He covered his eyes with his hand, trying to hide his weakness from those around him. Because of the strange headache, tears streamed from his eyes. The strange headache squeezed his temples, splitting his consciousness into pieces. It was unbearable, it was terrifying. Twisted images tear flesh and bones, and an invisible wave of fear, like a bottomless ocean, engulfs him, convulsing his body. Indifference and cold-bloodedness are once again swept away by a viscous feeling of despair, engulfing his mind like the tenacious tentacles of the abyss. He cannot see it with his own eyes, cannot feel it with his hands, cannot describe it with words. But he knows—it is immeasurably vast, like a shadow watching him from the dark corners of his soul. Every moment, he is forced to imagine it, as if it has become part of his essence. Helplessness pierces him like a sharp blade, making him wonder: if only he could disappear for a while, cease to exist at least for some time, to return here a little rested, to reset. Sensations. His awareness — it is an inevitable, agonizing disease, spreading through his body. Emptiness has long settled inside him, squeezing his organs with its pain and barely bearable weight.
Once again, he wants to sleep, to get lost in an endlessly long dream, where there will be no memories of past murders, of screams, of tears, of grief. Pain brings him back to yet another strange day, which he looks at with disgust and longing. Will he lose consciousness now? Will his spirit finally break? He does not want to lose himself forever—he has not yet had time to comprehend, to understand, to do so much. As if he has the power to change something, yet he feels so helpless. But others can, can’t they? Surely because they are not as ugly as he is? Or do they simply not bear the burden of the darkness that has filled his soul?
The images of several dead bodies involuntarily blur in the darkness, shining through tables and chairs, and the thick sleeves of his shirt, in which he hides his trembling fingers deeper. His eyelids, lips, cheeks — his entire face seems to seize up in convulsions every time shattered skull fragments, a slashed chest, and elongated arms locked in crumpled metal pieces surface before his eyes. The bright light of the lanterns illuminates darkening pools of blood, bone fragments, and silver shimmering in thin sparks. Pealing laughter, quiet and calm voices along with birds' songs replace the fading loud screams and the unpleasant touches on his body.
Are his own actions, deeds, decisions, and thoughts under his control? Will he be able to comprehend, accept, feel anything? What is he talking about now? What is he thinking about? And why does he so badly want to taste that syrup, which holds something forbidden and alluring?
The screech of dense metal against the bottom of a plate echoed a meter away from him, where a girl with thick, furry hair the color of cold fish eyes sat at a nearby table in some ambiguous isolation. Why wasn't she with the other children? Why wasn't anyone helping her eat her dinner? He didn't understand. Why was it so hard for her to hold the fork in one of her tightly bandaged fingers? Her small hand, covered in thin, greenish-gray fur, sometimes dug into the plate of cold food sharply, other times rhythmically.
Once again, she frowned, furrowing her thick brows, barely visible under her dense gray hair, and purposefully stared at a small stub of cucumber. Was it cut so thick on purpose? The fork slipped again from the firm, wet shell of the cucumber, sharply clinking against the bottom of the plate. The small piece of pickled cucumber flew over both tables, briefly leaving a tiny slap on his face. This touch reminded him how close this girl was, how she shared his world, full of fear and loneliness, as if they both were lost in this endless, grim space where only the darkness of the night embraced them.
The girl huddled her shoulders, rounding her large green eyes with sharply narrow pupils like a cat's, as if preparing to cry, just like him. Because of the continuous sharp pain, which occasionally clouded his thoughts, he didn't immediately notice the anxiety hidden in her gaze — the look of a child who had grown up in an instant. Trying to smile at her casually, though not understanding how to do it right, he was still gifted with her smile in return, even if it was worried, it was still a smile. And in that moment, he understood the reason why she was alone today. No one had ever smiled at her. Honestly. From the heart. Unfortunately, he didn't have such a heart.
It began to seem as though, somehow, he had ended up in a village. Maybe that was actually the case. He didn't even remember how many kilometers away the nearest city center was. He didn't remember, or perhaps he didn't know the name of this place, this street, or this shelter. He was simply invited here by kind witnesses to feed him and care for his unhealthy appearance, which, against the backdrop of the other passersby, probably stood out quite a bit. Tall dark trees with thick green leaves surrounded the visible stretch of the highway and the building, their branches swaying in the cool breeze. The dense grass crumpled beneath his shoes. In his ears, there was a soft, prolonged spark, as if swallowing his gift to hear the surrounding world.
