One day, a dragon walks into a bar. My bar. Dragons are a bit like superheroes, you know, if superheroes were dicks. Oh, and if they didn’t really give a damn helping anyone but themselves. This dragon is no different, he comes in, chest puffed out in his humanoid form. He doesn’t need the scales or the serpentine tongue or the giant fucking wings to let you know what he is. As a human, this particular dragon has a physique similar to an olympic swimmer, lean but powerful. His clothing accentuates it, a button up that’s a little too snug and slacks that hug in all the right places. Today he looks slightly haggard, for him at any rate, he’s got a bit of scruff instead of his normally clean shaven pretty boy face. He keeps his blonde hair parted showing off what really gives away his true form: his eyes. Dragon eyes still weird me out and I’ve been around them all my life, the pupils and iris match that of your everyday human but also look like they’re on fire. I have to focus every time I look into his hazel irises with that yellow green glow around them. Compare that me, a dwarf reaching the astonishing tall height of five foot three inches. I’m a little bit skinnier that your average dwarf, closer to $170 pounds instead of the typical 190, only because I grew up with humans who don’t always eat the heartiest of meals. I’ve got the obligatory bushy beard, mine’s fiery orange. I tend to keep my beard in two braids to keep it out of the way when I’m cooking or tending bar. My eyes are green, not dissimilar to a traffic light. What really sets me apart from other dwarves though is that I will talk to just about anyone. Most of my kin fall into the known version of what it means to be a dwarf and are terse and quiet. Fuck that shit, I’ll talk to whomever and whenever. My dad jokes that I was actually switched at birth and I’m actually a halfling. “Afternoon Jotiet,” I acknowledge in my watered down Scottish brogue, taking extra care to pronounce his name correctly; Joe-tea-et. Last thing I want is to piss off a guy who could literally speak a word and burn my bar down. When you pronounce things differently than most people are used to, like ‘ye’ instead of ‘you’ and ‘me’ instead of ‘my’, it’s obscenely easy to enunciate incorrectly. “Good afternoon Draven,” Jotiet replied. Jotiet, arrogant as he might be, is at least polite to those he interacts with. I’m still not convinced his manners aren’t some twisted personality trait to feed some superiority complex. It could also be that as a dwarf, he took pity on me for the same reason. In either case, my bar is the best bar in the greater Sacramento area. The Vulgar Unicorn isn’t terribly big, it only seats about 30 people on a busy night. If I had to guess, the Unicorn is known because of its charm. It doesn’t have the intentionally worn down vibe like so many of the hip places in Sacramento nor is it ultra fancy. At the risk of being honest with myself, my bar is kind of a dive, a tidy dive, but a dive nonetheless. It took me the better part of a year to put it together, from the oak chairs I hand crafted and stained in a deep purple that looks brown in the dim light to the hand sculpted bar area. Hand chiseling that granite was a huge pain in the ass, but the gold flakes sparkling in the pitch black countertop was completely worth it. The kitchen was easy enough, I pretty much bought the whole thing online and just installed it myself. I’ve had patrons from around the world show up to the Vulgar Unicorn just because of recommendations from the locals. So it’s never really struck me as odd that a dragon would drink the swill I serve. “It’s not quite dinner time, so it’ll be a bit before I can get you your normal.” “That’s fine, my good dwarf, I came in for a drink anyway.” The nice thing about dragons is they tend to be creatures of habit. I’ve known Jotiet about a year now, I can tell time by when he arrives, orders, and leaves. It’s at the point where ordering his reuben with extra sauerkraut and lightly charred corned beef is a pure formality. He only orders a drink when he’s brought a woman with him and then it’s a wine I keep special for him. So the fact that he’s in alone ordering a drink is a little more than surprising to me. “Some of the zin and two glasses?” I ask hoping his companion was simply late and Jotiet was just warming up. Still out of character, but a dwarf can hope. “No, hand me a bottle of whiskey and a glass.” Shit. Would it be poor form to politely ask my other patrons to leave, lest an inferno is about to begin? I’d truly hate if the legacy the Unicorn left was the cremation of innocent people simply because a dragon decided to act out of character. On the other hand, his ego might get bruised if he caught me evacuating the room. Fucking rocks and hard places. “Not like you to have a rough day, want to talk about it?” Another nice thing about dragons: they prefer the finer things and this one, at least, is willing to pay premium prices. So there was no hesitation in pulling out the 37 year old bottle of McGidden. It hasn’t seen much use, after all, what moron would pay for a glass of this stuff? Hell, if Jotiet drank a quarter of the bottle, I could close up shop for the rest of the week and still break even. Speaking of rocks, “Want it neat?” “Yes please Draven, I don’t want to water down whatever delightful amber liquid you’re serving. Today, has been exciting to say the least. I’d almost forgotten the feeling of having events not being comfortably in my control. Today, I lost it.” Jotiet sighs as he pours his drink. Three fingers on the first drink! Must have been one fucked up day. “What did you lose?” “I lost my company to some smooth talking, fast acting piece of elven trash. The company I founded, invested my heart and soul into, and worked into a multi-billion dollar cash register. Durlan Daren waltzes in there and talks to the board and convinces them that I’m taking the company in the wrong direction. My vision for Cerberus is ‘unsustainable.’” I appreciate that he emphasizes that last comment with sarcastic air quotes. Wait, Jotiet just said ‘Cerberus.’ It seems unlikely he’s talking about the three headed dog that sits in Hades, so he’s talking about Cerberus International Biomechanical. This dragon is one of the top three richest people in the world and he comes into MY bar? What in the actual fuck? Jotiet acknowledges my very obvious surprise, “Yes, I am Roland Jotiet Beldrenth, founder of Cerberus. Now it would seem I should probably introduce myself as ‘former owner’. Your surprise is why I come to this bar; everyone only knows what I am, not who I am. I get the respect I’m due without the trouble of having to maintain any social expectations. Using my middle name naturally makes it harder for the rank and file to put two and two together and gives me that modicum of privacy. If I may speak frankly, Draven, that makes you one of a handful of people that know me best. You’ve managed to do that without ever knowing my real name.” Complimenting me by confirming his own importance? Like I said, he’s an arrogant fuck. “I just like to have a place people can come and have a drink worry free. If the president were to walk in here, even he should get a moment of peace.” “For that, you have my eternal gratitude. Not so many dwarves have the social awareness you do. Most of them seem to be,” Jotiet pauses to ponder, “rather uncouth is probably the politest word for it.” “Fucking rude is probably the most accurate way to say it. I’m special. I grew up mostly around plain old humans. My dad lost his job when I was a wee baby, so we had to move around a lot so that he could find work. Eventually he found a job up in Lebanon. The pay and hours were shit, but it was a job.” I’m actually not sure why I’m spilling my figurative guts to him right now. Maybe it’s just because this is the first conversation he and I have ever had of substance, maybe I’m being charmed, but that seems unlikely. Not that I would do anything about it, he’s a dragon after all. I continue, “Back then, Lebanon was mostly human. Dwarves don’t handle that kind of climate too well. Mom didn’t adjust at all and we lost her to the first winter there. Let me tell you Jotiet, a dwarf with pneumonia is a terrible thing to see. Anyway, with only humans around, I grew up with more of their mannerisms. Don’t get me wrong, I still love a good solid ale and friendly brawling. I’m pretty sure us dwarves are genetically engineered that way.” Jotiet grins ever so slightly as I play into a few overused stereotypes, but sometimes they’re stereotypes for a reason. I do love a good ale and I’ve been known to get into scraps with my “brothers”. My brothers also taught me some manners. I’ve only disrespected a new acquaintance once. I got into a fight with my brothers later because of it and I’ve not forgotten to show respect since. “How old are you, Draven? I get the impression you’re younger than your beard would suggest since it’s only been about ten years since the Reclamation.” Stroking my bushy bright orange beard, I answer, “Just had my 25th birthday a couple of weeks ago. I don’t usually celebrate since it’s a big hassle.” Raising his glass, Jotiet cheers me, “Prost!” and finishes his drink. The glass is barely back on the bar as he’s pouring the glass full with more McGidden. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your other customers. I’ll take my meal at the normal time. Thank you Draven.” Far be it for me to keep a man from a drunken stupor, lord knows I’ve had my fair share of those nights. I’ll keep an eye on him, though, I’ve never seen an intoxicated dragon before, so I kind of want to see one now. I mill about the Unicorn for most of the rest of the evening, I bring Jotiet his food right on time, chat with a couple of the other regulars. After pulling away from a conversation about six armed lizard men around closing time, I go to check on Jotiet, but all I see is a thick envelope under the now dry glass. My name is on the envelope, but I still cautiously open it. Inside is the single largest amount of cash I’ve ever seen. At a quick glance, there’s got to be ten grand in there! I look over at the bottle of McGidden and, sure enough, it’s empty. Not sure what’s more surprising, how much he drank, how much he paid, or how he left without everyone knowing. On one hand, it’s pretty fucking spectacular knowing that I have ten thousand dollars to deposit, even taking into account that I’ll have to buy another bottle of the McGidden. On the other hand, I am now obscenely paranoid that I have to carry cash between now and the ATM. There’s not a bright fluorescent sign over my head blinking or anything, but there’s nothing like having a small fortune in your pocket to make you question the movements every living creature around you. Did that person turn there because they are heading the same direction as me or because they can smell the stack of bills? Is that cat really a cat? Why don’t I have a safe at the Unicorn? No, seriously, why do I not have a safe? I make a mental note to start shopping for a safe. I’m