Tag Archives: short fiction

Faith’s Friday Fiction | Empowered

Happy Friday everyone,

There hasn’t been a lot of progress on the fiddling side of life, so I thought I’d post a short story instead. I can’t remember the last time that I posted one. If things continue this way, I’ll be alternating between fiction posts and fiddling updates for the next few weeks.

Also, sorry for the earlier mistaken post. I’d been preparing to share something and accidentally had it marked as scheduled and not draft. Oh well ;P




There is a moment when I know that the next action I take will decide the rest of my life. It scares me for a second. Every step up to now has been leading to this decision. All the past mistakes, all my mother’s whispered promises of a better future, of promises of deserved happiness, all my father’s bruises upon my arm. This is the moment when I can choose who I will be. What my future will be.

I have known abuse, but I have also known love. I know which I prefer. I know which I want to embrace. I know what I want for the child stirring in my womb.

The man who put the life there has also put scars that will never heal into the skin of my back. His fingers have dug dark marks into the flesh of my neck. His fist has broken the bones in my fingers. The bones in my nose. I chose him like my mother chose my father. But I will not choose to die by the hands of my lover as she did.

This is the moment when I can choose to stay subservient or become empowered.

So I raise the gun and fire one shot into the head of the man who never loved me as I deserved.

And I am free.

May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith quill-ink


Sins of the Mother | Sunday Short

Happy Sunday

I haven’t posted a short in a while, so I decided to sit down and just write and see what happened. The following is basically the outcome.

Hope you enjoy it 🙂

Also, keep your eyes on this blog. Some big news is coming this week…

The waters below beckon but I resist the call to let go. Death is too easy. I deserve to suffer for my sins.

I stride away from the cliff, towards the town that was my birthplace, that has forbidden me to ever return on pain of death. How can I refuse such an offer?

My brothers are the first to see me and they curse my foolishness. They hate me for what I did but they love me too. They don’t want me to die. They convinced the Council to exile me, saved me from execution the first time. I feel a moment’s remorse, but it is not enough to halt my march.

Arman sees me next and his eyes express amazement then glee. He makes for me but my brothers block his way.

“She has returned. Now she must die.”

“She hasn’t crossed the boundary yet,” Jacob, my elder brother, declares.

“Turn back, Rebecca,” my younger brother, Esau, warns me.

I step over the town line, defiant. Arman cheers and calls out: “The Murderess has returned. To death! To death!”

The villagers come. Once friends, once neighbours, they thirst for my blood. I cannot blame them. Two corpses rot beneath the earth because of me. And by no accidental happening. I would be clamouring for blood too.

My brother cannot stop them all and, at last, Arman breaks through. He seizes my wrist and yanks me towards him. “My brother will now be avenged. And my nephew. Bitch.”

I hold my tongue. They will be avenged and my life will end. It will be painful, but then it will be done. And perhaps I will be able to see my husband and son again and beg for their forgiveness. If I had not killed him, the Onslars would have. At least they died quickly. Mine will be a slow death, a necessary punishment.

The first stone hits my head and blood drips from my brow. It will not be the last cast. And they will throw more than stones.

I am dragged to the center of town. Blood oozes from my bands and feet. Somewhere along the way, I lose my robe. Bared naked, my body bears the marks of their hatred.

It takes near four hours. But then it is done.

When I awake next, I am lying in a bed with my husband. He looks to me and smiles.

“Good morning. Good dreams?”

“I can’t remember,” I lie and rise up. Six times, this dream has burdened my mind.

I rush from our room to the nursery. The sight of my sleeping son calms my racing heart. He is less than a year old, but I love him with an infinite depth that cannot be measured in years.

I watch him for a long time to reassure myself that he is not dead, that he is unharmed. I don’t know why I dream as I do, but I know with the greatest dread that something bad is coming.

And I have to stop it.


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith quill-ink

©Faith Rivens. 2016.


Galadryn | A Short Fiction

Hi everyone,

I really can’t remember the last time I posted a short story here, which is terrible. So here’s something I threw together just now. I used the Ides of March too inspire a starting point and then let inspiration carry me.

This is the result.

Hope you enjoy it 🙂

Galadryn fingered the dagger hidden beneath her billowing robes and felt another tremor of nerves rush through her body.

