Botany was a hobby that my mother had always pursued. In the spring, she’d spend her weekends tending to her vegetable garden for hours on end. My father would have to pry her from the soil just so that she would come and have dinner with us. In the winter, she would bring home armfuls of books from the local library devoted to flowers and trees. She’d read every last word before returning them the next week and checking out another stack. I guess she’s the reason I bought a hibiscus plant last year. I saw it on the windowsill of an almost unnoticeable flower shop which was squished between a Starbucks and a Barnes and Noble and I bought it without thinking. I told myself that I was buying the plant for me and not her but I was most definitely lying. Hibiscus had always been her favorite. As I was lugging the hefty pot of soil through the darkening streets of New York City and back to my studio apartment, I got a phone call. I set the plant down to my right, stretching my aching back, before answering, “Hello?” “Is this Magnolia Armstrong?” the woman's voice rang through the phone. “Yes,” I said hesitantly, “Who is this?” “Miss Armstrong,” the woman began softly, “I'm calling about your father. I’m so sorry, he-” I dropped the phone before I could hear another word. I knew what she wanted to tell me but I would not allow her to. I collected myself and picked the phone back up to listen to my new reality. My father was dead and I hadn't visited him once in the ten years I had been gone. I sprinted home as fast as I could with a twenty pound plant weighing me down. Frantically, I began to pack the things I needed without a concrete thought in my brain. The hibiscus somehow made it to the passenger seat of my car and I started driving. At first, I feared that I would have forgotten the way. Then I realized that I knew exactly where I was going. I pulled into the narrow driveway and noticed the things that were the same. The weeping willow still stood tall in the front yard and the house was still big and made from bricks. I had yet to shed a tear for the loss of my father with the unexpectedness of it all but my childhood home pushed me over the edge. I sobbed for what felt like hours before entering the house. Once inside, I noticed that the front door had been painted yellow. I put the hibiscus on the kitchen table as I breathed in the dead air that surrounded me. I knew that the life within this house died long before my father did. My thoughts were a mess when I first arrived. I had to think about my fathers funeral for a few days until it was over. Then I thought about the things left in the house for a few weeks until they were gone. Finally, I thought about the house itself, and why I was still in it. Maybe I was drawn to the familiar welcome carpet outside of the yellow front door. Maybe the weeping willow that we planted decades ago was holding me hostage. Maybe I was enjoying the constant memories of my adolescence flowing to my brain. I spent my days remembering my parents' laughter floating from the kitchen to my room as they made me pancakes. They would put together a special breakfast every Sunday up until I was nine. I guess I didn't notice when they stopped. I remembered my mother planting the great weeping willow as a young sapling in our front yard. I had asked her why it was so small and she told me that it would grow, “You’ll just have to wait.” I wished she could see how the mighty branches now stood taller than I did and how the emerald green leaves danced in the wind. Maybe she would still be here if she knew. I moved my stuff into my old bedroom. It looked nothing like it did years ago when I was obsessed with My Little Pony or when I went through my “I hate everything” phase. The walls were painted a hot pink when I was seven and a dark green when I was twelve. When I left, my dad painted my, and all of the walls in the house, white. He covered the years of height marks on the side of my door and the mural of water lilies that we’d spent hours painting together. At first, I was angry that he just erased the memories of my bedroom like they meant nothing. Then I realized how long I had been gone. I guess there’s no need for a daughter's room if there’s no daughter to live in it. I spent my nights staring at the ceiling. It held the only proof that a teenage girl had once lived in the room: a brown stain from who knows where. I racked my brain and tried to remember how I had made that stain, or if I had at all. I was unsuccessful. My days were consumed with exploring every square inch of the place I used to call home. I so desperately wanted to remember when it stopped feeling like a sanctuary and more so like a lion's den. The only conclusion I could come to was that it happened gradually. First, they stopped laughing and started yelling. I never understood how two people who loved each other so much could fall apart so fast. It was as if I blinked and they suddenly resented one another. Instead of “Special breakfast Sundays,” we had “Make your own food Fridays.” Perhaps it was the day she left that broke my bond with my house. I was positive that she would come back, she loved the house more than any of us. She couldnt possibly abandon the weeping willow and her stupid vegetable garden and her house and her plants and me. I was wrong. I was bitter for a long time after she drove away in her green honda and never returned. I blamed her for everything bad that had ever happened in my life. Though my dad conveyed the same emotions, he did it in a different way. First, he dug up the flower beds and the vegetable garden. Then he threw out the numerous house plants that crowded every room of the house. Any sign of my mother was destroyed or thrown away by my father. I guess that was his method of forgetting the bad memories. My idea of erasing a part of my life that I felt I could do without was much different. I decided that the one thing I hated my mother the most for was my best option. When I turned eighteen, I left the weeping willow and I left the blank walls. I left the painful memories and I left everything I had ever loved. I left my life behind and I left my father to get sicker and sicker until the end of his. Now I was back in the place I wished to never return to and I could not leave. I was trapped like a mouse between the colorless walls of my house and the hibiscus on my kitchen table. I decided that I would stay in that house until I had a daughter of my own to make pancakes on Sundays for and plant a vegetable garden with. I would never think of chopping down the weeping willow, we would plant another on the other side of the yard. We would laugh and cherish the time we did have with each other because everybody leaves, whether they mean to or not. We all find a reason to start a new life when it gets too difficult to live our own. I will not resent her when she leaves me to go to college or find a job. This is because I will always be in the big and beautiful house with a magnificent vegetable garden when she chooses to visit. I will live here and I will die here and be nothing like my mother. I will be better.


Prompt: Write about someone who has a superpower. it is 7am and we need to get up, we always get up at 7am. I make sure of that. Then we take a walk and when we come back, we eat breakfast, or I eat breakfast, she usually just drink something while I eat. After that, she will go to the bathroom and do her thing. I try to follow her, but she insists that I wait outside the door, so I do just that, every day since she took me home. I like to sit and wait for her because I know that she will be safe. When she is done in the bathroom, I take a quick look to make sure that everything is as it is supposed to be. After this, she will go back to bed. Not to sleep but to work, or that is what she says that she is doing but usually she just watches movies. I spend a lot of my time by her side when she is in bed and I can feel that she is tense, even though she tries to suppress it I can feel it. I guess that is my superpower, I can feel how other people feel even if they cannot or chooses not to. And that is why I am with her; I am here to make sure that everything is as it is supposed to be. It is my job and I take pride in that. Some days are worse than others and our morning walk will be shorter, but she makes sure that I get out and I make sure that we both get exercise. I can feel that she is better after a walk, even if she will not admit it, I can feel it and that is what is important. She will spend many hours in bed and seemingly do nothing, but I can feel her energy slowly charging up, and around midday, we take another walk. She uses this walk to pick up food for us, even though I am the one eating most of it. When we get back it is playtime. That is my favourite time of the day because I know that she is her happiest and that makes me happy. I have a lot of toys because she always brings me new toys so I can be happy. I never see her bring home toys for herself, so I try to share my toys with her. I can feel that that makes her happy, so I do it often. I even sometimes share my favourite toy with her. After playtime, she will make food for herself self and it always smells so good. I have learned not to beg for food, but she will share a little bit with me anyway, but not too much because I will “get fat”. That is what she tells me at least. When she is done eating, she will either go back to bed or lay on the couch and watch more movies and scratch me behind the ears. That is my favourite spot to be scratched and she knows that because she can feel it makes me happy. This will go on for hours, with the occasional bathroom break. I will go out into the small yard and she will use the bathroom. When it is 6pm she will prepare dinner for me and I will eat while she prepares dinner for herself. Dinner is great because she will give me the rest of her dinner as well. After dinner, we will go on the last walk of the day. This is her favourite time of the day. I can feel that because she is so calm on this walk and sometimes, she even smiles. When we get back from our last walk of the day, she will take off her clothes and go to bed, this is when I will push her to go to the bathroom because I know that she needs to do her evening routine, just like I need to do mine. It is important because it keeps us healthy, I can feel that. When we are done with our own routines we will go to bed and she will scratch me behind the ears, and she will talk to me about her thoughts. They are often dark and sad and sometimes they are just not there at all, and sometimes, but not often, she will tell me about a happy thought that she had that day. It makes her relax to talk to me and even though I cannot answer her, I can feel that it helps her that I am there to listen. And the good days she will talk to me for a short time and then go to sleep and on the bad days, she will talk to me for hours until she cannot stay awake anymore. When she is finally sleeping, I curl up to her and try to sleep as well but I know that it is my job to keep her safe, so I will always stay alert, even in the night. Almost every day is like this, but this day was different, it always is. I get to use that garden instead of the usual walk and she will stay in bed shaking and crying for most of the day. This is my job, my moment. This is why I am here. I am here to save her. I could feel it, as I curled up close to her, that she was thinking about it, she was ready to say goodbye. But she never did it. Year after year on this particular day, she would feel the worst and I knew because I could feel it too. But I also knew how to make it better because that is what I am here for, that is what I was trained to do, to help her. To make sure that she would wake up at 7am the next day so we could go on a walk and I knew that for every day that I was here, she felt a tiny bit better. I knew because I could feel it.


