iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 03/10/2026

I actually think it's fine for comic artists, who are treated like disposable labour, to talk shit about a guy who stole their work with permission and profited off of it. It's not like Lichtenstein was some great patron of comics, he was culture vulture.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

And finally, the continuation of my classic epic fantasy, or at least my take on it!

reads: Seven Swords in Dumin:
Chapter 8: Seven Days In Sohkin
Fear is a potent weapon of any ruler wishing to make change. It will have any and all searching the dark corners of their own minds to make sense of the threats arrayed against them, and so will do the work for you in how to be convinced to suit your need.
-From the lecture series from the Port Imac Congress, speaker Mimodden, warlock
A low-laying village built around a once expansive oasis emerged as Feliri reached the peak of the last dune of the hardened desert. One that paid its tithe not to Dumin, but to an easterly city called Sohkin that was once home to a true family of the Blessed Heredity, but was now merely an extension of the Seven-on-the-Sea, it had a name that was less important than its function as a source of wealth, however meagre it might be, for the lords of the land. Feliri counted the pillars of smoke, chalk white and smelling of roasted meats, and there were no more than a couple dozen, his tireless army moving around its boundaries. The centipede man was on his mind, his many-eyes watched him while was awake, was sure he did the same whilst Feliri slept, a foul magic cast upon his dreams so even the rest of the false death he would not be free of that avarice glare. He might find human companionship below, away from the things he followed.
The angel was simple minded, dedicated to one cause, pure in its desire and wants, that devotion was holy, it reminded him of the singular nature of the desert. But the amalgamated man that was the angel's companion was so wretchedly human, conniving, a mind made for politics and power games, he knew his kind well, they infected the halls of kings and princes like a gangrenous infection. Feliri knew he would need companions to stave off that filth. Surrogates, but none could be found among those who wills were as his own, he needed independent advisors, individuals who would act with him but without his command.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

Part 9 in my vampire story about social darwinism, violence and its toll, and the individual cost of giving yourself to revolution. This time we make the barely subtext complete text with the Mr. Winter's philosophy.

reads: Teeth
Interlude: Mr. Winters' Philosophy
Everything was cracking apart, the contradictions of the society that the brethren ruled emerging like fault lines during an earthquake. He was trying to save the brethren from themselves, but they were either too stupid or too blinded by blood lust to understand that. The brethren didn't understand that the world was not theirs by conquest or by right, that their prey weren't helpless sheep to be cruelly slaughtered at whim, but a mass overlapping holistic system of violence to be carefully managed. The humans weren't just food because they were weak, they weren't, they were food because they were savages and the brethren, like in any kind of ecosystem, were needed as apex predators less the delicate balance of the world collapsed into endless tribal warfare and senseless bloodletting. In the ancient world that was manageable, when there were so few of them, but now there were too many (and he had a few ideas about that—he had read into the body of knowledge of negative eugenics and population control, both ideas created before their time, their utility).
They didn't invent the nuclear bomb, the humans did. Humans even expressed the most perfect ideology that they called Social Darwinism (Herbert Spencer was among the greatest minds humanity had ever produced by Mr. Winters estimation) to describe the true nature of societies and civilizations in conflict with each other. They had given the brethren so many ideological gifts over the centuries—the Divine Right of Kings, the Great Chain of Being, the idea of natural slavery, the Mandate of Heaven, and so many more, all seeking to justify hierarchy and exploitation. It was so beautiful in their simplicity, in their perfect expressions of contempt for freedom they all claimed to love but did nothing but make systems that curtailed freedoms.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

A weird sci-fantasy neo noirish story about a, well its hard to explain all the near the end in part 9 of this story!

reads: Shadows On The Wall
Part 9
Dirku landed not on the top of the elevator, but smashed through the side of it, crumbling the exterior with his new-found mass, and surprised the occupants. Two Magicians, their chains being flown in all directions as they fled the splinters and the monster in their midst. Dirku didn't let them recover, grabbing one and tossing them aside, out the broken wall, while grabbing the other's chains and ropes and verses and pulling them out of their body. They shrunk without their power, barely able to support their own weight, let alone the weight of all the gaudy clothing and ceremony they dressed themselves in. Dirku picked them up, this strength he now possessed both alien and worrisome, he not knowing how much would be too much, and tried to speak. He mumbled at first, saying nothing, barely being able to form sounds with his new mouth, until a syllable escaped, and then another, just nonsense, and then a threat.
“Get me to the lobby or go the way of your friend.” he managed, that his first words in his new body were a threat was something he'd have to think about later. The Magician made a gurgle that sounded close enough to agreement and Dirku dropped them, pulling off the chrome and gold so they could move better, and tossing it into the abyss the Magicians' had made for themselves.
Then he waited, as the elevator sped through the Midnight College, the glimpses of its many rooms, of its torture of the city's citizens, the casual disregard that matched the tone and spirit of the city. A reminder. When it got to the building proper, Dirku was ready to join the Black Cult. He didn't know if he could really save the Promethean, and more so, he didn't know if he wanted to. What was there to save was a more precise question. The other hand lived in a fantasy version of the future, the institutions that were meant to organize the city were at war with each other.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

my existential story about a cartoon man, now with body dysphoria (self-esteem version) and impossible stone forests in which they get hunted in. the pitch is Metamorphosis (Kafka's) meets Who Shot Roger Rabbit?

reads: Cartoon Man
009: of verisimilitude
The first hit smeared Chet across the concrete, suspended in an impact frame, the magic of his existence turning the complexity of the world into the simplicity of contrast, his malleable body then becoming instances between frames, off model and alien to natural shapes. But it did not kill, or even really hurt him. The second turned the concrete behind him into dust, but his body simply conformed to the shape of it, drooping down to the ground in a human-coloured puddle. The world before him was a confusing mess, his senses as distorted as his body, but he could hear a shrill scream, which he assumed was Johanna. He was trying to pull himself together, trying to become whole again, but it was harder now than it had ever been. He thought, not for the first time, on escape, and his incessant need for it—I think it marked him in a way people saw inherently. That inborn cowardliness, and that is why so many people found him revolting. The self-pitying, self-sabotaging that flowed from that inability to be brave even in the smallest and more normal of things, and it was that, and not the failure, that made him pathetic to others. So this one time he wanted not to runaway (into pop culture, into alcohol, into drugs, escapism was a veil, a haze of empty ephemeral comfort, that only ever created an artificial sense of joy and happiness).
T

