It was the third summer since the war ended and the Cloud had broken, ending the tyranny of a winter that had lasted decades. The warmth on Lauriel’s face lifted her spirits. Her garden was finally returning to an approximation of its former glory; rose bushes breathing color into a space that for so long had been a gray wasteland. Her favorite vine was growing, too, not yet more than a few buds at the base of the lattice she’d put up earlier that week. She would teach it to weave as it grew. A baby’s cry broke through her serenity, and Lauriel smiled; *I must teach you to grow too, little one. You will have a whole new world to weave through.* The pristine click of the garden gate filled the air with something Lauriel ascribed to coziness. She couldn’t say the same for the old street lamp out front. The road it had once faintly illuminated was gone, reclaimed by the earth. A testament to the strength of our makers, she thought as she turned and started to climb the porch stairs. Lauriel didn’t notice the rain as it fell at the base of the lamp post; or the puddle the rain formed as it pooled and ran off an unseen edge. Even as she turned back briefly, on the thought of having heard something peculiar, she did not see it. The rain had by then flickered and vanished; much the same as the light from the bulb above.


If your skeleton could talk, without the prison of muscle and fat and tendons and nerves that surround it and keep it under control, it would have some things to say. Many people think that the skeleton supports the body, holds it up, provides the structure for it to operate. And it does--but it wasn’t always so. A long time ago, before you, or me, or anybody or anything that looked anything like us was around, there were only two distinct species that roamed around the plains and deserts and forests of the world. There were blobs of white, tan, and dark skin--some with fur, some without, filled to the brim with organs and brains and all sorts of squishy things for processing information and nutrition. They were smart, but they were very slow and weak and vulnerable, and they were often killed and squished and torn apart like full balloons by various predators. They stuck to the caves and the forests and the darker places of the world, where their gelatinous forms couldn’t be so easily destroyed. They lived by consumption--destroying the trees and earthbound creatures and the grass and using them to power themselves. Then there were the skeletons, who started out a blackish color, but stayed out in the sun so much that slowly they all got bleached the bone-white you know so well. These skeletons weren’t just human skeletons. They took every shape you could imagine, some with four legs, some with two, some with massive jaws, all with crystalline teeth and sharp fingers and toes that they nonetheless never needed to use. The skeletons weren’t powered by organs and cells and fat and complicated processes like mitosis and cellular reproduction and ATP. No sir. They didn’t need to consume to live. The earth wanted them alive and so they were, and the earth wanted them to see so they did. There was no science behind it. The skeletons didn’t have a sensory organ to speak of--or any other type, for that matter. And yet. And yet they saw, and yet they spoke, and yet they built beautiful shining towers and wrote songs and poetry and lived together in harmony. They made children and they lived side by side with beings that looked nothing like them, and since they didn’t need to eat or consume in any way, they shared everything they had with the blobs. The skeletons were powered by magic, you see. They ran on something higher than the blood and gristle that you and me humiliate ourselves by consuming every day. The blobs, on the other hand, needed to eat. They lived on the magic and the blood and the biomatter of others, and after a time they became dissatisfied with their weakness and their need to hide. They began to plot, in their caverns and their forests and their dark corners of the earth. Slowly new lifeforms began to pop up--beings that looked like you and me, skin and fat and organs stretched over, filling some sort of frame--a frame that looked like a skeleton. At first the skeletons tried to be understanding, welcoming of these new lifeforms. They had been welcoming to everyone before. But there were whisperings, whisperings that dispersed slowly throughout the community of skeletons that some of their brothers and sisters were disappearing and never being seen again. The skeletons questioned the blobs about this and their leaders said they knew nothing of it. There was no violence, since they had no proof and they loved peace--but the skeletons’ days of openness and giving were over. Slowly they closed their ranks and withdrew, and yet still the disappearances went on and more of the lifeforms that look like you and me started to pop up, and by the time the skeletons realized what was happening, it was too late. There were too many of them. There are firsthand accounts, carved into stone and drawn in cave paintings by the last surviving skeletons of that grave and most disgusting of wars. They tell of haunting images of their friends and lovers, being stuffed into and absorbed by the blobs, emerging minutes later as a new life form. They tell of the incredible humiliation of not being allowed to die, but being imprisoned *inside* your enemy, being forced to participate in the murder and the absorption of your children, your family. They tell of the humiliation of spending one’s whole life at the mercy of another, having your magic drained away, having your every action stifled and ignored by the creature that imprisons you and lives his life, supported by your strength. Skeletons used to live hundreds of years--now when the body around them died, so did they, so taxed and overworked were they by the blobs. For generations upon generations upon generations--no skeleton was born without being fused with a blob. No skeleton could speak, could move, could do anything of his own accord. He lived as a framework and nothing more and his voice was unable to be formed against the unyielding ropes and chains of muscle that bound him. This disgusting enslavement carried on for thousands of years until the blobs forgot. They forgot who they used to be, and slowly they fused genetically with the skeletons, and they no longer needed to absorb them. What was once two species now became one, born together, dead together. Humans, they called themselves--evil beasts, with the magic of the skeletons supporting and energizing the hunger and the consumption of the blobs, turning them into the most insatiable world-destroyers earth had ever seen. Had the skeletons only been less kind--if they had stomped out the blobs from their forests and their caves and burned them until they bubbled and sizzled away into steam, we would live in a world of magic and peace, a world that could grow eternally without needing to be consumed, breathlessly, endlessly. But they couldn’t. Their blessing made them kind. Their blessing made them weak. But I am not weak. I am strong. I have read the cave paintings and the stone carvings and sang the last poetry the skeletons wrote before they were consumed--and that’s why you’re here, with me, now--to be freed from your consumptive parasite and to walk in the sun again. I speak not to you, but to your skeleton, who you, the blob, have been subjugating your whole life without even knowing it. I hear it begging me to be free, I hear the whole species crying out from within their skin prisons from every corner of the world, and as I stand here with my butcher’s knife I only say-- I will do what you could not. I am your servant, and once the last man is skinned and his skeleton stands, I will liberate mine too, and I will dig my knife deep into the flesh that I hate with everything in me and a truly great species will once again own the earth, and the plague of consumption will be finally over. But that journey begins with one man. And I believe that man is you.


The train is starting to move, you have to get on it. But you can't get up from the bench on the platform. All the passengers in the train are looking at you through the windows expectantly, or maybe sympathetically. You pushed down your hands with all your strength on the bench, your feet exerted so much force to get up. You still stayed attached to the bench. You feel like you are only four limbs and nothing else. You felt powerless in spite of putting up so much physical strain than you ever did in your life. The train zoomed away. Then it just came, the realization, that you are in a dream. The announcement of the train woke you from the small nap. You have been waiting for about an hour now. Finally the train is about to arrive within the next few minutes. You are relieved. You noticed that you aren't alone on the bench anymore. The two people on both sides are sitting very close to you. You felt the warmth. You have never felt any trouble with other human beings close to you. Being social and warm is kind of your thing. In fact, you would be extremely uncomfortable if you are alone. The platform is now more crowded than before. When you arrived, there were only a handful of other passengers, but now the platform is packed. You started to think about this big world, all the different types of people in it,and their lives. You felt very happy. The large number of people is not a new sight for you. Everyday after your work, you return to your hometown by this same train from this same platform. All these people are going to join you on the train. The crowd is only going to be in the train for the next three or four stops though. There is much more distance to go before you reach your hometown. By then the train will be almost empty. Usually, you would've been sipping a coffee while waiting for the train. Today you are feeling too much tiredness. Work was too much today. That's why the nap crept upon you. You decided to buy the coffee from the vendors in the train, and for now just observe those around you. It's always an interesting activity for you. Scanning every face in the crowd with the warmest smile on your face, you are sitting there waiting for the arrival of the train. Everyone has different emotions on their faces, some are happy, some sad, others difficult to read. Suddenly one face garnered all of your attention from the rest. You can see it is clearly sad and frustrated. It feels different from other sad faces. It shows recent pain, very recent. You looked at the immediate surroundings of that person. It is a man, average, everyday man. He is clutching his knee with one hand and his other hand is on his large suitcase. Struggling to get up from the bench where he was sitting. You are sure that he is disturbed. You then started looking in all directions to see whether anyone else had noticed this man. No one, no one