This is it, the end of America. It’s on all the radios and on all of the news stations... “Asteroid Amagadden due to reach earth in 1 day.” I hear on my radio as I sit under my sheets whimpering. Just when America had gotten itself back on track we have to deal with this shit... Does that asteroid even know how it’s gonna affect the economy? If that damned glorified rock hits the earth the American dollar probably won’t even be worth a 1/10th of its former glory. Even worse, there’s a group of communists chanting towards the sky all day and night. “Destroy capitalism!, Destroy America!” It’s starting to get on my nerves. Scientists on tv are saying things like “Seriously, the economy is the least of our concerns, if that asteroid hits we’ll all be de-” I turn off the tv, there’s no need for that white coat wearing asshole to tell me, I know that we’ll be in even more debt than before. On the bright side, more people have started going to church after they heard about the crisis and are spending more time with their families. This is what America truly is, a land where tough times pull people together. That there is the American way, and as long as we hold true to our ideals, we won’t have to go through a second great depression. I look at the clock on my alarm and it reads 6:30 A.M. It’s about time for me to head to work. I finish my morning routine by shit-talking some stranger online and when I walk outside the traffic is just terrible. Why do sheeple do these things? They’ll do anything the lizard people tell em to do. I get into my car and begin driving to work, damn it, I’m an hour late now. I finally make my way out of my car and into the office building only to find out that no one is there. See, this is exactly what I meant. People refusing to work, staying home with their families, and being lazy. This is the collapse of America, if this shit keeps up I’ll have to move to Canada, but if I do that I’ll look like a band-wagoner, so that isn’t even an option for me. I look into the sky outside my work building to see nothing but smoke, the honking of the cars can be still be heard as I sit outside of my building. I see a scraggly old man holding a cardboard sign with the reading “The end is not near!” He notices me and begins chanting out “The end is not near!” in an automatic tone. “Tell me about it, these people are acting like it’s the end of the world,” I say as a tire flies at my building and breaks the glass on the 4th floor. The man begins laughing maniacally, “Yes! Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying but no one will listen to me,” he says in desperation. “Then I guess we’re just two of a kind then huh?” I say as I rub my head. I begin to go home after waiting a few more hours to see if anyone would show up and I just sleep until the day ends. I wake up in the morning to check my stocks. "What a shitty day today is," I say as I hear a rumbling brewing in the background.


Within days of having gained his powers. Quake has begun wreaking havoc upon the inhabitants of Centurion city. Assaulting banks, science facilities, and police stations. He's killing anyone who get's in his way. Quake has been declared an enemy of the public. A military response is brewing alongside the fear of the public, and for good reason. Surge, the cities mysterious protector has been nowhere to be seen since the villainous Quake's appearance. Speaking softly over the off sync beeping of the heart and oxygen monitors shoved on top of the dresser next to him. Peter Mayfield leans forward nudging his friend saying. “Ed...hey, Ed? You finally with me buddy?” “What? Ugh. Where am I?” Edgar says lifting his upper body up with his arms. Still shaky. Ed lowers himself back down onto the white cot that reeks of disinfectant. Peter stands from the side of the cot where he had been sitting. Scratching his head nervously. He paces around to the other side where a metal stand rests with a full I.V. attached running a thin tube down into Edgar's arm. Peter rubs his hands together saying. “Okay. So. When we lost contact the second time. I sped off to find you, but you were in pretty bad shape. Whatever hit you, broke two ribs and cracked your skull like a melon.” “So that's why I feel like I got hit by a car.” “Did you?” Asks a tall woman dressed in scrubs striding through the doorway. Edgar flashes Peter a very disapproving glance saying. “What did you tell her?” Clearing her throat, she pushes her stylish glasses up the bridge of her nose. “She...is right here. And can answer for herself. Thank you very much. Oh, and I believe I'm the one who patched up that head of yours. So try to be a little nicer.” “So...that's Daisy.” Peter sheepishly says. Glancing angrily between the two of them, Edgar asks. “So, Daisy. What do you know?” “You don't remember me? Do you? You saved me from my apartment building three weeks ago. I was so sure I was going to die trapped by all that fire on the fifth floor. Then you pop up. Literally out of nowhere like some sort of comic book or movie. You swept me up and within a second I was standing outside with the firemen. I know how fast you can run, and how strong you can be. I know you're Surge.” Thinking twice about being so harsh to her. Edgar takes a deep calming breath, puts his hand out to her and smiles. “Well, Daisy. I guess the secrets out, so you might as well keep it for me.” Wincing behind his broken ribs he shakes her hand then asks. “Peter, what's happened while I've been out?” Twiddling his fingers together. Peter nervously looks at Daisy for approval but with a shrug of her shoulders he decides to clear his throat and mumble the answer. Frustrated Edgar asks. “Come on? I mean...how long was I out for?” “Okay a lot has happened. Just remember to take it easy. You're still healing.” Daisy blurts out while checking the bandage on the back of Edgar's head. Peter scratches his head and chuckles saying. “You've been out for five days.” “Five days...” Edgar mumbles to himself then says. “Tell me. Everything that's happened.” “So. That guy Marcus. Or Quake? Whatever his name choice is. His body was mutated by the same type of radiation emitted by that strange purple gas. You were plain old lucky the suit material I used somehow kept the mutation from occurring in you a second time. At least that's my current theory. You could have also gained an immunity to it...I suppose you could have an exposure limit and the mutation could be stimulated to occur twice?” Daisy slaps Peter on the back of the head. “What are you doing? What is that? That's not helpful. Fill him in.” Confused, Peter looks about laughing and says. “Sorry. So much has happened. So much to discover. Anyways. She's right. Sorry. So, that Quake guy. He's been nonstop assaulting the city. He's even managed to get the Red Lights gang on his side. I'm telling you Ed. Whoever this guy was before. Is gone. He's gone completely mad with power. He's killed so many police they've become afraid to respond to his attacks. The news says the military is supposed to be coming in any day now. We're about to deal with martial law.” Noticing a television in the far corner of the room tucked away inside a closet filled with boxes. Edgar blinks three times in quick succession. The television turns onto a static filled channel with the first blink. The second and third blinks flip through channels. Stopping on a live news reporter from a helicopter flying overhead the edge of Centurion city. Resting in the sky somewhere between a power facility and the local prison. The camera moves away from the reporter, down to the ground below. Taking a second to focus the lens shows Quake sticking strange metal rods around a crater in the ground. A few unmarked black sedans sit down the hill just a ways. Red lights shining over the crater, the gang members wait patiently toting their guns in protection of their newfound leader. With a heavy sigh, Edgar grunts pushing himself up out of the cot. He swings his legs to the side and stretches out saying. “Ugh. I can't just lay around knowing he's out there terrorizing everyone. It's my fault he's become this way.” Horrible piercing pains radiates from the two broken ribs on the right side of his body. Difficult to ignore it he takes a few beats to fully sit up. The throbbing crack in his skull shoots needles into his eyes. Standing up with a little stumble Edgar sits back down. Daisy places her hands onto Edgar's shoulders and rests him back into the bed saying. “Unfortunately for you. I don't think you'll be going out there just yet.” “Seriously. It's okay let the military handle this in a few days.” Peter says chiming in. Determination strikes Edgar's facial features. His eyes narrow like that of a hunting predator and says. “No. No. I can't just let him get away with acting like this, and whatever he's doing. I bet it has something to do with the gas.” Forcing himself back up against his bodies desire for rest. Edgar swings his legs from the cot and stands. Focusing his breathing, he sends surges of electrical energy from his chest outward throughout every limb. Clenching his hands in fists Edgar exhales deeply saying. “Where's my suit? I'm going.” Peter points outward down the hall and into the living room of his house. “It's in the bathroom across the hall. But, Ed?” Walking between both Daisy and Peter, Edgar looks back at his friend. Peter continues saying. “Be careful. I'll go boot the computers up.” Confused and concerned Daisy gives Peter a light shove. “You're just going to let him go fight in this condition? What's wrong with you?” Peter sighs watching Edgar stride down the hall into the bathroom and says. “He's going out there no matter how we feel about it. Least I can do is be ready to help.” Feeling hopeless. Daisy sits down on the cot as Peter leaves the room. Going downstairs, Peter starts the variety of computers and police scanners they managed to scrounge up together. Edgar really was a wiz when it came to electronics, and his powers just made things easier for him. Peter was always a little tech savvy, but Ed puts him to shame. This setup can calculate spikes in the electrical grids, tune in on police frequencies and more. Getting everything ready, Peter puts a virtual reality headset on. The custom program streamlined important data directly into the visors feed. Edgar dressed head to toe in his sleek green suit with yellow accents looks over his new helmet. The golden visor made of a thicker material to keep it from cracking and a reinforced metal plate wrapping around the skull note the major differences. Sliding it on, Edgar notices its a perfect fit. The cushions wrap around his ears sealing his head inside without diminishing his ability to hear. Peter definitely has a way of crafting armor that Edgar appreciates. Stepping out of the bathroom, Ed catches sight of the distraught Daisy on the cot. Snapping his fingers together Ed shoots a little bolt of static electricity her way. Zapping her fingers she pulls her hand back in shock and stares at him. With a big smile Edgar flashes her a thumbs up saying. “Hey. No need to worry. I'll be back in a jiffy.” Leaving the house. Edgar steps outside and takes a deep breath of the evening air. Charging himself up. Electricity flows up and down his body. Arcs spring off around to the ground around him in a circular pattern as he kneels down into himself in a runners stance at the start of a race. Tapping his helmet opens the communication system and Edgar asks. “Peter? Give me the fastest route to Marcus.” Static fills the line for a beat, then Peter replies. “Sending route now.” As the guidance system opens a small map with a detailed route in the corner of his visor. Edgar is already on the highway leaping onto a power line and grinding along the electricity arcing between his feet and it. Speeding along as a green blur, Edgar switches power lines to one heading out to the prison. Stopping short of the Red Lights gang and their cars at the bottom of the hill. Edgar zooms in with his visor, surveying the area before approaching. Quake pierces the ground with the sixth and final metal rod and each device actives. The tops shift open revealing mysterious purple lights emanating trace amounts of gas. Collecting the atomic structuring of random debris from sand, dirt, rocks, and gravel around himself. Quake levitates feet off the ground and floats into the center of the metal rods. Holding his hands out with a pulse of energy. A harmonic chorus of tones echo from each rod. After a few seconds, a wave of energy bursts forth disrupting all electronics within the area. The nearby power facility shuts down causing blackouts across the edge of Centurion city including the prison. Charging himself up, Edgar sends a full body surge of electricity into his suit. The root menu pops up on the side screen of his visor. Sifting through a series of boot menus the system restarts. Noticing the helicopter plummeting toward the ground as it's systems fail to restart. Edgar summons energy from the palms of his hands. Converting into an unsteady stream of lightning with a little focus the beams arc into the helicopter and it's blades. It dips and swings to the side as both turbines kick up and the helicopter regains control just a few hundred feet off the ground. This sends the news caster flying from the open door. Edgar zips over past the Red Lights thugs standing on the hill then leaps from one of their cars into the air. Catching the woman, Edgar spins around a few times to slow his descent and touches down in the field far away from the commotion. Setting her down, Edgar winces holding his right side for a moment then straightens up and pulls the ventilator from his belt saying. “Have a nice flight? Ma'am. I'm going to need you to head toward the prison. They have a landing pad where your crew can pick you up.” Clicking the mask in place against his visor and the sides of his helmet. Edgar gives her a thumbs up dashing off toward Quake as she mumbles. “Thank...you.” The communications system reboots, passing through a series of checks before giving the green light. Static fills Edgar's ear for a beat, then Peter says. “Are you there? Ed? Comms are back. Do you read?” Stopping a few bus lengths away from Quake floating in the center of the six strange devices. Edgar says. “Yeah. I'm here buddy. Whatever he's built, they released an e.m.p. Over.” “Ed. You've got to stop him. Whatever made that crater. Well. I think it might be the source of the gas. The monitors we placed all over the city are going nuts, specifically in your area.” Members of the Red Lights gang notice Edgar on top of the hill near Quake. Positioning themselves defensively behind open car doors and trunks they open fire. Focusing his breathing. Edgar surges electricity through his arms into the copper wire lining the inside of his gauntlets. Manifesting an electromagnetic field Edgar redirects the bullets around him into the ground at his feet. Holding his hands together powers a bolt of lightning straight into the engine block of one of the cars. Hitting it with enough force the gas tank explodes forcing the car onto it's side. Dodging the car and it's explosion. The Red Lights gang starts to disperse, most dropping their guns in the act of running away. Edgar stretches his hands outward with lightning flowing from each finger tip. The individual bolts flying off shift into a paper thin tendrils that gives a shock of incentive to the remaining gang members. Some pile into the remaining cars and peel out, others just run away. Shifting his attention back to Quake. Edgar notices him clapping. Staring right at him, Quake says. “Well. If it isn't the fairy. I thought that punch killed you.” Floating down from in between the metal rods he lands gently and releases his mental hold on the debris gravitating to him. Walking toward Edgar. Quake's lifeless gray eyes look to the sky then he glances to the crater behind him. Cracking his knuckles. “Guess. I'll just have to see how many hits it takes.” Stretching his hamstrings and loosening up. Edgar speaks through his ventilator, calmly breathing through every word. “You don't have to do this. We don't have to fight. We both want the same thing. Right? We both want to know where the gas comes from. Marcus, let me help you.” With a violent twitch, Quake screams. “Do not. Do not say that name!” Lunging forward in attempt to tackle him. Quake falls to the ground grabbing onto the afterimage of Edgar. Fully charged with electricity surging from his chest into every limb. Edgar puts Quake into a full nelson hold saying. “Calm down. Don't make me hurt you. Work with me here Marcus.” Tripping himself. Quake falls to the ground on top of Edgar elbowing him in the ribs on his right side. Gasping for breath Ed lets go. Grabbing at his side in pain Edgar rolls away as Quake does the same. Both men stand facing the other. Lifting his hands Quake summons a cloud of debris from all around and sends it flying at Edgar. Short on breath, Ed turns the valve on his oxygen up. With every breath the electrical stimulation sends shivers up and down his body. Placing his hands up defensively brings forth an energy shield redirecting the debris like the bullets through trace amounts of metal. Less effective then with bullets, Ed only protects himself from the largest chunks flying through the cloud. Quake leaps in the moment the cloud disperses swinging wildly at Edgar. Dodging easily at first. Edgar gets slower with every breath and movement. Even with the increased oxygen his years of neglecting a physical routine are coming back to haunt him. Dipping underneath one punch Edgar stops an incoming knee with his hands, he leans up and backwards away from another hook and steps back. Stepping to the side away from a lunging punch Ed trips up in the grass and slips right into an uppercut that sends him flying into the air. Chipping a few teeth as they clack together. Edgar shakes the incoming darkness away and does a back flip landing on the ground closer to the power facility. Lights flickering in the distance of the facility signals power returning to the grid as Quake flies through the air toward Edgar. Taking a martial stance that must have come from somewhere in his youth. Edgar grabs Quakes incoming fist and flips him through the air slamming him into the ground. Angrier then before. Quake screams closing his fist around some invisible object as a large chunk of earth tears itself from the ground. Waving his hand the boulder simultaneously flies toward Edgar. Barely dodging Ed speeds off to the side as Quake levitates from the ground. Dashing at each other. Quake sends rock after rock at Ed forcing him into one spot. Then with a final blast of dirt in front of his visor. Quake punches Edgar so hard in the ribs it sends a shockwave out kicking up dust all around the two. Within a beat Ed is sent flying from the impact hundreds of feet back into the power facility. Tearing through the steel fence, Ed skids against the road and bounces punching a hole in the concrete wall of the facility landing somewhere inside. Laughing Quake turns his attention back to the metal rods. Having completed their task of extracting a meteorite directly from the depths of the crater. Levitating in place among the six rods the meteorite sparkles with strange purple crystals. Small pours along the surface continuously release the purple gas into the air around it. With a devilish smile and grin, Quake runs his hands along its surface saying. “We're about to get very close. You and I.”


