Mr. Misting

Mr. Misting Writes Stuff

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Hi, it's me that Mr. Misting fellow.

I wrote a short story and as of a week ago have finally finished it in its entirety. I saw that people had posted stories and scenes of their own and I realized I could also do that. I might post here occasionally if I write more stuff but don't get your hopes up.

I consider myself a burgeoning writer who likes writing weird stuff and any feedback you have would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading my stuff and please tell me what you think!

Chapter 1:


The Cobbler, The Cat and The Cave


As the sun shone down over the mountainside the Cobbler awoke. The Cobbler rose from his bed, greeted his Cat with a bowl of milk and ate his meager breakfast. “I’m not lonely”, the Cobbler thought, “I’ve got my Cat and besides, I don’t need anyone else.” At least, that’s what he said.

As the sun trickled down to illuminate the town, nestled snug against the mountain, the Cobbler opened his shop. While the hustle and bustle of daily life amassed towards the market place the Cobbler tidied the building and awaited the day’s business. The shop was squat and unassuming, smelling of old leather and dust. In many ways you could say it resembled the Cobbler. He tended to the desires and troubles of his customers, performing his job until the market’s clamor dwindled to silence.

The Cobbler rested his old bones at the inn while eyeing the many families, lovers and friends who all were enjoying a lively evening together. He ate at his table, alone. “I’m alone”, the Cobbler muttered, “but I don’t need their company any more then they want mine.” At least, that is what he said.

When the sun was hidden behind the mountains and the Cobbler lay sleeplessly in the dark, the false smile that thrived in the day fled, revealing the bitter hatred and hard truths that can only be admitted in the face of night. “I’m alone”, the Cobbler wept into the night.

When he finally succumbed to the void of sleep he dreamt of blood, a terrible rattling, and of a tortured, fractured scream.


Chapter 1

The pitter patter of ceaseless rain brought the Cobbler to consciousness. His thoughts lingered on his dreams which were dark and looming, mirroring the world through the window. The Cobber groaned, struggling to find the will to leave his enclave. It was his warm hideaway sheltering him from the cold, invasive world. Eventually, he got up.

It was early fall, not an unreasonable time for rain. Still, the cold downpour made a mockery of the fleeting memories of summer, of sun. The Cat beheld this all through the window, with rapt attention it saw the sheets of rain transform the old streets into rivers and pools. It’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.

The Cobbler sat at the table staring at the wall. The Cobbler prepared to leave with an edge of reluctance. Well, maybe more than an edge. Eventually, he went to the door, threw on his coat, nuzzled his cat for a moment and was gone. Though the door slammed shut behind him, a slow creak revealed the widening crack between the door and the rain.

.               .               .

Despite the weather, the street remained crowded, though few chose to enter his shop. The Cobbler sat working his craft or watching the rain until someone interrupted him. A purchase, question, a refund; it was all the same. He greeted them with a smile and laugh, tending to their needs with care and kindness, leaving them with a wave. He didn’t feel these things. It was a simulacrum, a masquerade.

The Cobbler was worn today, weary in ways he couldn’t describe. The wet footsteps left behind were an intrusion into his shop, elongating the periods of silence in between intruding customers. The clock on the wall steadily beat, counting the long seconds. Rain streaked down the window, tip-tapping. The crowds muted roar and the once homely but now constricting space felt suffocating. Menial work was too much for the Cobbler’s frayed patience. He left the awful silence behind, taking a walk to clear his head.

He walked with the crowd moving through the wide streets. Another face among the dozens along the road. The crowd was a group of blurred lives, further mudded by the rain. A faceless throng, each just one more person trying to make their life mean anything when they are so insignificant when compared to so many. The Cobbler saw people leave the horde upon reaching their destinations, and he saw tired faces join the crowd, but he just kept walking, being pulled along by will of the masses.

He was in the back alleys now, the hidden roads in between buildings coated with grime and filth, which were now being washed away by the torrent of rain. This is the home for the vermin, and ragged, withered souls that society is all too happy to pass by, pretending they live in a kind world where bad things don’t happen. The Cobbler’s now subdued walk took him down these winding paths. His thoughts were dark.