focusing on the wrong details apparently, since I fail see the shadow move up in front of my very face. Between blinks, my legs are kicked out from under me and my nose fills with blood from the quick introduction it makes to the concrete. The only communication I can come up with is a loud grunt. “Give me your wallet and you get to hobble away from here, beardie,” rasps an oddly familiar feminine voice. Silly woman, I think as I roll away and jump up, narrowly dodging a reaction kick from her stiletto. Focusing for a second, my favored weapon materialises in my hand. A great axe forged from iron, the handle grip stitched in gold. Up where the double-sided blade spans is a gold etching of Dirog, the dwarven deity of honor. The wings of his helmet form into the blades themselves. The lining of the curves underneath the blades is iron contrasting starkly with the gold in the low light of the street. The Diplomat is probably the single best piece of metal work on the planet. “Listen lady, I don’t know what you want, but I assure you, I don’t have it!” “You mean to tell me that bulge in your pocket means you’re happy to see me then and isn’t a wad of money? Perhaps around ten large?” If I weren’t preparing myself for a fight, I’d probably make a dirty comment here. Two daggers form in the black gloves of the figure who almost looks like pure shadow. In the dark, it takes twice as much focus to observe the womanly curves. What sticks out though wasn’t the absence of light across her body, but the reflection of light in her eyes behind the ornate mask. Apparently that’s all the time I get to try and figure out who or what she is as she tumbles behind me and slices at me with both of the daggers. Fucking hell she’s fast. The night air feels cool against my upper left thigh where the bitch struck me, cutting open my shirt and pants. It might be the adrenaline or it might be a lack of wound, but there isn’t any pain, so that’s good. Focusing my efforts, I swing the broad side of the Diplomat at my attacker. I don’t have any interest in the proceedings that come with killing someone, so I’m just trying to knock her out so I can get the hell out of here. Then I fully intend on running home with my axe out like a mad man. No one is going to fuck with a running dwarf carrying a weapon taller than he is. My follow through hits her left arm, knocking her back. Damnit, she’s quick. She’s already adjusting her agile form in mid-air and using the momentum to do a backflip. For a brief second, I see a glint of white hair and elf ears under the hood. The spark of realization flashes in my head as she changes from three point landing to tumbling slash. I feel cool air on my right side after she somersaults past. “God fucking damnit Soviel! This is one of my favorite shirts!” “Oh hush you big baby, use some of that money Jotiet paid you to get it fixed.” Soviel pulls down her hood and takes off the now silvery mask that is suddenly reflecting light. Her white hair falls over her shoulders and her tall, elven ears frame her shit eating grin. I guess she’d be considered a typical elf, tall like a freak and skinny as the twigs humans think they eat. “You’re allowed to say hi in the bar, you know that, right? Don’t have to fake a mugging on me in the middle of the fucking street just to ask how I’m doing.” I reply, not even pretending to hide the irritation in my tone. I take a breath and the Diplomat disappears; Soviel’s daggers are also gone. “Maybe, but it’s no fun just walking up to a bar and saying ‘Heya Draven, how ya doing?’ I prefer something with a little more flair.” She accentuates the last word with twirl of her daggers. The raspiness of her voice now gone, that must be the mask. “That said, how are you doing?” “Well, I was better until...” The full extent of Soviel’s ambush reveals itself as my pants fall off. “Until a few seconds ago. Did you really have to cut my belt too? Wait, where is my belt?” “Please, you think I’d embarrass you so fully without making sure to have a way to fix it?” Soviel throws my belt back at me. “Be nice to me, it’s not very often I could perform such a magnificent feat. Most of the time we’re involved in a scuffle, you’re wearing your armor, like last time.” I pull my pants backup and chuckle a little as I recall that particular fight. Soviel had found herself a little too deep into enemy territory and instead of employing her preferred brand of subterfuge, I opted to go charging in to save her ass. Not my smartest move but we got out mostly okay. She then thanked me by trying to kill me, not realizing I was an ally. “How are you, Soviel? It’s been almost six months since I last saw you.” “Oh, I’ve been great, I spent a few weeks in Europe liberating some particularly valuable tokens from various counts, dukes, and royalty.” She waves the mask. “I also spent some time working with others who practice the art. Learned a few new tricks.” Others who practice the art. She still just won’t come out and say it, she’s a damned thief. A fucking phenomenal one, but still a thief. I once saw her steal a piece of art off of a museum wall and manage to get the curator blamed. Fortunately for her, by the time the authorities got everything straightened out, the surveillance footage mysteriously vanished and no one could seem to recall what she looked like. Soviel’s even been back into that museum and talked to the curator and she didn’t get locked up. “Yeah, were you that shadow, did I imagine that?” “Draven, you must have hit your head a little too hard when I kicked you over. How could I possibly be a shadow? Do I look like some sort of mage to you?” Okay, so she’s full of shit and doesn’t want to tell me. Not the first time she’s lied to me and it probably won’t be the last. Whatever, I can play along. “Kick me over, Soviel? You can barely open a bottle of water without crying for help let alone knock me over. I just wasn’t paying attention and tripped on my own two feet.” See, I can make stuff up too. “I guess so, though that seems far more embarrassing than having someone get the drop on you and then you consequently getting the drop on the ground. But if that’s the excuse you want to go with, I’ll let you have that victory.” Damnit, this chick knows me too well. If I had a sister, Soviel would be her. Back when we were younger, Soviel showed up on our doorstep, on the run from something. I still don’t know what she was running from or even if she’s still running. If you ask me, she’s just running for the sake of running at this point. Soviel spent a couple of months with us and my family. My brothers took a liking to her but she had eyes for someone else. Not to mention, I don’t think Soviel really ever had a thing for humans. In any case, after she left, I didn’t see her again for a couple of years. Then fate decided we needed to meet by way of a mobile dating app. She won’t let me forget it either, all while claiming she was only on there to get more information on a human mark. Or was it a man named Mark? Eh, who cares. “Yeah, well, fuck you too Soviel. You now get the amazing privilege of walking me home to make sure any would be muggers don’t catch me with my pants down. Which is now a more likely prospect, thanks to you.” I’m already walking as I finish clasping my belt. “What are you doing here?” “Are you telling me I’m not allowed to drop in on my very best friend uninvited and try to steal a small sum from him just because I missed him?” “I guess that’s okay, now get over here!” I can’t imagine seeing an elf tackle hug a dwarf is anything short of hilarious, but it’s what we do. Soviel dives at me and I catch her, somehow becoming tall enough to lift her off the ground. Okay, so it’s really just me leaning back, sue me. Setting her back down, “It’s good to see you, I’ve missed you!” “I’ve missed you as well, Draven, how are things?” “Same shit, different day. Keeping a low profile can be difficult sometimes, and I don’t want any short jokes.” Sometimes I have to cut that off at the head, which is good since Soviel gets a dumbass smirk every time she comments on my height. I look both ways before jaywalking across the street. “Any new leads on where he might have taken her?” “Negative, but at this point, it’s more about hiding than finding her. You know that asshole is way too connected for me to try and step up to him right now. I have to wait until I can pay for a mage to help.” Patting the wad of cash in my pocket, “another small amount of cash to help with the deposit.


He kept his head down, eyes fixated on his phone, he had no one to text but it gave him something to do. His headphones played the same few songs he had heard a thousand times, it was something familiar to keep his mind from wandering. The entire summer he had not spoken a word , a lump had formed in his throat, he had no one to speak to, he had forgotten what it was like it to speak, convincing himself no one would want to, he never put the effort in to open his mouth. The days went on and on in this cycle, he became increasingly more isolated, despite being in a city of millions, “ I wonder” he thought to himself, he did that a lot, “Does anyone even notice me?”, That’s all he wanted, his family didn’t seem to notice his isolation, but then again that could have been all in his head. On the last day, he woke up before the sun had risen to be on his way to the airport, he hadn’t slept much. On the way, he found himself in a small rustic coffee shop, it was full of personality, and not that manufactured personality he had grown so tired of, it was a place of passion, he noticed the small things like that. It was a happy place and that’s exactly what he needed. “What’ll be buddy?” asked the man on the till with a warm smile, “uh”, shakingly , “just a latte I guess” , eyes glued to the floor, avoiding any kind of eye contact. On his way to the table he noticed all the cups of coffee had little drawings in the foam, leaves, coffeebeans, an overused cliche but he liked the effort. He sat down threw his head into his crossed arms and waited for his drink to arrive. What felt like minutes to him passed, he was getting restless but obviously he didn’t have the gile to complain, so he sat there, scrolling through his messages, not talking to anyone, just scrolling enough to seem like everyone else. “Hey man sorry for the delay I worked extra hard on this one” , the barista placed the cup down on the table. He looked at it and saw a drawing of himself on the foam, his heart dropped and his stomach turned. He was shocked, he was distressed, someone had finally noticed him. He got up. raced to the bathroom. locked himself in a stall and when he made sure he was completely alone, he burst into tears, anyone else would have passed it off as something interesting and nothing more but to him it was an act of kindness he had never felt before, a complete stranger. He sat there in the stall, tears running down his cheeks, and let out a laugh of purest ecstasy. He left the bathroom , didn’t touch his drink and left the store with a smile, he hadn’t had one of those in a while.


