Howlietzer Publishing

Category: FICTION

  • The New Kid

    The New Kid

    Loner Autumn (Ch1):

    The New Kid

    The End of Summer

    Tina Kurt, dressed in only a pink bikini, sat on the swing set in the small park inside her home subdivision, Morris Lake. It was the last day of summer break and Tina was determined to make it the best of all. She rocked back and forth on the swing set, her hands loosely gripping the plastic-covered chains, her bare feet digging into the warm gravel and her blond pigtails floating in the wind as it breathed a warm August breath.

    She tilted her head back and watched the sky as the sun sank slowly into the earth. She was getting a little worried. She expected him to come looking for her by now. She flirted with him all day; didn’t he notice? Though Aaron was the most popular, most athletic, most intelligent guy at Morrisville High School, he seemed also to be the most shy.

    Aaron had never had a girlfriend, but that wouldn’t last for long. Tina was going to be his first and he was going to come here today and make her a woman.

    She’d been planning this all summer, however things had been very hectic. There was cheer camp where she accomplished her first goal of becoming the cheer captain this upcoming school year–a very difficult task. She had to do a lot to get there. But this was necessary to accomplish her next goal of becoming Aaron Thompson’s girlfriend.

    Aaron, being the best boy in Morrisville High School, deserved the best and she was the best.

    She and her fellow cheerleaders had arranged a pool party at her house, and while wearing her favorite, skimpy, pink bikini showing off her goods, she knew she got Aaron all hot. It was hard to tell at first. She flirted with him explicitly, but he seemed to shrug her off. But when she flirted with his best friend Russell, he seemed to get a little jealous. She told her guests to make themselves at home while she went for a walk. Any minute he would be there to take her to ecstasy.

    A Dangerous Encounter

    She gasped as she heard the shuffling of gravel behind her. Her face flushed as she thought about Aaron’s strong arms taking her away from the park and back to his car to make her a woman and his girlfriend for his senior year, her freshman year. She would be the most popular and most envied girl at Morrisville… giggle.

    She turned around in the swing and said as sensually as she could, “Take me Aaron. I’m all yours.” But it wasn’t Aaron at all. It was Russell Brown, Aaron’s best friend.

    “Sorry babe, I’m not Aaron,” he said as he grabbed her and pulled her off the swing, “But I’m better.”

    Tina tried to scream, but Russell covered her mouth with one of his large hands and began to slip the other down the front of her bikini bottom. Tina’s eyes grew wide as she kicked her legs out and squirmed, trying to knock Russell off balance. It worked, but he threw her face down to the ground so hard that he knocked the wind out of her and also ripped off her bikini bottom.

    She gasped for breath as she felt the heat of blood rushing to her face, her voice trapped, trying to escape, but she could barely utter a groan.

    Russell positioned himself behind her, pinned her arms behind her back and spread her legs.

    Tina cried. Instead of starting high school as the youngest cheer captain in history, and Aaron’s girlfriend, she was going to start as a slut. Her eyes cascaded as she whimpered into the gravel, trying to bury herself to drown out the feelings…

    “Shut up bitch!” he said, caressing her thighs, “You’ve been getting me so hard all afternoon. All that flirting, you can’t tell me you don’t want this!”

    Her sobs got a little louder. “Please get off of me,” she said turning her head to the side, “This is a big misunderstanding! Just get off of me and I won’t say a word!”

    “I don’t care if you tell anybody,” he said, “You said it yourself, ‘take me…’ sounds like a slutty thing to say to me.” He smiled and snickered at his own joke as Tina buried her face back in the gravel. She wished she could suffocate right there and die, that way she couldn’t feel it… any of it.

    “Don’t worry, baby,” said Russell, “This is going to feel great… Oww! What the fuck?”

    Byron the Rescuer

    Something hit the back of Russell’s head, and as he wiped his hand at the spot, he felt the smear of blood in his hair. He turned his head around to see the palest kid he had ever seen in his life. He was short, couldn’t be older than a middle schooler, with curly red hair, freckles–staring like a hawk with narrowed eyes, never blinking. They seemed to glue Russell where he sat.

    The boy had a rock in his hand that he tossed up and caught. The rhythm mesmerized Russell for a moment, until then he remembered who he was.

    “Beat it, kid,” said Russell as he turned back to Tina, “You don’t want any of this. I’d break you in half.”

    The next rock flew and hit Russell in the same exact spot. He turned back around, “I said leave, kid! You don’t want to fight me!”

    “No, I don’t want to fight you,” said the kid, “I have to fight you.”

    Russell stood up. He wiped the gravel off his knees and sized up the kid. “What are you 4 foot 10 inches?”

    “4 foot 11,” said the kid. “But that is neither here nor there. Girl! Get up and run.”

    “Tina,” shouted Russell, turning around, “You stay right there!”

    He turned back to face the kid to see that he was right in front him. “Hi!” he said, as he jumped up six feet in the air and kicked Russell in the head.

