What makes the patch work, is the fabric and the stitch

The wrong fabric with the wrong stitch, and the patch will rip

and damage the specially formed piece, and article

The wrong stitch to the right fabric, and it won't stay

like it should, needing frequent needling back to...

The right stitch to the wrong fabric leaves slash marks

and a gaping hole, where the fitting should have been

unlike the right fabric, with the right stitch

These will outlast your garment.

It was the hour when the sea wore its bruises,

Dark and rippled under a sky cracked with lightning.

And he stood, solitary, at the water's edge

Where the tide slipped in, whispering secrets

Like a sigh caught in a lover’s throat.

His gaze searched the yawning horizon

For a promise that never promised to hold him.

In the trembling silence of the restless waves,

Where the stars bled silver across the void,

He sketched out the shapes of vanished ships,

Lost in the deep like bones of giants.

The night wrapped around him like a memory—

But its hold was thin,

A presence without warmth.

Still, there was a spark beyond.

A glint, a ripple, a fading thread of light,

Hovering at the edges of his longing.

It called to him—

Not like a beacon of hope,

But a whisper trailing the fringes

Of his darkest fears.

And he moved.

Through the swell of unseen currents,

Through the pull of depths unknown and cold.

His hands, scarred and trembling, reached forward—

Each stroke an offering to the indifferent sea

That cradled him with cruel care.

He had traced this journey in his dreams,

Felt its ache etched into his heart.

Yet still, the light lingered.

Far off, the glimmer—

Always beyond the curve of his reach,

Dancing on the verge of surrender,

Drawing him with its fragile burn.

And he knew, as he swam through the heavy stillness,

That the light would never yield,

Nor he relent,

For they were bound in a quiet dance,

Locked in a tension that would never fade.

So he kept swimming,

A shadow beneath the shattered sky,

Eyes locked on the distant shimmer

That shone not for him,

But through him,

Both caught in the endless drift

Of a world that had forgotten dawn.

It was a pitch black night, a night of the new moon, and the only light in the circle of ancient trees was a campfire which illuminated the shadowy figures of the battered and scarred mercenary company that surrounded it. What was once a great company of Sixty mighty warriors was now only twelve.

Ragnar the leader regarded the bivouac with pity. Most sat quietly chowing down on hard tack, beans, and the fatty birds they'd taken earlier in the evening. Young Peter King'sbane was asleep no doubt dreaming of the hooker he was planning to marry once he returned home. What a young fool that lad is for marrying a prostitute. The leader thought as he stroked his graying beard. Ragnar was in his mid fifties with all the war wounds and arthritis that came with it but outside of selling his blade to the highest bidder he had nothing to go back to so he'd fight till he could not anymore. He turned his attention to a slender figure sitting on a rucksack and clutching a gnarled wooden staff in his hands.

The figure was dressed in a dark green cloak and black robes. A pouch was tied to his belt and from beneath his cloak protruded a slender sword hilt. “Ubor,” Ragnar addressed the figure,”What do the flames tell you tonight?”

“They are silent tonight, my lord.”

Ubor was a fire-talker he divined from flames the way others of his ilk gleaned answers from cards and tea leaves. “Bah I'm nobody's lord.” The leader said vehemently. “I'm barely holding this rag tag group together. Face it, Ubor. We don't need your pyre magic to know how badly we screwed the pooch this time.”

This latest assignment was a total disaster. The company had been decimated to its current number and the kingdom they fought for had been conquered leaving them fugitives and without pay. Yes it was a poorly chosen job. Now the mercs were on the edge of utter oblivion.

Ubor, usually wise and eloquent of speech, remained silent for he could not provide verbal salve for the wounded spirit of his leader. “Where is Francis?” Ragnar asked suddenly. “He was supposed to be back from his watch by now.”

A beefy ox of a man by the name of Ruben stood up and hitched his belt & stretched and said, “I’ll find him.”

Ruben wandered into the woods to find the missing watchman. “I can't see horse pucky in this darkness “ he complained.

“Francis, where are you?” he bellowed.

Suddenly he heard movement in the trees above him. He stared up, “Francis is that you? Something warm and wet splashed on his face and multiple plopping sounds pierced the silence. Reuben’s stomach churned with apprehension. He'd killed enough men and been in enough battles to know blood when he felt it. He looked down at his feet and even in the dark he knew he was looking at a very dismembered Francis. Something grabbed him. He fell on his back, swearing and fouly invoking the names of several deities he didn't even believe in. He howled as he was dragged into the forest.

Ragnar and one of his men rushed into the woods from where the hellish commotion had occurred, they lit torches and made haste to the spot where Ruben disappeared. Ragnar cursed when he saw Francis and he used the light of his torch to scrutinize the blood drenched tree in front of him. Shadowy figures seem to flit around in the darkness whispering and chattering. The forms were vague and indiscernible in the limited light.