“This is my home”, the Cobbler realized, “I’m not a thing of light and joy that makes choices and lives a life that progresses. I’m stagnant; a stone in the river, watching everything flow by while confined to my little corner of the world. A thing of darkness that fell to the bottom and never found its way out. Though I might see the sun through the river, I don’t know it. I’m alone.”

The Cobbler was right.

Resigned, he trudged back to his shop feeling the rain run down him, chilling to the bone.

.               .               .

It was night. The Cobbler had worked through the hours leading up to when he could return to his sanctuary. The streets were empty, only a thin wind accompanying the Cobbler home. The rain had let off hours ago leaving the village quiet, puddles lining the streets.

As the familiar sight of the Cobbler’s home greeted him, he frowned. Something was amiss. The door hung open on the hinges, a gaping hole creaking in time with the wind. The Cobbler rushed forward in worry, frantically assessing the damage. The floor was covered in a slight sheen of water which pooled in the kitchen and damped the bedroom. Besides that, all seemed well.

But something was still off.

The Cobbler abruptly realized what was amiss; the Cat was gone.

The Cobbler roamed in the night, refusing the release of sleep, craving the comfort of his single companion. A shadow in the night, he scoured the city. The Cobbler didn’t know for how long he desperately searched. Tt could have been hours; it could have been ten minutes. Time lost meaning as the Cobbler’s worry unraveled reason.

On the edge of the city, the Cobbler faced reality. His Cat was gone. He knelt, too tired to hold up his old bones. Silently the Cobbler wept. The wind, now taunting the old man, carried a faint meow. There at the edge of town, illuminated by moonlight, was the Cat.

It was at the mouth of a Cave: a terrible maw of night. Soundlessly the Cat walked in.

Stunned, the Cobbler sat there still in the midst of anguish. He eventually got up and trailed the Cat.

It was dark in the Cave, leaving the Cobbler to blindly stumble through it. Each move he made reverberated throughout the Cave filling the silence with hollow sound. The Cave smelled of recent rain, but just underneath the new smell there was a trace of something old. Something better left forgotten.

The Cobbler was terrified as he descended into the unknown, delving into the inky blackness. A cold seeped up his spine filling him with dread as he went deeper into the Cave.

The darkness was near absolute, only a faint trail of moonlight ventured where other light was afraid to go. Up ahead there was a faint green gleam in the eyes of the Cat. The smell was stronger. The man beckoned towards the Cat, terrified of going further. The Cat’s head tilted. Motionless the two sat, each waiting for the other to move first.

The dread gathering was palpable, filling the silent void.

The Cat relented, trailing up towards the petrified Cobbler. In doing so it bumped something, a rack or table leg maybe. A sharp metallic clatter shattered the silence. The Cobbler’s nerves were strung tight, pulled to the breaking point by the slow creeping terror.

The Cobbler crawled forward while grasping at the Cat with reckless abandon. Suddenly he felt a gash across his hand from something long and jagged. Clutching the Cat the Cobbler scrambled with animal instinct, all rational thought having fled long ago. Screaming and feeling the cold breath of an intangible dread the Cobbler ran out of the terrible Cave, which hated him and everyone. He ran on the edge of his sanity.

.               .               .

The rocky walls that hung with trophies were familiar by now. After a long time spent toiling away. Away from the world. In the man’s safe place.

The tool bench was up ahead. A long chopping knife seemed appropriate for today. Setting down the lantern he got to work.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

It was quiet. But then again, it was better that way.

The lantern cast shadows on the wall, the wick’s wavering flame making the room dance. The knife went down and barbed wire came next. Blood began to pool on the floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Going down here helped remind the man why he did it, what his purpose was. Everyone up there thought they knew what life was about, but only he knew the secret. Everyone said they were kind and loving. But there is no love in this world, the man thought bitterly, there is no place for it. Their hearts are black, rife with lies they tell themselves so they can justify living as they do.

The wire bit into his fingers drawing blood. It was a small pain. He smiled at the sensation.

He got the hammer and nails.

Crunch. Thud. Crunch. Thud.

The nails bit into the wall, stained red in the flickering light. He stood back admiring his handiwork. Another life saved. Satisfied, he got ready to leave.

