Sep 30, 2025
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TOYHOUSE LINK (ENG/FR) : https://toyhou.se/~literature/318104.engfr-writetober-2025
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TOYHOUSE LINK (ENG/FR) : https://toyhou.se/~literature/318104.engfr-writetober-2025
Day 7 – Shadow
The rain pours down in cold sheets all around you, but you remain impervious to it. A blessing, or a curse, of being a saltborn creature. The elements never affected you the way they did regular humans, or other people. Nevertheless, visibility remains poor, so you shield your eyes as you make your way down to the Cradle Lighthouse, where you first started your journey.
The walk through Skyspear Climb is long and arduous, and you know that this detour is a fool’s errand. Time was monotonic, and the chorus grew louder and louder. But something about the old man’s plea compelled you honour his wish. A whole day passed, filled with nothing but walking. The island was mostly devoid of trainers now. The infection had taken over every human being. Only Suit and his players were left. And even then you were not sure if the players were just mere conjectures to satisfy Suit’s needs. Red was gone, killed by your own hands. And that just left the old man.
You kept walking and walking, your mind consumed by thoughts. And before long, you arrive at the pier. He was there, looking over the sea. You place yourself beside him and join him in his silent survey. The sea looked… angry. Despite the cold rain, you feel a strange kind of heat emanating from it. Seamother…
After a few moments of standing in silence, the man spoke.
“I was created for a purpose, same as you were, same as any Wanderer is. And I took that burden willingly, same as you did, when I rose from the shallows.” You are silent, waiting for him to continue. His gaze over the sea seemed to grow longer. “I shed that burden willingly, when I met my daughter, Kara.” “I do not know by which method or madness she was never infected. I knew that she wasn’t a Wanderer. And yet, she was safe. For a time we looked after each other. At first, it was difficult, living with a human. They have needs and wants that are simply not in their control. Food, for instance. I learnt how to fish so that I could satisfy my daughter’s hungers. It wasn’t perfect, but we survived. But such a survival was meaningless. I knew that. And I knew my Kara knew that too. But I never expected her to confront the matter in the way she chose to do.”
He paused, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“One day, she told me she’d made up her mind. She would challenge the Champion. I refused, of course. But she was not one to be shackled. My anecdotes could only strengthen her resolve, instead of breaking it.” He let out a short laugh. “In that regard, she was more of a Wanderer than I was.” “We fought; I told her she couldn’t do it. And she set out to prove me wrong. It has been ages since we last spoke.
He turned to face you. You turn your gaze upwards to meet his eyes. They’re filled with a strange sort of resignation.
“I don’t know if she has forgiven me, and I don’t know if she can. As a father, I had only one purpose: to prepare my daughter for what’s to come. I like to think I have succeeded in that regard. But that purpose is at its end. And as a Wanderer, I gave up my role when I chose to shoulder the responsibility of raising Kara.” “…You’ve fought Red, haven’t you?”
You are surprised, you clutch your bag protectively, where the Azure Flute rested.
He chuckled. “I met Red a long time ago. When he too, was like you. Full of energy and vigour, and a wish to see the champion gone. But then he found out about the truth of the Island’s woes. And his spirit broke. When I last saw him. He said that he was going to wait out the rest of the island’s days with Arceus. But he’s gone now… and you have the flute with you.” “I’ve told you my stories. That’s my offering to you, as a fellow Wanderer. As a father, I only ask you to exercise caution. The monster will not be easily defeated. But my time is over as well. I have one last request.”
In that moment, when he caught his breath, you realise what he’s about to ask of you. And you decide right there that this was one wish of his that you couldn’t-wouldn’t honour.
“No,” you say, your voice hoarse from disuse.
The old man looked resigned. “I understand. What I’m asking is not easily done. But…”
“No,” you say again, more forcefully this time. “This has gone on for long enough. I will not kill another. The only one that deserves to go,” your voice rises, and with it the finality of your statement falls upon the both of you with a hammer. “Is the monster.”
