Futurism

Electric leaves share whispers above the world, the only speaking things.

Foxes, voles, and the many furred things made their ways around the roots, but none of them spoke in the Everforest. None of them danced or sang or played the strings, but there’s a magic to the Everforest, nonetheless.

The leaves listen, and they carry tingles of their secrets across branches and along the vines. Every fiber glints and gleams with every color, prisms of racing information. Glyphs run and race along deep rings, ever-expanding to contain more records of what happens in the shade of a world-spanning canopy. The roots run deep, coursing with currents, crafting lightning from the sun and wind to store in the silent earth. Some drink the heat below. Some run that deep.

The Everforest is an elegant computer, one that holds a flawless history. It has no bias, no perspectives, and no limitations of an author’s eye. It records. It remembers. The Everforest whispers, and the Everforest is the only listener.

It not plant itself, but it outlived its planters and evolved beyond their whims.

The Everforest needs no other hands, no other cause, no other value.

Electric leaves share whispers above the world for no one.

And when the wind whips wild? They sing.

Inheritance

TW: Body horror

“Fear’s no good, girl. Come now, don’t be afraid.” He held both her hands in one of his. Hers were small, but just as rough. He’d seen to that. No… she had. He’d seen her grow. He’d see her struggle. He wouldn’t see her die, not tonight. 

“Fear is a coward. Say it. Say it!”

“It doesn’t make sense!” she shouted back, shivering. Shaking. He could see her blood writhe under the skin, forming talons just too dull to break, tendrils just too thin to snap the vessels. Gnawing teeth. Tongues. This would be a long night. She sweat pink, and so he held on. She howled at him. “Take it back! Too soon!”

He shook his head. “You’re of age.” So she was. Younger than he’d been, but harder. Better. She hadn’t started sobbing yet. He’d wept by midnight. And she would, but not yet. No, not yet. “You’re of age, and you’re ready. Say it with me.”

“Fear’s a coward!” she spat. And she did spit red, right into his face. He saw the blood-hand crawling up her throat, trying to choke her from within. Not to kill. No, never to ruin the vessel. But they’d weary her. Wound her. Wear her down.

“Fear’s a coward,” he repeated, letting the red drip. “Fear gives power to the powerful. It will come to serve in time. So, what do we seek?” He felt it, even now. He squeezed her hands, too hard. It must hurt… but she had to know he was there. Had to know something other that boiling blood and the things in it.

“Fear’s a coward! But anger…. Anger answers us all! The weakest, most of all!” She grit her teeth, and there they were. Red tears. She’d lasted so long. Twilight. Unthinkable.  If she lived through the day, she’d be stronger than he’d ever been. More potent than he’d ever seen. If she lived, whole of mind…

They say his grandfather laughed. They had to put him down within a week.

“Anger is our answer to the mighty things that come,” he said. She repeated it, in agony. Her blood was boiling now. The heat scalded his hands, but he’d rather lose them both than let go of his girl tonight. He’d burned before. He’d burn now.

If the gods were fair, he’d burn long after, for letting her follow him into this life.“And come the dawn?” he promised her, as he’d been promised. “The devils die, and we alone will anger in the light…” It was a lie, in its ways, but necessary.

She didn’t answer. She screamed instead. She screamed until the edge of day.

He’d never been nor would ever be more proud.

Clash

She danced around the edges of the argument. They shone in the moonlight.

Daggers flashes and sweat flew like sparks between them. One pressed, and the other rolled and shoved them past. The other rolled, whirled, threw a blade and drew another - a distraction that failed to distract - and they clashed again.

There was no dialogue, no exchange of quips or grievances. Their eyes were were past the dancing edges, locked on wrists and knees and eyes - the honest indicators. Each one had their share of tiger stripes, but neither stopped. Neither could. Momentum had them in the moment, and to relent first would be costly.

She makes a mistake - too much pressure on the front foot, too far forward, and her blade takes a bite out of the other’s cheek. A feint turned terrible breaks the rhythm. After that, it’s already over. A whirl on the fingers and its pommels to the plexus, throat, and nose. The other falls - heartless, breathless, blinded by pain.

Daggers clatter to the floor. All they had to say, all they had to resolve… and an accident turned ugly ended it. She spat onto the floor and turned. Hesitated.

Then she left the other, left one more ex-lover on the proving ground.

Accidents can still tell the truth.

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