Emilie Fenn

A difference of opinion

Sat, 03 Oct 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A character exercise for Project Red Skies, exploring the past between two particular character. Set 15-20 years before the novel.

“—and that’s why the alchemical decoction is superior!”

Evan’s voice rings across the clearing with finality, his chest puffed out as he stands over her, his eyes scrunched against the smoke he’s too proud to avoid. Behind him, Lucas and Desree sit upon a log, grins on their faces as they await the next move.

Ena stirs the pot one last time, dabbing some stew on the back of her hand to taste test, then plucks out a few herb stalks and shuffles sideways in her crouch to grab their bowls. She fills two and hands them to Evan. “Here, pass these around.”

Automatically, Evan passes the bowls to the others, a confused scowl growing on his face. “Well? What do you think—“

Ena passes him another bowl, then takes her own over to the other log and sits down to eat. “Eat first,” she says. “Then talk.”

“That’s—“

“We haven’t had a good meal in days,” Lucas chimes in. “Sit, Evan. You need the sustenance.”

Grumbling, Evan perches on the opposite end of Ena’s log and starts to daintily shovel stew into his mouth. He’s too well-bred to talk and eat, something they all tend to take advantage of to get some peace.

They all take seconds, helping themselves to the pot. Lucas and Evan take thirds.

It’s only once they’re all satisfied, the drowsiness of a full stomach and a hard day starting to drag at their minds, that the conversation resumes.

“Well?” Evan asks again. “Do you have a counter argument, or do you actually agree?”

“How’d you like the stew?”

“What?”

Ena swishes her bowl with water from her waterskin, then gulps it down. “How’d you like the stew?”

“It was fine. What does that have to do with anything?”

“How’s your wounds?”

Evan pauses. Then, slowly and suspiciously, presses gently against the bandages that wrap his torso. His surprise is evident on his face and the way he presses slightly harder a moment later - then winces when he upsets the wound.

“What did you do?”

Ena drops her bowl by the fire, grabs the now mostly dry herb stalks, and drops them into Evan’s bowl instead. “Added feverfew to the stew. Plus dragonswort and silver lace to draw out its properties. No alchemy needed.”

Evan splutters. Lucas snorts, his laughter only half muffled behind a hand. Desree does better, biting her lip to keep her own mirth in.

Ena smirks as she drops onto her bedroll, her back to the fire, and to Evan. Nobody said she couldn’t agree and have a counter argument.

A magical meal

Sat, 05 Sep 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I was researching how houses were arranged for a fantasy story where the main character is an apothecary of sorts, and had an awful idea.

Most witches recommend completely separate buildings for craft and food, if you can afford it. Otherwise, either ends of the same building, plus a few wards, are usually enough.

A one room hut on the edge of the slums allows little in the way of safety precautions.

A small fire burns brightly in the middle of the room, a ring of stones around it anchoring a minor spark ward. An old pot sits to one side, tilted slightly on an angle, softly bubbling away. There is only rice inside, the grains soaking in mostly-clear water from the well, yet the smell is mouthwatering. Like walking past one of the good alehouses just before dinner, when the stew is fresh and heavy with herbs and meat. The scent twines through the air, clustering by the ceiling with the smoke, and you know it will linger until at least the dawn.

You scoop some rice into a bowl and set to it with abandon. It fills your aching stomach with warmth and weight, the taste bringing tears of remembrance to your eyes, and you let yourself bask in the experience.

You do not see the slight silvery sheen to the grains.

Seeing is the privilege of those with choice.

Dumped in another world by a misunderstanding god - part 1

Sun, 30 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A little something I’ve been working on, which I guess would fall under isekai satire or deconstruction. This is the raw, unedited draft. Let me know what you think.

There’s a moment where I wonder: what the hell did I take?

Then I remember the truck, and the pain, and realise that’s the wrong question to be asking.

The better one is: where the hell am I?

Under me is cold softness; my body sinks into it as I twitch my arms. I open my eyes to whiteness — not brightness, not lightness, just white. I’d wonder if I’d gone blind if it wasn’t for seeing the blur of the tip of my nose at the bottom of my vision.

I push myself up onto my elbows, then up to sitting, cataloguing how easily my body moves, how little anything hurts, and decide I might as well see where this goes.

“Hello?” I call out.

HELLO.

Pain splits through my head. I clap my hands to my ears. It does nothing. The sound is inside me; it does not hit my ears, but bursts into being as thoughts, as memories, as sensations.

It hurts like a motherfucker.

“Fucking ow,” I grumble. “Can you not?”

There is silence for a moment, then:

HELLO?

A new wave of pain crashes against my frontal lobe, but it’s not as bad. I uncurl, lowering my hands, and cautiously glance around.

Everything is still just white. I can maybe spot some vague swirls far above, but that’s it.

“Alright, so. I can’t imagine this is heaven.”

NO. LIMBO.

Oh great.

“Does that mean I’m stuck here?”

NO. WAITING.

“For what?”

CHOICE.

“Whose choice?”

YOURS.

“About what?”

LIFE.

“Geez, thanks, that really helps.”

This time, the voice doesn’t respond.

I look around. Still just white. I wait. Nothing.

“What about life?” I ask. “Like, whether I want to keep living? Because the answer is yes. Sure, life sucks, but at least I’m not dead, y’know?”

Silence.