He looked closely at the thickly sinking night fog and, among the tall old trees, noticed his own reflection in the distance. It looked like a black, hopeless shadow, sitting at the same black, small table. Both hands were on the table, and the legs were awkwardly tucked back. The shadowy figure stared in his direction for a long time, and he understood that. It was looking directly at him, occasionally glancing at the girl, in front of whom for some reason he felt very ashamed... or perhaps guilty? His breath was caught for long moments, and a cold terror seized him. This unknown black silhouette had been with him on that mountain. On that beach. It had always followed him, like a shadow, relentlessly reminding him of every missed moment and every hidden fear. It was becoming harder to look away. What if it attacks now? Attacks like it did back then, when hope no longer could exist?
Looking at the girl, he feels how the infinite abyss of his inaction devours her innocence. She doesn't even know how cruel the world is, how dangerous it is to be alone. He wants to say something to her, but the words get stuck in his throat, driven by the fear of his own shadow—a fear he never managed to overcome.
Usually, a minute, two, five, or a little more passes before he decides to do something. Constant fear, anxiety, and perhaps embarrassment paralyze his actions. But now his feet slowly step through the grass. His gaze falls to her plate, to the sausage and cheese, resembling an improvised jellyfish, covered by snow-white sea foam on the plate. Watching this cute creation, he convinces himself that he is someone else. Someone else's life, someone else's name, which have nothing to do with him, but which he briefly tries on, to somewhat understand the reality he can barely navigate. He can't understand why the girl only eats vegetables and salad, without touching the meat and bread.
— Do you want to hear the storyteller's story? — he tries to say in a quiet, calm voice, attempting to glance at her softly, harmlessly. He is afraid of becoming a terrifying monster, next to which only troubles and tormenting agony are visible.
He fears scaring this being, ruining the fleeting calmness, which might have been rare in her little life. But at this moment, for a moment, he was able to become another being. And, although he doesn't know what will happen afterward, for some reason, he very much wants to try to help this being overcome its own fear, which it so struggles to carry. Maybe it will help her? Maybe his efforts won't be in vain? He strives to transform the scattered parts of himself and her, allowing something good, wonderful, and favorable to happen. But if this turns out to be insufficient, he will quietly go back to his place and will no longer disturb her, giving up at that very moment. Perhaps much is still unclear. Will something be recreated, preserved, or destroyed? Does it matter? What is the path to finding? Should something change now?
She looks closely, slightly nods, and then stretches her little hand with sharp, short black claws — like a small animal. Does she want to be taken by the hand?
He had found himself here by accident, lost among beings with countless names and thoughts, moving along winding paths to a vast round glade. In its center stood a majestic silhouette, cloaked in a crystal-clear garment that shimmered like water under the bright sun. The fabric resembled coastal cliffs, washed by sea waves, and the drapery, like misty reefs, gently embraced long shoulders, an oval back, and slender knees. Each fold of the mantle shimmered with silver patterns, depicting waves crashing against smooth, beautiful crystals, two meters high, which seemed to guard this magnificence.
These crystals sparkled like stars, transporting him to many different worlds, each of which was full of wonders and mysteries. They surrounded her, creating an aura of divine light and harmony. In the pearl-like stones and rare monochrome minerals on her face, a kind human smile faintly glimmered, capable of dispelling the deepest sorrows. Her white eyes, like two bottomless oceans, were enveloped by centuries-old, tousled white eyelashes, which lowered, as if she were trying to peer into the most secret corners of the world, burdened with a mysterious sorrow that pierced her very being. As he approached once again, he felt warmth emanating from her, like an invisible embrace, wrapping around his wounded body and tormented mind. These rays of light resembled the warmth of a single star, capable of awakening life at dawn, offering hope on the darkest days. But now, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, spreading crimson and pink hues across the sky, which, like a magical drink, enveloped everything around, filling the air with a sense of wonder and the unknown.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
In this strange, almost unreal place, everything seems vast and majestic. The meadows stretch to the horizon, covered with velvety grass and wildflowers, standing out brightly against the evening light. The trees, like giant guardians, rise at the edges of the glade, their branches swaying in the gentle breeze, singing ancient melodies known only to this world. He feels the earth beneath his feet breathing, and the air is saturated with magic, causing his heart to beat faster, as if every moment here is filled with deep meaning.Here, he finds a part of himself, lost in the endless expanses. Flashes of light and shadow blend together, creating magical patterns, and he realizes that perhaps this place is meant for those who seek comfort, hope, and understanding. This is not just a meeting; it is an entry into a world where his existence takes on new meaning, and perhaps it is here that he will find answers to the questions that torment his soul.
