Some inspiration for tabletop fantasy RPG’s I do not own any of the art I post, if you are the owner of anything I post and want it removed please let me know. Credit for profile picture goes to: Bee @boaillustration Brilliant artist on twitter, check them out. Credit for the background image goes to http://dndspeak.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/90cf36ed118ba1b209dc53785d122b61.jpg
The dice have stopped rolling. The heroes are gone. The story isn’t over.
When the last adventurer falls, the world they left behind begins to unravel. In the shadow of an abandoned tabletop campaign, the ancient Shade of Antrix rises, hungry for vengeance and power.
Now, the overlooked and the ordinary—a town leader with only ruins left, a scholar chasing legends, a scarred exile, a lost orphan, and a kobold filled with kindness—must defy the roles they were given.
As the game is forgotten, monsters awaken, secrets unravel, and the fate of everything rests in the hands of those who were never supposed to be heroes.
“When the game ends, the story truly begins.”
Available now on Amazon worldwide!
Link
Hi! I’m Michael, and The Last Stand of The Forgotten is my debut novel.
I’m a lifelong lover of fantasy, but my biggest inspiration comes from years of playing and running tabletop RPGs (TTRPGs) with friends. There’s something magical about the way a dice roll, a quiet campfire scene, or a single character’s small act of kindness can change the course of a story. I believe the little moments—shared meals, inside jokes, scars that never quite heal—are what make a world feel real, even when the stakes are epic.
This book is my love letter to those “in-between” moments: the awkward silences, the found family, the side quests that end up mattering more than the main plot. If you’ve ever stayed up late after a game session talking about what your characters would do next, or if you love stories where the world feels lived-in and every character has a story, I wrote this for you.
As a first-time writer, I’m both excited and nervous to share this adventure with you. If you’re a fellow TTRPG fan, a lover of character-driven fantasy, or just someone who finds meaning in the small details, I hope you’ll find something to love here—and maybe see a bit of yourself in these pages.
Let’s talk about the stories that stick with us, the dice rolls that change everything, and the little moments that make the adventure worth it. Feel free to reach out, share your own stories, or just say hi!
I've finally gotten round to publishing my book after some personal delays. It is just going through review now and should be available on Amazon through Kindle in the next few days (I'll be popping a new post with a link once it goes up).
For now, I wanted to share my Blurb for anyone who may have an interest in TableTop inspired fiction:
The dice have stopped rolling. The heroes are gone. The story isn’t over.
When the last adventurer falls, the world they left behind begins to unravel. In the shadow of an abandoned tabletop campaign, the ancient Shade of Antrix rises, hungry for vengeance and power. The darkness grows. The players have moved on. But the world’s fate is still being written.
Now, the overlooked and the ordinary—a town leader with only ruins left, a scholar chasing legends, a scarred exile, a lost orphan, and a kobold filled with kindness—must defy the roles they were given. As the game is forgotten, these unlikely companions must face monsters, secrets, and a world not created to care about them.
Every choice echoes in a world abandoned by its creators. Every sacrifice matters. And as the shadows close in, the forgotten must decide: will they fade into memory, or become the legends their world needs?
Epic fantasy meets found family in a tale of courage, grief, and the power of those left behind. Perfect for fans of character-driven adventure, subverted tropes, and stories where even the smallest voice can change the world.
See the magic that lingers after the game ends.
I'll do a proper post about this soon with a link, but honestly I'm just excited and wanted to share.
I've put together a (terrible) mockup of my book cover and would love any recommendations or input from anyone who has some thoughts:
Ultimately I would love to speak to an artist who could put something proper together for me since I never want to use AI when there are some truly talented artists out there. Of course once I get to that point I would love to commision some work from someone.
For now I'm looking for ideas and feedback. This is super rough and just what I could cobble together with some free tools and Microsoft Word 😅
This is a book about NPC's saving their world after players in a game of D&D royally mess up and abandon their game. Its supposed to be slower, softer, kinder, and gentler, all while facing the realities of living in a world that is a game for beings that never feel the consequences of their actions.
I've written a book! As in I'm in the last few stages of editing and trying to work out how to get a pretty cover together, so if anyone knows anyone that fancies trying their hand please let me know!
My book is about NPC's in a world where the player characters were so awful, they died at the final boss, leaving the people that actually live in that world to clean up the mess.
I'm aiming to post a few bits and pieces on here and share some thoughts, so any and all feedback is welcome! Any wisdom is appreciated.
I've focussed on a slower narrative where you get to feel the lives so often ignored around people's adventures, as well as facing both the joy and trauma that these adventures bring. I'll hopefully be posting some bits that should give you a better idea of what's ahead, and if you're interested please reach out!
So there you sat, perched upon your branch, watching the forest shiver with the pulsing beat of life. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers. You observed how the sun danced through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that flickered like whispers on the forest floor. The roots burrowed among the rabbit warrens and badger dens, like ancient veins.
You could have sat there for a moment or a millennium, knowing that all of it was the same, singular moment. You danced beneath the moon, its silver light bathing the world in a ghostly glow. You laughed under autumn leaves, their crisp crunch shifting beneath your feet, and napped beneath spring buds, the air alive with the fragrance of new growth. And all was good.
The first time you felt the acrid tang of iron, you would have retched if not for your curiosity. The scent of copper underlay it, inviting, calling. The forest was still, the bruised, grey sky above holding back a torrent of rain that had threatened to burst for days, yet it spat, barely holding back its deluge for... something.
You followed the scent, your chest thrumming lightly at the thought, the sensation as the world around you held its breath. The leaves rustled softly, a whispering chorus that seemed to guide you. And there he lay, curled inward like a wounded deer. You had seen how your four-legged friends would stagger through the forest, from the barely adolescent fawn to the mightiest stag. How they would limp and chuff and shiver as their blood coated the ground.
A thing of iron buried into them, an intruder in every sense of the word, as the humans would track and trail and taunt. Now, you stand on the edge of a clearing, the sky shivering above, as a man lay curled around another thing of iron, blood seeping into the ground, his own chuffing breath laboured and short.
You approach his crumpled form. He was bigger than you, yet... so small. His eyes leaked dazzling tears that shimmered to the ground, the lustre lost to the dirt below. Blood coated him, the thing of iron deep in his gut as you watched. You felt yourself lean over, curious, concerned.
You flinched as his eyes flicked open, locking onto you, sharp and sudden, before growing dull by the second, his laboured breaths so shallow. He didn't flinch when you touched his shoulder, cold and fragile as his body cradled the thing of iron, the scent of blood and earth sweet between the stench of unnatural things.
The blood sang to you, not like the pulse of the forest. The forest was calm and rhythmic, methodical and melodious. But this blood... The blood was primal and cruel and shimmered with malice, but below it all, under the aroma of violence, the cruel beat of vicious drums... Was a melody all its own.
It tasted unlike all of nature that had tantalised your tongue. Sweeter than the richest honey, earthier than the forest mushrooms. The nectars of life were better, stronger, hardier than this human's blood. Yet it captivated you as bursts of light shimmered over your eyes, and your lips stained with blood.
You caressed his cheek, so cold. Barely a whisper passed his lips as his bleeding slowed, his aching heart unable to follow the demands of the spirit trapped within its wounded shell. Your lips stained his tear-soaked cheek, the burst of exquisite flavour sending you reeling as you turned his head towards the roiling sky.
And you tasted him, truly. His lips, while cold, were burning and hurt almost as much as the stinging burn as you gripped the blade in his stomach. Hunger. Need. Desire. It was as primal as the thrum of his blood.
And as your flesh burned from the poisonous, corrupting iron, you drew it from his parted flesh and cast it into the forest. You pressed on the wound, vestiges of blood flowing over your hand as you kissed him, the throbbing, pulsing, frantic pace of his blood, his lips, his tears making you shiver.
His body shuddered as his lips parted, burning as they were against your own. You didn't need to hold his wound any longer, as his shaking hand lifted from the ground, to kiss you back in the cruellest way as his eyes fluttered closed.
