🤠It's a Thursday Roundup!🪢

Issue #1 - May 22, 2025

Welcome to the inaugural issue of “It’s a Thursday Roundup!” In this issue, I’ll introduce you to Substack fiction writers who don’t get mentioned very often, in addition to those we already know. Unlike the 💗Thorny Thursdays, 🌹which were mainly romance stories, 🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢will be a more general variety style of newsletter. There will be more than just romance stories; you can expect Science Fiction, Western, Fantasy, and anything that might have caught my attention. If something is deemed “not safe for work,” I’ll let you know.

Now that we’ve got housekeeping out of the way, let’s get this rodeo started.

First up, we’ve got:

“The Jarl’s Son - Chapter 16 -2” by D.S. Brandt. (Fantasy) This story follows the Marten, the Jarl’s Son, as he attempts to set his world right. This is a Gauir the WolfMother story, in which the WolfMother has mostly been absent.

⚔️

Bellowing out his fury with a bone-shaking roar, the Foe-Breaker ripped the dirk from his shoulder and pitched it back at Marten as he charged. The sharp blade spun through the air, cutting a shallow arc toward Marten’s chest. Deftly, he deflected the spinning dagger with the boss of his splintered shield, breaking the smaller blade’s tip. He then dodged and swung right, narrowly avoiding his enemy’s crushing blow as the end of his broadsword bit into the kidnapper's flank.

The ash-skinned goliath, that savage beast in the shape of a man, growled upon being cut. Wheeling on Marten, he swung his meaty fists in a chaotic flurry. It wasn’t unlike men brawling in Halvfjord’s mead hall after a few too many drinks, save that none of the drunken louts back home possessed the unholy strength to grapple with a greatwolf and win. One good hit from Halvar might be enough to break his bones, or worse.

Maintaining a defensive stance, Marten did his best to keep distance between himself and the Foe-Breaker. His enemy was fast for his size. Combined with his long reach, that left little in the way of openings for Marten to take advantage of. Whenever he could, he slashed or thrust to keep the Foe-Breaker at bay, lining his forearms and sides with fresh cuts, but achieving little else. Even that first gash, which bled profusely, did nothing to slow that beastly man down.

By contrast, Marten could already feel himself tiring. That slam on his back rattled his skull and left him dizzy, while the stomps he caught against his shield and chest made breathing painful. He was slowing, he could feel it in the growing weight of his limbs. He needed to make an opening, else his enemy would catch him. If that happened, then he would die, of that he had no illusions. (To read the whole chapter, click here)

If you want to read this story from the beginning, Click Here

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“The Hollow Game” by Father Roderick (Christian Fantasy). Father Roderick is a newcomer to both SubStack and to the Fiction Community. I’ve read every story that he’s written, and so far, he’s batting a perfect 100. This Story is set in his “Story Mage” fantasy setting.

📝

The day the goats gave up, the children did too.

It had been a long summer, and “Catch-the-Goat” had outlived its charm. The goats ran slower, the kids yelled louder, and the only one still enjoying herself was the goat who’d figured out how to climb onto the grain cart and couldn’t be bothered to come down.

They’d tried Hide-and-Yell again, but it ended with two of the younger boys curled up in a barrel, refusing to be found.

And so, as children often do, they wandered into the heat of the meadow, aimless and itchy and out of ideas.

That’s when the man appeared.

He stood beneath the crooked tree at the edge of the field, wrapped in a green cloak and holding a sack of smooth black stones. A mask covered his face—bronze, polished, with a calm, unreadable smile. The kids approached, intrigued.

“Fancy a better game?” he asked.

Now, children are many things—muddy, stubborn, and suspicious of vegetables—but most of all, they are easily bored.

And bored children are easy to enchant. (To read the rest of the story, click Here)

If you want to read more of his writing, you can go here)

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“The Witche’s Apprentice,” by Alexandra Hill (Fantasy), continues the story about Belle, in which she is seeking her past or passing a test by Elspeth.