It was a warm day, hotter than the norm for this time of year. Chills rippled through her, nonetheless, her body drenched in sweat for a reason other than the weather.

The marketplace was marked by a lull, most vendors sitting at their stalls, a bored look in their eyes. Customers had dried up like the lake outside the town. The drought had chased away the normal visitors that would fill this space with a buzzing excitement. Now, the only sound of buzzing came from a surplus of flies bombarding the arid land.

Voices called out for her to stop and take a moment to appreciate the wares being sold. She kept her gaze down, refusing to connect with any of them, ignoring their pleas, lest they recognize her.

Galadryn passed without further hindrance down a deserted alley. After a few steps, she paused before a nondescript door. Throwing a furtive glance to her left and right, she assured herself that no one was watching and pressed a hand to the door.

Gold threads escaped from her fingterips and the door swung open at her command.

She scurried inside and was greeted by a dark chamber lit only by a single light.

A Shadow waited for her there. It raised its head as she entered, its face no more distinguishable than the obscure recesses of the room. It was better that way. She did not want to see. If there had been any other option, she would not have summoned it to help. But Death alone could end death.

A single table stood between her and the Shadow. It gestured at it and she approached, drawing the blade then from the folds of her robe.

The Shadow waved its hand again and a human child, a young girl still in her first decade of life, with curly golden locks, appeared upon the table. Her emerald eyes glimmeredwith fear.

“Do not be afraid,” Galadryn whispered in comfort.

The child eyed the dagger in her hand. “Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

Galadryn shook her head. “No.” The rush of nerves was almost too much to bear, but it was too late to retract her promise. She had sworn to protect her homeland from any danger to whatever end. She had to honour that vow.

The door opened then to reveal another woman dressed in sweeping violet robes. Her grey eyes shone with anxiety.

“You cannot do this.”

“You cannot stop me,” Galadryn commanded her, frustrated by this interruption. She had been careful to leave unnoticed. She should have known that Ollyra would have been a step ahead. “I have made my choice. The land is dying. Soon our people will too.”

“Princess — “

“No more, Ollyra. This is my choice. This is the child we hoped for. She can bring life again. But first, there must be death.”

She raised the dagger and said a final prayer to the gods for this sacrifice to end the suffering of her people.

The blade descended.

Silver tendrils ensnared her wrist, halting her action before the blade could pierce her skin.

“You will steal my conviction,” Galadryn accused her.

“Then it will be well,” Ollyra protested. “I cannot let you die. I did not train you for this.”

“You trained me to protect my people. Why must you stop me?”

“You know why.”

The little girl had been silent until this moment. She spoke up then, her voice a hush. “You wish to end the drought.”

Ollyra and Galadryn turned to her. The Shadow lingered behind, an unmoved observer.

“I had a dream of this land,” the girl continued. “That the waters would flow red first. Because I bid them to.”

Galadryn felt a ripple along her spine. “You will make them run.” She looked back to Ollyra. “But first, blood must spill.” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “This girl must be guarded and trained. Will you do it for me?”

Ollyra, defeated, gave a nod. “I did not mean to train you so well.”

“I am glad that you did. And I am glad that you are here. At my ending.”

The silver tendrils released her then. She feared death no more. This was the right decision. The girl would bring the land back to life. And Ollyra would train her.

“I will tell them of your sacrifice. And I will never forget.”

“Nor shall I.” She drew to mind the memory of their love and then raised the dagger once more.

It fell without obstruction this time.

The magic leapt from her as it pierced her heart, her life passing into the little girl. She became one with her then: Ananephy.

She knew then that the girl had come from a different land, from a different time, so far away, so far  ahead. The Shadow had drawn her here. It was good that Ollyra would take care of her, protect her.

As their essences mingled through the Shadow’s efforts, Galadryn lost all sense of who she had been. Now she knew only that she was Ananephy.

She was afraid to have been taken from her home, to have been brought to this strange place. But she would be brave. For weeks she had had the same dream about a desert land in need of water. This was to be her purpose. She would accept it.

The Shadow behind her vanished, its work done. She knew it was not the last she would see of it.

The woman with grey eyes offered her hand and helped her to descend.

“What is your name, young one?”

