It was a minute past midnight and the moon outside the castle was deliciously bright and round. I stood admiring it at the window, the fire crackling in the hearth behind me, shadows dancing along the flagstones. Though none were cast at my own feet.
Beyond the castle, the black cliffs crumbled away into a deep ravine, where dark trees bundled together like matchsticks, and a gushing river swelled between the rocks like a silverbacked serpent. The wind whistled through the broken casement of the window, chilling the air and threatening to extinguish the fire.
There was a whisper of movement on my left and one of the sisters appeared beside me, bowing her head. Her dress was a deep red, the same colour as her eyes.
“It’s a pleasant night,” I mused, raising the collar of my black coat against the chill as the moonlight dusted the windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders as she raised her head.
“Yes Master,” she said in a subdued tone. “However, I fear I shall ruin it with my tidings.”
I turned to her fully, examining the grave expression on her face. Her lips were pinched. “Why is that? What tidings do you bring?”
Her red eyes glowed in the firelight. A long shadow was drawn across her features. “A peasant house is in the midst of construction beside the castle.”
I stared at her for a moment. The fire crackled sharply. “A… peasant house?” I finally repeated, scoffing at her words. Surely she was mistaken. The area around my castle was a perfectly barren wasteland; the peasants in the settlements knew better than to encroach on my land without permission, never mind erect a building on my grounds. “What is this trickery?”
“No trickery, Master. Come see for yourself.”
The vampire sister turned and strode towards the opposite side of the tower, her long red gown trailing behind her like a pair of folded wings. Curious, I followed her, our footsteps silent on the stone floor. I assumed I had misunderstood her, for nobody would be foolish enough to even approach my castle. Unless they were naive or ignorant of my nature.
But as we paused by the window, and she lifted a hand to point outside, I stood aghast at what I saw. A short distance away from the front gates of my castle, visible through the fog, there was indeed a house being built. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, I saw piles of stone and wood, the loose structure of rafters and foundations already laid. What sort of fool would dare build a house so close to my castle? Who would dare to become my neighbour without first consulting the master of this tower?
I was furious and intrigued at the same time. Only the dumbest, and perhaps bravest, of men would do such a thing. And I found myself feeling very much inclined to meet him.
“The house seems deserted now,” the vampire sister observed, resting her hand against her cheek. “Perhaps they have given up?”
“Or perhaps they only build during the day, knowing the weakness the sunlight inflicts upon us creatures of the night,” I said with a harrumph.
“You are wise, Master,” she said. “Shall I take my sisters over there and tear it down? It is a stain upon your grand castle.”
I pondered her offer. “No. I should like to meet the fool first,” I decided, extending my fangs below my lips. “Perhaps he would see fit to grace my castle with his… delicious presence.”
The sister covered her mouth with a low chuckle. “I understand, Master. You would see it fit to make a meal of him?”
I nodded. “Leave the peasant house for now,” I told her, turning away from the window with a flourish of my coat. “I wish to see how far he dares to go.”
The following night, as I rose from my coffin at the heart of midnight, my first thought was of the house being built by the castle. Had more progress been made, or had the owner seen the measure of his own foolishness and deserted? It would be a shame if he had fled before a meal could be made of him.
It had been a while since I had anything to amuse me on these long nights, just as long as it had been since fresh blood had passed these lips. The peasants in the surrounding settlements had grown wise to my nature and seen fit to ward their houses, stringing garlic and crosses upon the threshold. I was only able to feed when an unwitting traveller passed by, or a fool decided to build a house directly beside my castle.
The tower was quiet as I made my way to the top, winding through the warren of rooms and climbing the narrow, crumbling stairways. The sisters were nowhere to be seen; perhaps frolicking outside in the moonlight as they so often did. I reached the highest point of the castle and strode to the window that overlooked the barren grounds. From this height, I could even glimpse the closest settlement in the far distance; a small cluster of thatched houses and burning torches that lit the foggy hills like burning eyes.
But my concern was much closer. Lowering my gaze to the land right outside the gates, I saw that the house had changed. There were more walls than yesterday, denser foundations, the first signs of carpentry. The fool really had continued building the house. Had he not been warned of the dark Count that occupied the castle? Had he not heard the rumours of the blood-feasting creatures that stalked these lands once the sun went down? Why else would he choose to dwell in my vicinity, if not for ignorance?
I shook my head, almost pitying the poor halfwit for what he had brought upon himself. But I should delight in showing him the truth soon enough; that he had elected himself a willing sacrifice for me and my hungry brides.
It was a shame that he vacated the house during the night, for I would have to wait longer to lay my eyes upon him. Would he not show himself before the house was finished?
“I see the building is progressing,” a voice whispered behind me. I’d been too lost in my thoughts to hear them approach. I turned, seeing two of the sisters behind me. They too were observing the house through the window. Their wild, windswept hair and bright eyes confirmed my suspicions that they had been dancing outside.
“Yes,” I muttered. “It would seem so.”
“What a blight upon the castle,” the other sister said, her fair skin glittering in the moonlight. “I hope the trouble is worth the meal.”
“It will be,” I said, casually flicking my hand towards the half-built dwelling, “if only the fool would hurry up and be done with it.”
The next night, more progress had been made on the building, but the owner had still not shown himself. I grew more agitated that I was allowing this to happen, but reminded myself that I would soon enough be able to quench my thirst.
So night after night, as the moon began to wane, the house’s shadow grew bigger, and my hunger grew stronger. The fool always fled before night fell, leaving the evidence of his daytime activities for me to observe. The dwelling had taken on the same shape of the peasant houses in the surrounding settlements; white stone and timber, with a long thatched roof. He had even tilled the soil into a small garden, erecting a wooden fence around the plot in front of the building. But compared to my grand castle, with its dark crumbling bricks, spiralling towers and winding, labyrinthine rooms, it was a blight. And I wanted it gone.
Finally, more than a week after the house was little more than a pile of stone and timber, one of the sisters woke me with news that the structure was finished.
I rose from my coffin, sluggish and weary from slumber, and fastened my coat about my neck. The sisters had already lit the fire, but the air was chilled.
I followed her to the window and set my gaze upon the house. A single candle sat in the windowsill, guttering in a draught. A lit candle. Did that mean the house was occupied? The fool had not fled this night.
“It’s time,” I announced, “to show this fool once and for all what happens when you anger the Count.” The other sisters joined us, and I turned towards them with a slow smile. “I hope you are hungry.”
The three sisters screeched in delight, grasping each other’s hands and dancing in circles, their gowns fluttering around their legs. The fire roared in the hearth.
But as I began to cross the room, one of the sisters stopped me with a gasp.
“Master, wait. There’s someone at the gate.” She was pointing out of the window. I peered down at the large wrought-iron gate that fronted the castle, my eyes narrowing. A figure stood by the fence, carrying a lantern. His face glowed in the flickering light, revealing a sharp, sloping nose and dark eyes.
“Who would be foolish enough to call upon me at this hour?” I snarled, my black coat twisting around me as I turned from the window.
“Perhaps your new neighbour,” one of the sisters answered, “has come to hasten our feast.”
“Perhaps,” I said, already striding towards the doorway.
The sisters swept after me, whispering amongst themselves. Flames guttered as we passed lit candles, stirring the dust at our feet and disturbing billowing cobwebs. There was a haste to our movements as we descended the tower. It had certainly been a while since we’d had prey wander into our arms like this.