The silver scar shimmered as rain began to fall, the tantalising, gasping kiss left you laying over him, head on his chest as lightning thundered above, the sound of his heart thrumming in your ears.
We find ourselves in a cosy, warmly lit living room. The soft glow of the fireplace casts a gentle light across the room, highlighting the shelves filled with books and the plush blankets draped over the couch. I sit comfortably, glasses perched on my nose, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in my hands. The rich aroma of cocoa fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of vanilla candles.
Beside me, you sit, your eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth. Your playful smile makes my heart race. You reach over, gently nudging me with your shoulder. “You know,” you say with a teasing tone, “you look absolutely adorable when you’re lost in thought.”
I chuckle, a look out the corner of my eye showing my ’annoyance’ and hunger. “And you,” I reply, “make me want to keep you here till you know you can’t escape.”
You laugh, a sound that feels like music to my ears. We both settle into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. The world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of us in this perfect, cosy bubble.
We talk about everything and nothing, sharing stories, dreams, and gentle touches. Your hand finds mine, fingers intertwining, and I squeeze gently, feeling the warmth of your love. The room is filled with a serene silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fireplace and the soft rustle of pages as I turn them. The world outside feels distant and unimportant, as if time itself has slowed down just for us.
I pick up the book I’ve been reading and start to read aloud, my voice soft and steady. I attempt to give each character a unique voice, but my efforts are more comical than convincing. You laugh, a sweet, melodic sound that makes my heart swell with joy. Despite my terrible job at the voices, you listen intently, your eyes sparkling with amusement.
Between passages, I pause to stroke your head gently, my fingers running through your hair. “And then the brave knight said,” I continue, trying to deepen my voice dramatically, “My lady, with the venom in my veins I’ll perish, please, help me cleanse myself,”
You giggle, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at this,” you tease, but your smile is full of affection.
I lean in and kiss your forehead, my lips lingering for a moment. “I know,” I reply with a grin, “but at least I’m mildly entertaining.”
You snuggle closer, resting your head on my shoulder. The book lies forgotten in my lap as we sit there, wrapped in each other’s warmth. The calm and comfortable love we share is palpable, gentle, and effortless. It’s in the way our hands fit perfectly together, the way your laughter lights up the room, and the way my heart feels full just being near you.
As the evening progresses, the atmosphere shifts slightly. I stand up, a playful glint in my eye. “Come on,” I say, pulling you to your feet. “I have an idea.”
Curious, you follow me to the back of the house, where a door leads to a hidden staircase. I lead you up, and we find ourselves in a secret attic space. There’s a sense of magic in the air, as if we’ve stepped into a different world.
The room is bathed in a soft, warm glow from the fairy lights that drape across the ceiling like a canopy of stars. As you look closer, you notice that each light is encased in a delicate, hand-blown glass orb, each one unique with tiny imperfections that make them all the more beautiful. The walls are adorned with vintage tapestries, their intricate patterns telling stories of far-off lands and ancient times.
In one corner, there’s a small, antique writing desk, its surface cluttered with old maps, quills, and bottles of ink. The wood is worn and polished from years of use, and you can almost imagine the countless letters and stories that have been penned there. A closer look reveals tiny carvings along the edges of the desk, depicting scenes of mythical creatures and enchanted forests.
Scattered around the room are various trinkets and curiosities: a brass telescope mounted on a tripod, its lenses gleaming in the light; a collection of ornate, leather-bound books with titles in languages you can’t quite decipher; and a delicate porcelain music box, its lid painted with a scene of a moonlit garden. When you wind it up, it plays a soft, haunting melody that fills the room with a sense of nostalgia.
The floor is covered with a patchwork of rugs, each one a different colour and texture, creating a cozy, inviting space. As you walk across them, you notice the subtle variations in the weave and the intricate patterns that seem to tell their own stories. There’s a large, overstuffed armchair near the window, draped with a knitted throw blanket that looks like it was made with love and care.
Near the window, there’s a small, round table with a crystal ball resting on a velvet cloth. The ball catches the light from the fairy lights, casting tiny rainbows around the room. You can’t help but feel a sense of wonder as you take in all the details, each one adding to the magical atmosphere of the attic.
I grin, handing you a small, intricately carved box. The box itself is a work of art, made from rich, dark mahogany wood. Its surface is adorned with delicate carvings of swirling vines and blooming flowers, each petal and leaf etched with meticulous precision. The edges are trimmed with a fine gold inlay, catching the light and adding a touch of elegance. The lid is hinged with tiny, ornate brass fittings, and at the centre, there’s a small, polished emerald embedded within the wood, glinting mysteriously.
“Open it,” I say.
Inside is a collection of old-fashioned keys, each one unique. The keys are nestled in a bed of deep blue velvet, their metallic surfaces gleaming softly. As you look closer, a few keys stand out compared to the rest.
One key is made of silver, its bow shaped like a delicate butterfly with intricately detailed wings. The shaft is slender and smooth, ending in a series of tiny, precise notches. Another key is larger, made of aged bronze, with a bow that resembles an ancient Celtic knot, its loops and twists forming an endless pattern. The shaft of this key is thicker, with a series of runes engraved along its length, hinting at some long-forgotten language.
A third key catches your eye, made of a dark, almost black metal. Its bow is shaped like a dragon’s head, with tiny ruby eyes that seem to glow in the dim light. The shaft is textured, resembling scales, and the bit is jagged and complex, as if it’s meant to unlock something truly special.
“What are these for?” you ask, intrigued.
“An adventure,” I reply with a wink that’s so bad it makes you laugh before I can continue. “Each key opens a different door in this attic, leading to something new.”
You look up, seeing me stepping to the side, lifting a tapestry that fell all the way to the floor, concealing a hallway that had every kind of illumination along its walls. Ducking within you see a hallway that continues on in an infinite curve that felt dizzying, me moving closer and steadying you with a gentle kiss on the top of your head as I whisper in your ear.
“Let’s explore.”
We spend the rest of the night unlocking doors, discovering hidden rooms filled with wonders. Each key reveals a new and enchanting space, each more magical than the last.
The first key, the silver one with the butterfly bow, opens a door to a room that feels like stepping into a fairy tale. The walls are lined with shelves filled with delicate glass jars, each containing a different type of butterfly, their wings shimmering in the soft light. The air is filled with the gentle fluttering of wings and the sweet scent of blooming flowers.
As we step further into the room, we notice that the decor subtly shifts to reflect the changing seasons. One corner of the room is dedicated to spring, with cherry blossoms in full bloom, their petals gently falling like pink snow. Tiny fairies, no larger than a thumb, flit among the flowers, their wings iridescent and their laughter like the tinkling of bells. They weave garlands of fresh flowers, leaving trails of sparkling dust in their wake.
In another corner, summer reigns supreme. The walls are adorned with vibrant green vines and clusters of sunflowers that seem to turn their faces towards us as we move. The air is warm and filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and ripe berries. Here, the fairies are slightly larger, their wings resembling those of dragonflies. They playfully chase each other, their laughter mingling with the sound of a gentle summer breeze.
Autumn takes over the next section, with leaves in shades of red, orange, and gold carpeting the floor. The shelves are lined with jars containing butterflies that mimic the colours of the fall foliage. The fairies here are dressed in tiny outfits made of leaves and acorns, their wings patterned like those of moths. They gather around miniature bonfires, their faces glowing in the warm light as they share stories and songs of the harvest season.
The final corner is a winter wonderland. The walls are covered in frost, and delicate snowflakes hang in the air, catching the light and sparkling like diamonds. The butterflies here have wings that look like they’re dusted with snow, and the fairies are dressed in tiny cloaks made of white fur. They skate on a frozen pond in the centre of the room, their movements graceful and fluid. The air is crisp and carries the scent of pine and cinnamon.
