fic·tion
/ˈfikSHən/
1. literature in the form of prose that describes imaginary events and people.
2. something that is invented or untrue.
(We’re mostly referring to the first one. Enjoy the stories!)
Table of Contents
To the Shore
Aubrey Auert
My name is Aubrey and I like to create cool characters in cool worlds.
October 18, 885
I don’t recognize myself anymore. This is my first time getting a glimpse of my reflection in months. “Husk” is a word one could use to describe me. A ghoul, even. Just a shell of my old self, and the dust covered mirror doesn’t do me any favors. My skin and eyes are greyer than usual. My black and purple hair reaches the bottom of my back. It was time for a haircut. Pulling back my matted hair let me see how thin my neck was, and how bony my shoulders were.
I used to be chubby by necromancer standards, but now I can see each of my bones. The castle has been my cage since it rained fire, so I’ve been living off of rat roaches and non perishables from The Hall. I don’t know how long it’s been but the food shelves were meant to last maybe a couple months for everyone who lived in the castle. But it’s just me, alone. I reckon it’s been a few years since the dragons came, since my city was scorched and infested with ghouls. Pretty sure I’m the last living resident of my country, but I wouldn’t know for sure, and I don’t want to find out.
I’ve only had a few encounters with ghouls before, but they were all here in my home. I know this palace like the back of my hand. Every room, every secret tunnel, I had to know this. I was The Protector of the Soul Taker, Vaelaar. His official title was Sikiri, and I had to know everything about everything if I wanted to serve him and the royal family. He died in the Fire, just like everyone else. I don’t know if I could ever face a ghoul outside in the remnants of my city. I have Vaelaar’s staff but I could never use it as efficiently as he did. The Sikiris used the staff to take souls and power our city with them. It doesn’t really have much of a use now, does it?
It only took a few minutes to give myself a messy pixie cut. Appearance doesn’t really matter anymore, so I didn’t put much effort into making it even. After sweeping my hair from the counter onto the floor, I began to head back to the Hall to take inventory. Black mold grows all over the walls. It made me sad being unable to see the intricate designs so many artists and architects included in the palace. So many details are lost forever, just because of some war. I try not to touch any of it because I’m already so weak from borderline starvation, a cold would probably end me. The mold was thick and slimy. I assume it probably traveled with the ghouls that made it inside because it stank almost as much as they did. There wasn’t really a good place to put the bodies and I was definitely not going to risk going outside to dump them, so I just hid them in a chamber I knew I would never go in. “Out of sight, out of mind,” right? Wrong. The rotten blight grew under the chamber door and covered a whole side of the castle. I don’t go over there anymore, but it doesn’t really matter. There was so much, even if there was none on my skin, there was probably some in my lungs.
I made it to The Hall and began to count through the jars, although that didn’t take me much time. In the beginning, I would count out loud. There were so many jars and cans and magically preserved goods, full of anything from hobbleglobs to raaqs. Counting out loud just made it easier. I would talk about everything out loud. I guess it was my way to cope, but I’ve come to accept that I probably won’t ever talk to another soul again. The ghouls don’t count, they don’t have souls, trust me.
Full of dread, I picked up the last jar of flower cat petals.
Ten, I thought. Ten jars. Ten days.
I will have to leave soon.
...
Click here to continue reading
Loss for Words
Jace Santiago
A Suspenseful School story based on a student’s scariest memory.
Once upon a time, in a school in New York, one young man walked left of his school’s direction. He was a handsome fellow, with black hair, caramel skin, a bit of a chunky body, a pair of jeans, a dark hoodie, a gray book bag, a pair of black, red, and white shoes, and a mask with green and blue cartoon skulls in a black background. He followed the length of the 6 train, a fast and powerful subway train that can go from “The Bronx” to “Manhattan”. This young man, one with just his book bag and phone, suddenly walks to St. Peter Street, merely surrounded by the big city, which was hustling and bustling as always. The rain poured down as well.
