Stuff

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Stuff (ie. stories) that I found that are parts or fragments of stories I wrote, and some is stuff that was written, but changed before publishing.

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(NEVER PUBLISHED, NOT YET AT LEAST)

The Elf Boy Invasion

Matsuda Isoruko woke up with a start, his heart racing like a jackrabbit on Red Bull. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of his vivid dream about being chased by a pack of wild raccoons. But as he glanced around his tiny one-room apartment, he realized that this wasn't just any ordinary morning.
"Wait a minute..." he muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the space for any signs of...whatever was going on here.
That's when he saw him – a small, pointy-eared boy with piercing blue eyes and a mop of messy black hair, snuggled up in his bed like they owned the place. Matsuda's jaw dropped as he stared at the tiny elf boy, who was fast asleep, completely oblivious to the fact that his life had just been turned upside down.
Matsuda's mind went into overdrive as he tried to process this sudden turn of events. "What in the world...? Who are you? How did you get here?" he muttered, half-expecting an answer from the elf boy, who was still fast asleep.
He tentatively reached out a hand to gently brush some hair out of the elf's face, and that's when it hit him – the realization that this tiny creature wasn't just any ordinary sleepover guest. He had pointy ears, for crying out loud! This kid was an elf!
Matsuda sprang into action mode, scrambling out of bed to grab a towel from the bathroom to cover up the...well, whatever this elf thing was. "Okay, okay, stay calm," he whispered to himself as he carefully tucked the towel around the elf's shoulders.
The noise from downstairs, however, did not share his sentiments. A grumpy old lady next door started yelling at someone about something (Matsuda had no idea what), and it sounded like she was getting louder by the second. Great timing – just what they needed to draw attention to themselves.
Matsuda quickly scanned the room for anything that might give away their little secret. The windows were open, and a breeze carried the scent of freshly brewed coffee from the nearby café into the apartment. He spotted his phone on the bedside table and snatched it up, dialing a quick text to an old friend who worked at the local anime shop.
"Hey, Hana! I need a favor – stat!" Matsuda typed out as quickly as possible, trying not to think about what he was really asking her to do. "One pointy-eared elf boy just showed up in my bed. Yeah, that's right...can you send someone over ASAP?"
The old lady next door continued to yell at the top of her lungs, getting louder and more agitated by the minute. Matsuda winced, trying not to think about what she might do if she found out there was an elf hiding in his apartment.
As he waited for Hana's response (which arrived almost immediately), the elf boy finally stirred, opening one eye lazily to gaze at Matsuda. "Good morning," he mumbled, his voice husky and sleepy-sounding.
Matsuda blinked, taken aback by the sheer...normalcy of this tiny creature's greeting. "Uh, good morning!" he replied, trying to play it cool while simultaneously freaking out on the inside.
The elf boy sat up in bed, yawned, and stretched his arms above his head, revealing a pair of impressively well-defined arm muscles for someone so small. Matsuda couldn't help but stare, and the elf boy caught him, grinning mischievously.
"Hey, you're staring at me again!" he said with a chuckle. "Don't worry, I won't bite...unless you try to take my lunch money."
Matsuda blinked, taken aback by this tiny creature's sassiness. "Uh, sorry...I guess I just didn't expect..."
The elf boy's grin faltered for a moment before he smiled again. "Yeah, yeah – I'm not exactly used to being around humans, either. My name is El'gorin, by the way."
As Matsuda tried to process this new information, Hana arrived at the door with two of her friends from the anime shop in tow. They looked just as bewildered as he was.
"What's going on here?" one of them asked, eyeing the elf boy suspiciously.
Hana held up a hand. "Don't worry about it – we'll take care of this. Just...uh...just try to stay calm and let us handle it."
Matsuda nodded gratefully as the three of them ushered El'gorin out of his apartment, down into the alleyway behind the building where they managed to stash him safely.
As he watched Hana's group lead El'gorin away from prying eyes, Matsuda couldn't help but wonder...what had just happened? And who was this tiny elf creature that seemed to have somehow magically appeared in his bed?
"Well, I guess it's time for some answers," he muttered to himself, shoving a hand through his hair as the full weight of this situation hit him like a ton of bricks.
This was definitely not what he had planned for his day off from work...
As he watched El'gorin disappear into the crowd with Hana and her friends, Matsuda couldn't help but feel a twinge of...something. It wasn't exactly curiosity – more like a creeping sense of responsibility that seemed to be spreading its roots deeper into his gut.
"Well, great," he muttered under his breath as he trudged back up to his apartment, "just what I needed – an elf problem."