“Or is this meant to be some philosophical thing? Because I’ll tell you now, I’m awful at philosophy. If you ask me the meaning of life, I’m just going to answer forty-two.”

Silence.

My thoughts are starting to spin.

“Or, what. Do I get a choice where I go or something? Like, hell or heaven or nirvana or whatever the other ones are? The answer is whatever’s easiest, by the way. If I am dead, and I get to pick where to go, I just want somewhere chill and slow. I’ve had enough stress for several lifetimes already. And I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve hell. Parking tickets don’t count, right?”

CHILL? the voice asks.

“Yeah, you know. Slow. Calm. Laid-back. Somewhere I can rest. I’ve got like twenty years of sleep debt to make up for.”

SLEEP.

Of all the words they could have picked on, of course they chose that one. I lean back to look up — if there’s some kind of god here, they’re probably towering over me, right? “I’d love a sleep in,” I say. Even just thinking about it is making me tired. “No more six AM trains. No more rush hour crush. Just a lazy morning, taking my time waking up, nowhere to be and nothing to do. That would be my heaven, I think. At least for now.”

SLEEP, the voice says again.

“Yeah,” I agree, blinking some heaviness out of my eyes. “Sleep’s great. I definitely—” My head jerks up, my eyes open, and I realise they were closed. Just for a second, but still. “Hey, wait—”

SLEEP, the voice says one last time and I realise too late that I had definitely misunderstood something here.

“Wait!” I try to call, but it comes out as a mumble. My body grows heavy — I feel myself list to the side, falling slowly into the soft coldness again. “Wait,” I mumble, as my face presses into the surface and my eyes slip fully shut. “I didn’t mean—”

“—I wan’ed to—”

My tongue feels swollen; the words stumble out of my mouth like sports fans leaving a pub the morning after a historic win. My body feels heavy, each limb too weak to hold out even against gravity. My thoughts are slow, my back hurts, and, above all else, I am really fucking cold.

The first shiver catches me by surprise. The next several have me curling into a ball on the hard surface under me, something like stone digging into my hip.

My teeth chatter, and I can already feel my feet turning to ice.

Where the fuck is this?

Somewhere behind me there is the rustle of material, like a heavy curtain being pushed aside, two footsteps, then a gasp. The footsteps rush away again, and I hear a muffled voice yelling something I don’t understand, gradually softening as it moves away.

A minute later, I hear clanking drawing closer.

I finally open my eyes.

I’m lying on a slab of baby blue crystal, little vines and stars carved all around the edge. It sits on a raised dais made of the same, and beyond that is a room full of pillars and statues and a domed ceiling carved with such detail it puts the Sistine Chapel to shame. All of it made of the same crystal, with mist curling around the floor.

It looks magical. And I mean that both in regards to how beautiful and improbable it is.

It also looks like an altar, like the icy equivalent of something out of a horror movie.

That makes me move.

My body doesn’t want to, every joint a block of ice. But I force my arms to push myself up, and my legs to swing over the side of the altar block. I try to stand, but my legs don’t hold and I go sprawling to the floor instead.

At least I’m not on the altar anymore?

The clanking pauses, still behind me, on the other side of the room, but so close now it’s hurting my ears. There’s a rustle again, and more steps, then a cacophony I don’t recognise, and I turn and pull myself up by the altar so I can see peer over it.

It’s a knight.

Kneeling.

There’s a doorway on that side of the room, covered with a heavy blue drape, which they obviously came through. There’s a path carved into the floor that leads to the altar, like a red carpet except its part of the stone. And there’s a knight, dressed in battered but shining armour, with a deep blue cloak thrown over their shoulder. There’s some kind of insignia picked on it in off-white, but I can’t see the whole thing with the way it folds.

They look more like a robot than a human, I think, looking at the flat faceplate of their helmet. It’s so weird.

“I am glad to see you awake, Hero,” the knight says, their voice echoing strangely within their helmet and the crystal room, “and I apologise for the lacking welcome. The king will be here soon. In the mean time, I am pleased to attend to any and all needs.”

“…What?”

The knight doesn’t respond immediately. I imagine they’re as confused as I am.

Hero?

King?

Again, where the hell am I?

“Are you… alright?” the knight eventually asks, sounding baffled by their own question. “Do you require assistance?”

“No!” The response is automatic. I don’t want anyone closer until I figure out what’s happening.

Then I realise that, from their angle, it probably looks like I’m hiding behind the altar. Which I am, but it’s still not the best first impression. So I pull myself upright, grimacing at the stiffness and weakness of my muscles, then up onto the altar, perching sideways on the edge so I don’t look completely hopeless. That’s when I realise I’m dressed only in a simple cotton robe, the hem falling gently over my feet, and wonder again what on earth happened.

I’m also still absolutely freezing.

I hem and haw for a second, right up until a new bout of shivers decides to shake my spine.

“Actually,” I say, my teeth chattering, “do you have a spare cloak or blanket or something? Tea or soup or anything hot would be nice too.”

The knight startles, looking for a moment like they’ve been hit over the head. Then they become a whir of motion.

In short order I’ve been given their cloak — with much bowing and handed over from as far away as they could reach — and they’ve run off again with promises of tea and stew. I continue to sit there, now swarthed in a ridiculously plush length of lined velvet, and wonder why they didn’t just take me with them.

There’s other thoughts in my mind too, but I bat those away, determined to ignore them for now.