But then the darkness approached. The descending star was suddenly interrupted by a mighty comet, piercing the sky and consuming all the colors of the world in an all-encompassing blackness, as if the universe itself had decided to draw a veil over the magic of this moment. Around the storyteller, as if darkness sought to embrace her, the lengthening shadows of her loyal listeners—adults and children, the elderly and the young—gathered. They had all come here to absorb every word, every note of her voice, wishing to hear yet another true story about their world, to learn of a new secret that the universe had hidden from them long ago.
The darkness surrounding them gradually dissipated, lighting up the space with tiny yellow lights emitted from lanterns, which seemed to be struggling against the night. These fireflies illuminated the faces of the listeners, reflecting in their eyes a tremor and expectation, as if the stories themselves were living beings, ready to break free.
The girl next to him resembled a small, timid kitten. Her fur, illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp, turned a dull gray, blending with the shadows around her. She was so fragile and vulnerable, with a round, slightly chubby cheek where beams of light played as they pierced through her long, disheveled locks. On both her hands, one of which was tightly gripping his palm, uncertainty wandered. Her unease felt like a gentle chill running across his skin, and he couldn't shake the thought that her parents still hadn't arrived.
In this world, full of secrets and wonders, waiting could be both a hope and a burden. His heart tightened with concern for this little creature, lost among the dark universe. Around them, even with the growing darkness, the air held a promise: a promise of stories that could change everything, a promise of adventures hiding behind every turn. He felt himself becoming part of this magical moment, breathing life into what once seemed like nothing more than a shadow.
The storyteller's face, like a sculpture crafted from crystals and skin, moved with extraordinary grace, reminding him of the magic of nature itself. Every gesture of hers radiated light and shadow, as if the glowing crystals within her skin played with the rays of the setting sun, reflecting and refracting them into a kaleidoscope of hues—ranging from deep emerald to shimmering amber. Her eyes, large and white, like two enigmatic crystals, flickered in the light of the lanterns, reminiscent of sunbeams breaking through dense foliage. When she turned her head, the crystalline facets of her face sparkled, emitting refracted light that danced on the faces of her listeners, hypnotizing and plunging them into a trance.
With every movement of the storyteller, her face didn't just change—it seemed to breathe, creating a faint whisper, as if countless small crystals were gliding against each other. This sound was like the distant echo of a mountain stream, flowing through crystal-clear brooks, bringing with it freshness and mystery. The light shades on her skin, where she appeared more vulnerable, would suddenly shift into deep, dark shadows when her voice grew lower, more resonant, and penetrating to the core. Every expression of her face reflected not just the words, but emotions, forming an incredible ensemble where crystals and skin, light and darkness, life and history melded into one.
"Fates of the Titans: Legends of Hoshi"
"In ancient times, when the stars had not yet found their familiar positions on the celestial map, one of the ancient peoples of Hoshi called this rare phenomenon 'the black sun.' According to their legend, before an inevitable catastrophe was to occur in our world, the small goddess of the sun, majestic and fragile, swallowed a giant asteroid, home to the three Primordial Titans. With each such act, the sun darkened, filling the world with the grim shadow of corruption—a terrible curse brought by these earliest beings in the universe.
The rebirth of the oldest Titan, embodying the very essence of existence, was a mystery. He remained bound to his native asteroid, watching the happenings among hundreds of other asteroids and comets, among stars and planets. Of his family, he was the most enigmatic, the most powerful and dangerous. In his silent contemplation, he rarely intervened in the affairs of mortals, only discreetly watching over his middle brother and younger sister, like a shadow guarding its sleep.