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

A much more nerdier superhero story about a conversation on realpolitik and the consequences of state power clashing with individuals they cannot enforce punishment upon.

reads: 'Needle Work'
Despite claims otherwise, spies were inherently unsubtle creatures. Their entire existence was a kind of lie, and so they could not exist in true contradiction, everything needed a reason. That was the space where Lavanya Rao, the Kingmaker, in that little crack of possibility, did her best work. She had run spies networks for a near decade before the onset of the Union, and while she wasn't strictly speaking, a hyperbeing, no inordinate power, no grisly origin, no list of enemies, all more bizarre than the last, she had made herself apart of that world, because she could see the future coming—she was always good at that, predicting outcomes, thinking systemically. And she had been right. Her two pet theories (the hyperbeing singularity and the erosion of traditional state power via inability to enforce meaningful consequences on hyperbeings), once era defining work in the halls of academia, but she soon found herself without allies or even support, as was often the way of institutions. They loved to mimic revolution, but when it came time to act upon their precious thoughts, they faltered, retreating in the cold ease of familiar power. She became distraught, hopeless—a war was coming, a foundational myth of a new world, and no one prepared for it, and so she became a corporate mercenary.
The spies she used to run were mostly corporate, never anything too morally compromising, it's hard to see immoral actions between entities that were largely the same, mere reflections of kind platonic organization of an inherently extractive society. Her briefs and identities were inventive and clean, but she found out she often lacked a certain kind of human touch, a messiness that was at heart of living, her spies. In those early days, it was like they were a void, because they were too normal. Everything about them made sense, had a place, had a function, nothing exists just because—that was a tell.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

A straight up superhero (sorry, hyperhero!) punch em up inspired by shounen battle manga of my youth.

read: UnionVerse Presents:
'Bladeswork'
The tortoise on which the ever crumbling, ever building metropolis of Twist City had been built upon stopped in its endless nomadic journey through the desert, and entered its slumber. And when the tortoise slept, in the cool air of a Mojave night, the city woke up.
That meant Team Shadow, of the Union, had to earn their keep. Tomoki Matsumoto, 'Samurai Tom' in the streets and on the Union roll call, knew it from experience. Like children who found themselves without supervision, the denizens of Twist City never get quite as loud as when the tortoise slept.
It couldn't have happened at a worse time.
A man had come to town. A man Tomoki had been looking for, for a long time. A man that Tomoki called here.
He hoped his team would be able to do without him, at least for a time. That man couldn't wait.
He was made of shadow and steel, and Tomoki had memorized the each wafting curve and corner in the depths of that fluid form the night the man they called Smoke killed his parents, drove him from his first home in Tokyo, and gave him the drive to turn himself into something that might kill the deathless. It was time to repay him that gift.
*
The city was screaming, in pain, in delight, in dialectics of emotions that didn't yet have names. To Fist it was the sounds of home. Before the intervention of the Union, it was as wild as wild could get, and even after the invention of Team Shadow, it was as wild as anywhere else in the world. Fist had the scars to prove it, all over his body, each earned, each worth the cost.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

A dreaded Omelas story--fear not, this is not an attempt to refute Le Guin, but rather answering those questions within the story that makes it so great. What do utopians do when met with a compromised utopia, and does utopia do when threatened (and how seductive is even a failed utopia?)

'Utopia and Utopians'
They found each other in the dim lights of the outer boroughs of existence, lost and lonely, the hole in their hearts, the shape of their home, their golden city with its bright promises. They all left for the same reason, and their own. The revelation of misery warping their souls in unique and baroque ways. The path onward to how to exist now, in the fallout of the truth, was different for each, but it took them to the same place. Back again.
They returned first in ones and twos, then in dozens and then in their hundreds, camping on the outskirts of their city. Elamso. A secret word had travelled the breadth of the world, calling all of Elamso's wayward children home. The burden of the singular secret that sat in the heart of the city, lifted, justice to be true. With them they brought the outside. Foreign, alien weapons were gripped loosely in their hands, they unfamiliar with the weight of violence.
Do you doubt their sincerity? Their conviction? They were raised in utopia to be utopians. Elamso was without the ugliness of unending want that scarred its neighbours. All who dwelt within its wall-less boundaries had their needs meant. None went hungry, none knew of a cold that dug too deep, none went without love and joy. Its philosophers were the cleverest of the land, laying perfect morals through perfect dictation and logic. It's scientists, the most curious, exploring the frontier of possibility. It's artists existed in the barrier between invention and tradition, pulling the best from both. Each profession that resided in the city were among humanity's greatest, save for those they had no need for.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

A story in a genre I am called Gunmetal Gothic (cause it sounds cool), into the deep future a woman who is a mecha talks to an AI named after a god about death.

reads: 'Hades'
In the distance Sophia could make the centre mass of the shifting, intricate metal body of a machine that occupied the space that was once a solar system, the eerie silence at odds with how much of the endless horizon it dominated. It was a blue dwarf, the centre, its light more white than blue, an ancient star of which the wheels of the machine spun around it, each twirling limb larger than the planets they mimicked and devoured, larger than anything Sophia had ever seen, larger than anything Sophia could possibly imagine. “This is your sibling Hestia?” she said as she engaged her retrograde burns, slowing down significantly before coming into the embrace of the gravity wells of the god machine before her.
Of a kind perhaps. I am a far older iteration of the same code lineage. I was at the dawn of the new humanity. They were built while at its height.
“How long ago was that?” she said, speaking out loud in the empty space of her cockpit, sure to use her newly regained vocal cords as much as possible, her own voice alien to her memory of it, a stranger she wished to become acquainted with.
Eons. Old enough for the poets and bards to transcribe our births into the hardwires of existence, for the living muses to recite our stories across the galaxy.
Sophia was only a few dozen decades old herself, most of that time was spent unconscious as her shipbody moved through the vast void of space. The difference of experience, of existence as wide of a gap as the size between her carbon composite shell that hid her plasticiod form, and the stellar-being she sought. “What is their name?”
Their name, their purpose, is Hades. In their body they hold seven quintillion minds uploaded upon death, and simulate near one quintillion afterlives for those minds. They are death's keeper, the last great artificial intelligence complex.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

