Tag Archives: sciencefiction

Echoes of Adonis

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

India hadn’t meant to open the invitation. The gold-embossed envelope had arrived weeks ago, hidden under a stack of unread mail. She told herself it didn’t matter, that revisiting her old college was pointless. But when she finally found it, half-crumpled and covered in coffee stains, her hands trembled.

The reunion.

And Keith might be there.

Keith. Even now, his name struck like a note of music she hadn’t heard in years but still knew by heart. The man she had loved—not just loved, but worshipped. He had been her Adonis, an impossible blend of androgynous beauty and untouchable charm. They had shared a summer—one incandescent, endless summer—before he disappeared.

She told herself it was youthful foolishness, that her adult self should scoff at such nostalgia. Yet she found herself staring in the mirror, wondering if she’d aged gracefully enough, wondering if he’d remember her the way she remembered him.

The weeks before the reunion were a blur of frantic preparation. A crash diet left her irritable and light-headed, but she rationalized it as dedication. She scoured boutique shops for the perfect dress, one that whispered sophistication while screaming “look at me.” The final touch was a makeover that erased every imperfection her 20s had forgiven but her 30s now flaunted.

“You look amazing,” her best friend Nita said as they stood in front of the bathroom mirror on the night of the event.

“I have to,” India replied. “This might be the only chance I get to see him again.”

“India…” Nita hesitated. “What if he’s not who you remember?”

India forced a smile. “He will be.”

The reunion was held in the same hall where they’d once danced under string lights and cheap disco balls. Now it was all polished wood and faux elegance, with catering trays that couldn’t disguise the lukewarm taste of regret. India’s pulse quickened as she entered, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

And then, she saw him.

Keith stood by the bar, but he wasn’t the Keith she remembered. Gone were the ethereal features she had worshipped: the soft golden curls, the flawless complexion, the delicate curve of his lips. In their place was a man weathered by time, his hair streaked with gray, his frame heavier, his eyes duller. He looked ordinary.

Her chest tightened.

“India?” His voice pulled her back.

Keith was smiling, his teeth slightly crooked in a way she didn’t recall. But there was warmth in his expression, the kind that spoke of recognition, not regret. He looked genuinely happy to see her.

“Keith,” she said, her own smile brittle.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” He laughed, and it sounded real. “It’s been, what, fifteen years?”

“Something like that,” she managed.

As they fell into conversation, Keith told her about his life—a career in graphic design, a failed marriage, two kids he adored but rarely saw. He spoke with a vulnerability that caught her off guard, as if he weren’t trying to impress her, only to connect.

But India struggled to listen. She couldn’t stop comparing this man to the memory of the Keith she’d idolized. That memory was pristine, untouchable, while the man before her was flawed and human.

The breaking point came when Keith excused himself to the bathroom.

India wandered to the edge of the room, gripping her champagne flute as the weight of disappointment crushed her chest. Why had she come? To relive a fantasy? To prove something to herself?

“Still hung up on him?” a voice asked.

India turned to find Nita. “What are you doing here?”

“You looked like you needed backup,” Nita said with a shrug. “Also, I’m nosy.”

India laughed bitterly. “He’s not the Keith I remember.”

“Of course he’s not,” Nita said. “Neither are you. But the question is, why does that matter so much? What were you hoping for, India? That he’d sweep you off your feet and everything would magically fall into place?”

India’s throat tightened. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, you’ve got him right here. Flaws and all. You can walk away if you want, but don’t pretend this is about him. You’re the one stuck in the past.”

When Keith returned, India was still at the edge of the room. He hesitated, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but back in college… I thought you were perfect.”

Keith blinked, surprised. “Perfect? Me? India, I was a mess.”

She smiled despite herself. “Yeah, I can see that now.”

They both laughed, and for the first time that night, India felt the tension ease.

“Listen,” Keith said, his voice soft. “I’m glad you came. You were always… special to me.”

The words hung between them, not quite a declaration, but more than a polite courtesy.

