From Tower Tops to Tinker's Roads
Issue #2 đ¤ Thursday Roundup!𪢠June 5, 2025
Welcome to another issue of đ¤ Thursday Roundup!đŞ˘, where I scour the vast library that is Substack trying to find new writers and new stories.
This week I hope youâll enjoy what Iâve found.
Our First story tonight is âThe Final Battle of Atlantisâ by Dan Chaput, one of the fabulous Krynn Brothers.
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Taking a deep sigh and looking up, the world was falling apart, as pieces of large buildings were tumbling down. Skyscrapers reaching the heavens, now sinking to the depths in an act of God. The youth, no more than 14 years, with his silver light armour that adorns his chest, belt, legs and boots, with a vivid blue bodysuit of energy that is shown he picked himself back up with a grunt from the ground, seeing the world that he knew and grew up with being eradicated from the world. And why? Because of him. The boyâs brown, messy hair had the sides of his hair with the same blue hue of his bodysuit, as an effect of the energy powering the armour, with the silver circlet on his head with a shining gem on the front, he scrunched his nose, and the rage that was the only possession he had left in this world. (to continue, click here.)
The next story is by Joshua T Calkins. âHeavy is the crown,â is a story all about Bowser from Super Mario Brothers.
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Prince Renoit reviewed the missive again, nodded to himself, and tucked it away in a desk drawer. For the time being, there was nothing to be done for it. He had his orders from Father, and he would see them carried out, even if he didn't like them. He knew his role in this war.
Timing is everything, he thought. I'll give it one full day. He was just pulling out his roster book when Meechum knocked on the open door and saw himself in. He had donned his finest suit of ceremonial armor, leaving weapons aside for Princess Peach's visit. This was supposed to be a diplomatic meeting, another round of negotiations. Renoit had been asked to handle this meeting as Peach had requested a visit to the Empire's clever master engineer, a young man named Bowser Entem.
He didn't want to tell Bowser anything about the missive, and in the past, he might not have felt any twinge of guilt for withholding information from his comrades. Yet he had become quite fond of the oversized mutant koopa, enough so to find he didn't like keeping quiet. But orders were orders, including the one to stay quiet.
"The Princess will be coming soon, lordship," Meechum said. "I've instructed all but the Shadow agents to disarm and make themselves presentable. Some of the guards are voicing their distaste for the order rather loudly."
"Did they disarm?"
"If by that you mean 'put their weapons out of immediate reach', then yes. But they've tucked them all in hideaways close to hand. They're all tense, nervous, and I don't blame them. Peach has a lot of bodyguards."
"How many will be entering the castle proper?"
"Six," said Meechum. "One of our people in the village has described their movement as a 'compass plus' formation, though I don't know what that means."
"Douard's 'Royal Lights' formation," Renoit said, and Meechum nodded. "I know, this new language is hard to keep up with sometimes." He stood up, stretched his arms behind his back. "Bowser is ready?"
"He is. The head smithy had one hell of a time adjusting the armor for him. Almost scrapped it for the orc armor in the Trophies Room." Meechum snickered, shook his head. "The scary thing is, that would fit perfect." A comfortable silence fell between the two men, a duo that would frankly have never worked together, were it not for the astonishing young man who'd crossed their fates together. Meechum's smile faded. "He's a man now."
"He certainly hasn't been a child in a long time, if ever," Renoit added. "It could be worse. At least he's got wits. All that raw physical power, and the mechanical aptitude. Can you imagine if he had no control of himself?" Meechum shuddered, and took his leave. (To continue, click here.) To go to chapter one, click here.
From Bowser, we go to a space battle. The Porwia Incident, by C.P. Night tells the story of a princess learning to be a soldier to protect her people.
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Serinaâs stomach lurched when she heard the command to halt. The officerâs deep voice cut through the high-pitched sounds of the launchers and the ever-present hum of the force field keeping them safe from the vacuum of space. She wanted to keep jogging toward the ship as if she hadnât heard the order. But her duty was to obey. The flight instructor, just ahead, waited and tapped her foot, annoyed at the delay. Sheâd fly, even if she had to wait a few more minutes because the Deck Officer had something to say.
âAttention!â said the Deck Officer.
Serina snapped into position, standing straight, arms tight against her sides, eyes facing forward. Her body felt pulled toward the Lern fighter ship, like she was standing on a spring ready to let go. At the edge of her vision, she could see the flight instructor pacing.
âJunior Cadet Starfire,â the Deck Officer said. âYou are to follow Lieutenant Jord to a new training assignment.â He pointed to a young officer standing to his left. âImmediately.â
âBut Sir! Iâm up for flight prep now.â She waved her head toward the list on a large holodisplay hovering in the air behind him. As she looked, her name disappeared as the one below it took its place.
