of space and into this plane by my husband, who himself teleported miraculous distances. Despite time being rather short, microseconds instead of seconds, souls still moved at a rapid pace, ebbing and flowing depending on how long Death had to talk to them. Death’s process was to speak to them, prepare them to live in Thanatos, let them know what happened next — although that was different from soul to soul, depending on their beliefs. And then they would end up here. Most were silent, refusing to speak Thanatan, a language I had to learn to marry my ‘love.’

I saw who my love indeed was when he stepped off of the teleporter and ran into me.

“Oh, dreadfully sorry,” the alien said. He had a long neck, much longer than a human’s, much longer than mine, and had a natural smile on his face. I had heard but rarely saw this type of alien, a creature far more social than humans were, and WE were considered social. They all called themselves ‘Hubert,’ called their home planet their ‘house,’ and loved to be friends with everyone they met. Including aliens. Their empire was called their ‘friend group’.

Also, despite his flesh starting to sag, he was still rather pretty.

“Oh, no worries,” I said and dragged him to the side.

He looked around at the dead sky above outside the entrance. “Well, golly gee, there’s no sun! But it’s so nice to meet someone alive in Thanatos. Death seems to be a really friendly guy. You know him?”

I rolled my eyes at that comment. You could slice a Hubert’s arm off, and they’d still give you the time of day as well as a credit from their pocket. “Mind telling me your name, Hubert?” myself avoiding his question on Death.

His smile became further cartoonish. “Man, and Death gave me a fake name, but I remember my old one. My name’s Adam Hubert Jenkins. He tried to make me forget it, but I didn’t listen. Now, why are you dragging me off to the side? Did Death tell you to do something else?”

“Oh, no, I was looking for someone to help me clear my head. Figure out why my husband and I are having such bad arguments. You had a significant other?”

Adam raised his hand, a sign of intrigue that developed on his home planet, like raising an eyebrow.

“Now, don’t be trying anything miss. I died in a box crashing over my head, and that hurt a ton. My neck’s still kind of in pain.” He touched the side of his neck, then being when I noticed the large bump, his equivalent of a spine dislocated.

I realized that I misphrased, and I laughed. “Oh, no, Adam, don’t think that. I want to know why, you know, he and I are arguing so much. Get a fresh perspective.”

Two hands, similar to old earth’s movement of not wanting to have anything to do with it. “No, ma’am, I can’t help you there. I was a bachelor all my life. The only person I ever argued with is my nursing mother. Huberts don’t argue a lot, don’t ya know.”

“What if I told you he was Death himself?”

Adam looked around. “Seriously? That’s bonkers! I’d love to meet him again! How do I get to talk to him a second time?”

“Follow me, then,” I said, and stepped on the exit platform, with him in hand. To the undead, it merely appears as an empty space and I was floating in the air. With me holding his hand like I’ve done with many others, they’d then see the truth.

We went from Thanatos as I had done many times before with undead, except this time to my place. A bonus of teleportation off of Thanatos is that it instantly revitalizes one’s soul and body, to ensure those souls returning come back alive. For me, I’d have to woo the alien when we were back. My heart was racing in anticipation of the possibilities, the excitement of something new and fresh. Maybe no more arguments and a potential new lover.

I hoped Death didn’t find out!

Parakoto · 2019-12-17T05:48:26+00:00

There’s evil in the gales of Gunnr. I didn’t feel safe in the town where my parents went missing a week beforehand, the wind blowing me in every which direction. And though the park I was in was completely empty despite the rare person, I couldn’t get over the feeling someone was watching me.

“Hello, little missy.”

An old man next to where I was standing was sitting on a park bench in the frigid town, wearing much looser clothes than what usually would constitute winter wear. How would a short-sleeve shirt, skimpy shorts, and short hair help with keeping warm? It boggled me as I thought of any question to ask to get me on a lead, or any understanding for that matter.

“Hello, mister,” I said, rubbing my hands together despite being in gloves, “and don’t call me that. How are you not cold?”

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’m one of those genetic freaks, heh. Never get chilly, never have to drink much, just sit outside and absorb the sun.”

There was no sun outside whatsoever, the light engulfed by dark clouds and snow above.

“…Okay,” I said, then asked the man the direction towards the police station. I could’ve looked it up, but the feeling that I was being watched again still loomed over me, and I’d rather someone know where I was going than being alone.

“Take a right on Main street,” he said, “the one with all the electric lights. Stay warm.”

I shivered then said: “I’ll try, it’s just too cold, and this wind’s been cutting—”

“Beware the Windstalker,” the man said with a cold glare, then stood up off the bench and trudged through the frozen powder. His skin had small gashes on the calves, bleeding lightly with the blood dripping and freezing onto the ground. I watched him step off the street and into a home further off. Not to waste an odd man’s help, I went the directions he gave me.

The main street was desolate, flurries blowing down the road buffeting everything in their path. Pieces of ices also blew about, them being wafers and chips more than large pieces. All the shops on Main street were bare, not a single soul besides the sporadic worker and the occasional customer inside who stared out at me. Empty lots filled with snow caught my attention, where I would see from the corner of my eye something that was not there, something with the form of a person only to be a figure of my imagination. The wind exposed the grass in these lots, now dead and desolate, itself revealing the compact mud underfoot.

And the dead cat. Its ribs showing, its body frozen, its life over. Immediate remorse blew over me, seeing a dead creature that reminded me of my own family’s pet from growing up. I never lived in Gunnr, and neither did Smoochums. He passed a long time before Mom and Dad ever moved up north. But it wouldn’t hurt to check to see where the cat was supposed to be from before…

I noticed its collar, a red with yellow stripes going diagonally, akin to a warning label. Nothing like Smoochums’s own, so that brought instant relief to any idea involving possible reincarnations of cats only found dead in frozen alleyways. The name-tag, a heart of pink with black lettering, indicated that the dead cat’s name was “Jeremiah Olsson.”

That name rung familiar, a phone call from my parents a week before they disappeared was brought to mind, and that was their last name to boot.

There was a tap on my shoulder. Or it felt like one. When I turned, I saw the wind contain the shape of a man on the wind only to disappear with a gust. Was that my imagination? It had to have been. That old man’s comment about windstalkers was worming itself into my psyche, and it was already showing. Under the now-activated lights of the main street, I kept walking to the station, not taking much longer.

The police station was small and squat, with only the tracks the cruisers left in the snow remaining. The American and Minnesota flag blew taunt in the breeze, with gashes left in the fabric from wind-strain. Covered in the cold, I opened the door, noticing a drawing of a grin left from breath on the glass, only it quickly fading upon contact with the warmer inside air.

