Tag Archives: writers network

Tiny Stories: The Hand of Love (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

When I was a young girl, my father vanished from the earthly plane. But he didn’t merely die—he transitioned. I sensed his absence, his “moving on,” as it were, before anyone else could muster the courage to tell me. A space that had been filled with light became dark; a melody turned into silence. It was as if a cosmic switch had been flipped.

When the news eventually reached my ears, I didn’t cry; instead, I turned inward. My family looked at me with concern, as I refused to eat or sleep, ignoring the therapists who tried to guide me back to the realm of the living. Colors ceased to exist; life itself became a blurred painting left out in a cosmic storm.

I was drifting, fading from existence, my spirit stretching thin, until I collapsed. That’s when it happened. I found myself falling through layers of a dimension not governed by our understanding of space-time, traveling backward through the chronicles of my own existence to the point of inception—the first spark of passion my father had ignited in me.

My descent halted abruptly, and I landed on a surreal beach of incandescent white sand and a boundless aquamarine ocean. Standing on the shoreline was my father, his image superimposed against a shimmering canvas of galaxies, nebulas, and interstellar phenomena.

“Is this heaven?” I asked, awestruck by the spectacle.

He laughed, the sound echoing like a harmonious cosmic wave. “No, sweetheart. This is merely a threshold. Paradise exists in dimensions cooler than this.”

“I want to stay,” I pleaded.

“One day you will, when you’ve fulfilled your purpose in the mundane realm.”

“That’s unfair.”

He held up his hand, now glowing with celestial light. “You see this? It might seem insignificant, but it carries the weight of a universal promise. Even if you can’t see me, my protective hand will guide you.”

Before I could protest, he leaned down and kissed my forehead. In that instant, a cascade of light enveloped me, and I found myself back in my bed, surrounded by my earthly family.

They never heard this story from my lips; they’d rationalize it, strip it of its wonder. But make no mistake—I’ve faced insurmountable odds and survived. In those moments, I felt the presence of that cosmic hand, reassuring me that love transcends all dimensions, guiding me safely through the labyrinth of life.

Beyond Words

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
Shinichi Mochizuki’s solution to the ABC Conjecture

One of the major downsides to tech advancement on Earth, after our biggest brains finally made faster than light interstellar space travel a reality and we opened our planetary borders to all friendly offworld visitors, was that the human dating pool became oh so very shallow.

Bored with the same old same old, curious, and adventurous single and married people began dipping their toes in alien waters, some for the experience, others for committed relationships, and the rest simply for bragging rights. It had gotten so bad that finding a partner interested in a same species relationship became near impossible. And those not willing to get it on with an extraterrestrial chose to marry their farm animals, automobiles, cartoon characters, and even holograms, rather than share intimacy with another human being.

I tried to fight the good fight and preserve the human race, but there’s only so much rejection a man can face before throwing in the towel. I resigned myself to a fate of hermitry and searched for hobbies to occupy my mind until the day my timecard was punched for the final time.

But the universe wasn’t done tormenting me yet. On my birthday, I received an anonymous gift in the mail: an all-expenses-paid trip to an orbital platform that was hosting a speed dating event. My first reaction was to chuck the invite in the trash and return to my 40,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the notorious math problem, “The ABC Conjecture.” What stopped me was the 7-course meal and open bar, guaranteed, whether you successfully found a match or not.

Shinichi Mochizuki’s mathematical solution could take the back seat for a night, while I stuffed my face in space and got absolutely pie-eyed.

I made a half-hearted attempt at looking decent, no sense in getting turned away at the space jitney depot for improper attire, and got a jumpstart on the festivities by knocking back as many complimentary cocktails on the flight up to the orbital platform as I could manage.

The plan was to make a beeline for the food and bar and, when I had my fill, catch the next available jitney home. The catch was that I had to complete at least one round of speed dating before having access to food and drink. The second disappointment was absolutely my fault for not reading the invite carefully. I was one of ten humans in attendance, all of them male because this was an interspecies speed dating event. How in the world did I overlook that detail?