Crossing the foyer, the long red carpet spilling out like blood, I threw open the doors and stepped out into the chilled night, the three sisters stepping in my wake. The moon was a pale sickle, its silvery glow dancing around my shadowless feet as the stranger at the gates called out to me.
“Hello there!”
Struck by his brazenness, I almost flew at him in anger, but restrained myself. Ignorant minds really were unfathomable. With a flick of my wrist, the gates began to creak open. The man remained at the threshold, holding his lantern aloft as he stared back at me. He was of medium build, with stocky shoulders and a mop of thick tousled hair. His clothes were poorly made, covered in dirt and patches. He had the audacity to smile at me as I glared in return.
“What business have you here at my castle?” I demanded, wanting to sate my curiosity before I sated my hunger.
The man cleared his throat, raising his lantern to the crude house sitting barely thirty metres behind him. So this was indeed the proprietor of the building; what a brave, albeit dimwitted, man he was to present himself before me like this. “I’ve just this morning finished constructing my house,” he said, not seeming to notice the displeasure on my face, “and a slight issue has come to my attention.”
“An… issue?” I repeated, my brows arching sharply.
“Yes. During the day, the leftmost tower of your castle casts a shadow over my garden,” the man said regretfully. “I hoped that you might be amicable enough to remove it. Or at the very least relocate the tower, so that it does no harm the roses I am trying to grow. All life needs sunlight, after all.”
I stared at him, completely aghast. Behind me, even the sisters had been stunned into silence. The audacity of this imbecile, to ask me to change my own castle for his benefit. The man was not right in the head, surely.
“How dare you–” I began to seethe, but the man interrupted me, lifting a finger as if hushing a child.
“I do understand it is a large undertaking I’m asking of you, but my gratitude would be immense,” he added.
“You think I care about your gratitude?” I sneered at him, clenching my fists beneath my coat. The gall of this man. Who did he think he was? “Do you know who I am?”
The man stared at me, the lanternlight dancing over his blank expression. “You are the owner of this castle, I had presumed?”
“Precisely. And what makes you think that I, as the Count of this castle, would do the bidding of a mere peasant?”
The man scowled at me, a shadow encroaching upon his face. “I shall ask you again, and I do hope you will be quite civil this time. Will you remove the tower from your castle so that my roses might see the light?”
“I don’t give a damn about your roses,” I snapped.
“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” the man said, his voice turning bristly. The shadows deepened around his eyes as he narrowed them. “I’m asking for a simple favour–”
I scoffed in his face, my rage burning beneath my skin. It took a lot to make a vampire’s blood burn hot. I almost couldn’t believe what he was saying. This fool considered the reconstruction of my ancient castle a mere favour? Asking me to tear down part of my fortress so that he might grow some roses.
I took a measured step towards him, lifting my shoulders to appear taller. My fangs were itching to taste his blood. For all the disrespect he had shown me, there was no escape. I would suck this man dry by the night’s end, leaving nothing but a fleshless husk.
“Once again, I implore you to consider my–”
I was no longer in the mood to listen to his insane ramblings. He had agitated me far too much to go back from this. I would show him, and anyone else who might learn of tonight, what happens to those who cross me.
Baring my fangs, I lunged forward, ready to sink my teeth into his neck.
In one swift motion, the man pulled his hand back into a fist and threw it towards me. Blinded partially by the lanternlight, I did not see the attack until his knuckles met my face.
Pain exploded through my jaw, and there was a terrible snap as my left fang bore the brunt of his punch, splitting completely in half. The hit landed with enough force to send me staggering backwards and, incredulous and in shock, I fell to the ground.
Dirt bit into my eyes as I landed face-down, my broken fang scraping against my lower lip. Sputtering, I raised my head, just as the man lifted his light and calmly made his way back to his house.
Behind me, the sisters watched him leave in a choked silence, before hastening to help me back to my feet.
To say I had been dealt a great humiliation was an understatement. How did a mortal man possess such strength? Enough to break one of my precious fangs and completely overpower me.
With a bruised face, and an even more bruised ego, I hobbled back into my castle, the three sisters trailing silently after me.
By the following night, the leftmost tower had been partially disassembled, leaving a gaping wound in the side of the castle. Wind gusted through like howling wraiths, immediately extinguishing any fire I tried to light, leaving a heavy chill in the air. The sisters, at least, seemed to delight in the pool of moonlight that was cast upon the open ground.
Workers had been swarming the castle all day, interrupting my sleep with their banging hammers and chiselling tools as they took the tower apart brick by brick, but I had little choice. The man had made his demands, proven his strength, and forced my hand. Now I had to destroy my own magnificent tower so that the fool might grow his roses. And I hadn’t been able to harvest even a drop of blood either.
This was a defeat, and a humiliation, that would take centuries to heal.
This is a alt acc. But im the co leader of a roblox yt channel and we are currently restarting it. Here's the guideline, and if your interested PM your discord user!
(UR NOT GETTING PAID👀. THIS IS JUST FOR FUN.)
MUST be 14+ (The members at 15-16 currently but adults are allowed as long as you aren't weird. We are mature here.)
MUST have a decent enough mic! (We can give you grace if you lag sometimes but cmon.)
Gender doesn't matter. Male/Female/Etc
You're mandated to make a character [Alter ego] for this channel. (Safety reason in a way.. So when you're offline, you can be just you)
Please have good communication skills.
That's all! Im active pretty much 24/7 so dont hesitate to reach out.
I am looking for a person who can collaborate with me to make a worthy project, which we can further furnish to make it a startup or something, if you wanna join in just dm me on reddit or discord (my username: sawab_e_darain) or my website (darainhyder.netlify.app) or my github(github.com/DarainHyder)
Let's see if I can word this better lol. This is not a job.
I'm a new screenwriter looking for other creators to form a creative collective.
Ideally I'd love to meet a few animators/artists, voice actors, musicians, composers, and other creative weirdos who enjoy building things together.
I currently have two completed projects, a third in progress, and several more in pre-development. These aren't assignments and they aren't obligations. They're simply starting points: stories that are ready for the next stage of development, whether that's concept art, animation tests, music, voice work, or short proof-of-concept clips.
I'm not looking to focus only on my projects. I want this to be collaborative. If one of my stories interests you, great. If you have your own idea, I'd be happy to help develop it. I love writing, worldbuilding, and helping shape stories.
Long-term, I'd love to build enough proof-of-concept material that we can eventually approach producers as a team and maybe grow into a studio. Before any of that, though, I'd rather build a group of friends who genuinely enjoy creating together.
Life is important. Family is important. Income is important. I'm not asking for anyone's undivided attention. I'm simply looking for people who enjoy making things and want to see what happens when a group of creative people combines their skills and ideas.
To get a full scope of my current dev slate, check my Stage32 profile here.
I'm creating a short 5-8 minute animated series, called Extra Human focused on an alien and a scientist. It's a rom-com and currently still in its beginning phases of anyone wants to join DM me and I'll send you a link to the discord server. Anyone is free to join as long as they'll have something to contribute to the development of the project. P.S. this project is entirely voluntary but anyone who joins will be credited for their work.
