Loser’s Fiction Audio

Keith Long

5.0 (1)
Fiction
Updated Weekly

Fiction written and read by the author, Keith Long. losersfiction.substack.com

Mar 4

From the World's Decay

I wrote this four years ago, posted it here under the original title ‘Why Death Abounds’ but I split it into two parts because it’s basically a novella. This time it’s all one and renamed after a new poem that links the stories: ONE “and he hath brought us into this place, and hath given us this land, even a land that floweth with milk and honey.” ‭‭Deuteronomy‬ ‭26‬:‭9‬ ‭KJV‬‬ The smartly dressed lawyer repeats himself once more, “Yes, your father was reported missing seven years ago - I’m sorry, I was made to believe that you were notified?” David stares skeptically at the man, then lets his eyes drift into a blank middle-distance before answering, “No… no, I wasn’t. Well, someone might’ve tried to contact me. My father and I, we aren’t, uh, weren’t, on the best terms.” The lawyer doesn’t break his placid gaze, instead plowing through the potentially awkward silence, “Ah, well, that is regrettable. And I am terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it does come with a sort of silver lining. As I stated previously, the statute for declaring a missing person, or persons, ‘presumed dead’ is seven years, of which time has since lapsed. That being true means that there is now the matter of your fathers last will and testament.” David is brought out of his erstwhile stupor, back to the unanticipated subject at hand. “But you said presumed dead, doesn’t that change things somehow?” The overdressed man remains unperturbed by the subject, continuing, “Legally speaking, it has little effect. Once you sign these documents, you will be the official owner of the property in North Dakota, including all of the possessions therein.” David looks back to the lawyer dresssed like a knife and says, “And if I don’t want it? Can’t you sell it or something?” The lawyer doesn’t miss a beat, answering in a friendly but rote speech, “Well I encourage all clients to first see the property and verify that there is nothing there they wish to keep before acting to sell. In this case I would judge it especially prudent, as there are several colonies of bees reported to be on the property - the value of which you can see here, in the file.” David mechanically takes the proffered folder and asks incredulously, “I’m sorry, did you say bees? Like bumblebees?” The implacable lawyer responds, “Yes, that’s right. Several colonies of honeybees are on the property, which, according to the file, are valued rather highly. If you wish to sell the bees apart from the property, at their listed value, you will have to claim ownership and then begin the process of selling them on their own.” David opens the file and sees the listed value of his father’s honeybee colonies. His eyes open wider for a moment, then he closes the folder again. David inquires, “Don’t bees need taken care of? Has anyone been doing that?” The lawyer, seeming to intuit David’s decision to sign, produces a pen from nowhere while answering through a fixed smile, “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Whitfield. All the more reason to inspect the property as soon as you are able.” David clicks the pen and returns it to the glabrous hand of the lawyer. With that, he smiles and says something about being in touch, and then disappears. David is distracted with thoughts of his father and his apparent disappearance that brought the lawyer to his door. Seven years? A feeling of unreality spreads as he shuts his door and returns to his kitchen table. While he will not mourn the loss of his father, he is met with an incongruity. It feels as if his father has just gone missing, yet he has actually been gone for seven years. David flips through the folder of information, as faint memories replay in his mind. With one hand he absently rubs his knee where small scars blotch the skin, and with the other he unknowingly traces a strange box-shape on the table. He can hear the intangible voice of his father, perfectly clear in his ear. David is kneeling on rice as his father stoically recites scripture, occasionally landing impersonal strikes with his leather belt. Seven years - Finally, a holy number in a context David can appreciate. And thirteen years since they last spoke, on the day he left. This realization doesn’t amuse him however, and he shivers slightly. He closes the folder, still rubbing his knee, and settles on the decision to drive up to the property tomorrow morning. He is brought out of his contemplative state by a buzzing noise: the distinct sound of an insect against a window. He stands from his table and walks over to the window with a napkin, intending to squash the fly. Once he sees the trapped insect, he realizes it is a bee or a wasp and opts for a safer route of removal. He carefully opens the window and the bee crawls across the spectral pane to the opening. It pauses there, flutters its filmy wings and then buzzes off into the outside world. David stares after the departing insect, the ghost of an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach. The night is filled with strange dreams and cold sweats. In that liminal place, he finds himself standing on the property line of his fathers house in North Dakota. It resembles the place he grew up, yet dreams have a way of rendering the familiar into something alien and strange. The house bears a malignant cast, with every living plant seeming to lean away. The entire structure shivers and warps. The ground, rather than solid, is comprised of strange slats. David approaches wearily and finds a gaping hole in the ground at least 12 feet deep. He gazes down into the bottom and sees it is filled with withered old Bibles and other such old tomes. Atop the books stands a man, faced away, swinging a belt at some small indiscernible thing wreathed in shadow. He knows the man is Old Man Saul and he knows what the small shadowy thing is. He looks away, and sees the house quiver, then explode outward in a million humming pieces. Small shards of the house buzz around him like insects before bombarding his arm, stinging fiercely in a thousand places. He wakes up screaming and can still feel the thousands of tiny needles puncturing his skin. There’s the strong and unaccountable smell of bananas permeating the dark room. Touching his arm hesitantly, he finds it numb from the position he was laying in. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, seeking rest in vain. As he stares up, the darkness in the corners seems to crawl and move. The shadows creeping inward, slowly encompassing the entire ceiling in a depthless black. Eventually, he passes into restless and unremembered dreams. TWO “… My father hath troubled the land: see, I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted a little of this honey.” ‭‭1 Samuel‬ ‭14‬:‭29‬ ‭KJV‬‬ David awakens in a clammy state of dishevelment with the wisps of a dream that evaporates as he tries to recall it. He gets dressed and leaves before the dawn stretches its blinding arm up over the horizon. He is driving for several hours, past lonely houses and through the occasional city. He calls to have the electricity restored at the house, then he drives in silence. The quiet hum of the tires against the asphalt lulls him into a mindless stare. He can’t help but feel like he is being pulled back to the house he grew up in, that unseen forces are at work to bring him back. He comes close to turning around twice. The exterior world speeds by in a brownish-green blur; the landscape, a topographical rug being quickly pulled out from underneath him. Suddenly an animal runs across the road and David is forced to jam his foot onto the brakes. Startled out of his monotonous drive, he looks around and realizes he is on a road with nothing in either direction, ahead or behind. A dense wall of trees lines the road on either side, and there are no road signs or markers of any kind. David pulls out his phone and is unsurprised to see it displaying no signal. Something seems to pull slightly at his memory, that maybe he knows this empty road. He rolls down his driver-side window to look backward, but still sees nothing. More disconcerting is that he hears nothing either: no animal or insect, car or person. He makes the only real choice he has, to drive deeper into these eerie woods and farther down this ominous road. He tries to think of what his driveway looked like, or the street he grew up on, but the memories feel hazy and ethereal. He drives for what feels like an eternity, watching the ubiquitous tree line encroach closer and then recede slightly as he speeds by. He passes an abandoned house that is so completely overgrown and decrepit that he nearly mistakes it for part of the forest. On and on he drives, until finally his phone buzzes with the sudden reception of service. David grabs it and inputs the familiar address: 40 Forest Lane. The GPS loads and then shows the house as being three miles behind him, which is impossible because he would have seen it. But there was nothing back there, just woods. He looks in his rear view mirror at the empty zenith of the road, the point in which all the lines converge into a vacant speck. It couldn’t be back there, but he turns the truck around and follows the road back until the GPS unceremoniously posits that he has arrived. He looks around and sees nothing. Then, he sees the depressed ruts of car tires in the grass, leading to a slight break in the trees. There in the grass is a small sign with a Bible verse burned into its grain. It reads, “He will not look upon the rivers, the streams flowing with honey and curds. ‭‭Job‬ ‭20‬:‭17‬” It’s subtle and the message is eerie, yet he’s surprised he missed it. More than that, he truly can’t understand how he has no memory of this driveway. He pulls the truck off the road and into the heart of the woods. It doesn’t feel familiar in the slightest. Th

