I fear I'm destined for mediocrity.

That I am no more than just another fertile womb responsible for the insurance of the success of my species in the animal kingdom.

At least we're allowed to fuck irresponsibly without pumping ourselves full of hormones that change our holy temple's chemistry synthetically against what our biology intended.

What are the side-effects I have to suffer for jailing my femininity?

Me, an ill equipped catalyst to the existence of another chronically depressed masochist in search of meaning in a world devoid of substance.

I guess I invest a lot of time pondering a profound reason for my physical existence, that feeds myself spiritually by moving it in a direction that leads to the fatality of my ego.

So I do drugs. It aids me by accelerating the processes my mind has to be confronted with to reach that awakening I academically regard as a road towards reaching my full potential.

I'm not ignorant to the fact that I'm still just a mammal naturally existing to fall prey to the superior.

So humanity clings to religion, to mind-fuck us into believing we're individually, inherently special and uniquely engineered to form a part of the puzzle that embodies the image of the Holy Dictator that is solely entitled to judging and guiding our spirit to where we deserve to spend an eternal destiny, either in relentless pain or bliss.

I yearn for the dark abyss of non-existence. A thoughtless lack of concrete being. A short lived concept that only exist in the generation I shared less than a fraction of a breath with over geological time. I am just a brief thought in the evermore march of time towards our inevitable destruction of the Earth that feeds us.

So what the fuck is the actual point, unless I find a way to conjure up a way to convince my mind that something exists external to my rational understanding? I pray to the Mother. The underlying rhythm of the universe that led to my sentience against all odds. Does she whisper to me in my escape of consciousness? Or am I slowly turning into someone detached from logical reality?

The answer is maybe.

Vuja De

October 19, 2024

“The calibration must be within .7 seconds for the device to work. This one has altered his memory with his drug use, so the margin for error is small.”

“How many times can we use the device before the subject can no longer be repaired?”

“For this subject, only once.”

I walked to work during that last morning. The news reported the end of the world began precisely at 1803 GMT. That would be 2:03 pm in Buffalo, New York, until the daylight saving time caught up.

It never would.

The shadows arrived first. An hour later, we saw the ships. An hour after that, I decided to get drunk and high on whatever I could find. I have been in this state for nearly two months now. That is why I am still alive.

The aliens sent droids, then bots, then retrievers. They had no inclination to show themselves or expose themselves to the myriad of viruses, bacteria, and/or parasites Earth had to offer. They did, however, expose the entirety of humanity to the viruses, bacteria, and/or parasites their God-forsaken world had to offer.

By sundown, nearly two-thirds of mankind died in ways too unspeakable to mention. Most of the mammalian populations died also. The insects thrived. The avians suffered. I located a pharmacy. I lost track of statistics after that.

Dawn matched the visual devastation with its olfactory partnership. The survivors wished they had perished. The retrievers gathered who they could find only to dissect each into portions more easily digestible to our new guests.

“The tolerance is still too large. It keeps shifting from one band to another. Couldn’t we track another? Perhaps someone more stable?”

“Find another to track. This one is the last human remaining.”

I roam aimlessly, easily avoiding the bots and retrievers. How? I do not know. Maybe I am invisible. Maybe, just maybe, they no longer view me as worth the effort. Somehow, I keep finding drugs to take. At first, I took them to feel good. Now, I take them to feel nothing.

“A lock! We have a lock! Activate the device immediately!”

I walked to work that morning. The newsman on the radio reported many sightings of “dark clouds” overhead, without a single object to create them. The man said it was something akin to an atmospheric plasma storm, something between a solar flare and the Northern Lights. A few flashes overhead mirror fireworks, but in the daytime? That isn’t right. Either way, I have to get to work on time.

I passed a homeless vet strung out from the night before. He wants money. He tells me he knows that “they” are here, but not to stay. He knows the truth. How can anyone that is drugged out know anything?

Synopsis: Madga is travelling near Northern Suuroo when she comes upon a tribe that has drastically changed since the death of the sun. The air is thick and smells so bad that she has to cover her face, yet she can still feel the grime on her skin. What have they done?

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Madga jumped at the sound of a loud snort. Her eyes darted to the two men sitting at one of the other tables.

“I have no idea,” the man who snorted answered. “They called them ‘coins’.”

Out of the corner of her eye she watch as the second man picked up one of the beaten, circular metal pieces. The flat sides flickered dim, golden light as he turned it over in his fingers.

The man’s lips twisted in doubt. “It’s pretty. I suppose you could melt it down for something.” He tossed it on the wooden table where is landed with a couple of dull thunks. “Throw it in the nearest spring and hope for the best.”

The first man snorted again. “That’s what I said when I first saw it. Told ’em I can’t eat metal. But they insisted. Figured it’d at least be good for an offering when we need a little extra help against the Tasoragh.”

The second man grunted in agreement.

Madga glanced around. Out of habit she raised her hands to ensure that her black hair was hidden firmly under her wool hat and hood. Then she held the warm, wooden cup on the table between her hands. With unseeing eyes, she watched the water faintly tremble as she listened to the sounds around her.

Every time someone stood from a table. Each time someone rolled over in their sleep on one of the beds. Whenever someone loudly slurped from their soup. And especially when people entered the rectangular house.

The home wasn’t as big as in other tribes. As their chief lived in Southern Suuroo there wasn’t a need to have such a large place. But guests and warriors with homes in the south needed a place to stay while up north, and someone to lead them while holding it all together.

A woman stepped in undoing one ribbon that kept her long hair in place. Her blond locks fell around her shoulders, covering simple line stains of a woman with a spear and cloak. Her neck had imagery of the sun and, though her blond hair now covered it, the sight caused Madga’s heart to slowly creep into her throat.

Her cup rattled on the surface of the table until she managed to remove her hands. She breathed high in her chest, which tightened with every step the woman took.

Madga stared into her cup, hands in her lap as the woman passed behind her.

Somewhere far to her left the woman laughed and Madga tensed. The woman spoke with a few others and Madga’s chest loosened a little. Without turning her head, she saw that the woman had stopped at one of the tables surrounded by other warriors. She laughed and chatted with them, her sun stain completely hidden from view. No one else seemed to have sun imagery, but Madga knew some people still resented the Gwae for the loss of the sun. And a few thin, dangling threads still worshiped it.

