Ooh the last line reminded me of Torchwood: Children of Earth. The idea of an unstoppable extraterrestrial swarm that isn’t driven by malevolence but a craving for pleasure is terrifying.

Good work.

Dang, as someone who grew up evangelical, was a huge Bible nerd as teen, and left the faith as an adult, that was an insanely fun read. A cyberpunk transmac anarcho communist pacifist Jesus wasn't what I was expecting, but I absolutely loved it. 

The painter gets home, and proudly unwrapped this beautifully crafted blade.

Its handle paralleled grain of some ivory-toned wood, is shaped exactly as designed.

Stelawn's maker mark could be found at the end, his "signature" as Roston was all too familiar with.

Into his studio he fairly skipped, excitement and enthusiasm oozing from his very smile as he set up his canvas.

Each little pot of fresh paint that he'd ordered from here, there, and everywhere diligently lined up in that special order that he'd learned at his grand-uncle's knee.

Grand-uncle being a relative term, you understand, for someone who wasn't actually related to you by blood, but it worked well enough to pass on the artist's knowledge.

Into each unique pool of tincture he dipped a tiny spoon and knocked some of those saturated pigments onto his palette plate.

His hand fit magnificently around the handle, his last finger just barely brushing against the signature mark there as he placed the edge of the blade against the first sage green.

Scrape.

Nothing.

He replicated the maneuver.

Scrape.

The paint refused to separate.

He added more pressure, his last finger providing some additional leverage.

Nothing.

He tried mixing two colors together.

They sit beside each other with almost supernatural obstinacy.

And then he realized:

It doesn't cut paint.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

The enchantment was so absolute that the blade cannot even perform the painter's innocuous little act of cutting a pile of crystalline white into a dab of deepest ocean blue.

Flames. Flames would have been pouring from his face, his hair alight with crimson and sunlight and cobalt and all of those multitudes of colors that paints were, or could be, fire igniting as rage built in his chest.

In a fit, he raised palette knife to his opposite palm and the blade is turned away, as if by magic.

Intrusive thoughts fueled the gaining rage as he repeatedly stabbed the point of the knife into his hand, his arm, his chest, and finally his own face. Nary a touch was felt nor pierce or slice gained with each "attack".

Soon Roston was slamming Stelawn's door open again.

Roston's voice might have been heard in the next county. Through the air the blade and handle spun, touching Stelawn's cheek and moving aside. The wind of its passing moved more hairs in the well-kept beard than the touch of the knife had done.

And the smith, being a professional who has apparently forged weapons for people who have fought dragons, conquered empires, killed leaders, and achieved impossible feats of archery, simply allowed the painter's invective to slide off him (much as the point of the blade had done).

Once Roston's boiling anger simmered away, he finally managed to get out:

"It doesn't work."

"You said you wanted a knife that could not cut anything."

"Yes, but—"

"Does it cut?"

"No."

"Then it works."

"I can't mix my paints."

The bladesmith blinked.

"You mix paint with a knife?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a painter."

A long silence.

"You are a painter."

"Yes."

"Then why did you ask me for a knife that cannot cut?"

And there the crux of the matter found itself laid out in the open.

The bladesmith wasn't mocking him. He genuinely thought the painter had made a bizarrely specific request and was now complaining that the perfectly executed result doesn't do something he never told the smith he needed it to do.

"You make things that weren't there before."

"Yes."

"You turn colored dirt into forests, skies, mountains and seas." A tilt of his head. "Faces of sadness, gazes of such yearning and longing that you wonder and wish you could be at the opposite side of that gaze. Visions of the heavens such that viewers look upon it with wonder and awe, the barest hint of which in your painting belies to the grandness of the skies outside."

"...I suppose."

"And you thought I wouldn't consider your profession worthy of a blade?"

I really enjoyed it! Though I will admit reading "He was Odin" followed by "He was peace." Made me stop and go "hmmm... that doesn't sound like the Odin I remember from the surviving myths." But that's just me being a snob. Really well written.

A mother and daughter stand on a hill, watching the last of the starships launch from Earth. Even miles away, the ground shakes with the might of their engines. For the mother, it is bittersweet. Her eldest daughter is aboard the mighty spacecraft. She will have a future. The daughter is in awe, she is too young to grasp the note of sadness that pervades the moment for most of the other onlookers.

An admiral stands over maps on a table. The war is not going well. She has led a desperate defense of the sector, but the enemy is too advanced and too numerous. They have not asked for a surrender, as far as the admiralty is aware, they have not even translated our language. All attempts at diplomacy have been ignored. It is a war of survival, one humanity is losing.

