Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted October 4, 2023 Posted October 4, 2023 (edited) Aight, idk if any of you are going to be interested in this, but I'm writing a book tentatively titled Magic Is Undeniably, Illogically and Unfortunately Real, though that title is likely to be changed since the tone has been drastically changed from when I began it. Currently, I'm working on writing the prelude/prologue to the story and rewriting the third chapter because it went through limbo once when I had to turn the whole 18 pages that I had into past tense for sanity purposes. I think this beginning to the third chapter, introducing the second pov character, works well, though I'm going to have to practice making the Narration for the two characters different. Spoiler What are words? Really, what are they? Figments of our imagination? Bits and pieces of our souls stapled to sounds that we can warble from our fleshy throats that our minds transform into meanings and feelings in our minds? Whatever they are, however many words there are, despite the three languages I knew, I didn’t know how to describe the moment which I was the current resident of besides one. Crowded. I'm going to be posting on here every once and a while, talking about how it's going! I'll also be asking for some advice on names for places, characters and artifacts, so y'all are in for a wild ride. I hope y'all like this... I would also like to mention that this book is the first book that I am working on by myself and am actually trying to finish. Technically, I've been a part of a project that's finished a book, but it wasn't my book. It was a co-writing effort... it still is ongoing in a rewrite, though I may quit on it, though I'm not sure how to do it since I'm doing it with a friend and have been working on it for like four years. Well, kinda working on it, he's been doing most of the heavy lifting while I've been figuring out my life and how to actually prioritize things. Anyways- Hope y'all will enjoy this as I post sporadically! Edit: here's the first two chapters. They're not too good, but they set up some things. I'll put the third chapter here two. The first two chapters are not my best work by far. They'll change a lot through the drafts, but since I've given y'all the third chapter, you might as well have the first two as well. Chapter one. Spoiler Chapter One Impossibility KAYLA The world likes spectacle, something grand, something impossible. Especially something impossible, I’ve found in my experiments. The world loves to tear apart the illusion, trying to find the fabrication in the impossibility they have been shown. Many of these are found to simply be, on close inspection, just that, a smart fabrication. And, yet, there are other instances that boggle the mind, that truly cause wonder and… horror. There are these impossible feats that can only be described as magic that make the foundations of the world shake, that defeat the logical conclusions of the wise and the boring tendencies of the narrow minded. Without explanation, impossibility becomes something horrifying, something earth-shattering. If it has no logical explanation, the wisdom enriched mind wonders, then is my world, my life, my very existence, a lie? They wonder, and ponder, think, and research until it comes upon one of two conclusions, though sometimes both. (A third option can appear, but the chances of orangutans manipulating humans through small bugs in their minds is so far fetched as to cause a person such as I to look at whomever suggests it to me with a glance that says “Do you need help in the mental department, my good friend?” I would know, I’ve heard it and suggested it many times. You’d be surprised at the statistics, I’m sure) It is either an unrevealed science, something that has been hidden by functional but untrue methods or it is purely illogical magic. And the latter option terrifies to the point of paralysis. Many become entranced in a state of pure horror at this option, ready to fall back into the ignorant state of being they begin to think was their life before. They begin to search and search and search even more for an answer, not finding one, but still searching for some logical conclusion to tell them they aren’t going insane or are suddenly, for no apparent reason, the protagonist of a novel filled with half-baked conspiracy theories. Magic, they decide, is real, despite how ridiculous it sounds. It is spectacles like these that really bring the world together in trying to explain it. Many propose elaborate, ridiculously untrue theories, others give the cowardly explanation that it was somehow edited with cgi, even if they saw it with their very own eyes right in front of them. It is the puzzle that everyone is seeking the missing piece to. But, they simply can’t find it. It’s as if Waldo was removed from the largest “Where’s Waldo” page in the world. But the real answer is that Waldo’s caricature was on the other side of the paper, there the whole time exactly where they were looking, but only to be seen if you looked the right way. As they keep gazing at it, they get more and more frantic. There has to be an answer, right? They continue to search for the answer, becoming more and more frazzled, more and more confused, more and more annoyed, more and more out of their normal mental state. Then, finally, the answer to the puzzle, to the impossibilities, arrive. The person who started it all reveals their secret or someone finds solid proof of how it was done. Then it’s all debunked and everyone knows it, commenting on how cool the trick is. But then there are the outliers. The ones that are never explained, the ones that never have a solution, the ones that drive those who seek the answers into a frenzy. The ones that truly leave a mark. They are the ones that really bring attention from all around after all theories have been proven false, when all logic is suspended in favor of pure wonderment. They enjoy this illogical mess that seems not to have been faked, or they, as said previously, fall into the darkness of trying to figure out how it was done. These are the kind of impossibilities that I employ. Or, to be more specific, this is the kind of impossibility that I employ, for I have but one. You see, I’m an artist. I’ve positively adored the fine art of putting a pencil, a brush or whatever else happens to draw your interest (see what I did there?) since I was four. My parents used to say that the walls were my Sistine Chapel. Of course, my very own Sistine Chapel had to be removed with a Magic Eraser every few days–if not hours–so as to not scare away houseguests at the blotches that seemed to be rainbow vomit on the walls. My parents even had photo evidence in an astonishing number… Even one where I’m smiling as I draw with crayons a unicorn that looks like it is constipated on our formerly lovely white wall. I’m sure the constipated part wasn’t intentional… I don’t know what I was thinking, but that unicorn looked like it was in some serious pain. As I grew older, the love of art only increased. Though, the quality of my art was debatable. I loved doing it, but I wasn’t going to go anywhere with it. As I’m thinking about it all now, sitting on a chair and sucking on the bristles of a paintbrush absently, I realized that the crowd was looking expectantly onwards. The announcer glared at me pointedly. The man next to me, with a gorgeous chocolatey complexion and a worried look on his face, said, “Are you alright, miss?” The announcer called my name yet again, “Kayla Lamar!” A look of annoyance flashed on the stout woman’s face. To Braxton, I affectionately name her “Queen Troll”. I’ve wished to say it to her face, but I know I would receive in return a legendary lecture that even <someone who is famously known for not responding to being yelled at and/or being criticized> would at least flinch at. I’ve felt a bit guilty at times for calling her that, but… She just… It’s hard not to dislike someone who vehemently hates you for–as there seems to be no other possible reason why–existing. “Kayla Lamar!” I jolted out of my seat and nodded, pulling the paintbrush out of my mouth. I packed it with my best efforts into my pocket, which was already full to the brim with pencils, pens, brushes, you name it; there’s a 90% chance it was in one of my pockets. I snatched my bag, which had been sitting in the seat on my left. The man gave me a worried look again. Wow, I must’ve been zoning out hard if they were all looking me like that. It was just that the other acts were so boring… I meandered towards the podium, rolling a lock of my recently dyed silver hair between my fingers distractedly. The announcer shot me a glare as I stepped up beside her. She leaned towards me and whispered angrily in my ear, “You should’ve been up here five minutes ago!” I smiled at the crowd and muttered back, “In m-my head, I was up here.” “Well, Lamar,” the stern, almost ancient woman said with such indifference that I almost worried the crowd had heard it through the microphone, “We are not in your somehow brilliant head. I don’t know how you have such talent that you have, but you certainly do not deserve it.” I grinned at her, turning to the crowd as the Troll Queen (Her real name was Mercy Goodkind,–an ironic name, considering her disposition–but we don’t talk about that) said, “Kayla Lamar will now show you her art, on your word, Miss. Lamar!” Somehow, she made it sound unlike how she usually did when saying my name. That being utterly patronizing and deadly sarcastic. The Troll Queen stepped aside expectantly and I took the microphone and said, “Well, hello…” I looked out at the sea of people, all waiting to see what was to come next. Though some were asleep and others were about to. I don’t really blame them to be completely honest. I was the last person to show off what I’d accomplished. And I was, most definitely, and hopefully, ready and prepared to show them what I’d had in store for what they would think was months, if not years. The crowd collectively coughed as I waved to them awkwardly. It was going wonderful so far. So wonderful, in fact, that my stutter started acting up again. “I, um, have so-some art to show you… I hope… um… that you like it as mu-much as I liked creating it… um… Here y-y-y-y-yo-you go!” I smiled timidly at the crowd and pretended that I hadn’t just stuttered in front of them all. The blasted thing acted up at the worst times, I swear. I promptly pressed a button on the lectern (a feature installed upon my request. To this day, I’m surprised the Troll Queen approved it), a white sheet fell over-dramatically from the wall. To most, it would’ve seemed like an ordinary wall, even the other artists emitted gasps along with the crowd. I’d seen a few of them, when I’d been paying attention, give me a smile when they’d noticed. Though, some of them had merely seen the people the Troll Queen hired putting it up. Now the ones who’d been either unfocused or focused on other things all knew what lay beneath the previously unknown veil. As the cloth settled on the ground, they collectively gasped. People shook those next to them awake so they could see it. It was a massive, masterfully done painting of New York City, a sliver of the painting representing how it looked in different years. It covered 400 years in total, showing its beginnings in the 1600s to its metropolitan view now. A sun is rising and setting in the pictures, growing higher in the air as time goes on in the painting, then lower until it’s dawn again, a swooping look. My signature is in the lower corner at the right end of the painting, at the final bit of time. Rarely had something like this been presented at a local art show like this. The Ancient Queen of Trolls snorted at everyone’s surprise. It was evident that she thought it didn’t deserve that much awe. I regarded her derision with my own. I didn’t care for what she thought. Not at all. She was simply my boss, not someone important in my life. “I pai-painted this, ah, in its entir-entirety in under, um, about an hour of time,” I stated, my confidence starting to grow. The crowd offered me a multitude of disbelieving and wondering looks. Understandable. That’s what I had given the illusion the first fifty times I’d seen it happen. Oh, you thought I’d really painted