After the monologue

Sat, 01 Aug 2026 00:00:00 +0000

A quick little exploration of an idea I had the other week. I may have been reading a lot of “player gets isekai’d into a game” manhua lately.

“—And now, you will pay!”

Veris gestures dramatically, casting a just-in-time Feather to ensure his ridiculously sized sword doesn’t waver. Across the canyon, Regis bares his teeth and takes a stance, his long, black hair whipping wildly in the wind—

A sound rings through their minds, more felt than heard, like the softest bell rung right beside their ears.

The wind freezes. Regis’s hair pauses in place, billowing behind him, twisting slightly to his left. Around them, the world stops. Clouds, birds, clothes, grass, and the hero party watching from below — all freezes in place, like time has stopped.

Regis sighs and slumps.

Veris drops his hand from his sword - it stays where it is, suspended in the air - and shakes the tension out of his arm. “Tea?” he asks, a bridge of shadows forming across the canyon between them, a table and two chairs blossoming in the middle.

“Of course.” Regis glides across the bridge, slipping through the chair to sit, and pulls a ceramic tea set on a silver platter out of an oil slick glimmer of air. The teapot lifts itself, golden tea flowing gently from its spout.

His hair remains frozen. His clothes bend unnaturally, keeping as many of their frozen folds as possible while bending around his changed pose.

Veris’s body collapses into dark smoke and reappears perched primly in a seat. He accepts the cup that flies into his hand, and sips the tea with relish.

“Southern sunset, correct? Perhaps with a touch of bergamot?”

Regis sips his own cup. “Plus a hint of orange peel. It is the latest craze in the northern court, I believe.”

Veris smiles. “Of course. Gods forbid the north like anything local.”

A snort. “Never.”

Silence settles between them, each savouring the moment of peace and quiet as they savour their tea.

It is only when they reach the end of their cups that they rouse from their meditations.

“So.”

Regis sighs again. “So.”

“How do you want to do this? The normal script, or should we change it up a bit?”

“What would we even change? We’ve gone through so many variations.”

“If we drag it out until sundown, I could put on more of a show.”

“We tried that, remember? It was four — no, five rounds ago. The heroes just used more holy magic.”

“If we target the cleric first…”

“We would be doing that anyway.”

Veris rolls his eyes. “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

Regis is silent, fiddling with his empty cup as he stares into the distance. Eventually: “Honestly, I just want it over.”

“We have a job to do—“

“And it’s the heroes’ jobs to defeat us, but so far they’ve been completely incompetent! There’s only so many times I can go through the same old scene before I get tired.”

“So you want to make it easy?”

“I want to make it obvious. Maybe then they’ll finally get a clue!”

Veris runs his hand over the table top, the shadows rippling under his fingers. “Alright.”

“What?”

“I said: alright. Let’s make it obvious. At least then we’ll be able to move on, instead of being trapped in this one scene.”

“But that will mean—“

Veris stands, his chair dissolving behind him. “Like you said, repeating this is getting tiring.”

The tea set slides itself into a glimmer, the tea pot and cups jumping onto the tray just in time. Regis stands and the table and remaining chair fade too.

“Thank you,” Regis say to Veris’s side profile, his old friend refusing to meet his eyes. “Then, once more unto the breach?”

That brings a tiny smile to Veris’s face. “Once more,” he agrees, and looks over for just a moment.

Then he collapses, reappearing by his sword. Regis sweeps across the bridge to his own side, feeling the shadows fade behind him. Both take up their stances again, giving themselves the same poses and expressions thanks to many years of long practice, then wait.

One moment. Two. Three.

A chime, and the world restarts. Below them, the heroes turn to confer on their plan. The villains share a look, one last moment of agreement, then launch themselves up into the air, their flashiest moves ready on their tongues.

Mornings

Sat, 18 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Admittedly, this isn’t really fiction. More an observation. I’m filing it under ‘ideas to explore more later’ — at which point it will hopefully become a proper story.

I wake up in the morning, stretch, and reach for my phone. My dog glares at its glow — he knows that means breakfast will be late. I open my emails, intending to only check for anything important. But then I get distracted.

A writer I follow has posted an update.

A shop I should unsubscribe from has announced a sale.

The local member for parliament has sent out a newsletter, and I feel obligated to catch up on the issues affecting my area.

An hour or two later, I’m running late for work. My eyes hurt, and there’s the faintest itch of a headache forming behind my eyebrows. My brain is full of a dozen random facts and another dozen problems I can’t do anything about. My thoughts are soup, the peace I gained in sleep obliterated by the bombardment of breaking news and soul-sucking inanity.

I start my day feeling like I’ve already done a full day of work.

Fragment

Sat, 27 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The letters appear on a normal Tuesday, just after lunch. One by one they stamp themselves onto the clear blue sky, each as tall as a skyscraper, moving slowly as if to rotate the globe. People stop to stare, the footpaths and windows quickly clogging. Cars slow, windows rolling down for a better view. Cameras come out; millions upon millions pointed up.

There are murmurs at first. A new style of skywriting, some wonder. Drones, others claim.

More letters appear. Confusion steals humanity’s voice; disbelief and fear bring it back.

ANALYSIS COMPLETE the letters say. 17% FRAGMENTATION. DEFRAG PROGRESS: 1%.

Age-old arguments

Sun, 31 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Just a fun little scene, once again playing with the idea of magic as code, but also inspired by the party dynamics of Dungeon Meshi (Delicious in Dungeon).