“Ananephy,” the girl replied. “But everyone calls me Nephy.”

“I am Ollyra.” The woman did not release her hand. “Come. It is time that the waters flow.”

“She is still here,” Nephy whispered before following her out the door. “I feel her love for you.”

A single tear dripped from her eye, but Ollyra spoke not a word.

Nephy would remember it as the first drop of water to fall on the day she restored the water, on the day death made way for new life.


Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.



Wordly Wise Wednesday | Zwieback

Hi everyone,

It’s evening here! I didn’t mean to be late but it’s been one of those weeks. Long hours at the office means little time for anything but reading and vegging when I get home. I’m hoping to do some writing before I head to bed tonight, but we’ll see how that pans out.

In the meantime, here’s a small WWW. I didn’t want another week to go by without doing a proper one.


n. (SWEE – back)

  1. a usually sweetened bread enriched with eggs that is baked and then sliced and toasted until dry and crisp


In ages past, keeping food fresh for any length of time required a lot of ingenuity, especially when one needed to carry comestibles on a long journey. One of the solutions people came up with for keeping bread edible for traveling was to bake it twice, thereby drying it and slowing the spoiling process. The etymology of zwieback reflects this baker’s trick; it was borrowed from a German word that literally means “twice baked.” Nowadays, zwieback is not just used as a foodstuff—the texture of the dried bread makes zwieback a suitable teething device for infants. Incidentally, other twice-baked goods whose origins reflect that fact include biscuit and biscotti, both of which come from phrases meaning “twice-cooked bread.”

The first day without Greta was the hardest.

She had always known what I needed before I even realized that I needed anything at all. Whether it was packing an extra pair of boots the morning after the Rains, knowing that mine would be worn out before the day’s end or preparing an extra batch of zwieback to last me on a week-long journey to the next county’s market. 

I had never fully appreciated how dependent I was on her love and care until the morning I woke up and realized that I would need to care for myself.

And so I went through the day, without my sister, without my twin, and understood for the first time, what it was to feel empty inside.

The first night was harder still. There was no voice to lull me to sleep, no one to soothe me when the nightmare of our parents’ death crept through my sleeping mind. 

I daren’t close my eyes and face the darkness alone and so I paced through the house. I searched through every nook that I could uncover for no better reason than to distract my distraught mind.

In a cabinet in the kitchen, I found pack of zwieback, enough to last me fourteen days. 

Greta had always known what I would need without me ever needing to ask. But somehow, she had not realized that the thing I needed most was her.


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.


Faith’s Fiction | Snippets of Existence

Hi everyone,

This is just a little experiment. I’m not sure what inspired it. It just came to me and I let it flow.

I hope you enjoy it 🙂

I stand before the shattered pieces of my existence, the scattered remains of who I was before I became what I am now. And I am more frightened than I have ever been before.

I kneel on the ground and pick them up, one by one. And pause to peer into the past, to remember before I forget forever.


I am four. I am young. I am naïve. I am the happiest I will ever be.

I am swinging, grubby fingers clinging to cold iron handles. I am reaching for the sky and when I am high enough, I let go.

I fly for a moment, and then I fall.

And the pain comes.


I am ten. I am in the wheelchair I have been confined to for six years.

I watch from my seat of imprisonment as my friends skate across an icy landscape. Their laughter rings in my ears, taunting.

I close my eyes, imagine my feet gliding across the frozen lake.

Screams erupt, replace the peals of giggles.

My eyes open. My friends are gone. In the middle of the ice is a gaping hole.

My scream echoes alone.


I am still ten. Five coffins are laid out before me.

Ten pairs of eyes bore into the back of my head. They blame me, charge me with surviving. I will not tell them that I wish I were dead too.


I am twenty-two. Living in my mother’s house. I have not seen my father in five years. He abandoned us for a slimmer woman with a daughter who could actually walk.

I freelance edit from home, changing words with a wish that I could amend my life as easily.

I have never been kissed. I have never been loved. I am existing. I am not living.


I am thirty. I am going to die soon because I cannot live this way anymore. My mother was the last person in the world who cared about me. Now she is dead.

There are people offering me their condolences. I cannot hear them. I can only hear the fury pounding in my ears, the injustice.