“We are under siege!” Exclaimed Ragnar. He and his companion retreated back to camp shouting for the others to gather their weapons.

“What’s going on?” asked Peter King'sbane, brandishing his pole axe.

Then the troops saw the shadowy figures barely distinguished in the moonless night. “H-Helheim has been opened in the forest and the damned come to claim us.” stammered Ubor even as he readied himself. The man who'd accompanied Ragnar used his hand to make the holy symbol of his religion and charged forward swinging madly. The sword tore through something solid and a shadow howled in rage. The blade was awash with some kind of blackish blood. “They bleed,” he cried out in bloodthirsty glee just as he was devoured and torn to shreds.

Humongous, a large man of six feet with a facial deformity that was unknown to be congenital or the product of a battle drew from his back a sword made from the lower jaw of some beast almost as large as its slayer. He produced a vial of oil and broke it on the sword letting it run down between the two rows of teeth. He set it on fire and swung it with great ferocity.

Satanic screeching could be heard as the shadows retreated from the fiery blade. This gave way to a new tactic and the sell swords took up torches and swung them about. A new sound was heard that did more to terrify the embattled troopers than the devils. Henry Jenkins had screamed. This was a cause of fright because he'd taken a vow of silence that'd he'd held up since before he joined this group. Whatever the torch light revealed was so heinous that it made Jenkins break his vow by crying out.

The others could see them in the torch light now too: their foes, twisted, demonic travesties of the humanoid form! The fiends—whatever they were—shrank from the firebrands. Saras, the lone female of the group had had quite enough of this ambush. She snapped, finally pushed over the edge of logic and sanity. She whipped out her twin daggers and stabbed blindly at the things in the dark. Vise-like teeth crushed her left arm and ripped it from her body. Her agonized scream was cut short by her head rolling deftly from her body to the ground.

Humongous stood undaunted and undefeated in a circle fire. Ragnar chopped and swung like an enraged bull. Ubor stood poised, lashing out with his staff and the sword, an expensive blade akin to a scimitar. Any others who remained upright and unmaimed gave an account of themselves to the inhumans before them.

Eventually the nightmare ended and the shadowy foes retreated into the dark forest they came from. Of the twelve mercenaries who survived the ill-fated expedition only six remained. Including Ragnar, Ubor, and Humongous. Peter would never marry Julia Primrose. His body was somewhere deep in the forest.

“What were those things?” asked one of the survivors.

Ubor shrugged “Even I have no answers.”

Ragnar spoke, “I do.This very night we fought our kinsmen. Whether they were from this plane or another like us they are cast offs, fatherless beings to whom darkness is our mother. Bastards each of us.”

End

"Hey Wren." one of them sneers.

"Are you starving us again? Or getting us stabbed?" they laughed at the cruelty of their own words.

"No! I didn't mean to hurt you. It was a story. It was to be told for fun. I didn't think anything in them would happen."

"But here we are: me, you, Jax and Anika. What did you think you could do? Come into our world and take us from the life we had, just throw us to the wolves."

"I told you! I didn't know what I was doing! Please, you have to believe me."

"You should know better than anyone; stories are truth disguised as a lie." Said Anika. "I'm going to ask you one single question. You answer and we let you go. You panic and Tinzin will be your guest." I stared at the red haired demon in front of me. I knew what he could do. I had given him that power after all. "I'll do anything. Just ask the question."

"What is happening and where can I find him?" She shook me into a heap on the floor. Now Jax spoke. "No, this is another demission. We're not going to find him." I nodded. "This place we're in is the only thing that exists." I whispered.

"You have the will to start to build a world bigger than what you have seen in your entire life yet when faced with something truly dangerous you don't even lift a finger." Said the Demon, Zin.

"Go away, you're just my imagination."

"No." they said in unison.

"No what? No to you being my imagination or no to giving my life back."

"I can't give your life back." replied Jax.

"Why?"

"Because you have taken your own."

"What? I'm dead?"

"No, you gave your sanity away in exchange for us." Anika, suddenly calm, answered, "tell us the end. What happens? You gave your life for our stories. Now we want them back. Let us live out our fates."

"No, I can't."

"Why?"

"Because then I will be lost."

"We don't care. You are insane. We aren't. Give us back our will and stories so you won't have to wonder about the voices. You won't have to question fate. You can know everything is real and nothing is a mistake. Give us our own place to be and you, in turn, you will gain yours."

I took a breath. I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say. How could I bring them to life? Who was I to write a book of anything? Why would anyone want me to be their author? I wasn't good enough. "I can't."

"Then we stay." The demon whispered and disappeared. I never saw them again but they are always driving us forward. They crawl behind me eyes and confuse their universes with my own. They beg me to tell them the end but I don't know where to start or where to begin. I struggle through the dark, not knowing what is real and still, the voices are here.