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Fragment of a Story

Chapter One: The Summer of Shadows

The July sun hung low and heavy over the cracked asphalt of Vandeveer Street, a shimmering heat mirage turning the horizon into a liquid blur. It was 1983, and in Taylorville, Illinois, the air tasted of parched corn silk and unleaded gasoline.
Michael King, Nathan Brooks, his younger brother Andrew, and Fox Smith moved in a loose, sweat-drenched formation. The rhythmic scuff-slap of their high-top sneakers was the only soundtrack, occasionally punctuated by the distant, metallic drone of a John Deere tractor working a nearby field. To anyone else, Taylorville was a dot on a map—eleven thousand souls trapped between the soybean plains and the slow-turning hands of the clock on the Christian County Courthouse. But to them, it was a kingdom of gravel and secrets.
The town’s heartbeat was steady, measured by the Friday night lights of the high school football stadium or the new, fluorescent glow of the Wal-Mart on the edge of town. For the older kids, life was about "cruising the square." They’d pile into rusted-out Novas and polished Camaros, CB radios crackling with handles like Lone Wolf or Silver Bullet, their headlights slicing through the humid dark like ritual torches.
But these four didn't care about the square. They were explorers of the peripheral.
Nathan Brooks, fourteen, was the group’s self-appointed sovereign. Wiry and restless, he looked like he’d been pulled straight out of a G.I. Joe comic. He wore camouflage cargos and a sleeveless black shirt tucked under a faded army surplus jacket—a bold choice for a ninety-degree day, but Nathan valued "readiness" over comfort. His eyes scanned the treeline like radar, always looking for the next ghost hunt or cryptid sighting.
Andrew, his thirteen-year-old brother, was his physical antithesis. Built like a fire hydrant and twice as stubborn, Andrew lived to argue. When he wasn’t baiting Nathan into a fight, he was obsessed with the burgeoning fitness craze, constantly trying to "pump up" his friends with grueling sets of push-ups.
Michael King, also thirteen, provided the group’s soul. He was the dreamer, lanky and fair-haired, his blond bangs perpetually veiled over his eyes like a curtain. He spent his nights huddled in front of a wood-paneled television, mesmerized by the neon aesthetics of MTV. In his mind, he wasn't in a cornfield; he was on stage at Madison Square Garden, his fingers flying across the frets of a Gibson Les Paul.
Then there was Fox Smith. At fifteen, he was the eldest and the most enigmatic. A New York transplant from the shadows of the Catskills, his family had recently inherited the Durkham Estate—a sprawling, gothic relic that looked like it belonged in a Hitchcock film. Fox was the brains, a lanky kid in wire-rimmed glasses who wore a brown trench coat regardless of the season. To Fox, the coat wasn't just clothes; it was a laboratory, its deep pockets filled with Swiss Army knives, flashlights, and the occasional half-eaten Pack-O-Fun.
They had spent the morning in the dim, cool basement of the Durkham house, the electronic bloop-bleep of the Atari 2600 providing a sanctuary from the heat. They’d battled through Pitfall! and Combat until their thumbs were raw, but by two o’clock, the "Parental Curfew" loomed. The Brooks boys had a hard 4:30 PM deadline for dinner. In 1983, being late didn't get you a text; it got you grounded for a month.
Just as the gravel gave way to the overgrown outskirts, they reached it: a patch of land where the weeds grew waist-high and the air felt five degrees colder. Two crooked pine trees leaned over a sagging cinder block structure.
Chuck Livingston’s Shack.
The legends were the currency of Taylorville middle schools. They said Chuck had been found in '55 with his skull as empty as a carved pumpkin. They talked about a girl with alabaster skin and eyes like flickering candle flames who appeared in the windows. It was the kind of place you pedaled past a little faster on your bike.
“Hey, let’s check it out,” Andrew said, his voice a mix of bravado and boredom.
Michael adjusted the strap of his bag. “We’ve got time to kill. Besides, Chester Parkinson is probably circling the square looking for us. Better to be here than under his bumper.”
Fox pulled at his trench coat collar. “I don’t know. My grandfather’s journals mentioned this plot of land. He called it 'thin.'”
“Thin? Like a pancake?” Andrew teased. “Come on, Fox. Don't tell me the New York kid is scared of a little Illinois dust.”
“I’m not scared,” Fox snapped, his blue-green eyes narrowing. “I’m being logical. We have two hours. If we get caught trespassing, we're dead anyway.”
“By who?” Nathan challenged, already stepping into the tall grass. “The ghosts? Let’s go.”
They pushed through the thicket. The shack’s front door hung off one hinge, yawning like a rotted tooth. Inside, the smell hit them—a heavy cocktail of damp earth, rusted iron, and something sweet and cloying that made Michael gag.
“Spread out,” Nathan whispered, his voice taking on his 'Commander' tone. “Michael, Fox—keep an eye on the perimeter. Let’s see if Chuck left anything behind.”
The kitchen was a tomb of mid-century decay. A rusted Kelvinator fridge sat slumped in the corner, and the linoleum floor was peeling back like dead skin. Fox moved toward a window in the back garage area, climbing onto a sturdy wooden workbench to keep watch.
The silence of the house was thick, broken only by the occasional clink of Nathan and Andrew kicking through old cans.
“Holy crap!” Michael’s voice echoed from a pile of debris. He dragged out a heavy, rectangular piece of metal. It was a vintage Coca-Cola sign, the red paint faded to a dusty rose. “The guys at the clubhouse are gonna flip.”