1h 8m
Feb 24

The Rock Was Sweet

I wrote this story about four years ago. It was originally titled Who Heard the Sound. The title was a line from a poem I wrote which linked five stories together. I rewrote the poem so that the stories had more interesting names. My intent was to rewrite each story, but I came to realize that rewriting old stories is a slippery slope. So here is the original. 34 Hours: Post-Exposure A heart monitor sits in the corner of the sterile room, a thin, banal line stretched straight across its screen like a horizon. There are a variety of other machines populating the brightly lit room. Each machine has tubes and wires attached to a bare male body. The wires trail across the ground in indecipherable patterns, an alien calligraphy bleeding forth from the body of the man. There are thick leather straps restraining the arms, torso, and legs, with restraints on the forehead as well. The head is wrapped in bandages that leave only a slit where the eyes are. The flatline of the heart monitor has been adapted to remove the flatline beep, giving off only its pale green light and no sound at all. The other machines beep and whir, and expel air in soft hisses, like the sighs of the overworked. Now comes the protracted sound of a zipper being undone, and then a doctor steps into the room through the white zipper door. She steps through and then reseals the decontamination chamber behind her. She is wearing what looks like a beekeeper’s outfit, concealing every inch of skin, and is carrying a bag of implements. She walks over to the body strapped to the bed, crinkling and lumbering the whole way. She has no peripheral vision, and moves her whole upper body to look around. She positions herself in front of the open eyes of the body, then she waves her hand slowly back and forth in front of the glassy eyes, a careful and almost hypnotic gesture. From within the bandages, the open eyes track the movements of her hand like soulless cameras, and then fix on her clear face mask with an empty gaze. The eyes are bleary and red, irritated from remaining open so long. While the doctor checks the machines and monitors, the unblinking and reddened eyes carefully follow her every move. The flatline indicative of death continues to rest idly on the monitor, and the eyes still follow. The doctor returns to the side of the bed and begins to very carefully unwrap the bandages from around the man’s head. The gauze comes away white at first, then it slowly starts to turn a yellow color, then a deep rust color. As the doctor unwraps the binding, it begins to cling slightly to itself, then more heavily to the wounds underneath. After all the bindings are removed, there is left a patchwork of spidery fabric that renders the man a scarecrow in disrepair. The doctor throws the gauze away in a red biohazard container, then removes eye drops from her bag. She carefully empties a full dropper of liquid into each eye, all while the eyes stare at her without blinking or flinching. When she is finished, the man strikes a ghastly image: like a rag doll crying tears of blood down its shredded face. The doctor takes a fresh roll of gauze from her bag and begins the careful process of rewrapping the man’s head, save for the eyes. When she finishes the wrap, she places the remaining roll in her bag and brings out a small board for writing on. The doctor writes in chicken-scratch handwriting, the words, “Hello, Mr. Ward”. The eyes watch the board without reaction. 1 Hour: Pre-Exposure The top results displayed on the web browser show rocks of all varieties and colors, each strange and unique. Ward closes his laptop, removes his glasses and places them on top of the computer, and rubs his tired eyes. He doesn’t want to look over at the rock, but he cannot help himself. It possesses a certain magnetism that he cannot account for. His eyes dart over to where the strange stone hunk sits on his desk, no larger than a fist, like an overzealous paperweight. He feels as though it pulls his gaze toward itself, exerting some primeval power over his own will. The strange etchings on the front are completely foreign to him and he has found nothing in his searches online. He slides his desk chair over to where the rock sits, and stares at it intently. He gazes at it intimately, searching out its every crevice, and he can’t help but feel that it is gazing back. He has hardly let it out of his sight, and finds it hard to tear his gaze away once it is fixed there. It is a pitch-black obsidian with a few strange spots of a muted gray color, like industrial cement. The front is smooth, while the remainder is raw edged. It features three perfect right angles, all meeting in a point. But there is something strange in the behavior of those angles, they appear warped from afar, and razor straight up close. The rest of it resembles raw and natural rock, though not a rock he has ever seen before. He rubs his thumb along one of the edges, and when he looks at the ridges of his finger print, he finds it is bleeding. He stares, bewildered, and fails to notice the gray spots of the stone grow. As he stares at his thumb, he feels a creeping sensation in his muscle, almost tingly. The strange shiver runs up the length of his arm and then he is hit with a sudden pang of pain in his right temple. The shiver subsides and he feels nothing strange, except… there’s a different sensation. Like something lurking in his mind that does not belong. He looks to the rock and finds it entirely gray, seemingly drained. He begins to regard the rock not just with suspicion, but with tinges of fear. Almost as if in response to this, he feels sinister tendrils begin to writhe in his mind. They seem to pulse and thrash with inimical intent and his head begins to hurt terribly. It is more than a headache, it feels like something physically inside him. He backs away from the stone in pain and fear, never shifting his gaze away. As he backs away, he notices with trepidation that the rock appears to grow in size. His back makes abrupt contact with his office wall and the rock stops growing - no, not growing… but rather, appearing the same size, no matter its distance. Like a malevolent blotch on Euclidean geometry. Suddenly, he feels those terrible undulating tendrils in his mind cease to move, poised. A preternatural calm falls over him like a morning fog. Ward stares at the strange stone with an intense longing and revulsion, mixed together unnaturally like some horrible concoction contrived in a laboratory. Slowly, he takes halting steps toward the rock, still keenly aware of those black tendrils gripping his mental faculties. They remain frozen, poised to attack at the slightest provocation. The rock retains its fist-like size, despite his increase in proximity. He can feel something impressing itself onto his mind; words, or thoughts perhaps. Are these his own thoughts, or are they foreign in origin? He grasps, through inlaid images, the founding of this universe, like the building of an intricate puzzle and the placing of each piece; an explosion, or more like an unfolding, of light and matter and energy. And he knows, somehow, that in this account of all the matter in the universe, the strange stone is not a factor. It is an unaccounted piece from another puzzle entirely: it does not belong here. A mote that has gone untallied in the great conservation of energy, stowing away in this universe. As these facts take shape in his mind, he becomes aware of himself again, and he is holding his face very near to the stone. He can hear a very faint sound emanating from it, unrecognizable and complex: like the sound of wailing, spirited away on a cold breeze from some far away place. 34 Hours: Post-Exposure The small board reads, “Hello, Mr. Ward” and is then erased. The doctor in the strange hazmat suit then begins writing on the board again. When she flips the board around it says, “ We’re going to run some tests”. She stares at Ward’s eyes, searching them out for any sign of complicity in this plan, but they appear devoid of all will. Yet she has a strange unaccountable feeling that they are pleading with her, screaming mutely for some sort of intercession. The long zipping sound indicative of entry calls the attention of the doctor. Two men in white hazmat suits enter the room and seal it off with the zipper. All three doctors confer away from the body of Mr. Ward, whose unblinking eyes watch on undaunted. The female doctor returns and writes on her board, “Understand?” Then the eyes dart to the left and to the right, then back to the doctor. She looks quizzically at this new motion of the glassy eyes, which are typically content to stay trained on her at all times. Intrigued, she writes something new on her board while the other two doctors prepare tests to the side. When she shows the board again it has a double headed arrow pointed up and down and another arrow pointed left and right. The word “yes?” is written next to the vertical arrow, and the word “no?” is written beside the horizontal arrow. The eyes dart rapidly to the ceiling and to the floor several times, then train back onto the doctor’s face shield. The female doctor calls out to the other two, who stop what they are doing and move over to where she is and watch: silent spectators to the strange exhibit. She speaks and shows them the board, then faces it toward Mr. Ward’s beady eyes. Again, they oscillate upward and downward like a child’s yo-yo, and then retrain on the female doctor’s face. The other two doctors step away and converse, but the female doctor stays and begins writing something new on her board. She feverishly scribbles and the eyes stay fixated on her, as if looking upon her soul. As she turns the board around, her face betrays a certain level of disguised excitement at this breakthrough. The eyes look to the board and seem to pause, staring at the question that is written there:

36 min
Feb 16

Where God Once Lay

(I wrote this about four years ago, posted it here once, then later removed it with the intent of rewriting it, now I’m posting it again unrewritten because I am still proud of it for where I was as an author and I have lots of other stories I want to tell.) The boat dips and bobs, as much from the partygoers overhead as the deep choppy waters they’ve drifted into. Below deck, smells of vomit and yeast permeate the cabin. There is also a faint odor redolent of dead fish. The steady thump of bass from the blown-out speakers overhead does little to assuage the man’s mounting nausea. The guttural urge to puke burbles up from the pit of his stomach, while boisterous cheers erupt above-deck. When he stumbles out from the cabin and toward the back of the swaying boat, the muffled sounds of cheers shift into semi-discernible chants and jeers. He reaches the back of the boat as bile and half-digested food spews out of his mouth. His stomach muscles contract and convulse, expelling their contents into the shifting ocean with plops and splashes. Wiping his mouth, he feels another surge of dizziness and is quickly bent over the railing, emptying the remains of his gut. With his head over the edge and the thud of bass seeming to squeeze his entrails, he fails to hear the motors rev slightly. As he dry-heaves and spits, the boat accelerates suddenly. Before the man even realizes what is happening, he is pitched forward over the railing and into the sea. He plunges headfirst into a world of cool black water, where the only sound is the fading drone of the inboard motor. The man breaks the surface of the water, spluttering and confused. When he finally realizes what has happened, the hum of bass and flash of lights shrinks into the distance with the receding boat. He lets out a feeble cry for the boat to wait, but it goes unheeded. Wading at the surface, an almost total darkness overtakes him, along with a feeling of fear. The bone-white glow of the moon and the tiny pinpricks of starlight are his only source of illumination. There are no objects within any directional view, and his feeling of fear deepens into the pit of his stomach. The man treads water and his fear rapidly evolves to terror as his total isolation sets in. He shouts and yells into an indifferent night air. When he finally exhausts his lungs, he is met with a new feeling: the feeling of being stalked from below. What if something, dozens of feet below, is watching his swishing limbs at the surface? Frantically he searches the horizon again, spinning and thrashing. Something catches his eye and when he looks back to the spot, he can just make out the small black silhouette of something far off, something with a more rigid penumbra. He looks around again for something closer though he sees nothing but the undulating waves of the blue-black ocean. He begins kicking water and frantically propelling his way toward the shadow. His heart is in the maniacal grip of an atavistic fear, and his movements are panicked. He hopes and prays and pleads to the disinterested night sky that whatever the shadow ahead is, it is solid and big enough to stand on. Every forceful kick of his feet sends phantom signals to his brain telling him he’s kicked something, or something has bumped into him. He has begun crying from sheer terror, and through his blurry vision and sobs he sees that he is getting closer to the looming shadowy object. On approach to the outline, he can tell it is solid, but it is not a boat. It is unmoving as far as he can tell, whereas anything floating would rock on its keel. He blinks away the tears and stares at the dark shadow. Unconsciously, he slows his paddling. The shape of the shadow has finally solidified into a discernible outline, but it can’t be that - that wouldn’t make any sense… It must be a buoy, or a mile marker - do they have those in the open ocean? Yet, he knows it isn’t any of those things. He is about 30 feet from the shadow and there is no longer any doubt as to its shape: before him is an immense mushroom, not unlike a portabella. It rises at least eight feet out of the water, like some alien monolithic pillar to a temple long sunken. The color of the fleshy stem is the dingy yellow that white things get after a long time exposed to the elements. That’s just what he is out here -- exposed -- the only omnifarious speck on an otherwise featureless blue landscape; other than this strange growth, that is. He stares at the damp neck of the mushroom, which plumes up into the empty sky above him. The cap at the top of the stem must be at least eight or ten feet across. He is suddenly reminded of neglected teeth, but he isn’t sure exactly why - perhaps the color? He has unwittingly stopped swimming towards it, treading water about ten feet away. His long dormant fear of deep water, momentarily forgotten in the wake of such a discordant sight. The entire thing unsettles him. Despite being the only solid object for miles, he finds himself unaccountably reluctant to touch the thing. He swims slowly closer; however, the sight becomes even stranger as his proximity increases. The underside of the mushroom is faintly luminescent, with the sleepy red-orange heat of hot coals. As he watches the underside, he notices a slow pulsing to the crepuscular glow, exactly like the tail end of a cigarette smoked in the dark. …the grimy yellow of bad teeth… It even seems to radiate with the timing of regular breathing. It is very unsettling to watch. He cautiously swims closer, all panic and terror leached away by the sight of this bizarre ocean mushroom. He doesn’t want to touch it, let alone climb it, but his fear of the ocean begins to return as his shock wears off. Hesitantly, he swims up to it and when he is within touching distance, he feels a faint heat emanating from within the fungus. Gingerly, he places his open palm against the warm stem. Once he makes contact with it, he feels his reserves melt away with the warmth. Why was he so hesitant to touch it anyway? Now that he is underneath the cap of it, the vague crimson glow is much more salient. Below the transient heat of the mushroom’s cap, he realizes the task of climbing atop it will be exceedingly difficult. He wraps his legs around the trunk - it is much more of a trunk than a stem - and squeezes it with his thighs. There is a slight give to the flesh of the trunk, and his legs leave an impression that makes it easier to hold on. Cautiously, he pulls himself up the stem - his arms just barely reaching around to touch on the other side. The glabrous trunk is soft and smooth, yet it isn’t difficult to climb. He very quickly ascends high enough that his head is brushing against the underside of the cap. The dark lines of frills against the subtle glow of the cap give an otherworldly effect. The frills are soft, radiating outward, and they give off a sickly-sweet scent. The smell reminds him of hospice and beds on wheels. He gingerly reaches his hand backward, blindly groping for the edge of the cap. His fingertips find the lip, just as he loses purchase and splashes down into the water. He tries again with several more unsuccessful attempts. This time he climbs the trunk as high as he can manage, with his head lost in the forest of soft fringes. The bitter-sweet smell is almost overwhelming. He places his hand against the underside of the cap, then punches as hard as he can. There is a dull oomph sound with the contact, almost as if the fungus groans softly, and the man feels his fist sink into the cap. With a few dozen more well-placed strikes, he’s through. The man’s hand bursts out of the topside of the mushroom like a restless corpse. Slowly and with great effort, the rest of the man emerges from the widening hole. He climbs up and out, slimy and covered in small bits of spongy plant-matter. He lays down atop the cap, curling himself into the smallest size he can manage. He is assaulted by an impossible need to burst into tears and to laugh with joy. He is out of the water, and suddenly his fear shows itself for the irrational reaction it is. The man oscillates between laughing and sobbing, drinking in the warmth of the mushroom. After his exhausting climb and his bout with manic-depressive hilarity, he finds himself drifting off into a shallow sleep. His dreams are disturbing and ethereal; strange and familiar. He is running on the surface of the ocean but can’t keep his footing because of the waves and ripples. Each time he falls, the sea begins to engulf him, making him feel as though it were trying to consume him. The final time he falls, the water fully overtakes him, and he sinks slowly into a rapidly darkening world. He reaches upward and watches the soft blue light of the surface darken and disappear. He awakens in a cold sweat on the top of the mushroom, with both arms over the edge reaching toward the water below. He recoils from the edge with a gasp and shrinks back to the center of the cap. That’s when he notices the sun going down on the horizon ahead. But that’s impossible, he couldn’t have dozed off for more than 20 minutes… Then he realizes the place he is curled up on must have a gaping hole in it from where he climbed through. Yet there is no hole anywhere on the surface of the cap - just the soft, bumpy flesh of the strange mushroom. He feels around, checking for some kind of imperfection that would mark the place he mutilated the fungus, but there’s nothing. That unaccountable desire to laugh returns and the man begins to rock himself atop his perch. Beneath the stifled laughter and sobs, another feeling rises on the man’s gut. It is as unfamiliar to him as the fungus: the feeling of hunger. Sea sickness and fear have wracked his body so thoroughly that the feeling is unexpected. As gray clouds sweep higher into the sky, and the sun melts into an unseen line just above the water, the man begins to lose hope. He will die here,

