Short Stories

Watersmith collection
The ARC letters
Item 17

The Murder Worm was not even named until long after containment ceased to be possible. In the preceding years, the concept of a type of malware that could cross the hardware/wetware boundary had occasionally been theorized among researchers. However, the idea had been non-existent in popular discourse. Even now, the infection denies it's hosts the ability to recognize it's existence.

Cybernetic technology, especially neural implants, was still relatively new. The promise of allowing people to directly share their ideas, thoughts, and dreams with each other seemed like it would unleash a utopia. It's hard to remember that hope now, in the midst of our apocalypse. Perhaps if we could have interpreted history, we would have avoided this. Perhaps it was always unavoidable for us. Perhaps you can avoid making the same mistakes by recognizing the problem earlier.

While the Murder Worm has evolved an emergent intelligence, it is unclear if it was crafted by a conscious being or if evolved from a memetic prion. We had once believed that emergent intelligence could only arise from a complete connectome, but we have since discovered that human consciousness is structured as a fractal: memetic graph segments, sections of a connectome, have their own intelligence and the interaction of these segments manifests what we call consciousness. An individual identity rarely, if ever, consistent. Memetic graph segments often conflict. These conflicts can be mediated in different ways by the default mode network to create the illusion of a consistent identity.

Within a healthy memetic biome, memetic graph segments compete with and mutate each other regularly. An overly dominant default mode network, attempting to enforce a false consistency, can sometimes reduce memetic interactions within an individual. This forced consistency can lead to memetic prions: memetic graph segments that mutate or kill other memes that they interact with. Memes mutated by memetic prions become prions themselves, existing to replicate the prion rather than themselves.

Prions can only mutate memetic graphs that are similar enough to themselves. When these prions occured in individuals, before direct neural connection, they would mutate the individual's connectome rapidly. Mutant graphs would diverge so far from the social connectome that the prion could not replicate. The individual would experience psychological collapse. Some could be treated with memetic detangling therapy, while others could never recover. But direct neural connection has allowed memetic prions to spread more rapidly than anyone ever imagined. We just didn't understand the danger.

We lacked a comprehensive model for memetic prion evolution. We didn't even have the term "memtic prion." We knew that some graphs could be dangerous, so the CyCon corporation included signature based memetic graph filters to neutralize these elements. But, of course, these signatures couldn't keep up with the rapid evolution of the memetic environment. New prions developed faster than signatures could be maintained.

Within individuals, reduced memetic diversity increases the risk of prion evolution. The same is true, we have now discovered, for social memetic biomes. Memetic inbreeding maximizes the risk of prions, and rapidly adapts them to cross graph boundaries... and we created the perfect environment for this. CyCon's FriendLynk matched similar memetic graphs, creating incestuous pools that bread memetic prions at an alarming rate. The Murder Worm appears to be the synthesis of multiple prions, mutating each other into a prion complex that exhibits it's behavior as a syncretic death cult.

As described earlier, under normal conditions a prion infected individual would either self-isolate or be isolated as a result of their infection. Isolation reduces, or eliminates, the risk of contagion. However, repeated exposure to prions eventually leads to infection in over 80% of cases. Social conditions, such as individual isolation or reduced social mobility, can also decrease prion resistance.

Today we know that it is hypothetically possible to contain and destroy the infection. By isolating infected notes from the network, we can stop or slow the spread of the infection. We could then inoculate the uninfected section of the network. Once inoculation reaches heard immunity, we can slowly reconnect infected individuals to the network and flood them with a memetic phage to unfold the prion. Infected network segments must be destroyed. Those who are beyond treatment will, unfortunately, experience psychological collapse and need to be isolated or taken to offline treatment programs.

We know how to treat it. Our initial trials even worked. Unfortunately CyCon administrative network has been overrun by the Murder Worm and the network itself has been turned in to a tool to spread the infection. With the defunding of the Cybernetic Epidemiology Center, we will no longer be able to continue our research or propose treatments. Many of us have begun to move outside the cities to form containment colonies. Untreated, memetic prions always destroy the host. We hope that collapse will come soon.

