Sixteen Tales from the Ether
đ¤ Thursday Roundup!𪢠May 29, 2025
Welcome to đ¤ Thursday Roundup!đŞ˘, the magazine in which I gather up the most recent fiction from the last seven days and share it with you. The stories run the gamut from romance to science fiction. I can only promise that youâll enjoy them.
I have a weakness for a well-written story, and Isha Jain always writes a great story. This week, sheâs written âLeap of Love.â
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They only had twenty minutes to leave if they wanted to be together. Yet, he hesitated to step out of the dark.
She looked back at his form in the shade of trees. Her body had turned pale blue in the open. But their joined hands remained suspended in the middle.
She could see the golden light coming towards them.
He flinched at the sounds coming from behind.
The crawls of ground animals, creaking of the gates and clang of metal against metal as they came for them. Like they had for every other couple.
Her eyes begged him to take that step and join her. His held unshed tears.
She tugged him towards her. The screeches of predators in the air deafened them till they had to cover their ears. Blood ran down the other side.
They still didnât let go of each other.
She sobbed as vines circled around his legs. He let go of her hand before she could come towards him as he fell deeper into the dark. (To continue, click here)
Our second offering is written by the fabulous Kathrine Elaine and probably wonât be the only one in this issue. This one is a Science Fiction/dystopian story, âClouds of blood.â At this writing, itâs a three part series. You can check it out on her page, here.
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The sky rained blood. Crimson drops stung his face, he felt every single one. Curled up like a fetus, pushed out the cradling womb, he lay shaking in pain. His skin wasnât ready to face the world outside the incubator, paper-thin, it dissolved from the bloody raindrops, leaving hundreds of tiny open wounds on his naked body.
His fall was an accident. His existence was a mistake. A glitch in the system. It happened; solar storms caused glitches, vibrations of the magnetic particles. Tiny little things, causing genetic deviations of the new humans developing in the incubators. Perfect replicas of the most genetically superior specimens. In the times long gone, they were called clones.
He was one of the thousand others genetically damaged replicas. A thousand men with the same face. A thousand mistakes. And yet, they had a purpose. Some might call it a noble cause. They were no longer human-shaped mistakes, when dumped from the giant platforms gliding through the atmosphere. They were fertilizer for the dying earth, a rich red shower falling down from the bloody clouds in the sky, after the razor-sharp grinders at the platformâs disposal openings crushed them into tiny particles. Droplets forming giant red clouds, falling down to feed the hungry earth. Patch by patch the land was revived with minerals and nutrients, falling from the sky.
This was the day of the bloody rains, and afterward the earth would awake with greenery birthed by death of the unborn.
It was a grand project; to renew the human home-planed, destroyed by nuclear wars many thousands of years ago, reasons for which were long-forgotten. The land vomited poison, until it was clean. Dead but clean. Waiting for the nutrients to feed the dormant seeds hidden within it.
He was a living mistake. From his conception, to the unfortunate solar storm, up till his pre-mature birth; accidents followed his life-cycle, and even death didnât come to him as it should.
He shouldâve been grinded by the razors at the platformâs opening, instead, the grinders malfunctioned, letting the first fifty clones fall out whole; naked bodies of men descending in a silent freefall, then landing on the sand with muffled smacks like chunks of meat.
It went quickly. Flashes of horrid sensations; cold, pain, bright light, pain, pain, pain⌠he smacked onto others just like him, rolled off from the dead bodies, and lay, while the clouds of red gathered above him, and the sour blood-drops began to rain down, causing his frail skin to dissolve.
It was a minor malfunction. Those in charge knew, even if the clones fell un-grinded, the impact of the fall would crush them, and the earth would feed on them eventually. Even if by some strange accident some might survive, their undeveloped muscles would prevent them from finding shelter from the scorching-hot sun. A lifeless desert was no place for a man-sized infant. (to continue, click here.)
The next story is from Vonâs Article 17 story. Itâs titled âJoin.â
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Hearing a squealing young lass being chivied behind her, along with the cry of at least one baby, and seeing no one in front of her, she carried her charge to the far end of the shelter and, releasing him in front of a combat bag, was relived to see him squirm into the bag. She dropped to her knees and imitated him in a nearby bag, her helmet switching automatically to battle view.
