Welcome, Warrior of Words.
Congratulations to Meghan Carozza for winning her author match. NIJA 🤍 put up a great fight, and I hope they submit again. And now, it’s time for another round in the arena.
If you ever have your own story to contribute, please don’t hesitate to post in the comments below.
Each author has replied with their unique style to the prompt above. I can’t tell which of these chilling pieces of fiction will win. Each has trained hard for this moment— So, I fully recommend you check out their SUBSTACKs from the links provided.
VOTING
The authors are ready to fight.
Now their fate rests with you, the readers.
Read both stories carefully before casting your vote. Each author has responded to the above prompt, but their interpretations may differ wildly. Consider how they approach the challenge and which story leaves you with the stronger impression.
The poll will be active for one week. May the best author win.
Daniel Fahey
Title: The Audit
There is a way to know the exact time and manner of one’s death. The process is simple, but taxing for the psyche because the most vital ingredient is the blood of an unbaptized infant, enough to fill a basin.
There are people who will sell newborns in this world. They worship other gods than the ones whose guidance we seek during the ritual; ones who bestow their gifts in little plastic bags and leave marks on the arms of their followers.
The person performing the ritual should not prolong the sacrifice, nor choose a painful manner. The original text that described the ritual details a method that involves pinning the child’s neck to the floor with a broomstick and pulling their legs until the spinal cord dislocates. One should be mindful of the death spasms, which can be quite hard to control.
This method is recommended because it maintains the physical integrity of the vessel; more or less. The head still flops when the Auditor assumes control of the body, but at that age, they flop either way.
Your story is already written. It’s in your blood and bones, your skin, your teeth. Your soul already knows the ending, but it’s not allowed to spoil it. You need an Auditor for that.
Once the basin is full and the vessel is empty, you can request a soul audit. Your penmanship needs to be perfect for the runes to work, and the body will be small and delicate. Practice if you have the resources to do so.
If the request is granted, expect a lengthy dissection of your moral character. Our fates are intertwined with our actions. The Auditor is meticulous. He will itemize and catalogue every decision you have ever made and will ever make.
He won’t just look at outcomes, but intentions as well. Every ulterior motive, every white lie, everything you tried to hide from yourself. A lifetime of sin and guilt from the mouth of a babe.
The Auditor will know when you heard your mother crying when you were nine and ignored it, and when you will cheat on your spouse on their 35th birthday.
They’ll use slurs because you do, even if it’s only in your mind. They will regale you with tales of shame and cruelty, some you may have forgotten, and some you have yet to know.
Most people go mad during this phase. Many have tried to silence the Auditor, only to find the voice migrating to their own lips instead. One man stuck an ice pick in his ear during an audit in the early 70’s. He survived the ritual only to be struck by a bus that he couldn’t hear coming.
If you make it through the audit, your fate will be revealed in the basin. You will know how you will die... but you will also know why. Few can handle the weight of that knowledge. And sleep brings no peace; their deaths play eternally in their dreams.
Jon Mountjoy
Everybody in Portales Knows Your Name
By the third time someone apologized for the passing of my mother, I stopped correcting them.
The first was a girl at Allsup’s.
“I’m sorry about your mama,” she said, sliding my coffee across the counter.
“My mother died before you were born.”
She nodded like she was listening to someone else.
“Still sorry.”
The second was an old man outside the courthouse.
“She didn’t mean to leave you.”
He kept feeding cracker crumbs to pigeons that weren’t there. The third was a boy outside the Do Drop In eating a cinnamon roll.
“I liked your dog,” he said.
“I never had a dog.”
“You wanted one when you were nine.”
He bit into a cinnamon roll and smiled at someone behind me.
That night my phone lit up. It was an Unknown Number… “You buried the butterfly behind the propane tank.”
I had forgotten… Until I hadn’t… Blue wings… Small hands.
My six-year-old grief had no language for guilt. I buried it behind the propane tank, then dug it back up two days later because I thought apologies worked backward if you meant them enough.
Then, another message arrived. “You cried when no one came looking.”
Before sunrise I drove east, past Portales, toward a place my grandfather called Hungry Land. The mesquite gave up first, then the fence posts. Even the wind seemed unwilling to cross the last stretch of caliche. An abandoned irrigation well stood alone. There was no pump, no cattle, and no birds. The dirt around it held no tracks. It was as if nothing ever arrived… Or ever left.
I looked down... There was no water… There was no bottom. Only the awful impression that I had caught something pretending not to watch me. It spoke in my father’s voice, then my wife’s, then mine… Then the voice I use when I dream.
“You have lived less of your life than you think.”
“What are you?”
Silence… Then… “I’ve known you since before you had a name.”
Cold air drifted upward. It told me everything…
…Not what happened.
…What almost happened.
The truck that almost crossed the centerline outside Clovis.
The son we almost had.
The person I almost became.
Then it told me about you… You paused there… Most people do… You think you’re reading my story.
No… I need you to keep reading. You buried yours deeper.
Not bodies… Just the parts of yourself you couldn’t bear to keep.
News Flash: Nothing forgotten disappears… It drains.
Down through memory.
Down through shame.
Down beneath whatever town taught you how to lie.
I know what you buried.
You do too.
That’s why you kept reading.
If you don’t remember me tomorrow...
I’ll know you’ve already forgotten yourself.
It's a close race! Both are tight little chillers.
Daniel earned a subscriber. He's good!