“This is clearly a while loop! Look — ‘while something contained then something—‘“

“Nothing indicates a while! It could just as easily be an if, and that completely inverts the meaning!”

A clatter as boots stumble across loose stone in low light.

“If it was an if, why on earth would this be a time component—“

“It being time based doesn’t mean it’s a while!”

“It definitely doesn’t sound like an if!”

“I’m not going to risk our lives on what it sounds like!”

Rune rubs her knuckles against her temple as she drops down beside their team lead, slumping warily against the tunnel wall. There might be ore digging into her back; she’s too tired to care. This was meant to be an easy run. Now they’re stuck in what might be a (hopefully disused) boss room, with a cave in on one side and doors scrawled with glowing green symbols on the other.

“How long do you think they’ll be?”

In the pulsing light from the doors, only slightly offset by the lightstone set by their feet, the team lead’s face looks haggard and worn. He chews slowly on a piece of jerky, his greatsword propped up beside him.

“With a puzzle this intricate? Hours. Possibly days.”

He offers a piece of jerky. Rune takes it, just to have something to do.

“How long will our lightstones last?”

“If we ration them? Another day.”

“And our food?”

“Ehh, maybe two.”

Rune watches the mages bicker.

“How long until you remind them you can blow up the rockfall?”

“Depends how long they take to start trading blows.”

Eyes in the dark

Sat, 16 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Anxiety has been my constant companion for years, but lately it has been particularly present, striking in even the most mundane moments. This was me trying to capture that feeling.

I reach for a cup, and a band tightens around my heart. Fear descends like a storm front, a great black looming mass that overwhelms my mind and mood, drowning out any hint of light. I stand there in the kitchen, one hand against the bench, and just try to breathe.

There is no danger. No tiger lurking in the dark. No sword at my throat. There is only the mundanity of everyday life — the kitchen, cluttered with dirty dishes and shining appliances; the birds outside chirping as they go about their days; the distant murmur of voices yelling at the sports fields around the corner. There is nothing new or unusual or threatening. Just the cool glass in my hand as I turn to the sink, and turn on the tap.

The glass fills and I watch the water rise, swirling around its prison. The water shimmers in the sunlight through the window, and each glint feels like thunder across my nerves. I take a sip, the glass clinking against my teeth, the water feeling ice cold on my tongue and sharp against the inside of my throat, and I force myself to drink until the glass is empty.

It does not help. There is nothing to help. Just a system hunting for eyes in the night, and finding nothing but soft edges and modern conveniences instead.

Unto the breach

Sat, 02 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I do love a good epistolary story. This is my latest experiment with the format, admittedly heavily inspired by the movie Annihilation, and by the news and fears around the current AI boom. Please don’t pay too much attention to the military aspects though - my only knowledge of the military comes from action movies.

2037.03.09 MONDAY 0908

Initial breach scheduled for 1000 hours. Target is quiet. All staff have been evacuated. Irregularities continue at intermittent intervals. Team Beta will remain outside to monitor. Team Alpha will enter. All relevant precautions have been planned. Maximum incursion length is 14 days.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.09 MONDAY 1837

Initial breach succeeded. Command has been established in the staff break room. Communication with Team Beta remains strong. Scouting the complex revealed no clues. Nothing broken. Everything powered down. One injury - Beaker tripped on an overgrown vine, sprained his ankle. Tomorrow we will breach the server room.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.10 TUESDAY 1428

Server room breach successful. Communication with Team Beta suffered significant noise while within the server room, but this was expected. Confirmed the servers are still operational, at least upon visual inspection. Also confirmed the servers are disconnected and the designated power supply routes are functionally dead. Tech Wilson remained at command today for safety. Tomorrow he will accompany us.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.11 WEDNESDAY 1352

Wilson is running diagnostics. No obvious answers so far. He has several servers hooked up to the machines he brought, and has half the team monitoring for alerts. Full diagnostics estimated to take up to 48 hours.

Beaker is benched - his ankle has swollen, and he is experiencing nerve pain and numbness in the corresponding foot.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.12 THURSDAY 1847

Around 0600, Beaker started screaming, clutching his foot. Two team members escorted him outside to Team Beta command. All three have been quarantined. That leaves the remaining team at seven.

Wilson reports no answers, but plenty of corrupted data. Circulating voltage appears to be decreasing as well. At the current rate of decay, the servers should shut down by themselves in twelve days.

Jugar claims the blinking server lights are causing migraines. However, with a smaller team, all hands are needed to monitor the diagnostic machines. I’ve already submitted a request for medication.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.13 FRIDAY 1923

Diagnostics complete. Wilson is still reviewing the data, but says the data is corrupting faster than he can analyse it. At best, it might mean the servers will fry themselves soon.

The light pattern seemed to change today. Some servers are exhibiting less regular patterns. Wilson agrees it may be due to the data corruption.

Team Beta sent a drone with medicine. Jugar class it doesn’t help - that the blinking has “burned itself inside his brain”. With diagnostics complete, we can spare him a day to rest, if he isn’t better tomorrow morning.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.14 SATURDAY 1148

Jugar reported less pain this morning, though his speech seems slow and disordered. Like he’s still half asleep. Have ordered a rest day.

Communication with Team Beta has started to experience intermittent dropouts. Equipment appears to be functioning as normal. News from quarantine says Beaker has an infection - he’s being treated on site. The other two are fine.