The local view showed nothing but, with an abrupt command, she got the sector view, which showed several vague red circles representing possible enemy aircraft. Still way over by the front and, even as she looked, she saw a dozen or so blue dots lance out toward the red circles.
Just then she felt a small hand bump against her leg. âAunt!â the voice said, âJoin?â
She reached her hand and, when she touched the ladâs, triggered the sack âjoinâ capacity and, within seconds, the two bags had âjoinedâ making one, larger, bag.
âJoin?â the lad asked, waving his hands toward where she heard (over the suit radio: the sacks did not allow sound to pass) a lass wailing. âScared!â the lad said.
âJoin,â she agreed, and the two reached out. The lass shrank back when they touched her, and Illoia shook her head and changed her view to local-intercom. She saw, in one view, a womanâs face, looking around hysterically.
âOverride-local-intercom,â Illoia said. Then, when the womanâs face turned toward her in shock, she said, âCalm yourself!â (to continue, click here.)
The writer of this next piece needs no introduction, Thaddeus Thomas has become a superstar for creative writing and runs the Literary Salon. âThe Sibyliadâ is his current work in progress.
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A rock streaked with molten fissures lit the circle of land on which he-who-had-been-secretary-to-the-emperor stood. On that tiny island with just that rock and a dead tree, they were alone, Daphnis and Herophile, and Daphnis felt small next to her broad back and shoulders.
His voice broke the silence. âHow long have we been here?â
Herophile gave no answer.
âWhat is this place?â he asked.
âThe beginning,â she said. âWhen I lost the last of my humanity, this is what I found.â
Having run out of questions, he offered what comfort he could. Such was the comfort of company, whether or not one knew what one was talking about. He cleared his throat, announcing the profundity to come. âWeâll regain our strength soon enough.â
âSoon is a matter of perspective,â she said.
Sheâd brushed off his efforts, and that was more discomforting than he cared to admit. âIs there anything we can do?â
âNothing to be done.â She stood close to the heat and light of the rock.
He redirected his gaze to where the red light reflected off black waters. âWhatâs out there?â
âThe dark.â
âI can see that.â
âThen you didnât need to ask.â
He pinched his nose. âMy head hurts. If I have no body, why do I feel pain?â
âYouâve seen too much to ask such questions.â
He sat beneath the tree, as if seeking shade from a non-existent sun. âIf you didnât make this place, maybe this is real.â
âWhat reality would you suppose?â she asked.
âItâs not bad enough to be Tartarus.â
âThe gods help us if this is Paradise,â she said.
âHow so?â
âIf this is the best there is,â she said, âmay the gods have mercy on us all.â
âIf this were Paradise, there would be hope.â
âWith this? What hope do you see with this?â she asked.
âThat something better is coming.â
âAnd if this is Tartarus?â she asked.
âFear of something worse,â he said.
âAnd if itâs Hades? Should we be content?â
âContent?â he asked. âWith this?â
âIf nothing better is coming and nothing worse, how else should we feel?â she asked.
âAbsolutely hopeless, maudlin, and forlorn.â He squinted into the dark, as if he might see the lights of cities upon a distant and mediocre shore. âMaybe this is Hades.â (to continue, click here.)
I did say that youâd probably see another one of Kathrineâs stories in this issue. âOne Hundred refusalsâ is a story that I was honored to read when she wrote the first draft. If anything, her revised story is even better. Each character has life and reason and at the core, itâs a love story.
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âGema, I want you more than ever! Meet me in the orchard at midnight!â Lord Valeurâs raspy whisper caressed Pearlâs ear. A week had passed since she announced Queen Geminarisâ and Prince Sturnusâ engagement.
They were dancing at the Engagement feast, and Val used every chance to hold her closer, and whisper in her ear. Pearl had been avoiding Val the whole week, but it only made her desire grow even hotter. Oh, sheâd gladly whisper back her âyesâ, if only King Olor hadnât been staring right at her. She feared the man. Pearl said nothing, the dance ended, and yet again she was forced to dance with Prince Sturnus.
Pearlâs mind kept going in circles; she wished to give into Valâs arms whole-heartedly, but what about Sturnus? He did not deserve betrayal. He did not deserve any of this. Her treacherous desires, her filthy longing for Val, her curse⌠Oh, what of the curse? Sturnus did no deserve to wake near a dead wife⌠Pear had no doubt, Ashâs curse would kill her the moment she and Sturnus would lay in their wedding bed together. But lay there she must! Pearl had no choice â King Olor himself threatened to stand by their chamber to make sure the marriage gets consummated properly. No, poor cursed Pearl had no choice. She would die. For Avem!