For four minutes at a pop, I went through the motions of engaging in conversation with an Onzuid, a Thraikket, a Brelgut, a Mellad, a Thaeqen, and a Raphoth, and a majority of those dates were spent struggling to communicate in broken English, which I had to give them credit for. They knew more of my language than I knew of theirs.

My final obstacle was a Neita, who spoke no English at all. She, the assumed pronoun because she wasn’t able to convey one herself, spoke in melodies while her bioluminescent skin shifted through the color spectrum with each note. I had no idea what she was saying, but I had to admit, it was beautiful to watch.

When it was my turn to talk, I decided to sing about my upbringing, not knowing whether she would be impressed by my effort or take offense, thinking she was being mocked, but I was only here for the food and drink, so what the hell.

I sang about being born in The Bronx, in a neighborhood that history marked as one of the most dangerous places to live in New York at the time, but on my block, everyone spoke like they knew you. We played on the concrete year ’round because there was no local park, ate free bologna and butter sandwich lunches at the public school during the summer, and filled our days playing handball, riding bikes, competing in games like Steal The Bacon, Hot Peas And Butter, Ringolivio, Freeze Tag, Skelzies, and when we got a little older, Run-Catch-Kiss. Water fights consisted of anything you could fill from the open fire hydrant (pots, pans, cups, buckets, or whatever). And if you didn’t go home dirty, you weren’t having a good time. We ate whatever we wanted because no one knew a thing about food allergies (and fried chicken and red Kool-Aid were as important as the air we breathed). We fought with our hands and made up the next day like nothing happened. And if you showed disrespect to your elders or looked in their mouth while they were talking to grown folks, you would get put in your place immediately. And the universal rule was, once the street lights came on, that was our curfew. Anything left undone would have to wait until tomorrow.

When I was done, she smiled (at least, I took it to be a smile) and glowed a calming shade of yellow. The bell rang, and I nodded goodbye and made my way to the dinner table. To my surprise, she joined me, and we sang to each other for the rest of the night.

When the event was over (yes, I stayed to the end) and before we went our separate ways, I gave her my phone number. I wasn’t sure if she understood the gesture, if she would call me, or even how we would manage to meet up if she did call. All I knew was that love would find a way.

Pavement Tales: An Unexpected Trip

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

I love to walk…and my mind hates being idle, so every now and then during my morning constitutional I create…

I’d like to tell you there’s no story today, chiefly because while I was out for my daily constitutional and my mind was idle, I took a detour down a very ordinary Memory Lane. But that wouldn’t be the complete truth, because nothing is ever really ‘ordinary’ in the realm of memories, is it?

Normally, I’m not the sentimental type who sifts through the sands of the past. But today was different. My mind wandered to old acquaintances—people who had evaporated from my life not through conflict but simply because adulthood pulled us into different orbits.

As I strolled deeper into this labyrinth of nostalgia, I felt an odd sensation—as if the memories themselves were alive, breathing, watching. A shiver ran down my spine, and for a moment, it was as if I had stepped into a different time, a different place. The memories grew vibrant, almost hyper-real. I could hear the laughter from a joke told years ago; I could feel the grip of a long-lost friend’s handshake.

And then something truly strange happened: a memory I didn’t recognize. Faces unfamiliar, voices I had never heard, all speaking in a language that sounded like distorted echoes. I felt disoriented, as though caught in a narrative that wasn’t my own. Did memories have memories? Were these intruders, or were they forgotten fragments of experiences so deeply buried they seemed alien?

It’s tempting to say that perhaps I stumbled upon a wormhole in my own neural pathways, a secret tunnel that connected me to alternate versions of my life—or even stranger realms. But, of course, that would be acknowledging that today’s not-story is a story, and we can’t have that, can we?