Madga swallowed and stood. She quickly shuffled to the cot she had borrowed and packed her things before pulling on her mitts. She barely managed to remember to grab her snowshoes before running out the door.

Outside Suuroo warriors trained against each other. A few had families that stayed with them all the time, but northern Suuroo was a tribe on the front line against the Tasoragh. It was small and didn’t serve any other purpose. Keeping her head down, Madga quickly escaped beyond the few snow-covered houses.

Her knuckles were white inside her mitts.

“Stupid,” she whispered to herself. She took in a ragged breath. “Stupid, stupid mistake….”

She kept whispering to herself as she trudged through the snow, away from Suuroo and any well-packed paths of travellers.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

After some lonely passes of the moon, Madga stumbled and a gust of air burst from her lungs as she hit the snow. She turned over with a grunt and the metal pot in her bag clanked up against her back.

She pushed into a sitting position. Her mitts sunk into the snow a little but she could still see the round arch of her snowshoe. The cords fastening the shoe to her boot had loosened and her boot had shifted off centre.

She moved to better sit up, fighting against her bag like she was a turtle on its back. With a huff she slipped her arms out of the straps and sat up. She removed her mitts and checked the cords and circular wooden frame of the snowshoe, breathing a sigh of relief to see that nothing was damaged.

She got to her feet and untied the cords, placed her boot in the centre, and then retied the cords as tight as she could. She lifted her foot up, down, and moved it around, testing it until she was satisfied.

She straightened and turned to pick up her pack, but paused. She breathed in and out, then breathed in deep and suddenly coughed. She grabbed the edge of her cloak to cover her nose and mouth.

An awful smell lingered in the air. Her brows furrowed as she looked around, but the half-moon revealed little in the dark under the evergreens.

She lowered the edge of the cloak and tentatively sniffed again. This time the air was clear. She paused for a moment, searching the area again, but when she found nothing she leaned down for her pack and mitts.

The snow compressed underneath her snowshoes with dull crunches. Each step left behind a trail of small, rounded teardrops.

As the moon took another step across the sky a gentle breeze tugged milk-thin clouds across it. They thickened, and the breeze descended into the trees.

The smell returned with a vengeance. The stench assaulted Madga’s nose, wriggled and dug into her lungs and smelled worse than rotting food or waste. It was like someone had shoved a dirty piece of cloth into her mouth. She hacked in an effort to get rid of it and covered her mouth and nose. She looked around but found nothing.

A light caught her eye and she looked up. Her eyes widened. The clouds had covered the moon and glowed a dull red.

She tried to think. Had she gone the wrong way and wandered too close to the Tasoragh? Was it a fight between them and the Suuroo? Had someone’s torch or campfire caught on the trees?

Her fingers opened and closed. She whimpered and looked back, looked forward. She shifted from foot to foot and watched as the glowing brightened for a few seconds.

She whimpered again: curiosity won.

Her steps turned careful and her eyes flickered upward every time the wind brushed against the tops of the trees. Her brows slowly rose in confusion at the lack of an animal presence. Tracks were missing, signs of feeding were gone. Bird calls were silent.

Her steps slowed and her lips worried together.

A low hum met her ears. She searched the dark, her head turning to find the source of the strange noise.

It rose to a roar and filled the very air around her. Her eyes widened and her breathing came in short gasps. Between the prickly branches the ominous glowing of the clouds brightened again.

Then as quickly as it came it stopped, leaving only the low hum.

She panted and little clouds of fog left her mouth. She stood for a long time, listening, with her arms and legs spread and ready to run.

Eventually her heart slowed and the sweat on her back cooled beneath the layers of clothing. Another whimper escaped her throat.

A faint bang echoed over the hum and her muscles tensed all over again. Another followed, and then relative silence.

She inhaled and released a shaky breath. Reluctant, but still curious, her feet began to move again. She came up a small hill and the sounds grew. Hammers and strange noises drifted into the forest.

She coughed when the smell grew stronger. Her nose and mouth twisted in disgust. As she walked the smell seemed to stick to her skin, like the grime and fat on metal plates. It seemed to cover the exposed parts of her face where she wasn’t trying to block the smell with her cloak.

She froze at the top of the hill. Below was a wide, circular clearing with a tribe sitting in the middle. The houses were rectangular, but unlike the Suuroo’s they were made of cut stone and stood completely above the ground. Each seemed to perfectly match up with the other, creating harsh angled walkways instead of gentle flowing ones. No central fire took precedence, but every house had a torch, and every window glowed bright with fire from inside.

Outside people hammered away next to metal shaping fires placed anywhere and everywhere. Occasionally shouting rose above the noise, but beyond them was another hill where the humming seemed to come from. It glowed, and then shifted once. Thick smoke rose from it.

“It’s not Tasoragh, if that’s what you think!”

Madga jumped with a cry. She turned to find a woman walking toward her across the hilltop.

She walked with a long stick, carved with abstract imagery of people in various poses. A similar image of a person had been stained on her face. She wore a dress over leggings and boots, and a bone broach fastened a fur and wool cloak around her. A hat covered her ears and a long blond braid trailed from underneath it and over her chest.

She smiled with a brief glanced over Madga. She came to a stop beside her. “I’m Cressamae, daughter of Neeoa. It’s not Tasoragh,” she repeated, pointing to the tribe. “I believe that’s what has become of Ktrint.”

Madga turned, glancing over the houses and people.

Madga frowned in confusion. “What? That’s not Ktrint-” She stopped herself and looked up at Cressamae with wide eyes.

Cressamae looked at her questioningly, but when she didn’t speak she repeated, “I believe that’s Ktrint. I’m sorry, I should have asked, have you ever been here before?”

Madga glanced away, quickly shaking her head.

Cressamae paused, waiting again. Her brow briefly pinched, but then she looked to the tribe and straightened, although her foot didn’t seem to respond as it should.

“I had heard that Ktrint didn’t fair well after the death of the sun.”

Madga flinched.

Cressamae didn’t notice, her gaze remained on Ktrint. As she spoke her voice briefly turned hard. “I’m not surprised. Quite honestly I’m more surprised that we have managed to make it this many generations without Suurie to warm our fields. It’s not shocking that any tribe would’ve changed so drastically.” She hummed. “Still, something about Ktrint smells bad.”