Cold was the night. The stars burning distantly twinkled through the crisp autumn chill like snowflakes catching the light on a breeze. Warm was my breath, huffing out in little clouds that caught on the breeze. Warm was my body, heaving and shovelling, my leather kirtle tossed aside while I worked. Hot burned the dung of my neighbours, my friends, my family, as I hurled it shovel by grimy shovel into the pit below me. It landed with a slosh each time, mixed with bones and debris, hay from animal pens, and whatever other waste we might turn to manure.
It's not a job just anyone can do and a job most would like to not, but men like me have little choice. Men who claim themselves better, who drink like me, who eat like me, who shit just the same as me, make the rules and fill their bellies while the rest of us suffer. But I don’t suppose I could do their job either.
The workings of the upper caste never bothered me, nor my neighbours. Not really much that could be done about it, see, shovelling gong back and forth in the dead of night. Barons, Dukes and Kings could come and go, but the gong still needed shovelling, and the night was still cold.
It was only a while past that a new man had found his way to the top. I say man, but I’d heard the stories that he was no such thing. Not woman, neither—an abomination from the depths of hell, a demon, some kind of blight or punishment sent to us; there had been all kinds of stories. I daren’t know which one to believe. Some of it was true, though.
In the distance on that otherwise normal night I heard crying in the out in the dark, a little light flickering through the bare hedgerows, gathering closer. Illuminations appeared in doorways, curious about the intrusion into their slumber as they approached the herald.
News always spread quickly. I’d no need to go find out—in time it would make its way to me, I figured. Nonetheless, the herald made his way past me. Said something about a new tax from the king—the evil king, we called him. It hadn’t been long and he’d already set about squeezing every penny he could from us in whatever wicked ways he saw fit.
His newest machination was one ‘going on foot tax,' as if we had any other means to carry ourselves. The wealthy had taken to riding their horses to and fro about their manors as to avoid it, but people like me? Regular, hard-working folks—we had no choice.
It might make you want to laugh; such a ridiculous tax for something so mundane. Folks ignored it at first, already busy with the taxes on their food and drink, and strangely enough there was no time limit on payments—but soon, the effects became unendurable.
Like so many others I’d taken my time, day in and day out shovelling my gong. Labouring away, slowly and surely without realising the effects it was having on my body. At first I’d chalked it up to age, to overusing my knees and my elbows, but I gradually grew stiffer with each passing day. The others in my neighbourhood had noticed it too, getting slower, achingly rigid with each step they took—some feared a new malady had stricken us, but after the first among us scrounged enough money to pay their toll their joints miraculously renewed as though nothing had happened in the first place. There was a giveaway in the smell of it all, the smell of magic. If someone reeked of it, you knew their time was up.
It took me longer than usual to make my money as I shuffled back and forth through the night about my stinking business, slowing with each step. There was a twisted irony in the fact that I had to work more to be able to pay this new toll, and yet the more I worked the more I’d owe. Finally, I managed to gather up enough to pay—and with a sadness, I deposited my earnings over at the castle.
With a stretch, I felt my wrists, my knees, my elbows, all popping and cracking as though something had broken deep inside them and once more I could move unimpeded by this treacherous magic. I let out a sigh of relief, granting myself a moment of reprieve before I sank back into my work.
Life went on as normal as it could for a while. The taxes continued, sucking us all dry of every shilling we could muster. People starved. Some died. As time went on, the streets of my city began to become littered with statues of people frozen in time, completely still, living figurines comprised of flesh and bone. People took the time to try and help them of course, and at first men would take them to their homes and lay them in their beds but no good would ever come of it. Eventually they just gave up, leaving them where they stood, and over time there wouldn’t be enough people to move them regardless.
Though I tried my best to keep up with my payments running around chasing the gong, with the people gone there simply wasn’t enough for me to make ends meet. I had to cheat, lie and steal dinner onto my plate and I wasn’t alone.
A sense of nervous paranoia descended upon the land like a miasma as people watched and waited for their friends and neighbours to stiffen and give up before robbing them blind. Homes sat empty, shops lay closed, and looters helped themselves to whatever they could. Beggars lined the streets by the castle, fearful to move from their spots and increase the amount they would have to pay but it was useless—nobody had anything left to give.
Eventually I got close to giving up too. I came to the castle to pay what I could—nowhere near enough to cover the whole sum expected of me, my body slowly but surely seizing up beneath me with every heaving step. A few of the other people that were left came of their own accord, weaving slowly in and out of the statues that lay strewn about the steps up to the castle bailey. Every tap of my feet up and up I grew stiffer, slower, but around me the birds still sang, the wind still rustled through the trees just as it always had.
One of the guards atop the stairs watched on with jaded indifference, his eyes cast low on me as he clutched his halberd. He’d seen this awful thing before, time and time again and grown accustomed to it, but I could have sworn I saw the gleam of sadness, of resignation in his eyes as I struggled and bawled for help that never came.
Everything fell still, silent. I was trapped now in this body, stuck entirely frozen on the spot among so many others that had found the same fate. It wasn’t long before I was robbed of what little I had with nothing I could do to prevent it. They rifled through my pockets, robbed me of my jacket and my hat, even slipped off my shoes. The guards atop the stairs didn’t even seem to care. It would mean moving—chasing somebody down when they had to count their steps as well. Not worth the pittance I kept in my pockets, not worth the trouble when I couldn’t fight back, and a simple gong farmer isn’t worth fighting for.
Cold were the nights. Those twinkling stars lay frozen in the sky above the castle walls just as I lay frozen about its steps with my neighbours. Warm was my mind, trapped within my flesh, but searing hot burned my rage.
I kept count at first, passing each sunrise until I counted the seasons instead. Counting seasons turned to counting years, but I even gave up on that. How I wish death had taken me instead.
The Siege (1984)
As told by a former paperboy
The apples in my garden started talking to me today. Could’ve sworn I was going mad. Smelled like no apple tree ought to, as well. Smelled like o-zone, like one of those Xerox photocopiers blasting out too many pages. It was kind of like gasoline – you shouldn’t want to sniff it, but there’s just something about it that makes you want to not stop.
Thought it might’ve been something coming out of the soil, making me hear things, making me see things. Nope. It was the apples.
Hazy at first, but as the smell grew stronger I could definitely see their faces. Gnarled, angry, like they had a lifelong grudge. Once the initial shock that I was talking to a literal apple tree wore off, I managed to ask how they were talking to me. It seemed not all was right with the world, not all was as I’d expected it to be. There was a rift between now and then, here and there, and certain places overlapped. The universe had deemed fit that it just so happened to be my apple tree that was one of those places.
And it also just so happened that they had a knack for history—they wouldn’t stop jabbering on about an evil king, a ‘time-splitted ruler’ as they called him. A king in yellow glasses, a man who seldom left his castle. With everything they told me, it sounded like the man who lived next door.
He was a strange fellow—I'd seen him a few times out my back window over the thick stone fence he’d constructed. Always at his BBQ, cooking God knows what. He’d spotted me one time. I won’t forget the stare he gave me, peering up into my bedroom window as I opened the curtains. He had thick eyebrows above the rims of his yellow spectacles and pale grey eyes that cut deep into my soul. A thick set of lips sat straight in a scowl as he leered up at me, clutching his BBQ skewer in one hand as he stood at the grill while ‘Eyes Without a Face' by Billy Idol blared from his portable radio.
I didn’t even know his name. As far as I knew he’d never left the house, though an old Chevvy C/K sat in his driveway but I’d never seen it move. I don’t know that I’d call him a king, but he was most definitely fond of his 'castle.'
