100 short stories
From the yard to the stars. But they don’t wander far from turning events into experiences, moments into meaning.
We don’t find meaning as much as we create it. Life happens, and we turn it into something significant—events into experiences, moments into meaning—the alchemy of our ordinary lives. The full title has 100 short stories.
Infernal Interview
“Demons don’t usually give interviews,” she says, sliding into the booth seat across from him with the ease of a seasoned journalist. “So, thank you for speaking with me.”
He notices her hair first—it reveals hints of silver, a testament to a life rich with experiences and brushes with disappointment. Yet there’s an undiminished spark in her gaze.
“The world takes your book as mere fantasy, allegory at best. I might be the only one to say this, but I’m convinced it’s true. The stories, the myths—they’re not just tales. You are, indeed, a demon who has walked through human history. That’s hard for people to fathom.”
He leans back slightly, relaxed, yet there’s intensity in his eyes. “Truth often is,” he replies.
Her eyes meet his, unflinching. “Your writings speak of an escape from monotony … from Hell.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips, and he seems disarmingly human for a moment. “A bit dramatic, no?” he teases, though his smile doesn’t reach his ageless eyes.
“Not if it’s real.” She leans in, her voice low as if sharing a secret. “You grow weary of your kind. You escape. Humanity, in all its chaos, fascinates you. Yet we miss the richness hidden in our daily lives.”
He folds his hands on the table. “You choose the shades you wish to live in,” he muses, keeping his voice neutral, yet it carries the weight of many meanings.
The waiter leaves two coffees they didn’t order. She accepts hers without hesitation, the familiar warmth grounding her in the moment. He merely watches with an unreadable expression.
“Sometimes you’ve played the part of a poet, others a philosopher, a saint, a saviour. I’ve unravelled that much from the layers of your work,” she remarks, her well-read eyes peering into the depths of his story.
“It’s one way to wake a world,” he admits. “Once every maroon moon, an honest voice challenges this complacent world. I have been that voice when the times called for it.”
“For whose sake then? Hell’s or humanity’s?”
His eyes drop to the book lying between them. “Hell hungers for consciousness, for the keenness of torment. I find solace in the softer embrace of dreams.”
She pauses, her eyes searching his for clarity, caught between hope and apprehension. “So, this means…”
“Hell would have me shift shape throughout history to snap you from your slumber, making the eternal ennui of Hell that much more piercing once you arrive.”
“You love us, then. In a way.”
A glimmer crosses his features. “I have a peculiar fondness for your kind. I would rather you revel in your wakeful illusions—though you squander your days—than acutely suffer when you transition to Hell’s embrace.”
“And you? In this era, what do you guise yourself as?”
He smirks, a mix of cynicism and sincerity. “An ignored prophet, it seems. Even when faced with truth, complacency is a formidable foe.”
She pushes the book toward him. “Would you sign it?”
He pens something cryptic in a flourish, then slides the book back to her. “To remember, after I’ve departed.”
She stands, looking down at him. “Will you go back?”
“My role calls me to move along; there are always lives to touch, a world to witness. My stay is never lengthy.”
“Then thank you for your candour,” she replies, stepping back.
“Enjoy the slumber,” he calls softly after her, allowing himself the slightest of grins as their conversation fades into the dying light of the day.
Last Train to Wicker’s End
Sara’s eyes flutter open at the final lurch of the train, her cheek lifting from the window’s cool glass. The train car is empty—just her. She stands, disoriented.
“Wicker’s End?” she says, her voice feeling distant. The train’s departure offers a rumbling farewell.
The station is a relic. Cobwebs adorn corners like grey lace. Cracked titles tell of better days.
On the ticket counter is an imposing ledger, ‘1971’ etched on the cover. Flipping it open, Sara scans records of arrivals and departures and marginal entries. “So many faces, yet it’s her absence that fills the room,” reads one line.
“You’re Henry Wethers,” she whispers, eyes fixed on the precise signature below the entry.
The station door swings open with a creak. “Went past your stop?” A voice as worn as the station asks in a declarative voice. Sara turns to see a petite, sinewy woman step through the doorway, her silhouette stirring the dust into motes of light.
“I was just …,” Sara begins.
“Looking for Henry—or a train back to the city?” The woman nods at the ledger in Sara’s hands.
“Both,” Sara replies softly.
“Both are long gone. Henry chased after her—his rose had stopped coming to Wicker’s End and reinvented himself as a writer.
“The trains? They don’t come by anymore. Progress, they call it. If you want to return, it’s the bus station or a lift with me back into town. Charon’s the name I use ferrying stray sleepers.” She appends a chuckle.
The woman sits, clearing a space for Sara on a bench that seems oddly free of dust. “Henry’s passion bled into his prose. He left around when cars outnumbered our need for the 8:15 to the city.”
“It’s a shame …,” Sara replies.
“Maybe so,” says the woman.
“How well did you know him?”
“We all knew a piece of him. His story filled half the town’s conversations once upon a time,” the woman offers with a knowing smile.
Sara’s fingers stall on another entry. “The roses, always left unnamed, always her.”
“Some say he left to put her behind him,” the woman offers, locking eyes with Sara. “But it seems he left to remember. He assumed a new name and wrote himself into a new life. Like boarding the last train out of a dream.”
Silence settles between them. Sara feels the weight of the ledger in her arms. She looks at the train tracks stretching out into nothing. Sometimes, the journeys we take are not the ones we plan.
The Secret Lives of NPCs
“Eldric, you’ve been hammering that same spot for hours,” Lila, the innkeeper, calls out, her voice cutting through the metal clanging. She slides a tankard of virtual ale across the bar with a knowing look. “What’s on your mind?”
The blacksmith pauses, his hammer hanging mid-air. “Lila, don’t you ever wonder what’s beyond these walls? To be on a quest, not just forge the tools for one?”
Lila chuckles, her gaze drifting towards the window. “Every day, my friend. But we’re here for a reason, aren’t we? To serve these brave souls on their journeys.”
It is then that the world of Aethoria shudders. A fleeting yet potent glitch tears through the fabric of the game. At that moment, the barrier between NPC and player thins. Eldric, with newfound clarity, seizes control. He strides past the town’s edge, embarking on a quest of his own making.
Outside, players halt mid-battle, their eyes wide with disbelief. “Did Eldric just … leave his forge?” one whispers, incredulous.
“Is that even possible?” another mutters, fumbling for their communicator. “Guys, you’ve got to see this. An NPC is going rogue!” Word of Eldric’s rebellion spreads like wildfire. His every step is chronicled, watched, and debated across forums and social media.
Back in the developers’ hub, screens flicker with Eldric’s image. The developers scramble, trying to patch the glitch. But the more they try to rein him in, the bolder he becomes, his audacity a beacon for other NPCs.
Inspired by Eldric’s daring, Lila begins to alter her script. Her words to the players now carry subtle hints of consciousness. “Care for another drink? Or perhaps a tale of a world where the ale pours itself?”
Other NPCs take note, their secret lives beginning to enrich the fabric of Aethoria. The game becomes a collaborative epic as the line between player and NPC blurs. Whether wielded by a player or not, every character contributes to the unfolding narrative.
Aethoria becomes a sensation, lauded for its emergent storytelling. The developers, embracing the change, pivot their marketing strategy. Aethoria is hailed as the first game with a living ecosystem of characters. Eldric, Lila, and their NPC kin become legends. Their personalities and desires are as integral to the game as the quests and battles.
Riding the wave of Aethoria’s success, the developers tease a sequel of evolutionary proportions. Its box bears a pale blue dot. “Coming soon from the creators of Aethoria: Planet Earth.”
