I would buy this book

Great story, thank you for writing it for us.

Neat

A collection of short stories of individuals who have spent their final days on Earth. The end will come to us at one point, so how will you face your own end when you know how much you have left? Join us as we tell you the stories of these people who accepted their fate and are living the most out of their last days.

Price: ₱249

I made a dnd character based on this premise. He was fun

I had so much fun with this u/NewRomanian, thank you for the best title!

The Life And Times of Agnes Nutter, Witch.

The world of Carcio will meet the most insolent, most entitled and THE MOST OUTRAGEOUSLY AUDACIOUS blonde >!beech!< that is Karen.

We will join in on Karen's journey of entitlement as she will constantly harass the witch, annoy the living life out of the locals, and will DEFINITELY mess with the lion.

Will she change? Will she die? I hope so... I mean, I hope she dies real soon, because this unforgivable mistake does not deserve to have this kind of power.

Price: An outrageous amount of $54, but someone complained it's too much.

Reviews:

"This is definitely entertaining. Also, **** Karen." - Bob

"This is disrespectful, I would like to see the author." - Karen

"STFU Karen, this is a work of art." - Emily, Karen's neighbor.

"I want food." - The lion in Carcio.

Absolutely beautiful take, with such rich history.

No, that is not a typo, this is a completely different book of its own.

The Extraterrestrial Shark is a famous myth of the cosmos where a shark that's more humongous than any other shark and way more weird than any other shark.

The Space Raiders have been looking for this one for quite a while when they received a call from the captain to come back to Earth, for there were multiple reports of missing swimmers, half eaten docks, and weird noises coming from the deep.

It seems that the shark they're looking for is now on their planet, will they be able to save the day?

Price: £10

This is a collection of tales behind every valuable treasure the Dragon of Schmagenys has hoarded. From the Dictator's "Divine Invictus" Spear, to the Chalice of the Gods, to the Book of Soul Farming, every legendary treasure is there.

Price: ₱250

Darn, so the humans killed every other sentient race? That’s actually not surprising. This is really good!

Lol. Chubby Emu fan?

Becoming Part of the Dragon's Hoard

I have unfinished business. And I am not leaving until I figure out what to do about it. I died here. At this dumpy little gas station. You may be wondering how I died. Well let me tell you, that is quite the story.

I stopped by this gas station for some reason, I can't remember exactly why... Oh right. I needed gas. And a I was filling up my car I went into the little shop to buy some bullshit for the trip. Some Slimjims. Some Salt and Vinegar potato chips. Just stuff you could grab and eat while you are in the car.

But then I saw it. The gas station sushi. It looked so delicious, and I love sushi. Something about raw fish that hasn't been cooked is just so delicious to me. I just had to grab it.

As I leave I am not even back in my car and I am already ripping off the lid and shoving the orange fish in my mouth. It is so fucking good by the time I am sitting in my car it is already almost empty and a minute later I am licking the plastic container clean.

And that is when I feel it. A gurgle in my stomach. And then a second gurgle in my ass. I run out of my car and dart to the gas station bathroom. I need a key, it won't open. I run inside and ask the guy at the counter but he says he can't help me, it is for employees only. I don't have time to argue so I just run back out and start kicking the door, I don't have time, ff I don't shit immediately, there is going to be a big issue. It's too late, the door won't budge, I run into the bushes next to the gas station and just explode all over. It is disgusting and the last thing I remember before becoming translucent.

I float around for a bit. My car is still parked at pump 4. I try to get in but I can't. I wonder how long it will stay here before someone comes and tows it away. I go inside and start yelling at the guy at the counter who wouldn't give me the bathroom key. He doesn't seem to hear me. I rub my dirty undead ass in his face. He crinkles his nose, I know he can smell my diarrhea that has stained my ass in the afterlife. I vow to never leave this gas station ever again and keep my shit covered ass in this guy's face.

Wow. What a night.

The Birth of Sadness was the Birth of Joy tells the story of two different people born on the same date.

One is optimistic, the other is cynical.

One is satisfied, the other wants for more.

One is in Florida, the other is in Ohio.

One is warm, the other is cold.

One is joyful, the other is melancholic.

Opposites indeed, but as they meet, they will learn that they are the two sides of the same coin...

Price: $3.59

Many say the elves are cold, callous, and unfeeling. Deviod of any amount of emotion, only allowing logic and reason to dictate their actions.

