Cara Mia Addio – 02 – Sapphire, Like A Solemn Sky


Okay, part two of the horror story. It’s about to get weird.


She looked over her shoulder; there was nobody to be seen down the street. It was dark and gloomy, the sidewalk was very humid and moldy, and it had not stopped raining that whole week. Small puddles reflecting the light of the posts, her footsteps echoed in the silence of the night. High heels tapping against the hard concrete, she swore that someone was stalking her. Taking off her ring, bracelets and chains, she hid them inside her small black bag, as she rummaged for pepper spray.

Paranoia had settled in after she received text messages from someone pretending to her boyfriend, holding her hostage after a few pictures he took of her. Phone calls soon followed, with heavy breathing and a low snicker on the other end of the call. He was scared of the night and the only reason she was walking alone was because her friend was too drunk to drive her home and ‘the guys’ were getting crazy with the drinks. She hated getting in a ruckus, especially with those creeps.

She heard it again. Stopping in her tracks, she ran her fingers through her hair, tying it in a ponytail. How much would she take before it got to her; before she made a run for it? Crazy as it sounded, she couldn’t run. Panicking could make her stalker desperate and with that, aggressive. Turning around, all she could see were shadows; the shadows of trees, houses, lamp posts, and creatures that wander the night. Her heart was racing, she was scared. Images ran through her mind: rape, torture, assault and even death.

She had seen the news. There had been young ladies disappearing across town; the police were baffled. Her face was ravaged with terror, just what could a girl do? Desperation settled in: she was not about to lose her life in such a tasteless cul-de-sac. As she turned around, she felt it; someone was staring at her. Not wanting to turn around, she emerged from her own lie. There he was, probably a few centimeters taller than her, covered in black, face covered with a gas mask; she screamed. He grabbed her by the hair, as his arm wrapped around her waist.

A car pulled up. These men covered in radiation suits ran up to her as she kicked and struggled from her captors. Before she knew it, it all turned to black. What’s going on? Why can’t I move? My head, it hurts. She felt something warm trickling down her face. Slowly opening her eyes, she could barely see anything in this gloomy room. Four walls covered in moss and oxide, medical beds that lay in ruins and a floor whose carpet had turned into an ecosystem for fungus. The scent, a putrid scent, the scent of death, as she noticed a dead opossum on the corner of the room; her arms bound by a plastic-like material fastened around an old, rusty utility pipe.

Three barred windows to her left, shattered glass; a chilly breeze entered the room and with it, a slight drizzle. An old metal door to her left, no locks, no hinges, just a door – a common sight for any horror movie. The door opened, as a man in a medical scrub walked in. He was holding a large needle in one hand and what appeared to be a scalpel on the other. His lifeless blue eyes stared into her frightened greens; he had won this mental match. As the needle pierced her buttocks, a squeal escaped her; a weakened cry for help. The last thing she saw were his pearly whites revealing themselves with such delight.

Snapping out of her long sleep, she found herself cold. A bed beneath her body, cold straps on her arms and legs, bound and lost; this was it. The same man walked to a side of her bed. She noticed that a turquoise hospital gown had replaced her clothes. What did they do to me? Did they fondle me? Did they rape me? Are they about to torture me for fun?  He body was too drugged to shake in fear. She tried moving but her muscles would not respond.

“I see you are wide awake, my little sleeping beauty.” He grabbed a scalpel. “Do you know that this thing can cut through your muscles faster than you can say ‘minced meat’? It’s true, let me demonstrate.” He moved over to where her legs were. “This is what this baby can do.”

He sliced her ankles.

“Does it hurt? Of course it doesn’t, you’re pretty out of it.” Walking to a side, he uncovered her body, pressing the tip of the scalpel near her cleavage. “You’re a pretty lady, too bad we’ll sell you for parts. You could have made a nice whore but you have got some pricey items inside of you.”

He grabbed a bone saw.

“What’s beauty but a fading gift? I’ve seen what beauty looks like, well, real beauty. It’s red, sometimes pink or white, it’s covered in goo or mucus and it’s always so warm.” He smiled, as if he had won a medal for something. “I’m flattered that we could find a girl like you. So healthy, unlike women your age, nowadays – drinking, smoking, fucking… such a sad waste of a body but not you. You are so perfect. We’ll make big bucks with your ‘stuff’.”