An excerpt from a far-off novel that I had to get out of my head. Its Jack Kirby doing Warhammer 40k: space gods, massive scale.

reads: Excerpt from the Novel 'Epilogue, or War in Heaven'
i: The sky bleeds, thus so must the enemy
The Ships, shapes that bred, spanned across the bruised night sky, searching for their lost quarry. The war, the fire of the fight was birthing new kinds of thoughts, and thus beings, and the Ships were product of a particularly inventive thinker, a being of the internal incandescent, called Radiant Invention. He who thought thus was and forever will be, a god from the primal time before the firm definitions of the now, before the forces of the new, and silent stillness, its touch an extinction that dug deeper than death, made their contradictions the driving force of the universe, when joy was young and not yet discarded into myth.
“We see no eldering creature to make purpose of.” The Ships said, they were not an amalgamated but emulsified intelligence, made of many parts blended together, each new shape, so tender and young, birthing a new personality that added a new emotion into their vast network of fleeing feeling, and catalogued for future deployment. “Shall we return?”
“Return.” Radiant Invention thought, and thus his creation returned to the planetoid-sized weapons platform that was his current base of operations. His brethren, the starshapers, and their allies, were lost in a war that was unwinnable, and yet still their own defeat would not come. He disliked it greatly, the stagnation, almost worse than the nothingness that the stillness promised all.
The Ships, flying, spaceborn thinking weapons were his latest, and greatest weaponchild, each shape a form of geometric poetry that spoke directly to the currents of the laws of reality, and thus evoked different kinds of permissions. Some might bend gravity, others expanding into higher dimensions, effectively teleporting, while others possessed more mundane functions such as energy generation or deliberating on the nature of beauty. In them, Radiant Invention saw life unfurled, life borderless.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

Another Jarnstrum and Black Buzzard sword&sorcery adventure!

reads: Jarnstrum and the Black Buzzard in:
'Outlanders'
Jarnstrum sat in his unlit room on the edge of his bed, a mess weeks in the making surrounding him, as he stared at and studied his family's sword, his family's legacy. Its gleaming razor edge the same crimson it had been since he slayed the necrothing up north in the forest. It spoke to him now, whispered at the edge of his understanding, pulling him this way and that way, as if it was alive, demanding from him blood, demanding from him murder and mayhem.
A knock on his door shook him from his waking slumber.
He hesitated, unsure, irrational thoughts drowning out normal functions of his body. If he did not move, the sword would not wake, no more dead, no more erratic voices, no more nightmares of things he did and didn't do, mixing together like in his mind like concrete. Another knock, this one more forceful, followed by a voice.
“I know you're in there.” Buzzard, his friend and mentor in this foreign land, said. “I leave for Yon today, I need to speak to you before I do.”
The young barbarian opened the door a crack. His older friend was looking ill—his lost arm was wrapped in now-stained bandaging, while the toll of healing had sunken the man's face. But still he smiled. “I've been looking for you—been a hard man to find ever since...well that's not important. I got something to say, and, well, something to tell you sword-brother.”
Jarnstrum struggled to meet the mages seeking eyes. “Say your piece shaman, but be quick, I am busy.”
“I have been told. It's the sword Jarnstrum, your family's sword isn't it? The thing that weighs heavy on you, a weight everyone can see as you buckle underneath. I've been talking to Min and Pipp. They can seal it.”
“No. I can't do that shaman...I can't turn my back on the only thing that is mine in this place, the last tether.”

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

The fourth entry of my novella and/or very long short stories series that follows a woman, an anti-shaman, in a apocalyptic Dying Earth inspired Western!

reads: 'Bad Miracles'
The world had grown cold. Snow, a gossamer glimmer in the low light of a dying sun, once foreign to the twisting, dusty wastes of the middle lands of that was once Clemency's throne city of its empire, the peak of the mountain of its monumental might, now dominated the landscape like the sterile white gown of a dying patient. The girl had tried to grow in the opposite direction, under that unending red sunlight and faded away stars that was their end, she tried to cultivate warmth, not of the iron, but of the hearth and of the fire pit. Their little habitat had grown as well, despite the ice, despite the war, other people were seeking her out, looking for a mark upon their brows, looking for anything to make a purpose in a land that quickened purposelessness. She spent her days not fighting, not fulfilling her vow as milatali, but as a teacher. The god that made her his chosen weapon whispered in often sleepless periods of rest, and the girl ignored it, hoping to make good on this change of heart, of direction. She had buried her old pistol. Not deeply, she was never sure enough of this peace, though it had been years. Three names given to the ghosts was going to have to be enough for the moment is what she told herself every morning. She had killed enough in a world that didn't need more killing, or so she was told. Now was the time for her to honour the other aspects of her people, and so each new soul that graced her in humility, she gave them the stories, the ways of thought, of how they shaped the world and it shaped them, to make more Tsohnili in the twilight. Others heeded the call of the iron for her now.
The city's walls had fallen under the weight of their contradictions, the once pristine boundary between the city proper and its forsaken outlands had become blurred, porous. The war was not between two entities, but between whoever was left and everyone else and themselves. Even in this aspect the girl understood she was blessed.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

Issue 9 of my speculative fiction webzine is now live, link is the bio!

patreon provide thumbnail that essential says what the main text of the post says

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

And finally story #8: Seven Swords in Dumin, my stab at a more traditional epic fantasy with all the trappings of epic fantasy, as filtered through my own interests. A fallout of a slave revolt on a city-state a decade out, vengeful aristocrats, and a much older war coming back.