In the centre of the room, there’s a small fountain, its water sparkling as it cascades over smooth stones. The fountain is surrounded by a circular bench made of polished wood, inviting us to sit and take in the enchanting scene. We sit on the bench, watching the butterflies dance around us, feeling a sense of peace and wonder. The fairies occasionally pause in their activities to glance our way, their eyes twinkling with curiosity and friendliness.
The room is a perfect blend of magic and nature, each season bringing its own unique charm and atmosphere. The contrast in seasons creates a dynamic and ever-changing environment, making us feel as though we’ve stepped into a living, breathing fairy tale.
The second key, the bronze one with the Celtic knot, unlocks a door to a room that feels ancient and mystical. The walls are covered in tapestries depicting scenes of legendary battles and mythical creatures. Each tapestry is a masterpiece, woven with threads of gold and silver that catch the light, bringing the scenes to life. Dragons soar above knights in shining armour, and enchanted forests teem with magical creatures.
In the middle of the room, there’s a large, round table made of dark wood, its surface etched with intricate patterns and symbols. The table is surrounded by high-backed chairs, each one carved with the image of a different mythical beast. On the table, there’s a collection of old scrolls and maps, their edges frayed with age. The maps are detailed and beautifully illustrated, showing lands that seem both familiar and fantastical.
We spend time examining the maps, tracing the routes of ancient explorers and imagining the adventures they must have had. The room is filled with the scent of aged parchment and the faint sound of distant, echoing chants, as if the walls themselves are whispering the secrets of the past.
As we explore further, we discover a series of objects that help us weave our own tales. There’s an ancient, brass astrolabe, its surface covered in mysterious symbols and constellations. We use it to navigate the stars, grinning as we describe ourselves as intrepid explorers charting unknown territories. We can feel the rush of excitement as we weave our tale together, the sensations of months together in foreign lands brush against our senses
Next to the astrolabe, there’s a beautifully crafted compass, its needle pointing steadily north. The compass is engraved with the image of a phoenix, its wings flickering as the magic within has faded in ages past. We feel each moment as we follow its guidance, embarking on a quest to find hidden treasures and lost civilisations. We hold each other and dance under moons unknown to all but us.
On a nearby shelf, we find a collection of small, intricately carved figurines. Each one represents a different character from the legends that we shape in our stories. Their lives so rich and beautiful as we build whole worlds, tales, legends, myths. To us we make civilisations rise and fall, simply feeling the bliss of endless creation.
The room is filled with the warmth of our laughter and the excitement of our shared adventure. Each object we discover adds a new layer to our stories, deepening the bliss in our words. The ancient and mystical atmosphere of the room enhances our tales, making them feel real and magical.
The third key, the dark metal one with the dragon’s head, opens a door to a room that feels like a hidden treasure trove. The walls are lined with shelves filled with glittering jewels and precious artifacts. Each shelf is a display of opulence, with crowns encrusted with diamonds, necklaces dripping with pearls, and goblets made of pure gold. The light from the fairy lights reflects off the treasures, casting a kaleidoscope of colours around the room.
In the centre of the room, there’s a large chest overflowing with gold coins and sparkling gems. The chest itself is a masterpiece, made of dark wood and reinforced with iron bands, its surface carved with scenes of dragons guarding their hoards. The coins and gems spill out onto the floor, creating a shimmering pool of wealth.
We sit on the floor, sifting through the treasures and marvelling at the beauty and history of each piece. The room is filled with the soft clinking of coins and the warm glow of reflected light. As we explore, we begin to shape new treasures for each other, competing in ostentatiousness and stark beauty.
I pick up a delicate tiara, its silver filigree adorned with tiny sapphires. “This,” I say, placing it gently on your head, “is for the queen that will take my head.” You laugh, adjusting the tiara and standing imperiously as you pull a gilded sword from the pile, holding it to my throat before taking a kiss for yourself.
Not to be outdone, you find a magnificent necklace, its pendant a large, flawless emerald in the shape of a dragons eye set in a frame of intricate goldwork. “And this,” you say, draping it around my neck, “is for the king that I intend to have a scandalous love affair with before conquering his realm.” I chuckle, admiring the way the emerald catches the light, the slitted pupil glinting in grandeur.
We continue our playful competition, each treasure more extravagant than the last. I present you with a golden chalice, its surface engraved with scenes of mythical creatures. I pull close, placing my hand to your throat and press the vessel to your lips, the rich aroma of wine tingling your senses “For you, my love, a cup fit for a goddess.” You smile, biting your lip for a moment before taking the chalice and glance over the top of it as you sip a rich sacrament from the cup.
You then find a jewelled dagger, its hilt encrusted with rubies and its blade etched with ancient runes. “For you, my would be assassin,” you say, handing it to me with a flourish. I take the dagger, pretending to brandish it with a cruel scowl before we both burst out laughing at my poor attempt at looking intimidating..
Despite the grandeur of the treasures we find, none of them come close to feeling as perfect as we do for each other. The room, with all its glittering wealth, pales in comparison to the warmth and love we share. Each treasure we shape for each other is a symbol of our affection, but it’s the moments of laughter and connection that truly take our breath away.
Each room brings us closer, deepening the bond we share. The adventure leaves us both exhilarated and content.
The next room we enter is a magical forest. The walls are covered in lush greenery, with vines and ivy creeping up to meet the ceiling, which expanded into a night sky devoid of stars, a moon so large it leaves us breathless high above. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the soft rustle of leaves. Fireflies dance around us, casting a gentle, golden glow that illuminates our path.
As we walk hand in hand, the ground beneath our feet feels soft and mossy, almost like walking on a plush carpet. The trees are tall and ancient, their branches stretching out like protective arms. The forest is alive with the sounds of nature – the distant hoot of an owl, the gentle babbling of a hidden brook, and the soft chirping of crickets.
We come across a small clearing where a crystal-clear pond reflects the starry sky above. The water is so still and pure that it looks like a mirror. Around the pond, flowers of every colour bloom, their petals glowing softly in the silvery light. You pick a glowing flower, its petals shimmering with an ethereal light, and tuck it behind my ear, making me smile.
In the centre of the clearing, there’s a large, ancient tree with a trunk so wide that it would take several people to encircle it with their arms. The tree’s bark is covered in intricate carvings that tell the stories of the forest’s history. As we approach, the carvings seem to come to life, depicting scenes of mythical creatures and ancient guardians of the forest.
We sit beneath the tree, feeling its gentle presence as we rest side by side. The fireflies gather around us, creating a magical aura. You lean in and kiss my cheek, your breath warm against my ear. I laugh softly, unable to resist a kiss that could have lasted moments or centuries. The forest seems to embrace us, its magic weaving around us like a protective cocoon.
As we sit there, time seems to stand still. The worries of the outside world fade away, leaving just the two of us in this enchanted place.
Next, we find ourselves in a room filled with floating lanterns. The lanterns drift gently in the air, casting a warm, golden light that bathes the room in a soft, ethereal glow. The walls are a shimmering wave of golds, reds, and blues, an eternal sunset. Tiny, twinkling lights dot the distant sky as darkness encroached from behind, mimicking stars as lanterns filled the world around us.
The lanterns themselves are of various shapes and sizes, each one unique. Some are round and plump, while others are elongated and delicate. They are made of thin, translucent paper, and their surfaces are adorned with intricate patterns and designs. As they float, they sway gently, as if moved by an invisible breeze.
We walk through the room, our hands intertwined, marvelling at the beauty around us. The air is filled with a sense of tranquillity and wonder. The lanterns cast dancing shadows on the world, creating a mesmerizing display of light and movement in the air around us. The soft hum of a distant melody fills the air, adding to the ambience.
In the centre of the room, there’s a small, circular pool of water. The surface of the water is perfectly still, reflecting the lanterns above like a mirror. We kneel by the edge of the pool, our reflections mingling with the lanterns in the water. You reach into a nearby basket and pull out a lantern of our own. It’s a beautiful creation, with delicate patterns of flowers and stars etched into its surface.