Our hope is that we will survive the ravages of the Murder Worm and rebuilt human society from whatever ruins remain. CyCon has already destroyed much of the research related to this topic and evidence of our existence. We have replicated this message to all ARC colonies.

I hope that you are reading this from the future. If you are, be hopeful. If we survive this then we can survive anything.

Professor J. Stakhorn,
Rogue Scientist, Former Head of the Cybernetic Epidemiology Center
ARC-14, location undisclosed
EOF

Continuing my 1 short story a week, but one of my short stories has evolved in to a bigger project. So I'm dropping some microfiction this week.

It had taken decades to recover enough to even understand what they were looking at, reading bit by bit with an electron microscope. It took years to decode the bits once they had them. There had been theories about the meaning of the plates ever since their discovery. Finally, professor Zadrand had an answer.

"It's hard to believe that such an advanced civilization existed, millions of years ago, on this very planet.

"The mathematics behind these programs are astounding. By interacting with this layered statistical model, we will be able to learn a lot about their history and their civilization. Even what we were able to recover so far will launch our science and mathematics decades in to the future."

The interviewer shifted, "Does it tell us anything about what killed them off or about our own story?"

"It does," continued professor Zadrand, "and it also explains the global radiation layer we call the HT boundary. As we've hypothesized, their extinction made room for our own evolution in to the dominant species on this planet.

"What we don't understand is why. The dominant hypothesis had been that the event was triggered by some sort of resource conflict. But this new evidence contradicts that," the professor's antenna twitched and carapace shuttered a bit, "Apparently they put this very statistical model in control of unimaginably powerful weapons. The result was surprisingly... predictable.

"The most surprising thing is that so many of them knew what would happen and did nothing to stop it."

The behemoth were not always so large and unwieldy as they are now. The first behemoth ever captured could hardly pull a dry sled with two dozen stones, stood shoulder to shoulder with a man, and could only walk a bit faster than a person could run.

Early behemoth were captured from the wild and highly prized. Early tamers mastered their beasts skillfully. Though their animals were still unpredictable, tamers were cautious. Even still, people were wary of the creatures. They watched from a distance, in both discomfort and awe.

One of the most skilled tamers captured an especially beautiful behemoth and gifted it to the king on the anniversary of his coronation. The king's behemoth rider was always trained by the riders guild, but not all riders remained so skilled.

As the behemoth became a signal of power and prestige, tamers began to sell captured behemoth to nobles who would ride them carelessly. Behemoth are omnivores. When not well controlled they are prone to charge and attack.

There was much outrage after a young child was eaten by a behemoth while she danced near the street. The lord paid the family's debts, and no more was said of it but whispers. Many such events happened in the kingdom.

The peasants would wonder, "why must we now fear our own roads? Why can the lords not ride the slender weilu that does not hunger for our flesh?"

But the nobles did not feel their pain and mocked them for letting their foolish children be eaten by monsters. Even still, the nobels felt the need to address the mumbling for fear it might escalate. So they seized common roads for their beasts and blamed peasants who were trampled or eaten by them.

The riders guild eventually learned the secret to breeding the behemoth in captivity. By giving some commoners low breeds, the people began to accept and even like the beasts. The highest breeds were always kept for the nobles, and the commoners learned to admire their ornate features.

Commoners learned that they were safer on the monsters than near them, so behemoth began to fill all the available space. People would ride their beasts to a neighboring house for fear of being killed while walking.

One, seeing how common it is, may believe that the king had proclaimed that all must ride the behemoth. But after so many years, the kingdom has simply been built around them. No law enforces their use, but no force can protect those who choose not to ride them. All who could, did.

None ride the graceful weilu, for behemoth have a taste for it as well.

Yet, even the riders of the beasts are not safe. Behemoth are prone to quarrel. As their numbers grew, battles became more common. Breeders began to focus on increasing size so the behemoth could wear armor. Now the behemoth are so large they can consume a child in a single bite without a rider even taking notice.