that in under an hour? Sure, it was made in under an hour, but it wasn’t me who’d directly made it. Technically, I made the idea, I knew exactly how it should look and did all the research for how New York had looked when it had been those years. But I hadn’t really put any true effort into its creation. See, I used a method that is truly hard to explain. Rather, I find that it would be best to just show you how I’m able to perform at the top of my abilities in such a short time. Or, rather, to the top of my pen’s abilities. I smiled again into the microphone for a moment, gaging their reactions with the guilty pleasure of being given genuine praise. “That’s only the start…” I began becoming majorly excited, but calmed myself down. As I continued to speak, I made certain that I’d enunciated each word calmly and carefully, with caution to not sound wrong. “Can someone give me an art prompt?” I asked, a veritable roar meeting the request. After a minute of listening to the many shouts, I picked out the words, “A lone warrior meets his enemy for the last time!” I gaze around at the multitudinous amounts of people, looking for the source of the words. I pointed at the person raising their hand and shouting what they’d said, “Quiet! Did you say ‘a lone warrior meets his enemy for the last time’?” The man nodded eagerly and shouted, “I did! I said it!” He was a younger man, perhaps a teenager. A clear fan of sci-fi, evidenced by his Dune t-shirt. I nodded to Queen Troll, who signaled one of her many assistants to have a microphone brought to the human being who so kindly delivered me the prompt. I leaned closer to the microphone, “Wha-what’s your name, kind sir?” “I’m Zave,” the man–Zave–says into the microphone once it’s given to him. “Zave Metsk.” “Well, Zave Metsk,” I said with what I hoped was a charming smile. I’ve never been good at smiling, they always come off more creepy than anything. I presumed that the crowd doesn’t think I’m about to eat them, so I resumed the performance, “I am about to use your prompt to draw something.” An assistant of the Troll Queen walked up, putting a tabletop camera onto the lectern. I swiftly drew out a pad of paper. I reached into my pocket, touching the brush I’d been sucking on earlier (not one of my best moments, especially in front of a crowd of people… I still don’t know if anyone noticed that besides the Troll Queen and the guy next to me) and pressed its side in a very certain, peculiar way. Rubbing it would be the more accurate term… Though I’ve rubbed it while thinking of other things and the result hadn’t ever been the same as when I’d been thinking of… well… you’ll see. As I rubbed it, the brush changed shapes, thoughts whirling in my head. A sort of tingling feeling ran up my hand, then my arms, seemingly forming a halo around my head, numbing my mind. I lifted a black and gold pen from my pocket and set it down beside the pad of paper on the lectern. “Now, Zave, I want you to pull out your phone and set a timer for one minute. Mercy,” I glanced at the Troll Queen for a moment. She was directing two men to set up several TVs in the vicinity, all connected to the camera on the lectern. “Good. Y’all will be able to see what I’m about to do. Well,” I paused for a moment, “some of it. Now, what I’m going to do is cover my hands and the piece of paper and start drawing. Then, once the minute is finished, I’ll show you the completed drawing of what our friend has suggested to me. Ev-ev-everyone ready?” As excitement boils across the crowd, I feel it in my self and smile. I can do this. I’ve done it so many times. So, so, so many times. Even in front of my mirror. Maybe I’m just a five year old again, scribbling on the wall and babbling about fanciful ideas such as princesses and mermaids, but if I am that… I’ll do it in a way they’ll all remember. I glanced over at the Troll Queen. Besides, if they remember it, it will still make money in the end, however that is accomplished. And, for her, my boss, that’s why we’re here in the first place. The crowd cheered. Joyous satisfaction rose up in my throat, but I shoved it back down and said into the microphone: “Begin!” Zave turned on his timer before another camera. The people next to him seemed to be having a blast, talking to him about how he’d been selected. I whipped my hand with a flourish to the corner of the pad of paper lying in front of my and drew underneath it with my pen for a few seconds. The crowd looked at me with anticipation as I hummed one of my favorite songs: “Come and Get Your Love.” The mirage of what I wanted the image to become swirled in my head, contorting into a confident hero standing before a gargantuan beast, darkness and light in beautiful contrast, a flaming sword, a black and white scythe… Yes, that would be beautiful. I imagined some of the finer details and ignored what I’d absently sketched. A doodle of a poodle (I know, I know… I couldn’t help myself with that one! I was really sketching the colosseum. I went to Rome on a trip a few years ago with my three siblings and parents before the accident.) The pen quivered, shaking against my palm. Out of nowhere, a feeling of fireworks danced across my arms and palms, seeming to rush into the paper, stronger than the previous feeling. I felt my ideas draining from my head, leaving a shade of what they had been in their place. I’d always liked the word “Shade.” A ghost or a dead person in its rudimentary description. It invokes something… sinister. Something shadowed in pure darkness, pardon the pun. Something… ethereal. As the pen activated, I rubbed it once more, ideas flooding into my mind of what I want the picture to be. How I want every bit of shading and every texture to feel in the viewer’s eyes, every single bit of remarkable feel to the work of art was planned out nearly instantly. Most of the work happened instinctively in my mind. My very intent seemed to seep out of me, leaving me a little more hollow than before. It wasn’t the type of hollow that keeps people up at night thinking about the meaning of life in grim tones; No, it kept me up at night for other reasons. As the feeling grew far more powerful, the audience began chanting. “TEN!” I smiled, moving the pen mechanically. “Almost done!” “NINE!” My hand ran through the silver waterfall of- “EIGHT!” -my hair, a grin adorning my face. The crowd had grown hyped to see what was underneath the paper “SEVEN!” I, too, feel excited, I can’t stop the feeling from reverberating through the fiber of my being. Even I was on the proverbial edge of my seat. “SIX!” I reached into another pocket, moving my pen with the appearance of being frantic with the other hand. “FIVE!” My fingers wrapped around a bottle of water, lifting it out my pocket with ease. “FOUR!” The cool glass met my lips, a reminder of what was to come through it soon. “THREE!” The cool water poured down my throat, cooling me down and helping me calm down more. “TWO!” Time seemed to freeze in my mind. My thoughts ran like they were on a marathon. Am I a fraud? Will I actually pull this off? In my brain, I know that I’ll succeed, but will I really? I am a fraud, and a liar, I know I am. Technically, I’m not a fraud, I told myself. I don’t do any of the work, but I come up with the ideas. They’re my ideas, it’s technically me getting them into reality. I just am not doing the actual drawing that others perform. In the corner of my eye, I swear I could see my doubts creeping up on me, ready to pounce on me and bring me down to the darkness that lies in my dreams. Those dream which patiently wait for the moment when they can consume my every hope of being successful, my every idea for how I can progress through life, every aspect of myself. Thankfully, I remembered the reason why I’m even here in the first place, and I decided that, if I’m a fraud, at least I’ll be able to do what they wanted me to do. Maybe I’ll finally be good enough for what they wanted for me. I almost whispered. “ONE!” I ripped the upper paper off with a practiced finesse–I would practice every week in front of a mirror, the whole routine–Ah, I have too much time on my hands, don’t I? A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the picture was unveiled to the masses. It was exactly what Zave had suggested, if not better. It was perfect… Too perfect. I smiled exuberantly, leaning forward to speak into the microphone, “Is that any good, Mr. Metsk?” He nodded absently, watching me with a slight grin, “If I’d had more time, I would’ve given the warrior some more armor, but you know…” My words were drowned out by a flood cheers in the crowd. I felt a spike of guilt stab into my heart, but it did little to harm my love of this whole thing. Oh, I loved their praise, I adored their adoration. But I knew even then that it was based entirely on a lie. “WE LOVE YOUR ART!” a woman screamed in the crowd. “I-I-I love yo-you too!” Nervousness climbed up my spine, pulsating weirdly through my back and into my neck like a massage. A massage performed during an earthquake. “Do-does anyone else have any sug-sug-suggest-est-est-estions?” My stutter had been progressively getting worse lately, though I attributed it primarily to how I’d been forced to talk publically with more people than usual. Lots of people… I’d rather stay at home and draw for a few hours. Much better way to spend time, if you ask me, I thought. People shouted out more and I chose one. As I do, I handed the first paper to an assistant of the Troll Queen’s next to me. She puts it on a stand with several other pieces made by artists currently present. There was going to be an auction later on. And I just so happened to hate those things. I don’t know why, I just really don’t like it when everyone is shouting numbers. This was a local show, put on every year by the city; mostly filled with locals, though some more famous artists come every now and then. And, by chance, I happened to be extremely famous. As I continued on, ideas flowed into the pen from my mind, I commenced to zone out on a particular thought as the outside world became irrelevant to me once again. Conscious thoughts on my actions shut down as instinct took over, leaving my personal thoughts to flow undammed. If the world knew about the pen, what would happen? I asked myself in thought. As if my brain was a computer, I immediately came up with several, all equally ridiculous, scenarios for what could happen. For example, I could be assassinated and world leaders could squabble over it in another World War. Then they can find out its only known use–at least, to my knowledge–is creating art. There was a time, once, when someone found out about the pen. It was… an experience, I might’ve said. They’d kept on badgering me about it. Finally, I told them that they can try it. They did and it didn’t work for them, so it’s plausible that it only works for me. Which, in that case, I won’t be assassinated. Or, if I am, they’ll realize it was pointless and now the only person who can use it is dead. Hah, take that random world leader who sends assassins to murder random people who have magical objects in their possession! The person who’d found out about the pen tried to tell people about it and was called insane. They eventually died in a bar fight, trying to convince the other person, while drunk, that magic was real. Because of that, I’ve never told anyone about it again… And- I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice whispering sternly, “It’s been nearly three hours, Lamar, it’s far past time for you to stop.” I turned, looking down at the Troll Queen, her eyes looking back at me with an expression far different than the usual glare. Behind her graying dark hair, I noticed hundreds of pictures upon the stand. It was, well, a lot… “I… well…” “Maybe next time, you can keep track of the time better, huh?” The Troll Queen said with a click of her tongue, a sarcastic smile splitting on her face. “Now, step aside so I can close the show. They’re losing interest. And, besides, most came for the auction.” “I know,” I stated as I stepped down and adjusted my bangs surreptitiously. “I just kind of zoned out and let my hands do the work for me…” There was something… different about her this time around. Maybe Mercy didn’t deserve the nickname all of the time, but… hmm. My thoughts muddle around the subject