My silly little piece about apathy and inappropriate behavior in public, with some sci-fi elements for spice. I submitted this as an entry last June 2022 to a certain contest hosted by a certain university and won second place. As someone who was competing against students pursuing master's degrees in Creative Writing, I think I did fairly well.
The website where this was originally published is still down as of writing.
Word count: 1279
Above the city which knows not sleep, the clouds of smog reflect the sickly sodium-yellow lights of lampposts below. In the corners untouched by illumination shadows twist and writhe: the implication of a presence both shaped and formless, existing between reality and imagination. A patch of void detaches itself from a length of darkened wall, manifesting into a man-shape as it comes underneath a lamppost. He pauses momentarily to check the time on his phone, and keeps walking.
Triste spies a familiar neon sign, half-faded against the facade, and enters the establishment. It is one of the last mixed bars in this area of the city, catering to both Augmented and un-Augmented in an age when most businesses would opt to enforce segregation. Only a handful of people occupy the tables and the counter, though physical presence in this era is the exception, not the rule.
The bartender nods in greeting as Triste seats himself at the counter. His order for tonight is something light, and the bartender slides a chilled bottle across the countertop. Triste takes a small sip and looks around: a woman sits across a man at one of the tables, their fingers intertwined on the tabletop; a group of friends at the far corner, laughing over a card game; and others like him, all drinking by themselves. An assembly of characters from various backgrounds and lives, all lonely or loved at this late hour. Which one is he?
The door to the bar opens, and the new patron who walks in reeks of burnt rubber and grease. Triste does not need to look over his shoulder to know the other patrons are watching the newcomer. They sit at the empty spot beside him, the whir of cooling fans and the subtle creak of moving metal becoming more apparent with the proximity. From the corner of his eye Triste looks at them: the dim light reflects off mechanical arms, and cropped hair reveals luminescent Augmented veins at the temple and neck. From what he can see of their features, the newcomer is beautiful, androgynous, though Triste immediately discovers he cannot remember the curve of their nose nor the jut of their chin when he looks away.
“Sorry for the smell. I know the wires stink,” they say, voice airy. Triste turns to face them.
“It’s fine,” he tells them, giving the newcomer a proper once over and barely stopping himself from grimacing at what he sees.
“I haven’t been on top of my upkeep,” they say, simply, as if the mechanical Augments aren’t one loose bolt away from falling apart. Triste looks once, twice, at the state of disrepair and knows this is the type of damage which warrants medical attention. A visit to the mechanic would do little to relieve the pain of nerve endings perpetually on fire, nor would it ease the sharp pressure of metal edges cutting into tender flesh. “I’ve been busy,” they continue, and offer a placid smile.
Triste gives no response and finishes the last dredges of his drink. The newcomer asks the bartender for a menu, and turns to Triste to ask for his opinion. “What do you recommend?” they ask, at which Triste raises an eyebrow. “I don’t go to bars very often.”
“What?”
“Recommendations?” The newcomer tilts their head, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. Triste, now slightly miffed, points out several options, fingers drumming on the countertop as the newcomer pesters him with follow-up queries. “This. One for me and one for you,” they tell him, pointing out something strong, and orders before Triste can protest.
“I don’t know your name,” Triste says, when the bartender places two glasses before them.
“Does it matter?” they say, taking a sip of their drink. Triste checks his own for signs of being spiked, only drinking after ensuring its safety. “Ah, well, I’m Nora.”
“Triste.”
Nora only blinks at him, eyes glazing over as they stare at some faraway thing beyond them and, as if remembering themselves, redirects their gaze back to their glass. Metal fingers curl around it, and Nora downs half in one swig. Triste imagines the drink traveling down their throat in a searing line and cringes.
Implants jutting out the back of Nora’s skull catch his attention: small, stubby cylinders glowing blue-green, pumping their bloodstream full of some unidentifiable liquid. The skin around them is raw, red from irritation. “Inhibitors,” Nora tells him, when they notice where his gaze is directed. “I’m not that kind of person. They’re just inhibitors. And painkillers.”
“I’ve never seen Augments like that,” Triste says. His vision blurs, for a moment, and he blinks the haziness away. “I’m not un-Augmented. I have one for my heart.”
“They’re bioware. One of the newer lines. They’re a bit sensitive. It’s terribly easy for them to get hit. Have you ever seen someone die that way?” The last part of Nora’s sentence comes out staticky—a faulty throat Augment. Triste only notices now the slight bulge beneath the skin after hearing the distortion in their voice.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah.” Nora bobs their head from left to right. “The cylinders are difficult to remove by yourself, but it’s possible. My friend was, what, fifteen? Sixteen? This was when implants were new,” they say, speech somewhat incomprehensible beneath the static. Triste strains to hear them. “She yanked hers out one time when she was upset. I remember her screaming after it came off in her hand. It was horrible, but for some reason I can’t remember anything else.”
Nora finishes the remainder of their drink, wiping their lips with the back of their hand. “I know she died on the way to the hospital. Do you think it hurt?” they continue. “It must have. I wonder how it felt. I want to—”
The static explodes into tinny feedback noise, cutting off whatever Nora is saying. The other patrons turn to look, and the bartender moves to leave his position behind the counter.
“I’ll take them outside,” Triste says, pulling Nora to their feet. The world sways as he stands. Nora does not resist, their attention fully directed to the malfunctioning throat Augment. Triste watches them claw at their throat, sees red welling up where their fingers leave gashes in the skin. He can see their lips moving, but whatever Nora might have been saying comes out as pained screeching.
The stench of piss and smoke fills his nose as Triste exits the bar, the humid air of the world outside immediately greeting him as he steps out onto the street. Nora stumbles away from him, mechanical legs sparking as their knees hit the sidewalk. The screeching continues, eventually devolving into wordless groans, followed by silence. Nora remains still where they kneel on the pavement, save for the slight movement of their shoulders as they breathe. Triste waits.
