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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-17 20:03:08 EDT

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Who discovered the Pit was a hotly debated subject. The human Kingdom of Aribethia claimed their founding queen discovered it on her crusade to unite the lords. The elves of the forest nation of Valliwyn claimed that a vision from their goddess Vallimere had led them there first. The Assembly of Dwarves said of course they’d been the ones to find it because their ancestors dug the damn thing. The various goblin tribes all agreed that the dwarves had actually dug it, but that they’d found it next and used it as a giant toilet as a joke.
And so on and so forth.
Whoever had found it, the one universally agreed upon fact was that humans were the first to decide, “Hey, I should climb down there.”
A rush of fortune seekers crawled out of the woodwork of the world after news of the discovery spread. Explorers who believed they would be the first to plumb its depths. Mages who believed they could unravel the mystery of its creation and purpose. Craftsmen who could sell their supplies to both those types of fools. Merchants who could supply materials to those craftsmen.
Thus the small boomtown of Pit’s Burg was born.
After several dozen attempts it became apparent that the Pit was truly bottomless with nothing obvious inside it, but by then Pit’s Burg had already gathered up a significant portion of the realm’s runaways and cast-offs. These types had inspired lawmen to come, and then doctors came to treat the survivors of the scuffles, and then lawyers came to sue both sides, and then politicians came to tax the whole lot of them. Within a decade Pit’s Burg had grown into a full-fledged independent city-state only loosely related to the Pit itself.

“Why now, though? I mean, after all these months, what changed?”

“I did. I have you now. There’s no room for her here anymore.”

“But what if she just shows up here?” I teased. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

Marc gave me a playful shove. “I didn’t realize what I didn’t have before. There was really nothing to compare her to, you know? We were together since we were kids. And it was good for awhile but then, I don’t know, then it wasn’t. And now there’s you.”

I turned slowly to look at him, my eyes hot with tears. I studied his pale, blue-gray eyes for what seemed like forever, trying to memorize their exact hue. They were almost more gray than blue, like he was born with a storm brewing inside of him. I tried to memorize every fleck and every imperfection that made them so incredibly perfect.

I’m not the kind of person who lies. I just happen to be an expert at not telling the whole truth. Most of them are harmless—like pretending the Backstreet Boys are all that and a bag of chips, when I’m obsessed with Alanis Morissette. Or letting people think my first kiss was Jason Knowles, in the tunnel during fourth grade recess. Except Jason chickened out and threatened to tell everyone I had gingivitis if I spilled the beans. But some secrets are heavy. They sit on your chest and make it hard to breathe. The key is keeping them organized. Little lies. Half-truths.
There’s a version of my life where everything stays the same. I work for my dad after graduation. I stay here, in Bowen, Nebraska. I don’t make things complicated. In that version, I also don’t fall in love with my best friend. Too bad I’m not very good at sticking to plans.

Excerpt from SmokeWIP, a sage Owen romance novel wip. Text as follows:

When he left the group, Cory took the opportunity and followed, found him behind the farmhouse in half shadow, smoking a joint. Cory was a student of body language and human behavior; it was a useful skill to have when you were trying to give people the perfect boutique vacation. Matthew wasn't just looking at him, sizing him up. Matthew was looking at his mouth. And unless there was something repulsive in his teeth, he felt pretty confident that meant Matthew was imagining kissing him. He loved when things like that worked out, when someone he wanted to kiss wanted to be kissed.
With the joint safely extinguished he reached for opportunity, touching the smoothness of Matthew's jaw. He leaned into the touch like he'd been waiting for it, and Cory was a little drunk but thought he'd never seen such a ripe, sensuous mouth. It was a crime to leave it unkissed, so he licked his lips and did the deed. Matthew met him greedily, mouth open, hungry for more. Hands found bare skin at his waist, clutched into the meat of his back. They didn't linger long; as Cory's fingers worked into Matthew's dark hair, Matthew's hands delved down to grip his ass.
He'd been expecting a month of celibacy in Kansas. It was probably premature to discard that on the strength of a single kiss, but Matthew was kissing him like... like a natural disaster on the horizon.
When Cory peeled away Matthew's lips reached for his neck. With a little laugh, he nudged him away. "Not here. It's my cousin's wedding; 1 can't sneak off for a smoke at his bachelor party and come back covered in love bites."