for a few moments as she looked at me like I was clinically insane. Finally, she turned and started announcing a few final things for the city itself before the show would move on to the auction. As she did, I plopped back down into my seat, watching the crowd with a slightly dreamy expression on my face. Okay, it was a really dreamy expression that was on my face. But can you blame me? At the time, I had just done several hours of work that most artists could only dream of. I’d also just lost myself in, pardon the cheesiness, the magic of it all. However, my dreamy expression didn’t last very long as the man next to me nudged my shoulder and said, “So… how’d you do it? “Hm?” I turned towards him, “What do you mean?” “How did you draw so fast? It seems impossible… almost like magic,” He asked exuberantly, seemingly entranced by the wonder of the feat. I barely stopped a chuckle from escaping my lips. Magic was a little too close to the truth. “I’ve pra-prac-practiced since I was very young. I just… well… do it, I suppose, at this point. I’ve done it so many times that it’s instinct, mo-most of the things I’m do-doing.” “Interesting…” The man seemed to slump into his own thoughts as he said it. It certainly was interesting. Perhaps a little too interesting for my tastes. As the Troll Queen announced the first array of items and their starting prices, I thought: if only things were as simple when I was drawing on walls. Chapter two Spoiler Chapter Two Expensive KAYLA The final noises of the auction trailed me as I walked into the parking lot. The noon sun shone in the bright blue sky with glorious refractions in the lazily drifting clouds. They seemed so much like cotton candy that I felt I could just reach up and pluck one out of the sky to devour it in one gulp. The crowd had already mostly dissipated, cars having been busily hustling through the multitude of vehicles that had coated the span of the lot for more than an hour now. The straps of my bag, stuffed with art supplies of many different sorts, dug into my shoulders, making me want to joggle it around at every possible moment. It was a hot day, to my surprise. I supposed that summer really was starting to arrive after all. This is evidenced even clearer by the fact that, as soon as I entered my baby blue sports car, recently purchased. It was, to no shock, quite hot, even in the extravagantly bought car. As soon as I flipped on the air conditioner, however, it grew cold as it had been that morning. Ah, if only summer didn’t exist and I could relax in relatively warm, but not hot, temperatures. I flipped the keys in my hands, inserting them into the proper slot and twisting them. The engine purred. As my ears basked in the sound something flickered in my eyes. A curse emerged from my mouth softly as I tilted my head to see what the light was coming from. Across the parking lot, a man was lifting a painting under his arm into his car, the light rebounding from off of the trunk’s window. Odd… the man had a stressed upon his face, outlined at the top by a mop of dark hair, not the type of person you would see at one of these types of art exhibitions… Most people simply weren’t very stressed. Well, I thought to myself, maybe he’s just stressed on how he can get the painting into his car. Or, maybe, he’s stressed about what he’s going to have for dinner. And he saw me and was like “oh, famous person.” Sometimes, I thought as I pulled my car out of the parking spot, people just stare at other people who’re in cars… right? It’s perfectly fine. Somehow, I knew that his eyes were boring into the back of my head as I drove away. However, I didn’t think about it for too long as I left the parking lot. I pulled up the GPS with one hand on the wheel. I had been on this road once or twice as I’d driven around the area to go to an art show or two, but never this one in specific. Ah, my brother. “I wonder what he’s up to now…” I muttered beneath my breath as I stopped at a red light. I wondered what my brother had been going to do before I left early in the morning for the exhibition. He’d been departing to participate in friendly behaviors with his buddies. I smiled, even in my head I tried to sound smart to other people. Perhaps it was a side effect of my “awesomeness”. As I drove up the ramp to the freeway I flicked on the bluetooth speaker, connecting it to my phone. I proceeded to turn on my driving playlist. Most people would call it a mixture of bad pop songs and weird rock. But to me, it was the best thing I’d heard since the fact that there was going to be a new season of my favorite tv show a few hours ago. The motor rumbled as my foot pressed harder into the pedal, speeding up onto the highway, precisely at the speed limit. Once I’d learned how to drive, I’d made it a game to get to the exact speed limit and stay there for most if not all of any drive I would go on. I’d gotten so good at the game that I’d nearly frightened Braxton to death once or twice when we’d gone to a restaurant together. Ahhh… my brother. I smiled as my thoughts drifted towards him. He was the last member of my immediate family still alive. Well, besides Zeus, but cats can hardly count. Don’t tell Zeus that, though! He’ll scratch my eyes out if he hears. Half the time I swear the cat is an evil demon, summoned when I found the pen to oppose my existence by going every other place but the litter box. Braxton–my younger brother–and I never got along before our family died in the accident three years ago. We were kind of forced to become better acquainted with each other when they died. He was turning 18 today, a good age to reach. I thrummed my thumbs against the steering wheel to the tune of the song, which just so happened to be one of my favorites. The green scenery ran past my window, giving a blur to my peripheral vision as sung–well, screamed–-the lyrics of the song. After two hours of driving, I arrived at the store. I opened the door of my car, walking out into the lot as the putrid air met my nostrils with full force. The horrible scents of my favorite store… wonderful. Most considered me crazy for loving this place, especially Braxton, but I didn’t and still don’t care for what their opinion of the store is. It had the best customer service and were always eager to help me when I offered extra for their laffy taffy. I came here so often that most of the employees, despite the fact that they’re all a little of their rocker, knew my name. I strode to the door and locked the car with the push of a button. I drew the phone out of my pocket and typed out a quick text to Braxton, querying what he was doing. As customary with Braxton, it would be a few hours before I would receive a response. I entered the store, walking straight to one of my favorite isles. The dingy lighting was comforting and charming to me, though most would label it unsettling or faintly creepy. I’d even heard someone remark “It’s so horror movie!” in tones usually used when referring to one’s outfit. “Aha!” I grinned. I pulled out two packages of my favorite sort of donuts from off of the shelf. I glanced down at my phone, checking the list I’d texted myself earlier that day. “Got the donuts…” I muttered, “All I need now is-” “Pardon me!” said a cheery voice. Or, at least, someone dreary attempting to be cheery. I turned and saw the manager, wearing his classic faded and stained yellow uniform. His charming sunshine pin with the label “Stay happy!” was, as always, pinned to his once-white apron. “Is there anything you’re looking for, Miss Lamar?” I smiled at him. “Could you get a bottle of wine, the expensive stuff, and a birthday cake for me, Larry? I’m celebrating my little bro’s birthday tonight. He turned 21 today and I’d like to celebrate it in style.” As he began to say something, I interrupted him with, “Ahhhh! Br-Bra-Braxton also likes ice cream cake. So make that cake an icecr-cr-cr-” “An ice cream one?” Larry asked. His staff had learned to get used to me quickly. Most of them considered me endearing, but some decided to either take lengthy bathroom breaks whenever I would come or just go on a full break altogether. And a good thing to, otherwise I wouldn’t have an excuse for using the toilet in another establishment. While I found the store charming itself, the same absolutely cannot be said for the restroom. “Yes,” I responded with a grin back at him. “How long has it been since I started coming here?” “2 years, Kayla, 2 years of having to suffer your artful rambling,” the manager said with a wink. “I can get the wine and cake.” And, with that, he scurried off to some corner of the store, the greenish light making his shadow warp behind him. I turned back to the shelf, grabbing a few more things before heading to the counter. Larry was waiting there with a bottle of wine. My favorite, I noticed quickly. There was another bottle there too… Odd. Larry lifted a flower too, a rose. Larry had a nervous smile plastered over his face that I immediately didn't trust. What was he playing at? Is the other one a poisoned one? Perhaps the flower he was holding was some sort of barb that would kill me if I took it? Or… Oh. Nervous Larry had offered me wine and a rose… and… the way he was smiling at me… Oh dear. Not this. “You know, Kayla…” Larry started, blushing profusely. “We’ve known each other for a long time now. I would even call us friends. And… maybe we could be a bit more.” I blushed too, but for a very different reason, “I-I-I-” I had no idea what to say. Oh, come on, you know you wouldn’t have anything to say either unless you happen to rehearse what happens if the manager of your favorite store asks you if you want to date him. Well, do ya? “Speechless? I know…” Well, clearly he’d practiced this. “I… Larry…” I tried to be sympathetic, but the man was clearly delusional. “L-look…” “I know, I got you some more wine… Maybe we can see each other after the party tonight, or maybe-” As Larry started to ramble more, I grew red with frustration. He, of course, thought of it as blushing from admiring his “greatness”. “Larry…” He kept going so I said it again, louder this time. “Larry!” He kept going, so… “LARRY!” The man jumped, turning to me, “Yeah, Kayla?” “If you wanted a girl to want to be your girlfriend, might you want her to say yes to your propo-prop-proposition before you start talking about staying together and insane stuff like that,” I said pointedly. “Or, maybe, just let-letting her talk, like, at all.” He flushed and I continued patronizingly, “And, besides, you’re too old for me.” Larry spluttered. “How old do you think I am?” He asks, his smile fading. “In your thir-thirties at least,” I said mercilessly. Of course, I really thought he was fifty, but no need to add insult to injury. “I’m 34…” Larry said, looking down. “I mean, age gaps aren’t really a problem if you think about it…” I laughed sympathetically as one of my eyebrows raised at the ridiculousness, “Oh, I’m sorry, Lar-Larry, but I really don’t think we could be anything together. I’m not looking for romance right now. But…” I said, trying to lift up his hopes, “I think you do have chances with Clara in the cleaning staff.” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, “You really think so?” “Have you seen the way she looks at you?” I asked. “If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve seen it.” “I know what you’re doing,” Larry said incredulously, giving me a wry smile. “Is it working?” I retorted. “A little bit,” the store manager admitted. “I just thought that since you come so often… it sounds stupid now, but…” “No, it’s not stupid,” I said, trying not to make him blow up and not sell me the food for Braxton’s birthday. Aaaaand maybe I also wanted him to give me the extra wine too. “Look, you’ll be able to move on, I promise.” I chuckled softly, “And, besides, I think you’ll like her more than me. And,” I said, changing the subject, “I do have a party to plan for Braxton, so it would be nice if we could continue with the purchase.” “Of course!” Larry said visibly brighter, bringing the total up of all the items. “Since you like it so much, we’ve had a lot more wine shipped in. We’ve had a good few more customers since a few of the celebrities found out you came here. After a bit, they stopped coming. I suppose they thought that our ‘charming aura’, as you put it, wasn’t as charming as they’d like.” “Too bad for them,” I said, pulling out my credit card and sliding it through the cash register. A good bit over a hundred… barely a dent in my funds, but my mind was still trained to consider it a lot of money. “Well, I should be going now. Wish you luck, Larry! I hope you can find someone.” “You too,” Larry said as I walked out the door. Walking back towards my car, I thought: Well, I’m not going to need luck. I don’t want any relationship of that sort. Why would I need to have one when I have my brother, I have my art and I have the pen? Of course, if I had ended up having romance at that, it would never have been with a man like Larry. Ah, what horrible predicament has arrived upon me this day? Oh, tragedy of tragedies! Woe is me! Those were my thoughts as I struggled to hold at least fifty items in my arms and tried to walk up the stairs to my apartment. The stairway was one of those white sterile places with black numbers on the walls. Thankfully there was no one on the stairs to witness my catastrophe. It was unfortunate, however, that no one was here to help me with my groceries. If I’d had my way, I would’ve been on an elevator. Regrettably, those had all been down for the past few days thanks to a glitch. Ah, inconvenience of inconveniences! I grunted under the pressure, lifting the two grocery bags up while the satchel around my arm threatened to slam into the other bags. The key in my hand grew dangerously close to the paper bag, nearly ripping it open. “Great,” I muttered. “Maybe I should’ve gotten someone to help me after all…” Too late now, I supposed. If only the pen could help me with stuff like this. However, I greatly doubted that I could draw something into existence, like an extra arm, despite how useful it would’ve been to me at the time. Why can’t magic be anything I want it to be? It’s a question I’d asked myself time and time again, pondering in my head, wondering, thinking over. If magic was real, really real, why were there limits? Maybe because, I often wondered, it isn’t really magic, just an undiscovered sort of science. If so, then is science really just a carefully thought out explanation of magic? Ah, but I could only muse upon these kinds of spiraling thoughts for a moment as my shoe slipped on a step. Instinctively, I gripped the monotone rail next to me with one hand, stabilizing myself. But it came with consequences, as all things usually do. Especially with my luck. A shard of glass stabbed into my hand through the grocery bag. I could hear the horrible sound of wine sloshing around in the bag. A chorus of curses erupted from my mouth as I struggled to continue up the stairs, adding to my misery. I just about cried when I saw the sign saying, “Five more floors…” After a torturous climb up the stairs, I strode up to my apartment, breathing in and out to ease the pain in my hand. I cussed under my breath as I inserted the bronze key into the gilded golden handle adorning the uninspiring stained white door. It had once been the peak of fancy, but not so much anymore. I kicked open the door and climbed up the stairs to a second door. I flung that one open too, as I don’t lock that one. My view was covered by the one bag and the dilapidated thing that had formerly been a bag in my arms. I turned, using memory to guide me to the counter as I slid the myriad of objects off of it to make room for the bag and once-bag. I sighed with relief, sitting myself down on one of the three bar stools, pulling out one of the–well, the only one now–wine bottles from the bag and uncorked it. As I took a swig, I grinned in satisfaction. Larry really had picked the good stuff. Too bad I had things to do… I set the bottle down on the counter and turned to face my apartment. With a flood of natural light coming down on the open floor plan with steps to a hexagonal shaped area filled with paper and art supplies covering it, I felt calm. “Home sweet home,” I muttered with a smile, striding over to the fridge while cradling the final bag in my arms. I pulled out the ice cream cake and a few other items, putting them in the fridge and freezer. Ah, this is what life is meant to be. Golden motes of sunshine reflected upon my silvery hair, given an odd kind of opposition to its luster, as I went to my desk and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from the top of a scrappy pile of odds and ends. I did my best to smooth it out against my designer jeans. I brought it up to chest level, remembering the happy days. Ah, the good old days when my only worries had been grades and about boys in school. I missed those days. I missed the days when I didn’t know about magic, when everything still made sense… I sighed, tucking the paper back into the stack. The only thing I had left of the old days was Braxton. So, best make a celebration of those times in the best possible way. I had the paper memorized by then, as if melted into it by a scorching brand. It reads: We love you and your siblings, Kayla. You are truly wonderful and a blessing upon our family. Help your siblings in case of anything happening. You are a great artist and will, one day, show them all. We know that you can find glory in the world. I remembered that day when I received the letter on top of the art kit. Family members and friends I hadn’t seen or heard from in practically ages standing nearby, all looking content, me looking down on the gift, laughing, saying thank you. A man standing nearby in a corner, a frown on his face, a leather jacket covering most of his suit; he lifted a cigarette from his mouth and smiled at me, “Happy birthday, little girl.” The words echoed in my head again and again. Of course, he’d left after a while with one of the children, a friend of mine who I’d met from school named Travis. Even still I remember it exactly to this day. And I still wonder why my parents let him smoke in the house without batting an eye. After the party, I went to my parents and had said that I would protect my younger siblings no matter what. They responded then, “And your older brother too if it comes to it.” I promised that too. And… as I stood there, lost in thought, recalling the past, I planned to keep that promise more than anything in the world. Braxton’s party would be amazing, I would make sure of it. This party will have to make up for everything, every failure, every mistake, I thought quietly to myself as I walked back to the kitchen. I recalled the days long past and looked towards the days ahead. And I realized that the moment I was in, that very moment, was what defined me. Not the past, not the future, but the now. And… I needed to make the most of it. So I stood and got to work on preparing something extra special for my little brother’s birthday. Chapter three Spoiler Chapter Three You’re going to kill me someday TRAVIS Father had that look in his eyes when he wanted to seem reassuring and fatherly. It meant that he was about to say something that he thought was normal. In my estimation, nothing that Xander thought was normal truly was. He knew some vague approximation of normal, I knew, but he didn’t know it. He knew it as someone who has met a person once and swears they remember their name and the details of their meeting, but is merely lying. “You’re going to kill me one day,” Father said, putting a hand on my shoulder and shaking it. I can remember it exactly, that fake smile, those silvery blue eyes. He always had a jacket on. Leather. He loved leather, a bit too much I’d say. And the way he moved. He moved like he owned the place, like he had a plan. That kind of thing gave people hope. That hope, however good it might seem, was misplaced. He was the type of man who made people think they were helping something good by giving him what he wanted. “No, I wont!” I’d said. Eight year old me had been naive then. I’d seen my father as the man he’d presented himself as. That confident, knight in shining armor. He said he would change the world, show them all that they were wrong. He did want to do that. I admired him and still do for it. He had dedication. He was a stubborn man. Yet none of those encapsulate who Xander was. My father was many things. Each word that describes him builds up into a picture. That picture is insufficient. It always will be. Xander looked me up and down, raising an eyebrow, “Is that so?” He clearly didn’t believe me. I pouted, but he ruffled my hair as if we had any sort of affectionate relationship. “I killed my own father, you know. You will too. You’ll want the business and the power. It’s the way of life. The son uses the father to climb further in life. It’s what I did.” He smiled. “I’ll forgive you for it eventually in paradise.” He hesitated for a split second, said, “You will eventually kill me. I know you will.” I shuffled my feet, gritting my teeth uncomfortably. What was my father saying? Why would I kill him? I loved him. And, I thought, he loved me back. He punched me lightly in the side, kneeling down. The man who called himself my father smiled, looking me in the eyes. I should’ve done it then. I should’ve punched him in his perfect teeth. But I didn’t. I was only eight and still believed he was a good man. “You are my son,” He said, “You will grow into your role. Someday, you’ll kill me. But before then, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” Then he stood, gesturing roughly to the servants who were taking care of me. I learned eventually that, on his way from the scene, as I was being led away by his servants, that that was when he’d started my training. Corin, Xander’s lieutenant, was in the hallway outside, guarding it as usual, whistling in parade stance. Father stopped casually, leaned over, said, “The boy is ready. I need him trained, Master Corin. I want him well versed in a martial art and good with a pistol in a year.” Corin nodded, “It will be done, sir.” “Good,” Xander said with a smile, and their conversation was done. His conversations never seemed to end with goodbyes, no “I’ll see you later.” They were always finished by the way he said a word. And he would walk off, purposefully going some place as usual. It was two months later when I started to break under it all. Corin had been driving me to the bone, forcing me to train on drills on and on and on. It felt like drudgery. How was ‘mop the floor’ supposed to help me beat bad guys? Little did I know that Corin was fluent in karate kid, while I was not. I remember the pain and frustration building up in me. Father couldn’t know what Corin was doing to me, otherwise he would never have submitted me to this pain and anguish. I couldn’t possibly endure it for much longer. I remember walking up to the door of the office where my father spent most of his day. I don’t know why I didn’t knock immediately, but something told me not to. Not yet. A shaky breath went out of my lips, retreated back inside. I stood there and breathed, staring at the wood of the door and waited. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was most likely five minutes, I raised my fist and knocked twice. After a moment, a voice slipped out under the door, “Yes?” My father. “C-can I come in?” I asked. I cursed myself, my voice sounded too nervous for a serious conversation. “Of course.” I followed the silky voice of my father into the office, closing the door as soft as possible. The room was one of those places that you would remember for the rest of your life as the place someone from your family has inhabited and lived in. The clear main colors were red and black with a distinct distaste for anything of a natural, calm color. The desk in the center was inhabited by the one and only Xander. “Come,” He told me with a smile, “Is Corin done giving you practice today? How are you getting accustomed to it?” The smile, the optimism and his demeanor… it was all fake. Down to the core of it. I tried to smile back, but failed from the outset, “Father, Corin’s… I’m…” I hesitated, seeing the expression on my father’s face. It was grim and cold. It was as if I was staring in the face of an iceberg, the way he was looking at me. “Travis,” my father said stiffly, “What is it you have to say?” I opened my mouth, closed it. The man before me was not my father. I didn’t know the man behind those eyes. “Father…” my voice sounded hollow, “Corin’s killing me… I’ll die before I finish this training.” Father didn’t say a word for a long time, staring at me until it grew uncomfortable. Minutes past like molasses as his eyes bored into my soul. I thought the moment would never pass. But, inevitably, it did. “You want to stop the training?” He asked softly. “Yes!” I said, mistaking his deathly calm demeanor as welcoming. Relief flowed through my veins, “Father, it’s horrifying! He has me work for hours until I’m hurting all over. I’m so tired that I can’t do any of the school work once I’m done!” “Is that so?” “Yes.” “Well, then,” Father said, standing up, “We shall do something about it. Follow me, Travis.” I smiled, looking up at my father’s stern expression. He was going to punish Corin for what he’d done to me and my productivity! We walked in silence to Corin’s living quarters, right next to the arms storage. Xander pressed a button on the wall beside the door, making a buzz inside of Corin’s rooms, alerting him. There was a shuffling behind the door and the grizzled old man opened the door, hand drifting away from his side arm as soon as he saw who it was. “What is it?” he asked gruffly. “My son says you have been treating him unfairly,” Xander said stonily. “Bring me the relic we found in (INSERT PLACE). I need to give a lesson on fairness.” Corin nodded, promptly retreating back into his quarters. Xander knelt next to me, “Now, Travis, I want you to stand right there,” he pointed to right by the door, where I could stand and not be able to see the inside of Corin’s quarters. “It will be better that way. Back against the wall, mind you.” I did as he asked, slightly confused. But, perhaps he didn’t want me to see his punishment of Corin. Corin came, though I didn’t see him. I saw my father nod and take a small object, one of many oddities I had seen him hold in the way he was holding this one. It was as if he was cradling a child, or holding something that held great sentimental value to him. Or something valuable beyond jewels. Whatever it was, it didn’t look valuable. In fact, it looked extraordinarily like a scrap of paper and a small pencil. Xander turned, looking at me. He smiled reassuringly, nodded. I grinned. My father began scribbling something onto the paper, “My son. There is something you need to know about the meaning of the word: weakness.” I felt a spike of alarm stab me in the back. What- I didn’t hear Corin cry out, I didn’t hear Corin start to writhe in pain, nor anything else I could possibly imagine. But I did hear someone cry out. I fell to the floor, clutching my chest. Xander knelt in front of me. He grabbed my chin, lifting my head roughly so that we were eye to eye. Pain struck me in several uncomfortable places. Behind my eyes especially and in my chest. It was a sharp, searing pain as if I was being branded. “Weakness,” He said calmly, “Is not a word attributed to a member of my family. It will never and shall never be. Our family has existed for hundreds of years, living as the strongest people on the planet. We are resilient, hardy and strength is our pride. You,” Xander said forcing me to look at him again after I’d broken free and began to try and flee, “Will not be the weak link!” He slapped me on the side of the face. I screamed. His horrible, cruel eyes held no mercy for me when I searched for it. “You will continue your studies and your training under Corin,” he said stiffly. “I will not have an unlearned, uneducated, pathetic son. You will become strong, Travis.” He dragged me by my arm up to stand. I tried to fall back down, my legs trembling. He held me there, “You will stand for one hour here. If you fall down, you will have to start again. Do you understand?” He asked softly. I didn’t respond. “Do you understand?” He didn’t yell, he didn’t scream, he didn’t shout. Yet it hurt all the same. It penetrated me into my very core. This man didn’t love me. He loved his dreams, he loved an idea. He loved purpose, he loved order, he loved strength. But he did not love me. I nodded, willing myself to look up at him. His face was passive, but his eyes were cold steel. I hated him. Maybe I would kill him someday. He deserved it. “Good,” He said, patting my arm lightly. “Your anger is needed. Control it, and you will be stronger than I am. Lose control…” Xander smiled softly. That horrible smile… “Control is the only way to master yourself, my son. Become the master of yourself. Only then will you be able to kill me.” He turned to Corin, who presumably stood in the doorway. Xander handed him the piece of paper and pencil, “Each time he falls, give him more pain. He needs this lesson to be permanent.” “Yes, sir,” Corin said. The words were forced, but they were genuine. I knew in the way he said it that he would do it. I couldn’t know why, but somehow I knew he would do it without question. My wonderful father left, smiling as if nothing had happened. You don’t know what pain, true pain, is until you experience something like what happened next. You can assume to know, you can be acquainted with part of it. But to truly know it… It must be something deep. It took me five minutes before I fell for the first time. Two for the second. Seven for the next. I don’t know how long it took me, nor how many times I fell. The pain kept increasing, my yells evolved into screams and my screams into howls of animalistic rage. However long it was, what I remember was once I had done it. I’d stood there for an hour, trembling, raging, howling. It was black as night around us and Corin said, “Enough.” I nodded shaking. He tapped the paper with the pencil and the pain stopped. I fell to the ground, breathing hard. It was a long while until I stood up, climbed up the stairs, went down the long hallway, opened the door to my bedroom. I moved quietly, limping as I went. I didn’t cry out, didn’t shake. Instead, tears dripped down onto the ground in a flood. It was the result of the terrible realization that your father has never loved you and never will. There you go! Edited January 5, 2024 by Thaidakar the Ghostblood 3
Edema Rue she/her Posted October 4, 2023 Posted October 4, 2023 Yesssss!! I’m incredibly excited to read this!
Through the Living Elan He/Him Posted October 4, 2023 Posted October 4, 2023 Oooooooooo *Squeals like one of Elvis’s fan girls*
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted October 6, 2023 Author Posted October 6, 2023 This is not the end of this story. this isn't about this story at all that I've thrown on here. This is something entirely different. I just wanted a place to tell people about it. This is something I may add to an end of like a middle book in a series or the end of a stand alone, it'll depend. Now, imagine this, a key character, not the perspective character, but someone vitally important to the story. This character seems to know what to do the whole time, seems to drive everything in the plot, has everything under control, has a million things happening, but is always keeping his cool. This character seems to stop their opponents with ease, seeming to anticipate every moment. Until they don't. Then, the protagonist character there, they begin dying because of something. As they die, the protagonist character weeping, they're asked how they did it all. Then they say with one last smile, "I improvised it. every bit of it. The key to being in control, my friend, is to pretend that you have it... I'm no genius, I never had a master plan, I didn't know what I was doing. They just thought I did and I acted like I did... So... they went along with it. *laughs turn into coughs* I fooled them all... even you. I wish you luck in this life, young friend. Pray that you never fall as I have. The secret to control, you must remember, is to reconcile yourself with the fact that you simply don't have it. *dies*" 2
Ookla de los Cuervos he/him Posted October 7, 2023 Posted October 7, 2023 stop making me give you rep for these freaking amazing posts 1
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted October 20, 2023 Author Posted October 20, 2023 Update time! I'm working on chapter 3 and will have that done soon. It's introducing one of the main characters, so I'll probably show that to y'all later today if I get around to finishing it. For now, I'll show you my chapter one so that those who didn't see the status update ages ago can see it. (Note: this is very rough and will get a lot of editing later on, especially for flow and pacing.) (Well, and grammar... I'm horrible at grammar. But ah well!) Spoiler Chapter One Impossibility The world likes spectacle, something grand, something impossible. Especially something impossible, I’ve found in my experiments. The world loves to tear apart the illusion, trying to find the fabrication in the impossibility they have been shown. Many of these are found to simply be, on close inspection, just that, a smart fabrication. And, yet, there are other instances that boggle the mind, that truly cause wonder and… horror. There are these impossible feats that can only be described as magic that make the foundations of the world shake, that defeat the logical conclusions of the wise and the boring tendencies of the narrow minded. Without explanation, impossibility becomes something horrifying, something earth-shattering. If it has no logical explanation, the wisdom enriched mind wonders, then is my world, my life, my very existence, a lie? They wonder, and ponder, think, and research until it comes upon one of two conclusions, though sometimes both. (A third option can appear, but the chances of orangutans manipulating humans through small bugs in their minds is so far fetched as to cause a person such as I to look at whomever suggests it to me with a glance that says “Do you need help in the mental department, my good friend?” I would know, I’ve heard it and suggested it many times. You’d be surprised at the statistics, I’m sure) It is either an unrevealed science, something that has been hidden by functional but untrue methods or it is purely illogical magic. And the latter option terrifies to the point of paralysis. Many become entranced in a state of pure horror at this option, ready to fall back into the ignorant state of being they begin to think was their life before. They begin to search and search and search even more for an answer, not finding one, but still searching for some logical conclusion to tell them they aren’t going insane or are suddenly, for no apparent reason, the protagonist of a novel filled with half-baked conspiracy theories. Magic, they decide, is real, despite how ridiculous it sounds. It is spectacles like these that really bring the world together in trying to explain it. Many propose elaborate, ridiculously untrue theories, others give the cowardly explanation that it was somehow edited with cgi, even if they saw it with their very own eyes right in front of them. It is the puzzle that everyone is seeking the missing piece to. But, they simply can’t find it. It’s as if Waldo was removed from the largest “Where’s Waldo” page in the world. But the real answer is that Waldo’s caricature was on the other side of the paper, there the whole time exactly where they were looking, but only to be seen if you looked the right way. As they keep gazing at it, they get more and more frantic. There has to be an answer, right? They continue to search for the answer, becoming more and more frazzled, more and more confused, more and more annoyed, more and more out of their normal mental state. Then, finally, the answer to the puzzle, to the impossibilities, arrive. The person who started it all reveals their secret or someone finds solid proof of how it was done. Then it’s all debunked and everyone knows it, commenting on how cool the trick is. But then there are the outliers. The ones that are never explained, the ones that never have a solution, the ones that drive those who seek the answers into a frenzy. The ones that truly leave a mark. They are the ones that really bring attention from all around after all theories have been proven false, when all logic is suspended in favor of pure wonderment. They enjoy this illogical mess that seems not to have been faked, or they, as said previously, fall into the darkness of trying to figure out how it was done. These are the kind of impossibilities that I employ. Or, to be more specific, this is