“That’s a score,” Nathan said, his eyes gleaming. “We can nail that right over the entrance.”
Fox started to smile, the tension in his chest loosening—until he saw the dust cloud.
Down the long, weed-choked driveway, a battered blue Chevy truck was bouncing toward the shack. It wasn't the police, and it wasn't a local farmer.
“Uh… guys?” Fox’s voice went up an octave. “Truck. Blue. Closing fast.”
The boys scrambled. Nathan leaped onto the bench beside Fox, peering through the cracked glass. The truck screeched to a halt. Three men jumped out. They weren't wearing overalls; they were wearing dark jackets, and they were carrying heavy black duffel bags.
And they were armed.
“They’ve got guns,” Nathan hissed, dropping to the floor. “Real guns. Not BB, not 22s. Big ones.”
“Hide!” Michael whispered, his face turning the color of the pale girl in the legends. “Back of the garage, behind the tires!”
They scrambled into the shadows, tucking themselves behind a stack of rotting Goodyear tires. They held their breath as the front door of the shack groaned open.
The floorboards shrieked. Three sets of heavy boots marched into the kitchen.
“Place stinks worse than Winston’s laundry,” a gravelly voice growled.
The boys froze. They knew that voice. Five years ago, at the Spencer estate, they had helped foil a heist by a group called The Defiance Alliance. They had been kids then, barely more than toddlers playing hero, but the men who had escaped that night were burned into their memories.
Frank "Mad Dog" Madigan led the way. He was the muscle and the temper, a man who looked like he’d been carved out of granite. Behind him was Winston, a twitchy, lanky man who affected a ridiculous Australian accent despite being from Ohio, obsessed with his "bloke" persona and his collection of firearms. Bringing up the rear was Bob, the getaway driver, a short, loud-mouthed man with a mop of blond curls who seemed to exist solely to annoy Frank.
“Quiet down,” Frank ordered, dropping a heavy duffel onto the metal kitchen table with a bone-jarring thud. “We’re here because it’s the last place anyone looks. This is Chuck’s territory. Even the cops stay clear.”
“Right-o, boss,” Winston chirped. “Now, tell us about this bank. My 'Sheila'—the Remington—is getting itchy.”
“The Star of the Amazon,” Frank said, his voice dropping to a low, hungry purr. “The Spencer family moved it to the Taylorville vault after the last attempt. They think a small-town bank is safer than a city vault. Idiots.”
Behind the tires, Fox’s heart was drumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. They’re going for the diamond again. “I’m out,” Fox whispered, his voice barely a tremor. “I’m leaving.”
“Fox, stay down!” Nathan gripped his shoulder.
“No! They’re killers, Nathan! If they find us, we’re not getting grounded, we’re getting buried!”
Fox began to crawl toward the low garage window. He was blinded by panic, his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. He didn't see the rusted Folgers coffee can filled with nails.
CRUNCH-CLATTER-BANG.
The sound was like a gunshot in the silent house.
“What was that?” Frank’s voice snapped from the kitchen.
“Fox, you idiot!” Andrew hissed.
“Run!” Nathan yelled, abandoning stealth.
The boys bolted for the window. Michael and the Brooks brothers scrambled up the workbench and tumbled out into the dirt, but Fox, tangled in his own long trench coat, stumbled.
A massive hand reached through the garage door and snatched Fox by the back of his coat, yanking him backward with such force his feet left the ground.
“Well, well,” Bob sneered, spinning Fox around. “Look what we caught in our trap. A little spy.”
Winston stepped into the garage, leveling a pistol at Fox’s chest. “G’day, mate. You’ve got a real bad habit of eavesdropping.”
“Tie him up,” Frank ordered, his gray eyes cold as ash. “If there are others, they’re gone by now. But this one? He’s our insurance.”
They shoved Fox into a rickety wooden chair. Winston produced a coil of nylon rope, whistling a tuneless song as he bound Fox’s wrists and ankles.
“You look familiar, kid,” Frank said, tilting Fox’s chin up with the barrel of his gun. “You got that 'Spencer' look about you.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Fox lied, his voice shaking but his eyes defiant.
“Sure, kid. Whatever helps you sleep,” Frank said. He turned to his men. “Let’s get the equipment from the truck. We move at dusk.”
A hundred yards away, hidden in a dry drainage ditch choked with Queen Anne’s Lace, Nathan, Andrew, and Michael huddled in the dirt.
“They’ve got him,” Michael said, his chest heaving. “They’re gonna kill him, Nathan.”
Andrew looked back at the shack, his usual bravado gone. “We have to go to the police. We have to run back to town.”
“By the time we get back and explain this, they’ll be gone and Fox will be with them,” Nathan said, his jaw setting in that stubborn line. He looked at his Casio digital watch. The numbers flickered: 3:42 PM.
“We have to rescue him,” Nathan said firmly.
“Rescue him?” Andrew squeaked. “They have guns! Real ones! We have… what? A Coca-Cola sign?”
“We have the shadows,” Michael said, looking at the sun dipping lower over the cornfields. “And we know this town better than they do.”
Nathan nodded, looking at his friends. The 80s were supposed to be about movies, music, and summer breaks. But as the shadows of the pine trees stretched toward them like reaching fingers, they knew the games were over.
“Check your pockets,” Nathan commanded. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
The rescue of Fox Smith had begun.

