The Demon by Logan Webster
The name’s Thorin. You may have heard of me. I’m the source of all the bad things that go on in the world. The sands of Africa barren and unwilling to host vegetation? Me. World leaders indifferent to climate change? Also me. Little sisters? Some of my finest. I fly around haunting widows and making babies cry. Ruining days is all I do. And what can I say? I’m the best in the business.
One day, not looking for anything big, I was hovering over a craft fair full of old losers just waiting to be miserable. I started out small, because the worst unhappiness is taken in doses. Nothing more than knocking food out of some lady’s hand into someone else, blowing hats into the nearby lake, low-level stuff really. I was busy at work being a terrible guy, when I caught sight of a disgustingly sweet-looking old lady in the middle of sewing a quilt. It was green and blue and decidedly much too fluffy to be acceptable.
Slinking over in a devilishly demonic way, I peered over the luscious threads of the quilt. A loose thread. Opportunity! I glanced over at the old lady as I pulled the thread. The quilt split clean in two. Strangely, the old woman took the two pieces and kept working, tying them together without missing a beat. Odd… she, along with her quilt, should have been torn up right then, but the old lady just kept stitching it back together. I tried spilling food on it, but her smile never wavered. She took a bottle of cleaner and simply wiped the ketchup right off. I had never met a woman so immune to simple annoyances. I decided to up the ante. Taking a candle from a nearby scent shop, I set fire to her quilt! But it just went out. Her quilt was fire resistant! Something was going on and I had to find out what.
After a few more unsuccessful attempts at destroying the quilt involving motor oil, a monkey wrench and quite a lot of mosquitoes, the quilt was still in perfect shape. I decided to switch my focus from frontal attack to something a bit more devious. Minutes later, I was back with a custom sewing machine I made myself. Creeping up to the old lady’s tent while she was out getting more thread, I replaced the machine with my own then threw hers in the lake. Soon, she was back with new thread. Placing it in the new sewing machine, she sat down and started weaving once again. About halfway through the first spool, something new was being added into the quilt: hellmoth eggs! Straight from the depths of the underworld, hellmoths have a strict diet of souls. Unnoticeably, the eggs were silently woven in. My plan was going smoothly.
An hour later, the quilt was finished. Just long enough for the eggs to hatch. Hanging 20 feet up in the air, I watched as the old woman took the quilt in her arms and laid it over herself in her rocking chair and fell asleep. Having just come into the world, the hellmoth larvae were hungry and in close reach of food. The creepy crawlies spread out, inching their way all over her body. Being polite and efficient parasitic insects, they waited for their brothers and sisters to get into position. All at once as they were going to take their first bite however, they stopped. Screeching madly, they leaped off the hag and bolted into the rest of the fair. Left and right, they were burrowing into innocent enthusiasts and eating them from the inside out. Screams rang through the air. All hell had broken loose.
Amazed at what I saw, I lowered myself closer to the sleeping witch to figure out what hadgone wrong. The quilt was filled with eggshells, the old lady was perfectly wrinkly and vulnerable. I spend a good while peering around to Sherlock myself an answer, before realising the screaming had stopped. I turned to the remains of the carnage. Blood spattered all over the homemade cookies and wooden pendants. Tables broken and tent poles in pieces. Not a survivor to be found. That’s when the rain started. The hellmoths in their weak newborn state couldn’t stand the water. Scuttling back to the safety of their quilt, they tucked themselves back into their eggs. Staring at this beautiful depiction of nature at its finest, I didn’t notice the hellmoth larvae writhing around in their eggs, coating themselves with silk. After getting my fill of destruction, I turned back to the larvae. The woman was gone! I was left there searching for any clue of her disappearance when the eggs started to shudder violently. The hellmoths burst out from the eggs, no longer larvae. They had grown wings. Hungry after their metamorphosis, the hellmoths turned their heads towards me. Millions of gleaning red eyes leered at me. They shook the goo off their wings, and with teeth bared, pounced.
I flew. I flew fast. Faster than I had ever gone before! Followed by thousands of flesh-eating pests, I flew for my life! Up and up and up I went, starting to gain confidence. They had just grown their wings and were not using them to their fullest extent. Slowly, the gap between us grew. Just as I was about to get away, the hag soared up in front of me! With scales on her neck, teeth like a vampire, sickles for talons and hellmoth wings of her own, she easily clawed me right out of the sky. As I fell into the cloud of parasites below, the last thing I saw before my body was consumed was the face of the wicked old woman as she ducked under her quilt and fled into the night, satisfied with her work of felling me, Thorin the demon.