Placing a breathing apparatus over her face, he injected her neck with something that she could only describe as unbearable pain. Her breathing became harder, he heart slowed down on its healthy pace and she fell into a deep sleep.


“I don’t believe you!” Henri was dying with laughter as Markus looked at him, menacingly. “Stop pulling my leg.”

“I swear to God, this thing was on! It had no battery, it had no power whatsoever and yet, it rang and I got a message.” Pietro continued. “It was scary! I didn’t sleep for shit… I’m telling you, something is trying to tell me something.”

“Pietro, it’s all too much for us to digest. Give us time to think about it and ease into the situation,” Markus replied.

There was nothing to ‘ease in’ in this situation, it was very simple: someone was calling him. It was pretty stupid to think he was being called from the other side, but there was no other explanation. Whosoever was calling him out, it better be good. Using Heidy’s cellphone was a pretty sucky move, even for a ghost. He missed her, she was his best friend. There was not a day that went by that he wished for a world where she was alive. The jokes they made, the fun times they had, the fights they endured; she was more than just a friend, she was a sister. He had even thought of her as a soul mate – a ridiculous concept, by the way.

Classes would not stop till after three, which was three hours away still. Looking outside the window, he saw the tree; a mango tree where he would play when he was little. Bellow it he saw a figure. Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, he saw her. Just as soon he spotted her; she turned around, disappearing in the blink of an eye. What’s going on inside my head?



So guess what? I’ve been waiting for a few months now and it’s finally here… I forgot to ask and the post flew by, but here it is: my interview. I would like to thank Mr. Paul Hamilton for this interview, it was really good! And if you get the chance, follow his blog, he’s awesome!

So, here it is: 

I tried cutting and pasting but that would look like plagiarism. There is nothing unholier or scarier in a writer’s life than plagiarism.  So, click on it and visit it… it’s good.

Fate/Shattered False – Chapter 8: Icy Overlord


So, a new servant has been revealed: Rasputin. Yeah, that guy is the enemy. Don’t mess with the witchdoctor of the Czar.


As Archer prepared her rifle, the atmosphere became cold. It was the middle of April and yet, she could see her breath, rising up into the sky; a sky that had become dark and cloudy. Archer took off her uniform and placed it around her master’s shoulders. She shivered as the temperatures plummeted. Archer looked around, a seal, a mage-art – anything that could provide relief for her master. It was all for naught, though the perpetrator soon appeared as tiny snowflakes began to fall upon Abigail’s jet-black curls and her shoulders.

A being covered in a robe, a staff made out of steel with Russian inscriptions on its side; there was only one man who could make the living fear him. Archer fired at the servant, only to have her shot deflected by a speedy swing from the servant’s cane. The shot zipped from its position, zig-zagging across the air till it found its place through the servant’s chest. The image of the hooded being disintegrated into snow as a snowstorm fell upon Abigail’s existence – she felt cold, a strong unyielding cold that would not stop without consuming her soul. Loneliness and sadness: an emotion that brewed an icy after-taste deep within the structure of every snowflake.

Ice started bursting from the ground, surrounding them as Archer reloaded her rifle. Shot by shot, she tore the towers down as the bullets zig-zagged through the air, striking newer structures as they popped out. Archer fired and fired, destroying anything that would dare threaten them. All to no avail, the icy structures were doing what they were created to do: distraction. Abigail was slowly coming down with hypothermia. Being born in Louisiana, she was a master of the darkest of magecrafts: voodoo. Her powers saved her whole family from the disaster that was Hurricane Katrina, but now, she was trying to maintain her life with a thin veil of magecraft around her body, all the while controlling the trajectory of each bullet and providing her servant with enough prana to use that rifle of hers. Things were looking grim.

