ichor

Often, the best fiction is the fiction I don’t understand.

Enjoy Gabe’s piece

mind citadel

The dust of shattered stars hung heavy on the air and in his soul. He glanced up towards the unforgiving heavens and their unfeeling ruler, the sun. He pondered subconsciously how something so hot could be so cold. He looked down at his broken feet, bare, bruised, and bloodied red from miles upon miles of fruitless pilgrimage. His blood had been golden once, a remnant of a different time in his life. But now even that was gone, replaced with the crimson red of the dirt and the brutal sun overhead.

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Joker – Chapter 11

This is a story I wrote that’s part of a series but it stands well on its own.

King, Queen, Joker, Ace

WARNING – This story is both moving and disturbing. Eight year olds can do crazy things.

Many years before selection

When I was seven years old, both of my parents were still alive. Did they love me? No. Well, one of them did. My mother always cried for me, wondered why I wasn’t like her other children. I could tell, even at seven, that she loved me. She felt sorry for me, yes. She hated me in her love. But she loved me.

My Dad just hated me. Just like he hated and abused my mom. In fact, that abuse was probably what made her so weak on that day. But this story isn’t about my Dad. It’s about my mom. You see, when I was young my Dad was often gone. My mom was there, taking care of me and my half siblings. (This is quite unrelated, but…

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