I was thirteen years old when I got sick, and after a year I still wasn't getting any better. I was allowed to go home for a day, then it would get worse again and I would be ushered back to the hospital. After a while, instead of getting slightly better every week I just got worse. I think we all knew I wasn't going to get better, but nobody would admit it. I, however, accepted my fate and decided to just die with no regrets. My parents sat beside me day and night, talking with the doctors about my condition, and frantically trying to eliminate the sickness. But it was useless. Day after day I got worse and worse until the day I died. It was in February, and I died alongside the cold. My parents sat beside me, trying not to weep at the doctor's words. My mother was pleading for them to cast their nets wider, but they had done everything they could, it got to the point where they gently broke the news to my parents. "She isn't going to make it, I'm very sorry. The most we can do for her now is keep her comfortable." I wasn't supposed to hear that, but it didn't bother me, I had known it for some time now. They called my family, and stayed strong for me. Everybody came as quickly as they could, and I died with my mother and father holding my hands, my mother's gentle touch stroking my hair and singing the lullaby she always used to sing. I told them, "Thank you for everything, I have no regrets, I will come back to you." I closed my eyes, and with that, Gray Merilind was gone. The moment I was gone my family broke down into sobs and tears. It's been five months since my daughter died, my beloved Gray. I raised her, and it was too soon for my baby to leave me. None of us can bring ourselves to enter her room, it brings back too many memories of the good days. We try to stay as upbeat as we can, but her siblings are taking it the hardest. We try to comfort them but it doesn't seem to do much. It's been a year now, and I'm going to go into her room. She wouldn't want me to linger on her death for as long as I have. I opened the door and forced a step, then another, until I was sitting on the bed. Her figurines and books lined the walls, her floor covered in laundry and her bed messy. Everything was covered in dust. Just more proof of how long it's been I suppose. We live in a big house out in the country, and have the entire road to ourselves. Our nearest neighbor is a kind old couple who had sent us a care package when Gray died. Oh Gray, she loved the stone bricks and the wood that made up the cottage, the layered shingles on the roof. She loved the soft grass in the yard and the river and the big birch tree. I decided at that moment that we should clean up her bedroom. Everything would stay, never to be moved until the day someone else lives here long after us. I brought the suggestion to my son and other daughter, Gray's siblings, and they received the idea better than I thought they would. George and Lucy came upstairs, and with the same difficulty I had, forced themselves to come inside. It makes me proud how strong my children are. My husband joined us soon after. Her father and I dusted the room and cleaned Gray's dirty clothes, tucking them folded into her dresser. We washed the blankets and neatly made her bed, vacuumed the carpet and swept the floor while George and Lucy caringly dusted her shelves and cleaned the figures of her favourite characters. Then, while we were throwing away the wrappers and removing the half filled cups of now stagnant water on her nightstand, we found a carefully enveloped letter sitting on her desk. What it said brought a fresh wave of pain and made us all begin to cry. It read, To mother, father, George and Lucy, Leon my dear dog, everybody who loved me, thank you. I know I don't have much time left here, but this is my final message to you. My life is over, but please don't wallow, be strong for me. Some people have entrusted me with their deepest secrets, and as promised, I have taken them to the grave. I have always had a wish, an impossible one, but one I have always longed for. I wished to fly, not on a plane, but with my own two wings, those of a bird. I won't leave you alone like this forever. I can't just let George and Lucy grow up without me now can I? But whether it is tomorrow, or on your own death bed to lead you to your place among the stars, I promise, no, I vow, on the name you gave me, Gray Merilind, I will come back to you. 18/2/2004 That voice, it was Gray to a T. It was my dear daughter's final message to us, one I will hold close to my heart until the day I die. I decided I would wait until the earth collapsed for her to return, and when she did, I would remember her no matter what. George and Lucy cried themselves to sleep that night, their father and I tried to comfort them, but they said that they wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't miss it when their beloved sister returned. I was only able to convince them to rest by telling them I was sure Gray would wake them if they were asleep when she came back. I’m not ashamed to say we all cried ourselves to sleep. It's been four months since I found Gray's letter, and I've decided to take everybody camping to her favorite place. A secluded area beside a lake. When we got there we immediately went to the site. We had booked the one beside the woods, closest to the lake and what we now called Gray's Rock. It's a large boulder overlooking the lake far into the woods beyond the campgrounds, and as far as I know, we’re the only people who know about it. You can see into the forest for miles from its peak. On one night, after a day at the beach, I went alone to Grays Rock. It was dark, but warm. I felt as though I was being watched the entire walk, but it was a forest, you feel that everywhere. I was cautious though and made it to Grays Rock safely. I sat at the peak and watched the lake, it sparkled in the moonlight. After a while I began remembering the days when I would be looking for Gray, only to find her without fail sitting peacefully on the rock, her short, straight, brown hair and green and brown clothes rustling in the wind while she hummed to herself and looked over the lake. She would sit up, turn her head and say " There you are! I've been waiting for forever! Come sit with me, the lake is beautiful today." We would sit and talk, and watch the lake. I was pulled from my thoughts by a soft humming coming from behind me, but when I turned to see who it was I saw nothing. At first. I looked closer and saw a figure blending in with the trees. It was a young woman. Her skin was made of silvery birch bark and her feet were big hoof-like stumps. Her neat, long, brown hair tumbled over her back and down her legs in waves while her shimmering green eyes watched me calmly with a soft smile on her white lips. Her voice reminded me of something I couldn’t quite place. She continued to hum to herself, but then she started swinging a long silver stick with a teardrop shaped lantern on the end and dancing playfully to the tune. She spun and stepped and swung while I watched in awe. The pace quickened until she spun and held out a hand to me. I carefully stood up and took her hand while I still stared, wide eyed. A knowing glint flashed across her features and together, we danced. We twirled slowly in circles and danced to her singing, a haunting, beautiful tune. All the while she never let go of my hand, she must have known I would be stumbling without her guidance. Then when the tune dwindled to a close she did something I didn’t expect. Her arms were suddenly around me pulling me into a tender, loving embrace. She was much taller than me, I realized. It lasted for at least a minute before she pulled away. It felt like part of my body went with her. She gave me a sad smile, and wiped away a tear I hadn’t even noticed was there. Not a word was said as she swung the lantern in front of her. It was the first good look I had gotten into the lantern, but instead of fire, there was a cluster of small blue flowers inside, a warm yellow light coming from them. She carefully plucked one from its place and tucked it behind my ear, her hand lingering on my cheek for a moment before she pressed her forehead to mine, and not a word was said as she walked away into the woods. I sat stunned for a while after she’d left, the dancing had filled me with energy and warmth and I had no clue what I had just seen. Then it dawned on me. Who the humming had reminded me of, who had tucked flowers she picked behind my ears, who had pressed her forehead against mine as a way of saying goodbye. Gray. I jumped up and ran into the woods, calling her name, each time I called for her I became more and more sure of who she was. “Gray! Gray!” No response. No silver figure who seemed to melt out of the trees appeared and offered to dance. No flower lantern caught my eye with its warm yellow glow. I saw no sign of her, but I was soon back at the campsite, collapsing into my husband's arms and falling asleep there, still crying. The flower Gray had given me didn’t wilt. It stayed perky as it was inside the flower lantern even after we had returned home. It didn’t glow like it had inside the lantern, but it still shone with an inexplicable light. It didn’t look right in a vase, so I took it outside and on a whim, planted it at the base of the bug birch tree. The next morning Lucy came running into my bedroom, shaking me until I was awake. “Mama, mama!” she yelled, shaking me as hard as her little hands could. “You have to see this! The yard is full of flowers!” I bolted upright, following Lucy downstairs and out the front door. What I saw took my breath away. The blue flowers blossomed in every patch of grass, on the riverbank and creeping up to the edges of the porch. The flowers come back every spring, all love them, and all of us have at least one story to tell about seeing a tree woman with a lantern and warm eyes. Sometimes we see her dancing in the yard, or smelling flowers out of the corner of our eyes, or sitting on the bank of the stream, dangling her feet into the water.