Tonight, when they are gone, I will end the pain of being alone.


I am still thirty. I am an invalid, but worse than that, I am a coward. I did not think I could be afraid to die, but staring at a full bottle of pills turned my stomach upside down. I am afraid that there could be something worse waiting beyond my final breath. I want something better.

Then she comes, a figure cloaked in grey. Her pale eyes are almost translucent. Her dark lips could be coated in ebony ink.

She offers me something better, but I will have to forget my life. She promises that I can walk, that I will be happy, that I will live.

I ask what the catch is, and she just smiles. She will not tell me if there is one, so I know that there is. But I accept her deal nonetheless. Perhaps when I forget, I won’t remember that I was a coward.


That is the last piece of my life. I lower my hand, and rise again on two feet.

“What now?”

She smiles and blinks once, long lashes flickering over those pale eyes.  It is the last thing I see before darkness entombs me.


I am four. I am young. I am naïve. I have never been happier.

I am swinging, grubby fingers clinging to cold iron handles. I am reaching for the sky and when I am high enough, I let go.

I fly for a moment, and then I fall.

I land on two feet and beam triumphantly.

A lady bends down beside me. Her pale eyes are almost translucent. Her dark lips could be coated in ebony ink.

She pats my shoulder. “I have something to show you.”

She offers me her hand and I take it. She has a very pretty smile. I follow her away.


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.




Valentine’s Day | Love Found

Happy Valentine’s Day one and all!

Love comes in many different forms. Today’s a good time as any to remind ourselves of that. It’s also the perfect time for me to say that I love posting on this blog & I love the friends that I have made through it. You all mean so much to me and I am forever grateful for your support & encouragement.

Whether alone, surrounded by family, curled up with a partner, partying with friends, remember to be kind to yourself, and love yourself. That is of the utmost importance 🙂

Here’s a small gift of words to you all! It’s super corny. Forgive me. But I couldn’t let the day go by without giving a little something.



I went looking for love. Searching high and low. I climbed the tallest tree. I plumbed the deepest depths. But love wasn’t there.

I walked miles far and wide. I crossed scorching desert sands. I strode through verdant meadow paths. But love wasn’t there. 

I swam the turquoise seas. I flew through cerulean skies. I covered every inch of the world. But love wasn’t there.

I came home and you were waiting. You had been there all along. You knew I would come back. And suddenly love was found.


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.


Wordly Wise Wednesday | Plethora

Hello all,

After a week’s hiatus, WWW returns with a word inspired by Mollie at Mollie’s Musings. She mentioned that it was one of her favourite words and I agree! It’s such a fun word to say. If you haven’t already, I recommend that you go check her out at her blog HERE!

Now to our word of the week:


n. pleth·o·ra \ˈple-thə-rə\

  1. a very large amount or number : an amount that is much greater than what is necessary (i.e. excess, superfluity, profusion, abundance…)
  2. medical: a bodily condition characterized by an excess of blood and marked by turgescence and a reddish complexion


1540s, a medical word for “excess of body fluid,” from Late Latin plethora, from Greek plethore “fullness,” from plethein “be full”.

Figurative meaning “too-muchness, overfullness in any respect” is first recorded 1700.

I followed him down the elongated staircase. It was a steep descent, but we were neither of us challenged by the arduous path to a most exquisite treasure.

He extended a hand as we reached the end. I did not take it. He smirked and strode on without a word.

It was a well-lit cove that we entered, the floor dry despite the river meandering along rocky ground.

He tread a well-known path, and I followed. The darkness did not encumber us. Our eyes were better suited to the obscurity. Light would hinder us.

A jade door impeded our journey. Without a knob or a keyhole, it presented no familiar means of opening.

Navarine stooped beside the water and extended a hand beneath the surface.

An audible click resounded and the jade door rose up, emitting a grinding sound that echoed harmoniously through my ears.

He rose again and our eyes met.

His orbs boasted a pale gold flecked with magenta, glittering in that moment with whimsical fancy. Giddy.

It was an infectious sentiment that billowed in the depths of my own soul. My craving was a potent poison, coursing through me, filling me with want.

The jade door slid once more into place in our wake, the note of its final closing resounding through the narrow chamber that we now trespassed through.