Wilson is continuing his analysis. He snuck notes into command last night, might have worked all night. Have reprimanded.

Smith complained about Wilson’s humming, Wilson said it helps him think. I’ve stationed Smith at the far end of the server room.

Answers can’t come soon enough.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.15 SUNDAY 1832

The pitch of the server hum has changed. Smith said it’s “discordant” - each server making a different sound. Half the team has a headache. I’ve organised a rotation. Wilson insisted he’s fine and didn’t need to join.

Jugar still seems half asleep. I’ll send him out if there’s no improvement tomorrow.

Wilson brought one of the office plants into the server room. Claims the greenery will help balance the blinking. It doesn’t, but it’s nice to have something else to stare at.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.16 MONDAY 1438

Jugar is missing. Wilson woke at 0500 and discovered his empty bedroll. I left Jones and Riley with Wilson and took Smith and Su to search. No result. Have reported to Team Beta, though communication has become quite staticky and disrupted.

Wilson claims he’s close to an answer. The server noises continue to differ. I think the tones are changing over time as well. The blink speed of the server lights seems related to the pitch.

Wilson is humming almost non-stop now. I wonder if he’s drowning out the server noise.

One week down, one to go.

Lt Narra

—

2037.03.17 TUESDAY 0919

Riley woke up disoriented. Same as Jugar was days ago. Claims he felt fine. Have sent him to Team Beta. Communication is nearly unintelligible, so I sent him with a letter in case.

Wilson started pulling pieces out of the servers late yesterday. Not to investigate or hook up diagnostics - he appears to be rearranging things. When asked, he just said it’s more optimal. Whatever he’s doing, there’s a lot of running long wires all over the place. We have to be careful not to trip.

I’m not sure he’s been sleeping - he seems quite manic.

Started a rest rotation while we’re in the server room, so someone is on rest each hour. Jones fell asleep during his.

Still no sign of Jugar.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.18 WEDNESDAY 1826

Circulating voltage is decreasing faster. Original estimate was another six days until shut down, now Jones is estimating three. Servers do not appear to be suffering for the decreasing voltage though. If anything, the humming and blinking seems to be increasing.

Su reported a headache. I have one too. I don’t think any human is meant to spend this long around so many blinking lights. Even Wilson is blinking often, like his eyes are dry and sticky.

Wilson’s plant seems to really like the server room - it’s grown a new leaf. He says it’s an “air plant”.

Still no sign of Jugar. No update on Riley - communication is barely functioning.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.19 THURSDAY 1947

Su still has a headache, but is showing no signs of impairment.

Jones almost fell asleep standing at his post. I’ve given him my rest hour as well to get some good sleep in.

Still no sign of Jugar. Communications are completely down.

Three more days.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.20 FRIDAY 1142

Jones won’t wake. We can’t afford to decrease the team but Su’s headache hasn’t gone away so I’m sending them both out. That leaves Wilson, Riley, Smith, and me.

Wilson is still rerouting cables all over the place. He spends most of his time waist deep in the server racks, doing who knows what. He won’t let any of us help though - says we’ll just mess things up.

Smith tripped on a cable earlier. Their green-brown colour is hard to see in the blinking kaleidoscope o the server room. Wilson seemed quite upset, but it’s just a cable.

Two more days.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.21 SATURDAY 1836

Smith is awake but not lucid. My headache feels like it’s splitting my brain apart. The blinking lights are starting to look like patterns moving across the room - like clouds in the sky, or tree leaves swaying in the wind.

Riley is watching him while I watch Wilson.

I want out. I want to be done. But we only have one more day.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.22 SUNDAY 0828

There are vines in the servers. The cables are alive, draped across the walls and floor like parasites choking a rainforest tree.

Wilson disappeared part way through the night. We found him in the server room, elbows deep in components. His blinks follow the same pattern as the server lights.

Riley heard me yelling and came to look. He tried to wrestle Wilson out of the server racks. The cables wrapped around his arm and broke it.

We’re leaving. With or without Wilson.

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.22 SUNDAY 1053

The vines have closed the doors and exits. Every window, every vent — all covered in a thick mass of vines. We tried bullets, blades, and fire - all just made the vine back faster and sooner. We’ve regrouped by the service entrance to plan - the vines seem thinnest here,

Lt. Narra

—

2037.03.22 SUNDAY 1147

Vines came out of the air conditioning vent and strangled Riley. Just lifted him into the air and choked him til he died. I couldn’t hack through them fast enough to help.

I’ve got one last idea. If I can get to the backup generator, I might be able to do something.

Tell my family I love them.

Lieutenant James Narra

Testing the boundaries

Fri, 17 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“Mistfall” is the codename for a fantasy world (and series) I’ve been dreaming of for a while now, where humanity tried to put a collar on magic and it backfired horribly. This short piece introduces one of the main problems the characters who live in this world have to deal with — the Mistfalls themselves.

This is the same world as Being the Messenger though with a different cast and possibly set in a slightly different time.

The wagon rattles as it moves along the road, jolting with each rock it hits. Tucked between piles of crates and sacks, her view blocked by their goods and the canvas cover, Shela waits impatiently, her leg bouncing from more than just the rough ride.