On a bright summer day, deep in the woods, Mila the Fairy glided down a path. The sun was warm. The forest was green with moss. Wild flowers were scattered along the well beaten path. The day was shaping up to be wonderfully magical. Mila was giddy with all the possibilities as she floated along the path. As she went she happened upon Fearghus the Frog. He was completely focused upon a stone that looked like a mysterious misty morning had been trapped inside a rock. “Good day, Fearghas!” Mila rang out in a sing-song tone. “Isn’t it a wonderful summer morning?” “Yes, yes, dear... hello and all that,” Fearghus replied distractedly. He didn’t look up from the foggy stone. “What do you have?” Mila asked curiously. With frustration Fearghus pulled his attention away from the swirling rock to address the fairy. “The old witch from the mountains passed through our woods yesterday. She sold me this seer’s stone. When a choice is before you the stone will show you what future will come of making either decision. “How interesting!” Mila marveled, finding herself so intrigued that she took a seek next to the frog. “I was eager to put the stone to the test. I set out for my morning stroll when I came upon these two paths on the road before us. As you know, the left path leads to the pond and the right into the village. I looked deep into the seer stone to ask which path to take. The cloudiness dissipated into dream-like images. If I take the path to the left I will meet one of the nieces of the old Frog Faolan. We will fall in love, have children, and live a long happy life together.” “Oh! How wonderful!” Mila sighed with dreamy love struck eyes. “But if I take the path to the right I will meet the nephew of the old Frog Ferdinand. He will have a business proposition that will allow us to travel to far off lands and bring us great wealth. We will be able to provide for our families here in the woods and live long lives filled with adventure.” “How marvelous!” Mila exclaimed. “Both paths lead to great futures. You are truly a lucky frog dear Fearghus.” “But which path is the correct path?!” Fearghus whined in dismay. “They both are very nice, but I do not know which one to choose.” Mila shrugged, “It seems to me that whichever you choose will lead to a long happy life. I don’t know that one is more correct than the other.” “But there must be a correct path! I just have to think through the options,” Fearghus sounded both determined and defeated at the same time. Mila perched upon a boulder near the path to assist the frog with his dilemma. “If you take the path to the left you will find true love, and what could be more wonderful in the world?” Mila offered. “But then will I be doomed to the stagnation of these woods never to see the world because of my duties?” Fearghus retorted. “If you take the path to the right you will have adventure to fill books and the imaginations of all who hear!” exclaimed Mila. “But then will I be doomed to loneliness chasing adventure but never knowing love?” Fearghus whimpered. For every positive aspect she provided for a path Fearghus dismissed it with a negative. And for every negative point Mila proposed Fearghus countered with a positive. The situation was becoming more and more hopeless. The beautiful sunny day was fading into a comfortably cool evening. Fireflies began to awaken in the trees. Mila realized she had spent the entire summer day on the side of the path with Fearghus the Frog staring into his cloudy seer stone. She could still salvage the day if she made it home in time for a warm supper. Perhaps she could play the flute for her neighbors in the cool evening. Or have a nice long chat with the Ambroz the Wise Owl over tea. Mila tried to tell Fearghus she was sorry she could not help, and that she wished him the best in his decision, but the frog was hopelessly consumed by his visions in the foggy stone. He continued muttering to himself about love and adventure, wealth and poverty. He did not notice as Mila slipped away down the forest path back home. Instead Fearghus sat paralyzed with indecision, staring into his cloudy seer stone on the side of the forest path as the evening passed into a starry night.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Prompt: Three survivors. Two days. One chance.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentences do not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make adjustments where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week Keep up all the hard work! I loved the variety of stories this week, making nominations was *hard*! Well done, all around. I have loved the uptick in feedback the last few weeks. <3 - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/Lynx_Elia   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/merbaum   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“How far is that?” He quietly mused to himself. “Twelve, maybe fourteen feet?” It was always more difficult to gauge distances in the dead of night. It was a formidable distance from rooftop to balcony, at least for most people. This, however, was no ordinary man. Dressed all in a dark navy, he flew across the night sky landing quietly on soft padded shoes and moved quickly into a roll to avoid injury. He tested the door to find it was locked. All as expected so far. Fortunately, his pick had yet to find a lock it couldn’t seduce into obeying his commands. The man slipped through without leaving a trace and made his way down the hall. “Third room on the right,” was where his contract said his quarry would be waiting. He made his way to the door and carefully pushed it open, his hand dropping to his dagger almost on its own. In a room dully lit by a single oil lamp was a single occupant, sat upright in a wooden chair, his back exposed and facing the door. The assassin closed the door behind himself and tiptoed to the point immediately behind the man he was here to kill. In one swift motion his empty hand covered and yanked backward the other man’s mouth and his knife plunged straight through back, rib, and heart. With no time to scream, only a muffled gurgle escaped his throat. A clean kill. As the knife was removed, a small stream of blood poured from the wound, soaking cloth dripping to the floor. Now to leave before anybody notices. As quietly as he had entered, the assassin made his way back to the door and started to leave. “Locked?” He whispered to himself. It wasn’t locked when he entered. By the dim light he scoured the door’s surface to find there was no lock. What was keeping it shut? After four or five attempts he decided it would be no good if he had to break down the door, that much noise would surely alert the entire building. So, he looked for another way out. There were no windows in the room, no ducts, no chimneys. The walls were solid and it seemed the door was the only way in or out. He went back to the door completely unaware of the circle of blood continuing to inch outward from the body in the middle of the room. He tried everything he could think of to get the door open. He tried prying his knife between the jamb and the door, but there was no gap large enough. He thought to remove hinge pins, but found none. As he was looking for a screw to remove with his knife he finally noticed the blood. The entire floor was now completely hidden underneath the liquid appearing black and shiny in the darkness. It was more blood than he had ever seen. More blood than he knew any human could ever have. That slow trickle had become a pouring fountain of blood from where his knife had probed. It was only seconds before his ankles were covered. He needed to get out now. As the panic rose in his throat he didn’t care about being quiet anymore. He slammed his body against the door and screamed for help. The blood rose, unyielding to his fear-stricken pleas. It wasn’t long before he began to swim, and only minutes later, the room filled to the brim.


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Rose. Rose was extremely beautiful and kind. She was known for her sparkly blue eyes and gorgeous smile. Many people called her Persephone, the goddess of spring because of her natural beauty and spring-like features. As beautiful as Rose was, she was never interested in boys, until she met a man named Caspian. Caspian was a merchant who was betrothed to another woman named Violet. Violet was the opposite of Rose. She was also known for her beauty but she had the heart of the devil. She had been betrothed to many men. However, they always broke their engagement. Violet had known heartbreak more than any other. Caspian also hated Violet and always snuck away to the country, where he drank with men and gambled. There he met Rose. They met in a funny way I might add, Caspian was drunk you see, so when he ran into Rose, his mouth started spilling out weird things, earning him a slap in the face. The minute they met, in Caspian’s eyes, Rose was an angel from the heavens. Since Caspian was a merchant, he had to sail around the world, trading and selling wine and silk, and could barely see Rose. Every third day of each month, Caspian ran off to the country with the finest gifts to give to Rose. He gave her white pearls, silk gowns, and jewelry of all shapes and sizes. Rose waited patiently all month, just to see Caspian. For her, a month felt like an eternity, but when he came, the wait didn’t matter. All that had mattered to her, was that Caspian was alive and in her arms. Now we mustn't forget Violet, Caspian’s soon-to-be wife. Violet was growing suspicious of her fiance, who ran off to the country every month on a certain day, with gifts fit for a woman. Violet grew increasingly jealous when Caspian came home after running off to the country, with a dreamy look on his face. He even called Violet, “Rose” accidentally many, many times. Violet wondered who this “Rose” was, but Caspian always said, “You're just as pretty as a Rose, that’s all.” As much as Violet loved flattery, to her, this wasn’t like a compliment, more like a lie. So, the next month, on the third day, Violet snuck after Caspian and followed him to Rose’s house. She was aghast when she saw her beloved Caspian, in the arms of another woman, kissing her as if she was the only person on the earth. Now, Violet had a secret, an evil