Human Voices
Win a Chance to Co-Write a Dark Fantasy Novel
Dear Authors and Friends,
You’ve been tagged to hear about our secret project — a collaborative novel.
If you’d prefer not to be tagged in the future, just let us know.
We’re seeking three exceptional authors with a strong grasp of psychology or anthropology, mythology or biology, and the fantasy genre, ready to bring emotions and sensations to life through their characters.
All NLS writers and followers are invited to submit — we haven’t tagged everyone. You’re also warmly invited to publish with us and read along.
Winners will be selected to co-write the novel chapter by chapter.
Thank you so much to all the incredible authors who have joined this journey so far — I’ll share more about each of them next time!
Welcome to our YA fantasy novel experiment.
You’re invited to help bring The Sweet Kingdom of Pheromones to life — a dark, dystopian sci-fi novel written chapter by chapter… by us.
Inspired by Miguel Santiago’s visionary spark, I’ve spent the past two months developing a creative framework — a series of worksheets to guide our journey — and rewriting the Prologue.
So far, seven chapters are planned — and five are already spoken for.
That means we’ll be selecting two more authors to shape the final chapters.
Interested? Submit a one-page sample, inspired by the “Prologue” to:
Let’s write the human way.
The Sweet Kingdom of Pheromones
Prologue: The Hive City in Flames
First Draft
Dragan sat still by the fire — the flames did not burn, but hissed wildly, writhing like specters in search of their lost bodies.
Far away, beyond forests and mountains, the sky was tearing apart over Hive City.
The towers twisted in black smoke, trembling under lightning and hail like a world in agony.
He took a sip of the black and bitter wine, and an involuntary smile curved his lips when he spotted the Nectarini in their jerky dance — their movements too precise to be just some game, too lively to have been learned.
Then, with his old baritone voice, with which he used to sing the legends of the ancestors, he began:
The Queen’s song was fading more and more, and with each breath, the hive lost a name.
Once, her song echoed far and wide, into caves, through bone and stone, making the flower buds open wide, Nectarinis laugh, and the larvae fall asleep in ecstasy.
And one single note could bring peace — or oblivion.
I, Dragan the Drone, first felt it in the honeycombs — not as a wound, not a cramp, but as an old thirst that could not find its source.
Her light no longer pierced through the wax; it was fading slowly, and the honey, once golden and alive, had become heavy, viscous, with glimmers of darkness, of chitin, and a scent of lily that filled your mouth with water — not with desire, but with love.
In the void left by her, something else began to sing within me — a staccato, tribal rhythm, accompanied by my two hearts.
It was not a human love, but an ancestral one: unconditional, bitter, and gentle at the same time — a love that asks for nothing, only to die beautifully.
And yet, each of us felt that love in our hearts and in our shells, in our exoskeletons — like a warm caress that made you want to stretch out, to stop fighting, to offer yourself entirely to the hive.
Nothing stirred, but everything seemed to die inside, to collapse, like summer at the end of the world.
When the Queen raised her wings at dawn, her song sounded distant, like a forgotten call.
Her wings, once translucent like warm amber, now seemed fragile, streaked with blackish-purple veins — like wrinkles through which light seeped away irretrievably.
Then I knew: the hive had begun to forget its name.
The song had broken.
The Queen no longer summoned her swarm.
In the air lingered only the sterile aroma of old propolis, as if someone had tried to erase the collective consciousness of Hive City with the black wine.
It was the moment the Tenders were meant to come.
To descend from the caves with their velvety skin, smelling of old mold and truth.
To open, without uttering a word, the vials of Echo Memory.
To remind us who we are — not through stories or evidence, but through scents.
They had not come.
Without them, it was just us left — amnesiac, dazed, and increasingly stiff.
Without Echo Memory, no one could feel what had been.
Inhabitants forgot their professions.
Prophecies had become jokes.
We looked at each other and laughed — this hysteria, too, was pheromonal, like everything that dominates us.
Identities collapsed, just as a forgotten childhood scent fades slowly into a suffocating present.
Hive City buzzed with unease, but no one remembered why.
We talked a lot, but without a scent.
We touched each other chaotically but felt nothing.
And yet…
On some nights, bloodier than our honeycombs when the wind seeped through the grates to us, some said they sensed a scent — vague, like a distant memory — no, I’m wrong.
A scent that reminded us of the death of a loved one, the death of a grandmother — if you know what I mean.
We’ve all lost at least one, I suppose.
And here, I’m thinking of a Queen, of course.
Back then, I let my tears flow freely.
A flutter in the belly and chest told me: You have been here before.
But that was just an opinion.
Without the Tenders, without Echo Memory, the past became a disease.
A necessary lie.
Like a social media platform that reminds you of your birthday (real? invented?), yet has no idea who you actually are.
And so, slowly, Hive City learned to live with its amnesia.
Not with rebellion, but with politeness.
Just as we are learning to do, too.