A surprised giggle bubbled up. “Oh, I didn’t mean to make that joke. That was a terrible.” She waved her hand.

“What is the smell?” Madga asked.

Cressamae winked. “That’s what I’m going find out. Care to join me?”

Madga hesitate. She looked at Ktrint. The noise was a lot to handle, and the smell was horrible and everywhere.

She slowly nodded.

“Great!” Cressamae said, and began down the hill.

Madga took a deep breath and instantly coughed and gagged. Cressamae looked back with concern but she waved it away. She leg go of her cloak and pulled her wrap up to cover the lower half of her face like she would to protect against cold winds. Then she released the broach of her cloak and shifted it, tightening the cloth until it too was snug over her mouth. Once it was secure she followed Cressamae.

Many feet had packed the snow closer to Ktrint. Madga bent to untie the cords around her boots. She paused, frowning at the snow where tiny flecks of black, like strange snowflakes or odd ash, had fallen. One piece was wider than the nail of her pinky finger yet just as thin.

She glanced up as Cressamae joined her.

Cressamae grunted as she crouched, shifting to accommodate what must be an old injury in her left foot. Then she inspected the flakes with a deep frown. She removed a mitt and touched one, but it didn’t melt. She delicately picked it up and held it between her fingers. When she pressed them together the black turned to dust that sparkled in the dim light.

Cressamae bought her finger to her nose and sniffed. She shook her head. “I can’t smell anything over this stench.” She sighed and brushed her fingers on a clean bit of snow.

Madga rose with her. Cressamae waited for her to secure her snowshoes to her pack, and a moment later they stepped into Ktrint.

The air worsened to the point where Madga could still smell it through her wrap and cloak. The grime thickened on her skin and her lips thinned. But around her people seemed unbothered. The young ran from place to place, carrying tools or raw metals to be shaped. Someone stepped outside and dipped a sword into a cauldron of liquid, which angrily hissed and steamed. Hammering and clanging resounded between the stone buildings. Madga covered her ears.

Those around Cressamae’s age and a little older were slower. They helped out with the metalshaping, but most appeared to be hobbling from one place to the next. Their hands were covered in black, and they coughed with every other wheezing breath. Madga couldn’t spot any elders.

No one spoke. Occasionally people shouted at each other over the noises, but otherwise mouths remained shut. Instead hands moved. They pointed, rubbed, and made interesting shapes with their fingers. Rather than watching their eyes or mouths, people paid attention to their hands and bodies. Madga slowed to a stop without realizing it as she watched a particularly rapid set of hands in awe.

The sky shattered with a bang. It thudded in her ears and shook her ribcage. She jumped and crouched, eyes wide. Small whimpers escaped her lips. Cressamae shouted wordlessly and her wooden staff with both hands in a defensive position.

They searched for the source of the noise but nothing became immediately apparent.

The nearby people stared at them, as though they hadn’t heard the sound and Madga and Cressamae were the ones acting strangely. Some continued what they were doing, unworried about the sudden bang. Others scowled at them.

Madga glanced at Cressamae. Cressamae frowned deeply and they exchanged looks of disbelief.

“-lo? Hello?” Someone touched Madga’s shoulder and she rose, twisting away in blind panic.

A woman had stepped toward them. She wore a too-big tunic with a dirty leather chest piece and too-tight leggings under a skirt. Leather boots crunched in the snow and a dirty hat covered her head.

The woman blinked at her sudden movement.

Madga remembered to breathe and straightened.

The woman collected herself as she looked over the both of them. Her eyes were surrounded by tired lines. Her voice rasped from disuse and the strain to be heard over the noises.

“You two are travellers, yes?”

Madga nodded.

Cressamae smiled and raised her voice to match. “Yes. I’m Cressamae, daughter of Neeoa. I’m a druid-teacher and I’ve come to learn about your tribe. I’ve-”

The woman quickly cupped both hands toward them, and then scooped the air toward her. She turned and left.

Cressamae briefly frowned. She smiled when Madga glanced at her.

“I suppose we should follow?” she said.

After a pause of hesitation, Madga shrugged. Cressamae’s smile grew and it smoothed over the tension in Madga’s shoulders a little.

They were led farther into the tribe, passed several more houses which echoed with clanging and banging. The clouds lit up again but this time the hum didn’t grow into a roar. A moment later something flickered around each torch they passed, reflecting the light of the flames but not melting like snow would. Madga felt more grime on her skin and as she walked a black fleck landed on the brown wool of the cloak where it covered her upper arm. She made to brush it off but it crumbled and left a smear of black dust on the wool. She frowned and brushed and batted at it until it seemed gone.

She looked up just in time to walk into someone. She gasped and stepped back, quickly apologizing. The woman glanced at her but didn’t stop.

Madga took a breath, coughed from the smell, and looked around. Cressamae waved from in front of a house and she quickly weaved around people to join her. A torch hung from the side of the stone building. Like the others it burned bright with a strange, dirty flame like that of a fire fuelled by fat.

The mysterious woman shut the door behind them and the outside sounds became more bearable. The calming woodsmoke of a fire masked the foul smell from outside. Dried herbs hanging from the ceiling helped to cover what the fire could not.

The woman removed small pieces of wool cloth from her ears. Then she removed her hat, revealing auburn hair that had been cut short.

Cressamae gasped with a hand over her heart. She took a step back.

Madga glanced at her. Brows raised with concern, she looked at the colour of the woman’s hair and how short it was. She frowned and bit her lip in thought.

“Are you Coo’noam?” she asked.

Cressamae glanced at her, mouth open in an ‘oh’ shape.

The woman stared in confusion. “I’m from here. Godeco.”

Madga stuttered. “Oh-oh… it’s just you have short hair and… never mind.”

Cressamae cleared her throat and stepped forward. She re-introduced herself, and then said, “I’m hear to learn about ‘Godeco’.”

The woman opened her mouth but stopped when someone groaned and babbled without meaning. She turned at the sound with a sigh.

Over her shoulder she said, “You can wait through there while I take care of her. Help yourself to some water.”

She left them to quickly walk over to a raised cot that held a woman a little older than Cressamae. Her hands made a few motions and the woman tried turning them, but a cough wracked her lungs. She rubbed her back and then wiped the blood away once it was done.