    The kick knocked Russell sideways while the kid, with increased momentum, spun and kicked his other foot right into Russell’s chest before landing back on the ground.

    Russell fell backwards, nearly landing on Tina, who was attempting to crawl away. She watched as the boy stepped closer to them, hands in his pockets, like he had nothing to fear from the 6’2” linebacker.

    Russell grabbed his chest, trying to breath, but hurting immensely, he watched as the boy stood over him. “Had enough?” he asked, his eyes blazing.

    “Fuck you!” groaned Russell, as he reached out for the boy’s ankle. He stepped on Russell’s hand and then kick him in the temple, knocking him unconscious.

    Tina’s eyes popped as she sat up, shocked by what had just happened that she completely forgot that she was bottomless. Standing up, her eyes never left the boy’s physique. This scrawny, pale, freckle-faced boy, who somehow beat a high school football player, was her rescuer. Why?

    They had never even met before. In fact, she was positive he was brand new. She remembered seeing some moving vans coming and going for the past week. Was he from that new family?

    She looked down to see Russell, her assailant, on the ground, eyes rolled over and it dawned on her: Russell Brown was unconscious. One of the school’s best players was unconscious. What if he couldn’t play this season? Their team would be screwed! All because of this loser…

    The Walk Home

    “Hey, you!” said Tina, “What the hell are you doing? He’s one of our best… guard guys. What were you thinking?” But as all of this ran through her mind, the boy had walked away.

    “Where are you going?” she shouted.

    “Home,” he said.

    “You’re just going to leave me here alone? What if he wakes up?”

    “Well,” said the kid, “If he wakes up, all your problems are solved.”

    “Well,” she said chasing after him, “Then how did you just happen to save me? Are you following me? Are you some kind of pervert?”

    He stopped and turned around. “I live just around the corner,” he said, pointing in the direction he was walking, “And for the record, you’re of no interest to me.” He turned back around and walked away.

    “What do you mean you have no interest in me?” She caught back up to him. “I’m the hottest girl in school, the cheerleader captain!” she said, “You have no interest in me? I have no interest in you!”

    “And here I thought you were stalking me,” he said, letting go a small smile.

    “I’d never!” she said, “But could you just walk me home? I’m still a little shaken up.” She turned around to see if Russell was following them.

    The boy sighed. “Sure. I guess it’s not that big of a deal. But this is a onetime thing. I can’t come to your rescue all the time.”

    “Shut up!” she said.

    “And also…” he started, looking downward.

    “What?” she asked, looking down to realize she was still naked.

    She screamed and slapped the kid in the face.

    Tina led the way, a sweatshirt wrapped around her waist (courtesy of the boy), down the street towards her house. The road curved and whipped around, leading to stop signs and crosswalks, cut lawns and oak trees, and many children playing outdoors.

    It wasn’t until they heard the thumping of bass from a two story house did the two slow down a bit.

    Tina stopped abruptly, causing the boy to nearly run into her, but he stopped and sidestepped to avoid collision, ending up in front of her. Startled, she spoke, “So this is where I live. I can make it from here… So… Thanks for stopping that guy from…”

    “Don’t worry about it,” said the boy, “…Are you going to tell someone?”

    “No. Like I said, I don’t want to cause any trouble for our team. How would it look if our team lost our homecoming game?”

    The kid stared at her and shrugged. “As long as your priorities are in order…” He turned around and started to head home.

    “I’m Tina,” she called back to him.

    “I know.”

    “…What’s your name?”

    “…It’s… Byron… nice to meet you… I guess.”

    “You don’t talk to pretty girls much, huh?” she said blushing.

    “Yeah, whatever… I got to go. Gotta get ready for school tomorrow.”

    “Morrisville Middle?”

    Byron stopped. “No, Morrisville High. And I want my sweatshirt back. Preferably washed, thanks.” he said, walking away.

    At Tina’s House

    On Tina’s front porch stood a tall, young man with dark, brown hair, a cold beer can in his hand, he stood watching their exchange, wondering who this mysterious boy was. His brows furrowed when he saw Tina call back to him… ‘Morrisville High?’ he thought, ‘So I’ll get to meet him…’

    He watched as Tina walked up the drive, turning her head this way and that to see if anyone saw her. Their eyes met, and he forced a smile as it met her joyful face.

    “Who was that, Tina?” he asked, playfully.

    “Oh,” she said, “He’s just some guy that I met at the park. He was nice enough to walk me home.”

    “Oh?” he said, “Where’s Russell?”

    “Oh?” she said, “Is he not here? I don’t know, did he leave?”

    “He said he was going to follow you,” he said. “I assumed you two would meet up. He must have gotten himself lost.”

    “Well, he’ll be alright, Aaron,” she said, “How about we go back to the party. Are you feeling tipsy, at all?”

    Byron walked around the block. He and Tina had passed by his house, and it would have been faster to go back the way they came, but he didn’t want her having any idea where he lived.

    He liked things quiet. He was happy living alone with his father, little brother and computer. It was his life; high school was an unfortunate, full-time job for now and then… who knew?

