The prompt details:

• Genre: Steampunk

• Character: Bandit

• Setting: Arcade

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Cover image credit: @TheArtSherpa

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“Two bandits and a priest walk into Game Street,” Ryot said as he pushed the metal door open and held it for his two associates. The doorway led into darkness. A gaping mouth.

“I’m not a priest, I’m a monk,” Glee said.

“Same thing.” Ryot grinned at the stocky man.

Glee scoffed, but Ryot thought he saw a twinkle of excitement in his eyes.

“I’m not a bandit.” Puck frowned.

“We’ll fix that right up.” Ryot let the door swing shut and waved the men aside.

It was hot. The metal structure retained the day’s worth of sun warmth. It cut the street in two. On one side — the inhabited, if not very prosperous, Ridge Street; on the other — the den of steam-powered sin, as Glee had called it when Ryot scouted and recruited him for the job. Game Street.

“What now?” Glee hunched in the corner, looking around and rubbing his palms together, which made Ryot sigh. He didn’t remember the man fidgeting as much during their first meeting. If the three of them got caught, it would be because of Glee’s suddenly non-existent poker face.

“As we discussed,” Ryot said.

The door opposite the one they had entered swung open, letting out a group of dazed men, hollow-faced and clearly intoxicated. They walked through and exited the barricade, not noticing the trio huddling in the shadowy corner.

Glee whistled. “Tough luck with the games, it seems,” he said.

“Tough luck for one is good luck for another,” Ryot said. “We go in. One hour, yes?”

The men nodded.

***

Glee wasn’t really nervous.

His grey robe, held at the waist with a brass belt, made a swishing noise as he walked deeper into Game Street, weaving through the crowd of players. The cacophony surrounded him. Blaring music from the games, excited and angry exclamations from the people. Glee hunched his shoulders and made himself small.

The air was thick with steam mixing with smoke and smog — the perpetual blanket covering the capital, but ever more intense here. The street was narrow, with most of the space occupied by bulky steam-powered game machines. Five-story buildings crowded the pavement on both sides, leaning into it, only letting in a sliver of light and a grain of fresh air.

Glee looked up at the lanterns and colourful paper garlands lining the space between the opposite windows, condensation glittering on their waterproofed surfaces. The air smelled metallic.

“Damn it!” A large man on Glee’s right kicked the machine and charged angrily into the crowd, parting it like water as he moved towards the exit. He pushed Glee aside, making him stumble over his robe.

Puck walked up to him, and Glee threw up his hands, irritated. “Ryot knew right well to choose the busiest day, didn’t he?”

“Relax and just do your thing,” Puck snatched a half-filled glass of beer from a nearby table and gulped it down. Glee scrunched his nose, then climbed onto the vacated table.

“I—” he looked down, but Puck was already gone, dissolved into the crowd, half of which — mostly the queueing folk — turned their eyes to Glee, expecting him to do something embarrassing.

“Good people of the—” he floundered. “—of Game Street and beyond!” Good enough. “I’ve come here today, a representative of the Higher Science Monastery, to save you! The time has come to embrace the power of lightning, the electrical life-giving currents and reject the all-rotting steam machines!”

The crowd shuffled closer. Some of them even looked interested.

“Think on it, good people. The coughs, the mould. And the cause? Wretched steam! It powers our machines, it entertains us—” Glee gestured at the games, their intricate mechanisms working hard and puffing out clouds of excess vapour. “You’re all dependent on your silent killer!” Glee paused for effect. “At the Higher Science Monastery, we dedicate our time to contemplation and education. We see the potential that lightning brings, we hear the thunderous impact of its wrath, and we speak when we see a new opportunity to elevate a lesser man!”

“Who are you calling a lesser man?” As interest turned indignant, a murmur passed over the crowd.

“Leave, priest, monk, whatever you are.” A serving woman with darting eyes hissed at Glee. “Your words will fall on dead ears here.”

“Deaf,” Glee said.

“What?”

“It’s ‘on deaf ears’, not ‘dead’—” he cut off when the woman put her hands on her hips.

“Idiot,” she said and stepped aside. The men behind her cracked their knuckles and smiled like predators, teeth gleaming.

Glee sighed. “I’m leaving, alright?” He jumped off the table, only the men didn’t part for him. “Let me pass.”

