Tag Archives: flashfiction

Black Forest Bianca

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Kevin McClure matched with Bianca Forester three days ago. Her profile had been strangely compelling—a chef specializing in heritage Black Forest cuisine, with photos of her meticulously layering dark chocolate sponge, kirsch-soaked cherries, and thick cream into elaborate cakes.

Her bio mentioned she’d recently moved from Germany’s Black Forest region, and her messages had been oddly formal yet playful. A mix of old-world charm and something he couldn’t quite place.

When she invited him to her restaurant, Schwarzwald, for a private after-hours tasting, he jumped at the chance. The reviews were stellar—but something about the place was elusive. The website had no menu, no listed hours. When he searched for photos, they all seemed… wrong—as though the restaurant itself didn’t want to be seen.

Kevin arrived at 9 PM sharp. The street was empty. Schwarzwald stood in the dim glow of a single lantern, its heavy wood-and-iron door cracked open, inviting him inside.

The restaurant was dark except for a single table, bathed in candlelight. The walls were lined with twisted wooden beams that looked almost organic, as though the building had grown from the ground itself.

Bianca greeted him in a crisp white chef’s coat, her dark hair pinned back, except for a few loose strands curling around her pale face.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, leading him to the table. Her accent was soft, but deliberate, like someone who had spoken English for centuries but never quite let go of their mother tongue.

She brought out the first course—thin slices of Black Forest ham, deep red with marbled white veins.

“Cured in-house,” she explained. “Traditional methods. The smoking process takes months. But the preparation?” She smiled. “That begins with the first bite.”

Kevin picked up a slice and placed it on his tongue.

The taste was indescribable.

At first, it was rich, velvety, almost intoxicating. Then—something shifted. A creeping feral musk. The deep, loamy taste of soil after rain. The lingering bitterness of pine resin. Something ancient. Something alive.

Bianca watched him intently.

“What’s your secret ingredient?” he asked, the question half a joke, half a plea.

Her smile widened. “We preserve more than just meat in the Black Forest.”

She disappeared into the kitchen.

Kevin’s vision swam. The candle flames flickered strangely, their shadows elongating, twisting, moving when nothing else did.

The walls seemed… closer. The beams had shifted, hadn’t they? The wood looked like bones now—not carved, but grown that way, shaped by centuries of wind, time, and hunger.

Bianca returned, setting down a slice of Black Forest cake before him. The cherries glistened wetly in the candlelight, dark as coagulated blood.

Kevin blinked. His fingers felt numb. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t move.

“What… what’s happening?” he slurred. His fork clattered against the plate.

Bianca tilted her head. Her pupils were too large now, swallowing the color of her irises, and her shadow on the wall was… wrong.

Too tall. Too jagged.

Branches. Not arms.

“The Black Forest is old, Kevin,” she murmured, voice deepening, growing rough, raw, and layered—like a chorus of voices speaking through her. “The trees, the roots, the soil—we learned long ago how to preserve more than just flesh. Time. Memory. Life itself.”

The walls creaked. No—breathed.

Kevin’s body felt heavy, sinking into the chair as if the wood had begun to absorb him.

Bianca stepped closer. Her shadow branched outward, dark tendrils splitting and stretching across the walls like reaching roots.

“You ate the ham.”

Her fingers brushed his face, and Kevin saw.

A flash of dark trees stretching skyward. Something vast and watching beneath the canopy. A hunger older than the bones of the world.

The restaurant wasn’t a place—it was a threshold. A piece of the Black Forest, still alive, still feeding, still growing.

And now, so was he.

Bianca leaned in, whispering in his ear.

“The smoking process takes months.”

She pressed a hand to his chest.

“But the preparation… that begins with the first bite.”

Three days later, Schwarzwald unveiled a new special.

A house-cured Black Forest ham, unlike anything diners had ever tasted.

“The depth of flavor is incredible,” a patron murmured over candlelight, slicing into the delicate meat. “What’s the secret?”

Bianca smiled from the kitchen doorway, watching, waiting.

“Family tradition,” she said.

She turned back inside, where the restaurant sighed, exhaling softly, the wood of the beams shifting, growing.

On the dating app, a new profile appeared.

Someone seeking adventurous diners interested in sampling authentic Black Forest cuisine.

After hours.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 16: Under Government Scrutiny

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

As the media frenzy surrounding Beverly’s case reached a fever pitch, it was only a matter of time before the government took notice. The first to arrive were the CDC, a team of top epidemiologists and infectious disease experts dispatched to investigate the possible public health implications of Beverly’s condition.

They descended on the hospital like a swarm of locusts, commandeering entire floors and setting up a makeshift command center. They pored over every scrap of medical data, interviewed every doctor and nurse who had come into contact with Beverly, and collected samples of everything from the air in her room to the lint in her bedsheets.