The Butcher took one more glance backwards before going up the path. He left behind him a trail of blood and the macabre smiles of the dead.

.               .               .

The rain had stopped, the Cobbler and his Cat were safe, and everything in the world was as it was meant to be.

Chapter 2:


Chapter 2

The Cobbler warily opened his door and checked twice to make sure it was closed. His eyes had bags underneath them and searched every shadow, all results of the nightmares fueled by last night. He couldn’t decide which was worse, lying in bed staring at what lived in the shadows, or the twisted scenes played out in his dreams.

What had been familiar and calming the day before seemed suspicious. He treated everything with a new sense of caution. The walk to work was a long one.

Though it was now a sunny day, the effects of yesterday were plainly visible. Puddles lining the street as rain lazily dripped off of houses. A bandage ran across his hand and whispers of the Cave were imprinted in his mind, taunting him. 

When he arrived at the market something was amiss. There was a line leading to the entrance and guards along the perimeter. Confused, he joined the questioners. When he got to the front, he saw damage that now gave the market a broken feel.

“What happened, why can’t I go in?” said the Cobbler said with an edge of desperation, questioning a guard was at the entrance.

The tired guard replied, “There was a flood last night, any damage that was caused will be recompensed by the government.” The phrase had a practiced sound to it.

“Could I just go see my shop, it would only take a minute.”

The soldier’s eyes softened, and he looked at the Cobbler, “Half the town wants to check their shop, old man. When we clean this up by tomorrow you can come in. Think about it like a free holiday, a chance to relax. I sure wish I had some free time. Next.”

The Cobbler was shoved aside, a worried women taking his place. At a loss, he stood there for a minute before the guard started to eye him. With all other options exhausted he began the long walk home.

.               .               .

He sat at his table, watching dust drift through the sunlight. He sat for a while, doing little of nothing. You could say he was lost in thought, but really, he was just lost. The Cobbler was a creature of predictability who rarely deviated from his schedule, he felt empty in the face of free time.

It was funny how much weaker and more foolish something is in the light of day. The horrors of last night almost felt laughable. Almost. He could still feel the presence of the Cave shadowing the city, looming at the edge of his mind.

Days later, he found himself sitting at the same table, thinking the same thoughts. The Cobbler couldn’t live like this. He had too do something.

The Cobbler knew he wasn’t brave, but he also knew he couldn’t go to sleep every night with the Cave haunting him. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Sighing, he got up from the chair.

.               .               .

The Cobbler had to buy a torch, for he didn’t have one at home. He already had everything else he could think to need: food, rope, and against his better judgment, a knife. Some might say he was mad, and you’d be right, in a sense. He gave his cat a long scratch, for it might be his last. Others could say he was foolish, and that was also right, to a point. He drew in a long breath, taking in his home before he went out to face the Cave. But really he just knew he couldn’t live a life with a darkness smothering him, so faint he could almost ignore it, but dragging him down nonetheless.

He strode down the streets moving through, not with, the crowd. There was a general commotion from the flooded market and a shine that came from sun hitting the damp roads. But he didn’t stop, he moved through it. He knew he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, because if he did he would be too terrified of what he was about to do.

He reached the edge of town, his last chance to go back, a tipping off point if you will. The Cave was up ahead holding the secret that plagued him each dream, the secrets that whispered to his soul. He took a moment to ignite his torch and before he could stop himself, he delved down into the Cave.

He went down the stone trail, clutching the torch. He strained to see beyond the sphere of light from the torch, even more blind than the day before. Halfway down he hesitantly pulled out his knife. The darkness was palpable, it was watching. Every step and every scared breath echoed down the Cave, taunting him.

The Cave felt like it wouldn’t end, every gradual turn had him second guessing if he missed something. He decided it might have been better to go in blind, but he never really considered turning out the light.

Up ahead he saw something, glinting in the torch light. He crept closer, straining to see what had caught the light. He held the knife in his hand, the handle biting into his bandage.

 There was a work bench filled with tools. At first glance it looked natural, an ordinary object misplaced in this den of horrors. But upon closer inspection he knew it was in the right place.

