Ferrem and Aba

For a game jam, I joined a group who wanted to make a platformer about a little girl looking for ingredients in a vast magical bazaar, in service of the grandma who had adopted her. This was the story I wrote for that game (which unfortunately hasn't come to fruition as of this date), taking place in a series of cutscenes between the girl, Ferrem, and her elderly caretaker, Aba:

Ferrem: Aba! What’s wrong?

Aba: Ah, hello dear. It’s nothing serious, don’t worry! Just a few things I need to fetch from the market for dinner.

Ferrem: Oh, I can do that! Just tell me what you need, Aba.

Aba: Are you sure? You’ve never been to the market before, and it’s so easy to lose your way in there -

Ferrem: I’ll be fine, I can handle myself! I was alone before you took me in, remember?

Aba: Yes, you were. Alone, and confused, and so very lost… but hmm, something tells me you’ll do alright. Here, these are the ingredients I’m missing. You can find them in good Pandu’s general store, down the street to the right.

**show paper with ingredients written on it**

Ferrem: Pandu’s shop, got it - I’ll be back in a flash, Aba!

At dinner after the 1st day's shopping:

Ferrem: This soup is really tasty, Aba - it’s so smooth, and tingles my tongue!

Aba: Ho ho, the secret is the Simi dust, my pinha. It is so rare, but just a tiny little bit of it can give so much punch! Did you know that Simi dust is found from the bark of trees? It reminds me of cinnamon, in a way. Ah, cinnamon, such a lovely smell it has! When I was working on the farm, I would always walk past the cinnamon trees on the way to the mango grove, just for their tingly aroma...

Ferrem: Aba, did you know this whole market is inside a giant tree?

Aba: Is that so? How strange! I’ve been here for quite a while now, and never really noticed. You must have very good eyesight, to see it so quickly.

Ferrem: It’s… not hard to miss, Aba.

Aba: Oh, but these eyes of mine have seen so many things now, years and years of memories and stories. A few details are sure to slip past them, ha! Now drink up your soup before it gets cold.

At dinner after the 2nd day's shopping:

Aba: You were at old Nazca’s today, yes? She and I go way back, you know. It all began when she also worked at the farm, back when she was a hard worker and minded her own business. 

Ferrem: Is this the farm with the cinnamon trees? 

Aba: Yes, yes, that one! Ah, so much began during the years at that farm. But wait, hmm… no, that’s not right, my mother and her mother were friends before Nazca and I met, weren’t they? Ah yes, Nazca’s mother was the one who gave me my first set of earrings!  They were pretty and smooth, like the ones I wear now. 

Ferrem: I love your earrings too, Aba. Mine are just like them. 

Aba: Is that so? Ah yes, I see. You have good taste, my pinha. But that Nazca, she was the opposite. We could never like the same things at the same time. I remember the fuss she kicked up over Modal – my gods, the woman really had it in for him! But you know, she turned out to be right about him though...

Ferrem: Who’s Modal? Was he your husband? 

Aba: He nearly was, that rogue! But that is a story for another time, I think. Off to bed with you!

At dinner after the 3rd day's shopping - during which Ferrem fought a "boss" monster for some of the ingredients:

Ferrem: Ah! My tongue! 

Aba: Tsk tsk, didn’t I tell you to wait until the pelanquedas cooled down? Here, drink some milk. 

Ferrem: I couldn’t wait, Aba, I was really hungry! Today in the market was tough! 

Aba: Oh no, did you have to get the Simi dust from the big mean Yollocat? I keep telling Nazca, she should stay on top of her store, and not expect her customers to hunt down ingredients for her! Bah, that woman, she used to be so hard-working and persistent. How she could become so lazy I will never understand -

Ferrem: You had to fight the Yollocat too? 

Aba: Fight? At my age? Ha! But when I was younger and working on the farm, I used to fight off monkeys with a stick. And let me tell you, nobody could wield a broomstick handle like me, not even Nazca! Actually, maybe Pandu could, she used to do that fight training where they twirl sticks around - 

Ferrem: Wait, monkeys? 

Aba: Yes, monkeys! On the farm, we had many fruit groves, and they particularly liked the mangoes. I can’t blame them though, we grew such sweet, juicy mangoes in the grove. Animals do love to think with their stomachs, don’t they?

At dinner after the 4th day's shopping:

Aba: Was it Malaika at the fruit shop today? 

Ferrem: Yes, it was. Is she also a friend from the farm? 

Aba: Ha! She certainly would have been a great help on the farm. She’s so fit even now, and can climb absolutely anything. How I wish I could have had toned arms like hers, when I was in my prime! She was an absolute dear about her brother too, even after he and I went our separate ways - 

Ferrem: Her brother? 

Aba: Surely I’ve told you about him - it was Modal, of course! Modal and Malaika, both naturally gifted athletes. Some people get all the luck, don’t they? 

Ferrem: Oh yes, you said you’d tell me more about him, Aba. What was he like? 

Aba: Ah, Modal! Modal, that cheeky monkey. You would have liked him, I think, like I did at first. With a smile like his, and those he could charm the dress off of any woman, myself included - 

Ferrem: Agh, too much information, Aba! 

Aba: Hee hee! My pinha, someday you’ll be begging me for the details. It’s strange though, I don’t think I’ve seen him in the market yet, even though I’ve seen so many other old faces. Ah well, he might show up soon enough!

Ferren: What does he look like? 

Aba: Like a cheeky monkey, that’s what! No, I kid - he was like a wild stallion, with the most mischievously sparkling eyes I have ever seen. And such a dreamy look he had! Even though his nose was a bit crooked, that never stopped him from sweeping me into a pile of straw and - 

Ferren: Okay, horse-looking monkey guy with sparkly eyes. I’ll tell you if I see him, Aba!

At dinner after the 5th day's shopping:

Aba: Did you have a bad dream last night? 

Ferrem: Me? No, I don’t think so… I don’t remember, anyway. Did I say something? 

Aba: There was a name you repeated, what was it… “Perra”, yes. Of course it was! A friend of yours? 

Ferrem: Oh, Perra! Yes, she’s a friend from school, from before I came here. 

Aba: You know, I think I also had a friend named Perra, when I was a bit younger than you are now. We all know a Perra at some time, I think, it is such a strangely common name among our people, isn’t it? How silly! Our history is so rich in stories, there are so many words that mean so many profound and wonderful things. But some parents still say, “oh, we will name our daughter Perra, just like every other family in this neighborhood.” 

Ferrem: I remember Perra being very cheerful, but she never stopped talking. 

Aba: Perra means something like “abundance”, so no surprises there, ha! I wonder, would she have been as, mm, abundant, if she had another name? Ah, but such deep musings are impossible to have with so much food in the tummy, ho ho!

At dinner after the 6th day's shopping:

Aba: You’re yawning, pinha. Did you have bad dreams again? 

Ferrem: Yes… there was a boat, a very small boat. And I think Mama and Dada were there too? And the boat was swimming, like a fish. It was very confusing… I wish I could remember more. 

Aba: Someone once told me about the meaning of the things within dreams, what did they say about boats? Hmm, it doesn’t come to mind. Speaking of fish though, you would have met Tolmec today! Is she still very stoic? 

Ferrem: The lady at the meat store? Yes, but she was nice! 

Aba: Stoic people can be nice too, you know! But Tolmec, she’s had a hard life, growing up. Poor family, borderline abusive father, meddlesome relatives… her family troubles held her back, truly. But I’ve not once heard her complain about any of it, the poor girl - 

Ferrem: Aba, isn’t it strange how everyone here is someone you know from the past? 

Aba: Is it? It’s a small world, after all – and when you’re my age, and you’ve been around as much as I have, ho ho, you get to know a lot of people, for better or for worse!

Ferrem: I would like that. To have so many fond memories to look back on. 

Aba: I’m sure you will, my pinha, when you get to be my age.

At dinner after the 7th day's shopping:

Aba: Hmm, the soup’s not so good today. I added too much of the Fenxi herbs, didn’t I? Tricky things, those herbs. Have to be very careful with them, too careful even. 

Ferrem: The soup tastes fine to me, Aba. 

Aba: You don’t sound very convincing. Oh dear, I can see it in your face - you had another nightmare, didn’t you? What was it this time? 

Ferrem: I was on the boat again, Aba. But this time, it was really crowded, and I didn’t see Mama and Dada so clearly. And then there was this big storm full of thunder and lightning, and a huge monster made out of water picked me up from the boat and threw me into its mouth. And all these fish on the side were looking at me while I went deeper into the monster… it was so scary! 

Aba: Oh my, that does sound scary. But you’re here now, and you’re safe. It was just a bad dream. 