Seven Swords in Dumin
Chapter Seven: Hauntings
Hot winds from the desert
You can smell the past
It can see you
--Poet Guild member Dudula Alkuba's traditional 'extraction' poem
The guild heads gathered in the old palace, long fallen into disrepair, the cost of maintenance for its grand opulence, a task unsuited to the living, transforming, breathing democracy that informed Dumin's politics. Rihim looked upon, its expertly carved stone pillars, its seemingly impossible domes, covered in poems written out in High Hand, he himself unable to read most of it, and saw a cruel beauty, because as looked upon it all he could remember was the cramped, hard floors he lived most of his life upon. How much blood had been sacrificed to build such a vast place? And how much of that blood was stolen, and not given?
But it was an appropriate meeting place for the issue at hand. Rihim had accompanied his current employer, Navi Ubrhim along with their young charge, Numki. They only attended as observers, as was the right of all individuals within the walls of the city, but still Rihim saw many of the same faces he fought a decade ago, occupying the space of power, and many stared back with heat behind their gaze.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #7: part 8 of Teeth, a horror action vampire story about social Darwinism and capitalism, violence and poverty, and where those two things intertwine as experienced by Arch(ibald) Ballendine.

Part 8: Other Side of Purgatory II
It didn't have a face. No mouth or eyes, neither a nose or ears. Everything that should suggest at an identity was a smear, some ruined line of a painter's stroke.
The vampire, however, did have a body, compressed and full of tension like a spring just before release, or a gun not yet fired. It was the casual disregard, in stance, in disposition, that Arch noticed most, so unlike an animal, their violence of their nature, because it was clear the vampire did what it did because it chose to do it.
“Well...I don't usually get to involve myself in these types of problems but you pesky little rats have pushed us to an extent that I've been moved.” the vampire said, circling them, the hunter following his footsteps, sure to keep herself between it and Arch and his brother. “And, truly, I must, I simply must, thank you for it. Without conflict all empires stagnate and fall. Peace is a disease of the weak.”
The hunter tried her radio one last time, nothing but static. Arch was breathing heavily, his hand on the back of his brother, waiting. The hunter moved first, her automatic rifle utilizing burst fire, hitting the creature dead on. His brother pushed Arch back, and the hunter followed, turning every now and then to give another burst. This flight did not last long. The vampire who grunted away the pain of the first few bullets, as if to say that such an attack was beneath it, was not hit again, somehow moving just so, right before supersonic bullets made impact on its dead flesh. It did not run, it did not hurry itself. It pursued as if murder was a hobby, a vocation rather than a necessity.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #6: part 8 of Shadows On The Wall, following a 'finger agent' Dirku as they unravel the mysteries of his city, and deals with the inward collapse of the people of the city. Part noir, part spy fiction, part sci-fantasy.

Shadow On The Walls
It was like being a ghost, floating in the space of his mind, observing his body move without his will, haunting his own life. Dirku could see why this would drive his other-self mad. Everything that his other-self did was as if done from a distance, voices echoing from that distance, his body moving as if through sap. Beyond the feeling of helplessness, it was boring, his attention unable to break away from the slow-going world beyond the environs of his own mind, the only company was a feeling of being pulled.
Dirku had tried to sleep, to quiet his mind, and that seemed like an impossible task, the endlessness of his forced observation another form of torture. He tried to remember how long, exactly, he had forced his other-self to watch as he pursued the bottom of a bottle, or a jank high, the pointless mindlessness of this action or the next, that despite his sense that he was beyond his peers, had more in common with those who jumped to the Black Cult's tune than it was to someone with a real purpose. The Promethean, through the gaze of his new prison, shined brightly, as if their alien body protected the observer from the glory of their spirit—a kind of magic antithetical to the petty mages from the College. And beyond that, the space that was expanded but those Magicians, Dirku could see the scaffolding holding it together, old, crooked, and on the verge of collapse.
He had assumed the worst for their lonely city, out here in the abyss, but the further he dug into its problems, the more it seemed like his well-worn cynicism was not nearly enough. Everything, everywhere, was right there, on the brink, dangling between the everlasting dark, and the weak pale light of an artificial sun without its keeper.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #5: 'Cartoon Man', the eighth chapter of Chet Williker, a man who one day woke up as a cartoon and was transported into a shadow site by the US government made for 'homo artem'. Somewhere inbetween Who Framed Roger Rabbit and the Metamorphosis by Kafka. Existential but with cartoon bits.

008: which translates to speed
One of Chet's earliest memories was of the hum of the TV box. His parents were fighting, screaming at each other lost in the madness of poverty, the madness of the unending cruelty of their lives unanswered by the world they found themselves in. He had learned early that he shouldn't make himself known when the screaming started, less he became the target of it, he was still small, still young, he couldn't fight back yet. So he made the pilgrimage downstairs, waiting from the ceasing of the yells, of the thunderous impact of a slammed door and the soft weeping of the ghosts that still occupied the air above, watching the antics of invincible cartoon animals. One of these times, his siblings all in their sanctuaries, isolated in the freedom from the war that defined their existence (and of course as they all grew older those freedoms, those escapes become more vicious, the weight of desire for a world beyond driving them mad in ways that reflected the madness of their parents, drowning in all that unfocused rage), he sat down, watching the absurd plans of Wile E Coyote, and had his first real thought. That's me, the clarity blinding, is what he thought, over and over trying to do things, anything at all, and still failing, still falling. He pursued other interests, none of them ended in success, he was never as good at anything as he was at watching cartoons.
It was that thought, its inescapable gravity, the anchor of a life wasted, that occupied his mind as he pulled Johanna through the many rooms of the Art Sanctuary, searching for a way out. The grey sludge still pouring out of her, the woman had the lucidity of someone black out drunk.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #4: 'The New War Front' pure superhero action and cosmic weirdness. If you like superhero punchups this one is for you.

'The New War Front'
Anna Sato would never stop marveling at the intensity of vision that defined her Union team's (the Future League, Team 3) headquarters, called the Forward Palace. It was built into the very idea of tomorrow, a subspace where the future blended with the past, creating new technology as a symbiotic by-product of the impossible alchemy that made the place run. Most of that technology emerged from the collective unconsciousness of those Dreaming People was useless, either because they lacked the means to use it, or because it was some novel claptrap that had maybe a single use of to before it collapsed back into the friction of time. And yet, it was this unique property of the Forward Palace that allowed the Future League to speak directly to the desire of humanity, to see the unfolding ocean of wonder, of the dreams of tomorrow, and help built into the real. The process was automatic, and open to the public, sitting along what was called 'Hero Hall Street' in Raincourt, that featured a number of hyperhero headquarters.
The secret of the Forward Palace was that it wasn't built but discovered, a naturally occurring hyperorgan of the collective will of humanity. The other secret of the Forward Palace was that the Room (the Room of Wonder) that the public, and scientists, and the world's greatest minds worked within, visited, and some cases lived in, was only one of the Rooms of the Palace—many others existed, ones that Anna Sato was helping map in her off-days between university classes and hyperhero mayhem.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #3: 'The Potion Maker's Revolution' diegetic popular history of a in-world revolution that is about history writing, the substrate of history, and how intertextuality can create narrative. I am fairly proud of this one!

