Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.

##Just Desserts

The storm raged at the docks of Henryville (name to be changed later). The fishermen were crafting a statue of the Commander of Commanders Joseph who was supervising from an enclosed cabin on the beach. He sat at a desk underneath a portrait of himself standing triumphantly in the battlefield. Grant was standing to his right. Helga opened the door to the cabin, and the wind and rain burst into the cabin.

“Where were you!” Joseph yelled.

“I was giving the workers some almond cake.”

“Did you use the kitchen supposed to be for my meals?” he asked.

“Of course, you make them work through the night while you stay here in the warmth. The contrast was sickening.” She returned to the kitchen. “I also monitored the progress of your statue. It’s a dollop of concrete that is being destroyed by the rain.”

“I don’t care about the weather. The most important thing is to build more, and your distractions are delaying its completion.” Joseph sat at his desk and growled. There was a knock at the door. Grant ran to open and close it. A fisherman came into the room with crumbs on his lips.

“Sir, may I have a word,” he said.

“What?”

“We are happy to serve you. It’s just-”

“The weather is no excuse.” Joseph preemptively shouted.

“I agree with you. There’s no bad weather, only bad clothing. That being said, we could use better clothes beyond the rags we have.” The fisherman shook his head. “Which we will be happy to pay for ourselves.”

“Spit out your question.”

“I wonder if.” The fisherman shook in fear and cold. “It would be better to have trained sculptors on this job. We’re working hard, but we aren’t experts.”

“Sculptors. Why would I want that? They are useless.” Joseph said in a low voice.

“Uh, I don’t understand.”

“It was an accismus. God-King Austin murdered every artist in the country after one made a bad painting of him.” He pointed to the portrait behind him. “I had to travel internationally to get this one done.”

“And it’s magnificent.” The fisherman took a deep breath. “I sympathize with your position. You are clearly in a tough spot, but could we at least go home for the night?”

“What a horrible request.” He pressed a button on the table. Two armed men entered the room. “Take this man outside and execute him. Make him an example to the other workers.”

The two men looked at each other first. They both took an arm and marched him outside. Grant shook his head.

“Sir, what is your goal?” Grant asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? My legacy. That grandiose statue represents my connection to the maritime economy which represents our great country. When it’s complete, the people will remember my glory.”

“You are correct in that the sea is a large part of our culture, but that also creates sympathy for fishermen. Executing and angering them could have dire consequences,” Grant said.

“What is this insubordination?” Joseph asked.

“You’re my fifth dictator, and Helga’s twenty-second. We’ve learned to recognize the signs before a downfall.” Grant walked into the kitchen. “We also know how to cover our asses.”

“What insolence.” Joseph slammed his fists on the table and pulled out his gun. He was ready to attack his servant when the doors opened. The fisherman from earlier walked inside with his back straight. The guards who were supposed to execute him stood on either side. The fishermen stopped working on the statue to form a small crowd with the rest of the armed forces.

“What is the meaning of this?” Joseph asked. The two guards ran forward and disarmed him. They quickly restrained his arms.

“You have been a horrible leader.” The fisherman sat in Joseph’s chair. “Consider this a necessary change.”

Joseph was dragged outside where the entire village was gathered. Old women spat on him. The army who supported him joined the hateful chants. He was brought before his statue which was now a mess of concrete and shot. His body was tossed into the waves. The fisherman from earlier walked to the place where he was shot.

“For far too long we’ve been oppressed.” He shouted, and the thunder emphasized his words. “Consider me a just and righteous ruler, President of the Seas Christopher.”

Grant and Helga were hiding in the kitchen and quickly drafted into the new regime. The President of the Seas lasted for a year before being deposed. In that timeframe, Commander of Commanders Joseph was forgotten except for his hideous statue that he died trying to build. In a way, it did secure his legacy.

r/AstroRideWrites

<Fantasy>

Where A Heart Resides

Beatrix Acardi was the wife of a well regarded hunter north of Florence, who hunted only the rarest and finest of pelts to sell to wealthy merchants. Due to his frequent and long expeditions, few in the city could be surprised that she started to spend inappropriate amounts of time with another man.