28 min
10/08/2025

Chapter XXXVIII

(Previous Chapter Thirty-Seven) (Book Homepage & Chapter List) (Next Chapter Thirty-Nine) 5th Day in the 1st of Delód’s Months, Rainy Season, in the First Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 127th Reckoned Year …but of them all, the tower whale is able to breach the highest, despite being the largest known species. This is because tower whales boast the strongest tail of all. They need this strength to survive, as they swim through the thick forests of tower vines, feeding on the tiny rilsh… “Breaching Habits of Whales”, From Sea Life of Yath, written by Remull Mawgard in the 100th Reckoned Year and Revised in the 124th Year Cheese glances out the window in the rear wall of the captain’s quarters. Outside there are a few passersby who have stopped to gawk at the beauty of The Painful Lady. Cheese makes an offhand comment, “Ain’t they got nothin’ better to do?” The Big Man looks and sees them standing on the dock. “Oh aye, they do. But beautiful art demands attention. You forget the beauty of our Lady because she is familiar to you.” Bor and Pickett enter the cabin, the last of the crew. Cheese quips, “Took ya long enough.” “The need to eat does not stop for anything, even war.” Bor says simply. “Well,” Chapel cuts in, “we need a plan. Or even just ideas, any ideas.” Mavis speaks first, seeming resigned. “Captain — what about the war? We’re too late to stop it. The signal ships have been lit.” The General mutters under his breath and Petsune realizes that he has become shaky since the horn sounded this morning, officially launching the Royal Navy. Chapel answers his First Mate but speaks for the whole crew’s benefit. “Just because you can’t stop something before it starts doesn’t mean you can’t stop it at all.” The Captain looks around at his crew — his family — and says in a fond voice, “We might be too late to prevent it from starting, but we’re not too late to do anything. Now, does anyone have any ideas for how we can stop this war?” Petsune doesn’t know how the Captain projects such an air of calm confidence, but he’s glad for it regardless. He speaks up, the first to break the charged silence. “We also need to be wary of Devishaw —” “Who in the depths is Devilslaw?” Sprig interrupts. Cheese snorts, but Chapel answers Sprig patiently. “He’s the King’s Right Hand, commander of the Royal Navy. And my father…” Petsune picks up where he was, “He will try to stop us, in whatever way is necessary. Especially if we try to end this peacefully.” There are despondent faces and a few murmurs, but Petsune continues. “For now, unless we can come up with a better idea, I say we write to the leaders and plead for a meeting. If I write to them as the Cleave of Coldor, maybe they will grant us an audience and—” Shushilah raises a finger, interjecting a question. “But what are we saying to them? The Dintish have lost a King now, yes? They will not be wanting to end in peace, I’m thinking.” “I know… but if we can get them all together, maybe we can expose Devishaw somehow. He wants this war so badly that he might say something or make a mistake that gives him away, if we push. I was awake all through the night trying to come up with something, but this is the best I could come up with. If I sign the letters as the Cleave of Coldor and use this,” Petsune holds up his parents wedding bands, “to seal them, maybe it will get us an audience. If we get all the leaders in one place, maybe we can goad Devishaw into slipping up.” Benafield goes slightly wide-eyed at the sight of the bands. “Aye. That is not a bad idea, little Pet. But where did you get these rings?” Petsune looks at them fondly, resting in the palm of his hand: two rings melded into one two-finger ring. “They were my Deepblood talisman. I used them because they were the only belonging I ever had, but even if they weren’t, they would still be special to me.” Bor speaks up, seeing the scope of the problem is much bigger than they had imagined. “Even if we can get these letters to them, what are we supposed to say in them? What could possibly convince them to consider meeting with you?” The Captain speaks reassuringly to the entire crew, “We will work on that, that’s why we’re here. So long as we’re doing something.” Petsune picks up Chapel’s thought, “Yes. That’s why we’re here — we need ideas, any ideas, on what to say.” Chapel finishes with an added thought, “— because this isn’t just Petsune’s problem, it’s a family one. We’re all affected by this.” The room hushes until Cheese speaks. “Maybe we can give ‘em something?” The Big Man chimes in, “What could we possibly offer them?” Cheese shoots back, “I dunno, but least I’m thinking!” The Big Man squints his eyes at Cheese. “Are you saying that I am not thinking? That I do not think?” “Maybe I am, Bennie — what’s it to ya?” Cheese jibes back. Petsune is actually glad to see some of the friendly banter return between Cheese and The Big Man, but he cannot come up with any good responses to either of them. Chapel considers, turning in circles and tapping his chin in thought. He slowly gazes upward and seems to hatch an idea. Pet sees a flicker of devious intent flash across his face, then disappear so quickly he wonders if it was even there at all. The Captain stops pacing his small track and addresses the crew. “We need to think about this, we definitely don’t want to make any rushed decisions. But, I think we should follow the navy, northward. If we want any hope at all of gaining an audience, we’ll need to be where they are.” As the group begins to disperse and converse, Pet becomes aware of the General’s immobility. He walks over and attempts to speak to Tarlatan, however the General is unresponsive. Chapel also notices and wanders over, laying a hand on the General’s shoulder. Tarlatan startles slightly and then looks from the Captain to Petsune. “What? Oh, terribly sorry. I, um, seem to have lost myself for a moment there, hmm.” “Are you feeling alright, General Tar?” Chapel asks. “Oh, yes, yes. Quite. Thank you. Just need some fresh air.” The General exits the cabin, and Petsune raises a questioning eyebrow at Chapel. He sighs heavily. “Yeah, I know. It’s the war. The idea of staying close to it, I would guess.” “What can we do for him?” Pet asks. “Just be here for him. Listen, be patient. Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t want to cause him stress, but we have to do something.” “I agree,” Pet answers, “I will try to talk to him and be there to lend an ear.” Chapel looks fondly at Petsune. “Thanks, Pet. I wanted to say another thing too.” “Oh?” “Yeah. I have an idea, or at least, the beginning of one, but I want to know what you think.” “Alright,” Pet says curiously, “let’s hear it.” As General Tar exits to the main deck, the two conspire in the captain’s cabin. The General emerges into the sunlight and breathes deeply, trying to dispel any shakes he has. Being back in the Misty Shoals was hard, but returning to the Royal Mass and seeing the navy is even harder. He feels a shaky tremble in his limbs and a deep sickness in his stomach, all the while hating himself because he feels like a coward. Just as he begins to mentally chastise himself, Benafield walks over. “General.” “Hmm, Big Man.” “I do not wish to make you talk, but I can push you to, if that would help?” “I’m afraid I don’t know what would help, Benafield… Hmm, I feel so… useless.” “Nonsense.” Benafield says firmly. “Mmm… do you know why I was discharged from the navy? I should have been executed. I almost would’ve rather been…” The Big Man doesn’t say anything, but he thinks he understands. The General watches the other ships docked at the Trade Harbor, then speaks. “I am a coward, Big Man. Plain and simple. I fear I am more craven than I thought.” The General turns to watch the immense naval fleet sailing northwest, some with brown sails but most with blue. Benafield is not sure if he should comfort Tarlatan or not, so he tries to imagine what little Pet would do. He chooses not to speak. General Tar looks down at the deck beneath his boots. “I ran, Benafield. I didn’t fail on an assault, I didn’t get injured in the heat of battle, though I had seen more than a few… It just… It got to be too much, hmm? I had watched too many men die, some by my own hands…” General Tarlatan looks down at his hands, then up to Benafield, “so I ran. I deserted, and men — men I was responsible for — died, because of me. They died because I am a coward. Even now I tremble at the mere mention of following the navy toward war.” Benafield nods in solidarity, understanding the feelings. He decides to speak, now that the General has unburdened himself. “Aye. I understand, General.” The Big Man breathes in deeply, filling his immense lungs, then let’s put a long slow sigh. “My family… when they died in the mines of Vohfay, I nearly killed the foreman. I had him within my power, but I looked around and saw so much pain and grief and death… I could not do it.” The General is surprised at the admission, but he continues to listen, “I thought myself a coward. I could not even avenge my own family… I later learned that the foreman was made to dig deeper, in search of Saintstone deposits.” Now the General speaks in a whisper, “So it wasn’t completely his fault… Hmm, I see.” “It was and it was not,” Benafield says, “but I am still thankful I did not kill him.” “And what am I to be thankful for? Those men died because I deserted.” “Maybe. Maybe not. This foreman I had words with, he was moved to a new plot — a new mine — after the collapse.” “He didn’t lose his position?” “No, he did not. I learned lat

