Hot and Spicy Cocoa Cake.... So, he wants chocolate, does he? Yanti pounded her fist into the bread dough. She raised her forearm over and over, her fist clenched, beating the poor dough mercilessly. She looked out the window. The snow was coming down in heavy blankets. The sky was darkening and settling in like a foul mood. Like the one she was in. Why weren’t they back? “No, Yanti,” she muttered to herself. Her head shaking dramatically and pronouncing the words in an exaggerated slow manner. “It might be too dangerous for you. You should stay back and make dessert. And while you’re at, could you make it chocolate.” “Hey there,” said Ms. Mable. “Are you trying to knead life into that bread or kill it. If you don’t slow down, it will be so hard, you’ll need a chain saw to cut it.” She put a hand on Yanti’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” “Sila said you wanted a new dessert recipe. And to make it chocolate.” Ms. Mable looked at her cautiously. “That’s true. But I think I can handle it if it’s too much work. I just knew you liked coming up with new things. It was just a thought.” Feeling bad, Yanti bent her chin to her chest. Ms. Mable had become like a surrogate grandmother to her. The last thing she wanted was to offend her. She stretched her neck back and looking to the ceiling. Searching, as if she might find the answer there. Taking a deep breath. In and out. In and out. “I would like that. And it’s not the recipe. They wouldn’t let me go with them. And they were supposed to be back yesterday.” Her speech getting more rapid and agitated. “And I can’t call for help until tomorrow.” “So, that’s what you’ve been stewing over all morning.” “I’ve not been stewing.” “Honey, you’ve been stewing like overnight chili. But that’s ok. That just makes it better the next day. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about on that dessert.” “Well, his favorite thing in all the world is spiced hot chocolate. So, I thought I could make a spiced hot chocolate cake. A creamy chocolate and served warm.” “Yumm. No za’taar for revenge, I hope.” Za’taar was Yanti’s favorite spice, but had thyme, oregano, and sumac in it. Ms. Mable didn’t think it would pair well with sweet. “No, cardamom, clove, and cinnamon. With a white chocolate, butter pecan ganache.” “I thought he didn’t like pecans.” “He doesn’t.” “I see....” “And top it off with spiced hot cocoa ice cream.” “Well, that should be good. I would think he would like that.” Yanti gave a mischievous smile. “It will be delicious.” She knew that he only liked ice cream in the summer. And never ate it in the winter. “I’m glad that you are finally forgiving him. Let’s try it out on the guests and see what they think.” Ms. Mable gave a small smile, for she knew this was Yanti’s revenge dessert. But if it uplifted her spirits and distracted her for even a little while, it was worth it. She was getting worried herself. The next few hours kept Yanti very busy. Turns out, her new dessert that she named Hot and Spicy Cocoa Cake became even more popular than Ms. Mable’s famous peanut butter pie. Whether it was because it was a novelty or because she was serving it hot out of the oven, topped with the ganache and ice cream, it didn’t matter. It was a hit. Some were calling it Hot and Spicy Sin. Because if it tasted this good, it had to be a sin. As was Yanti’s spiced hot cocoa revenge. Ms. Mable always said love was the secret ingredient to good cooking. There should be no room for revenge. Yanti was just adding a scoop of the hot cocoa ice cream to the steaming cake, when Yutu came running into the kitchen. Yutu was the kitchen boy that helped on occasion. “There’s someone out in the lobby, I think you’ll be pleased to see.” Yanti threw her towel down, not taking the time to take her apron off. She was so relieved; she just ran to the lobby. She looked around in excitement. Boy, was she going to kill him! Her face dropped. Then trying to cover up her disappointment, she added a thin smile. Ms. Davis stood there with open arms. If Ms. Mable was Yanti’s surrogate grandmother, then Ms. Davis was her surrogate aunt. She was the one who had raised Nanook. After she had found the baby polar bear cub stranded by a stream, she took him home as her son. As he grew older and stronger, she had to finally set him free when he was in danger of the jealous townsmen killing him, because of his superior hunting skills. And sent him to Sila. And then Nanook and Sila had rescued Yanti. They were three orphans that had become their own little family. Before Father had adopted all of them. So, of