Category: Short Fiction

Those Who Follow The Star-Prophet

(All characters of the graichic race are hermaphroditic, and do not have gender-specific pronouns; a singular they has been used in place.)


The waterfalls were deafening, even from so far away; like so many rains happening further below, all thunderous cacophony and deep bass rumbling. It filled Fa with such a peace that the last month’s hardships were slowly ebbed away, and they allowed themselves a few moments of dozing in the early summer sun, surrounded by their raichii who splashed happily in the waters. Fa was nearly asleep by the time they felt a nudging head poke into their abdomen.

“Where is Mo, Fa?” Came the little voice from beside them.

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Cuquimo Mergedyell, the Colourless Viper

This story is based off of a story from the game Dwarf Fortress, provided by the lovely Dusty Dorfs posts here and here. Dwarf Fortress is a game steeped in lore and legends, as well as nuanced and complex histories. I have taken some liberties with added names and personalities, but I drew much of the information here directly from those posts. From this we have a story of Cuquimo Mergedyell, the human general of a conflict against that wretched blight, the Goblin, and the kind of impact that has on a person later in their life…


The corpse-laden battlefield, heavy with the burden of war, stretched out below them like death’s own bloody harvest.

Cuquimo Lecbealá, she of the title “The Colourless Viper”, stood atop a short crest where the officers had made camp; from here, she could survey the battle’s results, and hear faint conversation from the soldiers under her command. There was the faint stench of blood and soiled bodies even upwind, and the guttering pitch of the torches did little to aid the smell.

The voices below occasionally rang out in boisterous laughter or raucous songs, accompanied by the rhythmic clanking of tankards and armor and the stomping of many a boot. A sort of chaotic symphony, attesting that their victory was one to be celebrated, lauded in song and dance for days to come.

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Menhir – Rieva’s Story

Her home was empty, both of noise and of another home within it, as a song without a melody. Her bones felt the chill of autumn’s touch all too keenly from the open windows, but she could not bring herself to close them. Something in her said that it was right; his spirit could not find her if the house was shut up like a tomb, could not bade her fond farewell or show her to their mutual love. Saden had been missing for nearly three days since the passing, and she would not hold the wake without him. Not only for his sake and company, but for Syf’s spirit to know they were both there at the last.

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Wait.

Deep green fluid, transparent and illuminated from all sides by miniature bulbs, gurgled quietly as it circled in the pool. As it poured over over a head the size of a small house, steam jetted along the length of it, hissing in the slight viscosity coating it. Multiple symmetrical grooves ran lengthwise along the almost-humanoid jaw, though the shape resembled that of a warship’s prow more than a human face. Circuitry pulsed with life in these channels, a veritable night’s sky of lights blinking in and out in a lazy pattern. The metal beast slumbered wearily, its languor clear as it idled within the restoring bath.

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Stormworld: Cottage

The cottage stood empty on the bluff, wind whistling through long-broken shutters as a fine mist descended from the thin clouds. Occasional god-rays shone through, which was as sunny as it got this time of year. The cottage on the hill was, like most structures, derelict – abandoned years ago and nowhere near salvage or food to bother fixing up. As such, it made for a fantastic bird perch, as well as hideaway for one individual.

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Menhir – Saden’s Story

The menhir stood solitary atop the hill, bare in the harsh autumn wind. What little lichen grew on it had begun to die off months ago as autumn approached, and several web-like cracks splintered along the base where water and plants had worn away the stone. Small pots of earthenware lay empty or overturned in front of the massive rock, their contents long since dried up and blown away. A small carved rock figurine nestled against the base of the rock, a thin crimson ribbon – a wedding band – tied around the neck.

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Stormworld: Ohrain

This is the third in a series of short stories set in a shared universe: Earth has been pummeled by heavy storms for twenty years, and the governments left over have adapted by genetically manipulating (and in some cases, Inventing) creatures to help them survive the onslaught of rain and wind. After two decades, the storms have diminished, but the changes are too significant to return to the status quo so easily…


Soft summer droplets plinked off of cars and roofs as the figure stalked along the road, silent and nigh invisible in the dim twilight rain. Its tongue flitted out of its lips like a lizard’s, sniffing at the air while the large frame that bore it lumbered elegantly through the brush on the side of the road. IT had been tracking something, or someone, but it had forgotten who or what. It had been tracking them for a long time, was all it knew. (more…)

Pilot-Ship

Normally silenced by so much noise and fury of roaring fusion engines and myriad humming system, the hull was beginning to groan loudly, as though it were unhappy with current circumstances. The asteroid it gripped onto was one of millions in this belt, and though its rotation was slower than its neighbours, the force still put considerable strain on the Ship’s claws which clung to it.

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Stormworld: Hardtop

This is the first in a series of short stories set in a shared universe: Earth has been pummeled by heavy storms for twenty years, and the governments left over have adapted by genetically manipulating (and in some cases, Inventing) creatures to help them survive the onslaught of rain and wind. After two decades, the storms have diminished, but the changes are too significant to return to the status quo so easily…

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Archway Books

It all started one quiet evening after a busy day. Roy, a man in his mid-thirties, bid farewell to the last customer and fumbled at the lock, weary after so much work. As he casually flicked the sign around, displaying to all the world his shop was closed, there came a resounding knock that nearly skinned him on the spot.

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