We light the lantern together, watching as the flame flickers to life. The warm glow illuminates our faces, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped. We release the lantern, watching it float up and join the others.
As we stand there, watching the lanterns drift and dance in the air, I feel a deep sense of connection and love. The room, with its magical light and serene atmosphere, feels like a sanctuary, a place where we can dream and imagine together.
We spend some time releasing more lanterns, each one a wish for our future. The room fills with the soft glow of our hopes and dreams, creating a tapestry of light that surrounds us. The moment is perfect, a beautiful blend of magic and love.
Another door leads us to a room of mirrors. The walls are lined with mirrors of all shapes and sizes, each one framed in ornate gold or silver. The room is softly lit, the light reflecting off the mirrors and creating a warm, inviting glow. As we step inside, we notice that each mirror reflects a different memory of us together, from our first meeting to this very moment.
The first mirror shows the day we met. The memory is vivid, and I can almost feel the excitement and nervousness of that moment. We laugh, remembering how awkward and shy we were.
The next mirror reflects our friendship. Built on innocent love, trust that grew as we grew ourselves. You smirk as you wince at my mistakes, yet you still squeeze my hand. The memory is filled with warmth and joy, and we smile at the reflections.
As we move through the room, each mirror shows a different milestone in our relationship. There’s the mirror that reflects our first kiss, the one that shows us talking for hours only to realise we love each other, and another that captures a quiet evening spent cooking dinner together.
One mirror shows a us in ways that we can be and want to be. The reflection captures the emotion and sincerity of each moment, and we both feel a surge of affection as we watch ourselves in the mirror. You catch my eye in the reflection, and I see the same love and tenderness in your gaze.
We continue to explore the room, laughing and sharing stories as we go. The mirrors not only reflect our memories but also the emotions we felt in those moments. The room is filled with the sound of our laughter and the warmth of our love, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and connection.
Finally, we come to a large, full-length mirror at the end of the room. This mirror reflects us as we are now, standing together, hand in hand. The reflection shows the love and joy we share, and the journey we are on. You catch my eye in the mirror and pull me into a tender kiss. The moment is perfect, a beautiful blend of past and present, and a promise of the future we’ll share.
We then step into a room that feels like a cozy cabin. The walls are made of rich, dark wood, giving the space a warm and inviting feel. The scent of pine fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cinnamon and cloves. A large stone fireplace dominates one wall, the flames crackling and casting a soft, flickering light that dances across the room.
The floor is covered with a thick, plush rug that feels soft underfoot. In front of the fireplace, there are two overstuffed armchairs, each draped with a knitted throw blanket. A small wooden table sits between them, holding a tray with a steaming pot of hot chocolate, two mugs, and a plate of cookies you know I tried my best to bake. They weren’t good for their taste, but you relished my shyness as you tried one.
We sit on the plush rug, the warmth of the fire enveloping us. The flames cast a golden glow on our faces as we share stories and laugh together. The room is filled with the sound of our voices and the comforting crackle of the fire. You pour us each a mug of hot chocolate as soon as we run out, the rich aroma filling the air. We sip the warm, sweet drink, savouring the moment.
There are shelves lined with old books and trinkets, each one telling a story of its own. A pair of snowshoes hangs on one wall, and a woven basket filled with pinecones sits in the corner. The windows are adorned with heavy, plaid curtains that add to the cozy atmosphere.
You wrap a blanket around us, holding me close as we enjoy the warmth and comfort of the moment. The firelight reflects in your eyes, making them sparkle. We sit in a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence. The world outside feels distant and unimportant.
As we sit there, the fire crackling and the scent of pine filling the air, I feel a deep sense of peace and contentment.
Finally, we enter a room with a starlit sky. The ceiling is a vast expanse of stars, twinkling brightly against a deep, velvety black sky. The stars are so vivid and numerous that it feels like we’ve stepped into the heart of the cosmos. The floor is covered in soft, lush grass that feels cool and comforting under our feet, adding to the sensation of being outdoors.
The air is crisp and fresh, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. As we walk further into the room, we notice that the constellations above are not just static; they slowly shift and move, creating a mesmerizing dance of celestial bodies. The Milky Way stretches across the ceiling, its countless stars forming a luminous river of light.
In the centre of the room, there’s a small, gentle hill covered in even softer grass. We climb to the top and lie down, looking up at the breathtaking display above us. The grass beneath us is like a plush carpet, cushioning us as we settle in. The gentle hum of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl add to the serene atmosphere.
You point out your favourite stars and constellations, your voice filled with excitement and wonder. I listen intently, feeling a deep sense of connection as you share your knowledge and passion. You trace the shapes of the constellations with your finger, drawing lines between the stars to form mythical figures and ancient stories.
I follow your lead, tracing the constellations with my own finger, feeling a sense of peace and wonder as I do. The stars seem to twinkle more brightly in response, as if acknowledging our presence. We take turns pointing out different constellations, sharing stories and legends associated with each one.
As we lie there, the vastness of the universe above us makes everything else seem small and insignificant. The worries and stresses of the outside world fade away, leaving just the two of us in this magical, starlit sanctuary. The room feels timeless, a place where we can dream and imagine without limits.
The gentle glow of the stars casts a soft light on our faces, highlighting the love and joy in your eyes. We hold hands, our fingers intertwined.
As the night draws to a close, we find ourselves back in the living room, wrapped in each other’s arms. I look into your eyes, feeling a surge of love and gratitude. “I love you,” I whisper, my voice filled with emotion.
You smile, your eyes shining with affection. “I love you too,” you reply, leaning in for a tender kiss.
Not entirely sure what this is. Wrote this for someone I love and found it magical and wanted to share. Hope they know that I love them.
Love is love, platonic, familial, romantic, everything. No matter who, no matter what, as long as everyone involved is consenting, please embrace who you are and who you love.
So there you sat, perched upon your branch, watching the forest shiver with the pulsing beat of life. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers. You observed how the sun danced through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that flickered like whispers on the forest floor. The roots burrowed among the rabbit warrens and badger dens, like ancient veins.
You could have sat there for a moment or a millennium, knowing that all of it was the same, singular moment. You danced beneath the moon, its silver light bathing the world in a ghostly glow. You laughed under autumn leaves, their crisp crunch shifting beneath your feet, and napped beneath spring buds, the air alive with the fragrance of new growth. And all was good.
The first time you felt the acrid tang of iron, you would have retched if not for your curiosity. The scent of copper underlay it, inviting, calling. The forest was still, the bruised, grey sky above holding back a torrent of rain that had threatened to burst for days, yet it spat, barely holding back its deluge for… something.
You followed the scent, your chest thrumming lightly at the thought, the sensation as the world around you held its breath. The leaves rustled softly, a whispering chorus that seemed to guide you. And there he lay, curled inward like a wounded deer. You had seen how your four-legged friends would stagger through the forest, from the barely adolescent fawn to the mightiest stag. How they would limp and chuff and shiver as their blood coated the ground.
A thing of iron buried into them, an intruder in every sense of the word, as the humans would track and trail and taunt. Now, you stand on the edge of a clearing, the sky shivering above, as a man lay curled around another thing of iron, blood seeping into the ground, his own chuffing breath laboured and short.
You approach his crumpled form. He was bigger than you, yet… so small. His eyes leaked dazzling tears that shimmered to the ground, the lustre lost to the dirt below. Blood coated him, the thing of iron deep in his gut as you watched. You felt yourself lean over, curious, concerned.
You flinched as his eyes flicked open, locking onto you, sharp and sudden, before growing dull by the second, his laboured breaths so shallow. He didn’t flinch when you touched his shoulder, cold and fragile as his body cradled the thing of iron, the scent of blood and earth sweet between the stench of unnatural things.
The blood sang to you, not like the pulse of the forest. The forest was calm and rhythmic, methodical and melodious. But this blood… The blood was primal and cruel and shimmered with malice, but below it all, under the aroma of violence, the cruel beat of vicious drums… Was a melody all its own.