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Fragment

Alleys had always been passages.
To most people, an alley was nothing more than a narrow strip of rock and grass between houses and buildings—a place to cut through, to avoid, to forget. But to the Unbound, alleys were something else entirely. They were seams in the world, places where distance bent and reality thinned. You didn’t just cross town in an alley. If you knew how to walk it, you could cross into another world.

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Fragment

The Vault of Quiet Choices

The year was 2027, but inside the Yellow Card Room, time felt like it had been held underwater. The building had once been the First National Bank of Taylorville back in the early 1900s. Its limestone walls were thick enough to muffle the screams of the world outside, and its brass-reinforced doors now guarded something far more valuable than gold. To the public, it was an ultra-exclusive jazz club. To Fox Smith, it was the front for a laboratory where he spent his days dissecting the impossible.
Fox pushed through the heavy oak doors, the scent of expensive bourbon and old parchment hitting him instantly. He was older now, the youthful curiosity in his eyes hardened into a sharp, weary intelligence. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than his father’s house, but he still walked with the light step of a boy who expected the ground to vanish beneath him.
"Fox," a deep voice rumbled.
Reggie, a bouncer built like a brick wall with a face like a pugilist, stepped out from the shadows of the foyer.
"Evening, Reggie," Fox said, not slowing down. "How’s the floor?"
"Quiet. But you’ve got a visitor," Reggie said, his tone unusually clipped.
Fox stopped, adjusting his cuffs. "A visitor? At this hour? Is it the board of directors again?"
"No," Reggie said. "Just... a visitor."
Fox smirked, leaning back against a marble pillar. "Well, don't leave me in suspense, Reg. Who is it? Is she hot?"
Reggie didn't smile. He looked toward the back of the room, his hand resting uncomfortably on his belt. "It’s a girl, Boss. A young girl."
Fox’s smirk faltered. The air in the room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. "Where?"
Reggie pointed to a deep velvet booth in the far corner, tucked into the shadows of the old bank vault. The occupant was facing away from them, hidden by the high leather back of the seat.
"Should I kick her out?" Reggie asked, stepping forward. "She didn't come through the front. She just... appeared."
"No," Fox said, his voice barely a whisper. "I’ll take care of it."
Fox walked toward the booth, his heart performing a rhythmic thud against his ribs that he hadn't felt in a decade. Reggie followed a few paces behind, confused by the sudden tension in his boss’s shoulders.
As they rounded the edge of the table, Fox saw her.
She looked exactly the same. Eight years old. Yellow lace dress. Hair like spun canary-silk that seemed to emit its own faint, radioactive glow. Her yellow eyes were fixed on a glass of water on the table, watching the bubbles rise as if they were stars being born.
"Time is a funny thing, Fox," she said, not looking up. Her voice hadn't aged a second; it still sounded like wind chimes in a graveyard. "You’ve spent so much effort trying to measure it in that basement of yours. But time isn't a ruler. It’s a choice that hasn't happened yet."
Fox felt the old frequency humming in his bones. He crossed his arms over his chest, a mocking, defensive tilt to his head. "You’re not supposed to be here," he said, his voice echoing her own famous greeting from years ago.
The Yellow Queen finally looked up. Her amber eyes swirled with golden dust. "Are you trying to be funny, Fox Smith?"
"No," Fox replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I was trying to be you."
Reggie stepped up beside the table, looking from the small child to the grown man. "Boss? You know this kid? You want me to get rid of her?"
Fox didn't take his eyes off the Queen. "No, Reggie. Don't do that."
"Then who is she?"
Fox slid into the booth across from the girl, his expensive suit crinkling against the leather. He looked at Reggie and deadpanned, "She’s my wife."
Reggie blinked, his mouth dropping open. "Your... what?"
"You heard me," Fox said, waving a dismissive hand. "Now, go to the kitchen. Bring us two sodas. Something cold. I need to have a little chat with the wifey."
Reggie hesitated, looked at the glowing girl, then at Fox’s dead-serious expression, and decided he wasn't paid enough to understand the private lives of geniuses. He turned and lumbered toward the kitchen.
Fox leaned across the table. The jazz music playing over the speakers seemed to warp, the saxophone notes stretching into long, mournful drones.
"Ten years," Fox said. "You’ve been watching. Why show up now?"
The Yellow Queen picked up a sugar packet and began to tear it open, letting the white grains fall into a perfect circle on the dark wood. "Because you're about to make a decision, Fox. A big one. The kind that changes the color of the sky."
"That’s why I built this place," Fox said, gesturing to the hidden laboratory beneath their feet. "To understand the In-Between. To stop people from being 'Maybes.'"
"You’re trying to build a cage for Chaos," she giggled, the sound making the ice in the nearby glasses crack. "But you’re still just a boy in Taylorville, Fox. You think that because I like you, the rules don't apply."
"I know the rules," Fox said. "I just decided to rewrite them."
The Queen leaned forward, her yellow eyes inches from his. "Then tell me, husband... when the vault opens tonight, which door are you going to choose?"
Fox looked toward the back of the club, where the old bank vault stood—the entrance to his research facility. Behind that door was a machine that shouldn't exist.
"I’m not choosing a door," Fox said. "I’m choosing the girl."
The Yellow Queen smiled, and for the first time, Fox saw a flash of the darkness of the In-Between behind her teeth. "How romantic. I hope you like the taste of static."