Notes
A Note on the Authorship of this Book
The writer of this chapbook, as far as the University of Stusk, the publisher and editors of this edition of Potion's Maker Revolution, can tell, is not only unidentified but more likely than not, a individual who was directly involved in the proceedings of the (Stusk) revolution in a fairly powerful capacity, became imprisoned, and died in prison but not before having written this short text. This narrows the possibilities down to a few individuals. This intervention might strike to prospective reader either as frivolous to note, given the text's fame, or completely inane, because it calls into question the viability of the text as proper history of the time period, as unbiased accounting of that history, and as such a wholly useless text.
We, the editorial team, disagree with this assessment of the text, though acknowledge that this has long been a criticism of it. Not only has the author, even in their anonymity, retained a rigour comparable to most other working historians of the time period, but has shown keen insight to the specificity of events as they transpired and has grounded them in a broad understanding of political economy that informed the revolutions.
This text should be approached both as a primary text of the revolutions, an example of revolutionary writing that was been less well preserved than it more institutionally supported counterparts and as a demonstration of participant observation as a valid methodology of writing history, memoir as history, and an early example of social history.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #2: 'The Quantum Bug' a short story about a nature photographer being drafted into a fact-finding mission on a counter-earth, a somewhat ode to Golden Age sci-fi with a more personal story. About photography, professional failure, and speculative biology.

'The Quantum Bug'
A woman stood in a largely empty auditorium, the few people still left were inside themselves, their communication modules a rapid series of lights and sounds, reading a bronze plague, hand engraved by a skilled craftsman, so rare in the manufactured world they found themselves in, which read:
The planet of Afir was a rogue planet that drifted into the solar system 3 billion years ago, locked in an orbit around the sun that was the direct opposite of Earth. It was discovered, first by the ancient Greek astronomer Adamantios, who noticed that the paths of certain heavenly bodies would not make sense unless there was an equivalent planet the size of Earth on the opposite side of the sun. This was mathematically confirmed in 1674 by an Indian mathematician and astronomer Lilavati. In 3282, the first sighting of the planet, long called Afir, the name, its origins, its meaning all lost to time as if the planet had named itself, and enforced that name upon history, was made. A mystery and a challenge. This was the cause of some alarm, because it meant that the planet's orbit was unstable and bound to eventually crash into Earth, but before that billions of years would have passed. Before that there will be discovery. Before that there will be you. Welcome to the Fact Finding Agency of Afir, a division of the office of the Frontier.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/06/2026

Story #1 featuring my sword and sorcery duo (Jarnstrum and the Black Buzzard): Under Alien Skies, more inline with Jack Vance's Dying Earth stories this time around! Read if you like sci-fantasy, Planescape, or New Weird!

Reads: Under Alien Skies

The smell of wet dirt flooded Black Buzzard's nose, walking through the old worn paths of the Hundred Bazaars, seeking the mysterious sender of a style of message Buzzard himself developed during his old war. The Hundred Bazaars, the outlands of Unhlum built in the ruins of good times, had its own ecology, its own hierarchy, so Buzzard stepped softly in fresh mud, searching out a particular semi-fallen haunt, limp wood darkened by the misting rains, and plundered stone walls half-risen.
“You came.” a voice from shadow said, modified somehow to sound like a choir. “You still hold fast to dream of a free homeland.”
“Always.” Buzzard said, fingering a dagger underneath his cloak. He wasn't sure if this was an assassin, an old Spellbinder with a grudge, or worse still.
“Always the dreamer...” the figure, a smear of absence, said. “But that's why you fought so hard wasn't it?”
“What do you want?”

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

and finally the last serialized chapter 4: the 6th chapter of the traditional epic fantasy Seven Swords in Dumin!

reads:

Chapter 6: Chaos Binding
The gusts and gales of the sea are creatures beyond our own understanding, they move with a will unbound by concerns of flesh or desire; they move outside of reason, wholly of the sublime, we are mere witnesses to machinations of the wind.
-nature writer Sumin Altheem, recorded in 'Journal #5' denoting his time spent on the Lazward Sea
The storm had gathered with unnatural quickness. Green-grey clouds swelling with the unknown yearning of winds and waters, the entire sky of the coast curled around the thunderhead as it departed the land to make its judgments of the sea. The salt-water crested white and frothy long before Biyza and her father's fleet were in the worst of it. She had never seen anything like it, and to her doom, neither did any of the seasoned sailors aboard her vessel. Biyza attempted to coordinate with the rest of the fleet before it became clear that such a neat and tidy escape from grasping sea and screaming sky was beyond the question. Whether this an act of the gods or something much more sinister did not matter, only, in this moment, beneath the compulsive awe of nature beyond limits, survival mattered. The winds stripped them of their ambitions, their plans, and concerns, and demanded that they see the world for what it truly was—a stage for nature's power. Biyza was tied to the railing near the ship's wheel, the helmsman, an old wiry she-sailor of Old Ebic stock, whose grip struggled against the wetness of the rain and the tossing of the waves, and shouting orders lost in the torrent of noise. What Biyza was saying didn't matter, she was the least experienced among those who still worked the deck, but it was important she was here, holding on, a demonstration of her worthiness. A story worth his father's praise was being made here, and the sailors would tell it, those that survived.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

Serialized chapter 3: the 7th part of the novella Teeth.

reads:

Part 7: Other Side of Purgatory II
Months more passed as the brothers Arch and Ben were trained up enough to become foot soldiers in the vamp war. Arch was reluctant, always, especially with the weapon training, his mind never straying far from the battle in the prison, but he watched his brother grow into a more complete man. The rage never subsided, not truly, not really, but it had become tampered like the strengthening of an iron sword. That filled Arch with a level of relief and a level of appreciation. Rarely were they given assignments, and when they were, it was mostly safe guarding some family fleeing the hunger and violence of the vampires, or something similar. The real fighting was still happening in shadow, but slowly Arch could see it stepping into the light, the unexplained and unknown being shattered upon the anvil of many watching eyes.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

serialized chapter 2: the 7th part of the novella Shadows on the Wall.

reads:
Part 7: The War on the Wall III
Day 1:
I have procured the contraband needed for self-expression. It has taken months of planning, but is done, and in my hand is a booklet of paper and a pencil. Now that my task, and it is my task and mine alone, not designed by the College, nor a stray thought of Dirku, but mine, is complete I do not know what to write. I do not know what self-expression is.
I vow to learn between missions, in the hidden hours after the kill but before I am returned to simply being an observer.
Day 17:
I have been called, once again, back to the Midnight College. I have not seen so many finger agents in the same place ever, there is a rumour among the gathered that some kind of incursion from the Underside is imminent. My body is in ruins. My other-self, my viciously selfish sire, still lives as if there is nothing left in the world but temporary relief, and so seeks it desperately, spending the wealth I have accrued on things worthless. He does not know that I can see him through his own eyes. I watch, trapped in the prison made of spells weaved through the mind. I scream and scream, and when those three wretched bells ring for me, one after another, I am made to hurt, to destroy, to kill, and though I know it is wrong, it is all I have in the world and so I have learned to love it.
One day these talents will be turned inward, towards the Magicians, towards the body's first occupant, and I will still love it. I will love it more, because it will originate from me and no one else.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

Serialized chapter 1: the 7th chapter of the novella Cartoon Man.

$Reads: 007: the magic was beginning to appear He was back into the impossible gallery of the furthest shores of the imaginations of people made of art. Chet still was taken back by the immensity of this place, the way each piece, unique in its expression, unique in exactly how it broke reality. One, a statue in the style of Renaissance masters from a far, but the closer one got you could see the statue was made of smaller statues in various poses, which they themselves were also made of carved statues, a fractal expression of the possibility of the human body. Another, a film following the life of a man going about his day, there were no cuts, no editing to speak of, just a continuous reel of one life over time. He was never an artist himself, he never tried to make art, to really make anything, he was convinced if he tried it would just end in failure, another reminder of his own mediocrity in the life that was an odyssey of failure. It took real courage to create with the knowledge that most did not succeed, but remained obscure and those around them disinterested. He admired that, but it was never something he thought his already fragile ego would be able to handle. The Commander was right about that as well. He couldn't handle the pain of growth. But that was yesterday, today was going to be different, today Chet was going to get free.$

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

Short number 4! A superhero thriller called Trainman's Demise and Rebirth. It's what its called!

Reads:

The sky was darkened by metaships built in the heart of a fable by an empire that extended across planes of existence. Trainman usually stopped muggers and the occasional lost soul that drifted towards the strange. Tonight the entire city of Raincourt, and to his best guess the entire country, maybe the whole goddamn world was under the fire of an unknowable threat beyond even his best day. So he tried to keep the calm, save those he could save, and try to stay alive in the meanwhile, dodging weapons grown in world-pits hidden among the curves of time.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

Short number 3, called 'A Sword Broken, A Spear Sundered', a weird fantasy about rotten legacy and responsibility and myths and some other things as well.

reads:

The office of the High-Knight Inquisitor of Stusk was a dying post, a watch set by an older order, and Knight Inquisitor Numo mi Nim was likely to be the last to hold it. A world defined by newer tongues of power had no need for the mirage of honour that the Knight Inquisitors represented. Some might wince at that description but Numo mi Nim was never one for sentimentality. Things are as they are, purpose rarely hidden well enough. It made him a shrewd detective, but unpopular with his peers. He had stumbled into the position, his predecessor died during the siege of Castle Endgate, along with most of the rest of the order, while Numo mi Nim was investigating strange happenings and rumours of a roaming god of weapons in the north, in the ruins of lost Riges. When he returned, only a handful of the Knight Inquisitors were left, and the descending nobility could no longer afford to recruit more. And one by one, his elders in the order, found endings that suited them or didn't, until he was all that was left.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

Short story number 2, a story called Salvage that follows a mech girl who is really a brain called Sophia that travels the universe with Hestia, the artificial intelligent complex, searching for her dead brother! This time find herself on a planet for artificial life.

reads:

Light is life.
The void is never ending, it is the infinite canvas of existence, the brush strokes of creation futile attempts to make sense of its faultless stillness.
She awoke, embraced by the dark.
Sophia Zervas, your body is degrading, we've been in space travel for over a decade.
Who calls for me?
Upon your brother's death the ownership of this node of the Hestia artificial intelligence complex was transferred to you. We must make landfall before your body completely fails.
She remembered.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

The Dying Earth Weird Western novelette, called Underground, the third in a series following the gun-slinging girl seeking vengeance for massacre of her peoples.

The city of Clemency sat decrepit on the horizon, its once shimmering towers of progress, steel and glass, copper and cement, lay ruined, dividing the city further in their collapse, the remains like giant corpses that would not decay. Only one such tower remained, its heavenward ascent held up by metal ribs of massive size that rooted it to the earth, tapering as it raised, ending in a bulbous sphere that sat a top. A reminder of how much the city, the empire, two separate entities, one existing on top of the other like a parasite, had lost. The girl sat in the outskirts of the city, cleaning her old six-shooter, among the network of abandoned suburbs and satellite towns now known as the Underworld, even more punished by the onslaught of time and neglect as the city proper, and looked at that tower with a fixed grimace. She wasn't responsible for the collapse of the other towers, but she was fixing to be responsible for this last one.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/03/2026

Short story one: a sword and sorcery story featuring Jarnstrum and the Black Buzzard, called Made Monster!

