They lied. There was nothing frightening about the place. No shrieks of monks burned alive, trapped inside this old monastery when the fire broke out in the middle of the night. No ghastly figures made of charred flesh appearing on the floor. No spirits floating among the ruins.

There was nothing but dark empty hallways, the imitation of gothic architecture with its vaulted ceilings like the inside of a giant skeleton. I walked with the flashlight shaking in my hands, expecting a monster to jump at me from the next corner. I walked for what seemed like hours, but there was nothing.

Nothing but darkness and silence. I did my research. I knew these monks had given the vow of silence. I wondered if they ever dared to scream when the fire caught them in their sleep. Did they keep their promise and never make a sound? Did they let the fire burn their skin and flesh and bone, and steal their silence? Maybe they saw there was no escaping death? Maybe silence was the only thing that death couldn’t take from them? Maybe silence belonged to them? Or did they belong to silence?

I heard this place was haunted by the spirits of burning monks. Ashley, I mean, my mom, said Catholic monks were nothing but paedophiles, and she would’ve loved to see their burning ghosts. She said, if there was a God, he was punishing the filthy monks with such a horrific death. The vow of silence, my ass! She said and laughed out loud.

Ashley gave me all the freedom I wanted, as long as I supported her cause. I mean our cause. I can’t count how many times I skipped school to go protesting with her. Hey, for a sixteen-year-old any excuse is good enough to skip school. It’s full of capitalist-patriarchal-crap anyway, all their lessons and stuff.

The main lesson in life is to discover who you really are and accept your true identity. That’s what Ashley says. It kinda makes sense, I guess. She lets me do anything I want - get a septum ring, and dye my hair teal, paint my nails, go wherever I want. Like to this old, haunted monastery on the outskirts of our city.

I went alone because I’m not afraid. I can out-yell anybody in a protest. I can spit a cop in the eye. Police brutality doesn’t scare me.

I like weird places. I like the dark. I was ready for anything.

Anything but the silence.

Ashley is loud, I’m loud, our music is loud, our everyday lives are loud. No room for silence in our days and nights, because even at night Ashley has some ambient shit blasting from her room. The police sirens never sleep.

Ashley is always loud, always on her phone, or sharing her opinions with me. She always half-yells. She fills every minute with noise. I wonder if she’s afraid of silence.

I used to be like her. Now I’m not.

Now I know there’s nothing frightening about this place. At first, I was freaked out by the silence. As if the world had gone on mute mode. My steps grew quieter as I walked deeper into the labyrinthian hallways of the monastery. Soon enough I couldn’t hear my own breath anymore. How was it that no sounds of the world outside broke into this place?

It’s like the world outside didn’t matter here. There was only silence. It broke into my every thought, it sliced through every cell in my body, it showed me exactly who I was. The emptiness hidden by the facade of noise, the hollow righteousness which never left me satisfied. The silence schooled me, until I couldn’t bear what I saw. My mouth let out a soundless scream. I felt like burning from the inside out, like my lungs were clogged with thick black smoke, and I wanted to scream it out of me, to vomit the dark emptiness filling my gut.

When the silence had showed me who I was, I didn’t want to be myself anymore. I sat on the cold floor, pressed my back against the wall, and gave into the silence. I let it take me, until there was nothing left. Not a thought, or a sound, not a single heartbeat.

I will never leave because I became the silence. A vow, liberating one from the burden of empty words.

When the next one enters this old monastery, I won’t jump on him. I don’t need to. Silence drives them mad because they fill every second of their vacuous lives with noise. Nobody will hear their silent screams until they let the silence take them willingly.

Thank you for reading!

Previously:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Only a couple of steps separated Aereus from home or from death. He was not certain which awaited at the end of the path leading into the soft green shadows of black oaks.

“Men of Hebeny! I went to the battle of Old Autumn some days ago. I lived,” Aereus’ voice echoed in the woods. He held his hands up, so did Ani walking behind him. They had made only a couple of steps, when a black arrow pierced the ground before Aereus’ feet. It was a firm warning. He stopped and waited, staring into the dusky woods unmoved.

“None survived the battle of Old Autumn,” a stern voice spoke from the shadows.

“I was left to die. I lived.”

“And the woman?”

“A…slave I took to…” Aereus stuttered. He knew hesitation could end in a blackwood arrow through the heart. Though they saw he was clearly a Hebenian, traitors were not tolerated. Yet Aereus could not go through with lies about selling Ani to a brothel.

“…to serve my mother as a maid. My mother, lady Ann of Oak valley, south of Tridum.” The lies were truthful, at least. Aereus’ elderly mother could use a maid indeed.

“Come with us,” a group of well-armed Hebenian soldiers emerged from the trees where Aereus swore he saw nothing but shadows prior.

“I have nothing more than my father’s sword, no other weapons,” he said, when they searched him. Shameful though it was, it had to be done. The soldiers did not touch Ani yet eyed her with great suspicion.

The soldiers led the two deeper into their camp, one of many along the border with Autumna.

“Aereus!” a familiar voice greeted him. He knew the man – it was one of the sergeants training him for battle, though Aereus had thought this man had also gone to battle with them. There were so many, Aereus didn’t notice this one hadn’t joined.

“What a miraculous survival!” there was tinge of ridicule in the man’s voice, which Aereus could not explain. “No other lived after the massacre! Your mother will be pleased to see you one last time…”

“What?” Aereus interjected.

The man, Lord Micah, lived in the city of Tridum, therefore he knew Aereus’ family.

“After learning the dreadful news, that none of our men survived the battle, your mother has fallen ill. She is bedridden, awaiting death,” yet again, there was something suspicious about the man’s reverent voice. But Aereus had no time to ponder about it.

“Oh, no… no, no… I promised to return,” Aereus murmured.

“And return you shall, to greet her in the final hour! I shall grant you the quickest stallion we have!”

“Yes, thank you,” Aereus could not comprehend what was said.

“Oh, and… you can leave the woman here. Your mother shall be in no need of a maid, but you will need gold for the funeral. Let me sell her to the best whorehouse in Tridum, and I’ll make sure you get good gold,” though stunned with the grim news, Aereus clearly saw the dark spark of greed igniting the man’s eyes. Was he planning to keep some gold to himself, Aereus did not know, nor did he care. All he knew – he was not leaving Ani behind to be sold.

“She rides with me. Mother might need a woman’s care in her last moments,” Aereus retorted firmly.

“As you wish,” the man mumbled, surprised by Aereus’ sternness.

A horse they did grant, yet it was not the best nor the youngest of their stallions, the animal had a hard time carrying the two onward quickly, when they finally left the camp. Aereus was not given a new uniform, not even was he granted proper boots instead the old Autumnian ones he had on. Most soldiers treated Ani as if she were invisible, though some gave her dirty looks, assessing her body.

None of it mattered much to Aereus; he held Ani in his lap once again and hurried the horse down the path leading home. He promised mother, he shall not die on the cursed land of everlasting autumn. She mustn’t die without knowing he kept his promise.

***

The sun died as they rode into the gate of Aereus’ castle. No stone gate it was, but a gate made by two giant living black oaks. Though the spring was still early, tiny emerald-green leaves had sprung from the coal-black branches like little bearers of hope. The golden light of the setting sun broke its way through the tangled branches of the woods, and poured warmth onto the castle walls, or maybe it was Aereus’ mind painting the walls of home in golden warmth – just some days ago , lying in the cold bloody mud of the battlefield, he had nearly lost hope to ever return home.

He hurried into the castle, dragging Ani along without a word. The castle was small, and soon enough they reached his mother’s chamber. No hearth had greeted them, nor a warm candle flame. The castle was drowning in the silence of death.

“Mother?” Aereus said, knocking on her door softly. A feeble moan was all the reply he got, but it was all the reply he needed – mother was still alive.

Before Aereus had rushed into the chamber, taking Ani with him, she stopped him.

“Wait! First you go alone. Prepare her. I do not think your mother needs more distress,” she whispered. Aereus nodded, and pushed the door open slowly.

“Mother?” his voice was the one of a child again, full of childish fear and despair. His mother, the strong Lady Ann, lay there pale, barely breathing. There was nobody taking care of her, no neighbour or friend, though she had been a kind soul all her life.

“I have been blessed…The Foreverold is merciful…I am united with my son in the afterlife,” she said quietly.

“Mother, I am alive. And so are you. I kept my promise. The cursed land of Autumna did not take me,” he rushed to her, and embraced Lady Ann. Happy tears marked their reunion, it seemed nothing could cloud the moment.

“Let me look at you. Oh, Aereus. It has not been but two weeks since you left, yet you have changed,” Lady Ann examined his face, and looked deep into his blue eyes. Aereus could never hide anything from his mother’s cunning eyes.

“I have changed. I am a married man now.”

“What?”

“Ani, come!” Aereus called her softly.

Ani entered the chamber slowly, eyes cast downward. Her tawny skin, her coal-black hair, her lowly clothing, all displayed exactly who she was – an Autumnian. An enemy. Every Hebenian child knew Autumnians were frauds and scoundrels, cheaters, and whores.

“No…” Lady Ann whispered.

“I shall serve you with all I have,” Ani said lifting her sight slowly.

“My son, what have you done?” Lady Ann ignored her, and searched Aereus’ blue eyes for an explanation.

To be continued… thank you for reading! Part nine coming next week. Hopefully.

I feel a little broken lately. I feel like I’m not wanted but rather only tolerated. My words aren’t needed because they don’t make a difference. Do words mean anything if they don’ t leave an impact? If they don’t make somebody smile, or laugh, or think, or even cry.

I want to cry so bad, but I must hold on. I wear a smile because I’m expected to. It’s what I do.

Once somebody told me that not all my crashouts need to be published.

But… this is how I cry. How I scream. I am not allowed to show my grief, my anger or my sadness most of the time, because – kids, neighbours, husband with a headful of his own problems. Nobody needs to carry my burdens. So, I make the whole world of strangers watch me carry them. Sicko.

If I publish my crashouts in written form, does it mean I’m crying in public, in front of a thousand strangers? What kind of a sick person am I, right? Expressing my thoughts and wretched emotions in public feels strangely cathartic. Sicko sicko Kathrine.

I cry soundless, tapping this away by the laptop, because I can’t… If they see me, I’ll pretend I’m not crying. I’m good at pretending. It’s a coping mechanism.

If they notice something, I’ll say it’s nothing. Just a sad song or just…nothing. I’m a hostage of my own melancholy.

Why must I write? Lately I’m not feeling good about my writing. I feel invisible on Substack. Mostly I don’t feel like saying much. Yeah, you can have a thousand subscribers, and still feel invisible. You can have ten, and feel like you’re on top of the world.

I’m a coward. I don’t have the courage to resolve some problems troubling me for a while now. I pretend everything’s fine. It’s not fine. It’s not good. It’s only me pretending it’s good and fine. I’m good at pretending.

I was pretending my self-published novel is fine. It isn’t. I fucked it up. It was me. Dave only pointed out the obvious. I shouldn’t have hired the same editor. I should’ve spent more time formatting. I should’ve looked at the story as a whole, and given it more depth, more build up, more foreshadowing, just more.

I just wanted to have fun with it. That’s not good enough. It had to be more.

I had to be more. Better. Tougher. Calmer.

A better mother. A better wife. If I want to publish my stupid writing in public, it has to be more. Not fun, not emotionally unhinged, not satirical. More.

I have read so many opinions about what I should and shouldn’t write. Don’t write rants. Don’t write anything you don’t know. You can’t write what you haven’t experienced. Nobody writes fantasy this out-dated. You packed too much into this scrap of a story. Don’t write in English. Don’t write.

I made a mistake. I should have published one book, and that’s it. Should’ve stopped after the first one. I can’t read the room. The failure of my second book was the red flag. It was a stop sign which I ignored.

The friendly community of Substack fiction is a lie. There’s a pack of woke writers who help their own, and act as is if they’re saving literature. Those who suck up to them have it good. The rest are very much on their own. Substack Fiction is not a success story but a collective delusion we all want to believe. We like to pretend it’s fine. Writers are good at pretending.

I am a little broken today. Rejection after rejection after rejection, layers of heavy regret covering my head and shoulders until I bow to the weight of melancholy. Until I break a little under it all.

I’m a bit broken, a bit cracked, I’m not okay.

I will find the motivation to finish what I’ve started, because I’m that fucking determined to keep my word. I said, I’ll write Everlasting (my fantasy story I’m serialising on Substack which you probably have never heard of), I said I’ll publish Glitter Man and other stories. I will do it.

Maybe that time I was called the worst fiction writer on Substack wasn’t just a mad man’s hysteria. Maybe sometimes evil wins. Maybe there’s no room for everybody on Substack.

Substack is a social media, not a writers’ platform. The success of your fiction mostly does not depend on the quality of your work but the impression you leave on others. It’s a popularity contest. Substack is a media for those interested in building a community. Writing has become the tool to build it, not the goal.

I’m a little broken. I’m a fucking chunk of coal, not a diamond.

Don’t expect to find diamonds and pearls when you come to read my Substack.

Expect crashouts. Non-satirical rants. Rage bait. Click bait. Mediocre fantasy. Batshit crazy experiments. Cringe romance. Expect mess, chaos, shitty editing, and even shittier formatting. Stupid typos and unforgivable mistakes. Expect crimes against the English language. Expect consistent incompetence. Expect consistency.

It fucking doesn’t matter if it comes from the heart. Not all hearts are beautiful. Not all deserve the platform to share their creations.

No, I’m not okay. God will pick up the ashes of me, and either make me whole or let me rest in his arms. Either way works for me.

Previously:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Do not rush into marriage, my son! How can you trust what you do not know? Aereus heard his mother’s voice in the space between the sleep and wakefulness. She used to say it every time young Aereus’ sight lingered looking at the girls walking by their castle.

Aereus woke, yet kept his eyes shut, feeling Ani’s warm naked skin on his. Mother said to choose wisely. He had married a stranger. Aereus gave a heavy sigh. Ani woke with her lips kissing his bare chest. She lay on his heart listening to it beating.

Aereus opened his eyes; sunlight poured down on Ani’s black hair, and her tawny skin, and she smiled, listening to his heart. Aereus could not explain it, but he knew, he had chosen well.

High above them, a crane bird cried out.

“We must leave. She sounds distressed,” Ani said, sitting up. Indeed, it was ridiculous! The two of them had been making love among enemy camps near a highly protected border.

“If it is our Crane, why would she not reveal herself and help us cross the border safely?” Aereus pondered. He did not wish to leave; Ani sat near him naked, and the sun caressed every curve of her youthful body.

“Crane knows the ways of the Foreverold. Some secrets are best kept hidden until the right time arrives.”

“Do you have any secrets you keep hidden?” Aereus asked, remembering his mother’s advice.

Ani glanced back at him, eyes wide with bewilderment. Once again, he got lost in the dark abyss of her beautiful eyes.