It wasn’t a pretty rain, but at least it was not a storm. He doesn’t know where he is, for the majority of the block is a graveyard, behind a spiked gate, where there were so many graves and he could not see beyond it. He walked around the nearby blocks, but he realized that his neighborhood was far, far, away. The young man looked around, in desperation and fear, as he saw a pole, with a sign saying “4 Bus”. The 4 Bus is a city bus that spans across the entirety of the Bronx.
Before he got lost this time, he always took the 4 Bus to go back home, since it was closer to his neighborhood than anything he’s seen at his school. He was sure that he went home, so he sat there, silently crying to himself. He misses the protection of his family, and is slowly gaining the fear of the elements outside of his power. From the graveyard, he believed he saw something beyond his understanding, but once the bus finally arrives, he dashes, doesn’t pay the toll, and sits at the very, very back, soaked, sitting down. After almost 3 hours, he finally gets to his neighborhood.
As he walked, it became dark, and a bit of fog was slowly building up. His feet have the worst callocies that he ever felt, as his hair was messed up, all of his equipment was in his book bag in fear of getting wet, but eventually he walked a bit to his apartment near Melrose Avenue. He finally sees his father, a bald headed, pale skinned, big bearded man, for the first time in a long time, and as they both got upstairs, he finally met his mother and 2 little sisters. They were much more dark skinned than the father, but his sisters were energetic and happy, weathering their pajamas. The mother, however, was disappointed and scared, wearing a red and white robe, with slippers, and by the time this young man was absent from the house, the family called the police to find him.
When the police confirmed he went “missing”, they were praying their son would be found, but he found them, and from now-on, he doesn’t feel anything. He feels no expression, as if his soul isn’t there anymore. He still experiences joy, anger, disgust, fear, and sadness, like all people, however, he only feels the former 2 the most. Something about the graveyard must’ve done something, something that his spirit believes that there’s no good in this world. Has he finally been at a loss for words?
Prologue: The Dream
Rohan Garcia
My name is Rohan, and this piece is the prologue of a book I’m writing, called Welcome to Ultimatia. It’s from a series I am currently writing, called Auroria: Days of Ultimatia. I hope you enjoy it because it took a lot of work.
I was once again roaming the meadow, filled with deadly floral arrangements. Yet, my body moved across the field like it knew where to go. The field went on and on, but I kept moving. I knew I had to find something, but I didn’t know what it was, at least not yet.
Then, suddenly, I sensed something, the thing I was looking for, and I turned around. I saw a figure in the distance, and I immediately moved towards it. But, for some reason, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to go towards the figure. It felt like the thing I was searching for wasn’t something I should’ve found, much less have.
As I moved closer, images filled my mind. In one, I was with 3 figures who were mostly shadows, except for the lower leg area. In another, I was fighting one of the figures, and it looked like a training match. In the third, I saw the figures again, but it was so deep red that I couldn’t make out what was happening. Then the images stopped and I got closer to the figure in the meadow, revealing it almost completely, except the head and shoulder area was still shadowed.
Then I saw more images. One where I was dancing with the meadow figure. Another one showed me fighting alongside the figure. A third one was a view of the figure training, but it was still shadowy. A fourth was completely blood-colored. Then I managed to get closer, but the images worsened. One, I was trying to revive the figure. Another one, the figure was falling towards its doom. And the final showed something that felt heart wrenching.
In that one, I watched as I tried to protect the figure, but failed, and I watched as I lost control of my emotions, and I felt the sorrow and the hatred from that image flood me. And then I knew. I began backing away from the figure, and I ran. But after I got 5 feet, the world broke under me. I fell into a crevice that was expanding as I fell.
Then I heard the voice. “You will lose the thing you seek most, and it will break you. Question is, will you be able to repair yourself?”
Then I woke up.
The Jolly Man
William Hastings
This is my short and sweet take on the idea of Santa Claus being brought to you by a conspiracy theorist!
Christmas is closing in, and time is slipping away as the season begins to shift into something... different. For some, this might be the last year they let the jolly man into their homes. One night, one fight, one final dinner—a fleeting grasp of reality before the strange, holly-jolly powers of the unknown descend on December 25th. That’s the pitch I’d give if I were making a movie about him.