I remember things in my past like everyone else that's for sure. I dont believe it's possible to live life and not remember something from your past, whether good, bad, or some of each. The majority of us will leave small pieces of our lives at different milestones of significance throughout our lifetime. Then at different times in our lives, we allow ourselves to pause or stop for a period of time, and immediately nostalgia is set in motion. So depending on circumstances, for some this is comforting, but then for others it can bring them to oppression, even depression. Here's Ricky Glasston's storey; Young Ricky was barely old enough to grasp the basic concept of yes, or no, that he realized that certainly the "NO" presented a challenge for him. To him "NO" meant figure out how to make it a yes instead. As a young child, in his pretend play time. He was always someone older, like big brother or Dad, pretending to do grown up things. When he got to Grade school all the kids in his own grade were happy playing tag, or sitting with the teacher coloring with crayons during recess time. This became boring for him after a short period of time. He saw the older kids playing baseball, football, hockey, etc and he knew this is what he wanted to do instead. He was always looking a year or two ahead of himself and succesfilly managed to compete on those levels. Teachers tried to convince him to stay with his own age group, but to no avail. First chance he got he was back with the older kids again. After the school bus dropped him off at his driveway, first thing he checked was to see if his Dad was working in the fields with the tractor. If he was Ricky would run out onto the field and just stand there and wait for his Dad to stop and let him drive the tractor, or at least ride along. His Dad was a small farmer and worked with smaller, older farm equipment. The farm tractor was a sixty horse powered Cockshutt 560 tractor. So this one day Dad was cultivating in the field when Ricky came running. He stopped the tractor and allowed Ricky to climb into the driver seat. He showed him which hydraulic levers to pull to engage or disengage the cultivator. Sitting at the very edge of the seat Ricky managed to push the clutch pedal in far enough to place the transmition in gear, disengage the clutch and he was on his way. Dad stood on the side step of the tractor for a couple of rounds to make sure Ricky was managing and was comfortable. Then without warning he just jumped off the step and left Ricky to drive the tractor and cultivator on his own. Ricky was surprised at this and quickly looked behind him as he left his Dad behind. He was half expecting to see his Dad put up his hand and tell him to stop. But instead he saw a Dad with a proud look, a big smile, and a thumbs up sign. He couldn't believe the awesome feeling he had inside. He was actually working the equipment on his own. Life couldn't have been better for young Ricky Glasston! When he was in grade four he realized the 7th and 8th graders were playing flag football in the mornings befor school started. Well he showed up the next morning to play. Mr. Petkau, the 7th and 8th grade teacher/school principle, was overseeing the morning activities, saw the much smaller 4th grader mixing in with the older students. Not only was he over seeing the football activity, he played the quarterback position on one side. He had to quickly decide where to place Ricky. To keep him from getting run over he decided to put Ricky on his team. So the game started and they had their team huddle to hear the quarterbacks play strategy. So Mr.Petkau instructed a 2 cross pattern play. Then said to Ricky, " wait till you see the cross pattern then You go deep, make sure your a ways behind everyone. If my cross patterns are covered I'll throw the ball to you. Everyone then took their positions along the line. The quarterback, Mr. Petkau then called for the ball, the cross pattern ran out, and Ricky took off running as instructed. When he turned back towards the play, he saw Mr. Petkau point in his direction wind up and throw the ball. Ricky backed up a bit, stretched out his arms and caught the ball. The force of the throw almost knocked him off of his feet as he turned and ran for the touchdown before anyone even got near him to pull his flag. Ricky beaming with triumph, ran back to return the football to Mr. Petkau. Ricky was well rewarded with seeing a big smile on the Principles face, and hear him exclaim " Great catch Ricky"! This accomplishment had a huge impact on Ricky's confidence and self esteem. This immediately earned him a level of respect that some students never achieve. Had Ricky seen the seventh and eighth graders as giants, and had he been intimidated by them, he never could have accomplished what he did that morning. He needed to be where the action was, be part of the action, better yet create the action. When he got into his teens he got himself into some trouble like everyone does. But he was a forward thinking kid and a problem solver. Ricky learned early in his teen stage you don't solve to much looking back, but rather you solve and resolve by thinking and moving ahead. His parents and teachers were supportive of his ambitions. At this tender age his ambitious nature needed direction, discipline, love, and understanding. To find and maintain this balance was not an easy task for him. His nature was to progressively move ahead, but he had to learn that due diligence was an equally important factor. Ricky was a fortunate young man in that he had parents and teachers that encouraged his progress and recognized his potential. Inspite of his mistakes he was allowed to voice his oppinions and act on his ideas, and he had many! Looking back on Ricky's life, there were a lot of positive influencers and mentors that just seem to come into his life at the right time and be in his path as stepping stones. The most important ones were his Father, a couple of teachers, and when he became employed a number of co-workers and employers. His Dad was an avid chess player, and so were his brothers. So naturally this became an early game of strategy for Ricky. There was no distraction from technology, like on line chat circles and social media. Just a chess board and two people thinking up and employing their strategies to win the game. Music was another avenue where he could cultivate his imagination and be creative. He realized that in making and writing music he could define and express his thoughts and feelings in ways that he wasn't able to in personal conversations. Music was universal and allowed itself to be molded and reshaped into whatever style he chose. In his mind and heart, music never serves itself. But without prejudice its at the disposal of the inventor and to the benefit of the listener. Music to him was like an evolving door. It served as an avenue to let go of things, or to embrace things. Whether he created music or listened to music, it just seemed to have a way of uncomplicating things in his life. ***************** Today Ricky is pushing into his late 50's. While he has failed at some things and is victorious in others, it has matured him through the years and strengthened his proven strategy, which remains unchanged today. Today, he runs a couple of small companies where his business strategy still is, whatever it is that I decide to do today will present better, and more opportunities for tommorow. He was asked when he would start thinking about retirement. His reply to this was, " For me, retirement has no place in my lifetime. I know it's a general term and maybe even a legal term people use and that's OK. In my mind, to retire would mean to finally sit back and spend the rest of my days, weeks, months, or years, reflecting on how it used to be, you know the nostalgic years. While it's true that we can learn from the past, I will never chose to replace the opportunity of making decisions today. That will create better and more opportunities for tomorrow with the past, and how it use to be a better world. - Fictional - Written by - Peter Giesbrecht