Ohohohoh… how wrong she was...
One day, not looking for anything big, I was hovering over a craft fair full of old losers just waiting to be miserable. I started out small, because the worst unhappiness is taken in doses. Nothing more than knocking food out of some lady’s hand into someone else, blowing hats into the nearby lake, low-level stuff really. I was busy at work being a terrible guy, when I caught sight of a disgustingly sweet-looking old lady in the middle of sewing a quilt. It was green and blue and decidedly much too fluffy to be acceptable.
Slinking over in a devilishly demonic way, I peered over the luscious threads of the quilt. A loose thread. Opportunity! I glanced over at the old lady as I pulled the thread. The quilt split clean in two. Strangely, the old woman took the two pieces and kept working, tying them together without missing a beat. Odd… she, along with her quilt, should have been torn up right then, but the old lady just kept stitching it back together. I tried spilling food on it, but her smile never wavered. She took a bottle of cleaner and simply wiped the ketchup right off. I had never met a woman so immune to simple annoyances. I decided to up the ante. Taking a candle from a nearby scent shop, I set fire to her quilt! But it just went out. Her quilt was fire resistant! Something was going on and I had to find out what.
After a few more unsuccessful attempts at destroying the quilt involving motor oil, a monkey wrench and quite a lot of mosquitoes, the quilt was still in perfect shape. I decided to switch my focus from frontal attack to something a bit more devious. Minutes later, I was back with a custom sewing machine I made myself. Creeping up to the old lady’s tent while she was out getting more thread, I replaced the machine with my own then threw hers in the lake. Soon, she was back with new thread. Placing it in the new sewing machine, she sat down and started weaving once again. About halfway through the first spool, something new was being added into the quilt: hellmoth eggs! Straight from the depths of the underworld, hellmoths have a strict diet of souls. Unnoticeably, the eggs were silently woven in. My plan was going smoothly.
An hour later, the quilt was finished. Just long enough for the eggs to hatch. Hanging 20 feet up in the air, I watched as the old woman took the quilt in her arms and laid it over herself in her rocking chair and fell asleep. Having just come into the world, the hellmoth larvae were hungry and in close reach of food. The creepy crawlies spread out, inching their way all over her body. Being polite and efficient parasitic insects, they waited for their brothers and sisters to get into position. All at once as they were going to take their first bite however, they stopped. Screeching madly, they leaped off the hag and bolted into the rest of the fair. Left and right, they were burrowing into innocent enthusiasts and eating them from the inside out. Screams rang through the air. All hell had broken loose.
Amazed at what I saw, I lowered myself closer to the sleeping witch to figure out what hadgone wrong. The quilt was filled with eggshells, the old lady was perfectly wrinkly and vulnerable. I spend a good while peering around to Sherlock myself an answer, before realising the screaming had stopped. I turned to the remains of the carnage. Blood spattered all over the homemade cookies and wooden pendants. Tables broken and tent poles in pieces. Not a survivor to be found. That’s when the rain started. The hellmoths in their weak newborn state couldn’t stand the water. Scuttling back to the safety of their quilt, they tucked themselves back into their eggs. Staring at this beautiful depiction of nature at its finest, I didn’t notice the hellmoth larvae writhing around in their eggs, coating themselves with silk. After getting my fill of destruction, I turned back to the larvae. The woman was gone! I was left there searching for any clue of her disappearance when the eggs started to shudder violently. The hellmoths burst out from the eggs, no longer larvae. They had grown wings. Hungry after their metamorphosis, the hellmoths turned their heads towards me. Millions of gleaning red eyes leered at me. They shook the goo off their wings, and with teeth bared, pounced.
I flew. I flew fast. Faster than I had ever gone before! Followed by thousands of flesh-eating pests, I flew for my life! Up and up and up I went, starting to gain confidence. They had just grown their wings and were not using them to their fullest extent. Slowly, the gap between us grew. Just as I was about to get away, the hag soared up in front of me! With scales on her neck, teeth like a vampire, sickles for talons and hellmoth wings of her own, she easily clawed me right out of the sky. As I fell into the cloud of parasites below, the last thing I saw before my body was consumed was the face of the wicked old woman as she ducked under her quilt and fled into the night, satisfied with her work of felling me, Thorin the demon.
