Once upon a time, there was a slice of bread that had its own empire. It was a very big empire, bigger than the holy roman empire. As a matter of fact, it was the holy roman empire of sliced bread. It was the Holy Bread Empire. The emperor of this empire was Bread The Great. Just like many emperors, Bread the Great was very corrupt. One example was the Flour Famine of 1223. During the flour famine, there was a shortage of...flour. The bread population couldn’t repopulate themselves using regular flour so they had to recreate flour using fine wood shavings. Since the texture of fine wood shavings had a texture similar to flour, the bread people thought, “Hey, we don’t need flour. As long as we have our yeast and wood we’re good.” For the next five years, well, the bread people chopped down all the trees that surrounded their empire. Even though bread made from wood shavings was crumbly and had a stench of pine, the bread population went through the roof. The problem was The Holy Bread Empire couldn’t sustain the population growth so Bread The Great, instead of addressing the flour famine and deforestation around his empire, when the empire reached its maximum capacity, he got rid of excess population. He fed the excess slices of bread to his human servants. Eventually, the excess bread became so much that not even his human servants couldn’t handle it. They were fed bread and only bread. They are so much bread that the human servants died thanks to severe malnutrition. The trees on the other hand acted as a barrier to keep the nearby enemies from finding the bread empire easily. Since all the trees that surrounded and even protected them were gone, the nearby enemies could spot them from many many miles away. That meant more wars. Especially wars against the potatoes. For many centuries, there have been many conflicts between the bread and the potatoes. The bread people were on potato land. The potato emperor kindly asked the bread emperor to buzz off but Bread the Great ignored him. The increased bread population and bread activity affected the potato people. They couldn’t grow and raise healthy and happy potatoes and build a thriving potato community without those dumb slices of bread taking up their space. The conflict escalated and turned into many wars that led nowhere for the potato people but they continue to start wars against the bread people anyways. After the bread people chopped down all the surrounding trees, the potato emperor saw that as the perfect moment to take down the bread empire. The potatoes gathered in thousands around the bread empire’s fortification. Bread the Great ordered his army to throw fiery cannons at the potatoes. Some of the flames from the cannon cooked the potatoes. Sometimes the bread army would take the injured potatoes to Bread the Great’s palace where he would consume them for dinner. Since his servants were dead, he had the potatoes all to himself to make fries. But there was a problem. There was still a shortage of flour and since every slice of bread in his empire (including his army) was made of wood shavings, they were a walking fire hazard. When the potato army started throwing fiery cannons back at the empire, all the bread people easily ignited into flames. The entire empire was doomed. The flames spread and spread. Bread the great was the only slice of bread made of genuine flour and not wood. When over 85% of his population (and his empire) turned into charcoal, Bread the Great had to save his empire. What did he do? He fled. He left to create another empire thousands of miles away. He left his old empire and the remaining bread people to sit in flames while the potatoes invaded and took over everything. Since the Flour Famine of 1223 and the Potato War of 1225, the bread population slowly returned to normal and with normal flour instead of wood shavings. As for Bread the Great, he continued to rule the empire until 1295. On September 23, 1295, Bread the Great made his usual biannual speech to all of the empire. He spoke about how amazing he was and how the empire was in great care. Completely ignoring everything about the flour famine, the trees, the burning bread people, and an army of invading angry potatoes. In the middle of his speech, a group of moldy wheat bread men sprayed hot water at him. Bread the Great was soggy and greatly injured. The blast was so hot and strong, it knocked him off his high podium. When he landed, all of the bread citizens ran to him and tore him to pieces. It was a gory sight, but since Bread the Great never married and had bread children, there was no one to take his place and rule the empire. Following his assassination, the empire was in much worse shape. There was more chaos, more famines, and more wars from more angry potatoes. The bread people weren’t prepared. They thought they could operate the empire as a collective but everyone was greedy, stubborn, and never listened to each other. No one could agree with anyone about anything. The Holy Bread Empire eventually collapsed. As for the bread people, they were either captured by the potato army and were used to make potato flour bread rolls for the potato people or they fled the empire and were never heard from again. And that is the tale of Bread the Great and the fall of the Holy Bread Empire.


Marie awoke to the sound of the front door closing. Through blurred vision she looked at the clock on her nightstand and saw that it was almost four in the morning. She reached out across the bed seeking the comfort of her husband's body, but only found a chill as her hand emerged empty from under the covers. Anxiety filled her mind while despair filled her heart. It was unlike Kyle to leave this late without saying a thing. Eyes still closed she slid her feet down to the cold wood floor and stood up to walk to the bathroom. The chill of the floorboards and sudden glaring light from the bathroom brought Marie out of her dazed state, which made her worry more as she turned to look at the lonely bed she had just abandoned. She sat on the rim of the tub and looked down at her toes, chipped purple nail polish and a bit long, she reached under the sink and got some nail clippers and polish. Marie always did tedious work when she was on the brink of a panic attack, the repetition and mindlessness closes out the world around her for at least a little while. Nails finished she looked into the mirror, she found peace in her own eyes that she didn't feel in herself. She left the bathroom losing the battle to stay awake, ready to forget about her anxieties and sadness for a few hours, but the moment she stepped foot back on the cold bedroom floor a noise alerted her downstairs. Her heart began to race, every single possibility of what could be down there flashed through her brain, but she knew it was just Kyle. She rushed to the bed and under the not so safe security of the covers, but she knew it was just Kyle. Heat started to build as her breathing got heavier and heavier under the covers, time kept going to matter how much she wanted it to stop and get her mind straight, it had to be just Kyle. The bedroom door opened and Kyle walked in. Relief flew over her, but questions she would never ask him arose in her mind, where had he been all those hours, when he left her behind.


Music Junction was a music streaming service that launched in 2020. They had all of the features of Spotify and Apple Music but were completely free, whereas other platforms charged an average of $9 per month. Music Junction recently ran into financial difficulties when musicians began charging .05 cents for each song streamed rather than .02 cents. Drake earned roughly $10 million from the streaming service alone. Ad sales from DiaperJeams, a jean short diaper company for babies; TaxingTemptation, a dating website for accountants; and Cannibitty, a company that allows you to experience small bites of cannibalism without going full Hannibal Lector, just weren't cutting it anymore. As a result, Music Junction began charging $2.99 a month, and 80% of its subscribers canceled their memberships. This is a snippet of Music Junction's quarterly meeting with employees in January 2023 Bryson Hodges, CEO, took the stage in front of the entire company. "What ungrateful jerks! Our monthly charge was three times less than that of our competitors, yet it was still too much! So, Apple Music has the whole Taylor Swift Album, and we have a third of a recent concert recorded from the back row. So, Spotify has "New Music Friday," and we have "Rappers on the Subway Tuesday." So, Pandora has unlimited skips? We also have unlimited skips, like the ones you get from a scratched 1997 CD we recently uploaded to the site." "In any case, I'm here to announce that we will resume offering a free option." There is an air of discomfort and uncertainty; does this signal mass layoffs? "Now let me clarify, we're not giving away the cow for free here, not in the slightest." "First, the free tier will have a listening quality akin to trying to tape a song off the radio; I recorded the DJ intros myself. Second, our free support line will now be a 1-900 number, and customers will be charged per minute as a woman seductively informs them on how to use the app. Finally, we will take advantage of unique opportunities to earn extra money." The employees stare at each other perplexed. Bryson projected a photo of a student in the back row using AirPods to listen to music. "This is Miguel Thomas from Kalamazoo, Michigan, and everyone at school thinks he's cool and tough. He is secretly listening to Carly Rae Jepson's Call Me Maybe, which he's streamed 597 times this month. We just informed him that if he did not provide us $2.99, we would switch off his Bluetooth, and all the other students would hear the song he was vibing to." Miguel ignored the message. Bryson shrugged and pressed a button. The song began to play on his phone instead of AirPods. Everyone laughed and pointed. Miguel grabbed his phone and paid the $2.99 immediately. Bryson then showed a video of a professional woman driving her car while singing along to a song. "This is Sara Furtado of Casper, Wyoming. She's now singing along to: I Don't Want to Miss a Thing by Aerosmith." Bryson pressed a button, and everyone could hear how horrible she was at singing. Some employees cover their ears in agony. "We'll just email Sara a little recording of this and threaten to post it online and send it to Brandon, a guy she's trying to impress." Sara later received the message, panicked, and immediately sent the $2.99. "There are millions of examples like this. Since creating his account last summer, Roger McPhail of Atlanta, Georgia, has listened to "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion 2,353 times. The audience gasped. "We've also got cell phone footage; here's Peter Abberton, a married construction worker from Denver, Colorado, dancing to WHAM's Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!" One of the employees in the front row appeared to be ill. "Celebrities aren't immune either; here's Curtis Jackson of New York, New York, also known as "50 Cent," grooving out to Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby, and Justin Timberlake of Nashville, Tennessee singing along to The Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way." The audience was taken aback. "The possibilities are limitless, Mmm Bop, Lil Bow Wow, Nickleback; people still love their old songs, even though it's cringeworthy now. All we have to do is track when these songs are played and cha-ching!" Employees appeared hesitant. "Don't forget about the cancel culture. Are you still listening to R-Kelly as a professional or a politician? I'm sure there's someone you don't want to know." The employees started to come along reluctantly when a man in a suit came up on stage and whispered something to Bryson. Bryson nodded and turned to face the audience. "We just ran out of money and declared bankruptcy.