“That happens sometimes,” Nora tells him, voice airy once again, and stands up. Something dark drips down from their fingers to the sidewalk. “When I talk about my friend. Sorry.”
“You should go home,” Triste says, unsure of whether Nora understands him through the slight slur in his words.
“Okay. Good night,” they say. Then, in the clearest voice Triste has heard from them, “Take care of yourself.”
An unpleasant feeling settles in his gut as he watches Nora dust themselves off and walk home, wherever it may be. Nora will not see the sunrise, Triste knows, somehow. Perhaps this will be last time anyone will see them alive. He stares at their retreating figure, wandering and stumbling beneath sickly sodium-yellow lights in these strange minutes past midnight.
Triste takes one last look, and heads back inside.
Back in 2021 I became immensely attached to a family I created in Sims 4 to the point where I made an entire storyline for them. This was fun to write! Inspiration truly comes from the unlikeliest of places. This is the second part of a five-part series. The other parts have not yet been written because I never finish my WIPs. The backstories of the characters (and the context of this piece) are not included here.
Word count: 985
Sleet waves lap at the shores underneath pale gunmetal skies, leaving seafoam upon the sand. Sunrise was one or two hours ago, though Samuel could not see the sun behind the clouds nor feel its warmth. He steers clear of the water, unwilling to wet his shoes in the cold ocean, and watches as Lady sniffs at a mound of sand. The small spaniel digs, her paws crusted with wet sand and snow, before ambling over to where the teen stands.
Winters at Brindleton Bay are unforgiving, and Samuel maximizes his time outside before the biting wind stings underneath his many layers of clothes, before the squalls arrive to reduce the world outside to a hazy white shapelessness. Samuel leans down to pat Lady on her head, and smiles as her tail wags with every stroke. The spaniel breaks away from his touch, eventually, and resumes her exploration of the beach.
Samuel sighs. The beach is a bare expanse: absent are the morning joggers, the children playing by the water. A lone gull cries, a shrill sound against the static of waves crashing upon the shore. The teen looks up to find nothing but empty skies, and frowns as something hollow settles in his chest.
Lady barks, somewhere in the distance, and Samuel walks over to her. Thoughts brew in his mind, unwanted and unbidden, and he wills them away.
His morning walks with Lady started in the summer, when the skies were brighter and the weather hotter. Valerie thought it would do him good to leave the house from time to time, and it did, whenever he felt the Griffith residence was too large and too lonely in the twilight before dawn. The teen would have Lady on a leash, lead her through the kitchen and out the back door, and the two would jog down the boardwalk to the beach.
Lady does not have her leash now, and the vibrancy of the past summer is little more than a warm memory.
He has some time before breakfast, Samuel notes as he checks his watch. He remembers Valerie mumbling about spinach frittata the evening before, and his stomach growls at the thought. He does not look forward to meals often, but Tristan looks at him with less hatred in his eyes nowadays, and the atmosphere at the dining table has become more bearable. The other boy rarely speaks to him directly, answering him only when necessary, but Samuel prefers the silence to his glares.
A sudden pressure at his calves: Lady sits against him, tail brushing sand and snow with every wag. Samuel bends down to brush sand off her fur, and presses the tip of his finger against her wet nose. Slivers of sunlight peek behind heavy clouds, landing on something which glimmers just beyond the reach of the waves. Lady stands up as Samuel approaches it, her head tilted to one side as he plucks it from the sand.
The bottle in his hands is no larger than a soda bottle, its glass cloudy from the seawater. A piece of cork wedged in its mouth has kept its contents dry. Samuel spies a piece of parchment inside, neatly rolled and tied with a length of string, and pops off the cork. With a slight tip the parchment slides out into his hand, and Samuel tucks the bottle under his arm as he unscrolls it.
There are no words scribbled upon the parchment, no letter for some distant friend or lover: there is only a crudely drawn sketch on the yellowing paper, and laughter rings on the beach as Samuel recognizes what it is. Lady watches him clutch at his stomach, one hand gripping the piece of paper still as he laughs harder than he has in the previous months.
“Sam!”
Silence descends, suddenly, upon the snowy shore: Samuel turns his head at the call of his name to see Tristan on the boardwalk, bundled up in a thick coat and his hands resting deep in its pockets. He looks displeased, Samuel thinks, whether at the cold or at the prospect of having to interact with him, and the thought of the latter steals the laughter in his lungs and the small pleasure from before.
“Tristan?” Samuel says, walking towards him. Lady follows at his heels.
“Hey. Mom says it’s time for breakfast.” Tristan shivers, and bends down to pick up the spaniel. The three of them begin the short walk home. “It’s cold as hell out here. What’s that you’re holding?”
“Something I found on the beach.” Samuel holds up the bottle and the piece of paper.
“Message in a bottle? You don’t see those very often.”
“Not quite a message,” Samuel says. His eyes flit between Tristan and the paper, before angling it to show the other boy. “It’s…”
“A dick,” Tristan says. A small chuckle leaves him. “Is that why you spend so much time on the beach? You do know you can find them online, right?”
Samuel opens his mouth to answer, but Tristan continues before he can respond. “That was a joke,” he says and, in a quieter voice, “Mom says I should be nicer to you.”
“It’s fine, Tristan,” Samuel says. There is nothing else he could say, not now, not like this.
“Tris.” Tristan looks away. The planks of the boardwalk creak underneath them with each step. “Call me Tris. Like, y’know, when you used to when we were still friends.”
“Alright, Tris,” Samuel says. It has been years since he last called the other boy by his nickname, and the way it rolls on his tongue is both alien and familiar. “Tris.”
“Don’t wear it out, man.” Tristan shoots him a lopsided smile, and opens the back door for him. The two boys enter the house, grateful for the warmth and the breakfast on the table, and leave behind the chill of the world outside.