🧙

Bell gasped, blinking hard. The shop came rushing back into focus—the ticking clocks, the amber glow of lanterns, the faint rustle of Elspeth’s robes.

She looked up, trembling. “What was that?”

Elspeth’s eyes, green and ancient, regarded her quietly. “Your first scrying,” she said. “You caught a thread of something real. And something… caught a thread of you in return.”

Bell shivered, still staring into the mirror’s depths, where now—just for a second—her reflection smiled back at her.

But she hadn’t smiled.

Not at all.

“You’re good at this, Bell. You have a natural talent for readings,” Elspeth said, her voice low but firm, as if stating a fact she had known all along. With a careful motion, she wrapped the mirror in its indigo cloth and tucked it away once more in the dark drawer. The silver edge of the frame caught the light for just a second before vanishing into shadow, like a closing eye.

Bell sat motionless, staring at the empty space where the mirror had been. Her thoughts fluttered like moths caught behind glass—silent, frantic, trying to make sense of what she’d seen. That sky with the broken moon. The white bird falling. The gate of bone. The reflection that smiled without her.

Elspeth's voice broke the silence again, smooth and deliberate. “Would you like to try something more?”

Bell blinked at her, as though emerging from a dream. Her eyes were wide, distant, still caught in the echo of that other world. Slowly, she nodded. The question still lingered in her chest like a splinter. She didn’t know what she was hoping to find—but whatever it was, it wasn’t finished with her yet. (To continue: Click here)

To read more of her stories, go here.

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“Finding the Groove,” by Jacob Calta. (Alternate Earth/Military/Spy)

Jacob Calta writes of a world where the dominate life is intelligent wolves, who fight against the great machine. Some of his stuff is free, some is paywalled, but regardless of which type, it’s the good stuff man.

🕵️

“For God’s sake, save it for the ‘and 2,’ not the 2 dead-on. It’s called syncopation for a reason!”

Slowly but surely, Agent Roger Steele had begun to regret recon work. Not for loss of faith in the cause, but because every time he came back from a mission, the band, “The Roger Steele Trio,” was sloppier than he left them. His drummer Bobby Bixby—a black-furred lieutenant from Moto Corp—could have pitched his sticks at the gray agent. Instead, he took a shot of bourbon and played the measure in question. Steele looked down his glasses with a smile.

“Knew you were still in there.”

The third member of the trio was Rick Talbot, a stout gray civilian who could play a mean upright bass. At least, he usually could.

“Talbot, I know it’s chromatic, but tune the fucking thing.” Steele shot down. “We don’t play quarter-tone jazz around here, they’ll string us up for that and I gotta be back in Haven in two months’ time.”

For this, Steele took a crack on the head from the bassist’s seldom-used bow.

“How about this,” Talbot shot back in a sharp tenor. “Would it kill you to play like a fucking musician and not a goddamn drill sergeant!? Y’all may got superiors, but I’m a fucking free hound, and I ain’t exactly on a good enough retainer to put up with your hapless ass. You’re the fucking trio, and yet you got no feel and you’re sloppy as shit going from the Rhodes to the upright piano.”

Steele looked down at the two keyboards as if it were his first time, he looked at the sheets before him and when he started playing, his ears cocked back and he finally saw the robotic dance of his hands across the keyboards.

“Shit, guess I’ll take that one on the chin.” he grumbled, fumbling through the measure over and over until he got his fingers moving in his more natural playing style. “Guess being with that many bots rubs off on a hound.”

“Anything you’d like to say to the rest of us?” Talbot pressed.

“Anything you’d like to tell me for flying off the handle that way?” Steele shot back. “Rick, you don’t act like this on even a bad day. I know I’m curt, but Jesus Christ, if you got something, spit it out.”