Waves of hot and cold fought for dominance of Erika’s skin. Her suit worked tirelessly to protect her from the harsh temperatures, but a little still trickled in. The little fan connected to a chilled tank whirred loudly in protest, but the hardest part was yet to come. It was only hours ago that Erika and her husband had left their home. Now, they were heading toward a shuttle that would take her to the first experimental space station. The thought sent butterflies through her stomach. “Ready?” Russell asked. He flung his own suit’s backpack over his shoulders. Erika took one last look around the crashed vehicle they’d entered the desert in. It hadn’t been long before disaster struck. The engine had overheated, sending the driver into a frenzy. The vehicle had rolled at least a mile before landing. Erika sighed at the small mound of sand that now housed several casualties. She grabbed Russell’s hand and the two set out into the night. ___ It wasn’t until a few days in that they first encountered what the news had deemed “Zombies.” There was a hoard gathered around an unmoving object. Erika couldn’t make out what it was, but knowing that they tended to go after humans she came to her own conclusion. Russell turned around and put his index finger to his helmet with one hand and reached for the small knife in his boot with the other. Erika nodded and followed as Russell started to move to the left. The zombies moaned and groaned, stumbling around their prey. Though the sky was dark, the moonlight was enough to illuminate everything as if it were day. She could clearly see the sagging, deformed flesh of the zombies' bodies. Their skin was yellow tinted with dark spots that gave it the appearance of burnt string cheese.. The pair managed to quietly slip down the dune and make their way around the hoard. Erika placed her hands on the sides of her helmet. Their sickening moans rang through her ear canals, settling in the pit of her stomach. It was an hour, or a few minutes, but they finally lost sight of the hoard. Russell slid the knife back into his boot. The sky was turning a bright pink, danger disguised with pretty colors. Russell's fingers laced through hers, sending a warmth through her arm and into her chest. Soon, she thought. We’ll be safe and we’ll be together. All she had left was hope. ___ Outside of the cave was like a mirage. Wavy lines blurred the horizon with sand dunes as far as the eye could see. Erika’s eyes squinted as she observed the outside world. The small rock formation was a nice break in the shade. Their suits’ whirring slowed in the shadows, getting a break from the open air. Even still, it was dangerously hot. “I’m glad you said we should travel at night,” Russell said, sitting with his back against the cliff. Erika was glad she’d thought to travel at night, too. The thought of being out in the sun made her shudder. “Russ, do you think we’ll make it?” she asked, her voice trembling as she sat down next to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. “I think we can make it,” he deducted. “We’re prepared. We have water, defenses, food. The cooling tanks will last at least another week.” “Yeah, but do you feel like we’ll make it?” Silence filled the air, but different than the last time. This one felt like an impassable void had been ripped between them, even though they couldn’t physically be any closer. Erika could feel the sense of dread radiating off of her husband. It was like the heat waves bouncing off of the Earth. Deadly in its own way. She turned her eyes to the sky. Millions of billions of bright lights flooded the sky, each one a night light guiding someone home. She knew that bright white was creeping up from behind as the sun made its morning preparations. “What a waste of a night sky,” Erika muttered. “Do you remember,” a cheeky grin etched onto her face. “That one night that we went down to the parking lot of our apartment building and just danced under the stars?” “Of course,” Russell responded. He chuckled, a sweet sound that hadn’t been sung in too long. “It was the night I knew I wanted to marry you.” “The stars looked as bright as they do tonight.” “It was a blackout, of course they did.” Erika sighed, “Do you think, when we get to space, we’ll be able to dance with no gravity?” She laughed, imagining what it would be like to dance on air. Russell didn’t join her, and the dreadful silence crept back between them. “You can sleep first,” Russell said. “I’ll watch out.” And just like that, the discussion was over. ___ They started just before sundown. The land was flatter farther into the desert, closer to how it was where they started.. A paper map in hand, he navigated through the sea of sand, avoiding zombies whenever possible. The zombies had become the least of their worries, with food and water topping them. However, it would be a problem if one managed to rip open one of their suits. Erika shuddered. Thoughts of her skin boiling in the intense temperatures made her stomach do loops, but they didn’t seem to want to go away. However, they were still at least three days away from the shuttle. Russell had reassured her that the shuttle wasn’t leaving until after they’d get there, but things always changed. With the way the world was, it seemed like they wouldn’t hesitate to send off their first test group. “They need a few days to train people,” Russell had said. “Not everyone is as familiar with space travel as us.” Every time he said that, Erika felt something poke into the back of her mind. Suddenly, Erika stepped her foot down but it fell a lot more than she’d anticipated. The rest of her body propelled forward, throwing her onto her hands. She whipped her head around to see what she stepped in to find that her feet were completely buried in sand that pulsated every second. “Erika!” Russell exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. He was already almost knee deep. The two made eye contact with each other before hastily tossing their backpacks to the side. The tanks were connected to their suits, so they couldn’t toss them to be lighter. Erika watched as her backpack landed on what was obviously solid sand before turning her attention to her sinking feet. Quicksand wasn’t deadly if dealt with correctly, but even still she felt panic rising within her. Slowly, but surely, she directed Russell on how to step up with his feet. She did her best to roll over onto her back and make it so that she could be upright. It felt like hours. Maybe it was. The task was brutal, made worse by her instincts screaming at her to go as fast as possible. Finally, they made it over to solid sand again. Out of breath, the two shared an embrace. Erika went to grab her backpack and put it back on. When she looked back at Russell, he still didn’t have his backpack, and his face had gone a pale shade of it’s normal hue. “Honey,” Erika began, keeping her tone as calm as possible. “Where’s your backpack?” Russell didn’t answer, but turned his head back towards the quicksand pit, illuminated now in the moon’s pale glow. Erika felt a tremor through her body. There was at least another week’s worth of food provisions in that backpack, but worse, the map was now lost. If they used her food they could make it through the three days, but what if they got lost? There had only been one map and Russell had taken it off the body of their driver. Erika’s hands were shaking. Her throat felt as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand. There was nothing left but hope. Hope they were going in the right direction. Hope that the food would last. Hope that their suits wouldn’t malfunction. Hope that they would make it out alive. ___ So far, the food had been lasting, but the zombies seemed to be more aggressive as the temperatures increased. The stars had served as a decent map, but they weren’t a guarantee. With each passing day, the void of silence grew greater between them. They went almost whole days without speaking. It worked to preserve water, but Erika could feel the distance. Russell walked several feet ahead of her, his eyes darting around.. Always watching. Erika didn’t even try to keep up with him anymore. Whenever they hit a sand dune, they’d redirect to the main path. One time, they reached so far up a dune that they couldn’t see the path anymore. That was when Russell had said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can get you there.” Erika scoffed, “That’s silly. We’re doing fine, and it’s not like they’ll leave, right?” “If our truck didn’t make it they’ll assume we’re dead,” he shot back. She tried to keep herself composed, but her own doubts clung to her like a child to its mother’s leg. “We’ve done everything right,” Erika said. “Maybe they’ll even send out a search party for the truck. They have our identifications. They gave us the tickets!” Russell went silent. “They do know what we look like, right? They know who we are.” Erika was struck with a sudden realization that hurt worse than the heat and the hills. “How did you really get these tickets?” she demanded. Russell then reluctantly told her a story different than the one he’d told her originally. That he’d lied about getting them in a raffle, but stole them from a coworker. “He left them lying around in the locker room after we were training in our suits,” Russell explained, his voice quiet. “He has a wife, but I know he hasn’t been a good husband to her. He’s not even that great of a guy at work! You know. You saw what he was like at the Christmas party.” “So I know him?” “He didn’t deserve it!” Russell exclaimed, gesturing with his hands. “Of all of the people on Earth he did not deserve to go.” “But what right did you have to choose that, Russell?!” Erika screamed, she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. “What makes us deserve it more than anyone else?” Silence. Erika sighed. “It’s not like it matters that much, right?” Her voice had returned to normal. “It’s just a test after all.”” Russell didn’t respond. A sob escaped from Erika’s mouth as all of the stress she felt boiled over, worsened because she knew. She knew that this couldn’t be just a test run. The way everyone rushed the process along- Ugh! That’s why they packed up and left the very day after Russell had supposedly “won” the tickets! As each piece of the puzzle came together Erika sobbed harder and harder.. She didn’t care how many zombies heard her. She didn’t care how dehydrated the taste of her tears would make her. There was an absent presence inside of her soul that made it hard to stand up and keep walking. Hope had been lost. ___ They’d lost time during the fight, but not too much. Erika’s feet dragged deep gashes into the sand, the weight of the only task pushing her forward. “We should get there within a few days,” Russell said, his voice warm. His eyes drooped, with exhaustion or a looming sadness Erika couldn’t tell. She didn’t care anymore. The man she knew would never hurt a soul to get ahead. Why did he do it? The sun began to peek it’s head above the horizon, bringing greater heat with it. Erika welcomed the pain as long as it kept her distracted. Soon, they would need to take shelter. Her eyelids grew heavier as they marched on. A large mass suddenly stopped Erika in her tracks. She stumbled backward to find that Russell had stopped moving, and was standing cold and frozen. The road dipped down into a valley, one that was cluttered with zombies packed together like sardines. They could make it around, just like all of the other hoards. Just... Bigger. Inch by inch, the pair made their way to the left, staying as far away as they could. Minutes felt like hours as the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky. Beads of sweat beat down Erika’s forehead, though her suit sounded like it was a dying cat as it worked to keep her cool. A quarter around. Halfway around. Three quarters around. Inches from a straight shot away from the zombies. Then, it happened. One tank, or both, let out a sound so loud that the moon could hear it. In an instant, Russell snatched her hand and dragged her after him. Erika didn’t dare look back out of fear for what she would find. Even after days of walking they could outrun the stumbling