As a last ditch effort, Archer propelled herself into the air using a shot she fired directly at the ground beneath her feet. Using the icy towers as a base for her leaps, she jumped from tower to tower till she was high enough to see it. There it was; the servant that was causing all the commotion. Archers had very little magical abilities and senses but their keen sight was more than enough to find even the sneakiest of bastards hiding amongst the urban jungle of the city. She steadied her aim, finger close to the trigger, rifle on her shoulder, eyes on the target; as she was about to fire, her head impacted with something cold and solid – a wall. There really was a wall above their heads. She fell to the ground; the shot missed its target, zig-zagging through the dome, in an attempt to shatter it.

Large shards from the glass-like dome material ricocheted inside the container, falling close to where Abigail lay. As the dome regenerated, something jumped through a wide-enough opening. They couldn’t believe their eyes, it was Lancer! Pietro jumped off, holding a golden cross in his hand, he said the following words, “May the God, Creator of Heaven and Earth, shine thine light upon this icy hell: Rex Deus!”

A bright golden light shone from the tip of his spear. The ice around them melted away, just as the dome collapsed, falling atop their bodies. Pietro walked to where Abigail lay, holding out a jacket, he covered her body with it; smiling he replied, almost in a whisper, “It’s time to go back.”

Those words echoed inside Abigail’s mind. The same exact words her father said before he was killed. How in the world did Pietro copy that phrase? Was that part of his magical abilities or was it sheer luck? Baffled, she gazed into his blue eyes, unable to respond but slowly taking his hand. Archer sat on Lancer’s horse. Lancer gazed into the horizon, probably wishing he had had a chance to battle the servant that had caused them so much trouble.

“He’ll be back, I know he will,” Abigail commented. “He might be looking for something from his past.”

“The old witchdoctor of the Czar… Rasputin.” Pietro pulled her up, “A man who was said to be immortal.”

The tiny stumps of the flowers that dotted the plaza were covered in icy petal-like constructs. Ice-flowers, created when water from within the plant is extracted and frozen on atmospheric contact, now adorned the park. Abigail smiled. This was the only time that Abigail was pleased at something very important: her life.

Cara Mia Addio – 01 – Ruby, Like Tears of Blood


Okay guys, this is something that had been bothering me for the past weeks. This was going to be added on The Everlasting Rondo, novel that I wrote for Nanowrimo, but I scrapped it and turned it into a stand-alone project. What is it about? Well, it’s about someone trying to forget someone else but at a cost. You can never gain anything in life without sacrificing something else. Be warned, this is not a romance story… This is a terror/suspense story with a hint of romance but mostly tragedy.  Let’s see how far we go, okay?

By the way, just for the record, the name comes from a song I love. It’s from Portal 2, youtube it… It’s really good.


“He’s an asshole…” He wiggled his nose; the allergy season had started its daily torment on his poor soul. “I wish someone would kick his ass already!”

“Stop… Just don’t…” Markus dropped the backpack near his locker. Kneeling on the dust covered tile floor, he twisted the lock. “I keep forgetting my combination.”

Pietro looked around, sensing that the coast was clear, he opened his locker. Henri peeked into the dark, cold container that his buddy called a locker. His books fell from his hands, dropping on the hard, cold floor. Markus looked at both, suddenly stricken by a cold shiver that ran down his spine. He had never seen them so lifeless.

“What’s going on?” Markus peeked into the dark locker. “Is that what I think it is?” He covered his mouth.

“It can’t be…” Pietro grabbed it.

“Must be some sick joke from those bastards from class B.” Henri looked at all sides, no one was in sight. This was too big for someone to fit inside a locker without taking off the lock. A combination lock was far beyond what these meat heads could do. “On second thought, they are too dumb to even try to do something like this.”

“If it really is them, I’ll beat them to a pulp!” Markus growled, all the while, clenching his fists till his veins seemed as though they were about to pop out.

Holding it in his hands, trembling in fear and despair, Pietro placed it against his heart. Beating faster and faster, he was losing his sight of reality. This can’t be real. Someone must be playing a sick joke on me. I hate you all, I hate you all, I hate you all! Repeating over and over again, a voice echoed within the recesses of his mind. Someone gripped his shoulder, tightening as the pain made him jump.