Donato Gildo was this other man. He claimed he was a fisherman from the coastline who had managed to work his way into a successful enterprise, trading the freshest morsels with the nobles of Florence. "The most important thing," he oft said to those who asked how he managed this rise, "is to build more." His wealth bought him influence despite his 'condition'.

He was blind.

Donato walked with the assistance of servants, his eyes ever covered by the finest silk cloths he could buy. Despite this, he was deemed extravagantly handsome; the envy of men and the desire of women throughout the city.

Donato and Beatrix sat together on a sunny veranda, an artist of great renown sketching their likeness as they embraced as 'friends', though all knew it to be more. Ser Botticelli was just finishing the lines of Beatrix's almond-shaped eyes, bringing them into focus as a sharp contrast to the covered ones of her lover.

"My husband would be cross if he found you here with me," Beatrix breathed into Donato's ear.

"Wed me and leave him," Donato spoke in a tone as wishful as it was wistful.

"Nay, that is not the nature of us."

"I need not my eyes to see through your accismus," Donato rested his lips perilously close to her neck before he stood up, offering a florin for the artist to depart early, citing the scent of rain in the air. Beatrix led him inside as the wind started to pick up and had her servants bring them a treat.

"Pity of the weather," Beatrix said with a sigh as she took a piece of cake, layered with cream, merengue, and sponge bread. Donato added a dollop of honey to sweeten it further for her, "Would that we could bask in the sun all day."

"There is no bad weather," Donato claimed, "Only bad clothing. Without it you could free yourself of the burden of ruined wool and enjoy the rain."

"I would also be free of the burden of decency," Beatrix jested, patting him on the leg.

"I could send your servants away, and none would know," he lifted his hand and gave a wave. The servants in the room bowed and left them alone. Beatrix merely giggled and rested her head on his shoulder, drifting off to sleep as the honey worked its magic.

Donato rose from the seat and removed his blindfold, glowing red eyes lightly illuminating the quickly darkening room as the sun itself seemed to hide. He traced a finger along the beautiful human's cheek before leaving to observe the sketch that had been interrupted. The unseelie fae grinned, his mouth stretching inhumanly wide, as he looked at how fine a visage she was providing him.

Her husband, a descendant of one who had made a deal generations earlier, was none the wiser to his wife's affair for the time being. Donato was owed a hundred hearts, and every generation he took one from the family line. Often it was literal, but there were many opportunities where the heart need not be beating in someone's chest for it to be stolen. Ser Acardi truly loved Beatrix, and Beatrix loved him just as much.

"Ah, my dear Beatrix," he whispered into the gloom, walking out onto the balcony now that the rain was starting to come down. It washed away the sins of humanity, and it also washed away the prying eyes that might glimpse him as he observed all that humans had built before him, "One day all of this will be gone, and you forgotten." The man glided back inside, dripping from the rain, and loomed over his prize.

"But rest assured, when I take you from your husband, you will be mine forever," as he whispered, a faint purple spoke flowed from his lips and snaked its way through the air, down into her ear, "Your love for me will endure eternity. You need only thank me for it. When next we meet, thank me for giving you what your husband could not."

The Archfae laughed softly as he began to fade. Tomorrow he would return to hear the words he planted in her dreams. When her husband returned, he would feel the pain of his heart being torn from his chest. Unlike his ancestors, he would live with that pain for years to come. That pain would empower the unseelie for decades.

"Little and lasting..." he chuckled, and vanished.

