“I Was Never Really Welcome Here, Was I?”

What is an Unreliable Narrator? And How to Write One.

An unreliable narrator is a storytelling technique where the narrator's credibility or truthfulness is questionable. The narrator either intentionally or unintentionally provides a distorted or biased account of the events, characters, or situations in the story. This narrative approach can add complexity, suspense, and intrigue to your writing. Here's how you can create an unreliable narrator:

1. Establish a motive: Determine why the narrator is unreliable. It could be due to personal bias, mental instability, deception, or a hidden agenda. Develop their backstory, motivations, and beliefs to understand why they might present a skewed version of events.

2. Use subjective language: Incorporate language and descriptions that reflect the narrator's personal viewpoint and biases. Their opinions, emotions, and interpretations should color their narration, influencing how readers perceive the story.

3. Include contradictions and inconsistencies: Allow the narrator to make contradictory statements or present conflicting information. This creates doubt and keeps the readers engaged as they try to unravel the truth.

4. Reveal information selectively: The unreliable narrator might withhold or reveal information strategically, manipulating the readers' understanding of the story. This can create suspense and surprise as readers discover hidden truths.

5. Showcase unreliable perceptions: Explore how the narrator's perceptions and interpretations of events differ from reality. They may misinterpret actions, misremember details, or even hallucinate. These discrepancies add depth to the character and raise doubts about their reliability.

6. Use other characters as contrasting sources: Introduce other characters who present alternative perspectives or contradict the narrator's version of events. This contrast allows readers to question the reliability of the narrator and form their own interpretations.

7. Employ narrative techniques: Experiment with techniques like foreshadowing, symbolism, or unreliable memory to emphasize the narrator's unreliability. These devices can help blur the line between truth and fiction, leaving readers intrigued and uncertain.

8. Provide hints and clues: Drop subtle hints or clues throughout the story that suggest the narrator's unreliability. This allows readers to piece together the truth gradually and encourages them to engage actively with the narrative.

It was raining quite hard when I saw them walking, a pair of lovers who had been going for a stroll in the dark, and had been caught in the rain. They were quite young, I suppose, though I have never been a good judge of those things, and I floated around behind them. I suppose I hover behind all at some point, but these two seemed special to me. I paid attention to them, and saw their stories, hovering behind them like film-reels lost to time.

He was a boy from Detroit; his life had been far from easy. He had had to fight for every scrap in his life, and love was new to him. He had met her on a train bound to New York, and they had hit it off. They had spent a couple weeks in correspondence with each other before they had decided to date, and when they did, it had been a smashing success. Within six months they had moved in, and within eighteen he had proposed; rushed though it seemed, they were in love.

He had cut ties with his father, who did not approve the marriage. She was ‘not right for him’ he had said. And who knew, maybe his father would have eventually been proven correct.

She was born in Tennessee, the child of farmers whose lineage traced back to the dust bowl. She loved him dearly, but not with the all-consuming passion he did; she was a slow burn, and had more ties in the city than he did. She worked in a grocery store; her favorite food was roast chicken, and her best friend was her coworker, who was the first friend she made in the city.

Her parents were dead, her mother from a heart attack, her father from lung cancer. She had no ties back home, and was happy here.

I take no joy in my work this night.

I follow behind as they walk along the street, talking and laughing, with such joyous plans for the future. Their lives seemed secure, so perfect, so lovely.

They walk along the sidewalk, wet and dark, with an umbrella to protect from the rain. Twenty feet lay between them and the end of the block, twenty feet between them and the street. They paid little attention; youth rarely does.

They wandered along, talking of everything and nothing at all, giggling, him holding her close, kissing her forehead with such care that I wondered if there was a way I could stop what would happen. Of course, I couldn’t.

Ten feet to the street. He knelt to tie his shoe and she waited. Perhaps if he had left it alone, he wouldn’t have –

Five feet to the street. Both she and he are talking and laughing again. They didn’t even notice, as they stepped into the street.

The driver was a truck-driver from Shermer, Illinois. No wife, no kids. Nearing forty, it seemed he had little prospects of that happening, and he was happy enough about it. After the ‘incident’ as his coworkers euphemistically referred it, he would lose his ability to drive. He would take to drink. In all too soon a time, I would be drawn to him as well.

Perhaps if he had reacted a little faster, he would think, knowing he couldn’t have. I think the helplessness is almost worse, in a way.

Perhaps if it was not raining, he would have seen them before. Perhaps he could have reacted earlier. But, like me, the rain is inevitable. And even if the rain did not come, perhaps I would have come to them in a different manner.

I take no joy in my work, and as they stepped forward, the headlights shined on them just a moment too late for them to react.

Soon there was nothing to be done but watch, I, the eternal witness, in the rain.

And right there it rained a little harder.

write a story with the first line being “it was raining quite hard” and the last line being “ and right there it rained a little harder”

Gah help I wrote shitty protest poetry

I don’t know how much longer I’ve got

Life has fucked us over a lot

 It may be a minute, it may be a millennium

All we’ve got left is alcohol and bottles of valium

 And the feeling we’re wasting away

Nothing left to do but decay

We’ve got something to do, something to say

Everything to lose, no reason to stay

 We may speak like we know a lot

But in the end we know our wit’s all we’ve got

 We fight for our future, with all that we’ve got

We fight our future, because like it or not

 We haven’t got much time and we haven’t got much money

We haven’t got much food and we don’t think that’s funny

 We laugh away our lives to hide the pain

We live and we die, afraid to fade

Away into the nothingness or the afterlife

We use what we have left as a way to fight

 We may get some shit wrong, it’s inevitable

Since birth we’ve been told we’re inimitable

 But the world we live in tells us otherwise

Rich waging war while we slowly die

Dying takes forever for those afraid to die

I don’t care enough anymore to continue to lie

Pretend I have plans for a future so bright

When all that’s ahead is fire and knives

Gunpowder, teargas and broken minds

 As we watch on the news as people like us die

When people who raised us tell us not to fight

 To give up is a quiet death;

To fight for our future

When it’s a hopeless mess

 They say I’m a pessimist but maybe I see

Something more than apathy

 I look at people my age and see something inside

Something worth living for, for something to die

 Fight for that future ‘til my final breath

Because I’ll be damned if I have a quiet death.