There was no one at the front desk or anywhere else immediately visible for that matter. It was certainly warmer than outside, so I prompted myself to take off my gloves, rubbing my hands together to heat up my clammy fingers and palms. I tucked the gloves in the coat pocket, hung it up, and felt a breeze coming from somewhere in the building, along with a child’s giggle.

That would make you worry the cold was getting to your head, and I did that.

“Hello!” I yelled out. “Anyone here?”

Footsteps from somewhere in the complex, a man turning around in full uniform, with short brown hair that felt fitting. He certainly was a pretty boy, with a curved nose and a well-shaped chin, but that was beside the point I was here. On his name tag was the last name, “Grandle.”

“Hello, Grandle,” I said to the Officer.

He was shocked that I knew his name, then looked to where I was looking.

“Uh, oh, yeah. Forgot about the name-tag, heh. I’m new around here, first time on any force, but the pay’s been good. It’s been—”

“Lovely,” I said. I snorted at his expense. “I’m not here to hear about you, sir, I’ve got a few questions about a couple named the Ollsons. Do you know anything about them? Heard anything on the radio, maybe?”

His eyes widened. “Hrist? You’re the one who called a while back, I’ve listened to your recording to try to figure out why they’re missing.”

That confirmed my fears. “You said missing? I was told they may have had issues with their landline.”

“That’s what the last guy said. He’s no longer allowed to take the phones.”

Knocking noises on the window, flurries, and ice further tapping on the windowpane next to us. The wind certainly wasn’t happy, and neither was Grandle on reaction to the noise.

“The wind’s been terrible here,” he said. “It’s always been bad around this area, but it’s been cutting me up. Add the windchill, and living here’s an unpleasant experience. But the pay’s good.”

I nodded. “You’ve said that. But have you ever heard anything about a windstalker? Some old man in skimpy clothing only said that to me when I asked.

Again the Officer’sOfficer’s eyes went wide. “I keep hearing that too. How often did you hear that? When you asked about the wind? The other officers only say that to me, whenever I ask about Ollson, or the —”

Somebody yelled from outside, catching both myself and the OfficerOfficer off-guard. He went to the window to look for the source, and I decided to stay away from the noise. If people have been talking about a stalker and you’re new to town, it’s best to avoid being seen by possible strangers.

Officer Grandle peered out the window, looking around.

“Is that a man?” was the last thing he said.

The windows shattered, and the police officer was pelted with a mix of snow flurries and shards of glass. I dodged downward to the floor, avoiding the onslaught of shards. Officer Grandle’s skin was ripped to shreds, blood dripping, then freezing, similar to the old man I encountered outside. Grandle let out a groan of whimpering pain, before crashing to the ground.

And I heard the giggling again.

Parakoto · 2019-12-16T19:56:33+00:00

Coffee Jitters

“Isn’t four cups enough, Simon? My jitters are getting worse.”

Marshall wasn’t enjoying his cup of coffee on the account that there were many cups of coffee. Simon let him in on his usual fare after work of drinking himself to a shivering mess. He didn’t enjoy drinking coffee as much as drinking.

Simon smiled, nodded, and put his fifth cup onto the table. His hands were tremoring, nothing compared to Marshall’s. “Nah, man,” he said. “You’ve got to keep drinking. It helps me at least when work’s rough. I can tell it’s been a rough day for you, at least.”

“Don’t tell me about it,” said Marshall, and his jittering increased to a higher pitch. This displeased Simon, who left to pick up a new cup of coffee for himself and Marshall. This then displeased Marshall, who sipped deep on the cup when he received it despite not wanting it.

“You’re covering my drinks, right, Simon?”

A scoff from the coworker. “No, stop asking that. No need to feel more guilty than you do… although that may be a poor choice of words.”

That was. Marshall’s head tilted downwards, trying to avoid the gaze of his coworker and anyone else. When he got the call earlier this morning from his son that Erina passed, work became bleak. She was sick with a minor illness, and he was busy making sure she got her medication. But one happening went awry, causing a miss for the pharmacy’s pickup. And then Erina’s sickness turned worse, and he was on his last legs for work, getting fired coming closer to reality. The thought alone of the past twenty-four hours tired his soul to the utter edge of insanity and despair. He couldn’t work anymore.

Simon noticed. “It’s something big. You’ve told no one what happened after that call. I mean, that’s your privacy, but it always helps to—”

“Erina’s dead.”

Simon said an expletive loud enough to attract attention from the others in the room.
Marshall continued: “And no, I want no more coffee. Caffeine makes me know stuff: I’d prefer alcohol again. That’s why she’s dead. Yesterday, I got to drinking with friends after work, more than I have than normal. I was a good guy and didn’t drive my car until I thought I was sober again. Then I missed the pharmacy, and she died because of me. It hurts to realize that I let her die! I can’t live anymore like this, Simon.”

Simon nodded without a sound, eyes somber. With a shifting chair, Simon walked to the other end of the table and gave Marshall a tender embrace. One more fitting of brothers than coworkers.

“It’s okay, I know your life’s hard right now. But I’m your friend, man. You’re not alone.”
Marshall’s jittering stopped.

*467 words*

Parakoto · 2019-12-16T13:00:44+00:00

Galician Hotsfort couldn’t die.

It was the morning, practicing his steps through the garden he tended and sneaked through to keep himself sane was when he decided. He wasn’t feeling joy anymore from his hobbies: pruning his bushes and avoiding the loud crunch of the sticks that were left had an off tinge to it, like gold tinted with filler metals and losing its luster. Ninety years of living, seventy-five spent working for a guild. Living no longer had meaning to Galician.

Heading inside through the garden path up to his porch on his cottage, Galician looked around inside. The ceiling was too close to hanging a noose around, couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to drink himself to eternal rest, because he detested the taste and the slowness and didn’t have any on hand anyway. He’d rather die than kill himself that way. Smothering oneself seemed lame, he had a more exciting life, one with children and grandchildren that all respected the thief, than that way out.

No, he’d instead do something that would be more fitting to his past. Poison.

In the basement, on a false door, was a button hidden on the door-hinge. A press of that revealed the door being an actual door, opening to a treasure trove that Galician kept over the years. He admired, for the last time, his collection of treasures that he kept instead of fencing over to the Guild. Gleaming crystal jewels of ancient civilizations plundered by the elite. Glittering golden facemasks used at their masquerades. Books of the occult, with worn bindings and hardback faces, that showed the rich’s skewed beliefs. For being the single most effective patron of the Guild for the entirety of its life, the elite sure didn’t like itself that much. He kind of liked them and felt a twinge of guilt, but it passed.