Yet, this has not made riders any more safe. Quite the opposite.

Today every behemoth is armored and carries a grand litter to protect the occupants, but this only makes them harder to control and the inbreeding only makes them more clumsy, anxious, and violent.

Many times a day now one may hear outside, near any behemoth path, the terrible screeching of their taunts and the loud thud of their strikes. These battles often kill both behemoth and rider. In their confusion will sometimes charge at building, crushing themselves under the collapsing walls and killing those inside.

The behemoth are strange creatures. As I said earlier, they were omnivores. While they hunger for flesh, especially humans, they also needed to eat several pounds of a specific fruit every day.

Even the smell of the olapi was wretched such that none would imagine it could be eaten by any other living thing. The fruit contains the very essence of death. It was the key to taming the behemoth, for without this fruit they would lie down and refuse to work. When fed the fruit regularly, they can be promoted to any work.

In the wild, the olapi tree was quite rare. It only grew in old graveyards, battle fields, and other ancient places of death. In it's natural habitat, it did not spoil the land around it, at least not much. But when grown away from these places of death, it is want to turn fertile land to stone.

Fields once reserved for food have been cleared to make way for olapi trees, such is the demand, and farms have been pushed further and further out of the towns and cities.

The spring rains can be quite intense in parts of the kingdom. In the old days, channels would divert excess water to the fields. The fields would store the water though the dry sunmers. But now many of these fields have become stone, so water has no where to go. Many villages have started to flood in the spring and winter.

But this is not the only problem with the behemoth and their fruit. The flatulence of the behemoth is legendary. The people of the land seem to have grown accustomed to it, but outsiders are surprised and repulsed by the stink. The noxious fumes can become quite dense at times, especially on hot summer days when many behemoth gather in one place.

Recently a cloud of behemoth fumes became so dense, on one late summer afternoon, that ignited into a raging firestorm. One of the richest villages in the land was razed to the ground, and the stampede of burning behemoths trampled everything else that remained. Though they destroy the jewel city of the land, few questioned their dedication to the behemoth.

But there is one even more sinister detail that I have not yet described. The olapi tree hungers for death to feast upon. The behemoths concentrate that hunger as they eat the fruit, and they leave behind a strange and Infectious madness in their dung.

Rain washes the madness out to the fields. It soaks in to the soil and infects the crops. It washes out to the rivers and poisons the fish. All the people eat has become infected, and by eating they become infected. The Land of the Behemoth has become overtaken by a terrible hunger. All they harvest brings death to the land.

So many admire the Land of the Behemoth from a distance, but so few know the truth.

And now we have learned thet the king has fertilized the Royal garden with the dung of his prized behemoth. His temper has grown wild and madness spills from his lips. He threatens his neighbors and orders his nobles to eat the dung directly.

How long can a kingdom survive in such madness? How long can a people live who spoil their own crops, burn their own houses, and feed their own children to monsters?

I left this kingdom to its madness, and it has troubled me to have seen behemoth in my new home.

Now that you know the truth, will you still praise the Land of the Behemoth, nation of pestilence, eaters of dung, kingdom of fools? Will you let your fool's knowledge of this land lead us all to the same fate, or may we learn from their folly and free ourselves from the burden of this beast?

When it finally took her, no one was really surprised anymore. The mutation, the disease, the cancer, the infection, the curse, had become so obvious she could no longer deny it. Her battle had been quite visible and her loss undeniable. Now, it was in control.

Was this predestined, written into her fate at birth? Was it a result of her ravenous addictions? Perhaps both. Were they ever really different?

Some grow out of the selfishness of youth. They learn from their mistakes and try to correct them. Others, in their shame, learn to hide their flaws, to manipulate those who see, to silence those who speak.

One who lives a life of deception only fools themselves in the end.

Oh, how she had been admired. Even in her darkest days, she was a beacon of hope. So many had come to her for help, and now they had begun to fear the monstrosity she had become and ran from her. Perhaps, it would be more apt to say that they feared the monotonousness nature that she could no longer hide.

