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The Ether

Published on May 6, 2026

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The Ether

The Ether

Life. What is it really? A task we’re meant to fulfill, or maybe just a page waiting to be written.

Well, I think it’s not that deep. Just live life to the fullest. Write short stories like these. Laugh

a little! And more importantly- have fun. After all, in the world we live in- absolutely anything

can happen. Today I’m going to talk about an unusual story about an archer, to show you

even those you think you know, you don’t really know them, you just think you do.

It was a cold gloomy night… I was shivering in the dark whispering for help. I didn’t want to

alert the archers so I crawled on the floor holding it like my rough blanket. Then she

appeared. Eliza, the archer who thought she could do absolutely anything and everything.

She held her bow against her shoulder waiting to see who would strike first. Her short blonde

hair shone in the dark like how the moon would, and her silver armour was as radiant as the

sun. I’ll never forget the deadly look in her eyes that night- it’s the most ferocious I’ve ever

seen it be. “Why are you here?” she said nonchalantly. “I…I..don’t know” I replied with

warmness exiting my body every word I uttered. Just as I thought she was about to release

her bow on me- she threw it on the ground. She raised her hand and said “I’m Eliza, and I’ve

decided I’m going to help you, swordsmen.”.

I’m a swordsman. I come from a large beautiful land called “The Ether”. In The Ether you can

be whatever you want to be! But what The Ether is really known for is its warriors- The

swordsmen and the archers. Our land has been at peace for eons now. But conflicts soon

arose between the warriors. The king chose to let this issue blow over on its own but that

only made it worse. The king was an archer, so most of the swordsmen did not trust him. For

if there was a war between swordsmen and archers the archers would definitely take over

the ether. So thus, the great darkness began, an era of war between the archers and the

swordsmen.

Despite the conflict between the warriors, I took Eliza’s hand and decided to trust her. The

forest grew scarier by the minute.

“Not so fast.” she said.

“What happened?”.

“Give me your sword,” Eliza replied.

“No. No matter what you ask of me I do not care, but this is the one thing I cannot give” I

sternly held my ground.

“Ok.” she casually replied and moved on.

Eliza wasn’t like other people, she knew her limitations and place. But she was determined

to prove something, then I had just met her so I wasn’t sure yet, but I was sure it was

something big- and people weren’t going to like it.

Personally, as a swordsman I was least bothered- but then she caught my attention after she

casually uttered a few words: “The king is my older brother”. Then from that moment I knew

exactly who I was talking too: Ether’s most vicious queen Eliza Celegorn, the beast of our

nation, a war general! I couldn’t believe that I didn’t recognize her. There’s a reason she’s

not queen anymore. It’s more sad than I wish it would’ve been- she killed an archer, but not

just any archer- she killed the king’s best friend. After that she was exiled from the ether, no

wonder she’s at the outskirts. “Are you scared of me?” Eliza asked. “No not at all, sorry if I

look shaken- that’s just the wind” I replied not matching the seriousness in the air.

This is going to be a long night.

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NYAC | 3min Read

Finesse Fatigue

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Finesse Fatigue

Finesse Fatigue

Only a few hours remained to be passed in a frantic haze before all my efforts came to fruition

in a day. The big day loomed as I sat oblivious to the external universe in deep preparation. As

my fingers flew across the piano keys in a flurry which had long since attributed itself to muscle

memory, I became aware of a slight disarray in my otherwise mechanical demeanour.

Lost in the endeavour of making each note immaculate, I remained absentminded to this

disconcerting sensation. It seemed determined to establish its prominence and presence, and

before I comprehended it, my head pounded in a spiking crescendo of red-hot misery. My

body had eventually let go after days of relentless practice. I understood that in my present

condition, all possibilities of appearing at the ‘Music Meltdown’ were non-existent. My

condition was a severe one. Along with the penetrating pain in my head, I experienced

excessive fatigue to the extent that I felt less connected to the world than during preparation.

I was ravaged by frequent bouts of slicing pain in various regions of my body.

The most awful aspect of this episode was the consciousness that my perseverance had

terminated in failure. I am extremely passionate about music, and the competition would have

served as an avenue to showcase this eagerness to the world while exploring unique

perspectives and gaining knowledge from other talented performers. Listening to music to

keep my mind off the hellish pain was bittersweet as I knew that the melody ebbing from the

speakers of my piano is what I should have been hearing.

I had engaged in rehearsal for over a month as of writing. During this duration, every day was

devoted to either polishing the composition or enhancing my technique to deliver the piece

in a flow of emotion and grandeur on the day of the competition. I consumed food in my room,

the plate unbalanced on the frame of the instrument, homework was completed in the early

hours of dawn, and socialisation was imperceptible during this period.