The apples begged me to help. The stench of o-zone spiked as they all called out in a cacophony of voices asking for assistance in bringing him down. They told me of his crimes, of the magic he’d used against ordinary people, of the terror he’d wrought against the land. They told me of his alternate form, how he was a mad god without flesh. And yet, they all spoke of one weakness, one way to bring him out from his castle. One weakness to his fortifications—and they asked to be removed from their tree.
I tried to shake it at first to bring them down, but in the end I had to resort to a ladder, one by one bringing down each apple. Still they spoke—calling out with an excited fervour as I tossed each one into a sack I’d collected from my garage.
For a while that’s where they stayed; a sack of talking apples keeping me awake at night with their calls for vengeance. Each morning I’d call in sick at work, maddened by the whole experience, buying what I could afford to build what they’d asked of me.
Bit by bit, piece by piece, it eventually came together—a small trebuchet right there in my backyard. I loaded up the first of the apples and questioned my sanity before pulling the lever to loose the first one. It shot far and wide, way off the mark of my neighbour’s chimney. I made the adjustments I needed to and shot again, and again, each time getting closer and closer to my mark.
Storming The Castle (Circa 14th Century)
As told by a gong farmer
I don’t know how long it had been. Everything had been so still for decades, the guards long gone. It’s not like there was even anyone left to cause any trouble after all. I’d taken to zoning out or making up stories in my head, talking to myself back and forth. I wished for release every day, praying for hours that I could just cease to be, that death would finally come for me instead of this purgatory.
Nobody came to the castle anymore. The evil king had managed to seize all he could and ruled over a graveyard of people not quite dead. I failed to see the allure of it, I couldn’t see why they would want something so empty. They never left either, they had this whole kingdom and didn’t set out to enjoy it. In my time trapped within myself I burned with questions just as I did with anger. What was this thing sat within the castle, what did we do to deserve such punishment? What sin could possibly be great enough that we must collectively foot such a bill?
I was snapped out of the depth of my thoughts by the sound of clopping hooves and calling voices steadily approaching me from behind. After so long I almost didn’t notice it at all, and through my surprise, by natural instinct I tried to turn my head for just a moment before remembering my sorcerous affliction—all I could do was wait and stare directly ahead.
They spoke of me, of my friends, my neighbours as if we weren’t there—as if we were already dead. How I wish that was the case. They didn’t know about the tax, about the affliction beset upon us, but in my head I prayed for them. I prayed that they wouldn’t befall the same fate that we had, that somehow they could rid us all of this madness. I prayed over and over, feverishly to the god that had abandoned us all as though it would do any good.
Slowly, and surely, they clambered up the cold stone steps before me. One by one they stepped into my view—a band of knights and a company of soldiers from a nation I didn’t know, not that I knew much about life outside my shovel and barrow. I never needed to.
They wore red from head to toe, even their helmets had a crimson plumage atop. Their armour had been accented with red dye, and from the back their cloaks had the crest of a small tree enshrined in a woven circle of gold. Part of me wanted to scream, to warn them away, but an even bigger part of me selfishly wished them a swift success.
One looked me in the eyes for just a moment as another pushed wide the gates to the castle, other men flanking him as they cautiously entered. God be with you all.
Battle of The Scarlet Knights at the Throne Room (Circa 14th Century)
As told by Narrator, The Omniscient
The throne room’s heavy oak door swung open, the sound echoing across the chamber’s stone walls. Tapestries and trinkets laced across the floors and stood atop pedestals while gold coins towered high and wide, surrounding the back wall atop the dais where the overbearingly large golden throne sat. In it, unmoving, uncaring, sat the king.
Men piled in and secured the room, lining up across the long red and brocade carpet that led up to the dais. Finally, their captain confidently strode into the room, eyes fixed upon the suit of armour that remained quiet in its chair.
It was surprisingly austere given the splendour of the room around it—no engraving, no coat of arms, though the kingdom’s crown had now been fused into the metal of its cylindrical head. Not even the sound of breath emerged from the slits cast across its mouthpiece, and a deep, almost unnatural darkness loomed behind the eyeholes. A yellow-gold ring ran around the eyes in two rectangles, and atop it all was a short funnel. It was a strange sight to behold, this object—this king without form, without a body, without a soul.
The moustached captain stepped up to the dais unphased, his pace and stride faltering not for a moment. The metal in his sabatons clinked and shuddered with each step. With a booming, commanding tone he began to speak.
“We hail from Newton’s order. You are to hereby abjure the throne, and if you value your life, leave this kingdom forever.” One hand lay atop the hilt of his sword and clutched it carefully, ready to strike.
For a moment there was silence. Then slowly at first, a chugging and huffing came from within the suit of armour like a great engine coughing into life. It sounded like a deep laughter, speeding up and growing in voraciousness. The smell of magic began to seep across the room as rich clouds of steam puffed from the top of its head with each chuff. Finally, a dim grey light appeared within the helmet’s darkness. The soldiers all gripped their weapons, ready for the evil king’s response.
With janky, stuttering movements it leant forwards onto its hands, gripping tightly into the throne’s arms before lurching upwards, standing impressively tall at full height, looming above the soldiers menacingly. As it stood, the steam from its head bellowed loudly with a shrieking whistle that engulfed the room. The eye shone brightly as it arose, screaming, pouring out unyielding clouds that obscured the chamber.
Its jerky motions continued, reaching down to the hilt of its longsword. The leather wrapping around the handle was worn, rough and fuzzy from use, but the blade was unlike anything the knights had ever seen—not entirely a blade at all. It was a long piece of metal bent around into a corkscrew with a sharpened tip at the end, and strangely, pieces of food penetrated along its length. Nothing more than a standard BBQ skewer, but in the hands of this abhorrence, a mortal weapon that no man could match.
For a moment there was nothing but silence as the whistle ceased, save for the eerie echo of the shriek cascading for a second through the castle’s icy walls. The captain strained his eyes to peer through the cloud of steam, illuminated by twinkling twilight cascading through upper windows behind the throne. Inside the mist he could see the murky silhouette of the armour, little more than a blackened figure, making small jerky motions—but then it was too late.
The other soldiers saw it happen in a flash. The armour burst from the cloud like a bolt of lightning—something with that much weight had no business moving that fast. The staccato motions it had made previously were a false flag for its newfound agility, and it burst forward with a deft lunge straight at the captain’s face.
The soldiers looked on shocked as he moved to the side, prepared and ready, and with one swift motion lunged the tip of his sword directly into the eye socket of the evil king’s armour. Both of them stood motionless for just a moment, but a smile began to crack across the captain’s face. Almost in reply, the armour began to chuff again with a bellowing noise as though it was laughing and wiped off the smirk from the man’s face.
“What are you?!” He called out in horror, retracting his weapon and bracing himself to block and parry the coming attack. The evil king closed the gap between them in an instant and with one deft lunge, the evil king’s sword had found its way straight beneath the jaw of the captain and through the other side, skewering his head along with the meat and vegetables already on there.
A shot of blood burst from the top of his head like a fountain, spattering onto the marble floor and across the carpet that led up to the throne. The red of their armour grew accompanied by the blood across the room.
With a shuddering tilt, the bespectacled helmet turned to the left, then the right, as the other men recoiled in horror with the realisation that none of them were a match to this abomination. Some began to flee from the room while others piled forwards into the steam cloud with hollers and yells, willing to die for their cause.