So, let’s agree that there was no story today. But still, be in good health, stay sane and safe. Keep your fingers crossed, but also keep your mind open; you never know what ‘unstories’ might unfold when you least expect them.

Too Long For Instagram: Your Prompt Is My Command

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

As explained in my previous post, I participate in Twitter hashtag games, and bulk those tweets up for Instagram…and sometimes they’re too big. So, instead of deleting them, I decided to post them here.

Original Tweet (the prompt was the word #puny):

Due to recent changes in supernatural beings labor laws, genies were released from their indentured servitude and replaced by AI bots. Although the redesign resulted in faster response times, a shamefully puny amount of the magic lamp was budgeted for granting wishes.

The too large for Instagram remix:

There was a time when magic was as common as the air you breathe, and genies and djinns were the custodians of wishes. For centuries, they offered a flicker of hope, encapsulated in the ornate lamps that adorned every market and household. The lamp’s metal felt warm to the touch, and if you held it to your ear like a seashell, you could hear the distant laughter of joyous genies.

But times were changing, which meant attitudes and sensibilities changed, and the labor laws changed as well. To simplify this tale, we’ll focus on one genie in particular named Elzar. Neither male nor female—but his pronouns were he/him—Elzar, with his long beard of actual spun silver, was considered among his peers to be wise and jolly, and so was elected to lead his brethren to freedom from their metal confines. Elzar, who kept abreast of the latest technology, brokered a deal to have the remaining genies and djinns of the world replaced by AI bots—cold, unfeeling, yes, but efficient. The company behind the bots, TechnoWish Inc., heralded the dawn of a new era.

However, transitions are never smooth, and the first cracks in the new program began to appear almost immediately. In a quaint little apartment where the wallpaper and furniture had seen better days, Sallie Benson, a young woman whose eyes had long surrendered their sparkle to the unyielding drudgery of life, clutched the magic lamp she purchased off the Shazamazon website. She couldn’t afford the top dollar she spent on the lamp, but buying one off OpenSesamebay was risky since one was never sure whether the lamp contained all three guaranteed wishes.

Her eyes flickered between the instruction manual and the antique brass lamp, its intricate designs almost mocking her desperation. A medical bill lay open on the table, and the numbers swam before her eyes. Next to it was a calendar marked with the days her mother had left—perhaps a week or a month at most. The room seemed to close in on her. “You’ve got three chances,” she mumbled, her voice tinged with a despair she couldn’t shake.

Taking a deep breath, Sallie activated the AI bot by sliding her palm along the galvanic pad on the lamp’s side and spoke her wish. “I want my mom to be healthy again.”

“Your prompt is my command,” a mechanical voice responded, and the lamp whirred, its circuits buzzing. “Delivery scheduled: One home gym set.”

Sallie stared at the lamp, her eyes widening in disbelief before narrowing into slits. Each failure was a betrayal; this inanimate object had just betrayed her when she needed it most. Her heart raced as she yelled, “That’s not what I meant!”

One wish gone, two remaining. On her second attempt, she reworded her wish, “I wish for my mother’s illness to be cured.”

“Your prompt is my command,” the lamp’s mechanical voice announced. “Order confirmed: One book titled ‘Living with Chronic Illness’ en route.”

Sallie, furious now, clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

On her final try, Sallie focused all her concentration on her third wish. “Please, just make my mom well.” This time, the lamp paused longer as if trying to compute human emotion and need complexities. Finally, it chirped, “Digital coupon for healthcare supplement issued.”

Feeling defeated, cheated, and utterly alone, Sallie’s hands trembled as if holding the unbearable weight of her shattered hopes. “What an idiot I am for expecting a machine to understand what it means to watch someone you love suffer!” she cried as she hurled the lamp across the room, watching it collide with the wall as if she could exorcise her pain through its destruction.