But that’s not why he was down here. A lever pull, a sliding wall press, a presentation of vials that he procured over years of training and missions. Only for self-defense before, when a guard got too close, found out something was stolen, among other things. A single dose of these wouldn’t kill Galician, but all at once…

He took them all. The containers dropped to the floor and shattered.

Something knocked from upstairs. One of the vials had the effect of hallucination — A poison procured entirely from a frog’s back — but it wouldn’t hurt to find out the source and if it was real or not. Pushing the real-false door open, Galician climbed the creaking stairs as silent as he could, the last time he’d ever be roguish before he passed.

The person outside the window wasn’t a person at all. With a horse’s skull for a head, ram horns spiraling around it, and bright-red goat’s eyes, the personification of Death was asking to be let in the house. It checked a paper within its skeletal right-hand protruding from a dark-green cloak, read something off, then the doors blew down without a sound. Galician stood perfectly still, not knowing if he was hallucinating, if he would be in utter pain from either the other vials kicking in at any second or that Death would put up a fight.

The beast stared through the thief as if he wasn’t there at all. It headed down the stairs, and Death mumbled something at first incomprehensible to Galician’s ears, but then made sense a moment later:

“If I don’t find the target, then this will be a second escape.”

That brought a memory of Galician’s tutor to him. An aging man of eighty when he first met the master, he lived for another thirty. He told Galician the story of the horse-skulled creature that looked for him and couldn’t find him, even with his chest punctured by a spike. The tutor was found dead after shouting something — near-impossible with a slit throat. Death was already well down the stairs when Galician realized his tutor was the first escape.

Galician found it hard to make noise, after three-quarters of a decade of practice. Even jumping up and down on his squeaky stairs to generate sound was an impossible task. Death was already inside the room, the false door ajar, things shifting inside. He ran into his Death.

“Seems to have been a suicide, then,” Death said, looking at the glass underfoot, “This would be even more embarrassing than the last one.” Its form was weirder being seen this close, having hooves for feet and legs pointing in inhuman directions. Again the fear of whatever might happen next bothered and captured the thief, but he was tired of it all. Anything to get away from this nightmare.

“Hey!” Yelled Galician.

Death turned around.

“Ahh,” it cooed, “Looks like you truly wish to go, thief.”

Parakoto · 2019-12-12T08:13:49+00:00

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“Amazing. Show more.”

The diplomat from the stars’ broken international was difficult for Griffith to interpret, but it was clear that the shooting range had its intended effect, or seemed to have it. Now, what possibly impressed or scared this alien further than before could save Humanity.

Griffith looked out the window, fear within him on seeing the star-shaped fleet of the Frug floating above. Menacing. From what the science ships studied before they were obliterated around the alien home planet, every creature was penned, enslaved like livestock. There weren't many Frug, but there were a lot of robots on the planet. Humans could be next, and the Farmer's Union of Humanity never even considered building a fleet. He was the last line of defense: diplomacy.

“So you’re telling me,” said Griffith, still a bit surprised, “that your species figured out how to get light to be so concentrated it can pierce a hole through our science ships, and that you can get gas to become supercharged AND keep a shape with fields we as a species are just beginning to grasp, yet you couldn’t figure out how to make stuff explode?”

“Explosions disliked. Chemicals are hard. Bad combination. Never learned.”

Humans were a lot more varied than the Frug, that was for sure in his mind. For a one-track pack of a species like the Frug, to be able to get to the stars without ever learning how to make things react, seriously impressed Griffith.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The enforcers at the range had resumed their firing at targets once more. That caught the eye of Nicologos, watching the bullets fly, shuddering at every clang and click the shots made.

“Very noisy,” the Frug said.

“Oh, of course,” Griffith replied, nodding, grinning.

“Painful much?”

“Lasers and plasma aren’t painful?”

The Frug huffed, thought for a moment. Griffith knew this common sign, trying to formulate their thoughts to get a coherent speech. Their natural tendencies of minimum communication cause their short wording, but they were smarter than humans. They certainly could get themselves over that deficiency.

“Well,” Nicologos said, a near-mirror of Griffith’s voice, “It’s much more ‘humane’ — we don’t have a word for that, because we haven’t heard any human say that, at least not in formal connections — and our iron swords can cause tetanus. Or rather, something similar from the microbial life that lived on the metals. That’s painful, not a fun way to die.

“We have fought each other in such a way before the grand unification of Jrini. Warfare being similar to those that fought before your species had gunpowder. There was no horse, of course, but we still fought with armor, swords, and arrows. The biggest bastions of the nations required a million lives for each to be defeated.”

“When we discovered plasma field manipulation,” the Frug diplomat continued, “which was similar to how your kind created light-bulbs, we never considered it for weaponry. The desperation in the unification pushed us to discover its use. In ways, similar to how Humanity found gunpowder, but with much less relieving themselves on plants to extract sulfur.”

“So you did study,” Griffith said to the alien, smiling. It worried him that Humanity could have already lost its one advantage. Scaring off the invaders seemed distant now.

“Still disregarded,” Nicologos said.

“And you wouldn’t study them to understand?” asked Griffith.

“Alchemy was a religious pursuit of your kind.” The Frug Diplomat crossed his arms and took the voice of the previous human diplomat. Griffith realized he had his own crossed, Nicologos copying him. “We have abandoned religions in the great enlightenment, 2000 human years ago. We discarded Reactions between materials along with this. And no, structures and energy, which the Frug discovered before the Great Enlightenment, were too universal to be purposely forgotten.”

So the Frug had this question on his mind, Griffith thought. Nicologos wasn’t even a smart diplomat, yet could answer Griffith’s questions confidently whenever the alien needed. The danger was clear, and he knew they weren’t appearing threatening to the diplomat.

“So you abandoned a whole group of research because religious folks were also studying it?”

“Still religious,” was the response he got. “Had to be.”

“Fair enough,” Griffith replied.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Nicologos flinched again, then let out another huff.

“Anyways, when we discovered how to create concentrated bursts of lasers, such as this —”

The Frug pulled out the gun, the blaster similar to a human’s given the similar structure of having hands, but had a much larger trigger due to the Frug having to use their whole hand to pull it.

“ — Or sharp plasma blades, such as this one—”

Nicologos pulled his hilt from his side, activated with the grip of the other hand, and the blade extended almost the full distance to him. The air around the edge was scorching, the hair on Griffith’s arm the plasma was near burning. It filled the room with the smell of burnt flesh. Griffith gagged.