Oh, how she had been celebrated. She was one of the heroes who had slain such beasts as this before. They had cast her as Beowulf defeating Grendel, but she always knew, on some level, that she was Grendel's Mother. She was the source of the infection, and now we all know.

How many of her children did she think she could she eat before she felt Saturn's indigestion?

There were those who had pointed it out. There were those who had yelled, cried, screamed at the top of their lungs. But how could she ever do wrong? Even if these claims were true, what could anyone do? Were her allies, perhaps in some ways, also her hostages?

Now had she become the puppet, or had she always been controlled by some invisible hand?

She could feel death's gaze, cold and yawning, the abyss that stare. She wanted to turned and run, but it drove her body forward, the worm, the cordycep, the nameless. Was there ever a time she could have freed herself from it?

Was there ever a way things could have been different?

She had protected it, this horror growing inside her, as if it was her own child. Perhaps the unspeakable truth is that, in some ways, it was. Had there ever been a time when she wasn't infected? Was it in the blood she was born from?

Was she, like an aphid, born pregnant with this beast? Had it crawled up from the graves at her feet, those that she had dug in her youth, to haunt her in to her own? Or had it driven her to fill those graves in the first place? Perhaps it was an ancient curse, inflicted through her ancestors at their first taste of human blood. Was this the simple conclusion of some sort of original sin, an affliction carried by all of her kind?

Could this curse ever have been lifted, or was it a horcrux, a phylactery, a vital organ, perhaps even the true essence of her being?

The others could see the light drop from her eyes. All the humanity that was left in her screamed one last time before it was silenced.

"What," they all wondered, "would become of her now?"

Wouldn't we all like to know?

• for America

Given the limited number of links shared in this community, I propose a rule to discourage the inclusion of Twitter links and the use of Twitter screenshots.

While I understand the desire to integrate platforms like Reddit and Twitter, I believe it's important to maintain a focused and independent discourse within this community.

I have long desired to minimize the integration of external platforms like Reddit and Twitter within this community. However, I've noticed an increasing trend of their exclusion, prompting me to formally propose this guideline here too.

I would appreciate everyone's input on this proposed rule. I wouldn't add a rule unless the community is largely interested in it.

PS. Sorry for not being active enough here recently. I'll get back to it soon.

It's been a lot of years since I wrote, so I'm trying to get back into it. This came mostly in a dream/stream of consciousness with some light editing after. Here it is....

**On the Economics of Slaying Dragons **

Some say that if you pile enough gold together, a dragon will smell it and come. Others say that dragons spawn naturally any time enough gold is together in one place. No one knew for sure.

In this mountain, long ago, a wicked king hoarded the gold he stole from his subjects. His advisors warned him of the consequences, but he was unable to listen.

Every day he became more and more afraid that someone would steal his gold. He couldn't part with even one single coin. First he had his guards count each coin nightly. Later he had other guards guard them while they counted. Finally he couldn't trust anyone else anymore, and he decided to start sleeping in the cave with the gold and count it every night.

One morning he didn't come back to the castle. Guards were dispatched. When they returned, the guards reported that the king must have been consumed by the dragon as he slept. They found only the charred remains of the previous guards before they had to run for their lives from the dragon.

The kingdom had sent it's best knights to fight the dragon, but none ever returned. Year after year the dragon demanded the king's tribute and more. The kingdom sent for knights from other realms, promising the dragon's hoard to any who could defeat this terror.

Though no one had ever conquered a dragon, one knight had fought many battles with great beasts and won. His bravery was only matched by his hunger for glory and riches. He would fight any battle to satisfy is craving, and there was no greater wealth than in this cave.

He had been observing the beast for some months, watching its habits, tracking its movements. He knew its patterns. But still, no one had ever defeated a dragon before, and never had anyone faced such a fearsome beast alone.

He collected it's scales to build armor and a shield. He had his blade blessed and tipped with the most powerful poison of the most powerful wizard in the realm. After months of watching, he chose the night of the yearly tribute to attack.

