Look, We All Make Mistakes. Some, More Than A Few. Some, Pretty Bad Ones In Particular.

Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days

I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.

The sky cried its own tears that night when the police went to work. The dark was deep as pooled ink, and the voices terse and strict. None took pleasure that night, the nature of their business sapping them of all joy. I suppose that’s why I was called.

I arrived at the scene from the shadows, appearing (as I tend) from the shadows. For what I am is not quite human – but not quite beyond human, either. Magic is my knowledge and my trade; and my magic is very particular.

Dressed as I was in a black trenchcoat and dark gray hood, I supposed I made an enigmatic and rather ludicrous figure crossing the wet grass. I reached the edge of the cordoned-off area, when I was waylaid by one of the officers. “Sir, this is a crime scene,” he said, him being a rather burly white man with fairly obvious anger issues.

“Step aside,” I began, impatient as I was to begin. I do not appreciate being treated as such, especially when I am summoned.

“Raphael, it’s him. He’s my consultant,” came a voice from behind him.

“This guy is your consultant? He looks like an extra from one of those bad superhero movies. What? Couldn’t get in on the Blade series and decided to fight crime instead?”

Bored of his banter, I pushed the man aside as gently as I cared (which was not very much) and continued to the detective. She was young, I suppose, for the role of detective, but I am not a good judge of such things. Brown hair, green eyes. Hispanic. She was probably quite attractive, to people like Raphael, but I am not concerned with such earthly matters.

I looked down at the scene. Three dead. Two adults, a man and a woman. The man, white and in his early thirties. The cause of death was, in all likelihood, the fact that his chest had been eviscerated by perhaps an animal. The woman, also white, was likewise aged and damaged. They were dressed in day-to-day clothing – jeans and t-shirts. Lying between them, as though they had died trying to save her, was a young girl. Going by her features, she was these two’s child. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth opened in a scream that probably ended when she did.

I was looking down at them when the detective spoke. “What do you see, Miyeteth?”

I looked at her, before speaking. My voice sounded like a rasp even to my ears, unaccustomed as I am to the utterances of English. “I see a girl and her parents. The three were killed by something… malicious. Perhaps even evil. Perhaps even… inhuman.”

“Quit playing around. There are no tracks leading to or away from here. Whatever did this could only have been human.”

I stared at her for a couple seconds. “I know why you called me here, Camila. I do not raise the dead on a whim. Violating the laws of nature is not a careless act.”

“Miyeteth, you owe my family a great debt. The number of times we’ve turned a blind eye to your very existence is proof of that enough.  Do it.”

I crouched next to the father’s body. “Send your men away. This is not for the eyes of mortals. You may stay, but I ask that you do not interrupt me.”

She went over to the police officers, and said something to them. They all went, organized, down the hill to investigate other areas further. I put my hand onto the father’s head, and began the words. I began the acclamation.

“In the names of Akraziel, Azrael, and Uriel, I command thee to return to this form. I command thee to return alone. I command thee to follow my voice and return.”

The body spasmed as the soul returned. His eyes opened. “Where am I ? What happened? Eliza? Rachel?”

I put one of my fingers to his mouth. “Silence, son of Adam. Who attacked you?”

“I don’t… where’s my wife? My daughter? Eliza? Rachel?”

He tried to move, but I uttered a single phrase in Enochian. “Noasmi Teloc.”

He lay still, and moved no more.

I went over to the mother. I repeated the acclamation. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to draw in breath. It didn’t work – nothing can restore such life to the dead. “Speak to me, Eliza. Who did this to you.”

“I knew him – he was our friend – but he wasn’t – he was something – he killed me. I died. Where’s Rachel? What happened to Rachel?”

I repeated the phrase. “Noasmi Teloc. Be at peace, Eliza.”

I moved to the third. As I placed my hand over the young girl’s face, I found myself taking a deep breath. I was steeling myself to do this, for this was a line even I do not like to cross. “In the names of –“

“Wait!” said Camila. She looked scared. Maybe even… saddened? She took her time to draw breath, and calmed herself. “Do it.”