--------------------------
WC: 799/800
r/TomesOfTheLitchKing
Notes:

>!Continuation of [SEUS] Sekihan and [SEUS] B'stilla!<

>!"Acardi" is derived from the Norman name Achard, a form of Ekkehard, and a precursor to (behindthename.com/name/acardi) Accardo!<

>!"Beatrix" - Probably from Viatrix, a feminine form of the Late Latin name Viator meaning "voyager, traveler". It was a common name amongst early Christians, and the spelling was altered by association with Latin beatus "blessed, happy" (behindthename.com/name/beatrix) and a precursor to "Beatrice"!<

>!"Donato" is from the Late Latin name Donatus meaning "given" (behindthename.com/name/donato)!<

>!"Gildo" is a masculinzed form of Gilda, meaning "payment, tribute, compensation"!<

Eat It

Beverly was a small woman with arms that bent like bird bones at her sides. She stared down at her lap, chewing her bottom lip with two top teeth that were jagged and almost broken at the edges.

"I don't know anything," she said softly.

"You don't know anything about your husband? The man who we just found in your basement with a fish hook in his mouth and groin?" the detective asked.

She shook her head. "I know Ron. We were married weren't we. Forty three years."

The detective tossed two photos onto the metal table between them. One was of Ron on a boat, holding a large mouth bass and smiling. The other photo was of his body as they'd found him. Slumped over in a fetal position, two large fish hooks piercing him. Blood pooled under his body, soaking the dirt floor of their unfinished basement.

"Quite a contrast," the detective said.

Beverly peered at both photos. Her gray eyes were as flat as a doll's.

"He was always on that boat. Ever since he started winning those tournaments."

She pointed to the first picture. "You know he had a portrait done of that damn fish? Spent a thousand dollars on it but couldn't give me so much as a dollar for a new hairdo or new shoes. He wouldn't even buy us a new tv set. Ours still had the built in VCR. The man was a prime example of accismus. That was his vice."

"Is that why you killed him Beverly?"

"I never said that. I never said I killed him. Maybe it was one of his competitors. There was some talk of Ron cheating. Putting weights in his fish. He was never a good fisherman before. Never good at anything really. Just sat on the couch all day, watching gangster movies on that old tv set. Sometimes I'd put a dollop of salt in his coffee to see if he'd notice. He never did. The man had the taste buds of a frog."

"I can't help you unless you tell me the truth," the detective said. "You need to tell me what happened. I know you couldn't overpower him on your own. Did you lure him into that basement and smash his head open so he wouldn't struggle? Did you have help?"

Beverly smiled. "I see that fish portrait wherever I am in the house, you know. Its beady little eyes follow you. Sometimes I could hear the bass talking but it sounded far away like it came maybe from the river or the ocean. It said, "the most important thing is to build more" and "how splendid it would be... to swim among the stars".

She'd thought that a lovely idea, to swim in starlight. She'd read it in a book once. Or the fish had spoke it to her. One of those was true.

"Crazy is not going to work here Beverly. Are you trying for an insanity defense? No one is going to buy it. We found cyanide in your house. When we find it in his blood we'll have you cold."

"Is that the one that smells of bitter almonds? Ron barely touched that pie," she said, staring at the picture of Ron on his back. His blood had never looked so red. When he'd cut himself shaving or busted his knuckles on her face, it had always seemed to ooze out in a black sludge.

She wondered if there would be big screen televisions in prison. But she'd be gone then at least. Far from the house and the talking fish. Free maybe. She thought she'd like to try being free.

One winter when I was a teenager I visited my great granduncle Johannson's place, up in western Norway. I was a bookish lad, but my cousins were country folk. The sun would roll along the horizon for a few hours near noon each day, leaving it in twilight and dark through the long nights.

One morning before light my cousin Emma was packing. Boards, a wrapped canvas, food. "Come, Christopher, I'll show you our cabin," she said.

She loaded my bicycle and hers and we started down the hill. I talked of Ivanhoe. We reached the harbor at dawn.

"Ach, that's Karl, he's a fisherman, ignore him," Emma hissed as we walked to her boat.