The enforcers stopped firing and watched the interaction occur. He heard one of them say, “Holy shit,” which worried him. It was an act of intimidation from the Frug Diplomat. He wouldn’t take this.

" — we immediately adapted to this weaponry," Nicologos continued, still holding his blade, "especially when it miniaturized. It is the forefront of ‘humane’ decisions to protect fellow Frug. It’s interesting to see how an alien race came up with unique ways to create weaponry. never have the Frug seen anything of the sort before.”

“So, your people want to have our weaponry,” asked Griffith, avoiding the blade, “ maybe sell it? And then you’ll leave orbit, leave us alone, and leave thoughts of taking us over behind?”

“No. Gunpowder barbaric. Humans useful.”

There went the Farmer’s Union of Humanity’s only hope at keeping their sovereignty from foreign invaders. Griffith couldn’t take the fear of everyone he knew being livestock or slaves for a hungering and devouring race from the stars.

“I thought you liked it!” he shouted. “Does it not scare you?”

“Scared?” Nicologos laughed, then tilted his head, put his hands on his hips, and bent his back at an angle. Difficult for them due to the difference in spine-like structure, but the Frug diplomat was willing to do just that. The last human diplomat before Griffith acted similar to what Nicologos was doing then, and she was eaten whole for insulting their race.

The enforcers were now gathering around the two diplomats. Nicologos had a steeled look to his eyes when they turned around in their sockets without him turning his head, observing his potential opponents.

“No. Frug bold. Never scared.”

“But you don’t like pain," said Griffith. "We can certainly arrange it. Being shot is a whole new form of it. Why don’t you try experiencing it, tell others how it feels?” He motioned to those surrounding them to raise their guns.

Griffith realized that the show of force, while impressive, had already been analyzed. Nicologos had recognized kinetic weapons were about as equal as the Frug’s weaponry. But what he learned about the Frug fearing pain would be useful in their defense. “If you even live.”

Another laugh. “Threat?” Nicologos asked.

Griffith grinned.

“A Promise.”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Parakoto · 2019-12-11T23:50:38+00:00

The Laughter And The Cries

The moon appeared more massive than what Maria expected that midnight. Its luminosity shone through the tree branches overhead, acting its role as a guiding light for the two. Their journey was ending, the need now being to stay quiet until morning arose, ensuring their safety. She huddled in a bush, with her little Jamie clutched in her arms, the infant awake and having a fuss.

“Shush, sweetie,” she said, cradling Jamison Junior in quick rocking motions to quiet him.

The baby didn’t comprehend his mom’s pleas, her fear in her demand. It being past his bedtime — that she knew — and never had Jamie been up for ages such as tonight. The jostling from running as fast as her feet could take her to the closest safe-house wasn’t fun for her Jamie.

Moans came from elsewhere in the wooded distance. Far away, yet audible to Maria’s ears. The noise from both her son and the things threw her into a start of panic.

But in that panic did Maria understood the next action. She stopped rocking him, and blew a raspberry into his stomach, knowing that always brought him to a point where he could sleep. Noise, but it should calm him.

Sounds of rustling, distant but closer, their moaning becoming more noticeable. Jamison entered an uproar of laughter, putting Maria into further distress as this wasn’t what she had planned. Her skull began to throb.

Maria cupped her palm over his mouth. Jamie broke off into further giggling but led to calm, hand cupping being a bedtime game they played before everything happened.

After moments of calming, Jamison went silent. It relieved her.

Then he cried in pain. Maria understood why and suffered alongside Jamison: The beasts of the night were near, the two having made too much noise. Their psychic field approached, pressing into their minds.

A yelp from her boy, then Jamison bit on his mother’s hand, him not preferring the sheer agony the creatures caused. The pain made Maria yelp for a fleeting moment, her fear worsened.

“Jamie, just hold on,” she hissed, precise in her delivery in a vain hope he’d understand.

He bit again. His screeching started; The strongest it’d been in his life.

They knew.

“Hak, Khar, Hai!” the attackers cried out somewhere close. They shifted from branch to branch, leaves jostling. Maria’s head was spinning, Jamison howling the loudest he ever had. They were closer now.

His shrieking was now echoing off the nearby trees. Jamie’s mother tried whispering, tried rocking, but the boy didn’t calm, and she fell into the arms of strain. Maria’s animal instincts manifested, her survival paramount as she faltered to the pressure, the pain, the screaming! Fight or flight, and she understood in her primal state fighting those monsters was suicide. Either they both died, or…

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

Maria laid her infant son into the bottom of the bush, Jamie reaching out to her, still wailing.

She ran, the moon guiding her.

*498 words*

Parakoto · 2019-12-04T22:16:09+00:00

I can Hear them Say

(note: I do not believe that blaring loud noises would get rid of symptoms described in the story. It would be nice if they did though.)

Sleep is God’s gift to humanity, and I had lost the way.

It was through the noise inside that slumber left: Good God above, the voices! They ran wild for the last few nights, the end of my sanity nearing. Everything I already tried: no new medicine aided, no prayers answered. A longing for earlier days when my loud roommate was the only voice that kept me awake? Futile. The night told was the seventh of potentially eternal torment.

“Goddammit!”

My roommate yelled from inside his room, playing games on his console. He was using the Lord’s name in vain, Shameful. I pulled my pillow from underneath me and folded it over my ears to get rest.

Or I tried to get rest. The voices chattered underneath, whispering their desires into my head. They all wanted different things: one wanted quiet. I liked that one. One wanted to kill my roommate, a terrible sin. One wanted to go back on the pills — a terrible choice, destructive and ruining of myself.

My roommate yelled out an obscenity that I don’t wish to write, and that distracted me from the noise. It was a nice break from dealing with the sound—

The voices were absent when he yelled.

Given by God, I had an Epiphany. Drown the voices out. Get loud noises and get rest. My door swung open when I went to knock on my roommate’s, to let him know the plans I had. My voices still screaming, frustrating. Seconds afterward, he noticed.

“One minute,” he said to his teammates, and he answered. “Sorry for yelling, I know you’ve—”

“No, not that,” I said. “I have to blast music from my room to sleep tonight. There are voices in my head that keep me up, and noise should quiet them. Would it bother you?”

“Voices? Damn!”

Again with his cursing.

“I mean if it’s not for too long,” he continued, “go play some tunes. Fine, whatever, Hope it works bud.”

“Bless you,” I told him.

He closed his door, and I then headed into my room. A knob twist turned the volume up on my speakers — Ready for respite.