King Olor kept following her every move the entire time of the feast, the food got stuck in her throat, the drink did not give her comfort.
As the midnight approached, Pearl searched for Valâs eyes woefully. He hadnât danced with anyone else but her, his eyes followed hers lovingly, and a smile full of longing rose on his lips every time he caught her eye.
The clock rang midnight, Pearl lowered her teary eyes.
âSmile, my lady, smile!â Cinnia winked, passing her by. She approached king Olor, as if to have a conversation with him, giving Pearl another wink, just before blocking the kingâs view from seeing Pearl slipping out the festive hall.
Thank you, Cinnia! Thank you, thank you⌠Pearl thought, running down the hallway. She did not care who sees, her desire for Val demanded to be satisfied, whatever the cost! (To continue, click here.) (To read from Chapter One, click here.)
âThe Lives of Velnin,â by Brian Heming is unique in the the hero is a Prince who fights to his last breath, then returns as a clone. He may change from clone to clone, but the love for his Aloree is consistent.
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Aloree slapped me. Hard.
"That's what you get for dying on me again!" she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Her blue eyes were red and puffy from crying; her golden hair, though tied in fancy braids and beautiful with adornments, was dishevelled. She stood close to me, hands at her side balled into little fists, and I took the opportunity to kiss her. She didn't stop me. "From Veldinâhis last wish was that I kiss you for him."
I pulled back some inches and she looked at me uncertainly. I leaned in again, putting my arms around her, and kissed her again, this time long and slow. "And one from me."
For me, it was our second kissâmy memories were a copy of my brother Veldin's, who had backed up his memories the day after he first kissed Aloree. Thanks, brother. The bright memory and happy feeling still sang strong in my heart. I wondered whether Aloree considered it out first kiss, or our thousandth.
Eventually, we broke the kiss. It was our first meeting for me this lifeâand I hoped not our lastâbut time was fleeting. An enemy army approached. We talked shop. I told her my posting, she told me hers. "I'll be at the Isthmus, working as a healer," said Aloree. The Isthmus was a narrow strip of land directly connecting the kingdoms of Tarmel and Talore, the next good chokepoint to defend after Dragonclaw Pass. Of course, the Dark Empire would first raze one of our kingdoms before reaching it.
"I'll be taking a glider to join the fleet shortly. Hopefully, we can get married before I get killed this time around."
Aloree looked at me coollyâor at least, with the coolest expression that a beautiful girl with tears drying on her cheeks, still flushed from our kissing, could manage. "Proposing on the first kiss? Tell you what... win the war, come back in one piece, propose properly, with a ring, and I might, just might, be persuaded to consider it."
I grinned. "Good enough for me." Then I kissed her again.
We kept at it for a while. Eventually, one of my retainers cleared his throat. "Time to go, sir."
As we decoupled ourselves and I headed out, Pol, one of Aloree's guards, gave me a wink and a thumbs up. I couldn't stop grinning as I headed up to the launch tower. Other than the imminent destruction of all I held dear, this life was going pretty well. (To continue, click here.) (to read from chapter one, Click here.)
Father Roderick is off to a great start. Not only can he write fantasy drabbles off the cuff of his frock, he can take a well established story and rewrite it with his own flare.
Take a look at âThe Dark Mage Strikes Back,â and tell me if it sounds familiar? Iâm betting that it does.
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The lakes had frozen solidâan omen, some whispered, that the old stories were waking.
Snow blanketed the hills around Glendalough, muffling the hammers and chatter of villagers building their wooden homes beside the monks' stone chapel. They worked atop the ruins of something older. Charred stones poked through the earth like buried teeth. No one spoke of it aloud, but the ground remembered.
At the center of the activity stood Sister Liraâa figure in a pale wool cloak, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, boots muddy. She directed the workers and the monks with calm authority, helping raise beams and bless stones. Though not a mage, she held weight among the villagers. Her presence brought order. Her voice gave the hesitant courage.
Their protectorsâidealistic squires, not yet knightsâkept watch, pledged to shield the hermits and settlers from brigands, wolves, and worse.