I finished the acclamation. The girl awakened with a gasp. “Where’s mommy? Where’s daddy?”

I held her close as I spoke to her. “Do not worry, Rachel. Tell me who did this to you, so that I can see it done right.”

“It was Uncle James. But it wasn’t him – he changed. He was like a big dog – but angry. So angry. He took daddy first, then mommy… then me. Am I…?”

I looked into her eyes. Blue, like sapphire. “Noasmi Teloc.”

She went limp in my arms. “I don’t think this is your case anymore, Camila. This is not a human killer. Honor the agreement I made with your grandfather. Give it to me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have the power to sweep this under the rug. We have to investigate.”

“Very well. Delay your people as much as you can. I’ll find the killer, but I warn you he will not be alive when you come to claim him.”

I headed off into the night, fading into shadow. Within moments I had returned to my erstwhile, earthly abode. Which is to say, a crowded apartment filled with books. The bedroom had been converted into a study – after all, I don’t sleep – and I began to search my books. I knew that I had to find the killer – and that there were two basic ways I could do this.

One is to summon the spirit of the deceased into a pendant so that they could lead me to their killer. Think of it like a homing beacon – the act of murder inherently links the deceased to their victim, to the extent that it can be magically quantified, and traced.

The second was a bit less direct. The description the girl had given described a Werewolf, which, strictly speaking, do not exist. They are a Hollywood invention, like about everything else. But, their myth came from somewhere. Demons bound to flesh can have all sorts of effects, and shapechanging – both partially and fully – can be a result. And specific demons have specific modes of operation.

Desperate as I was to avoid calling upon the dead more than I absolutely had to, I began to plunge into my books for information on demons who used a wolf-motif. Within a couple hours I found four. Two were obviously not the case, as they had been expelled rather recently. They couldn’t have returned. But of the two, one worried me. Because it wasn’t really a ‘demon’, it was a fallen angel. Ulnniel, child of Lucifer and one of his concubines, was a being of death and depravity – whose hatred for family was only outstripped by his hatred of children.

I had found our killer. But now I needed to track him. I read deeper onto the subject of Ulnniel. His true name was polysyllabic and difficult to pronounce, as they tend to be, I suppose, and committing it to this paper is foolhardy as it would just set fire to itself anyway.

But I managed to devise a method of tracking. I would not summon those poor spirits again – for they had earned whatever blessings may come to them or whatever punishment awaits them. I had learned the hard way not to delay, and had for centuries been focusing on keeping the knowledge I found hoarded away from mortals.

The tracking method involved the true name written onto a map and then with acetone poured onto it, with an incantation spoken. It would destroy basically all the map except the point where he would be.

I did it, chanted the incantation, and there it was. Easy as a peach. I left to head to the location.

But when I got there, something was… amiss. I was atop a building, looking down at a patch of land that had been turned into a garden of sorts. In the center stood a man dressed in a hoodie, leather jacket and jeans. “I can hear you, brother,” he shouted. “Come out, Miyeteth. Face your death with some dignity.”

I could see his face even from here. His face had once been a human’s – probably similar to the male victim. But his face was twisted, wolf-like. A permanent snarl. The beginnings of horns had begun to emerge through the skin on his forehead. “Miyeteth – It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I thought you were dead. I’d like to make that the truth.”

I jumped down, using my abilities to slow my descent so that I landed thirty or so feet behind him. Ulnniel laughed at my appearance. “Why so human, brother? What, didn’t feel like changing the appearance? So unlike you-“

“Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

Fire burst from my open palm to try and claim Ulnniel. He jumped out of the way, and I merely left a scorched patch of grass.

Ulnniel growled. “You aren’t Miyeteth – you are something else. Who are you? You are not a mortal – nor an angel.”

He raised one hand and spoke an incantation. A sword appeared in his hand, a twisted thing of black steel and blood, an evil thing, capable of doing much harm.

He charged at me. I spoke an incantation. My weapon appeared likewise – a golden spear tipped with platinum. I dodged out of the way and readied myself for combat.

“Who are you? What are you? An abomination, perhaps? No… my brother is part of you – both within and without. Hmmm…”

Ulnniel clapped his hands. “A conjurer you are! You fused my brother’s body with yours in some damned ritual. Clever. But it ends now.”