“Deaf ears, eh?” An overly muscled man guffawed and raised his hand in a fist, making Glee flinch instinctively, but instead of hitting, the man pushed him hard. Glee stumbled to the other side of the circle of laughing men, where someone pushed him right back. Glee’s monk robe ripped when he stepped on it while catching his balance, and he cursed inwardly.

At least, Ryot would have his distraction.

***

The crowd was thick as flies.

Ryot’s experience taught him crowds made one almost invisible. He walked the paved street, letting his heels knock in rhythm with the tunes played by the machines. The street was divided in segments, with bars and guard posts spaced out between them. Ryot chose a bench across from the guard post door and sat. Waiting.

A well-built woman played a game right next to him, dropping coins in one by one as she progressed through the difficulty levels. Ryot looked over, curious. A gear-studded mechanical horse with a little brass man mounted on top ran in circles on the face of the machine. When the woman pulled a lever, steam would hiss and a horse would jump over an obstacle. If she failed to pull on time, or pulled too sharply, the brass man would fall off into the mechanical abyss.

“Good people of the—”

Upon hearing Glee’s voice, Ryot perked up and shifted on the bench. If all went well, some heads would turn in that direction, creating an opening for him to drop into the shadows behind the steam-powered games and harvest the copper parts from the back of the few vacant machines. If all went even better… Ryot glanced at the guard post door, still closed tight.

The commotion caused by Glee seemed to be picking up. Ryot pushed off the bench and walked idly towards the guard post door, passing through a cloud of lingering steam mixed with dust raised by so many stomping men and women.

A faint ring sounded from inside the guard post. Ryot’s heart beat faster. Someone had pulled the distress cord to call in a guard to deal with a problem. The door in front of Ryot swung open, and two guards strode out. Ryot caught the door before it had locked shut and slipped into the room, praying it was empty.

It was dimmer and quieter than the street. No guards inside. Ryot exhaled. A day without an unnecessary casualty was a good day.

There was a desk and a couple of chairs against the far wall, a sofa, and a set of large round dumbbells in the middle of the room. The air was stale and smelled like burnt coffee. Ryot noticed the open ledger on the desk, almost inviting him to browse its pages. A dull pencil was nestled in the middle.

It would contain information on material ordered for maintenance of this street segment — enough copper to set Ryot up for a long time. He leafed through the thick ledger and copied the inbound shipment and dock numbers on a scrap of paper, which he tucked into a front pocket of his vest.

Hopefully, there was still enough time to harvest some copper from the machines while Glee’s distraction lasted. And when the novelty of a fight wore off, Puck would…

The alarm blared.

“Scald you, Puck,” Ryot hissed through his teeth, rushing to the door. Either Puck was too early or Ryot dawdled too long after all. No matter. He had what he came for.

***

Puck didn’t go to his destination right away. He kept an eye on Ryot instead, watching him slip into the guard room. This wasn’t the plan.

So it’s every man for himself, huh?

Puck went to the closest game machine. The player had stopped playing and was craning over the heads of the crowd to watch Glee’s fight. Puck did feel sorry for the monk. Fighting remained popular entertainment, despite the Queen’s pretences. And it worked in Puck’s favour.

Kneeling at the back of the machine, Puck worked quickly. If the player decided to continue, steam would scald the skin off Puck’s hands and face.

He pulled out a few copper bearings, then unspooled a copper wire and finally disengaged a copper tube. Enough for a week’s worth of food and lodging at least. Just in case Ryot didn’t come through. The engine hissed weakly and then fell silent.

Was he a proper copper bandit now? Or just a petty thief?

Puck pushed his way from under the machine and leaned against the wall in the back. He looked up just in time to see the two guards returning to their post.

Was Ryot still inside? No way to know. It was too early for the second distraction. And if Puck pulled the alarm lever, they would have to leave immediately, with barely anything harvested at all.

He could just leave Ryot to his fate. He hadn’t followed the plan, after all. That would serve him right. Copper thieves and bandits rarely worked alone, however. And Puck didn’t trust the man to keep silent. Resigned, he jogged to the bright red lever, not too worried about being seen, and pulled it.