It’s the year 2166, and people haven’t changed much. They still eat, they still sleep, there’s not been a robot apocalypse yet, and they dream. But above all this, they still desire the best for their children. That’s why, for the past century, humans have been genetically engineered. Heavily. Rather than trust the hand of fate to decide what your child looks like, what their features and their faults are, they’d rather entrust it to a Genotypist, an expert at gene therapy and study.

It’s common practice for those with them to have their ovaries removed entirely, frozen in stasis until a suitable time. Undesirable pregnancies have reached such a low that it dips below the margin of error for most studies.

But my parents, and their parents, and my grandparents (basically since the invention and legalization of the Genotypist’s trade) have forgone all that. In a world where most are conceived in a test tube, they decided to go the ‘natural’ way, and me and my little sister were born. I love my parents, but sometimes (especially when I put on my glasses, reliant as I am on them) I wish they had maybe at least consulted a Genotypist.

I remember elementary school. The other kids weren’t so bad; they were a little in awe of me, to be honest, as children tend to be of anything different. Their parents, however, were a different story. They were scared of me, I think – which is odd to say, having been five years old or so at the time. Maybe they were afraid of what I represented – the scary old days in which children died at young ages from illness, that children were born with diseases. The chance of me eventually being killed by one genetic factor or another made me a liability. They told their children to avoid me, to not interact – and I grew up with no one. Well, next to no one.

My sister was born when I was four, and I made it my sworn duty to be her friend, because I knew that it would seem the world was against her. And, maybe it was. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could spare her my heartache.

But still, I had a life of my own. The only other ‘organic’ my age was another boy, whose parents couldn’t afford the procedure – a rare thing in this day and age of ‘prosperity’, where people would go on the bare minimum for months just to pay for the procedure. He was the only one unafraid of me – a fact I continue to appreciate.

Middle school was where things got worse – the kids were old enough to understand why their parents hated me, and that I was different – and different was bad. I suppose that I took that to heart – I couldn’t deal with quite that level of hate, so I rejected them all in turn. My only connection to life was twofold – my sister and my only friend. Even my parents weren’t spared my rage.

I was kind of an edgy little shit. I got into fights. I vandalized a few things. I got a record. I have to give credit to my parents for putting up with me through that stage of my life.

Anyway, though, I got expelled. Something about picking five fights in a single semester made the principal unwilling to keep me around. Bizarre, really. But I wound up getting shipped out to another school, a few miles away from everyone I knew, and that’s kind of shit.

I was on the bus, sitting in the back with headphones on, when he sat next to me. I was surprised anyone would – not least of all because I tend to dress like leather and black cloth had an orgy. He was about my age – which was fitting, I suppose. Not like there was much variance of age here, save the fifty-something bus driver. Pulling down the headphones, he waved awkwardly. “Hi, I’m Nicholas.”

Thinking it through in my head, I internally figure I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I offer my hand. “James.”

He shook my hand. “Charmed,” he smiled. He was kind of adorable, in a slightly dorky way. Brown hair, kind of scrawny. Dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants. And what kind of kid wears leather dress-shoes to school?

“So, James, what brings you to our school? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Life,” I sighed dramatically. Gods I hate myself in hindsight.

Nicholas laughed. “I think we’ll get along just fine, James.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” I began. I was ready for a story, and the bus drive was taking what seemed like eternity. It’s not like I could just go back to my headphones and ignore him after he’d been kind enough to introduce himself.

“Well, I’m sixteen, I’ve got two older sisters and a younger brother, and I’m an Aquarius – that what you want to hear?”

“Just maybe. So, tell me – why is it you sat next to me, rather than by the other students you seem to know so well?”

“Well, I’m not exactly popular,” he said, looking around at the others on the bus. “I haven’t got any friends, really. My only friend was a kid named Will, but he transferred out last year. And,” he began to whisper conspiratorially, “They say you… that you’re…”

“That I’m what,” I ask, leaning back a little, hoping to avoid whatever little bombshell he felt inclined to drop.

“That you’re… organic?”

I sigh. How in the hell can I never escape that? I hadn’t even met anyone from the school and they already knew my birth status. “Yeah, yeah I am.”

“That’s… wow. So… like… you were…?”

I could see the question forming in his mind. “Yes, I was conceived the ‘old-fashioned’ way. Same as everyone was two centuries ago.”

“That’s weird.”

I scoffed a little under my breath. “So, you afraid of me now?”

“Not really.”

I looked at him, a little surprised. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, putting his hands up defensively, “I’m a little weirded out by your birth status, but I’m not, like, going to hold it against you. It’s not your fault.”

I rolled my eyes. Another one of these. People who thought I was some kind of sub-human creature, worthy of pity for my status. Like an ape in a zoo. People would be kind enough, I supposed, if I let them sit there and talk at me and feed me bananas, but once I open my mouth, the illusion is scattered. I’m different. I’m a threat.