The gray bassist sighed, slumping down onto his stool. “Just been a long fucking week, man. Myra’s only back on her feet after the crash, it’s been two weeks of hell before you came back. Don’t know why this got caught in the craw, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what to do for dinner when I get back. Dumbest thing to get hung up on but…Jesus I’m just stressing about everything, that’s all.”

Roger got up, straightened his tie and patted the bassist on the back. “Alright, that’s double my bad for coming in like I’d never left. I might be the trio, but I ain’t exactly three hounds cloned. Sorry if I came off too hot.”

Talbot gave a courteous nod. “Just not able to throw and dish the same time right now.”

“Tell ya what,” Steele replied. “We’ll break for lunch, chop it up, and crack on after. Think a drink would help?”

Talbot scoffed. “Didn’t even think to ask.”

“You never gotta with me, pally.” Bixby chuckled. The black wolf rolled out from behind the drum kit on a stool and handed the bottle over. What followed the meanest swig both hounds had ever seen the stout gray player take. (To read the rest, click here)

To get to his archive, click here.

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“Storm in an Indian Market,” by Isha Jain, (General Fiction/Slice of Life) speaks for itself. Isha is a budding creative writer, telling her stories from the East Indian point of view. Each story is rich in detail and the character are beautifully alive.

🌧️

Prabhale always knew when it would rain.

The storm before the shower was his favorite time to be on the shop. He didn’t scramble to pull down the shutters and fold in his seat. He sat still under the cover of his stretched room to watch the life unfold before him.

“Phir jeet gaya tu!” His friend lost the bet again. The heavy man shut down his shop before starting his scooter with a kick, and rushing home to the promise of deep fried pakodas with hot chai from his wife.

Prabhale bid him goodbye with a laugh, as he weaved his vehicle through the panicking people.

The fruit seller in front of the paan shop had brought his family from the village. The mother sat down on the footpath, a little above the road while the man unfolded the tarpaulin he used to protect his wares. He dragged it over to cover the head of his wife and their child sleeping peacefully in her lap.

Their other son was running around, playing with the school kids who had taken some polythene bags from the seller. Their bags sat heavy on their backs as they covered their faces with the plastic and pretended to be zombies to the delight of younger kid. Their laughs rang louder than the thunder as they sang, teased and danced, plunging a rickshaw puller in his childhood memories.

Prabhale laughed at their jugaad to save the face from dirt and pebbles slapping anything in way to nowhere.

Their chaos did not interrupt the young man in pressed shirt and pant, with an office id dangling from his neck. He stood with hunched shoulders. Yet he faced upwards to feel the wind blowing without a care. To welcome the first shower of rains. (To continue, click here.)

To read her archive, click here.

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“I shouldn’t have come,” by Von, (Science Fiction/Dystopia/Marriage) is the latest chapter of “Contract Marriage” In the beginning, Fenestra, A Marketing expert, is provided with a unique posting to the frontier world of Libertas, but there’s a catch. In order to keep the posting, she has to live by Code and Custom. Something she’s struggling with. Her daughter, Jellia, on the other hand, adopts the local customs rather easily.

🚀

Jellia came in the house. No work today. Gregory and Ben’nin would both be back later. She and Ska-drek-a could spend some time together.

She went to the kitchen, but Mother wasn’t there. Funny. She usually worked there or in the great room. She went upstairs. Mother’s door was open, altho just barely, and she had told Jellia (in secret) that when Ska-drek and Gregory weren’t there.. . When it was just the two of them in the house… that she had ‘permission’ to go in Mother’s room. Assuming the door was open.

So she pushed the door open and saw Ska-drek-a holding Bobbin and crying. “Mother, was is wrong?” she asked, rushing over and making her kisses. “Is Bobbin all right?”

“I shouldn’t have come,” Mother sobbed. “Oh, he’s fine. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have brought us here.”

“But, Mother, I thought your work was going well.”

“Work?” Mother shrieked, “Work is doing marvellously. Work couldn’t be doing better. But I’m pregnant! Again!! By the time I leave this cursed planet I will have eight children.”