But even as the CDC conducted its investigation, other branches of the government were taking an interest in Beverly’s case. The NIH began its own parallel research effort, assembling teams of geneticists and molecular biologists to study the fundamental mechanisms of her transformation.

And then there were the whispers, the rumors that began to circulate in the halls of power. Some suggested that Beverly’s condition was the result of a deliberate attack, a new form of bioterrorism unleashed by a foreign power or a rogue non-state actor. Others speculated that she was the product of a secret government experiment, a classified military program that had gone horribly wrong.

As these rumors gained traction, the Department of Homeland Security was put on high alert. Teams of agents were dispatched to the hospital, their presence a constant reminder of the growing sense of unease and paranoia that had taken hold.

For Beverly, the arrival of the government only added to the surreal nightmare that her life had become. She was questioned relentlessly, subjected to endless rounds of interrogation by stone-faced agents who seemed more interested in her potential as a threat than in her well-being.

And then, one day, everything changed. Beverly was awakened in the middle of the night by a team of heavily armed soldiers, their faces obscured by gas masks and their weapons trained on her. They bundled her onto a stretcher, strapped her down with heavy restraints, and loaded her into the back of an unmarked van.

She was being moved, they told her, to a secure government facility where she could be studied and contained more effectively. Beverly’s mind reeled with terror and confusion as the van sped through the empty streets, the city lights flickering past the tinted windows.

When they arrived at the facility, Beverly was struck by the sheer scale of it – a vast, sprawling complex of buildings and fences that seemed to stretch on forever. She was wheeled inside, past checkpoints and guard stations and endless corridors of sterile white tile.

Her new home was a stark, featureless room, its walls lined with monitoring equipment and its air thick with the hum of machinery. A team of doctors and scientists in hazmat suits hovered over her, their faces obscured behind layers of plastic and rubber.

And so began a new chapter in Beverly’s ordeal, one marked by even greater isolation and uncertainty. She was poked and prodded, subjected to endless tests and experiments, all in the name of unlocking the secrets of her condition.

But even as the government’s top minds worked tirelessly to unravel the mystery of her transformation, Beverly could sense a growing unease among her captors. They seemed almost afraid of her at times, as if they knew something she didn’t, as if they had glimpsed some dark truth that they dared not share.

Not. The. End.

The Mime of Hickory Glen

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The sky over Hickory Glen shimmered a bright, cloudless blue on the day of the Autumn Harvest Festival. Banners of orange and gold fluttered in the breeze as townsfolk bustled around the main street, a charming stretch lined with century-old shops and pumpkin-laden wagons. A faint smell of hay and caramel apples wafted through the air. Laughter and conversation filled every corner, while the clucking of prized chickens and the lowing of well-groomed cattle filled the gaps.

On one end of the festival grounds stood long tables groaning beneath the weight of homemade jams, pies, and preserves. Beyond that, an impromptu stage had been set up, where local kids in scarecrow outfits performed folk dances to the beat of a fiddler. Everywhere, people admired massive gourds and towering stalks of corn, hoping to win ribbons for the largest or most unusual produce.

Around mid-morning, a stranger arrived unnoticed. He wore white face makeup, dark eyeliner exaggerated his eyes, and he was dressed in black from head to toe—a mime. He began to stroll through the crowds, weaving silently between booths, gesturing at onlookers with animated movements.

Some of the festival-goers found him delightful, clapping at his pantomimed pretend walls and invisible ropes. He plucked an imaginary flower and offered it to a giggling child. But others felt something…off about him. Perhaps it was the way he never broke character, not even to smile or to nod. Or maybe it was the shifting shadow at his feet that seemed a touch too dark, as though the sun couldn’t touch it.

By afternoon, the mime had set up an impromptu performance circle near the center of town. Families paused on hay bales to watch. The mime mimed the act of juggling, yet no one could see what he might be tossing in the air. Children clapped anyway, cheering him on. Then he tipped an imaginary hat and started “pulling” something out of it.

That was when the first strange thing happened.

The light in the square seemed to flicker, as if clouds had suddenly drifted across the sun—yet the sky remained free of any. The wind stilled; no more pleasant breeze teased the flags and ribbons. A hush spread across the festival as the mime continued to pull and pull from his invisible hat. Slowly, a shimmer appeared in the air, like heat waves rising off asphalt. People pressed closer, uncertain if it was some clever trick.

Then, with a silent snap, a shape formed in midair—a grotesque, quivering thing covered in ropy, black tendrils. It hovered before the mime as though he were holding it by a leash. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The mime stared at his conjuration, moving his gloved hands with expert precision, guiding it. The shape pulsed once, twice, and then slithered across the dusty pavement before vanishing into the shadows beneath a booth.

Parents snatched their children away, hugging them close. The festival’s host, Mayor Rosalee Hightower, rushed to the scene, demanding an explanation. But the mime said nothing. His chalk-white face remained impassive, eyes flitting from person to person as though searching for his next target.