***

Ryot exited the room into the chaos of a forced evacuation. Just in front of the door, the guards stood, with their backs to him. Ryot shivered. Too close. He let the door fall shut and stepped away around the row of games, merging with the crowd.

Above, the oil-fuelled lanterns flashed one by one, indicating the emergency exit direction.

“You bastard.” Someone poked him in the ribs.

Glee. His eye was blue and swollen shut. His lower lip was split and bloody. Ryot winced.

“You knew I would get beaten,” he said. The words were thick in his mouth, but there was no anger in his voice.

“It was a possibility. You did well.” Unconsciously, Ryot’s hand strayed towards the front pocket of his vest, where the scrap of paper was. Glee followed his movements with his one eye, but said nothing, trailing after Ryot outside.

***

Groups of people mingled about Ridge Street, hoping for a speedy reopening of Game Street.

Puck was the last to join the crew at the underpass between the towering buildings. Ryot was getting impatient.

“I wasn’t sure where we were meeting.”

“You pulled the lever early,” Ryot said.

“You changed the plan.” Puck crossed his bony arms over his chest.

There went Ryot’s hope of pocketing the whole haul by himself.

Glee looked between the two of them. “What’s that in your pocket?” he asked. Both Ryot and Puck flinched, but Glee pointed at Puck’s coat.

The man frowned, then sighed and discreetly pulled out two copper pieces — a pipe and a wire. “Your share, I guess.”

Ryot took the pipe, Glee hid the wire in the folds of his robe. He looked at Ryot expectantly.

“I have nothing,” he said, looking at Puck. He hoped the man would stay silent for now. “I chose the wrong spot to stand. Players too determined there.” He shrugged.

“Alright, better luck next time,” Glee said. “That wire is a good couple of days’ worth either way, especially for a monk.”

He shook hands with Puck and then came up to Ryot and patted him on the shoulder with one hand and on his chest with another.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” he said with a restrained smile, then turned around and walked away.

Once Glee was well out of sight, Puck and Ryot exchanged glances.

“So, what was it in that guard post that made you drop our plan?” Puck asked.

“I’ve got their next shipment location,” Ryot said. He reached for the note, but the pocket was empty. “What the hell.”

He checked every pocket on his body, but the paper was gone. Spirited away. Snatched. Ryot froze.

“Oh, scald you!” he roared, making heads turn. Puck stared at him. “Scald you, you damn priest!”

***

Three streets down, Glee dove into an alley and pulled a bundle from behind an old, rusty steambike. Good leather pants, a loose shirt, wide-brimmed hat. Just another city-dweller. He changed and carefully folded the damaged monk’s robe. He fastened two curved knives at his waist, making sure they remained concealed under the drooping fabric.

Leaning against the steambike, Glee unfolded the scrap of paper and whistled, then winced at the pang of pain in his split lip.

Time to cash in the winnings.

Two bandits and a monk walked into Game Street. Only the monk came out a bandit.

It’s my second Writing Battle and the first break into the Final Showdown! I consider it a huge success.

To be honest, I am already planning a return to the characters and the world of Game Street. Without a word count constraint, I will be able to flesh them out and explore their backstories and adventures in more detail.

What do you think: yay, or nay?

Thank you for reading! The fiction I post here will always remain free.
Enjoyed the story? Please, consider supporting my writing.

Forgive me. I’ve forgotten your face, but I remember your name and that I love you.

Things have gone well for us until now, wouldn’t you agree? Well, looks like I messed up the streak. I got sick. I caught the Decay, Lylith. Since it’s now unashamedly wiping my mind, I constantly rummage in the toy box of my memories, trying to see what’s not gone yet. And most of what remains is you…

I’m sitting at a table in the canteen while I write this, and the food here is excellent. You’ve always been a foodie. You would try a different dish every time we ate out, unlike me, who always defaulted to a burger. Anyway, this isn’t your typical hospital. It appears top-secret government facilities have excellent cooks, and we, in quarantine, benefit from it, too. Well, at least as long as our bodies remember how to chew and swallow. Although from what I observed so far, table manners seem to be the first to be forgotten.

Some woman is looking over my shoulder, and she is not a doctor. Doctors don’t dare enter anymore until it’s clear how the disease spreads. Maybe it’s you? I don’t remember if we got sick together. I wanted to greet her, but she is gone now, and I can’t remember how to talk, anyway. It’s funny… My head is a zoo of words, a riot of buzzing, bumbling simian chatter. And though my hand remembers the motions of writing, my tongue has forgotten how to speak.