Jellia did the math in her head. “Even if you keep having them quickly, Mother, I don’t think that you will have eight kesh-u before your ten years…” (to continue, click here.)

To go back to chapter one of the story, click here.

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“Rooting for the Apocalypse,” by Andy Futuro, (Modern/slice of life.)

Andy Futuro has a unique way of telling a story. This is the first chapter of a new book. What happens when you invite your scumbag boyfriend to your Dysfunctional family’s vacation? We’ll have to keep an eye on it and see for ourselves. Be warned, Mr. Futuro has a slight aversion to quotation marks in this chapter, so it requires close reading.

🔫

This is a rotten summer. The heat gets into everything. It’s not a dry heat, like the desert. This is a wet, hot, stinking city heat. You take a shower and never get dry, pores picking up where the faucet left off. Your clothes stick, and your fingers stick, and the sheets stick, and cling as you roll around in the hot, wet, dark, heat of the night. The sheets stain yellow from the sweat.

My bedroom is the size of a trailer. It barely fits the bed, a twin (would you really put twins in this?), and I have to scooch around the side pressing my back against the wall to get to the head of it. The ceiling is high and there are two windows that bring in light and smog and the neighbors’ conversations. Kristy is thinking of buying a grill. She’s concerned about a rash on her vulva. Their voices echo in my brain.

I sleep with my head reversed — over by the foot of the bed rather than the head of it. My little fan is propped up on a tower of dirty clothes and books and this arrangement allows me to blast air into my face. With the door open and the windows open and four or five gin sodas, it’s enough to feign sleep, though no one really sleeps in the summers here. With the door open, I can hear my roommate in crystal definition. Zak argues with his occasional girlfriend, clunking down the stairs at five a.m. for plan b, forgetting his keys, banging on the front door until I go down to let him in.

This morning I wake up cold. A freak thunderstorm has blown in. Yet it is bright; at first I think Zak has come into my room mistaking it for his again and turned on the lights. The sun rises through the storm. The air shimmers gold. My room in gold, the whole city in gold. Lightning crackles through the bright clouds. I watch until it is gone, the clouds a haze, the sun lost in the haze. The heat is back again.

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Zak is playing video games when I make my way downstairs. He’s naked except for a dish towel. Dark circles hang around his eyes. I can tell he hasn’t slept all night. His mustache wilts in the humidity.

Do you know where the nearest gun store is? I ask.

His gaze doesn’t waver from the screen. He says, You aren’t killing the neighbors.

I’m going to wound them, lightly. So they know I mean business.

Don’t be a buzzkill. Remember when we were young and partied all night and got drunk and yelled and shit. We were loud as shit and no one ever killed our buzz.

They’re older than we are. I know because they won’t shut up about how old they all are now.

Just chill.

I’m going to knock on their door and ask to be invited to the next party. Since I’m already basically there anyway.

Not a terrible idea.

I’ll ask if you can come too.

I make coffee. I pour the coffee over ice. The ice melts. I drink.

Charlie runs down the stairs, black paws a pitter-patter. He rams my leg and nuzzles as though his life depends on it, which it does. I go to the kitchen, three steps away in a row home, and scoop some cat food into Charlie’s bowl. He rams the scoop as I feed him, knocking some pellets back into the bag.

You little shit, I say affectionately. Your greed is causing you to miss out.

He doesn’t care. He’s eating. His black fur sticks to my sweaty legs. It looks like I gave up halfway through turning into a werewolf. (To continue, click here.)

To access his page, go here.

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“The Art of Darkness,” by Makenna Grace (Supernatural/Romance) is in its 15th chapter and going strong.

🦇

“Lord Cawston, what are you doing? Let him go!” I screamed. But he ignored me, his eyes scorched by fury.

“I told you to protect her. You gave me your word.”

“Lord Cawston, please, stop this! You’ll kill him!”

“Perhaps he deserves to die.”