gait of a zombie. At least, that’s what Erika told herself. It was impossible to know who stumbled first, but one of them tripped. Russell snatched the knife from his boot and pushed Erika ahead of them. Erika couldn’t hear the moans behind her anymore, but they kept running. Erika turned her head to look back at Russell as they made their way up a dune. She got to see the horror in his face as she tripped and rolled all the way down the hill. When she finally stopped, her head ached, and she could hear a hissing noise from her back. That was the least of her worries as a moan sounded out to her right. Her heart stopped and in an instant she was tangled up on the ground with a zombie. Her body writhed as she struggled against the slender figure. It stared at her with pupils so dilated they were barely visible. Its mouth hung open as it let out a snarl, flinging saliva onto her helmet. With a mighty heave, she flung the zombie off of her just in time for Russell to finish it off. The relief was short lived as another zombie came up behind Russell. He sliced and kicked at it, but it seemed like it was stronger than the others. Erika managed to get up on her feet, but her head spun as soon as she stood up straight. Her vision blurred and her stomach heaved. She could barely make out Russell struggling against the zombie. She stumbled towards him, moving slower than the zombies. Her heart plummeted when she watched the zombie push Russell over, throwing itself on top of him. Panic vibrated through Erika’s body. She mustered all the strength she had left and launched herself at the zombie. They rolled off away from Russell, Erika managing to stay on top, holding down the writhing, disgusting being. Erika caught a glint of something in the sand. Russell’s knife. Without hesitation, she grabbed for the knife, digging her knee deep into the zombie’s hip. She raised her arm, knife in hand and, her heart thumping loudly in her chest, did what she had to do to survive. ___ Erika threw herself off of the body as soon as it stopped moving. Out of breath, she scurried across the sand to Russell. His chest moved in quick breaths as he lay motionless in the sand. Her heart sank. He stared straight ahead, not showing that he’d even seen her. Beads of sweat ran down his face as he panted. Erika looked down at the suit despite already knowing what she’d find. Three large gashes had been torn through the front of the fabric, even going through his undershirt. His skin was flushed and turning pinker by the second. She could feel his body beginning to shiver as she clutched to him. She struggled to reach her water tank. If she could maybe douse him in water it would help. When she unhooked the tank, her stomach sank at how light it felt. In the side were several little holes, likely from her fall down the dune. “No, no, no,” she chanted over and over. Her hands were placed on the sides of her husband’s helmet, staring deep into his eyes, silently begging him to pull off a miracle. Tears flooded down her cheeks, dripping onto the inside of her helmet. The man she loved would be dead in minutes. No, worse than dead. Turned. And there was nothing she could do about it. As she sat there, watching in shiver in the sand, she saw one last thing. “I love you,” he mouthed, but it was the next word that struck her hardest. “Go.” ___ Erika arrived at the space center, panting and almost depleted of the resources she got from her husband. Her pain was quenched by her determination only to survive. She gave her ticket, and her fake name. They let her in without question.. As the sun came up, Erika stared out the circular window at the desert she’d traversed. All the miles she’d walked. The blood, sweat, and tears. The losses greater than she could have imagined when she started. She wanted to stay on that dune where her heart had broken once, but she really wanted to stay where it was broken the second time. It was those words echoing in her mind. “I love you,” she whispered into the nothing, the sound drowned out by the firing up of the shuttle’s engines. The shuttled propelled into space, leaving Earth behind, a shriveled up version of her former self.


He awoke in the forest, though this was the limit of his knowledge. As the ragged looking man woke up in the middle of the far stretching wilderness, he found himself amiss in the falling leaves and trees of the stretching landscape. When he came to, he realized he had no memory of who he was or how he had gotten here. With any kind of memories blank, he soon came upon seeing if he was alone. “Hello!” he shouted, hearing his voice echo off throughout the forest. After a few more times, he grew content that he was truly alone. He soon noticed that he seemed to be exhausted despite lying asleep for what he felt was quite awhile. He turned and looked to find a table with various supplies on it. The table had a lighter, binoculars, duffle bag, survival knife, a pistol that he recognized as a .45 caliber M1911, a note, and some tight string and spears. He checked the clip in the gun, noticing it had no bullets in it. The note said “ Enjoy your desolace” it what appeared to be black ink. Confused by the note, he decided to save his questions and pack up what was apparently his equipment. In the miss of the chirping birds and swaying tree leaves feeling his ears, he heard the gentle hum of a stream. He decided to investigate this surprise. Despite not having a memory of who he was, where he was, or how he got there, for some reason survival came naturally to him. He quickly used his spears to catch fish at the stream with enough ease that it surprised him. He found a suitable campsite between two boulders just next to the roaring currents of the stream. He gathered logs from within the forest, and made a fire with some of his excess spears. As he ate as twilight set into the sky, he tried to piece together the fragments of memories in his mind. One memory he remembered was walking down the bustling street of a city, though he did not know what city. He would cross the heavy traffic, making his way to large a building. This is where he assumed he worked. There was also the memory of a woman. While the relationship he had to this woman as well as her basic information were unknown to him, his memory of her was vivid. Long black hair, deep green eyes. Whenever he imaged her in his head he felt sadness. The last memory he had was walking in a dark and small apartment. As he approached the counter in the living room, his hands trembled as he reached out for a small brown jewelry box. Any memory beyond that was lost to him. As he lingered around the rocky area near the river, he took time to admire this odd location. The stretching trees that seemed to never end, the whisping birds overhead, the desolace of it all. Despite how lost he was in his mind, he wasn’t scared or worried at all. Perhaps not having any memories of who he was made his mind numb. It was if he came here on his own accord, a thought which intrigued him. However, to him the whole place felt disconnected, in a way that seemed like it wasn’t real. You could go to the Himalayas or Mount Everest and admire its scope and beauty, but he felt that you could still feel like it was grounded in reality. But with this place, with the lack of any people, made him feel uneasy. The silence of anything but the river and the wind brought him peace yet also worried him. Was any of this real? A dream perhaps? Even though he had knowledge of the world, he felt like he was a fragment. He had no memories, no life. A shell. As he finished his meal, he looked up to the sky and discovered something odd. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it until now, though we was quite out of it. The sky still seemed to be in twilight. After all the time had gone by, at least three hours from his estimate, it stilled seemed that the time was still around six to seven o’clock. It should have been dark out by now. He decided that the only way to discover what this place is was was to venture out. As he gathered up his duffel bag on his shoulder and the rest of his gear, he looked at his reflection in the water of the river. It was the first time he had saw himself since he awoke. Long and mossy black hair, slight beard, it wasn’t like looking at himself. It was like looking at a stranger. It didn’t seem to matter how far he walked, the forest seemed to never end. He was hoping to see something but trees, anything at all, but it seemed like it was never ending. After walking for about an hour, he caught his breath and sat by a nearby log. It still wasn’t dark, and the longer he wandered in this limitless expanse of land the more weary and lonely he became. Was there anyway out? He wanted to hear someone's voice, to know he wasn’t completely alone. He closed his eyes, thinking to himself this had to be a dream, hoping to wake from it. Suddenly, the coo of the cicadas and all the other creatures of the forest ceased, and his eyes snapped open. He could hear a voice whispering in his ears, a gentle yet mysterious wisp echoing silently. “Come” it said. That much he could make out. He began running and shouting towards where he heard it. “Wait!” he yelled desperately. “I’m here!”. He ran and ran, as if finding who it was would free him from this lonely and monotonous world. As he ran, the voice boomed louder. “Come!” it said. As he ran, he soon came across a clearing, as if the trees had made a way for him. The voice now seemed to cease, though this didn’t hasten his pursuit. Once he ran through it, what was on the other side caused him to stare in disbelief. He found himself on a great cliff, and before him was a seemingly never ending ocean. The stretching water reached out far beyond the cliff, and beyond in the distance was a great veil of fog. Small lights popped in out and mingled within the fog. He could hear roaring waves crashing against the cliff. He came dangerously close to the edge, his body flirting with falling off. He saw a small rock chip off and fall, watching as it slowly made its way to the bottom, until it was consumed. He closed his eyes again. “Should I jump” he thought. To him, this world surely couldn't be real. As he reached his foot out, he suddenly stopped himself and backtracked. Gasping, he realized how close he came to falling. As he looked on at the fog, the distant lights suddenly began spinning wildly. They then consumed the sky with their light, so much that he had to close his eyes. When he opened them, he found that it was daylight once again. The sun shined, and seagulls flew above. He was astonished, but it did nothing but confirm his suspicions. This did not take him off in the least. Now accepting the lack of reality, he went on his way, fearing what could lie ahead. For now he knew anything could happen now. The cliff may have ended where he stood, but when he wandered off to the left he found a clearing that lead him back into the forest. The ocean was a breathtaking sight, and he was saddened to find himself back within the never ending expanse of trees. The world around him now seemed to be more ever changing than solid truth. After seeing the lights change the very sky, he came to the conclusion that not everything was absolute. It could change within an instant. Walking down the path, he realized he had been here for at least eight hours. He was no longer hungry, tired, and was devoid of any physical feeling of pain (he had scraped his knee on a jagged rock earlier, though he felt nothing). Could it be that basic necessities were unneeded here? That pain and human frailty meant nothing? He was curious, and so he bravely took one of the spears from his duffel bag and put the point of it on the top of his hand. He closed his eyes, human instinct telling him to brace for pain. Though when he did it, he once again felt nothing. No blood was drawn. He did it a few more times, even trying to pierce his gut with the spear. When he did, no matter how hard he pushed, it wouldn't budge. It was as if his skin was made of stone. “To bad the pistol doesn’t have any ammo” he thought darkly. “That would really put it to the test”. After a long trek, he eventually made it