Lately ive been having trouble understanding the reality around, but especially inside of me.

my thoughts either pass me by at light speed to which it becomes a waterfall of unintelligibleness that i dream of damming with my thumb.

or im surrounded by a haze of sticky reflections i must stumble through only to find that my hot breath has fogged up the glass.

i muster a modicum of lucidity only to have any order be shuffled and stirred into splats of cerebrum left to evaporate on the walls of my skull.

Vicky

July 15, 2024

I remember Vicky from high school. She wore her hair long and wavy, her skirts tight, and her voice terse. She hated me then. I hope things are different today.

I walked into the gym scanning for her. Time did not touch her and she presented exactly as before. I also held that accolade. Once our eyes met, I knew she knew that I knew what she knew. A simple nod of my head and she understood to meet me outside.

I gave her two minutes to find me in the darkness.

“What are your orders tonight?”

Vicky replied, “I am here to harvest various cuts of skeletal muscle and offal for feedstocks. The Imperium demands such samples. This planet has a variety of bipeds and quadrupeds. By sheer numbers alone, I hope the bipeds are more nutritious. What is your mission?”

“I must triangulate coordinates for doorway openings to minimize energy usage during mass transports. This planet has nearly 1400 available nexus points powered by indigenous energy supplies alone. Have you discovered a viable manner in which to transport your feedstocks yet?”

Vicky looked very distant with this question. “This body is not as functional as yours. However, as a presentation device, mine surpasses yours in all what the humans call ‘social’ aspects. Thus, I do not believe I will require the Consortium’s assistance. I believe I can achieve my goals by a presence attack in which the humans will assist me so as to be close to me. They are so easily fooled by appearances alone.”

“I agree. It is unfortunate we do not have more time in which to persuade the most gullible to make their goals our goals. The harvesting of the planet would be so much easier.”

Vicky gave me an awkward nod, indicating her short time, planet side. Some humans might find her appeal even more appealing with this quirk. I found it sloppy, an oversight not worth her time in rank.

Vicky returned to the school to mingle with the previous graduates. Her conversation turned to reproduction and gestation. Many listened as she spoke. Many offered their personal assistance to forward her research. I returned to continue my measurements for possible nexus placements.

This truce cannot end soon enough.

Sneaky body is never enough to hide the hidden minds behind the faces.

I know yours works better than ones belong to norms.

What if it has less weight,

Does not mean that you are stupid;

Einstein is not a slave in hands of silliness, for instance.

You are not an Einstein, but you are a better.

The thing that makes you different than the others is not only 1 kilo and the 230 gram.

106 is the difference of your bigger imaginary than them;

You are not a he, but you are a better he.Colors of your mind always inspire even the pirates flickering and fluxing through the way of the river of humans' okays.

You paint the brains of us, like you do mine.

Your brush is so soft and funny that it makes me laugh.

I feel like I am being manipulated or being in the cage of this manifestation of your fascination.

Let them put your brain into a glass globe.

The BOS of your makes you feel the boss of yours, isn't it?

Let them show your architecture.

Let them manifest the sir of yours.Creepy, hidden, and anxious.

Why do you feel so?

Are you being afraid of being abnormal according to those fears of the ocean?

Forget what they do say to you.

They cannot delete you or get you to be apart from your sir and artifact.

It will be kept for 24 hours a day and always in a 365 day.

They cannot hurt you.

You are clever enough to not care about them because of their silly being.

What if their body is bigger?

So what if their body is sexier?

Mind is the one who draws those abs of yours.

They are just existing with their screaming but living with the essence of fear and agony.Crouching never hides your extraordinary mind from the world.

Notice how big can you be a topic of speech.

Fame under the camera lights and in front of the microphones that held for you to speak.

Use your thing and beat the Leviathan.

Kraken is waiting to swallow them as punishment for their dullness.

But you are just going to rise more and more.

Floating on the salty water,

Drawing raindrops on the clouds.

What a nice dream of power.Yours is lesser than 1336 but 1230.

That 106 is your magnificence.

6^1+0

(3^1×3+6)÷(1+2-3+0)

Codes of yours__

Filling your crown of arrogance, what you deserved to have after the whole time.

Be happy with your formulas,

'Cause they make you what different is from the others and let you love yourself, accepting yourself without thinking of God's slaves.

And difference is what makes your special being already fed and makes sure with the confidence of yours.

At least let us put it in a glass globe with the lesion of your crown.

Let us give you your reward at least.

Let the others do this at least.

Let me.

Let your dearest friend.Oh no...

I sense a problem.

I am proud of the success of his,

But he will not need me, or he will see me under himself just like the others did, I fear.

What if I do never deserve those highs of his?

This is why I wanted to put it in that with my own hands.

Mine is under the 1230 even for sure.

But maybe this is also what makes me living,

Without a reason or any begotten aim.

I am not special,

But who has to be?

I am so proud of you.

Let me support you,

Because this is who I am and who I want to be.