Ivy awoke slowly and lay still for several minutes. Like other mornings, it wasn’t a fight to leave the pillows. There was no heaviness. There was a dream, soft and calm like this space between dawn and daylight. She lingered at the edge of awake, wanting to let the dream percolate. It felt real and important. Soft navy twilight. A harbor? Calm twinkling water. A solid man with broad shoulders covered in a cozy wool sweater the vibrant emerald shade of sitka spruce. She couldn’t see his face except for a hint of stubble. Tall, muscular, sturdy. A feeling of deep comfort and expanse, like the whole world was open wide, but cradling these two lovers. The profound stillness of a long-awaited embrace. It was a Taylor Swift song personalized for her. She tucked the dream away, filing it some place between urgent and wistful and rose with purpose, ready to fill her day with something other than heartache. Ivy’s grandmother had always told them growing up that love has to unfold. It stays bunched up at first, compact and tight. That feeling of wanting to burst. And when it expands, it has to unfold. Each fold presents differently. It can be beautiful like a crisp napkin stored in an antique pine chest. Or it can be an agonizing barefoot walk on splintered wood. Often, it is both. Sometimes it is getting a splinter from opening that pine chest to retrieve gingham napkins for a picnic. Like today. The fire in the hearth was glowing in its pool of white clay, sending flickers of light into the nook off the kitchen in her grandmother’s house. She loved being back here, within these walls that had always held the promise of evening lullabies and dreams that lingered. Ivy approached the round table with the heirloom chest of tableware finery. Her favorites were the dainty silver teaspoons and the crocheted tea cozy, neither of which she’d need for today. Singing along to Taylor Swift’s ‘ Death by A Thousand Cuts,’ Ivy reached for the gingham picnic napkins. She brushed the outside of her pinky finger against a snag on the pine chest. She immediately clutched her hand to her heart. The sensation took her out of her cocoon. Deep sadness drifted in. No meals would she enjoy with Connor in this kitchen. No more picnics under the willow tree. No family games or long conversations over hot chocolate. A memory came back to her in that moment. It was her first Christmas with ex-fiance. An unexpected snowstorm kept her from driving to Washington for the holidays her first year at university and Connor, a friend of a friend, insisted that she spend Christmas with his family. “It won’t be weird. The more the merrier, I promise,” he’d said. And it was merry. And not even a little bit weird. She was just one of five strays at the gathering. His parents lived in a classic Victorian gingerbread house, framed perfectly in shining icicles. Dainty flakes dusted the windows like powdered sugar. Tufts of soft snow draped the lawn in smooth swirls like marshmallow frosting. The snow was just the right texture for building snow forts and snow men. All the young kids were building a walk-in snow globe fort. Fine details were being hammered out by adults in lively conversation and the children were cheerfully bickering over how large to make the snow bricks. There was so much laughter and cheer. She noticed Connor’s nephew on the far side of the yard, a sullen demeanor cutting into his tiny frame. This sweet boy had drawn welcome pictures when she first arrived, complete with pink heels and a crown. He was worried Ivy and the others didn’t have enough presents under the tree so he wrapped up some of his stuffed animals. He was a sensitive kid and it was clear he was feeling left out. Connor arrived by his side first. When she made it over he said, “Me and Jake are going to make a really special snowman. Can we recruit you to help us?” It turned out to be a beautiful snowman. Looking back at that memory, she felt like the snowman they built looking into the snow-globe. She felt like she should belong, but it was someone else’s perfect life. Connor would be a great dad, but it felt removed from her. She wondered if it was because she hadn’t been conditioned to expect to find that or value it perhaps, or if it was because Connor wasn’t her golden future. Or because it felt too polished. She felt like she was tiptoeing towards a future with a family to cherish, but now that she wasn’t with him, the confusion circled around her in dizzying swirls. After all, she didn’t grow up thinking she was supposed to want to be a dedicated wife and mother, to homestead or iron her husband’s shirts and knit baby clothes or can peaches. She was supposed to want to build her profession and travel the world volunteering in her off-time. She was supposed to be self reliant and rational, a dedicated activist to all worthy causes. But meeting Connor started to unravel those binds. She had never felt this undone before. The smell of melting chocolate brought her back to her intentions, into the sunlight dancing with the hearth flames on the marble hutch. She was testing out picnic recipes. She’d need to hurry over to stir the brigadeiro, a Brazilian chocolate dessert that was a crowd favorite at Connor’s family gatherings. His mother had warned her to keep constant watch on it or it would burn. Ivy missed Connor’s vibrant family and the culture that took her in. She felt another tinge. Sweet Breath. In and out. She’d find another Taylor Swift song to sing along to because she would not let today be a death by a thousand cuts just because of a breakup. She’d had heartbreak before and went traveling the world after each time, but now she felt that insular need to grow a community. She needed to root and gather. There was joy to be had, family to love, beginnings to grow, and for now-- an early morning breakfast to fuel her for the new dreams that were marinating.


Jessica was holding the phone at an angle so I could see the message on her Facebook group chat. I immediately burst out laughing. "What the fuck?" "That's exactly what I said!" She scrolled with her thumb to reveal a reply. *"wtf LOOOOOOOOOL"* It was Jessica's message. I dropped my jaw and held my head like that Scream painting, then I gave her a stern look. "Jess you shouldn't have done that. You're finna gonna die now." I joked. "I know, right? I was awake all night thinking about it." I couldn't help but spray some Diet Coke from my nose as she finished the sentence. "What if he straight up literally does murder you, though? Like, instead of some magical spell he just comes to your house at night with a knife." "I straight up don't even know who he is. I just know that Milly sent me his phone number once." "Oh. My. God." "What? "We should call him!" I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect. "Seriously?" "YES!!" I screamed, incidentally throwing some of my Diet Coke overboard. "Fine, fine." Jessica thumbed through her messages from Milly until she found the 07 number. "But I don't want to talk to the weirdo." "OK, OK, fine." I said, putting my Coke down and snatching the phone. I dialled the number. "Hello?" A nerdy voice replied, "Who is this?" "I'm with someone from the Facebook group chat. They want to know why they're not dead yet." Jessica slapped my arm and threw me a look of embarrassment before kneeling down and holding her head in her hands. "Oh, that." He said, sniffling. "I'm actually in a pretty optimal mood today. I chose not to release the curse." "Oh..." I said, licking my lips. "Because, uh. We were talking about how magical you were, and we were wondering whether you could make Carl Donny love her." "Stop, please!" Jessica protested, now in the brace position with her head between her knees. "Listen, slut. I told you I'm in a good mood today, but you're beginning to jeopardise that. I suggest you cancel the call and go about your way." "NO, BITCH. I WANT MY FUCKEN SANDWHICH!" I screamed down the phone, hoping Jessica would laugh, but she was crying. "Jessica?" I said, lowering the phone for a second. I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. "I was just joking around. You don't really think he can hurt you, do you?" From the brace position, she began rolling, like a rolly polly; her golden pigtails, flapping up and down as she moved from her knees to her back to her knees again. I began walking after her but she rolled so fast I could barely keep up. She rolled all the way into the front of a Peugeot 206 coming down the main road. Horrified, I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time: I moved the phone back to my ear. "Are ya happy, now?" The nerdy voice said in a disapproving tone.