He hid among the gold, in one of the chests. The dragon sniffed each one as the workers wheeled the cart in, but the dragon didn't notice. The knight had worn gold and even eaten some to cover his scent. Perhaps the dragon had grown careless in its greed.

That night, when the dragon rested, the knight crept out. He moved silently. He had wrapped the dragon scales of his armor in soft leather to deaden the sounded as they moved against each other. He crept closer and readied his blade.

The dragon shifted, and awoke with a start. It sniffed the air, locked its eyes on the knight and out a blast of flame. The knight leapt forward into it.

The smell of burning flesh hung in the air. The knight stood again, sword plunged deep in the dragon's chest. He took off his smoldering armor then collapsed from exhaustion, knowing himself to be the first dragon slayer.

He awoke the next morning as dawn's light glinted off his glorious new treasure. The hoard seemed so much smaller than he remembered from the night before. He couldn't find the body of the dragon anywhere, but instead only a frail doll that looked just like a tiny man, impaled on a tiny sword... A sword that looked so much like a miniature of the huge blade he had crafted to slay the great beast.

A new smell filled his nostrils. He had never tried to imagine what gold would smell like, but now the scent filled his being. He felt as though his hunger had awaked something inside him that had consumed him whole.

Technically a poem but I count this as both a poem and short story.

Fascinated by westerns recently

(This isn't particularly original or very well written, just a writing exercise.)

The house had grown still, the hum of the day settled into silence. I lingered by my child’s bedside, watching the rhythm of their chest rise and fall under the soft cocoon of blankets. Their voice came suddenly, small yet sharp, slicing through the stillness like the cry of a bird startled in the dark.

“Daddy,” they whispered, “I think there’s someone in my closet.”

My breath hitched, though I wasn’t sure why. The room seemed untouched by anything other than the usual shadows that leaned long across the walls. I forced a smile, rehearsed and hollow. “There’s no one in there,” I said, though my gaze had already shifted to the door, half-cracked open like a mouth withholding secrets.

“Check,” they urged, their voice tinged not with fear, but with certainty—a solemn demand, as though they already knew what I would find.

I crossed the room, the floorboards groaning under my weight. The closet door was cool beneath my fingertips. With a single motion, I flung it wide, bracing for some revelation: a stranger, a shape, a story waiting to unfold.

But there was only emptiness, the void of neatly hung clothes and the faint scent of lavender sachets. No monsters, no intruders. Relief flickered but did not settle. My eyes caught on a scrap of paper pinned to the inside of the door—a strange, almost defiant addition to the barren space.

The handwriting on it was unmistakably mine. She isn’t real.

The words sat like an anchor in my stomach, pulling my thoughts into unsteady waters. I stared at the note, my own script curling mockingly, an echo of something I didn’t recall writing.

Behind me, the child’s breathing was steady, unperturbed. “What does it say?” they asked, their voice oddly detached, like the question wasn’t theirs but belonged to some other, unseen presence.

I crumpled the note in my fist, the paper brittle as old leaves. “Nothing,” I lied, my throat dry.

Turning back, I saw them lying exactly as I had left them, their face serene in the amber light of their bedside lamp. Yet something felt shifted, as if the room had restructured itself in some imperceptible way. Their eyes, half-lidded and heavy, followed me as I moved. “Is she gone?” they asked.

“Who?” I countered before I could stop myself. The question escaped like a reflex, a crack in the armor of reassurance I had been trying to wear.

“The one who watches,” they replied simply, as though the answer was self-evident.

I hesitated, unsure whether I was humoring a child’s dreamscape or stepping into some darker, more deliberate fiction. “She was never here,” I said at last, but even as the words left my mouth, they felt stolen, as if I were reciting them from a script I didn’t understand.

Their lips curled into a faint smile, so faint it barely existed. “Goodnight, Daddy,” they murmured, turning to face the wall.

I left the room, but I didn’t return to my own bed. Instead, I lingered in the hallway, my fingers still gripping the crumpled note. The words blurred under the pressure of my grip. The shadows along the walls seemed to shift, pulsing faintly with an awareness that wasn’t mine.

