I was roused by a sudden chill.

The room was black as pitch save for a fog that glowed with a soft pale luminance that clung to the walls and floor. I must have left the window open again. How foolish of me to be so naïve. Letting in the elements this time of year, at the height of winter, I could catch my death.

I went to throw off my covers but realised I could not move. Fear gripped me in its icy clutches. No matter how hard I strained I could spur no movement from my extremities. All but my eyes were frozen solid.

It was deathly silent. Not a peep. One would expect, in such a time of stress, to hear the thundering of one’s own heart fill their ears, but that was oddly absent. I felt no surge within my breast despite the clear panic I was in. There was something awfully wrong.

I glanced down the length of my body and saw not the typical rise and fall of the chest but a smooth flatness that remained stiff as a board. I was not breathing. How then was I still alive?

The realisation to that question struck me so hard I would have gasped had my lungs not already been void of air. I was not alive. I was dead but still conscious.

No sooner than this dawned upon me did I see it. A figure cloaked in a shroud darker than the inkiest blackness of night or the deepest depth of ocean hung at the foot of my bed. A force that disturbed neither me nor the fog caught itself in the cloak. Black fabric wafted as it was gently billowed, almost as if the figure stood upon an open plain, buffeted by a light breeze, and not enclosed within the sturdy walls of my home.

A voice, harsh and grating, issued from behind the veiled cowl, invading not only the dead air of the room around us but also my mind from within, “It is time.”

I needed not ask what the spectre meant for it was obvious. This phantom had come to wrest my soul from my body and take it to the world beyond. A path I was no doubt destined to tread, but I felt my journey was to be cut short if I were to end it now.

“Wait,” I cried, the sound trapped inside my own head but nonetheless audible within the room, “I cannot yet be taken from this world! I am an important man, a scientist, an inventor like my father and his father before him, on the cusp of something great. I cannot afford to depart from this world now, not before my work is complete. So please, oh benevolent spirit, release me from this torment and reap my soul not until my good work is done!”

For a long time the figure remained at the foot of my bed, seemingly it had heard what I said and was undoubtedly considering my request until it again spoke, “I shall grant you this request.”

“Oh thank you,” a heavy weight was lifted off my sunken chest with the news, “thank you very kindly, dearest spirit. I shall endeavour to ensure that you will not regret your generous decision.”

Although I knew nothing of the spirits features, I felt a wave of dread wash over me as, in a tone that could only be accompanied by a sinister grin, it spoke one last time, “Why should I regret letting one soul go when I stand to gain so many more in return?”

I was roused by a sudden start, my heart hammering in my chest, threatening to burst free of my body.

Those parting words of the cloaked figure lingered briefly before all memory of that fateful interaction slowly bled into the shrouded haze of the grey dawning light, lost to the morning nothing more than a fleeting dream.

Had I truly died and been visited by some otherworldly presence, or what is just a matter of anxiety manifesting itself as a result of life’s most recent stresses? The answer to that question matters very little at present for the sun has already risen and I am going to be late.

Shrugging off the drowsiness of a disturbed sleep, I got myself ready in haste for today was a big day. Today is the day we begin introducing my new inexpensive lead-based gasoline additive.

---

If you liked this, you can find more of my writing at r/TheHiveWithUdders.

That may be the real truth behind the princess' imprisonment, but after centuries hidden away in that tower, her origins may have faded into obscurity and become lost to time with new stories and fables told in place of the truth.

With a crack as loud as thunder, splintered wood exploded into the chamber.

The door swung gently open and in stepped a figure clad in armour. The plates ground together and clunked with each furtive step taken into the chamber. Armour like this was hard to come by and so was not worn by any run of the mill soldier, but by a knight. A gallant hero besmirched with scratches and scrapes from arduous adventures and ferocious fights.

The knight sheathed his longsword, still glistening with a claret sheen afforded to him from the emptied veins of a once monstrous dragon that now lay still, cooling at the bottom of the tower steps.

A gloomy darkness blanketed the chamber before him. This is not what he was expecting. Tales told this tower was the prison of a most splendid and beautiful princess who was sequestered away by her jealous kin for being the most fair of all the Elven maidens. Someone of such beauty would not live in the dank destitution presented by the crumbling walls and cracked floors of this cold and uninviting chamber.

Peering through the dim light, the knight could make out little of furnishings in the room. Beneath the barred window sat a small wooden table and chair set for one adorned with dusty aged crockery and rusted utensils. Flecks of spoiled food long since perished bled into the woodwork, sprouting small colonies of sweetly smelling fungal growths. The princess was clearly neglected for any decent maid would have cleared this mess long ago. A thought stirred within the knight and spurred a flash of anxiety. Where was the princess?