Santa Claus. A demigod? A myth? A monster? His origins are as tangled in conspiracy as his deeds are in wonder. What we know for sure is this: he’s broken into every home, chimney or not. This isn’t just a man—it’s an entity. A creature of the night that no camera, trap, or blizzard has ever stopped. Through teleportation, dark magic, or some unfathomable means, he evades us every time. And when we do catch a glimpse, it’s always the same: a red-suited figure sliding down chimneys, leaving gifts for those he deems “good” and coal for the “bad.”
But who is he really? What kind of power must he possess to pull off such feats? And more importantly, can we trust him? Do you trust an all-seeing entity to decide who is worthy and who isn’t? To sneak into your home uninvited, influencing the wants and dreams of your children? What does he gain from it all?
Maybe it’s time we stopped marveling at the idea of Santa and started asking the real questions. Who is this man? This thief in the night, this False God? And more to the point—how do we stop him?
Mirror Cat Man
Anonymous
Previously, Mirror Cat Man did not get to be a superhero due to the lack of his abilities. After, he remembers what his best friend told while he was younger. “Keep on living dude, don’t worry about us, stay strong as always Mirror Cat Man.” After this event, Mirror Cat Man rises and tells himself, “I can’t give up now!!” He then runs to a friend, Sully is his name, “Heyyyy…Sullyyyy…what’s up? How’s it been? Do you live alone?” Mirror Cat Man says. Sully gives Mirror Cat Man a look. “Why are you here this time, your stupid cosplay fantasy thing?” Sully says. “No, I need your help, Sully, just this once.” Sully stares for a bit but an answer finally comes out. “Yes…Mirror Cat Man.” Mirror Cat Man jumps up and down with excitement. “Great Sully, I will need for you to be my eyes.” Sully asks “Well what do I do?” Mirror Cat Man says “Well be like a hacker or something, I know you’re a technician and good at coding so you got this.” Sully shakes his head and slaps his own face, “Fine, BUT I’m only doing this because you’re my best friend and I care for you.” Sully says, “Great then, help me find my first bad guy!?” Mirror Cat Man says. Sully smiles, “Let’s do this”. Mirror Cat Man and Sully check the news, wander the streets, and eventually a supervillain shows up on them. “Hey what’s up, the name is Jody.” Jody proceeds to use his laser eyes against Mirror Cat Man. “I didn’t even see him on my radar!” Sully says. Mirror Cat Man is terrified, “Sully it’s OK, tell me his weaknesses now!!” “Yes sir,” Sully says. Mirror Cat Man runs from a dangerous flying back cat Jody. Mirror Cat Man realizes he can try to reflect the heat of the sun to Jody to may tire him out. “You got to be faster than that bud,” Jody says.
A Ghastly Garage Sale
Anonymous
“Too old,” he grouched in disapproval, lifelessly staring at the gorgeous chandelier in my outstretched arms. Obeying his words, I placed the beautiful brass piece into the throw-away bin and moved to the next item: a birch wood jewelry box lined with fuchsia fabric, which, when opened, would reveal a one-eyed ballerina doing turns in back coupé to classical music which no longer played. “Too broken.”
This is useless, I thought, tossing the ballerina. This old man–well, not as much old anymore as he was dead–was at no inclination to make the process any easier.
For the next hour or so, I put on a show for him; displaying belongings which he very well knew existed but likely never expected to worry about so much. Only a few of the pieces were permitted to be placed in the “garage sale” box–modern things, mostly; gifts and such from his millennial grandchildren. The rest must’ve been too precious for him to sell, too full of life to live another one.
I reached for the last yet-to-be-sorted item with low expectations, wondering what the problem with this one would be. ‘Too useless’ perhaps? Or maybe just plain ugly–like that unfortunately patterned set of ceramic elephants. Whatever it was, I just hoped for no cobwebs and minimal dust.