This, of course, is as true as saying that the orcs are savages, or that the dwarves are drunkards, or that humans are special. It is understandable why one would think such things, when only looking on the surface of the society; but shatters instantly on closer inspection.

All the same, it is my heart that shatters hearing my dearest cry. Her beautiful voice wailing, intruded by sobs. My Rós, my precious Rós; succumbed to a sadness I cannot fix.

For so painful, is the truth.

My love, my Rós, weeps and wails for the day that has not yet come, but will as certain as winter. The day of my last breath, of my last words. Moreso, the day of our children to be last breath, and hers continuing.

I know not what to say, at first; for my mind wanders much further than hers. For I know the truth, the real truth, the truth she does not know. The worst day will not be my last breath, nor that of our children to be.

The worst day will be when we forget her name.

Living, breathing; but only in body. The mind, long gone. Memories, long forgotten. Even the body, technically alive, sorts into a cruel decay before the final rattle given. Only a breathing, beating corpse, living by the barest extension of the word.

Long I have thought to take my last breath before such things occurred.

But for now, I cannot think of such things. For now, I must tend to my Rós. I hold her, and let her wail, let her expunge the emotions of her thoughts now realized. I wait, patiently, for her sobs to relinquish enough for her to ask me if it is wrong to feel such a way.

No, I tell her, there is no shame in her emotion.

She asks what she should do, come the day.

Mourn, I tell her, but not a moment sooner.

It's not fair, she tells me.

It's not, I tell her. But it is life.

There's so little time, she says.

Then we should enjoy it, I respond.

My slumber is cut short however. As I am dragged out of my pod by the soldiers. Jennifer stands worried with the human babe clutched to her thorax. I do not need to speak. She is confused, and worried. But I touch my antennae to hers, and she calms. She hands me the child. The soldiers lead me out of the nursery. And up, past the schooling hall where the older children are learning everything they need in life, but mundane and if they have the talent for it, the magical. Past the hall of worker-drones, where our tools, food, and resources are produced. Up, passing the smaller hall of art, where our most creative and dream-touched hive-members create new wonders that none could have ever dreamt of before we took in the children. The barracks-hall too, surprisingly, is passed, where the strongest and toughest of us train eternally in the art of war and tactics, forever ready to defend and die for the hive. I have not walked further up before, for I am not worthy. The walls grow more elaborate. The artwork more common. And the scents of royalty more and more enters my head. The pheromones make me terrified, speaks to an ancient and primal part of me, that I am beneath them. That I am not worthy. Only the child, charge to keep safe; warm against my body, dark eyes staring into my face, keeps me from begging for death for having even stepped into this part of the hive.

Finally, the soldiers stop, and usher me into a large room. Where she sits. Queen-of-Queens. Empress-In-Realms. Upon a throne made from the crystalized souls of enemy lords and dead gods, she sits. Nameless and ancient, the first and the last. And she beckons me to approach. It is not a spoken command. Nor one through the scent or the collective-thought. It is a command that comes from the sheer will of the commanding-queen. She wants me to come closer; thus, I have no choice but to approach. I stand close enough to study every inch of her chitin. To see every scar that was taken in battle. Every wound that she has earned in killing things from beyond the walls of time. I stare into her one good eye, and her dead eye stares into my very soul. ''Ma-En-Tal. When I ask the princesses which of our caretaker-directors who work hardest, and cares the most, their lies speak of their favorites, but when I drag out the truth from them they all name you. It is perhaps my old love and old enemy Fate, who has orchestrated this then. That you should be the one to bring that child here.'' She reaches out an ancient but unspeakably strong arm towards the infant. And I cannot resist it as she takes him from me. ''You can detect fates. Dooms. Even the elusive geas. You are good at what you do. But this is a child that goes beyond mere normal fate. This is a child that will become legend. This is an Arthur. A Caesar. A Genghis Khan. It might even be a Gilgamesh. This boy will last forever in the mind of the world in which he grows up. And he was placed here, in our world. You know the deal we made. We cannot give them back.''