    It was the last day of summer vacation and Byron wasn’t ready to start school again. It wasn’t going to be any different. Byron would stay away from everyone and they would stay away from him.

    His father worried about him because of this. When he, his father, was in school, he and his friends would go out and “paint the town redder than Dracula on a Sunday Night.”

    Byron suspected that he was more mature than his father ever was, because his father was always “painting” and getting into trouble. Some weekends Byron wouldn’t see him. There would be a note with money in it and he and his brother would rent a movie and order a pizza.

    Tad was Byron’s 8-year-old brother. He was a handful; he had almost as much energy as his dad, but with a tad more responsibility. Byron was Tad’s best friend, and Byron tried to be a good brother.

    He finished the loop around the neighborhood and ended up at his house. The red Jaguar sat in the open garage, letting Byron know his father was home and, with any luck, had prepared a simple dinner.

    His dad couldn’t cook, but thought he could, and he loved to try new recipes, they never turned out like they did in the magazines. Usually they would be burnt. Once it was under-cooked, but yet another occasion their old house nearly burned down…

    Byron Returns Home

    Byron stood gazing at the new house for a minute. It was nice a lot nicer than their old house… He sighed and opened the gate and stepped onto rthe path towards front door. As soon as he did so, a familiar presence crept up from behind him. Byron always knew when someone was around. He didn’t know why, but he could always feel people staring at him, as well as their intent. And this one behind him was expressing violence.

    “Hey, kid,” said a familiar voice, “I’m going to break your face.”

    Byron turned around, a smirk rested on his mouth, his eyes pressing an intent of calm. Russell stood on the other side of the fence, fists up and ready to swing.

    “Don’t you have a party to get to?” said Byron.

    “It won’t take long,” said Russell smirking, “Now that I know you know that karate crap, I can take you down easy.”

    Byron smiled. “I guess I should enjoy this. I don’t get very many visitors.” He put his hand on the gate to open it, when he heard a clatter from the front door. ‘Oh no…’ he thought as he turned around. It was his father.

    “Byron, you didn’t tell me you were inviting a friend over tonight.” Byron’s dad sprinted towards them, wearing a pink apron and rubber cleaning gloves. Russell looked a bit disheveled from the sight of a grown man wearing an apron, but seemed to regain his composure promptly when Byron’s dad stretched out his hand.

    “What’s your name, sport?” said Byron’s dad, “I’m Matt, Byron’s dad, and I’m so happy to meet you.” Then turning to Byron, “I knew you would make friends here! Morrisville is full of so many awesome people. I should know, I grew up here.”

    Russell laughed. “Your dad is such a dork!” he said.

    “Oh?” said Byron’s dad turning towards him… “I’m gonna kick your ass, you little snot!” Byron rolled his eyes and, half-heartedly, pressed on his dad’s chest.

    “Hold me back, Byron,” he yelled “Hold me back! I don’t want to go to jail for assaulting a minor! Hold me back!”

    Russell’s face went white in and instant. The sudden outburst was more than he expected, given his aggressor’s attire, and with less than a whimper, Russell turned tail and ran away.

    Byron shook his head. ‘Maybe later,’ he thought.

    Matt shook his fists in Russell’s direction, “Yeah, you better run! You punk ass! I hope that wasn’t a friend of yours. He’s a jerk. You can do so much better!”

    “No dad,” said Byron, smiling, “You know I don’t have any friends.”

    The two walked into the house. “I really wish you would give the other kids a chance, Byron,” his father continued, “I had so much fun when I was your age.”

    “Yeah, yeah,” said Byron, “You raised hell around your neighborhood. Dad most of the stuff you did was illegal.”

    “Is illegal,” said his father, chuckling, “Not that I’m promoting criminal activity, but that’s what makes it so much fun!”

    “Dad!” said Byron, “Jeeze! You’re not being a very good example for us kids.”

    “Byron!” said a little brown haired boy running down the hallway, “How was your walk?”

    “It was adequate,” said Byron, as he rubbed Tad’s head, “How was Tetramon 4?”

    “It’s ad-equate,” he said smiling, then going back to his game-man 3D he held in his little hands.

    “That’s what I like to hear,” said Byron smiling.

    “Alright you two,” said their father, “I hope you’re ready for a most delicious experience. Tonight, I’m making philly cheese steak lasagna!”

    “Dad!” said Byron, worried, “When are you going to figure out you can’t use an oven?”

    Byron’s father stared at him. “When I’ve given up on life, my boy! When I’ve given up on life!”

    “I’ll be upstairs, drama queen,” said Byron, “Queue me for my next big scene, ok?”

    Quiet Reflections

    Byron went upstairs to his room and closed the door. It was dark, except for the setting sun peering through the window. He took a deep sigh as he stared at his tidy room. Nothing out of place; everything had a place. He saw his backpack hanging from his desk chair and remembered his first day of school. ‘Only four more years of this,’ he thought, ‘…And then what?’