An "expanded" version of CasGil's Valentine Craft Essence, written in February 2021 and now published here for archival purposes. This fic doesn't really have a real title, and its file name on its original Google Docs was just 'CasGil Valentine's indulgent revamp.'
Word count: 2193
The Master is not a touchy person, Gilgamesh observes.
With the exception of the Shielder, to whom the Master often clings, and Fou, assuming the small creature counts, the Master does not initiate any physical contact with her Servants.
Though the king prefers a Master who keeps her distance, he knows how averse his Master is to being touched: she shies away from headpats given by the Sun King, and she stiffens whenever the blue Lancer slings an arm around her shoulder. A number of her Servants express no hesitation in draping themselves over her or hugging her from behind in the hallways, and often Gilgamesh finds the Master squirming away from such advances.
The Master, however conservative the girl is in offering physical affection, is generous with compliments and praise, small material gifts and invitations to meals and Rayshifts. With the arrival of “Valentine’s Day,” as some of the Servants have called the holiday, the Master is busier than ever: she flits from Servant to Servant, giving chocolates and receiving return gifts. Gilgamesh watches as she smiles at Diarmuid, who presents her with a bouquet of white roses. Red blooms on her cheeks as she takes them, her eyes scanning the small message card among the flowers, and the king approaches her after the Lancer leaves.
“My king,” the Master says, by way of greeting. The bag she carries is brimming with gifts, carefully placed alongside the chocolate she is yet to give. “I was looking for you,” she tells him, reaching into her bag. “These are for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Gilgamesh takes the chocolate, studying the red parchment paper which serves as wrapping. “I see this is the Valentine’s Day chocolate the other Servants have been talking about,” he says. “You deem this fit to be gifted to a king?”
“Handmade was the best I could manage,” the Master says. Her eyes dart to the floor, briefly, before she looks at him again. “There aren’t exactly any brand name stores around here.”
“Fool. I was not talking about the quality.” The king unwraps it, and takes a small bite. Sweet, he thinks, but not overpowering. “I was referring to the quantity. Did you intend to dine with the king for only a few minutes?”
“Oh. Should I have made more?” The Master tilts her head. “Do you like it that much?”
“You ask the wrong questions,” Gilgamesh says, taking another bite. “It seems I have no choice. Just this once, I will show you what a true Valentine’s celebration entails.”
“I’m, um, flattered, my king,” the Master says, motioning to the bag she carries, “but I still have to give the other Servants their gifts.”
The king clicks his tongue and waves her off. “Very well. Meet me in the simulator after you are finished.”
---
Gilgamesh planned, the Master discovers, a...boat ride, for the two of them: silks and plush cushions line the interior of the flat-bottomed boat, which bobs gently atop the waters of the Euphrates. The Master dips her hand into the river, leaning over the side of the boat, and watches as the surface distorts and scatters the lights of distant torches. The ziggurat sits on the opposite bank beneath innumerable stars and a lone moon, and for a moment she believes she is in Uruk again.
It is not lavish, yet retains the tastefulness and intimacy only Gilgamesh could provide. He sits near one end of the boat, lounging atop the various pillows as he peers at her with calculating eyes. “It is only right for you to be rendered speechless by the beauty of Uruk,” he tells her. The Master snatches her hand from the water and turns to him. “Though this is but a mere simulation.”
“It’s close enough to the real thing,” she says, inching closer to him. “Is this what you had planned, Gil?”
“You fool. Of course not. Do you think I would waste my time on some idle cruise?” he says, and raises a hand. A small Gate opens, and a bento box lands on his palm. He places it on the space between them, and retrieves another before the Gate closes. “This will last more than a few bites,” he starts, “unlike your paltry offering of Valentine’s chocolates. If you wish to dine with me, do it properly next time, mongrel.”
“I’m fortunate to have such a generous king,” the Master says, huffing and rolling her eyes. The smile she gives him, however, is sincere. “This was very thoughtful of you, my king.”
“Speak nothing of it.” Gilgamesh gives a dismissive wave. “The kitchens are ill-equipped to reproduce the cuisine of Uruk perfectly, and I have no intention of serving shoddy imitations. Whatever the chefs have cooked will never reach my standards, but this will suffice for you.”
“You asked the cafeteria Servants to cook for you? Really?” the Master says, sounding incredulous as she takes a bento box and places it on her lap. “No way. Emiya would never agree to that.”
“You’ve quite a mouth on you. Has a simple offering of food made you so bold?” Gilgamesh says, reaching for his own box. “I’ll forgive your impertinence tonight, mongrel.”
"Yeah, yeah. My king is too kind, or whatever," the Master says, winking at him when he shoots her a look. She removes the lid of the bento box, gasping softly when she sees the food inside. "Oh, this looks wonderful," she says. "I'll have to thank them when I get back.”
Sandwiches line the bento box, alongside choice vegetables and fruits. The Master plucks a grape from its pile, and moves closer to the king before holding it to his lips.
“Oi. Mongrel, what are you doing?” he says, frowning at her.
“Have a taste, Gil,” she says. The frown doesn’t leave his face even as he grips her wrist and bites into the fruit, juices flooding his mouth as the grape pops. He licks his lips, smirking as his Master blushes at the sight. “H-how, um,” she starts, glancing away from his face, “how is it?”
“Oh? Feed me one more, and I shall tell you,” he says, leaning closer. He does not release her wrist, not yet, and watches with no small amount of amusement as the girl attempts to shake him off and lean away from him.
The Master abandons her attempts at freeing herself, and uses her free hand to pick at another grape from the bento box on her lap. She holds it up once again, and Gilgamesh bites, letting the tip of his tongue graze the pads of her fingers. “My king!” the Master says, flinching at the sensation. “W-what一”
“It’s sweet,” he murmurs, releasing her wrist. He turns away from her and opens his own bento box. "Do not forget to partake in the king's generosity, mongrel," he tells her. The Master knows he will not say more on what transpired, and turns her attention to the food on her lap.