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"True expression requires not just the freedom to see, read, or hear ideas but the ability to create and express them freely within the privacy of one’s home. Without the right to generate thought, possession alone is meaningless." — Todd Daugherty, 2025

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Fragments

The sun did not rise over the city; the sky simply transitioned from a bruised purple to the color of a wet sidewalk.
Arthur stood before the Main Gate of the Department of Veracity. He had been summoned to verify his existence. It was a routine matter, according to the letter, though the letter had been delivered via a carrier pigeon that died immediately upon landing on his balcony.
At the entrance, a guard in a uniform three sizes too small held out a hand.
"Identification," the guard barked.
Arthur handed over his passport. The guard looked at the photo, then at Arthur, then at a mirror he held up to Arthur’s face.
"This won't do," the guard said, tossing the passport into a nearby shredder. "The photo shows a man who is breathing. You are currently holding your breath."
"I was just nervous," Arthur gasped, exhaling.
"Now you’re hyperventilating. Discrepancy noted. Proceed to the Scale."
In the center of the lobby sat a massive golden scale. On one side lay a single, dried leaf.
"Step on," a voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
Arthur stepped onto the empty plate. The scale didn't budge. The leaf remained heavier than him.
"Subject 702 weighs less than a memory," the voice announced. "This suggests a lack of substance. Are you sure you were born, Arthur? Or did you simply accumulate over time like dust in a corner?"
"I have a mother!" Arthur shouted to the ceiling. "I have a birth certificate!"
"Certificates are merely opinions printed on dead trees," the voice replied. "We require a physical anchor. Go to the Basement of Echoes and retrieve your first word. If you can bring it back in a jar, we will consider you officially 'Extant.'"
The basement was a labyrinth of filing cabinets made of glass. Inside them, sounds moved like trapped smoke.
Arthur wandered the aisles. He saw jars labeled “Laughter (Strained)” and “The sound of a door closing on an argument.” Finally, he found a small, dusty vial labeled ARTHUR: WORD ONE.
He opened it. He expected to hear "Mama" or "Dada." Instead, the vial emitted the sound of a heavy stapler clicking shut.
"That can't be right," Arthur whispered.
"Why not?"
A clerk was sitting on top of a filing cabinet, filing his fingernails with a piece of sandpaper. "Most children start with nouns. You started with an administrative sound. It was very precocious of you. It’s why you were flagged for the Department so early."
Arthur grabbed the jar and ran back to the Scale. He placed the sound of the stapler on the plate. The scale tipped violently, slamming Arthur’s side into the floor.
"Success!" the loudspeaker crackled. "You are now verified as a 'Semi-Permanent Perturbation of Space.' You may leave."
Arthur rushed to the exit. But the door he had entered through was gone. In its place was a brick wall with a small mail slot.
He looked through the slot and saw his own apartment. He saw himself—or someone who looked exactly like him—sitting on his balcony, watching a carrier pigeon spiral down from the sky.
"Wait!" Arthur hammered on the wall. "I'm out here! I’ve been verified!"
A small slip of paper slid through the slot from the other side. It was in his own handwriting:
OCCUPANCY FULL.
Please wait in the hallway until a vacancy opens up. Bring your own light source. The dark here is communal.
Arthur looked down at his hands. They were starting to look like the sky—the color of a wet sidewalk, fading into the gray of the walls.

[admin]