He charged and I tried to roll to the side, but he knew my trick and adjusted his blow. Driving his sword triumphantly through my side, he laughed. “Die, fool. Let your blood drip away for eternity.”

But he was close now. Too close for him to dodge as I spoke the words again, this time with my hand on his chest. “Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

He screamed as he was blasted backwards by grey fire. I pulled his sword out, its metal hissing as it touched angelic flesh. He was immobilized. I walked to his form, and drove my spear into his chest. He screamed louder, as his very being was eradicated by the angelic weapon. The child of hell breathed no more.

I waved a hand over the body, and spoke a simple incantation. Its formed returned to human proportions, and I searched its pockets. I found a piece of paper, on which a few words had been written around a pentagram. This was how Ulnniel had been summoned. The humans sought to do what none other had – truly bind an angel.

I looked down at my form. I suppose I am not truly Miyeteth – I was born, in some form, on the twentieth of July, 1592. A rich child of a noble family, I had sought unholy knowledge. I found love – my wife died shortly after our marriage, and I sought to use my research to bring her back. I failed. I bound a son of Azrael to myself – Miyeteth. His knowledge and entity subsumed my mortal entity, and I became this. Perhaps an abomination. Perhaps something else.

I picked up the body and dropped it on the stairs of the precinct of a certain detective I knew. I had some people to track down – and some knowledge to claim.

You’re a necromancer who secretly helps the police by bringing back murder victims and interviewing them.

It’s the year 2166, and people haven’t changed much. They still eat, they still sleep, there’s not been a robot apocalypse yet, and they dream. But above all this, they still desire the best for their children. That’s why, for the past century, humans have been genetically engineered. Heavily. Rather than trust the hand of fate to decide what your child looks like, what their features and their faults are, they’d rather entrust it to a Genotypist, an expert at gene therapy and study.

It’s common practice for those with them to have their ovaries removed entirely, frozen in stasis until a suitable time. Undesirable pregnancies have reached such a low that it dips below the margin of error for most studies.

But my parents, and their parents, and my grandparents (basically since the invention and legalization of the Genotypist’s trade) have forgone all that. In a world where most are conceived in a test tube, they decided to go the ‘natural’ way, and me and my little sister were born. I love my parents, but sometimes (especially when I put on my glasses, reliant as I am on them) I wish they had maybe at least consulted a Genotypist.

I remember elementary school. The other kids weren’t so bad; they were a little in awe of me, to be honest, as children tend to be of anything different. Their parents, however, were a different story. They were scared of me, I think – which is odd to say, having been five years old or so at the time. Maybe they were afraid of what I represented – the scary old days in which children died at young ages from illness, that children were born with diseases. The chance of me eventually being killed by one genetic factor or another made me a liability. They told their children to avoid me, to not interact – and I grew up with no one. Well, next to no one.

My sister was born when I was four, and I made it my sworn duty to be her friend, because I knew that it would seem the world was against her. And, maybe it was. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could spare her my heartache.

But still, I had a life of my own. The only other ‘organic’ my age was another boy, whose parents couldn’t afford the procedure – a rare thing in this day and age of ‘prosperity’, where people would go on the bare minimum for months just to pay for the procedure. He was the only one unafraid of me – a fact I continue to appreciate.

Middle school was where things got worse – the kids were old enough to understand why their parents hated me, and that I was different – and different was bad. I suppose that I took that to heart – I couldn’t deal with quite that level of hate, so I rejected them all in turn. My only connection to life was twofold – my sister and my only friend. Even my parents weren’t spared my rage.

I was kind of an edgy little shit. I got into fights. I vandalized a few things. I got a record. I have to give credit to my parents for putting up with me through that stage of my life.

Anyway, though, I got expelled. Something about picking five fights in a single semester made the principal unwilling to keep me around. Bizarre, really. But I wound up getting shipped out to another school, a few miles away from everyone I knew, and that’s kind of shit.

