Tag Archives: speculative fiction

Susa’s Playground Redux

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

There was something wrong with Susa. Not in the way of outward deformity or disturbing behavior. No, her skin was like polished ivory, her voice always soft, sweet even, a child of perfect manners and perfect calm. She loved her parents, was kind to animals, and never, ever raised her voice in anger. She never threw a tantrum, never shed a tear in frustration. If you wronged her, she simply blinked those glassy, wide-set eyes and moved on with the kind of detachment that made you uneasy, like a predator deciding it wasn’t hungry just yet.

But something was off. People whispered about her behind closed doors. The other children kept their distance, casting quick, suspicious glances her way. Adults, for all their smiles and nods, couldn’t help but feel an instinctual unease whenever she was near, though no one could put their finger on why.

Susa seemed… otherworldly, like a porcelain doll with a soul just barely contained within it.

It wasn’t until the nightmares began that people realized the truth.

The first victim was a boy from her class, a bully who had made Susa cry in front of everyone by ripping the head off her favorite doll. He thought nothing of it. The next night, his screams woke the entire neighborhood. He ranted in feverish terror, his hands clutching his hair, eyes wide as if seeing something no one else could. He spoke of a place—Susa’s playground, he called it.

He described a vast, bleak expanse of dead earth stretching in all directions, a blood-red sky hanging overhead like the edge of some long-forgotten apocalypse. In the distance, there was a swing set. Only, instead of swings, it held rows of lifeless bodies, slowly swaying back and forth as though moved by a wind no one could feel. The figures were familiar. He recognized his parents, his friends, and even strangers he had passed by in his life—all hollowed out, their faces twisted in eternal agony.

And there, standing at the center of it all, was Susa, watching him with those blank, doll-like eyes, her pale lips twitching into a faint smile. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. The moment he saw her, the boy said, he knew he was never safe again, not even in his sleep.

The next night, another child. Then another.

And it wasn’t just children.

Adults too, those who had ever been rude to her, ever given her the slightest hint of disdain or condescension, found themselves whisked away into Susa’s nightmare realm as soon as their heads hit the pillow. The dreams were vivid, too vivid, filled with grotesque landscapes that seemed to bleed malice from every corner.

Some saw fields of rotting corpses, the faces of their loved ones among the dead. Others wandered through endless tunnels where the walls pulsed like the insides of a living creature, their footsteps echoing in a rhythmic, heart-like beat that grew louder with every step. And always, always, at the center of these nightmares stood Susa, her eerie silence louder than any scream.

She never threatened them. She never raised a hand against them. She simply watched.

And yet, those who awoke from Susa’s dreams never felt safe again. They couldn’t shake the feeling that some part of them had been left behind in that desolate place. Some refused to sleep at all, terrified of returning to her playground, and yet, sleep always came. And with it, the nightmares.

Soon, people began disappearing.

At first, it was a trickle—an old woman who had once snapped at Susa for crossing her lawn, a bus driver who had scolded her for not paying the fare. Then it became a flood. Entire families vanished overnight, their beds left untouched as though they had simply been plucked from their slumber and spirited away.

Authorities searched, but no trace of the missing was ever found. The only common thread was Susa, that quiet, unassuming little girl with the alabaster skin and the vacant eyes.

But by then, no one dared question her.

People began avoiding her entirely, crossing the street when they saw her coming, whispering prayers under their breath whenever she passed by. Parents pulled their children from school, families moved out of town, desperate to escape her presence.

Yet Susa remained. Unchanging. Untouched.

She never chased after those who fled, never lifted a finger to hurt anyone directly. But the nightmares persisted. Each night, more people found themselves dragged into her desolate playground, where they would wander through endless deathscapes, unable to escape the feeling that something vital was slowly being drained from them.

And every night, Susa was there. Watching.

Not as punishment. Not even as revenge.

No, her playground wasn’t a place of retribution. It was a warning—a glimpse into the death that awaited anyone who crossed her.

Because Susa wasn’t like the rest of humanity. She was something far older, something that wore the skin of a little girl but carried the weight of a much darker power.