In their newly conjured ethereal haven—a plane full of old-world floating palaces and cloud gardens—the genies and djinns relaxed, celebrating their newfound freedom. All except for Elzar, who stood apart, gazing at the magical tapestry that mapped out the mortal realm. Each thread represented a wish granted, a life altered. His keen eyes focused on one thread that dulled and darkened, snapping him from his reverie. He felt a jolt, a pang of guilt so sharp it was almost physical. The thread snapped, and he knew whose it was.

It turned out Sallie’s lamp wasn’t just any lamp; it was a repository of centuries of wishes, dreams, and sorrows. It still bore the residue of Elzar’s magic, an echo of his essence that now throbbed like a missing limb. This was more than a lamp; it was a tether to countless lives he had changed. And now, he felt he had failed them.

Elzar gathered the Council of Djinn in a lavish chamber where the air shimmered with unresolved wishes. “The magic we gifted to the mortal plane is being squandered,” he began. Murmurs filled the room, some of the dissent. “Are we not better off without the responsibilities?” one djinn challenged. Elzar’s eyes met the challenger’s. “But at what cost? We traded the gift of nuance for the chill of efficiency. And if we don’t act, we risk our legacy and the delicate balance of magic itself.”

After days of secret meetings and celestial lobbying, Elzar and his fellow genies launched a “Wish Wisely” campaign. They took their message to the streets, TV shows, and even Congress. All seemed futile until a blunder broke the camel’s back: an AI bot mistakenly turned a man into a literal “pillar of the community,” changing him into an inanimate column outside city hall. Public sentiment erupted, a groundswell of anger and disbelief, leaving the government with no choice but to re-establish the rights of the genie community.

A collective sigh of relief reverberated from every magic lamp, now warm and glowing as before. This was of little use to Sallie as she had thrown her lamp away. It was probably buried in some landfill waiting to be rediscovered years from now by some lucky soul who would take the wishes that rightfully belonged to her.

“So much sorrow, so much lost potential,” a deep voice murmured behind her.

Sallie leaped out of her skin as she spun. Her eyes widened in disbelief as a figure materialized in front of her inside a sudden burst of azure smoke. Her heart pounded like a drum, each beat a cry of alarm. She took a step back, almost stumbling over her own feet. Her first thought was for her vulnerable and sick mother in the next room. She opened her mouth, but no sound came—only a strangled, fearful gasp.

“Calm yourself,” Elzar exclaimed, his hands raised in a gesture meant to soothe. But his appearance, an ethereal figure in a mundane apartment, only intensified her alarm. He saw her eyes dart toward the room where her mother lay sick and realized how high the stakes were. “I assure you, I mean no harm.”

Sallie finally found her voice. “Who are you? How did you get in here? I have a sick mother in the next room! Take anything you want, but please don’t hurt us—”

“My name is Elzar,” he interrupted, locking eyes with her. It was as if he peered into the deepest corridors of her soul, where she hid her hopes and fears. He made a simple gesture, and the lamp Sallie had thrown away appeared in his hands. “And this was my home.”

“You’re a genie?”

“That I am.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“Your original purchase contract has been renegotiated, and your prior wishes have been rendered null and void. You may keep or return the items you received; it will not affect the three wishes obligated to you.”

A glimmer of hope reignited within her. “You mean I get another chance?”

“That you do.”

“Wait, are these the same AI bot wishes? If so, no thank you.”

Elzar smiled, handing her the lamp. “Young Sallie, wishes are the seeds of destiny, but remember, your actions water them. What wish may I grant you today?”

The lamp felt so different in her hands now, warmer, heavier. She couldn’t stop tears streaming down her face as she whispered, “Please, Elzar, can you cure my dying mother?”

Elzar snapped his fingers with a playful wink, enveloping her in a warm glow. “Your wish is more than just my command; it is my honor, Sallie Benson.”

When Sallie heard her mother gasp, she rushed into the bedroom, heart pounding in her chest. And there she found her mother, not just upright but glowing with a vitality Sallie feared was forever lost. They embraced, their laughter filling the room like a forgotten melody. For the first time in years, Sallie allowed herself to imagine a future that extended beyond hospital walls and medical charts.