With more difficulty than expected, I raised an incredibly heavy picture frame to the old–sorry, dead–man. The wooden backing was facing me, and I didn’t care so much about what was on the other side. But as I stood there, arms hurting from the weight of the piece and expecting the man to just dismissively shake his head, he surprised me.
The old man’s stoic expression melted into a shocking sadness, and his dry eyes became lined with water. I watched as his pupils dilated and his hands clenched the air surrounding us which was now filled with wonder and mystique. The man cleared his throat, restoring his face to its original impassiveness. “Give it here–we can’t sell that,” he grumbled, gliding toward me. The man reached to grab the frame, his frustration growing as he and I both realized that ghosts can’t exactly hold things.
Helping him out, I led both the picture and the old man–again, sorry, it’s hard to say ‘ghost’ and mean it–to the dining room table. I gently laid the piece on the wood, though, based on the man’s face, I must’ve not been gentle enough. Perhaps such tenderness would be impossible to achieve.
The man circled the table, never once taking his eyes off the picture. Only now did I look to see that it was an old photograph of a young couple; laughing, smiling, and sitting together on the porch swing which I knew was just outside the front door of this house. They were a gloriously perfect match–everything about them complimenting each other. The man’s expression in the photo mimicked the way his eyes had looked just now when I first held up the picture, and the woman–though I did not know her–appeared to be the brightest, most lovely person in the world.
I watched as the old man traced her with his finger, his eyes filled with longing. If you ever wondered whether ghosts could cry, they can.
I slowly backed out of the kitchen, not so worried about making a sound, as I doubted any noise could break the trance that the man-ghost was in. For the next few hours, I left him alone, allowing the man to sit with what he would soon leave behind. I came back later that evening with some takeout dinner and a rented movie–an old-timey one that I’d figured he would like. I was ready for the last night with my patient, but as I searched around the house for his grumpy translucence, it seemed that he had other plans.
In the family room, the boxes remained–three of them. There was the empty one that we had gone through that afternoon, the full one of belongings that he had deemed trash, and the designated garage sale box with certainly not enough items to aid funeral expenses. The picture was there; still intact, still beautiful. Next to the frame was a crisp piece of notebook paper, which I grabbed with the same attempted tenderness as I used to handle the picture earlier.
In a sophisticated, unmistakably old-man-calligraphed cursive, were the words “Thank you. I am ready to be reunited with her.”
Where is She?
Anonymous
Part 1
She had walked that dark road a million times before and she planned to walk it a million times more. But as she was strolling down this forest path on this rainy day, her rain boots pattering on the ground as she headed down the hill. Noticing something was different, the once abandoned field is filled with stars, upon a further glance they were flames, a row of graves lit by flames; burning bright around the field like a ritual. And a man stood in the center. But could that really be considered a man?
Part 2
These eternal roads are lost to people until they take their final breath. She walked by these roads a million times, but today she will walk these eternal roads as we meet. And she will soon be one with the earth.
Prickly Pear
Brynn Gardner
Brynn Gardner is a lifelong writer and the co-editor-in-chief of Ink and Venom. She has attended Iowa Young Writer’s Studio (online) and Kenyon Young Writer’s Workshop in Gambier, Ohio.
It takes him until the sun dips its brilliant toes beneath the horizon to explain that this cactus--yes, this cactus right in front of them--is unusual. That its massive back tucked towards the earth is too casually expansive, that the prickly pears should’ve been long out of bloom, that the thorns—blunt and rounded like worn graphite—make him shiver.
She hears a third of his words. It is, after all, the first time she’s seen a cactus; there are better things to learn in her first Texas summer than why this plant is wrong. The breeze blows new droplets of rain from the trees, the first hint of cool they’ve witnessed here together. She tells him--as she kicks through the dying overgrowth and burrs--that this cactus looks incredibly typical to her. Its pads fan outwards in an overeager display of volume and vibrance that looks just like a page of her mother’s coloring book back in Delaware.
The woman’s eyes float up to the sky. A warm breeze tickles the back of her neck. For a moment she pretends she is alone: on a wild adventure far from the baited mousetrap of domestic life. For one moment, the world is nothing but beautiful.