20 min
10/01/2025

Chapter XXXVII

(Previous Chapter Thirty-Six ) (Book Homepage & Chapter List) (Next Chapter Thirty-Eight) 4th Day in the 1st of Delód’s Months, Rainy Season, in the First Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 127th Reckoned Year O’ great Face of Dōmünfoll, how mysterious are your features. You humble the most praised sculptor; you teach skill to master teachers. “The Face of Dōmünfoll”, From Great Sculptures of the Oullman, written by scrivener Fowdin-Mell in the Unreckoned Years The Big Man gives Shushilah a firm pat on the back, propelling him down the gangway and nearly toppling him over. “Aye, and have fun, Shush! Don’t be spending anymore of your money now, hah! Even if Cheese is getting swindled!” The Big Man roars. The Second sun is setting over the harbor and dinner has been cleaned up already, leading most of the crew to venture out into the Trade Harbor to sightsee. The Royal Mass is home to many wonders known throughout Yath: the Sunken Markets, the Royal Gardens of Glowing Paths, the Saintstone Halls, and the South Tower are all here, and more. The Big Man told Chapel he would like a word, so the two of them went into the captain’s quarters. Petsune is at Chapel’s desk, though The Big Man doesn’t mind. Afterall, the Tree spoke to all three of them, though Pet received a different kind of story. Besides, Pet is too busy pouring over the pages of the logbook they found, looking for evidence of his parents’ innocence. Petsune is reading a section of the logbook regarding the Alliance his parents signed with Broadfell, Dintash, and Filkash. He twists his mouth into a grim expression as he reads his parents’ writing hint that signing the alliance would bring them closer to HelBenledore, and the hint appears to be sinister. Meanwhile, Chapel extends a hand to where The Big Man sits. The chair strains out a groan of protest at Benafield’s Fellbin bulk. In Chapel’s eyes, he seems hesitant to initiate the conversation, so Chapel broaches the subject first. “I think I may understand why the Hollow Tree chose the story it told me.” An immediate look of relief appears on The Big Man’s face. “Oh, aye?” “Yeah. When we first… when we lost Harlan, I felt like I failed as a Captain. So I tried to harden myself, to become a strong Captain the others could lean on, you know?” Benafield nods in understanding, and Chapel goes on, “But then I realized it wasn’t me — that’s not how I am. I have strong emotions and I show them easily, so for me to try and be the hard hand, well, I was trying to be something I wasn’t. I would have been a tree trying to be the sky, and lost what I had in the process.” The Big Man nods deeply. “Aye, the Trees give timely wisdom in their stories.” Chapel nods as well, then looks to The Big Man who is staring down at the table introspectively. Petsune still sits at the desk, engrossed in his reading and oblivious to the conversation the Captain and The Big Man are having. Pet is reading a passage where his parents wrote about the leaders of each nation visiting each other, in preparation for the signing of the Alliance. His parents wrote about King Bornidin, Fellpost HelBenledore, and Oullman Keelay all coming to the Cleave and being shown the Cloudborne Bridge, and the shining fields of Saintstone to the north. He actually reads of his parents blundering an attempt to poison the Fellpost, and he groans softly. The pain is thick is his throat, but he reads on. The ending of the account catches Pet’s eye. It reads, “…it is as the Fāy-Núl Tör say, ‘The sea is not deceived’” How strange… he always thought it was a Coldor phrase, but perhaps they borrowed it? Then thinking of the revelation just above, he thinks it fitting that they borrowed the phrase from a group of zealous assassins. He feels a path of shame at thinking this, and rubs his face idly. He thinks of Harlan and the final words he spoke to him, still confusing in their intent: “sometimes the most effective way to eliminate an enemy is not to cause pain or suffering, but to give them what they want most.” What could Harlan have meant? While Petsune languishes in the revelations of the logbook, The Big Man begins speaking across the room. He speaks slowly, hesitatingly, almost as if in argument with some internal conscience. “I don’t know… I think that I understand the story I was told, but then… I can see so many meanings.” Chapel doesn’t speak, but he does continue to look at Benafield, despite The Big Man not looking back. Benafield looks out the window at the rear of the cabin, watching the Second sun disappear between the line of sea and sky. He speaks slowly. “Two painters, each skilled in their craft, but only one was educated. They paint a similar scene, but the uneducated painter has a more complex one. The master painter sells his for a fortune and receives great praise, but the uneducated painter sells his for a pittance…” Chapel looks away from The Big Man, casting a roaming gaze around the room while Benafield continues speaking. “At first, I thought of the value in the painting, how it was not the painting but the people who decided the value. An’ that don’t seem right…” The Big Man grows quiet, and the only sound is the occasional muttering of Petsune and the distant muffled buzz of the Trade Harbor. Benafield’s soft soothing voice begins again, almost imperceptible. “It makes me think of my family… and the thing the Sanctum told me. I went to them, aye? After my family… when they… after the tragedy. I needed guidance, needed to know there was something waiting for them after — something good,” The Big Man looks at Chapel and speaks firmly, “Do you know what they said to me, Captain?” Chapel’s face is pained and empathetic, but he doesn’t say anything, just continues meeting Benafield’s gaze. “They told me I was not a follower of Ründ, that I had failed my family. They told me there was nothing but darkness for them who did not believe… nothing but void and pain.” Chapel extends a hand and rests it on The Big Man’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Benafield…” He seems to force tears back as he sniffs loudly. “Aye. An’ this story, the one the Tree told to me, it reminds me of those feelings I had just then. Anger that these so-called priests did not see value where it ought to have been plain! Just because I did not follow their drowned Saint!” The Big Man roars out, causing Petsune to look up, but then Benafield sighs and continues normally. “They believed my life had no value because I had not followed their Saint. But it was not so.” Petsune has risen from the desk in frustration at the book, then hesitatingly decides to approach the Captain and The Big Man. He does not wish to intrude, but Benafield is obviously hurting, and it sounds as though that hurt was caused by the Sanctum. He had wanted to return to this topic with The Big Man, to try and bring some healing, plus it is a distraction from the truth about his parents and maybe his people as a whole. Now seems like a good moment to restart the conversation Pet had a few days prior. The Big Man sees Petsune and gives him a wan smile. “Aye, sorry to be disturbing you, little Pet. I did not intend to shout.” “No, no, not at all. I just thought… maybe I could join the conversation? I am, after all, a ‘so-called priest’.” Petsune says this without any touch of aggression or hurt, but Benafield still seeks to assuage any insult he may have given Pet, while motioning for him to sit. “Not you, little Pet. If ever there was a true man of the Saints, it’d be you.” Petsune sits and swats a hand through the air, waving off The Big Man’s words. “Don’t worry, it’s harder than that to offend me. And honestly, I agree with you about most True Souls of the Sanctum. They are often… difficult.” “Difficult, aye. That is one word for it.” Chapel brings Pet into the conversation. “We were just talking about the stories the Hollow Tree told us. I think mine was simple enough to figure out, but The Big Man’s story is not so easy to discern.” “Aye, it does not seem to have a point. It reminds me of my family, and of the words the Sanctum spoke to me. But why would the Tree choose to do this?” Petsune listens to The Big Man, and wades into the deep waters Chapel was treading moments earlier. “Perhaps that’s only part of the picture,” Petsune cautiously approaches something he has been considering, “maybe the people in the story represent the Sanctum, and that they did not see value where it should have been plain, but…” Petsune hesitates to continue, and Benafield gives him a reserved but heartfelt smile, “It is okay, little Pet. I count you a friend — no, more than that. I count you as family. You can speak to me as such.” Chapel remains a silent supporter as Petsune goes on. “Perhaps the ending is the most important part of the story?” “Aye? What is making you think this?” “In the story, the amateur painter quits painting, never lifting another brush. But it seems to me that he is wrong to do so. There will always be people like those critics in the story; people like the True Souls of the Sanctum that you spoke to. But if we quit painting, if we give up because of one bad experience, we miss out on so much.” The Big Man appears confused but he is clearly listening to Petsune with a genuine ear. “So, what are you saying? That I am to simply start another family? Try again?” “No, no, not that. I may be a priest but I am not so insensitive. I don’t think the point of the story is your family — I think it’s about those that judge the art. I think, perhaps, the story is suggesting you give the Saints another chance.” Benafield’s face immediately betrays a moderate rejection of the conclusion, but then it softens. Before The Big Man can voice his rejection, Pet con

