I was thinking a bit too much about mortality and death and wrote this as a consequence~ 

And then you would wake up sitting on a bench. One of those wooden ones that’s all worn in with the memory of being a resting place for hundreds of people before you. This bench would be on a platform; old and dirty but sturdy. Above you would be a canopy reaching from a small, rusticly painted one-story building behind you. In front: a pair of two train tracks. A gray-blue color for the sky, dirt ground all around. The platform and building would stretch from one horizon to another.

There would be other people there, too. Hundreds, milling around on the platform, quietly. They would be not quite opaque, just a little fuzzy around the edges, footsteps just a little too light. Not quite human. Although they all were, once. Just like you. 

Now, if or when you die, and you wake up at the train station, you would wait until a column of smoke appeared on the horizon. A small, black dot would grow into a fully sized steam-powered train, cars twisted out of jet-black matte metal that seem to suck the light from the air around it. There would be no windows. 

In the conductor’s car there would be a man wearing a gray uniform lined with shiny silver buttons and no face. Rather, a shadowy circular area where his face should be, tucked between the rim of his conductor's cap and his collar. But you wouldn’t be close to the conductor’s car, so you wouldn’t see him. He’s all right with that, you know. It’s not like he could see you or talk to you, anyway. 

You would watch as the train screeches to a stop and the people begin to pile in as soon as the doors slide open. The air would turn a little bit thicker as the smoke pours out and into the open. Maybe you would wonder what they are burning to make the wheels turn. Probably not, though.

You would move into the train car in front of you, walking with that strange, untethered feeling. A bit strange, going somewhere without quite knowing why, but it feels right to you.

Some people would watch you maliciously, hanging back in the dark spots of the station platform, fingers dug into the canopy posts. These are the spirits who were ripped from their world so suddenly and violently that they simply cannot (or will not) accept death. You don’t need to worry about them, though; they’ll wind down over time, watching wave after wave of new souls arriving and boarding until eventually, they will realize that they are tired and want to rest. They will board, in maybe one month or ten or a few hundred years, but they will. There is nowhere else for them to go.

Once inside the train, you would sit; there’s a seat for everyone, although some prefer standing. There’re warm lanterns lining the ceiling, which create shadows with their light that dance around the car like the reflection of the sun on water.

The sun? Would you remember what the sun feels like?

The train would chug along for hours (or maybe years, who knows?), until it would slow to a halt and the doors would creak open again. The passengers would file out and into a bleak white room with five doorways on the far wall.

And then you would see me. I would be standing in the very middle of that bleak room, hands crossed. I won’t tell you what I look like, but you’ll see. I will not tell you that I am Death, but you will know, instinctually. 

Each spirit would approach me one by one and I would touch their head and see every aspect of their personality, every decision and thought that was ever in your head. From there I shall tell you which one of the doorways that they should go through and they’d walk there with that strange lilting step. 

What’s behind the door, you ask? Is one perhaps for the horrible people of the world, a chamber of smoldering embers and flames swallowing up all the oxygen around it? Is the other a pure, white utopia full of flowing fountains and fruit trees, for those virtuous few who poured their hearts into helping others?

Not quite. There is no punishment after death; no, there is quite enough of that in life. Life, my selfish little brother, who creates with no regard for the consequences and watches humans suffering like a fun little puppet show. Life, he who is worshiped for granting existence while I am shunned and feared. I don’t particularly crave attention or recognition, although it does irk me sometimes to see how much fear people go through during their final days alive. I wish everyone knew that there was some sort of peace after death. For most people, at least. Some people are clinging to the memory of life too much to be peaceful, but there’s not much I can do about that.

Either way, I cannot tell you where the doorways lead; that is for you to find out when the time comes. But please be assured that there is no punishment for you, just a place where you will be most comfortable resting.

(I believe in the innate goodness of humanity, but there are those few horrible people with burned, black hearts that have cultivated so much hurt that I cannot in good conscience put them to rest. They have a different fate, one between the last breath of life and the train station. They never rest).

Eventually, when your memories of the living world are so hazy that they exist like a mirage in your mind, you would slowly fade away until all that remained would be the very core of you; a soft, glowing thing. I walk around in each area with a wicker basket in one hand, collecting them in batches like blackberries. Then, I venture out to the vast dark field that is the night sky and sprinkle those small, bright souls into the wind. You can see them when you go out when it is dark (in a place with no little light pollution, if you can find one); they’re those little sparkling things in the sky. 

So, you see, if you were to die, that is what would happen. Does it make you feel better, now that you know? Will it make you behave differently? Are you comforted? Disappointed Do you even believe me?

Ah, well. Those questions hardly matter, in the end. I’ll see you in one year or five or fifty, but I will see you eventually. But do not fret; although life is tedious and cruel, death is here to heal your wounds and let you rest, finally, in a field of darkness

Hello, writing community! I have made an all-in-one contest of art, poetry, and writing stories! It's on Puddings Place, and it's called Poetry, Art, and. I'm trying to recruit people, so please, check it out!!! BTW its the one with the most comments, bc I made sevaral of the same thread accidently.

Admin can delete duplicate threads if you send the request to delete as a reply/comment on the thread you want deleted and sign it from Cloud Bunny.