Almost at once, the feeling in Hickory Glen curdled. The sweet smell of caramel apples turned sour in the nose. Far across the green, a bleat of terror rose from the livestock pen. People ran to investigate, only to find the animals huddled and shaking. One of the prized goats was missing—just gone without a trace. A thick patch of black ichor stained the ground where it had stood.

Meanwhile, the mime pressed on. He performed a silent routine of “feeding” an invisible something in front of him. Though no one could see the shape, they sensed its presence—a malignant energy that made their skin crawl. The shadows around him lengthened in impossible ways. A second later, a thunderous crack echoed overhead, though the sky remained rainless.

Panic seeped through the crowd. The once-bustling festival grew quieter as people backed away. Some tried to run for their cars, only to find the road barricaded by twisted illusions: towering figures that flickered into existence, shifting between solid and spectral. They loomed over the escaping townsfolk, forcing them back.

A desperate hush fell. Mayor Hightower ordered the local deputies to intervene. They approached the mime cautiously, guns drawn. He stared them down with a look of eerie calm. With one graceful gesture—hands miming the shape of a box—he trapped them behind invisible walls. Their frantic cries were muted, as though they stood behind thick, soundproof glass.

By now, the most elderly residents were whispering old folktales about a creeping evil that once haunted Hickory Glen long before it was settled. They spoke of a traveling performer who had, according to legend, bargained with dark entities in forgotten woods. Though none had believed the stories for generations, it all felt too real now.

As sunset approached, the festival lights flickered on. The swirl of color and warmth did nothing to dispel the suffocating fear. The mime took center stage once more, his gloved hands raised to the bruised-purple sky. With each measured movement, the rifts of shimmering air tore open around the square. Something like diseased roots or ancient tentacles pressed against the edges of reality, threatening to break through in multiple places at once.

Children screamed and clung to their parents. Strong farmers who’d once wrestled livestock into pens turned pale and helpless. The top prize for the largest pumpkin sat, still unclaimed, next to a half-finished pie contest. In the distance, a church bell began tolling on its own, each peal more ominous than the last.

And the mime was smiling now—barely, but definitely smiling. A faint curve of the lips painted in stark white. In that moment, the townsfolk realized this wasn’t an act. Something unfathomable had chosen their celebration as a gateway.

An unspoken question gnawed at every survivor watching: could this horror be stopped, or was Hickory Glen doomed to become a silent, abandoned ruin beneath an ancient darkness?

No one dared breathe too loudly as the mime continued his performance, weaving illusions into life, each one more terrifying than the last. What had begun as a day of pride and joy—bounty from the land—had become a nightmare beyond mortal comprehension. The mime’s white face caught the glow of lanterns, and in his eyes, there was a silent promise that the worst was yet to come.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 15: Viral Sensation

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

It started with a single post on social media, a blurry photo taken by a hospital worker who had caught a glimpse of Beverly through the window of her quarantine room. Within hours, the image had spread like wildfire, shared and reposted across every platform and news outlet.

At first, many people dismissed it as a hoax, a cleverly photoshopped prank designed to go viral. But as more details began to emerge, as leaked medical reports and eyewitness accounts hit the web, it became clear that something extraordinary was happening at the hospital.

Soon, the media descended en masse, setting up camp outside the hospital’s doors and clamoring for access. Reporters from every major news network and publication jockeyed for position, each one desperate to be the first to break the story of the century.

Inside the hospital, the atmosphere was one of barely controlled chaos. Security was immediately stepped up, with armed guards posted at every entrance and checkpoint. Doctors and nurses were given strict gag orders, threatened with termination and legal action if they spoke to the press.

But even the tightest security measures couldn’t stop the flow of information. Grainy photos and shaky video clips of Beverly continued to leak out, each one more shocking and disturbing than the last. Social media exploded with speculation and debate, with millions of people around the world obsessing over every new detail and development.

Some claimed that Beverly was the victim of a rare genetic disorder, a one-in-a-billion mutation that had caused her body to transform in ways never before seen. Others insisted that she was the result of a top-secret government experiment, a bio-engineered weapon or a test subject for alien technology.

Conspiracy theories ran rampant, with online forums and chat rooms buzzing with wild speculation and outlandish claims. Some even suggested that Beverly was a hoax after all, a masterful publicity stunt orchestrated by the hospital or some shadowy organization.

Through it all, Beverly remained locked away in her quarantine room, oblivious to the media circus that had erupted around her. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind and body ravaged by the relentless progression of her condition.

But even in her isolation, she could sense the growing frenzy outside, the weight of a million eyes and voices all fixated on her. It was a pressure that threatened to crush her, a fame that she had never sought and never wanted.

As the days wore on and the media’s appetite for her story only grew, the hospital was forced to take even more drastic measures. A wall of silence descended around Beverly’s case, with all information tightly controlled and rationed.

