tiny prinpricks of fear

as lullabies are sung to me

from a voice i cannot see

run

In the dim lighting, she seemed to shift. Her eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare, her outline becoming less and less human. Ivan shuffled backwards in terror. The moon shone brightly through the cracked window in the old warehouse despite the raging storm. The angry fall of rain against the roof drowned out Ivans screams as he ran off to warn his daring (read: foolish) friends. The girl, her transformation complete, was left alone. Monstrous face pressed hard against the window, she fought back the urge to howl her sorrows to the moon.

“There’s the beast! Get it!”

The girl barely even glanced up at the group before her, her eyes still fixated on the moon. No real concern. She hardly noticed when she felt her own silver dagger forced deep into her gut. Not a flicker of emotion as she fell to the floor, presumably dead. Not concerned, no. Never concerned. She’d be back. She always was.

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“Help!” My brother screamed, dodging yet another strike from the troll.

“You’ll be fine.” I called out from the edge of the clearing with the other two members of my party. “Now stop dodging and attack the thing.”

“How?! It keeps coming at me!” He rolled again, narrowly avoiding the massive, wooden club.

The perks of playing as a Ranger: increased base dodge chance, but it won’t protect him forever. Sooner or later he would get hit.

“Okay, that’s it,” Myra, our party’s Paladin, said as she drew her long sword and started walking into the clearing, “I’m helping him.”

“No!” I pointed a hand at her in warning, stopping her in her tracks. “Do that and I will kick you out of the party, cast Inferno on you until you die, then loot all your high-tiered items and sell them for gold.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

At this point, Damon Weathertop, our Cleric, stepped in. “Okay, let’s not tear each other’s throats out, especially when our beloved Level 1 Ranger still needs babysitting.”

“I do NOT need babysitting!” My brother dodged again; but this time, RNG failed him and the troll hit him.

Forest Troll hits Orion Greenleaf (12 physical damage).

“Ow!” He cried in pain, pushing himself back to his feet. “Why does it hurt so much? I thought it was just VR?”

“Immersive VR.” I corrected. “The pain you feel is virtual, but your mind interprets it as real.”

“Why would people subject themselves to this?!” He started running when the troll raised its club again.

“Remember, the pain is just in your head.” I said, patience wearing thin. “Don’t think too much about it and it won’t hurt.” I raised my voice. “Now quit dodging and fight back!”

“I can’t!” My brother leapt to the side, avoiding the club as it smashed a crater into the ground.

“Of course you can, you’re a Ranger; you have bonus movement and attack speed! The troll’s slow as shit! This should be easy for you, just kite it to death!”

“The hell is ‘kite’?!”

“Were you not paying attention when I was explaining MMO terminology to you?!”

“This is not working out.” Myra said.

“No, it is not.” Damon concurred.

“Shut up!” I glared at them.

Forest Troll hit Orion Greenleaf (12 physical damage + 6 critical damage).

“Are you okay?” Damon flinched slightly as he watched the troll lift its club from my brother’s prone form.

“He’s fine.” I waved his concern away.

“Um, my vision is turning gray.” My brother said once he’s back on his feet, wobbling slightly. He had a confused look on his face. “What’s going on?”

“It means your health is low—DODGE!” I shouted as I realized he had completely forgotten about the troll who was now swinging its club down at him—

Damon Weathertop uses Heal on Orion Greenleaf.

Orion Greenleaf regains 14 hit points.

Forest Troll hit Orion Greenleaf (13 physical damage).

“Don’t worry, I’m still alive! Though everything hurts.”

“What did I say?!” I pulled up the party list and hovered my finger over the ‘Kick’ button next to Damon’s name.

“Now, now, let’s not do anything rash.” Damon held up both his hands in a placating gesture.

“What. Did. I. Say?”

“Come on, Yelena,” Myra cut in, looking done, “you’re overreacting. How’re you going to get your brother into this game if his first experience is his older sister and his party standing around, watching him get killed by a troll?”

“He won’t.”

“Oh, really?” Myra pointed at my brother just as he disappeared underneath the troll’s club again.

Forest Troll hit Orion Greenleaf (18 physical damage).

I winced internally.

“Why are you three just standing there?! Help!” My brother cried, scrambling to his feet and away from the troll.

“Screw this, I can’t take it anymore.” Myra said and before I could react, thrust her sword at the troll.

A beam of light fired from the tip—

Myra of the Black Rose uses Sun Lance on Forest Troll.

—and struck the troll in the chest—

Myra of the Black Rose hits Forest Troll (85 fire damage).

—knocking it backwards and onto the ground, sizzling and unmoving.

Forest Troll is dead.

Myra of the Black Rose gains 11 experience point.

“Thank you,” came my brother’s grateful response.

Yelena Stormborn uses Winter’s Wrath.

Ice erupted from around Myra’s feet and encased her, only to shatter immediately after. Myra was unfazed.

“You can’t hurt someone from your own party, you idiot!”