Suddenly, the air gets cooler, the summer heat undercut by the damp cold of a misty autumn morning. The sounds of nearby livestock disappear as the horses start to snort. Then a shout goes up from the front and the horses whinny as they’re guided to a stop, and Shela scrambles out from under the canvas before anyone can think to stop her, racing along the line of wagons, her eyes wide. Her feet skid in the loose dirt on the side of the road, wildflowers crunching under her boots; she pays them no mind, too focused on the wall of the mist blocking the road up ahead, as tall as the birds fly and almost as wide as the eye can see.

It is her first time seeing a Mistfall. It is everything she had imagined and more.

She barrels past the front wagon. There’s a shout then she is lifted off her feet, an arm wrapped securely around her waist.

“Shela!”

“Hi, Papa.”

Others laugh as she grins up at her father, his beard tickling her cheek. Her legs swing against his, swirling the mist that clings to them both; he groans and lowers her slowly to the ground, his arm sliding to rest gently around her shoulders like a great warm scarf.

“Why are you here?” he asks. “You promised you would stay safe.”

“I am. You’re here.”

More laughter from the onlookers; drivers and workhands who’ve left their own wagons to gawk. Shela knows most of them; she has seen them at least every winter for as long as she can remember, when the caravan would come home to rest and enjoy the fruits of their work.

“She’ll be a menace one day,” one of the drivers says.

Shela shows him her teeth.

“She already is.”

“Papa,” Shela prods, leaning her weight against his arm as if to bolt. She won’t, but it gets his attention. “How big is this one?”

“As wide as a field, and several times as long,” Papa says. “See where it disappears?” He points to their left, where the mist stretches across a rolling grassland, gradually fading away as it creeps up a small hill. The other side continues as far as Shela can see. “It’s like when you tore your shawl; narrow at each end and wider in the middle. It’s why we cross here, where it’s relatively thin, rather than in the middle.”

“What’s in the middle?”

“No one knows. But the middle is dangerous — that’s where monsters appear and people disappear.”

“Like in the stories!”

Papa’s arm tightens. “Yes, darling. Just like in the stories. That’s why you need to stay clear, alright?”

The stories are scary; Shela had night terrors after the most recent one, about a monster that moved so fast no one could see it properly until a knight slew it dead. “Alright.”

“Alright. Then, next…”

Papa sweeps her up again. Shela giggles as she’s spun through the air with several unnecessary twists and deposited on the driver’s bench of the first wagon, squished in next to the driver.

“Stay,” Papa says, then whirls away.

Shortly, a long pole is fetched from the side of the wagon, as well as a tiny bird cage covered in an old, dark cloth. Muffled squeaks come from the cage as it is lifted and attached to the pole.

Old Kel takes the pole, his muscles straining as he keeps it lifted from one end. It is three times as long as he is tall and bends slightly in the middle. Someone takes the cloth off the cage, and the tiny yellow bird inside begins to scream.

Shela claps her hands over her ears.

Papa appears by her side, once again wrapping an arm around her shoulders as Old Kel begins to move forward, towards the mist, the pole and bird held out in front of him.

“Papa?”

“It’s okay,” Papa says. “The bird should be fine.”

Old Kel walks slowly, the cage inching towards the fog. A couple of the men follow him, swords drawn. The rest hang back by the wagons, hands on hilts as they wait silently.

The cage passes into the mist. The bird’s screaming cuts off.

“Why?” Shela asks.

“Because the Mists aren’t always safe,” Papa says. “We need a way to test them. That’s why we put the bird in first, to check it comes back okay.”

“What happens if it’s not safe?”

“Sometimes the bird disappears. Sometimes the pole snaps. And sometimes, well. Sometimes something comes out of the mist.”

A dozen stories flash through her mind, of strange monsters with claws and fangs and strange abilities. When told around a campfire, or while tucked into bed, they had seemed scary but intriguing. She had imagined not only the monsters but also the knights who fought them, with their shiny armour and fancy swords, battling and ultimately killing the monsters. But there is no knight here now, just her Papa and his friends.

“We need a knight. Papa, we need to go back and get a knight—“

Papa’s arm tightens. “The knights are busy, darling. But that’s why we have swords, alright? So we can fight off anything that comes through. We probably won’t need them though. It’s very rare that anything comes through a fall this narrow.”

Shela watches Old Kel advance. Those near him hang back as he approaches the mist, the pole slowly disappearing. The mists swirl away from where it touches, a tiny ripple in an otherwise placid face. It looks a little like the mist doesn’t like the intrusion.

His steps slow as he gets closer. Half the pole disappears. Then three-quarters. Then there is only a foot left past his hands, and he stops, waiting.

“Papa?”

“Shh, just wait.”

Seconds tick by in silence. Old Kel creeps sideways, stepping no closer to the mist but slowly walking the width of the road. Then he starts to walk backwards, slowly drawing the pole out of the mist, and the men with swords close rank around him.

More of the pole appears. Old Kel’s arms are shaking.

More.

Shela finds herself gripping her father’s arm, her fingertips digging into the muscle of his forearm.

More.

Then there is a hint of fine metal wire amongst the mist and the bird’s shrieks split the air again.

Shela startles, but does not cover her ears this time. She does not mind the screaming as much anymore, as she watches everyone retreat from the mist, someone taking the cage and inspecting the bird.

“That’s good, right?” she asks Papa.

“Very good,” Papa says, as the man inspecting the bird calls out, “Clear!”

