Consistency: 08/20/2022

Our love was to continue nevermore, in fact, maybe it never existed in the first place.

Stolen glances across the room, meetings in backyard pools, and subtle remarks in cheap conversations. We stole our dates from set events that others made. It was our coverup, a backstory to set the lie.

Except now I wonder what lie I was supposed to tell everyone else. That we never saw each other? That we were merely friends? That you love me?

That I hate you?

Because I can't do it. You know, I've been staring at our photos for an hour now. The ones from the beach party we went to last summer, and the only sting I feel is the whiskey down my throat. The more I drink, the more I stare, the more I feel the well of tears ripple at the edge of its cobblestone structure.

I hope to burn away the memories by turning my attention to the bright tv, take away the hope by replacing it with one for artificial circumstance. I think I'll feel sick if I let myself come to terms with it.

The algorithm on my laptop seems to hate me, because it shows you every time I open it. You, and her.

And so, for the foreseeable future, I will remain with my knees in front of my chest on the couch, hit with a lonely ghost of a breeze to remind me of what I am trying to forget as the room freezes down by ten degrees. The mutter of the sitcom is white noise as I look up, and beg the stars to seal away the flow of time, and let me breathe.

[WC: 282]

[WC 306]

Sweat dripped off my face. I raised my hand to try and wipe it, but it was of no use. The sweat kept coming back. I tightened my grip on a nearby branch and squinted my eyes at the distance. My destination was out there somewhere. ‘Heaven’ they called it. Rumors said it was the best place in the world to live, though no one knew for sure. The people who went in there never came out. The rumors were based of some rare sightings of the people living inside. It was said to be the place to go to if you had nothing else to live for, nothing to leave behind.

I continued on my journey, using my scythe to cut through the dense jungle. It had started opening up more though. Hopefully, I would be there soon. I had ran out of water an hour ago and my mouth was starting to feel dry. I heard some twigs breaking on my left. *Probably some sort of animal. Huh, it was getting closer.* I prepared myself. There were bears in this area. Whatever it was, it would come out any second now.

A figure emerged, a little larger than my own. It didn’t look entirely human. The eyes were larger and had a yellow glow to them. A closer look revealed that it had some sort of wings folded behind it’s back. It spoke with a low voice. “Traveler, you are about to cross the border. You must now take an oath.”

I straightened myself. I was prepared for this. “I shall continue on in peace, stripped from anything but my clothes. I shall never hurt anything that moves. I shall never cross this border again. Nevermore.”

The creature nodded. “Nevermore.”

I dropped my scythe, took off my backpack and took off towards my new home.

Phoduen laughed maniacally as he stared upon the dead bodies that surrounded him, the society that crumbled down, the world that begun to destroy itself, all thanks to him.

He created a time rift and left, soon seeing the tree of the timeline he had just visited. It continued to grow.

"No, no, no!" He yelled, slashing the roots with his weapon and cutting it, and yet it keeps growing.

He yelled once more, furiously hacking away at the roots and decimating it, yet it continues to grow.

He panted heavily, frustrated. This timeline did not deserve to exist. He does not want it to exist. There cannot be another him. He grabbed the tree by the roots and ran into a time pocket.

A timeline where nothing makes sense. Where time does not function properly, and where time is stuck. "This should work." He threw the tree, and it began to decay and wither mid-air.

"Yes, yes!" He cheered. "Finally, that...thing, is gone. No more, no more." He muttered to himself as he left the time pocket.

"Now to let off some steam." He walked towards a tree, peeking through a hole in one of the beaches, where he saw war. "Perfect." He entered the world and immediately, was surrounded by armed men.

"Halt! Stop right there!" They yelled, pointing their weapons at him. He pulled out his own and grinned, lunging towards one and using their body to push away the others.

Once he had enough space, one of the men ran towards him, immediately cut in half as he suddenly appeared behind him. All the others followed, meeting the same fate.

Although he does not like his fights like this, where he just kills, he's quite in a bad mood. And what else to help his temper other than murder?

The battlefield was empty, with only him standing in between the two kingdoms that begun to fire at him. In the blink of an eye, the castles, the walls, everything was destroyed, and the world was on fire.

He laid down on the ground, watching the rain suddenly pour down as he heaved a sigh. "I hate doing this. Never again." He muttered to himself.