The space we traveled through grew ever tighter as we progressed, a chill settling around us.

For the first time, my hear fluttered with an anxious energy. I was not afraid, but my excitement was no longer pure. It was blemished by a doubt that the promise he had made would not be honoured. My hand crept beneath my cloak, to find the dagger resting against my hip. It brought little comfort to my agitated mind.

Navarine came to a halt then and turned to face me. Those eyes, so piercing, so captivating, met mine. 

“We are here.”

A passage opened in the wall and he led me into the vault. The sight that greeted us overwhelmed my senses.

The plethora of books filled every inch of the space available, leaving little room for maneuvering.

“And these are…?”

He nodded once and reached for the nearest tome. It fell open to reveal printed words, unblemished, untarnished.

I took it from him and ran a hand delicately over the page. It had been three years since last I had held a book in my hands.

My heart beat quicker, my breath catching in my throat. Emotions whelmed inside and I allowed the tears to descend, to reveal to him the extent of my gratitude.

“This is not the only one. There are others.”


He nodded once, his eyes conveying a solemn promise. “We will not let the bastards destroy them.” He gestured at the books. “We are their guardians. You may join us, if you wish.”

“Yes,” I declared without hesitation. This was my purpose. My destiny.


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.



Faith’s Friday Fiction | Abominations

Good day one and all,

Today’s short story continues from last week’s which was itself inspired by a Wordly Wise Wednesday. If you haven’t read those yet, you can find them here: Amalgamation & Adaptation.

I’m really getting into this story and I have a feeling that it might continue for a while, so buckle in everyone 😉

This next installment follows the timeline but through the eyes of a different character, Freya’s brother: Oden.

It was a cold day, but Oden felt no chill. Anger burned in his heart and coursed through him like a wildfire.

He crossed the street and a car horn blared at him. He paid the driver no heed. Restless and reckless, he was on the warpath. A great injustice had been done and he would not let it stand.  

“Are you crazy?”

Kerrie’s voice called out to him, but he did not stop. She could pursue him straight to the Council Hall if she wanted to, but he wouldn’t be deterred. His hand felt for the gun in his pocket again, to reassure himself that it was there. Freya had been his world. And they had taken her from him. He would not let it go unpunished.

“You’re going to get yourself killed?”

A hand wrapped around his arm and forced him to a halt.

He turned and wrenched himself free from her grip.

Kerrie’s amber eyes beseeched him to reconsider. He scoffed at her. “I’m already dying.”

“The medicine–“

“It’s just a temporary fix. I’d rather die doing something honourable. Not confined to a bed.”

“But this isn’t noble. It’s stupid. She’s already dead, Oden.”

“Because they killed her.”

“And you’ll be killed too.”

“At least I’ll take a few of them with me.”

“And what will your parents do when you’re gone too?” She was an inch shorter than him, but in that moment she gave the appearance of towering above him, a fierce figure of reason.

There was a bench nearby and he sank into it then, feeling spent. She had found that one niggling doubt in his mind, and it brought all his determination to ruin. His eighteenth birthday had only just passed, but he felt as if he had lived twice that long. His body was crippled by the illness that he had been born with, but his mind had always been strong. Until two years ago, when the Abominations had come.

Kerrie slipped onto the seat next to him and took his hand. Best friends since the age of five, she knew him almost as well as Freya did… Had.

“She sacrificed herself for you.”

“I know.”

“You can’t die pointlessly.”

“I know.” 

But he couldn’t do nothing either. For two years, he had watched as the Abominations had taken over his country, performing heinous experiments, manipulating their lives all for some terrible end that no one fully understood. Cut off from the rest of the world, they had been forced into subservience, following the normal routines of a mundane life, but it was all an Aberration, a façade.

Oden rose up once more and started down the street in the opposite direction of his prior destination.

“Where are you going now?”

“To find a death that will mean something.”

“Oden!” Kerrie leapt up with such vehemence.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the rage in her face. It was humorous to imagine that she could stop him now.

“Not right now, don’t worry,” he reassured her.

Her gaze remained mistrusting. “But you want to die.”

He shook his head. “No. I just don’t want to live like this. You were right, okay. I have to make her sacrifice mean something. So I’m going to stop waiting for the end. I’m going to fight it with everything I’ve got.”