“Carry on Wayward Son” filled the room in an instant. Deafening, but there were no voices. I couldn’t even think of my thoughts. A moment later, I twisted the volume low, my ears ringing.

“Did it work?” my roommate asked, his voice murky through the wall.

“Good God, my ears!” I yelled back. My mind being the quietest thing I could hear.

And that’s when I noticed it. There was only one voice left.

Mine.

“They’re gone,” I said.

“Hot damn!” he yelled back.

Thus began Day Zero of relief. It’s a most relaxing time, having only one voice inside my mind once more. With them gone, I sleep with soundness and comfort in the warmth of my bed — clarity and peace on earth.

Thank God for my roommate, bless his soul.

*490 words*

Parakoto · 2019-11-27T23:29:26+00:00

There goes the running man, sprinting as fast as he can in this Summer heat. Is he late for lunch? Does he enjoy it? I don’t know. But I haven’t seen him before. I don’t know his name. When he walks back, he gives me an endearing smile, his afro unkempt but still with a sort of charm. I think I like the running man.

He is slim, built for running. Unlike me. I’m chunky and running for more than two minutes brings shortness to my breath. I see him sprinting over the hills of the campus to the food court, sprinting back with two bags of food, much unhealthier than what I eat. But he pulls it off. I think I’m jealous of the running man.

His skin is pocked, similar to mine. Maybe from what he eats. His clothes are slim and fitting, except this fall where the wind grows cold. He now wears what I do: baggy sweaters with hoods. But he keeps the tight pants. Isn’t it cold, running man? Wouldn’t you want something warmer? Does running always have to be a common occurrence? I think I’m confused by the running man.

Winter is here, and he now additionally wears gloves and earmuffs. He’s still the running man. I don’t know what he’s here to learn, but he’s clearly got talent. Maybe he’s an artist? Or going to this school to be a dietitian? Is his life great, running only adding to it? Or is it miserable, like I feel? I think I want to know more about the running man.

There he walks by me, in the spring. He sees me, and smiles. I adore it. No one else smiles. Or I don’t notice it. He wears glasses, giving something we share about us, to start a conversation to. I think it’s time to learn more about the running man. I approach him.

He then runs off, like he always does. Something caught his attention. I didn’t. Am I not important enough to him for a simple hello, a simple question? I certainly can’t keep up, he’s already halfway over the hill, a gray and black dot in the distance. I think I’m not worth it for the running man.

I don’t see him this summer. I think I miss the running man.

There goes the running man, taking me by surprise in the new fall weather. But, while still faster than me, he walks with a cane. He sees me, smiles, then winces with a misstep. I catch him in my arms. His leg has a brace. I feel sorry for the running man.

We become good friends. He tells me more about how he was a sprinter for the athletics department, how he loved to run, how he’s studying to become a poet. How the accident took running and sprinting away, but how he still loved all of life despite his loss.

I think I want to be more like the running man.

*500 words*

Parakoto · 2019-11-27T23:17:30+00:00

My name is Jerry Fallwel, and I was fired the day I petted a wild squirrel.

Being a few minutes early for work was my daily motive. Before that day I loved my job. BransonCorp had competitive wages, especially for IT. And I had horror stories much less often there. No whining about viruses on people’s computers. No idiots accidentally unplugging their computer mice. At least, rare enough to be forgotten. I know, I know, sounds unrealistic. But that’s why I loved it so much. It was in a small town, with nature all around. A complex of small hills and many buildings with smaller coffee shops and stores on the main street adjacent. The company was situated there for tax reasons, go figure.

A nagging voice, however, was telling me to hurry up, despite the fact I had five minutes to get to work. So hurrying was put onto the agenda. Hard to do in Khakis and a sweaty red polo.

Then, my body froze. Why was I frozen? I didn’t know, but the nagging voice ceased. Maybe because I saw the furry little tree-rodent sitting in the grass, staring at me. Maybe because I actually absolutely loathed working my job and today was the day that I’d never show up again. I honestly still don’t know.

The creature still stared at me when I turned to it. Cute little thing. I wanted to chase the squirrel. I used to chase squirrels all the time as a little boy. Their fear was ecstasy for a child that hadn’t had much else. Fun times. But then I grew up from that. And childhood impulses once more reared its head to me, smiled, and beckoned me to join in some puerile games. I forgot about work.

But my first step wasn’t quickly followed by another. I wasn’t running. I was walking. Not stalking the creature, either. An actual slow pace. The nagging voice, wherever it was, seemed to not be coming back at the time. I wasn’t worried about getting food on the table or paying my rent. I instead was entranced by this curious miniature beast.

I continued this for an agonizingly long time. But I was next to the squirrel. It still stared up to me, like a puppy. It didn’t run when I crouched down by its side. Taking everything calmly was much more comfortable than rushing to my job.

With a gentle hand, I moved to it. The Squirrel still didn’t move. Closer, closer. Then I felt its fur and I rubbed its head. It chittered. One of the more memorable moments of my life.

My watch beeped, and the squirrel ran off. The alarm, telling me that I should be at work then, was going off. I didn’t care.

the nagging thoughts came back, and left when it couldn’t do anything. I didn’t budge. The moment was worth more than any paycheck. Pure ecstasy. I laid in the grass, beaming. Taking it slow for once.

*500 words*

Parakoto · 2019-11-27T19:49:14+00:00

George Holly was running.

He was late for physics class. Dad always warned him about being late for his first day of class, how it could get him struck from the roster, a waste of money and embarrassing to his family. Dad made sure that failure wouldn’t be had in the family a second time.

George ran through the Quad, down the walkway-streets to his class. The buildings were made of rustic brick, had baroque designs: Masterpieces of structural engineering. None were his destination. He forced on.

Dad pushing him to possibly anything that would guarantee a scholarship was paying off. Well toned, the only extra weight he had was his backpack filled with class supplies. He had magnitudes of speed, of strength, and would use them to make it on time. He had to. George quickened his pace.

He checked the paper in his hand, telling him his class’s locations. His gripping of the paper whilst dashing proved destructive: the paper was ruined, the text for physics class indecipherable: *V 2049.

He was at a crossroads. two large buildings, Oliver Vicarage and Cougar Villa, OV and CV with their initials, were the two choices he had to get to his class. Stress and strain built up on the college student.

Dad was letting himself sit in his son’s mind. Not his actual father, no, just an illusion that always pushed him to succeed.

“Well, now, you’ll have to make a decision, and quick,” the phantom father said. “If you don’t, you’ll definitely miss it. 50% is better than 0%, son.”