And as the last few townsfolk packed up and left, they couldn’t shake the feeling that Susa wasn’t bound by geography. You could leave town, leave the country even, but you could never leave her behind.

Things Are Never Easy (Redux)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Lonnie Hatch was a cartographer of comfort, meticulously mapping the familiar coordinates of his life. Every morning, precisely at 7:18 AM, come fog thick as wool or sunshine that made the asphalt shimmer, he embarked on what his wife, Carol, called his “bagel pilgrimage.” The destination: Goldberg’s Deli, three blocks down, one block over. It wasn’t merely about the destination – the perfectly dense, chewy everything bagel, generously smeared edge-to-edge with their signature scallion cream cheese. It was the ritual itself. The rhythmic thump-thump of his worn sneakers on the sidewalk, the specific way Mrs. Henderson always waved from her window, the slightly-too-loud greeting from Sal behind the counter (“Lonnie! The usual? You got it!”). It was the comforting fug of malt, yeast, and roasting onions that hit you a half-block away, a promise of simple satisfaction.

Lonnie treasured these anchors in a world that often felt adrift. He was, by his own admission, a simple man. He found deep contentment in the steady rhythm of his days: his quiet work as an accountant, the shared laughter with Carol over dinner, the worn armchair where he read history books, and especially, his volunteer shifts ladling soup at St. Jude’s kitchen downtown. Helping felt less like a duty and more like breathing. His parents, pragmatic but kind souls, had woven service into the fabric of his upbringing – “Leave things a little better than you found them, son,” his father used to say. Lonnie lived a righteous life, not from fear of some celestial scorecard, but because kindness felt like the most logical, most human response to the world’s sharp edges. It simply felt right.

This particular Tuesday morning carried the crisp promise of early autumn. The air was cool against his face, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant exhaust fumes. Lonnie walked with a familiar spring in his step, his thoughts pleasantly tangled around Carol’s upcoming birthday. A necklace? Too predictable. Those fancy gardening gloves she’d admired? Perhaps. He was so engrossed in weighing the merits of artisanal pruning shears versus a weekend getaway that he barely registered the frantic screech of tires tearing through the urban symphony.

He looked up, confused, just as a yellow taxi, moving far too fast, mounted the curb with a sickening lurch. It wasn’t aiming for him, but for the squat, red fire hydrant standing sentinel a few feet away. Time seemed to warp. He saw the driver’s wide, panicked eyes, the metallic shriek as bumper met iron, the impossible physics of the collision. The hydrant didn’t just break; it sheared off its base with explosive force, a sudden, brutal projectile launched directly into his path. Lonnie had only a fraction of a second to register the blur of red metal hurtling towards him, a final, absurd punctuation mark to his meticulously ordered life. Then, only blackness, absolute and instantaneous.

The newspapers would later describe it as a “one-in-a-million freak accident,” a tragic confluence of speed, distraction, and unfortunate positioning. A testament to the cruel randomness of urban life.

But randomness, Lonnie was about to learn, was a concept largely confined to the mortal plane. His death, far from being an anomaly, had been a scheduled event, noted centuries ago in the incomprehensibly vast ledger known colloquially as the Book of Life. A cosmic domino, nudged at the appointed hour.

There was no tunnel of light, no choir of angels, no St. Peter polishing the Pearly Gates. Instead, Lonnie experienced a profound sense of dislocation, like being pulled inside out and reassembled in the same instant. He found himself standing, disoriented but strangely intact, in a chamber of impossible scale. It was vast, utterly sterile, and bathed in a soft, sourceless light that cast no shadows. Around him, stretching further than his earthly eyes could comprehend, were others. Thousands upon thousands – a quick, bewildered estimate suggested maybe one hundred and fifty thousand souls – all freshly transitioned.