to another stream. A small water fall lied at the end, connected and dotted with large and jagged rocks. Since he no longer felt hunger for some reason, he assumed he had no need to eat. Though his sense of taste was still intact, as far as he could tell. He found a small rock to sit on, admiring the clear water as the sun reflected off of it. He watched as the bass swam under its surface, actually smiling as he admired the beauty of nature. He saw his smiling self in the crystal clear water, wondering just what type of person he was in, well, the world. Could it be this was all he has ever known? All he will know? Perhaps he was sent here, though for how long? In his pondering, he saw something that caught his eye. A large wooden door..... engraved on the largest rock. “That wasn’t there when I got here” he thought curiously. “Couldn't have been”. While he was caught off guard, after what he saw with the lights in the sky it didn’t throw him off. He had grown, even in his short time here, to accept the strange and questionable nature of this land. It had become almost like mirage of random and strange events, and anything happening now he would just grow to accept. He approached the door, realizing how silly all this was. He was about to enter a room within a rock, which was only about three feet wide and nine feet tall. When he opened it, he wasn’t even surprised to find a large and sprawling cave. Impossible, of course, but that was the nature of the neverending forest. The absurd was the norm. He closed the door, wiggling the knob to make sure he would not be locked within. The cave itself wasn’t big as he previously, perhaps a little bigger than the average living room. There was a small puddle in the middle of the cave, with dripping water from the top of the cave the only notable sound. The victorian era looking door at the end of the cave caught his eye, aswell as the figure lying on the floor. He gasped, and rushed over to help who ever this may be. For since the daylight returned, he had all but given hope on meeting any person here. He was glad his doubts had been proven wrong. When he approached, he noticed he was wearing the same clothes as him, and had a burlap sack over his face. “Hey, you alright?” he asked swiftly. Noticing no response, he removed the burlap sack. What he saw took the breath out of him. It was him, same face and all. He noticed he had blood coming from his mouth. He let out a rough cough, enough to wake him out of his shock and shake him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked ruggedly. “I..... I don’t understand” he asked. “Are we one in the same?”. The man laid his head to the ground. “I.... am you.... and you.... are me” he said struggling. “Though who we are.... inside..... differs greatly”. “You.... sent yourself here, this world is you’res”. “This is what you wanted, not what.... I wanted” he struggled to breath as he forced out his final words. “Had... had to see.... the world you choose for yourself...... who you were.” He sighed, and coughed up more blood, his life fading. “I’m sorry.... but there is no escape from this world” “You are its sole occupant, forest has....... mind of its own.” “Will keep you here, path never ends, just makes more.” “He told me to tell you.... this... is your... damnation” “For taking away most precious gift”. “Who!” he yelled in dispiration. “Please, I have more to ask. “Sorry.... but...”, and in a slow but steady pace, the mans duplicate died. He didn’t know much of what to think at this point, he had saw himself die right before his eyes. Not wanting to linger for longer, he went through the door to exit the cave. When he opened it, he was in the living room he remembered from his memories. He saw himself reaching for the jewelry box, just like in his memory. “Hey!” he shouted at himself. He yelled more, but he did not seem to be able to hear him. He reached out to touch him, but this seemed to have no effect either. His duplicate reached into the box and pulled out a gun, the same M1911 he carried in his duffle bag. He put the gun to his head, and, after some delay, pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed all over the floor, and the gun shot somehow produced a shockwave that tore apart the room. Frightened, he ducked under a table in front of the tv. Once the bustling tore apart the framework, he found himself at the river he first discovered, or at least thats where he seemed to be. Shaking and distraught, he quickly pulled out the M1911 in his duffle bag. “Its.... the same” he thought.


The world fades in, blurry around the edges. You lay in the center, and your face stares expressionless into the void. I kneel down, placing my hands upon your fur as if to see that you’re okay, I do this sometimes, often earning a soft sound of annoyance or curiosity for my effort. You are silent. You are still. I fall to my knees, and my memory begins to falter. Someone is screaming, pleading, praying. It’s me, but it doesn’t feel like me. This can’t be happening, not to me and not to you. But it is. My phone. I need to grab it, to call her, to ask, ‘What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?’ It’s so far away, I don’t want to leave you. Time seems to skip forward, and I am desperately trying to tell her. I don’t remember getting my phone, and the television is off now, seconds of my life that vanished in my fervor. I wait downstairs, call her again, trying to see where she is. ‘Not here, not yet.’ I tell her that I’ll start walking, I know the way. Instead, I run. Bare feet slap on concrete, dodging glass and stones. The carrier is heavy in my arms, my legs burn, my breathing short as I run, as if trying to flee from the specter that has its eyes set on you. My throat hurts, and yet I talk to you. I tell you that everything is going to be okay. People stare at me as they drive past, the frantic woman with wild hair dressed only in her pajamas. I ignore them and look down to see you slide in your transport, unnatural and limp. I don’t look down again. The honk of a horn, the squeal of tires, the concerned look of a familiar face. I’m barely in the car before I tell her, scream at her, to go. We’re there much faster now, and my mind catches up with my body. The vet comes out minutes after you go in. The shake of her head is barely visible through tear-streaked eyes. ‘Blood clot,’ and, ‘Instantaneous’ wash over me in equal measures, and the sobs taper off into stunned silence. I hold you in my arms, the last time I ever will. You’re colder now, even swaddled in a blanket, and your eyes are still open, your tongue hanging out like some mockery of who you once were. You don’t look the same, no longer the excited little child circling my feet, excited by everything life had to offer in a way I’ve never seen before. I bend over, and I kiss your forehead, as if to send you off into your slumber, and the vet comes to take you away. You’re gone, but you’re not. Not for me, not for her, and not for your brother. He can’t understand where you went. He waits for you to jump out at him. You don’t. The world moves on. They celebrate in the streets, a victory long hoped for. They didn’t know about you, but I did. And I am numb. I am numb. I am numb.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: The advertisement seemed too good to be true.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Story begins and ends with a question. This week’s challenge is to use the above prompt as inspiration for your story. Feel free to **interpret the prompt as you like**, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth extra points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **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. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who 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. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | **50** pts | | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts (unless noted otherwise) | | ***Actionable* Feedback** | **15** pts each (up to 75 pts) | | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | | **Bay’s Nominations** | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts | | **Submitting Nominations (voting for others)** | **10** pts | *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings With just 5 stories posted to last week’s thread, there just weren’t enough stories to create a fair ranking spread. So, the podium goes to just one author this week! *Please be aware that starting this week, we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


March 4th, 2042 - Detroit, MI The city is in ruins. The sheer sight of the gloomy, grey dust-filled skies strikes a feeling of hopelessness in my heart. One of the worlds greatest cities, bombed to debris. Most of my squad died in the initial bombings. Austin and David were the only other two to survive. We are currently held up in a barely-standing grocery store. We have a good supply of ammo for our guns, but that wont do us much good against the hoards of hostile troops. We don't know what to do now, our radios are on, but no higher-ups have even addressed the situation, let alone gave us orders. We're waiting in the grocery store for what seemed like hours, but was realistically only about 30 minutes. Every now and then, a big patrol would come past, usually a few tanks surrounded by dozens of troops. They never noticed us, or even bothered to check in the store. There we sit, in complete silence, with no clue what to do, when suddenly we hear it; radio static followed by a familiar female voice from my radio: "Message to any surviving US military: rendezvous point at the church on Jefferson Avenue, take caution while moving, extremely heavy hostile presence on the streets". "Did she say the church on Jefferson Avenue?" Austin blurted out loudly. "Oi quiet down, idiot, do you want us to get killed?" David says in a quiet, but angry tone. "Yes the church on Jefferson Avenue, now be quiet, lets get ready to start moving," I inform him. "I know where that is, its only a few miles down the road" Austin says, being useful for once. "Well lets get moving then, no time to waste" I order. We get our guns loaded, and make sure we've got our supplies, then we check the street. Clear. We start moving. The walk wasn't a long one, but seeing a once glorious city now be nothing but a pile of bricks and dust, except for a few buildings was really depressing. Humbling in a way. After not too long, we could see the church. "There it is" Austin says as he points towards a half collapsed, big, white building. We entire the building and shut the door behind us, only one other squad in here with us. I talk to their leader, and discuss what to do next. "I think we should just wait for orders fro-" i was cut off by a loud explosion. We all turn to the source of the explosion, and see a tank on the road, smoking barrel pointing towards us. David screams "TAKE COVE-", before he can finish his sentence, we hear gunfire and David groaning. "David's hit!" Austin screams, trembling with fear. We all take cover behind Seats, stands and anything else we can. Troop after troop runs in. Austin dies, David is still bleeding out. Only four of us remain viable to fight, me and a few members of the other squad. Troop after troop runs in, and gets gunned down. We manage to hold them off for a while, but one by one, everyone but me dies. I need to run, no way i can fight this many people, I sprint out the back of the church, and start running. Then everything seems to go slow. I hear a bang and feel a sharp burning sensation in my thigh. Ive been hit. This is the end. I watch hopelessly as i drop to the ground, dropping my gun on my way down. I go to reach for my gun, but then hear another bang, I got shot again, this time in the chest. I cant move. I give up. I lay down and accept my fate I see a hostile run up above my body, utter something in a language that I don't understand, and pulls out a knife. He digs it in my neck, and everything fades to black... "CUT" yells the director. "Well done men, you can leave the studio for the night. You did really well today. Everyone memorised all their lines today perfectly.