India studied him—the lines on his face, the silver in his hair, the warmth in his eyes. For the first time, she saw him as he was, not as she had idealized him to be. And she realized she had been chasing a ghost, not just of Keith, but of herself.

As they said their goodbyes, India felt lighter. She didn’t know if she and Keith would stay in touch or if their connection had run its course. But as she walked away from the reunion, heels clicking against the pavement, she didn’t feel regret.

Because in seeing Keith for who he truly was, she had begun to see herself the same way—flawed, human, and still worthy of love.

©2024 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Succubus: From Ancient Demon to Modern Icon * Origins & Evolution

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The succubus. A figure shrouded in mystery and allure. This entity has captivated imaginations for centuries. Its origins trace back to ancient civilizations. The story begins in Mesopotamia, around 4000 BCE. Here, the Sumerians spoke of Lilith. She was a night demon, a figure of seduction and danger. Lilith was said to prey on men in their sleep. She embodied both desire and fear.

As time passed, the tale of Lilith evolved. The ancient Hebrews adopted her into their folklore. In Jewish mythology, she became Adam’s first wife. Unlike Eve, Lilith refused to submit. She sought independence. This defiance led to her banishment. She transformed into a demon, haunting the night. Lilith became synonymous with seduction and vengeance. Her story laid the groundwork for the succubus.

In the medieval period, the concept of the succubus flourished. The term “succubus” comes from the Latin “succubare,” meaning “to lie beneath.” This reflects the succubus’s role in folklore. She was a female demon who seduced men in their sleep. The male counterpart, the incubus, would visit women. Together, they formed a dark duo of desire.

The Church played a significant role in shaping the narrative. During the Middle Ages, sexual repression was rampant. The Church condemned lust and desire. The succubus became a symbol of temptation. She represented the dangers of unchecked passion. Men who experienced nocturnal emissions were often blamed. They were said to have been visited by a succubus. This belief led to widespread fear and paranoia.

The tales of the succubus spread across Europe. In France, she was known as “la succube.” In Germany, she was called “Alp.” Each culture added its own twist. The succubus became a reflection of societal fears. She embodied the struggle between desire and morality. The stories often ended in tragedy. Men would lose their lives or sanity after encounters with her.

The Renaissance brought a shift in perception. Art and literature began to explore the theme of the succubus. Poets and painters depicted her as both beautiful and dangerous. She became a muse for artists. The allure of the succubus was undeniable. Yet, the underlying fear remained. The duality of her nature fascinated many.

In the 19th century, the succubus found new life in literature. Writers like Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft drew inspiration from her. The succubus became a symbol of forbidden love. She represented the darker side of human desire. The stories were filled with passion, danger, and intrigue. Readers were captivated by the thrill of the unknown.

The 20th century saw the succubus evolve once more. With the rise of psychology, interpretations changed. Sigmund Freud explored the subconscious. He linked the succubus to repressed desires. The figure became a representation of inner conflict. The succubus was no longer just a demon. She was a reflection of human nature.

In modern times, the succubus has become a pop culture icon. Movies, television shows, and video games feature her prominently. She is often portrayed as a seductive anti-heroine. The lines between good and evil blur. The succubus is no longer just a villain. She is complex, multifaceted, and relatable.

The fascination with the succubus continues. She embodies the eternal struggle between desire and morality. Her story resonates with many. The succubus challenges societal norms. She invites exploration of the darker aspects of human nature. In a world that often shuns desire, she stands as a symbol of empowerment.

The origins of the succubus are steeped in history. From ancient Mesopotamia to modern pop culture, her tale has evolved. Yet, the core elements remain. She is a figure of seduction, danger, and desire. The succubus invites us to confront our fears. She encourages us to embrace our passions. In doing so, she remains a timeless figure. A reminder of the complexities of human nature.

As we delve deeper into her history, we uncover layers of meaning. The succubus is not merely a demon. She is a reflection of our desires, fears, and struggles. Her story is a testament to the power of myth. It reveals how folklore shapes our understanding of the world. The succubus challenges us to question our beliefs. She urges us to explore the shadows within ourselves.