A low, pervasive hum filled the space, woven from the threads of countless emotions: the soft sobbing of bewildered grief, the sharp intake of shocked realization, the low murmur of confusion, the stony silence of utter disbelief. Some souls shimmered faintly, others looked as solid as they had moments before death. Lonnie instinctively touched his face, expecting to feel the catastrophic impact, but there was nothing. Only a strange, numb detachment. He looked for Carol, a desperate, automatic reflex, but saw only strangers adrift in the same sea of uncertainty.

Then, the ambient hum shifted, coalescing into a focused point of energy at the perceived center of the immense room. Light didn’t bend towards it; reality itself seemed to warp, allowing the presence to manifest. It was an Ophanim, one of the formidable Wheels within Wheels described in hushed tones in ancient texts. Not a winged humanoid, but a construct of impossible geometry – interlocking rings of what looked like burning gold, constantly rotating in different directions, the rim of each wheel studded with countless, unblinking eyes. These eyes, terrifyingly perceptive, swept across the assembled souls, seeing not just their bewildered forms, but the entirety of their lives, their choices, their deepest natures. Its presence wasn’t merely seen; it was felt – an overwhelming wave of ancient power, intricate purpose, and undeniable authority.

“Welcome, Heaven Seekers,” the Ophanim’s voice resonated, not through the air, but directly within each soul’s consciousness. The sound was like the grinding of galaxies, yet perfectly clear. “Some among you may have already grasped the transition you have undergone. For those who remain uncertain, allow me to confirm: the existence you knew, the life you inhabited on Earth, is concluded.”

A collective sigh, a wave of despair and dawning acceptance, rippled through the multitude. The Ophanim paused, its thousand-fold gaze seeming to acknowledge their grief without dwelling on it.

“Your anticipated entry into the Kingdom,” the celestial being continued, its voice devoid of emotion yet carrying immense weight, “has been temporarily deferred. An exigency has arisen. Heaven requires assistance.”

Another ripple, this time of pure confusion. Heaven needed… help?

“The terrestrial sphere, your Earth, has been significantly disrupted by the recent global pandemic. Its effects ripple beyond the merely physical, upsetting delicate spiritual balances cultivated over millennia. While this event does not herald the prophesied End Times, the scales measuring hope against despair, connection against isolation, have tipped unfavorably. The trajectory, if unaltered, leads toward escalating devastation – not necessarily apocalyptic, but a profound diminishment of the qualities Heaven seeks to foster.”

The Ophanim’s wheels spun, eyes blinking in asynchronous patterns. “Therefore, we are extending an invitation. We seek volunteers from this cohort – souls whose earthly lives demonstrated resilience, compassion, and a propensity for service – to return to Earth. You would be imbued with entirely new identities, new circumstances, severed completely from your past lives. Your mission: to subtly intervene, to act as counterweights, to assist in mitigating the coming discord and gently guiding humanity back towards equilibrium, or at least towards a new, more sustainable ‘normal’.”

The Ophanim let the proposition hang in the vast silence. “Consider this carefully. Your decision will not prejudice your ultimate acceptance into the Kingdom; entry is assured for all present based on your earthly merits. Declining this task carries no penalty. However,” the voice seemed to lower conspiratorially, though it still filled every mind, “choosing to volunteer confers certain… benefits upon your eventual, permanent arrival here. The nature of these benefits, I am not at liberty to disclose at this juncture.”

A current of speculation surged through the crowd. Whispers erupted in thought-forms Lonnie could now perceive. Benefits? What benefits? A higher sphere? Less waiting?

Lonnie felt a familiar ache, a phantom sensation in his chest. If this offer had come yesterday, when he was still Lonnie Hatch, bagel pilgrim, soup kitchen volunteer, Carol’s husband… the choice would have been instantaneous. Pack a bag, lace up the boots, get to work. That was his nature. But here, now? Standing on the very threshold of Paradise, the promise of eternal rest, of reunion, of peace beyond understanding, was an almost physical pull. It was the ultimate reward, the cessation of striving he hadn’t known he craved until this very moment. He felt weary, not just from his life, but from the shock of its ending.