Ferrem: Yes, I know. But it felt so... 

Aba: Real? Dreams can be that way. Come to think of it, I went on a boat ride a long time ago with my family, when we had to escape from a crisis in our home country. Being out all alone among the waves, not knowing what lies ahead, what your future will hold – I’m glad you won’t have to go through that here, little pinha. Your future here will be free of terrible storms and water monsters!

At dinner after the 8th day's shopping:

Ferrem: Aba, before I go to sleep today, could you tell me a folk tale? Something from back home... 

Aba: But of course! Aren’t you a little too old for bedtime stories, though? 

Ferrem: I am! But… maybe it will help me sleep better at night. 

Aba: Say no more. Hmm, let me think, I’m sure I had just the thing for you… Ah, of course! The adventures of little Popo in the world of Markastra! 

Ferrem: Little Popo? Should I know who that is? 

Aba: Maybe, maybe not, but you of course know about Markastra! They’re quite interesting tales, actually. Little Popo is a mischievous little rascal, who falls down a hole while running away from the police. He finds himself in the magical world of Markastra, where spirits wander in peace, and a better future awaits those who couldn’t find it in the normal world. 

Ferrem: That actually sounds a little familiar… 

Aba: Ho ho! Maybe you remember the mysterious stranger who helps little Popo to explore Markastra? The one who turns out to be a much older Popo from an alternate future? 

Ferrem: Oh, never mind then. Wait, did you just spoil the story, Aba? 

Aba: Oops! But don’t you worry, it’s a lovely series of tales to listen to even so.

At dinner after the 9th day's shopping (and the final cutscene of the game):

Ferrem: Sigh, it was a long day in the market today. 

Aba: Ah, but then that means you will enjoy this hogaraaga even more. Food always settles better in a tired stomach. 

Ferrem: Aba, something has been bothering me for a while now. What’s your name? 

Aba: You mean this old aba never told you? Why it’s Ferrem, of course! Silly me, how could I have forgotten to tell you, the years are beginning to take a toll on me - 

Ferrem: …my name’s Ferrem too. 

Aba: Is that so? What a coincidence! 

Ferrem: … 

Aba: … 

Ferrem: Aba, could you tell me another story before I sleep tonight? But not about little Popo. Tell me about one of those good memories you have, of your own life. 

Aba: Of course, little pinha. I’ve lived so long, I can tell you as many stories as you could possibly want! Ah, it’s so nice to finally have an eager listener for them too.

Ferrem: Thank you, Aba.

Improvid 1: Space-Station Dyson-Sphere Punch

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

Shanamon, the current avatar of the god of destruction, was nearing the end of his yoga session when they came for him. With a grunt of disapproval, he unfolded himself from the Padmasana pose and greeted his visitors.

“Soryasu urgently seeks our help.” Inatar, avatar of justice, valiantly tried not to be distracted by Shanamon’s glistening form.

“Is this about the Dyson Sphere?” Shanamon gestured to the living area with one hand while wiping himself with a towel with another. “They actually managed to complete the device?”

“Complete it, test it, and then satisfactorily run it.” Gunyong, avatar of knowledge, graciously accepted the glass of juice Shanamon offered him. “As you know, the function of this Dyson Sphere is to harness the entirety of the Sun’s radiant energy, and then re-purpose it to the needs of our followers. Soryasu would have attended to it herself when the construction of the thing began, but she didn’t think them capable of accomplishing their goal – until it was too late. As we speak, the Dyson Sphere is draining the vitality of Soryasu at an alarming rate, such that she cannot deal with it alone.”

Shanamon chuckled bitterly.

“You still call them followers? They stopped worshiping us millennia ago. And they stopped caring for our creations and our teachings well before that.”

“Not all of them, though.” Ora, avatar of war, gleefully munched on her piece of fruit cake. “It may be tempting to think of them as one body of beings, but they are still very divided in their opinions and attitudes. Including towards this Dyson Sphere.”

“Regardless, our plan is to bring down the device,” declared Inatar. “So as to earn their respect rather than their ire, we should do it in a single, swift strike. Gunyong has identified a space station on the device’s perimeter that is a structural weak point. If we bring this down, the Dyson Sphere will collapse into the Sun soon after.”

“The space station is heavily fortified though,” said Ora, “It will take a small group of us to break though all their automated defenses.”

“And so you came to me.” Shanamon smiled grimly. “If a fellow deity is in need, who am I to refuse their call for help? You can count me in, friends. Let’s do Gods’ work!”

*

Due to its proximity to the Sun, only robots and sufficiently augmented cyborgs were able to occupy the security posts around the Dyson Sphere. And since the terrestrials still didn’t completely trust AI to handle things on their own, a lone cyborg named Fh1L was currently stationed at the security post in sector MZ-20E, along with an AI companion who was currently reporting something odd...

“You’re sure it’s not one of the asteroids we’ve been tracking, Rozer2920?” asked Fh1L.

“Affirmative. Its velocity vector doesn’t match any known asteroids. Attempting to communicate with them now.”

If Fh1L was capable of sweating, they would have done so as Rozer2920 relayed the standard warning to intruders.

Fh1L was capable of sitting down and placing a hand on their agape jaw. They did this after hearing Inatar’s response:

“We are divine retribution. If you value whatever variant of life you have, move away from the Dyson Sphere. Now.”

*

The space station was surrounded by electromagnetic shields, laser turrets, mobile sentry-bots, and all manner of other defenses. A planet-scale army would have been decimated before they could even break through the first force field.

The four avatars embraced the challenge.

Ora swung her war-club Wahakka with no regard for safety as she whaled away at the force fields, drawing the attention of the more aggressive fortifications to her bulky form. Gunyong craftily darted around Ora, twirling his bladed staff Gundao and using the reflective sides of its blade to deflect the oncoming lasers back at their sources. Inatar stayed far from the thick of it, sniping sentry-bots with deadly accuracy from afar with her bow Maanna. And Shanamon?

He danced.

This was Shamanat, the dance of destruction. All objects that he touched with his staff Trishang were eventually destroyed. All projectiles that sought to harm him uselessly flew past as he deftly avoided them. Only a divine being could so gracefully wreak devastation as he was doing now.

“Showoff!” cackled Ora, the second force field breaking down from her assault.

“Would you like me to stop?” asked Shanamon, a mess of drones exploding behind him.

“NO!” blurted out Inatar before composing herself. “I mean, their first wave of reinforcements is almost here. We can’t stop yet.”

“The station should be exposed once we have dealt with them.” Gunyong readied Gundao for the next clash. “Would you like to do the honors, Shanamon?”

“Do you have to ask?”

*

“What the hell is going on there, Fh1L!”

“It’s... an Act of Gods,” finished Fh1L lamely.

“Bullshit! They must be aliens we should have discovered by now! Someone’s going to – wait, is that a nuke they’re firing at the station?”

“I don’t think so, HQ. Nukes don’t have that many arms.”

*

Summoning all his cosmic strength into a single glowing fist, Shanamon chanted a rumbling mantra as he streaked towards the exposed space station:

“Your fate has arrived.
As your existence ends, another shall begin.
Behold my wrath in all its divine glory:
PASHUPAT PUNCH!”

With a single blow, the space station was vaporized. Waves of unfettered destruction smashed through the vicinity in all directions. A nova of light scorched through the star system. Moments later, the fractured Dyson Sphere succumbed to the Sun’s gravity and collapsed into its fiery bowels, moaning silently in anguish.

*

“Not very subtle, are you, Shanamon?” asked Soryasu as the four checked up on her.

“Subtlety isn’t good for commanding respect,” replied Shanamon. “Will you be alright?”

“In time, yes,” Soryasu gulped down the concoction Inatar gave her. “Thank you all for your aid. Serves me right for underestimating our followers.”

“And serves them right for underestimating us.”

Improvid 2: Wall Rhapsody Glass

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

Timo couldn’t help but smile; his shift was nearly ending. He stretched his lean muscles in anticipation. If he was allowed to, he would have lit up a cigarette.

“Yeah yeah, rub it in, why don’t you,” grumbled the stocky figure on his right, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, you’re supposed to be fully suited up while on duty.”

“Hey, I’ve got the important bits covered, haven’t I?” grinned Timo, tapping the Kevlar on his chest.

“More like you’ve got the important bits uncovered,” grunted his colleague. Timo chuckled.

“Since it’s you, Gogos, I’m going to allow your intense feelings of bitter jealousy to wash all over me like a nice bath.” Timo eyed the door that would announce the arrival of his shift replacement. “Now that I mention it, I could really use one after I’m out of here.”

