Short Stories

He opened his eyes.

At first, there was too much. Too much sound, light, movement — his senses were bombarded from every angle. The pain was immense, rippling through his body like a wave, tickling every nerve ending like sharp tacks. Slowly, the tidal wave receded, leaving him crushed and bruised, as shapes began to emerge. Dancing forms waved in front of him like flames, a harsh hissing skittering through him like flies. Gradually, he began to discern the frightful demons that cackled and roared about him, tongues of flame flipping in and out of their mouths like silverfish, their black claws clacking and clattering around him in the air.

He was dead. He was in Hell.

Something was wrong.

Nicholas K. Linkletter III, ‘Slick Nick’ to his friends and Mr. Linkletter to everyone else, had started slurring his speech five minutes into the board meeting. Then he put his head in his hands, muttering something about smelling lemon tea, and collapsed on the desk. His fellow board-members quickly turned him over, loosening his tie, and called the ambulance. Mrs. Jennings had checked his pulse and tried to administer CPR — a sensation that Nicholas found quite odd, as Mrs. Jennings was an avid smoker. The air tasted foul to his tongue, and he knew he should be coughing.

The medics arrived in only five minutes, having been out on another call. They took over for Mrs. Jennings, feeding a tube down his throat, and forcing air into his lungs with a blue plastic oval. This was much less comfortable at first for Nicholas, but his lungs were breathing cleaner now, not filled with leftover smoke that had settled in Mrs. Jennings’ lungs. He felt the sharp stabbing pain from a needle in his arm, and his body was lifted into the air by two strong arms, and onto a metal surface that clattered under his weight.

The fading sunlight seeped into the cell, past jagged iron grating that had long since turned reddish brown from rust. The birdsong of twilight began to dwindle, joining the sun in slowly sliding away from the grim event that was about to occur. Through the grating, Mary Harker watched as the random passers-by slowly faded from sight, returning to their cozy homes, loving families, and warm meals.

Mary turned from the window to her cell. Stone walls with an iron door was all that separated her from the world, but it was enough. There was little light, and only a small rat-hole in the corner that had long since been vacated. Even the rats would not stay in this cell for long — the stench of the dead reached all the way from the gallows. Mary nudged the small plate of bread that the jailer had given her. Perhaps it was Christian courtesy, or maybe some cruel joke, but the jailer had placed a small runny yellow glob of butter on the bread. She watched as the slimy fat slid its way down the stale wheat before she turned away. She wasn’t hungry at the moment.

This story is fan-fiction made in the Grimdark Future universe, by One Page Rules.

They met on a small hill a full league from the city’s wall. The land was barren, with only a few dried husks of trees and sparse tufts of weed drifting in the wind. The lazy drone of alien insects filled the chill air, and the bright blue spot that was the planet’s sun beat down on Pwanji’s head.

She met with a monster. It was half-again as tall as her, covered head-to-toe in ancient metal armor. She recognized the design as one of the ancient battle-suits from when humanity first came to the Sirius sector, and it looked well used. That it still functioned at all was impressive, given its age, but she had no doubt that the Battle Brothers of the Founder knew how to maintain even the oldest equipment; given their lifespans, it was likely this was the Battle Brother’s original battle-suit.

“Hail,” she said as the giant walked closer. “I am Mother Pwanji Truevoice of Freecity Arpescious. Whom do I have the honor of meeting?”

This story is fan-fiction made in the Grimdark Future universe, by One Page Rules.

Heresy.

The being that would one day be known as Vradhez sat in its pod, slowly spinning in its personal eddy, separate from the overwhelming current of the Flow. Its caste was one of the few among the Living who had this ability, much less the permission. The Living had long ago realized that in spite of its incredible benefits, the Flow brought with it its own challenges and obstacles. The unity of the Living was powerful, but so too could it be limiting.

So a new caste had been created from countless strands of DNA and mitochondria collected from a thousand different species across the Living’s territory. In spite of their physical similarities to the Prime castes, they had more genetic material in common with the great minds, the caste devoted to the Living’s memory and logistical instincts. They were not only able to see the Flow, but to escape it; to not just analyze and assess, but to imagine and explore.

It was this ancient foresight that meant the Living could survive the great awakening, the sudden awareness of their entire race that they were not the only sentient species in the universe. But how could they have imagined otherwise? Of all the animals they had ever met, none of them were truly alive. How could they be?