The tools were not made for cobbling or smithing, no, they were twisted sinister things. Barbed wire, nails, spikes, a hammer, and knives made for cutting and for crafting screams. He stumbled back. The table had pools of crimson that had long been dried to the surface, or that dripped of the table, running down the legs. There was a knife on the floor covered by a fresh sheen of blood. His blood. With a shudder he almost dropped his own knife. Upon looking at the blade in his hand he abandoned it with a scream. The knives were identical in every way.

He drew in a shaky breath. “A coincidence” he thought, “Fate is just playing a cruel joke”, but part of his mind knew the truth. This was no coincidence.

He stared at his shoes, not daring to look around him. It seemed quiet now. The darkness was waiting, ready to pounce. He sat there with bated breath. After a drawn-out moment, the Cobbler walked forward.

He started at his shoes while moving on. The Cobbler didn’t want to look at anything else in this Cave. But still he pressed on with a morbid curiosity. He had to know.

Memories of the sun and his home seemed faint here, fake. Awareness of the outside eroded leaving only the trail in the dark. The Cave understood the Cobbler and a dark sleeping part of the Cobbler lived in the Cave, in a sense, it was the Cave.

Soon the Cobbler saw something on the edge of his vision and looked up against his better judgement. It was a woman sitting on a stool, she was smiling and in the middle of leafing through a book. She had spikes pounded through her eyes, tears of blood drying down her face. Barbed wire surrounded her, holding her up, nailed into the skin to keep her posture. And work done by knife flayed the cursed body, jagged cuts lined the skin and twisted over her face.

The Cobbler fell to the ground, just able to keep the torch from dropping. He scrambled away from the horrible visage, terror plain in his eyes. His back hit something cold, a prickling sensation. Looking up he saw an eerie smile looming over him, painted over a young man waving towards nothing. His eyes drilled into the Cobbler. Before the torch fell to the ground the Cobbler got one glimpse at the hall lined with grisly statues, impersonating life past their final breaths.

He lay there moaning. The light had fled, but it was better that way. Anything to escape the look of those eyes. He knew the face of the young man; it was the withered husk of the guard from the marketplace. The same face that had talked to him days ago.

The Cobbler was broken now, the darkness having devoured his sanity. But he didn’t care, he never wanted to go back to the light.

What had he done?

And so, the Cobbler laid there, haunted by his tortured fracted scream.



Darkness greeted the man upon awaking. The inky void seemed hollow now.

The man pushed himself up from the stone floor. A rat stared at him from the corner. When the man rose, the rat scurried out through the bars of his cell.

The dreams were different tonight. He never thought that the Cobbler went back into the Cave. Sadly, the Cobbler didn’t seem to take to his work.

But it made sense in the end. The Cobbler lived in the world while the Butcher lived in spite of it.

The Cobbler was just a simulacrum, a masquerade. A faded shadow of the original. Too weak to do what needs to be done.

The Butcher was squat and unassuming, a bandage running across his hand with a jagged gash underneath. His eyes were sullen and deep with the darkness that lived inside.

The Butcher began to rock back and forth, ruminating. The world is built on a hidden lie and the tendrils encompass all aspects of it. He knew the world. He had seen what it is hiding. Everyone lives without a purpose, while I live to free them. Everyone lies that they are happy, but no one knows what it means.

You might say the Butcher was mad, and in a sense you’d be right. You could say he was a tormented soul, to a point you would be correct. But really, he just knew he couldn’t live a life with darkness smothering him, pretending that all was right in the world while knowing the true heart of it.

His work had been cut short. He had freed a few from the horrible grasp of the world.

The Butcher was content with these thoughts, but whatever the reasoning his hands were still stained with blood.

So, the Butcher sat in the dark, humming a tortured fractured song.


Edited by Mr. Misting

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Woah. Confused me a bit there. Good work though. 


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Just now, Gregorio said:

Woah. Confused me a bit there. Good work though. 

Yeah it's confusing almost on purpose.

Just wondering though, what do you think happened?


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Just now, Mr. Misting said:

Yeah it's confusing almost on purpose.

Just wondering though, what do you think happened?