the kind of impossibility that I employ, for I have but one. You see, I’m an artist. I’ve positively adored the fine art of putting a pencil, a brush or whatever else happens to draw your interest (see what I did there?) since I was four. My parents used to say that the walls were my Sistine Chapel. Of course, my very own Sistine Chapel had to be removed with a Magic Eraser every few days–if not hours–so as to not scare away houseguests at the blotches that seemed to be rainbow vomit on the walls. My parents even had photo evidence in an astonishing number… Even one where I’m smiling as I draw with crayons a unicorn that looks like it is constipated on our formerly lovely white wall. I’m sure the constipated part wasn’t intentional… I don’t know what I was thinking, but that unicorn looked like it was in some serious pain. As I grew older, the love of art only increased. Though, the quality of my art was debatable. I loved doing it, but I wasn’t going to go anywhere with it. As I’m thinking about it all now, sitting on a chair and sucking on the bristles of a paintbrush absently, I realized that the crowd was looking expectantly onwards. The announcer glared at me pointedly. The man next to me, with a gorgeous chocolatey complexion and a worried look on his face, said, “Are you alright, miss?” The announcer called my name yet again, “Kayla Lamar!” A look of annoyance flashed on the stout woman’s face. To Braxton, I affectionately name her “Queen Troll”. I’ve wished to say it to her face, but I know I would receive in return a legendary lecture that even <someone who is famously known for not responding to being yelled at and/or being criticized> would at least flinch at. I’ve felt a bit guilty at times for calling her that, but… She just… It’s hard not to dislike someone who vehemently hates you for–as there seems to be no other possible reason why–existing. “Kayla Lamar!” I jolted out of my seat and nodded, pulling the paintbrush out of my mouth. I packed it with my best efforts into my pocket, which was already full to the brim with pencils, pens, brushes, you name it; there’s a 90% chance it was in one of my pockets. I snatched my bag, which had been sitting in the seat on my left. The man gave me a worried look again. Wow, I must’ve been zoning out hard if they were all looking me like that. It was just that the other acts were so boring… I meandered towards the podium, rolling a lock of my recently dyed silver hair between my fingers distractedly. The announcer shot me a glare as I stepped up beside her. She leaned towards me and whispered angrily in my ear, “You should’ve been up here five minutes ago!” I smiled at the crowd and muttered back, “In m-my head, I was up here.” “Well, Lamar,” the stern, almost ancient woman said with such indifference that I almost worried the crowd had heard it through the microphone, “We are not in your somehow brilliant head. I don’t know how you have such talent that you have, but you certainly do not deserve it.” I grinned at her, turning to the crowd as the Troll Queen (Her real name was Mercy Goodkind,–an ironic name, considering her disposition–but we don’t talk about that) said, “Kayla Lamar will now show you her art, on your word, Miss. Lamar!” Somehow, she made it sound unlike how she usually did when saying my name. That being utterly patronizing and deadly sarcastic. The Troll Queen stepped aside expectantly and I took the microphone and said, “Well, hello…” I looked out at the sea of people, all waiting to see what was to come next. Though some were asleep and others were about to. I don’t really blame them to be completely honest. I was the last person to show off what I’d accomplished. And I was, most definitely, and hopefully, ready and prepared to show them what I’d had in store for what they would think was months, if not years. The crowd collectively coughed as I waved to them awkwardly. It was going wonderful so far. So wonderful, in fact, that my stutter started acting up again. “I, um, have so-some art to show you… I hope… um… that you like it as mu-much as I liked creating it… um… Here y-y-y-y-yo-you go!” I smiled timidly at the crowd and pretended that I hadn’t just stuttered in front of them all. The blasted thing acted up at the worst times, I swear. I promptly pressed a button on the lectern (a feature installed upon my request. To this day, I’m surprised the Troll Queen approved it), a white sheet fell over-dramatically from the wall. To most, it would’ve seemed like an ordinary wall, even the other artists emitted gasps along with the crowd. I’d seen a few of them, when I’d been paying attention, give me a smile when they’d noticed. Though, some of them had merely seen the people the Troll Queen hired putting it up. Now the ones who’d been either unfocused or focused on other things all knew what lay beneath the previously unknown veil. As the cloth settled on the ground, they collectively gasped. People shook those next to them awake so they could see it. It was a massive, masterfully done painting of New York City, a sliver of the painting representing how it looked in different years. It covered 400 years in total, showing its beginnings in the 1600s to its metropolitan view now. A sun is rising and setting in the pictures, growing higher in the air as time goes on in the painting, then lower until it’s dawn again, a swooping look. My signature is in the lower corner at the right end of the painting, at the final bit of time. Rarely had something like this been presented at a local art show like this. The Ancient Queen of Trolls snorted at everyone’s surprise. It was evident that she thought it didn’t deserve that much awe. I regarded her derision with my own. I didn’t care for what she thought. Not at all. She was simply my boss, not someone important in my life. “I pai-painted this, ah, in its entir-entirety in under, um, about an hour of time,” I stated, my confidence starting to grow. The crowd offered me a multitude of disbelieving and wondering looks. Understandable. That’s what I had given the illusion the first fifty times I’d seen it happen. Oh, you thought I’d really painted that in under an hour? Sure, it was made in under an hour, but it wasn’t me who’d directly made it. Technically, I made the idea, I knew exactly how it should look and did all the research for how New York had looked when it had been those years. But I hadn’t really put any true effort into its creation. See, I used a method that is truly hard to explain. Rather, I find that it would be best to just show you how I’m able to perform at the top of my abilities in such a short time. Or, rather, to the top of my pen’s abilities. I smiled again into the microphone for a moment, gaging their reactions with the guilty pleasure of being given genuine praise. “That’s only the start…” I began becoming majorly excited, but calmed myself down. As I continued to speak, I made certain that I’d enunciated each word calmly and carefully, with caution to not sound wrong. “Can someone give me an art prompt?” I asked, a veritable roar meeting the request. After a minute of listening to the many shouts, I picked out the words, “A lone warrior meets his enemy for the last time!” I gaze around at the multitudinous amounts of people, looking for the source of the words. I pointed at the person raising their hand and shouting what they’d said, “Quiet! Did you say ‘a lone warrior meets his enemy for the last time’?” The man nodded eagerly and shouted, “I did! I said it!” He was a younger man, perhaps a teenager. A clear fan of sci-fi, evidenced by his Dune t-shirt. I nodded to Queen Troll, who signaled one of her many assistants to have a microphone brought to the human being who so kindly delivered me the prompt. I leaned closer to the microphone, “Wha-what’s your name, kind sir?” “I’m Zave,” the man–Zave–says into the microphone once it’s given to him. “Zave Metsk.” “Well, Zave Metsk,” I said with what I hoped was a charming smile. I’ve never been good at smiling, they always come off more creepy than anything. I presumed that the crowd doesn’t think I’m about to eat them, so I resumed the performance, “I am about to use your prompt to draw something.” An assistant of the Troll Queen walked up, putting a tabletop camera onto the lectern. I swiftly drew out a pad of paper. I reached into my pocket, touching the brush I’d been sucking on earlier (not one of my best moments, especially in front of a crowd of people… I still don’t know if anyone noticed that besides the Troll Queen and the guy next to me) and pressed its side in a very certain, peculiar way. Rubbing it would be the more accurate term… Though I’ve rubbed it while thinking of other things and the result hadn’t ever been the same as when I’d been thinking of… well… you’ll see. As I rubbed it, the brush changed shapes, thoughts whirling in my head. A sort of tingling feeling ran up my hand, then my arms, seemingly forming a halo around my head, numbing my mind. I lifted a black and gold pen from my pocket and set it down beside the pad of paper on the lectern. “Now, Zave, I want you to pull out your phone and set a timer for one minute. Mercy,” I glanced at the Troll Queen for a moment. She was directing two men to set up several TVs in the vicinity, all connected to the camera on the lectern. “Good. Y’all will be able to see what I’m about to do. Well,” I paused for a moment, “some of it. Now, what I’m going to do is cover my hands and the piece of paper and start drawing. Then, once the minute is finished, I’ll show you the completed drawing of what our friend has suggested to me. Ev-ev-everyone ready?” As excitement boils across the crowd, I feel it in my self and smile. I can do this. I’ve done it so many times. So, so, so many times. Even in front of my mirror. Maybe I’m just a five year old again, scribbling on the wall and babbling about fanciful ideas such as princesses and mermaids, but if I am that… I’ll do it in a way they’ll all remember. I glanced over at the Troll Queen. Besides, if they remember it, it will still make money in the end, however that is accomplished. And, for her, my boss, that’s why we’re here in the first place. The crowd cheered. Joyous satisfaction rose up in my throat, but I shoved it back down and said into the microphone: “Begin!” Zave turned on his timer before another camera. The people next to him seemed to be having a blast, talking to him about how he’d been selected. I whipped my hand with a flourish to the corner of the pad of paper lying in front of my and drew underneath it with my pen for a few seconds. The crowd looked at me with anticipation as I hummed one of my favorite songs: “Come and Get Your Love.” The mirage of what I wanted the image to become swirled in my head, contorting into a confident hero standing before a gargantuan beast, darkness and light in beautiful contrast, a flaming sword, a black and white scythe… Yes, that would be beautiful. I imagined some of the finer details and ignored what I’d absently sketched. A doodle of a poodle (I know, I know… I couldn’t help myself with that one! I was really sketching the colosseum. I went to Rome on a trip a few years ago with my three siblings and parents before the accident.) The pen quivered, shaking against my palm. Out of nowhere, a feeling of fireworks danced across my arms and palms, seeming to rush into the paper, stronger than the previous feeling. I felt my ideas draining from my head, leaving a shade of what they had been in their place. I’d always liked the word “Shade.” A ghost or a dead person in its rudimentary description. It invokes something… sinister. Something shadowed in pure darkness, pardon the pun. Something… ethereal. As the pen activated, I rubbed it once more, ideas flooding into my mind of what I want the picture to be. How I want every bit of shading and every texture to feel in the viewer’s eyes, every single bit of remarkable feel to the work of art was planned out nearly instantly. Most of the work happened instinctively in my mind. My very intent seemed to seep out of me, leaving me a little more hollow than before. It wasn’t the type of hollow that keeps people up at night thinking about the meaning of life in grim tones; No, it kept me up at night for other reasons. As the feeling grew far more powerful, the audience began chanting. “TEN!” I smiled, moving