For a long while, they just stood there, with nothing but their own weary breaths to break the silence. Rowan destroyed his sword – an act that was far less painful than creating it – and waited as his heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal. There was blood all over him, oozing from cuts and scrapes and a long gash that one of the creatures had slashed into his left leg. It hurt to put weight on it, but it was manageable. Barely a scratch compared to some injuries he had endured in the past.

Callix was the first to break the silence. “Are you okay?”

Rowan glanced at him, wary. No one had ever asked him that after a fight. If he was too injured to go on, he simply went to their healers. If he wasn't, he kept fighting. And he always kept fighting. Admitting that it was too much was admitting weakness, and Rekshimyr's followers could not be weak.

“Yes,” he answered. “Why would I not be?”

“Because I'm sure as shit not,” Callix said. “I have to imagine you're doing worse considering you made all of that.”

“I'm fine,” Rowan said.

“Bright lights never meant anything good when Axton couldn’t get away. Safety could be found in the shadows, with his power, with his ability to slip out of sight when shit got dangerous. But this room was so bright there were hardly any shadows at all. If he could force himself to move, he might’ve crawled under the bed just to surround himself in the shallow darkness.
But the most he could manage was to bow his head and let the light have him. Glaring down, it could expose every inch ”

Excerpt From: Bianca Sommerland. “NO ESCAPE.” Apple Books.

A man wearing armor stands next to a black dragon. Behind them, a city is burning and an army stands outside its walls.

Text reads:
Alexander clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing in anger. "Magic doesn't work that way. An ignorant bastard like you would never understand."

Alexander had touched a nerve. Colin's face burned crimson and a dangerous light entered his eyes. "Do not compare me to that--" he flung one finger in my direction, "--for I will not tolerate it. You are both abominations! Why you weren't dealt with at birth, I'll never know. Mother must have been sympathetic, a traitor to this kingdom, to have let you both live!"

Legend
The Caein Legacy: Book Four
Available wide
https://ajcalvin.net/books/the-caein-legacy/legend/

“Well, solhara is much the same, only it has a direct effect on the mind. It allows you to make connections with the past and with your ancestors. Once it is over, it is over. There is no holdover where you begin to abuse it. Only the Earth Mother knows how to grow the plant and mix the tea. Each of us uses it only once, and we are watched carefully the whole time, as we are watching Nock now. It will help aid his transition to manhood. You will see tomorrow. He will have undergone a transformation that only he can understand. If we tried to talk about it, we would find only that we both found extreme satisfaction in our individual experience, and understand our place in society and our family all the better because of it.”
Bert nodded, seeming to understand what Dray was saying.
Cat nodded as well. “Thank you for explaining it to me. Part of my education was learning about other cultures. I have to admit much of it was meant as a comparison to show how superior ours was to these heretics and pagans that exist around the world or in the past, but I always wondered what it would be like to be a part of one of these groups. If we are to achieve a return to peace, it will require an understanding that different peoples have different needs and ways of life. I would love to talk about this further one day, but you have given me much to think about.”
Dray placed both his hands on Cat’s shoulders and looked her right in the eyes. “I do not defend my people to argue that our ways are better or even right, but they are just that: they are our ways, and they work for us.”

“I can promise not to harm him deliberately.” He raised his glass.
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s something, at any rate. We old monsters must hang together, mustn’t we? There aren’t many like us.”
He bristled a little at the comparison, although he couldn’t say why. Her elegance, poise, and good humor were nothing objectionable. Nor was her obvious competence. And Lohimar knew, Oghor hoarded his own secrets. Why shouldn’t she?
“And your promise?” he asked.
She clutched the pendant at her throat in mock indignation. “You aren’t suggesting I would do the least harm to my very soul? I have sworn an oath. I will keep Ellyll safe.” At last he heard the slight edge to her tone, the implied threat: “No matter what.”