“What’s not my fault? That my parents fucked and nine months later I popped out? Where do you think, your entire family came from, a few generations back? Maybe most don’t do it that way anymore, but I’m not going to put up with your goddamned, patronizing bullshit. I’m just as human as you.”

He went silent then, a little numb, and then he began. “I’m… sorry…”

He looked like someone had deflated him a little bit. I suppose I had been harsh on him. But I’d dealt with this all my life – it’s not like he asked to be born the way he was, either. “I’m sorry too.”

“So… let’s start over a little. What’s your life like?”

“Got a sister. Anya. Brilliant girl. And, I’m a Cancer. That what you looking for?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

In about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the school and disembarked. The school was a fancy, shiny new building. My parents had paid through the nose to get me here, I guess. I looked at my schedule. “Do you have Mr. Shall too?”

I looked at my homeroom class. Sure enough, Shall. “Yeah”

“I can show you to his room. He’s the biology teacher. They say his grandfather helped found the science of Genotyping.”

“And he teaches at a high school?”

“Well, his entire family can’t be rich and famous.”

I went to the class, following behind Nicholas, finally sitting at a paired table next to him. Mr. Shall was a burly man in his early forties, dressed in a dress-shirt and tie. He began class with a simple set of words. “I understand that there’s someone new here,” he said, standing up. “I’d like to give him a chance to introduce himself. James, if you would?”

I walked up to the front of the class. “Hi, the name’s James. Nice to meet you.”

I shuffled back to my seat, and we began. He handed out sheets of paper, on which was written a simple timeline going back a couple hundred years. “As you know, Genotyping began in the mid-twenty first century. Zhou Wang Wei wrote the first book on the subject in 2041, a treatise that was translated for western audiences two years later. His western counterpart was John Van Compf, who developed some of the medical equipment used in the field. The basics were simple – but the execution took years of hard work.”

He continued like this for what seemed like hours, but was probably no longer than a few minutes. “And now, there’s next to no children born organically anymore. Why is that, do you think? Who would turn down the medical procedure that can give them ‘ideal’ children? That can make perfect humans, medically speaking. Why risk it?”

A girl near the front raised her hand. “Maybe they’re afraid of it? Of society progressing?”

Shall shook his head a little. “No, Amy. Progress isn’t some measurable thing – what’s a way forward for some is often the way backwards for others. James,” he said, gesturing to me, “Why do you think people don’t hire a Genotypist?”

I looked up at him, and he winked at me. God damn it, the man knew. I stood up. “Maybe they think it’s not right to alter people with machines. After all, didn’t Darwin himself write that diversity is in the best interest for people? Isn’t Genotyping just a way to reduce that diversity? Sure, we might still have variance in eye color, hair color, skin color, but we’re still getting rid of genetic diversity in other ways. Maybe it’s going to come back and bite us.”

Shall nodded. “As good a reason as any.”

A boy across the room shot up. “But, if that happens, won’t the Genotypists figure out a way to save us? If a gene we removed is the secret to saving us, then why don’t we just add it in on the next generation? It’s better off we make the procedure mandatory; that way organics don’t wind up infecting us all with some kind of disease.”

Shall shook his head again. “Sit down, Michael. That’s hardly the – “

Nicholas looked at me, and began to whisper, “James, you’re crying.”

I felt my face with one hand. Indeed, I was. I was also gripping my pencil with such an extraordinary grip that I was surprised it didn’t break. Then, of course, it did. The snap drew attention from the surrounding students, and I used that to my advantage. Rising to my feet again, I spoke. “That’s bullshit. Do you really think that’s progress? Forcing people you don’t like to be like you isn’t ‘progress’, it isn’t ‘safety’. You’re just afraid.” I began to whisper then, “God damn it, I just want to live. Is that so hard?”

I sat down, and was silent the rest of the class.

In the future where Babies mass produced in genetic labs are normal , you are the only “ organic ” in your high school class. It’s the first day of school and the teacher asks you to introduce yourself.

Ash watched the target closely as he went into the bar. She stood on the roof of the four-story office-building across the street, hidden in the dark of the night. She was dressed practically, in simple clothing – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, a leather jacket – her purple hair tied back behind her head. At her feet was a black biker’s helmet. At her right ear was a Bluetooth earpiece.

She needed neither binoculars nor night-vision to see clearly in the night; she was Damphyr, the child of one afflicted with vampirism. Beings without most of their progenitors’ strengths, but the few gifts they possess by comparison makes them far greater than humans. Durability, speed and enhanced senses are their hallmark, but the gifts come at a cost. The cost of human blood. A Damphyr can survive on the blood of animals for a time, but they are required to drink the blood of a living human with disturbing and increasing frequency.

For now, she needed only once a month or so. But as her years of life wore on into centuries she would need to feed weekly or even daily. She pondered this as she watched the bar.

“Ash!” buzzed her earpiece. Focusing back in to the present, she barked an answer to the microphone on her lapel. “What, Vesh?”

Vesh responded, “I can see you from here. Stop zoning out! We need you to watch the door. If the target is meeting one of the nine, we’ll need to be able to act at a moment’s notice. You’re our surveillance.”

“If you wanted surveillance, you should have gotten a van,” Ash cracked.

“Who needs a van when you have the sharpest eyes this side of the globe?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ash quipped, as she noticed something off with the bar. The sounds of violence were emanating from within, which would not have troubled her unduly were it not for the scent. Her sense of smell was arguably her weakest, but there are some scents she could never miss. The scent of blood, the scent of a damphyr, and, strongest of all, the scent of a vampire.