The Story One day, a man saw the young crow flying around his backyard. He thought it was a little bird, so he picked it up and put it in his hand. The bird took off again, looking rather frightened. It had been hit by a car, and the crow had been left behind, so it wasn't strong enough to fly away. The crow looked up at the man with large frightened eyes, and it flew away, just crying. The man went home, but he didn't come back the following day, as the crow kept crying, and just hanging around the house. Then, a bit later, the crow was gone, and no one seemed to see it. That was when the crow began to wonder what had happened to it. The next day, the crow saw the crow flying around a field. The man couldn't find the crow, so he decided to try and catch it himself. He went to the crow and was about to take it into the yard, when suddenly the crow flapped its wings and fled. The man took a few steps around the crow, then started screaming at it in terror. Then, the crow started flying around him in a panic. Then, the man began screaming for the help of God, but no one came. He continued screaming until he heard a loud boom. Then, the man looked around and saw that the crow had landed in the neighbor's yard. It started to cry again, as the crow ran up to the neighbor's house, crying as it ran, crying. The neighbor then called the police. The Neighbor The neighbor was a very nice man, and he was very sad to see the crow in his yard. So, when he heard the police knocking on his door, he started crying again. The police came and talked to him, and they thought that he might have been upset because the crow had flown away. The police told him that if he didn't calm down he was going to have to give them the crow back. He calmed down soon after that, and they gave him the crow. The crow had a scar across its body, and it said, "My name is "The Big Black Bird," and I was taken by a man named "Ferguson" and brought to this earth. He told me to go to an old well and I would find a new person for him, and that he would give me two new wings to fly with. I flew up to the well and saw a new person, and in the man's hand he had two wings and told me to go to the other well, where I would find a man named "Hans" and get a new body." The man who used to make the crow told the police that he came to Earth to find out about the person who made the new person. He didn't come back, and he said he will come back on April 19th. The person who made the crow did not make the crow until the day before April 19th. The man who made the crow came back on April 18th, and when he saw the crow fly away, he cried out, and the police started running after it. The police told him, "Don't worry about the crow, it didn't do anything. You can have it if you can give us the crow." The man who made the crow said, "What have you got there? The crow's eyes are not in the right place and it has been put in a box, and it won't leave it. I'm going to take it out and put it in a new box. It has three holes in it, so I am going to put them all together to make a new cage. You will be a part of my family." The man said, "Okay, I'm in." The man made the crow and put it in his home. The next day the man came down to the police, and said, "Don't worry, you are my family too. I don't want the crow anymore. I'll give you a crow if you bring the Crow up from the ground and put it inside the home." The police said, "What are you talking about, he's my family too. I'm afraid you will kill the crow if you try to take it from us. You got to give it back, because the new person is going to be a part of my family too." The man said, "Okay. I will give you the crow now, and I'm not going to take it back, if you let me have that crow." The man came back to the police and said, "I'm a good person. I just want to help people, and I gave you the crow. I just want to be a part of your family." The man was afraid that the police would kill him if he was caught. So he said, "Just give me the crow." So they opened the door for him, and gave him the crow. The police went to take it back. They saw the crow in the crow-house. The man said, "Don't take it back, I put it there, I just need it there. The police did not want to be part of his family. So the man's family made it their own family, and they had him in a new cage, and they knew how to handle him, and they cared for him very much. This man is our family now. I've given them the crow.


James sat reading an old paperback on the train. The train was near full as it was almost Christmas. Kids shouting, people looking for seats and the noise of people’s shopping bags hitting off railings, seats and other people’s bags. At every stop more and more people got off until it was only James and a group of teenagers left in the train. James woke up with a jump, dropping the paperback on the ground. The ground was all crumbly and rusted. James looked all around him and saw everything, outside and inside the train, was decaying and rusted. Rubbish and graffiti invaded the train and outside debris covered the ground. James got up and looked around some more startled by the change in scenery. Multiple distant foghorns could be heard from somewhere. James got out of the train and walked gingerly about the station. Nothing but decay,moss, what looked like piss, broken glass, debris and dust populated the station. The foghorns continued in the distance. James found an office chair, which was really clean, and stuck in one of the wheels of the chair was earphones. He pried and pulled them out of the chairs wheel and went rummaging through his bag for his phone. When he put his bag back on his shoulders and looked back at the chair. It was slowly being invaded by rust. The rust crept up the legs of the chair before completely consuming the chair. He plugged the earphones into his phone and a loud static noise played. “Abandon....other....horn..siren....st (inaudible)... tingling....(static)....(inaudible).....numb.” The panicked mans voice struggled to speak through the static and connection. James, sweating and panicking, ran through the hallways. Left right left right left right, sometimes right right or left left, left right left right. Stopped. He was panting for air. Loud screeching noises filled the halls (a noise so deafening one could not wholly imagine or describe) then the foghorns came back. James walked and walked. But then doors were in sight. As James ran for the doors his full body was tingling and shaking violently. He collapsed and vomited. His full body went limp. The doors withered away to rust. And in place of the doors was a decaying tiled wall. The foghorns stopped and James sat in complete silence. The loud screeching noises came in three bursts at a time and terror filled James. He looked behind him and saw a hunchback, mole rat looking creature walking so slow towards him. It’s droopy eyes fixed on his. It’s skin was yellow and mossy and was drooped one side. James could not do anything, he sat their paralysed by the thing. It got so close it’s breath could be smelled and was not of a smell of any human or animal. It reached out and touched him. He looked up at it and it looked at him and screamed and laughed before a burning feeling spread over his body, he looked down and saw rust covering him-slowly crawling up him like the chair. He awoke to nothing but he knew he was alive but saw nothing not even darkness. He let out a scream but no noise was heard by his own ears. He put a finger in his ear and bits of rust came out. He then felt the rust spread through him and consume him. All he could do was listen to the distant foghorns. Feedback/crit is welcome thanks.


She is sick again. I feel her jolt from where she lay next to me and I grab what we affectionately call her, “chemo bucket” and bring it to her face. I rub her back and whisper between her vomit and sobs. I tell her things are gonna get better. I tell her she is strong. But I only believe one of those things. We lay back down and soon I feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing against my body. Absentmindedly, I go to run my fingers through her hair as I have done a thousand times before, but instead of the thick, black waves they are used to weaving through, my fingers catch the last few wisps of hair, my touch slicking them against the sheen of her sweat-drenched forehead. I slowly ease out of the bed, making sure that I don’t disturb what little sleep she is able to get. I won’t be sleeping tonight. I never sleep on chemo nights. They tell you what to expect and that everyone handles it differently, but their words do not prepare you for the reality of seeing your child filled with what they deem as “medication.” They don’t tell you about the hair that lines the tub and the brushes you try to hide because the bristles are tangled with strands of who she used to be: a normal little girl. They have no advice when your daughter asks if you can take down the hospital mirrors because she thinks she is ugly, and they certainly don’t tell you what to say when she asks you not to forget to take care of her pets because she won’t be able to when she is in heaven. I look around the room and see oceans of cards and flower arrangements. Drawings from her friends at school and get well soon cards written with the best of intentions. I reach for a card I have read over and over: Hey Sarah, I miss seeing you in class! You’re really lucky you’re not here, we do times tables every day. Hope you will be better after spring break. Get Well Soon! Those three words have never tasted so sour in my mouth, watching my child deteriorate before my eyes. I set the card down and look at the vases of flowers surrounding my daughter’s bed. Sarah has always loved flowers, as have I, but here they are cruel. Decapitated, half-dead beauties giving off a sweet yet simultaneously sickly smell. All their faces stare at her, almost in a sad acknowledgment, understanding their shared fate. I want to hide her from their judging eyes. I pace the tiny room and block their view of her. I am her guardian, her sentinel, and I refuse to let them taunt her with the imminence of their death. She stirs and I rush to her, but it was just a dream, not sickness that caused her to wake. “Momma?” “Yeah, baby,” I whisper. “Just making sure you’re still there.” “I’m not going anywhere.” I said, and I kissed her sweet, sweat-slicked forehead as she fell asleep again, and I stood watch, because I never sleep on chemo nights.