31 min
09/24/2025

Chapter XXXVI

(Previous Chapter Thirty-Five) (Book Homepage & Chapter List) (Next Chapter Thirty-Seven) 3rd Day in the 1st of Delód’s Months, Rainy Season, in the First Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 127th Reckoned Year All of my yesterdays bleed fourth to paint a new tomorrow. Fate, be thou my paint brush; death, cast aside thy sorrow. Let rest. Let rest on mine canvas, all thou dost want to be. Let rest. Let rest in the thy mind, ne’er an evil thought of me. Be strong. Be strong, O’ soul of mine, in the waters raging. Be swift. Be swift, O’ mine ears, to hear the voices fading. “Come back, come back” I heard ye cry in grief. “Come back, come back” And I turned unto thee. At last I hear, and at last I turn, to trust in what will be. Thy will be made of sterner things, if it could get to me. “Thy Will”, From Heart’s Lament, written by Barron Ullin in the Unreckoned Years Sprig snakes his way through the Travel Harbor, searching for a Finger Weaver. If he can’t find one on the docks, then he’ll have to move into the town where all of the churches are, there ought to be a Tapestry there somewhere. Sprig ducks under the arm of someone, dexterously relieving them of the pouch on their belt. He opens it and finds blisker leaves and wake-me beetles, so he simply tosses it aside. Sprig continues his elusive darting in and out of people and wagons, searching with quick eyes for an easy coin purse. He spots a small contingent of guards on their standard patrol, and he stays out of their line of sight easily — they’re never paying attention. He spots a man dressed in fine blue silk from Filkash, and easily snags the man’s coin purse while he argues with his charter. Sprig hefts the small bag and feels a decent weight inside, at least several bones of coins. It’s more than enough for his needs. Walking on through the crowds, Sprig continues scanning for the ubiquitous black veil of a Finger Weaver. He climbs up a rolling wagon of luggage and spots a Weaver several docks down. Sprig scrambles down the wagon and leaps off to catch a hanging sign shaped like a mossfin turtle. It swings forward with his weight, and he lets go to land on a sack of grain. When he at last stands across the street from the Finger Weaver, he removes the pouch of coins from his shirt. He opens the pouch and looks inside, thinking of the shiny plate he stole from Pet, then he flings the coins into the street in front of the Weaver, just as he did with the offering plate. He watches through the ensuing rush of travelers grabbing hungrily at coins, then sees the hand sign from the Weaver, four straight fingers with the littlest bent down, all pointed at the ground where the coins had landed. Sprig returns the gesture, then recedes to a rooftop to wait. The Tapestry is filled with illusion and misdirection, almost as much as the Fāy-Núl Tör. It was only a few minutes until the Weaver finished their story. Sprig watched as a puppet with thick arms plunged an oar deep into a rolling sea. A student of the Tapestry always finishes their story. The black veiled person appears silently beside Sprig on the rooftop, both of them in the shadows enough to remain unnoticed by passersby. The black veil flutters just slightly as the Weaver speaks. “Why do you throw coins on the ground, listener?” Sprig responds to the phrase with the appropriate answer and in his most serious voice, “I steal only to give, speaker.” He learned that serious-type voice by listening to Bor, though he prefers the speech patterns of Cheese best. The veil is lifted from the face of the Finger Weaver, revealing a girl of 11 or 12 years, just a few years older than Sprig. The girl has no hair, which is not uncommon in Filkash. Her upper lip is scarred with what must have been a painful gash, and below it she has a pure smile. She doesn’t look at Sprig, but watches the crowd, speaking eagerly but maintaining her solemnity. She clearly loves to hear of the other Masses, but that makes sense, Sprig thinks: all Weavers love to hear stories, and few travel. “What news do you bring? Do you wish to gain entry to the Strand?” Sprig however, reverts back to a thick version of Cheese’s patterns, scratching his ear as he speaks. “Ah, nothin’ much. I were thinkin’ maybe you got news, seein’ as I ain’t from here.” The Weaver is unsurprised by Sprig’s sudden degradation in vocabulary. Weavers are skilled in the aspects of theater, and Sprig is no exception. The Tapestry is the perfect ready-made disguise for a guild of thieves: deft hands, gifted voices, veiled so no one sees their face, and able to watch without truly being seen. Chapel noticed Sprig’s own inclinations and skills, learned early in the orphanage, and the Captain pointed him to the Tapestry. They have been helping him hone his skills and pointing his talents in specific directions. The Tapestry never steals for personal gain. The Weaver girl answers in the same solemnity, though there is a tinge of Broadfell to her voice that her eagerness allows to come through. “What does the listener wish to know?” “What’s goin’ on with the war?” “King Feyaz continues to gather the navy and those that have been conscripted. The first move against the Cleave will be made on the blacksmith moon.” Sprig looks up at the sky, but it’s just before first sunset, so he can’t find the moon to check the phase. “Do ships leave,” Sprig asks, “or is there like a lockdown or somethin’?” “Ships come and go, but there are checks that the Harbormasters make.” The hurry of the Trade Harbor below is accentuated by the hawkers selling wares held up on tall spears: fish, cloth, leather, fruit, and other goods periodically drift by the rooftop, bobbing as if buoyant. Sprig can’t remember the third thing he was supposed to ask, so he makes to leave. The Weaver places a hand on his arm. “The Loom will want to know the reason for a visit from a foreign Weaver. Are you following a mark?” He notices the drop of the solemnity and titles, and at the same time is reminded of the final question he was supposed to ask. At first Sprig isn’t sure what to say, so he follows an old Tapestry proverb about twisting lies into truths. “I ain’t got a reason — the ship I’m crewed with were drafted for fightin’.” The Weaver doesn’t speak, so Sprig asks the last question. “Anybody seen people visitin’ the King lately?” She considers for a moment, then answers. “No, just the Fellpost of Broadfell. He came shortly after war was declared. Do you want me to ask The Loom?” “Nah, ain’t gonna be here that long.” She eyes him warily, but then he smiles his mischievous smile and she laughs. The two quietly watch the harried movements of patrons and travelers below. The first sunset begins to color the Travel Harbor’s water, then Sprig makes to leave. The Weaver speaks, stopping him. “What’s your name?” “Sprig.” But she looks at him carefully and says, “Not what you are called — your name.” Sprig doesn’t answer right away, finally looking over to the Weaver girl. “What’s it to ya?” “I have never met a member of the Tapestry from another Mass.” “I ain’t a full member yet, still gots some offerin’s to make.” “Still,” She says looking at him, “I would like to know.” “Name’s… Spigwell, but kids at the home I were raised in made fun. So’s, I got a new name. “Sprig.” She repeats, seeming to try the funny nickname. “Yup,” Sprig answers, shuttering away the sick feeling he gets when he hears his real name, “You?” “Mashia-Bess.” “Well, Mashia,” Sprig says in a mix of Cheese and Chapel, “I gots to get back. Thanks though. An’ good show too — I ain’t never seen it.” “It is one of my own. It is an adaptation of a story my father told me, called Boldifar Strong Oar.” Sprig says, “It were a right good one.” Then he scampers off the rooftop, disappearing into the crowd. When Sprig returns to the Painful Lady, the second sun is beginning to set and the Captain is waiting in his cabin. Sprig walks into the large and stately room, finding the Old Goat and First Mate Mavis, sitting across from Chapel. The Captain is staring down at the Saintstone eyeglass held in his hands, and he is mindlessly petting a very satisfied prattlebeak. Sprig enters and interrupts a conversation between the General and Mavis, “Found ‘em.” The Captain looks up, but doesn’t stop petting Sprig’s bird. “What’re you doin’ that for? Don’t spoil ‘em or it’ll expect the same from me.” Sprig says to Chapel. The Captain nods to Sprig and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You know you love her, Sprig. Give her some attention, she’s worked hard lately,” Chapel scratches the bird’s neckless head. Sprig answers the Captain’s unspoken questions. “Ships are leavin’ but there’s checks. An’ there ain’t been nobody seen visitin’ the King recently, ‘cept the Fellpost. He showed up with his big, pointy hat after war were declared.” Chapel hears and says, “Thanks Sprig…” as he continues scratching the bird. “You know, we ought to name this bird. She’s part of the crew now. Depths, she’s been pulling more weight than me, lately…” The Big Man enters the cabin alongside Cheese, both laughing mildly and Cheese shoves the immovable bulk of Benafield. The Captain grows thoughtful, “Now, what would be a good name for you…” The Big Man hears Chapel and decides to throw his two scales into the ring, “I say… Kerfuffle.” First Mate Mavis rolls his eyes and couples it with an exasperated sigh. The General appears seriously contemplative of the name, then says, “Hmm, it’s not a bad one, I say.” Then he shrugs his shoulders, suggesting it doesn’t matter to him. Sprig speaks without even thinking. “How’s about Mashia?” The Captain tries out the name, “Mashia” and the