“I’ll give the Wall one thing,” said Gogos. “It’s got enough courtesy to not show off every five minutes.”

“I get the impression that’s a good thing, yeah?” said Timo, “I mean, that’s what we’re here for in the first – ah, finally! I’m pretty sure you’re late, Chell.”

“Nope, I’m officially right on time,” said the newcomer as she smoothly readied her assault rifle, “These shifts are already messing with your temporal perception, eh?”

“That means sense of time, Timo,” added Gogos.

“Yeah, I know! Well, I’m off. Have fun, you two, and try not to break anything.”

“That’s a little rich coming from you,” said Chell with a smirk before greeting Gogos with a fist-bump.

“Forgive the lad, he only said it because it sounded ‘cool’ in his head,” said Gogos.

“Sounds about right,” chuckled Chell as Timo closed the door behind him on his way out.

*

Timo scanned the rec room until he found the particular shade of red he was looking for. After briefly checking that the muscle shirt he had on was just the right amount of tightness, he sauntered over to his target with a can of beer in each hand.

“Lager or stout?” he proclaimed. The red-headed woman looked up.

“Oh, hello, Timo. I’ll take the stout, thanks.”

“Sure thing, Val.” Timo planted himself in the seat nearest to her. “Not that it matters much. It’s all non-alcoholic anyway.”

“If I were you, I’d be thankful that they let us drink here in the first place,” remarked Val. “Besides, this stuff tastes decent for non-alcoholic beer, don’t you think?”

“Sure...” Timo took a long glance at his current companion. Val had a slender face that looked like it had glasses on even though she didn’t wear them. She was currently buried in something she was writing. Timo sighed; she didn’t even have to try hard to be his type. He wished it was the other way around as well.

“What’s that you’re writing?” he asked after drinking some lager.

“It’s a rhapsody,” said Val, not taking her eyes off the pages she was scribbling on.

“Oh, like that song? The funky one with all the choirs?”

“The funky one with – no, no, that’s the musical kind of rhapsody you’re thinking of. A rhapsody originally means an epic poem, or a portion of it, that’s designed to be recited. A bit like a saga or a ballad, if you know what those are.”

Timo didn’t want to say that more ‘80s rock music was currently playing in his head after hearing the word ‘ballad’.

“Huh, I don’t get it. Epics are usually really long, and poems are usually really short. So is an epic poem somewhere between the two?”

Val glanced up. Timo tried to look thoughtful.

“Epic poems aren’t really like typical poems though. They’re more like stories told in verses. Think of something like the Bible, but focused on a hero’s journey or something similar but on a massive scale.”

As she sipped on her stout, Timo remarked: “This all sounds like stuff you’d have to be really smart to get into.”

“You don’t have to be smart in order to read, Timo. You’ve got it the wrong way round,” said Val with a smile. “But yes, getting into this kind of writing takes some effort. And time. Luckily, we have plenty of that around here.”

“You got that right –” began Timo, but a blaring alarm cut him short.

“ALL UNITS, REPORT TO THE WALL IMMEDIATELY. WE ARE AT CODE GLASS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT...”

Timo and Val stared blankly at each other for a few precious seconds. Then they hurried to their lockers.

“Shit, doesn’t Code Glass mean that –”

“Yes, the permeability of the Wall has reduced to a level where visible light can penetrate it in either direction.”

“Right, so we can actually see the bastards. Great.”

*

“I’m pretty sure you’re late, Timo,” said Gogos as Timo joined him on the barricade overlooking the Wall.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, why don’t you,” retorted Timo. “Did I miss anything?”

“You’d know if you had.”

Timo looked at the usually featureless expanse of concrete and steel that was the Wall. It currently looked like a murky window into an ethereal nightmare. Using the sights of his assault rifle as a focal point, he tried to pick out some of the oily shapes slinking around on the other ‘side’. It wasn’t easy; they slithered and flickered from shadow to shadow with unnerving speed.

“Sometimes I wonder why you spend so much time making up monsters in those stories of yours, Val,” commented Chell, “You’d think we have enough to work with already.”

“It’s not the monsters that are the fantasy, Chell, it’s the heroes,” replied Val.

“Hey, what are we, chopped liver?” asked Timo, too anxious to be hurt.

“We won’t be, so long as the Wall holds,” muttered Gogos, “You remember the last Code Glass? They got close, but so long as they can’t create a fracture point, they won’t be able to –”

CRACK.

“Oh, shit.”

Improvid 3: Bathroom Hotel Emotion

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

“Oooh, this bottle is too cute! That smell though, ugh, its like a mix of turpentine and pineapple juice. And it isn’t even supposed to be pineapple shampoo! But argh, it’s just too adorable – okay, it’s coming with me.”

Enri the travel-blogger wouldn’t say she was obsessed with collecting travel toiletries. She wouldn’t say it was strange that an entire corner of her bedroom was dedicated to display shelves with used shampoo bottles and bars of soap, crumbling from disuse. And, well, could you blame her though? They were so creatively designed! And so portable and convenient. And cute! So cute!

When she had finished her inspection of the rest of the toiletries, Enri took a look at herself in the mirror above the sink, and decided to reflect. 

It had been a year since she finished her arts degree. It had been two years since she realized it wouldn’t come with much in the way of job prospects. It had been six months since she finally summoned the courage to quit her student job. And it had been five months since her friends convinced her to take up travel blogging. Apparently she had the personality for it. 

Maybe that was the problem. The more successful bloggers tended to have two. 

She shook her head, her frizzled brown hair idly waving about. She was doing okay for someone who had just started out, and she had refused the temptation to get a boost from peddling energy drinks too. She had standards. Besides, her brand of eclectic photography mixed with low-budget travelling couldn’t fit in corporate endorsements like that. 

Still, it would be nice to be more noticed... 

“Hmm, this spot has some good lighting. Let’s see, if I put the shampoo like this, then... ugh, I just can’t make this hand sanitizer look good, can I? But that shower gel, if I arrange it like this... there we go! Now, where’s my phone...?”

 
It was then that Enri realized that she’d left her phone charging near the bed. She had plugged it in, hmm, maybe five minutes ago? It should have regained enough charge for a couple of pictures. 

Humming a tune she’d been listening to on the way here, she reached for the bathroom’s door handle, and turned it. 

Nothing happened. 

She tried turning it a few more times. She then yanked the handle in a few directions thinking it might have been jammed. No luck. She tried banging on the door. 

It simply wouldn’t budge. 

*

“You idiot! Do the regulations mean nothing to you? You’re supposed to lock them in AFTER they start singing, not before!” 

“I’m telling you, I have a good feeling about this one! I heard her while she was unpacking in the bedroom, she’s got - ” 

“Do you have any idea what would happen to the hotel’s reputation if word got out about this? Just because YOU don’t care about your job doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t!” 

“You know, if you overreacted just a bit more, you could re-enact the Chernobyl meltdown.” 

“How DARE you - ” 

“Shhh! Listen, I think she’s going to start...” 

* 

One would think this hotel would have put emergency phones in their bathrooms. Especially with their particular breed of malfunctioning doors. Enri sighed, and then began to remove her clothes. Might as well get on with the shower she had intended to have in the first place. 

As she had hoped, her worries were rinsed off her slender shoulders by the generous torrent of hot water gushing out of the shower head. She fiddled with the knob until the temperature was just right, and then deeply sighed in relief. 

Something about the way the sound echoed off the walls gave her inner thoughts a little nudge. Acoustics in shower cubicles were generally great, but this one had a certain timbre to it... she decided to investigate further. 

The tune turned up in her head again. This time, she decided to give it a voice. 

“I want to break free...”

* 

“Queen, eh? She has good taste, I’ll give her that.” 

“Listen to that voice though. Can you feel it? She’s barely trying, and already there’s so much emotion in it!” 

“Nnnngh... look, this still doesn’t excuse you breaking protocol – ” 

“Management won’t care about that once they find out about her! Now stop fussing and start the accompaniment. We definitely have that song in the database.” 

“Fine. But you’re doing the reporting on this, because it’s your mess to clean up if they don’t like it!” 

* 

“It’s strange, but it’s true...”

She wasn’t imagining it, was she? There was definitely a backing track to her song playing somewhere inside the bathroom. 

No, maybe she was imagining it. She was just really swept up in the feels of the song, that was it, yeah. And the strangely intoxicating smell of the not-pineapple shampoo. And the wholesome gushing of the hot water. It was all elevating her to a different mental state. 

Fully into the rhythm of the music, she began to belt out the guitar solo. 

* 

“So, er, what do you think, sir?” 