Every breath of effort had terminated in this. I had relentlessly pushed only to run out of fuel

at the finish line. I realised I had pushed so devastatingly intensely that not only had my energy

drained, it had compromised my very being while doing so. I had ignored my wellbeing; so my

wellbeing, in a twisted turn of fate, ignored me. Today, as I push out feeble resonance, a speck

of what my ascendancy was a month ago, I climb the peak of recovery, but slowly, with breaks,

and most importantly, taking inventory of my supplies every now and then.

Although the outcome was a speck of irrelevant dust compared to my mountainous

expectations, I have retained several crucial lessons. Not only was it a journey of discovery

down the serene road of the musical world, but it also taught me that our bodies need taking

care of, and just like we give way under tremendous pressures and burdens, they can too.

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NYAC | 3min Read

Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!

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Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!

Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!

My watch clicks once every second, loud enough to feel like it’s inside my skull.

11:59.

The house is dead.

My watch clicks over to 12:00 a.m.

That’s when I step onto the porch.

The house looks ordinary, maybe too ordinary. No lights, no music, no decorations. Just

a quiet family home with a welcome mat that hasn’t been shaken in years.

I flick the ash from my cigar and press the doorbell.

Nothing.

I try the handle.

Unlocked.

The moment I cross the door, the air shifts.

I blink.

The hallway explodes into color.

Streamers cling to the walls where paint should be peeling. Balloons rise as for the first

time, strings creaking softly.

A birthday banner stretches across the ceiling, letters crooked, spelling HAPPY

BIRTHDAY in pure red.

Music hums fill the room.

My cigar slips from my fingers and dies on the carpet.

“Happy birthday!” voices sing.

They drift down from above.

Children, actually the shapes of children float near the ceiling, bodies stretched and

translucent, their faces pressed outward like masks under rubber.

Their mouths open too wide when they smile.

“This is so fun!”

“Happy birthday!”

I move forward because stopping feels worse.

The dining room table is set perfectly. Plates. Hats. A cake at the center, candles

burning steadily. Arms push out through the icing like decorations, fingers flexing. A leg

protrudes from the side, sock still on, smeared with cream.

Sugar coats the back of my throat. Something rotten sits beneath it.

I hear laughter from the next room, this time higher.

Baby-sized balloons bounce off the walls, squealing and shrieking, the sounds folding in

on themselves until joy and terror are indistinguishable.

Then I hear footsteps.

Slow. Careful. Measured to the music.

In the living room, a figure dances.

He is tall and wrong, his limbs too long, joints bending a second after they should. His

skin is dark and cracked, like something scorched and stretched back into shape. A

party hat sits neatly between two curling horns.

He holds a balloon by its string.

The balloon has a boy’s face pressed into it, with freckles, missing tooth, eyes wide and

wet. The mouth laughs, then trembles, then laughs again.

They spin.

The figure notices me and stops.

“Oh,” he says, voice layered, several tones speaking at once. “A late guest.”

He gestures to a chair that slides back on its own. “Sit.”

I don’t.“What are you?” I ask.

He smiles, and the room seems to lean toward him. “I am the host.”

I pull the photograph from my wallet. My son stares back at me, Gary, seven years old,

cake smeared on his cheek, candles burning behind him.

“He vanished on his birthday,” I say. “I was at work.”

The host inhales deeply. His nostrils flare. His grin widens.

“Ahh,” he purrs. “Tasty boy. Tasty, tasty Gary boy.”

My gun is in my hand before I realize I’ve drawn it. “You took him.”

“I celebrated him,” the host corrects gently. “Candles were lit. Wishes were made. The

doors were open.”

I fire.

The bullet passes through him like smoke and bursts a floating child behind him. Red

mist rains down. No scream.

The others keep smiling.

The host sighs. “You always bring noise to parties.”

He steps closer. The balloons recoil, strings tightening.

“You missed his,” he whispers. “But don’t worry.”

He taps my watch with one clawed finger.

“Yours is soon.”

The music swells.

The balloons begin to rise.

And standing there, surrounded by color and laughter, I finally understand: birthdays

aren’t about growing older.

They’re about being ready to be taken.

 

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NYAC | 3min Read

Autumn’s Brews

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Autumn’s Brews

Autumn’s Brews

Amie heard the jingle of a bell as the coffee shop door opened, and a woman with frizzy red

hair stepped inside.

“Welcome back, Jane! How was your day?” She reached for the purple cup to start brewing

her usual — a hot Americano.

The redhead groaned as she made her way to the counter, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Hey Amie. I… uh, I think I’m gonna quit.

”

Amie almost fumbled with the cup.

“Wait, what?”

She sighed.

any longer.

”

“I think I’m gonna quit my job. It’s just so stressful — I’m not sure if I can do this

“What happened?” Amie asked.

excited and passionate!”

“I mean, you clearly wanted the job, right? You were so

“I know, I was excited. But it’s not the way I thought it would be, you know… being an

assistant for the legendary Madame Joanne…

”

Amie pressed a button on the machine, watching the espresso stream in a thin ribbon, when

she noticed Jane stopped talking.