Fragment


On the east side of the square in Taylorville, on the corner of Main and East Market Street, there was a narrow brick building people learned not to look at for too long.
It didn’t announce itself. No sign, no window displays, no laughter spilling onto the sidewalk. Just an unmarked black door set back slightly from the street, its brass handle worn smooth by hands that knew exactly why they were there.
The place was called The Yellow Card Club, though no one remembered who named it that, or when. If you asked around, you’d get shrugs, half-smiles, or advice to mind your own business. Taylorville was good at that—knowing things without saying them.
Fox Smith first noticed the club the night his father didn’t come home.
It was late autumn, the kind of night where the air smelled like wet leaves and cold iron. Fox had been sent out for bread just before the store closed, walking the square with his collar turned up and his thoughts circling places he didn’t want them to go. His father’s shift at the plant had ended hours earlier. No call. No explanation. Just absence.
That was when Fox saw the door open.
A man stepped out alone, pausing beneath the streetlamp. He was dressed too well for Taylorville—dark coat, polished shoes, hat pulled low. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing, as if he’d forgotten how. Then he looked down at something in his hand.
A card.
Even from across the street, Fox could see the color. Not bright, not cheerful—more like old paper, nicotine-stained and tired. Yellow.
The man closed his fingers around it like it might burn him, then walked away without looking back.
The door shut softly behind him.
Fox stood frozen, bread forgotten, a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He didn’t know why the moment mattered. He just knew it did.
Later—much later—he would realize that was the first time he’d seen someone leave the Yellow Card Club alone.
When his father finally came home, it was nearly dawn.
He smelled like smoke and rain and something Fox couldn’t place. His hands shook when he set his keys on the counter. He didn’t meet Fox’s eyes, didn’t ask where he’d been, didn’t say why he was late.
They ate breakfast in silence.
That morning, Fox walked past the club again on his way to school. The door was closed. The building looked empty. Ordinary.
But in the gutter near the curb, pressed flat by a passing tire, lay a torn piece of yellow cardstock.
Fox picked it up before he could stop himself.
It was blank.
Still warm.
And somewhere deep inside him, something that had been waiting a very long time finally noticed him back.
Yeah. It was a private club.
And it wasn’t run by anyone you could vote out, arrest, or shut down with a padlock and a notice from City Hall.
The Yellow Card Club was run by the Unbound.
Nobody knew where the Unbound came from. Not really. There were theories—old ones, whispered ones. That they were what happened to people who slipped sideways instead of forward. That they were survivors of things that never made the paper. That they were what remained when a life broke but didn’t quite end.
They didn’t live outside the rules.
They lived after them.
Fox learned the word by accident, the way most dangerous truths arrive—not announced, but overheard.
He was thirteen the first time he heard it spoken aloud.
It was winter, and the square was buried under gray snow pushed into dirty piles by plows that had stopped caring. Fox had ducked into Miller’s Hardware to warm up, pretending to browse nails while two men talked near the counter in voices they thought were low enough.
“You hear about Donnelly?” one asked.
The other nodded. “Yellow Card.”
A pause.
“…Unbound?”
“Unbound.”
The word didn’t sound dramatic. That was the worst part. It sounded tired. Finished.
Fox stood very still, heart ticking too loud in his ears.
“What happens in there?” the first man asked.
The second man exhaled through his nose. “Depends what you’re bound to.”
They noticed Fox then. Conversation ended. Change clinked. Doors opened. Snow rushed in.
Fox walked home with his hands numb and his mind screaming questions he didn’t yet have language for.
That night, he dreamed of his father standing in the Yellow Card Club, holding a card that had his own name on it.
He woke up crying and didn’t know why.
Years passed.
The club never changed.
Same door. Same quiet. Same people entering and not being seen again—not really. Oh, they came back. Most of them. But something about them was… lighter. Or heavier. Like a knot had been cut, or tightened beyond recognition.
Some marriages ended after a visit.
Some addictions vanished overnight.
Some people laughed again for the first time in years—and some never did.
And every once in a while, someone simply disappeared.
Taylorville learned not to count those too carefully.
Fox grew older. He filled notebooks. He learned to listen. He learned that monsters didn’t always wear masks or fur suits or glowing eyes. Some of them wore patience. Some of them wore mercy.
The Unbound didn’t force anyone inside.
That was their rule.
They only opened the door.
Fox first crossed the threshold on the night Michael’s mother died.
The hospital had gone quiet in that awful way that meant it was already over, even before the doctor said the words. Michael stood in the hallway, staring at a vending machine that had eaten his dollar, his hands shaking like they belonged to someone else.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. Not to Fox. To the floor.
Fox didn’t answer.
He just looked out the window toward the square.
Toward the corner of Main and East Market.
They walked there without discussing it.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the Yellow Card Club was nothing like Fox expected.
No bar. No stage. No smoke.
Just a long room, warmly lit, with a few tables, a piano in the corner, and shelves lined with objects that felt important without explaining why—watches stopped at different times, notebooks half-filled, photographs of people who looked like they’d been caught between breaths.
A man stood near the back. Tall. Thin. His face was kind in the way exhaustion sometimes becomes kind.
“You’re early,” he said gently.
Michael shook his head. “I didn’t mean to—”
The man raised a hand. “No explanations needed.”
He handed Michael a card.
Yellow.
Fox watched his friend’s fingers close around it, watched the exact moment hope and terror shook hands inside him.
“What happens if he takes it?” Fox asked.
The man finally looked at him.
“Then he won’t be bound the same way afterward,” he said.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he keeps carrying it.”
Michael didn’t ask what it was.
He just whispered, “I want it to stop hurting.”
The Unbound man nodded once and opened a door Fox hadn’t noticed before.
Michael went through alone.
Fox waited.
Time stretched. The piano played itself softly, a melody Fox would later realize was almost familiar.
When Michael came back, his eyes were red—but dry.
“She still matters,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t feel like I’m drowning anymore.”
Fox hugged him and cried for both of them.
Years later—much later—Fox would stand across the street from the Yellow Card Club again, older now, carrying more ghosts than he wanted to name.
The door would open.
And this time, the Unbound would be waiting for him.

[admin]

The building on the east side of the square, at the corner of Main and East Market, had always been a place where people gave something up.
In 1893, it was a bank.
Back then, men in stiff collars walked through its doors carrying ledgers and desperation. Money changed hands. Farms were saved or lost across the counter. Signatures ended futures. The vault beneath the floor held more than gold — it held promises, and the quiet understanding that not everyone would leave whole.
When the bank closed, the vault stayed.
No one ever found a good reason to fill it in.
After the bank, it became a restaurant and wine garden. Tables where contracts had once been signed were covered in linen and laughter. Couples toasted beginnings. Men drank to forget endings. Music spilled out onto the square on summer nights, and the building learned the sound of joy — not as innocence, but as defiance.
Some people met the love of their lives there.
Some people drank themselves into silence.
Some never went home the same way they arrived.
And then, without ceremony, without a grand opening or a closing notice in the paper, the sign changed.
No neon. No advertisement.
Just a small plaque beside the door:
The Yellow Card Club
Most people assumed it was a private drinking club. Or a fraternal lodge. Or something old men belonged to and never explained.
They were wrong.
The Yellow Card Club didn’t serve alcohol.
It served release.
The Unbound chose the place carefully. Buildings, like people, accumulate pressure. The walls had heard fear, celebration, regret. The floorboards remembered the weight of decisions. The vault — still sealed, still humming faintly if you stood over it long enough — was never meant for money.
It was meant for what people couldn’t carry anymore.
That’s why the door never locked.
That’s why no one was forced inside.
And that’s why, when someone crossed the threshold, they were already halfway there.
Fox Smith learned all of this slowly, the way you learn the shape of a scar by touching it again and again. He learned that the Yellow Card wasn’t an invitation.
It was a recognition.
You were already bound.
The Club just asked whether you wanted to stay that way.