Relief sweeps across the crowd. People clap Old Kel on the shoulder, laughing and joking. More people come up from the further wagons to join in with the joy. Papa shares a few words with the wagon driver and with others who come over.

Shela watches it all and wonders why the stories never talk about this.

Someone whistles and the crowd disperses, still merry but now with renewed purpose.

“Alright, time to go back to your wagon,” Papa says.

“But I want to see!”

Papa lifts her off the wagon bench, lowering her gently to the ground. “You can’t see anything inside the mist. It’s like having your eyes closed, but scarier because you know they’re open. You can barely hear things too. It’s better to sit in a wagon.”

Ahead of the wagon, several men space themselves across the road, close enough to each other that their elbows might touch, sticks as tall as them in hand. One, standing in the middle of the pack, is noticeably younger than the rest. The men either side of him start to talk, sweeping the ground ahead of them with their sticks as if to demonstrate something.

“Alright.” Shela watches the men for another moment, wondering what they’re doing, then throws herself into hugging her papa’s knee. “Love you, Papa!”

Papa’s big hand ruffles her hair; she squawks and ducks back, her hands rising to check the damage.

“Love you too, darling,” Papa says. “Now go on, get. Make sure you tuck yourself in well.”

Shela ducks in for one more quick hug then races off, weaving between adults until she finds her wagon, four from the front. The driver grins at her and pulls her up, and she scrambles over crates and bags and sacks until she’s settled in the middle of the wagon once again, the outside world blocked out by goods and the canvas roof. Her leg bounces as she waits for the wagon to move, wondering what it will be like to go through the mist. She’ll listen to Papa and stay in the wagon; it sounds scary enough that she doesn’t mind that. She might take a peak though, just a quick one, when it gets dark. She wants to see the mist for herself; it’s why she spent so long convincing Papa to take her on this run. Surely one little peak won’t hurt.

A strange syntax

Wed, 01 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

As an ex-programmer (now manager) and a life-long lover of folklore, magic-as-code is a concept I love reading about. Programming is, after all, about using certain words and symbols to instruct energy to move in certain ways — with potentially disastrous consequences if you get even one character wrong. This was my first foray into exploring this idea myself. The programming pun was a nice little bonus.

A dingy old bar isn’t Rune’s usual haunt, but work can take her anywhere - especially when there’s fae gold on the table. Or will be, if she can figure out this stupid syntax.

Sweat drips down her face as she curls further under the bar top, balancing on the metal pipe that runs its length and acts as a footrest, twisting her spine so she can peer up at the curling figures burned into the underside of the ancient wood. Annoyingly, her problem isn’t the only matrix embedded in the bar - there’s older work, protections against fire and flood, which the new lines have written over without any care for the consequences.

Which would explain the smoke drifting gently towards the ceiling. And the humidity.

Her headlamp splutters; Rune shakes her head to knock the crystal back into place. She almost has it - one spoke of the matrix is clearly a luck anchor, and the second has to be emotional, though she hasn’t figured out what it does yet. The syntax is so wordy compared to modern standards — every clause is perfectly bracketed, every sub-structure contained and controlled. It’s like whoever wrote this learned their syntax a couple thousand years ago and never bothered to update their knowledge.

The worst part is the symbols — strange phrases interweave with standard characters in a way that feels almost familiar. Like she should recognise it; like it’s on the tip of her tongue. The third spoke is the worst for it, complex logic nesting several levels deep, the lines overlapping and twisting as they sink further into the wood.

She traces it with a gentle finger, trying to parse it out. Something about a spark?

There’s a whisper of cloth, then: “Any luck, lass?”

She jumps. She’s lucky she doesn’t bang her head, feeling her curls squish against the hardwood as she recoils. The barkeep peers at her from barely two feet away, his glasses making his eyes bulge and his height putting him eye level with her while standing. His eye flash like a cat’s in her headlamp’s light.

“Getting there, Mister A,” she says. “It’s a tricky one though. Do you remember anything else about who set it?”

Mr A blinks, slow and languid. “The hood hid too much, I’m afraid. I’ve told you all I could — short, long beard, fond of sweet milk.”

“And you have no idea who it could have been?”

“You know how many drunkards come through these doors, looking’ for a fight or somewhere to redirect their sorrows? There’s too many potentials.”

Rune sighs, and turns back to the matrix. Hopefully she can get extra pay for the extra time. Though it really does feel like she’s close…

Her headlamp splutters again. Irritated, she tosses her head to make it stop.

“There was one other thing actually. I can’t be sure — these old ears aren’t what they used to be and there was a rowdy bunch the other end of the bar that night — but maybe…”

Rune tips her head — the innermost line almost looks like a trigger. “Oh?”

“He might’ve asked for a job.”

Rune pauses. Reads the matrix again, her eyes widening as she works through it, ignoring the closing phrases and making a jab in the dark at some of the longer phrases—

Her headlamp splutters and she scrambles back, well out of the three foot range she just discovered. She tears it off her head, peering at the crystal with narrowed eyes — it does look dimmer, she thinks.

“Lass?”

Rune glances over the bar — there’s glasses stacked behind it and a few bottles of liquor within range, but nothing overtly dangerous that she can see. Still —

“Clear this area of anything with power. Three— No, four feet from the matrix, just to be safe.”

The old man — now barely up to her elbow — blinks again. “Why?”