Ok. Hmm. It kind of sounds like a story from Mistborn, like when Bloody Tan makes his "art". The Cobbler seems obviously mad to me. He was either put in jail and became the Butcher after he'd realized what he'd done, or was put in jail after killing people and has nightmares about the people he'd killed. I'm definitely confused and may have to had to go through it again to study it a bit.


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Just now, Gregorio said:

Ok. Hmm. It kind of sounds like a story from Mistborn, like when Bloody Tan makes his "art". The Cobbler seems obviously mad to me. He was either put in jail and became the Butcher after he'd realized what he'd done, or was put in jail after killing people and has nightmares about the people he'd killed. I'm definitely confused and may have to had to go through it again to study it a bit.

Yeah after writing that scene I immediately realized I stole it from Mistborn. Your close to the right answer, the Butcher is certainly crazy though the Cobbler is perfectly sane. At every point in the story.


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14 minutes ago, Mr. Misting said:

Yeah after writing that scene I immediately realized I stole it from Mistborn. Your close to the right answer, the Butcher is certainly crazy though the Cobbler is perfectly sane. At every point in the story.

I think it's fine, this is the 17th shard after all. Lots of fan "art". But woah. I'm confused once more. Now I'll have to look over it again. Is it like a personality disorder?


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4 hours ago, Gregorio said:

I think it's fine, this is the 17th shard after all. Lots of fan "art". But woah. I'm confused once more. Now I'll have to look over it again. Is it like a personality disorder?

Yeah, I just thought it was funny. I might just maybe read to much Brandon Sanderson :P

As for your theory: Ummm. Yes? Kind of sorta?

Edited by Mr. Misting

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I wrote more stuff!

I had a interesting character idea and just wanted to write out a scene and get a feel for him. It's pretty short story with minimal editing but I think its decent enough. 


The Broken King


A long winding road disappeared into the distance, trailing into a growing night. You could see the edge of the road from the town, the beginning before the end.

The town was alight and bright in the night. A bright hard light intruding on the peaceful sleep of the countryside. It was all clamor and clatter. Cheap chatter and rough laughter. And one road that came from the dark, a river that cut through the heart of the town and then turned away once more, winding off into the night.

If one had been looking out into the night, they would have seen a silhouette on the road. A traveler that walked on when all others had given in to the night. He was a shadow, half of a man that walked closer and closer to the town. And if you looked hard, really looked, the light slowly began to paint the details.

Reglais had a tall build and spindly frame. A thick red coat embellished by gold fringe covered a midnight black shirt. Shaggy brown pants were held up by fraying rope. All manner of pouches and straps competed the worn and soiled outfit. `

As he drew even to the town, small details fell into place. His hair was not spiky, no, he wore a crown on his head. An iron crown with veins of red twisting through it. The crown lay crookedly on its perch. He was dragging something behind him, a thick sword, with a sheath in shambles. He carried it behind him in one hand, letting the tip drag against the ground, drawing a thin line in the dirt.

But what to say about Reglais himself? He was a sharp man, full of hard edges and points. He had an angular face that was framed by a half beard, the product of weeks of unshaved stubble. A mop of dirty brown hair fell across his face, shadowing his features. He wore a crooked, tired smirk that laughed long and hard at the world.  

But, to sum up Reglais would be simple. He was a weary, tired traveler.

Reglais walked into the town, dragging his sword behind him. He drew eyes like a fire, but he didn’t seem to notice any of the stares. Each step was heavy, like he would lose all strength and fall over at any moment. Slowly, he walked towards the inns.

Laughter poured out of the street, raucous howling that slipped out easily. It stank, stank of unwashed bodies crammed around tables and cheap drink. With a sigh Reglais walked past the swinging doors, waves of sound and senses hitting like a brick.

Reglais ignored it. With quick strides he was at the counter. They were busy tonight, no one behind the counter. After Reglais lazily slammed a handful of gold coins, they came quick enough.

“Enough for the night. I want hard stuff, and I want a lot of it. Keep it coming. Just keep it coming.” Reglais turned away as the barmaids greedily fought over the coins. He walked towards the corner of the room, a table with three men playing cards. Reglais cleared his throat and the men pointedly kept playing.