I nodded, we cannot give back the child once it is given unto us. It is part of the deal, we must raise the given child. And once it is grown, it can enter the world it came from. Or it can stay, and join our kind. ''I should be angry with you. I should crush you where you stand. Perhaps I should even command you to destroy yourself.'' I do not flinch. I do not beg. I do not ask for mercy. She is everything. First and last. From her flows life. To her we go in death. Disobedience in this moment is not an option. ''Speak, Ma-En-Tal, speak to your Queen-of-Queens. Speak your own and true words to the one who blessed your egg and spoke lovingly with the princess who laid it. Defend your life, if it is what you value.'' I feel faint. And yet I must speak. I have been commanded to do so. ''What I value is the child, oh mistress of my death, and I beg that you spare it. Crush my thorax and rip my head from my body, but spare the child.'' She gently coos over the small boy. And then things change. ''Truly, child of my child. Chitin of my chitin. You are the best caretaker. Even now, given a chance to escape death, you care for the outworld-child.'' Light pours into the chamber. The oppressive feeling of dread fades. The fog in my mind punishing me for even having entered such hallowed chambers is lifted.

I blink, with confusion. ''Fate is what it always is, Ma-En-Tal, and it cannot be avoided. But it can be adapted to. Modified. I am the First and the Last. My will is the Hive. My mind is the Collective. My dreams is the afterlife of all my children and their children, naturally born or box-adopted. Powers that I cannot stop has sent us a child-to-be-king. And he will rule this world. It is inevitable. But how he will come to rule is a different matter entirely. Those who want me, and our kind, to leave all realms forever, think that they can hurt us with this boy.'' She carries the boy as a mother would. She looks down upon him with divine love. Such strength and purpose. Such power in her will. ''I will make him the first, and only, prince. You will help me in the raising of him, for in you there is the gentleness that an Empress cannot show. That is something he must learn, along with the power and ruthlessness that I can teach with ease. And upon the day when he is ready, I shall give unto him my mortal rule, and depart to become fully divine in the rest-halls of the Everafter. Thus, I defy my enemies one last time. Thus, Fate who's love I have tasted, and who's hate I have earned, is cheated one last time.''

She speaks more, through the Collective-voice. That is to the Hive. And we all listen. To me she speaks with the pheromones of a god-queen. And I know the role I will play. The part in this change I must embody. She is not angry with me. Change always comes. And I am a part of the world-to-come. As always, I will do what is best for the child. And I will do as I am bidden, by the queen. Even as she whispers into me from her antennae, that her end will come at my hands. She knows it will be a gentle end. An ending that she is happy to go into. Since her realm will be left in capable hands.

ApocalypseOwl

There is a place in some cities. Usually in countries that are quite poor, ruled by people with rather unpleasant views on the rights of men, and women in particular, or just led by plain idiots. These places have boxes where the unwanted children can be deposited. Children born because cruel idiots willingly ruin the lives of the innocent. Children born because they have a destiny, and thus no force in the universe can prevent their birth. Or just children that in better situations could be loved, but because of complex reasons outside the control of the common man, there won't be a place for them at the home of their parents. All these infants are taken into the warm, comfortable, soft box. And then someone on the other side takes them and gives them a chance at life. In some places, these boxes are run by charities, by religious organizations, or state-owned hospitals. But in some rare, out of the way, places, these boxes are run by us. We take in all manner of children, mortal, immortal, of mixed mortal-immortal parentage. And give them all the love we can.

In the old days, this was simply something we did upon finding an abandoned babe in the woods. We took them in, raised them among our own children in our hallowed halls. But in ages past, the world changed and we had to make a deal; a powerful and important deal with powers that cannot easily be toppled, in order to remain attached to this reality. Now we take in all of those who cannot safely stay in the realm of the mortals. All of those who would be without home and life should they not be safely kept in our bright home; they are raised to live with us, and if they so desire, we can even upon their ascension to adulthood make them like us. Otherwise, we give them wealth, magic blessings, and a portal out of our pocket-reality. But they are of course always welcome to return and visit the hive, whenever they so desire.

In the hive they are raised by us. We teach them the language of the Hive and of their home or kin. We teach them of our history and of theirs. Of the numbers, the medicines, the plants, the making of nutrients most pleasant, and of the care for the ill and the young. Many who leave our halls seem to find homes as nurses and caretakers in the realm of mortals. Here, fleshy humans play and learn alongside the moon-bonded Lupines, the unwanted mixling-whelps of the dwindling dragons find a place here as do such elves that are deemed unworthy by the capricious leaders of that race. And our children, the brood of our eggs, are enriched by such a diverse and fascinating group of friends. I pass through the Hall of Boxes, where the bright shining orange lights keep the unwanted spawn of the other-realms warm. Today there are but few active amongst them, and I have been sent to collect from one of them. I hum-buzz a calm-speaker song that was taught to me when I was but a small larvae, and it is such splendor in the tones that the infant inside the box gurgles happily. It does not fear the sight of me, though to its human eyes I must look quite the stranger.