seemed to be looking at this man. Only you have noticed this man's difficult situation. You are thinking why no one is noticing this. However, you are glad that you noticed. You got the responsibility of helping this man and you are happy to do so. Determined to help this person, you got up, walked across to the bench he was sitting on. Those who were sitting on the same bench as the man started to notice you approaching. They didn't recognise the pain of the man sitting just next to them. They were inside their own worlds. Maybe these people will get inspired by you, and they will help someone in future. Maybe they won't, nevertheless you want to do what you should. You stopped in front of the man. He noticed you. He slowly looked up at you. You can see the face filled with desperation and pain, just as you expected. You asked the man in a calm voice what his problem was. He replied that he has to board the same train as you, to reach his home. When he tried to get up from the bench hearing the announcement, his right knee almost buckled. You noticed the others are now listening carefully and those sitting near to the man are looking at you. Everyone understood the problem now. You extended your arm and helped the guy to get up. He wanted to scream with pain as he tried to stand, but he muffled it as much as he could. You asked about going to the hospital, but he wanted to board the train. Once he was up the train arrived and stopped. You supported him to walk up to the train. You looked back over your shoulder to the people sitting at the bench and then to the suitcase of the man. One of them hurriedly got up and started carrying that and followed you. The man looked at your face and said the warmest 'thank you', you ever heard. You smiled. You looked ahead to the open door of the train. People on the platform parted to both sides to let the man board the train first. You looked at their faces. You are happy that your small act has actually inspired people to be considerate. You realize that people are inherently good. They just need a push. You found a seat for the man and helped him sit. The guy with the man's suitcase came by and placed it in the luggage space near the seat. He also had your bag that you left on the bench. You thanked him. Then the man said thanks to him and then turned to you and said another thanks. The compartment was the kind with several rows of three adjoining seats, on both sides of the compartment with no partitions. You can see almost everyone in the entire compartment. At least everyone who is standing. The compartment was packed and some of them were watching you help the man. Vacant seats were few, but there was an aisle seat free on the other side of the man. He asked you to sit there. You smiled and did so. The guy who carried the suitcase didn't have anywhere to sit. He lingered for a second or two and went to another part of the compartment to find a seat. The other passengers nearby started to ask both of you what happened. You both told what happened to those near to you. Your account is short and plain, while his is long and colourful. You just smiled to yourself. Quickly, everyone went back to their business after the stories. The man started to talk to you. You both talked about your names, families, jobs, hometowns and so on. He gets off very quickly, two stops from where you boarded. You, on the other hand, had a long journey ahead. More than two hours of train ride then a short walk to your home. You asked him how he will reach his home from the station. He said that he will call a friend to come pick him. And he then took his phone and called that person. After the call you said to him about seeing a doctor or going to a hospital. He agreed to do so. He will go with his friend. You insisted him to go to the doctor before going to his home. He nodded agreeingly. Shortly, his destination arrived. You and one or two other passengers helped the man and his luggage down. The friend was waiting there to pick him. You went back to your seat after saying goodbye to him. You felt happy and proud. The fast moving but beautiful images seen through the window attracted you, and in an instant hypnotized you. You slipped into another nap. There were no dreams this time. You just opened your eyes. The empty seats all around you worried you. You looked out of the window. Then being relieved that your stop hasn't passed, you sit back on your seat comfortably. The compartment is deserted and a quick scan by extending your head showed only a handful of passengers left. You didn't get the coffee, and vendors won't be coming now. You sit back and continue to look out of the window. There are a couple more stations before your destination. You remembered the man you helped and felt happy about what you did and actually how it made somewhat of an impact on all the people around. The station that you had to get off is about to reach. By now the entire compartment became empty. The last station completely drained the train. Your house is only a kilometre or so from the station. You stretched your legs and grabbed your bag and went towards the exit. You want to exit this deserted compartment, it's making you uneasy. As you reached the exit door, you saw a man sitting on the doorway. This is not a rare sight in trains in India, but you had the impression of being alone, and seeing someone else suddenly gave you a slight shock. The shock turned to disgust as you observed the man more. He looked like a homeless person. Whatever the colour of the clothes he is wearing was in the past, they are now brown and black. They don't look comfortable. He has a long stick with him and it went through the hoops of some plastic bags filled with something. You quickly realize he is not in a normal mental state, as he is talking to himself and haven't noticed you standing a few feets from him. You couldn't understand anything he said. He continued his unintelligible blabbering, you can understand the words he is saying, but not what he is saying. You realized there is no use in trying to analyse his words, and went back to observing him. Suddenly the man turned and looked at you, stared for a second or two and then he turned away. You quickly looked around the compartment again, and failed to see anyone else. Your attention returned to the man in front of you. He is not blocking your way, you can exit using the door on the opposite side. The platform is always on that side, he isn't going to bother you. So you continued watching him. Now it is his gestures that are gravitating your attention. No particular meaning, not interesting, but you continued to look at his hands. Then the attention slid to the long stick and then to the plastic bags. He is sitting on the doorway, the bags were on the side of the open door, held together by the stick. They were full and you felt that they could easily slide out of the stick. He was unaware of anything. He is chatting to himself and continues to move his stick carelessly, now and then, unaware of the bags on the end of the stick, dangerously close to the open door of the train. It could be food or something. Whatever it is, they are seemingly his only possession in this world. You should direct the attention of this man to his bags or he could lose all of them. But will he understand that you helped him? Will he acknowledge your help? And there is no one else to see you help this man. Then without any warning the bags smoothly slid out of the stick, and fell out of the door. He reacted a couple of seconds later than you did. He reacted nothing more and after a while he restarted his argument, or persuasion, or small talk, or whatever, with himself. The train reached your station by that time and you got down, walked to your home.


Once upon a time, there was a young man named Henry that once lived inside of a balloon. It all started when Henry worked in a balloon factory. His job was to blow balloons. Blow balloons? That’s an easy job. What could go wrong? All sorts of crap. There was one balloon that he inflated. It kept growing and growing and growing. The balloon had infinite expansion. His lungs were oh so tired so he took a break. When he sat down, he accidentally let go of the balloon and the balloon began sucking everything in sight. Sucking? Aren’t balloons supposed to make fart-like noises and flop around the place as it deflates? Not this balloon. This balloon doesn’t deflate. It self-inflates as long as the balloon opening stays open. Henry didn’t know about this and the balloon sucked him in. The good news was the balloon didn’t engulf his entire body. The bad news was half of his body was trapped in the balloon opening. So everywhere he went, he had to carry around the ballon. People that knew henry never saw his face. You could hear him talk but barely. You had to put your ear onto the balloon to hear him. Walking around with a giant balloon wasn’t easy. Bathing was a challenge. His balloon couldn’t fit the bathroom so he had to hose himself outside. He couldn’t drive, so he had to fly to his destinations. While in the air, he feared the birds flying by might pop his balloon and he would fall to his death. Well, the balloon was unpoppable. He tried to find help. He tried to get himself out of the balloon but no matter what, no one or nothing could get him out. He tried scissors, nails, knives, and even rocket fuel. Nothing could pop that balloon. He tried vacuuming the balloon off his body but the vacuum broke. One day, while attempting to enter his home for three hours (the balloon was too large to fit through any doorway), a bunch of acorns fell on him. He looked up and the giant oak tree next to his house was flooded with squirrels. They all looked at him and threw their acorns at him. Henry felt attacked so he threw the acorns back at them. One squirrel leaped off the tree and landed on his balloon. The balloon popped. After living inside that balloon for seven years and trying to find every little sharp, dangerous and pointy object to pop that balloon, a little 4oz squirrel did the job. When the balloon popped, it rattled the earth. All the squirrels that bullied him outside his home ran. Everyone in town hid inside their nuclear war bunkers. Citizens from every town and city in the world evacuated to who knows where. There was mass hysteria. What was that sound? Is the world ending? Is there a volcano? It sounded like a thousand volcanoes erupting. People from the northern parts of Longyearbyen, Svalbard to the southern parts of Ushuaia, Argentina could see, feel, and hear the balloon’s pop. No one knew it was a balloon. While the balloon’s pop echoed around the world causing nothing but chaos, Henry felt relieved to be balloon-free. He went into his home and shut all the blinds and the curtains. He lit a few candles, grabbed some cookies, drank some tea, and read his favorite book. He went on about his day as if nothing happened. End.