Morvinus grasped at Lord Cawston’s fingers, struggling to get a word out. “I- I have- only…done as you asked.”

“Do not take me for a fool! I know very well what you have done.”

I rushed over to them, trying to think of what to do, my brain scrambling. I knew my strength would never match either of theirs, but I had to try something. So, I went after Lord Cawston's arm, biting into it as hard as I could.

“Argh!” I barely injured him. Shock more than anything. But it got him to relinquish his hold before he threw me across the room, my side colliding with the corner of the stone wall. A loud crack echoed from somewhere nearby and a sharp pain followed suit making me cry out.

“Amber!” Morvinus stumbled to my side as my breath staggered.

My ribcage ached with every gasp and I coughed, a familiar metallic taste seeping into my mouth.

Lord Cawston looked horrified. “Analise- Analise, I never meant to-“

Morvinus picked me up, cradling me against his chest as he rushed back down the corridor. “Hang on, Amber,” he whispered.

“Wait, where are you taking her?” Lord Cawston ran up beside him.

“I need to lay her down.”

“Here,” he said, pointing to another door.

Before Lord Cawston could open it, Morvinus took his foot and kicked it in, the door swinging violently until it crashed against the wall behind it, nearly ripping it from its hinges.

He placed me gently on the bed and I sank into the soft comforter as he pulled up a chair beside me. My breath was still sharp and shallow, with every one bringing more pain and tightness, as though my chest were a washcloth one would ring the water out. My heart couldn’t keep up and I felt the tightness beginning to spread.

“Divert your eyes,” Morvinus uttered.

Lord Cawston looked perplexed. “I beg your pardon? Whatever for?”

“I am going to remove her dress.”

“So you can lust after her naked body? I will not-“

“I need to assess her injuries, now divert your eyes!”

Lord Cawston huffed, turning his back.

“Amber, can you hear me?”

I nodded.

“Do you think you could sit up for a moment, help me remove your dress?”

I chuckled, instantly regretting it, “Gladly.”

He eased me up, inch by aching inch, managing to tug the dress over my head. I laid back down, the chill of the cold air on my bare skin sending a fresh wave of shivering down my spine.

“Where does it hurt the most?”

I took his hand and placed it against my ribcage on my left side, coughing violently.

He sat still, closing his eyes. For a moment I could feel the heat in his hand intensify, as Lord Cawston’s had done when he helped me with my dislocated shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he looked again at me, a worry in his gaze I had only seen once before.

“Lord Cawston, I assume you have iron serum on hand?”

“Morvinus, she is only half vampire. We have no idea how it will affect her. She needs a hospital.” (To continue, click here.)

To go to Chapter One, click here.)

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“The Girl that stole the sun,” by Aveline Lark, (Fantasy) is a new story by the writer that brought you “The Cursed Prince’s Thief.”

☀️

Chapter 1: The Trickster’s Gambit

The sun had not risen in Solmir for sixty-eight days.

What remained of the sky was a deep, endless slate of gray, swirling with distant embers of dying light. The air was thick with the scent of melted wax and burning incense, the acrid tang of desperation clinging to every stone street, every prayer uttered behind trembling lips. The people of Solmir whispered of omens, of divine punishment, of the wrath of the gods—and, above all else, of the Offering.

The city had seen decline before. Wars had bled its borders dry, plagues had swept through its streets like wildfire, but nothing compared to this. The absence of the sun had stolen the warmth from the air, twisting crops into brittle husks, draining color from the world itself. The markets, once lively and bursting with voices haggling over fruit and cloth, had grown hushed. People still gathered, of course—desperation demanded movement—but there was no joy in the transactions.

It was the perfect time for a trickster to thrive.

Lirien moved like a shadow through the market square, her steps light, her fingers lighter. She was small and unassuming, her sharp features obscured beneath the hood of a tattered cloak. Her boots barely made a sound against the cracked cobblestones as she weaved through the thinning crowds, her hands working swiftly, effortlessly. A coin purse here, a silver brooch there—nothing too grand, nothing too conspicuous. Just enough to keep her belly full and her pockets lined.