With the flick of his hand, a great sword, six or more feet long lay across the table. The men abandoned their game quickly, hurrying away from Reglais.

He crumbled into a chair, suddenly weary beyond repair. The sword lay there, splayed out across the cards.

He ignored it all: the stares, the whispers, the world. When the first drink came, Reglais drank, feeling a fire like course sandpaper down his throat. Soon, Reglais succumbed to the void of sleep.

.               .               .

A faint whispering brushed past Reglais’s mind. He jerked out, grasping. His hand landed on that of the young boy, the thief who had one hand on his sword. Reglais yanked the boy forward, snapping out with his leg. A sickening crunch sounded as Reglais’s foot shattered the knee. He pulled the sword of the hands of the boy, who had dropped it in his pain. He lay there now, howling on the ground, clutching his leg.

All was quite after, like thunder had struck. Reglais paused and took a drink from his glass. A faint smile pulled at the edges of his mouth as he finished off the mug. He turned, addressing the crowd that had gathered around him.

“Yes?” Reglais said, sitting in the face of the mob. They stared at him now, buttered up for a fight by pride and by drink.

A burly man stepped forward, “We don’t take much liking to outsiders ‘round here.” He spat and retreated to few cheers.

Reglais motioned towards the quietly sobbing boy, “He was the one stealing from me. I was simply defending myself.”

Someone called out from the back, “You ain’t one of us. He is!” This was met with more threats from the crowd, tempers rising as they sensed the looming violence.

Reglais hid a smile as he stood, sword in hand. “If you are going to fight me, which you seem set on doing, you should have a fair warning.” He adjusted his crown, aligning it with head.

“I am Reglais, the Broken King. My sword,” he unsheathed his blade, and a silent buzzing rose off the twisted iron. Red lines crawling across the forge black blade. “My sword holds the weight of fallen nations.” He smiled in full now, a bestial grin that caught the light of the fire, staining his teeth red. “I am not well known for my restraint.

.               .               .

Reglais walked out of the inn, sheathing his sword. The sword was red, awash with crimson. It was much quieter then when he had entered, a heavy silence that hung over the street like a shroud. And so, the Broken King left the village, a fading shadow walking down a long, long road.

Oh, wait. This is my first time double posting (with good reason). Nice.

Edited by Ookla the Kobold

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More stuff has been written. I didn't really get a response for my last one but whatever. I'm going to post more stuff anyway. 


The Hunter


It was a dark, clammy night. Fog blanked the land and hid the inhabitants. Underneath a streetlamp, a man sat on a bench. He waited there, eyes half closed, smoking a pipe. A worn briefcase sat between him and the empty spot on the bench.

A quiet road, a quiet night, and a quiet man.

A figure walked towards the bench. The dark shadow coalesced into a woman that stopped short before the bench.

“May I sit here?”

The man gave a slight motion that could be interpreted as a nod. The women sat, the briefcase resting between them.

“Dreadful weather,” said the women.

The man cracked upon an eye, glancing over at the women. “Mmh, really?” he replied. “I think it depends upon perspective.”

“You needn’t redefine everything. Professor, some things just are.”

“Do I know you?” The man asked, turned to look at the women more fully.

“I think you know well enough.”

“Yes, yes. I suspect I do.”

There was a slight pause. The man blew on his pipe, letting the smoke mix with the fog.

“So, get on with it.”


“We both know why I’m here."

“Well yes, but where to begin. We can’t start off on the wrong foot.”      

“We will start simple, as all things should be. Professor, what do you do?”

The man smiled, taking a short puff of his pipe. “Ah, now that is the question, isn’t it? What do I do? I study…. people. The masses. Why and what they have done. Why and what they will do. I am a professor of society.”

The women nodded. “Seems a good enough start. Onto the next question: what can you do?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? What everyone is trying to figure out?” The man sighed. “All of them, so scared of the truth.”

“Scared? That is certainly an interesting way to put it.”

“Yes, yes! That is what they say! But scared they are, of that you must not be mistaken. Though they boast to the masses, in the dark they scurry about, trying to find the answerers they cannot know.”

“Digging to the heart of the problem, Professor? A bit too blunt perhaps?”