Vampires are rare creatures; few in number and rare to reproduce. They make up for it in unholy might; a single vampire could lay waste to a small city in a single night. But they tend to occupy their time with petty power struggles between each other and attempts to control large swathes of territory. Their servants, known as Revenants, were humans vested with some of their power. Weaker still than even damphyr, Revenants were slow to age and stronger than mortals.

But the scent of a vampire was what Ash smelled now. How she had missed it for so long was beyond her, but it was clear now. The smell was difficult to define – somewhere between a rotting corpse and a rose, soaked in blood. A smell of beautiful decay.

“Vesh, we need to move. Now.”

“Got it. I’ll get the back entrance. You cover the front.”

“Got it.”

Ash jumped from her perch, flipping from headfirst to a pencil dive and landing on the pavement, cracking it. She was unharmed by the tumble, she got up and charged the door as a man was thrown bodily from the window. Or rather, a corpse. Its head was twisted and nearly torn off, a look of agony on its face. Its limbs were twisted as if it had been tortured, but knowing what lay inside, she understood that it had happened within seconds.

She took a second to spit on the corpse. A fool who had been bargaining with a vampire for extended life. But the artifact that he had found was too powerful. His contact with it made him a liability, not an ally.

She charged the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Inside, an unwelcome sight greeted her. Revenants, a dozen of them, were feasting on the corpses of the erstwhile bar-goers. A couple were holding onto the bouncer by the arms, one drinking from his carotid and another on the opposite side, who had chewed through to his aorta.

They all looked up at her, with bestial glares. Damphyr blood was poison to them, but they were bound to their master’s will, and would be more than happy to kill her.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a long dagger – something caught between shortsword and knife in size, but finely wrought all the same, of some strange, silvery metal. She whispered the invocation. “Carnwennan, feoht for mec, innan thone ciegnes Arthorius.”

The blade sheathed itself in shadow, its magic enhancing her accuracy, speed and strength.

Moving faster than the creatures could even fathom, she had already drove the dagger through three of the creatures’ chests, piercing their hearts before they could even draw breath. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Green flame ripped its way through the creatures anew, burning their flesh and reducing them to ash faster than should have been physically faster. Continuing, she made quick work of the others, and had destroyed the bodies of those who had died. Little evidence remained, and the magical fire did not burn the objects in the room. She breathed, for the first time since entering the place. “You alright?” asked Vesh, through the earpiece.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Nothing on my end. I’ll meet up with you at the basement doors.”

They had gone through the blueprints for the building before the strike. There was a basement, prohibition era, that led down into the sewer. They had guessed the vampire would use this route to escape after putting down the ‘livestock’.

She went over to behind the bar, went into the backroom, and took the short hallway to the back room, where she Vesh was waiting.

Vesh wasn’t damphyr, nor was she human. She was a Nephilim, the long-lost bloodline of angels. Moreover, her bloodline was the (in)direct descent from King (well, queen, but that’s another story) Arthur. She wasn’t all that much stronger than a normal human, until the bloodline was used in conjunction with an Arthurian one. Ash’s weapon was one, the bloodline only enhancing the weapon’s traits, not granting ones on their own.

But Vesh was more powerful in her own way. For she wielded two weapons – Rhongomiant, an ancient spear, and Clarent, the coward’s blade. With their power, she could take down many opponents with little effort – but at a cost. The two could only be wielded in conjunction for a short time, or she would burn up.

Vesh was breathing heavily, her sword sheathed and her spear at her back. “You okay?” asked the (suitably) concerned Ash.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“There’s no shame in turning back,” warned Ash.

“Yes, there is.”

“Okay, only a little,” conceded Ash.

“I’m not going to sit back and let you hog all the glory. Here,” said Vesh, holding out a thermos.

“I’m not thirsty,” protested Ash.

“Yeah, you are.” Said Vesh, gesturing with the thermos. “You didn’t’ have any blood at breakfast, and I’ve been keeping eye on your little freezer down in the basement. You haven’t touched it in going on a week and a half. Drink.”

Ash could smell the blood, and hunger snarled deep within her stomach. But at the same time, a foul disgust was creeping through her. “No.”

“You’ve got to drink sometime. Please. You need it.”

Vesh hold the thermos close to Ash’s face.

“I said no, damn it!” Ash shouted, batting the thermos out of Vesh’s hand and to the ground. Warmed blood spilled across the ground.

Vesh became more concerned. “Ash…”

Ash was stumbling away from the spilled blood, retching at the smell, reaching a corner and throwing up blackened bile. “We need to follow the vampire.” She coughed out, between dry heaves.

“You’re in no condition to fight a vampire. We can turn back – we can get more…”

Ash shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

“Damn it, Ash. You need to drink. You don’t think I’ve noticed you? You don’t sleep anymore. You can barely get down food, and blood… you barely touch it unless you’re desperate. This isn’t healthy. I’m here for you.”

Ash shook her head. “We have to go on. I know… I know this vampire.”

“What? You can differentiate between vampiric bloodlines now? Are… are you certain?”

“I know this one well. This one is…” she trailed off, and began to make her way down the stairs.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was chained to the floor of the cell, her interrogator standing above her. Throwing down a lukewarm blood transfusion bag, he kicked her in the stomach. “Drink, half-blood.”