“No, I do not. There is nothing much to know about me. I am a low-born but my father taught me to read and write. I might not be a good fit for a high-born Hebenian like you, I know…” Ani lowered her sight in shame.

“What..?” Aereus wasn’t really listening, lost in her eyes.

Ani laughed; he gave her the warmest smile. Even her sudden mood swings he found beautiful. Aereus grabbed her, pulled her closer, and kissed Ani with all his might.

“We must leave,” she objected gently with Aereus holding her even tighter.

“I wish to stay.”

But a crane bird cried out loudly, this time it was nearer than before.

“I think Crane wants us to leave at once,” Ani said letting go of his body.

Aereus grunted a curse under his nose, but got up, nevertheless. This was uncommon to his nature – to wish for nothing more than to lay and watch the clouds, holding the one he loves close. Love was the sweetest sorcery, clouding his mind, and he wished to know nothing else but it.

Yet a true warrior can never forget the weight of the sword in his hand. As soon as Aereus took his sword, his senses grew sharper, he heard distant voices... crude voices approaching, footsteps of soldiers marching their way.

“Oh no…” Ani whispered. They had barely gotten dressed, there was no fog to hide them, it was a matter of time before the Autumnian soldiers would spot them and the horse in the patch of trees.

Cold sweat broke out on Aereus back. He did not stand a chance against so many. The thought of dozens of dirty hands touching Ani made his blood boil. No. Never.

Without saying a word, he helped Ani up the horse, and joined her.

“We shall never escape,” she whispered.

Aereus kept his silence, the horse galloped out the patch of trees, causing a commotion among the approaching soldiers. Of course, they immediately followed the fugitives, though the Autumnians were on foot. Only High-born Autumnians were allowed to ride to battle on horseback, as horses were rarely kept in the moors, and quite expensive to purchase as well.

Aereus glanced back, those were common Autumnian soldiers – barely maintaining the order, falling out of line, their uniforms and armor badly kept, screaming and cursing like a ragtag pack of drunks.

“Don’t let the Hebenian bastard reach the border!” they bellowed, because one of their own would not have been running away from Autumnians.

After a dash through the thickest pack of bushes, the horse galloped on, the soldiers kept following it though they fell far behind, not even noticing the animal seemed to have lost its riders.

Indeed, Aereus and Ani jumped off and made the horse race onward without them.

“We wouldn’t have made it to the border on horseback,” Aereus said ruefully. They had a greater chance of travelling unseen without the large animal.

Both hid in the thick bushes, despite the thorns tearing their flesh. Aereus sheltered his love in his embrace, letting the thorns cut his clothes and flesh instead.

The bastards ran right by them, never noticing the two hiding there. Some tales about Autumnians are true, Aereus thought, they say common Autumnians are foolish and gullible.

Aereus, however, used the chance to follow them carefully, his sword at ready, until the soldiers stopped and cursed. The horse had escaped into the thick woods of black oaks, a mark of the Hebeny kingdom they did not dare to cross. A rain of black arrows showered them, as the Autumnians retreated. Once again, Aereus and Ani hid in the bushes, until the soldiers walked by cursing, trying to catch their breath. Autumnians themselves were not archers. Swords were their weapons of choice, no bows or arrows they used. Only crude blades of steel they deemed manly enough, not some pointy sticks flying through the air.

The soldiers stomped back to their camp. After a while their cursing got swallowed by the silent moors.

Aereus looked ahead – home was so near; he could’ve reached it after a short run. But the black arrows sticking from the ground on the path advised him not to rush onward into the arms of death. Besides, Ani was an Autumnian, and his wife. Even if they recognize him as one of their own before shooting him dead, what of Ani? Would they let her pass?

“If we ever get into your land, tell them I’m your slave. A battle trophy. You are allowed to take Autumnian slaves, yes?”

Shamefully Aereus nodded. Indeed, Hebenian soldiers were allowed to take Autumnain children and women as slaves. Most of the women ended up sold to Hebenian brothels for good gold.

“Tell them, you want to sell me to a whorehouse!”

“I despise lies!”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

Ani did not need to say more, her dark eyes pleading Aereus silently defeated all his objections. If lies would keep her safe, lie he must.

To be continued…

Thank you for reading! Part eight coming next week. I never expected this story would grow so much. Fear not, I presume two or three more parts and we’re done.

*image taken from Canva. Mad frog.

Okay. I am a fiction writer. If I ever sit myself down to write non-fiction, it’s either a satirical rant or some whimsical essay autofiction bullshit. I don’t think I’ve ever written about pop culture or culture in general. Ever. BUT. There’s a first time for everything, and oooooh boy this first time is going to be a spicy one!

If you want a thorough analysis or some great in-depth thoughts about the matter, read or Dave’s essays.

This ain’t gonna be it. This is going to be my own ugly raw opinion, I will not debate, or compromise or discuss it. Feel free to call me racist, I will not reply, because I don’t care.

I thought woke Hollywood was bad before, now it’s gotten even worse. It’s like they’d lost their mind collectively and completely. I hope it’s the last agonizing stage of wokeness dying but it sure takes long… it cannot happen fast enough. Die, woke Hollywood die! Die, woke pop culture, die!

What the fuck am I babbling about??!

All the stupidity of pop culture, all the stupid race swaps, shoe-horned trans and gay characters in movies, the shaming and blaming of the Western/European culture for whatever-the-flavour-of-the-month -ism is trendy.

Southpark (yes, the raunchy cartoon not-for-kids) could not have said it better, the new Hollywood mantra is – put a chick in it, make it lame and gay. I might even add – put a black chick in it, make it lame and gay.

There’s been so much of that bullshit I don’t even know where to begin! The stuff that gets me the most is, of course, my favourite escapism - fantasy, mythology, fairy tales.

Race swapped elves, black Helen of Troy, a Latina girlboss Snow White…

They fucked up the perfect chance to expand Tolkien’s world onscreen. Does Rings of Power ring the bell? No? It’s a piece of shit everybody would wish to forget. Random (!) race- swapped Elves, sword-chick Galadriel, random black female dwarves etc. Dude, they could’ve learned from The Game of Thrones, which had different race characters, but they at least came from the same region. While the creators of the Rings of Power just shoved random black characters here, there and everywhere. Like, okay, you can have black elves, just make them a group coming from a Southern region, because it makes sense! MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!

Fantasy, or good stories in general, need to have some kind of logic behind them. European based fantasy, Norse myth-based fantasy will not have black characters in it, because we Northerners are and have historically been white. Because – no sun for up to nine months a year! Because no sun means less colour to our skin. Do you get it? No sun – no colour! Yes, we Northerners are WHITE! It’s not our fault! It’s also not a privilege. Ohhhh, don’t! Do not try to school me on that “critical race theory” bullshit! Some extra diligent Substackers have attempted to inflict this stupidity on me. Just… shut up! Don’t even try! Shut it!

Nobody owes you reparations or apologies or humiliation rituals for the sins of their greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreat grandfathers. Sheeesh! Every nation has done something wrong in the course of history, so before the whole humanity engages in one giant circle-jerk of virtue-signalling apologies, let us return to common sense, alright? Not saying there wasn’t racism. There was. There still is. But I believe it’s far less than we are made to believe. You see, racism as a concept goes well together with Marxism (cursed it be!), therefore lefties will hold onto it with all their might. Ugh.

Funny how the biggest racists I’ve encountered on Substack were woke leftists. Because if your soul is an empty vessel, you make noise. You fill it with “righteous causes” to give your life some kind of a meaning. You make race an idol. Your ideology becomes your religion, because human beings are designed to believe in something.

But I digressed. Onward into the abyss of stupidity. Hollywood.

Two words. Black Snape. I was a huge Potterhead in my teen years. I read every Harry Potter book at least 3 times. Yeah. The existing movies did not show the whole richness of the worldbuilding Rowling has done. The upcoming Harry Potter show promised to do just that. An adaptation truly faithful to the books. And then we learned about the casting choices… Black Snape. Literally the worst casting decision ever made. Not just because he looks nothing like the Snape from the books. Because this choice makes the main character, his parents, and most of the students racist. Why? Why do that? Are the showrunners dumb? Do they want Harry Potter appear racist?

I think they do. I think it’s not just stupidity. It’s spite and malice dressed in leftist ideology. Let us imagine ourselves as leftist showrunners! They know people will hate it. They know the show will lose a lot of money. They do it anyway, because their mission is more important to them than the backlash, they might get for it. Yes, I think they’re on a mission to school the world on how the (white!) boy who lived, Harry Potter, is inheritably racist. So are his parents. That critical race theory? Yeah, in the flesh. Applied to pop culture. I fully believe they think they’re saving the world by “schooling” the audience. Proving their point has become more important than staying true to the source material, or telling a good story, or even making a profit!

The latest stupidity is Nolan’s Odyssey, and all the weird woke artistic choices he has revealed. I mean… Nolan? The same who made Oppenheimer? I have a crazy theory but hear me out! I think Nolan was allowed to make Oppenheimer ( a movie about a white middle aged man! Hollywood’s most hated demographic!) but in exchange he signed up to make this Oddysey as a tribute to Hollyweird’s woke demon overlords. Or a humiliation ritual. Because the contradictions are very very stupid, and make Nolan look like a fool. Like, we can’t have orchestra soundtrack because Ancient Greeks didn’t have it, but we totally can have a black rapper bard telling stories on the background of trap (?) music, what?! Also, there’s not one Greek actor cast as…Greeks. None. How’s that accurate representation? A bunch of people would go batshit crazy for an actor who was a bit too “light brown” to star in a new Wakanda movie. Wakanda. A made-up land. Yeah, double standards, and all that fun stuff.

I mean, how can I still be naïve enough to believe people who cast a Latina to play Snow White. Deliberately. To belittle MY culture. MY European mythology that the fairy tales are based on.

STOP violating my culture by shoving stuff inside it that has never been there!

No black Vikings, no sword-swinging princesses, no female gladiators, no race-swapped characters of mythology. If you must, fuck up your own culture, BUT LEAVE MY EUROPEAN CULTURE ALONE! STOP MANGLING IT! STOP APPROPRIATING IT!

Ah, why am I even wasting my time on this… Europe is literally and physically being raped by the hordes of third world (mostly Muslim) illegal immigrants who have zero respect for their own women, even less so for our women. Europe is being raped in real time symbolically and physically, it’s not a myth but the cruel reality.

My only hope is God will put a stop to it. God will wake the hearts of brave men to stand up and protect what we hold dear. Our women, our children, our Christian religion, our culture.

Wake the fuck up, all you who hold the Western and European culture dear! EUROPEAN CULTURE IS A WONDER BUILT BY CHRISTIANITY UNITED WITH THE HERITAGE OF THE ANCIENT GREEK AND ROMAN CULTURE WITH A DASH OF OLD PAGANIC ROOTS. EVERYTHING GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL FROM THE CULTURES OF PEOPLE LIVING ON THIS LAND.

Don’t let jealous fools mangle it! Don’t let brainwashed idiots destroy it!

This is my culture. If you don’t like it, don’t touch it! Fuck off!

So, how’s life, Kathrine?

I’m not even calling it juggling anymore. Four kids, a husband, a part-time job and a full-time hobby, and all the gritty shitty little chores that need to be done around the house so that we don’t drown in piles of dirty clothes, scattered toys, and a sinkful of dishes…No, I’m not even a juggling Mom. I’m an awkward monkey throwing objects into the air and trying to catch them before they hit the ground.

Yeah, so I’m doing fine. FINE. (I hate that word now, and Dave’s to blame. Ask him why!)

Among all this beautiful chaos that my life is now, I stumbled upon an innocent question here, on Notes. Somebody asking – where’s the fiction at on Substack? Is there any? Because they couldn’t find it.

They could not find fiction on Substack.

Like, how? Like, most of my feed consists of fiction!

This might seem like a ridiculous question but let us explore it further. Let us nibble on that scab until it bleeeeeeds, ouch! This one will sting.

Fiction on Substack is very much invisible. Yes, if you’re lucky enough to get into one of the fiction bubbles here, you find an abundance of fiction writers publishing FREE (!) top notch fiction. Lemme tell you, it’s a treasure chest!

But how can one find fiction on Substack? The categories are full of shite, pardon, non-fiction or porn, or anything but pure fiction to read.

Substack wasn’t designed for fiction writers. Yes, there are the categories. The fiction top. But most of it is just fiction-related stuff, not actual fiction.

Lately it seems small fiction writers are not welcome on Substack. We used to be able to mass-tag all the fictioneers we wished, thus the information about new pieces of fiction would travel further through the dark labyrinth on the algorithm and reach more people searching for fiction. Substack destroyed it by applying new filters or something (sorry, I’m just a tech stupid chick) that mark notes with more than 6 tags as spam. So, the tagged ones won’t get notified if you add more than those 6 tags to your Note. Keep that in mind!

Then they changed the “post” to “article” when you want to create a new piece of writing. If “post” was neutral, then “article” is clearly meant for non-fiction. Not cool, . Why do that? People write all sorts of stuff. Essays, poems, articles, FICTION. The previous version “post” was good and unpretentious. Why change that?

No, @Substack! I do not want to create a new “article”. I want to create FICTION. A short story. A flash fiction. A chapter of a serialized story. Ever heard of it? You do realize there’s hundreds of fiction writers here, who don’t like feeling invisible? Article, my ass…

This was a Note a posted a week ago, which got more attention than I expected. I am not the only one who thinks that fiction writers here deserve more visibility.

And yes, yes, yes, Substack is BY FAR the best social media/writers’ platform we currently have. BUT it would be nice to make a notable portion of the community (I hate that word!) feel seen.

I daresay, fiction writers are the most interesting bunch of writers on Substack. The juiciest, most delicious part of Substack even!

It’s a darn shame that we are still very much invisible.

Kathrine, you old witch! All you do is whine and complain! What would you suggest then?

Well, let’s see what we have. Promoting our stories on Notes. Tagging 6 people per note, and doing it many times over different Notes to spread the word. Some writers create events, etc.

There are ideological cliques and bubbles who support each other, which is fine, but the information about the fiction stays within the bubble.

What more can we do? Promote promote promote our fiction ad nauseum. I do these massive campaigns where I just restack my work paragraph by paragraph. And even that doesn’t result in massive success. Meh, maybe my work just sucks, ha ha.

What else could we do? Honestly, I feel like it’s a dead end. Any ideas?

I’m ending this one on a grim, stupidly uncertain note. I usually offer some kind of a conclusion at the end of my ramblings but this time there is no solution. Or rather, it’s outside my power to change something here, except urge you to share the links to your fiction pieces in the comments. If you write fiction, and you want more eyes on it – share the link in the comments of this post!