“Hey, go wild. You know I’m always listening.

”

Jane then immediately started rambling at an impossible, but rather comprehensive pace.

Somehow Amie could keep up.

“

… It’s more like I’m a glorified errand runner than an actual assistant, you know? I mean, I

thought I’d be able to talk to her, learn her oil painting techniques — but most of the time I can’t

even see when she’s painting because I’m too busy getting her a box of jelly donuts, or

changing her plans on her color-coded schedule, or arranging her next transport to who knows

where. My creative voice is practically screaming to get out because it feels like I haven’t used it

in decades —

”

“Pause,

” Amie said, as she stopped the stream with a press of a button, letting the last drop of

espresso fall. She poured some hot water into the cup, and then placed it on the counter. Jane

held the handle, blew at the steam, and took a careful sip.

“Thanks, Amie. I really needed this.

”

“That’s the magic of Autumn’s Brews.

” She tilted her head.

“You wanna quit?”

“I wish it were that easy,

” Jane said.

“But what am I gonna do after that?”

Amie hummed, thinking of possibilities. Jane was an amazing artist, with an amazing portfolio.

She could be a curator at the town’s art museum, do art commissions, or be a web comic artist.

There were options, but what would be the best?

That’s when she remembered — Jane already knew. She mentioned it briefly to her sometime

in mid-December, when both of them sat in a corner, cupping a hot chocolate.

She wanted to be a mural artist.

Painting on huge walls and transforming them into pieces of art — that was her dream.

But she never did that because of financial instablity. The money she would get from painting

murals couldn’t satisfy the crazy rate of New York apartments… but what if she could start

painting on the sidelines?

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you paint the café walls?”

Jane raised her eyebrows.

“Think about it! People pay to sit here, they drink coffee, they stare at the walls anyway. Might

as well stare at your art.

”

She laughed, a bit incredulous.

“Woah. I mean, I could try, but what if it turns out awful?”

Amie grinned.

“Are you kidding? Even your ‘awful’ paintings could sell for millions. It’s gonna

be awesome! Picture this. Step one, paint the cafe. Step two, paint the town!”

Jane stared at the walls, picturing colors and shapes, building a vision that only she could

see. And she couldn’t lie — it looked amazing.

“You don’t have to quit your job. Just spill your art onto the streets, and everyone — even

Madame Joanne — will see you for the artist you are. What do you say?”

Jane took a deep breath, hands on her hips, admiring her vision.

“Heck yeah.”

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NYAC | 2min Read

Unconditioning Ruth Walker

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Unconditioning Ruth Walker

Unconditioning Ruth Walker

Ruth Walker had lived her life, working hard to make her way to the top. She was now the C

EO of the biggest

oil exporter in all of the seven seas. She had moved her way up, slowly but swiftly, office politics was a game to

her. She handled media and press with ease, every word calculated and configured to create her desired effect.

She was untouchable, or so she thought.

That was when she met Jason.

He had cornered her at the yearly company gala, a journalist with sharp eyes and even sharper questions. For the

first time in years, she found herself stumbling over a response. She brushed it off with a smile, but the moment

she got home, she called her publicist to ask for his contact information. One business meeting turned into four,

then into late-night dinners. But by the second date, she noticed something strange: every time she laughed,

Jason pressed a small metal clicker in his hand.

The next morning, when her secretary clicked her pen, Ruth felt an involuntary smile stretch across her face. She

froze. Her secretary froze. Something was wrong.

She paced in her office rambling: “What would Jason want from me- money? His family has enough. Power?

He’s a journalist, he can ruin people with one article.” She hated feeling lost and she knew just who to call when

she did. Mason was her private investigator, she had used his help to secure many business deals.

“Mason, how have you been, how’re your parents and Chiquita (his parrot),” she asked

“All well Miss Walker”, he answered in his deep British rumble.

“ I have a new case for you- Jason Briatore, 27 year old Journalist. ”

“Ah, Briatore, that name rings a bell, I’ll send the files to you by the morning,”

“This case warrants a personal visit, things are quite grave,”

Mason arrived at her penthouse the next morning. His coat was still wet from the rain, and when Ruth opened

the door, his eyes softened, just slightly when he saw her.

“You look tired,” he murmured.

“Don’t start,” she sighed, with a faint upward twitch of her mouth.

They sat across from each other on the velvet sofa as he opened a slim folder.

“Jason Briatore has a history,” Mason began. “Dropped out of a behavioural psychology program. Specialized in

associative conditioning. He’s tried… experiments before.”

Ruth’s stomach tightened.

“Experiments?”

“He conditions reactions in people. Smiles, fear responses, compliance.” He tapped the clicker in the file. “This

is his tool.”

For the first time, she felt something she rarely allowed: fear. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

“He chose to cross Ruth Walker’s path, he miscalculated, Ruth. He doesn’t know what we’re capable of.”Mason said softly, holding her hands.

Their eyes held a moment longer than necessary.

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