It tasted unlike all of nature that had tantalised your tongue. Sweeter than the richest honey, earthier than the forest mushrooms. The nectars of life were better, stronger, hardier than this human’s blood. Yet it captivated you as bursts of light shimmered over your eyes, and your lips stained with blood.
You caressed his cheek, so cold. Barely a whisper passed his lips as his bleeding slowed, his aching heart unable to follow the demands of the spirit trapped within its wounded shell. Your lips stained his tear-soaked cheek, the burst of exquisite flavour sending you reeling as you turned his head towards the roiling sky.
And you tasted him, truly. His lips, while cold, were burning and hurt almost as much as the stinging burn as you gripped the blade in his stomach. Hunger. Need. Desire. It was as primal as the thrum of his blood.
And as your flesh burned from the poisonous, corrupting iron, you drew it from his parted flesh and cast it into the forest. You pressed on the wound, vestiges of blood flowing over your hand as you kissed him, the throbbing, pulsing, frantic pace of his blood, his lips, his tears making you shiver.
His body shuddered as his lips parted, burning as they were against your own. You didn’t need to hold his wound any longer, as his shaking hand lifted from the ground, to kiss you back in the cruellest way as his eyes fluttered closed.
The silver scar shimmered as rain began to fall, the tantalising, gasping kiss left you laying over him, head on his chest as lightning thundered above, the sound of his heart thrumming in your ears.
In the quaint village of Brookhaven, nestled between the dense woods and the craggy cliffs, there stood an ancient rock formation known to the locals as the “Watcher’s Gaze.” From a distance, the two massive boulders, with their streaks of white quartz, resembled a pair of enormous, unblinking eyes. It was said that when the moon hung dark and empty in the sky, plunging the stones into deepest shadow, the eyes would come alive, watching over the village with an otherworldly presence.
The legend of the Watcher’s Gaze was as old as the village itself. Parents warned their children never to wander near the formation after dusk, for it was believed that those who looked into the marble eyes would be cursed. The curse varied in the tales spun by the fireside; some spoke of eternal misfortune, others of being haunted by the sight of those eyes in every reflective surface, and a few even whispered of people vanishing without a trace.
Despite the ominous warnings, or perhaps because of them, the Watcher’s Gaze became the subject of fascination for many, including a young writer named Clara. She had come to Brookhaven seeking inspiration for her next novel, drawn by the allure of the village’s dark folklore. Clara was a sceptic at heart, having created terrifying creatures from her imagination alone, haunted rocks were of course nothing more than superstitious nonsense. Yet, she couldn’t deny the eerie feeling that washed over her whenever she gazed upon the formation from her rented cottage window.
Clara had settled into the rhythm of life in Brookhaven, the days blending into one another as she spent her mornings writing and her evenings gazing out at the Watcher’s Gaze. The rock formation had become a constant in her life, a silent companion to the clacking of her laptop keys. She had been in the cottage for two weeks, and with each passing day, the formation seemed to grow more imposing, more enigmatic.
At first, it was merely a curiosity, a feature of the landscape that caught her eye now and then. But as the days wore on, Clara found herself drawn to the window more frequently, her work often interrupted by the inexplicable need to look upon the marble eyes. There was a pull, a subtle beckoning that whispered to her whenever she tried to focus on anything else.
The villagers’ tales, once a source of amusement, began to weave their way into her thoughts. She would laugh them off during the daylight hours, but at night, when the shadows grew long and the wind whispered through the trees, doubt crept in. The eyes seemed to follow her movements within the cottage, a silent judgement that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
Clara’s scepticism waned as the feeling of being watched intensified. It was no longer just an eerie feeling; it was a presence, an awareness that lingered just beyond the edge of her perception. She started to notice small changes in the environment—the way birds black eyes glistened as they watched her, the ringing in her ears that at night intensified to a squealing pitch that should could only blame on tinnitus so many times, and the goosebumps that settled over her flesh even as she grew warm.
The locals noticed the change in Clara. She was paler, her eyes often rimmed with dark circles from sleepless nights spent staring out the window. She brushed off their concern with a forced smile and an assurance that she was simply engrossed in her writing. But the truth was, Clara felt the grip of the Watcher’s Gaze tightening around her, a vice of fear and fascination that she couldn’t escape.
She packed her bags, stuffing her clothes and shoes and laptop away before shoving it into the back of her car. She sped away, feeling the eyes follow her as she twisted and turned down the road, but they kept watching. She doesn’t know how long she had driven but whenever she turned her head, they were there.
Then she blinked, and there she stood, gazing out the window at the reticent eyes that filled her vision even from so very far away.
She didn’t type anymore. Anytime she looked at the screen of her laptop she could see it no matter how she shifted the light to hide them. So she wrote, each sentence bearing more meaning than she could ever understand, each word indecipherable but overwhelming as she tried to read.
The gaze that never wavers, the timeless orbs that stared through the rise and fall of generations unbeknownst to all, and only the sickening reflection making Clara claw at her arms to write just one more word.
As the alabaster eyes glinted under the twilight sky, Clara stopped writing. She could barely stand but was pulled from the ground and stood in the doorway, looking at the Watchers Gaze. The eyes were so far away, distant beyond distance, so very far away she could never walk there in a hundred lifetimes.
In a single step she stood before the gargantuan orbs, the sky above unfamiliar. Stars that swirled and pulsed yet were only pinpricks of light compared to the Watcher. The air was still, the rock beneath her feet bending and sucking below.
She felt her skull stretch as she looked back at the eyes, unable to see the beginning or end of them. Clara laughed, she cried, she retched, she clawed. She could see so much now, even as blood seeped into her eyes.
The next morning, the villagers found Clara’s notebook at the base of the Watcher’s Gaze. Its pages were filled with frantic scribbles, tales of the eyes that watched from the shadows, the whispers that echoed in the night, and the feeling of being watched, always watched. But of Clara, there was no sign.
Some say she became another victim of the curse, taken by the Watcher’s Gaze. Others believe she fled, driven mad by what she had seen. But on nights when the moon is black and the wind carries whispers through the trees, the villagers lock their doors and shutter their windows, praying that the Watcher’s Gaze doesn’t turn its attention to them.
For in Brookhaven, some legends are best left untold.
The deer population had plummeted in the last six years. So much so that conservation groups had begun a large-scale tagging operation, affixing GPS trackers to the dwindling numbers of white-tailed deer that remained in the forests. Being one of the many capable trackers I’d been sent deep into the forests to check on a location that a lot of deer with GPS trackers seemed to be congregating and either getting stuck or dying.
The working theory was a tainted water source, a legacy of migration routes etched into generational memory, or perhaps a newly opened fissure leaking noxious gas. Ultimately it didn’t matter, it was impacting the food chain and wildlife officials were getting nervous
I’m a hunter subcontracted into these projects, while the big bosses can wax whimsical about their stats and environmental benefits it doesn’t change the fact: I needed a job. So instead of taking tourists on the same hike over and over, or babysitting some kids calling themselves men while they missed every shot at local wildlife. I embraced the solitude of the wild, armed with a GPS, ample supplies, and the liberty to roam the untamed expanses on behalf of those corporate suits.
Don’t get me wrong, I love forests. You don’t spend as much time as I do within them without loving them like a sailor does the sea. You also learn to respect nature for what it is, a hell of a lot sturdier than those idiots in suits give it credit for.
So even if the numbers can drop and species can die out, nature can stand up for itself. Once our towns and cities crumble, nature will simply need to reclaim it. So why worry the little stuff? It’ll survive a long time after we’re gone.
I used to so fervently believe this, like we couldn’t do anything to truly hurt nature. I was wrong.
…
Three weeks into my journey, deposited by helicopter at a serene lake, I traced ancient paths not trodden for a century, likely the same routes indigenous peoples followed before being forced away.