There’s plenty of fiction on Substack. Beautiful fiction, ugly fiction, we have everything for every taste. It’s just that the fiction on Substack still is kinda invisible…

Previously:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Her body felt light as a feather lying on him, he could barely feel her warmth, but her lips hovered just an inch above his like ripe fruit he longed to taste…

Aereus moved his lips closer to hers, hunger for her woke him from the sweet dream into the cold reality. Nothing but the fog kissing his lips, no body embracing him. Ani was not there. Only the weight of his own sword pressing on his chest. She was gone, Aereus saw only the foggy silhouette of the horse grazing nearby.

“Ani!” He called out, jumping to his feet.

“Shhhh! You’ll scare the horse! Up here!” Ani’s voice reached him from above. He looked up but saw nothing but the lowest branches of the old oak tree they had slept under last night, everything else had been swallowed by the fog. Aereus grabbed onto the branches, and pulled himself up.

He had spent most of his childhood climbing trees, this one was easy to conquer. Ani stood on the last sturdy branches, looking around. The bare branches revealed a sight that caught Aereus by surprise. They were high up above the fog. It danced over the land of Autumna like a bridal veil, revealing the bare earth waking with the sun.

It greeted the land with the light pouring through the mist golden-red, and every puddle, every lake, every stream of the damned land replied like a thousand golden-red mirrors.

Aereus gasped, a man of few words he was, but even if he were a poet, Aereus couldn’t have found the right words to capture such beauty.

“This is Autumna, the cursed land,” said Ani with a cheeky grin.

When Aereus’ eyes turned to her, he could not look away. Sorcery or not, he did not care. She was more beautiful than the land below, and the scattered mist drew a bridal veil over her head and shoulders.

“You’re Noble-born? Yesterday you mentioned a castle,” Ani asked.

Now it was Aereus turn to grin.

“We live poor. My father’s father left his wife and son nothing but a castle and debts before he died in the war. My own father worked hard to repay the debts before he died in the war. I farm the land myself. Mother tends the garden. My only treasure is my forefathers’ sword, “ Aereus looked at the sheathed blade by his belt.

Aereus frowned; Ani’s question was not innocent curiosity. Indeed, Aereus woke from the spell of her eyes – Autumnian women could not be trusted. This one was obviously hoping to seduce a wealthy, Noble-born warrior. Aereus turned away from her beautiful face, disappointed and disgusted, when he heard the sound of twigs cracking under the footsteps made by heavy boots.

All his senses grew sharper, he heard somebody approaching. Aereus had no time to ponder if Ani cares about him or his wealth. Nothing mattered, except keeping her safe.

Their horse neighed frightened; somebody was rummaging through their bedding.

“Keep quiet! Stay here!” Aereus whispered into Ani’s ear. Ani shook her head, but Aereus paid no mind to her silent objection, he slid down the tree as quiet as he could. They had been hidden by the thick fog, that was the only reason the Autumnian soldier hadn’t spotted them yet. Indeed, it was a tall Autumnian, a well-armed spy kicking around their bedding. Aereus jumped into his sight with his sword swinging, aiming for the Autumnian’s throat, because the bastard had taken his helmet off. Alas, the Autumnian was quick and obviously used to unexpected attacks. Two swords clashed with no words spoken. Two men fought with no hate between them; the Autumnian could’ve been Aereus’ age, a youngster with a battle-scarred face. He was taller, and stronger, yet Aereus was quicker with the sword.

Two men fought to death, though it was unclear who would take the other one’s life. Aereus wore no armour, the Autumnian had managed to wound him several times, yet he would not yield. Suddenly, a branch of the old oak cracked, and fell onto the Autumnian’s head. The tiny moment of distraction was enough for Aereus to wound him in the vulnerable area of the Autumnian armour – under the arm. The sword penetrated his ribcage, the man yawped, falling to the ground.

“I told you to stay in the tree!” Aereus scolded Ani, catching his breath. She climbed down swiftly.

“I did!” she retorted. “You said nothing of distracting the bastard while I’m still in the tree!”

The young Autumnian was moaning and twitching from pain. Aereus stepped nearer and looked into his eyes.

“This is not our war to fight, Autumnian. I can let you live if you keep your mouth shut about seeing us here, and may the Foreverold help you recover,” he said what had been on his mind throughout the battle. This war had lost its meaning on the bloody battlefield where Aereus was left to die. The everlasting hatred had no cause. What reason could there be for a hundred-year feud?

The Autumnian gave a dirty grin.

“I need no reason to hate a Hebenian bitch!” he grunted with blood coming out his mouth. “May you never see your homeland again! I hope you rot, you and your Foreverold!”

Aereus’ sword gave the bastard the only reply he deserved - a cold blade to the throat. His grin faded, he was dead on the spot.

Aereus stood breathing heavily, the bloody sword in his hand.

“Let us leave at once!” he said. Ani gathered their belongings, Aereus helped her up the horse, and both galloped away.

“We shall not survive,” Ani whispered. Both knew it was only a matter of time before they would be spotted by Autumnian soldiers patrolling the border.

“I will do whatever I can to get you to safety. You shall have your hearth, the child your arms were made to cradle, and the good man to take care of you,” he grunted, fighting his own fear.

“I think already have,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“I want you, Aereus.”

The horse had taken them into yet another patch of trees and bushes, already birthing green leaves like thick veil hiding them from the world. As if on command, the horse stopped. Aereus knew they might die soon. There was nothing to lose. He did not know if Any wanted him or his castle, nor did he care. Aereus was stunned by her words, and her scent near him, and the warmth of her body, and he finally gave into whatever sorcery Ani possessed.

He got off the horse, helped her down. He went on one knee.

“I am not good with pretty words but if I could I would marry you here and now,” he said looking into her dark eyes.

“But you can! Do you know what Autumnian wedding is?” her voice bore both joy and sorrow within it. Aereus nodded. If a couple were destined to die, all it took was to exchange rings and consummate the marriage for it to be legal in Autumna.

Aereus did not say a word, neither did Ani, when he took off a silver ring his father had given him, and gave it to Ani. She had a tiny ring given by her mother before she passed. None of the rings fit the other, but it did not matter. Aereus gave into the magic of Ani’s beauty; he touched her face gently, she weaved her arms around his neck, and when they held each other close, it felt like home. He did not recall how they took their clothes off, until they were lying on them naked, unbothered by the sun rising over the cold mist, the day waking, and a chorus of birds greeting the two lovers. All fell into place, all felt right, as if the Foreverold had arranged this, no soldiers found them, nothing stood in the way of their hands caressing the other’s skin, drinking each other’s lips, becoming one. The everlasting eternity smiled down at the young love weaving through their bodies, binding them forever.

As they lay holding each other close, Aereus finally knew the name of the sorcery Ani used to bewitch him – it was love all along.

“I knew it. The moment you picked me up from the battlefield, I knew I was safe,” Ani whispered, because, once again, Aereus had been thinking out loud. “I knew I had found my man.”

Aereus smiled and held her tighter; if he was destined to die on this day, at least he would die a happy man. A husband of a beautiful wife. They heard a crane bird crying high above the trees. Aereus pondered if it was Crane the Birdling sorceress guiding them to this moment. If so, what was her goal? But then Ani kissed him, making Aereus forget all his suspiciouns, all his fears and worries. They were lying on a blessed patch of land where nothing could go wrong.

To be continued…

Thank you for reading! Part seven coming next week.

*that’s one angry pussycat, innit?

I know some of y’all think I’m a nasty hateful person, arrogant, privileged, and haughty.

I am not. As simple as that. I have scrubbed office toilets to help my mom. My first summer job at the tender age of 17 was washing dishes in a Mexican restaurant. Twelve hour shifts long into the dark summer nights, when I rode home on my bicycle through the worst area of my town. Let me tell you, I rode like the wind! I have worked as a teacher, an illustrator, a secretary’s assistant, all of which was quite a humbling experience. If there was an ounce of arrogance in me left after my emotionally traumatizing childhood, and my early job experience, then motherhood killed the last remains of toxic pride I might have had. Motherhood is a moral boot camp for the toughest human beings – one must learn to be strong on demand. Get up when you don’t want to. Again, and again, and again. Do yucky things you absolutely don’t want, do the dirtiest chores… but all of it has led me to this moment. I can write on demand – no inspiration necessary. If it’s gotta be done, it’s gotta be done. I have been lazy lately but there was a time when I did not procrastinate at all. I didn’t squander a single second of my time. That’s how I wrote my books. Military discipline. Inspiration is for pussies.

Are you upset already? Mad even? Not mad enough! Let’s roll on!

I want you to be mad. To abso-fucking-lutely hate my guts. Why ? Because there’s something more important than inspiration. Stubbornness. Persistence. Discipline. Sheer fucking spite. That’s the fuel for writing. Sitting down by that blank page and writing when you don’t want to is a million times harder than doing the same thing when inspiration hits. Don’t get me wrong – it’s amazing when inspiration makes the words just flow, but it occurs rarely, wouldn’t you agree? Inspiration comes to those ready to seize it! If you write every day, you will be ready to make those golden words given by inspiration shine. You will have the tools to capture it and polish it at ready. You won’t forget the idea you got in the shower, because your brain will be well-trained every single day. And I mean it if you want to write well –

WRITE EVERY DAY.

Yeah, I know you hate this. Ewwww, discipline. Yes, yes, discipline, my lazy friend. Training your brain is the same as training your muscles. You grow bigger and better every day. Inspiration is that cherry on the top. But the cake is the work you put into your craft every day.

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit. What if it never really does? And it won’t. Because a lazy brain does not see the story potential around it. I see stories everywhere because my brain is trained to work overtime. And I love it! That feeling of sharpness, when your thoughts slip into your fingers while you can hardly manage to tap away, not to miss a beat.

OOH, but Kathrine, don’t be so cruel! What if… what if all this disciplined everyday writing leads to… to… WRITERS’ BLOCK???

I have a confession to make. I have had something resembling the dreaded Writers’ block once. I had to write a story to enter a competition with very strict rules. I froze and could not make myself to write the damn thing. The problem wasn’t in the writing itself. The problem was – I forgot that writing means FREEDOM. Despite what anybody tells you, what rules they try to impose on you, writing is freedom. Fuck rules. Writing, art is rebellion against rules. You can use what you actually find useful about the theory, but everything else is your playground. I forgot about it. That killed the joy of writing. And when the joy is dead, writing loses its beauty.

See, it’s all in the head, so to speak. When it comes to writing, rules should be helpers not killjoys. Use what you like, fuck the rest. YOU ARE IN CHARGE. NOT THE BLANK PAGE. NOT THE INSECURITIES. BOOHOO MY WRITING SUCKS. YEAH, NO SHIT SHERLOCK! BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T REFINED YOUR “VOICE” OR WHATEVER THE FUCK THEY CALL IT. BECAUSE YOU DON’T WRITE EVERY DAY. BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T GOTTEN USED TO THIS VOICE!

Okay, okay, okay, yes, I agree, when you work a full-time job + you have a family it’s not easy to find the time and energy to write every day. I ain’t saying you must write 3k every day. Write at least a sentence. But make it a good sentence. Write a paragraph. You’ll get into the groove, and you will start writing more every day. Oh, it’s hard? Fuck yeah! But if you love writing, you will rise above your strength and find time to write that one sentence. That is what makes all the difference. Those who rise above themselves will win. One sentence is what makes that difference. Whether you want it or you don’t.

Oh, but what about burnouts? Been there, had that. Yes, burnouts happen. My solution – be smart. Our resources are limited, use them wisely. I repeat – write one good sentence. Write short fiction.

My strategy when it comes to the process itself – write in short sessions. If you have the time and strength - work longer. I usually write in super short sessions – 5-15 minutes. I was doing this before I found out it had a name – “Pomodoro technique”. I write as long as it feels natural, it flows. When I start to struggle, searching for the right words, I stop immediately. The reader doesn’t need my struggles. I switch to something else. Come back after a while, and resume writing. It also works well with multitasking. As a Mom of little kids, most of the time I don’t get to write more than 5-15 minutes at a time. Trust me – you can write BOOKS writing a tiny bit every day. I wrote and published 3 books in 3-year time using this short-session method. Are my books any good? Check it out HERE!. (Ha, shameless self promo!)

I admire writers who make their writing sessions into full-blown rituals. They have perfect order on their desks. A notebook ready. Their lucky pens perfectly arranged. A candle lit. Herbal tea purifying the aura with its fragrant steam. The blank page waiting. The cursor pulsing like an impatient heartbeat. And…they wait. They end up waiting for that divine spark to ignite their mind… maybe they write something, maybe not. They hate it.

I say – fuck it, and type away on my phone, while baking pancakes. Or sitting on the train. Or late at night instead of doomscrolling.

Don’t wait for inspiration! Write whenever you can. Because, when that inspiration strikes (and it does occasionally) your mind will be sharp, your fingers quick, you will be ready to capture it, and find the right words to write it down. If you choose not to write regularly, if you get lucky and feel truly divine inspiration, you might not be able to do it justice. Imagine – you get a killer idea for a story, but you know you don’t have the skill to write it well. Damn shame, innit?

Don’t be afraid of the blank page. Write stupid, write rude, write a whole page of cussing if you must – exercise that freedom, loosen up, write it all out. I don’t really like the “stream-of-consciousness” writing method, but it works as a good exercise to unclog whatever is blocking your creativity. Write the first thing on your mind! Whatever it is. Nobody has to see it.

If you think you have the dreaded “writers’ block” – don’t write for a while. Don’t stress about it. Punish the block. Starve yourself from writing. See how long you can go without it. A writerly diet might show the scale of hunger you have for writing. When you’re starving for words, get back to work. Write every day.

Don’t wait for inspiration. Be brave. Write away.

Previously:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

The dark Autumnian night crept on them cloaked in chilling mist, cold to the bone. But there was something worse than creeping darkness; the howls kept moving closer, no matter how fast the horse would gallop.

Aereus kept his eyes on the path ahead of them, barely visible in the dusky fog, while Ani sitting between his strong arms, timidly looked into the dark bushes on their left and right. She saw glimpses of red – hungry eyes following them with footsteps splashing the puddles of the murky moors. Ani closed her eyes and hid deeper in Aereus embrace. He noticed it.

Aereus knew their prospects were grim; the beasts took their time. They knew that the horse would not find its way as easily in the dark.

The giant Autumnian Wolverines were despicable monsters, birthed by the dark curse of the land, there was no redemption to them, they knew not what mercy meant. They knew only hunger and violence.

“When they try to surround us, I shall jump off the horse to stall them. You ride on. Ride as far as the horse would carry you. If you survive the night, ride to Hebeny, South of Tridum town. Near the border with Avem. Ask for Lady Ann’s castle. That’s my mother. Tell her…I sent you. Tell here, I wished to keep you safe from harm,” Aereus whispered.

The beasts would attack, he had no doubt. Without his weight on the horse, Ani might escape the torturous death of being ripped apart alive.

“No, I will not leave you!” she protested.

Aereus shook his head. He lost his focus only for a moment, suddenly their ride came to an unexpected halt. The horse neighed in fear, and nearly shook its riders off.

Not monsters – men! Men barricaded their path. One of them carried a burning torch, all stood with swords and daggers at ready.

