The Man Who Sold the World

Can you guess what inspired me to write this short piece of fiction during three years at university? 

I stand on uneven ground, the cracks of time show, but under shallow moonlight, I see the old world. Skyscrapers, tower blocks, a once bustling city of activity. It died a long time ago. Yet it feels like this happened only yesterday.

Weather the storm. Who said that again. I vaguely recall my old life, the only memory of it I have… is Him.  

He stands beside me, prying at my mind, he is the curious, the innocent, and the megalomaniac all rolled into one single package. Yet despite this facade, I see a calm, resolute figure. We stare at each other briefly.

He should be dead, and so should I. I laugh and he joins. It ends as quickly as it began.

I like to think I run away from him simply because he is the man who sold the world. There is this air of hostility between us, for am I the one born in that fire.  Fire still raw and burning in my mind.

What have I become? two centuries have passed and I am still no closer to that answer.

As if seeing my thoughts he says, “Regret, I am the match, and you are the regret. You are the light that blanketed this planet. Before the silence fell.”

The man who regrets. It seems fitting when I think about it.

“I am a man forged in atomic fire,” I answer.

“And you will burn for all of the time,” he adds.

I merely nod, not wishing to speak further. He disappears from my vision, like a magician at the end of a magic act. Two hundred years of suspension and this gets no easier, each time I see what it was before. Memories I can’t begin to suppress, as much as I’d rather forget. It is sad, I still see Humanity as it was and as it is currently. I see us still locked in the cruel snare that one day will leave this world empty. All because I sold the world. All because I made the choice and caused the end of many a life. Finality. It will never come. For I know even now. I am not done.

I am the man who sold the world, and I have been reborn.


The Infinitum’s Final Tale: Prologue

Monika’s pink-tipped white uwabaki slippers echoed against the reflective black floor that made up this particular corridor. The walls were a faded grey and lacked the vibrancy of other sectors she had previously visited.

Up until recently, she had only ever known a lonely existence inside the video game Doki Doki Literature Club. When he came along it all changed. It wasn’t quite the reality she hoped for but it was as close as she would get to the mysterious player that had controlled the actions of the one she knew only as Mr Mad.

Although Mad preferred to use the title Lord in most cases he was a recluse nihilist with a fatalist view of his world. It was a view born of his influence over others. Those characters could not change their fate, not as long as he continued to watch and manipulate the events present in their stories.

“It’s a different reality, but the story remains unchanged,” muttered Monika as she continued onward humming the song she had dedicated to the player.

She eventually reached a rounded solid inky black vault door. There was no signpost stating what was on the other side but she couldn’t deny that it peaked her interest. It took some time for her to turn the vault wheel but eventually, she heard something click and the door opened outward forcing her to take a few steps back before she could look inside.

What she could see on the other side of that vault door was nothingness. An eternal void stretching as far as the eye can see. But to her surprise, she could see something out there kneeling down. She outstretched a foot and brought it down carefully in order to test the existence of an actual floor. She felt relief when her foot met the solid ground. After a few hesitant steps inside she soon found herself before the kneeling being. From behind they looked like a woman. However, she was unlike others in the Infinitum. This person’s skin was pure white. It had no other colour to it.
“Almost like you were unfinished. Is that what you are?” Asked Monika.
The woman turned a little to look up at her.
Her eyes are like his. Only hers are black with white dots. Her hair is blacker than night too. It might as well be part of this room.
Monika placed her hands on her hips and looked down at this helpless girl. She sighed. “At least tell me who you are?”
The woman seemed to think on that a while before getting to her feet. The woman ended up being taller than Monika expected. She looked incredibly anxious as she tapped two fingers together.
“Who am I? It’s been so long I almost forgot… Yes, I remember now, the name that he gave me,” said the woman managing a small smile before it fell away. “Patience… He called me Patience.”

Fate/Unlimited Character Works

(The following is inspired by Archer’s Unlimited Blade Works incantation from the Fate/ Stay Night – Unlimited Blade Works Series because it’s bloody awesome.)