(( cw for implications of the world ending and that kind of existential talk, and also for blood and the character here accidentally hurting themselves ))

The snow crunches under his boots as he walks, his steps as certain and sturdy as they could be. It continues to fall to the ground, slowly -- slowly -- building. Expanding. Increasing the risk of him sinking into it with no way back out. The path he takes is uncertain and, on top of that, shrouded in darkness, and Finn could only rely on the lantern's dying light to illuminate the way forward. This place is inhabitable for all nonmagic kind. That much is absolute. But it's stable, consistent in its harsh conditions. Predictable. Boring. It's something Clover wouldn't like, so he definitely didn't stay in the area for long. Thankfully for him, Finn isn't looking for Clover. Rather, he's looking for the one thing that can bind that madman from harm, unto others and unto himself. Finn is hoping, for his sake and the world's, that the Heart is still together, and here. It will be. It must be. All is lost if it isn't. It feels like hours that he looks. The lantern has long since died out, abandoned somewhere on the trail, and just as he's about to give up -- Something scrapes his hand. It hurts. It stings. It's *glass.* The last place you look. It's always the last place you look. Finn digs through the snow, searching for that source of light, and he feels it. He feels the rest of the object. He scoops it up into his hands; the Heart of Luck, the only thing left that could anchor Clover down from wreaking destruction on all of Agaria -- ... Shards. It's just ... shards. The Heart has been broken into pieces. No. Finn shakes his head, trying to put the pieces back together. No. His eyes widen, eyebrows drawing down, and his efforts grow more shaky. Frantic. No. This can't be right. No. This was their only hope. No. The seal can't be broken. Everything is at stake. No. No. Without this, Finn would have to- *have to --* No. He'd have to kill him. He can't do it. No. He can't. Clover is too powerful. Finn cares too much. No. No. No. Finn keeps trying, pouring what could almost literally be his heart and soul into it, and not even his mana and the cold energy of his master spellwork could glue it back together. The Hearts were too old, made up of a charm too ancient. No power at all could change it. No. The wind grows harsher. The snow falls harder. Finn feels something sting at his eyes, and he can't tell if it's tears welling up or the very air being so ruthless. No. You can only rely on magic for so long. There is no payoff to his efforts, and Finn can feel himself beginning to succumb to exhaustion. Or maybe it was the ice storm encompassing his surroundings, slowly but surely draining the life out of him. He sinks to his knees, shuddering in discomfort, pain, at the feeling of the cold building up to his waist, and lets the now worthless remnants fall through his fingers. No. Some of the cursed, beautiful, *wicked* substance descending from the sky lands so delicately into his palms. A deep, grim red quickly pools into and overwhelms the white. The only sound that makes it beyond the wind is a choked sob. No. No. No. ... ... No. This was ... world shattering. The implications of Agaria as they know it nearing its end, and now being rendered completely powerless to do a thing about it, is nothing short of devastating. ... the knowledge. That divine ability to tap into a future you know you can't change. It's always haunted Finn, and it'd drive anyone mad eventually if they had to face it all alone. The one time he tells someone ... The one person he thinks, hopes, for once, might *actually* change the future, and they end up catalyzing it instead. Betrayal. Even in the storm, Finn knows not a more bitter, colder feeling. Those visions. Those of sickness, of pain, of blight, of no certainty beyond an imminent demise. It's such a dangerous power for one person to hold. Finn should never have trusted anyone with it, and rest assured, it is a mistake he will never make again.

“And on this day, I hope that you students will remember, that your past twelve years here have not been in vain. Yes, you may have struggled, you may have cried, but there was laughter, there was joy, and above all, there were memories. Let us not forget each other, or that our school has played a vital role in your life.”

Graduation. A day that didn’t feel real. Something that we had looked forward to since the day we had stepped into first grade, and now, twelve years later, the institution had spat us out, and we were well on our way towards college and adulthood and working life.

“I hope that this springtime of your youth was well spent.”

Youth. Springtime of youth. That was what adults always told us, that we were living our best years. But now, after graduation…

Never again would we be young, and never again could we return to the days of our youth, those days filled with sunshine (I suppose we would add in that filter upon recalling fond memories of those days, for me it was mostly dreary and rainy), and never again would we be children. We were adults now, and we would be treated as such.

The next time most of us would be standing here, being congratulated upon finishing school, would probably be in four years. Even then, would it still be empty words, blank papers, a feeling of wanting to sleep?

They told us that high school graduation only happens once. We should savor it.

And so I stood there with the rest of them, in what little shade we had, the golden leaves flying above as the trees swayed.