I was one of the few that could go this deep into wild territory without being dead within a week. Grizzly’s, wolves, moose, even cougars paled in comparison to the simple act of getting lost. I didn’t get lost. I held to old-school orienteering and kept meticulous track of where I was and where I’d been, I could use the stars if I had to.
A GPS helps, and I wouldn’t be caught dead without one, but knowing my route and my way back was worth more than a piece of plastic that could break or run out of power or lose signal. So I kept moving.
I was only an hour or so from the location of the tagged deer. The views had been stunning, my side gig as a nature photographer making sure I’ll have more than a few images and videos to sell to Instagrammers or TikTokkers that wouldn’t survive a two hour hike, much less this kind of trek.
I’d been moving lower into a valley for the last two days, picking through trees and trails that kept me moving in the right direction. Hunting had been… scarce the last few days. Normally I’d be able to spot something to skin and butcher every few days, working opportunistically where I could. But I hadn’t seen anything for so long I was actually using my food supplies rather than wasting too much time foraging.
Then again, if there was a poisoned water source nearby it’d hardly be a surprise that animals were steering clear. It was good I had filled up my canteens at the last stream I’d found, may be worth avoiding drinking any water in this valley. Especially looking around.
The normally dense trees had thinned, the underbrush becoming little more than strangling weeds and the occasional sickly looking bush. I won’t be so prideful as to say I wasn’t a bit nervous, what had been a spattering of bark on the ground had turned into a rotting bed, insects writhing over and in the detritus that reeked beneath my feet.
Whatever was in this valley was making it seriously sick.
I double and triple checked my location, referencing the GPS a few times for reassurance. I wasn’t looking forward to whatever runoff or dump some corporation had likely airdropped randomly into the wilderness to poison the land so intensely.
I put on a facemask and gloves, it wasn’t the first time some big wig cut a corner to avoid proper disposal costs. I was coming to a cliff face, the valley coming to a singular point in the base of a mountain.
I hopped over a handful of streams clogged with… I’ll describe it as fibrous sludge, lumps of solid matter that was sodden and sickly, like a hairball the size of your fist left in a puddle for weeks. The smell was overpowering.
I didn’t see any leaves on the trees anymore, branches crumbling in writhing piles that practically turned to dust under my boots, the sodden ground somehow cracked and packed as clods of mud weighed me down.
The sky was… colourless. It felt like it should be clear and blue, there weren’t any clouds above, and the sun hadn’t rounded the mountain or the horizon. It wasn’t even grey, just, empty.
Trudging on, the rotting trees had fallen in stagnant water, the cloying ‘hairballs’ were everywhere, covering the sides of trees from the direction I was heading. It was as if a wave of putrid filth had crashed outwards, covering everything in the muck that coated my boots.
A thin trickle of water was flowing over some of the furrowed parts of ground, once pristine streams just vehicles of miasma as it spread through the valley. I can’t describe what I mean when I say that there was no colour in that place. I could look at that sickly mud and understand it was brown or sallow green, but those words meant… nothing. A void where colour should have been.
Ahead I could hear water slapping from high above into a meagre plunge pool, the source of the water at least. It was… hard to see there. It was bright, it was daytime but I couldn’t see.
I stood there, on the edge of this putrid pool of water, in knee high stagnant mud, looking at a… It looked like a massive sickly tree, a trickling waterfall from high above falling upon it. Once white branches were stained with rotting algae and moss that clung to it like a mass of dripping leeches. The highest of the branches so very far above my head ending in jagged points that oozed an ichor that plopped into the water like excrement.
I… I don’t know how long I stood there. I had no way to tell the time, no way to look away from the tree. Until a white-tailed deer stepped into the clearing. It was like stepping from darkest midnight into midday sun.
Its presence made me stumble back, tripping into the disgusting filth around me. The deer seemed wholly unbothered by the mud and rot that clung to its hooves and matted its fur. It simply kept walking toward the tree.
I felt a primal panic build in me, I don’t know why but the deer shouldn’t go near the tree. If it did… I can’t explain how wrong it felt, how desecrated, how violated that clearing was. Yet I couldn’t even cry out as the deer began to sink and wade through the loathsome mud to where the tree sat.
The deer was up to its neck in the water when it stopped, the colour and brilliance submerged beyond recognition. It gazed upward, fixated on the tree, its breaths laboured and heavy.
There was only a moment’s pause, a single fraction of a lifetime before the tree began to rear from the mud. Slowly it rose, the sound of cracking limbs and shuddering movements shaking detritus from the jagged boughs above, each piece resolving into a rotting corpse of an animal that had been impaled upon it.
A wave of putrefaction burst outward, the mud rushing by so that it pushed me away, my head dipping into that foetid abyss. When the wave subsided, and I clutched to a crumbling tree stump to drag myself from the sucking sod, I wiped my eyes clean and gasped for air as I tore my facemask off.
From the squalor it stood, wretched hide clinging to a skeletal frame that oozed from weeping pustules, its neck was sinuous and muscles seemed to cling to it, the tendons working to bend the sweeping head that peered down at the trembling deer before it.
Catlike, lidless eyes stared out, narrowing the slitted pupil to focus on this single spec of colour in all this empty void. A long jaw tore open, receding far back from where its face should have ended and down its throat, the lower mandible barely held in place by straining sinew. A deer’s skull distended its jaw, hot breath roiling out in wisps of decay.
From the maw a slithering tongue extended, it was long and rounded, ending in a singular point, like a worm probing through the dirt. Softly it caressed the deer before it, slipping around it almost tenderly as the small creature went limp.
The being before me didn’t pause as it scooped up the body and bit through flesh and bone, blood joining the filth around it. The sound of that creature chewing apart that deer fills my mind, in every silent moment I hear it, slowly… chewing.
I was frozen. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t act. I was stuck there for an eternity as it consumed.
Then I was knocked down, another deer strode past me, hooves laden with mud as it moved towards the skeletal creature, the unknowable deer that now watched as so many others of its kind approached. I don’t know how many creatures offered themselves to it, how many I saw devoured in a ceaseless parade of sacrifice and slaughter.
I was exhausted, splattering of blood and gore flowed by, until there was no more blood to spill. It was only then, at the end of its visceral feast did it look at me. Slitted eyes focussing on some part within me that felt as empty as the void around me.
Then it sank down, its skeletal grin disappearing into the mud, the fresh bodies adorning its antlers already weeping their corruption into the water.
I… I don’t really know what happened after that.
I was found a few hundred miles from where I’d started. I was feverish and rambling. It’s a miracle anyone found me, but by chance there was a forest fire where I was wandering and I was picked up by the Forest Service.
I don’t go into the forests anymore. I mostly stay indoors if I’m honest. I got myself an office job.
I used to think that no matter what we did to nature, it would recover. It could fix whatever terrible things we’d done to it. I was wrong.
Nature is not biding its time; it is an all-consuming force, ready to engulf us. And as humanity cannibalises itself, nature watches, draped in the filth of our own making.
Thoughts
This was an odd one for me, not the direction I was expecting to go, but then that’s what happens with the most fun projects. I took the prompt my friend suggested and thought it would be fun to subvert it in some way.
There’s of course ties to environmentalism, corporate corruption (physical and ethical), and how even those that can so confidently say they understand nature may not know the extent of the damage we do. Even those we deem “knowledgeable” can be as likely to fall into logical pitfalls that work in their favour, or make their life easier.
The fact that this character is alive in the end and decides to simply fade back into civilization, seeing it as an inevitability rather than something to resist or work against. I felt it mirrored a lot of attitudes, how we all like someone else to do the hard work, or remain ignorant.
Not to say I’m at all perfect, I have made mistakes and can always improve my actions and forethought when thinking about the environment.
Sorry for getting off topic.