    He crossed the room to his window and looked into the dimming light. The stars were peeking out of the bluish, black sky and the concrete and asphalt looked so pleasant in the budding darkness. The street lights were on and the lightning bugs flashed their green bottoms below.

    He couldn’t help but laugh. ‘That Tina girl… lost her bottom…’

    He started thinking about his old hometown. His old dojang back in Blainesburg. And his old rival, Alisa. She was the best at their school, and she kicked his ass every day. It was true that Byron didn’t have any friends; nobody cared when he moved, but her. He remembered that last class he had. She beat him extra hard that day, not that he didn’t get some good shots in himself…

    He remembered her last words to him when he left with his dad that night: “Hey, bonehead! Here’s my screenname, you better keep in touch with me. I’m online nearly every Friday night.”

    Byron smiled. Maybe she was on right now. He walked over to his computer and turned it on, hoping to catch her online.

     

    Continue the story here: The Schoolyard Fight

  • Fenrick the White Wolf Warrior

    Fenrick the White Wolf Warrior

    The White Wolf Warrior

    The Birth of a Hunter: Fenrik’s Curse

    The night burned with a savage glow, torches casting long shadows against the jagged cliffs of the northern shores. Smoke curled into the heavens, blotting out the stars as screams echoed in the distance. Villages that once stood proud now lay in ruin, their bones consumed by fire. The warbands had come—merciless raiders with hatred in their hearts and steel in their hands.

    Following them stalked a figure clad in blackened leather and fur, his presence cutting through the chaos like a blade. A mane of stark white hair crowned his head, and his eyes gleamed an unnatural gold. He was a hunter, a predator born of frost and fury, sent to avenge the fallen village. They called him Fenrik, The White Wolf.

    Fenrik moved through the charred remains of a fishing village, his silver sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared cross him. His nostrils flared, catching the acrid scent of burning wood mingled with the iron tang of blood. His prey was close.

    The band of raiders he pursued had fled inland, abandoning their plunder in a desperate bid to escape. They knew who hunted them, and they knew the tales—the White Wolf would not stop until justice was done.

    Fenrik had once been a man like any other. He had loved, laughed, and lived beneath the warm sun. But those days were gone, stripped from him by a cruel twist of fate. His family had been slaughtered by marauders under a blood-red moon, their screams forever etched into his mind. Left for dead, Fenrik had clawed his way back to life, swearing an oath of vengeance.

    He had sought out the elders of the Frozen Circle, an ancient order that wielded powers beyond mortal men. They had remade him, fusing his soul with the essence of the wolf. It was a gift, they claimed, but Fenrik knew it for what it truly was—a curse. His senses were sharper than any blade, his strength unmatched, yet he paid the price with his humanity. His golden eyes betrayed him, marking him as something other, something monstrous.

    He embraced it.

    Steadily, he tracked his prey through the dark forest. His ears caught the faint crunch of boots on frostbitten leaves. His lips curled into a feral grin.

    The raiders were camped in a glade, their fire a feeble defense against the cold. Fenrik crouched in the shadows, the wind carrying their voices to his keen ears. He moved quietly towards their encampment.

    “Do you think he’ll come?” one of them asked, his voice trembling.

    “He’s a ghost, you fool,” another spat. “The White Wolf isn’t real. Just a story to scare children.”

    The raiders had left a trail of death and destruction in their wake. Villages burned; families butchered. They called it war, but Fenrik called it cowardice. He had seen enough blood spilled in his lifetime to know the difference between conquest and cruelty.

    The Hunt for Vargan the Flame

    He slipped through the underbrush, silent as snowfall. One of the men moved to relieve himself near the tree line. Fenrik struck without hesitation, a flash of silver slicing through the night. The man crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood steaming in the cold air.

    The others barely had time to react before the White Wolf was among them. His blade sang, a deadly symphony of steel and vengeance. The raiders fought back, but their crude weapons were no match for his speed and skill. One by one, they fell, their screams swallowed by the forest.

    When the last man dropped, Fenrik stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. Blood soaked his hands and spattered his face, but his golden eyes burned with a cold satisfaction. He wiped his blade clean on a fallen raider’s tunic, then turned his gaze to the fire.

    Among the scattered supplies was a map, its edges singed. Fenrik picked it up, his sharp eyes scanning the markings. It showed the raiders’ route—a path that led directly to the stronghold of their leader, a warlord known only as Vargan the Flame.

    He folded the map and tucked it into his belt.

    The stronghold loomed on the horizon as the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of red and gold. Fenrik had traveled through the night, his supernatural endurance carrying him far beyond the limits of mortal men. The gates of the fortress were massive, built to withstand an army. But Fenrik was no army—he was an avatar of justice.

    He approached the gates under the cover of darkness, scaling the stone walls with the agility of a wolf on the hunt. The guards never saw him coming. By the time he slipped into the heart of the fortress, the sun had risen, casting long shadows across the blood-stained courtyard.