Joust at Sunrise (1984)
As told by a former paperboy
I must have sent around 20, maybe 30 apples flying. I was starting to run out. They hollered war cries as they flew through the air, and I’d finally gotten my aim right. A little over half of them had found their way into the chimney, down into the unknown below. For my neighbour it must have been a… strange experience, but talking apples is a strange experience for any man.
As my sack emptied, the smell of o-zone had depleted. With nothing left I retired for the day before I sank into a restless, haunted sleep at the queer experience I’d had. I thought I might be turning mad—maybe there’d been a gas leak, or it could have been lead in the paint, something, anything to explain what had just happened.
I awoke the next morning to a heavy hand slamming against my front door. Curious, I peered down out my window to find my neighbour staring right back up at me. The apples had done something. He was dressed in an old grey cardigan with splotches of red paint spattered across it and a pair of khaki corduroys. The morning sun glinted across his golden frames, flashing his serious expression up to me.
I threw on some clothes that I’d discarded nearby the day before—just something I could throw on and made my way downstairs. I slid open the chain lock and swung the door open to find him standing on the other side holding out a plate with a still-warm apple pie displayed upon it.
I drank in his form—tall, semi muscular, but his face had a regal, quiet nobility about it, and beneath those grey eyes there was something deeper. I could see a twisted intelligence within him, a burning fire that he controlled entirely. Perhaps the apples were right. In another time, in another place, perhaps he could have been a king instead of a neighbour. This quiet, reserved, talented man was nothing but ordinary but for unsuspecting eyes he could have easily been just any other person.
“It’s about time we met.” He said. His voice was deep and rich. Inviting him inside was the only courteous thing to do, so I led him into the living room. He sat on my wingback reclining chair, with the backdrop of orange-brown geometric wallpaper. Before him was a cubed plastic coffee table that I’d bought the previous decade. I felt somewhat ashamed to have such a man in my dated room. No doubt his home was a lot more contemporary and put together.
I brought us both a cup of coffee from the kitchen on a tray with cream and sugar and some plates for the pie. He awaited my return in silence, sat with his hands crossed over in his lap. His discipline was almost robotic.
He finally introduced himself. I’d lived there seven, maybe eight years, and heard nothing from this man, but finally he saw fit to bring himself to me. I suppose sending apples down somebody’s chimney will be enough to get their attention.
His name was Ryan. He mentioned something about being a museum curator, that he had unusual work hours and encountered all manner of objects but rarely saw people. I talked to him about the neighbourhood, how long he’d lived there, and who owned the house before me. The topics bounced around from the recent attempt on Margaret Thatcher’s life a few days before to Reagan's landslide re-election, recent advances in technology and music. Seemed he was a fan of Jazz, of all things, classical, and musicals. I hadn’t taken him as the sort to be into musicals—he seemed to lack the joy and animation one would expect.
I told him of my personal love for Bruce Springsteen and Prince, at which he scoffed. He was older than me, perhaps uncaring for the new era of music paving the way for kids these days. I cut the pie and served us both a slice. It smelled delicious, a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon that hung heavy and thick in the air. Even the way he held the fork was controlled, glancing down to the pieces he’d carefully cut with the fork as he moved it to his mouth with a graceful motion. God, it was delicious. The pastry was rich and flaky, the filling wasn’t overly spiced and yet full of flavour, but I can’t deny the subtle taste of an ashy aftertaste.
I saw his eyes linger through the kitchen, out the window to the trebuchet I’d constructed a few days earlier. Really, both of us knew that’s why he was here but a king must have a regal air about them, a mindful and demure attitude at all times.
A smile cracked across my lips. I put down my coffee and leant slightly forwards, staring him right in the eyes. “You’ll never rule over these lands.” I growled playfully, pointing to the floor of my house. He shot back a lopsided smile and pushed the bridge of his glasses back up onto his face.
“We’ll see about that.” He grumbled, clutching the armrests of the oversized chair and rose himself to full height. “The knights of the Newton order fought bravely.”
He took one last deep drink of his coffee, finishing it to the last drop before heading back outside to his own home. I had another slice of the pie before continuing on with my day, dismantling the trebuchet and storing the parts in my garage.
As I was preparing myself for bed, I noticed an envelope slipped under my door. I flipped it over to see a gold-yellow wax seal with the stamp of a crown on it. It seemed he wanted to settle this by the old rules; a duel, tomorrow morning at 8am. The paper shimmered softly in the evening light, and there was that distinct smell again.
I could barely sleep. There was a distinct mixture of excitement and trepidation for the upcoming duel. He’d written no rules, but somehow I knew what I had to do. I set an alarm on my Casio wristwatch for precisely 8 am. I’d be up long before that, preparing myself for out fight.
When morning came I peered out my window; it was shaping up to be a beautiful day with not a cloud in the sky. I couldn’t help but smile in my quiet confidence. I wanted to look the part too, I wanted to feel the part. Slipping into a dark pair of jeans I flicked through my wardrobe to find what I was looking for, my black leather jacket. It had silver studs at the wrist and on the neck, and if something went wrong it could at least offer a little protection.
After what may be my final breakfast I had an extra cup of coffee, just in case, and made my way to the garage. Boxes were piled up behind all the wood from the trebuchet, and behind that was what I was looking for. I climbed up carefully, not wanting to slip through the cardboard onto my belongings, gripping the rubber handlebars of my old bike. A Raleigh Chopper—cooler than the Schwinn Stingray, imported from England. It’d taken me so many miles and through so many adventures, it felt like seeing an old friend after so long.
It had been years since I’d rode it, the last time not that long after I stopped my paper route but it had been a faithful companion through my teenage years, taking me anywhere I wanted to go. Of course, since then I’d learned to drive and so it just gathered dust in the back of my garage. For a long time I’d forgotten about it. Times change just as people do, but my steadfast companion patiently awaited my return.
I pulled it up and out, careful not to knock over the wood I’d piled up. With a smile I wiped off the dust. This occasion was special, though. It’d need more than just that. For a moment I left it propped up against the wall, taking out a chamois cloth and car wax, taking care to polish it off to a sparkling gleam, checking my watch in-between. There she stood, gleaming, bright, my shimmering steed.
I took in the sight of it, satisfied with my work. For a moment I felt a glimmer of regret for not taking it out for a spin in all those years. Next, I looked around the garage for something else. Rake, no… shovel? That wouldn’t do either. I needed something lightweight, with a handle strong enough. It caught my eye from the corner of the room, an old broom that was left over from the previous homeowner. I hadn’t even gotten around to using such a dated artifact, instead picking up a new one from the dollar store when I’d moved in. I had promised myself I’d throw it out when I cleaned out the garage, but … life has a way of getting in the way.
I was ready. I saddled up, swinging myself over the long seat and adjusting myself to get comfortable. The pedals were still the right height, the split and raised handlebars felt right in my hands.
Beepbeepbeepbeep.
The time had come. I pushed the button on my garage door’s remote control and with a shudder and clank the motor burst into life. Whirring, clattering, the shutters pulled upwards like a curtain on a play. A sun-heated breeze lazily blew into the garage and kissed my skin with its warmth as my driveway baked in the morning glow. With a click I engaged the pedal, slowly pushing myself forward out onto the street, holding my balance with one hand while I clutched the broom in the other.