Madga’s gaze travelled around the house. Rows of cots held other patients in similar worrying states. Some as young as her, or rather what she had been before she had stopped aging. Some were injured from tools, but most had a cough. Their chests rose and fell with wheezing breaths.

Suddenly the woman bent, placing a hand on one of the cots to steady herself. Once it passed she pulled her hand away from her mouth. She breathed out in relief and straightened.

Her gaze fell on them and surprise flash across her face. She gestured again to where she had told them to go before. “Over here,” she rasped.

The house thinned. The edges of the walls were sharp, matching the outside of the rectangular house, but instead these bent inward. Madga glanced over the perfect, smoothed walls and a shiver ran down her back.

The walls soon backed away again as they entered another part of the house. It was smaller than the previous area and filled to the brim. An empty cot sat in one corner while a cook fire, in a stone and metal thing, stood against the wall on the opposite side. Next to it were shelves filled with pots, pans, spoons, knives, and cups. Another shelf had stored food.

A tall table stood in the middle of the space, with smaller, circular tables around it.

Madga and Cressamae stared as the woman walked around the tables to grab a few cups. Cressamae removed her mitts and ran a hand along the smoothed stone of the tallest table.

The woman turned. She paused at their confusion, but then her brows rose.

She said in awe, “I’d heard other people don’t use tables like ours, but I never believed it. Please, sit down.”

She padded the top of one of the smaller tables before turning again to grab a container of water.

Cressamae removed her pack and placed it on the stone floor, and she leaned her staff against the table. She put her mitts on top of the table and watched as the woman sat down on the other side of it. Cressamae mimicked her, and in a moment she was sitting without her butt touching the floor.

Madga hesitatingly removed her pack and mitts but kept her hat on. She tugged the smaller, heavy stone and wood table out from under the taller one and carefully straddled it. It felt strange to sit with her legs dangling above the ground, as though she were sitting on a log.

The woman poured them each a cup of water.

“Thank-” Madga stopped as she stared into the water. Tiny black dots swirled around inside the cup.

The woman’s face fell. She moved her hand, then stopped herself and said, “I’m sorry.” She reached out across the table toward Cressamae. “But that’s why I’m glad you’re here. That anyone is here. We can’t keep going on like this-” As if to prove her point, her breath caught in her throat and she coughed to clear it.

Cressamae frowned. She ran a finger over her forehead and rubbed the invisible grime between her finger and thumb.

“What is all this.… What should we call you?”

“Cioborah. This….” She mimicked Cressamae and wiped her forehead. She looked down at her hand as though she had never thought about the grime before. “I can’t explain what it is.”

Her gaze rose, filled with furious determination. “But I know where it’s coming from and that it’s making everyone sick. It has been for generations, which is why no one can see that it’s happening.”

Madga hooked a finger and pulled down the wrap and cloak around her face. “Since when? When did it start?”

Cioborah’s frown turned to her and she shrank back.

Cressamae smiled. “We believe you, Cioborah.”

Madga nodded quickly.

Cioborah sighed and rubbed her temple. She gestured again. “I’m sorry. People here think I’m crazy. They don’t want to hear about how the spirit is killing us, yet they still want us healers to work without stopping. We are barely holding on. If they would just listen....”

Cressamae straightened and raised her hand before Cioborah could continue. “Spirit?”

Cioborah nodded. She took a sip of the water and Madga winced.

Cioborah opened her mouth just as another roar shook the house. The water rippled and the flames in the torches flickered. Madga cried out and Cressamae gripped the table.

Again it was over as quickly as it started.

Madga covered her face. She peeked between her fingers to see Cioborah staring at them.

Then a weak, hysterical laugh escaped her. She rubbed her forehead.

“We really are in trouble if outsiders are scared by that,” she muttered.

Cressamae brushed her hand over her hair and down her braid. She glanced down at her braid, rubbing her thumb and fingers again, then looked up.

“I’m not a druid-priest, but maybe I can help. Will you show me this spirit?”

Cioborah immediately got to her feet with her hands on the table. “I can show you now.”

“Oh! Yes, alright.” Cressamae rose and stepped away from the smaller table. She picked up her things and pulled on her mitts and hat again.

Cioborah abandoned her cup. She walked around the table and down the narrowed space. Cressamae began following her, staff in hand.

Madga hesitated.

Cressamae looked back. “Will you come?” Her eyebrows turned upward, almost pleading.

Madga swallowed. She nodded and slid off the small table. She replaced her mitts and slung on her pack. Then adjusted her wrap and cloak over her mouth and nose.

Outside the noises assaulted her ears. Cioborah reached into a pocket in her skirt and pulled out more of the pieces of wool cloth. She handed a pair to Madga and then to Cressamae before blocking her own ears.

“Keep your nose and mouth covered,” Cioborah reminded them.

Madga asked, “What about you?”

A corner of Cioborah’s mouth twitched. “It’s too late for me. But I won’t have outsiders getting sick.”

“Thank you,” Cressamae said. Her words were muffled under a mitt.

The sound of clanging hammers lessened as Cioborah led them through the narrow paths between buildings. The low hum and rumble grew in its place. Although it was still cold out, Madga realized she felt warmer than in the forest. Usually tribes were always a little warmer, but this was enough that some people forwent a piece of clothing. Usually a hat, which allowed her to see that almost no one had anything to protect their ears against the noise.

With Cioborah with them they earned more glances, and a few glares. Others nodded at Cioborah, and one stopped her with a hand gestured. Cioborah shifted on her feet but faced the man and began moving her hands. Neither spoke a word, yet their hands moved quickly and expressions flickered across their faces.

Madga inhaled in sudden understanding. Then her nose wrinkled at the smell.

Once Cioborah was finished she began leading them again.

Madga asked, “Do you speak with your hands?”

Cioborah glanced over her shoulder. She smiled at her curious expression. “We do.”

“It’s because of the noise, isn’t it?” Cressamae said in awe, watching as a group of four had a rapid conversation with their hands.

Cioborah nodded. Her smile faded. “Some people don’t know how to talk without it. … Do you have anything like that?”

Madga shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Cressamae agreed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Her eyes sparkled. “I would love to learn it and share with others, if that’s alright with you.”