Press conferences were held, but they were brief and carefully choreographed, with doctors and officials reading from prepared statements and deflecting all questions. Interviews were granted, but only to a handpicked few, and always under the strictest conditions of secrecy and security.

But even as the hospital tried to maintain control, the speculation and rumors only intensified. Beverly’s name became a household word, her face a symbol of the strange and the unknown. She was the subject of countless memes and hashtags, the inspiration for art and music and endless online debate.

And through it all, Beverly could only watch from the sidelines, a helpless spectator to her own media circus. She knew that her story had taken on a life of its own, that she had become something more than human in the eyes of the world.

Not. The. End.

The Return of Philly Fuego

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Miles Modesto stepped into the old warehouse at the edge of town, the scent of motor oil and damp wood clinging to the air. He adjusted his Italian suit, exuding the effortless confidence of a man who had left his past behind.

A past that stood waiting for him in the dim light.

Philly Fuego emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable. “Been a while, partner.”

Miles stopped short, his breath hitching for just a second before he regained his composure. “I thought you were gonna die in that cell.”

Fuego chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Guess I was too stubborn for that. Got out early—turns out, good behavior has its perks.”

Miles forced a smile. “You always were good at playing the angles.”

“Not as good as you,” Fuego said, stepping closer. “Five years, Miles. Five years inside, while you were out here getting rich off what we stole. Now, I’m here for my share.”

Miles exhaled slowly. “The money’s gone.”

Fuego’s eyes darkened. “Try again.”

“It’s not a lie,” Miles said. “I had to move fast—cops were sniffing around, the heat was on me. I funneled it all into the business. There’s no stash, no hidden vault.”

Fuego clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “And yet, you’re standing here in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, living in a villa outside the city while I was eating slop off a metal tray.”

“You think it was easy for me?” Miles snapped. “I spent five years waiting for the knock on my door. Every time I saw a cop in my rearview, I thought it was over. I didn’t abandon you, Fuego—I survived.”

“Yeah?” Fuego’s voice was razor-sharp. “Well, now it’s my turn.”

Miles studied him for a long moment. “I don’t have cash to give you. But I do have a job.”

Fuego scoffed. “A job?”

“Modesto Import & Export,” Miles said. “You start in the warehouse. Work your way up. You’ll make money. Legitimately. No more running, no more hiding.”

Fuego stared at him, trying to gauge whether this was an insult or an olive branch.

“You owe me,” he said finally.

“This is how I pay you back,” Miles replied.

Fuego’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it.”

But he already knew his answer. He wasn’t here for redemption. He was here to take back what was his.

Miles’s villa was nothing like the life they had once dreamed of. Behind wrought-iron gates and walls of climbing bougainvillea, he had built something untouchable.

It should have enraged Fuego. It should have fueled his hunger for revenge.

But then he saw her.

Piña Modesto wasn’t a child anymore. The last time Fuego had seen her, she’d been a shy teenager, tucked behind Miles’s protective arm. Now, she was twenty-two, with dark, expressive eyes and a sharp wit that cut through any pretense. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had always been underestimated.

And she noticed Fuego long before he ever spoke to her.

The first time was at the warehouse. She was sorting paperwork in the office when she looked up and caught him staring.

“You’re Philly Fuego,” she said. Not a question.

Fuego leaned on the doorframe. “And you’re Miles’s stepdaughter.”

She smirked. “He told me you were dead.”

“Sometimes, I think I was,” he admitted.

She studied him. “Why are you here?”

Fuego hesitated. For revenge? For money? Or for something else?

“Still trying to decide that,” he said instead.

At first, it was small things—glances held a second too long, conversations that dipped into dangerous territory. Piña was clever, sharp, and relentless. She wanted to know everything about him.

“Did you really rob a bank?” she asked one night, leaning on a stack of shipping crates.

“Yeah.”

“And Miles just…got away?”

Fuego gave a humorless laugh. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Did you ever think he set you up?”

Fuego froze.

Because the thought had gnawed at him for years. But hearing it from Piña, spoken so casually, sent a shiver down his spine.

And then there was the night she touched his hand—just a brief, fleeting thing—but enough to make Fuego feel like the world had tilted beneath his feet.

“This isn’t a smart thing to do,” he muttered. “You play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.”

“Maybe,” Piña whispered. “But what if I don’t care?”

Miles noticed. Of course, he did.

The moment he saw Piña looking at Fuego the way she used to look at him for approval, he knew.

“He’s using you,” Miles told her, voice tight with barely contained rage. “to get back at me.”

“Like you used him,” she shot back. “to get rich?”

Miles went still.

And that was the moment he knew he had lost her.

Fuego was waiting in the courtyard, his worldly possessions stuffed into the rucksack slung over his shoulder, when he heard the footsteps.

But it wasn’t Piña.

Miles Modesto stepped out of the shadows, his Wilson Combat SFX9 drawn.