“She is a suitable candidate. Well done.” 

“Ha! I knew she’ll be a good pick!” 

“Ugh, can you at least TRY to show decorum when your superiors are present!” 

“Stop this bickering at once, and begin the gassing procedure.” 

“Yes, sir!” 

* 

Like the fluffy towel she wrapped herself in, Enri was feeling warm and fuzzy. She really liked the drowsy yet tingling sensation she got after a hot water shower. Although, as she finished wrapping up her hair in another towel, she wondered if maybe she was feeling too drowsy. She got her answer when the room started to spiral into darkness before she could even touch the door handle.

She was still in a tidy heap on the floor when the door finally opened.

Improvid 4: Shopping Economics Drama

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

Josh was finally going to cave in to his desires today. He’d been saving up his allowance for months for this very moment. All the anxiety, all the longing, it would end today.

Possibly.

He collected as many lucky charms around him as he could find in his room. Then, with a trembling finger, he booted up Point Assault, and entered the in-game shop. The Platinum Crates within rotated ever so seductively.

He had done the math. The crates normally had a 1% drop chance for the featured items on them. Due to the ongoing rate-up event, this chance had been bumped up to... 3%. Yeah. Which meant that, if he bought around 40 of the crates, then he had more than a 100% chance of nabbing the Golden Kahlikat melee weapon, the rarest of this week’s featured items. The one skin he desperately needed.

He clicked through the various screens that popped up for a bulk purchase such as this, pausing not due to hesitation, but because he needed his heart to stop racing before he could continue. And then, he began to open them.

Each crate opened with a lavishly animated celebration. The first one was a dupe, or duplicate of a skin he already had. The second was new, but not the one he wanted. The other crates flashed by, filled with dupes or items he didn’t want. He could always sell them in the in-game market, he supposed.

The final crate burst open, his heart nearly joining it. It revealed… a Silver Kahlikat. He slumped in his chair in defeat.

He had done the math. Unfortunately, he hadn’t done all the math.

*

During visits to less reputable websites, Josh’s machine had contracted a very unique malware. Code-named “Gr33d1nat0r”, it was targeted towards games and other apps that contained purchasable items with randomized contents, or ‘loot boxes’. It hadn’t been successful at actually getting into the network of said games, because that required a kind of brute force: a large number of infected machines making in-game purchases from the same game, at the same time.

It just so happened that Josh’s buying spree, in the midst of a popular in-game event, had given Gr33d1nat0r the opening it needed. As it silently spread its digital fingers through Point Assault’s databases, two changes of note took place.

The after-effects of these two changes would destroy the core of Point Assault’s economy.

*

“Huh? Hey, Dave, the number of premium purchases is spiking right now.”

“What? That can’t be right, I’m seeing a drop in the income generated from the shop at the moment.”

“Sending you a screenshot now.”

“Strange… that just doesn’t add up! Wait, let me check something… oh. Oh no. No no no no.”

“What is it?”

“The prices on the store… Brad, everything’s been given a discount.”

“How big of a discount?”

“A 100% discount.”

“Including the Platinum Crates?”

“Including the Platinum Crates.”

“Oh. Shit. The forums must be on fire over this! What happened?”

“I don’t know! Maybe it’s a glitch, maybe some hack managed to get into our system, who knows! We need to fix this or corporate is going to axe our asses!”

“Um, Dave, about those forums… hang on, I need to check something.”

“What is it now!”

“They’re claiming that the Golden Kahlikat Platinum Crates are dropping a Golden Kahlikat nearly every time they’re opened. It’s the same with the other featured-item Platinum Crates.”

“But that can’t… are you checking the drop percentages on the crates now?”

“Almost there... yeah, it’s as I feared. The percentage chances on all Epic item drops have been bumped up. To a 100%.”

“Sigh. We should warn corporate before they find out for themselves.”

*

It was a lengthy rant, and had in no way been spell-checked or proof-read, but Josh didn’t care. He had needed to get it out of his system. And it still hadn’t fully left. Those cursed rate-up lies! And after all the time he’d spent playing the damned game!

Now that he had posted it, Josh decided to take a look at the rest of Point Assault’s main community forum. And was a little taken aback by all the new posts on it. His rant was already buried halfway in the first page!

Something major must have happened. Eager to take his mind off his current disappointment, Josh began to pour over all the latest musings.

Wait, they did what?

Josh was furious. Not only was he ripped off on those damned Platinum Crates, but then they immediately made the things free? AND turned the Epic item drops into guaranteed drops?

This was the last straw. Nearly frothing with anger, Josh immediately booted up the game, and bought himself one of the discounted crates for the Golden Kahlikat. After opening it up and adding the suddenly worthless skin to his loadout, he saved his changes, quit the game, and then uninstalled it.

*

“Stan, I have good news and bad news.”

“Fine. Give me the bad news, Carl.”

“Um, actually, it makes more sense to hear the good news first. So, they managed to completely remove the malware from the system. Which means we’re able to fix all the changes it made without it resetting our work.”

“Great, now give me the bad news already.”

“We’ll have to manually input all the correct values for all the in-game items that were affected before we can push the update. Including the ones that weren’t featured in the current event. And, well, we have a lot of items to fix.”

“Which means that the damage will be done by the time we bring the numbers back to normal. Sigh.”

“So, what now, Stan?”

“…what’s the status on Point Assault 2?”

“It’s, well, the vertical slice is almost stable…”

“Great. Let’s start production on it then.”

Improvid 5: Joy Salad Disk

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

The Wooden Disk offered the best economically feasible salad buffet in the mall. Which was probably why Kahan found himself being stubbornly dragged there by his girlfriend Nikita. And he thought the clothes-shopping spree just before this had been bad enough.

“Hey, that savory pancake place we just passed had a lot of space…” he tried valiantly.

“Kahan ‘Engine’ Ingchupathripatidiwan, you are not going to worm your way out of this – not even with pancakes!”

Kahan couldn’t help smiling just a bit. Nikita was one of the few people outside his family who could get his full name right on the first try. He resumed his earlier look of despair when the facade of The Wooden Disk came into view.

*

The events that led up to this fateful moment began yesterday, when they’d ordered pizza for a movie night. Nikita had ordered some Italian-sounding thing with bay leaves and other healthy stuff on it. Kahan had ordered a bacon and pepperoni pizza with extra bacon.

“When was the last time you ate a salad, Engine?” Nikita had asked after trying to burn a hole through his pizza with her glare.

“Why would I? That stuff is for, like, rabbits.”

Nikita had gasped.

“You did NOT just say that! I eat salads all the time!”

“And that’s why you’re such a cute little bunny, Nikki – hey! What was that for?”

“That does it! Tomorrow, I am taking you to a salad place, and you will learn to appreciate it!”

*

“You know, I didn’t expect the plates to look like Frisbees.” Kahan twirled his one lazily in his hands. “I guess it makes sense though. I mean, if they used completely flat ones, all the salad would probably fall out.”

“My one has a cool design on the edge too,” chirped Nikita, who was clearly enjoying this a little too much. “Okay, let’s go serve ourselves. Come on, Engine!”

“Do we have to? I don’t mind sitting down for a bit longer…” said Kahan, now stirring his drink with his straw.

“Aren’t you hungry though? I figured you would be after all the walking we just did.”

“No, I’m fine.”

His stomach grumbled so loudly that the people at the nearest table were jolted out of their conversation.

“Er. That wasn’t me…”

“Kahan, don’t be such a baby about this. Look, I’m not going to oversee you like a nanny, alright? Just go serve yourself with whatever looks good at the buffet. The choice is amazing, seriously!”

“Do they have bacon at least?”

Nikita rolled her eyes.

“They probably have bacon bits, yeah.”

“Fine, let’s get this over with.”

*

A little while later…

“What is that!”

“You said serve myself with whatever looked good, so I did.”

“You don’t have a single fruit or vegetable on your disk!”

“Hey, I resent that! I have rice, don’t I?”

“Rice is not a vegetable!”

“It comes from a plant, it should be!”

“Also, that’s not rice.”

“What!”

“It’s bulgur, I think. It’s actually pretty healthy, so good choice there! Still not a vegetable though.”

Kahan groaned. Nikita sighed.

“I had a feeling this might happen, so I took the liberty of putting together something for you instead,” she said, while swapping their plates on the table. Kahan would have protested, but he also felt a little bad that she was going through this much trouble for him.

“You know, you didn’t have to – whoa, what is all that goo on the salad? It smells familiar…”

“It’s red curry dressing! I know you like the taste of red curry, so I went all out with it.”

“They had dressing? I didn’t even notice.”