secret. One that she had used for terrible reasons. She was a witch who had used her magic to curse maidens and haunt men. Violet had used her magic every time her beloved cheated on her, and Rose wouldn’t be the last. Violet barged into Rose’s house and tore Caspian and Rose apart. “Violet?” Caspian gasped as he looked at Violet with wide eyes, “This isn’t what it looks like!” Violet cackled, “Isn’t what it looks like Caspian? I’m not dumb. I had husbands who cheated before,” Violet looked at Rose who was clutching to Caspian with her eyes full of fear. The sight made Violet’s face burn, how dare she cling to her lover? Then, an idea sprung from Violet’s head. Violet smiled. She quickly stabbed Caspian in the chest. His eyes, once full of life, became dark in a second. Rose screamed. She looked up at Violet. “Why?” She choked, eyes full of tears. Violet smiled. “Look at me” Violet shouted. Rose looked up instantly, shocked by the commands in Violet’s voice. “ I banish you to the Willow Woods, to live forever in isolation until you cannot live anymore. You will become a figure of sadness, drowned by grief until even the wind can defeat you. You will crumble into nothing! ” Violet chanted the haunting curse, loud and clear. Violet smiled at Rose, her pupils growing bigger every minute. “ Have fun my darling, ” Violet whispered before Rose disappeared before her eyes to fulfill her fate. ***************** Rose woke up with a start. She quickly got off the grassy ground and dusted the leaves and little grass bits off her dress. She then looked around, amazed at the willow trees drooping around her. Rose wondered what she was doing here, she could see nobody in the distance. “My dear,” Rose heard a voice call. Rose's eyes lit up, and she knew that voice, the memory was so distant. “My dear, it’s me,” the man walked towards her. Rose was captivated by his gorgeous eyes, his wavy blonde falling over his forehead. As he got closer, the memory of him slowly came back. It was him. “Do you remember me dear?” the man stopped right in front of her and looked at Rose, straight into her eyes. Her knees wobbled. “Caspian,” her voice gasped, he was perfect and he was her’s. Before she knew it, her mouth was covered by his, his hands tangled in her hair, and her hands in his. The kiss soon turned vicious, his teeth were digging into her lip, his tongue in her mouth, and a sigh escaped Rose’s throat. Rose didn’t know how, but they ended up against the bark of a willow tree. Rose's head spun at the feeling of his muscular body against hers. “I missed you dear,” Caspian said pulling Rose away from him. “I missed you too,” Rose gasped, and threw herself at Caspian, only to find him a few feet away from her. “Caspian?” Rose asked, “Come back,” Caspian smiled. “Come to me Rose” Caspian said, holding his arms out for Rose to reach. Rose smiled and tried to grab his arm, but he faded away before she could grab his hand. “I’m here dear, right in front of you,” Rose looked up to see Caspian right in front of her. Rose chuckled at herself, she must have missed his hand. “You little,” Rose tried grabbing his hand again but he disappeared and then appeared a moment later, this time ten feet away from her. “Caspian stop running away!” Rose yelled, laughing, though she didn’t feel like laughing. It was getting annoying. “I’m not running away dear, I’m right here!” Caspian called out. Rose growled in frustration. “Come back here!” Rose yelled as she ran after him. Caspian laughed and held his arms out again. Rose ran after him, but every time she tried to grab his arm, he disappeared and kept getting farther and farther away from her. Rose's heart pounded, her legs tired from running. “Wait...Up!” Rose panted as she stopped to rest. “Hurry darling! I know you can run faster!” Rose heard a voice in the distance saying. “I’m coming!” Rose yelled as she started running again. What Rose didn’t know, was that she had been running for twenty years, trying to catch up to Caspian. Every year, her body grew weaker and sore. 100 years later, Rose was still running calling Caspian’s name as if no time had passed. Rose had bones and muscles had turned old, but her outer appearance was still the same. Rose started crying, “Caspian!” She called. “Why do you run? Why do you break my heart? Why can’t you come to me?” Rose yelled, sobbing. She sobbed and sobbed until her mind had broken and her heart stopped pumping, and yet, she was still alive. “Come on darling! You're so close!” Rose heard Caspian’s voice, closer than before. “Caspian?” Rose called, wiping her tears away and running until she was at the edge of a cliff. “I’m down here Rose!” Caspian called, his voice coming from the bottom of the cliff. “I’ll catch you! Just jump!” Caspian yelled. Rose closed her eyes and breathed slowly before opening her eyes and jumping off the cliff. She could see Caspian getting closer and closer as she fell. “Caspian!” Rose called before she crumbled into the wind and disappeared forever. ************* Violet smiled as she saw Rose jump off the cliff and disappear into the wind forever. Rose’s fate was complete and Violet’s plan was almost done. Now all she had to do was- “Rose!” Violet rolled her eyes as she turned to the man who had been watching Rose for the entire 100 years she was alive. “Caspian, she’s dead,” Violet whispered as she sat down next to him on the grassy forest ground. He turned and glared at her, Violet shuddered. His eyes, his gorgeous eyes. “You killed her!” He growled, “It’s all your fault.” Violet chuckled, “It’s your fault darling, if you hadn’t cheated on me like many men before, she would still be alive, away from you and your selfish ways.” “What do you mean?” Caspian said. Violet was surprised how his mood had changed from mad to concerned so quickly. “You brought her to her doom. If you hadn’t met her, she would still be alive, happy, and free.” Violet whispered into his ear. “She wasn’t happy before she met me,” Caspian yelled, his fists balled up. “How do you know that dear?” Caspian went still. Violet then snuggled on his shoulder and breathed him in. “You were meant for me, not for her,” Violet whispered as she kissed him tenderly on the lips. Caspian pushed her away. “If she can’t have me, no one can,” Caspian snarled. Before Violet could stop him, he ran to the cliff Rose had jumped off, and jumped off too. “No!” Violet screamed as she ran towards the cliff responsible for two people's deaths. She fell to the ground and started slamming the ground, hard. “That’s what you get Violet,” Violet heard a whispering voice in the wind. “That’s what you get for cursing me,” Violet felt a prickle around her body as the wind blew. “Rose?” Violet stammered, “You're dead,” Violet heard a chuckle. “Oh sweetie, the wind never dies, but the wind does kill,” Violet felt the wind around her tightening her until she couldn’t breathe. “I am the Rose Wind, Fate of the Heartbroken, and Ruler of the Willow Woods. You will die by the hands of the dead.” “No!” Violet screamed as she gasped for air. “Oh sweetie, it would be much faster if you didn’t struggle,” Rose cackled. “No wonder nobody would marry you,” Violet’s eyes widened. Caspian. “You were mine,” Violet growled to the open air, still choking painfully. “And now I’m her’s” Caspian whispered. And with that, the Fates of the Willow’s Wind were forever tied together in death.


I saw my first khat chewer in Kenya. I was attending an international conference on physical cosmology, and while strolling back to my hotel after an edifying day of lectures--Copernicus, quantum mechanics and CMBR sloshing about my head--he appeared: Or appeared his eyes, reflecting the streetlights. I stopped. His face remained dark. He stared at me and I at him, and all the while he chewed. Slowly; dumbly, like a human cow. Not saying a word. Eventually my companion, a hired local named Kirui, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away. “Don’t mind him,” Kirui said. “He’s harmless, just a khat chewer.” *Khat*: a flowering plant native to east Africa chewed for its alkaloid, cathinone, an amphetamine-like compound causing excitement and euphoria. Except the khat chewer had looked anything but euphoric. Even in my hotel room, alone and in the dark, did his eyes remain: staring at me from a face of memory melting into nightmare-- I awoke, cold, wet, but remembering nothing from my fever dream save for a peculiar sensation of reality somehow condensing into me. In the late morning, I went to a lecture on cosmic expansion but could not focus. My thoughts were scattered, limp. During the lunch break, I drank three cups of coffee but they didn’t help. Several colleagues tried to speak with me; I ignored them. Until bumping into-- “Here is the leaf that begins all life worth having!” *What?* The man staring back at me, with slight bewilderment, was Dr. Mukherjee, under whom I had earned my doctorate at MIT. “Gilgamesh,” he said. “The name of--” I felt a sudden tightening in my chest. Gilgamesh had been the name of my first (and most famous) contribution to the field of cosmology: a software model of the beginnings of the universe. “Are you alright?” “Yes,” I said, pushing past him, but now changing direction and heading for the doors leading outside-- Through which I pushed into the blinding noonday sun. My hand firm against my chest. *Palpitations.* People staring at me-- Evading-- “Kirui!” I yelled out. “Kirui, are you here?” He materialized obediently as if out of the local ether. “Yes, sir.” “Take me to the place we passed last night. To where we saw the khat chewer,” I said in syncopation. When we arrived, he was there. His jaws masticating. “Leave us,” I told Kirui. When he had gone, the khat chewer stood and in his eyes I felt an understanding. I followed him into a building, down a ladder, deeper and deeper into a hole, until time meant nothing: until my feet touched ground: An underground chamber of impossible proportions. The inward pressure was immense. Through the permanent gloam I gazed rows and rows of khat chewers. I sat among them. I willingly received my leaf. *The expansion of the universe is slowing. There is too much matter. And the only thing preventing collapse--pushing against it with each grinding motion--is us:* the khat chewers, *dutifully delaying the inevitable.