The people of Solmir were too distracted to notice a single girl slipping between them like mist. Their attention was drawn elsewhere—to the city’s great marble steps, where the High Priests had gathered in their resplendent robes, standing beneath the shadow of the great temple. Their voices rang out over the hushed marketplace, calling for patience, for faith. For sacrifice.

“The gods demand devotion,” one of the priests intoned, his voice clear and unwavering, despite the wary murmurs rippling through the crowd. His robes, woven with threads of gold and deep crimson, shimmered even in the dim light. Embroidered sunbursts sprawled across his sleeves, a mark of the High Council’s favor. “Through faith, we endure. Through sacrifice, we are redeemed.”

Another priest, an older man with silver-threaded hair and a sharp, hawk-like gaze, raised his hands.

“The Offering approaches,” the priest intoned, his voice ringing across the square, each syllable crisp, deliberate, weighty. “And with it, the dawn shall return. The Chosen will be named, and through them, the balance shall be restored.”

The speaker was not just any priest. He was Theophus, High Priest of Aureon, Voice of the Divine. Even beneath the sunless sky, his golden robes shimmered, their embroidered sigils reflecting the dying light like molten metal. He stood at the head of the temple steps, hands clasped before him, his presence towering despite his lean frame.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes missed nothing.

The crowd hushed beneath his gaze. Even the murmured prayers, the uneasy shifting of bodies, all fell still.

Theophus did not need to demand obedience. His existence was obedience.

He surveyed the people of Solmir with an air of careful detachment. To him, they were not individuals—only a mass of devoted souls awaiting their place in the Cycle. He did not raise his voice, because he had never needed to. When he spoke, people listened. And when he chose, people obeyed.

“Rejoice, children of Solmir,” Theophus continued, his voice smooth as polished stone. “For the gods have turned their gaze upon us. We are not forsaken! We are chosen. Soon, the name of the one most blessed among us shall be revealed, and through their devotion, the dawn shall break once more.”

A calculated pause. A moment to let hope sink its claws into the crowd before twisting it into submission.

“This is not a burden,” Theophus said, softer now, almost reverent. “This is an honor. The gods do not take freely, nor do they choose lightly. To give oneself to the Cycle is to become eternal. To be Chosen is to be remembered.”

A flicker of something behind his expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or something colder.

A hush followed, uneasy and expectant, as if the priests truly expected someone to step forward willingly. But the crowd only pressed closer together, shoulders stiff, eyes darting away. A mother pulled her child behind her cloak. An old man exhaled shakily, hands clasped in silent prayer.

No one wanted to be chosen. No one wanted to be the one sent to die for a god who had abandoned them.

The priests’ eyes moved over the crowd, searching, measuring.

For a split second, something tightened in Lirien’s chest—an instinct she didn’t want to name, some old ghost of a feeling she should have forgotten by now. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. But it was close enough to make her fingers twitch at her sides, her throat tighten like a hand had just closed around it.

She knew the way the priests looked at the people of Solmir. She had seen that gaze before, felt it weigh heavy on her skin when she was too young to understand what it meant. A casual study. A quiet calculation. (To continue,click here.)

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“Fairy Tale Assassin,” by Gordon Brewer (Fantasy/Supernatural), tells the story of a dead man who finds himself as an undead assassin in the fairy tale world. Chapter one is a great read.

🗡️

Chapter 1

God, help me!

My lungs burned as I blindly turned down another dark alley. Groaning at the pain in my throat, I put my hand up by my neck and felt the slick wetness.Did they stab me?