“Calm down, you know it’s a trick. They are trying to get to you.” Henri was still looking for a sign of guilt in the faces of each passerby. “Go home man, sleep a while, drink a soda, and take it with you.”

“Yeah, think of it as closure.” Markus leaned over to grab his backpack, flinging it over his shoulder. “Better face the truth now than never.”

Grabbing the cracked glasses, he placed them inside his left pocket and walked alone to the front door. Dragging his feet on the ground, the blistering sun blinded his sight. The grass was looking dull, the trees were losing their healthy glow and the birds were gleefully bathing alongside a broken water pipe: summer was upon them. The heat emanating from the sidewalk coupled with the vapor rising from the asphalt; it wasn’t a pretty trip home. As he gazed at the small white house that was next to his, divided by a small wooden fence covered in dried-up roses, he felt his heart skip a beat. That sound, was he going mad? A familiar ringtone, a familiar buzz; someone was trying to make him lose his mind.

Grabbing his phone, he saw it. That familiar photo, that nostalgic sound, that unique name, and that familiar feeling that alienated his fear from the rest of his emotions… “Shit! Damn it!”

Slamming it on the ground, he smashed his shoe on the screen of the phone; shattering all hopes for his past to resurge from the ashes of his pain. Grabbing his head, he fell on his knees. Funny, he had tormenting his knees a lot these past weeks. Tears fell from his eyes. Strange, I don’t feel sad… I feel lost. He gazed up at the sun and shouted, “She is dead! Now, leave me alone!”


Crackling and shaking, something was rattling on top of the desk. A small desk near my bed covered in oxide and wood, it was pretty old and pretty unstable. Anything that would shake its equilibrium would crackle. As the peculiar sound awakened him, Pietro looked around, darkness enveloping his room. Still in a daze, he reached for his phone. The screen was cracked but above all, it was off, though the sound was not coming from his phone. Looking around, poking at the dusty table, he felt it. It was vibrating.

The idea hit him, there was no other phone, there was no other device; except for one. That device was permanently turned off. Reaching for it, he felt it.  Quickly removing his hand from it’ smooth surface, he tried again; it still continued vibrating. Taking a hold of it, he dropped it on his lap, covered by a soft, checkered blanket. Looking at it, it seemed like a normal pink, sticker-covered flip cellphone but to him, this was life.

He grabbed it, taking the back part off. It was as he had expected: there was no battery. He threw the phone over to a corner of the room. The silence of the room was shattered, once again, by the vibration. The phone continued vibrating, how was that even possible?

“Jesus Christ, I’m going insane,” he whispered in the darkness, “I’m really going bat-shit crazy.”

The phone stopped. The ensuing silence was quite odd. He sighed, sinking on his bed, covering his body in his bed sheet. Maybe, he was just dreaming and that was a bad dream; a nightmare that would haunt him some other time… but not tonight. He was adamant.

Closing his eyes, he heard it. The sound made chills run up his spine. That ringtone or better yet, the ringtone he had grown so accustomed to. Jumping off his bed, he ran to where the phone lay, flung it over to the bed and placed a pillow over the phone. Silence, sweet silence.

“What am I going to do with you? You’re not supposed to work… you have no battery, no power whatsoever.” Placing his left hand over his racing heart, he wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to run, with the mobile phone in hand, and send it flying over to the other side of the street. He couldn’t. “What do you want from me?”

The sound stopped. Reaching for the phone, underneath the pillow, he slowly pulled it out. Closing his eyes tightly, he flipped the phone open. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Gazing at a blue screen with a picture of two green eyes, his heart sunk; maybe even skipping a beat, he saw a missed call from the same phone. How could a phone place a call to its same number? That’s ridiculous. A message popped up, as the light electronic device escaped his weak grip.

A message, no title, no number, just a message; the peculiarities did not end there. The wallpaper faded into a black background, no color, no designs, just black. His trembling fingers pressed the button; the message popped out:


…F#r… A@ay…

Hel%… &e…


“What does this mean?” He tried scrolling down, but everything else was corrupted. It was a half-baked message that appeared in a phone with no battery and certainly no owner. He was lying, it did have an owner, but that’s where it all became difficult to believe. She had breathed her last, a few months ago, and this phone, along with the glasses, had been buried deep within his memories.