The rebirth of the middle Titan, embodying the boundless expanses of nature and its uncontrollable currents of quintessence, once again disrupted the order of the universe. His infinitely long human spine brushed against planets, destroying them and leaving scars on the cosmic canvas. Giant sharp vertebrae, tearing through space, would sometimes break off from his neck, transforming into new planets, new worlds, and wondrous phenomena. Creation and destruction contradicted each other, stubbornly opposing one another, sowing fragments of chaos wherever the middle Titan went, leaving traces as a memory of his presence.
The youngest of the brothers, the rebirth of the youthful heart of Titanida, embodying life itself, radiated light like the morning sun breaking through thick clouds. It was said that she was the closest to us, to our desires and fears. Often, when her brother tore worlds apart, she hurried to aid, restoring the planets destroyed by the middle Titan, bringing back the stars that he had scattered, healing the scars he left. She sowed life where no intelligent being had ever set foot. From her essence came knowledge and powers that allowed life to never cease, like a river flowing endlessly.
But one day, our God, our Mother, descended into this world. When chaos turned the Titans into horrible madness, and even the merciful Titanida lost faith in her soul, our mother Helvia cast them as far from our home planet as possible, protecting our existence. Since those ancient times, no one has ever witnessed their approach. Yet, even after many centuries, faith in them still flickers in the hearts of devoted servants, like a spark of hope, glimmering in the night, ready to illuminate the darkness.
The story of this struggle, tearing worlds and fates apart like the echo of an ancient sound, continues to live in our consciousness, in every whisper of the wind, in every ripple of water. And perhaps, one day, light will once again overcome darkness, and the black sun will become only a legend, told by campfires, in the shadow of the stars."
— What will happen if they return one day? — he asked, hoping to catch her response. The storyteller, barely tilting her head, nodded. Her wide silver cloak fell, framing her figure. In that moment, he tried to peer into her face, hidden in the folds of velvet fabric and beneath the hanging precious minerals that shimmered with a mystic blue light, like fireflies in the dark. But his efforts proved futile; between his consciousness and her image, an invisible magical veil appeared, as if protecting her from his gaze, leaving only a mysterious silhouette, full of secrets and intrigue.
"The moment when their sharp claws will finally tear apart the last boundary between our reality and the bottomless abyss of existence approaches with inevitable certainty. These ancient entities, embodying chaos, destruction, and renewal, will lead to the collapse of the familiar order, like a cosmic symphony disrupting the harmony of existence. In their presence, the world will witness a catastrophe that will not only annihilate but also prepare the ground for a new birth.
Their arrival marks the end of one cycle and the beginning of another, like the phases of the moon that rise and set, repeating with relentless precision. They carry the symbolism of spiritual rebirth — the death of the old, to make way for the new. Their fusion, like an intricate dance, will fill the cosmos with boundless chaos, from which new forms of life and consciousness will emerge, previously unknown to any being.
This destruction will be an initiation, awakening unknown forces and potentialities hidden in the depths of the universe. Each of their actions is not merely annihilation but a reformation of the very fabric of reality, like fate's threads being rewoven, leading to new horizons. In the chaos they represent, the seed of the future ripens, where every new breath will be the result of their dark, yet necessary influence.
With their arrival, the world will plunge into darkness, but behind this darkness lies light — the possibility of a new beginning, a fresh view of existence that can only arise after the complete destruction of old illusions. Thus, they become symbols of the eternal cycle of existence, reminding us that even in the deepest chaos, life begins to emerge, ready to take its place in the boundless spaces of the universe."
The story still stretched on like a long silk thread, unwilling to draw to a close. Questions poured in one after another, cutting through the air and filling the space with a living curiosity, from both the adults and the young listeners. In his half-drowsy state, he often lost track of the essence of what was happening, only occasionally catching vivid details, like the bright sparks of insects gently landing on the shoulders of those present.
Beside him sat a girl, already immersed in the world of dreams, her rough little head resting against his arm. He was pleased to realize that he had given her a part of this fascinating time, even though her parents hadn't come to collect her. Wasn't this story a bit too strange for children? But here, among these unusual children, the ordinary had become something special.
He wanted to close his eyes and drift into a sweet sleep, but the time hadn't come yet. He had to wait until the caretaker came to take the girl away, and only then could he rest. This short, yet remarkable story seemed as though it was about to end... right... now...