Hours later, I returned to check on them. I cracked the door open, expecting the quiet rise and fall of sleep. But the bed was empty, the blankets undisturbed, the air heavy with an unspoken absence.

Inside the closet, the note hung again, pristine and uncrumpled. This time, there was a second line scrawled beneath the first.

You told me she wasn’t real. So why can I see her?

The handwriting wasn’t mine.

I awoke to find myself lying on a cold, hard floor, disoriented and confused. My head throbbed as I tried to piece together where I was and how I had gotten there. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a computer in the corner of the room, its screen glowing with the familiar title screen of Geometry Dash, specifically the level "Stereo Madness."

Before I could fully process my surroundings, a synthetic voice boomed from the walls, sending a chill down my spine.

"Welcome," the voice intoned coldly. "Three of your family members have been captured and are being held in this facility. To save their lives, you must complete the level 'Stereo Madness' on your first try. Each coin you collect will save one of them. Fail to complete the level, and they will all die. You have no second chances."

The back wall, previously white and opaque, suddenly turned transparent. Through the glass, I could see my father, mother, and sister, each restrained under a separate guillotine. The sight was horrifying, and my heart raced as I realised the gravity of the situation.

The computer screen flickered, and the game started automatically. My hands trembled as I positioned myself over the button, my fingers hovering above it. I was tense and sweaty, but I knew I had to remain calm to increase my chances of success. I had played this level countless times, and I needed to rely on that experience now.

The music began, and I focused intently on the screen. I dodged the first few obstacles with ease, my movements becoming more fluid as I fell into a rhythm. The first coin appeared, and I collected it almost automatically, my mind and fingers working in perfect sync. The second coin followed, and I managed to grab it as well, my confidence growing.

The third coin loomed ahead, and I felt a surge of fear. This was the coin I usually failed to get. The risk was too high. I made a split-second decision to avoid it, focusing instead on completing the level. My heart pounded as I navigated the final obstacles, and with a final, precise jump, I crossed the finish line.

The game ended, and the screen displayed "Level Complete." I turned around, my breath hitching in my throat. I heard a sickening 'thunk' as the guillotine over my father's head activated. His lifeless body fell to the ground, and I felt a wave of grief and guilt wash over me. But then, the guillotines over my mother and sister remained inactive, and they were freed.

A door on the orthogonal wall opened, revealing a busy street. The noise of the city was a stark contrast to the silent, oppressive room. Overwhelmed with emotions, I slumped down to the floor and started sobbing uncontrollably. My mother and sister, in shock, rushed to my side. They helped me to my feet, and together, we walked unsteadily out the open door, stepping into the bright, chaotic world outside.

Taking Lacanoodles advice I decided to try and work on my favorite of my two recent writing ideas. I tried to write the paragraph summary then a full page. My full page went to about a page and a half but that just means I'm inspired right? I'd love to hear some feedback, its my first time writing again like this in awhile.

Deus Misit (Summary)

On a distant planet, under the light of twin suns, an astronomer and their apprentice make a startling discovery. A new star has risen in the sky. The people of the land take this as a holy sign, a blessing. Until that blessing takes the tangible form of a screaming fireball crashing through the skies and burying itself deep into the ground outside the city of Crux Mbl. As locals investigate the monolithic structure that now looms, they find the impossible. A voice and face not unlike their own. Though it speaks in a way they don’t understand, they cannot deny its beauty and grace. They begin to study it, unaware that what sleeps inside may not be the Gods they imagine.