A conversation starts, somehow: the Master tells the king of the gifts she has received from other Servants, of how much she appreciates them and how loved she feels. Gilgamesh provides a comment or opinion here and there, content to listen to his Master ramble. “Ozy gave me Sphinx cubs,” she says, between bites of her sandwich. “I don’t know how to raise them. I would ask Nitocris for help, but the pharaoh told me not to tell her.”
“Hah! I did not think the Sun King would give you a Noble Phantasm!” Gilgamesh laughs. “A mage such as yourself would not be able to control them, much less raise them.”
“I know.” The Master falls silent, and Gilgamesh turns to her when she offers no further response. He feels rotten, somehow, as he spies her crestfallen expression. “They’re kind of like lion cubs,” she says, voice quieter now. “Didn’t you have lions when you were alive?”
“You would ask for my help in raising the Sphinxes?”
“It would be appreciated, my king, yes.” The Master looks up, face schooled into something neutral and unreadable.
“Hmph. I shall consider it.”
Though the conversation carries on, unease plagues Gilgamesh, an unpleasant weight in the pit of his stomach. Her responses are shorter, now, her silences heavier. The pair finish eating, and Gilgamesh stows the empty boxes back into the Gate of Babylon. He leans back into the cushions, expression pensive as he watches the Master move to the side of the boat to skim her fingers over the water.
“Mongrel,” he says, ignoring the huff he receives in response, “come here.”
Amber eyes turn to him, and the Master tilts her head. “What?” she says. The Master looks younger in the moonlight, Gilgamesh thinks, as the light softens sharp edges and blurs scars and blemishes.
“Must I repeat myself?” The king holds out a gauntleted hand, which she takes, gingerly. He pulls her to him, maneuvering the girl and placing her between his legs. The Master squeaks as her back collides with his chest, the king still grasping her hand. “Rejoice, mongrel!” Gilgamesh says. “Few have had the pleasure of touching the king’s body! I will permit it, just this once.”
“Gilgamesh!” the Master says, leaning away from him. “This isn't funny! Let me go!”
“Cease your fussing, you fool!” The Master stills as an arm encircles her waist, and shivers as the king whispers in her ear. “And stop being so stiff.”
“I’m not used to this,” she says, almost whines. Gilgamesh releases her hand, and wraps an arm around her chest. “It’s one thing to talk to my Servants and spend time with them, but this is…”
“I see you in the Shielder’s arms almost every day,” he tells her, pressing his cheek against the top of her head.
“Mash is different!” The Master wriggles a bit, only stopping when it becomes apparent Gilgamesh has no intention of letting her go. A sigh escapes her, and she leans against his chest. “You don’t see me hugging Sherlock or Da Vinci, do you?”
“Hmph. Yet you desire it, do you not?”
“...I-it doesn’t mean I desire you, my king!”
“Oh? Do not presume to lie to me, mongrel!” Gilgamesh laughs, and tightens his arms around her. “Endure it. This is a luxury, after all.”
The Master hears the telltale sound of a Gate opening, and blinks as the king releases her momentarily and hands her a goblet of...something. “Take this,” he tells her. The liquid sloshing inside is too dark to be scrutinized, but the smell wafting from it is fruity and somewhat sharp. The king has his own goblet which he sips from, and the Master can smell the wine from where she sits.
“Can I have a taste?” she asks. “Just this once.”
The king passes his goblet to her with a small ‘hmph,’ and the Master raises it to her lips. The wine is not as pleasant as she imagines, and the heat blooms in her chest and stomach. She passes it back to him, tongue darting out to rid her lips of the last remnants of the bitter taste. “I don’t know how you and the other Servants can tolerate it,” she tells him, taking a sip of her own drink. It tastes of cherries, and the Master tips her goblet back slightly.
The two of them drink in comfortable silence, the passing minutes easing tense muscles and silencing wayward thoughts. Minutes turn into hours, and hands start wandering over warm skin: Gilgamesh rubs circles on the Master’s stomach absentmindedly, and the Master turns to press her cheek against his chest and let her hand graze his biceps.
It is Gilgamesh who speaks first, in a tone more tender than the Master is used to, and she responds with some compliment or praise. The Master indulges him, stroking an ego she knows is already too big, and grins whenever the king tightens his hold on her.
The king chuckles when her voice becomes thick with the first hints of sleep. Gilgamesh puts away their empty goblets, and gathers her in his arms. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and the Master giggles. “My king is too sweet,” she tells him, placing a hand on his cheek. “Mash is really soft, you know, and Fou is, too, but I suppose being close to you is nice,” she admits.
“Would you have expected anything else from me?” he says, voice soft. Gilgamesh presses another kiss to her forehead, and does not expect the kiss on the cheek he receives in return.
“Mm, no, not really,” the Master says, closing her eyes. “Thank you for tonight, my king.”
The moon hangs high in the midnight sky, and Gilgamesh smiles at his sleeping Master. The river and the lands beyond are frozen in time, a mere moment recreated in the simulator from his memory and the Chaldea database. He and the girl will have to return, eventually, and Valentine's Day will end and her mission will resume. The fleeting moment between them is golden, priceless, and Gilgamesh wishes it would last forever.
A writing exercise from last year. Almost forgot I had a blog for these kinds of things. The goal was to write about a color in exactly one hundred words, and to make it a bit more fun for myself I tried to include a feeling/vibe/emotion opposite to what is usually associated with the color. I'm not very sure as to how good this actually is, but the friends I showed it to seemed to like it at the time.
Each paragraph is about a different person, but it's a bit embarrassing to say who they are, so I won't include it here.