“Halt! Who goes there?!” the man with the torch bellowed.

Aereus had seen many soldiers in his short life, he knew damn well even the Autumnian scoundrels managed to look halfway decent. These were soldiers indeed, but their uniforms were dirty and tattered, their faces bearded, and unkept.

“Deserters,” Ani whispered, “no men are worse than them.”

“You must let us pass at once!” Aereus commanded.

“Would you look at that! You’re one of them Western scum. A renegade like us?” the man snickered.

Aereus gritted his teeth and tried to manoeuvre the horse onto another path, but the bushes around them were thick, and covered in thorns.

“Not so fast, bastard! You pass if you pay up,” the man said while, the others tried to grab the reins or Aereus cloak, or anything they could get their hands on.

“The wolverines are on our tail, you fools! We shall all become their meal if we don’t run!” he yelled.

The man laughed, so did his friends.

“Them bastards be howlin’ every night. We ain’t afraid. Now, pay up.”

The man had already noticed Ani hiding in Aereus’ arms.

“I have no gold with me.”

“You have a fine lass there. Give her and be gone. We’re lettin’ you off cheap,” the man said with unhidden lust written all over his face. Deserters hiding in the wilderness of Autumna did not get to pleasure themselves with women as much as they wished to. Ani was right – if regular Autumnian soldiers were lust-ridden perverts, these scoundrels were even worse!

“Leave me. Give… give me to them, go home, Aereus,” she whispered with her voice trembling.

Aereus felt her tears falling onto his arm. But what struck him the most was hearing her whisper his name; never before had he heard it whispered with such tenderness. She would go to torture and death for him. She knew damn well these men would violate her to death. Even worse if she survived, they’d kept her as a slave.

“Never!” he grunted through his teeth. Before the bastards had comprehended his insane actions, Aereus turned the horse around, and made it gallop back. The howls seemed to cheer on his suicidal sprint into their throats. Red eyes shining in the bushes, dark silhouettes of monsters on the path running toward them on all fours, some breaking their way through the bushes.

Ani shrieked, Aereus made the horse turn back again, this time toward the deserters. When they saw him returning with a whole pack of giant wolverines following, howling, growling, eyes glaring red; the men forgot their lust in an instant.

“Why didn’t you fools bring more torches?!” their leader screamed. Wolverines feared nothing, except fire, but only he had a source of it. The men scattered into the bushes onto narrow paths known only to them, Aereus’ horse galloped between the runaways, none tried to stop it.

The howls clashed with screams of men behind Aereus’ back; wolverines were lazy creatures – if they stumbled onto an easy prey, they did not hesitate to attack. So, it was. Bone-chilling, inhumane shrieking of men outnumbered and overpowered by monsters, and eaten alive broke the silence of the nightfall over the moors. Ani shook crying silently in Aereus’ arms.

They rode long into the darkness; lucky for the two, the moon rose above Autumna, illuminating the foggy path. As they came nearer to the border of Hebeny, the ground got firmer, and the trees taller. The horse was exhausted, Aereus stopped it in a spot with several old oaks growing nearby, and a water source bubbling in the fog.

“The horse needs rest. So do we.”

“This spot feels safe,” Ani agreed. She seemed to have calmed in Aereus arms, though he gave her now words of comfort after their lucky escape from the monsters, both the beastly, and the human-kind.

They had nothing for dinner except what’s left of the Snakeling strong-water.

“At least it gives warmth, “ Ani said afterward. Aereus smiled in return.

He took off his cloak, and all the other clothes from the saddle bags, and made a bedding which he offered to Ani.

“You sleep, while I stand guard.”

Ani sighed. “I don’t think your sword could save us from all the perils of Autumna tonight, though I have no doubt you are good with it,” she winked, “let us pray to the Foreverold and rest.”

She made herself comfortable on the bedding. Aereus hesitated, but not knowing any better, finally he lay next to her, holding his sword to his chest. Ani smiled at him, covered the two of them with her cloak, and tried to sleep but the cold night of the early spring made her shiver and shake unbearably.

“I am freezing,” she said before moving under his arm, and holding Aereus body tight. His only resistance was a heavy sigh; dishonourable though it was, Aereus himself was freezing cold, and Ani’s body felt warm next to him.

A sensation of fire rushing to his groin made him forget the cold; never before had Aereus lay with a woman. Her scent, her softness, her calm breath drove him mad. The fingernails of his right hand dug into the hilt of the sword, while he clenched his fists hard. Nay, he shall not give into her sorcery! As if guessing his thoughts, Ani held him even closer, to which Aereus took a deep breath, thinking Foreverold, have mercy…

To be continued…

Thank you for reading! Part Six coming next week.

Previously:

Part one

Part two

Part three

Nothing was real, the earth mixing with the sky, the wind bending the very fabric of the world around him, the sand biting his eyes, pebbles slamming every uncovered patch of his skin. Nothing was real, except Ani holding onto Aereus’ body, screaming her heart out in terror.

When the wind calmed, the world around them seem to unfold in an unseen cruelty. Bright daylight clashed with Aereus’ blue irises; his bare feet sunk in the ice-cold mud of Autumna. He was standing barefoot on the enemy’s ground, with nothing but a sword and one of his enemies holding on to him for her life.

“Calm down! It is over,” he said. She would not let go for quite a while. Neither did he. His left arm wrapped around her; the sword held by his right.

“We should’ve never left Crane’s shack,” Ani whispered.

“We could not have stayed there forever,” Aereus said looking into her eyes.

“I wish we could…” Ani’s voice was softer than the reeds whispering around them. Autumna, the land of everlasting autumn, was covered in moors and lakes, reeds, tiny trees, and bushes.

Aereus couldn’t look away, lost in the darkness of her eyes…

“Sorcery…” he shivered and muttered, finally letting her go. He looked around – nothing but moorlands as far as the eye could see. The east wind bore a heavy scent of dead, rotting flesh.

“What are we to do?”

“Get away from here as fast as we can,” Aereus said, holding his sword at ready. They were still not far enough from the battlefield.

“We have no proper clothes, no shoes, we ‘ll freeze…” Ani whispered frantically.

“Shhhh…” Aereus hissed, shielding her with his body. He heard a horse galloping; the sound came from the nearby bushes.

A horse did indeed emerge, breaking its way through the bush, but lucky for the two, there was nobody riding it. The animal approached quite calmly, as if sent directly toward them. Nobody followed it, nor did it shy away, when Aereus grabbed its reins.

“Whoa, whoa,” he held the horse down, though there was no need for it, the animal did not resist, nor object to the two rummaging through the large saddle bags it carried. Clean clothes, boots, some food and even a pair of warm hooded cloaks.

A crane bird cried loudly flying over their heads.

“She’s looking after us. Crane,” Ani said.

“I do not like sorcery,” Aereus grunted.

“Crane’s sorcery saved your life. If the sorcery does good, it cannot be so bad, can it?” Ani spoke softly, touching his face. Aereus could not move or even take a breath when she looked deep into his eyes. All he could do was nod foolishly. The horse neighed as if replying to the crane bird. Aereus woke from the magic of Ani’s eyes. Must avoid staring straight into her eyes, he noted to himself. Whatever this sorcery was, Aereus could hardly resist it.

A terrifying howl resounded through the bushes, following the horse.

“A wolverine!” Ani grabbed Aereus’ arm. He knew the sound well – giant wolverines, monsters of the old with large human bodies and wolves’ heads lived in the Northern woods of Hebeny where he’d spent his childhood. A sound he wished to forget.

“It must be following the horse. Those bastards love fresh horse flesh even more than corpses,” Aereus said with disgust. He shook his head. “Sorcery attracts nothing but trouble.”

Another howl interrupted Aereus. “We must leave at once!”

They put on the cloaks.

“I must apologize, but since we have only one horse, and we’re in great haste, we must…”

“Stop talking and help me up, dimwit!” Ani scolded him with a smile.

He helped her, then climbed onto the horse behind her. The Autumnian horse was smaller than the tall Hebenian stallions, yet it was sturdy, and what’s even better - it knew the safe paths through the moors.

When the howls fell far behind them, Aereus finally realized, he had never held a woman this close. Ani had snugged in his lap, while he held the reins; she did not shy away from making herself comfortable between his arms. Autumnian women, he though swallowing hard.

Aereus turned to assess their whereabouts, no time to indulge in futile feelings, - the landscape was dull and grey.

Not only was the land cursed, nay, it seemed dead! The stench of decay and death was truly sickening - how can one stand living on this rotten earth?

“It is still early spring. Yes, Autumna is the land of everlasting autumn, but it can be very beautiful. It is my home,” Ani replied, because yet again Aereus had been thinking out loud.

He blushed heavily, thanking the Foreverold Ani didn’t glance back at his face.

“I shall leave you in the first safe place I can find,” he said bluntly.

To which Ani gave a quick laugh.

“There is no safe place for me here anymore. Now that my father has passed, I have only one path ahead of me.” She went quiet.

“What?”

“Maybe lonesome young women in Hebeny have a different fate, but in Autumna we are destined to become whores.”

“No! But…impossible!” Aereus could not comprehend such disgrace!

“Autumna is a cursed land,” Ani said grimly.

“Then where…?” Aereus was yet again interrupted but this time it was something he saw with the corner of his eye. A large column of smoke rose behind them.

“They are burning the dead,” Ani explained.

Aereus’ heart filled with rage. He had heard stories of Autumnians being brutes, but this was beyond his understanding. Hebenians buried their dead with dignity. Especially the soldiers.

“I despize this land!” He grunted. He rushed the horse onward.

“I shall take you to Hebeny and find a decent house for you to work and live,” he said sternly. Though the only Autumnian women he had ever seen had been ugly old whores luring young men into the local brothel, he was certain there are decent homes in need of maids. If not, Aereus own mother could surely use another woman to help her around the house. Only until Aereus finds Ani another safe place to live in, of course.

“If we live long enough to get there,” Ani said, hiding her face in Aereus’ embrace.

Indeed, Aereus’ grim thoughts were overshadowed by even darker ones. He was a soldier on enemy’s land - clearly not an Autumnian. His light skin, blue eyes, and copper-colored hair gave him out. The tawny, dark haired Autumnians would behead him without asking any questions. He was a mere glance away from death.

Without him, Ani was an unprotected young woman in the wilderness of Autumna. Whether apart or together, they were doomed, yet together they had at least a tiny chance to survive.

“We shall not die in Autumna. I promised my mother that my grave won’t be found of the cursed land,” Aereus grunted. He did not look back at the smoke rising behind them, nor did he say a word about the stench of burning flesh filling his lungs.

They rode as far as the horse would carry them until it was exhausted.

“There! There would be a good place to rest.” Ani’s dark eyes scanned their surroundings. She pointed at a slightly elevated spot, covered with a thick patch of bushes. There was a small meadow behind it, where earth did not feel as damp as elsewhere. The horse grazed on the grass while the two sat on a pile of bushes Ani had made Aereus cut down. They didn’t dare to make a fire, instead they took the untouched food from the saddle bags.

They ate in silence, trying to ignore the stench of burned corpses in the air around them.

“There’s no clear water source nearby. Here, drink!” Ani gave Aereus a leather flask from the same saddle bag. He had presumed it’s some kind of a strong beverage.

“What is it?”

“Snakeling Strong water. The best booze in three kingdoms. Have you not ever tried it?”

“No, I do not enjoy strong beverages.”

“It is not about enjoinment,” Ani smirked, “when there’s no clean water or fire, this quenches the thirst, and keeps one warm. Try it!”

Aereus did, but regretted his choice the very minute the drink reached his tongue - it was liquid fire running down his throat! He gritted his teeth not to spit it out. Yet, after he overcame the disgust, his mind grew sharper, and his limbs - warmer. Indeed, it was a cold day, and the fog gathering in the bushes whispered of the approaching night. A drink like this could save a life on a cold Autumnian night.

It also made Aereus tongue loosen up for a conversation.

“You said you did not choose the sword, but clearly you know how to use it,” he said.

“My father had always wanted a son. Mother died giving birth to one. He had nothing but a daughter left. So, he taught me sword fighting. Though my hands were never made to hold a sword in them.”

“What were they made for then?” Aereus drunk tongue made him ask questions which he would never dare to ask sober.

Ani smiled warmly.

“I can barely remember my mother’s eyes, but what I do remember is that with her around, the hearth was warmer, and our house was full of love. My hands were made to keep the hearth burning, to make warm meals for a good man, and to cradle our children. Everything I did not receive from my mother, I long for giving to my children.”

Aereus sat with his mouth ajar staring in her eyes. Such a humble wish moved him deeply. He did not know how or why his hand touched her face gently. Ani kept smiling invitingly and closed her eyes submitting to his warm palm cupping her cheek.

A lonesome howl in the distance woke him from the strange sorcery he had fallen under once again.

“The wolverine is following us!” Ani whispered terrified.

“More will come this way. Since they cannot have the corpses now, the bastards will hunt down anything in their path. They can smell us a mile away. At least the wind works in our favour.”

Both climbed back onto the horse. It was not pleased, having rested only a short while, yet even the horse knew the howls meant danger.

To be continued…

Thank you for reading! The next part is coming next Saturday.

I think I’ve said this dozens of times during my Substack misadventure – I never thought I would become a writer, not even a hobbyist writer. I never thought I might post my stories in public. I resisted the self-publishing route as long as I could. It was not for me. I thought writers are dorks, wearing thick glasses and ugly cardigans.

Look at me now! Slow clap for Kathrine. Ohhh, how the turns tabled…

Why do we write? Why do we put our most vulnerable parts on display?

I don’t know about you, but I can’t write anything I don’t believe in. Our beliefs are the deepest parts of us. My fiction speaks my truth. It speaks volumes. If you read my work carefully, especially fiction, I think you can very easily see my soul. All of it. The raw ugliness, maybe the glimpses of good still left in me.

Self-publishing is everything I feared it would be. It’s putting the most precious parts of you on a lonely shelf in a giant store, in hopes that somebody might want to take your precious creations into their homes, minds, and hearts. I was lucky with my first book, a dark fantasy novella The Last Daughter of Wolves . Maybe the algo loved me back then (I still think Substack has shadow-banned me), maybe folks were curious. I did sell a bunch of books. The second novella did bad. My third book, even worse.

What I feared the most has come true in real time. Successful self-publishing doesn’t just happen. It takes whollota shamelessness, and an enormous amount of work to make a significant number of sales. From what I’ve seen – an indie author ought to be active on multiple platforms to successfully promote their books. And promote, and promote, and promote…plus get ARC readers, a whole team of those to build hype, as they say.

It takes time and money to promote books. It’s everything I don’t have. It’s everything I cannot give. If I have to choose between buying ads or hiring a professional editor, I choose the latter. Because maybe only a few people will read my book, but at least it will be a good quality read.