Kerrie’s eyes softened with comprehension, her expression paling.”You’re going to join FOARA, aren’t you?”

Oden narrowed his eyes, taken aback by Kerrie’s wisdom. He had not expected her to know.

She sighed in defeat. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“For what?” The sense of control he had assumed he had slipped out of his grasp. Her tone was dark, heavy with regret and shame.

“For the moment you would choose to join the resistance. To join us.”


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.

Wordly Wise Wednesday | Rapscallion

Hello and welcome to another Wordly Wise Wednesday!

I don’t much to say in introduction, except that I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on these. I hope you’re still enjoying these posts. I am!

Have a lovely Wednesday 🙂


n. (rap-SKAL-yun)

  1. Rascal; ne’er-do-well


The word rascal has been part of English since the 15th century, but on its own it apparently didn’t quite capture the disagreeable nature of the wily knaves of yore. By the 17th century, English speakers had modified rascal to create rascallion. But it seems that even that term didn’t sound quite mischievous enough. By the century’s end, rascallion had been further altered to create rapscallion. Today, rapscallion is still commonly used as a synonym for blackguard, scoundrel, and miscreant. Rascallion is still around as well, but it’s very rare.

Info comes via Merriam Webster Dictionary

 The window looked higher up at night than it had that morning. And was it just his imagination, or did the tree look less solid than it had a few hours ago too.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered under his breath. It was true too. He wasn’t young and spry as he once had been. Age had worn away his muscular form, leaving him thinner and feebler. He wouldn’t accept it, though.

That’s why he was standing there now, in the darkness of the evening, the moonlight concealed by ominous clouds. Dressed in black, he embraced the shadows. In a few moments he would shed them all to embrace the light of a woman.

A deep breath lessened, but did not eradicate, his nerves. He reached for the lowest branch on the tree and began a slow and painful ascent.

His joints cracked as his arms dragged his body up the old oak. He wondered if he was crazy or just plain stubborn. People never changed. That’s what his father had always told him. He had proven it to him too, getting himself killed while in a drunken state over a game of cards. Maybe that’s why he kept doing this.

This will be the last one, he promised himself. Then I’ll turn honest for good.

He pulled himself onto the branch that extended closest to the window and paused to take a breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his face slick with sweat. He hoped he would have enough energy to get himself through the next few hours.

Scrabbling onto the window sill, he tapped upon the pane.

Her face appeared, plump and worn with anxiety. She opened the window to let him in.

He alighted upon the floor with a soft thud and grimaced.

“What took you so long? You said nine o’clock.”

“I know. I got held up. Now,” his lips curved into a suave smile, “come here.”

She giggled as his hand wrapped around her waist and drew her in close to him. His lips met hers and he felt her desire like his own. 

The door to her room slammed open.

They pulled apart and turned in chagrin.

A young boy no older than ten stood in the hall, brandishing a sword. A fierce scowl darkened his features.

“Rapscallion! Leave my mother be!”

“Mother?” How had he not realized. He observed the woman before him. She bore no wrinkles, only youth.

“Get back to bed, Daniel.”

“Mother,” he repeated. It tasted sour on his tongue.

“I will not let him besmirch your honour.”

He shook his head, bemused by the sight of the trembling lad.

“No need to exert yourself, lad. I’ll be off.”

“Scoundrel! Bastard!” The boy shouted insults.

Being chased off by fathers had always been the most thrilling part of his dalliances. This was just plain humiliating.

Stepping into the night air after a few more awkward accusations and apologies, he thought again with the greatest conviction: Never again.

He sighed, then noted with some pleasure a different truth: perhaps his father had been wrong. Perhaps change was possible after all.


May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.

Faith’s Friday Fiction | Adaptation

Good Day All,

Here’s my first honest and true Faith’s Friday Fiction  of 2016. The last one was posted on Saturday. And the first Friday was designated to fact. Hopefully this is a good sign for things to come 🙂

Any – hoo! Today’s post is a continuation of Wordly Wise Wednesday’s short short Amalgamation. You can check it out here first, but even if you don’t this story should make sense on its own.