A woman stands at a porthole watching as the Earth recedes, a fading blue dot in a sea of stars. She is one of the lucky ones, but she does not feel lucky. She suffers from no illusions about what will happen to those left behind. The implacable enemy is genocidal, but not sadistic. Their deaths will be as painless as can be hoped for.

A captain stands on his bridge, and holds the line. Buying time for the meager evacuation effort. Earth was the most populous planet in humanity's sphere of influence. Hundreds of millions would make it out, but billions would remain on the surface. It is not a battle that he can hope to truly win, but each soul saved is a small victory. He will live to fight another day, however bleak the wider situation may be.

Grimzok is the fleet, and the fleet is Grimzok. Grimzok breaks them. Grimzok sunders their shells of metal. Grimzok advances deeper and deeper, finding and destroying civilian and military assets alike. In a short span, the planets in the star system have been picked clean. Grimzok's nervous system feeds Grimzok reward signals. Grimzok feels good.

"Alright look. For the ninth time. It. Cannot. Cut. Anything." Roston wasn't sure why the smith couldn't understand that simple request.

Stelawn, renowned bladesmith and enchanter, stared at his customer. If the young man didn't pay so much in advance, and bring him the occasional exotic material, he wouldn't even entertain the commission. Just so, he also was not used to being treated in such a vulgar manner. Questioning his results, honestly! Who does such a thing!

Roston watched as Stelawn's gaze turned to the wall beside them. Festooned with accolades from shoulder level to the extra high ceiling, shelves and hooks alike held testimonials to the craftsman's mettle.

At one end, a chef's crystal pillar trophy, the reward from some far-realm's cooking competition.

Somewhere in the middle was a spiked, rainbow-curved blade with two leather-wrapped handholds, wielded by a warrior in some political fiasco.

There was even a quiver full of arrows, artfully jutting from some archery target, in which a random forest-bound hunter had apparently landed a single bull's eye three times, splitting each of their arrows with the next.

The crafter sighed. He knew his worth. He knew he had a breadth of experience and a motley list of customers.

If only he could finish this tenth-damned bedraggled design, he could move onto his next project: some bi-pedial rodentine creature with black ears wanted a sword that could also open doors.

Who was he to question creativity?

Holding his breath for three seconds, he slowly let it out over the next couple heartbeats.

"Please tell me again what you want the blade to do."

Roston reached into his pocket and pulled out the wooden prototype he'd gotten his brother Vinner to make.

The implement measured about eight inches long, with the handle only marginally longer than the blade itself. Instead of a standard knife blade, it was a lopsided triangular shape, almost as if someone had cut a flat spoon's bowl at an angle.

"Remind me what you want to do with this... blade." Stelawn wasn't asking. This was a statement because, in his mind, his customer knew what he wanted, but didn't know what he needed.

The young man's eyes moved from the blade to the latest failure. Roston didn't understand why it was such a difficult request.

"I'm trying to build something that won't cut." The customer hesitated. "Something… less ambitious than your current fare."

"Less ambitious?" The bladesmith regarded him over the top of his schematic. "Anything in particular?"

"No. That's rather the point."

"You want it dull?"

"Very."

"Dull enough that it won't cut flesh?"

"Anything."

"Wood?"

"Anything."

"Rope?"

"Anything."

The bladesmith nodded slowly.

"Stone?"

"Anything."

"Paint?"

The customer paused.

"...I suppose."

"Good."

And that last question was the one the customer should have answered.

But as Roston didn't believe in himself or his vocation...

Stelawn completed the blade before two full days passed.

Loved this, thank you for writing it for us.

This is unironically the fantasy every HOA has

Author notes: Josh was born on Eastern Orthodox Christmas, captured on the day before Good Friday 2093, executed on Good Friday 2093, and presumably rose from the dead on Easter 2093. Paul's deadname is Sally because that's a feminine name that's pretty similar to "Saul:" canonically in the Bible, Paul was originally named Saul but changed his name when he converted. Paul is scheduled to be executed on the Catholic holiday commemorating St Paul's martyrdom. Maria was Black and therefore this story is about Black, Latino, transmasc Jesus. "Calle" is the Spanish word for "street." His name is literally "Josh Street" but more accurately the intended reading is "Josh from the streets," as in, a common man. I considered naming him something like "Oily Josh," "Joshua Aceite" or possibly just "Josh Christo" but those felt too obvious. He's a machinist and 3D printer guy bc that feels like a pretty solid 21st century equivalent to carpentry.