“It’s right next to all the greens, dummy! Then again, you probably avoided that section like the plague… look, just take one bite, and if you don’t like it, I promise I’ll give you back your… ugh, I can’t even call this a salad with a straight face.”

Kahan decided to comply. Nikita was pretty familiar with his taste buds after all. Plus, the salad he was about to dig into was surprisingly not all that green.

He took a bite. It had mushrooms, baby corn, spinach, some greenish-yellow thing he didn’t recognize that was surprisingly starchy, and of course the red curry dressing… huh. It was… tasty. And Nikita hadn’t even put bacon bits in it! The insides of his mouth were properly tingling with joy. Was that really spinach he had just eaten?

“Soooo, what do you think?” asked Nikita, although something in her voice hinted that she already knew the answer.

“It’s… not bad.” Kahan didn’t want to admit defeat so easily.

“Engine, dear, I can see your eyes sparkling, you know,” chuckled Nikita. “Do you want the rest of it too?”

It may have been the hunger, and it may have been how thoughtfully put together the salad in front of him was. Either way, he dug in without hesitation. With a warm smile on her face, Nikita tucked in to the bulgur and bacon monstrosity that Kahan had put together. Which, to his credit, also tasted really good, though in a far meatier and guiltier manner.

Kahan had always been one to say things like “Engines run on oil, not leaves!” But now, as he polished off the remaining bits of salad on his disk, he was beginning to think that an alternative source of fuel might not be so bad every now and then.

Improvid 6: Covers Chemistry Growth

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

The chemistry lab probably should have been neater. But as long as Miranda was in charge of it, certain corners of the place would never see the light of day.

His fingertips danced merrily as he played the last few energetic notes on his saxophone. The instrument had once been a dull bronze color back in its youth, but several years in the vicinity of some eccentric chemicals from time to time had played havoc with its skin tone. It now had a motley of blue and green shades that matched the colorful and uncoordinated personality of its owner.

With a final burst, he blew out the last note in the cover he was playing, and let it ring out as the melody came to an end. Then, still a little breathless from the take, he gently set the sax aside and started to review the recording on his cassette deck.

A bald-headed colleague popped his head in.

“That one sounded familiar, Miranda! Isn’t it that famous Guns N’ Roses number?”

“They have a bunch of those, you know,” said Miranda with a wink, his headphones askance so that one ear was still listening to the recording. “But yeah, you got the band right, Solomon.”

“I wasn’t sure at first, since you have to twist everything into a jazz number when you play it.” Solomon walked in like he’d definitely been there several times before. “Don’t get me wrong, that takes talent though, re-imagining a song like that.”

“Plus, everything sounds better when it’s jazz,” agreed Miranda. “Don’t you play an instrument too, though? I remember you bringing it up a couple of times.”

“Ha! I ‘play’ water glasses, Miranda.” Solomon chuckled. “Can’t do rock song covers with those, I’m afraid. Or any kind of jazz, as far as I know. Hmm, what’s that smell?”

Miranda’s heart jumped in panic.

“Shit, the Theta molecule!”

He rummaged around on his desk for what turned out to be a digital timer. He then sat back in his chair with some relief.

“There’s plenty of time left, whew!”

He started again when he saw Solomon’s questioning glance.

“Ah, right, it’s the research I’m currently running. You see that container on the shelf there?”

Solomon followed his finger to find a transparent cylindrical container, almost like a beaker, with a slowly crystallizing bluish structure immersed in an acidic green solution.

“Is that Fowler’s reagent? Well, that would explain the smell! So I take it the growth inside the container is…”

“…the Theta molecule, yeah.” Miranda continued as he walked over to check up on the container. “The idea is that once it has undergone a sufficient level of nucleation through a reaction with Fowler’s reagent in the presence of air, we should be able to see some very interesting polymorphic substructures formed inside it. I have to be careful though, if I leave the container open for too long, then the molecule might undergo an entirely different reaction and turn into something else. And Dr. Herrenschmidt wouldn’t be happy about that!”

“Right, so that explains the - ”

Solomon was cut off by a loud announcement that reverberated through the rooms.

“WARNING. SECTOR W IS EXPERIENCING A CODE GLASS EVENT. FOR YOUR SAFETY, RETURN TO YOUR WORKSTATIONS AND CLOSE ALL ACCESS POINTS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

“Great, the Wall must be acting up again.” Solomon rolled his eyes. “I should get going. See you around, Miranda!”

Miranda waved him goodbye before locking down his workstation as instructed, the warning still ringing in his ears.

*

His fingertips were trembling as he packed up his saxophone, the red lights flashing ominously in the corridor outside his lab. That was the last of his belongings. Now he just had to wait for the go-ahead, in the shifting shadows of the lab.

Some of the creatures from the other side of the Wall had broken into their sector. The blaring warning had told all staff to prepare for evacuation once the immediate threat had been dealt with. Miranda wasn’t sure if the anxious waiting would kill him before the creatures did.

It didn’t help that his usual stress relief method, playing the sax, would probably make things worse right now –

CRASH!

The room was suddenly filled with a flickering torchlight as a woman in combat gear came to a rolling stop on the ground. Miranda yelped in alarm, drawing the soldier’s attention.

“Get behind cover! One of the bastards was just behind me! And don’t make a sound!”

Miranda nodded shakily as he scurried behind his desk.

He jammed his hands into his ears and slammed his eyes closed when he heard the unearthly screeching of the creature. It was quickly drowned out by a torrent of bombastic gunfire, with some backup ambiance provided by the screaming soldier. More glass shattered.

A too-brief silence, then another screech that made his hairs stand on end. More gunfire. More yelling. Miranda didn’t dare look.

Then –

“You can come out now. Do you know the way to exit C?”

Miranda managed to convince his legs to let him stand. He nodded.

“That path should be clear of hostiles. Go!”

He didn’t need to be told twice. But as he scrambled his way out in the unhelpful red light of the corridors, he couldn’t help thinking that he’d forgotten something…

*

Several hours later, in the stillness of the deserted lab, something crawled out of an uncovered container. No, not crawled. It didn’t have the limbs for it. Or did it?

It fell to the floor with a squelch. It wobbled, as though trying to sense where it was. Then it shuffled through the bullet casings and shards of glass that littered the ground towards the gaping opening in one of the room’s windows. It left a trail that was strangely clear of debris. It squelched even louder as it climbed up the side of the wall.

And then it was gone.

Improvid 7: Echoes Brick Money

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

“Okay, let’s take it from the top of the second verse. Remember, we need more oomph on the lines where you sing together, alright?”

Redd nodded gruffly. To his right, the new girl glanced at him nervously. This didn’t improve his withdrawn mood one bit: what did she have to be so nervous about anyway? She wasn’t the one screwing up the recording.

Through his headphones, the backing track kicked in. Dreamy keys plinked in time to the nearly absent tapping of the hi-hat. A mournful guitar riff drifted past his eardrums. The soothing wail of an electric organ added a rich depth to it all.

The music should have been lulling him into a zone of wallowing bliss. Why wasn’t it? The count for him to start singing kicked in.

Strangers passing in the street...

The new girl, what was her name? Emma? No, it was something fancier. Ennui. Something like that. He’d sung with her plenty of times, but she still felt like a stranger. A stranger who passed him in the corridor every day.

Help me understand the best I can...

He tried to put more heft into his words. But something was just out of reach. Why did he keep asking himself what it was, when he knew perfectly well where the problem really lay?

No one speaks, and no one tries tries tries...

It was happening again. He signaled for a stop, and tried to ignore the look of irritation on the sound guy’s face. But he couldn’t sing in time, no, scratch that, he couldn’t sing at all when the echoes began to bounce around in his head. He tried clutching his head in his spindly hands as the flashbacks started. It didn’t stop them.

“Redd, are you alright?” asked the girl worriedly. Was her name Etta? Elli? Vera? Why couldn’t he remember?

“I’ll be fine, just leave me alone,” he managed to say while fumbling with the door knob to the recording booth.

*

Days later, Enri found herself striding down a new corridor on the way back to her room. That was just one of the many weird features of this apartment: nearly every path eventually took her to her room. And she had the feeling that the same was true for all the other artists in here too. It should have violated some rule of sacred geometry, shouldn’t it?

She absently took a sip from her juice carton. It tasted more fermented than it should have been. She was alarmed at the dizzy feeling it gave her at first, but after a few seconds, she found it strangely... relieving. Hmm. She took another sip.

The carton was hissing with emptiness when she realized that she was outside Redd’s room. His door still had the nondescript brick pattern on it, with one of the faded grey bricks housing the name-plate “Mr. White” on it.