The Deck Officer stepped closer to her and tilted his head down. âAre my lips moving?â
She felt the warm air from his breath puff her bangs, even though he towered over her small frame.
âAre the words I used too difficult for you to understand? Or do you think your status entitles you to question a superior officer?â
Behind her, she heard snickering from the other cadets. They broke into a low chant of âIâm a princess!â
She set her jaw. Stood perfectly still.
The Deck Officer glared at them and the sounds stopped. Though she never remembered saying âIâm a princess,â they mocked her with it frequently.
âNo, sir,â she said, swallowing. Her face flushed. Her eyes watered. She focused on the Core insignia on the Deck Officerâs chest, following the stitches around the round outer border that enclosed ten segments radiating from a solid gold circle in the middle.
âWhy are you still here? I said immediately,â he barked at her.
âYes, sir!â In her hurry to follow orders, she nearly ran into her escort. (to continue, Click here.)
âAfter me,â by Lauran Salas tells the story of life after death.
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Itâs a commonly-held belief that death is an end to all your worldly troubles. Or, depending on what you did in life it could be the beginning of a whole new, arguably worse, set of troubles.
Me? It didnât leave me with any kind of peace, but it sure as hell left me with a whole lot of regrets, every single one acting like an anchor keeping me moored here. People are terrified of Hell, but as far as Iâm concerned that pales in comparison to being stuck in a world youâre no longer part of with nothing but all your fuck-ups for company. Thatâs way worse than any lake of fire could ever hope to be.
Thinking about it, this is why a lot of ghosts wail.
All I didâââall I could doâââwas watch the world go on without me. Not that anyone missed me all that much since I burned every bridge I had; family, friends, you name it. Pretty sure my eulogy was something like âWe knew itâd end this way. Stupid son of a bitch pushed us away at every turn, so eventually we stopped trying. Nothing of value was lost.â
Thatâs definitely what I would have said about me. (To continue, click here.)
âPrime Suspectâ by Victor Jimenez, is the story about a mechanic on a solar array that has to figure out why itâs breaking.
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he solar panels stretched out as far as Ray's eyes could see. One, somewhere to the left, had failed, marked in angry red on Ray's tablet.
No big deal but this was the one, two, three... seventh in as many days. He squinted at the picture on the screen, a little puzzled. It was panel 'G' in the row. Ray realized the number of the failure matched the letter.
He got a little excited. His right hand waved back and forth in front of his face. He told the map to display the previous problems. He scowled at the result.
The first three made a diagonal line, then a row of panels was skipped. An issue, another skipped row, three skipped rows and then this one. This was the thirteenth row. He couldnât figure out where the next one was going to fail.
Ray adjusted his rebreather hood, checked his shoes and put his tablet into the toolbox. Adjusting his grip on the long handle, he marched off the cement pad and onto the crunchy red sand. There were some special plants along the way, a new one with tiny purple flowers. He dropped down to study it, to make sure he drew it right later. An alarm went off, to remind him he was in the middle of doing something.
Momentarily confused, he remembered the panel and picked up the toolbox to go fix the problem. He had to hurry. He had to call his primary caregiver to check in and let them know he still wanted this job. They tended to get a little upset if he was late.
He counted down the rows to the right one and turned to march along the length until he got to the panel in question. A glance revealed the problem. The superconducting cable that was supposed to connect to the converter was missing. Just gone, all the way from the panel to the coupler on the ground where the main power cable ran.
At least this one was easy to fix. He usually had to open up the different boxes on the panel and check each one. There had been something missing each time. The first few times, he went back to his station and picked up the piece. Now he carried spares for the components that were replaceable, to save time. He could almost rebuild the entire controller if he had to. (To continue, click here.)
âThe Forrester and the child,â by Ian Dunmore A tale from another time and place, of when a ranger saved the next aristocrat.
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First the forester heard the noise, then he smelled blood.
Past the slumbering sycamores and over the boulders the middle-aged wanderer slipped. Mid-spring, scant foliage this early. Stars above cast the shape of every branch, twig, and budding leaf upon the carpet of rotting leaves that muffled the foresterâs steps. His coat sat over his shoulders tied by the sleeves like a cloak. A green wool scarf covered the bottom half of his face like an outlaw. His right hand held his bow and he nocked an arrow as he ran.
A half-mile down the slope he met the dirt road running through the pass.
There lay the ambush victims.
From the edge of the woodsâ umbrage the forester waited and watched. A cold wind blew. The canopy swayed then stopped, its shadows returning to stillness.
