Creative Showcase

In Exile

A mysterious journal appears, telling the story of the mysterious Thea Ceres. TCR presents our very first ongoing creative series.

Life is, sometimes, inexplicably cruel. As if guided by the hand of an Author with a dark sense of humour, it overturns lives, ruins plans, crushes dreams, and murders justice with nary a thought, It is a dark world we live in, made no less so by the people who have attempted to take charge of it.

It is, at least, a small comfort to know that those people will die too, just as I most probably will (if a little later than me). After all, fate spares nobody in the long run. Fifty, sixty, maybe a hundred years down the road, they’ll all be in the same place as me.

All the same, I’d much rather stay alive for now, if at all possible. If not, well, this journal will come to an abrupt end, and it’d make for a terribly unsatisfying story. But hey, on the bright side, you’ll die soon too, and that dissatisfaction won’t matter either.

I’m sorry, that sounded funnier in my head. Since I don’t currently have any way to erase this ink, though, you’re stuck with my genuine self and her genuinely terrible humour.

Anyway, enough rambling. If you’re going to read my journal (and you’ve made it this far, haven’t you?), you should have a bit of background information so you can understand it. And just in case you’re, I don’t know, outsiders from another plane of existence, I’ll try to be thorough about that background information.

Let’s take this from the beginning. My name is Thea Ceres. In case it wasn’t already obvious, what you have here is my journal. I was eighteen years old when the first few entries were written, and just a few days older when I wrote this preface. So, past the fifth entry, we’ll be figuring out the story together. Isn’t that exciting?


I didn’t always have a journal. This is my first one. I only just started writing it a few days ago, when the Republic exiled me past their southern border. (That’s the Republic of Storia, for all you outsiders.) There’s this long line of mountains that separates Republic territory from Land’s End, the wasteland in the south, and since it’s so impassable they just throw out whoever they don’t like and lock the door behind them. Problem solved, right?

Well, kind of, but not really. The problem’s solved for them, sure. But there’s a consequence of putting all your problems in one place, and that’s making that place into a gigantic problem.

Land’s End is that gigantic problem. It’s a land with no law, barely any food, and way too many people (because, I presume, the only thing left to do when you’re dying of starvation is to breed like rabbits). It’s a place where the strongest and fastest survive. I am neither of those things. I’ve been lucky just to survive this long; Who knows how many people like me they cast out here, only to die on their first or second night because they weren’t as lucky as me?

Well, I know. I passed by a kind of graveyard today. Thousands of bones, scattered like dust on the shifting sands. Probably more beneath it all.

I hope I won’t be one of them.

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