The XIIIth Immortal Magix Competition – 01 – Pawns for a King


A formal first piece to the Mage Wars series. Here we have our protagonist going against your typical wand-wielding wizard. Who is going to win? Find out on the next episode, piece, writing-thingy… okay, just read.


“Give me that!” A tall bearded man grabbed the card from the Saver’s hand. “Wow, would you look at that; Page of Wands. Now, who’s my opponent?”

I took a brief glance at my card: Queen of Cups. My opponent would have to be a queen of the remaining Minor Arcana. Who would it be? A Wizard? A Mage? A Sage? A Priest? I was so excited and at the same time, scared. If the field was not within my expectation, then my tactics would fail miserably and with that my life as well.

“Queen of Pentacles,” a young man called out.

My chest tightened, choking me; unable to answer I turned towards him. A black robe with a phoenix drawn within a triangular coat of warms covered in silvery leaves and a small white sphere within the phoenix’s left claw. A red scarf wrapped around his neck and a small wand in his right hand; I knew right then and there that he was a wizard.

He walked up to me, a greeting with a handshake. His grip was firm yet not too strong; that was expected of a proficient wand wielder. Witchcraft was quite the magical art that demanded from a pool of energy from the surrounding world: Mana.

“Can’t wait to face you in battle, sir.” His eyes gazed into mine. “I was told you were pretty good at what you do best.”

“And what is that?” I replied.

“Escaping death with sheer luck. That’s why they call you Lucky Number Seven.”

I looked away. Lucky Number Seven, a silly nickname a Necromancer or should I say, a now dead Necromancer pinned on me. He said I survived the sorting through sheer luck. Well, that may be so, but my luck has taken me further than the pit he now sleeps in.

“Pleased to meet you, my name is Leonardo and you?” I tightened my grip.

He quickly pulled way. “I’m Mathew, Mathew Gul, from the northernmost school of wizardry and witchcraft in the British Isles, southernmost part of Scotland.”


“No, you dunce… Never-mind, just prepare yourself. I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”


I couldn’t stop thinking about my battle. The only thing that would ease my mind was regular equipment maintenance and reading the newspaper. There was a strange article in the paper: ‘Science vs Magic, things are looking up for these brainiacs’.


Mages, Witches, The Church, Wiccans, and now: Scientists?

Yes, that’s the latest from the battlefield. A small group calling themselves Tabula Rasa,

have invested millions of dollars on scientific discoveries and improvements to win this war.

What, skeptical about the power of science? Well, take a look at the scores!

Their participant: Miriam Lewsky has won both matches in the past week.

Her mysterious powers put her on a par with any

Mana-absorbing, Prana-consuming, Chakra-emitting,

Chi-expulsing, supernatural power that these wars have to offer.

The bets are on! How many of you think that she will continue on to the finals?


Impressive, I thought to myself. Science had finally placed their cards on the table. Well, they aren’t too far away from what I do. Being a non-magic person, my only way to fight is to use these inventions as a means of defense and/or offense. Mr. Wizard will try and fight up close, that’s their main tactic. Their wands are reliable little buggers; made of a wood drenched in a blood-wine concoction, covered in leaves from a sacred tree and a core made from unicorn’s horn powder, or dragon’s whisker powder, etc. These small instruments could bring death faster than anything else in this competition. I could not lose to a Wizard.

Besides, he was no Gandalf… But, just in-case, I would need a plan B. I grabbed a large bow and several makeshift arrows; compressing it to a manageable size, I swung the bow over my shoulder, held by a piece of silver-chain and the arrows all placed together inside a cylindrical container at the left side of my waist. Arrows filled with liquid mana. Even if I was unable to use mana, I could still gather it in four manageable states: Solid, in the form of crystals; Liquid, within tubes, flasks, cylindrical tubes and other containers; Gas, within blisters, and Plasma, a superheated mana source within small spheres. These arrows had enough propulsion and power to force their way through a magical shield that had not been previously reinforced.


