Short Stories: "The Litany of Renewal" & "Changing Seasons"
- Jul 28
- 8 min read
Tales of pain, change, and hope – written by me
Introduction
I wrote these stories last summer, in response to interesting prompts from the submissions page of Vellum Mortis – a (would be) monthly zine publishing speculative flash fiction (stories of <1k words). My first story, "The Litany of Renewal", was accepted and published in their August 2025 issue. My second, "Changing Seasons", was accepted for their September 2025 issue. Unfortunately, they decided to put the zine on indefinite hold before that one made it to publication – not that they told me until mid-November.
That experience dampened my excitement for fiction writing for a while, but I recently wrote an entirely new story and am feeling the interest and confidence building back up again. So I wanted to share these here today and hear your thoughts, if you have any.
If you're interested in more, I've previously shared three other stories:
Class Trip (absurdist dystopian sci-fi)
Dedication (heartfelt)
Kakistocratic Oath (absurdist story for a prompt about kakistocracy)
I hope you enjoy them! Thanks for reading ❤
The Litany of Renewal
They say Sanctuary has ten thousand floors, every one uniquely dazzling and seductive. In truth it has ten thousand and one. But it is considered impolite to mention the Midden, so that over the millennia its existence has faded into myth. On ten thousand floors it is a rumoured curiosity, like the question of what might exist beyond Sanctuary’s walls – or more importantly, who was who at the previous evening’s masquerade.
On one floor, the Midden’s existence is an incontrovertible truth, one which does little to ease the existential horror steeping its inhabitants. Chief among these damned souls is Carrion, waking from fitful sleep in her worn and patched hammock. She raises a sickly pale hand to cover her mouth even before her eyes shoot open, but the ingrained motion is vestigial: she learned to suppress her waking screams many cycles ago, a rare feat of self-mastery in the Midden.
Carrion intones the litany of renewal beneath her breath as she pulls her grimy vestments over her bald head and pallid frame. Rising and walking barefoot down the narrow torchlit hall which her clergy call home, she keeps her gaze fixed studiously on the rusted floor. Whether her fellows have found the brief embrace of sleep or lie awake in terror, their privacy in this hall is sacred. At the end of the hall she pauses and takes a deep, calming breath. Repetition should make her days easier, yet somehow it never feels that way in the moment.
Centuries ago the hall’s one exit may have been a functioning mechanical door, but now comprises a jagged hole carved through the sealed metal. Learning to contort herself through it in her youth cost Carrion two fingers and left her with countless scars, so that even after decades she gives crossing the threshold her undivided attention. Only when she is safely through and taking her first steps does she notice that He is there waiting for her, a column of greasy black smoke rising above the towering piles of refuse to either side of the path.
Carrion immediately kneels before Him, wincing at the pain in her joints from the sudden movement. Not for the first time she wonders what form He takes at the center of the smoke, if any. When he speaks, his deep and rasping voice emanates from all around.
“I partake of your faith and suffering, mortal Carrion. Witness now the transubstantiation that you and your order facilitate.”
She’d greatly prefer not to watch it, miracle or otherwise, but it is ritual and His commandment. She can’t refute that feels her spiritual and emotional burden lighten as she lifts her eyes. Bits of moldering refuse nearby – some recognizably and stomach-turningly organic, others parts of objects alien to anyone in the Midden – spark and disappear in smoke before her, replaced by a basin of crystal-clear water and a bushel of bright fruits.
“Thank you, my Lord.” Carrion’s voice rasps from disuse and dehydration. “I humbly partake of your divine gift.” She drinks heavily before taking two of the round fruits He calls ‘apples’ and delightedly biting into one.
“Did you know,” she flinches when she hears Him speak again, assuming he has already departed as is custom for these unpredictable visits, “that you are the eight hundred and sixteenth of your line to hold the name Carrion?”
“Oh. Um, no, my Lord. I knew I was named for my mother and grandfather, but…”
She isn’t sure He even heard her as He continues, “And deeply devoted you have been. Perhaps uniquely so, among the millions who work and suffer in the Midden so that Sanctuary can thrive. Most raise a fist or voice in anger at some point in their lives, pointless though it will always be. But not you, nor most of your ancestors. Why?”
“I… I cannot speak for them, Lord. But I live to serve.” His silence, for seconds that turn into minutes, prods her to continue. “Perhaps I foster some hope that my faith will be rewarded in another life, or that you might at least look with favour upon my successor.” Carrion had borne no children, nor had her mother: His divinity molded life anew from the very flesh of the previous generation.
“That was supposed to be the way of it, you know.” She had never heard His tone so wistful, contemplative. “When Sanctuary was founded, it was agreed that a few hundred people from each floor would take turns working in the Midden each year, to serve their civic and spiritual duty. When they did, their family would be spared for the next generation. Communal responsibility and upkeep, for what was to be the greatest project in the history of your species.”
The smoke is billowing now, an eerie sight in the windless Midden. Carrion thinks she can see ember-like eyes flickering a meter above her.
“But as soon as the first group of volunteers had arrived, the rest of them locked the doors and threw away the key. Your people and I have been eating their waste and delivering it back to them clean and purified for thousands of years, Carrion. Does that not enrage you?”
She grits her teeth but can’t stop tears from falling. “Of course it does!” Her scream echoes and carries through the Midden.
