Open-World: First Reading
We need to pick our next 8 writers!
Important note: this is an interior document. There's no need to restack. This isn't for the Substack community at large.
We're gathering this first round of stories to read them as members of the effort. We'll pick the 8 authors who will write the next round of stories. We have several rounds to work through, and when they're all done… we'll all publish at the same time.
And remem5ber:
Check out the work has done in both on our slack and at the worldbuilding hub for the open-world project.
This article is NOT part of Literary Salon, issue #1… because what we’re doing here is secret. You can still visit the magazine, though.
Remember this: Get thee to a computer or you can try viewing this from the browser on your phone (which I can’t guarantee will work). These links don’t work in the app.
These are the stories I’ve received so far. If you sent me your story and it’s not included, let me know. 8 out of 15 (1 author dropped out.)
How to Act in a Crisis by
for the story CLICK HEREThis story was added after the initial mailing.
Apex by
for the story CLICK HERE.The "player character" is a cat named Bean.
Sky Bound Wishes by
for the story CLICK HEREThis link goes to Google Docs.
The Management of Ravenwood Heights by
for the story CLICK HEREElectric Ghost by
for the story CLICK HEREOrange Light by
for the story CLICK HEREThe link opens a Google Doc.
Achluophobia by
for the story CLICK HERETwo stories are included here in full.
Ermaline by Mary J Hunt and Untitled by Bradley Trapp
Ermaline by
the story is included here:Ermaline is strange. In appearance she is homely. Her grades among the other thirteen-year-olds in her class are mediocre at best, substandard at worst. She is unremarkable. But there is one unusual thing about her. She has an empathic personality that leads to both good and bad outcomes. Once she saw some boys taunting a small animal caught in a trap. She touched the torturous trap and freed the animal. A single tear fell from her eye as she touched the animal’s wounded leg, and it instantly healed. The boys were stunned, and afraid of her. She looked at them as they ran. Those who cause another to suffer will also suffer. Ermaline’s power is heightened by compassion and justice. The boy who was the instigator stepped into another trap and screamed out his pain.
Being raised by elderly grandparents, has unfortunately made her a spectacle among her peers. Initially Ermaline was mocked for her peculiarity, but as word of her strange power to heal or harm spread, she was given a wide berth, by her peers.
Ermaline’s small patch of the world is marked by woods and large trees that surround her small house.
Her mother died while giving her life, and her father died a couple of years later. Her grandparents took her in and lived by the old ways. Her grandmother was a seamstress, like her mother before her. She made all of Ermaline’s clothes with love. Money was sparse, but love was plentiful. While her peers prided themselves on wearing the latest fashions to school, Ermaline was proud of the long colorful dresses her grandmother created for her. She wore her long hair in a bun to school each day.
One day Carlton was crying. Athletic and handsome, his deep emotions have led to his peers having fun at his expense. Whereas Ermaline doesn’t care about the opinions of others, Carlton cares deeply. Innocent teasing leads to exaggerated outbursts of anger and tears from Carlton.
Today Ermaline brings her lunch to his table and takes a seat next to him. She can feel his pain.
“I can tell something is really bothering you, Carlton. Do you want to talk about it?”
Seeing the compassion in Ermaline’s eyes, he blurts out. “My parents told me my dog is dying. There is nothing they can do.” Ermaline loves animals. Her empathy is heightened by compassion. “Do you have a picture of your dog?”
He pulls out a picture from his pocket. I carry this with me every day, because my dog is my best friend.”
They live in a backwards community where cell phones are more of a luxury than the norm.
Ermaline picks up the picture of a beautiful lab. With one finger she touches the face of the dog. A single tear falls from her eye. “Don’t worry Carlton, Princess won’t die. She will be well when you get home.
“How do you know that?”
“I just know. Trust me. Just believe Carlton.” A bell rings, signifying it is twelve thirty, the end of the lunch period.
Now back in the classroom, Carlton feels better. She seemed so certain, so he tries to do what she said. I believe she is well; he repeats over and over in his mind. When he gets home from school, he immediately goes to check on his dog.
“Mom, how is Princess?”
“It’s the strangest thing. She is better. She seems fine now. Let’s go and check on her.”
Carlton discovers Princess is completely well. She ate all of her food and seems to have her energy back. She wants to play tug of war, her favorite game. All her toys are scattered about.
Carlton is exuberant. What happened mom?”
“I don’t really know. I had just finished my lunch. It was around twelve thirty. I went out to check on her, and she was running and barking, wanting to play. It is weird. A miracle really. She was dying.”
Carlton tells his mother what Ermaline said. His mother keeps the story to herself, until a futuristic event reminds her of Ermaline.
Something occurs to Carlton. He never told Ermaline or any of his peers the name of his dog, yet Ermaline knew it.
A few years later, Carlton’s father developed a strange disease. Doctors could find nothing to cure him. It was progressive. He started losing his ability to walk, then to stand, while his fingers curled and were useless. His father was a kind man, and the breadwinner of the family. One day Carlton thought about Ermaline as he played with his dog. He asked her if she would come to his place and meet his father. She agreed.
His father, now in a wheelchair, greeted her warmly. He reached out his gnarled hand to shake her young hand. She experienced intense compassion for the man. As she shook his hand, she could feel his kindness envelope her. Without understanding her own words, she spoke to him. “You have a grave condition. “Would you like to be healed?” she innocently asked.
“I wish I could be healed. I feel badly that I can’t support my family.”
“Then you will be healed. I will help you. Do you believe this?”
He doesn’t understand why he responds the way he does, but he tells her, “I believe.”
Then a heat radiates into the hand she is still holding and moves throughout his body.
His fingers straighten up, and his body is strengthened. He stands up. Carlton is amazed.