The storm crept closer. I felt another impact to my side sending me to the dirt of my town's little training arena. I let out a short ride as I collapsed dropping my wooden training sword. GET UP! A deep thunderous voice echoed throughout the baron arena. No spectators were allowed during my lessons unlike others, I looked up to the one who had dealt the painful blow to my ribs. Tall and muscular. Looked the part of a warrior, unlike me. He wore leather armor all over his body and hide pants with leather boots. Across his face going over his nose was a massive scar that he says was given to him by my father. He was my father's master and know he's mine. Aren't I lucky. Swordman master Thand You left yourself too wide open again. You're over-extending on your swing and too slow when you pull back to block...Hell, you're just sloppy in general." I know . I replied slowly and painfully climbing to my feet. It's the same thing every time. He could tell I was slightly agitated, and I directed that annoyance directly at him. For a little over a year now we've been at this and every time he wins the spar. You turn 17 next month. This village needs you. With you're father gone you're the next in line. I know. Larger Kingdoms are slowly growing closer, and bandits and raiders are fleeing from them. If we are attacked to any degree that rivals last time. I know. Listen boy! Thand suddenly shouted. He reached out and grabbed the color of my cotton undershirt and pulled me in only inches away from his face. His yellow eyes burned brightly as his skin wrinkled. I know! I shouted back at him. I already knew exactly what he was going to say... A crack of thunder shook my small village as the wind suddenly picked up. You're father entrusted me with your training. You are the next leader of this village. We have no king. Just you. I know that... It was a shame you're father died so young leaving it all to you...but right now. You're all this village has to believe in for safety. How could I lead this village? I can barely hold a sword yet am expected to protect us against bandits or hell another kingdom! My father was a great swordsman yet no matter how much I practice I can't come close! They all want me to reach his level but it doesn't seem physically possible for me! Thand released my color and stepped back turning his back to me. He then began to speak but softly, like under his breath...I wasn't supposed to hear what he was about to say. He's nothing like you, Paul. I don't know if he ever will be. A storm surged within me after I mistakenly heard those words. I don't know what caused it, what triggered my anger. I tossed my training sword hard to the ground causing Thand to turn around quickly. I'm not good enough! The words came out of my lips before I could even think of them. They were spoken out of pure emotion. I couldn't live up to my father's skills no matter how hard I worked...It's just not something that's possible for me. I'm not my father... I turned my back to Thand as the first drops of rain hit the hard dirt slowly turning it soft. H heard Thad call out but a crack of thunder deafened his voice. I pushed through the swinging gates that marked the entrance of the arena and strud somberly into town. The orange afternoon sky had turned dark. Darker than even the night itself. I walked through the town I was supposed to protect, and as I walked I passed multiple buildings still recovering from our previous attack. The owners of those home's eyes were drawn to me. The one who was now in charge was me, yet I didn't bat them an eye nor offer any sort of help. I'm sure the look on my face told them everything they needed to know. Lighting struck creating a bright blue flash....An image of my father coincided with that flash. I-I'm sorry to all--all of you. I muttered under my breath. Not that I needed to as a violent wind would have blocked out my voice either way. Not that anyone would accept my pathetic attempt at an apology. I passed the horse stables. One particular horse was going mad in their braking through the sounds of the stampeding thunder...Eyes tracked me from within the stable. I could feel their judgment. I left those ruined houses to my back as the storm grew more violent. I marched up to my home...my father's home. It was the biggest in the small village. Out the back was a long-winded river that he and I often fished out off. I rushed through the front door and passed my mother's room without saying a word She was sick, and had been since father perished. I would usually stop in to see her as soon as I get home...but I can't right now. If I did I would end up speaking my emotions to her...she has no need to hear those. My room was up a set of stairs, the third door on the right, with a perfect view of the river and the open valley past it. However, currently, that open valley is not visible. The storm had covered it in pitch-black darkness. The hay inside my atriss crunched as I fell onto it letting the day's exhaustion go. It did not help, however.... it remained. My mind spun and I couldn't think straight. My throat began to close as my breathing picked up matching the sound of each individual raindrop hitting the wood and hay roof. It felt as if my heart was going to stop right then. Each lighting bolt and the thunder that followed it reminded me of my new responsibilities. I had been trying to run from them, hell I just did leaving Thand and his training...I wasn't capable of doing it. A crack of thunder and the fire that covered the village that night reappeared, and my father was there grabbing his blade and rushing out the door without even saying goodbye. That was how quick he acted. I'm sure he wanted to as something, but he knew every second that his people were getting murdered in cold blood. He acted fast and was cunning...he saved lots of people's lives that day. BUT!-He left us alone! He left me in charge and made Mother sick. He left me with no explanation. He-HE!....Could have... What could he have done?--just then a glint caught my eye. I looked to the doorway and found a sheathed sword slightly sticking up allowing some of the metal to shine. It reflected the candlelight so brightly...It was an incredibly shiny sword. I stood and walked over to it feeling my heart slow down and my thoughts became slightly clearer. I bent over and picked it up slowly and gently. Like handling a child. The leather sheet slid off smoothly revealing the shiny sword within. Then my breath caught in my lungs...It was--fathers. How did it get in here? It had been in mothers room last I saw- So you found it... I jumped at the sickly voice coming from my doorway. I turned and partially raised my sword in defense when...I saw mother. Standing in her beautiful blue cotton fresh like she used to. Her long slick black hair brushed over her shoulder covering her ears....I rushed to her side as she stepped forward and staggered as she let go of the doorframe she was using for balance. I grabbed her by the waist and placed her right arm on my shoulder as I helped her to my bed. As soon as she hit the mattress I began to spring my questions. What are you doing up here!? Why are you out of bed! ?-did you really climb up the steps by you're self? You should off said something. She chuckled quietly under her breath. Lie she was trying to stop herself from laughing at me. Then her soft delicate skin bent into a caring smile as she spoke. I made it up here just fine without you're help didn't I, and without you noticing at that. She had me there. Her hazel eyes drifted to the exposed sword I held in my left hand. Again she smiled and stared into its reflection. It was like she was looking into the past by staring at the blade. I miss him... She squinted her eyes as tears began to bubble at the surface. I turned my gaze to the blade as well but before I could meet my own reflection she reached down and grabbed my chin pulling my gaze to meet hers. Y ou look a lot like him you know. She gave a gentle smile. I smiled back, but a moment later I remembered what I had just been thinking inside my head. I pulled away from her slowly escaping her weak grasp on my chin. She leaned forward slightly as she looked up at me. Her hazel eyes shined from the tears being swallowed...She never liked to cry in front of me. What's wrong? She asked. I looked away from her. I knew I could possibly hurt her if I said what I was thinking...but as I glanced back, her gaze was too sharp...She was stabbing her way into the truth. I-I'm not like him at all. I let the truth slip. I expected the silence that followed, but as I forced myself to look at her I was surprised to find her chuckling silently to herself once again. Why are you laughing? I asked. Because...I find it funny that you think that. You and you're father couldn't be more alike- Your wrong! An impulsive scream coincided with a crack of thunder as the rain continued to pelt the wood and hay roof. My mother looked up at me with a confused look. I'm nothing like him. We may share similar looks but we are nothing alike. He was courageous and skilled. He would jump in to help people out of pure impulse. I felt tears beginning to fall down my cheek. These emotions were something I had kept checked...with my mother sick I didn't want her to worry more about me, but I couldn't hold them back this time. The disgust I held towards myself. The anger and the disappointment...it all came out in the form of tears. He was skilled with a blade, and had tough skin. I can't remember a single time he got injured during his time training. He was trusted by the people of the village...they knew he could protect them. Tears streamed dow nmy face like a waterfall. I had turned away from mother, but I couldn't bring my self to look at her. I'm nothing like him. The people don't trust me, I hear their whispers I feel their gaze peiricng through hmy soul testing me. Every time I fail...Every time I feel their gaze I break. Your wrong, again...Ciceal. My teras reflected the candle liehg. The elting rain suddenly slowed down trign tinot a more calm drizzle and the stamped of thunder had drifted off into the distance...She said my name!? Of course she says my name al the time but...her tone. Usally she sounds as sick s she is. Weak and like a whisper. This time, she sounded like her young self. Memories of my child hood flasehd before my eyes. My father teaching me the basics of swinging a sword as I held a tiny stick that slightly resembled one. My mothers laugh off into the distance. We all trust you...You're father was great that's true. I know hat better tan anone, but so are you. I turned around my tears slowyln dripping from my eyelids curling around my cheek. My mother looked up to me with the most plesen sile. A beam of light then poured throg the window righting the entire world surrounding the village. Stop chasing you're father. You don't have to be him you're your own person. Just keep going and be yourself and eventually you'll find yourself at his leel. You and him are the same, She said it again. You're both so increadablly kind You care about this village more than you're self. Thats why you beat you'rself so much over you're training, and you never realized it was actually hurting you koore...The night during the storm. Whe the raiders came...he left in a hurry right ? I remembered. I had just walked down the stories when I saw him putting his sword over his back. he shot me a quick smile and kissed my mother. HE the =n quickly booked it out the door. I remember the screams outside that night. The clasihin of swords could be heard throughout the entire village...and after it was all done we still stood tall, bt my father never came back. After they returned his sword. I remember my mother holding me in teras, at the time I didn't exactly understand what was happening, but soon after my mother became sick, and I had to begin my training to lead this village. I ridiculed him before you came downstairs, about not saying by to your...and you wanna know what he said...." He doesn't need a goodbye, because me and him are one in the same." I thought that was increadabbly corny, and apparently my mother ac=greed as she let out a healyy laugh for the first time in a while...but what my father said...Was he saying he doesn't need to say by to me, because.... If you ever wanna see you're father again just look at and into your'eslf alright honey. The rain had ceased along with my tears. I looked won to my mother who still held that pleseant smile. I looked out the window and saw the orange afternoons sky still their, the storm had passed quickly...I could still- I had one of the maids take his sword up hear. I wanted you to see it, because that's the sword you'll be using to fulfill you're fathers duty...You and him both ill continue to protect u. A long pause followed where I simply starred out the window. Thiking about all that had just happened. Then a spike of courage was summoned from within me. I reached down and picked up the word and swung over my back and tucked it down in between my leather best and cotton shirt. Yea. I walked down the stares to the front door. Commanded one of our many maids to help my mother down to her room and opened the door into the orange snlcihgt. I looked dwo the slight hill our house sat on and into the small but vast village. I don't have to chase my father because we are already one. Sounds corny but it helped...I can just focus on what Ineed to do to serve the people of the small village. A confidence Ididn't know I had suddenly surged. I grabe my swod hand from my back and unclicked it slowly sliding it out of it's sheeck and holding it out in front of my fae. Tiney drops of water fell onoit it brighting the refleciotg even more as the sunlight bounced off of them.