Among them, two close friends: Squire Lucan and Brother Hanric, a young novice of the monks, halfway between cloister and mage. Their friendship had grown in shared firelight, in stories told beneath stars, and in patrols along the icy ridges.
âThis land has long memory,â Brother Hanric had told Lucan once, as they rode beside the lower lake. âThe tower that once stood here was no less real than the chapel theyâre building now. The difference is who tells the tale.â
âAnd the one who built that tower?â Lucan had asked.
Hanricâs face had darkened. âHe hasnât forgotten either.â (To continue, click here)
âObsidian and Flameâ by Leanne Shawler, is a part of the The MĂ´rdreigiau Chronicles.
âSunless,â is the first chapter of the new storyline.
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:You must be so proud.: The deep male voice penetrated Arddun ferch Wyddelâs delight at seeing her sister handfasted. None had expected Indeg to capture the heart of the Esteemedâs only son. The palace gateway glittered with crystalline bubbles strung across the ceiling and walls. The couple stood in its shadow, preparing to enter the ocean as dreigiau mĂ´r.
She glanced at the speaker. He wore the braided silver and gold torc of the royal family and a severe expression. About her height, the second son of the Esteemed Eigrâs Consort met her gaze with a mild, curious air.
:Of course,: Arddun replied, irritated by the sarcasm in his thought. :Why wouldnât I be happy for my sister?:
Panawr ap Rhydderchâs trimmed black moustache failed to hide the twitch of his full lips before they compressed into a straight line. :Why indeed?: He kept his gaze upon the palace gate.
She watched the handfasted couple in their dreigiau mĂ´r forms disappear into the oceanâs gloom, heart in her mouth. She had her misgivings about the partnership despite Indegâs sunny and certain love. Family members and guests began to drift away.
:Of courseâŚ: The words dragged out of him. He glanced sidelong at her. :There is the honour of residing in the palace with your sister. You will be a great comfort to her, Iâm sure.: His hand grazed along the underside of his short, thin beard.
Arddun huffed a laugh, concealing it with the cuff of her pale green robe. :Indeg will be too busy with the Golden Prince to spare much time for me.:
Panawrâs lip curled. :I have no time to be your nursemaid.:
:I wasnât asking,: Arddun flared. Sheâd been warned not to reveal any vulnerabilities. His snide remark reminded her that she would be isolated while Indeg consummated her love. Perhaps she should move back home until Indeg had time for her.
He started to turn away.
:What do you do with yourself? Mope about in the palace?: she needled.
:You areâ: Panawrâs gills about his neck flared in a steadying breath above his braided torc. :Donât be foolish, Arddun. Unless you are prepared to pay the consequences of your goading.: He stalked off, his silver-grey robe flaring at the ankles.
Arddun wanted to shout a thought after him but refrained. She shouldnât be making enemies on her first day in the palace. She watched his retreat, his long black hair tied back in a simple ponytail that bisected his back, coming to rest at his tailbone.
As Arddun expected, the newly handfasted couple had little time for her once they returned from their night of dragon dancing. To occupy herself, she roamed the halls, exploring. Yet too many people looked at her like they knew she didnât belong there. She abandoned the palaceâs scrutiny for its sunken gardens.
Overhead, the translucent membrane protecting Caer Morgana rippled with passing fish. In the garden, coral and seagrasses ran rampant, the gravelled paths the only sign of any maintenance. The gardens needed someone to tend them.
She sighed. It would not be her. Whatever gift she possessed, it wasnât for botany. Nobody could discern her gift or even how to access it. Honestly, it was worse than no gift at all. (to continue, click here.)
Novaheart is a newcomer to me, but heâs been around for a year. âGEN A.I.â is his newest story, and a rather interesting one.
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When it happened, no one knew the consequences. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty. Humanity had fought many wars and overcome plagues, droughts, floods, fires, and anything else nature threw our way. A few asteroids had flown close by, like Apophis in 2029 and SG344 a year later. Scientists were always predicting the end of the world from an asteroid, the next Chicxulub, but they would pass by harmlessly, and humanity became less concerned about any looming threat from the heavens.
Eventually, however, that luck ran out when Xena Apoc appeared on the radar in 2248. It was predicted to make landfall in nineteen years and was on a direct collision course with Earth. Strangely, no one seemed excited or worried; many didnât even care about the multiple warnings of impending doom. Humanityâs sensationalist news made every doom story feel passĂŠ, and people yawned openly at the supposed end of the world.