If I weren’t quite so naive and amnesiac, it would be thanks to my warlike experience in the Iron Time, which forever marked me with the effects of foreign pheromones.
Maybe that’s why I could feel what others no longer sensed: a mute, oppressive presence that watched us from the depths.
In the darkness where even the Queen dared not tread, the seven Overlords — the APEX — hid.
They were hiding — or not… who knows anymore?
Forgetfulness flowed into the honeycombs, into the air, our blood — yet the memory of the Queen’s scent persisted.
Sometimes it seemed to tickle my nostrils, like a mother unwilling to let you cry.
We were all under the spell of Mourning Veil — it seemed to protect everyone, yet drove you mad, like a shroud.
It envelops your being in something gentle and warm — an almost maternal embrace.
And yet, years later, looking back, you can’t tell if it was true love, a surrender before death, a final spectacle — or one last manipulation by the Queen.
A loss of reason with a scent of holiness.
After that, there was nothing more. Just silence.
Neither buzzing, nor rustling, nor footsteps, only our hearts, many, mute, frozen like the pupils of unfertilized larvae.
It started with silence… but it wasn’t empty, rather an overabundance of stifled sighs.
Flocks of butterflies were more and more entering the upper corridors, as if they no longer feared the guards, anyone, or anything.
Some said they brought dreams — others, death. I only knew that with them, the silence became heavy like a verdict awaited at the trial of the Matron Prime.
And at the same time as the butterflies, the Nectarinis began to dream as well.
It wasn’t sleep, but a trance — a different kind of calling.
They woke up terrified, running wildly through the corridors, with wet eyes and sticky palms from bitter honey, murmuring songs in an unknown tongue.
And they always uttered the name Zaraza, and then a smile would spread across their faces, and their wings would tremble as if awaiting a divine command.
Some said that the Matron Prime spoke through them.
And I tend to believe he was right, because a cold breeze tickled my throat, like the almost sensual breath of a Viperian.
I shuddered.
In the air, a familiar note lingered — not the fresh smell of Stabilization Aura.
I turned instinctively, and my gaze fell upon the third limb — one of my small, shapeless, mutilated arms, but still twitching.
Chills of ice coiled down my spine.
I was completely taken aback.
There was no one else there, and yet, her presence was felt — silent, heavy, latent.
I couldn’t see her.
I couldn’t hear her.
I felt her.
And I just knew.
The legend was slowly rising from the depths.
Others said the Nectarinis were messengers of a future yet to come.
But I knew: their dreams were not theirs.
They belonged to an old, forgotten someone, hungry for power.
And above all — they were prophetic.
Some said the dreams had arisen after a group of Nectarinis had been seen entering the Room Without Windows — that forbidden place where the scent of the Matron Prime had never truly died.
That thick, sweet air haunted like a sacred scent in decay.
Those who entered there rarely came out — and those who returned… were no longer sane.
They behaved like Turned.
Their minds seemed empty; they spoke in riddles.
They claimed to have seen the future — but none could articulate it.
The air in the room was not just stagnant — it was foul and seductive like the wisteria in the sludge pond.
You felt it creeping under your exoskeleton, through every orifice.
It made you spit with thirst, as if you wanted to vomit to escape.
The larvae did not die there.
They wilted in silence, their soft chitin cracking off their exoskeleton.
It was said that Matron Prime had left a lethal dose of aura there many years ago — neither life nor death.
Pure Stabilization.
When I entered the room, I didn’t see her, but I heard her.
The rustling.
The song.
Her fangs sank into my arm, the smell of rancid honey, and a voice whispering inside me:
“You weren’t meant to be born, Dragan.”
But the birth happened, nonetheless.
With screams.
With juice.
With broken flesh.
The days of silence had not ended — they were just learning to scream.
And so, my past and future merged with the present.
I knew that one day the poison of Viperis would resonate in every corner of the hive, and Nyxara’s song would bring a spark that would burn everything.
There would still be moments when love and tyranny would dance on the same thin thread, when shadows would become promises, and our Queen would be nothing but a forgotten memory in the darkness.
And then, when everything collapses, a new judgment will come, and our fate will be written with the smoke of an old pact and a fallen crown.
I was living an uncertain present.
The honey was no longer sweet — it tasted like blood.
And for a moment, I felt her, the Queen, covering my mouth with a salty seal, like a final kiss.
Was it a kiss — or wasn’t it?
For deep down, I knew: this honey was no longer hers.
It was no longer the hive’s.
It no longer belonged to… anyone.
Even the Queen’s scent began to dissolve in that heavy air, like a dusty memory.
How quickly can a name be forgotten?
I wondered.
No one answered — only silence.
Behind the silence, a bitter smell pervaded, like poison.
Viperis trembled with rage before unleashing a spray of filth.
He seemed fragile, but he had the power to influence those who provoked him.
His pheromones spread, heavy, leaving panic in their wake.
In the monotony of the workers’ lives, a faint breeze of Unity Scent drifted through the air, binding them without words.