Doctors, when they still visited, explained that once the Decay sets following its incubation, all your memories and instincts vanish within hours, or even minutes. You’d claim my memory was so poor already that the Decay could go on a lunch break rather than bothering with me. And then you’d watch me struggle for air, gasping and wheezing, like a forgotten kettle, as I failed to remember how to breathe, and you’d feel guilty about your joke. But that’s what I adore about you - your innocence coupled with your surprisingly sharp wit and appreciation for dark humour.

I took a minute to rest my writing hand, and now I notice how much emptier my head has suddenly become. If you blew into my left ear, the air would whistle through my right. Through my right. On the right-hand side, you can see the collapse of the human world as we know it. Stop. Sorry. I lost the train of thought and went to the jungle to find it. I mean, what? Wait.

Tried reading what I wrote but letters dance.

cannot write more struggle to write straight.

happy you were

!! i love you lylith loveyou .. my lylith

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The prompt details:

• Genre: Paranormal Romance

• Character: Shut-in

• Object: Spectacles

Check out this page, if you want to know more about how the Writing Battle works.

Cover photo credit: Lienkie Kotze

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It’s Saturday afternoon. The living room windows are drawn shut with thick curtains. I sip cold sheep’s blood through a glass straw, then readjust the book on my knees and turn a page. A warm white lamp shines on the words in front of me. I relax my shoulders. This is nice.

The doorbell screams, startling me. Must be the grocery delivery — earlier than expected. I scramble from my reading chair, tossing the book onto the seat and barely remembering to insert a bookmark.

At the door, I reach for the handle. Hang on a moment. Horrified, I glance down at my clothes: an oversized pink hoodie nearly to my knees, a plush unicorn horn jutting from the hood, thick fluffy socks, and no pants. I wince and crack the door open.

“Hello!” It’s the same delivery guy as last time. He has a handsome face. Expressive eyes behind a pair of thick glasses sitting dangerously low on his nose. “Order for Allegra?” The bulging paper bags sway in his arms. He must think I’m a complete loser. Dim apartment. Messy bun. Low-effort look.

“Thank you.” Cringing internally, braced for judgment, I open the door just wide enough to take the bags.

“Love your hoodie,” he says.

With my complexion, it’s impossible to blush. But I swear I feel my cheeks blazing. “Uhh, yeah.” I pull the bags inside. “Sorry about that.” Shame roils in my stomach.

“Oh, no! I mean it!” He waves his hands defensively, palms out. “I have the same one at home. I mean, not same-same. Yours is much cooler. Is that a unicorn?” He pushes his glasses up, like a professor, and leans over to look at the hood resting lopsided on my shoulder.

“Uhh, yeah, it is.” The embarrassment I feel is as excruciating as the sun’s heat on my skin. I begin to close the door.

“I’m Frank, by the way,” he says, sticking his hand out for me to shake.

I look down at it, then at him. What is happening? I hesitate a moment too long. Just as I’m about to accept his handshake, he withdraws. It’s too late to stop my hand’s movement, so in blind panic I redirect it upwards into a wave. What am I — a toddler? Mortified, I squeeze out a wobbly ‘bye’ and close the door. Now, I will have to change the delivery service.

Only I can’t — no other store offers vampire-specific supplies and delivery to my neighbourhood. Why did I move so far south? I roll myself into a blanket and fall into bed, too distressed to unpack the bags.

***

No amount of feverish googling changes what I already know. I have two choices: walk to the grocery store — a hard pass. Too much sun, too many people. What if I drop something or misunderstand a cashier’s question?

Or continue using the delivery app. I opt for the lesser evil.

When my supplies run out, I place an order with an extra request: Please, just leave the bags at the door. Thank you. I scrutinise each word. Does it sound a little passive-aggressive, or am I overthinking it?

Fifteen minutes before the designated time slot, I sit on the floor in front of the door, waiting. Through the slit underneath, I see the motion-activated lights flip on. A barely audible sound of steps, approaching. Then, a faint thud and rustle of paper bags being put down. I count to ten — long enough for Frank to have reached and descended the stairs.