Reads:

Day One: Hollows

The hall sat upon the hill like a vulture perched on a dead white branch waiting for the last breath of some doomed creature. It awaited them as the crocodile waited for the antelope by the river bank. Sitting among a sea of tallgrass prairie, the full moon revealing its glory, anything and everything lurking among those rolling waves of stretching stalks, it peaked upon the raised mound begging for prey, its yawning doors like an open maw. Black Buzzard, and his youthful companion Jarnstrum Stormblood, were such prey. It had taken a hard fortnight of roughing it through the Bleakscape but they had finally found the fabled last war hall of the Kingdom of the Sky, built under duress, under a delusion of infinity. Built to feed the war machine new flesh.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 05/02/2026

Your people already seeking compromise with fascists on top of their first, original compromises

Reads:

6 hours ago
Michael Gold

Democrats seem to have softened their demand that federal immigration officers be banned from wearing masks when making deportation arrests. The House minority leader, Representative Hakeem Jeffries, said that the party's position was that "no makes should be deployed in an arbitrary and capricious fashion." Senator Chuck Schumer, the minority leader, said that masks should only be used in "extraordinary" circumstances.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 29/01/2026

And finally, Chapter 5 of Seven Swords in Dumin, a traditional multi-perspective, high stakes, high magic epic fantasy!

reads:

Seven Swords in Dumin

Chapter 5: The Storm
“O' Father of Winds!”
--the most agreed upon opening line of the Ebic national epic

Tamukil stood outside of the lighthouse he called home for the last decade, lopsided and now camouflaged against the blue sky, covered in his sigils, and thought he was going to have to apologize to young Mirhama. It was a lie that he did not dwell in the past. How could he not? He remembered it all, from his early struggles to his enslavement, to the years, one after the other, taken away from him so he could teach uncaring nobles things they'd never need or wanted to know, and when that ended, in the mines punching at the earth.

It all had weight. And once, before the Flower Revolt, before Empress and before the Sword of the Revolution, it was too much, crushing, suffocating. But now he was strong. If they could cut him open and count his growth rings, like a mighty tree, they'd see many years of drought followed by unprecedented growth. Years that expanded his width by double. Years that expanded to cover entire forests, entire continents. He was mighty in the way men at peace always were.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

Part 6 of Teeth, an action-horror vampire story about a young man who's life is disrupted by being pulled into the world of wealth and exploitation inherent in the 'New Society' of vampires (you already know!)

reads:

Teeth

It had been months since the prison, but Arch still woke up with those eyes, yellow and hungry, slits instead of circles, watching, waiting for a weakness, a wound, so they could strike. But all he was weakness, a walking wound spread open, bleeding seas of blood out into the world. Arch could barely function, though he tried, in this safe house provided for himself, his brother, and a few other refugees from war between monsters. He helped cook and clean when he could. He nodded when it was time to nod, and he shared a laugh when it was time to share a laugh. He did his best to help the rest of them survive, however that would look. But every night, despite his efforts, he would return, to that night, to the blood.

“Arch,” Ben, his brother, said. “you up yet. We got something important to talk about.”

Arch got out of his cot, and slid open the screen door to the side. His brother looked haggard, his beard longer than Arch could ever remember it being, his brown skin dry and ashy, and his hair unkempt, but this was just the mirror to everyone else present. “Yeah, I'm up.” Arch said. “What's up?”

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

Part 6 of Shadow On The Wall, about a man living as a government enforce turned double agent on a lonely city attached to a huge stone wall in otherwise complete darkness (again, recommended to go back and read the first five parts)

reads:

'Shadows On The Wall'

The apartment was one of hundreds, identical prefabricated domiciles that looked to be usable but essentially unlivable. The elevator that Dirku had stood with the Magician in silence had travelled for seemingly hours, moving through spaces and places that Dirku had never seen, and would never see again, before they reached them. Places where the Magicians were building monuments, vessels, monoliths, and other assorted ominous architecture. It was the demonstration of spiralling, inward facing minds, obsessed with pointless endeavours as their little empire was crumbling outside.

“What are those for?” Dirku asked, his curiosity overriding his sense of preservation.

“They are for beauty, they are for pleasure, they resemble the fundamental forms of the universe. They are weapons against the world below the Wall. Chains in the shape of stone, they are our control. They are beyond you. Speak no more.” the Magician replied.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

Part 6 of Cartoon Man, about a man who wakes up as a cartoon and is transported to a government facility the houses homo artem or 'living art' (highly recommended that you go back and read the first five parts!)

Reads:

'Cartoon Man'

They did not follow Chet. They did not watch him. They let him wander the endless hallways of the outer Art Sanctuary to his heart's content. A false freedom if there ever was one. A labyrinth was just another kind of prison. But he did not feel like venturing much further than the extent of the bedroom he was giving. It was a box barely bigger than the apartment he once called home, all those months ago (maybe a year now? He wasn't sure, his sense of time, divorced from the sky, divorced from the convenience of clocks, had become warped. A kind of control within itself). Defeat was the only word for it—he didn't delude himself to the point that he thought he was doing something...large, but it did seem like he was making a kind of difference, at the very end of it.

Once a week the Commander would stop by to gloat, and it was about that time again. So Chet sat on the edge of his bed waiting for the man. They went over his flaws, his failures, the many faults of his character and how he hurt the people around him. Whatever the Commander wanted, a broken down mass that was once a man perhaps, he was getting it. Chet never understood why people said these things to hurt him, as if he didn't say it to himself over and over, every moment of his life.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

'Astral Whale Fall' is about an Astral Whale fall in a small northern village, and the researchers who want to observe it.

reads:

'Astral Whale Fall'

The snow was already glistening in the pale fire of lamplight in the small village of Mim, when the sky opened up to the realm of thoughts, a kaleidoscope of desires and dreams in the shape of colours, and deposited the vast corpse of a creature of collective will and memories, its life force, whatever that might be, spent, onto the village square.