[admin]

Fragment

Chapter 1: The Leap

Fox had always considered his life to be a predictable shuffle—a comfortable monotony he dared not disrupt. But tonight, under the heavy gloom of the Taylorville skyline, the stars seemed brighter, almost sentient, as if plotting some cosmic conspiracy. The moon, swollen and orange like a harvest gourd, hung low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow over his one-bedroom apartment.
His mundane routine was disrupted when a small package, wrapped in black paper and tied with crimson thread, materialized on his doorstep. Fox hadn't ordered anything, and there was no return address—just a card inside that read, *“Do you dare to leap?”*
He should have tossed it out, let the strangeness stop at his front door. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the package was meant for him. The card pulsed faintly in his hand, almost like it had a heartbeat. Against his better judgment, Fox whispered, “Why not?”
The card erupted into blinding light, and the world around him tilted violently. His furniture, his apartment walls, the very air itself unraveled like fabric caught in a storm. He fell through a cascade of color and sound—a symphony of stars and thunder—until his body slammed into something cold and damp.
When Fox opened his eyes, he was sprawled in a field of blue grass that shimmered like an ocean under the sun. Twin suns, actually—one golden, one silver, both hanging impossibly in a violet sky. The wind carried strange, melodic whispers, and the trees swayed as though they were alive, their branches mimicking hands reaching out to greet him.
Fox’s head swam, not just from the fall but from the realization that something deep inside him had shifted. His body felt lighter, stronger, and when he sat up, he noticed a glowing mark etched onto the back of his hand—a spiral symbol that pulsed with the same light as the card.
“This…isn’t Taylorville,” he muttered, his voice trembling. As if to confirm his suspicions, a shadow loomed over him—a hulking creature, all scales and claws, growling low in its throat.
In that moment, Fox felt an unfamiliar instinct surge through him. His hand burned with energy as the spiral symbol ignited in blinding gold. He clenched his fist, and before he could think, a sword of pure light materialized in his grip.
The creature lunged, and Fox did the only thing he could—he swung.
Fox’s breathing was ragged as he stood over the twitching corpse of the creature. The sword of light in his hand flickered once, then disappeared like a blown-out candle. His heart raced, but not solely from fear—it was exhilaration, as though something inside him had long craved this moment.
He stumbled backward, catching himself on a tree with bark as smooth as glass. "Okay, okay," he muttered to the air, his voice shaky. "Not a dream. Definitely not a dream."
The glowing mark on his hand pulsed faintly, as if answering him. Before he could ponder its significance, a rustling in the grass made him whirl around. His instincts, sharper than ever, made him grab a rock—a mundane weapon compared to the ethereal sword, but better than nothing.
“Whoa there!” a voice called out.
A figure emerged from the underbrush. It was a young woman, dressed in strange, patchwork armor that seemed to be cobbled together from animal hides and metal scraps. Her hair was an iridescent blue, and her eyes shimmered like the twin suns above. She raised her hands, showing she meant no harm.
“You’ve got the Mark of Lumina,” she said, her voice carrying an accent Fox couldn’t place. “That explains the flashy entrance.”
“Mark of what?” Fox asked, lowering the rock but keeping his guard up. “And who are you?”
“I’m Kaelith,” she said, slinging a peculiar, rune-covered bow across her back. “And you’re in Sylpharion, the Realm of Echoes. Judging by the way you just dropped in, I’d say you’re new here. An Outsider, right?”
“Sylpharion? Outsider?” Fox’s head throbbed. “Look, I don’t know how I got here. One minute I was in Taylorville, and then—”
“Taylorville?” Kaelith interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, never heard of it. But I do know this: that mark on your hand isn’t ordinary. It means you’re connected to Lumina, the ancient energy that binds this world together.”
Fox glanced at the glowing spiral. “So… what? I’m special or something?”
Kaelith smirked. “Special? Maybe. Cursed? Likely. That mark makes you a target. Creatures like the one you just killed? They’re drawn to it.”
“Great,” Fox said, his sarcasm a weak attempt to mask his panic.
Kaelith’s expression softened. “Listen, I don’t know why Lumina chose you, but if you want to survive, you’ll need to learn fast. There’s a village nearby—Meyra. You’ll be safe there… for now.”
Fox hesitated. Trusting a stranger in a world he didn’t understand seemed reckless. But his choices were limited. “Fine,” he said. “Lead the way.”
As they walked, Kaelith explained the basics: Sylpharion was a fractured realm, its balance thrown into chaos centuries ago when Lumina’s power was split among its chosen guardians. Some wielded the power for good; others used it for destruction. The mark on Fox’s hand meant he was tied to Lumina in ways even Kaelith didn’t fully understand.
By the time they reached the edge of Meyra, Fox’s mind was spinning with questions. The village was small but bustling with life—creatures and beings that seemed ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel. But even among the vibrant chaos, Fox couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
“Welcome to your new life, Outsider,” Kaelith said, gesturing to the village. “Better get used to it.”
Fox looked at the mark on his hand and the world around him. He didn’t know what Lumina wanted from him, but one thing was clear: there was no turning back now.
The village of Meyra was a whirlwind of sights and sounds that Fox couldn't quite process. Creatures resembling a cross between deer and dragons pulled carts loaded with glowing crystals. Merchants hawked strange wares—everything from shimmering fabrics that moved like water to jars of what looked like living fireflies. Children with fox-like tails darted through the streets, laughing and shouting in a language Fox couldn’t understand.