    Vargan the Flame sat upon a throne of iron and bone; his hulking frame draped in furs. His red hair and beard seemed to glow like embers, and his eyes were as cruel as the axe he held in his hands.

    “So, the White Wolf comes to my den,” Vargan said, his voice a rumble. “I’ve heard the stories. They say you’re a demon, a monster. Let’s see if you bleed like a man.”

    Fenrik stepped into the light, his silver blade gleaming.

    The two clashed with a fury that shook the walls. Vargan’s axe was a mountain, heavy and relentless, but Fenrik danced around it, his movements precise and fluid. He struck with the speed of lightning, his blade biting into Vargan’s flesh again and again.

    But the warlord was no mere brute. He fought with the cunning of a seasoned warrior, forcing Fenrik to push himself to the limit. The battle raged on, blood staining the ground as the two titans collided.

    In the end, it was Fenrik who prevailed. With a final, desperate strike, he drove his blade through Vargan’s chest, piercing the warlord’s heart. The giant fell to his knees, his axe slipping from his grasp.

    “For the villages you burned,” Fenrik said, his voice cold. “For the lives you destroyed.”

    The Path of the White Wolf Never Ends

    Vargan’s eyes dimmed, and he collapsed, the fire in him finally extinguished.

    The stronghold was silent as Fenrik stepped into the morning light. The torches of war had been snuffed out; their smoke carried away on the breeze. But Fenrik felt no triumph, no joy. The hunt was his muse, but it left him hollow.

    He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the rivers flowed, and the shores stretched on forever. There would always be another warlord, another torch to extinguish. His path was endless, a means to an end he could no longer remember.

    And so he vanished into the wilderness, a shadow among shadows, leaving only the whispers of his legend behind.

     

    Liked this? Read this: Beneath the Black Flag: A Pirate Ghost Ship Tale

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  • Beneath the Black Flag: A Pirate Ghost Ship Tale

    Beneath the Black Flag: A Pirate Ghost Ship Tale

    A Pirate Ghost Ship Tale

    The Code of the Sea: No Kings, No Masters

    The ocean stretched endlessly before them, a restless expanse of churning waves and howling winds. The Black Widow, a sleek and weathered brigantine, cut through the sea like a blade. Her sails, ink-black against the steel-grey sky, billowed with the promise of chaos. Atop the mainmast, a flag whipped in the gale—a skull and crossed swords, a harbinger of doom for any ship unfortunate enough to cross their path.

    Captain Marlow, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes as cold as the depths, stood at the helm, his hands firm on the wheel. Around him, his crew of outlaws worked with the precision of a well-tuned instrument. They were a motley bunch—former assassins, escaped slaves, and thieves who had swapped their chains for freedom. Together, they had forged a creed: no kings, no masters, only the sea.

    “Hoist the main, you scallywags!” Marlow bellowed, his voice cutting through the storm. “We’ve a prize to catch, and the tide won’t wait for your laziness!”

    A roar of agreement answered him. The men moved with practiced haste; their movements born of survival rather than obedience. Among them was a towering man named Gideon, his muscles corded like rope, who hauled the rigging with ease. Beside him, quick-footed Amara, a former assassin with daggers at her hips and a deadly gleam in her eyes, secured the lines with deft fingers.

    The ship leapt forward, the wind filling her sails. Ahead, the target came into view—a merchant ship flying the colors of a wealthy kingdom. Her hull was laden with goods, and her escort—a single frigate—seemed laughable by comparison.

    “Look alive!” Marlow called. “It’s a fine day to bleed a kingdom dry!”

    The crew let loose a chorus of cheers and bawdy songs, their voices rising above the gale.

    The Black Widow closed the distance with terrifying speed. The merchant ship’s escort, realizing the danger, turned to intercept. Cannons boomed, and iron shot splintered the air, but the Widow danced out of range like a predator toying with its prey.

    “Amara!” Marlow barked.

    She was already moving, scaling the rigging with the ease of a shadow. From her perch high on the mast, she drew a longbow and notched an arrow. Her aim was true—the projectile sliced through the air and buried itself in the neck of the frigate’s helmsman.

    The enemy ship veered wildly. The Black Widow took her chance, closing the gap with the merchant vessel. Grappling hooks flew, biting into the wood of the enemy’s hull.

    “Board her!” Marlow roared, drawing his cutlass.

    The crew swarmed over the rails like locusts. Steel clashed with steel as the merchant crew tried to mount a defense. Gideon led the charge, his massive frame a wall of muscle and fury. He swung a boarding axe with brutal efficiency, clearing a path through the chaos.

    Amara moved like a specter, her daggers flashing in the dim light. One by one, the merchant guards fell, their cries lost to the storm.

    Marlow himself was a whirlwind of calculated violence. His cutlass found throats and bellies, each strike deliberate, each death a step closer to victory.

    Within minutes, the deck was theirs.