I held it out to the side with a smirk across my face. He would have no idea of my skills on a bike with just one hand. Years of slinging papers from doorway to doorway had prepared me for this, and though I was a little rusty it was just like riding a bike. You never forget, and with each passing second I could feel it all coming back to me. My muscles twitched and limbered in remembrance for the news I’d delivered to this neighbourhood, year in and year out, rain or shine.
As I passed the hedge that separated our homes I saw him riding out. His steed similar to my own, painted red, waxed and prepared just the same. Despite our differences, it seemed we had a lot of similarities too. He was wearing a yellow windbreaker with stripes of purple and red, armed with a broom just the same as my own.
Wind rustled through the straw of the broom as I stared him up and down, still in the middle of the street. I gave a slow nod and he repeated my motion, the both of us turning around to get enough space to really pick up some speed.
People filing out into their cars, ready for work started to pay notice to the both of us and curtains flickered in windows as women peered out onto the street to watch what was about to unfold.
At opposite ends of the street, we both stared each other down. Sunlight dappled through the slowly waving trees, sparkling and glistening on his golden spectacles. Everything else was still, men in hats peering over their cars awaited action. I intended to give them all the action they’d need.
I hunched over the handlebars and he did the same and with that, we were off. With a heaving push I forced down the pedal and began to move, cycling through the gears to pick up more and more speed as I began to approach. My thighs burned and ached with my force, and as I approached I could see the scowling snarl across his face. Both of us were kicking up dirt and dust as our back wheels screamed around, entirely focused on each other. Faces and vehicles flew past in mere blurs of colour and shape but I could pay them no heed, though I could hear cheers from our onlookers as I blazed past.
The broom I held out to the side moved to the front and I pointed it squarely at him. I couldn’t deny his skill on the bike either, holding out his broom with a controlled, squared elbow while navigating his way towards me.
Time seemed to consolidate into a single moment as we reached each other, my focus blurred out everything but him. All else blurred into nothingness, all sound distorted and banished from my senses, my fingers burning numb as I gripped tight with both hands. It was going to be a big hit, but who would win?
I thrust forwards and leant down forwards as we reached each other—perhaps foolish, opening my head up for his attack but counting on his aim faltering. I saw him raise his arm up and thrust it back down again as he manipulated his aim in response, but it was all over in a flash. Something tugged against the collar of my leather jacket and snagged it, wood scathed against my neck but I was tossed into surprise as I felt my attack connect into his chest with a crunch. The force of it threw me back and I fought to keep myself balanced as my bike flew upwards onto one wheel like a braying horse. My broom was shattered into a long spike now, splinters left behind on the ground where I’d struck him.
Keeping my balance in check I continued the wheelie, tossing a glance back behind myself to see the damage. It was done. He lay collapsed on the ground in a pile of yellow, red and blue, his spectacles landing on the road with a clack. The wheels of his bike still turned, spinning with a click as the gears engaged, but he remained silent.
I turned my bike around and landed the front tire down, instinctively raising my broken broom into the air against the rising sun. A new day, a new dawn without this ‘king’ in golden specs.
Some people cheered, some people gasped in horror. I was too lost in the moment to care. Somebody called out to phone for an ambulance, but really it should have been the police they were calling. If what the apple knights had told me was true, he needed to be put away for a long time. For all time.
The King is Down (Circa 14th Century)
As told by a gong farmer
I can’t say how it happened. Nobody can, really. I didn’t know what day it was, the month, the year—I didn’t know how old I was anymore, or what had happened in the world outside the kingdom. I couldn’t say what had become of my home, of the farms, the livestock. I wondered what had changed since we’d been imprisoned in ourselves.
The statues that littered the steps, the countryside, the fields and farms, all would return to normality. From within my body I felt a fizzing a bubbling, a burning tingle that extended out through every one of my nerves from my core to my extremities. Steadily I slumped down across the steps as my body loosened, trying to look around, trying to move, remembering how it felt to swing my arms and my legs. By the time I managed to get to my feet I saw the others around me, just as perplexed as I was. After we’d collected ourselves we discussed our conditions, our nation, and our confusion as to why we were so suddenly freed. Slowly we all moved together inside with an air of cautious optimism. The knights had failed, we’d seen them enter but never leave and we knew the evil king was yet inside, but something must have changed.
The empty armour that had made up our malevolent ruler lay slewed about the entryway to the castle proper. Something had drawn him out from his throne room, something had taken him down. We saw the slain knights there, nothing more than armoured skeletons clad in red now, decayed by the ravages of time. Some say it was they who had done the deed, but not many believe it.
Whatever machinations had stirred the will of the heavens in our favour I care not, I’m simply thankful to have my life back; never did I imagine I’d long again for the burning stench of gong to sour my nostrils, to seep into my clothes.
I sent out a silent prayer for our saviour, whoever and wherever they might be, and carefully reached out to touch what was left of our king. I feared there may be a curse yet lingering about the armour, but who better than a lowly gong farmer to risk it? The others watched on with bated breath as I leaned over.
Satisfied that I was safe, I carried his remains, crown and all down the steps of the castle and tossed him without regard into my barrow. I knew the perfect place for him.
Epilogue (…)
As told by Narrator, The Omniscient
Devoid of the supernatural energy that animated the armour, the evil king now lays in the depths of the cesspit, coated, covered, but not forgotten. The farmer would take a far deeper satisfaction in depositing his work until his retirement, and over time the memory of its location would be lost. The powers that animated it grew weak with the passing centuries, and with ancient powers weakened the evil king is nothing more than a man. But if this man were to ever stand again, so will the evil king rise once more, although it’s an unpleasant place to rise from…
"How can you be certain that the universe wasn't created last Thursday?" Domino asked me, one morning, while on our routine stakeout of Neverland. I would just laugh at her, because at the time, it just seemed stupid, a joke.
"Taxes are how I am certain." I'd say.
"But you agree that certainty is the same thing as insanity?" She was still being serious. I hated her seriousness.
"Not really, one plus one is two, that's a certainty." I chimed in. "Certainty isn't the same thing as insanity."
"What exactly is one plus one equals two? Like, in nature? That's like saying that any pattern continuing is something we can be certain of. Seriously, does nature add things together? I mean, except when two animals mate and produce an offspring. That's one plus one, and it rarely equals two offspring. Name any animal that always gives birth to twins."
I was stumped. I got out my brand new Blackberry, and waited while it researched for me which animal gives birth exclusively to twins. "Marmosets...and Tamarins, they give birth to two offspring." I read aloud.
"So out of the millions of animal species on earth, two of them are an example of one plus one equals two, in nature." Domino argued. "One plus one rarely equals two, except in human abstraction of placing one item side by side with another item and naming that concept 'two'. And two is the first real number; all the rest are just following the pattern. It's just something we made up. Numbers are imaginary. They prove nothing."
"What about negative numbers?" I pointed out, thinking I was making a case for math.
This made her laugh. "How can there be minus one of anything? That's pure abstraction."
"Tell that to an elk that gets taken from the herd by wolves. The herd is now at minus one elk." I pointed out, trying to use her 'nature' argument against her.
"You think wolves can count?" Domino asked.
"I'm certain they can." I must have sounded annoyed, because she dropped it.
We sat in silence until I started fumbling with some foil wrapped around a stinky sandwich of tuna, olive oil in mayonnaise, mustard, sweet relish, minced garlic, the packet of sesame seeds - dried kimchi from an instant noodle and all on a stale hoagie that had soaked it up. Domino looked at me with alarm and said: "This is why your doctor needed those four extra years of medical school."