Summer vacation was here…

WC: 664

A middle-aged woman was constantly typing on her computer inside her cubicle. She was typing and typing, what was she typing? Documents, policies, invoices, bills, accounts, documents, policies, invoices, bills... That was not important, but her typing. It was like a constant murmur of silent words, a coded message that only someone who could identify the sound of the 'A' and '&' key could decipher. Too bad that in that building carpeted with identical cubicles, no one seemed to know it. No one seemed to hear the plea of life lying between unstoppable, immovable, and insensitive fingers. Time seemed nonexistent in that monotonous space, however, in one of those cubicles, in a moment of rebellion, of nonconformity, of a desire for something different, one of those people in those so monotonous and identical limits, had placed a small ornament of a golden compass, and that over time, the vibration of typing on the grayish desk, had pushed this little piece of personality to the floor, destroying the harmony of hundreds of A's and &'s at a microscopic level, and against all odds, someone listened.

The owner of that tender and shocking object blinked twice, and stopped. She looked closely at her hands, felt them like rubber as she moved them for the first time in so long, or what she had felt was a long time. When was the last time she had done that? Confused, a little lethargic, she turned her gaze to the screen she had seen continuously a few seconds ago, but instead of seeing the results of her work and effort, she saw a pale face under a ghostly light, dark circles under her eyes that threatened to swallow sad brown eyes, and a stoic countenance. The face in the reflection was suddenly oddly twisted, even a little unpleasant to see. She could not remember the last time she had smiled, and the now unfamiliar action she could not replicate. After noticing the changes in her body, she turned toward the opening of her cubicle, the sound of the keys unstopped all along.

She could see someone else working, a few meters away from her, the floor was gray, the walls were gray, the keyboard, the chair, the ceiling. The person she was seeing was gray too. The woman began to breathe a little faster and faster as she began to feel suffocated in the gray atmosphere, but soon, in her visual assessment, she found an object on the floor of a different color. A compass, she thought. Golden as in... Memories of another life came to Elinor like a merciless rush, a ravenous desire, a reconnected purpose. What was she doing there? She didn't know, she didn't know anymore, but she couldn't stay there another second. Not when she didn't know when she'd be this awake again. Elinor, with her own name now on her lips, bent down to pick up that little compass, and stood up, and trying to resist the strong dizziness that threatened to knock her down, she began to move her feet, step by step she walked towards where the compass pointed. Since she didn't know where she was, any direction was worth the same to her, and she had full confidence in that little compass.

The more she walked, the more her feet regained a little more strength, she breathed better, her heart beat faster, but she couldn't help but look up from time to time to see all the people still typing, still immersed in meaningless letters and keys outside a computer. A feeling of urgency came over Elinor, and she started to run. She had never run as fast as she had that time, or so she felt. The air rushing into her lungs, her feet barely touching the floor, her body in constant motion, her hands clutching her key to the 'outside', or the inside, she didn't know. She only knew one thing, that she would never go back there. Nevermore.

Being a vampire is not sexy. I’m a dead woman, and that isn’t glamorous (though I wish it was). Whenever I see blood, my fangs drip venom, which doesn’t taste good. The fangs themself, I keep cutting my tongue on them. But those are the minor things.

You know how in Twilight, the vampires were fast? Like, running and jumping from trees fast. Not how real vampires are, sadly. I’m extremely lethargic due to my condition.

No dead person can really be living, walking about, if they have no blood to fuel them. I got my vampirism from, of course, another vampire, who drained me completely of my blood. And once you’re dead, it’s not like you produce more red blood cells. But his venom infected me and he made a human exsanguinate into my mouth.

Because once you have the venom in your system, you have the ability to drink other people’s blood and use it to pump your own heart.

In order to keep living like this, you might imagine you have to take a substantial amount of blood from someone. Really, you have to take it all. For one, you can’t stop drinking once you start, and for two, not even all the blood a human has to offer is enough for very long.

So I’m lethargic, have to drain people of their blood very frequently, and because of that, most of my clothes are blood-stained. If I buy new ones, they’re cheap and thus I never even have cute clothes. I’m going poor; how do I work when I have to feed so damn often?

Look on the bright side…at least I can (and need to) eat food. I’m still mortal in every way except for my need for constant “blood transfusions”.

I wish being a vampire would make me hotter. (And immortal, instead of more mortal than ever.)

But all it did was make sure I’ll never be hot, ever again, for the rest of my undead life.