    Mercy, Loot, and a New Choice

    The merchant captain, a portly man with a powdered wig now askew, knelt before Marlow. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he held out a ledger. The rest of the merchant crew stood down, under the watchful eyes of Gideon and Amara and the hundreds of pistols pointed at them.

    “Please,” he stammered, “take what you will, but spare my men.”

    Marlow towered over him. He and his crew lived by their own code. Were they pirates? Yes. But when surrender is met and bounty taken, there’s no more need for wasted effort.

    Still Marlow sneered. “Spare your men? Now why should I do that?”

    The merchant captain gulped. “They’re wives and children, who will look at them?”

    “The government!” Marlow’s men laughed. Even the stone-cold Amara’s eyes flitted with amusement.

    The merchant captain’s eyes widened in horror.

    Marlow smirked. “Sorry. My men have a point. The spineless, tyrants will look after them.”

    The merchant crew nearly rose up but were reminded where they stood during this exchange. Captain Marlow noticed. He smiled. He knew his decision.

    Gideon emerged from below the ship, a line of chained prisoners followed him.

    “Slaves?” Marlow asked the merchant captain.

    He was close to sobbing. Marlow tapped his round cheek with his cutlass. “Answer, please?”

    “Slaves. Men who couldn’t pay their debts. Taken as payment,” he sobbed.

    “Your government disgusts me!” said Captain Marlow. He raised his voice to everyone on the deck. “But I won’t hold that against you. You patient dogs who do as you’re told. You have my mercy this night, but we will be plundering you.”

    His crew descended into the hold, hauling out crates of silks, spices, and gold coins stamped with royal insignias.

    “Free the slaves, Gideon,” said Captain Marlow.

    “We free them,” he growled, snapping the chains with his bare hands.

    The freed prisoners, though weak, raised their heads in gratitude. Some wept openly, while others stared at their liberators with a mixture of awe and fear.

    “You are free now,” Marlow said. “Free to join us. If not, we’ll see you safely to the next port. You merchants are spared. Don’t get in our way and we can all survive this storm.”

    As the Black Widow sailed away from the gutted merchant ship, the storm intensified. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the faces of the crew and something strange over the horizon.

    “Captain!” Amara called from the crow’s nest. “Something’s wrong!”

    The Ghost Ship and the Reckoning

    Marlow looked to where she pointed. A monstrous wave loomed on the horizon, darker than the night itself. But it was what rode atop the wave that sent a chill down his spine—a massive ship, its sails torn and its hull blackened as if by fire.

    “The Eternal Revenant,” Gideon whispered, his face pale.

    The ghost ship was a legend among pirates, a vessel crewed by the damned and cursed to haunt the seas forever. Its captain, known only as The Reaper, was said to hunt those who had spilled blood unjustly.

    “We’ve nothing to fear,” Marlow said, though his voice lacked its usual steel. “We honor the poor and fight against tyranny. We’re no villains.”

    The crew nodded, though unease crept through them like a shadow.

    The Eternal Revenant closed the distance impossibly fast. The storm seemed to part for it, the waves bending to its will. Its cannons roared, and spectral fire rained down upon the Black Widow.

    Marlow’s crew fought valiantly, but their weapons passed through the ghostly attackers as though they were air. One by one, his men fell, their spirits ripped from their bodies by the Reaper’s blade.

    As the last of his crew fell, Marlow stood alone on the deck, his cutlass useless against the towering figure before him. The Reaper’s eyes glowed like twin embers, his boney hand reaching out towards Marlow to hold him.

    “Why do you come for us?” Marlow demanded. “We are just like yourself. We plunder the rich and fight for the honorable man.”

    The Reaper’s voice was like the grinding of stone. “Your creed is noble, and you hate shedding honest blood, but you are not exempt from what must be done. The eyes of justice may seem blind, but they are not infallible. All debts must be paid, and yours is due.”

    Marlow dropped his blade. He met The Reaper’s gaze with defiance before his ship sunk under the waves.

     

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  • Moonlight Blue: A Fantasy Mentor Story

    Moonlight Blue: A Fantasy Mentor Story

    Moonlight Blue: A Fantasy Mentor Story

    A Farewell Beneath the Stars

    Under the glow of the pale moon, two figures stood atop a windswept cliff, gazing out over an endless expanse of midnight-blue forest. The taller of the two, cloaked in weathered, fur-lined robes, had eyes as grey and sharp as a wolf’s, and hair that shimmered faintly silver in the moonlight. Beside him stood a lupine creature, massive and loyal, its coat a grey so deep it seemed to drink in the darkness around it.

    The man reached down, his hand brushing the creature’s rough fur. “Look at that sky, old friend,” he murmured, his voice carrying a sadness that echoed between the trees. “We’ve come so far, haven’t we?”

    The she-wolf, wise and silent, stared up at the man, her eyes reflecting the light of the stars. They had been together for as long as the man could remember, through lives both bright and dark, in every shade of fate the stars above had cast down upon them.

    Together, they had followed constellations, tracing ancient runes carved into rock and root, searching for treasure and fighting monsters. Making friends just as fast as they lost them, forever searching for a forever home.