Word count: 300 (excluding titles)
yellow
Your eyes alight upon him, and you are reminded of the heat of the rising sun, of endless fields of golden blooms underneath pearlescent skies. His voice is rich honey flowing from his lips. You imagine the warmth of his touch, his affection, his lips peppering kisses upon yours. His smiles, however, are joyless, and his laughter holds no mirth. Your fields wilt underneath the snows of his cruelty, your suns obscured behind clouds of his indifference. No warmth emanates from him: his words are the chill of winter, as sharp as steel between your ribs. Your imaginings are foolish.
red
A brush sits snug between your fingers, and upon a blank canvas you press its bristles and begin to paint him. Your movements are quick, practiced, your strokes marring pristine white: passionate scarlet and raging crimson, a contrast of colour against the monotonous expanse. You peer at him as he lounges atop garnet cushions and silk sheets: his expression is relaxed, and his body is devoid of tension. The rise and fall of his chest is subtle, almost imperceptible. It is rare to see such stillness, yet as serenity adorns his features, you allow him this brief moment of respite.
blue
The man puts you into mind of aquamarine waves tempering vivid reds and mellow greens. The chromatic spectrum yields to him, to the encompassing blue of an unending ocean, pierced by sunbeams and wreathed in shadow. Oftentimes you find yourself drawn to him, your curiosity piqued by the abyssal depths where blue becomes an inky black. There are times, however, when you fear the dangers in the shallows, hidden underneath crystalline waters. You remain upon the sand, avoiding the reach of the tide, only for him to take your hand and pull you towards the ocean underneath an endless sky.
Last year I challenged myself to write stories based off songs. Ten songs and ten stories, over the course of ten days. I was only able to finish this one, which happened to be a fanfic.
I based this fic on Hozier’s ‘From Eden,’ and the characters (Aziraphale and Crowley) are from Neil Gaiman’s ‘Good Omens.’ I wrote this in one sitting, and it’s unedited, though I don’t think it’s that bad. I hope it’s not.
Word count: 615
It was eleven in the morning, and Crowley was unsure of why he was here.
The day was warm: the demon had foregone his suit jacket and tie, and he wore his dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up. A cool breeze would blow occasionally, ruffling his dark hair and the roses he held in his hand.
To the casual observer, he might have looked like a dashing young man out to take his lover on a date, and nothing could be further from the truth. While he did consider himself to be in possession of some degree of attractiveness, he did not have someone to take out on a date, and he decided that he would never have one if he didn’t make a move now.
Crowley was leaning on his Bentley, watching people on the sidewalk of Soho as he waited for himself to gather enough courage and walk to the bookshop at the corner. Aziraphale would have opened his shop at this time, and Crowley knew that if he were to pass by the large windows, he would see the angel behind the counter, or arranging his books, and perhaps he would look up and see the demon outside the door and smile at him, and Crowley lost himself in his thoughts.
He had no inkling of when his feelings had first appeared. Perhaps it had been after their dinner together, a handful of weeks ago at the Ritz, or maybe it had formed years ago, only manifesting now when it had grown too large to ignore. Crowley didn’t know. He only knew that he was too much of a coward to tell Aziraphale what he felt.
It was twenty past the hour now, although Crowley was too troubled to realize. If he confessed to Aziraphale, would the angel even return his feelings? It would be rather awkward if he did not, for he was the only person on the planet who existed as Crowley did, and there was no doubt that there would be more interactions between them in the future. If he did return his feelings, however, there was not only the risk of separation, but a chance that Above and Below would discover them, and Crowley was not entirely sure if either of the two would approve.
Still. Crowley did not allow himself to think that this would be doomed before it even had the chance to start, and confessions only earned ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ anyway. There was a fifty-fifty chance. Crowley sighed, and started walking.
* * *
The bookshop was quiet, just as Aziraphale liked it. He exited the back room after a rather peaceful session of attending to his older, more fragile books, and dusted off his sweater and trousers. He spied a figure in white and black that he swore looked like Crowley (it was the sunglasses the man wore) running past the front of his shop, and the angel walked over to the glass pane to peer into the world outside.
The sky was blue and cloudless. Aziraphale watched the civilians walking past storefronts to see if the man was among them, but could not find anyone who resembled him. He was about to step back from the pane when he spied something at his doorstep, and quickly went to the front door to see what it was.
There was a moment of surprise, followed by a profound confusion, as he looked at the roses abandoned before his door. He picked them up to see if it held the name of whoever left it, but found none. He picked up the bouquet and headed back inside, his head full of questions only one person could have answered.
This story was first posted on Write the World on February 27, 2018 as a submission for a flash fiction competition with the theme “Monster.” This didn’t win, but a number of people liked it, despite being my first work after a rather long period of inactivity. I don’t quite know how to feel about this piece.
Word count: 216
There is pain, suddenly, sharp and fleeting: her hand connects with his cheek, and the silence that follows the resounding slap is thick and tangible.
Apologies come rushing forth, practiced and familiar, and a hand comes up to cup reddened skin, thumb brushing away the lingering sting.
His eyes, shiny with the tears he refuses to shed, are hard as he pushes her away. There is confusion, and indignation, and it is her tears that are the first to escape.
It pains him to see her like this---then again, what truly hurts more? The answer is lost in a sea of thoughts, and he turns around, anger and sadness roiling in his mind like a furious storm as he walks away.
She will apologize again later, be it after a few hours or after a few days. Her apologies always come, and so do her promises never to hurt him again. He will accept them, and he will accept her, as he always does, yet deep in their hearts they know that promises made are never kept and always broken.
They love each other, or at least they try to convince themselves that they do. He knows what she is, and he knows that the worst monsters are those who don't know they are one.
This story was first posted on Write the World on August 10, 2017 as a submission for a flash fiction competition. It didn’t win, but I received nice reviews about it, so I’m still pretty proud of it.
Word count: 99
Water runs down chilled skin in small rivulets. A watch ticks atop a nearby sink, its hands inching towards midnight. A hand grasps it, and tired eyes regard it warily.