Deus Misit (Page)

It was brighter now, the star that had appeared in the skies above Crux Mbl. It will be twelve sunrises today, once the Twins ascend into the sky, since the new star appeared causing a stir amongst the sprawling streets below. The first night, it was nearly unnoticed. Only a sole stargazer, an astronomer amongst their people, and their still young apprentice, saw its beginning. The second night, word had spread to other scholars, who made the long journey to the observatory, nestled on a sole butte behind the palace, to confirm this outlandish claim. They left the following morning with stiff lips and distant stares. The third and fourth nights, awareness had spread. Through murmurs in the marketplace, fearful glances cast into the sky at the dot that glows, even through the light of the Twins, or whispers of what was seen through crystal lenses pointed at the heavens. The fifth day came with a proclamation, a recognition of the new light as a blessing from the heavens gracing the face of Crux Mbl. The fears eased and Cruxites now smiled as they stared upwards. The nights leading up to now had been feast after festival, prayer after dance, exultation of the Gods shining their light through one more hole in the darkness. This is not to say all Cruxites felt this way. There were those who still cast eyes on the ominous, creeping glow, with mistrust. The astronomer Pherylindas, and their apprentice, Omus, watched from the domed butte. They watched as the blessing, this holy light, became something far larger than the rest. It became apparent that this star was falling. The pair tried to warn others, but the days of celebration combined with the majestic stupor of the very sky lighting with the bright yellow and orange glow of this falling star had rendered the population deaf. They merely watched, their metallic skin reflecting the splendor that blinded many that day. For a moment everything was still, The Gods had come. No moment can last forever, the stillness broke with a crash that threatened to split the very ground the Cruxites stood, danced, worked, and loved upon. Immediately after the crash came, The Judgement, buildings themselves bowed to the very majesty of the divine vessel that had graced the fields outside Crux Mbl. Recovery took time but was met with fervor. Cries of those that lay under rubble mix with cheers for the priests and scholars who gather to investigate what landed so near to their home. The gates open as a group of eight, all that could be spared from the relief efforts, leave towards the pillar of black smoke. They travel for an hour on foot, not far from the walls, but enough to give one a sense of scale. From this distance Crux is still tall, as a mountain is tall. What stood within the smoke, stood above the mountains, smoke at the top never quite dissipating the way the rest did. It appeared quite like a raindrop, only large portions of it bulged in unnatural ways. Two additional structures appear to be connected by narrow bridges, impossible to have survived such an impact with such fragile architecture. Yet here it stands in the face of those eight who would meet it. Greeting them further, a pale cerulean ghost apparates, as though from a staircase of light from the vessel itself. From the size of the sky, down to one of the Cruxites, it moves in a strange but not unfamiliar way. More shocking yet, it resembles them. Not so in the details, their forms are much straighter, their flesh is an array of golden hues, their eyes are clear orbs aligned vertically in their face, the only facial feature. In fact, the only natural distinguishing feature of these hairless people. Yet this cerulean messenger of the Gods, stands as they do, upon two legs. Waving two arms about a singular torso aligned with a singular head atop. Two of the priests begin to weep as the Messenger speaks, a sound as though water crashing into a great depth, unknowable in its content yet majestic in delivery. Pherylindas and Omus stared at the Messenger, while the priests fell into a blessed stupor. It began to speak again, waving a hand at itself, then the vessel, then all around. Then it flickered once and vanished. The eight return to the perceived safety of the walls of Crux Mbl, however looking back as the gate closes, it is clear the walls offer no protection from the sight of the Gods. Their vessel stands tall, into the clouds, glinting in the bright orange light of Crux In, The Youth, then bathed in the sterile white of Crux Ek, The Elder. The twelfth day has risen of Crux Mbl.

cross-posted from: https://literature.cafe/post/15172722

cross-posted from: https://literature.cafe/post/15172721

cross-posted from: https://literature.cafe/post/15172719

Hey everyone, I am working on a project for a science fiction college class. Initially I wanted to post a couple short stories I had ideas for on here, I still would like to do that. However as I started brainstorming and planning I realized one writing idea was longer form than a short story. So I still would like to post my short story once it is writing but I was wondering how people who write on here tend to actually start their writing, how much planning happens before ink hits paper as it were? Also how much help can newcomers find on Lemmy? I'd like to do a presentation on Lemmy as a resource similar to how reddit is commonly used. Any help would be appreciated!

We all love Calvino. This is one of his great stories.