The man’s eyes narrow as one of the plant’s outstretched palms beckons forth a small bird and, just as quickly, takes it. He blinks and shakes his head free of the feathers that float towards the dirt. She is going on and on in the kind of over-excited verbal somersault that sometimes makes him love her about how much of a cactus this cactus is. How inarguably textbook. This plant—yes this one right here and what are you looking at Henry? Look at it this is exactly what a cactus is.
The problem arises because he follows her gaze and believes it. He traces it, her line of sight, sees it curl around a prickly pear. He decides that there is no use in arguing. He decides that yes, she must be right and yes, whatever she is seeing in this green and brown tangle must be better than what he is seeing in the flat light. Of course. Of course.
___
She learns to love a late Fall evening, when whatever bear the weather bore to scrape havoc into the day has lain down in its cave to rest. There is a tree, just off the trail, with wide open leaves to shade her and strong, raised roots to hold her. Its limbs twist out in tangles to house, when she’s lucky, a few birds that she likes to think are singing just for her.
Most of the time, she brings a book. She likes horror—the cheap kind. The kind that makes you afraid of creaks in the attic and not of yourself.
If she was ever to walk in the morning (which she won’t) she might be better attuned to what sits across from her. It is most awake before dawn. It is the cactus—yes, it’s still growing, keep looking—that flings its arms open in a gesture of vulnerability just for her. When she is sure she is alone, she wills herself to believe that things are almost as good as she hoped.
He walks by the same tree in the morning, when the sun has not yet risen and each trail marker falls into distorted memory upon its departure. He does not bring a book. He is on a mission. Maximum efficiency. Longer strides/no running/swinging arms/whatever else leaves more behind him than he brought in. Kicking up dirt like he’s kicking out of a riptide. On almost every morning, he walks quickly past the cactus, ignoring its lanky figure—not for lack of remembrance, please understand he saw a feather or at least something like a feather so yes he walks quickly. There is, however, at the end of every week a day when he is more tired than he thought possible. On these days he heaves saliva into the dirt and folds, just for a moment, as his shaking hands slide down to his knees and he waits for the consequences of his exertions to pass him by. On these days he hears wind whistle through a tunnel beside him—listen close to that high whine, no, listen closer—but at the turn of his heel there is only cactus.
___
Some days, when the week really has been that long, when every day really has felt like the end and his pockets can hold no more last straws, he drives out to a different trail; more wooded, thirty minutes out of town. Closer to his old house that—please understand—he knows logically is not his house anymore. But, some days he takes a wrong turn out of work and starts flying down the highway. And most days he swerves around, veers into a ditch and makes a seven point turn, but some days he heads to this other trail instead—shady and overgrown, because he used to go here as a child. Because nothing here is new and nothing here needs explaining and because a prickly pear cactus is at most five feet tall.
One early, early morning not long after one of these trips, he watches a squirrel wander towards a pad of the cactus. And forgive him for not being timely or perfect but in the moment he just kept turning an empty water bottle upside down in a stunned mockery of drinking. He just watched as the squirrel leaped onto a low paddle. He watched the paddle close shut, as mouths so often do.
___
You would think this is a tale about departure. Instead they are forgetting again and again. They hardly talk about the cactus, and they are years away from the catastrophe they both hear rumbling around the bend. They talk about feelings like immovable objects, choices like black holes. He talks about adjusting like it is done and she talks like it never will be and then they both walk away towards different moments on the same path.
In the dulled cold of the winter they take to walking together, in short bursts and long rests. In silence so thick it could be shoveled. Nobody tells anybody that the cactus ate a squirrel. Nobody tells anybody that the cactus casts shade down just for her. On one of many long, dark nights they frame as new beginnings, they stop to look at the stars. The cactus looms over him, stretches a hand out to her. He follows her line of sight like tail lights in a dense fog. They are building new patterns that look a lot like the old ones, except now there is a moon, hung delicately in the evening, being snuffed out by an open palm, so that the light is only there because you know that once it was.
To find more creative pieces like these, or to submit work of your own, explore the links below!
Ink & Venom 