But not everyone was so docile.
The air vibrated around the fighters, saturated with the penetrating aroma of Battle Frenzy — a sharp, metallic scent that made their nostrils quiver and their muscles twitch.
Their hearts beat in unison, not out of fear but from an ancestral call to protect Hive City and shatter the chains of tyranny.
They began to rebel in silence.
What started as a subtle current of defiance transformed into a torrent of rebellion that swept through the dimly lit corridors, furtive glances, coded gestures, a spark of hope long extinguished.
Simple acts of camaraderie had become hotbeds of resistance, forging bonds that defied the walls meant to divide them.
As time passed, this insignificant defiance grew into a powerful force that could no longer be ignored.
A once-dormant determination now pulsed through the veins of the inhabitants like an electric current, binding them through glances, gestures, and silences.
Each gesture was a silent promise: freedom would not be asked for.
It was going to be stolen.
It seemed that Unity Scent had changed its purpose.
The air was electric, like before a storm.
The inhabitants of Hive City looked beyond the walls of the hive, imagining a world with natural light, unrestricted laughter, celebration, and freedom.
And the attitude of the fighters began to resonate beyond their circle, like a mute echo seeping into the gestures of the servants, the glances of the caretakers, the curiosity of the harvesters.
It was likely the combined effect of several pheromones — yes, that was exactly it.
But that’s how things are in all the worlds of our worlds.
Deep in the hives, the ordinary castes found subtle ways to communicate and show their solidarity.
They devised complex coded signals that only the initiated could understand — furtive glances, objects silently moved from sign to sign, poetry slipped between steps, and a scent that no longer belonged to anyone.
In the common dining hall, they shared tables in silence, exchanging furtive glances and discreet nods, an unspoken promise of support in the face of adversity.
These seemingly small yet powerful manifestations of unity were the first whispers of a movement gaining momentum behind the sterile walls of their imposed existence.
As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, something incredible was happening.
Small groups brought together by fate or circumstance began to form indestructible bonds.
They whispered in the shadows, sharing their secrets, fears, and hopes.
The more they talked, the stronger they became, and before long, they had created a network of trust and unity that would become the foundation of the greatest resistance the hives had ever seen.
Thus, they found subtle ways to rebel against their captivity. Some drew hidden symbols on the backs of the furniture, while others composed clandestine poems that spoke of freedom and defiance.
These seemingly insignificant acts of rebellion were living proof of the discontent simmering beneath the surface.
A silent declaration of their refusal to be defined by captivity.
It seemed that the walls themselves were trembling in their buzzing rebellion.
It was not just a movement — it was a living flame, spiraling out of control, fed by every act of defiance, no matter how small.
The Authority, still clinging to its power, was beginning to feel the weight of their defiance.
The whispers of hope and camaraderie echoed through the once-empty halls, filling them with a new purpose.
But the clandestine network of communication and solidarity did not go unnoticed.
With its ever-watchful eyes and relentless surveillance, the Authority began to suspect that something was amiss.
Fear and suspicion infiltrated the hives, creeping into every corner like a malevolent fog.
In the face of ever-growing dangers, the inhabitants’ desire for freedom kept rising.
Their silent rebellion persisted, fueled by an insatiable thirst to escape the grip of the Authority.
Any attempt by the Authority to suppress the growing revolt only fueled the fire of resistance even more.
Amid an overwhelming storm of oppression and fear, the residents’ resistance flickered like a weak flame in the wind, struggling to stay alight.
Every day brought new challenges, testing the limits of their endurance and courage.
That was the state of things on the day I entered the Room Without Windows for the second time.
There was nothing special inside — the same suffocating dampness, the same smell of burnt metal and old flesh.
But then I overheard a whispered conversation between the Overlords and Viperis.
The voice of the one with glassy eyes said clearly:
‘The Queen is not quite close to death… but she will be. We will take care of it.’
And somewhere, in a corner of the room, shrouded in semi-darkness, sat an unknown figure — an Emissary from the Caves.
Probably from a traitorous faction. He uttered the words in a trance, speaking with a voice not his own:
‘Zaraza has spoken: When Faith Scent returns to the hive, brought not by a priest but by prophecy, the world will bow before faith — or break under it.’”
Dragan ended his story with a sigh.
His gaze remained fixed at a point beyond the campfire, adding:
“…and when the Matron Prime rises for the last time, only Zaraza will be able to stop the shadows in her blood.”
Dear Friends, Writers, and Followers of New Literary Society,
A thousand thanks for your support. We warmly invite you to follow our pub, join our projects, read our stories, and publish with us.
With gratitude,
Julia Kalman
Editor-in-Chief, NLS
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Grab a Copy of My Book!
And if you’d love to dive into a world of short stories, Japanese culture, and beautiful imagery, I invite you to grab a copy of my book.
It’s available now on Amazon, and stay tuned because the Spanish translation is coming soon!
Julia Kalman 