Ohohohoh… how wrong she was...
Can't Keep up by Damien Jordan
consciousness comes slowly, dusty tiles under your hands, a dull pain throbbing through your head. eyes flutter open and an array of colours flash across the room, but it’s dark, and your hands are just barely tinted gold. a puff of dust rises as you cough, and there’s the dizzying rainbows streaking the sky again. moments come in bursts, and you can’t feel your own heartbeat. blurring, your hands shaking as you pull yourself to your feet and in the cracked mirror you only see your eyes.
were they always that dark.
the dim yellow light flares as you attempt a smile, and your face falls when it doesn’t reach your eyes. that sounded about right
he said it would be one thing after another, one more moment of joy, one more laugh, one more smile, and then you were here.
you didn’t know what he was thinking, chasing after them through a neon city only to leave the mess for you. it was the blonde hair, your timer, your signal. and all you ever did was pick up the pieces.
you reach for the rusted door handle, feeling strange and out of place, feeling broken, feeling much too tall.
it was as it always was, what were you expecting this time.
nothing would be better, and nothing would change. she was helpless, locked away in her little cage, and you had to man the ship while she was gone. she told you to, and so you did. every day, all three meals, each glass of water, each morning run, everything for her. and he, he just turned it upside down. everything was better when it was just you and her
just you and her.
morning runs turned into nexflix binges, three meals turned to two and then dwindled to one. your glasses sat untouched in the corners, and the neon city laughed at you as it lead him out the door.
you could only watch, then when it was your turn again, you were back at square one.
and she never got better.
were they always that dark.
the dim yellow light flares as you attempt a smile, and your face falls when it doesn’t reach your eyes. that sounded about right
he said it would be one thing after another, one more moment of joy, one more laugh, one more smile, and then you were here.
you didn’t know what he was thinking, chasing after them through a neon city only to leave the mess for you. it was the blonde hair, your timer, your signal. and all you ever did was pick up the pieces.
you reach for the rusted door handle, feeling strange and out of place, feeling broken, feeling much too tall.
it was as it always was, what were you expecting this time.
nothing would be better, and nothing would change. she was helpless, locked away in her little cage, and you had to man the ship while she was gone. she told you to, and so you did. every day, all three meals, each glass of water, each morning run, everything for her. and he, he just turned it upside down. everything was better when it was just you and her
just you and her.
morning runs turned into nexflix binges, three meals turned to two and then dwindled to one. your glasses sat untouched in the corners, and the neon city laughed at you as it lead him out the door.
you could only watch, then when it was your turn again, you were back at square one.
and she never got better.
Untitled by Wesley Massey
Oh, he did enjoy his work. He imagined his work enjoyed him less. All was well though. If anything, it would be more concerning if those he worked on, actually looked forward to spending a night alone with him. The dark, cold, rat-infested cells of the Emperor weren’t exactly hot, new vacation spots. To Candrick however, they were all he looked forward to nowadays.
The sweet scent of mud dragged in from weeks ago, with bits of blood sprinkled in. The delightful lighting of the occasional cindering torch every ten or so steps. Not to even touch upon the faint squeaks of rats which always seemed to be overpowered by distant screams. Oh, Candrick loved it so. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Every stone in these crumbling walls stood upon a foundation of days well spent.
While Candrick knew the walls were sturdy and would stand long after he was erased from this world, the dust and stones found tumbling still worried him. He’d get so worried that occasionally his mind would race to terrible conclusions. These troubles were nonsense of course. The Emperor was almighty and his strength was forever yielding, never breaking in on itself. To even think such things was blasphemous, to voice them would be treason. And Candrick knew how treason was dealt with, better than anyone. It required a little patchwork is all, and he was the one to administer the patches, by any means necessary. Whether that meant crudely stitching them or delicately sewing them, the results would always be the same, and Candrick always got results.