Note: The feelings and opinions expressed in this work of fiction do not in any way represent that of the feelings and opinions represented by Triplet Telyquila. Despite the fact his high school English teachers had had an abundance of faith in him, Sean was pretty sure that college level English was fucking bullshit. The required papers were infinitely longer, and felt more akin to writing several books throughout the semester than just essays. And then, to top it all fucking off, they had been given the oh, so wonderful final fucking project of writing a comprehensive review of a given work. That work of literature could not be chosen, and instead, was pulled from a hat filled with all of the names. His professor had gone down the list selecting who would do what so no one could pick something that would be advantageous to them. And what work had Sean received, you may be asking yourself?

Well firstly, he’d suggest you mind your own goddamn business. And secondly, he’d received The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Because, y’know, of course he had. Third of all, to top all of that off, Sean could recall quite the horror story from his older brother Aaron in regards to this poem. A two hundred question, never-ending, bullshit study guide that had kept him up until four in the morning. And had resulted in a very strange experience for his at the time roommate, who had come home drunk as a skunk only to be screamed at by Aaron.

Sean couldn’t recall a damn thing about the fucking poem and he’d read it at least twenty times, in the last hour alone. All he could seem to recall was the one line absolutely everyone knew.

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, shove it, Raven.

Sean supposed the poem wasn’t awful, and even if he did think it was, he couldn’t say that in this review. Some of the freaks in his English class held Poe to such a high regard, he was certain he’d send them into cardiac arrest if he spoke his true feelings for him aloud.

If he was right, and he usually was, the word ‘nevermore’ that the god forsaken raven kept saying meant ‘at no future time’ or ‘never again’, and frankly, if Sean had it his say, nevermore would he read this stupid poem.

Honestly if this was the last time he read it, he supposed it’d be too late for his last threads of sanity to hold true. They were fraying and so close to snapping. Would he ever be able to think of Poe without losing his shit? No, never again. Maybe the Raven had a point, afterall.

Quote Sean, “Nevermore shall I read this fucking poem.”

WC: 650

(Note: This story is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real world people and events are entirely coincidental and not at all intentional.)

That night, while I tossed and turned in my sleep wondering what I could have done better or what I could have done to mitigate my losses, I vowed never to show any weakness to anyone again… not even in my own home, to my own family.

Is it an unreasonable goal? Definitely. Does that mean it’s not worth trying to reach for to the best of my ability? Definitely not. I figured it was just a matter of time before I snapped and started taking things more seriously, after all. I have to say, though, I’m surprised it took me up until this point to make this decision. You’d have expected someone like me to flake at the slightest hint of pressure, and you’d probably be right in thinking so.

You’re probably wondering what the hell happened to me that made me snap like this. I’m not sure exactly where to start, but I suppose some context is in order. My parents are divorced, and they actively despise each other, to the point where they actively conspire to resort to surprisingly scummy tactics to win my favor.

My father, a licensed attorney, has always been an expert manipulator (and a bit of a narcissist, but that’s beside the point). He’s not afraid to weasel his way out of a tight spot by asking the right set of questions in the right way. That’s how he extracts information from me; information that he wants to use to “put my mother in check”. He owns a fancy car, and he often takes me to the mall to treat me to dinner or buys me stuff knowing my mother can’t afford the same luxuries. That’s one of the edges he has over her--the ability to exploit opportunities and avenues his enemy can’t.

That night, I was confronted by my mother about how I’m overly willing to share private information regarding my current living conditions and the way she treats me to my father. Considering how frustrated I was from knowingly being manipulated and feeling helpless for being in that position, I think it was only natural that I snapped right then and there.

I didn’t even say or do anything to my mother when she ragged on and on about this to me. I sat there and took it, like the young man I’m about to become. When she was done, I went to my room… and I cried.

I never cry. Not because I feel it’s a sign of weakness, but because I feel it’s counterproductive and borderline disingenuous for me to make a show out of crying. For the vast majority of situations, if I’m crying, it’s definitely within the four walls of my room, with nobody watching or listening. That’s when my self-reflection is more effective, as well. I don’t want anyone else trying to comfort me while I’m breaking down, you know?

It was that night, while I tossed and turned in sleep wondering what I could have done better or what I could have done to mitigate my losses, that I realized the edge I had over people like my mother and my father: I’m young, and my potential for greatness far outshines that of either of them. It’s always been just an issue of weaponizing it and seizing it, but I’ve never bothered to put in the effort, even when my parents have tried time and time again to convince me to do well in school and my personal studies.