Immediately, the thought exploded into another area of agony that filled my shin. Clamping down with my teeth to suppress the howl inside me, I realized that my leg struck something in the darkness. My momentum dropped me against a heavy table. While I’m on my knees in the muck, I discovered a piece of wood. Instinctively, I grabbed it. It slipped from my mud-covered hand. Shouts from behind me force me to grab the wood piece again. That’s when I realized the wooden shaft is about a foot long and has a weighted curved blade at the end. Light from the street showed me it’s a tool of some sort. A sickle, I think.

Still, it’s a weapon, I decided while I stumbled along. A flicker of light coming from the partial moon shows me the barest outline as I come to the end of the building. Rounding the next corner, I nearly fell over when I bounced off boards in front of me. The foul smell of manure overpowered my senses. My hand quickly determined a fence of rough wood covered in bark stands in my way.

“Fuck!” my unfamiliar voice growled.

Following the railing, I heard a nearby snort. The outline of a large animal remains hidden in the shadows, and it looked like an overly muscled cow. Momentarily, I considered going into the place as the sounds of my pursuers come closer. Then I shook my head. A big-ass bull would kill me just as quickly as the bastards coming for me. Panic filled me as the crowd noise as get closed in.

“Findeth yond Covan, putteth a stake through his undead heart!”

They’re talking in English but it’s hard to decipher. It reminded me of listening to a Shakespeare play. Still, a stake through the heart comment motivated my tiring legs. I remembered the anger in their wild eyes when I first encountered the growing mob. It almost made me pee my pants.

Forgetting about the animal in the pen, I pushed myself away from the fence. Hurrying to the darker area behind the closest structure I can make out, I slow my pace when I could no longer see. Then, I use one end of the wood shaft I’m holding to probe the area. Then I stepped into the darkness. While I’m catching my breath, my hearing tries to follow the sounds of the people hunting for me. However, my ragged breathing isn’t helping me. The ache in my shoulder grows worse and my legs are shaking from my escape.

Still, I don’t understand why they won’t give up. They’re acting like I killed someone. No, that’s not correct. Their pale faces under the torchlight looked afraid for some reason. They acted like they think I’m a damn vampire or something. (To continue, click here.)

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“Lost Numbers,” by The Black Knight (Science Fiction) is another one his lost tales. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

🌌

Chapter 1

The Dead who fight

In the olden dusty gloom, stale air heavy with filth gently touched dangling cables, bits of ragged clothing pranced across corridors full of ancient death. Filtration systems long since beyond any point of repair, cancerous rills of dust drizzled down from cracked air ducts. Booby traps of many kinds littered the cratered, battle-scorn floors, their forever alert triggers hungry for a kill.

The bunker once kept safe those who lived within his sturdy corridors and spacious halls, until... he could not. For many centuries, the descendants of his creators fought tooth and nail, yet their cannibalistic foe had finally prevailed. Millions fell, their mummified remains now lay under the thick bunker dust. Eyes hollow and their bony mouths wide open, they screamed one last desperate yell before their torturous demise.

Many of them were once the bunker’s defenders; Avern’a child soldiers and youths who gave their lives in battle. The women and babies they failed to protect, whose gnawed, broken bones now piled up to the ceiling. Mangled, oftentimes beyond recognition, the bodies of their Jaern enemies were far and in between since their leaders recovered precious combat gear and supplies. Not of some respect for their own dead, no. Their Avern’a foe would soon proceed to slay them with their own beamguns, vibroblades, and grenades.

However zealous these Jaern hunters were and the debased priestesses who commanded them, many a time they fell in clever ambush or suffered the deathly bite of a trap. Their cloaking shields and nifty gadgets failing to protect them from the killing blow. Nor were their greater numbers, cybertech and gene-grafts giving them an edge definitive, for they were soulless, their minds rotten, and those who led them, rotten still.

Only the spirits of the dead, had one dared enquire, could say how numerous were their ranks.

Yet despite the deadly, solitary gloom raining supreme, there was someone very much alive down here. One of Avern’a, who quietly breathed barely filtered air as his calloused hands aimed a decrepit beamgun down the corridor. This armament, which belonged in a museum, was held together with bits of wire, space duct tape, and vacfoam glue.