She hesitated for a bit, and then summoned the spirit to knock on the door. No response.

Enri bit her lip. She wished she knew what was going on with Redd; a small part of her was worried that the same thing might happen to her too.

She tried the door again. “Redd? It’s me, Enri.” Still nothing.

Then again, he had always been a brooding, introverted type. But the Redd she had met back when she was just starting out had shown her some of the ropes, and given her a space to be more herself in. That Redd had been more supportive of her progress, especially once they found out how well their voices went together. She wished he was here.

She looked at the brick pattern on his door. She wondered if it even was a door anymore at this point. She rubbed a finger along its textured surface. When had the bricks started piling up? Or had they always been there, and she’d only been just in time to see through the last few holes in the wall before they were closed up?

She tried the door one last time, tossed the juice carton into a nearby bin in frustration, and then walked away.

*

“Mr. White, you’re scheduled to have a rehearsal now. Remember that your performance at The Dark Side is this Monday! Mr. White?”

The secretary gave a worried glance to the two suits flanking her. She tried banging on the door a few more times.

“Mr. White, if you do not answer the door, then we will have to force it open! Mr. White!”

Distracted by the commotion, Enri took a detour from her trip to the studio. She arrived at Redd’s door just in time to see the two suits bash it open in a cloud of splinters and annoyance.

“Mrs. Diamond!” Enri gasped. “What’s going on?”

The secretary gave Enri a look as though she was rapidly judging how much the girl really needed to know. Then: “We’re about to find out.”

Enri gasped again when they all found Redd. He was passed out on the floor, his head at an odd angle, drool slowly crystallizing on his dry lips.

“Wha... how did he do this to himself?” she asked in shock.

One of the suits produced what looked like a child’s chemistry set.

“So, he found out about the juice. Or someone must have told him how...” muttered Mrs. Diamond to herself, before turning towards Enri. “Miss Callahan, please go to the studio and inform the others about this. Quickly now! We will attend to Mr. White.”

She waited until the girl had left the room before rummaging in her suitcase.

“I should have a talk with Dr. Floyd about this at some point, these incidences shouldn’t be allowed to occur so frequently. Not with all the money riding on the performances... ah, here we are!”

She turned towards the two suits.

“Prepare Mr. White for his... revitalizing, would you? His show must go on, after all.”

Improvid 8: Party Verve Melancholy

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

The tavern was dimly lit, and crowded but not bursting. A light whiff of stew and beer soaked the place in a homely atmosphere. It was perfect for Bevere.

He sat at a table further away from the little wooden stage, nursing his tankard of ale. It was a Grendwick Pale Ale; nowhere near the best, but well worth the cheap price. The candle at his table had been snuffed out, and he wanted it that way. It matched the darkness of his mood.

Out on the stage, the golden-haired bard was drawing a fair share of attention, and for a multitude of reasons. She was easy on the eyes, and easier on the ears: her shimmering laughter could make a man forget his worries far better than any pint of liquor could. And her soothing voice was a perfect complement to the cheery strumming of her lute.

With a generous amount of verve, she launched into her next song, and the patrons nearest to her clapped along:

I am struck down, but I arise,
If you think you can fell me,
You are sorely mistaken…

Bevere drank deeply from his ale. The melody was cheerful, dancing in the brisk evening air. And yet, the words sounded serious, like a challenge from a vengeful knight. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the mismatch as he leaned back in his chair.

And then it struck him – of course! Today was the Day of Rebirth. Had the bard chosen that song with this in mind, he wondered? It was an odd pairing, for the song had no relation whatsoever to the holiday. And yet, the themes of revival, of arising from a tragic situation… perhaps her head was not as far up in the clouds as he had been led to believe.

The bard finished her set, and Bevere took the opportunity to signal for another pint of ale. As he began to drink from it, he noticed that the candle on his table had been lit again. Had the server who brought his drink lit it up out of habit?

He licked his thumb, and was about to put out the flame again when he noticed that he had a visitor, of sorts. A golden-haired one.

“I hope you don’t mind, I wanted to get a look at the face of my most… melancholy patron tonight.” The bard’s voice was just as smooth when she spoke as when she sang.

“And have you gotten your look? Because I do mind,” said Bevere with some irritation. She glanced at him for a bit longer before nodding, and he snuffed out the flame.

“Your performance was enjoyable,” he added; Bevere did not want his desire for solitude to be mistaken for rudeness. “This tavern is fortunate to have you grace them with your performances.”

“Thank you, lone stranger,” replied the bard with a chuckle. “You may call me Gwenneth.”

“I am Bevere.”

“Most people celebrate the Day of Rebirth in these parts, Bevere.” Gwenneth’s features were radiant even in the darkness. “And I always seek to put smiles on the faces of my listeners. Your aura of sadness… my apologies, but it intrigues me. Is there a story behind it that you would share with me?”

Bevere stared at his drink for a bit. And then asked Gwenneth: “I hail from Taroban. Do you know of it?”

“Taroban? The island to the south? I have, yes. You have journeyed far – oh!”

Bevere would have smiled at Gwenneth’s gasp of recognition if he had been in better spirits.

“The Taroban Massacre! It happened on the Day of Rebirth, did it not?”

“It did,” replied Bevere sadly, “and to answer your next question, I am one of the survivors.”

For once, the chirpy bard looked a little downtrodden. After a brief silence of acknowledgement, she got up again.

“My next set begins soon. I shall dedicate the first ballad to Taroban.”

“Please, do not,” said Bevere a little too abruptly. He then recovered: “I truly appreciate the gesture, but I do not wish to draw attention to myself tonight.”

“I still intend to give voice to the horrors that befell your people. But, for your sake, I shall leave out the dedication itself,” suggested Gwenneth. But Bevere’s eyes were elsewhere. She followed their gaze.

A group of heavy-set men in robes were making their way roughly towards the front door. Gwenneth recognised the robes; the men were members of the Islorian Hunting Party, an off-shoot of the kingdom’s military forces who had a reputation for engaging in… violent activities. The kind that the kingdom worked very hard to hide from the public eye.

Gwenneth faintly recalled rumors that members of the Islorian Hunting Party were behind the Taroban Massacre. When she saw the flames burning in Bevere’s eyes though, she knew that the rumors were true.

As he stood up, she saw a familiar glint emerging from near his belt, before he drew his cloak in. And then she knew the reason that Bevere had come to this tavern in the first place.

She gently placed a hand on his arm as he made his way out.

“I know where you’re going now,” she said quickly, seeing that he was in a hurry, “and I understand why. I have just one request to ask of you.”

“For a bard, you have an odd notion of the direction of requests,” commented Bevere.

“Once you have found what you seek from your… quarry,” continued Gwenneth, “I would like you to return here, and tell me if it eased the pain.”

Bevere found a surprising amount of depth in the look she was giving him. Her smile was too faint to be genuine, and her eyes too swirling to be simply showing concern. He gently moved his arm away from her.

“If I am able to, I will,” he said, before making his way out into the shadows of the night.

Improvid 9: Sprain Movie Atmosphere

The Improvid series was part of an exercise I engaged in during some days of a Covid-19 lockdown. The idea was that, on a daily basis, I would improvise a short story of less than 1000 words based on three randomly generated prompts - these were reflected in the title of each of the stories. Here's what resulted from that burst of quarantine-induced creativity:

The darkness set in quickly. And with it came the fog.

Elena could see her panicky breaths frosting in front of her eyes, like little clouds of despair. She drew back the long hair around her right ear; it was a nervous tick of hers. Her normally pale face was exploring uncharted avenues of sheer whiteness. Her blue eyes darted erratically.

The house creaked. And given the atmosphere, it just had to creak ominously. She would have liked to see shadows; shadows meant that there was enough light somewhere for them to be cast. And if they moved too quickly, she would know where it was…

Another sound. Not quite footsteps, but something was approaching. Elena crouched inside the empty pantry cupboard, hoping that an opening would present itself. If she ran out of the house, she just might have a chance.

She left the cupboard door slightly open, hoping that even in the murky darkness, she might be able to see something. Anything.

Maybe her eyes were finally adjusting, but the darkness was starting to assume several slightly different shades of black. One of which eerily groaned as it shuffled through the kitchen.

Muffling a whimper that nearly escaped her lips, Elena retreated further into the already cramped cupboard. The shuffling outside continued for an agonizingly long time. When it finally faded away, she risked another look outside.

It looked like it was gone. Deciding it was worth the risk, Elena gently opened the door, and crawled towards the back door of the kitchen. The door knob had a bad habit of jamming though, and usually at the worst of moments. And this moment right now was certainly down there.