I was on the bus, sitting in the back with headphones on, when he sat next to me. I was surprised anyone would – not least of all because I tend to dress like leather and black cloth had an orgy. He was about my age – which was fitting, I suppose. Not like there was much variance of age here, save the fifty-something bus driver. Pulling down the headphones, he waved awkwardly. “Hi, I’m Nicholas.”

Thinking it through in my head, I internally figure I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I offer my hand. “James.”

He shook my hand. “Charmed,” he smiled. He was kind of adorable, in a slightly dorky way. Brown hair, kind of scrawny. Dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants. And what kind of kid wears leather dress-shoes to school?

“So, James, what brings you to our school? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Life,” I sighed dramatically. Gods I hate myself in hindsight.

Nicholas laughed. “I think we’ll get along just fine, James.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” I began. I was ready for a story, and the bus drive was taking what seemed like eternity. It’s not like I could just go back to my headphones and ignore him after he’d been kind enough to introduce himself.

“Well, I’m sixteen, I’ve got two older sisters and a younger brother, and I’m an Aquarius – that what you want to hear?”

“Just maybe. So, tell me – why is it you sat next to me, rather than by the other students you seem to know so well?”

“Well, I’m not exactly popular,” he said, looking around at the others on the bus. “I haven’t got any friends, really. My only friend was a kid named Will, but he transferred out last year. And,” he began to whisper conspiratorially, “They say you… that you’re…”

“That I’m what,” I ask, leaning back a little, hoping to avoid whatever little bombshell he felt inclined to drop.

“That you’re… organic?”

I sigh. How in the hell can I never escape that? I hadn’t even met anyone from the school and they already knew my birth status. “Yeah, yeah I am.”

“That’s… wow. So… like… you were…?”

I could see the question forming in his mind. “Yes, I was conceived the ‘old-fashioned’ way. Same as everyone was two centuries ago.”

“That’s weird.”

I scoffed a little under my breath. “So, you afraid of me now?”

“Not really.”

I looked at him, a little surprised. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, putting his hands up defensively, “I’m a little weirded out by your birth status, but I’m not, like, going to hold it against you. It’s not your fault.”

I rolled my eyes. Another one of these. People who thought I was some kind of sub-human creature, worthy of pity for my status. Like an ape in a zoo. People would be kind enough, I supposed, if I let them sit there and talk at me and feed me bananas, but once I open my mouth, the illusion is scattered. I’m different. I’m a threat.

“What’s not my fault? That my parents fucked and nine months later I popped out? Where do you think, your entire family came from, a few generations back? Maybe most don’t do it that way anymore, but I’m not going to put up with your goddamned, patronizing bullshit. I’m just as human as you.”

He went silent then, a little numb, and then he began. “I’m… sorry…”

He looked like someone had deflated him a little bit. I suppose I had been harsh on him. But I’d dealt with this all my life – it’s not like he asked to be born the way he was, either. “I’m sorry too.”

“So… let’s start over a little. What’s your life like?”

“Got a sister. Anya. Brilliant girl. And, I’m a Cancer. That what you looking for?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

In about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the school and disembarked. The school was a fancy, shiny new building. My parents had paid through the nose to get me here, I guess. I looked at my schedule. “Do you have Mr. Shall too?”

I looked at my homeroom class. Sure enough, Shall. “Yeah”

“I can show you to his room. He’s the biology teacher. They say his grandfather helped found the science of Genotyping.”

“And he teaches at a high school?”

“Well, his entire family can’t be rich and famous.”

I went to the class, following behind Nicholas, finally sitting at a paired table next to him. Mr. Shall was a burly man in his early forties, dressed in a dress-shirt and tie. He began class with a simple set of words. “I understand that there’s someone new here,” he said, standing up. “I’d like to give him a chance to introduce himself. James, if you would?”

I walked up to the front of the class. “Hi, the name’s James. Nice to meet you.”

I shuffled back to my seat, and we began. He handed out sheets of paper, on which was written a simple timeline going back a couple hundred years. “As you know, Genotyping began in the mid-twenty first century. Zhou Wang Wei wrote the first book on the subject in 2041, a treatise that was translated for western audiences two years later. His western counterpart was John Van Compf, who developed some of the medical equipment used in the field. The basics were simple – but the execution took years of hard work.”