“F… fuck you…”

He kneeled down, grabbing her by the back of the head, and held her mouth open. Kicking the bloodbag aside, causing it to leak across the ground towards the drain in the center of the room, he gestured to the door. A man stepped in, carrying with him a bound and gagged teenage boy. The boy kicked and screamed as he was dragged into the room. The man carrying him drew a wicked-looking hunting knife, and drew it across the boy’s throat in a swift, decisive motion. The boy was gurgling his last breaths as blood poured from the wound. The interrogator turned Ash’s face up as the other man put the boy’s throat to her open lips, blood pouring into her mouth, her nose, most spilling but some she felt going down her throat.

--- Present Day ---

They were making their way down the stairs in sullen silence when they heard it. The scratching, the skittering, the sound of rats, moving around them in the dark. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing becoming ragged. Vesh took the lead, and motioned for Ash to sit down for a moment. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back in just a few seconds. Wait.”

The sounds of blades being drawn and of the screeching of rats. Finally, Ash heard the words, “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.” A bright flash of green, and nothing else. “You can open your eyes now.”

They continued on their way.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was blindfolded as she was led into the room and tied to the chair. It was a cold, study thing of wood. Chained at the ankles and the wrists, weakened from blood deprivation, she struggled against the chains until she was exhausted. She heard him, chuckling and chiding. “Is the little girl tired? Poor little girl…”

“Maybe the girl needs some friends. Yes, maybe some furry friends.”

She heard the sound of blade against sheath as he drew a knife, and felt it as he drew thick lines every few inches down her wrist and thigh. Blood slicked her skin as he stepped back, and whistled.

It was then she heard them. Skittering across the rafters, across the floor. Ash felt it as they fell onto her body, and tried to throw them off, but they kept piling on. She screamed as they bit into her flesh. She screamed and the man laughed.

--- Present Day ---

The hallway was sparsely lit with dangling, electric lights as they continued on their way. The form of the hallway was made of brick and wood, with a floor of cement. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” asked Vesh.

“I’m fine,” responded Ash, a little too quickly, having been waiting for the question.

“Ash… for gods’ sakes…”

Ash drew Carnwennan, and began the invocation again. The blade sheathed itself in shadow. “I’m fine.”

They reached the end of the hallway, and they saw it.

Sitting in the center of the room was a finely-wrought silver casket, surrounded on all sides by human bodies, blood splattered against the walls. Not catching her breath in time, Ash smelled the blood, assailing from all sides. Gagging, she began the purification invocation to cleanse the room with fire. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

The room flashed green as fire consumed the corpses, leaving ash behind.

“What is this thing?” said Vesh, looking at the coffin.

“An artifact of great power, so they say. The coffin of the progenitors. Capable of bringing a vampire to an almost godlike state.”

“And capable of purifying the blood of a damphyr, my pet,” came a voice from the shadows.

They turned. Ash gasped. “You… you’re dead. I killed you…”

The interrogator stepped forward. “Only a spear of ash and silver can kill a vampire, as you well know.”

Gesturing to a stitched-shut scar around his throat, he laughed. “All you did was offend my vanity.”

He walked forward, touching the coffin with an outstretched arm. “You hurt me, running away like you did. All I wanted was what’s best for you, after all, little cousin.”

He held out his open arms to Ash. “Come to me, pet, I will take you with me and make you my immortal lover.”

Ash held Carnwennan at the ready, taking a step back. Her stance was nearly broken by her shaking.

“Come here, girl, I will hurt you no longer.”

Vesh stepped forward. “Enough.”

Drawing spear and sword, spear at the ready stance, sword ready to guard against blows, Vesh charged, speed and strength enhanced by the magic. The man just jumped out of the way.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, child. I am a vampire, not some weak-blooded mockery or halfblood pretender.”

Vesh struck with speed and strength, with each strike gaining more momentum and hitting faster. She felt her muscles burn as she fought him, but he dodged each blow with almost nonchalant ease. Growing tired of this, he grabbed the spear by the shaft and struck quickly, knocking the sword aside and biting deeply into her forearm. Vesh let out a cry of pain, as he threw her backwards.

Ash couldn’t stand still anymore. Half frozen in fear while Vesh struck, she steeled herself and struck. The interrogator laughed. “You can’t harm me any more now than you could then, girl.”

Before she could strike his flesh he dodged under the blow and slammed into her, sending her flying across the room, landing next to Vesh.

He crossed the room to where Ash lay, and grabbed her by the throat. “Your blood will fuel my power,” he said, biting into her throat. She felt herself being drained. After a couple moments, he pulled away, lips slick with blood.

“Watch, now, as I ascend to godhood,” he stated, wiping off his lips, opening the coffin. Inside was black velvet. Ripping off his shirt, he lied back into the coffin as the lid closed automatically.

A hissing sound like hydraulic sealing could be heard as the coffin closed.

“Ash,” said Vesh, trying to get closer to her, coughing up blood from broken ribs, unable to move her legs. Ash lay unconscious. Vesh took her wounded arm and put it over Ash’s lips, letting blood drip into her mouth. Still not conscious, Ash’s mouth instinctively bit into Vesh’s arm, draining blood. Vesh grimaced against the pain, but it was not in vain.

Ash awoke, her body repairing itself faster for the blood. She felt a surge of power from her blood, from Vesh’s blood, as Vesh faded out of consciousness.

The coffin opened just as Ash arose, holding Carnwennan and Clarent at the ready. The blood of Arthur she had drunk felt like fire rising in her veins as she spoke in the old tongue. “Cier asprungennes, Vampire.”

Her enemy had changed. Like some monstrous bat, his features had twisted into a vile mockery of the living. His fangs had grown and his teeth grown sharp. He growled.