"HELLO PRETTY LADY!" he yelled. "YOU SHOULD COME SEE A REAL BOAT SOMETIME!"

"Sounds like he's fishing for you," I said.

"Ugh I'd rather die," said Emma.

"THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND, EMMA?" he yelled.

"He wants accismus," I muttered.

"Pffftht," said Emma, "he's no getting a kiss from this miss."

"No no ... 'accismus' is pretending not to want what you really want. If he wasn't so direct he might get more girls."

"Ooo, is that what you're doing?" she asked. "Being shy and polite all the time?"

I flustered. "No! No I'm just always this way." We got in her rowboat and she started up the outboard motor. The water was smooth and the sun was warm. Spectacular scenery.

We reached an island cliff and carried her supplies up a narrow dirt path. A little dark cabin perched on the rocks.

Inside, it was sturdier than I expected. Emma hung the painting on the wall and took the tarp and some boards out the window and up onto the roof. She started pounding nails.

The portrait was of a man with ruffled black hair, facing left. He had a big sharp nose and a monstrous mustache below his little beady eyes that stared out accusingly.

"What's this painting?" I asked.

"Mother's portrait of great uncle Bernard Ollson, barrister. He declared the moon illegal."

"Crazy, was he?"

"Mother says no. Strong willed. Strong of faith. But not strong enough to persuade the moon not to rise. He would go out at night and swear at it." More pounding.

She came back in. Outside, the sun was rolling below the horizon again to the southwest. Ocean and islands were spread out below a flaming red sky.

"How do you like our cabin?" asked Emma.

"Wow," I said.

"Here we are, all alone, with this sunset all to ourselves! You know what this calls for?"

"..."

"Lunch!" Emma brought out the picnic basket. She handed me food and stuffed her face. The sun slowly set. "You are right," said Emma. "The weather is hard on our little cabin. The most important thing is to build more. Build more than the weather takes away."

Back to the boat. Emma piloted back into the fjord.

Halfway back the motor stopped. Emma was swearing.

"Now what?" I asked. The swells were bigger now, and night was falling.

"Now we row," said Emma. She handed me an oar. Had me sit next to her. Coached me how to paddle. After several attempts we were pulling in sync.

We rowed. The swells were reaching four feet high. The boat rocked crazily. Most of the time you couldn't see the horizon. And I was backwards, looking out to sea. "You're doing fine," said Emma.

It got darker and colder. I just concentrated on the oar: pull, lift, feather, dip, pull. Such a contrast from the morning's easy ride out on a smooth sunlit mirror. It began to rain.

After forever we reached the harbor. Emma tied up the boat. Bicycles ... home was miles uphill and I was beat.

"I'll go ahead and have mother come with the car," said Emma. "You follow. There's just one road. You have to keep moving or you'll freeze." And she shot off.

I tried the bicycle, but uphill was too much. I got off and walked the bicycle up the hill. Sometimes I couldn't see the mountains through the rain. Sometimes the moon peeked through.

Headlights appeared ahead. My relatives tied the bike to the roof of their car and hustled me into the back seat.

"The weather turned awful," I said.

"There is no bad weather," my aunt replied, "only bad clothing! We'll get you home and wrapped up."

Back at great granduncle's, they wrapped me in a blanket in front of a fire and gave me Kvæfjordkake, with slivered almonds, and hot cocoa with a dollop of whipped cream. I watched the flames. Uncle was asleep in his chair. I fell asleep listening to Emma and Will debating what additions they should make to the cabin next.

Dream Fishing

"Da, I got one!"

Bannibrandt braced his leg on the pier as his fishing pole arced toward the surface of the shimmering dream water. Deep down, a cloudy shadow pulled away from him with increasing strength.

“Two hands, boy, or you’ll lose it.”

Horst popped an almond in his mouth and secured his own fishing rod—making sure to leave the line cast in case of another bite—and hobbled to where his son struggled with his own.