He continued like this for what seemed like hours, but was probably no longer than a few minutes. “And now, there’s next to no children born organically anymore. Why is that, do you think? Who would turn down the medical procedure that can give them ‘ideal’ children? That can make perfect humans, medically speaking. Why risk it?”

A girl near the front raised her hand. “Maybe they’re afraid of it? Of society progressing?”

Shall shook his head a little. “No, Amy. Progress isn’t some measurable thing – what’s a way forward for some is often the way backwards for others. James,” he said, gesturing to me, “Why do you think people don’t hire a Genotypist?”

I looked up at him, and he winked at me. God damn it, the man knew. I stood up. “Maybe they think it’s not right to alter people with machines. After all, didn’t Darwin himself write that diversity is in the best interest for people? Isn’t Genotyping just a way to reduce that diversity? Sure, we might still have variance in eye color, hair color, skin color, but we’re still getting rid of genetic diversity in other ways. Maybe it’s going to come back and bite us.”

Shall nodded. “As good a reason as any.”

A boy across the room shot up. “But, if that happens, won’t the Genotypists figure out a way to save us? If a gene we removed is the secret to saving us, then why don’t we just add it in on the next generation? It’s better off we make the procedure mandatory; that way organics don’t wind up infecting us all with some kind of disease.”

Shall shook his head again. “Sit down, Michael. That’s hardly the – “

Nicholas looked at me, and began to whisper, “James, you’re crying.”

I felt my face with one hand. Indeed, I was. I was also gripping my pencil with such an extraordinary grip that I was surprised it didn’t break. Then, of course, it did. The snap drew attention from the surrounding students, and I used that to my advantage. Rising to my feet again, I spoke. “That’s bullshit. Do you really think that’s progress? Forcing people you don’t like to be like you isn’t ‘progress’, it isn’t ‘safety’. You’re just afraid.” I began to whisper then, “God damn it, I just want to live. Is that so hard?”

I sat down, and was silent the rest of the class.

In the future where Babies mass produced in genetic labs are normal , you are the only “ organic ” in your high school class. It’s the first day of school and the teacher asks you to introduce yourself.

For all those who complain about explicit “smutty” books or smut in fic in general:

Just be aware that a bill has been introduced in Oklahoma’s state senate (SB 593) that would make writing/publishing/owning an explicit romance book a felony.

So, when you come on here to espouse your “anti pro-ship” nonsense, or moan about how hard it is to find fics/art/books that aren’t “smutty” — know that this is the effect. You are being used as mouthpieces to help feed and perpetuate censorship. There is no room for censorship in fiction because it will never stop at what you deem morally “right”. It is about control and the restriction of speech. Your discomfort with sex in media does not make it wrong, and it certainly doesn’t mean you get to advocate for its restriction.

Do not be pawns in the far-right’s game. Do not call yourselves allys of any kind if you are willingly feeding into a pillar of far right extremism. It will not stop where you think it “should.”

You’re a zoologist. When the alien bombardment begins, you decide to stay behind and spend your last moments with the animals. Your zoo, however, is miraculously unharmed. It’s not a coincidence.

It was raining quite hard when I saw them walking, a pair of lovers who had been going for a stroll in the dark, and had been caught in the rain. They were quite young, I suppose, though I have never been a good judge of those things, and I floated around behind them. I suppose I hover behind all at some point, but these two seemed special to me. I paid attention to them, and saw their stories, hovering behind them like film-reels lost to time.

He was a boy from Detroit; his life had been far from easy. He had had to fight for every scrap in his life, and love was new to him. He had met her on a train bound to New York, and they had hit it off. They had spent a couple weeks in correspondence with each other before they had decided to date, and when they did, it had been a smashing success. Within six months they had moved in, and within eighteen he had proposed; rushed though it seemed, they were in love.

He had cut ties with his father, who did not approve the marriage. She was ‘not right for him’ he had said. And who knew, maybe his father would have eventually been proven correct.