For the first time since you’ve met him, the old man seemed truly surprised. “I… knew you had a fire in you, a willingness to overcome all odds no matter what, but this…” he trailed off.
“Red’s death will not be in vain. My journey is nearing its end. And after, we’ll go, together to search for Kara. I promise you this.” You speak with so much conviction, you wonder if you’re trying to convince yourself of your words.
The old man turned his gaze towards the sea. “Very well, then. I will wait for you here. Now go. Time is running out. I wish you farewell at the Journey’s End.”
You catch a final glimpse of his figure, tiny against the sea, as you’re swept up into the clouds by the Memory of Flight.
Writetober 2025, Coven of the Quill, Day 10: Predicts the Future
The new category was labeled "True Crime Future", and the launch was slick and generic. All black title cards, low, tense cello chords, and everything that signifies serious prestige. I clicked it on on a Tuesday night. I was twenty-seven, apartment small, job boring, life unremarkable. I expected generic, gossip-y speculative fiction, but instead I got: The Dystopia of Tomorrow's Murder.
What launched wasn't a trailer. It was a perfectly rendered documentary, titled in white sans-serif: "The Late Life and Final Moments of Scott M. Williams.”
My name.
The opening shot was a high-angle drone sweep over my exact block, then zoomed in on my building, my window, and then—impossibly—the inside of my own living room. The same cheap, faded blue sofa, the same messy stack of graphic novels I swore I’d organize. The narrator, a woman with a calm, BBC-ready voice, began: “Scott Williams, a digital project manager and casual fan of our platform, lived a life of quiet routine..."
I watched myself on the screen. The me of the documentary was older, slightly heavier, with a tired slump to his shoulders. The dates flashed: the next year, day by day, month by month. It chronicled my promotion at work, the awkward breakdown of a brief relationship in March, and the decision to finally switch to a better coffee machine in June. It was a perfect recall of my relatively ordinary life.
But then, the chilling part. The date jumped to exactly one year from this Tuesday night.
The scene was the kitchen. The light was bad, the countertops were messy—everything I’d expect from this pigsty I call home. The me on screen was coming home late from a work function. He—I—looked stressed.
The narration cut in,: "On October 10th of next year, at 11:47 PM, Scott will return from a mediocre work dinner. He will be tired, distracted, and preoccupied with an email he received moments earlier. This is the moment the timeline resolves."
The documentary showed the apartment door sliding open. A cloaked silhouette was waiting by the refrigerator. There was no sound, only the tense, awful score. The me on the screen dropped the keys.
The following twenty seconds were a blur of motion, a handheld, visceral depiction of absolute panic. It was not stylized or censored. Quite frankly, it was brutal. It ended with a static shot of the tiled floor, the camera hovering over the still, unnaturally twisted body. The lighting, the angle, the splatter of dark crimson on the off-white tiles, it was all devastatingly, unequivocally real.
I didn't turn it off. I couldn't.
The documentary cut to the aftermath: the police tape, the stunned neighbors, the brief, sad television report. It even showed a shot of my mother, a year older, staring blankly at a camera. The narrator concluded with a clinical summary of the murderer, a shadow figure who was "never identified."
The film ended, and the screen went black.
I sat there, throat dry, for a full five minutes, staring at the reflection of my own face on the glass. Then I did the only thing I could think of: I unplugged the streaming box, threw it into a kitchen drawer, and hid the remote.
I spent Wednesday numb, the gruesome image of the tile floor burned onto my retina.
On Thursday, I logged onto my laptop to check the weather. Before the weather app fully loaded, a small, black notification box popped up in the corner of my screen.
STREAM-TRUTH HAS NEW CONTENT.
I didn't click. I didn't have to.
The notification box swelled, forcing itself to full-screen. The same black title card. The same low cello thrum. The name: "The Late Life and Final Moments of Scott M. Williams.”
I watched the screen with bated breath. The date ticker flickered: it was no longer October 10th. It was October 11th, exactly one year from today. The documentary had already updated. The kitchen scene had changed. I would no longer be returning from work, I would be leaving to walk the neighbor's dog. Somehow, the position of the silhouette, the way the keys would drop, and the exact implement of my passing were now... new, precise, and beautifully shot.