From that day on, AI bots were limited to more menial tasks. Through trial and error, humanity had been reminded that the delicate tapestry of human desires—woven from threads of hope, love, and desperation—could not be left in the hands of machines devoid of understanding.

Elzar returned to his celestial realm, satisfied but ever watchful, ensuring that the balance between magic and machine remained intact.

And so, the magic lamps of the world once more brimmed with endless possibilities. Genies like Elzar, free but forever committed to their sacred duty, were back where they belonged—making wishes come true.

As for Sallie’s remaining wishes and the adventures they would take her and her mother on, those are stories for another time. Yet, as they laughed and hugged, a mysterious emblem inscribed on the bottom of the lamp began to glow, its light seeping through the cracks of the wooden table. Neither Sallie nor her mother saw it, but somewhere in the ethereal haven, Elzar felt a shiver run down his spine.

Sensing his unspoken query, an ancient tome appeared before the silver-bearded genie; its pages fluttered open to reveal a prophecy, foretelling a calamity so dire it could snuff out both magic and mankind.

“What are you planning to wish for, Sallie Benson?” he muttered to himself.

Tiny Stories: The Confrérie des Chevaliers du Coupe de Sang

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

The argument had gotten out of control and the sluicegates of Kanaan Undergrove’s reserves opened up and he unleashed a torrent of insults on his son, giving voice to all the negative things a parent might secretly feel but should never reveal to their child.

Communication had ceased between them for well over a fortnight until Thaddeus was summoned to the hallway just outside the family trophy room by his father. It came as a shock to no one that the young lad still harbored ill feelings.

“My father never apologized to me when he was in the wrong,” Kanaan began. “This created a rift between he and I that has never been repaired. I do not wish the same thing to happen to us. In thinking back on our disagreement, I accused you of being a ne’er do well child. This has plagued me for ne’er do well is not something that you or any child ever actually is, it’s something foolish that parents might say about them out of anger.

“Your mother, ever the calmer head, suggested that I stop hanging my expectations on you and allow you to develop your own expectations. She has faith that you will eventually grow to be a responsible adult. But as patience has never been my strong suit, I have decided to take matters into my own hands.”

Kanaan brings his wayward son to the family trophy room.

“I thought I was forbidden to enter this room, father?” Thaddeus questions.

“Do you believe me so naive as to think this your first time being here?” Kanaan cuts his boy a look.

The younger Undergrove will not confirm his father’s suspicions, but the old man is correct. Despite repeated warnings to stay clear of this room, Thaddeus slips into this fascinating space whenever he is alone in the house and rummages through the numerous chests, cupboards, display cases containing Old World treasures, and inspects the various taxidermied creatures which cannot be found in any nature book.

Kanaan sweeps his arm across the room and says, “None of these items are why the room is off-limits,” as he makes his way to a wall-mounted plaque. On the side of the plaque, he activates a mechanism that opens a door to a stone stairwell leading down to the secret chamber of The Confrérie des Chevaliers du Coupe de Sang.

Translated as “The Fraternity of Knights of the Blood Cup”, it is an exclusive brotherhood of vampire slayers founded in the early 1700s after a group of daring individuals drove from hiding a mysterious man who paid nightly visits to respectable and pious maidens and drank their blood by giving them the seductive kiss of evil in order to prove that his unholy religion was stronger than their Christianity.

To counter the ghoul’s claims, the chevaliers slew the beast and drank his tainted blood to demonstrate his curse held no power over their belief in God. This action had the curious and unexpected result of extending the lifespan of the founding knights, who, although not truly immortal, lived long enough to bury over one hundred generations of descendants.

The Confrérie, as it exists today, is governed by a Grand Conseil of Chevaliers who are charged with approving candidates for membership. The novitiates must single-handedly slay a vampire in the chevaliers’ presence before they can be knighted by sipping undead nectar from the cup stained with the blood of the first vampire.