Cioborah said, “I could teach you, but if nothing can be done I’d rather you stayed away from Godeco.”

Cressamae nodded in understanding. Then she asked, “Were you once known as Ktrint?”

Cioborah’s steps slowed as she thought. They side-stepped a group of people.

“Yes, I think so,” she answered. “But it’s been a long time since we’ve called ourselves that,” she said with regret and longing.

Soon the number of buildings thinned. Rows of torches led them along a well-packed path toward a small incline, and behind it, the moving hill Madga had seen before.

Her steps slowed. She stared, perturbed as the rumble grew very loud for a few seconds, and sections almost like cracks in the hill glowed red. The clouds in the sky had thinned but smoke rising from the hill replaced them and perpetually obscured the stars. The smoke caught the light and reflected the dim glow. When the rumble lessened the glow dimmed further.

Madga glanced at Cressamae. She shared a look of worry and caution.

A few steps ahead, with a dread calm Cioborah said, “We’ve been digging for metals and materials for generations. For as long as we can remember, the spirit has always been here.”

She paused and took a deep breath. “In all honesty, we’re probably the ones hurting ourselves. Not the spirit.”

“Why?” Cressamae asked.

“Because we’re hurting it.” She crested the hill and they followed her, freezing at the top.

In shock, Madga mistakenly inhaled and she covered her mouth with a hand as she coughed.

The same bright, dirty torches surrounded a giant spirit. It’s back—belly?—was the basis of the large ‘hill’ Madga had seen. It skin was blackened, burnt to a crisp and glowed a dim orange-red. A section of skin, thin like membrane, broke and a plume of fire flared up. The sky glowed again and another rumble shook the ground. The flames were like that of the torches, edged with black and anger.

Another loud roar cut through the air. Madga’s hands threw up to cover her ears, crouching with a whimper.

The spirit shifted and moved. Her eyes darted around until she quickly spotted what looked like a gigantic mouth full of human teeth. The teeth were yellowed, and blackened in some spots. A thickened liquid flowed out of the mouth, catching the light and shining like a rainbow, until a man below caught it in a cauldron. He held the cauldron over his head but most splashed down around him, onto dead dirt where snow refused to accumulate or grass grew. He stepped away and a woman took his place until the spirit stopped vomiting.

The roaring stopped.

Madga wrapped her shaking arms around her stomach.

The rest of the spirit was just as disfigured. A huge human arm with burnt flesh lay limp on the ground. A group of people sat on and around it while they rested from their work. Fleshy ropes with blood pumping out of them came from a sucking rim of muscle. With every second breath the ropes twitched and sparkling pieces of silver trickled out. A man knelt and collected them.

Another rumble—a groan of pain—escaped the spirit. A hand of half bone and half exposed muscle weakly clawed at the ground. The Godeco walked around it without worry. Once it stopped moving a woman walked up. With a hammer and chisel she chipped away at the bone. What fell away turned to gold chunks in the bowl she had placed on the ground.

Madga turned and yanked down the cloth covering her face. She emptied her stomach on the ground, narrowly missing the ends of her cloak. She panted, staring at the ground. Already disfigured by the horrors nearby, the ground hardly seemed changed by the vomit.

Someone touched her shoulder. She gasped and shifted away only to see Cioborah’s hand raised in the air. Her brows came together as she watched her in concern and sadness, but her expression was heavily tainted by emotional exhaustion.

Cioborah returned her hand to her shoulder, rubbing up and down in comfort.

“How could you ever do this?” Cressamae breathed in horror. Her wide eyes couldn’t turn away from the pained spirit. “I can’t believe that anyone would ever do something like this.”

Cioborah’s hand slowed and then stopped. She lowered it. Madga missed the small comfort but she didn’t say anything.

Cioborah looked down. “…I don’t know. I don’t understand it either. Maybe, once, it was the only way we saw to survive. I don’t know....”

“Cio!” a deep voice called.

Madga turned. A man walked up the incline toward them. Like Cioborah and the rest of Godeco he wore ill-fitting clothes. A metal piece kept his sweaty bangs from falling into his face. He frowned deeply from under a blackened beard.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. He glanced at Madga and Cressamae. His frown deepened but his gaze returned to Cioborah. Madga rose and joined Cressamae as they spoke.

Cioborah put her hands on her hips. “What’s it to you? So long as I help people it shouldn’t matter where I go.”

“But you can’t help people if you stick around here. What about your patients?”

She scowled. “There’ll be more tomorrow. There always is.”

Madga’s eyes widened.

The man huffed. He made a gesture as he said, “How can you say that?”

“Same way you take part in this,” she gestured to the people harvesting from the spirit. “I just don’t care.”

She glared up at him, tears filling up in her eyes but never falling.

He rolled his eyes and stepped away. “Not this again.”

Cioborah’s teeth clenched at his actions.

Madga stepped back. Her eyes flashed from one to the other. Next to her Cressamae seemed to be waking up from her shock. She lowered her mitt and looked at them, but then quickly covered her mouth again to block the poisoned air.

Their voices rose. The man growled, Cioborah snapped. Cioborah screeched and the man bellowed. While the spirit’s rumbling continued, Madga glanced to see that the people below had stopped and were watching them. On the other side hammers stopped as other Godeco looked up.

Madga took a shaky breath. She looked up when Cressamae put a hand on her shoulder. Cressamae smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. Madga failed to return the attempt at comfort.

Cressamae leaned down to pick up her staff, which she had dropped in her shock. Straightening, she took a deep breath, coughed, and then stepped toward Cioborah and the man.

“Hello, I’m Cressamae. Why don’t we sit down and-”

Someone screamed. The cry carried across the tribe and over the spirit’s rumbling. Their heads snapped toward the sound. More yells and screams rose up.

Madga searched the dark. She couldn’t make out anything yet, but the reflected glow of the spirit’s fire revealed enough for the others.

The man swore. He turned and called down to everyone around the spirit to grab their weapons and be ready.

As he stormed toward the buildings Cioborah shook her head in disbelief. “Not again,” she said with dread.

“What is it?” Cressamae asked.

Cioborah glanced at them. The lines deepened around her eyes. “A spirit attack.”

Madga’s heart stopped. “What?” she breathed.