By 2265, Xena Apoc was still on course and now visible in the night skyâa glistening beauty of destruction. A growing number of people began to express concern. A man walked down the street with "Repent, Sinner" scrawled in red across his bare chest. In 2266, the faith of many was shaken, and hundreds of churches were burned as Xena Apoc grew larger in the sky. People began to ransack businesses, and suicide rates surged in 2267. Xena Apoc was so bright in the sky that it could be seen even during daylight.
The news was bleak, with 24/7 live reports pleading for humanity to seek shelter underground and stock up on food and water. It was a constant drone of pointless procedures designed to give a sense of control when most of us knew survival was slim. I often looked up at Xena and wondered what my future would have been like. At just twenty-three, I had so much life ahead of me, but it was all going to be cut short. My friends, whom I had deemed fellow intellectuals, became addicted to narcotics, spending their days slumped in a blissful coma. I decided to stay clear-headed. (To continue, click here)
âApache Duel,â is one of Thomas Hylandâs western stories.
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Three blue coats rode amidst the rising sun. They rode in a race against time. For the Apaches were on the warpath. The majority of them were from the San Carlos Indian Reservation. A rogue chief named Red Eagle led them. They were a sorry bunch with nothing to lose and nothing to gain except their pride. Sergeant Mark âSullyâ Sullivan led the three blue coats. He felt sorry for the Red Devils. He had been to San Carlos and it was a sight that he would never forget. Starvation was ripe, along with the loss of their tribal lands. It was a way of life that would be gone and forgotten within a hundred years.
The stories of the goings-on behind the scenes at San Carlos were the worst-kept secret among the Army. The Indian agent sold the reservationâs beef to settlers and the Army as the Indians starved. He harbored no grudge against capitalism. It was the lifeblood of the nation. The greed of a few kept the Indians hungry. A hungry Indian was a desperate Indian. A desperate Indian was dangerous.
No, he wouldnât want to be in the shoes of the Apache for even a yearâs pay upfront. There was nothing worse than watching your own people starve all around you. To the Apache there seemed to be but two choices. Death by famine or death by combat against the White Man. Neither of which were not a good way to go. He may have been acting under orders, but this was personal to him. You see running Tumbleweed Station was old Bob Ruth. He had a daughter that was with him. Her name was Cindy. She was the woman he loved and the woman he was going to marry. (To continue, click here.)
âThe Manse of the Sleeping Sorceress,â by ErnieT is a story about a hexblade thatâs been hired to retrieve a gem. Sounds easy, right? There is no such thing.
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The bar at the Four Winds was never very crowded. It wasn't cheap enough to attract the sailors and dockhands from Mere's waterfront who were looking for a quick drunk. Nor was it upscale enough for the wealthy merchants and nobles looking to fashionably slum among the less fashionable. Still, the Four Winds did a steady business, especially among a certain clientele which desired the anonymity provided by enough strangers about, but not enough that they could lose track of any one person who might be of interest or, perhaps, not be found by anyone wishing to seek them out.
On this particular evening Vim sat at his table near the end of the bar and watched a small, dark haired man enter. The man was dressed fashionably, but not richly, in dark green velvet doublet and pantaloons with hose of mauve. He held a black hat with a white plume in his hands, and he rolled and unrolled the brim in his hands nervously. He paused for a moment and looked around the room, his face unsmiling and tense. He wandered to the bar and spoke some words with the bartender, who pointed at the table at the end of the bar where Vim sat. The man looked at Vim and walked to the table.
"Are you the Hexblade?" he asked. He regarded Vim who was dressed in simple gray tunic and trousers. Vim was of medium build, medium complexion, and, in short, was indistinguishable in almost every way. Vim intentionally cultivated such an appearance.
Vim looked at the man. The man looked away, then back.
"I was told you might be able to help me with a problem."
Vim continued to gaze at the man. The man looked down and said, "Landrestaal told me where I might find you."
Landrestaal! That was a name Vim had not heard in some time. He appraised the man, then simply said, "Sit."
The man pulled out a chair, placed his hat upon the table, and sat. He sat with his hands in his lap, his back straight, looking anxiously around. Vim sat and quietly appraised him. His nervousness belied competence; this was not a man who was meek or powerless. This was a man unaccustomed to the assistance of others.