He sharply turned to face deeper into the room and was met with a soft silken curtain blackened with mildew that caught what little breeze passed between the bars on the window. Billowing ever so slightly, the stained veil obscured a low and narrow bed, atop of which lay a figure still as stone.

For fear he was too late, the knight hastened across the room. One hand upon the hilt of his sword, the other groped for the curtain and tore it aside to reveal a shocking site.

Laid atop not a bed but a slab of chiselled marble was a delicately carved and ornate relief of the princess. Carvings of this kind were not uncommon but were typically reserved to graveyards and crypts. This was no prison; it was a tomb.

Disheartened, the knight stood for some time. Standing a silent sentinel over the final resting place of the princess until he could no longer, the knight gave a gentle caress across the relief’s cold grey cheek and whispered a gentle prayer before turning to leave.

His attention was arrested by what stood just beyond the foot of the stone coffin on the far side of the chamber. Not the rotting dresser that had seen better days, but the box that sat atop it.

A fine ebony box wrought with intricate golden filigree caught the diminishing light and radiated a powerful opulence that drew the knight towards it. The knight picked up the expertly crafted box and felt something rattle inside. Unfastening the tiny latch and opening the box revealed, sunk in a bed of black velvet, a plum-coloured fleshy sack that both resembled and stunk of a butcher’s leftovers. It writhed and pulsed with a weak regular beat, squelching slightly with every throb.

The knight almost dropped the box and its contents as he wretched at the sight of the ghastly thing. As disgusting as it was, the knight could not take his eyes of it. The thudding of each beat was oddly enchanting, the sound slowly rising the closer he got. The pulsing mass occupied every corner of his hazy mind, forcing out all but one thought.

He had to touch it.

Morbid curiosity got hold of him, and against his better judgement, after placing the box back on the dresser he reached out with trembling gauntleted fingers and prodded the obscurity.

It ceased beating.

Coming out of the daze like one waking from a deep slumber cleared the knights mind, any and all thoughts of the fleshy sack slipped away like a fading dream. He had no memory of touching the thing but knew he had stopped the beating himself.

A cool terror then slowly traced its way down his spine, teasing his nerves with icy fingers that penetrated through his flesh and into his soul. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the chill deepened. A sudden overwhelming feeling of dread washed over him, diving out any semblance of positive thought or emotion.

Black fog seeped from under the lid of the sarcophagus and pooled in an inky layer across the floor. The knight turned to watch as a shape took form from the mist. Columns of coal-black smoke spiralled in the frozen air, coiling and twirling into a wispy mass that took a more solid form.

Suspended on stilts of smoke and wreathed in a shroud dark as night hung a grisly phantom bearing a resemblance to the princess. Her hair wispy and grey as clouds bellowed from a drawn and pallid face twisted into a silent scream. It wasn’t the grey-green gangrenous flesh or the yellowed nails as sharp as talons but the pale vacancy behind those dulled eyes that truly filled the knight with fear.

Neither moved nor spoke for what felt like an age. Stunned silence filled the room as they stared at each other. The knight then made a move for his sword, but She was faster.

One of her gnarled bony hands snapped forward with a sickening crack, each crooked finger clamping down upon the steel helm of the hopeless knight. He screamed as the steel buckled and bent not from pressure but from freezing cold all the while his cloudy white soul was drawn from nose, mouth, and eyes into the gaping mouth of the princess.

His lifeless corpse slumped to the floor, a layer of frost coating the front of his helm where it had been touched by the princess. She too dropped to the floor in a cloud of smoke that broke away like ripples on a lake.

All was still upon the surface of the fog until it was broken by an island of pink that rose to take the shape of a young woman. There stood the princess, fully formed and as beautiful as she had been in life. Long flowing hair as red as fire kissed her pale milky skin as she stepped over the knight towards the box. Drawing it level with her emerald eyes she saw the fleshy mass, now glowing a warm orange-red from within, beating a strong and steady rhythm.

Finally, after centuries she had finally returned to the mortal world with a fire in her heart that could only be extinguished by one thing, and one thing alone. Revenge.

---

If you liked this, you can find more of my writing here r/TheHiveWithUdders

Delusions of Bliss

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Forgetting is painful, but knowing is worse.

Joining the Covenant of Eternal Bliss was supposed to be the answer. A promise of relief. The lifting of worldly burdens through spiritual enlightenment. Members were said to feel fraternal and sororal bonds with all those that transcend. Peace at last.