“We both know what is happening. Why must we pretend otherwise?”

The women stared into the man’s eyes. “I suppose your right.”

“Yes, yes. I am. But back to the matter at hand. What can I do. What can anyone do, really? Quite a lot when you think about it.” The man held up a finger. “You only need one man to destroy the world. A single button sends a nuclear bomb to the enemy. A single man can doom the whole planet to bones and ashes.”

The women raised an eyebrow, “Aren’t we feeling tangential tonight? Answer the question Professor: What can you do?”

He continued with a smile. “I can predict the future.” He spread his arms through the mist, somehow enveloping the world in his domain. “That is what they say at least.” He looked at the woman, his smile dropping. “They are right.”

If one had been looking carefully, they might have noticed the women flinching slightly. It really could have been nothing, easily overlooked. The Professor blinked, a slow smile growing again.

“I see the trends of society and weave the future from data and studies. Through years of research and study, I have the framework of years, maybe even decades.” He shrugged, “but who’s to say? Am I not some lunatic, claiming his ramblings are the work of a master?” He shrugged again. “Really, who’s to say?”

“Professor, you act as if you are in a position of power here.”

He sat back, smoking into his pipe. His eyes rested again. When he spoke, they stayed closed, half asleep to the night.

“I often find that the base instincts of nature live inside of man, more often than not.”


“A hunter, is the predator that kills it’s the prey, stalking, waiting for the moment to pounce. If a cat they might play with their food, but in nature they are brutal, cunning creatures. Are you the hunter?”

“Whichever side holds the weapon is the strongest. The side that can kill becomes the hunter.”

“Ah! That is a fair claim, but a wrong one. Even though one side acts, moves for the kill, they are not necessarily the hunter. You forget, the prey has either a flight or a fight instinct. Many blindly slash out in the dark and call themselves strong. They pat themselves on the back while death looms, slowly smothering them even as they struggle.”

The women sat still. The man waited, blowing smoke rings into the night.

The women stood, grabbing the briefcase. The man made no resistance.

“You know who I am Professor? Why we are here?”

He nodded. She stood again, a statue in the night.

“Goodnight, Professor, and goodbye.”

Even as the knife slit his throat, the man's smile never faded.



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Maybelle stood by the window, blinking as her eyes awoke to the light. May yawned, throwing her hand through the air above in a wild stretch. The other hand she held close, letting the tea’s warmth sink into her.

After finally adjusting to morning light May beheld the grandeur that surrounded her cottage. Thick foliage spread out below her, a great mesh of leaves and branches that made up the jungle. Lines of glowing light wove through the plants and ground, vibrant hues that ran through the jungles’ veins. And hugging the horizon lay a sparkling bay that stretched off into sun. A gray blot stood out on this beautiful canvas like a rock among sticks. New Terelan.

It was still beautiful in its own way, May thought. Man might not have the artist vision of nature, but such stubborn determination to bend the land to your will had to be worth something.

But either way, it was a small thing. A final flourish to masterpiece. May leaned against the window and sipped her tea with a smile. Simply basking in the sun and view.

After a moment of appreciation May reached outside the window, grasping at the dangling branches. Even though their home was built on a hill, the plants that she had planted near her window seemed to do just fine. May shifted through a branch of plump, radiant white fruits. No reason to die any faster, May thought with a wry smile. She plucked off a small spotted fruit. She bit into it, wiping off the juice that dribbled down her chin.

May began to leave the window but a faint feeling prodded her, saying that she had missed something. She turned back and felt…a faint sense of wrongness. A subtle undercurrent. It seemed as if the jungle was holding its breath.

May stood still, afraid to break the moment as she strained to read the message between waving trees and drifting clouds. Now, May wasn’t superstitious, she just knew to trust her instincts. And nature would speak volumes, if only one knew how to listen.

May unconsciously began to reach out for a white fruit but she quickly pulled her hand back, as if burned. The jungle could wait. And it was still a beautiful morning, even if something seemed just out of reach. May knew when to trust her feelings, but she also knew when not to go looking for trouble.