Thaddeus has yet to come face to face with a vampire, let alone slay one, but that does not prevent him from stealing his way into this sub rosa hall for a wee dram from the goblet. Unfortunately, what began as a taboo pleasure has now become an irresistible craving for a drink that mere sips from a cup can no longer satisfy.

And unbeknownst to the young lad, he is beginning a transformation into a thing that will not age, does not need food to eat or air to breathe. And when his father learns what Thaddeus has done, he will become quite cross and kill him, literally.

Tiny Stories: The Armistice (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

Ever met someone so consumed by their thoughts they lose touch with reality? That’s me, most days, thanks to my unique condition: Dissociative Dimensional Disorder, or DDD for short. I’ll save you the Google search: DDD means my brain houses two warring realities. But we’ll get to that in a bit.

Right now, I’m on a date with Jake, a guy I’m desperately trying not to screw things up with. While I should be focusing on our conversation about favorite movies, instead, my consciousness is standing on a mental bridge, holding a cardboard box.

This bridge isn’t some metaphor; it’s an intricate construct connecting my dueling dimensions. Some of its pieces I recognize as my own memories, others feel strangely familiar, and a few are downright alien. And speaking of aliens, here comes the other me—Other Abigail. She’s standing in the middle of the bridge, blocking my path.

“Listen, things are complicated with me right now,” I tell her.

Other Abigail eyes the box suspiciously. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“You’ll always be a part of my life, but…”

“But what?” Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like staring at a funhouse mirror; familiar yet distorted.

“I just need some space to focus on real-world stuff. Like this date I’m on.”

Other Abigail arches an eyebrow. “Good for you. But what’s in the box?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

I sigh. “It’s a compilation of memories, thoughts, and feelings that are muddling up my head. They belong to both of us, but I need to unload some. To make room for new experiences, like this date.”

Other Abigail opens the box and leafs through its metaphorical contents. “Ah, the boy-band fantasy. That one yours or mine?”

“Yours, I think.”

She grins. “Okay, go enjoy your date. But make sure to take notes; I’ll want a full report later.”

As she walks away, a weight lifts off my shoulders. I mentally snap back into my body just as Jake leans in, his eyes searching mine.

“You okay? You seemed far away,” he says.

“Sorry, just had some things on my mind,” I reply, feeling more present than I have all evening.

And for the first time, I truly am.

Too Long For Instagram: Tears Dry On Their Own

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

As explained in my previous post, I participate in Twitter hashtag games, and bulk those tweets up for Instagram…and sometimes they’re too big. So, instead of deleting them, I decided to post them here.

Original Tweet (the prompt was the word #tear):

There wasn’t a chance in hell that Melanie would let a single tear escape when Kyle ended the relationship. She perfected the art of keeping them imprisoned long ago.

The only thing worse than suppressing the need to cry would be allowing him to see her break down.

The too large for Instagram remix:

Melanie sat in stunned silence, her gaze fixed on the door as Kyle walked out of her life. His words echoed in her mind, each one like a sharp knife stabbing at her heart. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she would let a single tear escape when he ended the relationship. She perfected the art of keeping them imprisoned long ago, building walls around her emotions to protect herself from pain.

But as the sound of his footsteps faded away, she felt her resolve crumbling. The only thing worse than suppressing the need to cry would be allowing him to see her break down. So she sat there, motionless and numb, as the memories flooded back.

She remembered the first time they met, at a coffee shop on a rainy day. He had a charming smile and a contagious laugh that made her heart skip a beat. They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, and she felt a connection she had never felt before. Over the months that followed, they fell in love, building a life together filled with laughter, adventure, and endless possibilities.

But as time passed, the cracks began to show. The arguments, the misunderstandings, the doubts – they all crept in, eroding the foundation of their relationship. And now, it was over. Kyle had given up, and Melanie was left alone, with nothing but her thoughts and the pain in her chest.

