Kraken Blood

Kraken blood tattoos cast soft blue light on the pirate captain’s brandy. Once, he’d boasted of the monster he’d slain for that ink. How his crew’s appraising eyes had gleamed at the swirling designs!

But the stolen blood he wore turned the ocean against him. Fearing a curse, his crew cast him overboard with two worn coins and a bottle of spirits. Unable to drown him, the waves spat him ashore.

His untouched liquor glimmers like moonlight on forlorn seas. He pulls his sleeves down, masking the glow, as he coughs up brine.

The kraken had defeated him after all.

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Hey Psst

The voice overwhelmed us. It was not just a sound, but a force, pounding our skulls like a sonic rockslide. The earth itself had spoken.

“Hey, you wanna buy some cubes?”

I balked and fumbled my sword as the mossy hill above the maze of stone blocks before us rose and met my gaze.

“Wh—“ I stammered.

“Homemade,” the titan interjected.

Our valiant crusade was over. We’d been wrong; there was no demon god, just a hermit craftsman the size of a cliff.

I swallowed. “How much for, erm, one? One cube?”

“Ŝ̶̨̗Ẽ̵͈V̵̲̪̾Ë̸̞͇́͝Ņ̸̀̑,” it intoned, and my company’s horses fled.

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Jar of Seeds

I keep a jar of seeds near the window, where the morning light makes the glass glisten. My mother used to do the same.

When I was young, anything different was embarrassing. “It’s weird!” I’d say.

“It’s an offering," she’d answer, winking. “For wandering spirits, in case they’re hungry.”

She died last winter. My grief had melted, slowly, with the snow.

In the spring, I put out seeds of my own, thinking of her smile.

Summer arrived, and when my jar earned the attention of a small bird my mother's wisdom became clear.

The bird ate well, and I laughed.

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Socks

I stirred, the morning's chill waking me. Clear dew dotted my web. I shivered. Socks, that's what I needed! Four pairs.

I found two pairs, but each set was a different color. I searched my other hideaways and scavenged a third unique pair. No matching today; how about a fourth set, one for each pair of feet? Or, I could be mad as a wasp, and match none of them at all!

No. That wasn't me. But wait, what if...?

I hunted down more stockings, three unpaired, and chittered happily. I’d made a rainbow, a color wheel, on my feet!

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Long Black Hair

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I saw the head of long, black hair just long enough to know it wasn’t a trick of my eyes. A child had darted between the motionless cars ahead of me.

I parked along the sidewalk and stepped from my sedan into the flickering orange glow of a street lamp. My gently humming engine and the click-click of my hazards were the only echoing sounds on the dark street.

“YOU’RE NOT MY DAD,” came a scream directly behind me.

I jumped, whirled around. There was the girl, blurring into the fog. She struggled against an unseen hand, then vanished. Gone.

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Taste the Clouds

Omaka gazed across the dunes to distant, shimmering cliffs. Heat rippling off the sand disoriented her, nauseated her, but Omaka smiled. Soon, she would see skygliders above her.

Gliding hadn't yet reached her snowy homeland. Her people were too large, there were no thermals to ride upon, and the blizzards mocked liftoff towers. Tundra life had little room for soaring with sun-owls.

Yet, Omaka had heard rumors of a new wing design. A stronger wing design.

The distorted cliffs looked distant, but so had the sky, once. Soon, Omaka would taste the clouds, and tell her siblings of their flavor.

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Mother’s Job

Mother's job fascinated me.

I craved insight into her daily routine, but when I asked about it, she'd sigh, avoiding my eyes. "I'm tired, sweetie. Can't we talk about something else?"

It was our routine — I’d ask about the cloning facility, she'd change the subject. "Maybe when you're older," she'd assure me.

Today, she startled me with an overlong hug. "Don't go outside," she ordered.

On TV, the news segment's banner read: "Synth-humans' Rights Bill Overturned: Wave of Violence Follows."

She cried into my neck and apologized for never telling me.

"I just wanted a daughter of my own."

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The Caves

I climbed into the caves to talk to god. The caves spoke their own language, one I didn’t understand.

Stalactites dripped steadily, accenting my footfalls, and a throbbing hum from the depths beckoned me. Deeper. The corridor warmed steadily until the still heat drew beads of sweat from my brow. Echoing tunnels carried the sound of rushing water, yet were as dry as the desert far above. Still I was alone.

Finally, I found the monolithic crystals.

Their thrum muted all other sound in the cavern, and the only voice I could hear was the one in my head.

Mine.

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The Sunsetter Retractable Awning

“The Sunsetter Retractable Awning is a great deal!” the smiling woman said.

I squinted up through the afternoon sun at her. I didn’t like her unwavering stare or her gameshow-host grin. Was I being advertised to?

“The Sunsetter Retractable Awning!” she repeated. It was like someone had remixed a sales pitch and sent it at me piecemeal in a yellow floral dress.

"I'm not really interested," I tried.

Her hand twitched. "You'll love the Sunsetter Retractable Awning!"

I left, but the words never did. They played through my thoughts over and over. The Sunsetter Retractable Awning. I still hear them.

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Among the Whispers

My sister’s nightly episodes worry me. This morning, when her head of baby-soft brown hair came bouncing downstairs cheering “cereal!”, I wondered at her wakefulness. She'd been pacing all night.

I first noticed the behavior two weeks ago. She shuffled in circles, whispering to the invisible visitors that had come to haunt her. She used to argue, but that made her afraid.

Tonight, I crept toward her door to investigate. Candelight flickered within.

The voices I didn’t recognize outnumbered the one I did.

She cried softly. Among the whispers, I heard my name. Then she sobbed harder, and said, “okay."

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Upside-Down Caramel Macchiato

“Venti, iced, upside-down caramel macchiato with soy, two pumps vanilla, six shots!” I roared into the throng.

A frail woman, hunched with age, manifested from the mob of excited high schoolers. She waited expectantly behind the counter.

I hesitated. The ticket hadn't included a name. "Caramel macchiato?"

The woman nodded and accepted the indulgent drink. She stuck a straw through the lid and, eyes drooping, immediately worked her way through the coffee. I eyed her as another barista slid her a second drink seconds after.

I clocked out fifteen minutes later, ignoring the ten empty, 26-ounce cups she'd left behind.

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Po Wai Strand

Selisday is the day my friends and I venture to the blue-white shores of Po Wai Strand. The rocks there look like small, dark grey turtles, which we arrange in complicated mandalas until the beach is barren but for our glyphs.

We pretend we’re golems, lumbering down from the mountains to fulfill some inscrutable purpose left to us by the Ancient Spirits. We giggle and insist to passerby we didn’t make the shapes.

Still, I’ve never figured out how each time we return, the rocks have been scattered again, nestled in the sand as if they’d been there for years.