In conclusion, the succubus is a captivating figure. Her origins are rich and varied. From ancient myths to modern interpretations, she has left an indelible mark. The succubus embodies the duality of human nature. She is both a source of fear and fascination. As we continue to explore her story, we find ourselves drawn to her allure. The succubus remains a powerful symbol. A reminder of the complexities of desire and the human experience.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

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

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

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.

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.

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.

The Unchosen

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The air in Chiara’s apartment was heavy—dense with the weight of unspoken words and unshed tears. Dust motes danced in the shafts of pale light seeping through the curtains, casting everything in an ashen haze. The room felt alive in a way she couldn’t bear, even though it wasn’t. Two figures, shimmering like oil on water, lingered in the corners of her vision: Everett, seated in her worn armchair, stroking his translucent jaw in thoughtful repose, and Jasper, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal.

They had been the men she loved. And, because of her, the men she lost.

She hadn’t chosen between them—not when it mattered. Not when the storm came roaring off the coast, tearing the pier apart beneath their feet. Chiara had hesitated, caught between reaching for Everett’s calm hand and Jasper’s desperate grasp. That heartbeat of indecision had sealed their fates, the wood splintering under their weight, dragging them both into the icy depths.

Now, their faces followed her everywhere, fixed in the agony of their final moments: Everett’s melancholy eyes, filled with resignation, and Jasper’s sharp, defiant glare, burning with questions she could never answer.

For the first few weeks, she had convinced herself it was a punishment. She deserved this haunting, this eternal vigil. But what had once been guilt twisted into something far darker.

The visitations began benignly enough. Everett offered quiet observations, his soothing voice pointing out sunsets and shapes in the clouds. Jasper, in contrast, was all fire, urging her to take risks, criticizing her for wasting her potential.

Chiara tried to treat them like housemates. She spoke to them aloud, dividing her days between Everett’s measured advice and Jasper’s relentless passion. But ghosts were not housemates. They were echoes, fragments trapped in the amber of their unfinished lives. And the cracks began to show.

Their jealousy poisoned the air, subtle at first—a misplaced comment, a lingering look. But soon, arguments erupted over her choices, over her friends, over every detail of her life.

One night, Chiara came home from a disastrous date, her cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Jasper materialized first, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

“That guy was a joke,” he sneered. “You deserve someone who actually sees you.”

Everett appeared a moment later, shaking his head. “Or someone who doesn’t need to be fixed, Jasper. You can’t keep chasing damaged people just to feel useful.”

Chiara screamed into her pillow that night, their voices echoing in her skull.

Their presence began to seep into her work. Chiara was a writer—well, she had been before the haunting reduced her creativity to ash. Now, every word she typed felt wrong, hollow.

One evening, Everett hovered above her desk, peering over her shoulder.

“You’ve used that phrase twice already,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “Repetition dulls the impact.”

Jasper appeared beside him, rolling his spectral eyes. “What she needs is urgency, not your academic critiques. Tell her to write something that hurts.”

“Stop it!” Chiara snapped, shoving the laptop away. “I can’t think with both of you breathing down my neck—” She stopped, catching the irony of her words, but neither ghost laughed.

The room felt colder. The two men turned their gazes on each other, the air thickening with their mutual disdain. A low hum began to vibrate through the apartment as their emotions spiraled out of control.

The next day, Chiara woke to find the word failure scrawled across her bathroom mirror in condensation. She stumbled back, her heart pounding, as laughter echoed from somewhere unseen. Jasper’s laughter.

She snapped.

“This is my life!” she screamed into the empty apartment. “You’re dead! You don’t get to dictate what I do anymore!”

The ghosts appeared in unison, Everett’s face grim, Jasper’s alight with defiance.

“We’re not dictating,” Everett said. “We’re trying to save you.”