Thoughts rush past: of open books and scrawled notes, the schedule for tomorrow's exams.
Silence permeates the bathroom. Steam blurs a mirror above the sink, but no hand comes to wipe it: reflected in it is the face of someone run ragged, better left unseen.
The student dries himself off. A sigh leaves his lips: he must prioritize his studies, even when sleep calls him. Grades over health, always.
I’ve had an idea for a ghost story way back, and I was able to write one as a submission for my school’s creative writing compilation, Dalumat. It was accepted, though the issue of Dalumat this story is in has not yet been released. I don’t know if I should take this down, but if the teacher in charge of Dalumat has no complaints about this (in the event he sees this), I’ll keep it posted here.
Word count: 2976
i: the event
The eastern sky is dark with the impending night, the west still aflame with the last vestiges of sunset. The river below mirrors the twilight tones, its cold, choppy waters dappled with hints of warm orange. A figure stands at its banks, a lump at its side, both blanketed in darkness. Brown eyes scan the waters, and deft fingers reach down to unclasp and remove leather shoes.
Socks slide off smooth skin, thrown carelessly atop the shoes. Warm hands grasp a cold one, and pulls it towards the river. “Damn, you’re heavy,” a voice murmurs, almost drowned out by the rough sound of cloth and flesh being dragged atop soil. The figure walks backward, feeling for the river as best as she can with every step towards it. One foot eventually steps into cold water, and the sensation of wetness tears a yelp from her throat.
“Alright, just a few more steps,” she tells herself. The bank slopes deeper down into the river, and the girl gathers up her skirt as the water reaches her knees. Her foot moves under the water, and her breath catches in her throat when she feels the beginning of a sharp decline behind her.
The girl moves forward a few steps, enough to ensure that she is not in danger of falling in. Her eyes glance down to the body at her feet, a shadowy mass almost hidden in the darkness of the water, and she pulls it towards the decline. The head falls, first, followed by the torso and the legs. The feet, still in shoes, are the last to fall in, and she lets go as the body grows heavier in her grasp.
Her steps are cautious as she trudges back to dry land. She slips on her socks and shoes, and jogs back to a chain-link fence separating the school grounds from the riverbank. A portion of the fence is dominated by a hole, large enough for a teen to fit through. The girl crouches down and passes through it, avoiding the sharp ends of cut wire, and disappears into the night.
ii: the next day
“Thomas is missing.”
N stiffens. “Yeah, and?”
“The school’s looking for him. His parents said he didn’t return home last night.”
“Cool.”
“Aren’t you even a bit concerned?”
N rolls her eyes, and takes a bite of the waffle in her hand. The cafeteria is bathed in a sweltering heat: students fans themselves at their tables, cold drinks dripping with condensation before them. “I don’t see any reason why I should be, Angie,” she says. Beads of sweat drip down her forehead, and she pats at them, irritably, with a damp handkerchief.
“What the hell?” Angie hisses, hands slamming down onto the tabletop. Strands of black hair come loose from her bun as she leans forward, her eyes narrowed in a glare. N raises an eyebrow at her, her arms crossed over her uniform. “He’s our batchmate—isn’t that reason enough?”
“You know I don’t care for our batch,” N says, waving a hand in dismissal. “He’s not even my friend.”
An irritated noise from Angie: the sound is rough in her throat, almost a growl. “You keep saying that, yet almost every afternoon I see you two together.”
The reaction is immediate: brown eyes widen, and N opens her mouth to interject. Angie continues, nevertheless, and N’s words die on her tongue. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, Nectar,” Angie tells her, “but you actually need to be friends with someone before you can go strolling with them around school.”
Silence is N’s response. The expression on her face is unreadable: the girl looks as if she is about to lash out, or cry. She does neither, and instead allows a sigh to escape her lips. There is a defeated look about her, a bone-deep weariness, and she takes another bite of her snack before saying, in a voice barely above a whisper, “He’s not my friend.”
A breeze blows through the trees outside, refreshing in its chill, and in the rustling of leaves N hears soft laughter, rich and dark, echoing from some faraway place. Her head whips around, suddenly, her eyes darting around the area. Angie’s words of surprised concern barely register, and N feels her heart pound in her chest as she stills in her chair.
“N?” Angie asks, peering over her friend’s head. “Hey, what are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” N answers, eventually. She remains twisted in her seat, watching the students go about their business around her. “Nothing.”
Angie is quiet, and she settles in her seat. “Alright then,” she says, before reaching down to rifle in the backpack at her feet. She straightens up with a notebook in her hand. “I need to finish the homework,” she says, an apologetic look in her eyes. “…Help me?”
“Oh, sure.” N turns back to Angie, who opens her notebook at a specific page. The former is soon lost in equations, yet her eyes would dart up at times, to look at the students who walk past, her ears listening to the cacophony of voices for the laughter of the dead.
iii: a month later
“You have to stop hoping, N.”
“Hoping for what?”
“Thomas. That he’s coming back.”
A grunt. “What makes you think I want him back?”
Will turns to her with an incredulous look, to which N responds with a shrug. “You were in love with him, Nectar,” he tells her. “I know he didn’t exactly love you back, but—”
“Enough,” Nectar snaps, leaning forward. Will holds his hands up in surrender, and N exhales. When she speaks again, her words are soft, lacking the venom of earlier. “You don’t need to remind me. I still don’t want him back.”
“Alright, alright.”
The third floor classroom is empty. N sits atop the windowsill, eyes watching the world outside. “It’s a nice day,” she comments. She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and crosses her legs at the ankles.
“So it is.” Will leans against the windowsill, chin tucked in his hand. The sky outside is the blue, cloudless sky of high summer. Students loiter near the tables outside the cafeteria, the faint sound of their chatter reaching to where N sits. “It’s weird to look outside and not see the school crawling with policemen.”
