My library of short stories

ShortStory3

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**[Diary of Zorblat, Future Demon Lord of… um, Stuff?]**

*Day 43, Year of Darkness*

Dear Diary,

Today was… well, complicated.

Mum and Dad—y’know, the Grand Gods of Ultimate Evil (absolutely massive deal, apparently)—decided we needed some “family bonding.” For us, that’s not picnics and hikes. Oh no, for our family, “bonding” means making whole realms quiver like jelly in a windstorm. We gathered ‘round pits of writhing souls to toast marshmallows over the screams (bit of a funny smell, if I’m being honest), and Mum looked pleased as punch about it. Says it builds character.

Breakfast came next. Dad conjured one of his abyssal omelettes—made from the tears of the eternally doomed, or so he says. He reckons it’s quite the delicacy. But, really, all I wanted was a waffle. Just a nice, warm, innocent little waffle. Told Dad I could doll it up a bit—maybe drizzle on some cursed syrup, garnish with berries oozing despair. But nope. Dad said waffles were “entirely inappropriate” for a demon lord in training, not “serious” enough. So, to prove his point, he melted down three minor universes just to make an example. All right, I thought. We get it, you’re Very Grand and Terrifying. *Typical.*

The omelette wasn’t half bad, to be fair—Mum sprinkled on a pinch of screaming despair. Gives it a bit of a kick.

After brekky, Mum decided it was time for my daily training. Today’s lesson: *crushing mortal hope.* She reckons I need to start young, get me existential horror skills up to scratch. Said every decent demon lord has to know how to break a mortal’s spirit, reduce ‘em to rubble, pull ‘em apart bit by bit ‘til they’re nothing but despair. Mum calls it “existential pruning.” Like she’s some grim gardener. But me? I’d rather turn ‘em into frogs or lizards, something with a bit of bounce. Or maybe bats. They flap about, confused, and it’s downright adorable. But Dad says it’s too… “cheeky” for a demon lord. Reckons I’ll “grow out of it.” But what if I don’t, eh? What if I’m meant to be the sort of demon lord who makes people hop?

After hours of watching Mum destroy souls (she’s an artist, Mum), Dad suggested a game of *Soul Frisbee*—a classic in our family. You take a captured soul, throw it into the void, and see how far it screams before the darkness swallows it up. I reckon I gave it my best shot. My soul only made it to the seventh circle of torment, though, which isn’t great, I suppose. Dad’s went clean through three dimensions, right to the other side of existence. He said mine was “respectable for my age,” but I saw him, Diary. That look of his—like he couldn’t help but see a bit of disappointment in my throw.

But Mum! Mum’s a *master* at Soul Frisbee. She threw hers so hard it circled back ‘round and smacked me straight in the face! Might’ve cried a bit—only because it whispered all these void secrets straight into me ear, like it was giving me some twisted lullaby. But no worries. I drank its essence dry after, so that’s all sorted.

Next up, they took me to the Hall of Torment. It’s this cavernous hall filled with Mum and Dad’s “collections”: statues of fallen angels, rows of bottled mortal tears, relics from worlds they’ve long since… well, ruined. “One day, Zorblat,” Mum said, sweeping a hand over it all, “all this will be yours.” I tried to smile, look all proud, but honestly? Felt a bit *grim*. I mean, it’s impressive, sure, but I kept thinking, *is this really it?* Will I spend my life collecting broken bits of other worlds? I’d much rather have a pet kraken or a nice quiet place to call me own. Or a forest where things hop and hop and never stop.

And, y’know… I kept thinking of this memory. I was little—littler than I am now, anyhow—and I’d fallen asleep in Dad’s arms. He was talking with Mum in their big, echoey voices, probably discussing the end of the Third Era or the conquering of the Void, but I just remember the way he held me, like he was carrying something so tiny, so fragile. And maybe he was just doing it for Mum’s sake, but I remember feeling… safe, just for a bit. Like they were just Mum and Dad. Not gods or rulers, but my parents. And sometimes I wonder—did they ever feel that way too? Even for a moment?

When bedtime finally rolled ‘round, Dad decided to tuck me in. He does this sometimes, and I think he really means well. He started humming me one of his lullabies—not the usual one about collapsing stars, though. This one was softer. Almost *sweet*, if you didn’t mind that it was just the sound of abandoned kittens crying in an empty universe. And honestly? I liked it, even if it gave me a funny feeling inside, like I was floating somewhere I didn’t belong.

As I drifted off, I kept wondering: *What if I don’t want to be a proper demon lord?* What if I don’t want to rule through dread and darkness? What if I just… want something else? I could make people hop, play eternal games of tag, or maybe toss out a random hopscotch tournament across dimensions. Would that be so bad? Or would it be… *wonderful*?

Mum says it’s just a phase, that I’ll grow out of it. Says every demon lord goes through this—“froggy” ideas, second-guessing, all that. But what if I never do, Diary? What if my destiny isn’t in some ancient throne of shadows but in something all my own? Can a demon lord be a lord of silly things? Powerful *and* ridiculous? Dark *and* cheeky? Do I really have to take up their burden, or is there room for a bit of… I dunno, *joy*?

Anyway, that’s future Zorblat’s problem. Right now, I’m just sleepy. Maybe tomorrow I’ll see if I can find some mortal children to play games with. They don’t expect me to be anything grand. And maybe that’s what I like about ‘em.

Night night, Diary. May your pages be forever stained with ink. Or maybe, just maybe, a touch of something… brighter.

Love, 
Zorblat, Future Demon Lord of Frogs, Hopscotch, and Possibly Dread