A psychotic killer gets more than he bargained for when the kids he planned on terrorizing turn out to be far more bloodthirsty than him.
It was not his first kill. He was smart about it. Scoped out the place, waited for the parents to leave, cut the phone lines. They had cell phones, but theyâd be dead before they even saw him coming.
That was what he thought, at least.
Waking up tied to a chair in a basement had not been part of the plan.
âHeâs awake.â The killer heard from a giggling girl behind him.
âGreat,â said another voice. âWe can finally get started.â
The killer opened his mouth, perhaps to call for help or ask who had tied him up, but he found that his mouth had been gagged.
Dainty footsteps sounded until two children stepped out from behind him, smiling.
âYouâre not as smart as you think you are.â The girl commented idly. She watched with vague interest as a boy – her brother, the killer realized – began putting tarps around the room. âYouâre good, Iâll give you that, but youâre not good like we are.â
âYou see,â the brother continued, unprompted. âWe noticed you the first time you did some recon of our house. Donât let that get your pride though, not everyone has the… skills we do.â He smirked at his sister.
âRight.â She went on, circling the killer as she talked. âAnd not everyone has a pet demon theyâve got to feed.â She leaned in to the killerâs ear, whispering. âWe couldnât get her some meat last month, so sheâs extra hungry.â
The killer gulped, eyes wide and fearful. It didnât matter that he didnât believe in demons, these kids were monsters all on their own.
The brother turned back around, now with goggles on, another pair in his hand, and a wand. He handed the remaing goggles to his sister, and waved the wand in a complicated motion.
There was a howling sound from somewhere outside. The boy smirked. âHere comes Cupcake.â
The girl put on her goggles, and looked at the killer. âOh these?â She pointed to her goggles, despite the fact that he obviously hadnât said anything.
There was now growling coming from right above the basement. The killer could here something coming down the stairs, and it was big.
Everyone is able to perfectly memorize one book. Some people choose classics, like The Odyssey, or favorites, like a Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, others memorize dictionaries or encyclopedias. You choose something unconventional.
No one is sure exactly how it works. We just know that if something fits the definition of a book by regular standards, and you want to memorize it, you can. But only once. And only if youâre sure.
Many people pick literary classics, some pick their favorite books, fewer still pick something practical, like gardening or car mechanics.
I picked all of it.
Everything.
I worked for years to make a book, one singular book, that had everything I could ever want to learn.
How to be a con artist, surviving alone in the woods, surviving alone on an island, how to fly a plane, engineering basics, quantum physics, how to fix a car, how to build a car, how to build a computer, how to code, herbology, politics, healthy living, gardening, farming, dancing, singing, foreign languages, everything.
Anything one person could possibly learn from any kind of book, pushed together, into a collection of over 800,000 words, just for me. It took me years.
As soon as I had memorized the book, which took several more years to read through, I burned it.
I took what I had learned and started over, leaving everything behind. Leaving no trace of the Book of Everything.
There was one very important thing I learned from reading everything I could ever need to know. No one else needs to know it.
Itâs really cometo that point in my life where Iâm saving posts that wonât load in my drafts just so I can actually see them later? Fuc k you Tumblr mobile
You are a psychic medieval swordsmith, with the ability to see the future of every sword you make. This sword you just forged will kill the king.
You hide it. There is no time to destroy it, not when the woman who is to have it expects it very soon. You spend the followings days and nights slaving away over flames, working to create another sword. If this sword is also destined to kill the king, then it is the woman. You will not sell to her. If not… well, you will figure something out.
The king is… not a good king, but you have a roof for you and your daughter, and you put food on the table, and you are grateful. Itâs all you can ask for.
So it is with relief that you hand the newly made sword to your commissioner. She will use it to fight a group of thieves near a town that is miles away. Thatâs as far from the king as one can get, and better yet, itâs far from your home as well. The king-killing sword is hidden under a floorboard upstairs.
Everything is fine.
The king imposes a new set of laws. Taxes are raised. Those who cannot pay them are taken off to jail, no warning. There are whispers going around, that the king is up to something, that he has lost trust in his own citizens, that he does not care if he hurts them.