“It used to happen once in a generation, but lately it’s been happening more often,” Cioborah explained. “This is the third one in my life. I’m sorry, I need to make sure my patients are okay. Please, run.”

She turned and bolted down the hill. Once between the buildings she weaved around the chaos of people. Everyone seemed to have a weapon in hand, be it a sword, a dagger, or a metal spear. The torch light glinted off the sharp, metal weapons.

Madga tensed as a flame roared up from one building far at the other end of the tribe. Her stomach twisted, but with nothing to bring up she could only swallow back bile.

The air and earth rumbled again. A shattering roar made her clench her teeth. She spun and she gasped. The spirit was trying to rise up on its damaged, twisted hands. A woman stabbed at its thumb and it fell down with a groan.

A scream broke out from the others, then again louder as another and another house caught on fire. More screams joined it. Between the buildings people shouted. A few yelled orders and people that seemed to be warriors carried them out.

Another yell tore Madga back to the spirit. The workers were surrounding it, jabbing it with swords and spears to keep it from getting up. But near the mouth of teeth were two more spirits. One a boar with glowing red, artistic swirls and wedges on their fur, another a wolf whose body occasionally turned into similar red swirls.

The grey and black wolf was bigger than normal. It snarled, its teeth dripping with saliva. It glared at the people, slowly circling them, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Madga looked at Cressamae.

Cressamae slowly shook her head. “I… I think they’re trying to help it.”

“What should we do?” Madga asked.

Cressamae shook her head again.

Madga’s breath shortened. The giant spirit groaned loud, and with the wolf and boar occupying the humans it managed to rise to its hands. With a last look at it, she turned and ran along the top of the hill.

Cressamae shouted after her but she didn’t look back.

Tears stung her eyes and fear gave energy to her legs. She panted as she ran farther into the dark, away from the overwhelming chaos and into the safety of the forest.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

She sat against the gnarled trunk of an evergreen, just under its prickly needles. The branches flowed downward, acting like the roof of a roundhouse and shielding her from the outside.

Her entire body trembled. Her arms were pressed between her knees and chest. Her head was tucked in with her hands covering it. Her fingers dug into the rough wool of her hat; the hood of her wrap having fallen in her haste.

She sniffed, then flinched and whimpered as another roar echoed through the forest. She tucked her feet in closer.

The earth violently shook and she inhaled with a gasp, swallowing her heart. She stared straight at nothing as she listened.

The sky went dark and she was unable to see the dim red anymore through the branches.

She waited. She listened.

She took a shaky breath, then another.

After another, long moment of silence she shifted her pack aside and slowly crawled out from under the tree. She tucked back in to grab her pack and looked up.

Still nothing.

She threaded her arms through the straps slung it on before shakily rising to her feet. She stared at the sky and then the direction she had come.

She took a breath and stepped forward. She had sunk into the snow up to her calves but her only care had been to get away. Now they provided a clear path back to Godeco.

Her steps slowed as she walk along the top of the hill and a long puff of fog escape between her lips.

The huge spirit had moved. Where she, Cressamae, and Cioborah had been standing now the hill had been ravaged. Scorch marks further ruined the earth after the snow had melted under the intense heat. The black marks surrounded deep gouges that had been dug into the ground, from one side of the hill, over it, and into Godeco where the spirit had fallen on top of many houses, crushing them in the process.

Numbly, her legs took her down the hill.

Bodies lay on the ground, torn apart or burned beyond recognition. Her stomach churned at the smell of burning flesh.

She carefully avoided the corpses as she wandered farther in. Voices pricked at her ears and she slowly followed the sound.

What once had been Godeco was now completely torn apart. The stone buildings had collapsed, torn into by the huge spirit, and pieces of stone were scattered across the paths between them. Torches had caught on other buildings and those who could helped to put them out with snow or dirt. People who couldn’t sat anywhere they could, bleeding out or curled into themselves, protecting whatever wounds they had gained while waiting for one of the few healers in Godeco.

Madga paused, staring at the giant spirit two houses away. A few warriors stood there. One poked it with a sword. Instead of twitching its skin broke and fire flowed out of it. The woman jumped back with a shout and a man rushed in to douse the flames.

“I should have known.”

Madga turned around. Cressamae sat next to a broken home with a dried trickle of blood along the side of her face. A bruise had formed on her forehead but Cioborah soon wrapped her head with a cloth to help the healing.

“Don’t sleep for a while,” Cioborah tiredly advised. She leaved back and rubbed her shoulder. She winced, dropping her hand.

Cressamae nodded but didn’t look away from Madga.

“Of course a Gwae would run.” Cressamae’s lips thinned. “Coward.”

Madga stepped back as though struck. Her hand rose, discovering that at some point locks of black hair had escaped from under her hat.

She took another step back. Although her eyes were already red, tears rimmed them again. She hiccuped, remembering the smiles and brief kindness Cressamae had shown her. But now the woman only looked at her with contempt.

“I… I’m-”

Someone gasped and another shouted.

She flinched. She shrunk and turned, expecting another angry voice.

Instead they were looking beyond her, toward where the spirit had collapsed. She turned and her eyes widened at the mass of swirls. They shifted, slowing expanding out as though filling a human chest with air, and then swiftly shrunk in to one point where they coalesced into a solid form once again

A naked man stood there. Without the body of the spirit holding them up more pieces of stone fell and another building collapsed. While everyone jumped and shouted in shock the man didn’t so much as blink.

He raised his broad hand, and slowly Godeco returned to quiet.

“Do you remember me?” he asked as he lowered his hand.

Madga’s spine trembled. Instinctively she knew his voice should have been one of safety, but it now lay low to the ground like a predator.

People exchanged glances.

When no one spoke, his long moustache and beard shook as he he bellowed, “I…ASKED: DO YOU REMEMBER ME?”

The warriors raised their weapons. People stared. Some grabbed the person next to them for comfort.

He glared at them. “No, you wouldn’t. If you did it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“Who- who are you?” a man asked near the front. He held up a trembling dagger.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re the spirit,” Cressamae answered for him, rising to her feet. She wobbled but Cioborah steadied her.

“I am, druid.”

Madga shakily breathed in. Gasps sounded around her. Whispers and mutterings followed. Horror began taking hold.

Cressamae raised her hand to Cioborah, letting her know she was fine.