So, I do a pretty shitty job promoting my books. Which results in pretty shitty sales. And that’s a shame, because I think my books are quite entertaining. I think not only fantasy readers, but also mere mortals would like them. I write about universal themes through fantasy. No, there’s no preaching. Just storytelling.

I can be a bit shameless. All the while feeling ashamed of sharing info about my books at every given chance. I believe many of you feel the same. Instead of taking pride in our accomplishment, we are ashamed it even exists. Afraid to let everybody know we have done this beautiful work of bringing a book to life.

Often, we don’t realize that people around us are much simpler and well-meaning than we expect. All you have to do is ask, as they say. Maybe I must become shameless, and just ask?

Would you like to buy a book I wrote? It’s a good book. I put my heart in it. I invested money to get it professionally edited. I sacrificed my sleep to create the covers on my own. I killed a couple of braincells dealing with Amazon’s stupid self-publishing issues. The formatting might be a bit rough, but I’m not a professional book designer.

You owe me nothing. Nobody “deserves” to be read or subscribed to or liked. But I must be shameless and ask you to give my books a chance. Read the sample! Tell me it’s shit if you think it’s shit. DM me. But you might just like it.

So, I have published a smart little fantasy/comedy novel One Hundred Refusals . A fairytale for adults. A hot sassy princess refuses a young (and dashingly handsome!) Snake-shifter sorcerer who puts a deadly curse on her – whether she collects a hundred genuine marriage proposals in three-year time or she dies. Although it’s a satirical take on the romantasy subgenre, the story itself is utterly romantic and not cheesy at all, despite toying with cliches and romance tropes. I mean, I wrote it for the ladies but when I posted the first draft on Substack, most of the active readers were guys! Give it a read, this book might just surprise you! You can purchase it HERE

Then we have something a tad darker, and shorter. A fantasy novella The Last Daughter of Wolves . And I mean, it’s Game-of-Thrones dark, but with a sense of hope weaving throughout the plot. So, not all doom and gloom. It’s sharper, darker, and definitely more “literary” than my other fantasy stories. Maybe. Check it out and tell me what you think! You can purchase it HERE

And then we have something lighter but not quite. Another fantasy novella The Last Daughter of Dragons . Although it’s connected to the other two books, each can be read as a stand-alone.

Dragons!

A dragon-shifter princess, and other dragons, and a man she doesn’t want to marry, and another man she hates, but he’s too shameless to ignore, and a war of dragons vs humans, and…well. There’s a lot going on for a short book. I wish I could share it here, but I think you’d better read it yourselves. It’s a good story. I promise. You can purchase it HERE

Are you still here? Good. Essays promoting books usually get a couple of unsubscribes. Although anything I post gets me a few unsubs. Substack, why are you punishing me for doing the thing I love? Not ranting, no. Writing.

I’m glad you’re still here. I don’t feel comfortable talking to myself. I never do it though. I never ever talk to myself. Like never. Like not in a million years. That’s definitely not the reason I rant so much. No chance.

I know some people who don’t like me might rejoice at the fact that my books don’t sell well. I hope they don’t carry darkness in their minds, not even for my sake. For their own. Because I probably won’t even find out they’re happy about my failure, but they will carry all that darkness within them. It never ends well. This is not a threat. Just an observation. People who cradle darkness in their hearts, suffer from it the most. Not the ones they hate.

Despite the critical satire I write, I try not to carry hate in my heart. I don’t wish evil upon the people I don’t like. I do wish them well. I wish some would finally write the book. Or publish another one with great success. Or write an indeed ground-breaking fantasy that would make Tolkien proud. I wish them good health, happiness and wealth, because despite our differences we are all in this together. In this writing craze. We are all in love with writing, storytelling, we are all in love with books. And that’s a big love to share.

But back to the books. Self-publishing is such a drag, man. I wish that there was a whole team to take over and settle everything related to publishing, while I could just…um…I don’t know, write? Yeah, that would be nice. Because self-publishing means the writer is forced to become a one-person-publishing-house. That’s a big load for one pair of shoulders to carry. Especially, the frail shoulders of a petite woman (yes, I’m short!). I might have sharp little elbows, but I’m not strong enough to elbow my way to the top of the indie publishing summit. Plus…there’s always the dark little voice hissing “your books suck, that’s why they don’t sell…” in my ear. How can I boast about my books with full confidence when there’s no confidence? And, yeah, I fake confidence once in a while. Especially after the second glass of cheap champagne…

They say – write good stuff, and the word of mouth will provide the sales. Yeah. Maybe my stories are not as good as I think. Maybe the love for my books and the Dunning-Kruger effect or whatever makes me feel good about my storytelling. I am still new-ish to the world of writing.

But if by any chance, you find my books any good – please, write a short review on Amazon, or Goodreads. Give a couple of shiny stars. Maybe it will make a difference. Maybe you’ll help someone else discover my books. And maybe -just maybe – one of my books might become someone else’s favorite book. That would be freaking awesome! I know, I know, many hate Amazon, and it takes time and shit, but, please, make my day a bit happier by leaving that short review. All feedback is welcome. Even a one-star review is better than nothing.

“Nothing” means the book is dead. No interest, no progress. It doesn’t live on. Make it live. Your eyes, reading the book, make it come to life line by line.

Yes, I am being pathetic, and shameless, and annoying, whatever I might be, buy my books! Pretty please? Because I wrote them myself, NO AI involved, I hired a professional editor to clean up the mistakes, I designed the covers myself, I did the formatting (which I suck at, so the formatting is a bit weird and clunky, I am sorry). Because I want you to smile. I want you to cry. I want you to feel something. Books are little treasure chests full of emotions. I want to share my treasure with you. Why? I wish I knew why…

It has begun to rain outside, so I must run and take the clean (and hopefully still dry!) laundry inside… Just the reality of an indie author. Every sold book makes me smile. Each sold book brings a little sunshine into my everyday reality, even if it rains.

Previously:

Part one

Part two

Aereus woke up to a sight so strange and unfamiliar to his young eyes, he stared for quite a while blinking and trying to gather his thoughts. What he saw was a pair of beautiful dark eyes full of everlasting starlight. How was it possible?

“Do you always sleep like that?” A soft voice broke into his drowsy mind.

“What?”

“The sword. Do you always hold it in your sleep?”

Indeed, Aereus was holding his sword in a tight embrace. He had been sleeping for what felt like days.

“Where am I?” He thought out loud whilst getting up.

“Still here, in my humble shack, young warrior. You slept for whole two days and nights, and I see you are well enough to walk,” said Crane, the Birdling healer. Aereus made a few steps but immediately felt light-headed, and the sword he leaned upon kept him from falling once again.
“Sit! Sit and eat, young Aereus. Your friend has already eaten; she’s been up for a while,” said Crane.
“She’s not my friend,” Aereus retorted quetly, gathering his strength for another attempt to get up. However Ani, the Autumnian woman was quicker. She brought him a plate of stew, and a cup of water.
Thought reluctant, he took it mumbling “thank you”, and barely raising his eyes up to her. Aereus could not bear to see her - she was beautiful, slender, tawny and her steps light and graceful. Only a short tunic she wore, given by Crane.
“Eat up. I must leave you two, but I will return. You are safe here. But should you ever leave this shack, you won’t be able to return. Keep that in mind!” And with it Crane shut the door behind her. Aereus could swear he heard a crane bird’s cry above the shack.
He ate in stubborn silence but felt Ani’s eyes on him all the while. She examined his short copper-colored hair, his blue eyes, his muscled frame showing through the sheer linen shirt Crane had given him.

“Her Birdling magic is strong,” Ani said cautiously.

“Magic is dark business. I wish to know nothing of it,” Aereus said with his mouth full. The stew was good, he felt incredibly hungry, and Hebenians despised magic.

“Crane’s magic saved our lives. I have a suspicion this whole shack is enchanted. We must trust her words and not leave until we are well-enough,” Ani pondered out loud. The sound of her voice was pleasant, though Aereus did not want to admit it.

“I don’t trust folks meddling with magic. Birdlings, Autumnians… Where sorcery is involved, there cannot be trust,” he muttered with his eyes cast downward.

Ani gave a melodious laugh which made sweat break out on his back, though he didn’t understand why. Aereus gave her a bewildered look.

“You may not trust Crane or me, but I do trust you, warrior. You saved my life without asking anything in return. I am grateful.” She spoke softly, her big dark eyes were full of tears.

“You owe me nothing. Not even gratitude,” Aereus blushed like never before, staring at his own bare feet. “I have been taught to respect women with all my heart and protect them with all my strength.”

Ani kept smiling, while she walked up to take Aereus’ empty plate. She set it aside, asking, “may I take a look? I have grown up with the swords my father made but I have never seen a Hebenian sword.”

Without knowing any better, Aereus handed her the sword. She took it out the scabbard, and examined it expertly, giving the sword a masterful swing.

“You do know swords!” Aereus exclaimed with surprise.

“You may not believe me, warrior, but at least you do trust me,” Ani said, smiling.

“What?” Aereus did not understand.

“If a warrior trusts one with his sword…” Ani winked at him, returning the sword.

Aereus sat silent and stunned for quite a while. Indeed, why did he trust an Autumnian, the enemy of his forefathers, with his sword?!

***

Was it Crane’s magic or the magic of youth, or maybe the mysterious ingredients of the drink Crane kept giving the two, but they felt strong and well within a couple of days. Aereus secretly observed Ani but could not understand why his cheeks burned every time his eyes glided over the curves of her body. Nay, he should not! Ani was an Autumnian, his mortal enemy. But both her beauty, and her demeanour was completely the opposite of what Aereus had ever heard of Autumnian women. They are sluts from birth, they said. Dumb, ugly, shameless snakes.

Ani was nothing like it! Beautiful, soft-spoken, diligent…she was a bit shameless though. Aereus smiled to himself – her shamelessness made his heart race in a pleasant kind of way.

“What are you staring at, warrior?” Ani had wakened while he daydreamed.

“Nothing!” Aereus blurted out, “Crane’s been gone for a long while. I shall go outside and look around,” he attempted to change the subject.

Indeed, their host came and went when she pleased. Crane brought them food and gave them her potion but this time she had been gone longer than before. It was late morning; she had left in the dark of the night.

“I do long to go outside but Crane warned us…” said Ani.

The tiny window of the shack and the flames of the hearth had been their only source of light.

“You may stay and wait here,” Aereus suggested.

“No, no, I do not wish to stay alone.”

Aereus was lucky enough not to leave his sword behind, because the moment the two stepped over the porch of the shack, a strong wind came out of nowhere. Ani shrieked, holding onto Aereus with all her might – so tremendous was the power of the wind. Dust, twigs, and even small rocks hit them, but when the wind was gone, so was the shack.

Thank you for reading! Read part four HERE

Previously: Part 1

He was dead. Dead and gone to the underworld as a punishment for the carelessness of his young heart. He had laughed at the perils of war. He never listened to the warning of the old when he marched into battle laughing, singing, and whistling. He slaughtered men who had done no harm to him, soldiers just like him, sent to murder strangers for a war they’d never started.

Aereus had imagined the underworld, the place for the souls so dark even the Foreverold had cursed them, might be exactly what he woke up to – darkness reeking of smoke, pain in his every limb, devious memories full of regret riddling his weary mind. A whole eternity of these tormented minutes lay ahead of him. The only item puzzling Aereus was the hilt of the sword he could grasp near him. Why was he allowed to carry his sword into the underworld?

“A sword both takes and gives the strength to a warrior. That is why,” a woman’s voice replied to his question, because Aereus had said it out loud without noticing. She got up from the dark corner of the shack she was sitting in, for it indeed was not underworld, but merely a small wooden shack. “You have a warrior’s heart. A sword gives you strength to find your way. But today – you must rest.” The woman stirred a pot hanging above glowing embers of the hearth. Whatever she was brewing, it obviously demanded a slow and gentle touch of heat.

“Who are you? Where’s the… the Autumnian woman?” Aereus said, attempting to get up. Yet his strength failed him, and he would’ve fallen back onto the bedding if not for the sword he used to steady himself.

“Be still, young warrior,” the old woman said, smiling. “She is weak but alive. Your struggles paid off.”

“What do you know of my struggles?” Aereus muttered under his nose, making a futile attempt to get up. He lost balance and fell back onto the bedding.

“The Foreverold is punishing me for disrespecting an elderly woman,” Aereus said bitterly.

“The Foreverold is punishing you for being a hasty young fool,” the woman snickered. “You must rest now.”

Aereus let his restless gaze wander around the place, searching for the woman. She lay on the other side of the dimly lit shack, and Aereus could hardly see her features. Yet, her chest was rising and falling. The old woman hadn’t lied, Ani was alive.

The old woman kept stirring whatever it was in the pot.

“I shall leave her here with you, medicine woman. My path leads westward,” Aereus said plainly. He had no desire to spend more time on enemy’s ground.

“I am a Birdling Healer, a medicine woman indeed. My name is Crane, and you are not leaving this shack until you’re strong enough, Hebenian warrior!” She said giving the youngster a firm stare.

“Birdling? Avem is far away from here,” Aereus pondered, staring at the ceiling. It was covered with bunches of healing plants like a ghastly upside-down meadow. “Why can’t you take care of the woman? I cannot help her anymore.”

“I have somewhere else to be soon. I follow the will of the Foreverold. Shall you leave an unguarded woman in the wilderness?”

Aereus kept his silence spitefully but after a short while forced out, “I cannot,” through his teeth. “She was unguarded on the battlefield!” he added as if to justify his silence.

“I was not…” a soft voice said. Ani the Autumnian woman was awake.

“You said it was not your choice? Why…? Where was your father?” Aereus’ own voice sounded much softer than before. He did not know why. Maybe the misery the two had shared tripping over dead bodies for hours in the cold and darkness had softened his heart toward the woman.

“He died… shielding me on that battlefield. A blacksmith, he was… I knew swords. I did not know battle…”Ani took a deep breath, “when soldiers came to our forge, father disguised me as a boy.”

“Why?” Aereus nearly yelled. What kind of a father would do that?

The old woman chuckled, stirring the pot.

“Even a youngster like you must’ve heard what Autumnian soldiers do to women they meet on their path?”

Aereus blushed in the darkness. Indeed, he knew of these despicable deeds. Autumnian soldiers had no respect for women, even the ones living on their land.

“They saw a young boy and his father… they took us to the battle straight from the forge.”

“Enough talking! It is time to heal the wounds, not rip them open,” said Crane, poured a foul-smelling potion from the pot into two clay cups. She helped Ani up, and made her drink the cup empty. The poor girl shivered from disgust.

“What is that? It’s terrible!” Ani squealed.

“I see you are feeling better, young lady. Good,” Crane said smiling, “now your turn, warrior.”

Out of all drinks Aereus had the chance to taste in his eighteen summers, this was the worst. He swallowed without complaining yet could not hide the childish disgust on his face. He noticed Ani smiling at him.

“And what is in it?” Aereus asked to draw attention away from his blushing cheeks. It was dark in the shack, but he could not be sure she didn’t notice.