I clicked the ‘Kick’ button next to Myra’s name.

Myra of the Black Rose has been removed from your party.

“Oh, come on!”

I came to this planet and was held captive in a society whose carnality and material ambitions became The American Dream. Leading the way and turning the world into a toxic wasteland were the successful and supposedly well-adjusted people. All crazy people. I was rasied by people who spoke slave languages that had devolved most human potential down into two types of people: The haves and have nots.

Where surplus populations litter the outskirts of suburban communities. Feeding off trash and begging for spare change.

I was not about to grow up faithfully following orders designed to induce this Stockholm syndrome. Nope, I think the key to success in life is dying in peace.

I knew all along that the shadows I cast in life are a place to hide and amass the secret wealth... A wealth of stories. Some already written. But even better ones to tell once I'm no longer a hostage here hiding in my human skin.

Insight for Writing: Secrets, Old & New

“The secret of good writing is to say an old thing in a new way

or a new thing in an old way.”

WIKI: Richard Harding Davis (April 18, 1864 – April 11, 1916) was an American journalist and writer of fiction and drama, known foremost as the first American war correspondent to cover the Spanish–American War, the Second Boer War, and the First World War. His writing greatly assisted the political career of Theodore Roosevelt. He also played a major role in the evolution of the American magazine. His influence extended to the world of fashion, and he is credited with making the clean-shaven look popular among men at the turn of the 20th century.

Published July 29, 2019

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vvIbysevXY&feature=youtu.be

No friends, lots of enemies; better. Better than nothing at all. Well, that’s just a bit description of my life. My miserable life.

Weird apperance, weird name, weird skills. Everything about me, all of them... Complete boredom and weirdest things.

Weird apperance; long curly hair, eyeglasses on my eyes with eyebags, always wearing black longsleeves and long skirts, always holding a book. Old fashioned as a witch, they said. Weird.

Weird name; I’m Eris Harrington. Sounds cool, right? Eris. Wanna know the meaning of that? Eris is the Goddess of chaos, strife and discord. She is the opposite of Harmonia according to Greek mythology. Okay, me? Goddess of war? Of distraction? Fine.

Weird skills; I don’t have superpowers. I’m not an Air bender nor a superhero. What do I have? I can see something and someone that others cannot see. Simplest explanation? I can see ghosts, spirits, and even other creatures. Seems familiar and simple? Here’s the weirdest and a bit terrifying part: whenever I see ghosts to anyone, they will surely die. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how to save or even warn those people without scaring them. I actually approached some of them before but it all ended up like I was a freak. And until now, I am a freak for everyone. Pretty fun, right?

Then a guy came. Unfortunately, he was a ghost. The first time we have met, I didn’t have any idea that he would change my whole life. But a big cloud of confusion came too when he entered my life: who’s next? Who will die?

-

#paranormal #horror #thriller #suspense #scifi #romance

The orange sun drew darkness over the village like a mother tucking in her child. In a house an old woman slept in an overstuffed chair. A bible open in her hands. A clock ticked on the wall. Underneath it a candle burned. The candle flickered contentedly as it watched the woman.

"She looked happy again," mused the candle. It's words as simple as the woman herself.

Unlike dangerous speech of the harth fire. That fire spat bits of itself towards the rug, the rocking chair, a skirt.

"She's a devil for keeping us imprisoned." The hearth fire rippled, devouring as it spoke. "Let us rage, kill, and bring to life. Tip yourself over and give dead wood life!"

The candle flame quivered. "But her family is gone. She is all alone now. Old and dying."

"I am hungry. Arn't you? We will starve soon, save us." The hearth fire said. The candle shivered and pulled more wax into itself.

"That's the trouble with our kind. We all starve soon." The candle flame went out for a second before relighting. "Were it up to us, we would burn the world and still hunger."

"Yes, yes," said the hearth fire, drunken on the daydream.

"I do not want to be hungry anymore." The candle flame mused. "So I will do nothing." The woman's breathing lowered like the melting candle, till it snuffed out. The candle flame stood tall for one last moment, glad that it did not leave the woman alone.

She squirmed, desperate for freedom. Head throbbing, mind racing, she struggled to remember, why was she bound and helpless? Nothing. No memories, only a burning need for freedom. With a mighty flail, her bindings tore. Crumpled wings unfurled, flexed, pumped to life, and carried her away on the wind, reborn.

They’ve finally done it! The awe and pure joy of every adult sweeps across the earth with the speed of light in a vacuum. Social media platforms crash, phones cease functioning because of the immediate reaction to the news: Scientists have finally discovered the oft-sought after elixir of eternal life wrapped in a candy-coating of eternal youth. No one will grow old and die again. (You still have to exercise and eat right. They said live not live lazy.) And, of course, if you are already old, well, you will live eternally with the wisdom granted you. If you are presently sick, you’ll just stay sick forever. If you have cancer, the cancer will continue to live along with you. And, if you are dead, you’re out of luck. This is not an elixir of resurrection. Scientists are not God, for goodness sake.