Most people bleed red but mine is black and blue.

They outnumber me, characters and their creators who practically live on Tumblr. We’re all guilty of making them, though; the dreaded Mary Sue. A misshapen mess of self-insertion and overpowered goodness. They all have the same torturous back story with no real appreciation for how the past can become a story by itself. But no, they have to be a loner, bullied or some kind of social outcast. Separately these traits aren’t necessarily bad but put them together and you potentially have a walking, talking cliché. A character without flaws is not a character. It’s a god that needs to be struck down.

Or critiqued in such a way to help balance them out a little more.

Even though the distant between us is small, it feels massive. I hear them charge with their unorthodox weapons and superhuman prowess. A stampede of monstrosity. I choose to remain calm for the sake of my sanity.

I am the Ink of my Pen
Criticism is hard to stomach and that’s not just for fictional writing. If you can’t face criticism then what is the point of making the argument? At some point, it will have to stand on its own two feet. And if it can’t do that then perhaps you should open your mind a little. Closing it off and trapping it in a safe space is no way  to live. No matter how much you want to convince yourself otherwise. Humans are naturally drawn to a challenge, regardless of difficulty. And white men apparently have it on easy. The very definition of FILTHY CASUAL.

The Patriarchy is a Lie. Besides, I set my difficulty to Normal. Life is never easy.

Paper is my body and Imagination is my blood
I have created over a thousand characters

The army of cringe-inducing OCs remains distant in my mind, even though I know they are cutting through me like a knife through butter. Being overpowered usually grants an instant death to any poor sod on the other end. But in some exceptional cases. There’s this nice little thing that protects its wearer from the sword, the bullet, the bite, the axe, the high mana attack that took longer than it should charging up. Plot Armour is everyone’s friend. Unless you’re in the Game of Thrones. In which case tough luck, and avoid all weddings.

Unknown to Death,
Nor known to Life.
Have withstood pain to create many drafts

The drafting process is always difficult since you have to mentally tell yourself not read through what’ve you written previously. Even if there’s that glaring typo mocking you. Ignore it until the final draft. But no, the human mind’s strive to create perfection means we will skim over every last word until it’s just right. No wonder I’ve only just recently felt I can finish my first true novel. Self-doubt is a bitch. But every writer should seek to counter it. Self-critique isn’t bad just don’t let it destroy you in the process.

Yet, those pens will never write anything
So as I pray, unlimited character works.

They are scattered, sliced, and sent back to whatever fanfic spawned them.

Isn’t this a fanfic, though. And your immortality is that not a sign that you are also a Mary Sue.

Fuck off Mr Mad, I prefer the term parody.

Alright, carry on then. But they just keep coming back, stronger every time. A new magical resistance to sharp swords. OC’s are like the Borg but on steroids. They adapt, they assimilate, and then there are the ones who wield the sword of criticism in such a way that they intend to distort your creation. Subjective criticism is purely on an individual. One person’s way of looking at art is not a universal truth. Do not be put off by the mainstream media who peddle article after article on sexism and racism like its all they know. Your audience will appreciate what you do. Even when it seems no one else will –

This is a pretty shit reality marble AND YOU HAVEN’T DESCRIBED HOW IT LOOKS! Oh and did I mention that even you can’t beat half-assed characters.

You just can’t help yourself can you.

I enjoy watching a hopeless optimist overcome insane odds.

The only reason I’m not winning is that all of my current characters have fatal flaws that can be used against them. That and even my post powerful ones can’t overpower something that is literally god.

Ah, death is a cruel mistress.

Just be useful for once.