Horses and men, the whole entourage slain. The dead lay unlooted. Several had bullet wounds. Not the work of highwaymen.
In the midst of the carnage stood a coach, the driver reared back in his seat in a frozen rictus. The coach door ripped open, the cabin inside pitch dark.
The forester approached, bow in hand.
A gentlewoman sat dead within, but a dark bloodtrail led out and into the woods.
Someone had survived.
The noise began again.
The forester followed the path into the undergrowth. The canopy scattered the light so he went by the broken foliage and came at last to a small clearing.
She lay in its center in a bed of tallgrass and yarrow. The starlight whispered upon her fine dress and her hair gathered in a net. A sheen of sweat made her cheeks and forehead shine. Her dark blood had gone everywhere: the grass, her dress, her marble-white skin. Her eyes were not quite shut, but looked down softly and eternally at the bundle embraced against her bosom. Her lips were parted as though to whisper one final sweetness.
The bundle was crying. Tiny fists flailed in the cold air. Toothless mouth open, tongue quivering with each frightful wail. (To continue, click here.)
âThe Fate of Omegaâ by Harold Ember. This is the story of a lost seed ship.
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The scout took note of his coordinates. He had been searching for close to three months, and now he had finally found the seed ship, Omega. He leaned back in his chair, taking in his momentous achievement. He reached for his canteen of Europa Brandy, savoring the emotions coursing through him as he took a swig.
Over five hundred and fifty years ago, Omega and its sister ship, Alpha, had set off on their voyage to Terra III. Twin seed ships, their purpose was to colonize the planet. One larger seed ship would normally have been sent, like when Terra II, Ganymede, and The Moon had been colonized, but as scouting had shown few places for a large metropolis, two smaller ships had been sent to start twin colonies on the mostly archipelagic, tropical southern hemisphere.
However, during their flight, Omega had gone silent, and any attempts at communications were unsuccessful. Many tried to find what had happened to it and their friends and family, but itâs fate remained a mystery, despite searching the rout and all surrounding areas. Finally, after seven years of searching and no success, all missions to find it were called off as the survivors needed to focus on building up the sole colony.
Five hundred and fifty seven years later, after Terra IV and V had been colonized and Terra III was a populated and booming planet, Edwin had asked permission to start another search for it. And now, he had finally found it. It was close to seventy million miles off course in an asteroid field. Torn in two, it truly was a stunning sight. The cause of its destruction could not be determined from this point. Not having the scanners needed to do an extensive scan of Omega, heâd have to get closer to find out. Disembarking from his shuttle, and telling his partner in this venture to wait for him, he left the shuttle behind as he drifted over to the abandoned seed ship. (To continue, click here.)
âThe Strangerâ by M.S. Olney is the story of a young trainee that finds a Aldarin.
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As nightfall draped itself over the verdant expanse of the Green, the echoes of merriment and boisterous festivities permeated the air, wafting all the way up to Fin, the young Deputy. Perched high in his sentry post, he was a solitary figure, staring longingly at the party that was unfolding in the distant village. Chiding himself, he sighed heavily and shook his head.
âDuty before pleasure,â he reminded himself, âIf Iâm to rise to the rank of Protector, duty must take precedence.â
A tall young man barely out of his teenage years, his oversized cloak hung loosely from his broad shoulders. The weight of the sheathed sword at his hip served as a constant reminder of his responsibility. The sword was yet to see battle. Only he and Drydan, the far more seasoned Protector, bore such weapons â a privilege or burden, depending on how one looked at it. Arcadia, their tranquil hamlet, had been a haven of peace for as long as anyone could remember, any troubles and tribulations having transpired well before his lifetime.
Drydan, his mentor, would often be at the receiving end of Finâs relentless inquisition about the fabled Thornshade attack of decades prior. But the Protector remained steadfast in his silence, often sharing only a nugget of wisdom â âThereâs no glory in violence. Unsheathe your sword only in defence of the weak, never yearn for strife.âFin, brimming with youthful idealism, found it hard to believe. To stand as a beacon of hope, a hero âto the villagers, surely there was some allure, some thrill that came with it, he reasoned. (To continue, click here.)
âThe Beacon,â by Richard Ritenbaugh, is a short story about a rather peculiar singing tinkerer.
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Bumping westward along the rutted road, a small, enclosed wagon approached the farming town of Shipton in southwestern Margonne. An undersized red-brown mule pulled the wagon, generously painted a bright lemon-yellow and ornamented with words, figures, and shapes in various shades of red, blue, and green. As it negotiated the many bumps, dips, and rocks in the well-traveled and poorly maintained road, it swayed dangerously, setting off a cacophony of clinks and clangs that often continued until the next uneven patch of sun-hardened dirt.