"The devil waits for us. He lives in our pride, our hate, our jealousy, and tempts us. He pulls us in with lies and false promises, turns us away from our god and our fellow man, and then we are lost." Raphe stands at the pulpit, staring down at the blank, sagging face of his followers. They stare back with bovine eyes, feeling none of the rapture he's used to. God lives everywhere, but rural Missouri and middle England's Wingston-on-the-Brook are different down to their very souls. "We must resist the dark temptations that Satan brings before us. Fight him in our hearts, in our minds, in our souls, and prevail over the armies of the serpent king." He aches for the cries of hallelujah that ring absent. "Let us pray." His pleas to the lord fall on distracted ears and are followed by a tape cassette recording of the dying groans of an organ. His flock gather together in clumps as they leave, more interest in the chatter and babble and, 'Oh, what a nice hat,' then a sermon has brought out yet. He closes his bible with care and goes to join them, press the flesh and bring them to god with a smile if nothing else will work, but his way is blocked. Mrs Withers, 80 years old and widowed for at least 20 of them, is leaning on her walking stick at the foot of the steps. She's dressed like the Queen in a baby blue dress and matching sun hat but her eyes are sharp, and she waits for him to reach her before talking. "Your sermon." She tilts her head, eyes slit. "It was definitely something new." This woman could be a perfect sample of the rot that has been allowed to set in without the firm hand of a true man of god. Their pro-forma prayers and dower hymns flowing through the town like blood. "Should bringing passion for the lord to this house of god be new? It should ring from the foundations. It's what our world should be built on." The old lady stares into his eyes with an unblinking gaze before answering. "I understand that you were not expecting to find yourself here. And we were not expecting you. Brimstone may have worked for your old congregation until, well..." He grinds his teeth and she just raises an eyebrow. "...But we're of a different sort here. Time weighs heavy. We've found our own way to do things. Our own path. We've learned that the strong resolve of outsiders isn't always so kind. Or necessary." "God may ask much of us, but never more than we can bare." "Tell that to Seila." The name sounds like it should ring a bell, but his confusion must show on his face because her own softens. "Perhaps time is all that we need. And a little enlightenment, maybe?" Her smile is crooked. "It's a good time of year to go looking. Take a walk in the woods to clear your mind?" Raphe feels like she's telling a joke he's not in on, but he nods anyway. Doesn't hurt to humour the old witch. She bids him farewell and sets off after the gaggle of similar women who are making their way out of the door, leaving him alone. - Sunday may be the main focus of his job, but it's not the majority. The rest of the week is made up of planning, preparing, and maintaining, including visits to the infirm and frail among his congregation. When he first visited the doll like Miss Coleman and towering Miss Moore, two spinsters in their 60s who live in a cottage like house down it's own country lane, he thought they were sisters. They twittered when he asked. Just friends who had decided to see out their golden years with someone else for company. Now they serve him tea in tiny cups and homemade cookies, and seem determined to spend their time talking about nieces, nephews and local gossip rather than the church. He's sure they'd be useful bringing in the community now that Easter is over. He just needs them to get with the program. He puts a tiny meringue back on delicate china. "If you'll excuse me, ladies, could I use your bathroom?" He needs a break from their chatter before he says something he'll regret. They point him to the stairs and he makes his escape, having to lean against the railing as he squeezes past the stair lift. The upstairs hallway is decorated with floral wallpaper and paint by numbers paintings, dark brown carpet that might be as old as he is, and three identical looking doors. The first is a bedroom with all the lace he was expecting. A collection of china dolls stare out glassy eyed from the shelves. In the second he expects to find another bed, so he's surprised when he opens the door to what seems to be a workroom. Paper flowers and blood red ribbons fill a table that takes up all one wall, and a tailors dummy stands in the centre wearing a simple white shift dress. White candles are scattered around the room, and he spots a blanket with what looks like a moon and stars embroidered on it. "It's the door at the end of the hall, dearie." His skin chills at the surprise but when he turns around she's wearing the same smile she had serving drinks. "I didn't hear about anyone getting married," he says, jerking his head into the room. "Oh, no dear. Not married. We just..." A wistful look fills her eyes. "It's for a party. Something we've been planning for the whole year. Just a bit of fun, you understand." And what can he say to that? He empties his bladder with thoughts jumbling together in his head. When he comes back down the comfortable mood is broken. The two ladies stand awkwardly while he puts on his coat to keep out the cold April air, and look relieved when he finally takes each ones hand and heads for the door. He's almost there when the doorbell rings, and he can't tell what he sees in their faces when he turns back for a moment, but it makes sense for him to open it. The woman standing in the tiny open porch is a shock for him, if only because of her beauty. She's young, maybe 16, and her face fills with wide eyed surprise when she's confronted with a stranger. "Tanith!" The taller woman sweeps past him to cradle the girls face, and Raphe is struck by her smile. "Oh, my dear, come in. The reverend was just leaving, and we've got everything ready. You'll look radiant. How I envy the young." Raphe finds himself quickly bundled out onto the porch, the door closed in his face. - He slips into bed that night, ready for the peaceful sleep of the righteous, but tosses and turns under his covers when it doesn't come. His mind slips back to Tanith, her innocent smile and strange name. He'd looked up it's meaning that evening. Serpent lady. After a Phoenician goddess. He wonders how a couple in this part of the world came to choose that for their child. When he looks up at the alarm clock and sees it's already passed midnight he sighs to himself. This isn't working. He need something to cool his nerves, and a quick cup of hot coco sounds like just the ticket. The floor is cold under his naked feet as he trots back round towards the bedroom door. There's a light outside. Not in his street, not that close, but the church and small house it comes with are sitting on the highest point for miles looking out over the town. He would put it down to a late night dog walker, or someone coming back from meeting with someone they shouldn't, but the light is still. He squints his eyes to try and see more, and thinks he makes out the general form. By now he can make out the geography even in the darkness of the full moon as well. Someone is standing on the bridge over the sluggish river that runs through town. Not doing anything else, just looking, like a ghost mourning a lost love out at sea. The light is moving slightly now, bobbing up and down as the figure moves strangely, and it takes him a moment to figure out what is happening. They're climbing over the railing. He only hesitates for a second. He's shoving on yesterday's clothes before he's really thought about it, forcing his feet into the wrong shoes before he thinks to switch them and try again. The bridge isn't tall, not high enough to be fatal, but that can be worse. He sees the figure in his minds eye, falling through the glassy surface of the water and breaking bones on the hard bottom, or getting sucked out into the mud and held their as their oxygen runs out. The figure is still visible when he leaves the front door hanging open and pelts down the sloping road. His feet slap against the asphalt and his lungs burn, but if he can just get there in time... He's close enough to hear the splash and puts on a final burst of speed, colliding with the metal railing and letting his body fold over it to peer down into the cold depths. He can's see anything. There's no one on the surface and it's too dark to see the bottom. He heads for the embankment and scrambles down till his feet are wet. There's no one there. He searches downriver with his eyes, then splashes to the other side of the bridge for a look, but he's alone here, standing in frigid water in his pyjamas. The climb up out of the river is undignified, and he scrapes his hands on the way, but his mind is turning over too fast for any of it to register. As he trudges back to his home he knows he has to uncover the truth - The buzzing of his alarm wakes him early, so early, and after the drama of last night it isn't surprising that his eyes drift closed and stay that way for several hours. When he wakes again it's to the sound of music. He rubs his sandpaper face and drags himself back to that same window. There's a crowd this time, gathering in the main grass square. Raphe has had damn near enough of this. He gets dressed quickly, slipping on a thin coat over his priestly garb. The change of seasons is running slow and winter still clings to the corners of the day. Something makes the holy man keep himself hidden from the revellers. He watches from consecrated ground as they gather together, garlands of flowers in their hair and paper mache masks of demented creatures. They swirl like a whirlpool till an older man dressed in flowing robes stands on the plinth of a statue and calls there attention. "Ladies! Gentlemen! Friends!" He waits for the crowd to quell. "On this May Day, just like on so many before it, we return to the forest. For though it is reduced, though the new encroaches on the old, we hold our ways sacred." He's joined on his makeshift podium by a young woman in a white dress. "Today, we give back. Give the young back to the ancient. Let us follow our May Queen." It's Tanith. Tanith looking like a bride with bare feet and flowers in flowing golden hair, holding aloft a standard and leading the crowd into the trees. Her followers are a mix of gruesome creatures, one seems to be wearing a horse skull, and innocent looking little children, angels in their own white dresses. He's seen this movie before. Read about it happening in real life, but never thought he'd have to witness such depravity. He keeps himself unseen as he runs through the trees, far enough away to stay safe but close enough that he can still track their progress. Brambles scratch at his skin and roots reach up to trip him, but he forces his way through. They come to a clearing. It's crowded and they press in, moving through each other like murmuring birds. They dance and sing, words in some old tongue he doesn't quite understand. He circles them in his own way and that's when he sees the fire. It's been burning for a while, flames licking up the sides of what looks like a coffin made of cinder blocks. Just the right size for a person. He has to stop this. Has to bring god back to this terrible heathen place. The fire has been left to burn for itself and he heads closer. They've used local wood, and it crackles and pops with the last moisture. They've even left out the axe. He feels the weight of it in his hands and he knows what he has to do. He grips it, wringing the neck, steps forward to look into the flames, and pretends the smoke is to blame for the tears running down his face. But there's something down there. Something in the pit. A red skinned form laying in the hole. He only makes out the hooves and snout of the pig for a second before he feels a hand on his shoulder. He swings round on instinct. He feels the axe bury in soft flesh, sees innocent eyes flash pain, and then she's falling. Tanith stares up at him, white dress turning red as her blood blooms over it, and he knows he is lost.