Was this the real test? Not the good deeds on Earth, but this choice, right here, right now? A final, cosmic essay question determining his ultimate placement? Refuse, and enjoy the earned rest. Accept, and plunge back into the struggle, albeit in a new form.

He looked around at the sea of souls, each facing the same impossible choice. The weight of it settled upon him, heavy and profound. Things were never easy, it seemed. Not in life, and certainly not at the doorstep of eternity. The Ophanim waited, its myriad eyes patient, eternal, observing the quiet, monumental struggles unfolding within one hundred and fifty thousand souls.

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.

Let’s Talk About “My Surfer Scientist Secret Wife” – MaddFic Deep Dive Novel Podcast

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Get your copy here: https://amzn.to/4gI31jF

Two highly professional and well-established podcasters, Donna Talmadge and Ross Tamecko, take a deep dive into my latest novel, “My Surfer Scientist Secret Wife.”

Description: When perfectionist pastry chef Ira Sea agrees to a marriage of convenience with NixonNina—a daring surfer with a penchant for secrets—his life takes a surreal turn. NixonNina isn’t just a thrill-seeker; she’s an undercover scientist on a mission tied to a mysterious rift in reality.

As the Sea & Sugar bakery becomes a hub for otherworldly phenomena, customers claim the pastries reveal glimpses of alternate dimensions, rival bakers launch sabotage campaigns, and interdimensional chaos brews just beyond their small coastal town.

Together, Ira and NixonNina must unravel the secrets of the rift, outwit shadowy figures intent on its exploitation, and perfect a croquembouche that might just save reality itself.

Quirky, thrilling, and irresistibly heartwarming, “My Surfer Scientist Secret Wife” is a genre-bending tale of love, adventure, and embracing the beauty of imperfection. Perfect for fans of romance, supernatural suspense, and absurd adventures with a touch of pastry magic.

The Dragon’s Requiem

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
In the golden light of the royal court, Eldred knelt before the king. The ceremonial sword tapped his shoulder, each touch a reminder of the burden he now bore. A knight’s duty was honor. A knight’s heart was steel. Eldred had trained for this moment, but as the spurs were fastened to his boots, he felt not pride but a creeping weight in his chest.

“The realm calls upon you,” the king intoned, his voice a sonorous echo in the grand hall. “Rid us of the beast that haunts the forbidden forest. Do this, and your name will live forever.”

Eldred bowed, though the words felt hollow. The dragon was a legend, a specter of fear and awe. To slay such a creature would prove his worth—but to whom?

The forest swallowed him whole. For three moons, Eldred wandered its winding paths, his sword a cold comfort against the suffocating green. The trees whispered dark fates for foolish trespassers, and shadows danced menacingly just beyond the reach of his torchlight.

It was on the fourth day, when exhaustion gnawed at his resolve, that he found something unexpected.

A woman stood in a clearing, sunlight cascading through the canopy to gild her form. Her hair glinted like molten gold, and her eyes shone with an unnatural fire. She seemed a creature of dreams, too beautiful to belong to this world.

“Are you lost, knight?” she asked, her voice a melody that wove through the trees.

Eldred dismounted, his heart pounding. He should have questioned her presence, her purpose in this forbidden place. Instead, he found himself drawn forward, his sword slack in his grip.

“I seek the dragon,” he said, though the words felt distant, as if spoken by someone else.

She smiled, and the air between them shimmered like heat rising from a forge. “Then you have found her.”

The transformation was swift and terrible. The maiden fair's form twisted, golden hair replaced by gleaming scales, delicate hands by talons sharp enough to rend steel. She rose before him, a towering figure of power and frightening beauty, her emerald eyes now blazing with fire.

Eldred stumbled back, his breath catching. The dragon loomed over him, and yet he could not raise his blade. The creature was no monster, no mindless beast. She was exquisite. Terrible. Alive.

“Strike, knight,” she said, her voice still rich with melody, though it now carried an edge of mockery. “Is that not your purpose?”

He hesitated. This was his moment—his chance to prove his worth, to fulfill his oath. But the longer he stared into those piercing eyes, the more his resolve wavered. This creature was not what he had imagined. She was no mindless beast, but something ancient, intelligent, and impossibly beautiful.