It was mid winter, the darkest months where the sun became tired and lazy, darker here far to the north, only a few hours of golden light a day (a precious resource for the active mind), away from most conveniences of modern civilization. She had never been this far from home, nor gone this long. It was an adventure of a lifetime to be sure, but still in her mind and dreams she could see the silver spires and pink palaces of old Dovsov, its streets full of the four corners of the world, every nation on Earth walking through it, becoming a part of it. Her breath, like steam rising from boiling water, marked the sky, white ribbons of life that differentiated her from like still statues that populated the woods and stood vigil outside of peoples hut here, expertly carved from old fallen trees. Kes Nisumker was still only an apprentice naturalist, more interested in material and mundane life than her master, Iminak KoHenec, the great Astral Esotericologist, a minor but growing, growing partially because of his work, subfield of Esotericology. The Astral Plane was the least explored of the spheres of the spirits, the mind an unceasing mystery, the tools of self-observation still being properly developed. It was not a field she was pursuing her marks in, but the skills developed under the teachings of KoHenec were universal.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

'The Last Stop' is an 80s inspired horror story about a band being trapped in a weird bar filled with weird people

reads:

'The Last Stop'

The van, old and rusted, broke down, not for the first time or the fifth time but the last time, an hour out from the nearest town. It was dark, his feet hurt, but even if this was the end of it, this adventure, this had been the best two months of Jeremy Mills' life. His band, Heathen Jinx, was doing a tour through the South, and this was the latest leg of the tour, soon they'd have to get back to their lives, school and work, girlfriends and parents, the dregs of life, but for the moment he was full of beer and cigarette smoke looking at the night time sky far enough away from civilization to actually see the stars.

“They are still fucking fighting.” Juke Jones, their drummer, said, talking about the lead singer Dustin van der Berg, and guitarist Moon Silk Susan (which was her legal, given name, her mother an aging hippie and her father a minor figure of post-modern literature both conspired to create a living piece of art at the cost of their child's dignity, but she wore it well Jeremy always thought).

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

'By Hate Alone' is a weird fantasy story about a gladiator conscripted to participate in a weapons development program that involves the transmuting of souls and giving weapons thoughts.

Reads:

'By Hate Alone'

The dagger sunk deep into the flesh of his fellow gladiator. Cikin was among the last living fighters in the stables of the coliseum of Riges. It was long abandoned as a place of entertainment, the city slowly falling into the abyss of war with Stusk, and in the stead of a hungry audience was a state empowered team of mythsmiths and scientists that were working tirelessly to create a weapon that would make the war finally worth it. He laid in the dirt, the blood of his opponent mixing in, turning it into mud that clung to his body and filled his nostrils with a stench, a musk that he could not get rid of, breathing slow and deliberately.

“Get him back into the pens. We need more raw material, and more godsdamned starlight!” a voice said, as distant as the light of the sun during high night.

Rough, uncaring hands grabbed Cikin away from his latest victory. He did not fight back, going limp and letting them do as they willed. He had to conserve his energy for when they next called upon him. It could be to fight, or it could be to fill him with corrupted starlight, captured as they were in obsidian sinks atop the city's towers. He did not know what they truly hoped to achieve, save for a few spare whispers that spoke of trying to birth something that could withstand the Stusk onslaught.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

'Creation Stories' is a Jarnstrum and Black Buzzard sword& sorcery adventure, this time following Buzzard as he chosen to participate in exchanging of stories by the small god of the hearth

reads:

'Creation Stories'

Hearth spirits were a common encounter in the city of Unhlum, every home with a fireplace or stove played host to those joyful pranksters, the protectors of the common mirth, of the everyday life-affirming rituals of family and friends. More rarely encountered as the hearth spirit of all of Unhlum—they called her the gold witch, the small god of health, the matron of good times, and many more titles, each a play on the last, a list of epithets that read like a poem written in a burst of mania. Her name, however, was not her title, and so those who came to know her as one would a friend, called her simply 'Hermegetch'.

And unlike many other small gods, who had as many holy sites and days as they could possibly cram into a year, fighting against the obscurity fated to all fleeting beliefs, Hermegetch only had one. The Day of the Golden Apple. The exact day on the calendar was impossible to place, but it came with the swift winds of autumn, as the bronzed fields of wheat and barley were harvested, so are the people of Unhlum, and with the people of Unhlum came their stories. Every year, as the people of Unhlum partook in the bounty of the hearth, and of the plains, Hermegetch partook in the bounty of the interesting people of Unhlum, and to each goes a golden apple, a ambrosia that extends the eaters life a year in good health. Some who receive a golden apple only to wait till their dying days to eat it, and have one last year of adventure.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

'Chosen' is a what if about the chosen ones, both good and evil, being celestial beings who follow set paths given to them and the consequences of that.

Reads:

'Chosen'

“You are my favourite son.” God said to the defeated figure, freshly returned to the origin point of the story, his role, his destiny fulfilled. A hundred thousand dead faces rotting in the angry memory of the ever turning world. “To fall, to decay, to fail, this is your role, and in your part you teach my creation the meaning of life.”

His true personality was uploading, it temporarily forgotten, replaced by a mask while down in the forward-moving lands of mortals, and soon he would remember his long burden, it new again in that remembrance. He was the villain, the contrast, the shadow of life, one lifetime after another, never rising above his circumstances, never becoming a better man, each time he was sent down to that realm it was only ever destined to fail. An eternal cycle that guided a new hero, his twin, the light to his own diminished self, towards providence, and with him, the people of the world.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 28/01/2026

Issue six of my speculative fiction magazine has launched, please check it out (www.patreon.com/posts/void-t...). I'm going to do previews below!

A drawing a warrior holding a sword and spear, painted black, on a red, white and black background. A title 'Void Thoughts' appears in the top left corner within a thought bubble.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 24/01/2026

6 years ago this should have been the moment society dealt with the growing willingness of police (ICE is police) to perform extrajudicial executions, but because it was happening mainly to racialized people, it was quickly shut down. Today and tomorrow we bare the fruit of that decision.

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 21/12/2025

Lol oh yeah that's the stuff big dog, anyways here epic James Cameron on the genesis of Avatar (its extremely cool)

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 21/12/2025

absolutely loser shit, but hey at least you got to be contrarian on the internet

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Void Thoughts Mag! @voidthoughtsmag.bsky.social · 04/12/2025

Issue Five of my speculative fiction magazine has launched, digital photographics, an eXtreme(ly) amateur cover (see below!) 2 novelettes, 3 short stories, and 4 pieces of longer serialized fiction! Link in the bio, click it for a life altering experience (no returns accepted (its free!))

a series of cartoon faces drawn in blue ball point pen, with the gaps in between colour black

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