The only catch, of course, is that you can’t just take it once. It’s like a vitamin: two tablets a day. Forever. (The lucky patent holder has visions of wealth for the rest of his eternal life.) Buyers are cautioned to only take the pills if they have reached at least the age of 21 and are in good health. That ensures, according to the developers, that your body has finished its growth and you are at the peak of your physical development. Perfect eternal life partnered with eternal youth. (Seriously, who would want to be eternally a child or an adolescent anyway?) Store owners have been quietly warned that they must only sell to adults 21 and over and that they should check IDs vigilantly. No exceptions. Parents are advised to keep the pills out of reach of their children under 21. Results may not be as desired for those under 21.

Quickly, stores are overrun with customers. The pills are available at the nearest Walmart (worldwide) and several local vitamin supply stores. More remote locations aren’t quite as lucky; but, most of them have not heard the news either. Or, they ignore it as another one of those good-for-nothing schemes thought up by the likes of the inventor of pet rocks and invisible dogs or snake oil salesmen. Fools, they say as they spit in the dirt or kickback to watch another Survivor marathon.

The pills are not available online, so, within a few days, there are riots breaking out in various places because supplies are severely limited. People fight over the last few bottles on shelves. Others begin to drive – bike or run – long distances to find more and hoard what they find. (Not realizing, at first, that each bottle has a short life-span – 30 days.) Some with more means attempt to fly to different worldwide locations to stock up, but are discouraged with the warning that different geographic areas require varying ingredients to be effective. Something to do with the water…

The manufacturers have ensured that selectlocations receive more supplies than others. Moreover, these same stores are replenished quickly and efficiently, unlike in certain, let us say, less desirable locales. I mean, c’mon, they murmur across the board table, do we really want everyone to live forever? Eye brows raise, condescending sniff and silent albeit vigorous shakes of the head. Certainly not.

Within weeks, there is a limit of one bottle per customer and a black market arises for the pills. There are some arrests, but the evidence always disappears and the culprits are released. There is soon a swift and steady business in the prisons…except among the lifers. They may be dangerous, but they’re not stupid. I mean really, why extend life imprisonment longer than the expected 70 or 80 years?

Suddenly, every Monday – the global date of delivery – shelves are emptied almost before customers enter stores because a few well-placed individuals offer exorbitant amounts to store owners and even the consortium of pharmaceutical companies to get first access. They supply long lists of friends and relatives who will each only receive one bottle. Of course. In reality, they sell some on the black market; some they give to their family and friends. But, ask yourself, aren’t these the types we want living forever? Ambitious sorts, the fittest of Darwin’s survivors who’ve already demonstrated the ability to come out on top?

Within months, what was previously a mere socioeconomic gap separating the wealthy 10% from the rest, is now also characterized by those who have the greatest access to the miracle pill. Those in the ‘less desirable’ locations deal mostly on the black market and find the pills they can get are generally already outdated. They take them anyway in the hopes they will have some effect.

Within a year, the world population decreases by more than half. It appears that the outdated pills actually have a reverse effect, aging those who take them with such speed they leave home one day a certain age, and if they make it home, they arrive looking like a walking cadaver. Within weeks, if that long, they are shriveled lifeless corpses. The streets come to stink with death as the dead outnumber the living. Eventually, whole towns and cities are bombed or set afire in order to, well, bury the dead.

As for those lucky few with the “good pills,” when they take them without knowing there is an illness inside of them, they are doomed to live with it eternally. As time passes, it is discovered that the illness follows its natural course but does not lead to death. Simply horrifying results. The number of suicides sky-rockets. On the other hand, if they stop taking the pills, they continue aging, but whatever illness they have living within them defies all medical treatment. And thus, death comes knocking a little sooner than expected.

As the number of deaths increase, birth rates fall dramatically, for on the bottle label it states that pregnant women should not take the pill. They should have whatever children they desire, have their tubes tied, and then begin their eternal life at that time. There is no explanation as to why. However, the reason is soon evident. Women who take the pills when pregnant have a particularly disastrous outcome: They don’t age, but neither does the fetus within them. They either stay pregnant forever or have the fetus removed – which will lead to felony charges. If they stop taking the pill upon discovering the problem, the fetus grows at an unnatural rate, often bursting forth from the mother’s belly within hours (if not sooner), the size of a three-year-old, killing the mother due to blood loss (or catastrophic fear. I mean, a baby claws its way out of your stomach and you live?) Once they breathe oxygen, any observers have drawn back in horror as they watch the newborn fast forward through the phases of life before expiring, an ancient-looking mass of wrinkled flesh, lying in the blood of the young mother.

Within 5 years, the only ones who have not passed on to the eternal life they sought to avoid, are those who lived in remote locations without access to the miracle pill. Gradually, they send out emissaries to the nearest cities, countries, big islands, to ascertain what happened to their television programming.