They did battle, moving faster than sound, booms echoing off the halls. She dodged blow after blow, dealing small wounds bit by bit. Eventually, he failed – mis-stepping, he was impaled on the blades.

“This cannot kill me, whelp. I will return to hunt you. I will return to end you.”

“I know,” said Ash. “But next time, I will not hesitate. In the meantime, let’s see how well you can reform from my namesake. Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Flames engulfed him as he screamed in agony, burning as Ash gathered the weapons, picked up Vesh, and began to return up the stairs.

Story Shard 543

You know what I want? I want a Bad Ass Female Super Hero who is afraid of something small and cliche, like bugs or mice, but whose compatriots don’t make fun of her for it. They just step up and take care of the things she can’t. And her fear does not make her any less bad ass it just makes her human.

Writing tool for your fight scenes.

“I swear they’re coming around,” said the man in purple robes and a gold crown, as he wandered down the hallway, open to the outside world on the right side, with marble pillars. He had black hair, with a short, well-kept beard growing, giving him the appearance of perhaps a twenty-something year old man.

“That’s all well and good, my king,” spoke the man walking with him, of about the same age. This one was dressed in plate mail, carrying a longsword at his waist. The armor is finely wrought, of steel and adorned with images of lions fighting serpents and the sun rising on each shoulder. His hair is the color of steel, though he does not seem much older. “But it never hurts to be prepared. Especially when they have been routinely sending assassins after you. You barely got away with your life last time.”

“Ah,” said the king, waving the man off as if he had said something meaningless, “What’s a few Drividien Death-Scorpions between the two most powerful families in the realms? Besides, with you there, they may as well have been sending me bouquets, my knight,” he ended, on a sarcastic note.

The knight closed his eyes and sighed, turning to his lord and speaking in hushed tones, “You know even I will fail given enough time. It is better to not give them a chance.”

The king rolled his eyes. “You were much more fun before I became king, Iotharius.”

Iotharius nodded. “Simpler times. Better times.”

The king nodded as well. “I long for such times again.”

“So do I, my king.”

“Drop the, ‘my king’ business, Io. Once you’ve been ‘watching over’ the king for nearly six months it becomes a little bit of a moot point.”

Iotharius began to whisper, “We can’t discuss that here, my lord-“

“Io, they already know. Or at least they suspect. We spend far too much time around each other to avoid rumors arising, and my refusal to appoint other guards to me makes me an easy target.”

Iotharius laughed a little. “What would your father think, Lord TIberion the third?”

Tiberion giggled a little as well. “To hell with what the old bastard would’ve said, I say. He’s dead and in the ground, and I’m here among the living. He can lecture me on proper behavior when I join him.”

“Careful what you wish for, because with the way you’re acting, that may not be that far into your future.”

Tiberion shook his head, and got a little closer to Iotharius. “Well, then, maybe I should give him a little to scold me about,” he said, grinning playfully. “Would hate for the afterlife to be boring, after all.”

Iotharius was now leaning against the side of a pillar, with Tiberius having one arm next to him. Their faces were inches apart. “Tibe, don’t you da-“ he said as Tiberion began to put his lips against his own, and they began to kiss.

Iotharius was almost lost in the passion – for Tiberion was good at what he did – but he was a knight, for the gods’ sakes. Gently pushing Tiberion away from him, he straightened his armor a bit, and Tiberion straightened his own robes, a little bit huffishly.

“We need to be more careful, my lord.”

Tiberion rolled his eyes, and mimed the knight’s stoic manner when he was fairly convinced Iotharius wasn’t watching.

“And I saw that!” snapped Iotharius.

“I think they’re coming around. They haven’t sent any assassins after me for at least six weeks.”

by Anastasia Fedorova

Fire, Death, Light, Dark. There are many such abilities beholden to the Awakened. Those powerful souls who can command a fundamental force of nature with their will alone. There are thousands of us, an underground society operating even to this day, under the guise of governmental organizations and secret agents. Some of us are hired guns, sought out to bring down oppressive regimes – at least on paper. Many hone their abilities through such work. Others try their hardest to help those who need it. Some of us, though, hunt down our fellows who break the laws of the Covenant, an ancient document made by the First Council of the Awakened, to bind us all and keep us secret. Those hunters are called the Vyadha

I’m one of the latter; day to day, I’m a private investigator in sunny Miami, but once in a while, a next-to-unused fax machine (which is unlisted and even unplugged) will spring to life and print out my next target. A picture, a name, and some basic information will be printed out and I’m to hunt them down, wherever they be, all costs assured. Who finds out what they did, who sends the commands, no one knows. It’s the job of the Vyadha to hunt them down, and to recruit other Awakened to serve as Vyadha; once they take the oath, they are bound to hunt down all who break the laws until they lay dying. Those who fail become the hunted.

It was one boring Tuesday in the middle of November when the fax machine did just what it does, printed out the face of an attractive twenty-something boy. Long, unkempt but clean blonde hair, blue eyes, a well-defined jawline, and dressed in some combination of black and leather. The name and aliases read as follows.

ALEKSANDER KUZNETSOV

“The Bright One, Sunspot, The Light of God”

Twenty-two, Russian origin, currently hiding out in Crimea. You know what to do.

I looked at his face again. I didn’t know him, but then again, I didn’t need to, to know what he was. I looked closely at his face, and I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t just one of the hired soldiers, he was one of the “Razbudili Rebenka”, the child soldiers that saw use in the latter days of the Soviet Union, whose use continued into the late twentieth century by the disenfranchised pieces of the disbanded country. When their use became a risk to secrecy, they were killed by their handlers, soldiers who were unawakened. Even against the powers of nature, a single bullet can take our lives just as easily.

