Writing
The Sixth Minute
I heard a wave crashing nearby. Moments later, I felt it touching me gently. It hurt. It burned—not the clean burn of fire, but something deeper, more raw, like my nerves were processing sensations they weren't designed to interpret. I wanted to scream, but no sound came from my mouth. My throat worked uselessly; I tried to swallow, but started a fitful cough instead. Eventually, I managed a groan and slowly opened my eyes. Sunset? No. Sunrise. But the light felt off, the colours bleeding at the edges like a watercolour left in the rain.
Carefully, I exhaled deeply, ignoring the searing pain in my lungs—each breath pulled through glass. Good. Sunrise was good, no matter what it looked like. I had survived another day. Time to investigate the damage; one breath at a time.
Another wave came crashing in, this time rolling over me. I hissed through clenched teeth. The saltwater found every wound—I was naked, exposed, and it had a field day with me. My skin had cracked open on my back as well as my hands—the splits widening as the water receded, pulling at torn edges…
The Unheeded Vision
The anxiety had become a physical thing, a stone lodged beneath my sternum that grew heavier with each passing day. Three weeks—or was it three months? Time had become slippery lately—since the vision had seared itself into my consciousness. The invasion was coming. I knew it with the same certainty that I knew my own heartbeat, yet that certainty was my prison.
Every morning I woke with my jaw aching from clenching it through nightmares of silent skies suddenly filled with darkness. Every evening I made my rounds between the two factions, playing diplomat, playing mediator, playing the fool who thought he could make them see reason when all I could see was the futility of their conflict.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here we were, humanity blessed—or cursed—with both breakthrough science and the resurgence of something we'd relegated to fairy tales. Magic. Real, quantifiable, impossible magic that defied every law we thought we understood. And what were we doing with these twin miracles? Turning them against each other while doom descended from the stars…
The Angel’s Wrath
My lungs burned as I sprinted across the rain-slicked planks of the harbor, boots splashing through puddles that reflected the torches behind me. The box tucked under my arm felt heavier with each step, but I clutched it tighter, my knuckles white against the rough wood.
Almost there. Almost there.
Shouts echoed from the narrow streets behind me—they'd found the bodies, found the empty vault. My heart hammered against my ribs as I spotted the Siren's Revenge bobbing at the far end of the dock, her sails already loosened, ready to catch wind.
"Cast off! Cast off!" I bellowed as I pounded up the gangplank, my voice hoarse with exertion and triumph. We'd done it. After months of planning, we'd actually done it.
I burst onto the deck and nearly collided with one of the crew—the new lad, wide-eyed and pale in the moonlight. Three months he'd been aboard, still jumping at shadows, still looking like he expected someone to tell him he didn't belong…
Fate
Last night, I heard a crazy woman playing the güiro in the middle of the night in a dark alley. - So what? It's the sound of death, and I think I died.
Cato still clutched the slip of paper as he woke, the words burned into his vision even when he closed his eyes. Usually, he didn't believe in fortune telling, but this message—probably written by some bored factory worker thousands of miles away—had sunk its claws into him and refused to let go…