“I... can’t,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The dragon lowered her head, her gaze softening. “And why is that?”

“Because... you are not what I was taught to hate.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the dragon shifted, her massive form shrinking back into that of the maiden. She stepped toward him, her movements slow and deliberate. “And yet you came to kill me.”

Eldred lowered his sword, the weight of his quest crushing him. “I didn’t understand,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“And now?” she asked, standing before him once more, her hand reaching out to brush the edge of his blade.

“I see you,” he said.

The sword slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud on the forest floor.

Eldred returned to the kingdom not as a hero but as a man changed. He spoke not of victory but of truth, of the folly of fearing what we do not understand. And though his name was not etched into the annals of legend, the tale of the knight who laid down his sword for the dragon who taught him to see lived on, whispered in the halls of power and the quiet of the woods.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Eternal Lullaby of Wilhelmina Soames

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Every city has its ghosts, but few linger like Wilhelmina Soames. She haunted Main Street with her empty pram, its wheels squeaking on the cracked pavement, her presence as constant as the rising sun. The locals knew her by a hundred cruel names—The Mad Mother, The Lady in Rags—but her true title was whispered only by the bravest and the most foolish: The Collector.

“Nelda, Farley, Aubrey…” Wilhelmina’s voice rasped, a croak that slid down the city’s alleys like smoke. The names flowed from her lips in a ceaseless chant, each one spoken with the reverence of a mother calling her child home. Yet there were no children. Only the pram, and her eyes—wide and fever-bright—scanning the empty streets.

“Vance, Giselle, Wesley…” She called out to names long forgotten, her cracked lips curling into a smile that unsettled anyone who dared to listen too long.

The city had become numb to her presence, indifferent to the sight of her skeletal frame and wild hair, matted with dirt and debris. It was easier that way, to pretend she didn’t exist, to step over her as they did the other broken things the city swallowed whole. But those who whispered behind her back never lingered long near the places Wilhelmina wandered after dark.

Because Wilhelmina didn’t just push an empty pram. She collected.

At dusk, she ventured beyond the crowds, beyond the reach of streetlights, into forgotten corners of the city, the places where the shadows lingered thickest. Those who had been desperate enough to follow—whether out of morbid curiosity or cruel delight—never spoke about what they saw. Some said she rummaged through dumpsters, sifting through filth as if seeking something precious among the discarded refuse. Others claimed to hear her speaking softly to things unseen, her voice a strange lullaby meant to soothe the dead. But always, they said, she found something—someone. And when she did, she would cradle it in her arms, rocking it gently as if it weighed more than air.

Those few who dared to peer too long into her pram swore they caught a glimpse of something terrible. Tiny, disfigured shadows, twisting and writhing inside the carriage as if desperate to escape.

The rumors spread fast, and the stories became more elaborate with each retelling. Some claimed Wilhelmina had once been a nanny to a wealthy family, that she’d lost her charge in a tragic accident—a baby slipping from her grasp and into traffic, her mind snapping in two with the sound of that child’s body beneath tires. Others whispered of ancient curses, that Wilhelmina was cursed to roam the city, forever collecting the souls of the young who died before their time. She wasn’t just a madwoman, they said. She was a harbinger. A guardian of lost souls, condemned to ferry them to a place no living eyes could see.

And so, every night, her eerie refrain echoed through the streets, searching.

But the stories were never enough to explain what happened next.

On the night of her death, Wilhelmina entered the vacant lot, the one space in the city untouched by developers—a place where the air always felt cold, no matter the season. There, among the rubble and weeds, she bent low, her fingers sifting through the earth, frantic, searching as though time itself was running out.

And then she found it. Something unseen yet tangible to her alone. A bundle, light as air, and in her joy, she lifted it high, cradling it to her chest. But in her haste, she didn’t notice the jagged brick half-buried in the dirt.

She tripped. Her skull met the brick with a sickening crack, and the last breath of air left her body in a wet, gurgling gasp. Blood oozed into the soil, darkening the ground beneath her.