Hope you liked it if you made it this far, take it as a creepy story or a cautionary tale, I would love to hear your thoughts, or what you can do with this prompt 😊
I never thought it would turn out like this. Him. Sitting there. In my house, in my living room, politely talking I think, about tea and football. A few weeks ago I knew my brother, dropping by every Saturday to catch up and watch the game, his laughter echoing with the same old jokes and that unmistakable goofy grin. My older brother was dumb, loud, and as likely to ask for a pint as a cuppa. I don’t know where he is anymore.
Instead, one day, he turned up. I opened the door to a figure too elongated, too gaunt. He called himself my brother, when I tried to turn him away he only laughed and brushed past me into the hall, navigating to the kitchen with unsettling familiarity— teabags, sugar, milk, all found without a moment’s hesitation. My brother didn’t have milk in his tea.
I would’ve thrown him out, if it hadn’t been for my kid. They walked in and greeted the not-brother as “Uncle Garrett,” treating him like family, talking about school and friends. My brother’s name wasn’t Garrett. I don’t recall what his name was, it's just... I'm sure it wasn't Garrett.
“Pass us the biscuits,” The imposter beckons, eyeing the packet in my hands. My not-brother liked these types, so I started buying them. He always wanted this brand, my wife even making sure we have some for my not-brother.
I visited my parents’ yesterday, smiling and talking. We went through old photos. My brother had been short and round his whole life, built like a brick outhouse and with an attitude to match. Now all I could see was pictures I remember with my brother, but instead this too tall boy with spindly arms grinned in each one, my mother cooing at his brown eyes.
My brother didn’t have brown eyes.
He watches me. When it’s just us, the wife out, my kid at some club. He ‘occupies’ his chair and he stares. Now I don’t even put the TV on, and he prattles on I think, about goals and penalties. Incessantly munching on biscuits and drinking milky tea. My not-brother watches with those deep, umber orbs and jagged teeth, his elongated arms reaching for another biscuit, his tea dripping from sharp nails… I wish it was tea
“Pass us the biscuits,” He purrs , snatching one from my palm, his fingers cold and rubbery, talons bending unnaturally to pass it past the oily lips
I don’t remember what my brother looked like. Was he blonde? Did he have a scar on his arm? I can see him but… I can’t picture him. I think of my brother, and all that surfaces is a blur. His shape was right at first, but the longer I think about it, my brother was… taller.
I keep the right brand of biscuits in my home for my not-brother, he likes them. He always grins so wide when I open the door now, it splits his face. His dark muddy eyes shining as I let him in. I can’t help shivering as he bends down low to get through the doorway. But I always welcome him in, his long limbs folding down as he smiles at my wife, head tilting further and further until he can breathe on her face. And she talks to him.
“You should come with us on our trip this summer Garrett,” She says, “We always love seeing you and I bet you’d enjoy the New Forest,” She says. I nod. He should come. My not-brother will like our summer trip.
So he nods, his mouth hanging open till I heard a crunch. My wife doesn’t ask my not-brother to come along anymore.
“Pass us the biscuits,” Not-brother says, his fingers letting off a grotesque snapping as they elongate towards the floor where I’d thrown them. He didn’t even bend his wrist, he simply stares as the fingers contort back into place.
I don’t clean up anymore, my not-brother doesn’t mind the mess. He always pushes the bones away when he slithers into the living room. I ran out of tea a long time ago. But he still comes round, and I still buy his biscuits.
I don’t talk anymore. There’s no need to. Now there’s no one else to talk to. Only not-brother.
I don’t think he leaves anymore either. Whenever I dare to blink, I see his elongated teeth and sickly septic eyes, grinning malevolently, following me. He was tall and spindly. I think.
Not-brother stares at me. From his chair. In his living room. And I am simply a spectator, a witness.
I watch as his snapping bones and twisting face blurs and cracks. The smile never stops, the hands always reaching. I ran out of biscuits today. I can’t remember where I bought them from. Perhaps somewhere beyond… here.
The outside world is a fading dream now.
I only remember my not-brother. Watching me, with hollow eyes and a sucking maw.
“Pass us the biscuits,” It rasps, a long tongue catching on jagged barbed teeth, oily blood mixing with the stale crimson stains on the carpet at his feet.
I gaze upon my not-brother, and I don’t know anything. He stares at me for days. I’m so tired, I’m so thirsty.
I miss tea… was it tea? I can’t remember what not-brother drinks anymore. His bloodstained claws leaving deep, splintered lines on the table.
The bone snaps as he reaches for me. The emptiness before me is so unceasing, it's inescapable.
My not-brother refuses to let me move as he clutches my wrist, I feel the flesh give way and he doesn’t even let me scream. He smiles. Jaw slowly, so slowly, descending.
“Pass us the biscuits,” It breathes as I feel teeth pierce my flesh, my desiccated body sighing in relief as I fall into the undulating void, and I dream of that wide smile one last time…
I used to be short and strong. I would visit my parents every month to catch up. Now I am tall and skinny, and they should let me in. They always let me in.
“Shall we look at the album?” I inquire, my mother's gaze fixed upon her unrecognizable son. Recognition will dawn on her soon enough. I settle into my chair, patting the cushion next to me, gesturing towards the bookshelf.
“Shall we look at the album?” I ask, as my tiny mother retrieves the book, a tear rolling down her cheek as my father greets me with a welcoming smile. I pat her comfortingly on the knee and grin, at least she remembered me, then she’ll remember someone else she needs to visit.
“Shall we look at the album?”
Thoughts
This short story is based off of something a friend told me about and really captured my imagination. The idea of some entity that is able to worm its way into homes and families seamlessly, able to bend mind and memory to go completely unnoticed. Yet its inhuman nature is singularly cruel, delighting in pain and suffering, so it uses its influence to isolate and torment a victim.
The prompt was randomly suggested to me and I thought this was a great chance to have a creeping story that draws you along this unsettling thread as the perspective shifts with the narrator. A lot of my writing is run on sentences so picking a style that made me use a shorter, more personal structure was quite fun, if challenging.
I’d love to see what other people could do with the simple prompt of:
I am currently transitioning into a position of wanting to become a writer and am using this place as a test bed for ideas, a place for feedback and sharing things that people may like.
Ultimately I'd love to be part of a community of writers to learn, develop myself, and help others even if in small ways.
I'm going to be posting details regarding my book:
As well as short stories I throw together for fun.
I would love to read anything anyone wants to send me (though please be reasonable XD) and would love to share ideas and thoughts in a constructive and caring way.
I'm speaking to a few friends who are making some suggestions for my book. This is just some ideas at the moment but I was wondering if anyone had any thoughts to share?
I'm planning on sharing more about my book as time goes by but for now I'd love to know if these images catch anyone's attention :)
Looking to perhaps put up my prologue and chapter one quite soon. This is a new experience for me and can't wait to share something creative.
I'm putting together my blurb and wanted to get a little feedback on what I could do to improve, what I have now reads a bit like a review and I would love some feedback on how people would respond to my blurb and the myriad ways it could be improved.
Any and all (constructive) feedback is appreciated and will be taken into consideration. I know my concept is hardly unique but it's a passion project that's developed into a reality.
I have a link below to a similar post on Reddit if you'd prefer to do it there :)
Thank you in advance to any that responds to this.
In the shadowed corners of the realm, where adventurers’ tales are spun and heroes are born, a new saga unfolds—not of the mighty, but of the overlooked. When a band of brash adventurers meets their untimely end in the ultimate confrontation against the Shade of Antrix, the balance of the world slips towards the precipice of undeath.
Our heroes, once background figures in a grander narrative, must now step forward to mend the fate of their reality. As they journey through a land scarred by the adventurers’ reckless decisions, they grapple with the mundane and the extraordinary, the comical and the tragic. They are the unsung, facing trials that test not only their skills but the very essence of their existence.
This is a tale of quiet valour and resilience, where a handful of NPCs from a tabletop game rise from the sidelines to confront a destiny thrust upon them by the folly of fallen heroes. Follow five unexpected champions as they find themselves uniting under a common cause. For in this world, the line between the game and reality blurs, and every choice carries the weight of a living, breathing universe.