None among the child soldiers knew when was this venerable weapon even looted, let alone who procured it. Repaired and modified countless times, somehow it still hissed its deadly song, dark-red particle-beams ripping through Jaern-made armor, blasting flesh, and shattering bone. One token fact was known to the person who now wielded it—though alien, this weapon was not manufactured by the Jaern, nor any other enemy for that matter.

The soldier squeezed it gently, a silent prayer on his lips since his last power pack had only three shots left.

Wiped clean, his ancient gas mask’s round eyepieces actually helped him see better in the corridor’s dusty dark. Even if there was a scanning gadget in his possession, which was highly unlikely considering his situation, he wouldn’t dare activate it now. The Jaern hunting pack who stalked this bunker, they had deployed a powerful array which scoured for scan beams, be they passive or active. At least his venerable cammo-cloak, patched a thousand times over, gave him a low scanning profile.

The bunker dust itself, as long as he did not move a muscle, made him appear as if part of the corridor on their devices. Lay among the corpses he did and eyes unblinking, every breath rationed, the last Avern’a soldier waited. There were no idle thoughts, nor empty questions lingering inside his disciplined mind. He knew exactly why it had to be this corridor in particular and not one of the ruined halls or bone-filled rooms.

(To continue: Click Here.)

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“One Hundred Refusals,” by Kathrine Elaine (Fantasy, Romance) is in the 15th chapter. I read this back when she first wrote, and since she’s revised it, it’s even better.

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“Do not dare to die now, Ash! Don’t die, you silly man, not when I’m ready to give myself to you!” Gema cried out caressing his dirty cheeks. “Release him this instant!” She yelled at the robbers, observing them.

“Not before we get gold for our slave, my fair lady!”

“Slavery is forbidden in MY KINGDOM! SOLDIERS!”Gema squealed.

“Hush, hush! Not so loud!” The robbers released Ash’s limp body from the chains. Nevertheless, it did not stop the soldiers from galloping into the crowd. The band of robbers scurried away.

“Can we assist you, my Lady?” said a soldier, stopping his horse near her. No doubt, they took her for what she looked like – a high-born Lady, not a brothel girl. If she would’ve spoken up about her being kidnapped… but something else was on her mind. Something more important than her own fate. Her love laid bleeding in her arms.

“This man is wounded! He needs a physician at once!”

“Of course, my Lady!” The soldiers searched the crowd and indeed found the town’s physician, who did not hesitate to help Ash.

“I’ll need a place to operate,” the man said.

“To the carriage!” Lord Trouser was back with the carriage. The soldiers helped to get poor Ash into it. Gema, Lord Trouser, and the physician jumped in. They rode to the Lord’s establishment, and although the physician wasn’t thrilled to enter the brothel, he got to helping Ash as soon as they had carried the wounded Snakeling inside.

Gema refused to leave, she assisted the physician, despite all the blood, and other horrific sights, while Lord Trouser and the ladies provided hot water, fresh towels, bandages, and whatever the operation required. Gema’s dress was covered in blood, when the physician had finally managed to stop the bleeding, and patched Ash’s belly up. There he lay, lifeless, barely breathing.

“Will he live?” Gema said with her eyes red from crying. All the while she assisted the physician, silent tears poured from her eyes.

“There’s a good chance he will, he’s young and strong. But I cannot say for certain. I must leave you now, I’ll check upon him as soon as I can,” with it the physician washed his bloody hands, changed into a clean shirt provided by Lord Trouser, and went away. Gema sat on the side of Ash’s bed, staring at him silently.

How could I’ve been such a fool? I don’t even care if it’s love or lust connecting us, I want him to live. I want him. All of him. The good, and the bad. (To continue: Click Here.)

To read from Chapter One, click here.

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I hope you’ve enjoyed the premiere issue of 🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