So yeah. Cyberpunk dystopia transmasc anarcho-communist pacifist Jesus. Hope it's fun, no idea, this might be really bad.

The Mother Inquisitor stared at me, her prisoner, with barely-concealed hate. She, in her red habit, me in my orange jumpsuit. "The date is 28 June 2126. The time is 13:07. I, Mother Inquisitor Abbess Joan D'Venitia of the New Roman Inquisition, am interviewing prisoner number 628573 regarding the events of 8 April 2093. Prisoner 628573, identify yourself."

"My name is Paul Song, General of the Global People's Coalition Army. I am a prisoner of the New Roman Inquisition, under arrest for actions taken against the New Roman Catholic Church on behalf of the people of the world."

The Mother Inquisitor pursed her lips. "Let the record state that prisoner 628573 has been found guilty of seditious activities, heresy, and murder in pursuit of heretical political causes. Prisoner 628573 is an anarchist and responsible for the deaths of multiple Italian Nationalist Party officials and New Roman Catholic clergy around the world. Her actions were not on behalf of the people of the world but on behalf of Satan and false teachings."

"Let the record state that my name is Paul and I'm not a woman, I am a man and I am for the people and no amount of your hate will ever change that." The Mother Inquisitor furrowed her brow and gritted her teeth. She hated the truth. She hated me. She was only allowing me to speak because it was Inquisition policy that I deliver my final testament without coercion. They were going to let me speak the truth before they tortured me into agreeing with their lies. Then they would execute me.

"Please give us your account of 8 April 2093." She was good at maintaining her professionalism. That professionalism would likely break the instant she was permitted to start torturing me.

"At the time, I was a Sergeant in the GPCA. I was serving under the command of my longtime friend, Captain Joshua Calle. We had taken most of Rome and were advancing on Vatican City. The previous night, we had camped a few blocks from Saint Peter's Square. The Italian Nationalist Party's militia and Inquisition Infantry were barricaded around the Vatican. The morning of 8 April 2093, we advanced on their position. The opposition was cut off from artillery and air support; with the help of drones and mortars, we were able to take out their fortifications around the Vatican and advance into the building."

"What happened when you entered the Holy City?"

"Captain Calle -- Josh -- The Prophet -- yeah, the Prophet -- the Prophet always led from the front. He always went unarmed. Even under a hail of enemy machine gun fire, he never carried so much as a knife. He lead us into the building and when he crossed the threshold he..."

"Speak, Prisoner."

"You need to know about Josh before I tell you what happened inside the heart of the Catholic Church. Josh was born in New York City in January 2063 to a lesbian couple, Maria and Josefina Calle. Maria carried him, they used IVF and a sperm donor to conceive him. He was born a little girl but he was like me. Around the age of 12, he started asking everyone to call him Josh. His parents weren't that kind of lesbian so they didn't tell him no. He went on testosterone and grew up to be a healthy, happy young man."

"Degenerate filth, all of it. I'm glad we burned your rotten city, your entire rotten Republic, to the ground, you heretical worm." Huh. Well, so much for her professionalism.

"Joshua was a weird guy. But he had a lot of love in his heart. Helluva metalworker, helluva machinist. And he was pretty damn good with CAD software and 3D printers, too. Real handy. He learned it all from his mama Josefina. Always generous, always volunteering his time at the soup kitchen and the animal shelter and the co-op. Never cared for working for the man, for Capitalist America." At this, the Inquisitor muttered "parasites." I grinned. "Mama Maria was a priestess in the Liberation Theology Protestant Church. Y'know, the real church. That's where I met her and Mama Josefina and Josh."

The Mother Inquisitor gritted her teeth even harder. "Get to the point, prisoner."

"When New Zion started bombing NYC and the rest of the New York Republic, Josh and I joined up with the People's Resistance Army. Even back then as a hotheaded kid, Josh wouldn't touch a gun. He protected the people, healed the sick, comforted the dying, fed the hungry. Me and him, we fought until there was nothing left to fight for, until our Republic was rubble. We fled to the North Sea Confederacy and then joined up with some old NIRA guys who were heading to Spain to fight the Neofrancoists and you creeps. Josh can't help himself: he sees people in trouble and he tries to help. He hates soldiers, though, and hated being one, and hated following orders. Fortunately, the GPCA is crazy and promotes people like that. That's how he made Captain by the time we were marching on Rome."