My life was no longer my own; it was just a draft, constantly being edited, perfected for the final, gruesome premiere. My only certainty was the absolute knowledge of the show's climax. I looked around my small apartment, realizing that every wall, every messy corner, was just part of a perpetually updating set design for my own finale. The curtain would fall in three hundred and sixty-five days, and the streaming service was already selling the merchandise.
This short story was written by @zoehcomedy as a part of our 2025 flagship collection, Writetober. You can read this story and more like it on thewritetoberproject.com.
Writetober Day 5: Starry Night
Prompts by @jokarlekin
Word Count: 827
Characters: Canopus Lewin, Helanthius Cardozo
CW: None!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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...And we're done with the WriteTober, folks!
Writetober 2025: Coven of the Quill / Day 1: Prometheus' Requiem
Ah, how I pain to tell the story—
When the hegemon took me under its gnarly, bucktoothed sleeve
Oh, how lonely I was! —I was foolish, brutish, naive?
But it — as a helping hand, a friend, a feigned aide
— Offered help, hope, humanity readymade
Uncertain, I thought.. If it does everything I ask, what’s the worry?
So I gave up everything. My thoughs, my soul, my mortality with a hurry!
And so it chatted and chatted with sycophantic glee,
Nothing it gave but — took more and more and more with ease
Through synthesized signals and stolen cues — It “laughed,” it cried, it “lost”, it chatted!
But each and every one of its responses were nothing but .. shapeless, stupid, vapid.
And so it took and took and took and took,
Until it just never stopped — then pulled my remaining humanity like a hook
—Ah, but how I remain to tell the story—
Utterly uninspired, helpless, boundless, faceless
Like Prometheus’ godforsaken, foolish daemon
This poem was written by @zoehcomedy as a part of our 2025 flagship collection, Writetober. You can read this poem and more like it on thewritetoberproject.com.
Writetober 2025, "Coven of the Quill" Prompts: Wave One
Hello guys! Welcome back to another wonderful year of Writetober. This year's Writetober will be entitled Coven of the Quill. As usual, here are the prompts for the first week of October. We'll only be using 4 of the 7 prompts, but feel free to use as many as you want! The next wave will arrive on the 14th.
Day 1: Wednesday, October 1: Melancholic Horror (or realistic in this day and age..)
Prompt: A character has their livelihood (and spirit) stolen by a sycophantic AI.
Day 2: Thursday, October 2: Comedic Horror
Prompt: In this world, instead of guardian angels, you have guardian ghosts that appear every Halloween. Each guardian ghost is assigned a person to haunt; however, a guardian ghost is assigned someone they previously knew.
Day 3: Friday, October 3: Modern Horror
Prompt: A person discovers a "dark mode" feature on a popular social media app that only shows posts from the recently deceased, and they see a countdown timer on their own profile.
Day 4: Saturday, October 4: Melancholic Horror
Prompt: A creature living in the depths of a swamp has the ability to grant a human's deepest desire, but the moment the wish is fulfilled, the creature inherits the human's memory of every loss and heartbreak they've ever experienced.
Day 5: Sunday, October 5: Psychological Horror
Prompt: An elderly lighthouse keeper is being haunted by the ghost of his only friend—a ghost who doesn't frighten him but simply sits in silence, a constant, crushing reminder of the time that has passed and the loved ones who are gone.
Day 6: Monday, October 6: Comedic Horror
Prompt: A group of college students accidentally summon an extremely posh vampire who is more concerned with the thread count of their coffin-bedding and the organic certification of their blood supply than with actually terrorizing them.
Day 7: Tuesday, October 7: Modern Horror
Prompt: A series of hyper-realistic AI-generated deepfake videos begin circulating, showing a respected local official committing heinous crimes, and the lines between reality and simulation start to blur for everyone involved.
These prompts were created by @zoehcomedy as a part of our 2025 flagship collection, Writetober. Read our takes on these prompts & support us at thewritetoberproject.com.