“You do not want to know, youngsters. I can promise, however, you will feel better in no time. With your wounds treated, all you need to do now is rest,” Crane said with a nod. She began to hum a melody, a soothing lullaby sung in a bird’s voice. Her long, white hair had a silver glow to them, her voice took Aereus into the realm of dreams. Aereus fell asleep with Ani’s dark eyes looking at him over the dying embers, and the hilt of his sword he held tightly in his hand. If it were indeed the underworld, he thought, Aereus would gladly suffer an eternity such as this.

Thank you for reading! Read Part Three here

Ahh, typos! The tiny pests that haunt every writer’s nightmares. Also, the things that keep us up at nights editing, revising, proofreading ad nauseum. The thing that made me pop out the shower mid-way because I realized I published a story with a glaring typo. So, without further ado, meet my new archnemesis - a typo named…

…Moody boots.

I published a story yesterday for hundreds of strangers on the internet to read. Today I re-read it (don’t even try to deny it - you too probably marvel over your creations whenever you get a like. Aaaah, quality content, right? Wrong!)

What I saw was a glaring typo. Moody boots instead of muddy boots. Not “moddy boots”. Not “muudy boots”. No. It had to be “moody boots”. A real word out of place, so that the Word autocorrect couldn’t catch it.

Anybody who has ever published something on the internet must know the utter embarrassment of discovering a typo (or ten!) after publishing. Not before. Not even during the last revisions. No. AFTER. That’s the main rule of typos — only show their ugly little faces AFTER the author has published their darling creation. May it be an essay or a short note, or even a book. Typos know no mercy.

Most of the typos festering in my work have been nonsensical, although once in a while I’ve been fortunate enough to spot true gems. Like the aforementioned “moody boots”. Another one I actually loved, and even used in a short story afterward was “tasting my strength”. What I meant to write was, of course, “testing my strength”. But this one I found fascinating, and even somewhat sensual. So, Kathrine did what Kathrine does, and she included this phrase in a love scene, where a man makes love to a woman he loves, after they had been holding back their sexual desires for quite a while. It only made sense he’s “tasting his strength” because he’s clearly finally enjoying the process. The story, by the way, has been published on Substack, but I’ve removed it, because I plan to publish a collection of male-centred short stories, with this story “Glitter man” as its crown jewel. So, keep your eyes open, this story collection is becoming a book in a few months! Which means a bunch of stories on my Substack will go behind a paywall. Get ‘em while you can, boys and girls!

Anyways, I digressed.

Typos indeed don’t know mercy. I despise most of them. Because they make me look like an incompetent fool. But maybe I am? Maybe these tiny, cursed morsels of doom are tools to humble the arrogant writer? Typos are sent to remind us we are but fools pretending to know what the fuck we’re doing. We don’t. We might think we do. I think God looks at our efforts and thinks, “oh, isn’t that cute? You think you’re a brilliant writer, buddy? Think again! Learn. Never stop learning. Be humble. Where do you think your best ideas come from? Your genius brain? Ha! Here’s a handful of typos to remind you who is the one you should thank.”

Now, I, as a non-native English speaker might go super woke and use my “victim card” as a marginalized writer and expect all my typos and mistakes to be forgiven just because. But I don’t. I don’t mention it before every piece I publish, and many readers have told me they were truly surprised to find out I wasn’t American. I don’t want the readers to judge me gentler because of my background. True equality doesn’t mean lowering the bar of quality so that everybody can reach it. Quite the contrary. Equality means everybody has a chance to raise the quality of their work to fit the same high standard. What the woke are doing with their “equity” is raising a nation of losers. Nobody is forced to better themselves to reach high goals, because the goals are so low and easy to reach, so that every lazy ass loser can reach them. Everybody gets a participation trophy. Even criticizing those who use AI to “write” is considered ableist, because - boohooo- the lazyass, thick loser who didn’t learn the craft in school, and is “too tired” to wreck his brain after work also wants to become a bestselling author.

Fuck that. Ama go full-on rant mode now. Hold on to your hats, cowboys. KATHRINE THE STORM is coming…

To those using “I’m too tired. Too un-educated. Disabled. Divergent.” victim card to excuse their use of AI to generate text. Because it’s not writing. It’s fucking “text-generating”.

Most of the writers I know write in their spare time. After work. After school. At night. When the kids are asleep. Oh, you say it’s hard????! Fuck yeah, it’s hard! That’s why their work has value. That’s why they are good at it. Because their time is too precious to write bad shit.

Don’t fucking get me started on hard! I wrote while nursing my new-born, at 3:00am, exhausted, in pain. Why? Because I fucking love doing it. I will die on this hill - A WRITER SHOULD LOVE WRITING. If they don’t - they ain’t better than the AI-using TWATS, who dare to call themselves writers.

Oh, so you lack education?! How do those WokeFolks love to say?! EDUCATE YOURSELF! There’s a full internet of writing tutorials. For free. But it takes work and patience to learn. AHhh, poor dear! No excuse for your laziness.

You’re disabled? We will always be limited by our physical and mental abilities. I might be a reasonably healthy woman, but I know damn well I will never become a professional basketball player. Not even when I was younger. Because I’m short. So, as sad as it may be, I can never do it. Yes, it’s tough, but we have our limits. No AI can substitute the true ability to write. And if you happen to be unable to type, but you have good story ideas - cooperate with a writer! Or an artist. Create a graphic novel together. Not with AI but with a real human being. It will only add value to your work!

Divergent? No excuse to use AI. There are plenty of neurodivergent writers on Substack who are successful without using AI. Not an excuse at all!

This whole “AI” issue brings me neatly back to the typos. They might seem like a curse, but nowadays, they’re a blessing! Typos, mistakes are a good proof the story is written by a real human being. Not generated by a computer brain. Real human sat, wrecked their human brain, typed down the words, made some typos and mistakes along the way. Missed some when editing. And published the story anyway. It’s real, it’s genuine. Typos make us human. Typos are a proof of authenticity. Or sloppiness if there’s lots of them. Either way, there’s a certain charm in finding a typo. It’s humbling for the author, and heart-warming for the reader. I always forgive typos when I see them. Because the author is just a human being trying their best to write. Often tired, sick, depressed, busy. But they wrote it anyway.

So, don’t scold yourselves too hard for the typos. Don’t judge other writers too hard. We never know what it took from them to write. What was the reason they made that stupid typo. Typos are just little reminders that we are all human.

P.s. I do recommend - if you see a typo or a mistake and want to correct the author, please be discreet! Never correct them in public comments. DM them if possible! I myself feel terrible when somebody decides to correct me publicly, even if it was well-meant. Public critique of the story or essay is welcome but technical corrections - please, in private.

This is a fantasy short story I’ve been working on lately. Fantasy is indeed my comfort zone. I’ve planned 2 parts of this story but if part 2 turns out too long, you lucky readers will get a part 3.

The war had no beginning and no end. It was everlasting like the blood moon rising above the silent battlefield. Bodies upon bodies, enemies, friends, soldiers, unfortunate travellers, it didn’t matter. All bled their lives out just the same. The earth did not care where the blood came from. Its thirst was never quenched; the cursed land of Autumna demanded more blood, and so the forges roared, and the swords clinked, and soldiers marched on and on into the loving arms of the thirsty earth.

“Damn you! Damn you, Autumnians! I hope you rot! I hope…I hope you rot on your dirty land!” A young soldier screamed into the deafening silence, whilst limping onward, tripping over body parts, and bloodied weapons on the ground. He had barely pulled his own wounded body up, yet he would not give into the arms of death, tempting him to lay down his sword, remain on the muddy earth, and fall asleep forever. “I hope the Foreverold curses your souls to rot inside these dead bodies! Damn you, land of eternal-autumn! You are the land of eternal-death!”

Not a single of his brothers-in-arms had survived. And it appeared, the Autumnians had deserted their dying soldiers. It was a cowards’ victory; no cheers rose above the battlefield. The handful of the “victorious” Autumnians still standing upright, retreated into the moors like shadows.

Aereus heard it all. After they had beaten him over the head, he lay in the mud, wounded leg, half awake, he closed his eyes, for the young soldier had no strength to rise. He heard his friends and brothers, gurgling with their throats cut open, shaking in agony near him on the ground. He heard the battle cries, the wails of pain, he heard the swords clashing…

Oh, how different the voices sounded on the battlefield! How they had risen exulting when they marched to battle! How they laughed at the old men shaking their heads – war is no game, lads – they said. Aereus, a young man of eighteen summers, laughed at the old men. Youth knew nothing of scars left by war. The ones unseen by the eyes.

Hours passed with him shivering under the Autumnian rain, half-conscious, slowly bleeding out into the mud. No, Aereus had thought, he promised mother, he shall not die on the damn land of Autumna. Aereus pulled himself up, leaning on his sword, and dragged his feet onward. If he is bound to die, he shall die on the blessed land of his forefathers – on the land of Hebenum. He shall let the magnificent black oaks drink his blood; he would become the earth that feeds their emerald-green leaves.

The moon shone brighter than ever, drawing every mangled body, every cut face, every open wound sharper in silver and black. Aereus had seen so much, he could not cry another tear. The first hours he limped onward; he couldn’t stop his eyes from crying salty tears all over his dirty face. Thought the clouds had cleared the nighttime sky, and the rain ceased to fall, Aereus wished for the dark to cover this patch of land, only to hide the pointless cruelty of death under the heavy blanket of black. The merciful night would tuck the dead bodies in the darkness like a caring mother, instead the cruel moon revealed the foolishness of men in sharp detail.

Death had no end. All Aereus saw were fields and fields of bodies, drowning in the mud. His own feet sunk ankle -deep in it if he stood long enough. Onward, due west, he had to move or die. Each heavy step took him closer to his grave on the blessed land of home.

Aereus gave an inhuman cry of despair, he was in pain, exhausted, freezing-cold, he could not lift his feet high enough to step over another corpse in his way. He tripped over it, cursing and screaming.

“Where are you Foreverold?! Have you no power in this damned land?”

The corpse he tripped over moved, and moaned something vaguely resembling “Foreverold, have mercy”, in a feeble voice.

Alive! Aereus raised his body up just enough to realize – it was a very young Autumnian boy, with his helmet still on. The young one moaned in pain.

An intense feeling of hate, disgust, and pity overflooded Aereus’ chest.

He got up, leaning on his sword, though it sunk into the muddy ground.

“I will show you mercy, Autumnian!” he grunted. Was it not a good cause – to end the youth’s suffering, and revenge Aereus’ brothers’ honour?

“What’s your name?” Aereus asked, before he raised his sword over the boy’s throat. He pushed the helmet off the boy’s head with his muddy boot, to see the neck clearly. “Your suffering shall be short.”

“Ani,” a soft moan reached Aereus’ ears.

“But...but you’re a woman!” he yawped in shock.

She did not reply. She opened her eyes wide in pure terror and despair, and Aereus saw a myriad of stars reflecting in them. Was it some Autumnian sorcery or his tired vision played tricks on him, but he saw a whole sky full of stars in her eyes.

“A woman has no business on the battlefield. Autumnian scum know no decency,” Aereus muttered whilst kneeling near her, and examining her visible wounds.

“Please, do not… touch me…” she whispered but Aereus ignored her request. He began stripping her off the armour, struggling with his stiff, battle-scared hands shaking.

“Mercy… please, in the name of the Foreverold, show mercy… please, kill me.”

Aereus kept fidgeting with the armour until the very last piece of it was off the woman’s body. Afterward, he ripped a piece from his own shirt, and tied it firmly around the woman’s bleeding thigh – it appeared to be the main reason of her blood loss.

Aereus could not in his right mind grasp the reason why would Autumnians send a woman to war! Were they desperate, apart from being simply despicable?

“Please, do not take my virtue!” she begged, after he examined her half – naked body, only a linen shirt, and a pair of torn breeches covering it.

“What do you Autumnians know of virtue? I’ve heard none of the Autumnian women are virtuous. They say you are born dirty,” Aereus muttered under his nose, tying another strip of his shirt around her bleeding wrist.

“I’ve heard, Hebenian men are born fools, “ she said, and her weary voice was full of spite.

“This fool is helping you, so I suggest you shut your mouth, woman!” Aereus snapped, but added afterward, “where’s your father? Huh? Why would he let his daughter go into battle? That, indeed, is a fool!”

“Dead,” she said, and closed her eyes. Aereus shook his head in remorse yet said nothing.

“I will help you up, but you must hold onto me.”

He did not have the strength to carry her, for which Aereus felt quite ashamed. Enemy or not, he was taught not to leave a woman in danger.

“Where…?”

“I shall leave you in the first safe place I’ll find. Your wounds need to be treated. A woman has no place on the battlefield,” he repeated.

“I did not choose it,” she whispered, and spoke no more because both began to struggle onward, over the corpses, away from the stench of metal and blood, whilst their feet kept sinking in the thick mud. Every step was a battle against pain, weariness, and grief, every step seemed heavier than the one before.

They walked on for many dark hours, slowly making their way out the battlefield. The frozen land gave way to an early spring unexpectedly. Hebenian soldiers had broken deep into the land of Autumna because of the frosts. The land of forever-autumn, as they called it, was covered in swamps, the moorland was unsafe to travel during summer. Autumnians knew the right paths to attack, whilst Hebenians only knew that the frozen land was their entrance into this cursed land to return the favour. A war of revenge, a long, tiresome war, leaving both kingdoms to bleed slowly, one excruciating year after another. The war of revenge was as pointless, as it was everlasting.

As the dawn drew nearer, and the moon drowned in the milky sea of fog rising from the moors, Aereus had dragged both himself and the woman, Ani, out the battlefield. The land beneath their feet grew firmer, and the two moved further westward. But when the fog overtook the land, Aereus lost all sense of direction. Ani shook in a feverish state, her wounds were deep, cursed by the dirt of the rotting swamp.

He was exhausted to death. Aereus lay his burden down.

“Leave me. Leave me to die.”

Aereus looked at her – the fog got thicker by the minute. Her face was nearly erased by the misty dawn, blurring all into grey. He wished to leave her, yet he could not.

He got up, pulled Ani up one last time, and dragged his feet onward, whispering “Foreverold, have mercy,” under his tired breath.

They walked on, until he saw a tiny, warm light in the fog. May it be a friend of foe, Aereus did not care. Either way it was a blessing – Autmnians might show mercy to one of their own, and grant Aereus a quick death.

He gathered the last remains of his strength and moved toward the light.

It was a tall old woman holding a lantern. She looked like the mist itself had birthed her – long hair of white, eyes black as the night, pale skin, clothes of grey – Aereus saw she was not an Autumnian. He did not ask anything. All he could do was lay Ani and himself on the ground by the old woman’s feet and wait for whatever fate he would deserve.

Read Part 2 here

Thank you for reading!