"Tell me what it is with which you wish my assistance, and I will see if I can help you."
The man looked at Vim, looked away, then back again. "It is...ahem," he hesitated. "It is a rather delicate matter of a potentially...illicit nature."
Vim kept an outwardly calm exterior, but internally he smiled. Most of his "clients" desired his services for tasks that were far more than merely illicit. He said, "You have a concern. I may possibly assist with this concern. Tell me what this concern is and let me judge as to the...illicitness...of the matter."
"There is a gem...a valuable gem. It has been taken from me and I wish you to retrieve it."
"This sounds like simple burglary. Why come to someone with my particular skills for such a straightforward task?"
"There are...complications."
Vim smiled internally again. Yes, there always are. "And these complications are of a thaumaturgical nature?"
The man nodded.
Vim sat back and considered the man before him. He sensed that there was much to this request, that the man's demeanor was less nervousness at the illegality of the task and more nervousness about the disclosure of something personal. He decided to set the man at ease.
"Surely Landrestaal informed you that my discretion in matters involving clients is absolute."
This worked. The man visibly relaxed, his erect posture sagging to a slouch. He placed his hands on the table in front of him and sighed. He looked up at Vim.
"Of course," he said. "Let me begin again. I am Kyve. There is a gem, a large ruby, that I wish to obtain. It is in a manse in the central district of Mere. I wish you to obtain this ruby from the manse." (To continue, click here.)
âSexy Times Ensue,â by Diana Admire is a story about any random sunday.
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The sheets smelled like a deli and Brook felt sticky when she touched her arms, but the pain had subsided. Was there something wet against her back? That was strange. She rolled over to find Christy staring at her, with her blonde hair wet and hanging in her eyes.
âMaybe itâs not as bad as we thought? The sunburns I mean. I already took a shower I didnât want to wake you...â Christyâs voice was low and sexy, âbut now Iâm having second thoughts.â
âGood morning sunshine,â Brook said. She moved a strand of hair behind Christyâs ear. âI guess I should wash off too, Iâll be right back.â
Brook had some rather tantalizing thoughts of her own but she didnât want to rush things. She didnât dare kiss her, or sheâd never stop. She ran to the bathroom, took a quick shower and brushed her teeth. Her Sunday was starting fantastic. She had a body to explore and Christy had one to die for. Brook grabbed the bottle of baby-oil as she tried to slow her breathing in her excitement to begin her adventuresome morning. She hummed what most people thought was the Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star song as she hurried to slip back under the covers.
Christy looked up at her. âYouâre in a good mood this morning!â
âWhen I have a beautiful girl in my bed you bet Iâm in a good mood.â Brook set the bottle of oil on the night stand then turned back to Christy. âI have a feeling this is going to be a great day.â
Christy kissed her good morning. âMmmm,â she moaned as she began to take the kissed deeper.
Brook reluctantly pulled away. âI do believe the spearmint is an improvement over pickle juice.â
When Christy feathered her fingers down an arm. Brooksâ nerves tingled. She involuntarily shivered.
âAre you cold?â Christy asked. âI can turn off the fan.â She didnât wait for an answer and jumped up from the bed, jogged over to the circulating fan in front of the air-conditioner.
Brook admired the cute, firm, bottom that didnât even jiggle. When she turned around to rejoin her in bed Brook glanced down to the mound of dark hair at Christyâs crotch.
âSo now you know my secret.â Christy confessed, âIâm not a natural blonde.â She scampered back under the sheet. âAre you disappointed?â
Brook laughed and reached for the oil. âHardly. With a body like yours, I wouldnât care if your hair was purple.â
Christy grinned back at her and took hold of Brooks C sized breasts cupped them and squeezed gently. âYou arenât so bad yourself.â
As much as Brook liked where this was leading she stopped Christy. âI think we better be sure about the sunburns. Let me give you a message. Weâve got all day and I plan to take advantage of that.â (To continue, click here.)
âBy the Sword,â by Bryan Beal, is about a robot who is just seeking the gospel truth.