“Tell me,<redacted>,” I asked, the question emerging as thin and cold as the moon's light. I felt the need to name our shared condition, to place a definitive note in my archive. “We are both creatures of enduring duration, but we are fundamentally different in kind. What are you, I understand that you thrive on the very life I merely archive? And what does that make me, in comparison?”

“We’re here,” she says as we emerge from the hallway onto the landing between the two staircases. The air is thick with animated conversation from below. The three girls who’d been sitting on the railing are gone now, so I move to stand next to the staircase, giving Irene enough space. I look down to see… well frankly, to see what looks like a group of anime characters. Ten people, with most looking like teenagers, occupy the center of the antechamber in a loose group. A whole mountain of luggage occupies the spot right below me, and across the antechamber stands a line of people dressed in black and white manor servant uniforms, with one man standing a bit away with them in what could be called a teacher uniform, all in brown. He had brown hair and thin-rimmed spectacles, and wore a neutral expression as he surveyed the teenagers.
He glances up at me and his expression changes. His eyes widen with what I guess is surprise, and then they narrow as his forehead wrinkled with, I guess, irritation. I think he may not have been expecting me here.

Photo, no description

He took his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket (the jacket lay bunched against the floor of the gun station because it was too damn hot to wear it) and clicked the picture – the icon, they called it, though it had nothing to do with the Holy Family. Anyway, he clicked the icon that would let him text his girl. The modern world wasn't all cantankerous devolution. Its smart machines were plumb nice. Better than the railroad telegraph office, for sure.
Dearest Sinfonee, he poked out with one finger, I miss you something powerful. He misspelled nearly every word, even "I," thanks to the truck's jostling, but the magic spelling checker helped him, more or less.

>>Mr short ain't no good company. I don't think he cares to be. The man don't like his job much. But I reckon I do since I could be back with you real quick. It wou<<

Then a rectangle blocked his finger to tell him he didn't have cell service.
Lord Jesus Christ! He put the phone in his shirt pocket and took back every good comparison to the inconvenient, slow, balky railroad telegraph service. At least they never CLAIMED to be easy.

“Indeed. Good luck!” Goran says as he lets go from the handshake. I walk up the right staircase, past the luggage mountain and then past the trio at the top. The wood floor does not squeak and groan under my boots, which is surprising, and I see the two flanking sisters keep a close eye on my progress, one pair of friendly blues and one pair of suspicious sandys. I feel the second pair follow me as I walk down the central hallway.
Small alcoves along the corridor each hold a small table and chair, and each table is decorated with a different selection of flowers in a uniquely decorated vase. Several large doors intersperse the walls that are decorated with many, many pictures and paintings of either singular people or large groups. They all look similar enough that I assume that these are all family pictures. None of the pictures look less than three decades old, at least to my inexpert eye.

Kraghtol hated his own voice. It was too deep, too gravelly, the opposite of Valir’s melodic one. He had never dared to sing in front of other people, not once in his life. Yet, when the memory of the song approached its climax, his voice swelled without him wanting to, and he found himself singing the voice memory-Valir was not. It sounded crude and amateurish in comparison, but also as if the song was missing this exact voice of his.

The heat and humidity knock me backward as I step outside and stumble up King Street toward Yonge, appearing somewhat deranged in my disguise compared to the tourists in shorts and t-shirts jostling me aside. I trip over a couple of panhandlers sitting on the sidewalk with their legs outstretched, tossing a couple of coins into their baseball cap. Best to get on their good side in case I’m joining them one day.
My mouth twists at the twin spinning neon platters outside Sam The Record Man that once lauded me like royalty for doing nothing but pose for a photograph. I’ve sweated harder since then for less. At the corner of Yonge and Charles, I take note of the X-rated theatre in case I have to cash in on my notoriety when I hit rock bottom. Wherever that is.
The closer I get to Yorkville, the faster my pulse races, my legs dragging as if I’m walking against a tide, throat tight and gritty from dust and rising doubts. I turn onto Yorkville Avenue and doublecheck the street sign. What’s happened to my neighborhood? Victorian duplexes replaced with brutalist brown concrete structures. Cafe patios, gone. Music venues, vanished. Young, hopeful faces, now aged, jaded, preoccupied.
I overshoot Rosey’s and retrace my steps. The red sign with white lettering above the door of the coffee shop has faded to a barely readable dull pink, chipped white paint reveals the original red brick beneath, and shriveled brown roses creep up the trellis, the flower bed overgrown with tufts of yellowed grass, naked dandelions, and cigarette butts. Instead of posters on the door advertising poetry readings or a wet-behind-the-ears folk singer, a generic, black-and-red sign reads, “Room For Rent.”