The door creaks when I open it. Without anything to lean on, the bags tip over, spilling the glass bottles of sheep’s blood on the floor with an earsplitting clatter.

Frank reappears on the stairs, concern on his face. “Are you alright?”

I open my mouth to reassure him, but he’s already bending over to assist me. At least none of the glass broke.

“It’s okay, thanks,” I say at last.

Frank picks up the last bottle and looks at it. “You’re a vampire?” He smiles, pushes his glasses up his nose, then gasps. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He waves his free hand in the same defensive way. It’s rather charming, actually. “It’s just—” I catch him looking behind my shoulder. He shrugs. “I get it. Me too.”

My eyes snap open. “You are?” It’s been months since the move, and I haven’t met any vampires yet. Granted, I haven’t looked much.

Frank nods and pulls at his upper lip to reveal his fangs. He sees my surprise, and a grin spreads across his face.

“You’re not alone.” He walks away, turning to wave at me from the staircase. I can’t help but smile. I catch myself wondering what sunscreen he uses — must be some powerful stuff. Perhaps I could ask him.

***

It’s order time again. My finger hovers over the extra request in the app: Please, just leave the bags at the door. Thank you. What if Frank’s friendliness is a lie, or worse — pity?

He’s a vampire too, though, so he understands how it feels… Right? To be looked at like a problem. To live like I’m walking on eggshells.

Or his kindness means nothing at all. I pull the unicorn hood over my face and sink into the safety of my hoodie. Perhaps he’s wearing his now?

With a shaky finger, I remove the extra request. Order confirmed.

***

The doorbell startles me again. Does it have to be so loud?

“Hi, Allegra!” Bags at his feet, Frank pushes his glasses up with his index finger. “Ahh, my favourite hoodie. You look great.”

Fireworks explode in my stomach, and I return Frank’s smile. “Maybe—I can see yours sometime?” I trip over the words. “Ehh, your hoodie, I mean.”

I wilt, feeling awkward, and expect him to mock me, but he doesn’t. He touches my shoulder as he laughs — with me, not at me. I allow the door to swing open wider.

Thank you for reading! The fiction I post here will always remain free.
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First Writing Battle for me, and what a blast it was!

Of course, there is that extra motivation to see how far your story can get in the competition. It works wonders for keeping the deadlines and writing despite self-doubt and procrastination.

This particular story scored 6/10, which earned it an honorable mention. An encouraging debut, if I do say so myself ;) Especially considering I never write in romance genre, normally.

But! The amount of incredible feedback I received during all the stages (beta-reads, debrief after the peer review process, and the feedback released after the results announcement) is perhaps the most valuable part of the whole process.

And the number of incredible pieces I have read and judged is awe-inspiring. I feel like the whole community is one large motivated family, supporting each other on their writing journeys.

I am signed up for all the competitions this year. Best investment ever!

***

The Girl broke her vows to the clan and sneaked away, leaving the safety of the camp and hundreds of years of tradition behind to venture alone into the Boundless Desert. She was the first one ever to leave; no one else dared. She held her chin high, listening to the sloshing of liquid in her waterskin. She was bored with custom and propriety and ached for adventure. She knew there was more to the world than just her clan.

Soon, without realising it yet, the Girl lost her way. First, in her daydreams; then — among the dunes. Years of living in the clan, cocooned and protected from the harshness of nature, had left her with no idea what the Boundless Desert would really be like. She didn’t expect the heat to be this heavy.

But she didn’t give up.

She listened to the whisper of sand under her slippers and counted drops of sweat rolling off her forehead. She climbed dune after dune, the vastness of the sands imposing on her. Following the sun’s descent, her proudly-held chin dropped lower as well. When the sun touched the opposite edge of the horizon, the Girl’s waterskin held but one more swallow. A spark of terror ignited in the Girl’s heart. What if she made a mistake?

When the night fell, the desert came to life. The Girl made a fire and clung to its heat. Dark shadows lurked beyond the circle of light her fire cast. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her ears — with otherworldly howls and chittering. She prayed to the desert gods and resolved to turn back home as soon as it dawned. Customs and propriety didn’t seem that appalling anymore. The Girl took the last swallow of water and cried. She caught her rolling tears and licked them off her fingers. Her anguish became a source of strength. On that night, she fell asleep with a glimmer of hope.