Edward stands at the edge of the yellow ‘Do Not Cross’ line listening to the rattling metallic screech echoing from the tunnel. Shimming back, he glances down the dark tracks watching the lights come closer until the train roars passed and shrieks to a halt. Two tones sound off the subterranean walls followed by an electronic voice. “Doors opening.” Like the ocean tide, the passengers flow in and out of the train car. Edward steps through the sliding doors and the voice chimes once more. “Doors closing.” Almost immediately the train lurches forward. Ed sighs harshly after catching himself on a rubber handhold that hangs from the ceiling. He looks around the car thinking how funny it is that he recognizes the strangers on his morning commute. He nods to the familiar faces he makes eye contact with and notes the others who are caught up in their morning routines and sleepy stupors. Like the middle-aged gentleman juggling a thermos, a newspaper, and his cell phone. Or the large woman with thinning brown hair and fading dye who chews her breakfast louder than the train runs. Edward glances out of the window at the dark tunnel thinking of the other sleepy faces around him. The occasional light bulb wooshes past distracting him from both the familiar and unfamiliar. He reminds himself beneath his breath. “Two stops ‘til daylight.” The train’s professional voice sounds off once more cutting through the uncomfortable morning silence. “Approaching Clarke and Division. Next stop: North and Clybourne.” A Sikh man Edward recognizes bounces onto the train offering all who meet his gaze with bright smile. After another exchange of passengers, the train surges forward once more. Edward closes his eyes after returning the greeting and he reminds himself. “One stop ‘til daylight.” Edward forces a low airy laugh finding humor in a wandering thought about his morning ritual. It reminds him of turning on the light in a dark room. He closes his eyes to prepare the onslaught of sudden illumination. The light shines through his closed lids and his pupils adjust. Yet it feels silly to do now. He has already walked through the morning light to get to the train in the first place. Not to mention, the trains own fluorescent bulbs. What makes the sun’s light different? Is it the magnification off the city windows? Ed plays with different reasons but none of them feel right. He shrugs his thoughts away and continues to observe his many foreign acquaintances. He wonders how the pink haired woman with the side cut and the dark lipstick reads her novel while squeezed between the loud chewer and a smartly dressed but dazed looking businessman. The train screeches to a stop and the voices informs. “This is North and Clybourne. Exit through the doors on the right. Fullerton is next.” The doors thud open and the car becomes emptier. The businessman rushes out pushing past a homeless man as he enters. The vagrant looks at Edward and smiles. Some of his teeth are missing but his eyes are bright. “Morning, Eddy boy.” Ed returns a smile. “Good morning, Hughie.” “Doors closing.” The train launches again. “Fullerton is next. Transfer to the purple and brown lines at Fullerton.” Hugh points to his eyes. “Daylight’s a comin’. Better close the eyes before the sun burns ‘em out.” He laughs turns and finds his way to the back of the train car giving Edward a dismissive wave. Edward smiles at the delightful Hugh. He closes his eyes still wondering whether he shields them from the sudden shift in light or if it is a game he subconsciously plays with himself like children lifting their feet off the floor of the car as they’re driven by a cemetery. Listening to the screeching railway, he sways with the train car lightly correcting himself with the plastic handhold hanging from the ceiling. The sun’s warmth is sudden and even through his closed eyes he winces. There is both pleasure and discomfort. The sound of the train no longer echoes off the tunnel walls. It makes Edward feel as though the train is floating away like objects ejected from an air lock in space movies. The train slows and the momentum makes him sway forward. The train’s automated voice calls out again. “This is Fullerton. Switch to the Brown and Purple lines at Fullerton.” Edward sighs and the doors crank open. He can feel the bodies shift in and out like the air in his lungs. The sunlight shines through the skin and blood making a fine crimson beneath his eyelids. The train calls out to the passengers. “Doors closing. Next stop Belmont. Switch to Brown and Purple Lines at Belmont.” The doors close rapidly and the train lurches forward. Finally, Edward’s eyes flutter open as his body becomes accustomed to the train’s speed. He blinks at the rising glass buildings reflecting the sun’s light. He looks over the familiar faces of his commute noting that his vagrant acquaintance is gone. There is one new face with curly black hair and light bronze skin. She is looking at her phone with a bright smile. Her eyes are a green-hazel color trimmed with golden flakes. She is radiant. She is a flashbang grenade that steals away Edward’s sight and sucks the oxygen from his chest. Everything feels like that picture perfect movie moment. Guy sees girl. Time slows down. Love at first sight. Edward watches her for a moment. Wondering if it is appropriate to move over and talk to her. He decides against it. Who would want someone hitting on them at 7:23 in the morning? He averts his gaze outside and is taken aback by the sight. Three birds, a robin and two finches, are frozen in mid flight next to the window. The train is no longer moving. The trees outside are frozen mid wind induced sway. The vehicles and pedestrians along the streets and sidewalks all paused in their movements. Edward looks at all the passengers in the train car. The middle-aged man’s thermos is falling from his hands the liquid spilling over the side while his phone seems like its levitating awayt. The loud woman still holding the phone to her face on speaker phone mouth paralyzed in an exaggerated position mid conversation. He cringes at the sight of the half-chewed food in the other woman’s half open mouth. Edward swallows his disbelief, and he waves his hand in front of the nearest person. There is no reaction. “No. This can’t be happening. What is even happening?” Edward regurgitates the skepticism and it splashes over him in a panic. He rushes over to the man whose thermos spills hot coffee. He grabs the thermos and turns it over. Nothing falls out. He lets go of the container. It does not fall. Edward screams at the man’s face. There is no reaction. He pinches his arm hoping the pain might wake up from this strange dream. His fingernails slice his skin, and he remains awake. “I’m not asleep.” Shocked tears fall from his wide eyes. He lets the fear take him like the high tide waiting for himself to breathe in the calm. When the fear subsides like the low tide, he looks at her. How the sunlight is fixed on her motionless frame. Her brilliant beaming is comforting and intoxicating. It makes him feel safe. Edward blinks hard as if it will reset his malfunctioning eyes and brain. Perhaps he has fallen asleep, or he is stuck in a bout of sleep paralysis on the train. Yes! He thinks to himself. That must be it! He leans back in the seat growing lightheaded. The edge of his vision becomes static tunneling into the center. Edward breathes deep trying to get his breathing under control. Trying to get his perspective of the situation under control. He opens his eyes and his gaze immediately falls on her. “Is it you?” He whispers to himself taking in her hair like fire in the morning light. He shakes his head. “No. That doesn’t make sense.” Edward looks away only for a moment, and then glances back noticing even from nearly ten feet away the freckles along the bridge of her nose. He scans the train car taking in the other subjects frozen in time. Edward stands walking over to the coffee floating almost as if it were liquid floating in the vacuum of space. He dabs his finger and licks it. A thought crosses his mind, and he grabs his phone from his pocket. He clicks the lock button, and the screen remains dark. He sighs and looks at his darkened reflection. The man stuck in time gently tosses the phone upward expecting it to stay suspended like the coffee. It falls to the floor shattering the screen. He sighs again. “How long?” He wonders out loud. “How long will it be this way?” \*\* Ed’s stomach growls painfully. He scratches his long and greyed beard and sniffs the grime that burrows beneath his fingernails. His nose scrunches and he lifts the fingers in question to his eyes. “Time doesn’t exist. This is proof. It did once before, but now, like the dinosaurs, it does not. This train is the meteor that broke time.” Edwards sunken bloodshot eyes flick toward the radiant woman. She looks like a religious statue carved from the most precious material. “Or maybe it is you? Maybe this is wrong! Maybe time is not broken! Perhaps this is limbo, or an afterlife and this is my punishment.” His eyes go to the birds suspended outside of the train window. He digs the dirt from his fingernails using the corner of a debit card from his wallet. His bones poke through his skin as he hunches over to get a look at his toenails. His clothes drape over him as if they are on a mannequin to small for their display. “Maybe this train went off the rails and this is the moment before I died. I am stuck here. Yes. Yes! I did not believe in any God or religion. The universe doesn’t know what to do with me. So, I am here! Suspended in time! Losing youth and mind! Yes! Yes!” Edward tosses the card aside and stands up. He grabs the rubber handholds in front of the coffee man. He hangs bringing his legs up and lowering his face level with the man and his spilled drink. “What do you think, Stefan?” He waits a minute and begins to nod his head. “Yes. I understand. We don’t speak enough for you to want to answer. I think I know what you would say though. You would agree with me. Yes. Yes you would, Stefan.” Edward sees the man’s phone in his pocket. He releases the handles and falls onto his knees. He inches forward and slips his fingers in grabbing the phone. His stomach drops at the sight of his reflection. His skin is wrinkled and covered in liver spots. His eyes are desperate beads in sunken sockets. His hair is long greasy and thin, and his beard is unruly and down to his belly button. “I am my own demon.” Edward says to his greyed reflection. He notices his decaying teeth and infected gums. “My own punishing angel.” He looks to her. “I feel myself slipping. I’ve felt it for so long now. I don’t know how long I’ve been this way. Have I *always* been this way? How long has it been since my body has decayed. You are my constant, yet I do not know your name!” He lets the phone slip through his fingers as he stands. He gestures to the people around him. “I’ve fished into their pockets and learned what I could about them. My neighbors here frozen in this pocket of time. I’ve grown to love them. They are my friends and they’ve brought me solace in this time.” Edward grabs two metal poles four feet away from the radiant woman. “I’ve refrained from learning about you. Stopped myself. I don’t want to disrespect you. I don’t want to invade your privacy.” His lips curl into a frustrated sneer. “We could become friends! Like Stefan and I! He shares his coffee with me! Imagine what we could share! Imagine the conversations! I want to know your name! I want to know who you are!” Spittle sprays from his mouth. He breathes rapidly and steps forward hesitating as his hand reaches for the purse hanging from her arm. He reaches in and feels until he grabs something that feels like a wallet. There is a sense of relief as he pulls it out. The train rattles and screeches as it brakes pulling into the next station. The sudden shift in momentum pulls Edward down sending him tumbling backward. He lands on his back and matches the shocked stares at the passengers above him. They stare and plug their noses. He grasps the wallet holding it up in his hand. The radiant woman steps forward and snatches it back. “What the hell is wrong with you!” She shrieks. Edward’s ears ring and his face is hot from embarrassment. The other passengers begin to move between him and her. Their mouths move but he cannot hear. They point to the opening doors. He scrambles and runs out. The sudden sensation of noise and movement is too much for him to comprehend, an overload of his dulled senses from his pause in time. He pushes through the people waiting to get on the train. He falls onto the bench grasping his chest and howling in physical and emotional pain while watching the train refill. The doors close and the train lurches forward. He looks up finding the radiant woman in the window. She matches his look and gives him wry smile. Struck with fear, Edward struggles to stand. He limps down the stairs trying to run. He pushes with all his bodyweight through the turnstile and rounds the corner to a narrow alley riddled with potholes. He leans on a brick walls hidden by a dumpster. He looks down at a puddle and stares at the man who he became while lost in time. A brief quizzical look from his reflection back asks if this is who he was all along. Edward’s grasp on reality becomes as difficult as his breathing. His chest pulsates with pain. He closes his eyes, and he thinks of the radiant woman. Ed smiles weakly feeling the warmth and comfort. His voice is hoarse. “She’s warmer than the sun.” And his final breath croaks outward as if squeezed from a rusted tin can. ***** Thanks for the read everybody! Would love to hear some feedback. You will also be able to find this story and some more over on my Royal Road platform.