She tried it with a trembling hand. And, somehow, it opened without even a rattle.

She thought she heard something shift behind her, but the thought flew away into the foggy air as she herself sprinted out of the house. The woods were alive in a very wrong way, but she didn’t care for now. Nothing out there could be as terrible as the… thing inside the house.

Her heart was pounding a drumbeat on her ribs, her arms swung frantically by her side, and – her ankle chose a terrible time to entangle itself with a stray root.

“Arrrgh!”

Elena collapsed to the ground in a clumsy heap, cursing all the way down. And then…

“CUT!”

*

“How bad is it?” asked Robbie with some concern. Elena wasn’t entirely sure if the concern was for her well-being or for the film he was directing.

“It’s a bad sprain. Might be several hours before she can put weight on it again,” said Donovan the medic, who was spending an uncomfortably long time feeling around Elena’s leg.

“Aw, nuts. I was looking forward to filming the confrontation scene,” said Monty with a frown. Elena frowned with him; he was one of the few genuine people involved in the production, and she too had been looking forward to that scene.

“At least we got some good footage from the kitchen scene. That was some grade-A heavy breathing there, Elena. We won’t have to retake that scene again, I think,” said Robbie, who was apparently trying to raise the spirits of the little group huddled around Elena. She didn’t feel like telling him that it wasn’t working.

“Well, since I’m apparently done for tonight, can I head back to my trailer?” asked Elena politely, “I could really use a bath after hiding inside that stinky cupboard for so long.”

“It was only fifteen minutes at most, Elena,” said Monty with a smirk, “Here, let me help you get to the trailer.”

Elena nodded with a smile.

“I’ll go look at the footage with Mick, he’d better not have screwed up that take!” said Robbie, more to himself than to anyone in particular.

*

When she was finally alone again inside the trailer, Elena breathed a sigh of relief. And then immediately winced as a tinge of pain surged through her ankle. She sighed again; she hadn’t even been putting weight on it just then.


She carefully made her way to the trailer’s excuse for a bathroom. But, she thought to herself, at least it had one. She flashed back to the times when she was still an up-and-coming actress and had to share the trailers with others back then. And not always with only women either.

She passed by a window, and paused briefly to take a look outside. Filming on location was nice, but not when it was the norm, she thought. And a large part of this production had been filmed in and around the quaint little house in the woods they had found abandoned here. The woods themselves were a pleasant backdrop, although she currently couldn’t see too much of them in the night.

She wondered whether to bother fiddling with the hot water knob, then decided against it. She wanted that bath fast.

“Ah!”

The cold water stung for a moment. But then she let it run on her skin for a little longer, and the goose-bumps stopped prickling.

If it had been her bathroom back home, she would have put on some music. She tried humming to herself, but it didn’t quite have the same effect.

It was around this time that the lights in the trailer started flickering. Elena rolled her eyes; she was used to unreliable power supplies out in the wilderness, but did it have to happen while she was having a bath?

As though in response, the lights went out completely.

When she stopped humming, Elena was made painfully aware of how quiet everything suddenly was. She was nearly too afraid to call out. And when she finally did, nobody responded. The goosebumps returned, and she shivered.

The darkness set in quickly. And with it came the fog.

Improvid 10: Simplicity Luck Freedom

 “You should have kept your nose out of our business, Summer Rain. Don’t you know, curiosity killed the kitty?”

Summer flinched as flecks of spit were flung at her face.

“Didn’t you know, cats have nine lives?” she retorted, “Then again, with your level of intelligence, you probably can’t even count that far.”

The goon responded with a swift kick to her stomach. As Summer doubled over in pain, her sidekick Leroy cried out.

“Leave her alone, you walking slabs of mutton!”

Another of the goons there chuckled.

“Or you’ll do what? Hurt our feelings?”

Leroy struggled in vain against his bindings as the goons holding them prisoner all burst out laughing. Summer quickly recovered from the blow and propped herself up as comfortably as her own bindings allowed.

“You alright, Summer?” whispered Leroy.

“I will be when we finally find out who masterminded this whole damn case,” was Summer’s gruff reply. “We should be meeting them any moment now…”

Footsteps approached, made by shoes with far more class than all the goons in the vicinity combined. A familiar figure hovered in the darkness for a moment, before entering the dim light in the room.

“Good evening, Summer Rain. And lackey.”

Leroy gasped.

“Barron Cormack!”

*

“Wait, the big boss is Barron? The journalist guy?” asked Richie incredulously. “You didn’t make this up on the spot, did you?”

“No, no, it was always him,” assured Pedro, subconsciously adjusting the Game-master screen that hid his notes from the other two. “I have a monologue and everything ready.”

“I always love doing the monologues when I’m the GM,” said Viv with a smirk.

“Try not to judge mine too much then, yeah?” said Pedro nervously.

“We’ll see.”

*

“…so that’s why you kept giving us clues,” said Summer with disgust, “You needed someone outside the crime syndicates to take out your rivals, and we were the perfect tools for the job.”

“My plan is beautiful in its simplicity, no?” smiled Barron, “Thanks to you two wreaking havoc in this city’s underworld, I all but have a monopoly under my control now.”

“You won’t get away with this, you two-faced snake!” blurted out Leroy.

“How cliché of you.” Barron rolled his eyes. “See, this is why you’re the sidekick, Lenny.”

“Should we get rid of them now, boss?” asked one of the goons.

“Keep them in the cells,” barked Barron, “I have one last meeting before Operation Overlord is set in motion. After that, I want to be there in person when these two are… disposed of.”

“You’ll be seeing us a little bit earlier than that, Barron,” said Summer, as she and Leroy were roughly escorted out of the room, “and then we’ll see who gets disposed of!”

*

“The two of you are now locked inside a cell, with two guards standing outside,” said Pedro, “What do you do next?”

“I examine the room,” said Richie.

“Okay, roll for investigation.”

The two six-sided dice clinked as they hit the table.

“Ugh, 4. Fail.”

“You don’t see anything. The cell is basically empty.”

“So there’s not even a toilet?” asked Viv, “but the cell has bars, yeah?”

“Yes, and you can see the guards outside with guns,” said Pedro.

“I’m going to pretend to be sick, and lure one of the guards into the cell.”

“Um, okay, roll for deception.”

Clunk.

“Natural 12! Critical success.”

*

“Oy, meatheads, better get in here before she throws up!” yelled Leroy. “Or do you want the whole place to stink of vomit?”

The guards looked at each other before one of them approached the cell. The other one trained their gun on Leroy.

*

“The guard is about to examine you, Summer.”

“Right,” said Viv, her eyes gleaming, “When he’s within melee range, I stun him and disarm him.”

“Okay, you have to get at least a great success on this roll though.”

Clink.

“10! Whew, just made it.”

“You punch the guard in the jaw, and snatch his gun from him as he falls down. The other guard has noticed though, and he’s about to switch from Leroy to you.”

“I shoot him in the head.”

“Wait, really?” asked Richie, “I thought Summer’s all about non-lethal action.”

“Yeah, normally, but I want to finish this session soon,” chuckled Viv. “We can chalk it up to desperate times.”

“Okay, roll for accuracy. You need a great success again.”

“Another natural 12!”

“What, really? Where’s all this luck coming from!”

*

“So, what next, Summer?”

“Barron mentioned a meeting. He’s probably having it in that meeting room we found out about on the top floor of this building. We should get there before he begins Operation Overlord. You ready?”

“Always!”

*

“Okay, this feels like a good place to stop for now,” said Viv, as her helper gave her some juice to drink.

“Yup, it’s just the rush through the tower and then the final boss confrontation,” said Pedro, “We can finish that in the next session.”

“Let’s figure out the date in the group chat then,” said Richie.

As Pedro saw off his friends, he once again admired Viv’s gumption. She had been diagnosed with a rare degenerative bone disorder from an early age, which confined her to a wheelchair and required a helper for even basic actions like drinking a glass of water. But that hadn’t stopped her from enjoying life as best she could, watching concerts and soaking herself in pop-culture pursuits like any other passionate geek. And Pedro could always rely on her for a philosophical chat about the latest trending game or comic-book franchise. Friends like her were hard to come by, for an introverted geek like himself.

*

Some months later, Pedro was standing in front of her gravestone; the disorder had taken its ultimate toll. He looked up when he heard footsteps approaching.

“Hey, Pedro.”

“Hey, Richie.”

They both lingered by the grave, tributes fluttering in the gentle breeze.

“I was just thinking, we never finished that last Summer Rain campaign. I wonder what Viv would think,” said Pedro.