She took a few steps toward the spirit. She lowered her head and asked, “May I know your name?”

His mouth twisted. “I was known as Twrl. I was once one of them. I slept for a long time, and then awoke to my body being torn apart for protection and safety that I once provided for them without a second thought,” he spat.

At his tone the people shrunk back. Madga felt the disappointment like she had felt the grime in the air.

“This is how you would treat your own?” He spat on the ground.

Gazes diverted and people shuffled on their feet.

Cioborah nodded with her arms crossed. The lines under her eyes seemed deeper. “He’s right.” Twrl looked at her and she continued without turning away from his gaze. “I’m a healer. I’ve seen what what we’ve done to ourselves, how we treat each other. We deserved this.”

The Godeco exchanged looks of shame. Some glanced away in frustration. Others closed their eyes.

Twrl’s shoulders relaxed but his hands remained as fists. He nodded at her.

“Good. Perhaps there is some good left in this tribe.”

His gaze left her. It passed what was left of Godeco without much warmth.

He returned to Cressamae. His amber eyes focused on her for a long moment, considering her. In return she frowned in confusion.

He pointed at her. “How does one ask a spirit for help?”

Cressamae’s frown deepened but she ultimately answered, “Well, I would simply ask, as well as offer something in return. …I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”

Twrl nodded as though confirming something to himself. He lowered his hand and turned away, disappearing into swirls that faded to nothing.

The people were silent for a long pause.

Then a man asked, “What does that mean? Who’s Twrl?”

“An ancestor of yours, if I remember my lessons correctly,” Cressamae answered.

A few people swore. Others muttered to each other.

As they spoke, Madga almost didn’t hear Cressamae murmur, “First the sun, now this. Gwae are bad to have around.”

A breath caught in Madga’s chest. Cressamae’s glare fell on her again and Madga took a step back, then another. Cressamae followed.

Madga’s throat tightened.

“But what are we going to do now?” someone asked a little loudly.

Another nodded. “How are we going to live if we can’t trade our metals for food?”

“Forget that, where are we going to live?”

People nodded and agreed with this.

Cressamae stopped. She stared at Madga a little longer, then walked by before panic could set into the Godeco. Madga quickly stepped out of her way.

Cressamae put her hand on her chest. “I’ll help you.” Once she had their attention, she said, “I can teach you all I know. I’ll also send word out to other druids and tribes to ask for help.” She smiled tiredly. “We’ll get through this together.”

The Godeco seemed to relax. Madga watched as they nodded and comforted each other.

Her stomach get heavy. She slowly backed away. Her focus was largely on Cressamae’s back, but she often glanced down, taking care not to make a sound as she avoided the fallen debris.

There was a gasped and she nearly tripped.

Someone pointed up and she paused to look. The clouds had opened and the sky was no longer dark. The stars shone as brightly as usual, although the moon wasn’t out.

She looked down, confused, but more and more people were staring at the sky in awe. Even Cioborah looked up, her eyes wide as her hands fell to her sides.

Then it hit her with a start. Madga looked up again, realizing that without the horrifying form of Twrl releasing constantly smoke, the winds were finally allowed to blow away the poisonous clouds.

The Godeco were seeing the stars for the first time in generations.

She felt a smile inside but couldn’t wear it. She glanced at Cressamae and continued backing away until she reached the last of what was left of the buildings. She turned and fled into the dark.

Four writers were approaching, and the wind began to howl...except replace wind with bloodletting of words, and ink into veins from these authors blessed and crazed with no other way to let it out, than to put it across a screen, and into our hearts with only pure aim.

Here's the link to the show:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1s3J_TYQqaM

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/828745/king-of-california https://www.theprose.com/post/828053/the-drug-in-me-is-you https://www.theprose.com/post/828235/mile-run https://www.theprose.com/post/828263/the-only-shore

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

July 4th: the sky explodes into color as fireworks burst in every direction. Independence Day? Sure, we’ll go with that, but all I knew was that there was a party somewhere and I needed to make my entrance. I still have a doll from that day. It may be stained and dusty but it is still here as I am. A tiny doll made of hardened plastic all around except its central chest; perhaps I see a resemblance. It has no hair but will always be Goldilocks to me. I cannot for the life of me remember how I came to name her, but I wonder if my sense of humor stretched back to infantry.

I was a vivacious child. As the only girl from both sides, being raised among 10 male cousins truly set the stage for the rough and tumble I was soon to face. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast, but even sometimes a blast gets too loud. However, outwardly, the silence was all too loud. As chaotic as I could be when I’m having fun, if ever an adult was around, I would transform into a rabid rule-follower.

From creepy hallucinations to playing with just about everyone just about everywhere, my childhood was easily a trippy adventure. Any sport, any activity, I’m down. Bike in the woods? Yes. Roller skate down a steep hill? Definitely. Jump off a cliff? You betcha. All that and I still hadn’t had 2 digits in my age.

Social activities too, I crushed them. I would never leave a room without having made someone laugh. Jokes were my identity. I was known for it. My pranks were legendary, we still laugh about them to this day. Life was good.

One fateful morning, my now teenage skater cousins from Brazil were in town. They were the epitome of cool. From rocking backward caps to graffiti, these guys were living the life. Anything they do I had to. There was just no other option. This time, we’re rappelling down a mountain. I’m all fired up and ready to go when the safety instructor looks at me in amazement, “wow you are so brave to be doing this at your age, epic!” All of a sudden like a tidal wave, I was introduced to doubt. Why wouldn’t it be expected? Why am I considered brave? And just when I earned my fearless title, I gave it up on the spot. It was the first time I had walked away from anything, and what a walk that was. As my childhood idols streamed down the flat mountain, their body perpendicular to the wall and caps dripping with even more legendary juice, I walked the whole way down to meet them, ashamed and disappointed.

What was a new feeling for me slowly grew to be my reality as more fear set in in the following years, crippling my identity and eventually almost costing me my life. I became more cautious, more studious, more preoccupied. My jokes became more calculated, more restricted. I had my entire life planned out to the second but that just wasn’t enough. I grew accustomed to that wondrous satisfaction after going through every possible scenario in my head and finding the right solution. I was safe. My life was secure, of course until one day, in the blink of an eye, I was staring death in the face.