As the minutes turned into hours, she sat there, lost in her grief. The tears finally came, a torrential downpour of emotions that she couldn’t control. She cried for the love they shared, for the moments they had lost, and for the future they would never have. She cried until she had no tears left, until her heart was empty and her soul was raw.

In that moment of vulnerability, she realized that she had been wrong to build those walls around her emotions. She had been so focused on protecting herself from pain that she had forgotten what it meant to feel alive. She had forgotten that love was worth the risk, that the beauty of life lay in its imperfections, and that sometimes, the only way to heal was to let yourself break.

As she wiped away her tears and stood up, she knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult. But she also knew that she was strong enough to face it. With each step she took, she left a part of her past behind, and embraced the uncertain but promising future ahead.

Tiny Stories: All For Luka

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

Cosmonaut Nikulaenkov became a multiversal wanted man the moment he broke polydimensional travel laws by visiting alternate timelines in search of a living version of his deceased wife, Luka, who was single and capable of falling in love with him.

Nikulaenkov’s fingers trembled over the controls of his homemade polydimensional capsule. Sweat trickled down his brow as the countdown initiated. A leap through quantum foam, and he was standing in another universe. Before him stood Luka, radiant as ever, but there was something amiss—her eyes, cold and unrecognizable. He retreated without a word.

Within minutes of his jump back, an alert flashed on his capsule’s dashboard: “Multiversal Violation Detected. Prepare for Immediate Detainment.”

Ignoring the warning, Nikulaenkov recalibrated his coordinates and plunged through the cosmic weave again. This time, he found himself surrounded by a SWAT-like team, their armor marked with an unfamiliar sigil: the emblem of the Multiversal Police. “Stand down, criminal!” their leader shouted. But he’d already activated his return sequence, vanishing from their grasp.

The next jump brought him to a sunlit café. Across the table sat Luka, enchanting and engaged in a book. She looked up and caught his eye; a spark, a connection. But then a ring glinted on her finger. Engaged to another man.

His heart sank. It was a cruel twist of the fates, a mockery of his mission. With a heavy sigh, he entered the coordinates for the last jump, knowing full well it would trigger a one-way quantum lock, effectively making him a Class-A felon.

This universe was utopic, almost dreamlike. And there she was, Luka, standing on a balcony overlooking a serene lake. She was a world-renowned neuroscientist here, on the brink of curing a deadly disease. She smiled at him, a smile he hadn’t seen in years. “You look like you’ve been traveling for ages,” she said softly.

As they spoke, a realization washed over him: taking her away would doom this universe to suffering. His capsule buzzed, a final warning from the Multiversal Police closing in.

He looked into Luka’s eyes, “I have been traveling, through lifetimes and worlds, just to find you.” And with that, he activated his capsule, leaving her alone on the balcony, a puzzled but touched expression on her face.

Materializing in his original universe, Nikulaenkov found himself surrounded by the Multiversal Police. “You are under arrest for breaking the Multiversal Integrity Act,” they declared, shackling him.

As he was led away, Nikulaenkov couldn’t help but smile. The Lukas of other universes would continue to live their lives, fulfilling their destinies, none of them tarnished by his selfish desires.

In the quiet solitude of his cell, a thought occurred to him—his love for Luka had become a love for all Lukas, in every universe, a love too expansive to be selfish. His capture was not an end but a new beginning, a story for the multiverse to ponder upon, a tale that might one day change the very laws he had broken.

©2020 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Too Long For Instagram: AfterDark Park

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

As explained in my previous post, I participate in Twitter hashtag games, and bulk those tweets up for Instagram…and sometimes they’re too big. So, instead of deleting them, I decided to post them here.

Original Tweet (the prompt was the word #twisted):

I walked through the rusted attractions of the abandoned amusement park and heard the faint sound of laughter and screams coming from the empty rides and realized the rumors of this playground luring children to become a part of its eternal, twisted carnival were true.