“I think she was happy just to play it at all,” suggested Richie. “Viv was always more of a journey person than a destination one. Any chance to be the person her body wouldn’t let her be, even for a few fleeting hours every month.”

“True,” said Pedro wistfully, “I guess, in a way, she’s finally free to be the Summer Rain she always envisioned. Sad as it is for the rest of us stuck down here.”

“She had a good life while it lasted, I think. Family who cared about her. Friends she could geek out with. And we’ll always have those memories to cherish.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” agreed Pedro, before the two of them paid their respects and left.

*

Dedicated to Nis, GM of infinite worlds. I'll miss you, buddy - hope you're in a better place now.

Terminal

“It’s confirmed, I’m terminal,” announced Gaya, before leaning back in her seat with a sigh.

Veena and Marty glanced at each other knowingly. Gaya had always been the most… flamboyant one in their group.

“Are you sure though?” asked Veena after a pause, laying a gentle hand on Gaya’s in the process, “I mean, there was that one time back in…”

“No, this time feels different, I’m sure of it!” said Gaya, taking a chug from her cocktail and then burying her face in her hands, “My temperature has never risen this high before, and I’m starting to feel weird fluctuations all over my body. Not to mention, I feel drier than Luna’s sense of humor!”

“Oy, was that really called for?” asked Luna, pretending to look wounded as she munched on a cheese stick.

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” said Gaya, before letting out another heavy sigh, “It’s just, I’m so frustrated! I was so sure this wouldn’t happen, that they’d know better!”

“You can’t put too much faith in intelligent life, I’ve always said,” said Marty, sipping at his whiskey on the rocks, “Sure, they look like they know what they’re doing, some of them may even say they care for you, but they always just make use of you in the end and don’t return the favour. You remember what happened to Alfie? He had intelligent life too, and look at him now!”

“He’s such a shell of his former self, that’s true,” nodded Veena, “All vacant eyed and gloomy.”

“You two will make great therapists, you know,” snarked Gaya, “So encouraging and optimistic you are.”

“Oof, when did you start with the dry retorts?” asked Merc, nearly bouncing off his seat as always.

“One of these days, Merc, maybe you’ll pay attention to the conversation and find out the usual way,” said Luna.

“I was listening, honest!” said Merc with a frown, “Gaya’s got a terminal case of intelligent life, right?”

“Um, it’s not the intelligent life that’s killing her, it’s the global…” began Veena, but then she realized what she was saying and stopped to reflect on it.

“You know, they’re not all that smart either,” said Gaya in a huff, “I mean, some of them think I’m flat. Me, flat! I mean, have they seen these curves?”

She indicated the blue dress she had on (Merc thought it was white, but nobody was invested enough in his opinion to correct him). It was a stylish number, showing off with embellishment the kind of voluptuous figure that made a cola bottle look like a wooden stump. Marty was struggling to keep his eyes off her assets.

“You are anything but flat, babe,” agreed Veena with a smile, “I mean, wow, I don’t think even I could pull off that dress the way you do!”

“Aw, thanks Veena!” said Gaya, smiling after felt like forever. Veena was undoubtedly the hotter of the two, but thankfully she was currently nice enough to not rub it in her face. “Although, I thought it would be smaller when I first put it on. Does it look like it’s been stretched out?”

“It looks fine to me,” commented Marty, and stopped himself before he said anything inappropriate about where the stretching out was happening.

“Ugh!” Gaya’s face was once again in her hands, “Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t the dinosaurs have hung around for longer? They were so much nicer to me!”

“Yeah, I liked them too,” said Luna, “Especially the really big ones with the long necks. They made me feel relaxed just by looking at them!”

“Too bad they went extinct during that accident though,” said Veena, “Did the guy ever apologize, by the way?”

“Oh yeah, he did,” said Gaya, “He was actually really nice about it too, in a super awkward kind of way. I think he felt bad about all the damage he caused.”

“Yeah, it’s nice when they admit they’re in the wrong,” agreed Marty, “although it would be even nicer if they’d just stop speeding around the way they do…”

“Well…” began Luna, but then didn’t really know how to continue. Her close relationship with Gaya began because of one of those accidents.

“Does anyone want more drinks?” asked the strangely fresh-faced waitress who had popped up at their table.

“I’ll have another, yes,” said Gaya, “And tell the bartender not to skimp on the alcohol this time, yeah?”

“If you really need the kick that bad, just get something on the rocks like me,” said Marty.

“Don’t encourage her, Marty!” scolded Veena, before ordering another cocktail herself.

“I’m not sloshed enough to drink anything that tastes like a chemistry accident just yet,” said Gaya.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just insinuate that this absolutely divine TM-88 single-malt wasn’t crafted to its stellar perfection,” said Marty before haughtily taking another sip.

When everyone had been sufficiently restocked with their medicine of choice…

“You know, Tess from Parnitha was having some issues with intelligent life too,” began Veena. “In her case though, they began to leave and hang around her neighbours before she came down with anything severe.”

“Yeah, she was lucky that way,” said Gaya, nodding without realizing it, “But the lot I’m stuck with are only just figuring out how to leave. They’re too busy doing who knows what else.”

“I remember some of them managed to visit me,” said Luna, “They seemed nice! A bit messy, but nice.”

“Ha! Barely a dozen of the brightest ones visit you and you already think they’re messy,” snorted Gaya, “I’ve got billions of them on me, and they clean up about as well as a hurricane!”

“Speaking of hurricanes, how are your own efforts at ‘cleaning up’ their numbers?” asked Marty.

“Marty!” scolded Gaya, “You know how much I hate doing that! Don’t talk about it so casually!”

“What a con-conun-nnn-problem eh?” cut in Merc, “Can’t live with them, don’t want to off them either!”

“Are you already drunk, Merc?” asked Veena in a blend of shock and disgust that didn’t suit her, “You barely had anything!”

“Merc’s still a lightweight, Veena,” pointed out Luna, “What were you expecting?”

“Good point,” agreed Veena, “so Gaya, none of your intelligent life wants to leave?”

“Well, a few do,” admitted Gaya, “Some of them are looking very closely at Marty, for example.”

Marty nearly spat out his drink.

“What! Why me? Isn’t Veena easier to get to? Or Luna?”

“Oh please, Marty, no life can handle any of this,” she said with some sass, taking the opportunity to show off her sizzling supermodel looks.

“And I’m a little too undersized to handle that much life, I think,” said Luna, “I’m not all that bigger than Phoebe and Damian, you know.”

“Damn it, you have a point,” cursed Marty before taking a swig from his whiskey.

“Hey, at least the bunch who’ll turn up will be the nicer ones,” said Gaya, “You know how it is, it’s the intelligent life that sticks to one place, and thinks that’s all there is to it, that’s the worst.”

“Well, here’s hoping they wise up a little more before they completely screw you over, Gaya” said Veena before raising her glass for a toast with the others.

“Cheers to that!” said Gaya, her glass clinking much rougher than it should have.


*


“AAAAAAAAaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaa…”

“OooooooooOOOoooooohhhh…”

“Oh no, she’s singing that song of hers again,” cursed Veena.

“Hey, you’re slacking off again!” snapped Marty, “Come on, we’re almost home!”

Veena grunted as she adjusted her positioning on Gaya’s left side.

“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her this badly sloshed,” she commented.

“She’s got a lot to deal with,” said Luna, fishing for the keys as they neared the front door to their apartment, “It’s not easy living when you’re suddenly three degrees warmer than you should be.”

“I don’t get why she’s so angsty about it though,” continued Veena, “I’ve been dealing with high temperature like this all my life, and you don’t see me complain about it!”

“You’ve kind of answered yourself there, Veena,” pointed out Marty, “Being hot isn’t new to you. And it’s certainly not messing you up the way it’s doing with Gaya. It’s a difficult change to adjust to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Veena off-handedly, “I hope she gets over it soon though. I don’t like her like this.”

“None of us do,” said Luna as the door clicked open, “but you heard her. She’s terminal now. Things won’t be the way they used to be anymore.”

“I know!” snapped Veena a little harshly, and then corrected herself, “Ugh, I’m a lot more exhausted than I thought. Let’s just dump her on her couch and call it a night, okay?”

“Fine by me,” said Marty.

Gaya’s apartment had seen better days. The potted plants looked depressed, the fish in the tank were sluggish; the whole place had the air of someone who was losing faith in the concept of self-maintenance.

Veena and Marty placed Gaya gently on her couch, and she almost immediately began to snore. Veena hurried off – Merc was still passed out in the car. Marty pulled out a blanket from the closet, and was about to cover Gaya with it before he gave it a second thought. The blanked was chucked back into the closet.

The last thing Gaya needed was more warming.