Short Stories

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.

You probably remember this, many have read this already

Do check this out!

A 2 minute read but quite nice

This is why I love short stories.