But Wilhelmina didn’t die—not in the way most do.

She awoke standing over her own body, her lifeless shell sprawled on the cold earth. The sight didn’t startle her. In fact, it comforted her. The years of madness, the endless wandering, the voices of lost children—she finally understood. She had been preparing for this moment all along.

Around her, the shadows deepened. Small, pale hands reached for her, dozens of tiny figures emerging from the gloom. Children, their faces contorted in silent screams, their eyes hollow and unblinking. They had waited for her, lost in the dark, and now they were ready to be guided to wherever it was that the forgotten dead go.

Wilhelmina smiled, her lips parting to release a lullaby that no living ear could hear. She gathered the children to her, one by one, her touch soothing the fear in their eyes. Her pram was no longer empty—it brimmed with the restless spirits of the city’s lost.

And so, Wilhelmina Soames, the Mad Mother of Main Street, became what she was always meant to be. No longer bound by flesh, she pushed her pram through the vacant lot, her song rising with the wind, a lullaby for the dead. Her voice drifted through the city, a melody of grief and longing, chilling the blood of those who walked too close.

She was no longer just a madwoman; she was their keeper. And the children of the city—those lost and forgotten—would forever hear the eternal lullaby of Wilhelmina Soames, calling them home.

Thirteen For Halloween: Her First Time Redux

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Vanessa’s eyes locked onto the swinging pocket watch, its brass glinting in the low candlelight, the rhythmic ticking sinking deeper into her mind. Each pendulum swing seemed to pull her further from the present and hurl her back to that night—the one she’d buried beneath layers of false memory, beneath years of carefully constructed lies.

She had rewritten the story so many times. In her version, the ’67 Chevy Impala was a haven, its worn leather seats a cradle of budding romance, and Jimmy Erler, her first, was tender, patient. But as Doc Halley’s hypnotic voice probed deeper, the truth began to surface, a nightmare she had kept locked away in the darkest corners of her mind.

Her breath quickened. The rain. She could hear it again, hammering the car’s roof, relentless as the truth clawed its way out. The soft whispers Jimmy once murmured in her ear weren’t sweet at all—they were commands, demands, filled with malice, punctuated by the scrape of his teeth against her skin. He wasn’t patient. He wasn’t tender. He was hungry.

Vanessa felt herself spiraling, the fragile mask of memory shattering, each fragment revealing the brutal reality she had long denied. There were no stolen kisses beneath the rain-soaked windows, no shy fumblings of young love. Instead, there was pain—her pain—and Jimmy’s mocking laughter as he forced her against the seat. His hands, once remembered as gentle, had clawed at her clothes with savage urgency.

And then… something had broken inside her.

In the shifting candlelight of Doc Halley’s office, Vanessa’s hands clenched involuntarily, her nails digging into her palms. The image in her mind grew sharper, crueler. Jimmy’s face—twisted with something darker than desire, eyes gleaming with cruelty—blurred, then fractured. Her own hands—those hands—were the ones clawing at him now, tearing at his skin, his clothes, anything she could reach.

She could still hear his voice, the smug bravado crumbling into panic as her fingernails raked his face, drawing blood, her teeth sinking into his shoulder. She had fought back. No, not fought—she had become something else, something feral, her rage drowning out all sense, all fear, until there was only the violence, the raw power coursing through her limbs.

Jimmy had screamed. But the more he screamed, the more alive she felt.

When the fog lifted, she remembered the silence. Jimmy had been curled up, his breath ragged, bloodied and trembling, his once cocky smile twisted into a grimace of terror. He was no longer the predator—he was prey, and she had tasted his fear.

The watch ticked on, its steady rhythm pulling her back to the present, but the weight of that night lingered, suffocating. The realization hit her like a fist to the gut. She hadn’t been the victim, not entirely. The real horror wasn’t Jimmy, or what he had done. It was what she had unleashed in herself.

Vanessa blinked, her mouth dry, her body rigid in the chair. Doc Halley’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, gentle but probing.