“And the crying kids. They’ve been annoying me for some time now, all crying ‘Thomas, oh Thomas.’ Sheesh.”
N looks down, and spies a handful of students discreetly wiping their eyes with the backs of their hands. “I think there still are,” Will says. “They’re just a bit more discreet, is all.”
“I wish they’d just st—” The words are cut off by a yawn. N covers her mouth with a handkerchief, and Will pats her leg. “Ngh, sorry. I haven’t been sleeping much these past few days.”
“Same. Requirements?”
“You could say that.” N does not mention the dreams, and the times that she wakes up in the middle of the night, arms thrashing, as if she were trying to keep herself afloat in an abysmal sea. She does not say anything about the shadows in hallways, and the faceless dark spectres at the edges of her vision. She does not mention these things, and instead she says, “I’m just trying to finish the last ones before school ends.”
“They shouldn’t even give us requirements this late, honestly,” Will says, straightening up. He stretches, and looks over his shoulder as their classmates enter the room. “Come on, let’s sit down before the teacher arrives.”
Will helps N down from the ledge, hands on her waist and hers on his upper arms. Their eyes meet, for a moment, until N looks down and away. When she looks up again, she stiffens in his arms, and Will frowns.
“N? You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she answers, and does not mention that she can see Thomas standing at the doorway. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
iv: years after
Darkness shrouds the blind spots, the small spaces hidden from the prying eyes of the public and CCTV cameras. There are several scattered around the school, all untouched by the glow of fluorescent lights, and in one such spot, Will has N pinned to the wall, his hands on her wrists and his lips on hers.
It is N who breaks the kiss. She wrings her hands free from her partner’s grasp, and links them at the nape of his neck. Will places his own hands on her hips, and asks, “How was that?”
“Good enough,” N murmurs. “Better than the last time, I think?”
“Practice makes perfect, then.”
N raises an eyebrow at his words, and smirks. “And who have you been practicing with?”
“Just you,” Will tells her, and leans down to press his lips against hers.
“I could kiss you all day,” N tells him. A flash of white at the corner of her eye catches her attention, and she twitches when she sees what it is. “Hey, Will? Do you want to go somewhere else? It’s cold in here.”
“Doesn’t feel that cold.” Will wraps his arms around her waist and rests his forehead on hers. “Although if you do feel cold, I could always warm you up.”
To his surprise, N pushes him away. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and she looks around wildly. She reminds him of an animal pacing in its cage, all too anxious to escape, but from what, Will did not know. “I’d rather not stay here, Will,” she tells him.
“Hey, what’s the matter? Are you alright?”
N hesitates, for a moment. “I-it’s Thomas,” N says, with urgency. She raises a hand and points to a spot behind Will. “He’s right there.”
“N? What are you talking about?” Will asks, but the girl in his arms does not seem to hear him. He looks at where N is pointing, and sees nothing but darkness. “There’s no one there.”
“He’s, hell, he’s walking towards us.” N takes Will by the wrist and pulls him away from the blind spot. “Will, we need to go, come on.”
“N, I’m not going anywhere. Thomas is gone, remember?”
“I know, but—shit, Will, he’s just there, don’t let him get to me, don’t let him get to me!”
Will pulls N to his chest before she can bolt, and he grunts as her nails dig into his skin. “N,” he says, “there is no one there.”
“I can see him,” N whispers. She glances at the darkness behind Will, and relaxes when she sees that Thomas is no longer there. “I can see Thomas. It used to be all shadows, then the shadows became him, and I can see Thomas, Will.”
“How long has his been going on?” In Will’s arms, N trembles.
“Ever since he disappeared.”
“Have you told anyone?”
N shakes her head. “Just you.”
Will sighs, and releases N. “This is hard to take in, N,” he tells her. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I don’t think now’s the right time to talk about it. It’s late, and we’re both tired.”
“You don’t believe me,” N says.
“I just said that I’m not saying I—”
“God, I shouldn’t have told you. Why did I think I could tell you?”
N does not stay for Will’s reply. She runs away, runs in the darkness, towards the borders of the school. She does not mind the students who see her run past, only intent on reaching her destination. N does not know how much time has passed, when she reaches the borders, and does not think of her actions as she ducks underneath the hole in the fence. The cut metal slices into her skin, and dark red, almost black in the darkness, drips down her arm.
She does not stop moving until she reaches the edge of the river. The banks reek of decomposing waste, and the sky above is deep blue and moonless. Sweat drips down her forehead, and tears prick at the corner of her eyes. “Leave me alone, Thomas!” N yells, her voice carrying over calm waters. “What do you want from me? Why do you hang around me in death when you never could in life?”
No reply comes, nor does Thomas appear. N pants, eyes scanning the waters for some sign of him, and falls to her knees when it becomes apparent that Thomas is not there with her. She begins to doubt all the times she had ever seen him throughout the years, and that this, perhaps, was just her own sick way of coping, of coming to terms with the guilt that haunted her.
There on the riverbank, among the wastes and patches of grass, N holds her face in her hands, and weeps.
In the handful of years that follow, N does not see Thomas again.
v: the end
Branches sway in the breeze outside the school auditorium, and N brushes off a stray leaf that had landed atop her head. She stands in the tree’s shadow, clad in her school uniform. Her hair is styled into an updo, and the makeup that adorns her face is faint, almost unnoticeable. She holds her diploma in one hand, and watches as students and their parents stream out of the auditorium exit.
She has already said her goodbyes, has embraced friends she might not ever see again. There is an emptiness in her chest as she sees the faces of those she has spent the last six years with, and the sigh that leaves her is laced with longing.
“N, hey.”
N turns her head towards the voice, and sees Will. The graduation cap is still perched on his head, but the toga is nowhere to be seen. “You still have to give the cap back, you know,” N tells him, in way of greeting. Over a year has passed since he ended their relationship, and her heart aches at the sight of him.