She was born in Tennessee, the child of farmers whose lineage traced back to the dust bowl. She loved him dearly, but not with the all-consuming passion he did; she was a slow burn, and had more ties in the city than he did. She worked in a grocery store; her favorite food was roast chicken, and her best friend was her coworker, who was the first friend she made in the city.

Her parents were dead, her mother from a heart attack, her father from lung cancer. She had no ties back home, and was happy here.

I take no joy in my work this night.

I follow behind as they walk along the street, talking and laughing, with such joyous plans for the future. Their lives seemed secure, so perfect, so lovely.

They walk along the sidewalk, wet and dark, with an umbrella to protect from the rain. Twenty feet lay between them and the end of the block, twenty feet between them and the street. They paid little attention; youth rarely does.

They wandered along, talking of everything and nothing at all, giggling, him holding her close, kissing her forehead with such care that I wondered if there was a way I could stop what would happen. Of course, I couldn’t.

Ten feet to the street. He knelt to tie his shoe and she waited. Perhaps if he had left it alone, he wouldn’t have –

Five feet to the street. Both she and he are talking and laughing again. They didn’t even notice, as they stepped into the street.

The driver was a truck-driver from Shermer, Illinois. No wife, no kids. Nearing forty, it seemed he had little prospects of that happening, and he was happy enough about it. After the ‘incident’ as his coworkers euphemistically referred it, he would lose his ability to drive. He would take to drink. In all too soon a time, I would be drawn to him as well.

Perhaps if he had reacted a little faster, he would think, knowing he couldn’t have. I think the helplessness is almost worse, in a way.

Perhaps if it was not raining, he would have seen them before. Perhaps he could have reacted earlier. But, like me, the rain is inevitable. And even if the rain did not come, perhaps I would have come to them in a different manner.

I take no joy in my work, and as they stepped forward, the headlights shined on them just a moment too late for them to react.

Soon there was nothing to be done but watch, I, the eternal witness, in the rain.

And right there it rained a little harder.

write a story with the first line being “it was raining quite hard” and the last line being “ and right there it rained a little harder”

I can do lots and lots of submissions if that would help you. Creative strain’s a pain in the [redacted].

Hey Guys!

My life is gonna be super crazy from now until Christmas, so I’m bumping my daily prompt number down to three. I may miss some and some may simply be really bad. Bear with me, I will do my best.

If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...

Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?

Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?

Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?

Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?

Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?

As I drove along the highway that night, a snowy November evening, I suspected little of the contents of the evening; it had been a fulfilling one, after all. After leaving work, I had gone with some friends to get drinks at a nearby bar, a favorite of one of my coworkers, and I’d promised for a while to join them.

Before I left, I had gone to the bathroom, and on the way out, walked into someone. A woman, probably no older than thirty, who I did not know. I apologized, but she made eye contact with me, almost blankly. Then, in a somber tone, as if she was delivering a verdict, “It ends tonight.”

I thought nothing of it, and continued drinking with my friends.

Maybe that was a mistake.

Maybe I drank too much that night.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the drive.

The night was dark and the road was dimly lit by poorly-spaced lamps, and though I had made the trip many times, I had never done it in the dark. But I was not afraid; I had no fear of the dark, I didn’t fear the car that was behind me, even when they swerved in their lane. I did not fear them when they were alongside me, and I heard the people inside, four or five college students, drunker than I by far, screaming and hooting as they tried to pass me.

Tried. Their rear bumper hit the front of my car, sending me veering off of the road and into the ditch.

Before that, I looked to my right, and saw Her. The girl from the bar. She was smiling, something inhuman and ancient in her brown eyes and hair. Even in her ordinary features there was something eldritch and ancient that brought out a primal fear. A fear of death.

I was thrown from the car, and blacked out.

I woke up in the black and cold, with a splitting pain above my right eye, but otherwise intact and whole. I looked around and saw my car, aflame, broken and ripped apart by the collision. The college students, it seemed, had left without attempting a rescue.