    The man felt a chill run through him, though it was not from the cold. The night felt different, as though the moon herself held her breath. He glanced at the sky, watching as stars began to gather in new formations, their light tracing patterns that felt familiar yet distant.

    “Do you see it?” he whispered. “The stars—they’re shifting. Realigning.” His gaze fell to the wolf. “Our journey is nearly at an end.”

    The wolf lowered its head, understanding in its ancient eyes. They had chased after prophecies and adventure, and seen kingdoms rise and fall. But tonight, as the stars painted their final course, there was a sorrow between them, for both knew that their time had come.

    The Burden of Survival and Memory

    Long ago, under a different moon and sky, the man had been chosen as a guide, a watcher for those bound by destiny—a trainer of heroes. His life had been one of vigil and sacrifice, the echoes of which lingered even in his bones. And the she-wolf, who had been his companion through all of it, knew all of his burdens and bore them with him in silence.

    All the heroes lost, yet death had yet to claim them.

    Their stories, and those of the heroes long gone, would stand the test of time. Carved into the rocks and trees, with magical runes read the sagas of their exploits. The many they helped would echo these tales for generations, giving renewed life to the dead. Grengi, the man, whittled a final tale onto a stone where they stood. It was the story of Melogius, a crafty wizard who met his end at the claws of a river dragon. Grengi sighed at the memory.

    He looked at the wolf, he called, Ta’mara. “You stood by me when others fled, loyal even when the weight of fate crushed those we loved,” he murmured, fingers tracing the edges of the stones. “How many times did I promise this would be our last journey? And yet here we are.”

    The wolf looked at him with quiet acceptance, its gaze a mixture of pride and sorrow. This was the cost of loyalty: though they stuck together through thick and thin, they never got what they wanted, only following the tides and stars, and training the next generation, only to see them smashed and written on the many stones they’d discovered. They had each other. Each hero, Ta’mara had accepted as her cub, throwing them into danger so she could watch them grow. She’d wondered why she was able to survive her cubs, up to this point, and she felt her colossal strength waning as the stars burned.

    Grengi knelt beside Ta’mara, meeting her eyes as he had so many times before. “This is where we die, isn’t it?”

    Ta’mara whined softly, a sound that held every unspoken memory between them. And as the moonlight cascaded down, the man saw his own reflection in the wolf’s eyes—a reflection of who he had once been, and who he had become through their journeys together.

    He pressed his forehead to the wolf’s, breathing in the scent of wild earth and untamed forests. “I will always remember you, my friend. Even when the stars grow cold and the sun fades, I will remember. My wish is that we meet in the next world, yes?”

    Guided by Ghosts into the Beyond

    Ta’mara’s gaze shifted, focusing on something deeper in the forest below them. Shadows gathered at the edge of the clearing, shapes barely visible, yet distinctly present. Grengi understood—these were the spirits of the heroes he had once guided. They were here to guide them to the next life.

    They were waiting, their forms thin and shimmering under the blue light, their eyes locked on him, waiting for the moon’s subtle signal to embrace their mentors. Grengi’s heart grew heavy, the weight of old guilt clawing up from his past.

    He turned back to the wolf, his voice catching in his throat. “I tried to save them. I thought… I thought we could protect them, train them, but all we did was mark their time.”

    The wolf held his gaze, a quiet understanding passing between them. They had come far, but not without sacrifices—and there were some ghosts that could never be laid to rest.

    “Is this how it ends?” Grengi asked the moon, his words barely a whisper. “Alone, with nothing but the shadows of those I failed?”

    Ta’mara lifted her muzzle and howled, crying for her lost cubs and the regret of their untimely end. The sound was both mournful and defiant, reflecting Grengi’s in every aspect.

    In that moment, the stars above seemed to shift again, the constellations reshaping into symbols of hope, of remembrance, of peace. The ghosts wavered, their shapes blurring and fading, but persisting, closing the distance between them. It was not malice these spirits held, but a kindness they wished to bestow on their old teachers.

    Grengi and Ta’mara felt it. The intention. They shivered and shook the last bit of defiance and life they had left and succumbed to the rest they both wanted for so long, guided into the beyond by their pupils.

     

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  • Only Us: A Dark Fantasy Betrayal

    Only Us: A Dark Fantasy Betrayal

    Only Us: A Dark Fantasy Betrayal

    A Traitor’s Final Stand

    Dark clouds gathered over the old stone castle as Aidan sat alone in his newly claimed chambers, his fingers tapping idly on the hilt of his dagger. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls, and he listened, as he always did, for the bells of shame that seemed to echo in his ears long after they had fallen silent in the streets below.

    He’d taken their lives–all according to plan–except for a loathsome knight who escaped the initial poisoning. It was only a matter of time before the bells sounded again, but this time to echo his betrayal to the crown and summon the vassals and remaining loyalist to his execution—to perform it as barbarically as they saw fit.