I’d guess he probably killed his handler. I wonder if he had even met one of his own kind. I wondered if it would have made a difference. Probably not; it was too late for him, regardless.

Getting up from my seat, I picked up my overcoat and put it on, looking in a mirror. An aged face looked back. I’d been at this for a long time. I was born in 1973, a child of a poor German-Jewish immigrant, whose parents had moved here to avoid the Nazis, and a black woman, and for the first fifteen years of my life I was happy enough. Then, they came.

The Erwechter Henker, a sect of Awakened Neonazis who sought to kill all awakened bloodlines from ‘lesser races’. They tracked down my father and struck. An awakened whose powers were to control fire burned our house down, killing my father, asleep in bed, my mother taking me and running outside. The awakened who had burned down the house was waiting outside with a group of unawakened. They took pleasure in beating me and my mother until I lay dying and my mother dead. That was when it happened, my powers awakened, the bloodline coming alive like fire devouring my blood.

My power is a rare one; the ability to affect matter with my mind. I can agitate it, move it, pressurize it, among other things. Within seconds I’d boiled the unawakened’s brains within their skulls, and shattered the bones in the awakened’s arms and legs. Unable to move, and therein unable to use his abilities, I took my pleasure slowly forcing all his blood into his head until it popped like an overripe cherry. I was sixteen years old.

I’m not ashamed of what I did that night; swearing to never let this kind of man do what he did ever again, I buried my family and left that night, to hunt down the rest of the Erwechter. Thanks to my efforts, their sect will never take root in America ever again. That took a decade and a half to do. By the end of it, I had burned every bridge in my life. I had no family; fascists had taken all that from me. It was then that he came to me, a Vyadha calling himself Jack the Reaper. His power, to control darkness, was used to hunt down Nazis across South America, to inspire terror in them before they died. He was near ninety when he came to me.

It was night, and I was drunk, aimlessly wandering around the streets in the dark, when he approached. He was dressed in a suit and overcoat, looking every bit the sophisticate. I looked like a vagrant, mostly because I was. I had no money, no goals – I had done everything I’d sought out to do.

“You are lost,” he spoke, his voice overlaid with a subtle German accent. “You are better than this, herr Abner.”

I looked at him closely, wondering if he was a spy of some sort. “Are you one of them?”

He shook his head at this. “Do not ever mistake me for one of those shizcoff.”

“Then who-“

“I am like you. I am Erwecht, Awakened,” he interrupted me. “I have spent my life hunting down the scum that have robbed us of our families, and I knew your grandfather and father before they came to America. I had heard he had a son.”

I nodded to this, it making sense even in my relatively inebriated state.

“He was a good man. I am sorry to hear what happened to him. I’m sorry that this is the fate that has befallen you; your vengeance was justified, but it should not have cost you the life you could have lived.”

I nodded again, accepting his statement. I’d have been lying if I had not thought the same thing, many times.

“I am here to offer you a chance at a new life; I am Vyadha, of the ancient order of hunters who destroy those who would break our laws. One such as the Erwechter Henker, and many such groups across the world. I have come to offer you the oath to join. It is a lifelong commitment, and should not be taken lightly.”

Here he paused, thinking for a moment. “I do not have much time left, myself. I have spent my years hunting much the same chaff as you, sending them to whatever awaits them. You can continue my work.”

From there, he handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, as well as a cell-phone, something somewhat rarer at the time.

I did not call right away. I continued to wander, the thought never leaving my mind.

But, one night, that changed. Two weeks later, I was taking the subway downtown, and came across a scene. Two muggers assaulting a black woman, calling her several slurs along the way. What charming fellows, with Celtic crosses and swastikas tattooed on their necks and the backs of their heads. I shouted at them, and one of them turned to me, drawing a gun. “What do you want, shitskin?” he asked, pointing the gun at my head.

“Leave her alone.” I stated, calmly. It wasn’t the first time a neonazi had pointed a gun at me. Wasn’t even the dozenth, or even the dozenth dozen.

He laughed, drawing back the hammer on the pistol. “Nah, I think I’ll kill you. Then-“ he gestured at the woman, “Me and my friend will do what we want to her.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” I said, this time cracking a smile.

“And why’s that, you n-“ he stopped as I broke his hand with my mind, dragging it down, and causing the gun to discharge into his foot. Screaming in pain, I picked him up by the throat with one hand, and threw him bodily into his friend. I nod with my head, indicating the woman to leave the station, as I did what I always do to Nazis. Leaving behind quite the gory mess, I pulled the phone out, and dialed the number. The voice on the other end was familiar. “Have you made your decision?”

Looking down at the corpses of my attempted murderers, I answered, “Yeah, I think I have.”

Two days later, I met him in central park. “I used my connections to get the investigations against you to stop,” said Jack, holding a lit cigarette. “Two men dead to gang-related activities, I am afraid.”

We both stop to laugh a little. “What do I need to do?”

He tossed me a silver knife and a piece of parchment with writing on it. “Cut your hand and say the words aloud. That is all that need be done.”

Drawing the blade across my hand, I read the paper.

“I swear on the Powers that Be to honor the first covenant, to hunt down the enemies of life itself, and to keep the secrets of the First Council. I swear this on my life, on the lives of my ancestors, and the power passed through blood. On this day, until my last day, I swear.”

I felt something change – like my awakening, but stronger. Pain, yes, but almost in a good way. Like a cleansing. “It is good to meet another Vyadha,” said Jack, “Welcome, brother Abner.”