I’m taking off my mask. Things will be very different from here on out, and nevermore will I willingly display the ignorance and foolhardy disinterest in my own wellbeing that I’ve wasted almost all my childhood trying to conserve. From here on out, my defenses will be up at all times, and I won’t let the walls I’ve built up to protect myself crumble ever again.

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CW: brief mentions of death

Nevermore.

That’s the oath she made to herself as she buried yet another lover in the ever growing graveyard of people she’s outlived. Each space overgrown with greenery to adorn the single pieces of rock with rough carvings of distant names no one would remember.

No one but her. The woman who cannot die.

Every single one of them carved into her mind, accompanied by the memories shared and the love they so freely gave. Forever a part of her undying heart. Final words whispered by lips she so dearly loved echoed in her mind even to this day. Their disbelief, their anger, their disgust… their loving smiles and withering touch. It hurt so much then, and it hurts so much still.

Somehow despite her inhumane existence she still wasn’t rid of the weakness of love.

“Never again.”

She whispered as she stood over the grave of another she lost to time. The cold air seeped into her bones, settling deep into her very core freezing over whatever bliss life had allowed her wilted heart to hold.

Once, long ago, she’d mourn them. Crying bitterly over their departure from this world. But now? Now, she could only feel the void left in their absence. All she felt was the lack of anything remotely human in her chest.

So she promised herself that they were the last… She filled a graveyard with all those she loved but nevermore shall she love another.

How foolish she was.

It’s like the goddess of love herself took up the challenge, determined to prove the wretched immortal wrong and test the endurance of her undying soul.

So the goddess sent her him.

The man from the future. A beautiful spring flower for her scarred hands to hold. Maybe he and his vibrant smile and cryptic knowledge could finally melt an immortal’s heart and make her take back the words she so freely spoke out.

WC: 319

Word count: 466 🍃

Inspired by a crisis my very sweet d&d character had recently! Monsoon, Rain, Heka, Ronasce, Padre, Aureliius… if you see this, no you don’t. Edit: here's the guy! :)

I was near you when you fell.

You, who appeared so strong, thrown to the ground.

We hardly knew each other, but that made no difference.

Seeing anyone with a spear in them was never a pretty sight.

Your feline eyes glazed over,

dropping your raised fists

as your body landed with a

thump.

My heart fell.

I wanted to act.

I wanted to help, I promise.

I tried.

I failed.

That wasn’t the first time that day, you know.

The first time, I fumbled.

Another stranger fell twice in a row.

Each time,

I wanted to act.

I wanted to help, I promise.

I tried.

I wish I was stronger to do more.

The final time was you again, Rain.

Me as a wolf watching you fall

made me impulsively abandon strategy and

become furious.

Winter is a scary time

when you live among plants.

Everything falls,

just like you, Rain.

So now, with all the frustration and anger and feeling of uselessness channeled into one single spell,

I will be of use for once.

Perhaps this was all I needed —

an emotional push to be strong.

Someone else healed you that time, thank goodness.

By that point, I was exhausted.

There was no more healing left in me:

only shame and rage remained.

How can I be a protector? I ask myself,

when I can’t even help you?

You don’t need to be protected —

You’re as strong as Lightning After Rain.

How can I be a protector? I ask myself,

when I can’t even help you?

You don’t need to be protected —

You’re as strong as a Monsoon O’er the Tides.

If I can’t protect those who who are already strong,

How can I protect those who aren’t?

If I can’t keep water from falling,

How can I be strong myself?

If you were here, soldier from the sands,

You surely would have an insight.

You, my first maybe-friend in this guild,

You, who have been through so much yourself,

You, softening to learn compassion,

Breaking your previous rhythm,

could surely break through mine

could surely break through my pattern of uselessness.

uselessness uselessness uselessness uselessness

uselessness uselessness uselessness uselessness

uselessness uselessness uselessness uselessness

uselessness uselessness uselessness uselessness

No.

No, never again.

Never again will I fail like this.

Things may only end worse next time.

There won’t always be someone to pick up my mistakes.

No trickster gnomes,

No sidekicks sitting on my shoulders,

No soldiers on a quest to improve.

Never again will I fail to be wise.

Never again will I fail to be swift.

Never again will I fail to be strong.

Never again will I let an ally fall.

That is a promise I make to myself,