Admin

No one ever said it would be easy. No one ever said the sacrifice would be top much. No one ever said it was impossible. This is where my story starts. Here. At the beginning...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I push my dark hair aside and try to concentrate on the algebra lesson. My mistake before of doodling in my notebook had earned me a warning from my teacher, Mr. Pratt.  Now, I had to pay attention to the lesson, lest I get a detention.

"Now, who can tell me what the value of our variable would be here?" Mr. Pratt asks, glancing around the room, anticipating who would be his next 'victim'. Rumors surrounding him (told to me by my friends at lunch or in the hallways after school) mostly involve him choosing us like 'animals being led to the slaughter', rather than students answering math questions. Hence the word 'victim'.

My friend Kara slides down in her seat a few rows in front of me, trying not to attract his attention. Kara moved to our town, Elmcroft, only about a year ago. She lives down the street from me and we are best friends, me, Kara, and Jade, who also goes to my school. Kara has a hard time with math, butt for some reason she was but into the advanced algebra class, along with Jade and I.

The rest of the class finishes with us working on worksheets at our desks, no talking allowed. This means, in other words, I can't chat with my friends. As soon as the bell rings, I gather my binder, notebook, and pencil case, drop my worksheet in Mr. Pratt's basket on his desk, and jet out the door.

Jade and Kara meet me outside the door. "That class felt like an eternity." Jade complains, swinging her rusty red-brown hair (tied up in a beautiful braid today) over her shoulder.

"I know, right? It's too bad Mr. Pratt can't slow time, or I'd blame him." Kara groans, shifting her neatly organized binder in her arms. Kara is very organizing-prone, considering she keeps her school supplies, books, and notes, neat and tidy in her locker, along with pictures of her and her family and friends and a magnetic whiteboard, complete with her list of homework each night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

That's all for now, let me know if you want more! 

Rough sketch of Mayah 'cause I'm kinda obsessed with her and Lorenna/Alistar (formerly Claire).

Laine cast a stolid glance at the huddled up figure before her. Her eyes returned to the lick of silver in her hand, the blade quickly being swallowed up by a creeping, liquid darkness. 

She watched as the person squirmed and wriggled like an trapped animal in pain. She watched as it mewled and whined to itself, a mere fleeting shadow of the bravery it had worn before her single strike. She watched as it sputtered and began to wheeze, as if it could tell all the air of the whole was slipping away from its grasp forevermore; she felt the weak, clammy hand brush up against her foot, tugging at her garbs as if begging now would cease its agony and mend everything up, nice and neat. She only watched as a life crumbled in front of her, falling ragged, limp and still.

It was only after the person had ceased movement for some time that Laine reacted. She crouched down, a hand pressed to the dark skin, rough and worn, marred with numerous scars despite its young age. Cold. Hollow.

A pity they had to kill him, Tyrme thought as ae watched on, holding aer tongue in a vain attempt to keep aerself from clicking it. He hadn't really done anything wrong, after all, now had he? Since when was simply trying to survive a crime punishable by death? Then again, a job is a job, and there's no way around that. If the boss says it needs to be done, it shall be done. Tyrme sighed, shifting aer weight to aer other leg, tapping aer foot to the ground whilst scanning their surroundings yet again.

Laine ignored her companion's signs of restlessness and kept her eyes glued to the corpse as if searching for something. After a bit, she stood abruptly and tossed a parcel at Tyrme. Taken off guard, ae fumbled for a moment before getting a grip on the package and huffing.

"Let's go now?" Ae breathed, nearly sounding exasperated.

Surely, although this was Laine's first job, this would not be the last, after all. And just how long was Tyrme have to spend supervising this rookie?! Ae had their own things to do, besides being dragged around messing around in the affairs of cannon-fodder!

This is the first part of my fantasy, which goes by asterisk-divided sections instead of chapters. Enjoy!!

The
Books of Peoda

Icebergs
Ablaze

by
Céline du Ciel

Guide
To Peoda, the Realm of Light:

A
Compilation of Worldwide Scholars’ Knowledge

Vevania

Ruler(s)
Emperor Zatar

Magic
Type Ice

Geographical
Features Frigid cliffs

Population’s
Typical Features Pale

Saying
“The colder the ice, the
stronger the iceberg”

Elmont

Ruler(s)
King Flarin and Queen Lilani

Magic
Type Fire/Water

Geographical
Features Deserts, oases, and
rivers

Population’s
Typical Features Slim

Saying
“Steam to mist is nature’s
way”

Soanland

Ruler(s)
King Okore and Queen Fharea

Magic
Type Earth and Wind

Geographical
Features Grassy plains and
chilly bluffs

Population’s
Typical Features Rosy

Saying
“When the land and the
breeze are at peace, so is the

world”

Mirialle

Ruler(s)
Empress Vhernina

Magic
Type Charm

Geographical
Features Thorny woods and
meadows

Population’s
Typical Features Tanned

Saying
“Be like a death cap:
Pretty on the outside, deadly on the

in”

Neiverre

Ruler(s)
None (Wythes, creatures
of failed magic who can kill

with a touch)

Magic
Type Death/void magic

Geographical
Features Void and
Terror Dungeon

Population’s
Typical Features Foreign

Saying
None