May turned away from the window and took another bite of her speckled fruit. She walked through the hallway with a relaxed rush, treading the floors of her home with familiarity. She walked into the kitchen, an eclectic collection of books, food, and knickknacks that lay about in a organized order, though of course in its own messy way.

May walked around the table, setting down her tea. She grabbed a plate for the fruit and looked over a selection of food that had arrived just yesterday. Gavon probably had woken up at the crack of dawn to go hunting. She would have to wait for real breakfast. Upon selecting a hard bread roll, May curled up into a wooden chair at the table. She began reading from the book she had left on the table last night, the classic poem collection: Lord Bryone’s Woes.

.               .               .

It was soft night. Gavon sat at the table, whittling away at a piece of wood with his characteristic efficiency. May was burrowed into a worn armchair, captivated by her book. The muted screeching and rustling of the jungle provided a familiar backdrop to the evening.

They were an odd couple. Gavon was a middle-aged man, with creamy brown skin. His face was pinched, an effect that was only accented by his small spectacles. His hands were rough and calloused, worn from daily use. He wore a leather apron over simple brown trousers and a button up shirt. His face was passively intent as he worked away at what would become a table leg.

On the other hand, May was the picture of aged beauty. She had a thin face with high cheekbones. When she smiled, which she did often, her face would fill with wrinkles. Her gray hair was tided back in a messy braid that hung halfway down her back. She wore a simple soft blue dress, with many belts hanging around her waist, filled with trinkets and tools. Her eyes shone, and she moved about with a love for life.

It was a comfortable night, like the dozens of others the two had spent together. Until May began twitching in her seat.

May’s book slipped from her fingers as her body began to shake uncontrollably. Her mind screamed to control her breaking body.

May barely noticed as Gavon jumped from his seat, tools and wood immediately discarded. He took two steps and was by May’s side. Looking down sadly at her, he reached out and squeezed her hand once before running off into the house. May tried to smile at him, but by the time a small smile pushed through, he was already gone.

Moments later Gavon returned to May, holding out a radiant white fruit. May’s hazy memory sparked with awareness, and she reached out towards the fruit. Pushing past her broken body she bit into it. Gavon knelt by her, a crack of emotion showing on his stoic face.

Long breaths. In and out. Slowly growing steady.

The fruit’s otherworldly effects began to work through her body. It soothed the very scars that it itself had caused. May’s awareness to the world began to feel crisp, vibrant. She felt connected to the world, and it connected to her. An intoxicating sensation, a dangerous one.

May slowly breathed, looking down to Gavon. “I’m ok dear.” A real smile bloomed on her face.

“The effects are getting worse.” Gavon’s voice was solemn.

May suddenly felt very weary, she felt weary in every bone of her old body. Older then it had any right to be. Just one more thing the fruit had taken from her. “I know, dear. I know.” May reached, grabbing his hand. Holding it close.

“I think…” Gavon’s voice cracked. He started again: “I think you maybe have to eat more Lifeblood. I know it is killing you slowly, but I’d rather have you be old and healthy rather than breaking apart in seizures and young.” Gavon looked down, pulling his hand away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I-“

“Gavon. I know.” May slipped out her seat and sat next to him, pulling him close. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. But this is the life we choose, now we just have to deal with the consequences.”

“I’m so sorry, Maybelle. You shouldn’t have left your home for this. We shouldn’t have come to this new world, no should have. It wasn’t meant for us, for man. We should have known” Gavon stared into May, silently expressing his deep regret.

May raised her hand to cup Gavon’s face. “Oh, dear…don’t forgot what we got in return. Don’t forget this life has been one of happiness and love.” May began to rock slowly, humming a wordless melody. “I’m not sorry Gavon.”  

They sat there for a long while, listening to the muted thrum of the jungle, listening to the soft breathing of each other. Feeling the moment, feeling each other. The Lifeblood in May’s veins pushed her to move, to act but all she wanted right then was to sit with Gavon. She was burrowed into his chest, hand’s clasped as they leaned against the old armchair. It felt a little bit better, knowing he was there.

It's a little direct in terms of character emotions but I think it's alright-ish. I mostly just wrote it to began feeling out a world I was thinking about. I'll probably get to finishing it.....eventually.

Edited by Mr. Misting

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