In the darkness of the space where no torch light was found, he slipped out his ring of keys. The jingles bounced against the walls and could no doubt be heard from the other side of the door. He could barely contain his excitement. Seeing their faces for the first time, hearing their first pleas, it was always great fun. He daresay it was almost his favourite part of his job. Their true colours manage to slip through the cracks so quickly when held tightly in the Emperor's grip. The key slipped in, found its place and made a pleasant click, announcing to whoever found themselves down here today, that their patchworker had arrived.
Candrick crudely shoved open the door. Usually, he’d allow for the big thing to slowly creak open, letting the tension sit longer, but today was a different sort of day, he supposed. His beady eyes darted around the cell, peering into every nook and cranny they could. The back lighting of the torches from the hallway poured in, filling the room with a dim orange glow.
Nothing.
No one was there to work on. This couldn’t be! Why? He had been informed there was work to be done today. Had he gotten the wrong cell number? Before he could turn around to check, his world suddenly wobbled a few inches. The orange lighting suddenly seemed much dimmer and the darkness was swallowing it all. That’s when he realized his head was spinning in an aching fit and he had bit down so hard on his tongue, that it had began to bleed. The floor came at him like it was a raging bull, leaving the front of his head drizzled with blood. Or was that coming from the back? He reached around to touch and found that the pain shot through his entire body violently.
“Grrnnn,” was all that managed to slip out of his blood filled mouth, before a steel toed boot nailed him in the ribs. Flung onto his side, Candrick gazed up at what he instantly recognized as the Red Eye. The young rebel leader the Emperor had worked so hard to squash. But how?
“Well, well, well,” the smiling brat sneered, his right eye red as wildfire, his left as pale as snow. “It appears we have much patchwork to do. Much patchwork, indeed.”
The sweet scent of mud dragged in from weeks ago, with bits of blood sprinkled in. The delightful lighting of the occasional cindering torch every ten or so steps. Not to even touch upon the faint squeaks of rats which always seemed to be overpowered by distant screams. Oh, Candrick loved it so. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Every stone in these crumbling walls stood upon a foundation of days well spent.
While Candrick knew the walls were sturdy and would stand long after he was erased from this world, the dust and stones found tumbling still worried him. He’d get so worried that occasionally his mind would race to terrible conclusions. These troubles were nonsense of course. The Emperor was almighty and his strength was forever yielding, never breaking in on itself. To even think such things was blasphemous, to voice them would be treason. And Candrick knew how treason was dealt with, better than anyone. It required a little patchwork is all, and he was the one to administer the patches, by any means necessary. Whether that meant crudely stitching them or delicately sewing them, the results would always be the same, and Candrick always got results.
In the darkness of the space where no torch light was found, he slipped out his ring of keys. The jingles bounced against the walls and could no doubt be heard from the other side of the door. He could barely contain his excitement. Seeing their faces for the first time, hearing their first pleas, it was always great fun. He daresay it was almost his favourite part of his job. Their true colours manage to slip through the cracks so quickly when held tightly in the Emperor's grip. The key slipped in, found its place and made a pleasant click, announcing to whoever found themselves down here today, that their patchworker had arrived.
Candrick crudely shoved open the door. Usually, he’d allow for the big thing to slowly creak open, letting the tension sit longer, but today was a different sort of day, he supposed. His beady eyes darted around the cell, peering into every nook and cranny they could. The back lighting of the torches from the hallway poured in, filling the room with a dim orange glow.
Nothing.
No one was there to work on. This couldn’t be! Why? He had been informed there was work to be done today. Had he gotten the wrong cell number? Before he could turn around to check, his world suddenly wobbled a few inches. The orange lighting suddenly seemed much dimmer and the darkness was swallowing it all. That’s when he realized his head was spinning in an aching fit and he had bit down so hard on his tongue, that it had began to bleed. The floor came at him like it was a raging bull, leaving the front of his head drizzled with blood. Or was that coming from the back? He reached around to touch and found that the pain shot through his entire body violently.
“Grrnnn,” was all that managed to slip out of his blood filled mouth, before a steel toed boot nailed him in the ribs. Flung onto his side, Candrick gazed up at what he instantly recognized as the Red Eye. The young rebel leader the Emperor had worked so hard to squash. But how?
“Well, well, well,” the smiling brat sneered, his right eye red as wildfire, his left as pale as snow. “It appears we have much patchwork to do. Much patchwork, indeed.”