“What did you see, Vanessa?”

Her gaze shifted to the pocket watch again. The ticking was louder now, deafening.

“I… I didn’t stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I wanted to. But I didn’t.”

Doc Halley leaned closer, the candlelight casting strange shadows across his face. “What didn’t you stop?”

Her breath hitched. The memory had become a living thing, growing inside her, feeding off her guilt and her need for absolution. But there was none to be had. Not for this.

“I didn’t stop… hurting him.”

The room seemed to shrink, the darkness pressing in. She had lied to herself for years, convinced herself that Jimmy had been the monster, that she had been the innocent. But as the truth bubbled up, she knew it had been something else. She had felt good—terrifyingly, exhilaratingly good—when she tore him apart.

Doc Halley’s voice was distant now, almost drowned out by the watch’s ticking. “Do you think you can forgive yourself?”

Vanessa closed her eyes, but the image of Jimmy’s broken body wouldn’t fade. She hadn’t just taken back control that night. She had destroyed him.

The candle flickered and died, plunging the room into cold darkness.

“No,” she whispered into the void. “I don’t think I can.”

And in the silence that followed, she realized the monster she feared wasn’t lurking in Jimmy’s memory, or in some dark corner of her past. It had always been inside her—waiting.

Thirteen For Halloween: Embrace of the Void

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

In the labyrinthine corridors of my mind, I wander like a condemned man, trapped in a purgatory of my own making. Each morning, I rise from the depths, a hollow shell of flesh and bone, reciting lifeless affirmations that dissipate into the cold silence. I set forth, a misguided crusader armed with delusions of redemption, determined to leave a mark on a world that long ago forgot my name.

But the path beneath my feet is a treacherous thing, twisted and serpentine, choked with the refuse of my squandered hopes and festering regrets. Misfortune trails me like a shadow that bleeds black at the edges, its hot breath caressing my neck, its claws raking ever closer. Each choice I make cleaves a piece from my soul, and with every step, I descend further into the maw of a darkness that devours all light.

The road I once called righteous has vanished, swallowed whole by a memory I cannot trust. I drift, lost in a sea of my own sins, the weight of my transgressions crushing me under the stench of decay. The rot is inescapable. It seeps into my pores, coils around my heart, whispering that the time to pay has come—and I am bankrupt, with nothing left to offer but the fragments of a wretched soul.

I collapse into the gutter, a broken thing, my body crumpling like paper soaked through with blood. The cold concrete beneath me drains the warmth from my flesh, and the world dissolves into a sickly blur. Colors bleed away until only the monochrome of oblivion remains. Then, in the midst of this dying delirium, she appears.

She stands above me, a vision carved from darkness, her beauty a dagger in my chest. Her skin is a porcelain pallor, her raven hair cascading in tendrils that curl like smoke. Her eyes, twin voids, drink in the light, leaving nothing but the blackened husk of a soul that once dared to hope. She is perfection amidst the filth, a sanctuary I have sought all my life, a deliverance I could never earn. But as I reach for her, desperate to feel the warmth of salvation, a terrible truth shatters the illusion.

She is not my salvation. She is Death itself, cloaked in false beauty. Her touch is the final cold, her kiss the last exhalation. She is a hallucination conjured by the failing mind of a man who can no longer distinguish agony from ecstasy. Yet even as the understanding seeps into my bones like poison, I yearn for her, ache to surrender to the dark mercy of her embrace. The void whispers that to yield is to find peace, that oblivion is a lover more faithful than hope ever was.

In the end, I am nothing but a hollowed-out husk, a cracked vessel through which the last vestiges of life trickle away. As I fall into the blackness, I cling to the pale specter of Death like a drowning man clutches the hand that pulls him under. I do not fight. I do not struggle. I welcome her embrace as the final union, the consummation of my shattered soul with the void that awaits.

And then, there is only the darkness. There is no salvation, no redemption. There is nothing left of the man I once was—nothing but the silence of the grave and the echo of a heartbeat that has already stopped.