Kaelith led him to an open-air tavern near the center of the village. Its roof was a canopy of giant leaves, and the tables were carved from tree stumps. A peculiar warmth enveloped Fox as he stepped inside, and the hum of conversation quieted as patrons turned to stare at him.
“Don’t mind them,” Kaelith said casually. “Outsiders are rare, and, well, you’re a bit of an oddity.”
“Yeah, thanks for that,” Fox muttered, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on him.
Kaelith motioned for him to sit at a table, then disappeared into the crowd. Fox fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, glancing around nervously. He couldn’t shake the sensation that someone—or something—was watching him. The mark on his hand tingled faintly, as if reacting to the atmosphere around him.
Moments later, Kaelith returned with two mugs of a steaming, golden liquid. She slid one across the table to Fox. “Drink up. It’s fyrlan nectar. Helps with the shock of… well, everything.”
Fox took a cautious sip, and a surprising warmth spread through his chest. It tasted like honey and citrus, with a faint hint of something floral. For a brief moment, the tension in his shoulders eased.
“So,” Kaelith began, leaning forward, “what’s your plan?”
“My plan?” Fox repeated, setting the mug down. “I didn’t exactly have time to make one when I got yanked out of my world.”
Kaelith sighed, rubbing her temples. “Look, I get it. This is overwhelming. But that mark on your hand isn’t just a pretty light show. It’s a beacon, and not just for the creatures that want to tear you apart. There are… others who might be looking for you. People who’d see your power and want it for themselves.”
“That’s… comforting,” Fox said dryly. “Any chance you’ve got a manual for this whole ‘Outsider’ thing?”
Kaelith smirked. “No manual, but I do know someone who can help. Her name’s Elyndra. She’s an Aetherian—one of the oldest beings in Sylpharion. If anyone can explain why Lumina chose you, it’s her.”
Before Fox could respond, the room plunged into sudden darkness. The warm glow of the tavern’s lanterns was snuffed out, replaced by an oppressive chill that made Fox’s breath fog. A murmur of fear rippled through the patrons.
“Stay close,” Kaelith whispered, her hand already on the hilt of her dagger.
A low, guttural growl echoed through the room, and Fox’s mark flared with golden light, illuminating the space around him. Shadows writhed along the walls like living creatures, their forms twisting and stretching unnaturally.
From the darkness, a pair of crimson eyes glowed, and a voice, deep and resonant, filled the air. “The Outsider has arrived,” it said, each word dripping with menace. “And the balance shifts once more.”
Fox felt a surge of energy radiate from his hand, the mark responding instinctively to the threat. A faint outline of the light sword flickered into existence, and Fox gripped it tightly, his pulse pounding in his ears.
The shadows coalesced into a towering figure, its form obscured by swirling darkness. It extended a clawed hand toward Fox, and the air seemed to vibrate with raw power.
“Come with me, Outsider,” the figure said. “Your destiny lies with us.”
Kaelith stepped in front of Fox, her dagger gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Over my dead body,” she snarled.
Fox’s grip on the sword tightened. He didn’t know who this shadowy figure was or what it wanted, but one thing was clear: his quiet life in Taylorville was a distant memory, and the stakes were higher than he’d ever imagined.
The shadowed figure took a step forward, its form warping the air like heat waves on pavement. Fox’s light sword flared brighter in response, as if urging him to strike, but his feet were rooted to the ground. Fear tangled with a strange sense of familiarity—as though this wasn’t the first time, he’d faced something like this.
“You feel it, don’t you?” the creature said, its voice a deep, resonant growl. “The pull of the Lumina. It binds us all… even you.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Fox shouted back, his voice echoing in the tense stillness.
Kaelith didn’t wait for answers. She lunged with her dagger, her movements fluid and precise, aiming for the creature’s center. But her blade passed through it as though she were striking smoke. The figure laughed—a bone-chilling sound that seemed to fill the entire room.
“Brave, but futile,” it said, swiping an ethereal claw through the air. Kaelith was thrown back, crashing into a table. She groaned but quickly scrambled to her feet, glaring at the shadow with defiance.
“Fox,” she hissed, “don’t just stand there. Fight!”
The mark on Fox’s hand burned fiercely now, and he could feel the sword’s power coursing through him. He raised it, the blade illuminating the tavern like a beacon in the dark. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected, “but if you think I’m going to just roll over, you’re wrong.”
The shadow paused, its crimson eyes narrowing. “Interesting,” it said. “Perhaps the Lumina has chosen wisely after all. But this is not the time for your awakening.” It raised a clawed hand, and the darkness around it began to writhe and shift.
Before Fox could react, the shadow collapsed into itself, vanishing in an instant. The oppressive chill lifted, and the light in the tavern slowly returned. Fox lowered his sword, the blade dissolving into golden sparks. His heart pounded in the sudden silence.
“What… what just happened?” he asked, turning to Kaelith.
She dusted herself off, wincing slightly. “That was a Shadow Warden,” she said grimly. “They’re agents of the Void—the force that opposes Lumina. If one of them is after you, we’re in way over our heads.”
Fox sank into a nearby chair, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
Kaelith sat across from him, her expression serious. “We need to find Elyndra—now. If the Void is already moving against you, we’re out of time.”
Fox nodded, though his mind was racing with questions. Why had the Lumina chosen him? What was the Void, and why did it see him as a threat? And why did he feel a strange sense of purpose growing within him, even as his old life faded further into the background?
As they left the tavern, Fox couldn’t shake the feeling that his choices—every step, every word—were steering him toward something inevitable. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: he couldn’t turn back.