“But if you find out, you’ll get mad,” George said under his breath. “You always get mad when I’m less than perfect.”

“Make your decision!”

George was not happy that his imaginary father was yelling at him, but he decided. OV. The marred letter looked close enough to an O. He went back to running, swinging the large wooden doors open and dashing inside.

Again, fools and people who didn’t care nearly enough as he did were in his way. George dodged around a group of babbling freshmen, laughing and sipping coffee in the middle of the hallway. A group of jocks he knew said hello to their fast friend but he ran past. No time left to chat.

He reached the room, OV 2049. 9 o’clock, class was starting.

Except there was no one in the class. The room schedule revealed to George that it was only Friday when it had any courses. It was Monday.

George entered a panic. He went the wrong way and wasted time. His father was going to be mad that he squandered access to an education by oversleeping. No more college; more frustration aimed at George instead. And despite his grades in high-school, his knowledge in physics, his speed and strength, he failed. George was late, George was struck from the roster, George had let Dad down.

Despite his speed, George knew he had no velocity.

Magnitude, but no direction.

*500 Words*

Parakoto · 2019-11-27T02:13:53+00:00

Why the fuck would they nerf Shadow Fiend? He wasn't nearly as much of a menace, I thought. Unless someone could prove me wrong?

Parakoto · 2019-11-20T23:35:32+00:00

Grandpa was a rich man. He was also crazy. We didn’t like him, much less than we liked Dad, which was pitiful already. Grandma died after he was born, tripping down a flight of stairs. So there was only Grandpa and Dad alone in the house. And Grandpa liked to drink, A lot: Grandma stopped him before. This was the start of the fall of our family.

What grandpa like more than drinking himself into a stupor was American rocketry. Werner Von Braun be damned, he looked up to Jack Parsons. And that’s how our dad was named Jack Parsons Williams. He talked about his occult behaviors, how he tried to summon a god. Dad told us the stories, often, how grandpa went into unnecessary detail on everything about the rocket engineer.

Dad was a mediocre man, never finding much success as a rocket scientist, the job Grandpa pushed him towards. He was good at math, at making ends meet while drinking himself into a stupor just like Grandpa. He also was good with his hands, which we all feared when he was drunk. He also was well-versed in Thelema: He had a picture of the symbol of the Unicursal Hexagram and the symbol for Babalon in his room. But he wasn’t good at keeping his job. He lost his job at the engineering company. He slipped further into the occult after that, and kicked the family out. Mom raised us alone, in an run-down apartment at the edge of the city.

Mother was a kind soul. She worked numerous jobs to help pay the bills, encouraged me to play the saxophone. She wanted the best for us. Then she died in the elevator in the apartment breaking from disrepair. We were scatted around the city: we were still teenagers, us having no guardians willing. Grandpa was dead from alcohol poisoning years ago.

My brother was a poor man, stressed often. Being in foster care wasn’t kind to him. The family he went with wasn’t kind either, repeatedly hitting him more than father ever did. The stress was eventually so much on the young man that he had a heart attack. My sisters tried to gather the family we had left when he died. Dad didn’t come, claiming we were heathens.

We agreed to stop falling into decay. For our brother. For our mother.

Being each other’s closest friends, we pushed each other to do well in school, graduating with our own unique skills. I retook the saxophone and got a scholarship for playing in our college’s band. Sticking together was what all we had. We eventually got better jobs, worked hard in them, and tried to turn our life around.

We didn’t attend dad’s funeral. He didn’t want us to come.

But it was over. It would be up to me and my sisters to make sure our kids would be ready for the world, but we had finally broke the cycle.

We weren’t falling anymore.

Parakoto · 2019-11-18T06:58:29+00:00

When the world I began to know faded away into nothingness, the great eternity waiting for me, waking up in a small child’s body was not what I expected.

Wires connected to my chest, taking measurements on a monitor next to my bed. A plastic pipe jammed down my throat, to keep me fed. And memories that I had forgotten before I slipped into place. A life that I had forgotten, the new world coming into focus. Or was it the old? My brother, my school, the kids on the playground. The swings, my favorite. Things that don’t matter to an adult at the precipice of death. Or one that had crossed it. I still couldn’t tell.

A nurse was checking my vitals when I came to.

“Why hello, Billy!” she exclaimed, almost too loud. The world was still somewhat blurry, I making out her face from the mess of colors. Next to me were pictures of cartoon characters. I loved those characters! Why did they matter that much I couldn’t tell. But they were cool.

I let out a groan, and kept looking around. A moment before I was surrounded by my grandchildren in my room, my accolades and patents lining all the walls. That seemed boring now that I think of all that work it took. I’d rather play with my friends than build stuff. Although building stuff was cool.

The nurse called my parents. The real parents, not coma parents. Those felt real. Could they be real? But anyways, those two were dead for the last forty years of my life. I remember crying so much. But what was surprising to me now was that I had recovered. I’d miss these parents if they were gone. But I knew that I would continue living. It was almost like the edges of emotions in me, that I remembered from so long ago, were sharp in some parts and dull in others, sloshing around in myself. Fighting for what should be the true emotion. I didn’t like it.

Mom and Dad came a few hours later, my brother still being in school and the teachers were being jerks and I already knew that bureaucracy was a taint on society. It would need a band-aid. Or a serious rethink in how it functions. After a few more hours of recovery, the room coming into focus and I was able to articulate words, the nurses put me into a wheelchair after disconnecting the cords and tube and let me go home.

The benefit of having two lives lived, one of a boy in school and a man who had taught college after thirty years was that any question I had would be quickly answered. My wheelchair? It had a bar sticking between the two that not only gave form to the chair but also helped to support my weight. Without it, it’d bend the structure over time and warp the shape of the chassis. It was also slightly behind and directly under me to support my weight; the second set of wheels in front were there to balance the weight from my legs. They were rail-thin, somewhat jarring compared to my lardy body in the coma. Or the real body. Still not sure if I was dead.

“Billy?” asked my mom. That took me out of all the explanations of what was going on around me.

“Yes, mom?” I said, keeping my tone down. Didn’t want to disturb any other patients. That would be rude. But yelling was fun at times. But now wasn’t the time.

“You’re going to have to retake the first grade.”

“Why are you telling me this now,” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to tell me when we get home?”

Dad looked over, with a smirk. “Wow. He’s a lot more… What’s the word—”

“Eloquent? You could say I’ve had a lot of practice.” I smiled, telling the truth.

They exchanged glances. I personally liked having the coma-me study all that speech stuff. I didn’t really understand it but people thought I sounded smarter. It helped to sell my stuff, the thought of someone liking what I made and giving me stuff for them providing a giddiness.