At dawn, the Girl, eyes red and swollen, tried to remember the direction she had come from, but the dunes of the Boundless Desert all looked alike.

***

Beyond the nearest dune, the City waited, eager to make the Girl’s acquaintance. The City noticed her the day before. Her proud defiance and fearless stride caught its attention. Thousands of years ago, the City was a part of this world; its streets were filled with hustle and bustle. The remembrance of those days ached in the City’s heart. After perishing in a long and unnecessary war, the City’s remains roamed the desert, forgotten by all.

This morning, the City sensed the Girl’s fear, her indecisiveness. It rejoiced when, at last, the Girl picked a direction. There was not much time left to save her. The City blew a gust of dry wind, kissing the Girl’s cheeks in greeting, encouraging her to move faster. As the Girl reached the top of the next dune, the City eagerly stepped forward, shimmering in anticipation, making the Girl stare. The City stared back. They moved towards each other. The Girl did so desperately, seeking safety, the City — carefully. It didn’t want to frighten the Girl.

They were almost within reach of each other when the City felt a pang of the Girl’s hesitation. She frowned and took a slow step back. The City, a fleeting being, a ghost of its former glory, constantly moving and changing, forgot that the Girl still belonged to the living world. She expected to see solid structures, so the City tried to meet her expectations as well as it could. With much effort, the City gave its walls more substance, but the tops of its towers kept rippling in the heat of the sun, translucent. Luckily, the Girl was too tired to gaze up. Fitful sleep and lack of water made her careless. The Girl accepted the mirage for truth and moved towards it.

The City rejoiced anew when the Girl reached its streets. It embraced the Girl, obscuring the gate she’d entered through — the gate she could no longer use to leave. The Girl explored its half-transparent squares. The City felt it keenly when a distant tug of worry bubbled up in the Girl’s chest, but she ignored it. She might have noticed the ripples and shimmers out of a corner of her eye, the City thought.

No matter. There was no way back anymore.

The City waited until the Girl reached its heart — a pulsing white sphere of light, a second sun in the middle of the desert. The Girl touched it without thinking, awestruck by its blinding beauty, and was transformed.

***

Meeting each other properly at last, between the worlds, the City spread its arms, welcoming and hungry. The Girl reached out to embrace the City, to drink from its cupped palms, taste its cool breath. The City was so eager to save the Girl, to have a companion at last. It savoured every moment it took to draw her in and make her part of itself. After one long moment, the City was sated. After another, it ventured into the Boundless Desert again, the Girl now a part of it forever.

Having tasted companionship for the first time in centuries, the City craved more.

I wrote this short myth/fantasy story as part of a Creative Writing course at Leiden University.

Deserts fascinate me. I’ve noticed I keep coming back to them in my writing, as places of solitude and extreme survival. There is something magical and powerful about the endless sea of sand and heat, and the mirages it makes us believe in.

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Wake up! Wake up, now!

You open your eyes, crusty and stinging. Another day is dawning outside. Another chance to work on your dreams, right? You can do this! Brush your teeth, shower, eat. Just a cup of tea and then you’ll start.

Your phone pings and reminds you to write in your diary app and to complete a Duolingo lesson. And perhaps you should order groceries. You get up and surf the fridge, glance into cupboards, make a list. You get distracted on Instagram — a friend sends you a reel with clumsy kittens. Several scrolls later, you remember to place the grocery order.

How is it midday already?

If you were a Real Writer, you’d be disciplined, not so easily distracted.

You sit down on the sofa and pull up your laptop, which you bought specifically for writing. You use it for nothing else. Having a perfect machine for writing helps you write more. You believe it, too.

What you really need is an office, like the kind Stephen King’s protagonists write in — a grand wooden desk, an IBM Selectric, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and French doors leading onto a picturesque lawn, a lake in the distance.

You’re daydreaming again.

If you were a Real Writer, you’d write on a used napkin, on a scrap of toilet paper, on a leaf.

It’s not only that, though. You know so little about writing. You grab your phone and browse MFAs and MLitts, and CPDs. Too expensive, too hard, too selective. You look up workshops and courses, and bookstore events. You click on several YouTube videos, but your attention span pops like a balloon.

You finish your third or fourth cup of tea, push your phone to the other side of the sofa.