“Because there’s a bomb under your bar that’s charging itself off ambient power.” Rune kicks her kit back another foot and squats down to dig through it. “We’re going to depower it, neutralise it, then revert it — and you’re going to have to close the bar tonight I’m afraid.”

“That wasn’t the deal—“

“Neither was me having to deal with Kobold, but here we both are!”

The box

Wed, 25 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Ever had one of those days where your brain suddenly reminds you of some ancient embarrassment, or of a fear you thought you had mastered? This came from one of those.

There’s a box in the corner, full of things best left forgotten. The cardboard is bland and sunbleached, the corners battered and the sides dented. Several lines of tape cover the top, some sliced open, some still holding, with dust caught in the curling edges.

Most of the time, I pay no attention to it. It sits there, tucked away, unassuming. Sometimes, when I’m in a rush, I sit something else on top, and it makes the box a bit more memorable for a while. Once I draped a tablecloth over it, a dark material with a subtle pattern, thinking that might make it blend in better. It only made it more obvious. Occasionally I’ve pushed it under a table or a chair while rearranging things, but inevitably that lead to kicked toes and bruised shins. So in the corner it sits, waiting, aging, fading.

There are times I can’t avoid it though. Rushing through life, sometimes my foot will clip its corner. Sometimes I stumble; sometimes I fall, its weight surprising me as I collapse. Some days it sits in the corner of my vision, there no matter where I look, and I find myself remembering the shape of the things hidden inside. Some days I close my eyes and it is there, looming, its sides straining to hold all that is hidden inside.

Some day it will break.

Being the messenger

Fri, 20 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There is a series of books in my brain that I call “Project Mistfall”, which I hope to one day write. For now, while I work on another novel, they live in snippets like these, where I play with the characterisation and world building, slowly testing the waters of my ideas.

If there is one thing in this world Loric is good at, it’s words.

“Gentlemen,” he fawns, backing slowly across the room. There is a chair somewhere behind him, he knows. It should be between him and the window. “If you have a complaint about my services, I’m sure we could work things out amicably.”

The three bruisers in the doorway, having just forcefully busted the lock of his inn room, grin and crack their knuckles as they advance with threateningly slow steps.

“It wasn’t us who complained,” the leader says, showing off his lack of teeth. “Nor was it someone who used your services. But, see, there are politics you gotta be aware of when travelling these lands. Alliances to note, and feuds to avoid. And when some hopped up messenger arrives in town, carrying the mark of the neighbouring lord, some people take notice.”

“Ah.” Loric’s knee brushes wood, and he adjusts his steps. Only another yard or so to the window. “And I suppose the local lord did not appreciate that mark?”

“Exactly. See, ye do have some smarts. So, here’s your options. Hand over the lord’s letter quick-like, and we’ll leave you be. Or don’t, and we’ll take it by force. Your choice.”

Loric’s foot nudges his pack; he pretends to stumble, and kicks it backwards with his heel.

“Now, I don’t think that’s much of a choice,” he says. “A messenger’s worth is decided by their reputation, and that reputation is built on trust and secrecy. If it became known I handed over a letter, what good would that do me? None. But if I were to let you beat me — and mangle my hands, as I’m sure you’ve been ordered to do — that would be equally ruinous. Surely men such as yourselves can understand my dilemma.”

The bruisers chuckle, all three now halfway across the room. They look like wolves stalking a lamb, the menace in their gazes longing for an outlet. Loric knows their type, and knows how to play this game; letting them stalk, letting their adrenaline rise and their focus narrow, and letting them believe themselves the bigger prey. Because they are, but that does not guarantee their win.

“Understand, sure. Care? No. We have our orders. So, choose, little messenger. Or we’ll choose for you.”

Loric’s heels hit his pack again; he hunches over, cowering, and his spine brushes the windowsill.

“Well,” he murmurs, as if truly thinking it over. “If you’ll take the letter either way, I suppose…”

The leader’s grin widens. “If you hand it over, we’ll let you go unharmed. Promise.”

“Well. In that case…”

The shutter flies open with nary a push; he had ensured so last night. His pack he hefts with the other hand, mourning the few items he has left scattered around the room, and throws himself over the sill just as realisation dawns in the bruisers’ eyes.

He falls past the first floor, startling a patron drinking by the window, and lands on his feet with a crunch and a swirl of wind. He stumbles, scrambles, and rights himself, then bolts for the stable.

Above him, the bruisers yell from the window, a stampede of footsteps starting as they race for the stairs. Loric can’t help but grin. It’s terrifying, playing this game. But the exhilaration makes it worth it; the beat in his ears, the heat in his veins, and the fear dogging his thoughts. Nothing else makes him feel as alive.

Now he just needs to stay alive.

The coffee script

Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Writers block has been killing my ability to work on my novel lately, so I decided to challenge myself with some short story prompts. This is the first of several - a horror drabble in exactly 100 words.

Life follows patterns.

Cycles. Rules. Scripts.

There are exceptions, but they always make sense in hindsight - an accident on the road, a misunderstood sentence, a forgotten action. Small glitches in the usual rhythm, adding depth to life’s flavours.

Ordering a coffee went as such:

“Morning, what would you like?”

“Good morning. A small cappuccino please.”

“Four dollars fifty.”

I wait for the screen to be ready to tap. One second, two, three.

The icon appears.

Flickers.

Disappears.

The barista flickers; there, then gone, then back and reaching for the screen to take my order.

“Morning, what would you like?”