That all seemed so long ago. Jack took me under his wing for a few years, introducing me to his contacts and other awakened, like us. But in 2006, at the age of 95, he died peacefully in his sleep, and I made sure he was buried with his dead family in Germany.

He left me a tidy sum, secret bank accounts holding liquid assets nearing a half a million dollars. Funds stolen from Nazis he had hunted.

Now, in the present, I boarded the first plane I could get to Ukraine, calling in favors from some of my contacts for information on the target. He was indeed of the Rebenka, and had indeed killed his handler. He was famous for his abilities, to channel light into his body and out through his hands. The effect could be anything from creating fire to blowing apart a building, depending on the strength of the light and his own desires.

I rued the fact that Jack had died so long ago, his ability to extinguish light would have come in handy in this venture. But, there are other ways to handle this.

Arriving in Ukraine, I was met by one of my contacts, an elderly woman who had lived through worse regimes than the modern Russians and had been a friend to Jack. She brought me to her son, a mechanic who had helped me and Jack in the past. War-torn countries are often havens for Awakened seeking to escape world governments. He gave me a vehicle, I took out a fake passport – one that claimed I was a reporter from the states – and set out for Crimea.

Within a day’s drive, I was in Crimea, and trying to figure out where Aleksander was. I hoped he’d been making a scene, but, as I knew was likely, he’d gone underground. It took a week of searching before I even heard of someone matching his description.

He’d fallen in with a gang in Sevastopol, who had protected him in exchange for his services as a ‘peacekeeper’, an enforcer who hunted down rival gangs. I tracked him to a club, called P’yana Svolota, and kept a close eye on the door, before following him into the club, wearing a thick hood and gloves. A black man in Crimea would stand out like a sore thumb. And there he was – dressed in the leather he seemed to like so much, attempting to woo a dancer – and by woo, I mean he was snorting coke out of her bra. He was laughing and chatting up a couple of suspicious-looking gents in suits in Russian. I couldn’t make a scene, killing him here. I’d probably kill him before he could do anything, but I’d most likely get shot for my trouble. I listened to their conversation.

“I want my salary doubled,” he said, sniffling a little.

“You’re already the highest-paid employer in our service,” said one of the men in suits. “We can’t justify paying you more – despite your valued service.”

Laughing, Aleksander brushed his blonde hair away from his face, and began again, “I don’t think you understand, I’m not asking – I’m telling you what I want, and you give it to me, or I drop more bodies than just your enemies.”

“The boss will hear about this,” said the other man, “You can’t just go making threats like this –“

“I can and I will, you mat’ shlyukhoy,”

The two men in suits stood up and walked out, and I watched as he pushed the dancer away roughly and got up, going to the bathroom. I followed.

Inside the dingy, graffiti-laden bathroom, I stood a couple urinals away from him and when he went to wash his hands at the pair of sinks, and I joined him at the other.

“Hey, man,” I said in English.

“What do you want?” he responded in an accent-laden English.

I turned to him and used my powers to throw him into the wall.

“Sukin syn!” he exclaimed, followed by a stream of likewise vulgar slurs.

Aiming a hand towards me, I dodged out of the way as a burst of flame went from his hand to the far wall, nearly taking me out. Using my abilities, I pinned his arms against the wall, and he responded by shooting light out of every bare bit of skin he had – brighter than a flashbang. Losing my concentration, he dropped to the floor, diving towards me while I was blinded. Recovering quickly, I used my abilities to turn off the lights in the room.

Remembering what Jack had taught me about fighting in the dark. Guard on all sides. Use your other senses, he had told me, be prepared for a strike from any side, but if both you and your opponent are on equal footing, make sure to face wherever they are coming from.

I drew from my pocket a switchblade that I had bought on the trip here, knowing telekinesis would be less than useless without my sight to guide it. I heard his footsteps as he ran towards me, and threw myself forward in a tackle.

Unfortunately, I dropped my knife. We grappled on the floor, and I heard sounds from outside, shouting. As I pinned Aleksander, the door slammed open, spilling light into the room. I rolled off of Aleksander as he blasted a beam of light from his bare hands, at what would have been me, but striking the ceiling. Finding the knife, I crouched as he rolled backwards, throwing himself forward into a standing position. Firing blast after blast at me as I dodged as fast as I could, I got closer and closer to him. A blast grazed my arm, melting cloth and burning flesh, painful but survivable.

Finally, I stabbed the knife through his right hand, causing him to scream in pain. Though he was trained in hand-to-hand, he was mostly a ranged opponent and was unused to physical pain in combat. Pulling the knife out quickly as he tried to blast me again, I drove the knife home, slicing through leather and into his right lung. A scream becoming a gurgling gasp as the lung collapsed, I knocked him off his feet, and finished the job, slicing across his throat. I turned and saw the man standing in the doorway, trying to draw his gun, but it was already too late. I threw him out of the doorway with my mind, ran outside and got back into my loaned truck, and drove.

It took me a week, three cars and a couple thousand dollars, but I made it back to the States, and to my house. Taking a beer from the fridge, I relaxed into my chair, and turned on the television. A rerun of Friends was playing. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and let out a groan. My bandaged arm still hurt like hell. Then, the fax machine in the corner began to beep and print again.

There are many types of Mages in the world. Fire, Ice, Wind, Water, Death, Darkness, to name a few. But in this world, every type of mage is treated as equal. Everyone can be a good guy, no matter how dark your power. And anyone could be a bad guy, no matter how beautiful their ability…

If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...

Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?

Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?

Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?

Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?

Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?