“You think you can just waltz back into my life, steal my stepdaughter like some petty crook, and I’m going to let you get away Scot-free?” Miles’s voice was thick with fury.

Fuego didn’t flinch. “It ain’t stealing ’cause you don’t own her…and she wants to come with me.”

Miles exhaled slowly. “And you expect me to believe that you want her?”

Fuego hesitated.

“I do. More that anything I’ve ever wanted.”

Miles nodded. “Well, here’s where you earn it.”

Fuego barely had time to react before Miles raised the 9mm Luger.

Crack.

The first shot rang out across the courtyard.

A heartbeat later—the second.

Neither hit their mark.

Blood bloomed.

Across Piña’s dress.

She hadn’t meant to step between them. Just as she hadn’t meant to come between her stepfather and his former partner.

Miles’s gun trembled in his grip, his face drained of color. “Piña—”

She collapsed.

Fuego caught her, lowering her gently, hands pressing against the wound.

“Why?” he whispered.

Piña’s breath came in shallow gasps. She tried to smile.

“Because I love you.”

Miles staggered back. His daughter—his one remaining connection to something pure—was slipping away.

Fuego lifted her, his voice breaking. “Get help!”

Miles didn’t move. He just watched. Because, for the first time, he understood: for him, this wasn’t about revenge. It wasn’t even about the money. It was about being chosen, about who was more important.

And Piña had made her choice.

The sirens wailed in the distance.

Fuego didn’t know if she would make it. But as he looked into her eyes, filled with pain but still burning with fire, he knew one thing. For the first time in his life, he had something worth running toward. And he wasn’t going to lose her.

Not now. Not ever.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Author’s Note: Yeah, okay, it’s corny, I know. But sometimes you just have to get a little corniness out of your system.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 14: Uncharted Territory

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly drifted in and out of consciousness as the ambulance raced through the city streets, sirens blaring. The EMTs hovered over her, their faces obscured by masks and protective gear, their voices muffled and distant. She caught snippets of their conversation, words like “unknown pathogen” and “biosafety level 4” that sent chills down her spine.

When they arrived at the hospital, Beverly was immediately whisked away to a secure wing, far from the bustle of the main floors. She was placed in a sealed room, its walls lined with plastic sheeting and its air filled with the hum of negative pressure ventilation.

For hours, she lay there, barely aware of her surroundings, as a parade of doctors and specialists filed in and out. They took endless samples – blood, skin, saliva, even spinal fluid – and subjected her to a battery of tests and scans. All the while, they spoke in hushed, urgent tones, their expressions ranging from fascination to outright fear.

Beverly caught glimpses of herself in the reflections of their face shields, and each time, she had to stifle a scream. Her body was almost unrecognizable now, a twisted mass of writhing tentacles and mottled, pulsating flesh. The sight filled her with a horror so profound it bordered on madness.

As the days stretched into weeks, Beverly became a fixture of the hospital’s research wing. Teams of specialists from around the world were brought in to study her case, each one more baffled than the last. Geneticists sequenced her DNA, looking for mutations or anomalies that could explain her transformation. Dermatologists examined her skin, marveling at its strange texture and properties. Infectious disease experts tested her for every known pathogen, but found nothing.

Through it all, Beverly remained in a state of numb detachment, her mind retreating deeper and deeper into itself. She spoke little, ate only when prompted, and spent most of her time staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in a haze of drugs and despair.

The doctors tried everything they could think of to halt or reverse her condition. They pumped her full of antibiotics, antivirals, and experimental drugs. They subjected her to radiation and chemotherapy, hoping to kill off the aberrant cells that were taking over her body. But nothing seemed to make a difference.

As the weeks turned into months, the initial fervor surrounding Beverly’s case began to fade. The specialists drifted away, moving on to other projects and priorities. The hospital staff grew accustomed to her presence, no longer whispering or staring when they entered her room.

But for Beverly, the nightmare never ended. Each day brought new horrors, new reminders of the creature she had become. She watched in mute anguish as her body continued to change and warp, her humanity slipping away piece by piece.

And through it all, one thought haunted her, circling endlessly in her mind. What if this was only the beginning? What if her transformation was not an end, but a prelude to something even more terrifying and unknown?

In her darkest moments, Beverly found herself longing for death, for an end to the suffering and the fear. But even that seemed like a distant dream now, an escape that was forever beyond her reach.

For she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that whatever she was becoming, it would not let her go so easily. She was being remade, forged in the crucible of her own flesh, for a purpose she could not yet comprehend.

And as the doctors and researchers continued to pore over her case, searching in vain for answers, Beverly could only lie there, a prisoner in her own body, and wait for the next phase of her transformation to begin.

Not. The. End.