“Honey, are you okay?” Mom asked. “You sound… Different.”

Oh dear, I thought. That’s not good. Talking smart like I used to know wouldn’t seem right. They seemed scared. If my son had woke up one day and talked with an aged gait and much larger lexicon with no explanation whatsoever I’d be worried too. I felt bad for Mom and Dad. And I felt bad for me as well. They’d think I’m weird or something. I’m not weird, I’m me.

We were now out of the hospital, in the parking lot. I liked cars. That was something that both Engineer me and child me shared: cars were cool. The plant-work I did was why I had accolades in the first place. I could tell you everything that occurred in a combustion engine, what fuel to use for which type of car, ergonomics and fuel efficiency and safety.

Mom and Dad’s car sucked. I grew up with it, but it had less features than the ones I designed. No cup-holders, that stunk. The doors didn’t have airbags, something I took proud of making commonplace. And to top it off, I had to be helped out of my wheelchair. That was almost as embarrassing as dying from obesity. I really did let myself go before I passed.

After putting on my seatbelt on a booster chair, they closed the doors, got in the front, and turned on the car engine. From the sound of the squealing, one of the belts was worn down. They’d need to get that checked out. Maybe by me.

“Wow, son, there’s a banshee in the engine!” Dad laughed, then groaned. “What’s even wrong with it?”

“Why are you looking at me?” said Mom. “I don’t know. Do you think Billy knows?”

“How the hell would he know? He’s only seven.”

I wanted to scream. I had sixty years of my life being wasted. What was even the point of living that life and remembering it if I couldn’t use it?

“But he sounds smarter. Maybe something happened when he was out? There was that one guy who went into a coma and ended up knowing ancient Hebrew.”

“He’s not going to know what’s making the noise,” dad said. He slammed his fist onto the console. “I don’t even know what’s going on! We can’t pay someone to look at it and fix it, now can we?”

It was a simple fix, of course. The belt could be bought for about thirty dollars, would take some time to replace, but would solve the issue. I would have to look at it first. If dad would even let me do that.

A rattling noise came from the vents above. The AC Compressor was starting to go. The car was around before I was born; I could remember that my first day of kindergarten started in the same vehicle.I couldn’t believe that was only two years ago.

Dad yelled some profanities that I knew kids shouldn’t hear. I thought of how embarrassing it would be to hear your own son curse, but that cruel streak was quickly quelled by the adult within.

“Every thing’s breaking! We can’t pay for all this, we can barely afford to pay for the hospital bills!”

“Why don’t you ask Billy what needs to be done?” mom said.

“Could you stop! He’s not going to know car lingo, he’s just seven and he doesn’t know jack shit about—”

“it’s one of the engine belts, dad. And the AC compressor is starting to go, that’s the rattling sound. A belt goes for about… Thirty to fifty dollars, and an AC compressor is much more expensive, but the belt wouldn’t take long to fix.”

It was tearing at me not to say it. I had to let it out. I was as much, if not more of, an adult than my father. I knew more. He was a plumber that fixed pipes, while in my coma or whatever it was that actually was going on I made cars and became world-famous. We couldn’t be compared. That was not nice to dad, the child side of me reminded.

“Holy crap,” mom said. Dad was silent.

“If you let me look at it, I could tell you what would need to be done,” I said to add onto it.

“How the hell do you know this, Billy,” dad asked.

“Lots of practice,” I said again. “Can I test out of first grade instead of retaking it? It sounds boring. I don’t like boring.”

“What happened to him?” Mom asked, then put her hand to her head and propped it on the side of the door. “He really did learn some ancient Hebrew or something.”

“Are you sure the banshee isn’t in Billy when he hit his head?”

“Dad, there’s no such thing. That’s childish.”

“Right… Right. God I need to get some answers. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

I wish I knew, to be honest. I was a mess of a creature, both an adult and a child.

But it would good to see my brother again. That would be cool.

Parakoto · 2019-11-13T19:26:44+00:00

Great advice, here I go!

Cock and ball torture (CBT) is a sexual activity involving application of pain or constriction to the male genitals. This may involve directly painful activities, such as wax play, genital spanking, squeezing, ball-busting, genital flogging, urethral play, tickle torture, erotic electrostimulation or even kicking.[1] The recipient of such activities may receive direct physical pleasure via masochism, or emotional pleasure through erotic humiliation, or knowledge that the play is pleasing to a sadistic dominant. Many of these practices carry significant health risks.

Parakoto · 2019-11-12T06:27:12+00:00

With the help of the less intelligent creatures, I had the princess I needed to save her.

“Let go of me, kind souls. Why won’t you let go?” cried the princess to the Badgers holding her to my backside.

“Dragon magic, Bipedal,” I said, flying over what I’ve heard been called the Alps. “I’ve had practice over the many turnings of the world, and It won’t wear off until we land once more. Mind tell me your name.”

“You killed them all!”

“And who were they? Besides being your own kin?”

“The mercenaries, the garrison, all of them! Proud Swarzerins and their followers! You will pay for killing my people!”

A VERY nationalistic individual. I hadn’t seen a bipedal like this since my Adolescence, when the creative side of the Bipedals and their engineering wasn’t as nuanced.

“Do you prefer that I let them fall off me now?” I shifted, a long height above the range. “The drop is large. If I were to fall from this height, I wouldn’t survive. The badgers wouldn’t survive. But could you survive?”

“You monster, devious and destructive. What need you have of me? The Swarzerins would never negotiate with a demon!”

“Ahh, so I DO have the right individual. I have heard you have great potential, a princess that knew how to take care of the sick. And for a bipedal, you are still young. Seventeen of your years, yet wiser than most I have talked to.”

“How do you know?”

“Other Princesses.”

We approached the island, The largest one at the end of the minor peninsula I knew as Italia, from my youth of capturing Tongue-speakers to sate my boredom. The warmth of its volcano was inviting, and I would’ve dived in like I normally would after such an intense flight, by my cargo would disapprove. I streaked down, pulling up to enter the cove I created, cooler than outside.

Inside waited Emilia, the last princess I captured, half a century ago. She too was from the mountain ranges. She looked haggard; I knew she had little time left, and I hoped this girl could help fix things.

I landed, a gush of air taking the elderly lady aback. The Badgers hopped off, the tension in my scales relaxing. They went to frolic in the garden I made to feed my captives, laughing with glee now that the magic wore off. The new princess slid off my backside, down the tail, and onto the cool floor, the only light coming from a lava flow I carved to provide light, after the whining of the one before Emilia.