    He would go down in history as the most reviled man in the kingdom, a lord fallen from grace, his name spoken with scorn in every corner for ages onward. Aidan welcomed it—let them curse him, let vengeance roar. For every insult cast his way, he sharpened his blades and smiled his bitter, scornful smile. He’d put up a fight, no less was expected from his forgotten ancestors who served the King till their own betrayal by kings before. He’d been haunted so long by his tarnished history, and tonight he’d righted the timeline. His family would rule or burn for their treachery.

    A Love Forged in Fire

    Aidan’s life had become a tapestry woven of rage, betrayal, and a dark purpose he held onto with all his might. He had lost so much and resented even more; his bitterness had been his companion; he’d abandoned any pretense of honor long ago, reveling in the twisted satisfaction of his own undoing.

    As he leaned back against the cold stone, a knock resounded on his door. He didn’t move, simply stated, “Enter.”

    His only remaining ally, Lenore, the young maiden who had helped him in his master plan, slipped inside, her cloak trailing the floor like a shroud. She was the last person who truly knew him—the only one who had seen the many shades of his fury and forgiven every one of them.

    “They’re gathering in the square, Aidan,” she said, fear alight in her eyes. “You know what that means.”

    He smirked, lips curling into a dark smile. “They gather to claim their vengeance. And why shouldn’t they? I finally got mine.”

    Lenore moved closer, her voice low, a warning and a promise intertwined. “Yes, my love, they won’t stop till they have it, but remember, you are not bound to grant them either.”

    “Yes,” he whispered, his voice like a blade. “I don’t think we will live to see the end of this, Lenore. My rash plans left us unprotected. If you hurry through the underground passages, you may escape their wrath.”

    Lenore’s expression softened, yet her gaze grew darker, a spark igniting in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before. “And then what? I’m a known accomplice. Sir Tristan witnessed me with his own eyes, serving the guests with our tainted drink. Folly, he took his oath of abstinence from wine. Folly for us.”

    Aidan squeezed her hand. “If you stay, you will die with me, the traitor to the throne. The besmirched Lord of Eversfield with a grudge deeper than the great beyond. How could I go to hell with more than my betrayal on my shoulders? With the woman I love and our unborn child with me at the fiery gates?”

    She smiled and kissed his lips tenderly. “I walked this path with you. I knew what might be. I gambled like my father before me and reached for freedom no matter the cost. Nothing else matters now, only us.”

    The Fury of the Mob

    Together, they descended into the heart of the castle. The stone corridors wound like veins through the darkness, and Aidan could feel the ghosts of the past pressing against him, watching him, judging him. He had once been a man with aspirations, with ideals. But years of betrayal and loss had twisted him into something else entirely—an avenger who would stop at nothing to bring ruin to the family that destroyed his own.

    As they stepped outside, the night air bit into their skin, cold and sharp. The townsfolk had gathered below, torches lighting the square like a forest ablaze. Their cries rose up in fury, accusations and curses thrown like stones. Sir Tristan stood at the forefront, his eyes sharper than Aidan’s own killing tools.

    “Traitor!” the townspeople shouted, “Murderer!”

    Aidan stood tall, his gaze defiant, as he bore into Sir Tristan’s eyes. The loose end that frayed their plan in twain. Lenore’s steady presence at his side anchored him as he spoke his final words.

    “Traitor, yes. Murderer, also yes.” His smile widened. “But know this: I stand here not because I seek your forgiveness. I am no man of honor, and I’ve embraced that. My guilt runs dark and deep, and my only regret is that I did not destroy more of you sooner.”

    The crowd’s fury grew, but Aidan could see the fear creeping into their eyes as well. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that echoed in the square.

    Lenore stepped forward, clinging to her beloved arm, defiance and acceptance adorning her. This was the outcome from her gamble, to stand side by side with the man she loved, to die in his arms, though she wished the outcome had been sweeter, it was sweet enough to have known this unstoppable force, if at least for the miniscule moment they had together. “Only us.”

    The townsfolk had been busy the whole while, piling up wood and kindling below. They threw their torches, the flames licking up the stone and casting shadows that danced in a wild frenzy. Aidan didn’t flinch as the fire grew. He took Lenore’s hand, feeling her warmth amid the chaos, and the two of them stood together as the flames rose around them.

    The Fall of Eversfield

    As the crowd cheered at the fire, unaware of what lay ahead, Aidan leaned close to Lenore. “There’s still time for you to escape, my love.”

    She gulped as the fire rose higher, but his warmth settled her resolve. She nestled into his chest, her fingers squeezing his tightly. “Only us, Aidan. To the end.”

    The flames surged higher, consuming the ancient stones as the mob struck the walls with their makeshift battering rams, the flames striking back against their foolhardy masters. Crude siege engines continued the assault and the clanging of steel upon the weakened stone echoed in their ears.

    Aidan and Lenore didn’t have to wait for the flames to engulf them. The archers arrived and smooth was the sound of their toppling bodies from their high perch. They died in each other’s arms.

     

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