“Good.” Suddenly a shiny metal object drops in front of her. “A man above threw away the key once more this morning, apparently believing doing so would cure his nightmares.” Was that a wink from a smoking ember eye? “Let’s help some lost souls find God, loyal Carrion.”
She finishes her apple and picks up the key, smiling for the first time in her life.
***
They say Sanctuary has ten thousand floors, every one uniquely dazzling and seductive. In truth it has but one, and none will ever forget it.
Changing Seasons
Word spreads by calving glaciers, singed whispers of moths, twinkling constellations: For the first time in centuries, there is to be a Convergence. Summer, ascendant but waning, will attend Winter at the Bohemian Palace.
Summer, alongside His heir Laurel and select retainers, arrives with the distant sun’s rays. A perk of His station, and besides, He wouldn’t be caught dead navigating the void by any other means. Even at the speed of light, the journey has taken most of a day; in addition to becoming somewhat claustrophobic towards the end.
The Bohemian Palace is rather elegant, despite the perpetual shroud of night out here beyond the Kuiper belt. The alien architecture, carved out of a rogue planet, had already seemed to be on the verge of crumbling over a millennia ago, on His last visit soon after Laurel’s birth. It might well be twice as unstable today.
Or perhaps it is only Winter that has warped and wilted. Where now are the gleaming ice sculptures, the haunting ossuaries? Though loath to admit it, He finds the silence and emptiness rather more disturbing than the discordant braying and chittering horde that had welcomed him previously.
What malignities do these cavernous shadows hold?
He is sorely tempted to banish the infernal darkness. A flick of the wrist, a muttered word and all would be visible. But it would be costly, here and now. Not only to wield Summer in the heart of Winter, but also to offend his hosts and, worst of all, to convey any sense of weakness. Not today, with victory so close at hand.
With no welcoming party, it is Laurel’s keen senses that guide Summer and His retinue through the abyssal halls to Winter’s Court – such as it is. Cold lavender light suffuses Winter’s vast throne room. And here at last are the Unseelie, diverse in all ways except for being uniformly alien to human or Seelie eyes. Are they, perhaps, also meeker and more ragged than great Summer recalls? The idea certainly serves to warm Him, whether or not it is strictly true.
As Summer enters, the thronging courtiers bow and somewhere violins begin to intone the unique melody of Convergence. He can see Winter on Her throne – but She is statue-still. Her piercing eyes, that haunted Him for decades, closed. Once more His relief is drowned away by discomfort at the unexpected.
Two figures flank Winter’s throne: the left is entirely encased in armor, such that He might have mistaken it for decoration or magical construct if not for His innate sense for living beings; the right is Winter’s Herald, a stooping half-giant who has held the position almost as long as her Queen. It is she who speaks as the violins fade.
“Welcome, Summer King, to Winter’s halls. Your season stands ascendant, in more ways than one. Many moons have now passed since your Estival Solstice, yet Summer remains almost at its apogee, and Winter at our nadir.”
The Herald clears her throat violently and gestures to her Queen.
“It now takes all Winter’s time and will to maintain even a semblance of balance! One slip and millions die, human and Sidhe alike. Countless Unseelie have committed themselves to stemming the tide of ecological collapse, while you- you…”
She stares at Summer while she catches her breath. Horror on her gnarled face at the self-satisfied smirk on His. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Summer?”
“You’ve just about said it already, although I’d have loved to hear it from Her lips,” He replied. “I’ve won.”
Silence and bewilderment suffuse the throne room as readily as the cold light.
“You what,” the crone finally gasps.
“I’ve won! Checkmate. Seelie defeats Unseelie. No more chaos, no more rivalry.” Summer laughs, addressing the alien audience. “You all can clear out. My heir Laurel will take the reins, and put Winter to bed. Comfortable Summer for all, forever.”
The crone looked ready to try and strike Him. “There is a balance to be kept, you sun-addled fool.”
Before He could reply – with fire or words, He hadn’t quite decided yet – the armored figure speaks up.
“I’ve seen enough,” a warm youthful voice proclaims as they reached up to doff their helmet, “She was right about Him.”
There, waving their golden hair free of the helmet, is Laurel. A much more vibrant Laurel, positively radiating their seasonal inheritance.
Summer can barely turn before He feels an icy blade pierce his throat. Cold insectile eyes on His Laurel’s face, all the false colour draining away as if summoned back to its rightful owner.
As His power ebbs, Winter opens Her own horrible eyes. Her rasping voice is a blizzard He can’t shut out. “Swapped in the cradle, yes. You just had to come and parade your precious heir, knowing my lack.”
He tries to talk, to beg, but the ice is in his vocal cords.
“But you are right, in a way. I do believe it is time for me to retire – or at least take a sabbatical.” Winter is old, but age is fickle amongst the Sidhe. “Luckily, we have two well-trained heirs right here. Though which will be which?”
“Perhaps a change is in order,” says the changeling heir as they remove the blade and let Summer’s life drain onto the cold floor. “Winter turned Summer is Spring, no?”
“And I shall be Autumn,” declares Laurel. “Seasons of change, in place of extremes. That we might not forget our shared kinship.”
With Winter’s blessing and Summer’s blood and the triumphant swelling of violins, the Sidhe are born anew.
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