Above this riot of color and sound sat an old man, olive-skinned and deeply tanned despite the vast straw hat that covered him from shoulder to shoulder. One of his calloused hands loosely held the muleâs reins, as neither steering nor encouragement was necessary at the moment, while he slowly raised the other toward the sunny blue sky above him in time with the lengthened final note of the love song he sang. Abruptly, he concluded the note and bowed from his waist to his adoring, non-existent audience.
âThank you! Thank you, my beautiful people!â he shouted as if trying to be heard above the din of applause. He smiled broadly and raised his hat, nodding right and left. âThank you! You are right: âThe Ballad of the Lonely Seamstressâ is an amazing composition and an emotional feast! What else would you expect from the heart of the Master Bard, Noacheen Ensello! Thank you!â (to continue, click here.)
âAtop the Tower Darkly" by J.R. Logan is the story about two wizards and a dragon in Toledo.
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Curt and Emily stopped at an intersection. Cars along the road had stopped. Traffic lights had gone out. People looked up and out over the city's valleys of steel and stone. Between the buildings, a shadow flew above.
Scattered around the city, the heroes of Toledo watched the sky above. Few, if any, could fly. Both wizards could feel the magical presence of a dragon. Curt looked out the window of the car. "We need to get up high."
Emily leaned into his lap to get a better look. "The Tower," Emily said.
One of the tallest buildings in the city is the Tower on the Maumee. It had an open view of the river. Curt shook his head. "Fight a dragon in the historic district?"
"We could try talking first," Emily said.
"It might ignore us," Curt said.
"We have to do something. Itâs a dragon and we're the only wizards in town," Emily said.
Atop the Tower building, Emily cast a protection spell on the roof. She Hoped the dragon fire wouldn't burn through. "This seems like a bad idea," Emily said. Now looking at the roof top.
"Ya think. Building security was not happy to let us up here. No fighting. We only talk," Curt said
The Dragon circled the Uptown. A rolling back out in the air as the magical energy of the dragon disrupted technology. Hero control tried to slow down the response. Nothing had happened yet. Not that anyone could get to the Dragon.
"A dragon was flying over the city, Curt thought. Minding its own business. Really, what could go wrong? He listened to the hero radio traffic. Then, he called in his position on the rooftop.
Emily stood back as Curt undid his ponytail. The wind changed around him. She could feel the lay line along the river supply the needed mana. With a crack of light, the bass guitar appeared in his hand. Lights on the roof top blinked out. It seemed the world became very quiet. The wind stopped as reality readied to bend to a wizard's will. (To continue, click here.)
The last tale for this week is âAladdin and the Marvelous Lampâ by Daniel W. Davidson. This is a wonderful retelling of the tale.
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Once upon a time, a city of the Chagatai Khanate stood perched atop a ridge overlooking the wind-swept sands of the Taklamakan Desert. The city was a halt for merchants and pilgrims traversing the ancient roads that crisscrossed the grassy steppes and rugged plateaus that lay between the eastern and westernmost limits of the known world.
The ruler of the city was a benevolent but rather dissolute sultan, who traced his lineage to TemĂźjin the Great, but had not inherited the Conquerorâs bellicosity or competency in the saddle. The city abutted territories subject to the Son of Heaven, but was far removed from the lands of the Abbasid Caliph in Baghdad.
In the clothiersâ quarter (behind the reeking tanneries) there lived a poor tailor named Mustafa, who earned barely enough to provide for his wife and only child, a boy whom the venerable imam of the mosque had proposed naming Aladdin, since the phrase in Arabic meant âNobility of Faith.â Mustafa thought this was a wonderful name. So he kissed his sonâs brow and said, âI am your father, Aladdin.â
The tailor was already old when Aladdin was born and had no time to raise his son properly. So the child grew up without direction and acquired many bad habits. He was stubborn, willful, and disrespectful toward his mother. And as soon as he was old enough to escape her supervision, he started sneaking outside each morning to play with the vagabonds in the street. He became their leader and bullied the younger boys into stealing things on his behalf.
When Aladdin was of the age to learn a trade, Mustafa brought him into the workshop to teach him how to be a tailor. But the child was uninterested in learning a profession he derided as beneath his dignity. He would yawn and pull silly faces to mock his father when he tried to teach him how to handle a needle and thread. Mustafa scolded Aladdin, which only emboldened the lad. And when his father became ill, the so-called âNobility of Faithâ did not seem to care. (To continue, Click here.)
Thank you.
This is such a fantastic idea! It's really wonderful to see Fiction being showcased in this way... đ