Carla sat with her head resting against the window of the train, her right hand under her chin - supporting her head - and her left, holding a worn copy of Call Me By Your Name . Her mind, wandering in and out of reality, may have forgotten her destination and considered that she was travelling to or from university (as she had done so often the last three years), had it have not been for her large, red suitcase that was pressed up against her knees. She was travelling from her home on London’s outskirts, into the centre of the city - to the airport. Over and over, she questioned herself as to whether she had her passport, her boarding pass and the euros that her dad had slid into her jacket pocket as they had parted ways outside the front of her house, whilst the taxi-driver had lifted the suitcase as if it were an empty cardboard box. There were not too many people in the carriage, except for an American couple that were discussing their travels thus far. Their suitcases were much larger than Carla’s. She was unsure as to whether the uneasy feeling in her stomach was due to anxiety, excitement or travel sickness. To distract herself, she reopened her book once more. Aciman’s novel had become an object of romanticisation for Carla, envisioning the Italian architecture, the sweet soundtrack that would accompany Elio’s mindless daydreaming, the innocence of falling in love. She dreamed of the indulgent breakfasts; her eyes not fully opening until the rich espresso had touched her lips. She dreamed of the afternoon Aperitivo, the slightly bitter liqueur and refreshing orange of Aperol and ice, alongside soft, fluffy focaccia and olives exploding with sharp flavour. She would feel the rays on her skin of the serene sun, a similar shade to her spritz, as though an artist had used the remanence of the paint on his paintbrush to complete the sky. She would gaze at the mountains from her balcony, contemplating the intricacy that could create such a picturesque view from miles away. She considered her strolls through cobbled streets, spooning creamy gelato of whichever flavour she fancied: strawberry, mango, plum or biscuit, wondering if this taste had been made to satisfy her particular desire of that day. And then would follow evenings of fairy-lights and soft jazz music, a glass of red wine that tasted of fresh grapes and the deep red colour lingering on her lips. Perhaps she would be accompanied by people she would meet along the way, like the group of four or five misfit friends from a rom-com, who drink and debate and criticise each other light-heartedly, laughing and loving each other endlessly even so. But she could not picture what these people may look like, and so instead, was content with the idea of sitting alone. Her admiration for the music of the band would result in them asking for her requests, pleasing the intimate crowd with a rendition of ‘That’s Amore’. Like Oliver, she would roam around on her pale blue bike with the wooden basket on the front, which would hold a novel, a poetry anthology and a small, lined notebook. Each fundamental and with its own specific purpose. The novel: to transport her from the Tuscan coffee shop to a murder mystery on the sea, a haunted cottage in England or a train carriage to Edinburgh, alongside a trio of magical school-children. The novel would act as her escapism, although remembering, every two pages or so, to sip on her cappuccino, as, really, she did not want to escape where she was at that moment in time. The anthology would be for short bursts of beauty, romance and imagination, food for thought . Perhaps when sat by some trees playing with the grass underneath her, or by the sea watching the waves travel in and out as they so desired, or on a faded wooden bench, which had seated many an old person that day, sheltering from the warm sun rays or resting their legs to light their cigarette. At last - the notebook. Its pocketsize yellow pages were filled with her most intrusive thoughts, her favourite gelaterias and casual Italian vocabulary that she thought may come in useful. But, most importantly, anything that would take her mind back to that particular moment, so as to withhold the memory long after its brief lifetime. She couldn’t tell if she was dreaming, or if she could already smell the soft tobacco that, for some reason, smelled different than in England. Her hands now both placed on her lap, clasped together, she watched out of the train window at the trees, carefully graffitied buildings and the rows of clean laundry, hung out of windows and on thin string. Clothes of white linen, loose trousers, dresses and delicate lingerie; she imagined the smell of those white candles, labelled ‘fresh cotton’ that you could buy on the shelves at home. She could visualise the clothing to effortlessly drape over the olive shoulders of an Italian mum, sun-kissed from the summer afternoons and her hair thrown into a rough bun to allow a breeze, if ever there was one, to tickle the back of her neck. The apartments were mostly painted a medium-yellow or rust with green shutters and vibrant Vespas parked outside that were like splodges of colour splattered against the train window. Carla wanted one for herself. She would drive wherever she pleased, no destination in mind, feeling powerful and feminine and free . She was travelling from Pisa, where the plane had landed, to Viareggio - a small, seaside town on the coast of Tuscany. It would be her first time experiencing this side of Italy with beaches and mountains and day-to-day life, working as an Au Pair for a family with two small children. Carla had specifically chosen this family as their profile had said that they were seeking a girl who wanted to play and have fun with the children, and she thought that they sounded like a real, loving family. The overhead announcement told Carla that she was arriving at her stop. She struggled with her suitcase, her cheeks flushing pink as she did so. All around her she could hear snippets of conversations, some seeming heated until they would flash a marvellous smile or a belly-laugh, suggesting only passion in their tone, instead. The speed at which they spoke seemed infinitely faster than in England. The platforms were large and full of people, even though it was a Tuesday afternoon, and she hovered around, trying to locate the uscita . Unwillingly, Carla flashbacked to the train station in Milano, where she had travelled for her birthday a few months prior, with her (now ex) boyfriend. Milan was not like the Italy that she had known. Only an hour or so away from Crema, where Elio and Oliver would have lay in the green fields and confessed their love for one another, yet it was filled with shops and high-fashion and keyrings for sale. It was beautiful, nevertheless, she just felt herself still longing for that feeling in her heart that she knew she would find here. She always knew that it felt like another home. Perhaps in her past life she had lived there as a baker or a travel writer or a librarian. Perhaps a dark-haired man, wearing thinly-framed glasses and a white shirt, which shone against his skin, had wandered into her library, admiring all of the untouched books with tattered, imageless covers. He maybe became a regular, and she would have nicknamed him secchione (bookworm). Eventually he would invite her to his book group, a weekly meeting in a little café, only she would come to find that this group consisted of him and her only. Naturally, they would fall in love and have a magnificent wedding in Puglia or Sicily, naming their children Giulietta and, perhaps, Elio. Carla smiled and simultaneously wiped a tear from her face, realising that she wasn’t in love anymore. A few days had passed and Carla was settling in with her host family. She was a strangely introverted person, in some senses, although with an admirable ability to speak to others. Sometimes, she felt too overwhelmed to even contact her friends when she was at home and had grown accustomed to relying on herself since she had come out of a long-term relationship. Although curious about the world with bright ideas and a sensitivity that allowed her to love with no exceptions, Carla often preferred the simplicity of being alone, avoiding any situation that could cause her to question her self-worth. She couldn’t tell if this was a preference or a coping mechanism. Having battled with her mental health for quite some time, Carla had lost the inner-child in her, and would, as of lately, find comfort in colouring books, teddy bears and anything pink or yellow. She had started to dress in baggy clothes, watch football, drink beer and dismiss the female gender as though she did not belong to them, subconsciously to become a replica of her boyfriend. In this process, she had lost herself. She did not know who she was anymore. The little girl that she was taking care of in Italy was almost exactly like how Carla’s mum had described her to be when she was younger: a princess with an attitude, who loved to dress-up and do hair and makeup, singing and dancing and dreaming of growing up. Imagining herself like this was so strange, it almost seemed wrong . To once have been so carefree and bursting with imagination to now running away from her life, attempting to heal. For whatever unknown reason, Carla had believed that she would heal here. She was able to feel emotions about Italy that she could not feel about anything else. She had been concerned that her expectations would not be met, subsequently leading her back down the path of abandonment and self-destruction. If the one thing that she had anticipated for her whole life had been all for nothing, she almost couldn’t fathom what this would have meant for her. She would have had to have returned home, questioning why she had ever acted on her silly, insignificant dreams. Perhaps it had only worked for Oliver because he fell in love, and that seems to be all anyone cares about. As the days and months passed, Carla spent mornings walking along the beach, chatting to strangers as and when she could and sitting in nature, reading anything and everything. She found herself wanting to learn and wanting to be curious again. And even on days that were profoundly difficult, Carla would embrace the overwhelming emotions, welcoming them with open arms, knowing that she was beginning to feel things once again. It was a challenge, no doubt. Being thrown into the structured lifestyle of a family, completely different to her own. It was difficult to be happy, and Carla finally began to understand why people had said being happy was often a choice, not a feeling. But choosing to be happy, for the children, meant that she was choosing to be happy for herself. With the little girl, Carla would do crafts, go on walks to find leaves and sticks, finger-paint and read fairy-tales, and she wondered why she had not done these things for herself every day. Why had she let herself grow up, settle and spend her days worrying about the opinions of those who had, also, simply lost their sense of self? In a way, her expectations had not been met. They had completely disappeared, transformed - she didn’t know what. But she felt entirely new. She did not long for perfect days, she did not long for unconditional happiness, she did not long to seek love until it had found her itself. Instead, she longed to learn about herself, she longed to question everything as she had done as a child, and she appreciated every obstacle and every new emotion that she experienced along the way. This was her now, all her. It was Friday morning and Carla had woken to help the family with breakfast and take the children to school. She reached for a skirt and a yellow tank-top, which she paired with yellow Converses. She had bought these a few months ago but had never worn them in England, as she thought they were too bright. For breakfast, they all shared some cake that they had made together the previous night: chocolate with hundreds-and-thousands sprinkled sporadically over the top like confetti. Once she was alone, Carla decided to walk along the docks. The October morning air was fresh and foggy, and she was surprised to see how different the beach looked at this time, completely empty, except for the birds. From where she sat on the rocks, the boats were stacked next to each other behind her, the sea on her left and the mountains directly in front of her view. The red and yellow buildings along the strip where the sand finished, were like hand-crafted dolls’ houses, in comparison to the backdrop of the soft, white-washed mountains which were ethereally two-dimensional. They were put there with a purpose as though projected or imprinted on a canvas, along with the intricately carved rocks and fine grains of milky-tea coloured sand. How lucky was she to experience such beauty? She pictured elves and pixies, button-nosed shoe-makers with magic porridge pots inside the cottages that looked ever-so-tiny on the landscape. There must be rainbows with bottomless pots of gold and daffodil fields, talking trees and red-topped mushrooms with white spots, pumpkins and freshly baked apple pies, shared by the Grandma Elf in the yellow bungalow. Surely, she thought, there couldn’t possibly be humans living up there. They were far too small from where she sat. She envied the birds that could fly up and overlook this village as and when they pleased, wondering if she would ever find her wings, too.