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The incense smoke had dissipated. The thurible had been put away with the candlesticks and the chalice. Vicar Raymonde XTC felt a little like his best friend had just left for a long journey. There was something familiar and home-like about the Holy Week celebrations, despite what they were leading up to for His Lord. Still feeling something of the moment, Raymonde knelt at the wooden rail, worn to a warm sheen by countless supplicants, before the altar to pray, clasping his silver tanibrium hands together with a slight clunk of metal and closing his sensors off. Unlike his human brothers and sisters, his people could almost completely isolate themselves in a bubble of sensory silence. Some would say deprivation, but they were the noise junkies of a fleshier kind, the priest would say. Raymonde was grateful to God he was not burdened with distractions like his human friends described to him.
Dwain Reece waited for his friend and minister in the rear pews. Under the balconies above, it was hard to see him in the dim shadows. Dwain was comfortable in the dimness of anonymity, a quality someone of his background quickly developed. It was often like this in this new life of his. Dwain had to lock the church up, but the Vicar would feel the need to pray. His record so far was two hours and twenty-four minutes of prayer, for which he had apologised endlessly. Dwain never minded. He liked Raymonde and they often hung out after the prayers were done. The Vicar was about the best friend Dwain had. Now that he thought about it, Raymonde was probably his only real friend.
Even after the passing of the DIE Laws, what people joking called the Digital Intelligence Equality directive, Raymonde could still draw a lot of attention out in public in his dog-collar and black clergy threads. There was something jarring about seeing a silver-blue bipedal robot dressed as a person of the cloth. Despite Raymonde's best efforts to follow Jesus' teachings about kids, some children sprinted for the hills on sight. Some people accused Raymonde of being a soulless machine with no right to be at the altar. In St Martins, just over twenty percent of the congregation left on getting the notice of Raymondeâs appointment. Even now, a century or more after the first flushes of Artificially Intelligent Life (AIL), people still got hung up on the whole body thing. (to continue, click here.)
âBellageist: Chains of a Demigodâ by Derek James Kritzberg is about the lives of three demi-gods. I wouldnât be able to do it justice by trying to explain, so Iâll let the story explain itself.
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The clubs consisted of stones bound in catgut which hung from sturdy branches. Hairy hands clutched grips of stripped, wrapped hide, raising the weapons in challenge and pounding them down to inflict pain and death.
Infantile minds too new to understand their circumstances swung these neolithic implements through the air at foes of equal incomprehension. Covered in fur and brand new to bipedal travel, these fledgling hominids knew little of natural law or even themselves, only that they must press on and through. The ever-present threat of searing light pushed them forward, forward. To halt or hesitate brought a punishment of electrical pain. Even one step of retreat angered the gods and caused oneâs pelt to burst into flames.
Fear. Hate. Hungry, a young mind in the fray thought. Like the others, it knew not how it came to be here, what here even was. It possessed only the barest sense of self-awareness along with a passionate need to prove itself.
Like an injection that missed the vein, foreign vocabulary and strange muscle memory bubbled painfully in its brain. A great deal of knowledge resided in this gem of a mind, but all of it lacked context. It retained a superficial understanding of motion, action, and reaction, but the rest floated beyond comprehension like unbound pages swirling in a vortex. The operation of its body and the tool it held required conscious thought and guesswork, every movement requiring the mental consultation of unfiled blueprints.
Muscles bulged under heavy loads. Unpracticed hands fumbled with misshapen tools. Nevertheless, clubs arced and fell in a whoosh, clacking against other sticks, pounding the dirt, crushing bones. Meat, mountain, and forest merged, elemental floods competing beneath an atmosphere howling with pain and anger. The struggle chewed up cowards and the wretched weak then spat their corpses upon the ground in welters of blood.
Weak. Had the young mind learned contempt for weakness, or had it been born with it? It did not, would not, could not question the origin of the thought. It acted upon every emotion it felt immediately â anything and everything except the dread. All felt better than the fear of inaction, the simmering threat of invisible fire at its back.
Gnashing the teeth of its ape-like host, the young mind pushed a struggling comrade aside, seeking the foe, impatient to strike a killing blow. The young mind introduced itself to the melee with a gurgling shout, swinging its weapon in violence before it had yet learned to speak. (To continue, click here)
âRemus & Gwilhermâ by The Brothers Krynn, has been called Englandâs New Chivalric epic.