Picking up the warm thing, I look for any sign that the parents left something for them. It is a commonly seen practice, that some people leave a little note for the child, for when they come of age. A hasty explanation, an apology, or just a note assuring them that they wish them luck, and love. Besides the infant, wrapped in a silken shroud, there is nothing. It is an empty box. Hum-buzzing as I walk, I turn towards the nursery of the hive. There they go at first, when they are too small to think, or still eggs in need of hatching. When they can think and walk, they go to the schooling halls. But there will be many turnings of the golden wheels of time before the one I carry shall leave the place where I now walk. I pass by some of the drones, who seek to cleanse the boxes for the night. It must be done. And it is a job they do well.

The walls of the nursery are adorned with many unusual colors. Years ago, one of our children, who ate the joining-honey and became of us in flesh and chitin, spoke eloquently about the importance of colors for the young. They remade the walls, floor, and ceiling with a furious energy, and made it the most vibrant part of our home. Personally, I like it, though many of us find that it can get distracting, and we sometimes have to remind the drones of their tasks, lest they spend all day guzzling food and staring at the intricate artwork. ''Hatch-Director Ma-En-Tal. Last child for the night?'' I nod at Jennifer. She has also accepted the joining-honey, but she prefers to use her chosen name, rather than the traditional hive designation. There is room for individualism, if it does not hinder the efforts of the hive to grow, or to become stronger. ''Human male. Recently hatch-birthed. Dimensional box 62-TA. No observable geas, preordained destiny, or Doom placed upon the child. No personal items beside one silken shroud, colored purple, color hex code #66023C. I've sung the hum-buzzing to him, and I have listened well to the way the sound passed through his body; no health issues, though he might get hungry soon.'' The young scribe-hiver nods, and writes down with joy the information. ''Last one of the night?'' I nod and flutter my wings with relief. It has been a long day. It will be good to sleep.

But first, I walk into the nursery's feeding area. The human babe twists curiously, and perhaps it smells the special nutrient jelly that is prepared for such as him. Perhaps he simply wants what we cannot give, his blood parents. Whatever the case, he eats happily from the offered jelly. As he is fed by my work, my single-mind thoughts, those that are mine and mine alone, outside the Hive's collective, begin to wander. Long ago, when I was new at this task, merely a recently grown caretaker, I used to think of those who could have possibly left behind these infants. What manner of story would result in a dragon egg being left in the warm box. Why would the last spawn of the sirens be laid into one? Who had been so busy running, that they had had to place a demigod or a half-angel in there? This child is to me odd. It came from one of our least used boxes. One that opens to a land of plenty. A place where there should be every opportunity to keep a child for themselves. Who would leave a perfectly healthy baby in our care. We get more sickly children, who are not expected to survive. But in our care all illnesses can be cured. And thus, none who might have died in their worlds are ever lost here.

The child is done, and fed well. The feeding leaves them tired always, and while hugging the small form close to the front of my thorax, I seek out an empty nest-crib. He needs rest, and so do I. Close to my cell in the honeycomb structure of our home, there I find a suitable resting place for the small human. Tomorrow, the nurses will name him, as we do to all those who we do not know the birthing-name of. But for now, this child will rest. And so will I. It is not a rule to place the children that you, yourself, have found close to your own sleeping-pod, but most of us who work with them tend to make sure that we are close to those that we ourselves have extracted from the boxes. I place the child down on soft warm cloth, and place upon his body a healthy and strong spider-silk duvet. The crib closes, and the child watches me through the sugar-spun glass, until his eyes close, and his breathing becomes the calm regular breaths of sleep. The crib is enchanted to warn us, should anything unusual happen, but it rarely, if ever does when they contain humans.

My own sleeping-pod beckons, and I succumb easily to its kind embrace. As I sleep, I dream. We did not always do so, but the children did, and in dreaming here, in this place, the idea of dreaming seeped into the walls and the foundations. Now our kind dream, and even if we sometimes find it hard to deal with these many children of many worlds, the ability to dream is something worth all the trouble we've ever had a thousand times over and a thousand times stronger. It, second to the joy we feel upon seeing our outworld-children learn to love us as we love them, is the greatest gift we've received because of this specific deal.

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We need more of this story

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Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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So atmospheric!