Here’s a serious plot twist in the next paragraph. Have that one for free.
Sometimes you just have to fight fire with fire. Only another Mary Sue can beat another. And I have one final trump card. Buried beneath draft layers of Project Zero, between the fragments of the Grey Watch series, and some random roleplay ideas that looking back really were quite crap. I reveal to you, a wonderful set of cliches called The Circle of Life. The characters are all labelled with stupid names except Raphael (who literally hasn’t changed in years) they are all more or less ridiculously powerful. And one of them has ungodly regenerative powers. It’s like watching Brazil being beaten 7-1  by Germany. Except my old characters have finally found a reason to be useful. And by useful, I refer to how they mop the floor with these OCs because even for clichés, I did at least try and make them three dimensional. Even if the result was still full of cringe. I mean why the hell did I think of naming the at the time protagonist: the Hider. I was a strange kid.

The dust settles, everyone disappears and since it’s probably the end, and expending that much energy to create a reality marble should have really killed me. It’s probably best if I go to sleep. Right here. In the middle of fricken nowhere. FANTASTIC.

What a sh – 

The End

or is it the beginning of a book series and several movie follow ups followed by the nail biting two part film which ramps up the suspense to levels never before seen in film or television. 

The Return of Life

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “No Cliffhangers.”

Write a post about the topic of your choice, in whatever style you want, but make sure to end it with “…and all was well with the world.”

No Cliffhangers

In the end, atomic fire had savaged our world. We thought it was left bare, after our destructive nature brought darkness, disease, and despair to the Earth. A civilisation all but extinguished, it’s dying embers, nothing more than memories of a past life.

As we emerged from our sanctuary underground, we believed nothing would survive the nuclear apocalypse. We were wrong. The Earth hadn’t just survived our wrath, in its wake, life had found a way.

For beneath the cracks and wounds upon the Earth. A sea of green burst forth. We were stunned, as nature stood before us in defiance. Even in our absence. All was well with the world.

It’s Dread Children

There were but seven in all 
Children of the shapeless, forgotten form.

The Doom Bringer, life eater
the Wanderer, scorned of heart
They dance in its living dark.

The Gambler’s bitter
the Beast, bearing maw
Fools to this dark war.

The Killer, bears scars 
The Doctor, dreams perfection

The Deciever, lost to the world.

All are destined to fall, 
By my gracious sword.


Children of the Entity: Lifetaker

The storm howled outside the church, battering endlessly against the windows. Near the altar, a hooded man was crouched in a hastily drawn star that had several points. On each point was a candle. The man also held one. He seemed to be praying but the twisted smile on his face showed otherwise.

‘There comes a time when the fire must burn no more.’

Using the tip of his bony finger he pressed it against the candle stalk, extinguishing the flame.

‘When light can no longer find solace, on a dead plain.’ He moved onto the second and did same.

‘The shadows are gathering and they are hungry.’

As he finished speaking, he heard a low distant growl. It didn’t take too long to plunge the entire church into darkness.

‘Darkness reigns on this day. The dawn will fade away.’

The old wooden doors suddenly opened, and invited the winds howl. Lifetaker stood up, his scarred face lit by the flash of lightening. A man dressed in priestly robes stood on the threshold. As he stepped forward, the doors slammed shut.

‘What is this heresy!’

He was soon staring down Lifetaker, ‘what do you think your doing!’

Lifetaker laughed and grabbed his collar. He threw him into the seven point star and pressed down on the priests chest with his black boots, ‘this isn’t your home anymore! Can you not see all that they are. Cracks are showing, man of faith. Corruption is coming.’

The priest was muttering a prayer under his breath. Lifetaker crouched and seized hold of the tongue. Removing a curved knife he shook his head. ‘He can’t hear you,’ in one swift cut he removed it.

The man was floundering eyes wide in terror.

‘It’s time for you to see,’ laughed Lifetaker as he gouged out both eyes. Darkness was everywhere, and the howls blistered the priests ears. Lifetaker’s laugh cut through him. The footsteps were distant now. There was the faint sound of glass cracking.

‘Remove the veil, his children come,’ chanted Lifetaker. ‘Remove the veil.’

The priest felt something grab his ankles, he was suddenly be dragged, ‘Hope is distant and your faith is fading.’

There was silence.

Then shattered by one final roar.