I had actually gone through near death experiences, almost drowning in a pond at one point, getting run over by a bike and falling from a front flip straight on my neck. But nothing was nearly as terrifying as that moment. The cruel irony was that in that moment, I had nothing to fear.

OCD. A term used loosely to describe minor organizational ticks and hygiene repetitions, consumed my entire existence to the point where I would spend all the hours of the day battling the thoughts in my head both figuratively and literally, winding up a few minutes later (in my perspective) with black eyes, a bruised face and bloody knuckles when I wasted another day and should have long been asleep. Hours blended into weeks and weeks turned into months and months into years. I remember being given a drug so powerful that it would knock me out before I could even reach my bed. What a joke, right? I kind of wish I could still get that drug prescription today. It would just be a desperately needed rest. I ran all out of laughter.

From chasing dangerous scenarios in real life to running away from non-existent ones in my head, my life turned upside down… and not in the fun way. I lost everything. My friends, my family, my career, and my mind. I lost myself. Everything I had worked so hard to perfect I could see crumbling in my hands as I tried to hold on to the remaining pieces, when what I actually needed was to let go.

I had to lose everything to realize their invaluable value. Their absolute worthless worth. Everything I held sacred in reality ate me up inside. But I soon realized I was the one doing all the eating. I’d like to think I’m strong-willed but that turned out to be my greatest weakness. A fight between me and me would irrevocably see me win. But which me?

I now think back and laugh. Not necessarily because I feel it was a joke life played and is still playing on me, but perhaps at the idea that I might have never escaped it. What helped me heal was realizing that nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Now I’m called reckless, crazy at times, but I’m finally living up to my younger energy. I might have found myself again, but I probably shouldn’t dwell on it. Nothing really matters. Decisions, property, thoughts, pain, existence, life… it is all a joke. It just took me a few punches to find the punchline.

03/11/23 (11:03-11:29pm)

What’s up Doc,

Listen, this is an odd one. I know both of us seem to struggle with a lot of the same things for different reasons. I thought this might be a good skill since I shut down when talking about emotions. If I can write them, then we can skip that part. So I thought I’d start this series and see what happens. Maybe it’ll work, maybe not, but either way maybe it’ll help one of us. I’ll give you some of my old writings, if that’ll help; this will definitely be the most casual I’ve ever written. I think you’d like my Science & Scripture piece a lot. Remind me to text it to you. Maybe this will help me fall asleep. All I know is my heart hurts and it’s not even a full panic attack.

I think a lot of it is because I get too understimulated before I fall asleep or my body is scared to fall asleep for a number of reasons (primitive, spiritual, introspective). There’s a list of reasons for all three of these; maybe the primitive is the easiest to tackle for now since the adrenaline is wearing off.  I was born premature, 24 week, pound and a half baby. They had to do caffeine, blood, and ventilators to the point there’s scarring on my lungs that triggers my bronchial asthma. I was in the hospital for 101 days and came home on a breathing machine because I would forget to breathe. This was seen in small ways throughout my life. I would forget to breathe during dance performances; I don’t breathe going up stairs. It makes me wonder if my body is just concentrating on breathing to the point it doesn’t want to sleep.

But that doesn’t account for a number of things. It’s deductive in the sense that I’ve always disliked. It doesn’t account for the productivity addiction, or the compulsions, or that voice in my head that knows if I could see myself from the outside I would hate myself. It doesn’t account for my accomplishments not being mine, getting lucky in what I do by being at the right place at the right time. Hell, I’m not supposed to be alive in the first place if it weren’t for the time I was born with modern medicine. And then there’s the guilt. How can someone feel so guilty for simply existing? I don’t want to be dead by any means but why…

I know my purpose. I know my potential and I can’t stand that I can’t live up to it. Other people know their purpose and go and do it. I’ve lost my sense of identity once trying to do everything I could; it didn’t work. Those weren’t limits, those were restraints. And if I could get around them, maybe I’d finally reach my potential. I’m stubborn. The only reason I lived is because I’m stubborn. The only reason I am still alive is because I’m stubborn. I’m alive so what do I do now? Maybe hating myself gives me more motivation in a way, to become someone or something I don’t hate. Someone I can look at in a mirror and not have to worry about. I forgot I have a piece on that too. Here:

“Another night of staring at my own reflection. Why do I always come here? What even am I anymore? This mortal shell of mine seems to trap me. These dark bags only emphasize my melancholy eye contact. I try to reach out to myself but only feel the distant chill of this wretched surface; if only I could destroy its mocking gleam that judges me so. My efforts would be futile. When I walk out of this bathroom I could avoid my reflection, but I must face my own existence. These abhorrent conceptualizations must occur from within my own psyche, yet what does it mean to truly be mortal? This cursed mirror offers no clarification. I will nevertheless contemplate on my pitiful state: how can it be true I am no more than a spec much like the abomination of condensed sand I stare into? My heavy sigh only fogs the mirror and my thoughts further. Perhaps reflecting on memories rather than my empty husk will heal these reckless emotions.

As my conscience molds to my comprehension of this world, I am introspecting to discover who I truly am unto this earth while that same conscience no longer dictates my preconceptions miniscule. Among man I am just another cog within their own creations yet what I truly am can be defined by my beliefs. Improvement is what means to be human, and steadfast will I travel among the planes of reflectivity to reconstruct my identity. Though I may be perceived as this outwardly form, I am distinct by design. The miry fog releases its toll on my thoughts as I snap back into my own reality. I no longer feel numb to the stool I am perched on and gaze into the eyes of one I knew long before my melancholy state. I have never forgotten yet how can I begin to rebuild what I have lost?  Lightheaded, I rise from my perch. The fire within rekindles as I turn the worn door handle and step into the land of opportunity before me.”

I’m not afraid of death, never have been. I’m not afraid of life, or nothingness, or myself. I’m afraid of living my life as if it was never mine to live, of wasting it as if I’ve never lived at all. I need something to keep me grounded and believe in who I am. I’ve tried everything I know how and I still feel numb.

I think that joker was from years ago, before I was diagnosed with anything. Have a field day with that one. This might be my solution to express my frustrations for a bit until I can cast them down. Hope you are doing well, man. I’m working on doing better; I promised myself I would and this is so much progress in such a short time. Thanks for always listening.

~TBA