Spring is the best time for love letters, isn’t it? Love is in the air, and all that nonsense… I’ve been cradling this in my heart for quite a while, a bundle of warmth I kept safe from the ruthless hands of the world that rips apart everything sacred, everything pure, everything whole. They call it deconstruction. I call it simply destruction. Because do these great “deconstruct-ors” ever put together what they’d disassembled?

It is time to share my love with the world.

Because I think true love is a source of inspiration for all those capable of feeling love. I want to share the pure warmth pouring out my heart with you. Rip it apart if you must.

This is a love letter to a book. Not just the story it contains within its aged and frail pages but the book as an item. This book has its own story. Its own scent. Its own journey. And it has become ever so dear to me. It helped me grow, and become who I am. It taught me, comforted me, inspired me, it woke the dreamer in me. Now it is time to show my admiration and gratitude to the book I love the most.

Love is a silly thing, some might even call it childish. Even more so, love toward a children’s book. Because that’s what J.R.R.Tolkien’s book “The Hobbit” is considered to be. A children’s book. I’m not ashamed to admit I love it. I do not fear of being called silly or childish. An almost 40-year-old still reading children’s books? Are you retarded? Some might say. Go, read some Dostoyevsky, birdbrain! Grow some intellectual muscle!

To which I would reply, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Hm… I wonder who said it?! Oh, yes. It was God.

My love for this simple book began even before I could read. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised.

It was the year of 1991. My small Eastern European country had barely shaken off the shackles of USSR. Culture was breaking out the 50-year curse of Marxism. Finally, the books forbidden by the tyrannical regime were free to be translated and published in my native language.

I was a five-year-old kid when my Mom gave me this strange book for my Birthday. I had only seen proper (and allowed!) kiddy books in my short life. But this book? It was something else. It was huge, it was weird, it was a book for “big kids”. It had a proper hand-drawn map of a magical world. It had mostly text, and only a few illustrations for a kids’ book. It was the strangest thing. After I had skimmed through it with my little fingers, I found it wasn’t just a book. It was a magical artefact. I didn’t know how to read it, yet there was something about it. Something unforgettable. I would look at the pictures, feel the velvet-soft paper touching my fingers, inhale the scent of magic.

My mother never read it to me. She knew the story well. She was the one to introduce me to “The Lord of the Rings” years later. Even though my mother always seemed emotionally distant, and we were not close, I think she knew my soul.

For a couple of years, I drifted away from “The Hobbit”. Other stories were more colourful, simpler, thus more appealing to a young child. I returned to this book in my early teens, and I fell in love forever. Everything about this book was perfect. The language, the worldbuilding, the subtle humour, the characters, the elves… I was there. In Rivendell, in Mirkwood… I knew the taste of Beorn’s honey, I knew the despair of Bilbo in the Gollum’s cave. I was there. And I came back there every year. I think, I used to re-read The Hobbit every year until adult life came crashing over my young head. But I never forgot my first love. My forever love toward Tolkien’s stories.

This particular book had survived many re-reads with me sitting on the balcony of my Grandmother’s house. The branches of the old apple tree shielding me from the real world, while I walked the paths of Middle Earth I knew so well. Following Bilbo, my favourite fictional character. Did I say fictional? To me, he is more than fiction. He is a part of me, because I too am a hobbit in everything but size.

And the illustrations. The wonderful stories captured in watercolour by our very own artist Laima Eglīte. Beautiful, whimsical, mysterious, detailed. She added so much soul to this story. All the little details she added. I think she truly captured the spirit of Middle Earth in her art. My imagination had been formed by this art. I don’t think artists can ever imagine what impact their creations leave on the minds and souls of those who love their art. Soulful writing, art, poetry indeed is the hand of God touching us.

I only wish I could become a tool in God’s hands, and the stories and art He creates through me would touch hearts, minds, and souls of others, giving them something beautiful, something exciting, something they can take with them throughout their lives. A bundle of light and warmth to help them walk on the dark and cold paths. Just like this book has helped me. It taught me the power of a good story. It taught me to dream, and walk lands that only appear when I let my imagination loose. The freedom to imagine something beyond me, yet still alive and real inside me.

I am sorry if this all sounds nonsensical. But love doesn’t have to make sense. It’s childish, it’s cringey, it’s a tired old cliché. And yet without it our lives are pointless.

May it be something as simple as a love toward a book. A beautiful beautiful story for children, in which adults can find great wisdom. True wisdom knows the humility of kneeling by a child, and telling them a complicated story using the simplest, most heartfelt words.

I believe, Tolkien was an excellent tool in God’s hands. For it God has given him the love of millions, and a name that will never be slayed or surpassed. No one will surpass Tolkien unless they can love God more than Tolkien did. And that, I think, is impossible. Therefore, I bow my head to the Professor. I thank God for this simple, childish book. I thank God for the people who did their best to translate, illustrate, and print it in my small country, because many years ago a little girl got it for her Birthday, and it made her fall in love with fantasy storytelling forever.

*image stolen from the internet. I can’t be bothered with details today.

I’ve been…um…struggling with confidence lately. That is, the confidence in my stories, or in my so called “voice” in general. When people you respect tell you to shut up, fuck off, and don’t let the door hit your ass on your way out, yeah…not cool.

But then something shifted. The air changed, the numbers began growing again, the sun shone clearer, and the skies smiled at my tears. Maybe it was all a purge, a test, or a Substack initiation process to step over the magic 1k threshold… The skies smiled, they seemed to say Silly little thing. Silly woman, you! Why are you crying? Go, write! Look, look, you reached that milestone you thought you never will!

Milestones are the weirdest things. I hardly ever share them. Well…well, apart from when I amuse myself with counting the likes on the monsters I created. That’s a game I play just for fun. Let’s call it my guilty pleasure.

I dislike when others share their subscriber count. Why? Because it’s a dirty game. Now, don’t go scoffing, my friend, let me explain! If one shares their subscriber number on Notes it usually means one of two things – they want to brag, or they want more subs. Yeah, yeah, don’t give me that “I just wanted to thank my subs…” Bullshit! The best way to do it is directly – in your newsletter, going straight into their mailboxes. Most of my subs don’t even use Notes regularly. I bet most of the people you want to “thank” won’t even see your Note.

Ha ha ha, jokes on me! Look, what you made me do - I shared my 1k milestone joy. Okay, I get the whole “I felt like sharing the joy” thing now. I reached a milestone; I could not ignore. I finally reached 1k subscribers. THANK YOU SO MUCH!

But does it mean anything? What does it mean? Honestly, nothing. Because this is a number. It changes daily. What’s really meaningful about this are the readers. The people behind the numbers that really read my work. People who care. People who maybe even like what I write.

It’s breathtaking, isn’t it? The realization that somebody read something you have written, and they actually liked it. Maybe even shared it with their friends. Maybe even read it twice!

Milestones mean nothing. I know there is no 1k people reading my stories or essays regularly. But if it’s even a fraction of this jolly bunch who enjoy reading my little monsters, my little scribblings, that’s bigger than any milestone, any subscriber count.

So, roll out the red carpet for the VIP – YOUR READER. Readers are what make or break us, miserable scribblers. Not milestones, or dollars, or whatever metric you choose to make yourself even more miserable with.

I am grateful to everyone who reads my fiction or essays. Thank you. You make me what I am – a writer (damn, I said it).

Scrolling is useless. I feel it severely today. I feel it my chest. Hollow. The images, the words rolling over the surface of my eyes leave me hollow. Most of it is noise. It’s empty, it’s stolen, none of it is real. Stolen images, stolen quotes, answers to the questions I haven’t asked. None of it feeds my soul. I have been starving it with fast food, it gives those quick dopamine calories but leaves the soul tired and hollow afterward.

Tangled anger, mangled thoughts of hunger, searching for meaning in a meaningless mix of words, all to feel something. A paradox – scrolling is a never ending richness that leaves the soul poor, emptier than it was an hour ago. What are we searching for?

Scrolling is an escalator. It gives the illusion of ascension, while all it does is go in circles. Round and round, empty loops taking you places while you haven’t moved an inch. Another hour killed. Another hour you’ll never get back.

I set out in search of soulfood. I found meaning in places, faces, and meaningless moments. I went to church. I took photos of trees. I pushed my kid in the swing. I sat in the silence of an empty train platform. I closed my eyes, and let the sunshine fill my soul. I pealed potatoes and carrots. Oil, salt, and thyme. I had lunch with my family in a tiny, crammed kitchen. Not washing the dishes today. Lazy bones, snugging under a warm blanket. Tea by the kitchen table. Tea by the desk. Tea by the window, greeting the gentle nightfall. Sapphire darkness embraced the sunset softly. I absorbed the beauty through a dirty kitchen window. More tea. I ate a sweet banana. I sat down to write. My tea gone cold, as usual. I had no words. The blank page stared at me curiously. Write something, Kathrine! It said.

I saw God today. He was dying, nailed to a wooden cross. I didn’t see his face; I was too far. But there, in the distance, I saw Him. Tiny, helpless. Was my God lost? I think He was scared. Scared He might fail. And yet, He never gave up.

He never gave up on me. He said, “I need you”. Yeah, He said it today. I heard Him loud and clear, while I was cleaning the kitchen counter. I didn’t know what to reply. I had no words. Breadcrumbs in my open palm. Useless, tired. Not enough to feed a soul. Scared to fail because I’m just a tiny human being. Scared to fail yet I won’t give up. My tiny God on the wooden cross never gave up on me. I can’t let Him down. I will serve.

Scrolling is useless. I’m addicted to the hollow screen. What did I take with me from the hundred images, and thousand words I scrolled through today?

The world has lost its mind! The emptiest of pursuits is dressed as searching for wisdom. Golden chains pierced through my eyelids, chaining me to the shining phone screen. A dopamine slave, sedated, yet anxious. Unmoved, yet restless.

Scrolling is useless. Go out. Read a book. Find God. Go, live. Don’t touch grass. Lay in it. Breathe it. Dig your fingers into the earth. Don’t hug trees. Kiss them. Trees are amazing. Don’t stare at the sun. Absorb it. Be where you are. Be present.

The sapphire zombie

The sky rains beauty tonight. Sapphire veins bleeding drops of stardust. I’ll speak my mind, I must! Afterward I’ll lay back into the silence, my dead flesh turning into dust. Ashes mixed with mud. The black earth drinks my crimson blood. I’ll rise again to speak, and I’ll die again, if I must. The sapphire sky rains into me. I’ll gladly die again for truth, for beauty, and for honesty. Tenderly, tenderly, the blood-stained plastic wrapping me. I don’t care. I no longer breathe; I no longer care. Broken lines of dirty plastic tangle around me. I die, I live for you to see – love never dies. The zombie dreams eternally. Until the day you learn to see me.

Gentle suffering

The sky rained beauty tonight. I looked up and saw it falling down on me – a shower of meteors shimmering in the sapphire-blue sky. I knew I would die if I stayed. Still, I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to escape. This was my death; I will die beautifully. Buried in stardust, my heart would bleed under the shining majesty of the celestial tears. I don’t have a single fear. The beauty rains down on me, I suffer just a little, I die gently, overpowered by beauty.

I’m not from around here

I fell into the void of a sapphire atmosphere, the life-saving cocoon wrapping me became a casket made of fire. Burning me, failing to protect what it had created. I grew within it while I flew for lightyears, a pearly seed hidden in layers of silk. I grew while my tiny vessel carried me to the place the cocoon was meant to birth me into life – a fully grown creature, a new-born alien developed from a single seed. A shower of meteors took my vessel hostage, slammed, and dragged me into the atmosphere I was never meant to enter. The cocoon burned and peeled off me like layers of ash cooled by the sapphire atmosphere. I fell as light as a feather, I landed gently, not a grass stem I bent. Yet they came with daggers of light digging into my eyes. I’m not from around here, I said, but they didn’t understand my language of silent pleading. I didn’t know I could cry. But when they took me to their government lab, and stabbed my skin with needles, a single black tear marked my pearly cheek. They tested my new-born form, and I saw them for what they were - cruel children discovering death, whilst playing with life. A wicked game they called ‘science experiments’, not to feel guilty for the pain they caused. They never knew the pain was deadly to my alien body. I dissolved into tiny particles of stardust, slipping through their rubber-gloved fingers, then my dust collapsed into nothingness, leaving them with nothing tangible. My gentle passing left them disappointed they lost a trophy to display in a formalin casket.

Flawless

Does truth ever die? I know what I saw. I spoke the truth. I saw it fall from the sky – a casket glowing in the evening sky like a pearl, particles of burning rubble glittering around it. I was perfect, a flawless liar because when they offer you the choice between a stack of money and a gun to your head, you choose the lie. Nobody wanted the truth, they were perfectly fine with lies. Their perfect world would not be disrupted with the inconvenience of truth. They’d kill for their world to stay flawless. I never wanted to die. So, I lied, just like they made me. There was no alien ship falling from the sky that night. I was out of my mind, it was all a dream, a fantasy, a nightmare, a hallucination, it was anything but reality. My lies were not enough because even the best lies cannot kill the truth. Nothing can. They came to my house. Filled the bathtub with water and tried to drown the truth in it. When the local Sherriff found a woman’s corpse in the river, they asked no questions. My dead, bloated face with mascara running down the eyes, did not give the truth out. Yet, the truth cannot be killed. The Sherriff looked up at the sapphire sky. I wasn’t the only one who saw the burning cocoon falling. I wasn’t the only one labelled death by suicide in this town.

Numbers

Is death a number? A combination of signs counting into eternity, a never-ending rhythm pulsing in my brain. I thought I could escape. They say, there’s safety in numbers. I counted on it. I counted the stars. I counted every fallen star and wished upon it. I counted my every step. I lived a quiet life of no significance. I was careful, I was quiet, I was nearly invisible. Yet they took me with a number of others. Because we were insignificant. Because we were nearly invisible, because nobody would miss us. Nobody misses a number of young girls with nothing more to offer but their flesh. They used us, a body count of the wealthy is also just a number. If one day somebody would find the mass grave where we lay buried, nothing would change. Statistics don’t have compassion. I will become the number of deaths, a tiny little insignificant fraction in the statistics of child trafficking, a grave with no name, just a number. All the wishes I made upon the falling stars never saved me.

I wish you would

I wish you would love me just because. I wish you would need no reason to love me. I possess no beauty. There is nothing spectacular about my personality. I wish to find a meaning in my loveless days. I could not. If only you could have loved me, just like that, without a reason. If only you would’ve never left, slamming the door in my tired face. You left on the night when the skies shattered and fell down in a shower of burning shards. I watched the sky fall, I let my heaviness fall with it from the 20^th floor of our apartment. Did the skies cry when they fell? I didn’t. I looked perfectly fine lying on the grey concrete. Not broken. Just tired. I wish I had splattered against the concrete in bright red. Maybe then you’d felt the sting of despair. When you came to the morgue, your face was indifferent. “You shaved her head,” you said and walked off.