Two Blokes Named Noakes

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

This piece started out as a casual, one-off blog post—like so many of my bite-sized stories—but it refused to stay small. I thought we could compromise on a short story, while it insisted on becoming a novel. After hours of spirited negotiation, we struck a deal and settled on a novella. If you’re curious, you can find it here: https://amzn.to/40o2hJv. This draft was the seed; the final version in the novella is this scene cranked up to eleven.

The pub didn’t have a name. Its sign was blank, the wooden board swinging creakily above the cobblestone street as though it had forgotten what it was supposed to say. Noakes—the first one—paused in front of the door, hesitating. He checked his watch.

“3:03 p.m.” He muttered. A lucky time.

The second Noakes bumped into him from behind. “Well, are we going in or not? I’m parched.”

Noakes—the first—turned, raising an eyebrow at the uncanny resemblance. The man behind him looked exactly like him, down to the scratch on his chin and the threadbare scarf around his neck.

“I… sorry, but who are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Noakes,” the second man said casually. “Same as you, mate.” He stepped past and pushed open the door, the scent of old wood and stale beer wafting out. “Coming or not?”

Noakes—the first—followed, his curiosity outweighing his unease.

Inside, the barroom stretched impossibly far. Rows of tables lined with flickering candles seemed to fade into the distance, disappearing into a haze of smoke and dim light. The air buzzed faintly, a low hum that seemed to resonate in the bones.

“Two pints,” Noakes—the second—said to the barkeep, who had already turned around and started pouring before the words were fully out.

The barkeep was a wiry, ageless man with one eye larger than the other, giving him a permanently surprised expression. He slid the pints over without a word.

“Cheers,” Noakes—the first—muttered, raising his glass. They clinked, the sound strangely hollow, as though the pint glasses were made of something other than glass.

The first sip hit like a hammer. Noakes—the first—gasped as his vision blurred. The bar around him expanded outward in a kaleidoscope of colors, the tables multiplying into endless rows, the hum rising to a deafening crescendo before settling back into its low buzz.

“What the hell?” he croaked.

Noakes—the second—grinned. “Yeah, it does that.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You notice anything… different yet?”

Noakes—the first—looked down. His hands were trembling slightly, but that wasn’t unusual after a strong drink. The barroom, however, had changed. Where before there had been a handful of patrons—a hunched man in a flat cap, a woman nursing a martini in the corner—there were now dozens of figures, all identical to himself. Each sat at their own table, some deep in conversation, others staring blankly at the flickering candles.

“What the…”

“They’re all Noakes,” the second Noakes said. “Just like you. Just like me.”

“How?”

The second Noakes shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, have another drink.”

The barkeep set another pint in front of him without being asked.

“I don’t want another drink,” Noakes—the first—said, his voice shaking.

The second Noakes laughed, a hollow, echoing sound. “Yeah, that’s what we all say at first. But you will. You always do.”

He drained his glass and stood. “See you around, mate. Or maybe I won’t.” And with that, he vanished into the endless rows of tables, leaving Noakes—the first—alone with the hum, the candlelight, and the reflection of his own face staring back at him from every corner of the bar.

The barkeep smiled. “Another?”

Where does Noakes’s story go from here? The expanded version is available here.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 13: The Deluge

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly awoke to a searing pain in her abdomen. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the events of the past few weeks came rushing back. The rings, the mottled skin, the fleshy growths around her waist…

Groaning, Beverly tried to sit up, only to collapse back onto the bed as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She looked down at her body and let out a choked sob at what she saw.

The growths on her waist had continued to lengthen, now resembling thick, ropy tentacles that coiled around her midsection. They pulsed and twitched with a life of their own, as if straining to break free from her skin.

But even more alarming was the state of her legs. They looked thin and atrophied, the muscles wasted away to almost nothing. As Beverly tried to stand, she found that they could no longer support her weight, buckling uselessly beneath her.

Panic rose in her throat as she clawed at the sheets, trying to pull herself upright. Her skin felt tight and itchy, flaking off in large, papery sheets as she moved. The sensation was maddening, an all-consuming discomfort that left her feeling raw and exposed.

Desperate for some kind of relief, Beverly began to crawl towards the bathroom, dragging her useless legs behind her. Each movement sent shockwaves of pain through her body, but she gritted her teeth and pushed on, driven by an instinctive need for water.

When she finally reached the bathtub, Beverly hauled herself over the edge with trembling arms. She fumbled with the faucet, her fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, until finally, blessedly, water began to flow.

As the tub filled, Beverly slumped against the cool porcelain, her eyes fluttering closed. The water rose around her, lapping at her skin like a balm, soothing the incessant itching and burning.

Time seemed to blur and stretch as Beverly drifted in and out of consciousness. The world narrowed to the sensation of the water, the gentle slosh of it against the sides of the tub, the way it buoyed her aching body.

She was only dimly aware of the sound of the water overflowing, spilling onto the bathroom floor in a steady stream. It mingled with the pounding in her head, the rush of blood in her ears, until all of it faded into a distant, meaningless hum.