If you were a Real Writer, you’d have natural talent and you’d figure things out as you write.

What’s for dinner? Almost at home.

Your partner texts you and you realise it’s almost six, the day is done. You glance at the laptop. Word count: zero. Worry count: more than you started the day with.

You cook and eat dinner, give a kiss to your partner and stay up late.

You open your word processor again and come back to the first draft you were busy with yesterday. You’re tired, but you type in a word. Then a second word. Then a sentence. You remember that writing is play, with no pressure of writing well. You write for you. Why do you keep forgetting it?

You write for an hour, spewing hundreds of words onto the page like it’s nothing. Like you were born to do this. One page turning into two. You look at them. They are terrible. But they are yours. Like a baby’s first words.

Who cares if you’re a Real Writer? When the words fall together just right, you still smile. But tomorrow you will forget. You will fear and hesitate.

Again.

I haven’t posted much on Substack yet, but if you are curious, check out my other flash fiction story. Thank you for reading!

Anastasiia Shafran Writing

The Endless Ethereum

This sci-fi flash fiction is the first exercise I wrote for the International Writers Collective creative writing course in Amsterdam (winter 2025). It marked not only a long-desired return to writing regularly, but also the first of many small pieces I’ve written since then - through the collective and the three courses I took there. I met some amazing…

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4 months ago · 2 likes · 1 comment · Anastasiia Shafran

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Buy me a pen (ko-fi)

It seemed a good fit for the first ever post on Substack :)

Should you find yourself trapped in a multidimensional space filled with countless portals and rifts leading to other realities, remember to tuck in your limbs.

I learned it the hard way while floating in the Endless Ethereum. I was a flurry of excitement and disorientation, flailing my arms and legs, creating multidimensional snow angels. My right arm entered a portal and brushed against something soft and furry. Some otherworldly goo from a different rift drenched my left foot. The Endless Ethereum, the fabled EE, thousands of worlds within reach, the latest fascination of the top 1% of the population. And here I was, an explorer breaking through.

The EE was neither dark nor light, neither bare nor cluttered. Snaps and sparks from shifting dimensions made its fabric glitter and shimmer. Ignoring the lack of gravity and the disorientation, and assuming I was wearing my fancy wedding tuxedo instead of my overalls, I would have thought I was on a red carpet. Smiling at the cameras. My mind drifted, thinking up news stories: “Hobbyist’s invention makes inter-dimensional travel cheap!”, “The Henry Ford of the 23rd century!”, “’Safe and efficient travel,’ experts assure”. I laughed, the sound free and unbound, spreading in the inter-dimensional vastness around me like butter on a hot toast.

Curiosity prevailing, I tipped my neck towards another rift. For a moment, my head floated above an old-school football stadium at a place (and time) where, judging by the posters, English has not yet supplanted all the native languages. The score was two-nil. I cheered for the winning team.

A stab of pain caused me to recoil back into the Endless Ethereum just in time to glimpse the white spark - a recently closed portal - right next to my outstretched arm. The residual light slowly faded away with a sound like ice cracking. I looked at my hand, minus two fingertips, and inhaled through my teeth. Minuscule blood droplets drifted before my eyes as I turned to look at the glittering edges of the rift where my neck had been moments ago.

I imagined the uproar from the crowd: “Two footballs on the pitch!” and the referee pausing the game just long enough to kick my severed head aside. The spark above fading, cracking. A shake of my head reassured me it remained attached, ending that line of thought. Not willing to repeat the mistake, I composed myself, hugging my legs - one disgustingly sticky - to my chest.

Areas for improvement: Don’t indulge in blind exploration of unstable dimensions. Ensure your whole body stays within the EE throughout the trip. And, while we are at it, maybe next time don’t jump into the inter-dimensional space in the first place, unless you know how to get back.

I looked around, suddenly aware of total ignorance as to “my” dimension’s whereabouts. Stay calm, listen to the tugs and pulls; there are rules for this. After all, I wasn’t the first to explore the Endless Ethereum. I was just the first to do it without paying. And without a ship.

I wiggled my two somewhat shorter fingers. The bleeding had stopped. I promised myself to dedicate more effort to safety improvements. Despite it all, I believed I’d be back home safe and sound in no time.

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