"Here it comes," Virgil whispered under his breath, turning away from the approaching policeman. Joanie shoved hands in pockets and replied, also in a whisper, "Be cool." Then, to the Nora, "Keep digging." "Hello," the policeman said, talking loud as he was still twenty yards away, moving with purposeful strides across the green grass of Tranquility Park. "I'll have to ask you to stop that digging." Virgil, in a navy blue suit, took a breath and squared his shoulders towards the Policeman. He attempted a smile and stuck out his hand. "Hello officer. What seems to be the problem?" Behind him Joanie and Nora, both wearing work clothes - jeans, boots, reflective safety vests over cotton and hard hats - paused to watch. They were standing around a plaque set into the ground that read: "*City of Houston Time Capsule. Buried September 2nd, 1960. Not to be opened until September 2nd, 2015.*" "Can I see your work permit?" the cop asked, ignoring Virgil's hand. Virgil looked around, confused and stammered, "...permit...? Why... what...?" "Yeah, yeah," Joanie said. "I got it over here." She retrieved a metal clipboard, opened it, and flipped through a stack of paper. "I can call the Mayor's office?" Virgil offered. "No, no," Joanie replied. "I'm sure I have a copy." "So do I dig or what?" Nora said. "No," the cop said. "Yes," Joanie said at the same time. Nora speared the blade of the shovel in the ground and leaned on the handle. A big girl, crowding six feet tall and past the two century mark, her top-weight pushed it down a good six inches. She winked at the cop. "I'm listening to the man with the gun." For all her heft, Nora had a very pretty face. Long, wavy curls of hair escaped from her hardhat and she made a show of tucking them back in. "Hell, even if he didn't have the gun," she continued, "he's too cute to argue with." The cop - a youthful black who enjoyed visiting the gym, radiated confidence, and kept his appearance sharp and professional - did a double take. When she caught his eye, Nora winked again and there it was - that moment a man, confronted with such an unlikely specimen, thought, *what if...?* "Here," Joanie snapped up a piece of paper. "Found it." She handed it to Virgil who passed it to the cop. The cop looked at its face. It appeared official enough, with stamps and signatures, but he didn't know enough about it to say one way or the other. "I'll have to call this in," he decided. "For Christsake," Joanie bitched. "Hey now," Nora beamed. "Overtime!" "Look," Virgil said, "Just call the Mayor's office. You know Jack Vance, right? Ask for him." "All I know is this thing isn't supposed to be dug up until tomorrow," the cop said. "There's supposed to be press; even a van. Buses of kids and all that. You guys are making a mistake." Virgil nodded his head and chuckled, "Yes, you're right, officer....?" "Martin." "Officer Martin. See, the thing is, well.... Did you hear what happened when they opened the League City time capsule two years ago? No? It was somewhat of a disaster. Fifty years ago they didn't appreciate what the groundwater around here could do to even the sturdiest box made during that time. Anyway it was a stinking mess. The only things that survived were bits and pieces of old junk that couldn't be corroded. They pulled something out that looked - I swear to God - just like a wooden dildo. Might have been part of something else when it had been buried, but when they slapped it in the Mayor's hand.... Well, most people snickered, but quite a few were very offended. All those kids asking '*what's that, mommy?*'. "Oh! And there was the frog, too. Well, the frog skeleton, dressed in an adorable tuxedo - complete with a top-hat and cane, hermetically sealed in a bag with the sheet music to *Ragtime Gal*\-" "-Can we get on with this?" Joanie interrupted. "No way this project is authorized for golden time." Virgil touched Officer Martin's arm, gently turning him away. "Our Mayor does not want that happening here. So this is somewhat of a preemptive strike. If we find everything in order, the capsule goes back and we cover it up just like it was. Bada bing. If, however, it's a big smelly puddle of slop? Well, I've got some clean old junk in my car. You understand how this works? Have to make hizhonor look good for the cameras." Officer Martin's eyes went from the unctuous Virgil, to the exasperated Joanie, landing on the bemused Nora. "Okay," he said. "Carry on." "Thank you Officer," Virgil said, once again attempting to smile. "Hey Officer Martin," Nora called out. "You want to help dig? I'll bet those big arms of yours could make short work of this hole." Officer Martin fought back a grin. "Tell you what, lady. I'll swing by here after I get off work and see if still need help with your hole." Nora barked out a laugh loud enough to be heard in Sugar Land. "When's your shift end?" "Eight o'clock." "Me and my hole will be waiting." Officer Martin strutted away using everything his momma gave him. When the policeman was out of earshot, Joanie cut her eyes from Virgil to Nora and back again. "Jesus, you two...." \*\*\* "I have bad news," Richard Hautala told Joanie. As if to emphasize the words, he dragged a straight razor across his hairy and bespotted forearm. A thin line of blood welled up from the cut. "Um," Joanie said. "Oh, this?" Hautala held up the razor. "This is just for effect." He turned it around and showed Joanie the other side where a tube containing red-dyed Vaseline lay across the blade. "It ain't real. It's about as sharp as an asshole. You squeeze this here for the blood." He demonstrated, dragging it across his wrist this time - same result: a thin line of red. "Okay." "But why, you're wondering?" "Hey, Mr. Hautala, really-" "-Surely you noticed my new look?" Old Man Hautala smiled - dentures gleaming - and twisted his head to let Joanie take it all in. An octogenarian, Mr. Hautala was bald and shriveled with the body shape - and skin texture - of an avocado. But since Joanie had last seen him, he'd added eyebrow studs, ear stretchings, and facial tattoos - tears at the corner of his eyes. He had a stud on one nostril and a loop through his lower lip. He winked and lifted his polo shirt. Both sagging, leathery nipples had been pierced; connected by a silver chain. "What do you think?" he asked. "That's.... Something," Joanie rubbed the back of her neck. "You said bad news?" "Kids today," Mr. Hautala explained, tucking his shirt back in, "do this shit now. If I want their business, I have to show them I relate." He gingerly brought a finger up to touch one of the ear stretchers. Joanie flinched when the whole ear fell off, hitting the ground with a clang. "Oops," Mr. Hautala reached to pick it up. Like the razor, it was a fake. His real ear was still where it belonged, on the side of his head. It had liver spots and tufts of hair, but no holes. "I don't mind telling you," he said, fitting the prosthetic and screwing it in place, "it's all fake. Even the tattoos. Why take a needle when Sharpies cost, like, a dollar?" Joanie shrugged. "Right?" "You said bad news?" Joanie prodded. "These couple of kids come in looking to trade on old tech. On chips? Yeah, right, I tell them I'll do what I can, but don't go buying that house in the subs just yet. Anyway, these kids look like... like... the colour out of space, you know? Barely human. The dude had horns. No shit, implanted little nubs on his forehead, supposed to be horns. Huh. The girl's pants were so tight, you could tell what she drank for.... Nevermind. Anyway, when they come back and I tell them the deal, she starts slicing up her arm. I'm hip. Bad news hurts. Give me a whetstone, a Gillette, a squirting flower and five minutes and we'll commiserate together, darlin'. So here I am. What do you think?" "Desperate times," Joanie stated. "Too right!" Mr. Hautala exclaimed. "The bad news?" Joanie tried again. "Yeah. Turns out the buyer is in a sanitarium so.... No money." Joanie rubbed a hand over her face. "Okay, so this is not to say there will never be money, but just now...? She's kind of tied up." \*\*\* *Houston, September 2nd, 1960.* *Ten year old Marion Bradley stood in wide-eyed wonder as the celebrity worked his way through the crowd. He tossed his head back and showed teeth when he laughed and, when he shook hands with the city's politicians, his head tilted slightly and his eyebrows raised inquisitively at their names. Houston doesn't have a fall season, so it was hot, but even still the celebrity wore a tapered jacket with a fleece collar. His waist was encircled by a gun-belt; the holster of which bore the image of a chess piece. He said "Thank you," with a peculiar clip to the words.* *His name was Richard Boone and he was there on a publicity junket and to watch the time-capsule buried.* *To young Marion, however, his name was Paladin and he was just about the closest thing to a living god she'd ever seen. Once a week she saw him on the television being as brave and intractable, wise and lusty as the entire pantheon of Greek deities; so how could he be here, now, walking around with them just as if he were a real person?* *She was positively transfixed.* *As he moved among the people, his eyes fell on her and he smiled. "Ho ho!" he said, scooping her off her feet. "What do we have here?"* *Under his hands, Marion's flower dress became wings and she flew in the sky. If he let go, she'd fall into the sun. He didn't let go, however, just spun her around in a circle then set her back down. "You are just about the cutest thing I have ever seen. I believe I'm going to ask your father if you can join me for dinner tonight at the Carlton Hotel?"* *Standing next to them, beaming like a child himself, her dad said, "Maybe when she's older."* *"It's a date," Paladin said, slipping her a card with a wink. He gave one to her father, too. In fact, he handed them out freely to all around.* *As they were closing the lid on the time capsule, he used two fingers to expertly flick one of those cards into the box. People cheered as it spun through the narrow opening at just the last moment possible.* *The cards all bore the image of that same chess piece from the holster. They read "Have Gun, Will Travel".* *Marion Bradley held the card in both hands like an icon. She knew it was a treasure she would never lose.