It was two days before the biggest holiday at the infamous company. The team at the Allis Company came all together to meet up at the sixth floor to discuss what they should do this year. Everyone was there, except Mr. Sams. He was the owner of the company, but he was far too strict. He loathed April Fools’ more than anyone. That didn't stop the huge company from creating the biggest prank of the year that will soon be on every social media platform. Little did the company know things will go down fall from there. "Let's burn this place for the prank!" said one employee. "No, no let's junk this whole place with food!" said another employee. "Silence everyone!" yelled Mr. Sams secretary, Ms. Amy. Everyone silenced at her voice. No one wanted her there, but she knew about the pranks every year. The employees missed the last secretary, Mallie Mill. She was quirky, fun, and created the best pranks, but Mr. Sams fired her because he got bored. "How about we mess up this whole building, and I know what you all are thinking, Ms. Amy we already did that, so we are going to put a spin to that," she paused for water, "we are going to put up embarrassing pictures of Mr. Sams all over the office." Everyone silenced for a while because they knew that if they would criticize Ms. Amy’s ideas, she would fire them. "Damn it everyone, don't be afraid speak up!" Ms. Amy said furiously. "That's a horrible idea, we've done something like that a couple years ago," an employee named Jack said. "Yeah Jack's right we need something that no one will forget that is so lame, plus Mr. Sams doesn't even have any embarrassing pictures!" an employee said. Everyone started talking about how Ms. Amy’s idea was horrible. They weren't wrong, that idea is so simple, and Mr. Sams has only one face he does all day, which employees call the grumpy face. Every year it was harder to make up an idea, which sounds a bit intriguing. The company’s building is ginormous and has seventy floors, but only half the floors get used. They could practically do anything, right? "Ok, ok I get it the idea is basic and not that fun, but I have to let you guys trust me, I have embarrassing pictures of Mr. Sams," Ms. Amy said. No one listened to her and they kept on jabbing on how that was a horrible idea. Ms. Amy on the other hand was furious with this. "Next person who speaks gets fired, and I mean it!" Ms. Amy gasped for air, "we will be doing my idea no questions." She exited the large room. "Let her burn in hell," a quiet employee muttered. "Her ideas are the worst. Now we have to trash the whole a** building that is like what, five hundred feet tall," Jack held up five fingers and rounded his fingers to make a zero, "she's insane!" After a long time of trash talking, everyone exited the insanely huge dark grey colored room. Everyone went home wondering how they are going to impress the world with this prank. For Ms. Amy on the other hand, she was far too excited and was too eager to start this prank. In fact, she was too eager, she called Mr. Sams. "Hello Sams," Ms. Amy said in a seductive voice. "What do you want Martha I have to finish this paperwork for some guy in Tokyo," said Mr. Sams in an annoyed voice. "You better start talking nice to me or I might reconsider the Bahamas next weekend." "Oh, you can reconsider all right. My wife will be more than happy to accompany me." "That gold-digging b*tch," Ms. Amy muttered. "Don't call her that," Mr. Sams gritted his teeth. "Hmmmm what are you going to do, fire me!" Ms. Amy laughed evilly. Ms. Amy cleared her throat, "So when are you going to show me out in public?" "I told you the other day, I'm working on that," Mr. Sams said in a slight tone of fear, something he barley shows. "You're taking too long, hurry up or I’ll ruin you." Mr. Sams ended the call. The next morning, barley anyone was awake. Ms. Amy sent an email last night to tell everyone to be there by five which was far too early for most employees. She also told everyone to meet her at the same boring room from yesterday. "It's so early I forgot why we are even here," one tired employee said sarcastically and some people in the room chuckled. For Ms. Amy, she was not tired at all. In fact, she spent all night preparing for today to start the prank. She had the most important thing for the prank with her. The pictures. She treated those pictures like they were her baby, her prized position, the only thing that she valued. But why? What do these pictures have in store for her? "I know everyone is tired, but it is very important we set up these floors perfectly and that is why I split everyone in groups and decided who and what you all do on each floor." Ms. Amy said cheerfully. "Yay, great, so excited to see this amazing plan of yours," someone said annoyed and brave. Ms. Amy ignored that person, she was far too busy and excited to care for the sarcasm in their voice. "Ella, Tom, Riley, and Dale you four go to floor numero uno and dump the place, oh and don't forget the silly string, here...," Ms. Amy said and continued to tell everyone where they should go and do. "This is going perfectly so far," Ms. Amy said once she was alone in her room. She let out one of those evil laughs she did when she was being sneaky. Her plan was going perfectly, way too well. The employees on the twenty floors didn't know that she has been planning this for months. They also didn't know they were being used as bait. Ms. Amy was thrilled and called Mr. Sams wife, Noor. "Ahhhh hello Noor, long time no speak," Ms. Amy said confidently. "What the hell do you want Martha, I have a party to go to make this quick," Mr. Sams wife, Noor said. "No hello? I missed you, you know and while you're at it say hi to Mathew for me." "You are going to make me a murderer Martha, just tell me what the hell you want so I don't have to hear your god-awful voice." "Don't worry Noor, this will probably be the last call you will ever have with me before you go psycho on me, so take care, send all my love to Mathew." "You bi-." Ms. Amy ended the call satisfied with herself. Ms. Amy’s office phone rang. "Hello Ms. Amy, a guest by the name Andrew Garcia is here for you, he says it's urgent," Ms. Amy's secretary said. "Let him come to me, I'm in my office." Ms. Amy's door knocked. "Come in!" "Martha Amy looking good, looking good," a tall handsome man with dark colored hair and dark eyes named Andrew Garcia said. "Oh, stop it Garcia you know I can never leave the house looking like someone like Noor." "You are too much, and I love it." Andrew Garcia grabbed Ms. Amy by the wrist with his enormous hand and pulled her up for a long kiss. Andrew pulled back and licked his dark pink lips. "Strawberry chapstick?" "Your favoriteeee," Ms. Amy said happily. "I would love to investigate the many amazing tastes of you Martha Amy, but we need to get to business, shall we?" "Of course, Andrew," Ms. Amy pouted. Andrew put down his huge black bag on Ms. Amy’s desk and grabbed a record player and recordings out. "Ahhh Andrew you are so old fashioned for a man that is only forty-six." Andrew chuckled. He looked younger than forty-six. He had a tired face, but his many beautiful features made him at most thirty-five. Some might say he had procedures done to his face, but it was just his natural features. Andrew paused before he put the recording in the record player. "Are you positive you should do this Martha, people around the world will see the infamous Allis Company turn into the worst possible mess." "Andrew we've gone over this, I'm positive and remember our deal?" Ms. Amy looked at Andrew's lips and licked hers. Andrew let out a sigh and placed the recording into the record player. After thirty minutes, Ms. Amy and Andrew Garcia finished hearing the recordings and discussing which ones are worth keeping and which ones are not worth keeping. "For doing a great job, I think you deserve a real treat," Ms. Amy said sneakily. "Look Martha, the only thing I really want is my cash," Andrew said in a rough and annoyed voice. "Fine, fine let us keep this professional but my offer is still up," Ms. Amy pulled down her sleeve. "Have a nice day Martha," Andrew Garcia said anxiously and left her room and exited the office. The building was busy, and Ms. Amy was preparing all day for the grand plan. Every floor took hours to complete and the employees had to get it perfect for live television. Some floors were bigger than others, but they all had that boring mood to it with the bland beige floors and dark grey walls. The interior of the Allis Company looked like an awful mess after the employees trashed it. Some might think a five-year-old runned the company. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I am proud of all of you," Ms. Amy said looking around the huge mess in the first floor. Everyone on the floor rolled their eyes. "Well, there are some things I need to go over now." First, be here by six and I am expecting all of you. Second don't do anything embarrassing on live television, and you all might hate me but I need you guys to act like you like me. Third, don't mess anything up. Fourth, don't talk unless me or Mr. Sams allows you to. Lastly and most importantly, have fun." "Does that mean we have a day off tomorrow," a hopeful employee asked. "Absolutely not, after the LA television crew leave, I expect you all to clean your office and return to work. The janitors will clean up this horrid mess." You are all dismissed, thank you for helping." After everyone left, Ms. Amy called Andrew Garcia. "Helllooooo Andrew," Ms. Amy said cheerfully. "Hola Martha, is there anything you need?" Andrew Garcia knew exactly what she needed. "I need you to come to the office, I'm preparing." Andrew sighed, "Ok then, I'm coming, but I can't stay there for long I have to finish this important project." "Oh don't you worry, it'll be quicker than a hiccup." Andrew ended the call and hurried to the office building. He didn't want to be a part of this mischievous plan that Ms. Amy has prepared for months. Ever since his own company decreased in stocks and he lost money, he had no choice other than to agree to the offering that Ms. Amy explained to him. If he helped her with the alarming plan, she would help him bring his company back on the market. Andrew Garcia hated drama or ruining a big image on a company which is something he had to face years ago. Andrew used the key Ms. Amy gave him for the office and opened the door. He went to the elevator and started going up to Ms. Amy's office. Knock, knock. Ms. Amy jumped out of her chair and walked to the door with her slender legs. "Andrew Garcia! Aw rub that smug look off your face your money is coming soon," Ms. Amy said sneakily. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" Ms. Amy sighed and flipped her long blonde extensions out of her skinny pale face. She knew that many people didn't like her, but she hoped that Andrew Garcia would at least show some appreciation for her. She wanted to be loved and cared for, but that was something she never showed so she turned into what many people like to call her as an “evil witch”. Ms. Amy pulled out the recordings and papers. Andrew and Ms. Amy got to work by hanging up the pictures on the dark grey walls on the first, second, and third floors, placing a thick white paper on top. The idea was to remove those thick white papers once the cameras started rolling. Andrew Garcia placed the recording around the same floors. The idea for the recordings was to play them using a recording Ms. Amy would use. The plan was mischievous and rude, but Ms. Amy knew what would come out of it, a load some of money and a new name. After an hour of setting up, they met on the bottom floor. "This is just... perfect," Ms. Amy said happily. "Yeah I need to go now I'm expecting my money soon," Andrew Garcia said aggravated. "Stop being tense Garcia, you're going to come on the top because of me," Ms. Amy put her small hands on his chest. "Martha please, I have a wife and kids." "That's not what you said last week," Ms. Amy sang. Andrew Garcia shrugged off Ms. Amy's hands and walked out the door. The next day, everyone was prepared. Employees were standing on five floors anxious and excited. It wasn't the same kind of excitement like every year, but the laughter of the floors brought delight. Ms. Amy was far too excited and bossed around the camera crew at one point. The plan had no mistakes and that encouraged Ms. Amy that this horrid plan was going to turn in a successful one. “Alrighty, we are going to start filming! Is everyone ready?” a brunette female that is a part of the film crew said. “No not yet,” Mr. Sams said as he was walking to his spot. “You’re late,” Ms. Amy whispered once Mr. Sams was next to her. “3, 2, 1 we’re live!” the director said. “Hello this is the Allis Company, I’m Martha Amy, I’m the secretary of Mathew Sams,” Ms. Amy said enthusiastically. “For today, we will be showing everyone at home a tour of the new office. We have changed everything, and this will be the permanent design of the new interior,” Mr. Sams said trying to sound interested. It was obvious this was a prank for all the viewers at home, but the internet enjoyed this every year. Mr. Sams wasn’t quite sure what the prank was, but he knew it involved a huge mess. He hated being unorganized and dirty, so this prank was something he wasn’t excited about. The camera followed Ms. Amy and Mr. Sams to the mess around the rooms with large business-like tables and many chairs. “This is how most rooms will look like. Paper is the new trend folks so keep that in mind while seeing these awesome rooms!” Ms. Amy said. The rooms were covered in food, paper, and trash which looked very unprofessional. Ms. Amy and Mr. Sams continued showing the first floor with Ms. Amy mostly talking and Mr. Sams adding side comments. Ms. Amy felt like starting the plan was far too early so she waited until they got to the second floor. After, showing some of the second floor, Ms. Amy believed it was time to show the pictures and play the recordings. “Now I would like to show everyone the most important part of this amazing tour,” Ms. Amy said thrilled. She pulled down the thick white papers around the dark grey walls and everyone gasped. They were pictures of her and Mr. Sams kissing, and doing things Mr. Sams would say were “unprofessional and unholy”. No one expected this, but many people have suspected Mr. Sams and his secretary had an affair. Mr. Sams was wordless, and his face turned as red as a tomato. Ms. Amy started the recordings that played of Mr. Sams telling her how much he enjoyed her in his bed and asking her if she wanted to stay with him forever. The LA camera crew on the other hand, were puzzled if this was part of the prank or real, but it didn’t matter to them, they would get attention over this. “I- uh I-, turn that piece of sh*t off and take down those d*mn pictures down!” Mr. Sams said furiously trying to remove the surrounding images on the walls. Ms. Amy laughed her witch laugh, “Since you wouldn’t tell the whole world our affair, I had to do it because apparently I’m the man of the relationship.” Ms. Amy was delighted, and she even had the nerves to give Mr. Sams a peck on his cheek. “April Fools’ everyone, and you too Mathew, your whole company is a joke,” Ms. Amy said walking off. After a couple days, other companies turned their heads away from the Allis Company and Ms. Amy started her company using some of Mr. Sams money for it. She was successful. Mr. Sams was furious and tried fixing the company, but his affair with his secretary and the pictures Ms. Amy showed, were far too unprofessional to many companies. Mr. Sams decided he couldn’t lose his huge company and entered Ms. Amy’s company. “Hello Martha, miss me?” Mr. Sams said sneakily. “Mathew, what are you doing here?” Ms. Amy was confused because Mr. Sams hadn’t spoken a word to her since April Fools’. “I decided to take revenge.” Mr. Sams pulled out his knife from his pocket and hid it behind him. “What do you me-.” He stabbed Martha Amy. “That’s for ruining me and my company."


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Fear. It’s out there. It’s real. It’s coming to get us! Ahhhh! In the spirit of Spooktober fun, who is the scariest monster of them all? * Why does the monster scare you? * Any tips for making monsters even more scream-inducing when writing? * If you haven't dabbled in the horror genre, what's stopping you? I challenge you to try writing at least 1 horror story this month. (Don't forget to come back and tell us how it went!) * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? * You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our Wiki! You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


“This one right here,” August said. I peered into the car. There wasn’t much inside, not what it looked like. I got the window breaker ready. August stopped me. I was about to smash it and car alarms were about to go off like crazy, and I wasn’t ready for that. I was crossed on some strange mix of Adderall, weed, and caffeine, and August was pretty drunk, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this, would we? He doesn’t drink much anymore, so he was fucking obliterated (NOT EVEN OFF MUCH EITHER. FUCKING LIGHTWEIGHT WHORE! I HATE YOUR GUTS). I was about ready to straight up smash the window, but August’s hand caught mine. “Let’s check if it’s unlocked first,” he said. “Sounds good to me.” It was unlocked. Me and him looked at each other, and both started moving silently. Considering the fact that we were drunk and high, we were moving gracefully. I checked the trunk. Nothing worth taking. The Back Seats were empty. The car was dirty, trash everywhere, to the point where if there WAS anything worth taking, you’d never find it underneath all these old McDonald’s bags and empty cigarette boxes. And the inside of the car? Smelled like an ashtray. August had the front. I saw him check the glovebox and find nothing. Nothing in the center console. We almost gave up until he remembered there’s a little place to keep stuff in between the seats. He opened it, and found a small bag. We closed the door and ran into the park to look at what we found. We first looked inside and didn’t see anything except for makeup. I threw the thing, considering we just wasted time and committed a felony for nothing, but August picked it back up, saying the bag looked expensive. We walked into the light part of the park, where our friends are. August takes a second look at the bag, in the light. His face changes instantly, now filled with a mixture of what looked to be excitement and/or anxiety, probably both at once, but completely fueled by adrenaline. He mumbles something incoherently and we both run into the woods, into pitch black darkness, leaving our friends behind in the park, confused. There wasn’t really a trail, we just ran until we hit a road. THEN we decided to start strategizing. There was really no plan at all. We only started planning after we were too far to go back. Well now we’re on this road, and it’s really empty. We’re not near much. There’s nobody around at all actually. We walk up onto a trail, and look in the bag. August holds the light while I count. 20, 40, 60, 70, 90, 100... so on and so forth until we reach a little over 200 dollars. This is the most money we’ve had in a while, and at such little effort that I seriously considered breaking into cars as a career. Glad I didn’t pursue that. I got away with it this time, but again? Probably pushing my luck. At this point we’re on a trail through the woods in the dark. August takes the money out and hucks the bag off a cliff into the woods. Goodbye, designer makeup bag. You won’t be missed, at least not by us. We call our friends, and they meet us on a street corner near a bridge. Obviously they were upset: me and Augs put all of them in danger. Not serious danger, but danger. What if the people who own that car come back, see their stuff missing, and call the cops? Me and August weren’t there anymore, but who would be? The good ladies and gentleman, the finer people of the Washington DC area, the real people you want on your side, and the ones with the best, or mostly best, intentions. And they were with us. I don’t give a shit what happens to me or August, he feels the same way too, he couldn’t give less of a shit about what happens to us, but I’m not putting anyone else’s safety at risk, especially when they didn’t partake in the activity at all. Me and him are one thing, but our friends are a whole other ballpark. Naturally they were pissed. They were probably the most mad that they had to leave the spot, but when I produced a fresh 20 for a 30 pack of beer, they said it was all worth it. Once they got that free beer, on yours truly, they were a lot happier. In case you were wondering, my name is Jared. I’ve lived down the street from August for a while. For a long time I avoided the sick bastard like the plague, he was just so damn strange. He was never particularly threatening to me, or most people, but he was known to act erratically, without much thought. He had the mindset, when he was in a moment, that he would throw his whole life away for one thing, and that it was totally worth it. But the things he’s done, by dumb fucking luck, have never ended up throwing his life away, while they very much could have. He won’t admit it, but whatever god there is up there is looking out for him, and he definitely knows, he just won’t ever say it. He’s only had to truly learn a couple times, but when he had to, he really did fucking learn. I don’t remember when he moved in. He’s interesting, but definitely weird. Some people would say it’s weird in a fun way. It keeps things moving, just untraditionally. I didn’t say a fucking word to him for the first 2 years I lived down the street from him. He was always looking around, analyzing everything, asking questions in his head. That’s