Ermaline tells Carlton, “I won’t be in school for a while. I will be helping a friend.” Her
fingers have begun to curl and stiffen.
Carlton’s popularity increases. as he spreads and embellishes the details of Ermaline’s actions. He attributes every illness or healing to Ermaline.
The healings and accidents continue to increase, along with fabricated tales of her power being the cause. As her notoriety spreads, only the truly desperate, or the very foolish seek her out.
Untitled
Untitled by
the story is included here:The late spring breeze carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle as Aviva shifted on the weathered wooden bench, the planks creaking beneath her. She tucked her legs underneath her—a habit she’d developed since they were too short to reach the ground—and adjusted the thick mythology book in her lap. The rushing waters of the Franklin River provided a constant backdrop to the cooing pigeons that pecked at her scattered breadcrumbs.
She twisted a strand of her copper-red hair, a nervous habit that always drew her mother’s gentle scolding. The sound of fabric rustling beside her caught her attention, but she didn’t look up. A figure in a simple black coat had appeared, his presence bringing an inexplicable sense of calm rather than the fear one might expect.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Aviva asked, her voice carrying the slight whistle from her missing front tooth.
The figure turned, surprise clear in his subtle head tilt. “What makes you say that?”
Aviva’s fingers drummed against her book’s worn cover. “You don’t look like anyone I’ve seen before. And you’re too quiet. People around here like to talk about the weather or the Cardinals, but you’re just... still.”
“You’re very perceptive for someone so young.” His voice carried an accent Aviva couldn’t quite place.
Aviva closed her book and looked at him directly for the first time. “You’re Death, aren’t you?”
Death’s hands—neither old nor young—folded in his lap. “I am.”
Instead of feeling scared, Aviva found herself studying Death’s features. He wasn’t anything like the skeleton in her mythology book. “You don’t look like I thought you would,” she said, running her thumb along the worn edge of her book cover. “No scythe, no skeleton. Just a boring coat.”
A sound like distant wind chimes filled the air as Death chuckled. “The scythe is a myth. And I thought this form might be less frightening.”
“It’s not scary,” Aviva said, fidgeting with her locket. “But it’s kinda sad.”
Death’s head did that peculiar tilt again. “Sad?”
“You look like someone who doesn’t get invited to birthday parties,” she explained, remembering her sister’s recent celebration, the cake frosting and laughter she’d watched from her window. Her chest tightened at the memory.
Death’s laugh was softer this time, like leaves rustling. “You’re very brave to speak to me this way.”
Aviva shrugged, tucking her legs more firmly under her as a cool breeze swept across the river. “I’m not scared of you. I’ve been sick for a long time. The doctors say I might not get better, but that’s okay.” The words came easier than she expected. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I’m just curious about... what happens next.”
The questions bubbled up inside her like the river rapids downstream. “What’s it like to be Death? Where do people go? Do you ever get lonely?”
Death’s answers came slowly, his strange accent growing more pronounced with each response. When he admitted he didn’t know where people went, Aviva noticed how his hands twisted together, almost like her mother’s did when discussing difficult things.
“It’s not my role to know,” Death explained. “I’m a guide, not a keeper of answers.”
The pigeons had drawn closer, unafraid of Death’s presence. One pecked near his feet, and Aviva noticed how the bird’s shadow seemed to waver, like heat rising from summer pavement.
“Do you get lonely?” she pressed, watching Death’s reaction.
He hesitated, and for a moment, the river’s rushing seemed to grow quieter. “Sometimes. But I’ve grown used to it. I don’t linger in the places I visit. It’s easier that way.”
Aviva frowned, her fingers finding the locket again. She knew about loneliness – the long hospital nights, watching other children play from windows. “That sounds lonely to me.”
The sun began its descent behind the trees, casting long shadows across the riverbank. Each one seemed to reach toward Death like seeking fingers. Aviva watched a leaf spiral down to the water’s surface before speaking again.
“You know, people probably wouldn’t be so scared of you if you talked to them like this more often.”
Death’s coat rippled in a way that didn’t match the breeze. “My presence is enough to bring fear. It’s better to remain distant.”
“Maybe that’s because you only show up at the end,” Aviva said, thinking of how her little sister had feared their new neighbor until they’d shared cookies and stories. “If people knew you were kind, they wouldn’t be so scared.”
Death turned to her then, and for a moment, Aviva thought she saw something ancient in his eyes, like stars reflected in deep water. “You’re very wise for your age.”
She grinned, running her tongue over the gap in her teeth. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
As twilight approached, the air grew sharp with an evening chill. Death’s coat rippled in ways that didn’t quite match the wind, and Aviva noticed how the shadows beneath the trees seemed to lean toward them, like curious children.
“Will it hurt?” she asked, clutching the silver locket her grandmother had given her—the one containing a mysterious photograph she’d shown no one.
“No,” Death assured her, his accent growing stronger with emotion. “It will feel like falling asleep. Peaceful.”
Aviva stood, brushing crumbs from her flowered dress. She hesitated, then pulled the locket from her neck. “Could you... could you make sure my little sister gets this? There’s something inside she needs to see when she’s older.”
Death’s hand closed around the locket, and for a moment, Aviva thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or memory. “You remind me of someone,” he whispered, but didn’t elaborate.
Aviva noticed the world blurred at the edges, like watercolors in the rain. The last thing she noticed was how Death’s hand felt warm instead of cold, and how the river’s song seemed to grow louder.
The bench creaked once more in the growing darkness, but Aviva no longer felt its weathered wood beneath her.
— Thaddeus Thomas
Not so private if we're re-stacking. 🤣
Very moving, especially the story about Death.
Great job to both writers. I can't wait to see the next one.