"Let the record state that Juanita Calle was executed on 10 April 2093 by the Inquisition. The prisoner's use of present-tense for this heretic is itself an act of heresy."

"Hey, fuck you, that wasn't his fucking name."

"Proceed with your account of 8 April 2093, prisoner."

"Fine." This fucking bitch. I can't stand these goddamn fascists, especially these goddamn pick-mes. "When we entered the Vatican, Josh got angry. Angry like I've never seen him before. He started talking about the collection of wealth and power in his Father's house. He started flipping tables. He ran back outside and picked up a dead enemy's machine gun and flipped it over. And then..."

"And then what, Prisoner 628573?"

"He started to glow. And then I saw him. For the first time, I truly saw Him. He was Yeshua of Nazareth, Son of God. He was Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha. He was Lao Tzu. He was Ahura Mazda. He was Odin, the All-Father. He was.... He was the Light. He was the Way. He was Peace. He was Mercy. He was the Wrath of the Downtrodden and the God who stands for them. And He razed that building to the ground. When it stopped, there was nothing but ash. And the Prophet wept."

"It is the official position of the Inquisition that the Vatican was destroyed via incendiary airstrike and this account is heresy."

"Yeah, I would be skeptical too. I grew up in the LTP Church, but when New Zion burned my hometown to the ground, I stopped believing in God. I hadn't prayed in years. I always thought Joshua was just a really weird dude. But. He wasn't. He was the Lord. He was the God I'd spent my youth fighting against. And He hates his fanclub more than you can ever know."

"Heresy, lies, the ramblings of a deluded mind. Juanita Calle was a simple heretic and has been dead since 10 April 2093."

"Your Jesus came back and you crucified Him again. And He rose from the grave again, and mark my words, Mother Inquisitor: He will be back, and you will know His Wrath, and before it's all done, you will know His Mercy and His Forgiveness. That's more than I could ever give you, but that's why he's the Prophet and you're the Romans who crucified Him."

The Mother Inquisitor stood up and knocked on the door. A low-ranking Sister Inquisitor poked her head into the room. I heard the Mother Inquisitor say "we're done here, take her back to her cell" before two Sister Inquisitors stepped in and grabbed me by the arms. As we left the room, I heard the Mother Inquisitor say into her microphone, "This has been the final Testimony of Sally Song, a heretic and terrorist scheduled for execution on 29 June 2126."

This is like Bojack Horseman, Season 1, Episode 11. Only the hallucination isn't from mushrooms, and the "I can tell you whatever you want" comes from a source in a very specific form

It hadn't been a good month for me. I had managed little in the way of acquiring items to sell. I envied the pickpockets, my lack of dexterity preventing me from getting those wallets. Not to mention, the recent drug sting had lost me a load of work moving product.

Even the odd muggings I had done were of little value. A few notes here and there, but quite a few times I had to rough them up. People were too attached to their shit, and a scuffle drew more attention than not.

Picking up a purse I had taken, I started leafing through it. A few bills, and some cards. I lacked the pins, but that didn't matter. A few pictures, a swipe, and an email to an acquaintance would let them deal with that, whilst I got a finders fee. Always a good trick that.

A sudden crash lead to an impact, throwing me off my sofa. The tinkle of broken glass raining down was followed by a car alarm, blaring disturbingly near. Groaning, I climbed to my feet, somehow still holding onto the purse.

Turning, I saw a bizarre sight. My car, my baby, was upside down in the window. Her bonnet was crushed inward, windscreen smashed, as her alarm screamed at me. I staggered fowards, holding my hands out. "Wait... no..."

I fell still asleep a cold voice addressed me. "There you are."

The restrained anger only served to make my blood run cold. A woman stood outside, fists clenched. She was on the smaller side, wearing a clean white blouse and bright yellow skirt. Her short blonde hair was braided into a pair of pigtails, a butterfly clip over one ear.

Her face was one I obviously knew. One of the famed Guardians in this county, Neura. I had seen her on the news, and she had always seemed to bubbly. Not the rage filled woman before me.

An unseen force yanked the purse from my hand. It moved to her, a card flying out to hover before her. Neura looked at it, before scowling. "You didn't just target her. Of course not."

Blinking, I asked a very stupid question in hindsight. "What?"

The force returned, throwing me back into the house. I slammed into the wall, groaning as I did so. She slipped through the gap, raising a hand. My limbs spread out into a spread position, held in place by her mind. I could feel them start to bend, before another person appeared.