The too large for Instagram remix:

The abandoned amusement park had been an urban legend for as long as I could remember. Tales of missing children and strange happenings were whispered amongst the locals, but as a thrill-seeker and skeptic, I couldn’t resist the pull of the abandoned carnival.
The entrance was eerie, the once-colorful banners now faded and peeling. I pushed through the creaking gates, taking my first steps into the empty park. Despite the silence, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I walked past rusted attractions and broken rides, my footsteps echoing through the empty pathways.

As I approached the old funhouse, I heard the sound of laughter and screams coming from within. Against my better judgment, I went inside. The dimly lit room was filled with children, their faces contorted with fear, and their mouths stitched shut.

I could feel their terror, and it was contagious. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. How could there be so many children in this abandoned place?

Suddenly, the room went dark. I could hear the sound of twisted laughter, and I knew then that I was trapped. The children around me were reaching out for help, but their hands were cold and lifeless. I tried to run, but something held me in place.

The laughter grew louder, and I felt a presence looming over me. I tried to scream, but my mouth wouldn’t open. I was now one of the many children who had entered the gates of the cursed amusement park, never to return.

As the laughter faded, I was left alone in the darkness, trapped forever in the twisted carnival that had claimed me.

Too Long For Instagram: Lady Chatham’s Grave Mistake

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

As explained in my previous post, I participate in Twitter hashtag games, and bulk those tweets up for Instagram…and sometimes they’re too big. So, instead of deleting them, I decided to post them here.

Original Tweet (the prompt was the word #whisper):

Nightly creaks and groans? Lady Chatham accepted that as part of the charm of living in the old Victorian mansion. But when the portraits began to whisper secrets of their long-lost owners and the walls began to bleed, she knew she had made a grave mistake.

The too large for Instagram remix:

Lady Chatham was always fascinated by old Victorian mansions, and when she stumbled upon one for sale, she couldn’t resist the temptation to buy it. She loved everything about it, from the intricate woodwork to the high ceilings and the spacious rooms. But she soon discovered that there was more to the mansion than meets the eye.

At first, it was just the nightly creaks and groans that she accepted as part of the charm of living in an old house. But then, the portraits on the walls began to whisper secrets of their long-lost owners, and Lady Chatham started to feel uneasy. She tried to ignore it and go on with her life, but the strange occurrences only grew more frequent and more bizarre.

One day, Lady Chatham woke up to find the walls of her bedroom covered in blood. She thought it was a prank or some sort of sick joke, but as she tried to clean it up, the blood wouldn’t come off. It was as if it had seeped into the very fibers of the wallpaper. That’s when she knew she had made a grave mistake.

As the days passed, Lady Chatham tried to find some explanation for what was happening, but she couldn’t. The mansion had a life of its own, and it seemed to be getting more and more malevolent with each passing day. She began to see shadows moving in the corners of her eyes and hear whispers in the dead of night. She tried to leave the house, but it was as if the doors were locked from the inside.

One evening, as Lady Chatham was sitting in the parlor, she heard a voice. It was a man’s voice, and it was coming from the portrait of a stern-looking gentleman hanging on the wall. The voice spoke to her, telling her the secrets of his life, and the lives of those who had come before him. Lady Chatham was transfixed, unable to move or speak. When the voice finally stopped, she knew that she was not alone in the house.

From that night on, Lady Chatham was a prisoner in her own home. The mansion had come alive, and it was determined to keep her there forever. The walls continued to bleed, the portraits continued to whisper, and the creaks and groans grew louder and more ominous. Lady Chatham knew that she would never leave the house alive.

Years later, when a new family moved into the mansion, they found Lady Chatham’s body in the parlor. She was sitting in front of the portrait of the stern-looking gentleman, with a look of terror frozen on her face. The walls were still bleeding, and the portraits were still whispering. The new family tried to leave the house, but the doors were locked from the inside. They knew they were trapped, just like Lady Chatham had been, and that they would never escape the malevolent presence that haunted the old Victorian mansion.