* *\*\*\** "Of course she lost it - or threw it away." Mr. Hautala had bagged up the card they'd retrieved from the time capsule. He slid it across the table to Joanie. "This was supposed to be the replacement. Shame. She was going to pay over a two hundred grand for it too." Joanie, hands folded on her lap, looked at the card. It was remarkably well preserved. "What's it worth, really?" she asked. "Less than nothing," he replied. "Well, check that. Because of the press you're getting, I could maybe get a couple thou. Maybe. It isn't every day you can snag grip from a stolen time capsule. The weirdness factor alone might go five grand." Mr. Hautala shrugged. "Well, the buyer still wants it, though, right?" "Sure. But, like I said, they locked her up." "When's she getting out?" "Eh, this could be one of those *if* she's getting out situations." Mr. Hautala rubbed his thumb against two fingers, making the international gesture of money. "She's very wealthy and her family is worried about their inheritance." "Doesn't seem like a reason to lock her up." Joanie crossed her arms. "Isn't she fighting it?" "Absolutely. She's a big shot lawyer, you know. It's just that, well, she has gone a little crazy." He tapped the card. "Two hundred grand plus for this? Do you know how many of these cards are out there? Even supposedly authentic ones - printed by the studio in the 50s and 60s - can be had for around fifty bucks. Hell, you can get one signed by Richard Boone himself for a thou or less. Nope. She has to have this one; no matter what the cost." Mr. Hautala whistled low and circled a finger around his ear. "She's a collector," Joanie said, sounding indignant. "Lots of people pay lots more for stupider stuff." "Sure," Mr. Hautala agreed. "But Marion Bradley isn't a collector. She is trying to recreate her life to be exactly like it was when she was a girl back in the '60s. Bought her parents' old house; got a refurbished Chevy Covair; snatched up every toy from that era. Changed her wardrobe. She's been sinking millions of dollars into this obsession. The doctors call it *crippling nostalgia."* "They just made that up." "She showed up in court wearing pedal pushers and a denim blouse knotted under her breasts. Her hair in ponytails, sucking a lollipop. She weighs close to two hundred pounds." Mr. Hautala lifted the duffel-bag containing the rest of the stuff Joanie and her crew stole from the time capsule and handed it over. "Me? I don't get it," he said. "I never did look forward to looking back. Of course, that's probably because things were so terrible when I was a kid. Wars with a capital W. Diseases and no medicine. Hunger. And the constant fear of death from above 'cause all those damned pterodactyls." "Is anything in here worth... anything?" Joanie said, lifting the bag. Mr. Hautala made a face. "I took pictures and notes. Like I said, I'll shop it around. Y'all got a trending news story with that time capsule burglary, so there may be some interest there. But beyond nostalgia or weirdness?" He shook his head. Dejected, Joanie stood to leave. "Hey kid," Mr. Hautala stopped her at the door. "Just in case you're interested - the sanitarium where they're keeping Marion Bradley is located over on the Southwest side. In Missouri City. A place called Sendak's. Not like she's locked up in Supermax or anything." Joanie paused with her hand on the doorknob. She blinked twice. "She'd be grateful, I'm sure," Mr. Hautala continued, "for a visit." Joanie nodded slowly. "Hey, check this out!" Mr. Hautala raised the fake razor to his mouth. "You think this'll freak those kids next time I see them?" He opened his mouth wide, eyes popping, and dragged the dull blade all over his tongue. He also squirted some of the fake blood. "Pah!" he winced, spitting. "Yuk!" Joanie left him, closing the door on a sputtering of "Puh!"'s \*\*\* "Oh shit," Virgil said, his eyes growing wide. "Ohshitohshitohshit," They were sitting in the booth of a Mexican restaurant close to the airport with the time capsule items spread out over the table, taking inventory. Virgil's outburst had been caused by the door opening. Joanie looked over her shoulder to see Detective Donald Sobol walking in. "Be cool," she grabbed Virgil's wrist just as he was about to start scooping all the stolen items into the bag. "Be cool." She let go the wrist. Virgil folded his hands. Momentarily, Detective Sobol stood at the edge of their table. "Well hello, Ms. Muncie," he said. "Fancy meeting you here." "Detective," Joanie muttered by way of greeting. Detective Sobol set his hands on the table and hunched over the various maps, papers, trinkets, toys and doo-dads. He smiled. His aquamarine eyes sparkled. He laughed, showing them the two rows of coffee and cigarette stained teeth. "You've got to be kidding me." "What?" Joanie said. "Oh, nothing." He stood up. Then pushed his hands on his lower back and stretched. "Hey, maybe you can help me out with something. There was this unusual robbery yesterday, maybe you heard? A crew of slick operators stole a time capsule just before it was supposed to be dug up. Really embarrassed the Mayor in front of all those news cameras; standing over an empty hole with a bunch of nothing. But you wouldn't know anything about that?" "What's a time capsule?" Joanie asked. "Right." The detective said. "Y'all ought to be more careful. Food here's good, but they don't really clean the tables very well. Might get all this stuff sticky." "Oh, right!" Virgil exclaimed. He started shoveling the stolen goods away immediately. "Thanks for the advice." Detective Sobol watched Virgil, shaking his head sadly. Then he turned his attention to Joanie. "When are you going to stop this?" he asked. Joanie cocked her head and just looked at him with a dull, blank expression. "Can't you see it's over?" the Detective continued. "The time for this type of nonsense has come and gone. There's no more room for the common crook in today's society. You either have to be a brutal, remorseless killer or a highly sophisticated criminal to get noticed. These little grifts of yours? I hate to tell you this, but they're passé." Virgil used both hands to cram the items in the bag. He struggled with the zipper, catching it on the edge of an old map. When he forced it, the paper ripped. "Shit," he said, holding up a ruined piece of history. Detective Sobol motioned towards Virgil with an open hand. "See? This is who you're working with now? What ever happened to Leonard? Stark and Westlake?" "Hey, those two...." Joanie sat forward, getting upset. "Yeah, I know," Sobol interrupted. "But then there's Connell and Matheson, too. Hell, even Bradbury left you." Joanie brought a fist down. Her mouth became a tense, white line and her eyes narrowed. Sobol recognized he'd gone too far. His voice softened. "I'm just saying. You're time has passed." A waiter came with a basket of chips and two bowls of salsa. Detective Sobol took advantage of the interruption. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your meal." He set twenty dollars on their table. "On me." "Whoa, hey," Virgil pushed the money away like it was on fire. His distrust for police ran deep. "No need for that." Detective Sobol put a hand on Virgil's shoulder and squeezed. He used the other hand to tuck the money into the breast pocket of Virgil's shirt. "I insist," he said. "I voted for Chris Bell.


Now listen closely for I can only tell you this story once. The story of The Marionette. As you stroll through the streets at night, it would be best to remember this story. This story starts in a home with a child and her caretaker, a marionette nanny droid. The droid took great care for the child and the child loved the droid. The child and the droid would play together, work together and sleep together. The droid started to love this child as a mother would their baby. The droid would do anything in its power to keep the child happy. One day the child entered its room crying. Nothing the droid could do would put a smile on the child’s face. Why was the child crying? If the droid knew it could make the child happy again. This continued for months and months and the droid was powerless to stop it. One day the child never returned. The droid waited yet the child never came. “That foolish daughter of mine. I thought I taught her better than to run from her problems.” The voice was identified to be that of the droid’s owner, the father of the child. “I thought that girl was my daughter yet she’s no better than the vermin that live on the streets begging for food.” As the father entered the child’s room the droid could see his cold stare befall him. “That child would never do what I wanted her to do. She would never do her studies; she would just come crying to you droid. She ran away because you made her soft. She wanted to ‘chase her own dream’. It was a mistake to allow you to care for her.” And with that the droid was shut off and cast aside. \ Yet there was still something. A will still present. A desire within the droid. A spark of life appeared. The droid awoke from its slumber. It was dark, a darkness that would crush the soul yet the droid prevailed as its will was strong. In the midst of the darkness was a figure. The figure stood tall dressed in a 5-piece suit and had long navy hair and red glowing eyes. In a calm charismatic voice, the demon asked “I can cut you of your strings if you so desire and all I ask in return is that we become friends. Do we have a deal?” The puppet responded “Can I do as I wish after I am free.” “Anything your heart desires.” The demon stretched out his hand to shake that of the marionette. The droid took it and the deal was sealed and when the puppet was free from its string it returned home. \ As the marionette opened the door to the house the father came into the entryway “what do you think you’re doing? Do you think you have the right to burst in un” And at the sight of the puppet the father’s eyes filled with terror. The creature that stood before him had murder in its eyes and a large crack in its mask revealing a row of sharp jagged teeth. It spoke “I’m home master. Did you miss me?” “How?” That was all the father could mutter before his head flew off his body and onto the floor “My gods have abandoned me and now so will yours.” All in the house were killed in brutal ways. The mother was strung up by threads. The maid was stabbed and had a smile gouged into her face and the teacher had her skull bashed in by a book. To this day The Marionette lives in that house waiting for the child to come home. If you ever pass that house never go in, for if you do, you’ll never come out.    This is my first of many short stories set in a universe that I have created set in an alternate future. Please don't mind any grammatical errors that might be present as I am not a writer. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoy sharing these stories.  Edit: Thank you all. I have read all of your comments and it has given me the courage to wright more short stories on this subreddit.