“Be the shadow, Ban. Feel the hook in your mouth, the panic overwhelming you.”

“I’m trying!” Red-faced Bannibrandt cranked the reel. His rod bent lower and lower until it dipped into the drink.

“Don’t reel when it’s pulling away from you. You’ve got to tire him out. Tug-o-war, just like I taught you. Reel when he’s too tired to fight.”

With a zing! the line took off as Bannibrandt lost his grip on the crank.

“Oh no!”

The handle spun so fast it was impossible to catch hold again. Until it the line ran out and it stopped. For a split second, Bannibrandt pulled the rod.

SNAP!

The boy stumbled backwards, and, catching his heel on an uneven board, fell into the waves.

The old fisherman hid a smile as he pulled his son out by the collar. Shimmering liquid dripped from the drenched boy, puddling on the timbers around his bare feet.

“Aw, I broke your fishing pole.” Bannibrandt stared at the pieces of rod that floated where he had fallen.

“It’ll be alright,” Horst said. “The important thing is to build more. You’ll always have a backup, if you do.”

He wrapped a towel around his son’s shoulders and hugged him to his side.

“Whose dream did you fall into?” he asked.

“Some girl’s. She was kissing a frog. It was gross.”

“Ha! Even so, no nightmares?”

“It was almost blinding in there, it was so bright.”

Horst slipped another almond between his lips. “Hmm. No accismus then. Good.”

The boy’s eyebrows went sky-high. “Ax what?”

“Accismus. It’s when the humans aren’t genuine. Out of fear, or greed, or cunning manipulation. It’s one of the reasons the shadows exist.”

The click of Horst’s fishing reel caught their attention. The line moved in circles through the water, making the rod twitch as the circles got bigger.

“Looks like we got another one. Quick, get the cage!” Horst attended the pole while Bannibrandt opened a mesh box and set it beside his father.

The old fisherman set the hook and fought the shadow with ease and patience, his experienced hand a stark contrast to his son’s. Before long, he reeled in the shadow and scooped it up with a net.

Horst dumped the cloudy shadow, writhing and shrieking, into the cage. It lashed out with a cloudy arm as Bannibrandt closed the top.

“Whew, that was close,” Bannibrandt said, backing away.

“Great job, Ban. We’ll make a proper dream fisher out of you yet!”

Bannibrandt knelt to get a closer view of the shadow. It had shrunk, and now looked like a dollop of tar, huddled there in a corner of the cage. Smelled like it, too. But it purred like a kitten.

“Not so scary out here, is it?” Horst asked. He chewed on another almond.

“Won’t they die outside the dreams?”

“No, most of them are docile out here. They gain their power from the people they feed on. When seen for what they really are, well, see?”

Bannibrandt pet the shadow with his finger. It reacted to his touch and snuggled against him. There was a flash inside the shadow, and a small image played.

Bannibrandt watched the scene unfold: a teenage boy stood on the stoop of an old house, a dozen red roses in hand. He offered them to a beautiful girl, who threw them on the floor and stomped on them. The boy trudged away, head hanging low. Then, the girl called out to him, ran after him. But she could never catch up. The scene changed: an old woman in a rocker, holding the portait of a young man. There was no ring on her finger; there never was.

The image faded.

Bannibrandt stood. “When we catch these little guys, the humans go back to regular dreams, right, Da? The girl who dreamt this will sleep better now?”

Horst had stepped away from the cage and gazed into the sunset. A dark cloud gathered and moved toward the pier.

“Bad weather’s coming, isn’t it?”

“There is no bad weather. Only bad clothing.” Horst winked.

“What?”

“Something my granddad used to say. Grab your rain jacket out in the shed. The quicker you catch you your first shadow, the quicker you can have some of grandma’s Kvæfjordkake.”

Bannibrandt grinned. “Those shadows are doomed!”