Lit by the flames of my now-nonfunctional vehicle, I looked around. I expected to see nothing, but there was not. On the ground, not fifteen feet away, was the girl. She was lying on the ground, breathless, motionless and unstirring. Crouched above her was a strange girl, blonde-haired, not older than nineteen, dressed in simple clothing – jeans and a t-shirt – and carrying a weapon of some kind. It looked like a short sword, but the blade was thin and linear, not unlike a sharpened rapier blade but shorter still. Its hilt had a hand guard fashioned in the imagery of an Ouraboros, except with outstretched wings, set in gold but the blade of some black material I could not identify.

I stumbled forward, still disconcerted from the blast. “Who…?”

The girl looked up at me, and her eyes reminded me strangely of the girl who had been in the car with me; not in actual appearance, for this one’s eyes were an unearthly pale blue, but rather they evoked the same primal fears – the same fear of death.

This girl was dangerous.

She sheathed her strange sword in a leather hilt at her belt, and raised her right hand, and shouted, “Khairete!”

I shook my head, not understanding, wondering if maybe I had a concussion.

“Willechomen aband?”

I shook my head again, wondering if maybe I was having a stroke and this would be the end of it.

“Avete!” At this she waved her hand as if miming a greeting.

I stared blankly this time.

“Dia dhuit!”

I continued to stare.

She slapped her forehead and said, “Ego eimai Angelos.”

At my lack of a response she continued, “Ich bin Angelos?”

Rapid-fire she continued to spout in what I could only guess was a multitude of languages until she stumbled upon one I recognized, English. “Hel…lo?”

I nodded at this, encouraging her to continue, “I am Angelos.”

She spoke with a thick accent, something between Greek and German. “You should not be alive. You-“ at this she pointed at me, and paused. “You were supposed to die.”

I felt a little faint, and saw shadows dancing at the corners of my eyes as if my vision was being devoured by something. As I began to swoon, she ran up, but it was inhumanly fast, as if she had less ran to me and more flitted to my side. She waved a hand over my face and I felt a warmth, as if my body face were bathed in sunlight. The cold around me seemed to bite less, in that moment, and I felt awake again.

“Try… to stand,” she said hesitantly, helping me again to my feet. I tried to get to my feet and, nearly fell again, slipping into the snow. She put my right arm over her shoulder and helped me to my feet. As we walked along the snow, I began to ask questions. “What do you mean I was supposed to die? Who was that girl? Who are you? Why was she in my car? Why are you here? Are you… going to kill me?”

She gritted her teeth at my questions, but answered them all the same, “I mean you were fated to die tonight. In that crash. My handmaiden,” she gestured behind us at the crash, “was supposed to take your soul to my kingdom, and you would have been given judgement and sent to your proper afterlife. She has accompanied you, intangible and invisible, for most of this evening. I’m here because it seems she became the victim of fate tonight – her cord cut in place of your own. But you cannot stay here. For you are no longer fated to die.”

“So I’m not in any danger?”

She laughed, a harsh bark befitting an animal moreso than a human. “Not from me, paidi. But the elements, it seems, may have different plans.”

“So where are you taking me?”

She chuckled a little at this, and seemed a little more human in turn. “To my realm, Katachthon. Deep in the bowels of the underworld. It seems we have a vacancy that you could fill in the place of Tilphousia back there.”

I stumbled a little. This was all so much to believe, but what else could I do? Magic seemed the only explanation at this point; the girl appearing in my car, predicting my death. This girl, healing my wounds. I noticed, after a bit, that we were walking into the woods, away from the highway. We made our way to a clearing, and she stopped.

“Tóso kaló óso opoiodípote. This place seems as good as any. Hold to me tightly; this will be a little… disconcerting.”

In a second, it seemed, we were travelling at the speed of light, shadows dancing, laughter – raucous and unearthly, inhuman – and we arrived, on the balcony of a castle overlooking a darkened lake, within a massive cavern. I let go of her, and collapsed, and saw no more.

oadelԙ���

You’re driving a long, dark stretch of highway, when Death appears in the passenger seat, informing you that you are about to die. The car then spins out of control, flipping, and you black out. You wake up, hours later, in a deserted field. Death is laying lifeless on the side of the highway.

A retired super villain is in the bank with his 6 year old daughter when a new crew of super villains comes in to rob the place.