It’s time to visit my father again. I hate going there, hate visiting him when he’s no longer the man who raised me. The care home is only a fifteen-minute drive, but I avoid that route even when I need to go shopping. My mother phones me twice a day, always to check on how my father is, but never to check on me. I understand why. It’s hard for her, difficult to accept that her husband can’t remember the woman he married. I pull up into the car park, turn off the engine, and stare at the wheel for a good five minutes. The care home workers are probably suspicious of me. I’m sat in my metallic blue Kia Sorento, which is massive, and dwarves all the Minis parked beside me. I tap the wheel one last time, take a deep breath, grab my bag, and leave. After making it all the way here, I know I should go inside and visit my dad. The care home seems like a nice enough place. I’ve only visited once before, but I’m still shocked by how warm the yellow of the wallpaper is, and how gentle the staff are. Today, there’s a lady only slightly older than me, grabbing my arm and chattering away without a care in the world. I don’t listen as she speaks, instead staring at her blonde curly hair. It’s greying on top, and I can’t help but wonder when all my hair will disappear. I still have a few strands, but they’re precarious, and I’m sure I’m going to wake up one day without a single hair left. I had jet black hair when I was younger, but by the time I hit twenty-four, it had started to recede. My father had told me there were new surgeries to help if I didn’t want to be bald by the time I was twenty-six, but I’d refused. We’d never really gotten on, and visiting him in his old age was my apology. “Mr Hawkins, if you’d like to follow me, your father can see you now,” the nurse said. Her tone was jolly, sweet, and almost too fake in an environment like this. I didn’t understand how she could keep up the chirpy act. Despite the pleasant atmosphere, I just felt like I wanted to run and hide and never return. Still, I nodded at her. She led me into a comfortable-looking room. There were several armchairs scattered around the room, all different colours, with two cushions on each. In the centre was a massive rectangular table, with see-through boxes underneath. In the boxes I could see board games and dominos and packs of cards. It felt as if I was visiting a friend, rather than a man virtually on his deathbed. My father was on one of the comfortable-looking chairs. His round glasses sat perched on his nose, and his eyebrows were raised as he scanned a newspaper. He was muttering something to a poor social worker, who wore a strained smile as the staff lady and I approached. As I neared, I could hear him muttering about the lack of sports news, and tried to refrain from rolling my eyes. That was my father, alright. The social worker glanced up in relief as we approached, and then said goodbye to my dad, who coughed in response. I patted my bag in my hand as I waited for him to address me. I’d learnt not to address him first the last time I’d visited. My dad’s memory was fragile at the best of times, and a shock wasn’t needed for his system. The staff member waited with me until my dad closed the newspaper and then she addressed him with a smile. “Hi, Martin. You’ve got a visitor. It’s your son, Jeremy. He’s come to visit you, isn’t that nice?” she asked. Her voice was a bit patronising for my liking, but my dad didn’t seem to care. He was too busy looking me up and down. “Son?” he said, and I felt a weird sense of pride. The last time I’d visited my father had just stared at me, unseeing, as if I didn’t exist. It was the weirdest sensation. I think he’d thought I was there to give him his dinner because he kept glancing at the clock and then rubbing his stomach. Never one for words, my father. “Yes, dad, it’s me,” I said. The staff member had left, and it was just me and him. “How are you doing? Are they taking care of you? Giving you all your medication?” “I’m fine, as I always am,” my father said gruffly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” That was my father all over too. Never admitting he had a problem, always in the right. It had always bothered me when I was young, but I’d never said anything to him about it. He wouldn’t have listened to me, anyway. At least now he had an actual excuse. “What were you reading?” I asked, trying to keep up the conversation. I’d never been good at small talk. “What?” he snapped. “In the newspaper, just now,” I said. “What were you reading? Any good news?” “I... I don’t remember,” my father said, and I frowned. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to forget everything a minute after I’d done it. “Was I reading a newspaper?” “Yes, you were reading one when I came over,” I told him. I wanted to help, to help him remember such a mundane thing. “Don’t you remember?” “No, no,” my father shook his head, and then stared at me again. I went cold as he looked me up and down, a bemused frown on his face. “I’m sorry, son, who are you?” It felt like ten buckets of cold water had poured over my body in a second. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but didn’t dare shed one. If I showed any weakness, my father would take advantage of that, and refuse to listen to me. Still, it hurt to not be recognised by someone I’d known for so long, someone who’d raised me. “It’s me, dad,” I said. My voice was thick, and I felt any second like I would burst into tears. “Your son, Jeremy. I’m here, like you wanted.” “I don’t have a son,” my father said. I knew he didn’t mean it, that his memory was fading, that he was regressing back to his past, but it still stung. I wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve, and blinked a few times, forcing back the tears. “You must have me confused with someone else.” “No, dad,” I said, shaking my head. “I know you. I know that your favourite meal is a steak and ale pie with boiled potatoes and mushy peas. That your favourite song is ‘Under the Boardwalk’ by the Drifters. That your favourite pudding was mum’s blueberry pie. It’s me, dad. I promise. I’m your son.” “Blueberry pie?” my father questioned, scratching his chin. “That sounds good. With a nice dollop of cream. Now I’m hungry.” “I don’t have any pie,” I told him, opening the bag I’d been clutching since I’d entered. “But mum told me to bring some of her cookies along. Ginger snap ones. She said they were your favourite.” “Ginger snap cookies?” my father asked, staring at my bag as I unloaded the box they were sitting in. “I love ginger snap cookies.” “Yes, I know,” I said, releasing the lid, and handing him the box. My father leant forward and took an intense sniff, a smile gracing his face as he took in the scent. I could smell them too, a combination of ginger and nutmeg and cinnamon. They smelled heavenly. My father picked one up and took a bite, letting out a pleased sigh as he ate. I smiled as he picked up another. He held it to his eye and then glanced at me. “These are just like Velma’s,” he said, smiling. I jolted. My father had not mentioned my mother once since he’d been in here. I’d heard many a time from my teary mother that he had failed to recognise her when she came to visit him too. But he’d said her name. Just then. I’d heard it loud and clear from where I stood next to him. The cookies had helped him remember her. I knew I had to tell her straight away, but I wanted to see if my father remembered any more. “Velma?” I questioned. My father looked up at me, gulped down the rest of his ginger snap cookie, and smiled. “Yes. Velma. My wife. I’ve been married to her for years. I proposed to her just after she made us a batch of these cookies, you know.” “Oh?” I said, eager for him to continue. I hadn’t heard the proposal story in years, especially not from my father, and I could feel pride bubbling within me. “How did you propose?” “Well, I got back from working down the mine,” he said, snapping the cookie in his hand and offering me some. I took one. “I was sweaty and disgusting and covered in coal, but Velma didn’t care. She just took my hand, led me into the kitchen, and sat me down to a nice bowl of beef stew. We had these ginger snap cookies for dessert. We ate them in silence, but we were so content. It was then that I knew I had to marry her. So, I put the radio on and asked her to dance with me. Elvis was singing ‘Always On My Mind’, and I was dipping her. She was wearing her nicest dress, blue with flowers, and I was so in love. After the song finished, I kissed her, and asked if she would marry me.” “And?” “And she said yes,” my father continued, voice loud and proud. “It was the best day of my life.” “She sounds like a wonderful woman,” I said, pleased that my dad had remembered something. In all the times of visiting, he’d said nothing about his past. Not to me, or to my mother, or anyone else. Today had been a breakthrough. “She is,” my father said, nodding. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s lunchtime.” “Okay,” I said, nodding to one of the social workers to signal I was leaving. “I’ll visit you soon. You can keep the biscuits.” “Thank you,” my father said, and I smiled at him. It was the first time he’d ever thanked me for something, and he didn’t even know who I was. “No problem, dad,” I whispered as I left. I made my way back to my car and let the tears fall. He’d remembered my mother, and I was so happy about it. My mother had been so upset ever since we’d sent my father to that care home, but now there was a chance he’d recognise her when she visited. I had to let her know the good news at once. With a smile, I picked up my phone.