the pen mechanically. “Almost done!” “NINE!” My hand ran through the silver waterfall of- “EIGHT!” -my hair, a grin adorning my face. The crowd had grown hyped to see what was underneath the paper “SEVEN!” I, too, feel excited, I can’t stop the feeling from reverberating through the fiber of my being. Even I was on the proverbial edge of my seat. “SIX!” I reached into another pocket, moving my pen with the appearance of being frantic with the other hand. “FIVE!” My fingers wrapped around a bottle of water, lifting it out my pocket with ease. “FOUR!” The cool glass met my lips, a reminder of what was to come through it soon. “THREE!” The cool water poured down my throat, cooling me down and helping me calm down more. “TWO!” Time seemed to freeze in my mind. My thoughts ran like they were on a marathon. Am I a fraud? Will I actually pull this off? In my brain, I know that I’ll succeed, but will I really? I am a fraud, and a liar, I know I am. Technically, I’m not a fraud, I told myself. I don’t do any of the work, but I come up with the ideas. They’re my ideas, it’s technically me getting them into reality. I just am not doing the actual drawing that others perform. In the corner of my eye, I swear I could see my doubts creeping up on me, ready to pounce on me and bring me down to the darkness that lies in my dreams. Those dream which patiently wait for the moment when they can consume my every hope of being successful, my every idea for how I can progress through life, every aspect of myself. Thankfully, I remembered the reason why I’m even here in the first place, and I decided that, if I’m a fraud, at least I’ll be able to do what they wanted me to do. Maybe I’ll finally be good enough for what they wanted for me. I almost whispered. “ONE!” I ripped the upper paper off with a practiced finesse–I would practice every week in front of a mirror, the whole routine–Ah, I have too much time on my hands, don’t I? A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the picture was unveiled to the masses. It was exactly what Zave had suggested, if not better. It was perfect… Too perfect. I smiled exuberantly, leaning forward to speak into the microphone, “Is that any good, Mr. Metsk?” He nodded absently, watching me with a slight grin, “If I’d had more time, I would’ve given the warrior some more armor, but you know…” My words were drowned out by a flood cheers in the crowd. I felt a spike of guilt stab into my heart, but it did little to harm my love of this whole thing. Oh, I loved their praise, I adored their adoration. But I knew even then that it was based entirely on a lie. “WE LOVE YOUR ART!” a woman screamed in the crowd. “I-I-I love yo-you too!” Nervousness climbed up my spine, pulsating weirdly through my back and into my neck like a massage. A massage performed during an earthquake. “Do-does anyone else have any sug-sug-suggest-est-est-estions?” My stutter had been progressively getting worse lately, though I attributed it primarily to how I’d been forced to talk publically with more people than usual. Lots of people… I’d rather stay at home and draw for a few hours. Much better way to spend time, if you ask me, I thought. People shouted out more and I chose one. As I do, I handed the first paper to an assistant of the Troll Queen’s next to me. She puts it on a stand with several other pieces made by artists currently present. There was going to be an auction later on. And I just so happened to hate those things. I don’t know why, I just really don’t like it when everyone is shouting numbers. This was a local show, put on every year by the city; mostly filled with locals, though some more famous artists come every now and then. And, by chance, I happened to be extremely famous. As I continued on, ideas flowed into the pen from my mind, I commenced to zone out on a particular thought as the outside world became irrelevant to me once again. Conscious thoughts on my actions shut down as instinct took over, leaving my personal thoughts to flow undammed. If the world knew about the pen, what would happen? I asked myself in thought. As if my brain was a computer, I immediately came up with several, all equally ridiculous, scenarios for what could happen. For example, I could be assassinated and world leaders could squabble over it in another World War. Then they can find out its only known use–at least, to my knowledge–is creating art. There was a time, once, when someone found out about the pen. It was… an experience, I might’ve said. They’d kept on badgering me about it. Finally, I told them that they can try it. They did and it didn’t work for them, so it’s plausible that it only works for me. Which, in that case, I won’t be assassinated. Or, if I am, they’ll realize it was pointless and now the only person who can use it is dead. Hah, take that random world leader who sends assassins to murder random people who have magical objects in their possession! The person who’d found out about the pen tried to tell people about it and was called insane. They eventually died in a bar fight, trying to convince the other person, while drunk, that magic was real. Because of that, I’ve never told anyone about it again… And- I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice whispering sternly, “It’s been nearly three hours, Lamar, it’s far past time for you to stop.” I turned, looking down at the Troll Queen, her eyes looking back at me with an expression far different than the usual glare. Behind her graying dark hair, I noticed hundreds of pictures upon the stand. It was, well, a lot… “I… well…” “Maybe next time, you can keep track of the time better, huh?” The Troll Queen said with a click of her tongue, a sarcastic smile splitting on her face. “Now, step aside so I can close the show. They’re losing interest. And, besides, most came for the auction.” “I know,” I stated as I stepped down and adjusted my bangs surreptitiously. “I just kind of zoned out and let my hands do the work for me…” There was something… different about her this time around. Maybe Mercy didn’t deserve the nickname all of the time, but… hmm. My thoughts muddle around the subject for a few moments as she looked at me like I was clinically insane. Finally, she turned and started announcing a few final things for the city itself before the show would move on to the auction. As she did, I plopped back down into my seat, watching the crowd with a slightly dreamy expression on my face. Okay, it was a really dreamy expression that was on my face. But can you blame me? At the time, I had just done several hours of work that most artists could only dream of. I’d also just lost myself in, pardon the cheesiness, the magic of it all. However, my dreamy expression didn’t last very long as the man next to me nudged my shoulder and said, “So… how’d you do it? “Hm?” I turned towards him, “What do you mean?” “How did you draw so fast? It seems impossible… almost like magic,” He asked exuberantly, seemingly entranced by the wonder of the feat. I barely stopped a chuckle from escaping my lips. Magic was a little too close to the truth. “I’ve pra-prac-practiced since I was very young. I just… well… do it, I suppose, at this point. I’ve done it so many times that it’s instinct, mo-most of the things I’m do-doing.” “Interesting…” The man seemed to slump into his own thoughts as he said it. It certainly was interesting. Perhaps a little too interesting for my tastes. As the Troll Queen announced the first array of items and their starting prices, I thought: if only things were as simple as when I was drawing on walls. It needs a lot of work especially to why the crowd is cheering and to how the ending works, but I think it's fine for a rough draft... 1
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted December 20, 2023 Author Posted December 20, 2023 Hey, all. Ik it's been awhile. I promise I'm continuing to work on this. I was going to post the third chapter awhile back, but a few things happened. First, I restarted the chapter several times because I really wanted to get into the character's head. Second, I've had a load of things going on in irl and have lost motivation for a few things. Third, a lot of my skill for focus puffed away, so I've had to really work on that, so sitting down to write anything has been a bother. The good news is that I'm really going to dig in and start getting writing back into the schedule 100%. At least three times a week, I'll sit down and write for a good amount of time. This'll be good for me in all aspects of my life. Now, here's the third chapter of my story! You don't have to read anything else of the book. This is an introduction for one of the two POV characters. I'm using first person for both. This is very very rough. Spoiler Content warnings: abuse. Spoiler Father had that look in his eyes when he wanted to seem reassuring and fatherly. It meant that he was about to say something that he thought was normal. In my estimation, nothing that Xander thought was normal truly was. He knew some vague approximation of normal, I knew, but he didn’t know it. He knew it as someone who has met a person once and swears they remember their name and the details of their meeting, but is merely lying. “You’re going to kill me one day,” Father said, putting a hand on my shoulder and shaking it. I can remember it exactly, that fake smile, those silvery blue eyes. He always had a jacket on. Leather. He loved leather, a bit too much I’d say. And the way he moved. He moved like he owned the place, like he had a plan. That kind of thing gave people hope. That hope, however good it might seem, was misplaced. He was the type of man who made people think they were helping something good by giving him what he wanted. “No, I wont!” I’d said. Eight year old me had been naive then. I’d seen my father as the man he’d presented himself as. That confident, knight in shining armor. He said he would change the world, show them all that they were wrong. He did want to do that. I admired him and still do for it. He had dedication. He was a stubborn man. Yet none of those encapsulate who Xander was. My father was many things. Each word that describes him builds up into a picture. That picture is insufficient. It always will be. Xander looked me up and down, raising an eyebrow, “Is that so?” He clearly didn’t believe me. I pouted, but he ruffled my hair as if we had any sort of affectionate relationship. “I killed my own father, you know. You will too. You’ll want the business and the power. It’s the way of life. The son uses the father to climb further in life. It’s what I did.” He smiled. “I’ll forgive for it eventually in paradise.” He hesitated for a split second, said, “You will eventually kill me. I know you will.” I shuffled my feet, gritting my teeth uncomfortably. What was my father saying? Why would I kill him? I loved him. And, I thought, he loved me back. He punched me lightly in the side, kneeling down. The man who called himself my father smiled, looking me in the eyes. I should’ve done it then. I should’ve punched him in his perfect teeth. But I didn’t. I was only eight and still believed he was a good man. “You are my son,” He said, “You will grow into your role. Someday, you’ll kill me. But before then, I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” Then he stood, gesturing roughly to the servants who were taking care of me. I learned eventually that, on his way from the scene, as I was being led away by his servants, that that was when he’d started my training. Corin, Xander’s lieutenant, was in the hallway outside, guarding it as usual, whistling in parade stance. Father stopped casually, leaned over, said, “The boy is ready. I need him trained, Master Corin. I want him well versed in a martial art and good with a pistol in a year.” Corin nodded, “It will be done, sir.” “Good,” Xander said with a smile, and their conversation was done. His conversations never seemed to end with goodbyes, no “I’ll see you later.” They were always finished by the way he said a word. And he would walk off, purposefully going some place as usual. It was two months later when I started to break under it all. Corin had been driving me to the bone, forcing me to train on drills on and on and on. It felt like drudgery. How was ‘mop the floor’ supposed to help me beat bad guys? Little did I know that Corin was fluent in karate kid, while I was not. I remember the pain and frustration building up in me. Father couldn’t know what Corin was doing to me, otherwise he would never have submitted me to this pain and anguish. I couldn’t possibly endure it for much longer. I remember walking up to the door of the office where my father spent most of his day. I don’t know why I didn’t knock immediately, but something told me not to. Not yet. A shaky breath went out of my lips, retreated back inside. I stood there and breathed, staring at the wood of the door and waited. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was most likely five minutes, I raised my fist and knocked twice. After a moment, a voice slipped out under the door, “Yes?” My father. “C-can I come in?” I asked. I cursed myself, my voice sounded too nervous for a serious conversation. “Of course.” I followed the silky voice of my father into the office, closing the door as soft as possible. The room was one of those places that you would remember for the rest of your life as the place someone from your family has inhabited and lived in. The clear main colors were red and black with a distinct distaste for anything of a natural, calm color. The desk in the center was inhabited by the one and only Xander. “Come,” He told me with a smile, “Is Corin done giving you practice today? How are you getting accustomed to it?” The smile, the optimism and his demeanor… it was all fake. Down to the core of it. I tried to smile back, but failed from the outset, “Father, Corin’s… I’m…” I hesitated, seeing the expression on my father’s face. It was grim and cold. It was as if I was staring in the face of an iceberg, the way he was looking at me. “Travis,” my father said stiffly, “What is it you have to say?” I opened my mouth, closed it. The man before me was not my father. I didn’t know the man behind those eyes. “Father…” my voice sounded hollow, “Corin’s killing me… I’ll die before I finish this training.” Father didn’t say a word for a long time, staring at me until it grew uncomfortable. Minutes past like molasses as his eyes bored into my soul. I thought the moment would never pass. But, inevitably, it did. “You want to stop the training?” He asked softly. “Yes!” I said, mistaking his deathly calm demeanor as welcoming. Releif flowed through my veins, “Father, it’s horrifying! He has me work for hours until I’m hurting all over. I’m so tired that I can’t do any of the school work once I’m done!” “Is that so?” “Yes.” “Well, then,” Father said, standing up, “We shall do something about it. Follow me, Travis.” I smiled, looking up at my father’s stern expression. He was going to punish Corin for what he’d done to me and my productivity! We walked in silence to Corin’s living quarters, right next to the arms storage. Xander pressed a button on the wall beside the door, making a buzz inside of Corin’s rooms, alerting him. There was a shuffling behind the door and the grizzled old man opened the door, hand drifting away from his side arm as soon as he saw who it was. “What is it?” he asked gruffly. “My son says you have been treating him unfairly,” Xander said stonily. “Bring me the relic we found in (INSERT PLACE). I need to give a lesson on fairness.” Corin nodded, promptly retreating back into his quarters. Xander knelt next to me, “Now, Travis, I want you to stand right there,” he pointed to right by the door, where I could stand and not be able to see the inside of Corin’s quarters. “It will be better that way. Back against the wall, mind you.” I did as he asked, slightly confused. But, perhaps he didn’t want me to see his punishment of Corin. Corin came, though I didn’t see him. I saw my father nod and take a small object, one of many oddities I had seen him hold in the way he was holding this one. It was as if he was cradling a child, or holding something that held great sentimental value to him. Or something valuable beyond jewels. Whatever it was, it didn’t look valuable. In fact, it looked extraordinarily like a scrap of paper and a small pencil. Xander turned, looking at me. He smiled reassuringly, nodded. I grinned. My father began scribbling something onto the paper, “My son. There is something you need to know about the meaning of the word: weakness.” I felt a spike of alarm stab me in the back. What- I didn’t hear Corin cry out, I didn’t hear Corin start to writhe in pain, nor anything else I could possibly imagine. But I did hear someone cry out. I fell to the floor, clutching my chest. Xander knelt in front of me. He grabbed my chin, lifting my head roughly so that we were eye to eye. Pain struck me in several uncomfortable places. Behind my eyes especially and in my chest. It was a sharp, searing pain as if I was being branded. “Weakness,” He said calmly, “Is not a word attributed to a member of my family. It will never and shall never be. Our family has existed for hundreds of years, living as the strongest people on the planet. We are resilient, hardy and strength is our pride. You,” Xander said forcing me to look at him again after I’d broken free and began to try and flee, “Will not be the weak link!” He slapped me on the side of the face. I screamed. His horrible, cruel eyes held no mercy for me when I searched for it. “You will continue your studies and your training under Corin,” he said stiffly. “I will not have an unlearned, uneducated, pathetic son. You will become strong, Travis.” He dragged me by my arm up to stand. I tried to fall back down, my legs trembling. He held me there, “You will stand for one hour here. If you fall down, you will have to start again. Do you understand?” He asked softly. I didn’t respond. “Do you understand?” He didn’t yell, he didn’t scream, he didn’t shout. Yet it hurt all the same. It penetrated me into my very core. This man didn’t love me. He loved his dreams, he loved an idea. He loved purpose, he loved order, he loved strength. But he did not love me. I nodded, willing myself to look up at him. His face was passive, but his eyes were cold steel. I hated him. Maybe I would kill him someday. He deserved it. “Good,” He said, patting my arm lightly. “Your anger is needed. Control it, and you will be stronger than I am. Lose control…” Xander smiled softly. That horrible smile… “Control is the only way to master yourself, my son. Become the master of yourself. Only then will you be able to kill me.” He turned to Corin, who presumably stood in the doorway. Xander handed him the piece of paper and pencil, “Each time he falls, give him more pain. He needs this lesson to be permanent.” “Yes, sir,” Corin said. The words were forced, but they were genuine. I knew in the way he said it that he would do it. I couldn’t know why, but somehow I knew he would do it without question. My wonderful father left, smiling as if nothing had happened. You don’t know what pain, true pain, is until you experience something like what happened next. You can assume to know, you can be acquainted with part of it. But to truly know it… It must be something deep. It took me five minutes before I fell for the first time. Two for the second. Seven for the next. I don’t know how long it took me, nor how many times I fell. The pain kept increasing, my yells evolved into screams and my screams into howls of animalistic rage. However long it was, what I remember was once I had done it. I’d stood there for an hour, trembling, raging, howling. It was black as night around us and Corin said, “Enough.” I nodded shaking. He tapped the paper with the pencil and the pain stopped. I fell to the ground, breathing hard. It was a long while until I stood up, climbed up the stairs, went down the long hallway, opened the door to my bedroom. I moved quietly, limping as I went. I didn’t cry out, didn’t shake. Instead, tears dripped down onto the ground in a flood. It was the result of the terrible realization that your father has never loved you and yet never will.
Edema Rue she/her Posted December 20, 2023 Posted December 20, 2023 ...I got chills, that was lovely Thaidybear. 1
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted December 21, 2023 Author Posted December 21, 2023 On 12/20/2023 at 7:10 AM, Edema Rue said: ...I got chills, that was lovely Thaidybear. Thank you, Eddie. I may tone down specific parts of the chapter, definitely rewrite a lot of the first half of it, but... that's the general gist of what it is going to be. I'll put the first two chapters on here at one point. 1
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted January 5, 2024 Author Posted January 5, 2024 I've put all three first chapters in the OG post. Rn I'm working on the outline of the story. I've been kinda shooting in the dark with the details of what I want to happen in the story. I've just had a kinda vague vision of what I want. Now It's coming together with a bow. It'll be pretty good when it's a full trilogy... 1
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted March 25, 2024 Author Posted March 25, 2024 Prelude Spoiler The shattered man lay over the two bodies, trying to weep. The tears wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they come? Why couldn’t he feel pain… He struggled to feel, struggled to know what was happening to him. His hand bled around the knife held tightly in his hand. His blood mixed with the blood of one of the bodies, dripping to the ground. The piercing cry of a child ripped through the air. With a shaking groan, the man forced himself to stand and looked around the room. They were gone… but he… he was still here. He left one gaze for the two people on the ground and found no trace of grief in his heart only a strange lust for the past. And for the future. He turned away from the bodies letting his eyelids fall. “Please… please take me from this place…” Eternity passed. The cries continued. He walked to a cradle, partially drenched in blood. A baby lay there in swaddling clothes and blankets. The man put his hand on the baby’s head and rubbed the fuzzy hair that lay there. As he did, the baby’s eyes closed and the screaming cries for his mother ceased. “Sleep well, my future…” the man said. “Sleep well for we have work to do.” His mind wandered to the corpses behind him, “Yes, my son, we have much work to accomplish…” 1
Edema Rue she/her Posted March 27, 2024 Posted March 27, 2024 On 3/25/2024 at 10:30 AM, Thaidakar the Ghostblood said: Prelude Reveal hidden contents The shattered man lay over the two bodies, trying to weep. The tears wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they come? Why couldn’t he feel pain… He struggled to feel, struggled to know what was happening to him. His hand bled around the knife held tightly in his hand. His blood mixed with the blood of one of the bodies, dripping to the ground. The piercing cry of a child ripped through the air. With a shaking groan, the man forced himself to stand and looked around the room. They were gone… but he… he was still here. He left one gaze for the two people on the ground and found no trace of grief in his heart only a strange lust for the past. And for the future. He turned away from the bodies letting his eyelids fall. “Please… please take me from this place…” Eternity passed. The cries continued. He walked to a cradle, partially drenched in blood. A baby lay there in swaddling clothes and blankets. The man put his hand on the baby’s head and rubbed the fuzzy hair that lay there. As he did, the baby’s eyes closed and the screaming cries for his mother ceased. “Sleep well, my future…” the man said. “Sleep well for we have work to do.” His mind wandered to the corpses behind him, “Yes, my son, we have much work to accomplish…” AAAHHHHHH I want more. Now. And you can’t do what Fadran did and get me attached and then disappear/stop writing. 1
Thaidakar the Ghostblood he/him Posted March 27, 2024 Author Posted March 27, 2024 (edited) 25 minutes ago, Edema Rue said: AAAHHHHHH I want more. Now. And you can’t do what Fadran did and get me attached and then disappear/stop writing. XD you’ll get more. I’m actually starting to write more of the story. and fortunately little to no context will be given till the epilogue of book two. And considering my writing style, that’ll be in over five hundred to a thousand pages. Edited March 27, 2024 by Thaidakar the Ghostblood 1
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