They could rest here for a few moments, Alitzah thought as she looked down at the tarn. It looked even more like a mirror from up high, the fells reflected on its placid surface in a full myriad of late summer colours; soft,velvety green to deep, russet red. Sprigs of yellow gorse and the slow moving white-grey sheep were cut off by trails of long, grey walls. It was surprisingly peaceful for a region she knew was prone to violence. She’d seen enough of it in her life but her experiences were nothing compared to people like Dovera. The last thing Dovera had said told Alitzah enough about Laith.

“It’ll never stop. If it ain’t plague then it’s raids. If not raids then it’s wars. Death. Always more n’ more death.”

Alitzah carried those words like a packhorses burden. There must be some way to stop all of that and make Laith a safer place to live.

But even as Schneider reached out for it, the dog-eared paperback began to glow with the same back-lit cyan as the rest of the world, then dissolved into pixels and was absorbed into the Glass.
‘No!’ Phil shouted, throwing his gauntletted hands up in despair and turning away from the rapidly melting atlas.
‘Destination?’
‘What?’ Phil turned back and saw Poke winking at him.
‘Destination?’ Poke repeated.
‘Er… the Gyron,’ Phil looked to his digital companions for support, but they just shrugged robotically.
The weirdly digitised Atlas lifted momentarily out of the pixel soup, flicked through a few pages, then melted back into the Glass, but where the more or less physical book had disappeared, a map still glowed on the floor, and a lone pixel glowed, tracing a route through a maze of right angles that gave Phil a momentary flashback to the events at Paleozoic Park - which, in comparison, seemed relatively normal now.

Rourke glanced around the room as he sat, trying not to feel like an exhibit at the zoo, but avoided looking at Mercer.He was certain she would have a lot to say later.
‘You can’t look me in the eye,’ Mercer snapped. ‘Can you.’
‘I’m fine, Kit.’ He undid a jacket button. ‘Thanks for asking.’
Someone failed to suppress a laugh to Rourke’s left.
Rourke ignored it and didn’t look toward Mercer.
‘I must object again. Prime Minister.’ She sounded even angrier now.
‘Your objection has be noted.’ The prime minister sat down again. ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s not good enough.’ She snapped to her feet again. ‘This man was respons—’
‘Enough.’ The prime minister raised his voice, cutting her off.
‘Sir. I—’
Mercer didn’t know when to quit. Rourke admired that at least.
‘Miss Mercer.’ The Prime Minister stared at her. ‘May I remind you that the CIA is allowed to operate in the United Kingdom expressly and only with the permission of His Majesty's government.’
‘I am aware, sir, but this man he—’
‘In this room, I am that government.’

A snippet from Ellamir by Cameron A Malin:
Eminent thought she may be, Ella was not ignorant of the good fortune and privilege of her birth. The only child of a most affectionate and indulgent father, all the more indulgent for the loss of her mother at too early an age to be remembered, she had grown up with the habit of doing just as she wished and ordering her father's household just as she liked. His gentle, anxious and uncertain nature left an absence of authority into which Ella's strong-willed influence had naturally extruded, so that not long after her sixteenth birthday she had begun to assume many household responsibilities, and was now, at one and twenty, quite established as the principal person in the management of Penmere, their comfortable estate. She understood perfectly well that providence had been kind to her, yet nonetheless she was pleased with her own achievements and, having been doted on by her surviving parent and the subject of much flattery by her contemporaries - some of it sincere - she had become inclined to think rather too well of herself.