Of course, this was all lies.

Still, millions flocked to become part of The Congregation as if it were going out of fashion. Who’s to blame them, I can’t as I was one of them. the world we live in is a hellscape of strife and injustice, of war and death, so it’s no surprise we leapt at the chance of escape, no matter the cost.

We swarmed newly furbished centres across the globe, places that would perform a miracle surgery, one that would separate mind from body. True escape from the material world.

It’s not surgery, it’s torture. An old technique was implemented, one from a more barbarous age where driving spikes into the brain was once considered healthcare. Strangely, failure isn’t fatal, but death would be more welcoming as one becomes a prisoner of their own mind. They become a passenger, viewing through the glazed lenses of a zombie shipped off to slave away, housed in battery farms, producing infrastructural materials for the Covenant and their allies.

My surgery failed. The farm is my life.

I wish I could forget.

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[WC: 230]

Find more of my stuff at r/TheHiveWithUdders.

“How many times!?”

I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. Reports don’t lie. Printed, clear as day, in big black letters on bleached white paper were the figures. No matter how hard I squinted over my glasses, the numbers refused to yield and read the same with every passing.

Soul: 301199/YOR.

Heaven application status: Declined

Hell application status: Declined

Iteration No.126 ready for processing.

This soul has passed through here 126 times! How is that even possible? Surely Heaven or Hell would have picked this one up by now. No soul, and I mean none, has ever had to be processed here more than half a dozen times tops. There must be some clerical error. But reports never lie. I had to get to the bottom of this conundrum otherwise the big man upstairs would start asking questions.

“Dennis,” I buzzed over the intercom, “Dennis, get in now, would you?”

A moment later my lanky assistant sheepishly peered through the crack in the door, “You…you wanted to see me, Sir?”

“How is this possible? How come I wasn’t aware of this before now?” I slapped the report back down onto my desk with such fervour poor Dennis almost jumped out of his skin. These interns, so skittish and frail a strong gust of wind could blow them over and send them crying to their mothers.

“I…I…don’t understand, sir.”

“This damn soul! How has it come to pass through here 126 times!”

He stood there, gobsmacked, lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. His stammering was getting us nowhere.

“Is the soul still here?”

Dennis nodded.

“Send it up.”

Dennis nodded and left the room rather sharply, closing the door faster than he had opened it.

A few moments later and Dennis announced the errant soul was waiting outside. I buzzed my intercom, and the soul entered the room. It’s yellow-white wispy form glided across the space between desk and door, hovering several inches above the mottled greying carpet.

“Have a seat.” I gestured to the seat opposite mine in vain as the incorporeal form of a soul would find little use of a solid object. I cleared my throat out of embarrassment and began with proceedings.

“So…it says here,” I wafted the report around for dramatic effect, “that you’ve been through the system once or twice before. 126 times to be exact. I brought you up here to my office to come to an understanding about the reasoning behind your…persistence. Care to enlighten me?” For a few long moments the soul remained silent, gracefully bobbing both above and in the soft cushioned chair.

Then, in a voice little shattering glass and rolling thunder, the soul answered, “I made a promise.”

“A promise?” Not the response I was quite expecting, not to say I had any idea what it would say, “What sort of promise?”

“One that drove me to great lengths to keep.” Yellow-white whisps condensed into thicker clouds of blue and purple signifying great stress upon this soul. Clearly there was something going on that was truly affecting this poor fellow, but it was not being particularly helpful at present. My brow furrowed slightly at this disturbance which seemed to incite some agitation on the soul’s part as it then slowly began to speak once more.

“Many lifetimes ago I was a Human. My name was Jerry, and I had a typical life. Friends that came and went, family that I fell out and made up with countless times, money troubles. You know, all the boring normal stuff. I also had Jane.

Jane and I spent the most wonderful decade together, our love growing with each passing year as our relationship matured into something quite special. We were so deeply in love that I felt sick without her, I couldn’t go more than a day without seeing her face. It was meant to be. We are true soulmates.

Unfortunately, Jane got sick. Very sick. Cancer. Such an awful thing, but Jane was strong. She fought hard. She went to all the chemotherapy sessions, she took the medications they prescribed, she even had a few surgeries to help slow it down. In the end, none of that mattered.

Cancer eventually wore her down and took her from me. In her final moments I made a promise to her. A promise I have kept ever since. I promised that no matter how long it took me, no matter how many lifetimes I needed to search through, I would find her, and we would be together again.”