We walked side by side, his long rope gently touching the ground as his short footsteps tried to catch up to mine. Walking down Desperationem Via or, the path to despair; we headed towards the center of the battleground. It was a game of chance; the field would change according to the will of the Council. I had my fingers crossed for urban warfare, my forte.

In the middle of the field, the Saver stood with a small crystal box. The box glowed in a bright pink color, heralding the drawing phase of the battle. Here, we drew spheres; whosoever had a red, blue or yellow sphere, they had the opportunity to choose to go first, if a purple, orange or green sphere was drawn, then the contestant had the privilege of having a ‘wish’. What this meant was: you could count with a minimal backup we used to call the Scapegoat. Tiny little plushy spheres that would save your life if you were in dire need of being saved. Finally, the Minor Arcana cards we had drawn previously in the sorting contest would give a powerful ability boost: Pentacles – Improved Physical Performance, Wands – Improved Mana/Prana Absorption, Cups – Projection Magic and Swords – Servants.

Looking at my card, I knew this would come in handy if I ever found myself without a weapon. The effect was short-lived but it would help you out of any predicament.  Pulling out a golden sphere, Mathew quickly called for his flying broom. As it zoomed by, he caught it and hoped on; soaring as far away as he could. He had a tremendous advantage: speed.

Kissing the silver cross dangling from my neck, I closed my eyes. “Sister, gib mir kraft.”

Red, White and Green Dust


Another piece based on WWII. Here are other short stories based on WWII too: Seeping Red Hope I, Seeping Red Hope II and Black Pouring Despair.


The rain kept on pouring, soaking his dark hair with cold relentless bullets dripping down his face; becoming one with his tears. Muddy, swollen feet, slushing through the mud; he could hear nothing more than the continuous rhythm of the impacting shells, on the distance, the pitter patter of rain upon his uniform and the shallow beating of his terrified heart. His hands were shaking violently at the sound of footsteps; a terrifying feeling of nausea and fear sinks beneath his skin. Rummaging through his pockets, the .30-06 Springfield rounds fell on the mud. Kneeling on blood stained dirt, he grabbed each bullet and wiped it with his shirt. The rifle sunk in his arms, trembling, unable to fit each bullet into the clip.


The Spanish, they called him. He was surrounded by Gringos, or that’s what he called them. People forgot where he came from, till he spoke. The thick Spanish accent that escaped his lips was conspicuous in any conversation. Now, in the middle of nowhere, he wished that someone would be there by his side. The scent of rain brought back memories of his beloved homeland; warmth and kindness, he misses all that. The sounds of his siblings, a tug of war for affection; life was so simple.


Something cold pressed against his neck, yes, he had nearly forgotten; a small necklace made with different types of tree barks he had collected over his journey. It all seemed so meaningless now. Placing the clip on the rifle, he pressed the, nearly frozen, bolt all the way to the back till it clicked. Holding his rifle across his chest, he steadied his movements. Breaking slowly, he aimed down the barrel squinting at the slow movements across the flooded, icy battlefield.


“Spanish… Spanish…” He heard a whisper calling to him beyond the fallen rubble of a nearby tower. Whispers that beckon his return to a time when things were simple; he remembered the sunlight and the bright red, white and green flag – he had nearly forgotten the golden eagle what represented an unyielding desire to fight on. “En la vida, no queda mas que trabajar y sufrir.”


Slowly, crouching, he lowered his head away from sight. His helmet lay somewhere amidst his fallen comrades. Miles away from salvation, his helmet was gathering rain water, gunpowder and dirt. A thunder clap made him fall flat on the murky ground, face peering through the grey substance that now replaced the gentle crystal-clear water he had grown fond of. The gun steadily aimed to the front, held together by his desire to live, his adrenaline filled vessels and the gravity of the battlefront. Fingernails covered in muck, he dragged his body along the ground till he entered an abandoned stone building.


His boots echoed within the wooden floor of the structure, unstable and covered in dust and cobwebs, he enjoyed its dry atmosphere. The ceiling shook at every shell touched the ground, becoming akin to tremors. Dust fell from its walls; the paint had deteriorated just as its foundation. Strapping his rifle, he swung it over his shoulders, believing that a pistol would do better within the house; he walked along its weakened stone walls. Portraits fallen on the ground, shattered glass, and stained paintings made by someone who’s passion was interrupted by the red menace.