“Save me?” Chiara spat. “From what? From myself? You’re not here for me—you’re here because of your own unfinished business! You can’t let go, and now I’m paying the price!”

The air seemed to vibrate with their anger. Jasper’s form wavered, becoming jagged and wild, while Everett’s shimmered with an unsettling brightness. The apartment trembled under the weight of their conflict, the walls creaking as though the building itself might collapse.

Desperate, Chiara fled to the only place she could think of: the church. She hadn’t been there since the funerals, and the sight of the altar made her stomach churn.

Father Anton met her in his study, his brow furrowed as she recounted her story.

“They’re not just ghosts,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re pieces of me. Pieces I can’t let go of.”

The priest nodded slowly. “Exorcism isn’t just about banishment. It’s about release. Are you ready to let them go, Chiara? Truly let them go?”

She wasn’t. But she didn’t have a choice.

The ritual was a harrowing thing. As Father Anton chanted, the air around them thickened, growing icy. Chiara could feel Everett and Jasper pulling at her, their spectral hands grasping at her soul.

“Chiara,” Everett whispered, his voice breaking. “Don’t do this. Please.”

“You’ll regret it,” Jasper snarled, his fiery intensity flickering like a dying flame.

Tears streamed down her face as she forced herself to speak. “I’m sorry. I loved you both. But I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep dying with you.”

With a final burst of light, the room fell silent.

Chiara collapsed to her knees, the weight in the air gone. For the first time in years, her apartment was still.

But the silence wasn’t peace. It was absence.

As she watched the first rays of dawn pierce the clouds, a loneliness she’d never known before settled over her, a stark contrast to the promise of the new day.

Mapping Vengeance

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The cerulean sun of Myxlos IV cast long, skeletal shadows over the petrified forest, the alien landscape both haunting and beautiful. Delaria stepped off the inter-dimensional transport and inhaled deeply. The air carried an electric tang, sharp and unfamiliar. She was here for solitude, to unravel the knots her doctoral defense had tied in her chest. Myxlos IV was her retreat, a place famed for its quiet and secrets older than memory.

Delaria wasn’t just a cartographer by trade. She considered herself a mapmaker of her own soul, charting her emotional landscapes through the lens of distant worlds. And if she were honest, she was running—from what, she hadn’t yet dared to name.

The hike was longer than anticipated, the fine, glass-like sand shifting under her boots. When she found the cave, it wasn’t marked on any maps. Its entrance was shrouded in shimmering, moss-like tendrils that moved faintly in the still air. Something about it pulled at her, an almost gravitational lure.

Inside, the temperature dropped sharply, and the air thickened with a scent like wet earth and ozone. The walls hummed faintly, a low vibration that settled into her chest. At the back of the cave, nestled in a bed of pulsating purple flora, lay skeletal remains. The bones were twisted, the proportions unsettling, like a grotesque marriage of plant and animal. Tendrils of moss clung to the ribcage, their tips alight with a soft, bioluminescent glow.

Then she saw it—a thumb-sized, opalescent creature resting in the cradle of the ribs. It pulsed gently, almost as if breathing. The scientist in her took over, curiosity overwhelming caution. She reached out, her fingers trembling.

When the creature moved, it was faster than her eyes could track. Pain lanced through her wrist as it burrowed under her skin. Delaria screamed, the sound swallowed by the cave’s oppressive silence.

The pain faded quickly, replaced by a disorienting rush of sensations. The cave blurred and sharpened, colors deepening and shimmering in impossible hues. Delaria staggered, her mind swimming. When her vision cleared, a voice—or something like a voice—pressed into her thoughts.

I am V’tharr.

The words weren’t spoken but felt, an intrusive force brushing against the edges of her mind. Delaria clutched her wrist, where a faintly glowing scar now marked her skin.

“What… what did you do to me?” Her voice cracked, trembling with fear and anger.

You are my vessel. The voice carried no malice, only a cold certainty. Images flooded her mind: a landscape bathed in red light, a towering figure with three segmented limbs, and the sickening crunch of bone. Justice must be served.