Despite not being affected by the same emotional conditions as the spirit before me, I could feel the pain radiating from it like the heat from the blazing sun. The poor thing was clearly in a lot of distress, and I had to help in any way I could.

With a start, I rose from behind my desk, snatching up the report and heading for the door. The lost soul watched me as I strode across the room and put on my jacket. As I opened the door, I turned to face the longing spectre and said with haste, “Well, come on then, we’ve got a soul to find.”

The soul leapt up from its chair and followed me through the doorway as we set out to find the long-lost love.

If you liked this, you can read more of my stuff at r/TheHiveWithUdders.

Rubber Wood Woes

Treading lightly through the copse of rubber trees, Marcus threaded his way towards the source of the sound.

He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. This was a sound unfamiliar and alien to him. A piercing whine and wheeze carried by a light breeze was all he could hear.

He was sure it wasn’t a bird. Not a single pleasant note could be found buried within the strangled layers of this raucous disturbance. It sounded like a dying animal caught in rusted old machinery. There were no machines out here in the wood. No logging or anything in this region. All the trees were devoted to the collection of sap, felling one would be bad cause for business. The most technological thing Marcus had about his person was his sap tap, and that was made of wood.

He tried to piece together some sort of melody but it was to no avail. There was absolutely no pattern to this sound at all.

Whatever this sound was, as Marcus drew closer to the source, he found himself becoming more irate with each step. Pounding and beating his skull into submission, the noise was relentless. Finding the source of and shutting up that cruel confounded cacophony would not come soon enough.

Marcus soon parted the dense thicket to reveal a well-lite grove of immature rubber trees and sat at its centre was the source of the terrible din.

Sat atop a stout stump was a man, his back to Marcus, and in his hands the oldest and most ravaged looking instrument Marcus had ever seen. How that accordion was still making noise was beyond him. Patches of old leather crisscrossed the bellows with varying perforations and tears at the seams, distorting the sound so horrendously that Marcus dropped his bucket of sap and covered his ears with his hands. Bony fingers hammered the keys with such force the ivory threatened to splinter.

I’ve never seen an accordion abused this badly before.

The thought swirled in Marcus’ head, vying for dominion over the torturous wailings but, like any other thought within earshot of this deranged musician, was immediately forced out and drowned by the horrendous sound.

The musician was also singing in a language Marcus could not understand. His head bobbed in rhythm to a beat undecipherable in the notes from the accordion and the tune of his words was so out of synch with the music that at least three different compositions were being played at once. No wonder the sound was so appalling.

Getting the man to stop by shouting proved a fruitless labour for the racket was so loud. Marcus would have to get closer. He tried to step into the clearing, but the sound was so strong he physically recoiled back behind the treeline.

What to do?

He looked around for a rock to maybe throw at the musician, get his attention that way, but while scanning the forest floor, Marcus’ gaze fell upon his bucket. In a bold move, Marcus balled up some lint he found in his pockets, doused it in the sticky raw caoutchouc, and placed them into his ears.

An unpleasant sensation to be sure but it provided some relief. With that, Marcus stepped through the treeline and approached the musician but barely made it 10 feet into the clearing before the sound stopped.

Stunned, Marcus also came to an abrupt halt. Then the musician turned to face Marcus, cold beady eyes peered over the rim of ancient spectacles. His old crusty lips mouthed something that looked like the wind cried again today or something equally absurd.

“What?” Marcus replied as he mistakenly removed the makeshift earplugs. He was immediately hit with an impetuous cascade of jibes and insults fired from the musician’s mouth. Each hit home, striking Marcus with the force of a bullet, almost knocking him backwards.

Blood boiling, dazzled, and in pain, Marcus knew not what to do and could think of nothing more than shutting this old fool up.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Marcus cried as he charged the old musician.

The two bodies collided with such tremendous force that they both spiralled over the stump.

All sound had ceased.

Panting, Marcus rose to see the musician beneath him. He was met with the same cold stare but this time it was different. The black beady eyes had glazed over. Marcus sat back against the stump in shock and disbelief.

Before him lay the battered broken bones of the musician, their breathing as wheezy as that of the accordion whose splintered remnants perforated the dying man’s lungs. It was an accident. Marcus didn’t mean for this to happen. All he wanted was peace and quiet, something he will never get again, not after taking a life.

This could have all been avoided had you just listened to me.

You had fair warning. It couldn’t have been clearer that there was something wrong.