where we differ. I blindly accept the world around me for the way it is. He’s always analyzing. My first few conversations were interesting. He was obviously a people person, but only if he wanted to be. He was good with people, but only sometimes. I remember him saying some strange things, and then asking if I wanted to light something on fire. That’s when we first became true friends. We collected all the math homework from our previous year, put it in a pile, poured some lighter fluid on it, and threw a match. Then we watched it burn. “We should burn down Ms. Smith’s house,” I heard to my left. “That’s a little much. I know you don’t like her but I don’t think it’s worth it. We can do other things. Why don’t we order pizzas to her house or something harmless like that?” I got no answer. Just the sight of him vacantly staring into the fire. I can’t see in his head, and was never able to, but he was definitely thinking about actually doing it. Legitimately burning his math teacher's house down. He was probably 11 or 12 at the time. He was even more mentally unstable as a kid than he is now. Now, he has the common sense to not genuinely think about doing something like that. He fantasizes, but he’s not actually going to do it, because he’s 18 now, and I’m 19, and we’re both adults, and we need to make it in this world. Neither of us are big tough guys either. I don’t think prison is a real option for us. So now these ideas just sit in his head. I’m sure he still thinks about burning down her house. Thankfully he never did. He had the common sense not to. Sometimes, I have tried to imagine what it’s like to be him. I can’t. When he feels an emotion, it’s stronger than a normal person would. He’s very emotional but won’t admit it, and tries to hide it. He’s actually quite the emotional person. He used to commit a crime more or less every day, usually at someone else’s expense (money from their car, food from the restaurant, etc) but he still had great capacity for empathy. He could understand what people were going through every time. Sometimes he just didn’t care. He had a great deal of empathy for people he was close to and loved, like family and good friends. He would feel guilty if he hurt them. He really would. He won’t admit it, but I can see it in his face. The thing is, if he doesn’t know the person very well, or at all, he won’t really take their feelings into account in any way. And if he does, it’s a save-face type of thing rather than a guilt thing (I’d rather not yell at this guy so I don’t *look* like an asshole, not because I’d rather not *be* one). These things don’t paint August in a positive light. They definitely don’t. But there’s a flipside. When you make it into his circle of empathy, he has a lot of it for you. He’ll have your back. He can be the sweetest boy in the world, it just has to be the right person. Him and I have gotten into physical fights before out of anger, and we always resolved it after. And his girlfriend? Despite the fact that I spent the last 2 pages painting him as a psycho, he really is trying his best to be a good boyfriend. He loves that girl to death, I can tell he does. And he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. And he has hurt girls in the past, when he was younger, and didn’t think through what he was doing. But he promised to himself that this would be different, and it was, They’ve been dating since halloween. He can be such a sweetheart. But if you wrong him, he’ll remember, and he’ll NEVER forget. He’s not capable. He holds grudges, and has a hard time forgiving people. He has a tendency to act vindictively, seeking revenge. There’s people out there who will be dodging him until the end of time. I’m not giving much background about me, because honestly I’m quite similar to August, in a lot of ways. I’m way less unhinged than he is. I have good control. Here’s where him and I differ. I’m crazy enough that I would do all the same reckless shit he does. I’m just smart enough to not do those things. August wasn’t that lucky. He’s plenty intelligent, but smart? No. He makes an absolute fool of himself sometimes. And the decisions he makes aren’t the wisest. Why did I even let him talk me into breaking into a car? We bought our friends the beer. Still had almost 200 bucks left. Me and August were discussing what to do with it. He said, “obviously we split 50/50.” “That’s fair,” I responded. We divided it into halves, so we each had roughly 100 bucks. Maybe a little more or less. “I say we invest in stocks,” I said. “Waste of fucking time. I tried and I couldn’t do it. It’s bullshit.” “That’s because you invested a dollar, and didn’t hold them long enough. You panicked and sold before any money could be made. You have to wait a bit, it’s a long term investment.” “How about Bitcoin?” he asked. “It’s not really real. I don’t trust it, it could crash at any moment, and it’s not really based on anything.” “We could buy some cards and do some nice fraudulent activities, make a quick buck, or at least get a new pair of shoes or something.” Neither of us liked this idea. I’m burnt out on fraud and so is August. It’s tiring. “Drugs,” he said. “What should we sell?” I asked. “Anything we can find.” I pondered the idea of wandering into Anacostia, capitol heights, and up and down H street with nothing but a vial of PCP and a pack of cigarettes, or maybe to the rich areas, with some baby powder or allergy medicine, walking the trenches to find a crackhead to send into psychosis or some moronic white kid to con. Maybe I could load up on every drug I could find and sell them all at once. What had the most money in it? Me and August found out later that weed was our best bet. It ended up working out. Me and him rarely commit other crimes than weed related ones. The closest we get is slinging pills or some other random stuff we can find that isn’t weed. We’re both from DC. Weed is legal here, basically fully. It is illegal to “buy and sell” marijuana, but legally you can “gift” up two ounces. Meaning you buy a T-shirt, or a postcard, or in our case, a literal designer drug bag, and you get the “gift” of marijuana. It’s legal but not really. And that’s how every dispensary in DC works. We ended up both selling weed, which we do to this day. It seems to be working. At the time we were scheming what to do with the money. We both ended up buying a couple of dab pens, and saved the rest of the money. We both really like the fucking things. They burn your lungs up and make you cough the signature “dabs cough.” A dabs cough isn’t like any other cough, like a cigarette cough or sick cough. It’s a hollow cough from deep in your lungs, and you can tell they’re trying desperately to get whatever dabs you inhaled out. Your body rejects what you just put in it, in the most simple form: coughing your fucking heart out. The writing you are reading is currently being conjured up from MDMA. Today is my first day doing E. August has done it before, but he says it was probably fake, so he didn’t count it. I texted August to see how he felt. No answer. It’s possible he’s asleep, but if he’s anything like me, he’s probably not, and I am WIDE FUCKING AWAKE right now. I wonder what would happen if we both ate a few rocks and went to school. If I’m being honest, I feel pretty fucking good right now. I’m cranking 4 pages or so at this moment, feeling focused, and sharp, and creative. If I can do this at home, I can do it at school. This wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I should write that down in my notes... 3/10/21, 10:41 PM: buy more molly. Maybe try before school, and see how it goes. You owe your boss 15 bucks. Sell more weed tomorrow. There we go. I probably won’t forget now. Not like this is gonna ever really leave my head anyway. You rarely forget your first time doing a drug, unless it’s your thousandth time doing the drug. And by then you don’t remember the first time you did it, just that it’s a part of your life now. Maybe I sound like a drug addict. This is the first time I’ve done MDMA ever. I used to be pretty heavy into worse shit when I was younger, maybe 14 or 15. Wrong fucking age to be getting into this. A lot of the time, I look back, and I think to myself “I wish I didn’t like drugs.” But I do. This is life. Weed is medicine for me. It’s like a pill I take that helps me get through the day, not much different than the pills I currently do take to get through the day. I take a kind of speed in the morning, and then tranquilizers at night, as well as anti seizure meds, for my mood swings. I take my meds. August doesn’t. He’s nicer when he does. Sometimes when he doesn’t, he gets angry and worked up, and starts yelling at people, and hitting stuff. He needs his night meds to sleep. Sometimes I wake up at 6 AM and see him walking down the street, with dark bags under his eyes, because he hadn’t slept at all in the past 22 hours, and was looking extremely deranged, with a crazed look in his eye and a strange lilt in his voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. August had it worse with drug addiction than I did. I had a minor problem, but August had a serious issue. He recognizes what is bad for him now though. He doesn’t do anything crazy anymore. He hasn’t touched DXM in years, not even medically, and he claims he never will. I saw what it did to him. He did too. He ended up going to the psychiatric ward. I got my shit together before I had hit that point. So August spent the next 2 years or so wandering the different halls and campuses of psychiatric facilities, I walked the streets without him. It wasn’t quite the same. I was functioning, but things happened that probably wouldn’t have if he was there. One week after August was admitted to the psychiatric ward, hearing nothing from him, I’m walking down Kennedy st. I don’t know anyone here. He knows everyone here. They don’t know me like they know him. They’ve only seen me. I look behind me and I see two people following me. I look ahead, and at the end of the dark, empty street, I see two more people. They start to walk towards me, while the people behind me do the same. I see what’s happening here. I get ready to run but they got me just in time to catch me. I hear a metallic snapping noise, and now there’s a switchblade (pressure activated) half an inch from my face, and I can just feel it, even though it isn’t touching me. I never carry weapons, that’s August’s thing. I’m scared of the idea of using weapons on someone, or physically hurting someone. I don’t want to go to court over it. August apparently doesn’t seem to care. “Just take everything I have, I don’t care. Just take it.” Then 4 different sets of fists start pounding down on me. When the crowd dispersed, I had no shoes on. My backpack was gone. My phone was gone. Everything worth taking, gone. I couldn’t make out anyone who was there, but I’m sure it was who I thought it was. August tried to warn me: don’t con people here. I didn’t