《Dry Solace》 Appreciated Furniture. A pitch black sky swallows every direction. A creature that looks like a man, with skin hugging their bones and ever shifting features, walks in this empty landscape. Every step sending small, black, ripples outward that fade just as soon as they come. From the darkness behind their head a hand slowly emerges, as if the creature is standing still, and with warmth and care caresses their cheek; it leaves just as suddenly and softly as it came, the only sign of it¡¯s affection a lack of skin and a trail of blood. There is no reaction to this, just the ripples in the void on which the creature walks, and eyes focused on the distance. The wound heals. Time flows. There is no sense of depth or distance. The only constant: the hands and nondescript faces that appear at irregular intervals. These other shades come and go, all approaching the same way and leaving their soft bruises and peeled skin along with their tender touch In the distance a small table and chair are made known. Despite being far, every detail is readily apparent. It is made out of what looks to be a dark oak, simple, and squarish, clearly leaning more towards practicality than style or comfort. Small ripples emanate from where the set touches the floor. The creature still focuses on the horizon, seemingly unaware of the furniture presenting itself in front of them. The distance between the two not decreasing no matter how much they walk. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. A faceless blur unveils itself from the dark in front of the creature, a mouth forms itself on it¡¯s surface, kissing the creature and leaving behind bloody and bruised lips. They heal, like everything else. A touch to the elbow, a caress on their eyebrow, a kiss on the cheek. The touches become more frequent. Wounds litter their body. The creature stops, and finds themselves in front of the table and the chair. For the first time in a long time, they focus their eyes in something other than nothing. They pull the chair back with familiarity, and sit down. Leaning to the side and sinking their hand down inside the rippling floor. They pull back a black, thin, rectangular shape that is slightly larger than their head, and a very tiny bucket with a round bottom that curves inward into a thin funnel, like a small, deformed cake baking pan. The creature puts the rectangular shape on the table, and the tiny bucket is slot in their right indicator finger. The thin, little funnel inside pierces their flesh, blood flows through it, splattering on the floor with ripples that ring until the liquid is subsumed by the void. The funnel is inserted deeper until it hits bone, and keeps going for a little bit more. Blood no longer drips. A shade hugs the creature from the back, freezing them in place and pressing it¡¯s cheek against their shoulder. Bruises form underneath the shirt, and the skin rips under where the arms touch. Blood flows, but it does not stain the shirt, it never has. The shade recedes, the creature again looks toward the empty horizon, still in their previous position until the wounds heal and the blood falls to be absorbed by the darkness. Now, with the pointer finger they had capped, they straighten their shoulders and with a gaze full of previously hollowed intent, imperiously point towards the top of the black rectangle. Words form, ¡°In the deep crevasses of the spaces where none dare look, there was a¡­¡± the black rectangle is a sheet. As they write, no shades rip or harm their skin. The words flow in hiccups, but they flow. This is the creature¡¯s only choice, their Dry Solace. And with every drop of meaning extracted from their very marrow they become less, while their worlds become more. [This story is only available at RoyalRoad by DrySolace] A snack. To create meaning where previously there was none, is a great undertaking. It is not an issue of work, or effort- even if those two are vital and necessary components- it is a matter of creating something that is more than the sum of its parts. For if the translation is on the same scale, then what have you truly done but rearrange something in a mockery of what it was? No, creation is more than a puzzle. It is a path, a way to find that which didn¡¯t exist. The creature labors, slowly, but they can¡¯t keep up with the grandness that they aspire to reach. Their marrow is slowly sucked dry, their essence sacrificed, but it is not quite there. Just because one is willing to give everything to a cause, it does not mean it will be enough. The shades, they return. Their soft caresses turn more frequent, the creature¡¯s skin turns brittle. Their eyes ever shifting colors, they dull. The creature smiles. They stop the flowing words. They stop every twitch in every muscle in their body. And as the next shade comes in to hold their hand¡­ the creature strikes. With a soft smile, they consume the shade. Incorporeal matter melting on their tongue. But for some reason, they feel empty instead of full. And so they consume the next one, over and over and over again until they see the first shade that has touched them.. And eat it too. The feast stops. They wait. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. No more shades come. They look down at the table, to find it worn as if many years had passed with none caring for it. Even the words previously written, were faded and dull, just like their eyes. They notice their skin, and how it swirls in pretty patterns of red, but even the base is much darker than before. A dark gray. The creature looks at the funnel attached to their finger, at the great work they had committed themselves to, and wonder, what is the point? Why are they here? There are no shades left, nothing to eat. Their efforts were not enough. They smile. They consider eating the chair, but it was so loyal and supportive in its time of need, that the creature leaves it with but a soft caress. They slot the chair on the table, leaving it as they had found it, and with a last longing look, they step away. Their step is firmer than before, the blackness ripples pleasantly under their feet. They stare down at nothing. They lay down on their back, caressing the rippling void. It complies. The creature slowly submerges in the murky waters. Their existence subsumed in the watery, inky void, their lungs burn. They are afraid, they are glad, they live. They start to drown. The surge of darkness fills their lungs as if eager to nest within their chest, yet the feeling they emanate is warmth. From the back of the seemingly human looking thing, black wings sprout. The dark depths come ever closer. The creature caresses their new wings, content. With a sigh of regret that none will hear, they tense their wrists and start ripping their new wings off. Mangling them until all that is left are two stumps no longer than a forearm. Wings will only hinder them where they are going. Blood mars the darkness. The creature smiles as they sink ever deeper, broken bone and little lumps of flesh trailing from their shoulder blades. Time passes. It feels as if years are past, in what is only mere hours. The creature does not mind, it cherishes the wait. They hit the bottom. They know it is not supposed to be here, not so easily accessible, not so bare. And yet, there it is. They caress the ground, their surroundings so black they might as well have their eyes closed. It is flaky, and a bit dusty, as if the combination between dried blood and dead skin. The water turns thicker. They dig down, their lungs feeling almost heavy with the contents they now find themselves full of. Finally, in their hole apart from everywhere and anywhere, they find their prize. A frame, empty. The creature lifts it above their head. They let go. The frame falls around them. They are nowhere to be seen. But not gone yet. [This story is only available at RoyalRoad by DrySolace]