Somehow, he managed to find enough fuel to start a fire, which he filtered over to a side of the building. Sitting next to it, he boiled some rain water and chowed down some perfectly preserved peaches inside glass containers. Whoever had made these was a life saver. He was reading a small diary, searching through its pages for something he could identify. French wasn’t his forte, but finding Russian deep within French territory was somewhat odd. Photographs of young women and three older men, it appears as though this was a nursing home or a small clinic. That made sense; after all, he had grown worried at the sight of so many medical supplies and tools.


A loud thunder clap shattered the windows of the building. “¿Que diablos?”  Falling to the ground, the blast broke through the wall. “¿Artilleria pesada o morteros?” He looked around, still dazed and confused, the ground was shaking. Was he shell-shocked or was the ground really shaking? Climbing up the three floors, he saw them. Three Nazi soldiers and a tank; his worst nightmare had just begun. Another blast fell through the second floor, destabilizing the third. He rushed down the stairs, debris falling on top of him, scratching and scraping, he finally made it to the ground floor. Covered in dust and blood, he thought he wouldn’t make it.


His rifle peeked from a corner of the window, aiming down at the soldiers. Hesitant to make a move; a tank was more than enough to shatter his spirit as well as his morale. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he grabbed his rifle and hid behind the rubble. The ground shook bellow him – they were close.


“Padre nuestro, que estas en los cielos, santificado sea tu nombre…” He prayed to the heavens that he would be able to live through this. Spaniard, they called him. “Pinches gringos, soy Mexicano!” He fired at the Nazis, his heart clenched within the fingers of destiny and sheer power of will. He would go to Hell and back, for the Aztec blood that ran through his veins would never admit defeat.


“Pinche Pedro, no sabe ni lo que hace.” Martin grabbed his shoulder and carried him down the street, tossing the beer bottle into a drain. “Te dije que no bebieras mas, güey.” He scolded Pedro, sensing the fear that still lingered in his eyes.

“Es el unico remedio.” Pedro replied, holding on to his brother’s shoulder. “Es lo unico que puedo hacer.”

“¿Hacer?” Martin dragged him down the street and into his home, shuddering at the sight of his brother’s ill kept presence.

“Solo asi puedo matar a los fantasmas de mi pasado.” Pedro’s eyes still gazed down a barrel; a barrel he had long abandoned in the European front – amidst the rubble covered in three corpses and a shattered automaton.

“No mames, pinche maricon.” Martin smiled, “Mama no te crecio asi, pinche carbon.”

Pedro cried for the last time.

The XIIIth Immortal Magix Competition – 00 – It Begins

This is a project depicting the various battles of our protagonist in his attempt to seek revenge on the man who killed his cousin. A competition that places the many magical arts within a city to battle it out – from alchemists to wizards and sages to chamans, there can only be one winner. Let the games begin!


Golden powder, falling from beneath a tower now leaning over the edge of the roof; my life had been spared. The dirt that now covered my back, as I lay on the floor, crackled with my slow shifts in weight. I needed to get out of here or I’d be crushed like a pancake. Pieces of roof falling on the ground, carefully evading the clay projectiles, the ground beneath me became unstable. Was the ground giving in? Sinkholes dot the landscape but to think that one would be beyond this stone floor was too far-fetched – even for my bad luck. Cracking; this isn’t good. The tower creaked; that can’t be good either.

Rolling on my side, the tower fell, shattering the roof that gave way to the sinking behemoth. The structure fell on the floor, as it sank and dropped into an abyss of darkness along with the Wizard that perished within those walls. The competitions had just begun. I nearly lost my life and this was just the first of many battles. Grabbing my Clarice – my trusty side-kick that happened to be a rifle – I patted myself for a small silver coin I had stolen a while ago. “I guess that’s one for me and zero for Mr. Wizard, don’t you think?” I whispered to the coin. “By the looks of things, you’re coming with me.”

The Mage Wars had just begun.