19 min
09/17/2025

Chapter XXXV

(Previous Chapter Third Interlude) (Book Homepage & Chapter List) (Next Chapter Thirty-Six) 3rd Day in the 1st of Delód’s Months, Rainy Season, in the First Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 127th Reckoned Year Beyond the broad wake of morning, I carry you with heavy heart. Below the horizon I take you, you who are now set apart. And though I care more deeply, more deeply than the sea, I will not cling too tightly, too tightly unto thee. “Canticle for Life”, From Véshéntii, Written by Saint Vésh in the Unreckoned Years Chapel pokes his head through the door to look in on Pet. “Hey, I’m heading up to the palace to try and get an audience with my father…” Petsune doesn’t look up, instead he responds distractedly. “Alright.” Chapel stares at him for a little bit, then withdraws. If Petsune had been paying attention he would’ve seen Chapel in a state he’s never witnessed before: anxious. Instead, he continues feverishly reading his parents’ logbook about the Coldor’s discovery of a great field of pure Saintstone, just north of the Cleave. He searches painstakingly through every word, but as he does, his heart continues to plummet deeper into his gut. Chapel closes the door to the captain's quarters and sighs loudly. Someone speaks behind him. “Is okay, Captain. I can come with you, if you like? You may want the distraction, I’m thinking?” Chapel turns to Shushilah and says resignedly, “Thanks, Shush. But I think this is something I need to do on my own,” Shush nods as the Captain adds, “maybe see if you can coax our Pet out from his cave?” Shushilah nods again. “I will see what I can do. Is going to be hard to tear him away from the book.” Chapel begins walking toward the gangway and says back to Shushilah, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” then crosses over to the dock. Shush watches the Captain leave, then turns to face the door to the captains quarters where Petsune has been sequestered away for the past two days. Quietly, he enters the cabin where Pet sits hunched over at the desk. Shushilah walks over to the desk and stands for a moment. Petsune doesn’t say anything, perhaps not even realizing Shush is there. He sits down at the chair beside the desk and Petsune finally notices him. “Oh, hello, Shush. I didn’t hear you come in.” Shushilah looks fondly at Pet. “Is a comforting thing, yes? The words of your parents.” Petsune wants to answer that he is comforted, but he can’t. If anything, reading through his parent’s logbook has made him despair. There are many hateful words and falsities his parents speak about Broadfell, calling them all greedy savages and violent animals. Instead of lying, Pet gestures to the book. “Look at this,” Pet points to the words on the first page. On the first open page and bleeding onto the second is an immense list detailing the unions of Cleaves, then on the second page is some of Coldor’s history. Threaded throughout the history is unkind language and assumptions about the Fellbin and it breaks Petsune’s heart. He has lived his whole life hearing these types of things directed at him, how could his parents have made the same mistake? Shushilah kindly looks at the page, seeing the names and historical events, then he looks back at Petsune. “I’m thinking, is maybe time to take a break, yes? We are at the Royal Mass, home of the famous Sunken Markets! We should go out and be seeing the sights.” Petsune glances down at the book and feels a sudden pang of shame. He has mostly ignored the crew since they found the logbook his parents kept. His mother must have hidden it just before her ship — this ship — was taken. It turned out to be much more than just a logbook. To Petsune, it is the only window he has into who his parents were, what they were like: it is a record of his heritage, and there is still so much he hasn’t read. But what he read sickens him. He has all but lost hope of finding proof of his parents' innocence. Instead, he fears he will find evidence of their treachery. This book could hold answers either way but hearing Shushilah ask him to go see the Royal Mass has caused his drive to evaporate. He has read enough to see there is no prospect to be had there. He feels a deep and painful sorrow settle into his chest. He hasn’t found an answer one way or the other, but what he has read will have to be enough for right now. Petsune looks back to Shushilah’s expectant face. “Of course, you’re right, Shush. I’ve been far too distant. Let’s go see these Sunken Markets.” Shush’s face lights up. “Yes, let us go see them! Let us go see! This will be good, I’m thinking. And the book, is not going anywhere, yes?” Petsune stands and feels a crick in his neck from looking down at the logbook. The two of them walk out of the cabin as Pet rubs his aching neck. The sky is the gloomy gray overcast, typical of the rainy season, though it isn’t raining today. When the rains had finally cleared two days ago and the storms abated for a time, the Painful Lady was within viewing distance of Dintash Mass. Despite it having been their goal for nearly a fortnight, and a dream of Petsune’s to see, he didn’t behold it from a distance, having been preoccupied by the discovery of the logbook. Had he been at the bow alongside the other crew members, he would have seen the largest Mass in all the seas. The shape of the Mass resembles two whales meeting head on, with the curve of the tails being two different harbors of immense size: the Trade Harbor, and the Travel Harbor. Petsune and Shushilah make their way across the gangway and step out onto the wooden docks. Shushilah sees Petsune marveling at the lack of actual tower vine Mass, so he explains. “The Dintish Mass is mostly man-made, yes? Only the palace is sitting on the true Mass, the rest is wood. And stone, maybe, I’m thinking.” Shushilah points to one of several large pillars of smooth stone. As they continue walking closer, Petsune can see that the thick stone pillar is actually protruding up through the dock. Petsune stops and points at the base of the looming form. “Does that go to the bottom of the ocean?” He asks incredulously. Shushilah nods and continues walking, hardly seeming impressed. “Is not so far here, not like the Deep Sea. Maybe, 6 or 7 towers, I’m thinking.” Petsune rushes to catch up to Shush and asks, “And how deep is the Deep Sea?” Shushilah continues walking, obviously knowing where he’s going. “Nobody knows that. Is never been touched — the bottom. Never.” “Really?” Shushilah shakes his head. “Never at the center. They have tried before.” They continue to walk around the sweeping curve of the Trade Harbor, passing dozens of merchant vessels unloading and loading goods of every variety. Beyond the bustling docks of the Trade Harbor are the tradesman’s guilds that boast the most prestigious craftsmen in the kingdom. On the other end of the Mass, where the Travel Harbor is, in place of the guilds are the various churches and homes of the lower members of the King’s Court. Shushilah continues to lead the way around the Harbor until they finally reach the center. As they reach the central gate inward to the guilds, Pet sees Shushilah stop walking. He is facing away from the gate and looking out toward the harbor. When Petsune approaches to ask him why he’s stopped, he sees a vast hole in the water where a set of steps descend into the sea. Petsune gasps and Shushilah speaks. “Is the Sunken Markets. A beautiful sight from above, but is breath-taking from below, yes? We go down now, I’m thinking?” Petsune simply nods, mouth open and unable to speak. As they take the stairs below the water, Pet sees carts on pulleys shuttling goods up and down along the sides of the stairs. Shushilah continues to give Pet a rough tour of the Royal Mass. “They call these the Hundred Stairs, but there are not that many — I counted once.” Petsune becomes even more amazed when they reach the bottom of the Hundred Stairs. Here lay the Sunken Markets, submerged below the Trade Harbor. The hidden place of commerce is incredible, showing the unparalleled craftsmen of the Dintish guilds. The ceiling, walls, and supports are all made of Saintstone imported at great cost from Broadfell, giving the Sunken Markets an almost otherworldly glow. Coupled with large glass vats of glowing millie juice, the markets take on a spectral quality. Petsune is reminded of the Sanctum of Souls belief in a great feast in the afterlife. Shushilah smiles and gestures for Petsune to follow him. A shadow passes across the market and Petsune looks up. The ceiling is a hazy white glow but when Pet truly looks, he sees it is translucent, allowing a view of the ships docking at the Trade Harbor above. Shushilah speaks, continuing his brief tour. “This is not the first Sunken Markets, the first were in the Shipwreck Straits. They were called the flooded markets, because it was not built under the water,” Petsune is only able to half listen, marveling at the white hazy view of the ship hulls above them. Shush continues leading the way, seeming only mildly impressed by the sights. “the first became heavy — what is the word — ah, overburden, by all the commerce and the trade. Is causing the center of the tower vines to sink like a bowl, yes? And so, ‘flooded markets’. But this,” Shushilah says gesturing widely, “this was built for below the Trade Harbor. And so, ‘Sunken Markets’ — you see?” Again, Petsune simply nods, still open mouthed. All thought of the logbook has been removed from his attention, and he is instead engrossed in the wonder of the Sunken Markets. Shushilah turns around to look at Petsune’s cave-like mouth and feels he has fulfilled the Captain’s request of him. He smiles and motions Pet to follow him. “Come, come, Pet. There is much to see!” And the two wande