"Don't judge me, this thing is delicious."
While I was eating, Domino sighed and said: "Now I'm actually getting kinda: H-word."
I glanced at her, never sure what she meant by that. Did it mean 'hungry' or something else? That's just how she was, always keeping me light-headed and never a dull moment. She seemed to feed off of my reactions, so I would say our business partnership as private investigators, or freelance journalists, or common paparazzi, or whatever we really were, was good.
"Want some?" I offered her my two-handed sandwich with my own mouth full. Some of it dripped and she fingered it and flung it out the window like a booger. "Pang, my man, you don't know anything about me, do you?"
"I really don't," I confirmed.
Domino sighed and turned on the radio, hoping to catch a late-afternoon 'uninterrupted-commercial free music hour' or somesuch. Instead, we both heard the news and our eyes went wide with shock. Something in my heart broke, I wasn't thrilled to be sitting where we were, despite the lucrative opportunity that had suddenly appeared. We had a standing invitation to explore Neverland, and it was about to expire:
“The Los Angeles County Coroner has confirmed Michael Jackson has died at age 50.”
Domino wheezed and said, with forced spunkiness, confirming I wasn't alone in feeling the tragedy unfolding:
"Well… that’s it. The world just changed."
I folded my sandwich's ruins back into the foil and put it into our car's trashbag. I wiped my hands on my suit jacket. Domino opened the glove box and got out her gloves and a microfilm camera she called 'The Backup'. I reached below me on the floor and picked up the 20mm I preferred. Domino was holding our 70-200mm telephoto.
"We're doing this? We're going in?" I asked.
"Our invitation just hit the expiration date. I think we owe it to ourselves and to the one who said we could stop by anytime." Domino sounded weird, like her seriousness had hit a brick wall and was trying to scale it.
"That's what I was thinking." I agreed. "There is a statute on these things."
"Indubitably." Domino chimed as she sprang from the car like a flashbulb.
I lumbered out and we sauntered across the street. Our work would hold value in posterity, which was now. Time isn't an illusion; it's money. That's the look I had on my face, I am certain.
The front entrance wasn't ours; we literally had no other way in than the open delivery entrance. The gate was left like that, but security cameras were watching us. I pointed them out and Domino said:
"Guess who?"
"This is your friend?" I asked.
"Stare into the abyss, and you'll make a friend." Domino strode confidently into the overgrown path that led to the garden with the fountain. I looked up at an exotic tree, and wondered oddly if Michael liked to climb it. I felt a strange impulse to try and climb it myself, something I hadn't done since childhood.
"What is it?" Domino stopped and followed my gaze. Her voice had changed, seeing me in awe. She was smirking oddly, I could tell she liked seeing me like that, and she took a picture of me looking up at the tree. Sentimental, and I didn't object.
The moment we had entered, it was like another world. Like someone had dreamed up what reality should look like, and everything was a reflection of that dream. I felt stunned, and the feeling of being somewhere else wasn't merely sustained, but growing inside me.
"We should thank your friend." I said.
"That won't be necessary. She owes me - a lot." Domino said with obfuscation. I knew from endless banter with her that this was not an invitation to pry into her personal life. It was all that she was going to say on the matter.
"There's the trainyard. Thomas would have a field day." I pointed out the symbol of pre-industrial might reduced to a magical choo choo, and now with overgrown tracks and a building with peeling paint and fresh graffiti.
"Michael Doesn't Know Me." Domino read the only intelligible spray paint, and I nodded.
"Sounds like a working title." I felt agreeable. Everyone on earth was experiencing the same thing for the first time in human history, and we were at the heart of the known universe, looking for God's breadcrumbs. I was glad Domino had made me dizzy so many times, because I was experiencing some kind of vertigo.
It all began to spin around as we rushed through, taking reel after reel of stolen images from the mind of a man who had left the earth. The silent carousel, where I posed on a creature of mythic color, but couldn't bring myself to smile, despite Domino's pleas. The Ferris Wheel, marking another of mankind's marvels in miniature, frozen and never to turn again. It was a statement about a world that had stopped turning, and I felt the gravity of it. I refused to take a picture of it, it was too haunting.
When we arrived at the abandoned petting zoo, there was still a vague odor of animals, like the county fair when I was young, and it made me think of that last day spent with my father. I hesitated, placing one hand on the llama pen's gate. There was something anomalous in the silence that had silenced me. I could hear the layer beneath my own thoughts, the emotions tethered to memories that only surfaced in the deepest dreams, the kind that you feel when you wake up, but cannot remember.
"Are you alright?" Domino asked, but it wasn't an accusation; it was confirmation. She already knew; she could identify her emotions and live with them. It was her strength.
"I think so." I told her.
We ventured toward the house when a brightly colored golf cart intercepted us. The security guards just stopped and stared at us.
"What?" I asked, when they just sat like gargoyles. Without saying anything to us, they drove past us, towards the driveway. "That wasn't weird."
"We've got a press pass. I already told you." Domino reminded me.
"How long do we have left?" I asked.
"How long does anyone have?" She looked at me quizzically. It felt profound as we ascended the steps of the Neverland mansion, a home that was no longer home to a man who was no longer alive.
"He never came back," I said as we walked through the open front door.
"That's okay Pang, we're here. We'll see it all. For a day, we have our way." Domino said mysteriously. Our voices echoed throughout the house.
"Think they'll call the police?" I asked.
"Yes, but we'll be done by then." Domino reverted to her professional assessment. Talking business felt false. Maybe time is an illusion after all, maybe money isn't even real.
We spent our time wisely, and made our money, and left before the final minute of our ticket expired. That was where it all began, with our visit to Neverland.
Our visit ended when we found Patches. You might have never heard of the agoraphobic young man, living alone on the estate. There's little to say of him, except we were specifically there to discover him and introduce him to the world. Domino, more specifically, was there for that purpose.
Why she never told me we would find him there, and that she would take him by the hand, out through the front, I cannot comprehend. I only know, that as I watched them go, I knew I would be leaving the same way I came in.
For me, the story wasn't over, nor did it end with a payday, selling most of the photos. I never talked about Patches. Unlike the few security guards, I hadn't signed anything meant to protect his privacy. I just instinctively knew I shouldn't mention him.
The world is, it would seem, like a pack of starving dogs, and Patches would be torn to pieces by everyone. I understood that, seeing his shyness and vulnerability. I wasn't entirely sure how he had come to live independently, without Michael, but somehow known to him. It was an arrangement of promises and hope, of choice and surrender. Much of Michael seems to be based on such things. There is no room in his universe for suspicion, mistrust or the secular.
The awe and acceptance in the eyes of this childlike adult, Patches, spoke a language forgotten when humanity stepped away from the sacred and bathed ourselves in selfishness. I learned sonder in that moment, and not in the preschool sense, not in the sense I'd had all my life. I mean I truly understood his existence, in the truth behind his pale eyes and timid smile.
Domino looked at me one last time, before she took him by the hand and led him to the world beyond, as his Virgil, for nothing beyond Neverland was like the world he had known. But his world had ended, it was all going to be demolished, an apocalypse was due. I just nodded, knowing intuitively what Domino meant to do.
Somehow, his existence felt more real than my own.