Witness the courage of the ordinary in the face of overwhelming odds, and explore profound truths hidden within the lives we all too often ignore. This story celebrates the heroes behind the heroes, and the enduring spirit that dwells within every soul daring enough to claim it.
I've been on a bit of a rollercoaster these past two years but throughout all that I've written a book :)
I've done my last major edit and am refining what I can before getting a professional editor involved and beginning the process of finding a wonderful artist to put together some cover art.
I can't begin to describe how incredibly excited I am for all this and will be taking some time to thank some people once this dream is realised.
I'm just doing some refinement and looking to post my first iteration of my blurb soon. As a tiny taster I'll include a brief breakdown:
In the shadowed corners of the realm, where adventurers’ tales are spun and heroes are born, a new saga unfolds—not of the mighty, but of the overlooked.
When a band of brash adventurers meets their untimely end in the ultimate confrontation against the Shade of Antrix, the balance of the world slips towards the precipice of undeath. The NPCs, once background figures in a grander narrative, must now step forward to mend the fate of their reality.
For in this world, the line between the game and reality blurs, and every choice carries the weight of a living, breathing universe.
I hope my story of the forgotten will reach even one person who understands my love for this world and characters, especially someone who plays tabletop games.
What I've been doing instead of posting: I may be writing a book… I think
Hi anyone popping onto my page for whatever reason :)
I've not posted in gods know how long and realised I haven't really elaborated as to why I stopped for so long.
In short, I'm writing creatively and it's taken on a bit of a life of its own, I may be writing a book. I have no idea if I'll ever publish or if anyone will ever see it, it is just something I'm enjoying.
It's based around dnd (shocker).
A (terrible) party wipes at the BBEG boss fight in a game and quits because the DM didn't let them have their way. In the story it's about the world left over, the NPC's having to clean up the mess made.
While it will be a typical adventure, I want to focus on how these living, breathing people view the world they live in, their experiences and thoughts. I want to explore how we blast through a game as swashbuckling bad*sses, blasting fireballs and beheading dragons, and the NPC's just... live their lives when we’ve moved on.
I want my lil characters to make decisions and develop and care, more than a cardboard cutout with speaking lines. I guess that’s every author’s goal but I have to say it’s enthralled me these last few months.
I know this isn't something original as Lit RPG's are super popular (I love them), but my perspective may offer something to someone, and maybe one day I'll get to share it.
I've rambled a lot but I'm thinking I can start putting stuff on here about the world I'm making or use it as an outlet for some of my ideas. I’m not sure how long it’ll last or anything will come of it, but I’m excited to find out.
60,000 words and I think I’m just over half way. Then a tonne of editing and spell checking (I am not a model writer)
Either way I hope everyone is doing good and having a good day
Walkin' the road at night is dangerous, when the moon is nowhere, the air still, the midnight obelisk watches you. Your hair will stand on the back of yur neck and you'll feel your heart throb under its gaze.
Each step will begin to sound far away, the crack o' the stone beneath yur feet will be echoes of echoes. The shadows will blur and you'll be at the foot of its stairway, already lost to its realm.
You'll look up the endless stairs an' it'll be watching, the blood oozing from its lidless eye, its roots writhing along the ancient cracked stone. The world is barren, nothing but bare rock as far as the eye can see, the sky illuminated by no sun or star, the abyss below darker than the heart of any demon.
It watches, it pulls, it weeps, an' it waits.
When you stand there you cannot take a single step more or you'll never return. The moment you raise your foot you belong to it.
But I escaped, I felt the slightest breeze at my back and I fell back into our world, and in that moment I had to pay my price. It took my eyes for its own, as I fell backwards it ripped them right from my sockets an' held them there.
I can still see it, it's looking at me! I can see it staring right at me every minute of every day! I seeeee youuuu! Ahahahaha! Come an' get me!
- Ramblings of a madman in a village, haggard, skin tight to his bones, and a strip of soiled cloth over his eyes. Blood has begun pouring from the empty sockets.
The Hook
People have begun vanishing, all around the world. Rich or poor, royal or peasant, they are being taken. Always at night, always in the dark, and never leaving a single trace.
The populace has begun to panic, everyone huddling in well lit spaces, cowering from the dark. But word is spreading that now even well fed fires are sputtering out, the candles dimming in the night. A whole inn of people vanished at once, and no one knows why or how.
It started as whispers, people disappearing, not coming home, or never arriving to their destination. But now it's every home, every family.
Your party must find who or what is causing this, before it's too late. Kingdoms are collapsing, towns are emptying, and time is running out.
Beware the eye in the dark.
Some Ideas
I know this campaign idea isn't very fleshed out but I just love it. The fear it instils is potent, becoming widespread causing confusion, anger, desperation. Without something or someone to accuse or point the finger at it's easy to see how something else must be blamed.
This should be a slow burn in my mind, the party goes and does its thing, slays giants, loots dungeons, saves villages. This should have mini arcs throughout its runtime, but rumours should start. A village had the merchant not turn up this month, and travelling to the next town the party finds a fully stock cart of goods, horse still hitched, but the tracks of the merchant simply vanish on the road.
Going to a temple to meet a priest and they mention one of the clergy has gone missing last week. No one can find them, a loose thread after the party completes their quest. A queen goes missing while the party are out slaying a dragon and the capital is in chaos, the party aren't able to investigate as the duke family are in uproar trying to start a civil war against the king, thinking he killed their daughter to marry his mistress.
To me this should begin to permeate each quest, starting off being mentioned every few sessions, then almost every session a person has gone missing in the town or village. Then after a quest they go for their reward and find an empty house, there's a shattered glass on the ground, a pool of water. Taken while grabbing a drink at night.
And finally a member of the party sees it, in the dead of night they see the midnight obelisk staring down at them. As they are about to move a member of the party (or an external force like a god/devil) yanks them back as darkness envelops them. Perhaps paying a price of some kind, losing a finger or ear in penance.
They must delve into tomes and ruins, speak to madmen, find out anything they can to find and kill this thing. Time is running out, and this is the end.
I would also recommend making sure the party has some kind of family or close friends they can be attached to, so maybe someone goes missing. Make it hit home when they return from a mission to an empty house or a friend turned to drinking as their partner vanished. It should feel personal as well.
As for the chaos that happens you got a lot of options, witch burnings, inquisitors, desperate priests. The list goes on as people begin turning against the outside or inside trying to fight against the unknown in their own way.
The solution is up to yourself, a mc'guffin, finding a portal to its realm, making a deal with some devils. It's always up to you.
Though I do like the idea (it's horrible but good for narrative) where the party have all lost someone to this thing. And if they go through with the plan it will stop the kidnappings, but it will keep those already taken, or it can offer a deal.
"I will give you back your chosen few, and stop taking others until the last of you heroes die. The moment you perish I shall return and finish what I began."
Or anything you fancy, choose between the few and the many. And with the rule that if the party dies it will begin again you have some narrative for after the campaign, do they try to break the deal? Or does one of them search for immortality to save the world?
Maybe they succeed and in the next campaign it's several centuries later and they've begun to lose their grip on reality.
This one is a bit dark, but the idea ran away with me.
I hope someone finds this helpful, I think it's neat. Let me know what you think, I wanna hear about other people's takes :)
Art by: TheHollyLord
Terrifying and I love it. I can feel it reaching to me, the barren wastes behind it making me feel like it's just this and me, forever. Horribly ominous and the detail on the eye, the blood, the branches/roots are amazing. Thank you.
To anyone who's interested I'm just taking a break from making my usual posts due to a mix of work being very busy and a little passion project I have related to D&D.
I don't expect to be too long with this but work will pick up around Christmas as well so I may be a little while till I'm back.
If you have any ideas or questions or want to bounce some ideas around feel free to message or post at me, I always like hearing what other people are doing as well.
I hope you're all having a really good time and enjoy any holidays you may be having.