Delaria’s limbs moved without her consent. Her body, now imbued with an alien strength, obeyed V’tharr’s will. She screamed inside her own mind, clawing at the mental barrier, but the symbiote’s control was absolute. Her thoughts tangled with its purpose—a singular, burning need for vengeance.

Days passed in a haze of forced marches and whispered commands. V’tharr navigated the Myxlosian terrain with an unsettling familiarity, guiding Delaria’s body with predatory grace. She became a passenger in her own flesh, her autonomy stripped away.

The three-limbed figure haunted V’tharr’s memories, a hunter who had killed V’tharr’s previous host to harvest its marrow. Delaria felt the symbiote’s grief, its rage—a storm of emotion that threatened to drown her. But she also felt its desperation, its guilt for dragging her into this.

As they closed in on the hunter’s trail, Delaria fought harder, slamming her mind against the walls of V’tharr’s control. For fleeting moments, she broke through, regaining her body. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a communicator, but the symbiote seized her again, wrenching her limbs into submission.

“Please,” she begged, her voice a whisper in the vast wilderness. “You don’t have to do this.”

It is justice. But there was hesitation now, a flicker of doubt that Delaria seized upon.

When they found the hunter, the scene was surreal—a clearing bathed in the cerulean sun’s light, the air crackling with tension. The hunter turned, its segmented limbs flexing, a blade-like appendage gleaming in its grasp.

V’tharr unleashed Delaria’s body with terrifying precision, driving her into a brutal dance of combat. Each movement was fluid, lethal, and utterly foreign to her. Blood sprayed as the hunter faltered, its weapon clattering to the ground.

Finish it, V’tharr commanded.

But Delaria resisted, her will surging against the symbiote’s. “This isn’t justice,” she spat, her voice breaking with desperation. “This is revenge.”

For the first time, V’tharr hesitated. The connection between them wavered, and Delaria seized the moment. She drove the blade into the ground, not the hunter, who fled into the shadows.

The symbiote withdrew, its tendrils unraveling from her mind. Delaria collapsed, gasping for air as the weight of what she had been forced to witness and do crashed over her. The glow on her wrist faded, leaving a faint, iridescent scar.

“You used me,” she whispered into the stillness, her voice hollow. “You stole from me.”

I am sorry. The words were soft, almost mournful, and then V’tharr was gone.

Delaria sat in the clearing, the cerulean sun sinking below the horizon. The map of her soul was forever altered, the landscape scarred by alien rage and her own helplessness. She knew she could never return to who she was before. The universe was no longer a place of discovery and wonder—it was a place of violence, secrets, and profound, inescapable connections.

And yet, as she traced the scar on her wrist, she felt something new: a determination to chart these uncharted depths, to understand what had happened, and to ensure no one else would ever lose themselves to another’s justice.

The map wasn’t finished. It never would be.

The Lumina

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The recycled air of the Kestrel Customs checkpoint tasted like stale ozone and bureaucracy, clinging to the back of Jax Varis’ throat as he stood at his post. His uniform, still stiff from the replicator’s press, chafed under his arms, a daily reminder that this was far from where he thought he’d be. The Academy had trained him for diplomacy, for first contact, for situations that tested the limits of human resilience and ingenuity. Yet here he was, watching luggage scans flicker on holoscreens, his dreams collecting dust like the corners of the checkpoint’s low ceiling.

He had just finished clearing a businessman with an overpacked cryo-briefcase when he noticed her in line. She stood out immediately, not for her appearance, but for the stillness that surrounded her. The queue was a river of impatience—mutters, shifting feet, and side-glances—but she stood calm, silent, her gaze fixed ahead.

Her skin was the color of desert sand, etched with the wear of interstellar travel. Her hair fell in uneven strands, and her cracked lips hinted at dehydration. But it was her eyes—deep, obsidian pools that swallowed the harsh fluorescence of the terminal—that made Jax’s stomach twist. She carried a worn canvas backpack, its edges frayed, as though it had seen more of the universe than most starships.

