Shortstories

The purple fog rolled in like a flood. It curled up the side of the mountain, falling over itself in a crawling tide. The dark bruised color of the mists blanketed the river in shadows, until the entire river was hidden from view.

Ild gave a sharp sniff as she looked out the window. “Tough one coming in,” she muttered to the small squeaker on her shoulder. “Lost something, I’ll warrant. May not even know what. You think he’ll stop by?”

The tiny mouse nuzzled Ild’s withered cheek, jiggling her loose jowls with a gentle squeak. The tiny whiskers tickled and caught her own as Ild gave a gentle sigh. “Well, I’d better put the kettle on.”

[It contains] a total want of literary attractiveness ~ review of Sir Rodrick Murchison’s ‘Siluria’

There is a common question bandied about literary circles, when the band of brothers spend their restful hours in smoking rooms, and tongues have been well loosened with free-flowing brandy. It should be no surprise to anyone that when a group of seasoned men get together that questions of a potentially offensive nature get asked.

It is a ribald cliche of men that they are either ‘Sans or Serifs’ men, and focus their attentions on words or lettering that ascribes to this basic quality. I cannot deny that the distinction is a significant one, and I have several friends who will spend hours on the seemingly innocuous topic of Sans font, and the beautiful curves and long lines of a good Ariel typeset. I admit, I have always found myself drawn to Serifs.

Ratqueen, was created by transcribing the narrative created by playing the solo RPG Rattenkönigin, by Abbax. What follows are the rolls I made during the first successful game I played.

Darkness scratching, the squeal of young, gnawing and ravenous, the HUNGER grows. Instincts many, a need to scurry, fnd the places safe and dark. Nowhere truly safe, nowhere to escape the clawing need for food.

We are many, and the many are safe. Smell of fur and flesh, air filled wit foul rot and dirt. A nest of castoffs, trash and refuse that hides our coveted treasure, our food, our young, our selves. They hunt us, but they do not find us.

Instinct. No time to think or plan, no time to prepare or horde. Survival. Bite. Claw Feed. Then scurry away to live another day.

We survive.

We dream.

The game Lighthouse at the End of the World uses the Wretched and Alone SRD, a system designed to tell stories of horror, sadness, and hopelessness. You’re not supposed to “win” these games often, and this play reflects that, I feel. What follows are the die-rolls, card-draws, and tower-pulls that created the events that I turned into my short-story.

Thomas stared up at the lighthouse.

When he had first arrived, it had looked like a beacon of hope, a place to hide and live out the rest of his days; a stone tomb he had interred himself in to rest at last. Now, it looked like a jail, a prison of intangible cell-mates who tormented him every day with their absent lives.

He used to try to ignore them. He spent his days struggling to do his work without acknowledging their presence, and it hadn’t worked. They had only begun to shout louder, manifesting as horrible images of suffering and half-eaten corpses.

He began to talk to them under his breath. Now he muttered to them without always realizing he was. He even muttered in his sleep; he had woken himself up several times with his own frantic gibbering.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a prisoner or the jailor.

The weeks were long in the lighthouse. Time passed slowly for Thomas as he muttered his way up and down the lighthouse steps. He cursed the chills and the heat, he spat on the creaking wood and sneered at the fragrence of rotting seaweed that permiated the stacks of flotsam that lined the walls.

“Ten,” he muttered, after counting. “Ten of you, eh? No matter. I’m ready for you. Got my own, see? Got my own.”

Tending the lighthouse was a simple enough job. He changed out the oil every day, adjusted the valves and chimney as required, and that was that. All he had left to do was explore the detritus of the sea and avoid any ghosts.

Two lights shone in the darkness.

The first was bright and blazing, a pyre fed by two resevoirs of oil. It sputtered and flamed all through the night, casting its rays through the dark and foggy air. A thousand ships had seen that light in their time, carefully keeping their distance from the craggy and rocky shoreline that threatened their hulls.

The second was not nearly so warm nor bright. It sat atop a tiny candle, and served little more than to shed a dim glow over the bone-yellow paper being written on by the lighthouse keeper, a Mr. Thomas Salford.

This story was made using the solo RPG The Magus, by momatoes. It is a “crunchy” journaling game: while there are only seven “scenes,” you have to make choices about your character that drastically adjust the results of the story.

Eventually, the High Sorcerers learned of me, but by then it was too late. Several of the rasher youths tried to dethrone me from my tower but I had grown too powerful for them. Two lay dead, another fled while acknowledging my strength. The wiser sorcerers granted me clemency; a farce and a pantomime, but welcome all the same. I would not have been able to resist them all had they united against me.

But I was one of them now; a Sorcerer in my own right. I did not need to hide my self away and skulk through the underbrush like a timid vole. Now I was the tiger, claiming the region as my own territory.

I dreamed my ghost regularly, drifting through the streets and forests of my land. I saw the people muttering in hushed tones, disgusted at my rule. Many left my lands, eager to live free from my protection. I do not begrudge them their foolishness; I took from them rarely and their blind hatred of my power harmed only themselves. I did not even punish those who spoke out openly against my claims, as I easily could have.

It might have gone differently. Had I not had Trella’s kind heart and gentle words to keep me from the darkness, I might have gone down the same path as so many others.