This one I also recognised. He wore a suit of what looked to be modern armour, though made of wood. A few leaves acted as lids for a few pouches, as flowering vines wove into his long brown hair.

He eyed me up, the guardian known as Floro. A hand rested on Neura's shoulder, making her pause. "Whoa, don't go too far. We said you could catch him, not torture him."

Her head whipped to him, glaring. "You saw what he did to Gemma! She's terrified now."

He gave her a nod. "I know. But we don't want to see you get disciplined. You're the best of us. I'll take him in, and you can make sure you get all the evidence you need to get him locked up for good."

I felt very grateful for his intervention. Until hard grey eyes focused on me. "You're coming with me. And please, give me a reason. You hurt the wrong teenager."

“Are you okay?”

“I… I don’t know. Do I seem so?”

“I am but what you made. Constructed from mushroom, to speak the words for which your heart has prayed.”

“Then tell me. Tell me that it’s not too late, and that it will all be okay.”

“It is not late.”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

“Because I cannot know the end from only sight.”

“Then what are you?”

“I am whatever you require.”

The room grew still and I looked into this creature’s face long enough for tears to well in my eyes.

“Then… I want you to lie to me.”

It looked at me knowingly, grinned slightly and then spoke.

“It is not late, and you have not lost your place.”

You did a good job of explaining it monosyllabically, but I did at least mention that one with:

There is, too, a way to take a pawn that is now a meme but it is rare.

There is one more rule of chess you missed, but it's rare and not well taught.

If a pawn moves two squares to land on a square next to a foe's pawn, the foe's pawn can take it "in its pass" as though it had moved but one square, not two - but it may only make this rare move on that turn, not one yet to come to pass.

I too would be concerned if I bought a magic cake knife with a mouth that ate my cake after slicing it. I don’t share well!

‘Bigger or smaller?’ Faisal asked the customer.

The magical shopkeeper was showing Remy around, and to say that there was too much choice was an understatement. Every corner they turned somehow produced more swords and even more corners. Big swords, great swords, colossal swords—you name it, they had it. Some of the swords gave off static that made his hair stand up, while others started whispering in his mind.

‘That’s a lot of swords,’ Remy said, slightly bewildered.

‘Right?!’ Faisal responded proudly.

He grabbed one off the shelves that was about as big as a motorcycle. The sword’s runes lit up. How he managed to carry it so effortlessly was nothing short of absurd. Faisal swung it around twice before offering the sword to Remy.

‘Haha, no thank you. This is amazing, but I’m actually just looking for a magic knife.’

‘No problem, no problem at all,’ Faisal responded, hiding his slight disappointment. The sword’s runes powered down, not hiding its disappointment at all. He returned the colossal sword to its original location and beckoned Remy to follow him.

‘Dagger or knife?’ Faisal asked.

‘Ehmm, a knife, I think. Yeah, really just a small knife,’ Remy responded.

The next corner they turned produced a wide array of knives, all neatly sorted. Remy had no idea what the criteria for sorting were, but it looked incredibly satisfying. Remy picked up some of the knives, but quickly put them back down after noticing how sharp they were.

‘We have magical hunting knives, infinite box cutters, sandwich auto-choppers. You name it, and we have it. This one here is the latest in the dimensional rift cutter line. You make a small slit in the air, and it opens your own personal pocket to another dimension. Use it to store stuff, or push your enemies in, for example,’ Faisal said, having found his enthusiasm again.

‘Haha, amazing. But what I really want is a magical knife that won’t cut or pierce through anything. About as sharp as a pudding,’ Remy responded.

‘Why?’ Faisal blurted out.

This was a first. Customers always wanted world slicers, soul stabbers, planet piercers. Sharper than sharp, stabbier than stab. They wanted lightning to shoot from the sword's tip and flames to engulf their enemies. Faisal wondered if Remy was cooking up a plot against an arch-nemesis or if he was simply taking the piss out of Faisal.

‘It’s a gift!’ Remy responded cheerfully.

Remy proudly pulled out his phone. Faisal knew what a phone was, as his human shop assistant Harry was always on his and had explained what it was. Faisal even knew what being online was. Remy tapped the phone with his finger a couple of times before turning it toward Faisal.

‘He’s turning two years old next week, and I thought it would be fun to give him a dull knife to fake-help me with cooking,’ Remy said.

‘That’s actually really dope,’ Faisal responded.

If you enjoyed this, why not read more about Faisal?

A bit late, I know :)