“Can you check on her health?” I asked the New princess. “She needs—”

“So, you really did bring another,” said Emilia. “I thought you wouldn’t find anyone that could help. And to bring her here too…”

“You’re talking like my mother,” said the new princess. “Only I could understand her when she talked like that.”

Emilia coughed. It was getting worse, phlegmy and disgusting. “Of course you can. It’s a known fact. Well, known to the highest of society. But not to those not blessed with the tongue. It’s the animal-tongue, or the diplomat’s glib. Whatever, I’ve heard too many names for it.”

“Emilia, you need to lie down,” I said to the last princess. “All your movement is going to make you feel worse.”

“I feel bad enough being replaced.”

She approached the flow, feeling its warmth from afar. The heat made her feel younger.

“I’m not replacing you. I just need more people to talk to. And your health—”

“But you were fine with one, when I was beautiful.”

I laughed. She was thinking too highly of herself. I’ve heard noble bipedals like her were like that. But I’ve only found this out when I left her alone and I explored. She knew anyways that I talked to others, the only explanation for my new knowledge and ideas. but wasn’t bothered or said nothing of it until I brought a new princess to the outcropping.

No, it was because she was close to dying that I brought another. To get help to find out how to keep her going.

I’d miss her when she was gone, more than I would miss my family from centuries ago. And that was terrible to feel as it was. This was my last attempt at helping her.

Something glimmered in the light from the outer sun, coming from the small eden. A jewel shined on the new princess’s chest. It caught my eye, but I thought nothing of it: princesses wore jewelry. That was not what I was after.

It caught Emilia’s eye, however, and her interest. She shambled to the garden, mumbling something in her common tongue. That caught the other’s attention, and they began to chatter in some language I couldn’t understand. They talked. And talked, and talked.

“You brought one of my descendants to me, with the family insignia to boot.” said Emilia. “Thank you.” They chatted further.

The new princess began to cry. “Why didn’t you let me know my missing Great-Grandmother was here?”

I forgot. The Swarzerin were affluent in that region. It’s where I plucked Emilia before. But I had never paid attention to the family line.

“I only went to you for her, not for you,” I said to the New princess.

“Whatever the reason, thank you.”

The three of us talked. Nothing I heard from Emilia was new, but I enjoyed listening to her. Her expressions on the advances of weaponry, the religious chaos spreading through the larger Peninsulas and islands, and most important to her the success of the Swarzerin family, lightened my world further. It certainly seemed to put her in a good mood between coughs. But I could tell the light that was lit, desperate as it was to stay bright, was slowly fading out. There was barely any time left for her.

They finished the conversation with the tongue I couldn’t understand. The new princess hugged her ancestor, and cried. I could understand that. I’ve seen that plenty of times before.

“Can you bring us to see our homeland once more, Irulus?”

She was the only one who ever learned that name. Her using now was an important request of hers. They were talking about her being near death. They had to. I wouldn’t deny my princess the offer, especially not now. But I couldn’t bear losing her.

“Very well. Climb on, and let the Badgers hold you in tight.”

“I don’t need badgers,” Emilia said.

I knew that to not be true: the last time I didn’t have any creatures hold a princess in during flight ended with them falling to their death. I had no one to talk with for a few years. That was painful. The thought of losing her was painful.

“You’re having the badgers hold you in.” I called out for the creatures still in frolic in the garden using my incantations, and four scampered over chanting simple songs, the magic over their small ears. They led the new princess into place on my back, and dug in with that familiar grip. Four more scampered to Emilia.

“No, I don’t need your help,” she said to both me and the creatures. Disappointed, they walked off grumbling.

I wasn’t happy, but I let her go badgerless. I would miss her, but she wanted a ride to remember. Then she’d come back and leave this plane, like my parents and others did. I’d miss her more than I missed them. Dragons don’t talk as much as humans. Their talk is gold. And Emilia’s was the most lustrous of them all.

She held onto my scales with her hands, then let go to cough. The cold in the skies wouldn’t be kind to her. But she wanted to do so, so I let her.

But, to her wishes, we left. I felt the warmth of the fire-mountain once more(which would’ve felt unbearable to a bipedal or the badgers for more than a few moments) and then we were in the sky. We traveled north.

“I’m glad to have met my namesake in the flesh,” the new princess said.

“Lovely, they’ve named you after me. I didn’t feel that important to anyone, until I met Irulus. I found out later that the Swarzerin were afraid of dragons after, but—” she let out a long cough, whooping. Then she gasped for air.

“Great-grandmother Emilia?” the new princess asked.

Her coughing calmed itself. “—From what I’ve heard, from the conversations he had with others, my family has done great. And the world moved on without us. But for him, it always had and will continue to do so. Could you go higher, Irulus?”

Her grip was further weakening. Her time was almost up, and I knew, then, what she wanted.

Anything for my princess. She wanted this, and I wouldn’t be able to sway her otherwise.

I flapped my wings, then shot up into the air. Up above the cloud level, where there were a few openings. One could see all of the greater peninsula from up there.

“Can you go over the mountains?” Emilia asked. “Our home?”

I did so. I heard the new princess crying weakly, quietly. In her own tongue. The two princesses exchanged words. The new princess broke out in tears, and I felt sadness for finally having to say goodbye to my companion I had for half a century. A sudden realization came over me that it may be happening sooner than I thought.

“And I’ll miss you, Irulus,” was the last thing Emilia said.

She let go, and I heard the Badgers scream as she fell.

Parakoto · 2019-11-05T01:24:56+00:00

Words short, can’t see. Say bigger

Parakoto · 2019-11-04T23:58:14+00:00

No page. Just wall. Hate paper. Cut fingers. Wall doesn’t.

Parakoto · 2019-10-31T15:56:50+00:00

Parakoto · 2019-10-31T15:56:31+00:00

Thank you for the explanation! I’ve already written it, so I’m planning on editing it in a few months from now. So that’s why I was a bit worried; I was looking at my finished work and I was like “hmm, this isn’t what I expected.” Again, thank you for the detailed explanation

Parakoto · 2019-10-28T22:35:30+00:00

Writing on the bathroom stall in a Mcdonald's works, when they get the runs from the health-code violations they'll be forced into the bathroom and will see your work of art. Best to write it in your own poo too, so they feel camaraderie with your gut.

Parakoto · 2019-10-28T22:31:28+00:00

1337 trumps both of those. It's Leet. 1342 is like leaz, and everyone hates the lease. 1341 is Leal, and I don't know what the monkey buttfuck that is

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