You think guiltily to the sword upstairs, holding a prophesy you do not dare reveal. You say nothing.
People are starving in the streets. There are so many children without families. You can feel the kingdom crumpling.
You tell your daughter to come home earlier and earlier. Lately knights are roaming the towns, and they are brutal men. Your daughter has a strength of her own – and she in fact fights you on every curfew – but while she is only a snake, they are wolves. You cannot risk another loss.
More rumors spread. Talks of rebellion, which are squashed and otherwise dealt with. Then whispers of rebellion, so quiet they take weeks to travel. But travel they do, and they bring hope with them, a dangerous feeling.
Your daughter disappears for hours at a time, sometimes coming home after curfew. You yell and worry and look her in the eyes, trying to get her to see that the world isnât safe anymore. But she only smiles. Promises you that sheâs safe. That she loves you.
There is something sheâs not telling you, and it dances in the shadows of your mind, always.
â
Suddenly, a secret comes to light. The king is looking for a girl. A girl who is prophesied to kill him. It sounds like the raging of a paranoid man, but you know better than most how true prophesies are.
He has begun rounding up the daughters of everyone, rich or poor, looking for the girl that fits the prophecy. When he finds her, she will die.
You pack. You gather your things and your daughterâs. People are getting angry, youâve heard of a revolution thatâs coming, and thatâs the perfect cover to leave under. No one will notice you and your daughter in the chaos.
Night comes, and your daughter is not yet home. You can hear yelling in the streets, fighting, panic. You rush, grabbing anything you can hold on your back. The rebellion started sooner than you planned, and itâs the best you can do on such short notice.
After a moment of hesitation, you run upstairs to the floorboard that hides the fated sword. Prophecy or no, you wonât waste a weapon.
When you pry up the floor, it is gone.
â
You run to the castle. Around you, citizens fight with the might of a people angered. Bodies and blood litter the ground, but you hardly notice.
You have one goal in mind: find your daughter.
â
There is so much carnage. It does not hit you until you reach the castle steps, and find them drenched in blood. It pools, sticky and horrifying underneath your shoes.
You continue on.
The entrance gates are smashed open, and fallen trees rest nearby, indicating how it was done.
The giant hall before you reveals a massacre. It isnât clear which side took the most losses.
You run, trying to block the carnage from your mind, and finally you reach the throne room.
There you find your daughter. There you find the king. There you find the sword.
She holds it loosely, confidently, but her eyes betray the waves of emotion she feels. She doesnât notice your presence.
âA king doesnât let his people starve! A king doesnât cause poverty to sweep through his kingdom! A king doesnât throw people in dungeons for the poverty he caused!â
With each sentence, she takes a step forward. With each of her steps forward, the king takes a step back. He is silent, face pale.
âYou are no king.â She hisses. âYour people die around you and you do nothing. That prophecy was only an excuse to further your reign of terror. Look where your prophecy has led you now.â
She raises the sword.
You forgot, in all your worry, that yes, wolves can bite. But snakes can, too. And snakes have venom.
â
It takes months to find a new semblance of normality.
The king had no family but his son, who fled with the nobility to the four corners of the world at the first signs of trouble, dispersing like wind.
They donât come back.
The people rally before your daughter. She is a killer of a king now. They call her a hero.
It is not a shock that the next person upon the throne is her. Sheâs always had oceans in her eyes that you knew could conquer any ship.
She helps, far more than any ruler before her. It takes time, but the kingdom is prosperous once again. You let go of your craft. Youâve had enough of prophecies to last a lifetime.
You create one last thing, however, before you are done for good.
The kingâs old crown is destroyed, as soaked in crimson as it is. You make a new one.
Itâs a work in progress, as youâve only ever made weapons, but it comes out breathtaking.
You donât know if youâll get any visions of the future, as itâs not a sword, but that apparently doesnât matter.
As you give the crown away, as you watch it placed on your daughterâs head, as you hear the cheers of the people, you get just a glimpse of something near.
Itâs over in a flash, and you smile, watching as your daughter addresses the world as itâs queen.
Candlelight-magick 