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press. The following is a list of the card draws and rolls taken during play that resulted in the transcribed narrative:

A relatively simple game, Caveat Emptor has a lovely aesthetic and game-play hook. Playing the devil who twists mortal’s wishes and desires with cursed trinkets is a staple of old tales and legends. Simple doesn’t mean easy, however, and rolling a 5+ on 3d6 happened less often than on a 2d6 for this game. A statistical outlier, sure, but it made for an interesting dynamic. I felt the same confusion Ohog did when what should have been an easier sell turned out poorly, and a tricky roll turned out well.

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press.

“Well, today wasn’t so bad.”

Ohog didn’t answer. The raven hopped from one foot to the other in discomfort. He wasn’t one for placation — wisdom and guidance were supposed to be solutions in themselves — but something in Ohog’s dark and plaintive mood was drawing a new and painful emotion out of the bird. Whatever it was Ohog was feeling, he wanted them to stop.

“Really, if you tell Mephistopheles what’s going on, you might get a promotion!” The Raven clacked its beak in optimistic support. “Think about it. How many years have they been sending devils here, ordering them to keep a low profile and sell subtly?”

“Over a decade…”

“Right…” the raven cocked its head. He wasn’t entirely sure Ohog had intended to answer his question, but… “Right. Think of all that wasted effort! Now you can drop your human disguise and sell openly! Why, you could even make the curses selling-points! More people might show up if they knew what curses they might get. This could be the start of a whole new market!”

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press.

The next day had started off bright, warm, and perfect to go shopping. Ohog had unlocked the shop with a spring in their cloven step, and a whistle on their infernal lips. They had woven their human disguise about themself with an extra flourish for fun, and waited patiently for their first customer. They had felt good for the first time in some time, and they didn’t know why. Somehow, they were certain that good things were headed their way. (Not in the moral sense, of course; they’d have been depressed if that were the case.)

It only took a few minutes before the door opened, and Ulrich Monau the Elder stepped into the store. Ohog was nearly giddy with delight, as the man’s deepest desire spilled out in front of him. Lucifer bless the Lutherans, he thought as he beckoned the man inside. “Welcome, welcome, such a wonderful day, isn’t it? Quite wonderful!”

Ulrich’s seething fury was not even chipped by Ohog’s sunny disposition. “Is it? It must be so by Satan’s hand, to mock us all.”

Could very well be, Ohog tapped a finger to their chin. “Why good sir, I can see you are in a foul mood; I hope you are not in some trouble?”

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press.

Bartholmes Klingelvuoz was one of those people who was decidedly irritating, when it came to temptation. He was supremely prideful, self-confident, and annoyingly righteous. He had internalized the church’s doctrines on hard work and dedication, and so was steadfastly set on the idea of working for his fortune.

That said, he didn’t want to work too hard. It was threading that needle that was giving Ohog such trouble. What he needed was a curse that would ruin him, but slowly. He needed to become dependent on a cursed item so subtly that he didn’t realize he was using it as a crutch. He needed something that would drag him down just as he was cresting the hill of fame and fortune…

Ah! “Well, yes,” Ohog gently took the harp out of Bartholmes hands and lay it back on the floor, “beautiful music will certainly soothe the savage customer, but what every good merchant needs is quality. You need something that grabs your customer’s attention so powerfully, that they’ll never let it go! Something that they will keep coming back for, because no one sells as good a product as you!”

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press.

Ohog grimaced when Helisäus Chytraeus opened the door to the curiosity shop. They had been hoping for a challenge, or at least something interesting. Instead, Helisäus was easily one of the most cliched and boring mortals he had ever seen. Slow of wit, large on ambition, and small in dedication. It was the curse of all mortals, that their dreams always reached so much further than their abilities, or their drive.

Some devils said Pride was the greatest sin, but Sloth certainly made temptation easier.

“Welcome to my little shop of curios! If you need help finding anything, I’d be more than happy to —”

“I’m looking for something interesting,” the man sniffed, beginning a circuit of the store. “You have anything interesting here?”

“But of course,” Ohog forced another smile. “Everything in here is interesting in some way or another. Each item has its own marvelous tale…why, that harp you are holding was made out of —”

“I don’t want something curious,” Helisäus sniffed, setting the harp back on the floor, “I want something interesting.”