So there you are when the thought hits you. Your feet propped up on the coffee table - she is laying on the other end of the couch, feet thoughtlessly curled in your lap, innocently watching TV. The thought shutters through you like turbulence and you wonder if she felt the shiver as you silently admit it to yourself for the first time. And suddenly it's the only thought you can have. *She's not the one.* Everything shifts. The mannerisms that you used to lovingly roll your eyes at turn into small daggers of annoyance. The nights you used to yearn of impromptu sleepovers turn into dreaded time spent behind a mask. Looking at the shared calendar you two have spent the last year and a half curating, at first cautiously but with innocent optimism and now almost haphazardly, turns from a fun look at what's to come to a tactical maze to navigate. *Wedding in Colorado next weekend that we already have booked. Friends in town the weekend after. A few weeks of downtime after that, maybe then?* You console yourself with the idea that you're trying to do it nicely and "the right way" but are disgusted at the possibility that maybe you're just doing it at a time most convenient for you. Is she saying she loves you more than usual? Does she see this coming? Is this a trap so she can ask how long I've been lying about that? But it isn't a lie. You do love her. You love her for the spontaneity she added to your life, for her youthfulness as you go through the maturing years of your late 20s. You love that she let you in and told you things and allowed you to help her. But it's waning. Or maybe you are. Like a dream you've just woken up from and are grasping to hold onto, you can't remember or trace the steps back to find exactly what it was or where it was or when that you loved as much as you did. And you can't fall back asleep. That's not how it works. So you figure you actually don't love her. Not anymore. But you did. You pause with the toothbrush humming in your mouth, your shirt halfway buttoned, staring into the drawer you've pulled open with the toes on your outstretched foot as if you don't want to get too close. A t shirt she wears to bed. A night mouthguard you teased her about but always found oddly cute. A hair brush. A bag of toiletries and hair ties. *What do I do with that? Bring it with me some day to her place? Wait for her to ask about coming to get it?* A crude painting she made in college before she met you but that you always said you liked hangs in the kitchen. A water bottle on the night stand. Tampons in the bathroom vanity. All just pieces of a plate on the edge of a counter yet to be shattered being eyed by the dustpan and broom. You want to be the bad guy. You want her to rage at you when you do it, to hit you, to scream, to tell you to leave and never come back. You know she won't though. She'll hurt. She'll feel alone. She'll feel abandoned and scared and vulnerable and broken. She'll feel all the things you'll feel but she'll feel them for the first time. They're realer that way sometimes. Rawer. Selfishly, you want this to be out of your hands but you know she would never end this. And you know it's already over. So you wait. *Wedding in Colorado next weekend that we already have booked. Friends in town the weekend after...* You try to enjoy what you have left. You try not to think about how she'll be after and you hope beyond hope that someday what she feels for you now disappears, a drop in the ocean of love she feels for another. And you hope that you feel the same.


#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. 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. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Luck** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘luck’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week So many stories were submitted this week. I am thrilled to see all the different interpretations of the constraints week to week. I also love seeing writers come back throughout the week to leave feedback for other stories. It’s inspiring. You all are doing a fantastic job! Due to a very busy holiday weekend, I am sorry to say that the spotlight picks will be postponed until next week. They will be included on next week’s Micro Monday post. Until then,   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **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. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Strings of ants crawled on the walls of my seventh-grade French classroom, really a trailer. Our middle school, like most in Georgia, had little money and too many kids. When the classrooms run out of space, they put up trailers. A cluster of them parked outside the gym. It was freezing in the wintertime, scorching in the spring, with bees and hornets visiting class daily, as if we were pioneer children educated on the Western frontier. The French teacher hated children. You could see this wasn’t what she wanted in life. She snuck cigarettes between classes and ended up married to the P.E. coach. But I loved French class because Johnny Ramsey was there. He didn’t do anything. He sat hunched, pencil in his mouth, eyes blank. I was in love. All class, I switched between my favorite channels, Johnny Ramsey, then the ants, watching each carefully, gathering every detail of his nose and his back, then when his head turned towards me, it was on to the ants. They had a tag team system. One ant finds something, then comes to another, touches antennae, that ant then relays the message to another. They seemed not individual souls but parts of a network, like neurons snapping electricity in a shapeless brain. I hate killing ants. I hate killing anything, it feels like bad karma. And with ants, you have to destroy the whole system. Individual ants are replaceable. If you want them out, you have to be thorough. I would order the ant spray online, but I worry about pressurized cans sitting in the heat. The package has so many chances to explode along the route. I would also let the ants live in my house. There’s space. But when I first moved out, my mother had this thin-lipped look, as if I were still a teenager with poor motor skills driving for the first time. She doesn’t consider me competent enough to live alone. The house is already a mess -- I imagine her visiting, frowning at the ant colonies sprawled in my kitchen. She wouldn’t even say anything. She wouldn’t be surprised. I used to love grocery shopping. Before the pandemic, I spent hours gliding through the aisles, stopping to look at a new cereal box design, the bug-eyed fish frozen on styrofoam trays. But now, shopping is a tense affair. The mask is on, the clock starts. It’s in and out as quick as possible, minimizing time spent sharing air with other people. A new personal record, fifteen minutes. I wait in the checkout line, the can of ant spray shining in my cart. What a thing to buy, what a story it always carries. The cashier’s mask covers the lower half of his face. He’s lucky, he’s got nice eyes, good hair, both now emphasized by a lack of other features. That blank stare, it reminds me of the fish still sitting on ice in the freezer section. Ah, of course, that’s Johnny Ramsey who’s about to scan my groceries. I remember those eyes, that hair. I spent collective hours committing them to memory. He hasn’t changed in our years of separation. My turn comes and he’s grabbing the ant spray, scanning it, punching in codes for my artichokes. I’m thankful for my mask concealing a stupid little grin. He doesn’t know who I am. He never did. He’s a hot boy, and that’s all he’s been. He’s never had to think about things, figure things out for himself. There’s nothing he and I could ever talk about. Still, the silly, stupid animal I fight with for control over my body, the little ferret, the weasel, the pure mammal woven of milk and meat, she’s giddy about this. Only her and I know the significance of the cashier handing me my receipt. We giggle together beneath the mask as he tells us to have a good day. What a thrill! I sit down in my car, peel off my mask, put my hands over my fluttering belly. I missed this. I missed the intrigues of normal life, the glances, the stares across rooms, simple words whose meaning you spend the rest of the day analyzing. It’s all delicious. It’s usually one-sided, just me finding pleasure in looking and wondering, and it’s ridiculous, the one part of me resisting evolution, set in her schoolgirl ways. But it’s a vital part too, one that needs activation if I am to be excited about life. I’m home. I look at the ants crawl, door to kitchen. I hold their death in an aerosol can. It’s too much power to think about, and I decide to wait, to focus instead on this newly unearthed part of myself. How will she be fed now that her hunger is remembered? There’s dating websites. They don’t do it for me. I like nuanced rom-coms, where you wonder will-they-won’t-they end up together, and dating websites pull the tablecloth of suspense from beneath the silverware of conversation, like movies where they tell you the end right at the beginning. I hate being locked in, talking one-on-one when our phone algorithms match us. I much prefer to stare from afar, revelling in the magic of the present moment, of our proximity, drafting all the potential ends this situation has. Where’s the magic in being asked your favorite song for the twelfth time in a day by yet another poor guy just trying to make conversation, just trying to find common ground? The French teacher didn’t even know our real names. She gave us French names to use in class. Mine was “Marion,” pronounced Mary- ohn , the last syllable spat like something vile. She sounded disgusted whenever she spoke to me, but maybe that’s just French. 