Beverly had no idea how long she lay there, hovering on the edge of oblivion. But gradually, another sound began to penetrate the haze – a sharp, insistent knocking, coming from the direction of her front door.

She tried to call out, to respond in some way, but her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth, her words slurred and unintelligible. The knocking grew louder, more urgent, until finally, Beverly heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

Footsteps echoed through the apartment, accompanied by voices – unfamiliar at first, then shockingly, blessedly recognizable. Angele. Joanna. They were here. They had come for her.

But as the bathroom door swung open, as the concerned faces of the building management and her beloved friends came into view, Beverly felt a surge of shame and horror so intense it stole the breath from her lungs.

“Don’t look at me!” she screamed, her voice raw and ragged. “Don’t look at me!”

She cowered in the tub, trying to cover herself, to hide the grotesque changes that had ravaged her body. But it was too late. They had seen. They knew.

Beverly was only vaguely aware of the flurry of activity that followed – the gasps of shock, the hurried phone calls, the arrival of the EMTs. She slipped in and out of consciousness as they lifted her from the tub, her waterlogged tentacles trailing behind her like macabre streamers.

As she was strapped onto the gurney, Beverly’s gaze locked with Angele’s. In her friend’s eyes, she saw a swirl of emotions – fear, confusion, but also something else. Something that looked almost like…recognition. Understanding.

It was a fleeting impression, gone as quickly as it had come. But as Beverly was wheeled out of the apartment, as the world began to fade away once more, she clung to that look, to the faint glimmer of hope it represented.

Not. The. End.

The Saddest Girl Ever To Hold A Glass of Lemonade

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The first time Judith Engel made lemonade, she was five years old, standing on a stool in her mother’s sunlit kitchen. The scent of fresh lemons and sugar hung in the air, as familiar and comforting as her mother’s voice.

“You have to put your heart into it,” her mother said, her hands guiding Judith’s small ones as they squeezed juice from the lemons. “That’s the secret.”

Judith didn’t understand what her mother meant, but she nodded seriously. She wanted nothing more than to make her mother proud. When the lemonade turned out too sour, her mother only smiled and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll get it someday,” she said, her voice warm as sunlight.

Someday never came. Her mother’s laughter faded from the house, leaving behind an aching silence that Judith couldn’t fill, no matter how many glasses of lemonade she made.

Now, at nine years old, Judith stood behind a makeshift lemonade stand in front of her house. The wooden sign, painted with uneven letters, read: 25 cents. A jar of coins sat on the table, the product of neighbors’ polite purchases. They sipped the lemonade, their faces carefully neutral, offering gentle words of encouragement Judith barely heard.

The lemonade wasn’t very good. She knew that. But it was all she had left of her late mother, and she made it every day, hoping that somehow, she could pour her grief into the pitcher and sweeten it into something better.

One afternoon, as the sleepy sun blushed orange, beginning its daily routine of tucking itself into the horizon, and shadows stretched across the street, Judith stirred a new batch of lemonade. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, the sound of her voice, the way she would hum as she worked in the kitchen. Tears welled in Judith’s eyes, and before she could stop them, they spilled over, falling into the pitcher. She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed, though no one was there to see.

When the next customer, an elderly woman from two houses down, took a sip, her eyes widened. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, my,” the woman whispered, clutching the cup as if it were something precious. “It’s like I can feel it all over again. My Henry…” Her voice broke, and she handed Judith a dollar before hurrying away, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Judith stared after her, the dollar bill crumpled in her hand. She tasted the lemonade herself, and for a moment, it was as if her mother’s absence swelled inside her, sharp and all-consuming. But when she set the glass down, she felt lighter, as though the weight of her grief had shifted. She didn’t understand it, but she knew one thing: the lemonade had changed.

Word spread quickly. The neighbors came in droves, sipping the lemonade and leaving with red-rimmed eyes. They whispered about Judith’s stand, about how her lemonade could unearth old memories and long-buried sorrows. Some left generous tips; others lingered, thanking her softly before walking away.

Judith’s father noticed the change, too. He’d been a shadow of himself since her mother’s death, retreating into his armchair and barely speaking. But now, he watched the parade of visitors from the living room window, his face clouded with something Judith couldn’t name.

One evening, after the last customer had gone, the doorbell rang. Judith opened the door to find a man in a gray coat standing on the porch. He was tall and thin, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to see too much.

“Judith Engel?” he asked, his voice smooth and polite.

Judith nodded, gripping the doorframe.

“My name is Mr. Carrick. I’ve heard about your lemonade.” He glanced at the stand, now empty, and smiled faintly. “May I come in?”

Her father appeared behind her, his voice firm. “What do you want?”

“To help,” Mr. Carrick said, his gaze flicking between them. “Your daughter has a remarkable gift. One that others like her have learned to refine.”

Judith stepped back, her heart pounding. “Others like me?”