“Yeah, I know,” Will says, and removes the cap. “Where are your parents?”
“Went to get the car. Was there anything you wanted to tell me?”
“Well, I…” Will pauses, then, and says, “I just wanted to wish you good luck in college.”
“Oh,” N replies, and hopes that the boy before her did not hear the disappointment in her voice. “I see. Good luck in college, too, then.”
When Will smiles at her, it takes all her strength to smile back.
A car honks nearby, and N perks up. A red sedan is parked near the sidewalk, its hazard lights flashing. “That’s my car. I should get going,” she says. “See you, Will.”
“See you, N.”
N starts walking towards the car, only to stop in her tracks by a call of her name. She looks up to see who it was, and sees Thomas standing where she and Will had been. He is wearing the uniform he died in, and N could see where the patches of wet cloth stuck to his skin. His eyes are obsidian pools, deep and unending, and staring right at N.
“Go away,” N whispers, and she hears the disbelief and fear in her trembling voice. “Go away.”
Thomas does not. N looks at him, waiting for his next move, and sees him smile.
The smile is devoid of any life or warmth, and sight of it sends chills down N’s spine. It is then that something inside her tells her to run, and N does not think twice before she sprints towards her car. Her hand flings the door to the backseat open, and closes it with enough force for her to earn a comment from her parents.
“Were you able to say goodbye to your friends?” her father asks from the passenger seat. Her mother turns off the hazard lights, and starts driving.
“Oh, yeah,” N answers, slightly out of breath. She leans forward in her seat, and rests her forehead on her knees. “I got to say goodbye.”
N turns her head and glances out the window, and wishes she had not. Thomas’s smiling visage is directly outside, and N can see details of his face she had not noticed before: blood drips down the side of his head, and his face is a sickly greenish-black. His cheeks and lips are gouged, all fish-eaten and swollen, and his smile widens, slowly, into an unnerving grin.
“Goodbye, N,” he says, in a gurgling voice that echoes in her mind. N is transfixed at the sight, and wonders briefly how he is able to keep up with the speed of the car, and decides that it does not matter. She continues to watch him as the car passes through the school gates, and only straightens up as his face suddenly disappears.
He reappears at the bars of the school fence, and N stares at the smiling face looking at her, watching as it slowly disappears from sight as the car moves further away. The girl only settles in her seat once the school itself is too far to be seen, and her heart beats strangely in her chest. A phantasmagoria of memories play over in her mind, all from long ago: late nights on her bed, her notes for tomorrow’s exam scattered around her; stealing kisses in the small, dark spaces, bathed in shadows and affection; the sweltering heat of the cafeteria during lunch, surrounded by incoherent chatter and raucous laughter; and one afternoon by the river, a bloodied stone in her hand a dead body at her feet.
The memories are clear as day as she recalls them, and N is struck by a realization, then, as she leaves her school forever, that what we leave behind, does not truly leave us.
Back in 2015, I was in charge of worldbuilding for a school fair. Two years later, I decided to re-visit the world I (and two others) had created, and this is what happened.
Background: The country of Fyzai is divided into four Divisions: Mars, Visioneer, Beacon, and Czar. The Divisions are overseen by Command, which is opposed by the rebel faction, Entity. The two agencies fight over possession of Phlogiston, a machine capable of reversing entropy.
Word count: 297
COMMAND TOWER
MARS DIVISION
0545 HOURS
The pre-dawn silence is broken, suddenly, by the rev of the first cars that race through the dimly lit streets of Mars. The sound reaches Walter Major in his apartment, storeys above the asphalt roads, and the Head of Command shifts in his sleep, sheets coming to tangle around his bare chest.
His bedroom is lit by the weak sunlight that filters through the curtains. Bioluminescent moss sit in jars, all placed in strategic locations inside the room, their blue glow dim in the grey morning light.
An alarm rings, trembling atop its perch on a bedside table. Walter reaches out to turn it off, and he sits up in bed, ice-blue eyes taking in the darkness of his bedroom. His feet swing over the edge of the bed, coming to rest on chilly, grey tiles. He stretches and stands up, almost reluctantly, and walks over to the thick curtains hiding the world from him.
The fabric is rough in his hands as he parts it. The Mars skyline greets him, a jagged line of skyscrapers and towers, and above them, the pearlescent skies of the east, tinted with the soft orange of the rising sun.
Walter scratches at the stubble on his chin, a tired groan growling in his throat. Already he feels the weariness in his body, the dead weight of fatigue in his bones. He thinks of the Silencers prowling the Division battlements, of Entity spies planning his demise in the Wastelands. Images of that ungodly machine, all pipes and gauges and bright, bright lights, resting deep in the mountains of Visioneer plague his thoughts, and he presses his forehead against the cool glass.
A sigh escapes him as he turns away from the window, and he steels himself for the new day.
My mother prefers travelling late at night due to the fact that traffic is nonexistent at that time and it cuts the travel time in half. This is what being on the road at eleven in the evening is like.
Word count: 207
The streets are lit, and music plays from the radio as a murmur against the sounds of the car. Headlights from other vehicles shine harshly in the night, a contrast against the darkness of closed establishments. Figures linger in the shadows, while some prefer to stand by the weak light of 24/7 shops as they stare out into the street with eyes that look but did not see.
The city is alive, somewhat mellowed by the late hour but alive nonetheless. A horn blares, somewhere, pressed in frustrated desperation. The populace knows not sleep, for it evades them, as apparent by the amount of cars that rush past ours on the asphalt. Whatever rest they have is comprised of tossing and turning on a bed unused, their sleep made fitful by the looming threat of the coming dawn.
My seat is comfortable, and the seat belt holds me in place. No stars dot the skies; rather, it is the blinking light of airplanes that twinkles in their place. It is already past midnight and, later, we will enter a town where all is quiet and all is dark, where Orion shines above the foliage of our fruit trees, and I will be home.