Year 2158 Salih checks the Oximeter level on his right arm. Red dot is blinking alarmingly. He tries to breathe normally. But, it's difficult. It's like trying to take a quick breath before being thrown into a deep water when you're still a child. The night fog thickens before him. Leaning back against a gravel, he measures the weight of his plasma gun in both hands. He wishes for a nice bed to rest. How long has it been? he thought. 14 hours? He has a narrow escape from one of the Nameks awhile back. His spacesuit has withstood the alien's lava-web. However, he remembers from space training that Namek's saliva can reach up to 200 degrees Celsius. Salih's breathing slows down as danger descends. He scans across the grim thickening fog and slides down against the gravel. He checks his boots. Mud caked its soles. He has ran across a muddy field to escape from the alien creature. The mud was caused by the weather. It has been raining in Planet Rafet for the past 7 cycles. "In planets beyond our milky way, days and years are not measured like the ones we have on earth," Professor Hamid from University of Brunei Darussalam said during Salih's first year in college. "There are thousand of moons and it is near impossible to differentiate day and night." "How do we measure day and night then, prof?" asked one of the engineering students. "You will know once you're there." Now that Salih is here, it is interesting to note that all of those theories and practical experiments he has done throughout college have come to full use only when he is placed in imminent danger. Salih tries the caller button. "Calling Space Y. Do you copy?" The sky above spreads out purplish hue that scientist claims to have been caused by the four moon-sized Suns that orbits the Crono System. Planet Rafet has at least 50 moons. The gravity pull on Planet Rafet is unpredictable. In certain cycle, there are times when the ground melts, which causes the surface to evaporate and solidifies the condensed air into new surfaces . Salih is resting on one of this newly formed surfaces up in mid-air, hoping that his stunt could hide him from the Nameks . "Mouse Travels. Do you copy?" No response. He can hear his breathing again. He read somewhere that human lungs shrink when they are in danger. He agrees with this theory. It is getting very difficult to breathe. Something suddenly snores underneath. Namek. Salih pushes his back against the gravel. The plasma gun weights like a 10kg dumbbell. Tightening his grip around it, he slowly spreads his legs open. Looking down, he observes through the surface. A creature the size of an Earth's elephant appears out of the night fog. From where Salih is hiding, he can see the alien's back pulsating red and green flashes rapidly. A professor had mentioned about this carnivorous creature during one of the lectures. "When you ever travel into space and encounter a Namek with surging red and green flashes on its back, you better get ready." "Ready for what?" The lecturer simply smiles because he is the type of lecturer who wants his students to become curious and do an independent research for the answer. Salih wishes he has done his homework that semester. Trapped on a condensed cloud that could melt anytime soon, Salih checks his oxygen level again. The red dot is blinking furiously now. Salih swallows a lump down his throat. It tastes like ambuyat (a tapioca starch dish that was once a favorite meal for families in Brunei Darussalam) . Salih studies the back of the Namek. The creature is right below him. He wishes that his radar detector is still working so that he can detect any Nameks roaming the area. He steadies his aim at the Namek below. All he need is just one hit. "How do you kill an alien the size of your house?" Salih's best friend, Abdul, asked one afternoon on Earth. "Shoot the face." "Namek has no face," Abdul said with a laugh. "The mid section?" "The stomach you mean?" Abdul guffawed. "Namek has no stomach. It's body is likened our reptilian creatures here." "How then?" "My friend. I have been a space marine for 5 years and I have learnt a lot." Abdul flaunted his right cyborg-arm. "This is the scar I earned from the war for humanity in 2131!" "You haven't answered my question yet." "What's your question again?" The Namek snores again. Salih's eyes widening. He is face-to-face with the creature. The only barrier between them is the think layer of solidified cloud surface. The ambuyat that slides down his throat now reaches his gut. Something retched is trying to reach out from his stomach. He wants to throw out. The creature widens its mouth. Thorns of teeth jut out like broken glasses in a jar. Salih foresees a dreadful death if he were the victim. "Just wait for an opportunity," Abdul finally answered after a gulp of Root Beer. "Opportunity?" Abdul yawned and gestured a gun to his face. "Oh? Just like that?" "Yes," Abdul said with his mouth still open. "That's the only way." Shoot. Now? The Namek yawns at him. Salih squeezes the trigger softly. What if there are more? Salih stops squeezing mid-way. But this is my only opportunity. The Namek shrieks all of a sudden. Oh no! It is calling his friends! Salih aims at its mouth. The surface of the solidified cloud breaks. The laser beam from the plasma gun pierces through it and cuts through the alien's face. Salih floats down along with the shattered cloud-surface like broken glasses. He lands knees first on the wet ground and rolls across to safety. The alien is dead. Salih wants to celebrate. But, something snores a few feet across in the night fog. I should have known. Salih checks his oxygen level. It is no longer blinking. Something moves ahead... *


My mother was dead to me. This realisation came to me in the early hours of the morning as I lay in her stuffy guest room listening to her rhythmic snores filter through the thin wall separating us. It wasn’t because she’d done anything super horrendous. There was no big climactic moment that caused my epiphany. It was more of a straw, fragile and brittle, placed gently on the camel’s back. But she’d forgotten about the anniversary. She forgot a lot of things when I was a child. Almost all my birthdays for a start. The years she did remember, she usually gave me a twenty and told me to buy myself something. This may be a little unfair. I do in fact recall her buying me gifts twice. Once for my fifth birthday she gave me sea monkeys. And a cake. The sea monkeys, not surprisingly, never made it. The cake, being an icecream one, also did not survive being left on the counter for the day. But still, it was the thought right? When I was eighteen, she gave me a bottle of peach schnapps. It was in a dusty cellophane bag tied with ribbon. The little card attached had a snowman on it. She hadn't written on it. She never came to my school events. To parent teacher meetings. Or sports days. She didn’t read to me, or tell me funny stories about her childhood. I very much doubt she had any to be honest. My mother was a single one. She came from a poor, uninterested family, and she got pregnant young. My father took off three months after I was born. My fault, according to mum. I was a terrible baby, colicky and loud. She lived off the benefit for a long time. Until I started school and she found part time work at a dental clinic. The one thing my mother did do was enforce the importance of dental hygiene, despite only lasting at that job for six months. She was fanatical with brushing and flossing and even on bad days, she always insisted on mouthwash before bed. My mother took her looks seriously too. She dieted and plucked and bleached and polished regularly. She put on ‘her face’ the minute she’d had her morning coffee, and took it off only after dinner and her nightly tv programmes. She dated, a lot. The men seemed to get younger and younger, along with the age she gave them. Eventually, if they asked - which wasn’t often - I was her little sister. But my mother wasn’t healthy. Mentally she was very ill. Voices spoke to her. She spent days in bed, lamenting her life, threatening to end it. Then she would be off, sometimes for days on end, on an adventure, or a wild goose chase of some sort, trying to ‘find herself’. She tried various jobs. Bar work, retail, telemarketing, cleaning. But nothing lasted longer than a few months. Like the men. I learnt to cook out of necessity. It was that or starve on those days where I woke to find her gone. I got myself to school, and I found myself jobs wherever I could. I learnt to drive a car without her. At school, I was known for having ‘Loopy Laura’ as a mother. I kept to myself a lot. I didn't have many friends. I met Ben when I was babysitting. He was older than me, had left school and been working at a mechanic for a few years. His boss, the dad to the kids I was watching, took his crew out for a Christmas shout. Ben had come home with him, somewhat drunk. “It was love at first sight,” he would tell everyone. “ I took one look at her and I was a goner.” I would just smile and agree, but the truth was it took me a little longer than him to feel it. But he wore me down, and we started to date. He proposed to me on my 21st birthday. I’d already moved in with him fairly quickly, eager to get out of my house and away from my mother. I left school and trained to be a nurse, which I both loved and excelled at. We got married at the registry office, something his mother still hates me for. But I couldn’t see the point of spending so much money for a single day. For a dress I’d never wear again. Flowers that would die, and fancy food we didn’t need. It all seemed such a waste. Now, I do wish I'd at least had more photos. Ben died two and a half years later. Car accident. I was working. I realised it was him when I saw the workshop logo on his overalls. He was already dead by then. I only had an hour left of my shift, so I stayed on and when I got home, I remember I made tuna melts, too many just for me, and then I cried until I was sick. Three weeks later, I realised I was pregnant. I was both thrilled and terrified. How would I know how to be a mother when I’d never had one myself? I hadn’t even managed to keep brine alive. But this child was a part of Ben, a piece of us, and I loved them already, sight unseen. I read every book I could, took birth classes, and painted a nursery. I ate spinach and salmon and took folic acid and did gentle yoga stretches. I did all the right things. My grief at losing Ben was eclipsed by my joy at becoming a mother. I told my mother about the baby because she served me at the supermarket. It took her several minutes of scanning items before she realised who I was. I hadn’t seen her, I realised, since the funeral. “I’m having a baby, ” I told her as she weighed my bananas. “Due in July”. “Oh fuck, thats a bugger,” she said sympathetically. “I’m actually really pleased,” I informed her quietly. “Oh, well then,” She paused to bag my oranges. “Good luck” I wasn't upset by her reaction. Or angry. Or anything really. I was a bit immune I suppose. But two days later, she came by with a badly wrapped box. Inside I found a grey crocheted teddy bear and a onesie with ‘nana’s angel’ printed on it. She was on meds at the time, and doing okay. She started them after I moved out I think. She had her supermarket job, and she joined a group, made a couple of friends. As the months went on, she and I developed something resembling a tentative relationship. She helped me paint, came with me to the birthing class, joined me some days to walk around the gardens. I softened towards her a little, accepted her olive branch and began to think I could forgive her lack of mothering. She seemed to want to make up for it as a grandmother. I went into labour early. Too early. When I got to the hospital, I rang and asked her to come. By the time she arrived, Bella was dead. Wrapped in a muslin shroud, her tiny face blank and waxy. Like mine. I didn't cope. I couldn't work. Couldn't be around death. Or birth. I stayed at home and didn't eat, didn't shower. Tried not to feel. Initially, my mother visited, then rang. She was, she told me, grieving as much as me. Then she started with ‘ probably for the best’, ‘you can have another’ type comments and moved to ‘ you need to move on, get over it etc etc’. I knew I was depressed. But grief is like a lake, inky and dragging. It pulls you in, promises oblivion in its depths. I wasn't interested in surfacing, in looking at the sky, the sun. I wanted to swim to the bottom, wind myself in the weeds, and cease. Months passed. Eventually, I went back to work, to life. Lived my life, except it wasn’t me living it. I was a clone. A functioning replica. At night I sat in my nursery and rocked. Time passed. The night of the anniversary of her death, I couldn't stand to go home, be alone. So I went to my mother’s who hadn’t remembered. She was in what she called a ‘fun mood’. She invited me to join her and her new man for dinner. We sat, ate spaghetti, and drank red wine. My mother was very animated, laughed a lot. They made plans to go to the beach. At one point the new man, Dave, asked me what I did. “I’m a nurse.” I told him. “And your husband? Are you married? Do you have a family?” he asked, his mouth full of overcooked pasta.. “Plenty of time for that,” my mother told him. “ no need to get tied down too young, I can tell you that for free.” She laughed, sloshing her merlot onto the off white tablecloth. And I realised. Like an anvil on the head. No. no I didn’t have a family. I never really did.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting.   ***   #This week's theme is Surprise! As we continue into the larger theme of “hidden” for February, we’re going to explore “surprise” this week. Surprises come in all shapes and sizes. They can be positive or negative things. What will these unexpected revelations mean for your characters and the world around them? The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * February 21- Surprise (this week) * February 28- Misunderstandings * March 7- Courage   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story.   ***   #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but we encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail!   ***   #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules).