Years later, half-a-decade and I was living alone in the desert, in a trailer. I'd taken the money and found a way to be alone. After seeing Patches, something in me had changed. Domino never called, she was busy caring for him, being his friend in the big scary world. I had adopted a lonesome world, with various odd hobbies to occupy myself.
A typical day for me meant some yoga and some bird watching. Walking to my well and drawing water. Eating some noodles and working on charcoal drawings of my dreams of the place I'd spent just one day in. It was gone, they'd torn it all up and thrown the scraps to the dogs. I'd find a blunt way to examine myself, but found my identity to be a trip, I'd look at myself and feel surprise, this sort of, "Oh, that's me." spending too much time in my own head and never really listening to myself.
The years rotated under skies without light pollution, where the seasons and stars swung round and round, and time became an illusion. Five years seemed to vanish in an instant, and while I heard myself laughing, saw myself playing, forgot who I was before, lost a ton of weight and just felt healthier and happier in every way, there was a consequence to my loneliness. I couldn't quite express that anything mattered, there was this succinct way that I viewed my own timeline. When you eschew the mandatory day-to-day life and live like that, you can see your own reflection in the dew, the gaze of something far beyond our world, and you feel like it watches you, and that is your purpose.
I still hadn't begun to understand the omphalos of a world that was created just last Thursday. In fact, if anything, it seemed even more impossible. The human mind cannot long entertain the Evil Demon, nor can we perceive our own consciousness, only what we think we are observing. To facilitate your understanding, it is a fundamental truth of human nature that we see whatever we want to see. We could just close our eyes, but we do not. We could just forget, but we do not. We could perceive things differently, but we do not. What we do, we call our 'Free Will', but either the universe is careening randomly out-of-control and we are the stuff of profoundly impossible odds of cosmic coincidence, or there is some sort of plan. That's the only real choice there ever is for us to make, what we each secretly believe, beneath all our layers, to the child within - the wise child, who suffers not from ignorance.
Perhaps it is a strain to step out of the boundaries of the gameboard and see that you are just a chess piece. Perhaps it is simply impossible for you to believe that what you happily agree to, is the very thing that makes you miserable. How far will you go to deny that you have blithely accepted the foodstuff of horror?
I went twenty-seven miles into a desert and dug a well and lived there alone for half-a-decade. Does it make me a prophet, or a hermit, or a maniac? Do I know anything you don't know? I found that our perception of reality is ambiguous, and when we are certain of anything, we are insane.
My silent sanctuary was broken, as I sat down to enjoy a bountiful harvest of desert fruit.
How she found me, I can only say is her talent, not mine. But the woman before me was not Domino. She looked exactly like her, sort-of. I greeted her as an old friend, but we had both changed. The Pang and Domino who had gone their separate ways were gone, we'd both evolved into different people. We still embraced, for there was something missing in both our lives during that time.
She was taking Patches to the Billboard Music Awards to see Michael. She told me it was a secret, that literally nobody knew he was going to be there, but Patches had a vision, and in this vision, Michael had spoken to him.
"Not from beyond the grave. He's dead in our version. I am talking about the world we are within, the one that world is within, the one that contains all of us. In that world, the real world, he is very much still alive, and all that has happened is quite deliberate. He is going to show us, in order to liberate us from what we have become." Domino spoke like an apostle. I felt dizzy again, just like old times.
"So, this is back to the world was created Last Thursday." I laughed.
"This one was, yes. You, and I, and Patches, we are from the world that this one is within. We all know that already. But that is because the world that one is within, we chose to make it so, and the world that contains that one, we are unique in what we understand already. It is like a game within a game, and pieces moving pieces of their own, or a dream within a dream, and each recursion slightly less aware, a little more new, than the one who dreamt it." Domino smiled radiantly. I just nodded.
"Let's go see Michael. I think I'd like that." I stated. I was wrong, but at the moment, I actually believed that our little road trip was a good idea.
As we watched the painting come alive, I sensed he was about to be the puppet who walks free of strings, that the background would fade and he'd still be standing there. They said he was a hologram, an elaborate system of lights to emphasize our perception of reality. But I could see something nobody seemed to notice. The hologram had a shadow.
Yet he wasn't physically there. I realized we were seeing, for the first time, the real Michael, the one who had dreamed up the reality that had dreamed this one into existence. My body filled with dread, knowing what cannot be known, seeing what cannot be seen.
I felt a deep and unsettling horror rise up within me, as I stared at the shadow he cast. Light does not cast a shadow, a hologram is just light. What we were looking at was an unveiling, and the secret was being revealed to all. Yet the way everyone responded, seeing only what they wanted, believing only what they were told, the consensus of our reality, it made me realize we were in the process of creating yet another world.
We were staring at the truth, and we were blinded by it. We were staring at the light, and seeing only hokum. The reflection of our reality was being shown, and we were saying, together. "Oh, that's just me."
Nobody could see that this was the main character, Michael. All of us were just NPCs, cheering, ones-and-zeroes. And in the process of rejecting the world we'd come from, we collapsed into a new one. We were creating a world within our own, coding its existence, simplifying, fooling ourselves, becoming a parody of our own consciousness.
I could hear it in the song Slave to the Rhythm, encoded, a sermon that was telling us the truth, and binding us to it. As we accepted the falseness, spoken in plain truth: "This is the authentic world," we simply smiled, nodded, clapped and cheered. We were being offered one last chance to ascend, and we were instead going to the next world over.
The r/singing post has more details. Vocalists and instrumentalists record along to a reference track and then everyone’s parts are combined together to form an orchestra! Knowing French is a plus but not required. Have fun!
Dear content creators
I have noticed alot of creators on this platform with skills that surpass the level of views they are meant to receive, so I propose we do a collab to gain more followers but this message doesn't strictly refer to underated content creator but to everyone who would like to join aswell. The project I would like to propose is an animated film. The story revolves around the daughter of life and death and a human, and from that part, I would like to clarify though it may have a few romantic moments, the main story focuses on something darker.
The only requirement to join is to either be
An animator
A background artist
A music composer
A script writer
An artist
A storyboard artist
An editor
A voice actor
If you are interested in this project or know someone who you believe may want to join
Click on the link to my Discord server in the bio or copy the link below 👇
Hey, (23M) I’m looking for new music friends who have an open mind toward new sounds and want to talk and work on music together.
I use Logic Pro, and I usually gravitate toward an R&B, soul, alt, or pop vibe, but I’m very open-minded when it comes to creating and exploring different styles.
Hopefully we can learn from each other and build something dope.
A generation of writers moved through a long trial of craft under pressure from studios and audiences. The conflict never formed true sides. It only looked like a 'war' because the work carried emotional weight for many viewers. The core issue involved weak structure and shallow character logic rather than ideology, and stories collapsed. It was rediscovered that messaging functions as the 'moral of a story' and must arise from plot and consequence rather than direct statement. Representation functions the same way. Both require narrative support. Staff‑driven projects for legacy worlds such as Tolkien exposed the gap between mythic architecture and procedural writing. Many reacted with frustration while others withdrew to regain clarity. The period now reads as a developmental phase, by candlelight. Writers gained experience through failure and public scrutiny, and those that survived became great. The next cohort will draw strength from this cycle and produce stronger work, but they too will have a trial, let us support them with constructive criticism (hurts). You stand outside the arena with perspective and offer guidance grounded in observation rather than force.
-Sincerely,
Posterity
P.S. The secret to good writing is: 'Show - don't tell.'