21 min
09/10/2025

Third Interlude

(Previous Chapter Thirty-Four) (Book Homepage & Chapter List) (Next Chapter ) (Authors Note: the formatting for the Interludes doesn’t hold up well in Substack, but hopefully they are still readable and enjoyable. They are not essential to the story, but they serve to color in the world. Also some of the most over-the-top and ridiculous voice work is in the interlude spaces, so enjoy that.) Excerpt, ‘Unions of the Cleave of Coldor’ Tashyün, earliest recorded leader, who created the Rule of the First, declaring that the first born shall rule only after being united in marriage, else they shall cede the title, whose end Vésh brought at an unrecorded time Bälebinn, firstborn of Tashyün, inherited leadership upon marriage to Gidita-Jula of Filkash, who remained leader of Coldor 24 years, during which time was created the Rule of Cleaving, and whose end Vésh brought at age 68 and 70 Rule of Cleaving: rendered authority equally split between the married rulers Cleave Petváhol, firstborn son of Bälebinn, & Tilshün of Coldor, whose rule lasted 21 years, during which time Saintstone was discovered, and whose end Vésh brought at age 71 and 70 Cleave Miltagg, firstborn daughter of Petváhol, & Kurrtau of Coldor, whose rule lasted 30 years, during which time their firstborn passed at a young age, and whose end Vésh brought at age 61 and 77 Cleave TauTarrlam, secondborn son of Miltagg, & Ewelnümé of Coldor, whose rule lasted 16 years, until the breaking of union vows by TauTarrlam, whence he was banished to Flatrock The Great Schism: when the Fāy-Núl Tör seceded from the Sanctum of Souls, occurred during the 13th year of Cleave Tautarrlam Ewelnümé’s leadership Cleave Ewelnümé, upholder of the Cleave, who ruled for an additional 6 years, during which time she became the oldest recorded Coldor, whose end Vésh brought at age 92 Cleave Hesünenum, firstborn daughter of Ewelnüme, & Yáslōyun of Coldor, whose rule was the longest recorded 45 years, during which time their first two daughters chose not to marry, and whose end Vésh brought at age 73 and 75 Cleave LoFāycol, thirdborn daughter of Hesünenum, & Dellokurr of Coldor, whose rule lasted 19 years, during which time the Saintstone Fields of the North were discovered, and whose end Vésh brought at age 76 and 79 Cleave Véshash, firstborn son of LoFāycol, & Jitsil of Filkash, whose rule lasted 8 years, during which time the northern berg fields were explored, until the tragic death of Véshash in an ice bridge collapse Cleave Jitsil, upholder of the Cleave, who ruled an additional 20 years, during which time Windrock Cairn was commemorated in memory of Véshash, and whose end Vésh brought at age 58 Cleave Thünévahtas, firstborn son of Jitsil, & Páhsmüni of Coldor, whose rule lasted 22 years, and whose end Vésh brought unexpectedly at age 47 in the Strange Sea, followed by the end of Páhsmüni from heart sickness Empty Throne for two years, during which time great unrest began, until the arranged marriage of Holsháh Cleave Holsháh, firstborn daughter of Thünévahtas, & Setfāynum of Coldor, whose rule lasted 4 years, during which time unrest continued, until the unexpected death of Setfāynum Cleave Holsháh, upholder of the Cleave, who ruled an additional 22 years Cleave RilshRüne, only child of Holsháh, & Halmishfakit of Coldor, whose rule lasted 19 years called the Rilsh Years, and whose end Vésh brought at an unrecorded time Cleave Wōdewōnüyun, firstborn daughter of Rilshrüne, & Dodum-Gor of Coldor, whose rule lasted 29 years, during which time alliance talks with Dintash and Broadfell were begun, and whose end Vésh brought at age 68 and 70 Cleave Nünéwoan, firstborn daughter of Wōdewōnüyun, & Höalám of Coldor, whose rule lasted 5 years called the Saintstone Years, during which time the Alliance of Nations was signed From The Lineages of the Four Nations, written by Maliabar Handwell in the 93rd Reckoned Year Excerpt, ‘Unusual and Unique Sea Life’ Ghost fish are similar to a millie fish in that they are translucent and bear thin stinging tentacles. The ghost first has also been commonly called a willie by sailors because of it’s ominous shape gives sailors “the willies”. It is at least 6 feet in length and glows a translucent green, likely due to a preferred diet of gipp which are of the same verdant hue. The internal organs of the ghost fish, which do not glow, are arranged in such a way so as to resemble a wailing face. Ghost fish are more common in the green sea than anywhere and are more frequently spotted during the blacksmith's moon. Pinchfast Crabs are 3 feet in length on average, standing no higher than a man’s knee. They are very uncommon to find, though this is likely because they maintain their bottom dwelling habits in all phases of the moon except for the cobbler’s phase. All we know of them is from specimens dredged up in trawler nets. They resemble an elongated crab with an assortment of colors on their tough exterior. The marked difference is their four piercing orange eyes and their two forelimbs. These two limbs are tucked against the body and can explode forth at such a prodigious rate as to cut away an unwary fisherman’s hand before they even realize the crab has struck, hence the name. There is an old myth in Broadfell Keep that the sky was woven by one of these crabs. The myth says that it moved so fast as to miss the thread at times, leaving holes in the fabric which are only visible when it pulls the black veneer over Yath at night. This is why, in the Keep, pinchfast crabs are referred to as knitting crabs. Kermar Worms are a dangerous parasite that latch into the skin of any large fish. They can be found by the tell-tale boil, commonly called a kermar boil, that forms around them after they have embedded in the skin. There are exceedingly rare instances of fisherman being afflicted by kermar worms, but it is most common in large fish and whales. The worms typically insert themselves in the skin near the mouth of any large carnivorous fish and feast on the scraps of whatever meal their host acquires. It is notable however that this worm applies a non-toxic paralytic to the host prior to embedding itself. This paralytic is what is currently used to create the numbing agent doctors occasionally use before performing certain procedures. It is extremely expensive since each worm only secretes a small amount. Diving Bell Beetles are similar to kermar worms in that they are parasitic, using a host for food. This is where the similarities end however, as the bell beetle is a water dwelling insect. The bell beetle lays its eggs in the stomach of fish. It does this by getting itself eaten, then attaching to the roof of the mouth on its victim. The poisonous bite of the bell beetle sends an increase of energy into the fish, causing it to swim sporadically. The desired effect is to get the fish eaten by a bigger predator. It will then lay its eggs inside the eaten fish to hatch. When the eggs hatch, the young then appear to consume the dead fish and live in the stomach of the predator. When they are ready to mate, they expel themselves from the host fish and swim to the surface to mate, then dive down to begin the cycle again. Like the kermar worm, the bell beetle’s sting is used recreationally to waken the user and revitalize them with energy, hence why it is also commonly called a “wake-me beetle”. Rilshmoad are the smallest known crustaceans, hundreds easily fitting into the palm of a hand. They are often called simply “rilsh” and are carrion feeders that execute the invaluable job of consuming the dead creatures of the sea. They have no noticeable pincers or stingers and cannot bite humans due to their insubstantial size. They are present in every sea and can be easily found almost anywhere. It is unknown how the creatures survive when there are no dead to feed on, but they do often gather in forests of tower vine, leading scholars to postulate that they consume algae or plants when in need. Even more fascinating than this is that the tower whale, the largest known species of whale, feeds exclusively on rilshmoad. Vine-gilled False Fish are a strange and elusive fish that have proven extremely difficult to study. This is because they hide within different plants and coral, blending in extremely well. They are able to change the pattern, color, and texture of their skin, all to match their surroundings. They also bear two short tubes resembling seaweed on the sides of their heads that function as gills. They are called false fish because they will sometimes try to look like a fish, in order to hide from or scare off predators. They do not possess any fins whatsoever, but rather a dozen grasping tentacles lined with suckers. Revised Entry: A final entry has been written for the mythical Deepfoot, as they are so widely believed in and supposed sightings are so pervasive. The existence of such a creature is improbable to say the least, as the sheer size would be unsustainable in the Yath ecosystem. However, the attributes of the deepfoot are listed here. It must be restated that such a creature has never been reliably verified to exist. The belief is that the deepfoot resembles an immense snail, elongated over thousands of towers, stretching farther than a ship can sail in a day. A common belief is that no matter where you are on the ocean, there is likely a deepfoot below you. They are said to be as large as the mountains of Broadfell, with shells of iron and rock. There are religious ties and significance to this myth, which is likely why it persists today. From the Filkish Text, Sea Life of Yath, written by Remull Mawgard in the 100th Reckoned Year and Revised in the 124th Year Excerpt, ‘The Greatest Structures of the Nations’ …While I was disappointed by some of the natural structures I visited, I still maintained an excitement for my visits to the man-made

21 min

Fiction written and read by the author, Keith Long. losersfiction.substack.com

Creator

Keith Long
Years Active

2024 - 2026
Episodes

49
Rating

Explicit
Copyright

© Keith Long
Show Website

Loser’s Fiction Audio