A special thanks to Al at hyperactivepandemonium. If it wasn’t for his suggested word, this story might never have been inspired 🙂

Before we jump into it, I’ll just say this: I might be a little silent on social media today and tomorrow because I’m trying to finish a few more chapters of edits to hit my January 31st deadline. I’ll try to respond to comments today, but I want to say now in case I don’t get the chance:

Thank you to everyone who responded to my search for beta-readers. Your generosity and support has overwhelmed me and I am just humbly grateful for your kindness and willingness to help me. I never expected to make such great friends through this blog, but I want you all to know that I consider you as friends, people I trust with my words. I hope you know how much your encouragement is appreciated. I hope you know that it is returned in kind 🙂

Okay, now to our story!

Enjoy 😀


Freya awoke to darkness and silence.

‘Open your eyes.’

She issued the command but nothing came of it. Confusion lasted for only a moment, then realization struck like a sharp slap upon a cheek. The Amalgamation had reached its completion and the person she had been would never live again. 


She searched the dark recesses of the mind that she now inhabited for the dominant presence. It wasn’t a surprise that Delphyra’s body had been chosen as the host. She was far more beautiful, far more talented. There would be little training required here. 


Freya prodded the darkness again, a cool anxiety sweeping through her essence. 

‘I am here.’ The presence came with a burst of colour as Delphyra opened her eyes.

Freya could see the world beyond the space she occupied. It was not the place she had closed her eyes too, but a small bedroom. Delphyra’s body had been moved and her own…

‘Most likely destroyed already,’ Delphyra mused.

There was a brusqueness that accompanied the thought. Freya bristled at the sound of it.

‘You knew they were going to do it,’ Delphyra said and closed her eyes again, so darkness fell over them once more. ‘There is no more use for it.’

‘It was my body,’ Freya contended.

‘No more. This is your body now. Our body,’ Delphyra corrected.

Her presence weighed heavily over Freya, strong and dominant, but there was a different emotion there too: sympathy.

‘It is not the same.’

‘It was your choice, Freya. You made the decision to take the risk. It was not forced upon you.’

Irritation seeped into her response. ‘That is not the real truth.’ She did not know what they had offered Delphyra in exchange for her acceptance into the Amalgamation program. They had offered her family the medicine they needed to keep her baby brother alive. To have refused would have been to have condemned him to death.


Delphyra whispered the name, snatching it up from her memories.

Freya built up a wall in her mind, to keep the girl from those precious moments that were the last remnants of a life she could never return to. 

‘You do not need to exhaust yourself with such measures. I will not pry,’ Delphyra assured her. In turn, she offered up a memory of her own, of an elderly woman, her face stained with the salt of falling tears. ‘My Nan. We were separated in the Departure. They promised to find her if I agreed to it. To reunite her with my family.’

‘At least you can go home to them.’ Freya’s bitterness was still present, but tempered in that moment by compassion. 

‘They will not let either of us go anywhere yet.’

Delphyra was right. The Amalgamation might be done. But there was still the Adaptation to complete. Then would come the Assimilation. And last…

‘We don’t need to worry about that yet.’

Delphyra’s presence felt lighter than it had before, kinder and more considerate. 

It would be difficult for both of them, to get used to sharing a body.

Freya lost any hostility towards the girl whose body would forever now be her essence’s residence. She had been forced to her body, had lost who she was; Delphyra had lost the same thing, forced to give up her unique self to share with another. They had both been changed. It would take some getting used to.

Six months of Adaptation. That’s what it would take. 

‘We might as well start now.’

Delphyra exuded an accepting spirit. Freya could feel the smile that curved their lips, directed by Delphyra’s mood.

‘Open our eyes.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You have to try a little harder,’ Delphyra chastised.

Freya focused all her attention on doing the act. ‘Open. Open. Open.’

Darkness was rooted around them.

‘Less force. It’s a simple task.’ Delphyra’s essence pressed closer against hers, guided her. ‘They are your eyes too.’

Freya conceded to the notion, searching for a connection to the eyelids, to convince herself that she could sense them, the thin layer of skin drawn over steel blue eyes. 

‘Open,’ she thought once more and they did.


Oh, almost forgot. I’ll be continuing this story next Friday 😉

May inspiration flow like ink upon your quill,

Faith  quill-ink

© 2016. Faith Rivens.