12 year old me offended her sensibilities. I was messy, unkempt, my books fell on the floor with a loud thud every class. These American children, she probably thought. Disgusting. Dégoûtant. Women like her, like my mother, terrified me. I had to prove myself to them, over and over. I always failed. I use “Marion,” not my real name on the dating website. If I must date digitally, I will still inject mystery, like Juliet wearing a mask the first time Romeo sees her. In five minutes of scrolling, I learn the pandemic has densely populated the dating websites. No one can go outside, but everyone wants love. It’s embarrassing, being so reliant on computers. They’re electronic butlers we once used to fetch the slippers but now control us fully, holding our memories, our schedules, our work, our friendships in their wired fingers, personal assistants you can’t fire because you’ve forgotten how to function otherwise. And they’re matchmakers now too, processing our wet, slobbery human desires into code, linking through signals and electricity desperate hearts of blood and yearning. That’s the thing, it’s hard to imagine the pixels on my screen as real people. There’s Mark, there’s Bradley, smiling faces holding beer cans and fish, profile after profile. They have flesh and dreams, desires, personal histories of blind, radiant joy and needle-pricking pain, but to me, they’re no more than flat, singular images, no more defined and alive than a magazine ad. And I’m the same to them. What does the computer know about human connection? What does it know about the delicacy, the fine spider’s web woven from words and glances when two people first meet? Johnny Ramsey’s profile comes up. In his pictures, he looks like every other boy, strong, smiling but not grinning, not too happy to be here. It takes long, but I swipe “no” on him. No need to drag old mud into my new house. The computer hurts my eyes. I shut it off. I ought to clean said new house -- it’s horribly messy. But first a snack. I make coffee and grab some chocolates. As the coffee brews, I remember French class again, one day when we had a substitute teacher. She was young, still excited to be with children. We made a collaged mural of a farm, labeling the animals, le cheval, la vache. We worked in groups, and I was paired with Johnny Ramsey. For those forty-five minutes, I hated him. He was stupid and lazy. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, his French pronunciations stretched and condensed like kneaded dough. I ended up doing the drawings and the labels for both of us. The next day, our regular teacher returned. No more group work. Johnny Ramey sat silent and ublinking and I was once again in love with him. My coffee is done, my hands are sticky with melted chocolate. I return to my bedroom. My mother never let me eat in my room -- she said I’d get ants. Now, I don’t eat in my room, and I still have ants. Might as well indulge now. I take my clothes off too, a living-single privilege I forget I have. My sheets are crumpled, my pillowcase needs washing. My chocolatey fingers leave a smudge on the mattress and as I sip coffee, a few drops scald my bare chest then leap to the blanket. It’s all disgusting. I love it. I love this, I love me, my body, my every room, the ants in the kitchen, the bitter coffe-taste staining my teeth. It’s all an ugly truth, something perverse and revolting but it’s honest. If I cleaned, it wouldn’t be for myself -- it would be for an imaginary, invisible pair of judging eyes. There are no eyes here but my own, and they find no fault in chaos. Really, I don’t want any other eyes. Men who consider themselves romantics think their duty is orchestrating something grand, spectacular, flowers and grand pianos and diamonds-on-a-string. But what man could predict that I this is what I like, with my coffee lukewarm and my chocolate half-melted, my books to be in lopsided stacks around the bed, my jackets splayed just so over the cabinets and chairs? Only I make myself happy. I am in love with me for it. And the supposed objects of my affection, Johnny Ramsey and every other boy before and since, they are best treated as marble statues, silent, beautiful, untouchable. The second they open their mouths, fill that lovely, uncertain empty space between us with their hot breath, the love evaporates. Once the coffee is warming my stomach, I go back to the kitchen. The horrible task must be done. I crouch, still naked, holding the spray can as far as I can from my bare body. The ants run panicked from the toxic droplets, acid rain coating their little insect lungs. I whisper I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It isn’t fair. This isn’t what I want. I finish spraying, toss the can. I really don’t know what I want. I’m standing wide-legged, hands grabbing the fat around my hips, and I don’t know what the next move is. Really, I wish someone would tell me. I wish there was someone else to move the air around, break the ever-solidifying stillness. I want no more coffee, no more chocolate. I don’t want to get dressed and I don’t want to clean. What else is there? I sigh, go back to my room, open the laptop back up. More profiles have loaded, more smiling men. Maybe one of them will be understanding and bring me only lukewarm cups of coffee when we both awaken on my messy sheets each morning.


"Give me what I want, and no-one gets hurt." "I know that voice." Marshall Calhoun swiveled on the barstool. "Silas McReady. Ol' Lead Heart." "In the flesh." "Been a while." "Fifteen years, Ethan. Long time." "What's with the gun, Silas?" "Wanted to start this off on the right foot. Heard you've turned lawman now, Ethan. You were a quick draw back then, fifteen years ago, and from what I hear you're quicker now. Still don't think you're as quick as me, but I'm not anxious to find out. So, figured I'd get the draw on you from the get-go. And then there's this, my ace in the hole. Bring her in, Cookpot." The saloon doors swung open and Cookpot -- a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, bearded man -- entered, his left arm around the neck of fourteen-year-old Annabelle Pinion, his right holding a Colt Cog Action Army .45 pointed at her head. "Heard tell this little one is special to ya, Ethan," Silas said. "Near to an adopted child, is what I hear. Like you were to me, back when." Annabelle was short, flat-faced, buck-toothed, wore her hair in long braids under a man's Stetson several sizes too large, and she had something wrong with her eyes so she had to use powerful goggles to read, reading being her favorite pastime. Since she wasn't reading at the moment, the goggles were perched up on the hatband. "You doing alright, Annabelle?" Calhoun asked, voice steady, but there was a thickness in his throat. "Yes, Marshall Calhoun, sir, he hasn't hurt me none, as of yet, though I can't say I like the looks of things." Marshall Calhoun stood up from the barstool, hands held up at shoulder height, palms towards Silas. Ethan "Iron Hand" Calhoun was tall, slim, with narrow eyes in a narrow face. He wore all black, except for the red kerchief around his neck. On his right hand, his gun-hand, he wore a mechanized glove, clockwork-powered for fast-action shooting. His left hand was bare, and he was missing his left ring-finger. The man Calhoun was facing, Silas "Lead Heart" McReady, was shorter by a head, and in contrast to Calhoun's jet-black hair, Silas's lead-gray shag was threaded throughout with silver strands, his weatherworn face creased and wrinkled with skin tough and worn as old boot-leather. But he had the same narrow eyes as his once-near-adopted 'son', the same intense stare, the same at-the-ready gunman's stance. "So, what do you want, Silas?" "Treasure." "Then you've come to the wrong place, old man. Gearsville's full of dust, but it ain't gold-dust." "You know what, you always were a straight shooter. So, I believe you don't even know," Silas said. "But I know. Believe me, there's treasure in this town, and, what's more, I know where it is. We're gonna take a walk down Main Street to the clocktower, get that treasure, and then head right out of here in the airship we just sailed in on." "Treasure, in the clocktower? News to me." "It's there alright. You're coming with me, Ethan, just so there'll be no trouble until we leave." Silas turned. "Cookpot, we're bringing the girl too." "What about that one?" Cookpot pointed to the grizzled codger slumped at the end of the bar, the only other patron in the saloon at this early hour, nine in the morning. "Hey, ol' timer, what's your name?" The old man stood up from his bar-stool. With his left hand, he smoothed down his rumpled shirt and vest, ran a hand through his unkempt white mane of hair and over his bushy beard. In his right hand, he still clutched his whiskey. His watery, unfocused blue eyes peered in Cookpot's direction. "Who's askin'?" he slurred. "I'm askin', ol' timer. What's your name?" "Phineas Cogsworth. Folk 'round here just call me Phin." "The town drunk, huh?" "Mr. Cogsworth is an inventor." It was the tinny, metallic voice of the automaton who was tending the bar. "An inventor?" Silas said. "This one? What did he invent?" "He made me, for one," said the automaton barkeep. "And many other wonderful machines." "Okay, Inventor Phin, you're coming with us too," Silas said. "And what about that one?" Cookpot motioned at the clockwork automaton barkeep. "Cog-boy stays," Silas said. "Don't care for his kind anyhow. You're gonna keep quiet, right, Cog-boy, lest your betters get hurt?" "Yes sir," the automaton said in its tinny, metallic voice, fixed grin engraved on its steel features, eyes two shining blue gems. "Please don't hurt anyone, sir." "Now, give me your gun, Ethan," Silas said. "Nice and slow. No quick moves. I've got my finger on the trigger, and it might twitch if I get startled." *** "I know it's here," Silas said. They were in the clocktower at the end of Main Street. Cookpot was standing guard outside, and a twitchy, freckled redhead desperado had joined Silas to watch over Marshall Calhoun, Annabelle, and Phin while Silas searched the place. On the ground floor of the clocktower, the room was bare, except for two dusty old chairs upholstered in green velvet, each on one side of a large portrait of Alexander Gearhart, the founder of Gearsville, with his neatly trimmed moustache and his iconic monocle and top hat. "I was told," Silas said, "that I should take a closer look at the painting." He peered at the portrait, then grabbed a hold of the frame and lifted the picture down off the wall. Something fell out of the back of the painting, a glint of gold as it rolled on its edge across the floor, landing at the tip of Phin's left boot. Phin deftly stepped on it, hiding the item. Neither Silas nor the freckled redhead had noticed -- they were too busy staring at what had been hidden behind the painting. "See, I told ya!" Silas said. "A safe!" This was an older model safe, one that used a key, rather than a combination lock. "Guess you need to find that key next," Marshall Calhoun said. "Nah, this one I can blow easily," the redhead said. "All I need is some gunpowder. And it just so happens, I brought some along." He guffawed. Sure enough, in less time than it would take to recite the twenty-third psalm and the Lord's prayer three times at a decent pace, the freckled redhead blew the safe open. Inside they found a good sized chest, about two feet long, a foot deep, and a foot-and-a-half tall. It was padlocked, but Silas fixed that in no-time, jimmying the lock with a