Meatface

Have you ever felt like trash? Like a piece of meat, torn by forces outside your control. I am a control freak, or at least I was. I had planned it all. I was ready for my promotion. I had to be there on time. Dinner with the CEO’s was no joke. All the lights were green, all the traffic sensible, the sapphire skies smiled at me with little star dimples shining happily, like the dusky evening was made for me. I turned the wheel, I was in complete control of my life; a self-made businesswoman with the perfect body, and the perfect face, the perfect designer outfit… It was a rock. A damn rock falling from the sky. A flaming particle of imperfection. It smashed through my windshield, I lost control over my car, I lost control over my life, I lost control over my body. I was a piece of meat, my face smashing against the wheel, while a million glass shards tore my skin to shreds. My meatface was the last thing I saw in the rear-view mirror before it smashed into my skull. Funny, how illusive control is. A single flaming rock falling out of nowhere shattered the illusion, and left me lifeless, bleeding, my meatface glued to the remains of my perfect life.

Doll

I was so perfect, the first thing they did was touch my skin to feel if it’s plastic. They always want to touch. I wish I was never touched. But I had no control, never had. My body was meant for touching. I was their doll. I smiled when they passed me on the street. Smiling was my job, along with letting them touch me, play with me, break my body. I think I had no soul. I let it die because a soul needs happiness. There was no happiness in my life. I had no future. But they had. The little girls in the container. A large number of them looked too young to become dolls like me. I made the call. They found out. I was not just killed, oh no. I was tortured, taken to a taxidermist, and made into a doll as a warning to all the other girls. Keep your mouth shut. A good doll lives. But in truth, I chose death. If the death of one soulless doll meant life for numbers and numbers of tiny little girls, I would’ve died a hundred times. The sapphire skies rained starlight when they found me lying on the street. Glass eyes reflecting a myriad of stars falling. Something unnatural haunted this dusky evening hour. Maybe the skies finally reached down to let the truth be revealed. We are fragile creatures waiting for the stars to protect us.

Sapphire dusk

The day hangs its tired head under the weight of dusk. Shades of blue drawing its face older within minutes.

We can’t stop the darkness from coming.

Dusk is the constant state of my soul, longing for calmness softer than a grey cloud.

I don’t have the words that open doors to cold minds. I don’t have the key. I should leave. It’s late, and the dusk grows thicker every minute. Soon the darkness outside will be the same as the darkness inside me. I close my eyes and walk into the door again and again. It will never open. I walk into the door again while the darkness behind my eyes beats me down to the ground. Invisible bruises of the soul hurt more than the wounds of the flesh.

Cut your chest open with a paper knife. Let the paper airplanes out your chest. Let them out, one by one. Set them on fire. Let them burn, one by one. A whole unit of burning paper planes crashing into the ocean of indifference.

The war never left. A world of paper planes dropping f-bobs into the aether. Myriads of words written on paper planes, burning and falling.

Must I always burn?

There’s a numb kind of silence in the space between blue dusk and the black of the night. Last smile of a distant sunset fades away.

Does the darkness erase all that was done in the light?

There’s nothing special about the way you dissolve into the dark. Thousands before you went into the night, and never returned, forever searching for their lost keys.

I’m cursed. The days pass with me staring out the window; the snow melts into the earth, like a pale corpse rotting within hours. Time is my enemy, yet I do nothing to fight it. I should be resisting its pull, but I give into the timestream, and let it carry me away to lands with forgotten names. I can’t escape the numbness binding my limbs, the cold water knows how to tame the most stubborn spirits.

…and again, I’m standing on the edge of sunset. Watching the daylight collapse in the grey arms of the dusk. I’m waiting for something unnamed, untitled, longing for something I don’t have words for, indescribable hope, a life I’ve never lived. Or a life I’m yet to enter; a dark room, I see nothing, I don’t know what lay ahead, and I’m scared, hoping to find a hand to guide me.

I hate my hedonism. We’re the generation of hard-working single mothers, and missing fathers, taught to enjoy ourselves whatever the cost. Any pleasure would do. Raging women convinced us pleasure has no consequences.

Am I the void between the words? That tiny blank space from one word to another, desperately clutching my phone to document my thoughts as if I would never take another breath. Am I a zombie, or an alien made of stardust, waiting for the death of my fears to live again?

Thank you for reading! A bit bonkers, innit? I like weird experiments.

Just wanted to say, I won’t be posting for a while - I am revising a book, and planning to write more in my native Latvian language. There’s a new fantasy mag open for submissions here…

Previously: Part one

When the stranger entered, he stood still for a while, captivated by the sight before him – a majestic young queen sat on her humble throne. Her coal black hair trimmed with an ice crystal crown, her pearly skin glistening in the candlelight, a turquoise silk gown enveloped her youthful curves. No jewelry she wore. No jewelry she needed; the stranger could not recall ever witnessing such beauty, though he had seen plenty in his young life.

He bowed and approached the throne. The silence was interrupted only by the sounds of the freezing lake nearby – it sang and moaned as the air got colder by the minute. Nature itself mirrored lady Calliani’s soul, her magic was stronger than ever.

“Who are you?” her voice was colder than ice.

“Lord, Cillian. I bring a message from your father.”

“My father had never mentioned you. Nor do I believe he would’ve revealed my whereabouts to a mere messenger. Therefore, I ask again – who are you?”

The stranger smiled grimly; a tall man he was with long, black hair, and eyes dark as a winter’s night.

“You have his character,” Lord Cillian said, his smile turned softer when he added, “though I believe the beauty you inherited from your mother.”

Calliani was lost for words for a moment; she had never met a man of her age, a handsome young man giving her compliments.

“I am not happy with the task I’ve been given. This message your father wished to give you before he…passed.” Lord Cillian placed a letter at her feet and stepped back.

“Passed?” Calliani could not conceal her pain.

“Lord Carnelian, the King of Dragonlings died two days ago, I…” the young Lord himself could not go on. He closed his eyes, holding back the tears.

“No… no…” Calliani whispered but outside the castle a loud crack, and a noise of muffled rumbling drew nearer, until an avalanche shook the building, and left it buried underneath deep snow. A gust of cold wind that came with it had extinguished most of the candles.

Terrified servants rushed into the darkened hall. The sturdy castle withstood the avalanche, but it would take them many hours to dig an exit out the castle.

“It might not be wise for you to use your dragon skins to dig us out; the building might collapse, my lord and lady.” The servants rushed around the hall lighting candles, making sure the windows would hold the pressure of snow.

Calliani and the stranger stood unmoved, looking into each other’s eyes, and a wordless connection grew between them. They were bonded by grief, and the pain of losing someone dear.

“No, he could not, no… not dead… please, no…” Calliani fell to her knees crying. The burden of pain broke her ice heart. Tears flowed down her cheeks, while outside the winds moaned in the pain of a ferocious snowstorm.

“You must calm yourself, lady Calliani. Your powers might put us and all these people in even more danger. Please! ” Lord Cillian begged. He stepped closer and helped her up. The touch of his hands was cold, as cold as ice. Exactly like hers.

“You know of my powers?”

“I do. Your magic is well known to me. Your father did not exaggerate your strength.”

“How did he pass? Why?” Calliani looked deep into the stranger’s dark eyes. He closed them and stood silent for a while.

“A poisoned arrow. Cursed. It pierced his scales when he took flight to visit you. I was meant to follow him.”

Before Calliani could ask more questions, the servants intervened.

“Pardon, my lord and lady but we must beg you to use a safer room to speak; the large windows might not hold the weight of snow.”

The two moved into Lady Calliani’s own chamber, where they sat in silence, listening to the cries of the howling winds. She had gone numb to her surroundings; Calliani sat with tears sliding down her cheeks and turning to ice before falling to the floor and shattering.

“I wish I had not brought this sorrow upon you,” Lord Cillian said, staring at the tiny ice crystals on the floor. “Forgive me.”

She had no answer to give him. Teary silence was all she had. They sat in the chamber, sharing the stillness of grief, for what seemed like hours.

The servants came and went, bringing them food and wine. The two barely touched it. The wine, however, helped Calliani to loosen up for a conversation. They spoke of her father quietly.

“Why were you meant to follow him?” she asked.

Lord Cillian smiled and took his time.

“Please, do read his letter. It might provide you with some clarity.”

Calliani broke the wax seal. The letter read,

My dearest daughter!

I wish to see you again, but I cannot. The Foreverold calls me into the blessed realms of our forefathers. I must beg you never to visit Autumna. It is a cursed land. I wish you to stay safe. Cillian will guard you. I wish you to marry him. May our blood live on. I love you, my dearest daughter.”

The handwriting was shaky, and feeble, but nevertheless, it was the Dragonling King’s handwriting.

Calliani jumped to her feet, dagger pointed at Lord Cillian.

“You made him write this! You killed him!”

Cillian stood up slowly, staring at the floor.

“I did not make him write this. Though I know what the letter says. He wished for us to bond. He had no other children. King Carnelian remained faithful to the memory of your mother.”

“What do you want? To marry into the King’s family?” Calliani screamed at him.

“No. I want to respect my King’s last will. He had chosen me as your husband. He wished to prepare you, but he could not.”

“My father never mentioned you!” Calliani ‘s furious voice echoed the storm outside. Blue flames of rage burned in her dark eyes. But in truth, father had not mentioned any of his friends or foes. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be,” he used to say.

A servant entered the chamber.

“We have dug out the entrance. Young Lord may leave, if he so desires.”

“I shall leave the castle but not the Silver mountains. I cannot make you respect your father’s last will if you do not wish to. But I will keep my word, as much as I can. I promised your father I shall guard you.”

Calliani said nothing, as he turned to leave.

“Farewell, Lady Calliani. Your heart, indeed, is colder than ice. But mine is the same. I am not the man to beg for your affections, if you do not desire me. I only wished to respect the request given to me by my dying King. I regret to see you unwilling to do the same.”

“Wait!” Calliani whispered before he went through the door. “I do.”

“What?”

“I do want to respect my father’s last wish. Stay.”

What Calliani concealed was – she did find Lord Cillian desirable. Indeed, his cold pride made him more handsome by the minute.

The storm outside calmed, and the two went out the castle for a stroll in the wintry air. Every time their eyes met, both blushed and shied away from the other’s gaze. They were meant to share a wedding bed with a stranger. Thought the King did not specify to marry right away, the inevitability of their union was a strange new state to both youngsters.

“Your father only informed me of my fate not long before his death. When he was getting ready to visit you,” Cillian said apologetically.

“You did not know? How? Why did he choose you?”

“This might serve as an answer to your questions,” instead of explaining, Cillian ran onward, turning into a dragon with his scales the hue of tarnished silver. He flew up, and icy-blue flames came out his mouth. He landed gracefully, taking his human form as soon as his feet touched the snow. Calliani gasped, overwhelmed by the surprise.

“But you’re…you’re…”

“A Nymph’s and a Dragonling’s bastard. The same as you,” Cillian said, smiling.

“But how…?”

“Your father called me a gift from the Foreverold. A Nymph who knew your mother, had given birth to the child of a married Dragonling High born man. She could not keep me in the lake. Knowing your father had always been kind to Nymphs of the lake, she begged him to take me in. King Carnelian showed me mercy. He raised me in secret. I only joined the court a year before his death. He never said a word about you, yet he always said I have a special fate waiting for me.”

Cillian went quiet, looking into her eyes. Lonely snowflakes fell from the sky slowly. He brushed them off Calliani’s hair, then touched her face.

“I would never force myself on you. I will be perfectly content serving as your guard, just like my King wished,” he said quietly.

“Our King wished for you to be more,” she replied, and kissed his lips softly. Indeed, he was the handsomest creature Calliani had ever seen, and if such was her father’s last will, why wait?

His lips were cold, yet they burned with hot desire when he returned the kiss. Calliani wished to forget the grief, to kiss it away. Drunk on desire, both walked into the castle kissing. They had barely exchanged the rings, as the Autumnian wedding demanded, when the two fell into Calliani’s bed, undressing and kissing each other’s cold skin. A fire of unknown fury bonded their bodies and souls, until the morning sun rose over a new land. Spring had come to the Silver mountains. The snow melted overnight, fresh grass sprung out within hours, flowers bloomed. Warm gusts of the Southern wind soothed the land.

Calliani woke to the smile of her beloved yet there was a deep sadness in his eyes. She took it as grief for her heart mourned too.

Both spent their days in each other’s nearness – flying above the valley as two silver dragons, walking through the green woods, making love in the blooming meadows. The spring was more magnificent than the Silver mountains had ever seen, and it appeared it would never end. Alas…

Calliani was happier than ever, yet she could not shake the feeling of guilt, and one morning a month after the wedding, as she lay in Cillian’s arms, caressing his pale, muscled chest, she said,

“It is my fault. Father would’ve been alive if it wasn’t for me. He was wounded when flying here. I do not deserve this happiness.” A cold tear escaped her eye.

“No. My love…” Cillian hesitated, “I am to blame.”

“What?”

Though he avoided looking into Calliani’s eyes, finally he confessed,

“Your father begged… he was in great pain. The poison of the arrow…it took his life one painful hour at a time. We heard them… laughing behind the door. The Council of High Born. They rejoiced…they mocked his pain. He wrote the letter, and then he begged… He begged me to take his life, for the pain he could withstand but not mockery of his weakness.”

“No…” Calliani whispered, looking into his eyes. It had not been grief tormenting him all this time, but something more.

“I made an ice shard out of water. I have the same powers as you. He begged… He begged me. I stabbed his heart with the ice shard…I saw gratitude in his eyes…”

“Murderer!” Calliani yelled in his face, before jumping out of bed, and running out the chamber, out the castle into the valley, where cold winds began to blow, as it seemed, from every direction.

Her every step left the land frozen, her every step brought cold death to the trees and the flowers. Clouds gathered above the Silver mountains, and snow came pouring down in a deadly whirlwind, howling in the valleys and mountain tops. Calliani stood crying her heart out, until she fell to the ground, overpowered by the pain of her broken heart. The spring died in her heart, it lay buried under the snow, and never again did it return to the Silver mountains.

“My love! My love! Thank the Foreverold, you’re still alive!” Strong arms pulled Calliani out the pile of snow she was buried in.

Lord Cillian found her; he carried her to the castle in his arms. He talked to her, he pleaded for forgiveness. Calliani had changed.

“Do you believe me, my love? He begged… he suffered. I had to obey my King’s order. I wished to save his pride and dignity. If only you have heard how they mocked him… Please, do you believe be?” Cillian sat by her bed pleading her long into the night.

Calliani did not say a word. Icy tears marked her cheeks. Finally, she nodded, and let him hold her hand.

Though they reconciled, she never fully trusted him. Her heart never healed, the spring never again returned to the Silver mountains, and the children they had were cursed with cold, ruthless hearts of winter.

Never again did the maiden stand on the mountain top. There was no point. She knew the spring would never come. It had died in her heart forever, and never again would the warm winds of hope reach her cold, ice-covered heart.

Thank you for reading!