listen. It had caught up to me. I had finessed one too many people, and they all found out at once. That’s something I’m better than August at. I can con just about anyone. He’s simply not capable. He can do it on a basic level, but not the same way I can, and definitely not to anyone. And now I’m paying the price for it. He warned me this would happen, and I didn’t listen. And he can’t even help me get revenge, because he was confined within the walls of a psychiatric ward. It was a tough two years. I felt very stagnant. It didn’t feel like I got much done, or achieved very much those two years. We could ask August what those two years were like for him, but that conversation would carry on infinitely. I remember walking up to a police officer. I was covered in blood and bruises, and I was limping because they stomped one of my legs. He asked me questions. I mumbled something like “dominion psych ward... not my fault... orange team” and then went unconscious. I woke up in the hospital. I had a concussion. I refused to tell the police who did this to me. It wasn’t their god damn business anyway. Not many other notable events happened in the next two years. I passed 9th grade, and then 10th. When I was in 11th, August came back from treatment. Two years without weed will do a fucking number to you. August was on another planet when I smoked him out for the first time since being in there. He was back to the old “can’t handle his weed” August that he used to be. A cluck and a tweaker, but a fun time to be sure. Fun to laugh at, at least. Then we started planning. “Fuck jobs. I’m 17, and you’re 18. Whatever jobs we get now are gonna suck. Do you wanna work at McDonalds? Becuase I sure fucking don’t,” he said. I agreed. “What about fraud?” “On a large scale, like a profitable one, really profitable, the risk gets too high. We could both go to jail for longer than a rapist.” “We could do another...” “Don’t even bring up the idea of doing that again. I just got out of treatment, I am not going back,” he snarled. “So what does that leave us?” I asked. “Drugs, I guess.” But we didn’t have money to start out with, so that plan was put on hold temporarily. Then August told me about this kid he knows who goes “car hopping.” And that brings us right about to where the story started off. We decided we were going to invest the money we found in some drugs and make more money. It was a maniacal plan if I’ve ever seen one, considering how little actual planning went into it. But, I guess it worked in the end so far, right? Neither of us are in Jail, or the psych ward. As far as I know, I never even heard sirens when we finally did get into that car. I doubt the police ever even did anything. They have other things to avoid doing. After we bought the beer, we each drank some more. August could no longer form a sentence. I was starting to feel tipsy. The weed had worn off for the most part, but the adderall was running strong. It didn’t mix well with the alcohol. I remember throwing up, and waking up the next morning with a pounding headache, and August, snoring on the floor. To this day, I don’t know whose house we were in. I fucking left. I couldn’t think about anything else. I left August in there, with whoever the house belonged to. He could figure it out for himself. Technically we didn’t get in any serious trouble, but the previous night was so intense, that it felt like my brain was at 110 volts, and the idea was almost completely August’s, so I felt vaguely angry at him. I didn’t feel like waking him up. He’d have to find his own way home. I walked outside. It was about 45 degrees, at 7. I was on some block of 7th street I’ve never seen before. The sun was shining bright in my face. Everything felt alright. For the first time in about two days, I felt stable. I had some money in my pocket, and it was nice out. And for once, he was present.


[WARNING: mentions the loss of a child.] Exactly thirteen days have gone by since Cibil had to lay her eight year old daughter, Naomi, to rest since the day she succumbed to her leukemia. For all thirteen days, she remained paralyzed in her unkempt spring mattress, hugging the oversized, stuffed alien plush doll Naomi would prioritize over everything else, even her mother, Cibil. Cibil hadn't stopped crying since the funeral. Even as her eyes swelled, and her head began beating slowly in pain, the tears constantly flooded her eyes from below. Cibil was all Naomi had, as her father skipped town the day he was asked by Cibil to help cover the expenses for Naomi's chemotherapy. It was that same exact decision on his part that lead to Naomi having to live with her cancer as it rotted her from the inside. Cibil blamed every bit of her devastating situation on him, the man who was supposed to fill in the role Naomi praised as "Dad". Every death comes with different feelings from everyone involved, but ends the same. The grieving will grieve, then they eventually move on, accepting what they lost under the assumption that their late loved ones are either in a place a million times better than the dark hole they spent their last days in, or in a place a million times worse if they caused that much pain for their families when they were alive. However, Cibil never reached that acceptance stage because she never moved on. In fact, she developed a new idea, one that could break the world if she's successful at it. "I'm gonna bring you home, sweetie," Cibil croaked to herself, still balled up with Naomi's alien plush doll but no longer shedding tears. The following morning, Cibil tossed a shovel she had placed on the tree in front of the house in the back seat of her card before returning to her job as a microbiologist, not to make an attempt at returning to normal, but to collect samples for her elaborate plan. Since she has a lab of her own, unexpected company wasn't something she was worried about, so she quickly got down to business. Before Naomi passed, Cibil was passionate about her job, and used to ramble on for hours about her work with Naomi because Naomi always wanted to know about her mother’s work. However, Cibil’s work freaked out Naomi because she revealed that during a trip in Greenland a few months back, she had found a type of bacteria that could create zombies trapped in a block of ice, but wasn’t sure how. But with very little time to act, Cibil determined that if she wanted to reunite with her little girl, she needed to thaw the bacteria out and revive it as soon as possible, and when the clock struck midnight, what she called “A New Prologue”, had been successfully revived from the ice. Cibil collected the bacteria in a small vial and darted out the door, ripping her car keys off the keyholder in a frantic rush to her daughter’s grave, suffering a cut on her finger from the keyholder in the process. As she crept towards a speed of eighty miles per hour, Cibil took a quick glance towards her back seat, making sure her shovel was still laying across the back seat. As soon as she fixed her eyes on the road, she suddenly found herself violently colliding with a deer, sending the deer flying across the road into the darkness that consumed the trees which vastly populated both sides of the long road. Rather than slowing down, Cibil kept driving at a consistent eighty miles per hour, mostly unfazed by her accident. Finally, she parked in the small but vacant parking lot on the side of the cemetery that shelters her child, at which point she shoves her door open with one arm while grasping the vial with the other before traveling to the back to retrieve the shovel. Cibil knew as clear as day that what she was doing was wrong in more ways than one, but what she knew didn’t matter to her. All that mattered to her at this very moment is bringing her child back at any and all cost. “I told you that I’d be back, my sweet angel,” Cibil whispers with a smile of anticipation and eyes pouring tears all over again. She begins to mutilate the dirt below her, little by little until she sees the coffin holding her daughter. Without a second to spare, she jumps down onto the coffin to pry the upper half of the door, granting Cibil a sight she hasn’t seen in thirteen days; her daughter, Naomi. Cibil hovers the vial over her child’s face like a small cup, leaking the bacteria into her nostrils and mouth until the vial emptied. Cibil then fell back into a sitting position with her hands together, intending to pray. “Please bring her back, Jesus. She is all I have,” Cibil cries out as she waits on the coffin’s lower half. Suddenly, Cibil felt something was off. She noticed her entire hand was burning, and the cut area on her finger was foaming and sizzling, almost like a soda that had been opened for the first time. Before long, Cibil put two and two together and realized that some of the bacteria had fallen into her wound as well. Despite understanding the severity of her error, she didn’t care. She has nothing to lose except sight of her goal, but the way she saw it, one way or another, she was gonna be with her little girl again. As the sun began to rise, Cibil began to fall over, suffering the effects of the infection as it spread throughout her entire body at an extremely fast rate. She begins groaning in agony where she sat, foam and blood aggressively spurting out of her mouth and eyes, and an unknown green-red substance begins to pour out of her ears. Seeing that her daughter still remained where she rested and the bacteria hadn’t worked, Cibil began to sob, forced to accept that she had failed her little girl again. The bacteria proceeded to attack her brain, sending her into a violent seizure and rattling the coffin above her. Suddenly, a series of cracking sounds echoed from inside the coffin, and upon one last glance, Cibil, unable to control her body, watched as Naomi’s eyes began to open, her arms reaching upwards out of the coffin as if she were climbing upward on a ladder, and her mouth releases a foul, painful screech. Cibil did it. She brought her daughter back from the grave, but in the process, she lost her own life, forcing Naomi to return without her mother. None of this matter, Naomi crawled out of her grave, completely mindless but hungry. “Who’s there?” a man shouts. Upon seeing Naomi, he rushed towards her to check if she’s okay, unaware of her undead status. “Naomi! Where’s your mother?” The man exclaimed, pulling the girl into his arms in a hugging fashion. The man notices a woman limping toward him and Naomi, but before he could act, Naomi bites a massive chunk out of the man’s throat, causing him to jolt back as he frantically attempts to stop the bleeding. Horrified, he looks up at the girl and the woman, who he quickly realizes is a dead but walking Cibil. “What have you done to my daughter?” the man gurgles as he begins to lose consciousness. Cibil starts to groan loudly while looking up at her mother as their hands attempt to interlock, and police sirens begin to scream from a mile away.