She stood in front of the mirror, trying to focus on the words and not her reflection. She wanted to get it right. Ending a marriage is no small task, and it was important that he hear and understand what she was hoping to convey. During their 11 years together, she had rarely felt heard or understood by her husband, so it was unlikely that this would be an exception. She knew it. She needed, however, for him to receive her comments with empathy and compassion despite the hurt that they may impart. This, of course, was an exercise in futility, considering that he neither respected nor cared one iota about her feelings. That was the problem. Eleven years of hoping that he would change had not come to fruition and she had finally accepted that the relationship was no good for her, for him, or for their children. She knew that she was far from perfect, with scars and unhealthy habits of her own. She felt, however, that she had to change herself on her own terms, away from his influence. If she had only known then that the next 14 years would bring one heart ache after another, together with financial instability and the pressures of parenting and maintaining a household alone. Would she have stayed if she’d had the ability to predict this? Perhaps. It might have been easier in some ways, particularly given the realities of a single income household. She may have been able to travel more, as he has, to live a more comfortable lifestyle, to retire earlier and stress less. At the same time, she knew that she would not be the person she is today if she hadn’t initiated such a drastic change. Growth can be painful but so can staying in a situation that isn’t working. She would remind herself of this innumerable times over her lifetime, reflecting on the journey she had taken through the years. The opportunities and experiences that had presented themselves were completely different from what she would likely have encountered within the confines of her marriage. Some of these were good, some were bad, most were ordinary. She was grateful to have had so much joy and comfort, while grieving the many losses and regrets. She counted her blessings and tried not to focus on the negative thoughts that lurked in the darkness. At 48 years of age, Julie found herself in a midlife crisis. All but one of her children had left home to start lives of their own, although they still needed her support and guidance at times. They visited often and she appreciated how these relationships had become the most important in her life. She wished she had spent more time enjoying her children and less focus on relationships with men, however old patterns die hard. She had learned at a very young age that male attention felt invigorating and validating, which was unfortunate as she hadn’t realized that the intimate relationships were simply reflecting how she wanted to feel about herself. The doubts and the self-sabotage were strong. Years of unhelpful thoughts and beliefs about herself and others, along with habits that felt soothing but had harmful effects (overeating, binging, eating a lot of processed food and not a lot of healthful food, not exercising, picking at hair/skin, biting nails, using “substances”, engaging in risky behaviour, avoidance, etc.) had taken their toll on her being. From the day her marital status had changed to “single”, Julie had set about redefining herself and building a life she and her children could be proud of. Only she didn’t really know how to do this. She had learned many painful lessons along the way, and survival was often the only goal. She could now be proud that she and her loved ones had survived. She had worked hard, studied hard, and invested in their future. She had fought for what they deserved, arranged multitudes of adventures and learning experiences, and nurtured them to the best of her ability. She wished that she had been more present, gentle, patient, and mentally healthy in her younger years to now, however she knew that she didn’t know then what she knows now. She wonders if things would have been easier for her daughters if she had stayed. Her gratitude list, which falls in the “avoidance” category because writing it consistently lifts her mood and helps refocus her thoughts, building and strengthening new pathways in her brain, includes: Family, friends, home, pets, nature, beauty, love, knowledge, music, work, resources, comfort, kindness, health, and so on. She knows she is privileged in so many ways, born white, middle class, able, relatively intelligent and attractive. Her parents had worked hard and provided many opportunities to Julie and her sister, Karen. They had lived within an hour or two of each other since immigrating to Canada from England on February 12, 1982. When she received the call from the hospital advising her that her mother was in intensive care, she’d immediately made the 5 minute drive, parked beside the school that her daughter had attended, and maintained her composure as she navigated the visitation protocols. The sight of her mother, face pale and wrinkled, hair disheveled, eyes sunken into deep dark sockets, so frail and unwell, brought back all of the emotions she had ever felt. The tears overwhelmed her. She waited for Karen to arrive so they could sit with the woman who birthed them by caesarian section 46 and 48 years earlier, while she passed into whatever came next or simply “expired”, as they say in medicine. They held hands, the three women, as they had done when crossing the street at age 2, 4, and 31. They didn’t speak but cried their love from sad eyes, grateful for the ability to be present for and with one another. Julie, Karen, and Gillian, a story of adventure, drama, comedy, romance, and even horror. Their lives forever intertwined, another chapter now ending.


P.O.V. of Tyler (Mostly) Sandra stared across at Tyler through the small fire. Her eyes seemed to glow with a strange menacing essence. The fire roared and flickered in her small green eyes. The tension between the two was clear. However, Tyler couldn’t read Sandra. She was as clear as solid wood. Tyler felt tense. They were surrounded by miles of forest, in the cold night. No one could hear anything except for him and Sandra, and there’s not much to hear when you’re dead. Suddenly; Sandra opened her mouth slowly, as if to say something. She closed it and glanced over at the tent, grinning. Somehow, outside of the fire’s glare, her eyes seemed to grow with a more malevolent light. She turned back to Tyler, this time right in the eyes. “I have a surprise for you, Ty.” She said, with a cheerful nickname as if they were old friends. Really, they were both escapees, only together for matters of survival. She turned before Tyler could read her expression. She stood and walked to the tent. Tyler heard some clinks and other miscellaneous sounds. Then, when it appeared she had found what she was looking for, she came back, holding something behind her back. She handed him a small box. It wasn’t anything special, just a dirty old Thai food rice container. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, leaning to the fire. “Blow out the candles..” then, she blew with all her might on the fire, sending flames rolling Tyler’s way as they dissipated, the fire extinguishing. He reached out to feel a box-like shape sitting in the ash pit. He picked it up and folded it open, fumbling his hand inside. The only thing on the inside besides a few grains of old sticky rice was what felt like a folded piece of paper, but no light to read. He realized he was alone in the light, with Sandra. Of whom he knew nothing about. Crazy, mysterious Sandra. He gripped the paper, his heart beating wildly out of his chest. He felt something tap his shoulder and he shut his eyes. “I’m so sorry Ty.. But one of us has to eat.” He heard a soft, recognizable voice whisper. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his back and made no attempt to wail, knowing it was hopeless- who would hear, and why would they care? Blood gargled out of his mouth as everything he knew started to vanish. People say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but it doesn’t. It disappears, everything you know, to the point of insanity. You forget what’s happening and all that’s going through your head is; ‘I am about to die.’ Managing to struggle to words, he choked out through all the blood, “I’ll never forgive you for this.” Sandra smiles in the dark, and then something wet drips on Tyler’s head. Then he realized; she was crying. “You won’t have time to fret on the past in hell, Ty..” She whispered, as he closed his eyes, just to never open them again. Candy and Pepper strolled through the woods when a morbid smell wafted through Candy’s nose. “Gosh, what’s that awful smell?” Then, suddenly she realized as they approached it; a body, pieces of skin torn off, blood splattered everywhere, as if someone appeared to attempt to consume it. The person was obviously a man. Folded in his hand was a small piece of paper. Pepper leaned down and picked it up, unfolding it, softly reading it to himself. 'See you soon, I figure I can’t live off you forever. I’ll never forgive myself, either. In our short time together I grew attached, but my life came before you in my eyes, Ty. Love, S.


There was once a great statue of a powerful looking woman, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the calves to match. Her hooked nose was complimented by a strong jaw, and her gaze looked proudly upon whoever came by to pray. With crossed arms and a smirk set deep into the stone statue, it was said she brought courage and strength to those who showed respect to her. The village built and grew around this statue, the awe and amazement never dwindling. Legends were told from grandparents to grandchild, who eagerly wrote down stories of the Stone Temptress and the enemies she defeated in battle. As legends go, her truth was twisted year by year, generation by generation. Only the old texts, buried deep beneath her stone feet, told the true story of the Stone Temptress and the glory she held in the battlefield. It was said that whoever found these texts would be granted an eternal seat beside her soul, walking the lands after death and watching over the children of the families that had fought beside her all those years ago. As life tends to go, people started to forget just how important this Stone Temptress had been to them as they grew into adulthood. Sure, grandparents still told her stories to their young relatives with a faint gleam in their eye, a smile dancing at their lips as they retold the fights they had with wooden swords around her statue when they were small. The people of the village had built a mausoleum of sorts around her, which took many months, as she was as tall as she was wide. They had wanted to protect her from the world, or rather the world from her, as legends said the statue would start to move at apparent threat to the village. They wanted to pray to her in peace, without the outside world peering in and making its noise. Until, one day, an unholy earthquake shook the village, and the ground beneath the precious statue of their Stone Temptress collapsed. There was no hope of ever retrieving her. She was all alone, and the texts understand her strong stone boots now certainly destroyed. The Stone Temptress was all alone, and without their protector, the people could not stand to be in the village any longer. Their hope had been destroyed, as had their luck it seemed. She was all alone, until one day, a small buck fell and broke his leg in the hole that had been created all those years ago. Next to him lay the Stone Temptresses statue, and her texts revealing her true story. And the buck seemed at peace. His heartbeat slowed, and his head lowered in fatigue. He was not afraid anymore, and neither was the Stone Temptress. A faint glow had started to emit from the statue, and her soul reached out. With a fist grasped at her chest, the Stone Temptress laid a hand on the bucks antlers. He had succumbed to his fate, and they were not alone anymore. They had nothing to fear, the buck and the Stone Temptress. Not anymore.