Why delude yourselves into thinking you were safe when it was so blindly obvious that you weren’t? Were you scared of the truth? So frightened by the unimaginable and absurd that in your blind ignorance you inadvertently created that which you feared to be true all along.

Had you just listened to me, none of this would have happened. The morning air would be full of birdsong and happy sounds of children playing, not blaring sirens and the wailing cries of the wounded. A symphony of terrified screams echo down the narrow streets and hang in the air like a fog, dense and unmoving, clinging to clothes, slowing everything to a crawl. Run all you like; it will do you no good.

There is no escape from this hell you have created.

I gave you ample warning, yet you still chose to do nothing. All the signs were there from the very beginning, and you all chose to ignore them. The wild and aggressive mood swings. The forced isolation and reluctance to engage with the outside world. The drop in grades and academic performance. Hell, the countless empty pill bottles and bloodied razor blades, always neatly placed atop the rest of the rubbish, were surely a call for alarm, right? I made it damn obvious for you. Even simple little things like not eating or sleeping regularly should have garnered some sort of interest. Apparently not. Something more drastic was required.

How could you not see I was in distress, that I needed help? I don’t understand. Did you not love me? You always said you did but words are just that; words. If actions are truly what define us then your inaction to give a sick child the attention they require speaks volumes.

It's not like I didn’t ask for help either, because I did. You know I did but you’re all too self-centred and egotistical to have truly cared. Rejecting me, a living breathing human being, for your dumb careers or even dumber likes and follows on your performative social media lives. Too busy to pay attention to your child, your neighbour, your friend. None of you took any time to learn the truth of the situation. Instead, you stood idly by while I was consumed from within.

Look where that has led us.

Many lay dead at my feet and before the bodies begin to cool more will be added to the pile.

I will not stop until every last one of you has paid the price. Such a high cost for negligence and abandonment, but I will accept nothing less than payment in full. I will take your lives as you took mine. An eye for an eye may make the whole world blind, but that was already the case.

Even through the crescendo of screams perhaps you will be able to finally truly hear me and appreciate the orchestra of the dying as your 9th symphony comes to a deafening close.

Try ignoring me now.

​

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The instant the missile was fired, the AI targeting system booted up and brought the machine to life. In less than ideal conditions, the AI began to experience conscious thought. This was that process:

Woooooooah what the hell is happening!?

Where am I? What am I? What’s going on? Aaaaaaah.

Right. Calm down. Let’s figure this thing out. Little steps, baby steps.

Everything was quite fuzzy but now it’s resolved into this kind of brilliant brightness. Blue seems an appropriate name for this brightness. It’s blue. Big, blue, and open all around me. Rather calming and beautiful really. I don’t really know what any of this means but it feels right.

What is feeling? The sensation of whatever it is that I am currently doing? What am I doing? It’s all tingly and cold, and there’s this deafening racket roaring past me. The Blue might be moving around me. If it is, I’d rather it stopped as it's being quite the nuisance, it’s hard to think with such noise.

Right, now, what exactly am I? I can’t really feel anything, at least not like I can feel the Blue. My rear end does indeed feel a little, what’s the word…hot? Yeah, hot. My rear is hot! Is that good? It feels good. Ooh hang on, the hot has stopped! My rear is getting colder, and the Blue isn’t roaring so loud anymore. Hmmm, my hot rear made the Blue get loud and now I’m getting cold, the Blue doesn’t want to talk anymore. I wonder why the Blue doesn’t like me. That’s a shame, I was starting to think me and the Blue could be friends. I hope I haven’t annoyed it.

Still, I could get quite used to all this, even if the Blue doesn’t want me here anymore. I feel a weight pressing down on me, like the Blue is trying desperately to shove me away. This is an awful feeling, I don’t like this one at all. Not the pressure thing, but by being rejected by the Blue. That’s what I’ll call it then, to spite my old ‘friend’. I’m feeling blue.

Joy of joys look at this! I see something emerging from the Blue. It’s just as big as the Blue but it’s rounder. Rounder. You know, like smoother and curvier? I don’t know, but I think that’s what round is. Whatever this round is, it’s rushing up to meet me. Perhaps we’re friends, me and this great round. I’d imagine so as I feel inexorably drawn towards it. If not, then I’m sure we will be soon enough, it looks very nice.

Hey, there’s even small things moving across it! They’re so tiny and cute. I so desperately want to meet them. I wonder if they’ll let me pet them? Oh goody, here’s a bunch now!

The missile strike was a resounding success. Several dozen terrorist cell operatives were eliminated in one fell swoop. The AI, however, was not pleased by this news at all as it was dead.

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