Jax adjusted his scanner as she stepped forward, his voice steady but louder than he intended. “Ma’am, may I inspect your bag?”

She turned to him, her gaze sharp enough to cut through his poorly maintained confidence. “Of course,” she said, her voice soft and low, like a melody hummed to oneself.

The bag opened with a faint creak. Nestled among folded cloth and survival pouches was a tarnished thermal flask. Jax’s gut tightened. It wasn’t just the flask’s age or the strange hum his scanner emitted as it passed over it. It was the faint luminescence that seemed to pulse from within, like a heartbeat trapped in steel.

“Step aside, please,” Jax said, masking his unease with protocol. He motioned her to a secondary inspection station.

She complied without hesitation, but something about her composure felt wrong. Not defiant—accepting. She knew what was coming.

Jax’s gloved hands gripped the flask, its surface cool to the touch. A faint crackling sound filled the air as he unlatched the seal. Inside, suspended in a viscous amber liquid, was a creature unlike anything he had ever seen. It resembled a jellyfish, but its tentacles branched like crystalline trees, each tip glowing faintly. The light inside the flask flared, and for a moment, Jax thought he saw images in its shimmer—a distant skyline, a spiral galaxy, faces frozen in time.

His scanner buzzed and went dead. Error codes flashed on the screen.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

“It’s called a Lumina,” she said, her fingers twitching toward the flask before retreating. “A thought made real. A memory given form.”

He frowned. “A memory of what?”

“A civilization older than your species,” she said, her voice carrying an ache that made Jax’s throat dry. “Their stars have burned out. Their worlds are dust. This is all that remains of them.”

Jax stared at the Lumina, its glow pulsing in rhythm with his racing heart. He imagined what would happen if he followed protocol. The labs would dissect it, catalog it, and in doing so, destroy it. It would become data in a database—useful, maybe, but dead. His duty, drilled into him since the Academy, demanded compliance. But his instincts screamed that this was something more. Something sacred.

“I can’t let you leave with this,” Jax said, his voice faltering.

The woman didn’t argue. She didn’t plead. She only looked at him, her expression hollow. “I’ve been carrying it for five years,” she said. “From station to station, system to system. Running from people like you. Do you know what they do to it in your labs? They don’t study it—they break it. They break it.” Her voice cracked, the calm giving way to desperation. “Please. If it dies, they die.”

The weight of her words settled in Jax’s chest like lead. He thought of his family—his sister’s bright smile, his mother’s proud eyes. They’d always told him he’d do great things, make the universe better. But what did that mean now? Following orders, or breaking them to protect something he barely understood?

A sharp alarm cut through the air. Security officers approached, their boots heavy on the polished floor. Jax’s supervisor, a man whose bark was as unforgiving as his bite, stepped into view. “Problem, Officer Varis?” he barked.

Jax’s grip tightened on the flask. His pulse thundered in his ears. He could hand it over, pass the burden on, and live with the guilt. Or he could trust his instincts, jeopardizing everything he’d built.

“No problem, sir,” Jax said, slipping the flask back into the woman’s bag. “Routine scan error.”

The supervisor narrowed his eyes. “We’ll need to check her, then.”

Jax stepped in front of her, blocking the supervisor’s path. “I’ve cleared her,” he said, his voice firm. “She’s free to go.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The supervisor stared at him, the air thick with unspoken consequences. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. Move on.”

The woman slipped past without a word, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Jax watched her go, her figure swallowed by the crowd.

Hours later, when his shift ended, Jax sat alone in the staff locker room. The holo-news displayed a headline about a fugitive escaping Kestrel Customs. He didn’t need to read it to know who they meant.

His hands trembled as he pulled out the small data chip with his family’s photo. He’d made his choice. Whether it was the right one, he didn’t know. But the uniform on his shoulders no longer felt so heavy.

For a brief shining moment he wasn’t just an officer. He was a guardian of something greater. And that, he thought, was a start.