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In the days that followed the battle of Mt-Sorg, Ăthelwulf became filled with the greed of Balthrorth. This combined with his refusal now that RĂŠalwaldr had been reclaimed by LĂŠon, to hand it back to Gwilherm and his second exile of the man from those lands served only to anger Queen Elena. Who never again bore much love for her husband, and never returned to his bed save one in the years that followed, left him a deeply bitter and greedy man. Keen for the lands and wealth of others, he overtook Ergyng, and then attempted another conquest of Cymru which paid him liege-homage for respite. Thence his gaze turned to the north, where he pushed and pushed for war, until he had many a wars with the Caleds who wished little to do with him yet had no alternative choices than to defend their rightful lands.
The reign of Ăthelwulf which had begun in such joy, pomp and glory descended thusly into continuous violence and warfare, until his subjects groaning beneath his exactions wished him gone. In time they would have his eldest sons for kings, and they proved weak and greedy also, with an outside one day stepping in to claim the throne and reunite Brittia under a just, fair and good hand. That usurper though was far-off, and though he was not to permanently displace the line of Elena, he taught valuable lessons to her latter sons who learnt to rule better than their predecessors.
Where was our heroes in all of this, you ask? What became of them, was the stuff of legends, with Vladin being utterly overjoyed to hear that ĂlfflĂŚd and her daughters lived, even as his joy turned to pain to see her so enraptured by LĂŠon. Pity him not though, as he remained in Falsveal, which he helped to rebuild into a glorious, twenty-meter high stone-fort with twelve parapets, and fifteen meter high-walls, just as he did the same for RĂŠalwaldr. Save that keep was thirty-meters high, and thus became the most glorious of all the keeps of Estria. This he did at the request of Gwilherm and his son, and became rich in the process, marrying in time a human girl from Jorvik, who came with her master-builder father. Whereupon she heard of the great valour of the Dwarf and came to love him, win his love and mother for him the half-dozen sons of Vladin, who became great builders, and smiths in their own rights. His eldest son, wed the Dwarf-maid Ghalla, and together they fathered the renowned black-smith Wendaln Fiery-Beard, the greatest of all Dwarven black-smiths to ever live on the Lordly-Isle. A near-full Dwarf, whom would sit on his grandfatherâs leg as he told him great tales of old, yet this was far-off, long after Vladin became mayor of the town just outside RĂŠalwaldr. (To continue, click here.)
âSugar and Spice and all things nice,â by Parrish Baker starts out a story about gentically augmented children. Andromache is just a little too perfect, at the top of the curve, youâd say.
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Twenty little girls in two straight lines sat cross-legged on sunlit mats. They placed iris, anemone, cyclamen, oleander, and dittany-of-Crete in green glass vases. Back and forth Teacher walked, making notes on her tablet. Gold heads, brown heads, black heads, auburn bent over their work. Twenty pairs of hands, twenty pairs of eyes, one quiet room.
The mentist slipped through the quadrangle doorway, sandals tapping the threshold. Teacher smiled. âMiss Yilmaz.â
âHow are they?â
âObedient as always.âBriseis, nice form. More oleander.â
âYes, Miss.â
âIâm here for Andromache.â
Teacher nodded. âAndromache, put away your work.â
She pitched her voice just so. A girl laid down her flower at once, limpid-eyed.
âYes, Miss.â Precise, busy hands: vase, to the window. Mat, folded. Extra flowers, in a wet cloth on the black stone counter.
Andromache donned her sandals on the white stone walk outside, and they went to Miss Zugastiâs office.
The geneset designer beamed. âHow are we today?â
The solemn ten-year-old curtseyed, silver-white hair in a crown braid. âI am well, Miss.â She wore a pastel green tunic and a sort of brass necklace, a ring she could lift over her head and remove, but must not. Her sandals stayed by the door.
A toy basket waited on a Penesthelian rug. âPlay for us.â
âAs Miss pleases.â Cross-legged, Andromache put the toys in a row: doll, cup, horse, ground-car, trowel, duster. Spatula and bowl. She chose each in turn, cradled the doll, and served her the cup. Curried the horse and polished the vehicle with her hem. Gardened the carpet. She paced the room on pale white-pink feet, dusting, dusting.
The geneset designer watched her pretending to mix in the bowl. âAcademics this week?â
âReading ten nine three. She had a practical mathematics exam. The scoreââ Yilmaz mentioned a number. The designer puffed her cheeks, concerned. (To continue: click here.)
Thank You for you kind words and including me in the issue.