Mr. Carrick nodded. “People who can take emotions—grief, pain, even joy—and distill them into something tangible. Something transformative. It’s rare, but not unheard of.”

Her father’s face darkened. “She’s just a child. Leave her alone.”

But Mr. Carrick’s attention was on Judith. “You’ve already felt it, haven’t you? The way the sadness lifts, just a little, when you pour it into the lemonade. Imagine what you could do with guidance. You could help people, Judith. Not just your neighbors, but so many others.”

Judith hesitated. She thought of the strangers who came to her stand, the way they left lighter, as though she’d taken something heavy from them. She thought of her mother’s words: You have to put your heart into it.

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts. “She doesn’t need your help. Get out.”

Mr. Carrick sighed and reached into his coat, pulling out a small glass vial. Inside was a liquid the color of sunlight, swirling gently as though alive. “This is what’s possible,” he said, setting the vial on the table. “Think about it, Judith. When you’re ready, I’ll find you.”

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. Judith and her father stood in silence, staring at the vial. The room felt heavier, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Finally, her father spoke, his voice low and weary. “You don’t need him. Or anyone else. You’re my daughter, and that’s enough.”

Judith picked up the vial, its warmth surprising against her skin. She thought of her mother, of the lemonade, of the way the sadness seemed to flow from her and into the pitcher. She thought of the neighbors, their tears, their gratitude. And she wondered: Was this enough? Or was there more she could do?

That night, as she lay in bed, the vial sat on her nightstand, catching the moonlight. Judith closed her eyes, the echo of her mother’s voice in her ears. You’ll get it someday.

Someday, she promised herself, she would.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 12: Inconclusive Results and New Developments

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly sat in the doctor’s office, her heart pounding as she waited for the results of her medical tests. She had hoped that the battery of bloodwork, skin scrapings, and imaging would provide some answers, some explanation for the strange changes happening to her body.

But as Dr. Patel entered the room, her expression grave, Beverly felt her hopes sinking.

“I’m afraid the tests were inconclusive, Ms. Anderson,” Dr. Patel said, settling into the chair across from Beverly. “We couldn’t find any clear cause for your symptoms. No known allergies, no autoimmune markers, no signs of infection.”

Beverly’s hands clenched in her lap, the raised rings on her fingers feeling more prominent than ever. “So what does that mean? What’s happening to me?”

Dr. Patel sighed, her eyes sympathetic. “At this point, our best option is to do a skin biopsy. We’ll take a small sample of the affected tissue and examine it under a microscope. That should give us more information about what’s going on at a cellular level.”

Beverly nodded numbly, trying to process the news. A part of her had been hoping for a clear diagnosis, a name for the condition that was turning her body into a stranger. But another part of her feared what the biopsy might reveal, what new horrors might be lurking beneath her skin.

As she left the doctor’s office, Beverly couldn’t shake the sense of dread that clung to her like a second skin. And in the days that followed, her fears only grew as her physical symptoms continued to worsen.

The rings on her skin, once flat and discolored, now rose from her flesh like strange, fleshy ridges. They itched constantly, a maddening sensation that left Beverly clawing at her skin until it was raw and bleeding.

And then there was the mottling, the way her skin seemed to be changing color and texture before her very eyes. Patches of it took on a grayish, almost translucent hue, while other areas became rough and scaly, like the hide of some prehistoric creature.

But the most disturbing development came one morning when Beverly was getting dressed. As she pulled on her shirt, she felt a strange sensation around her waist, a tightness and pressure that made her gasp.

Looking down, Beverly’s eyes widened in horror at what she saw. Four small, fleshy nubs had sprouted from her skin, evenly spaced around her midsection. They were no more than an inch long, but they were unmistakably there, pulsing slightly with each beat of her heart.

Beverly’s mind reeled as she stared at the growths, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Were they some kind of tumor? A side effect of whatever was causing her other symptoms?

She thought of the biopsy, of the tiny piece of herself that would soon be under a microscope, dissected and analyzed. Would it hold the answers she so desperately needed? Or would it only reveal new depths of strangeness, new levels of aberration?

Beverly closed her eyes, fighting back the panic that threatened to engulf her. She felt like she was losing herself, like her very identity was being erased and rewritten by the changes happening to her body.

And yet, even in the midst of her fear and confusion, Beverly couldn’t shake the sense that there was something else at work, some greater purpose or meaning behind her transformation. It was a feeling that had been growing steadily over the past weeks, a whisper in the back of her mind that spoke of destiny and transcendence.

She ran her fingers over the raised rings and fleshy nubs that now adorned her skin, and as much as the changes terrified her, as much as she longed for a return to normalcy, Beverly couldn’t deny the strange, electric thrill that ran through her at the thought of what she might be becoming. It was a feeling that both exhilarated and terrified her, a dance on the edge of the unknown.

Not. The. End.