crowbar. They all gathered around as Silas opened the lid, to find that the chest contained ... ... nothing! "I guess the joke's on you," Calhoun said. "Someone musta gotten to it first, and then just put it back again empty, whaddaya say?" "I say something's not right here," Silas drew his gun and pointed it at Marshall Calhoun. "I say you've been playing me all along, Ethan." Calhoun raised his hands. "Now hold on, Silas. You said yourself that I was a straight shooter. I didn't know it was here, honest. Look at the dust and cobwebs on the wall where the picture used to hang. This is the first time in a really long time that anyone got to that safe." "Well, then, we'll just have to find some other treasure," Silas said. "We'll round up the Gearsville citizenry and see what they can contribute, rob your bank, and then torch the whole damn town. What do you think of that, Ethan?" "I say that's rotten." "Well, that's what you think of me, ain't it? Wasn't that the last thing you said as you rode off back then, fifteen years ago? That I was rotten to the core? Well I'll prove you right, son. I'll show you just how rotten I can be. Let's get outta here!" *** Outside on Main Street, the gang's big airship was tethered to the clocktower, hovering a few feet above the street, ready to take off on moments notice, a ramp extended to the ground. In front of the airship there were nine steam-powered horses with Cookpot and six other desperadoes mounted. The freckled redhead stepped into the stirrup of the nearest of the two riderless steam-horses, swung his leg over the horse's back and settled in the saddle. Off in the distance, a man approached, walking slowly down Main Street. Silas leveled his gun, then relaxed as the 'man' came closer and he could see that it was the automaton barkeep. "What're you doing here, Cog-boy," Silas said. "Who's mindin' the bar?" The automaton barkeep ignored Silas and addressed Marshall Calhoun: "I made all the arrangements, sir, according to your standing instructions. The town is at the ready." "Thank you, Joe," Calhoun said, then brought his fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle. The rooftops suddenly sprouted rifle barrels all around. The clockwork ratcheting of Winchester auto-repeaters echoed. "Here's the deal, Silas," Marshall Calhoun said. "Three options. Number one: I can give the signal and the townfolk up on the roofs will light up on you and your men. Or, number two: you can just take the easy way out and head up the ramp to your airship." "That's two options," Silas said. "What's the third?" "Back there in the bar you said you think you're still a quicker draw than me. Wanna find out once and for all?" Silas gave him a long look, then smiled. He held out the Marshall's gun. "Yeah, Ethan," he said. "Let's find out." *** "Any time, Marshall." They were twenty paces apart, facing each other, right hands hovering over their holstered guns. "When the clock in the tower strikes ten," Calhoun said. The clock in the tower began striking, one bell ... two bells ... three bells ... "You were just a kid, Ethan. I taught you everything." Four bells ... five bells ... "You left out the most important part." Six bells ... seven bells ... "What's that?" Eight bells ... nine bells ... "You never taught me to be a good man. I had to figure that out for myself." At the tenth strike of the bell, both men drew at blinding fast speed. *** Silas looks so small , Calhoun thought. I remember him being so much bigger, so solid, so strong . This crumpled scarecrow was a frail, broken rag-doll, half the size of the Silas of Calhoun's memory. Calhoun leaned down, used his left hand, the ungloved one, to feel for Silas's pulse at his neck. Nothing. The fixed stare in the pale blue eyes told the same story, as did the growing bloom of blood soaking the front of Silas's shirt. Dead. Gone. Calhoun moved his hand from Silas's neck to his eyes, closing both eyelids with thumb and index finger. Marshall Calhoun stood up, turned around, clockwork six-shooter still in his mech-gloved right hand. "It's over," he said, addressing the townsfolk riflemen up on the roof tops as well as Silas's gang down on Main Street, the eight desperadoes on their steam-powered horses. Calhoun stepped closer to the nearest horseman, the twitchy red-headed, freckled one. Calhoun cocked his gun, and in reply the redhead aimed his six-shooter at Calhoun. On the rooftops twenty rifles took aim at the gang below, the clockwork sound of levers winding up for mechanized repeater-action. "There's no need for more bloodshed," Marshall Calhoun said. "If you leave now, sail your airship into the big blue, we'll give you free passage, no posse, no-one even needing to know what went down today. You saw it, the treasure chest was empty, so there's nothing for you here. Silas had the wrong information, is all. Silas is dead. And I'll give him a good burial. There was a time when I loved the man, and there's still a fair bit of love for him left in me. Let it go. Leave now. I'll put him in the ground." "Eat dirt," the redhead said, gun still leveled at the Marshall's head. "You think you can get away with gunning down Ol' Lead Heart like that? No way. There's one of you and eight of us, and I don't believe that gaggle of hick-birds up on the rooftops could hit the side of a barn. For all we know they're pointing broomsticks at us, and winding alarm clocks, pretending to have cog-rifles." The big, blonde, bearded man, the one Silas had called Cookpot, rode up, clockwork-horse puffing steam. "The Marshall is right, Freckles," Cookpot said to the freckled redhead. "It was a fair fight. The Marshall outdrew and outgunned Lead Heart, that's the way of it. He's dead and gone, there ain't no treasure, and nothin' good comes from getting into a gunfight with these hick townies." He squinted up at the rifle barrels poking from the roof-tops all around, then yelled: "We're leaving. You hear? Your Marshall promised us free passage, and we'll take it." The eight men rode off to the airship, up the ramp, which closed behind them. The airship released its grapple hook tether from the clocktower, lifted off, and soon became a smaller and smaller dot in the big, blue sky. *** "See here's the thing!" Phin cackled. "It ain't so empty as you think, Marshall, this treasure chest. Lookie here, will-ya!?" The wiry, grizzled old man held up the golden cogwheel they had found behind the portrait in the clock tower. "This is the key," he said. "I mean, Marshall, it's literally the key. Let me show you." Phin fiddled with the golden cogwheel, inserting it between the two other cogwheels at the bottom of the empty treasure chest. Nothing happened. Phin scratched his neck. "Well, I'll be durned. I was so sure." "Needs a power source," Annabelle said. "And we have a great big one right outside, a white ball of hot fire up in the big blue." They dragged the treasure chest out of the clocktower and into Main Street. Annabelle took off her reading-goggles and used the lenses to concentrate the sun's rays to a bright dot which she aimed at the dull-gray jewel in the middle of the golden cogwheel. The dull, gray jewel turned green, and the golden cogwheel began turning in a strange pattern, forward once, backward once, then forward twice, then backwards three clicks, then forward five clicks, then backwards eight clicks, then forward thirteen clicks. "It's the Fibonacci sequence," Annabelle said as the cogwheel kept clicking backwards and forwards. The last was a long run of clicks. "He's goin' for eighty-nine clicks this time," Phin said. "That's the next in the sequence, right, Annabelle?" Annabelle nodded, just as the cogwheel reached that final click. With a thunk and the grind of hinges that had not been oiled for a very long time, the whole bottom of the empty treasure chest swung open. Inside the false bottom they found a leather-bound book and two rolled up documents. "This ... " said Phin, "looks familiar." While Annabelle unrolled the documents, which were blueprints of a complicated machine, Phin opened the book. "Well, I'll be durned," he said. "I do believe I wrote this my own self." "You," Marshall Calhoun said. "You wrote this, Phin? You hid this away in this complicated way? For Cog's sake, man, why?" "I don't rightly know, Marshall," said Phin. "You see, when the whiskey-demon got me and I began losing my marbles, I started doing stupid shit, like burn my books, destroy my machines, or so they say. Me, I can't recall much of those days. This must have been awfully important, if I went through all this trouble to hide it from myself, being that it's the only thing that remains of all I wrote and most of all the machines I made back when I was in my right mind. Yup, musta been pretty, pretty important." "Important?" Annabelle said, looking up from the blueprints. "You can say that again. Do you know what this is?" "No, ma'am, I don't." Phin shook his head. "It's the blueprints for a machine that would create unlimited power in the same way the sun does, except not hot," Annabelle said. "It's cold-sun-power. I don't know what else to call it. It's everything we could ever want. Why'd you not make this machine, Phin?" "I remember now," Phin said, "the reason I hid this away." "Yeah?" Marshall Calhoun said. "Why?" "Because I was afraid of it," Phin said. "It's everything we want, that's true, but it comes with a terrible cost. You see, this machine can either make unlimited power, clean power, free power for everyone, or ... " "Or?" Annabelle looked closer at the blueprint. "Oh," she said. "I see it. This machine could also be a bomb." "The biggest bomb anyone ever made," Phin said. "So big that it could destroy a whole city, so big that in the hands of the wrong people, it could destroy the world." "Put it all back," Calhoun said. "But ... " Annabelle looked at him. "It's too much power," Calhoun said. "We're not ready to wield the power of the sun. Not now. Maybe never. We'll play at being God and end up going to the Devil." She sighed. "You're right." "But what do we do with the chest?" Phin said. "That Freckles guy blew the safe to smithereens." "We couldn't put it back there anyhow," Calhoun said. "Someone knew it was there. Maybe someone you told, Phin, back when you'd lost your marbles, who knows. I'll find a place to bury the chest, somewhere only I'll know." He held up the golden cogwheel. "And you, Phin, go find a place to hide this, somewhere only you'll know." "Okay." Phin took the cogwheel. "One day," Calhoun said. "Probably not in my lifetime, but maybe it'll be your grandchildren, Annabelle, who make a world where it's safe to share the secret of the sun."