course, Ms. Davis was like an aunt. For an orphaned girl, her family was growing. That is, if Sila and Nanook were still safe. She walked forward to give Ms. Davis a hug and kiss. Ms. Mable was beaming. Everyone was praising the new cake. Ms. Davis wrapped her tightly into her soft chest. She smelt like freshly baked warm bread, as always. Yanti inhaled her. It was like comfort food on the cold, snowy day. “Have you seen Sila and Nanook?” “No, I was coming to ask you?” She looked at Yanti’s anxious face. “But I’m sure they’re ok. Remember, Nanook is a master wilderness guide. There is no better hunter. Have faith.” “Have faith,” Yanti thought to herself. There was nothing more, that she had been thinking about for the last two days. Along, with the positive visions that she was sending out. She was the master at mental intentions. She knew that she was only supposed to send it out once, then sit back and have faith. Let the universe do its work and await the results. But her anxiety kept washing over her, like the out-of-control freight train that had barreled over the Alaskan Railways last week. The runaway steam train had left a smoky, billowing trail behind it as it hurdled down the steep mountain grade. Ominously, gaining speed and endangering everyone and everything in it’s path. This is also how those who encountered Yanti today, while she went about her tasks, felt. The train amazingly, did not derail as it rounded bends, defying all logic. As with Yanti, everyone luckily escaped unharmed except for a few bruised egos. But just as the train could not be stopped, despite everyone’s best efforts, neither could Yanti’s thoughts. She ran back to the kitchen and sat in front of the last cake. The ice cream had melted on the hot cake while she was out in the front. Slow rivulets of cream streamed down the cake. No avalanche, just slow steady streams. And so sat Yanti. With elbows on the table and clenched hands under her chin, slow rivulets of tears streamed down her face. Like the slowly dissolving cake, so was her reserve. She knew something was wrong and she was not waiting for the rescue team. At the first signs of daybreak, she was heading out on her own. She packed her backpack as Sila had taught her. With 3 days food, water, ski shoes, and poles. Moleskin for blisters and extra socks. A flashlight, but no weapons. She would not need them. She was a weapon. A rooky and untried, true, and Nanook had just started working with her. But a girl will do what a girl needs to do. As the sky was just turning orange over the horizon, she strapped the backpack on. Wolfed down a quick breakfast. She had long lost her appetite, but she knew she would need fuel to stay strong. She didn’t know what she might have to face before the day was done. She was already breaking some of Sila’s rules. Rule number one, never venture out in a snowstorm. Couldn’t be helped. Rule number four, never venture out alone. Also, couldn’t be helped. She was tired of waiting. And her inner voice was telling her to hurry. She quickly wrote a note to Ms. Mable so that she would know where she had gone. The boys had insisted that she stay there while they were away. At least she had dry socks, rule number three. She could only hope that she wouldn’t get eaten by a bear, rule number two. She had the locket that Nanook, the King of Polar Bears, had given her for protection. It hung around her neck, tucked into her jacket. No bear would dare to touch her. She hoped... She walked North, the direction she had last seen Sila and Nanook going. She didn’t know where she was going, but she could read a compass. The road quickly ran out and she laced her snowshoes on tightly. She knew how the heavy snow could rip them from your feet. Sending you tumbling when you might least expect it. She walked for several miles, which is a lot in snowshoes and deep snowy drift. She stopped to take a break and get a drink of water. She felt some snow come tumbling down on her. She brushed it aside and looked around. The forest was deep with dark green spruce trees, but still spread out every six feet or so. Their limbs bending under the heavy blankets of snow. It felt magical to her. Even though it was still daytime, the skies were darkening under the snowfall. The temperature was dropping. She had brought a thermos of warm broth and thought to have some. She stepped under one of the large spruce limbs that hung almost to the ground and opened her thermos. She looked up to see the most beautiful, snowy owl. It had a round face with large, curving brown eyebrows that spread across its entire face. It’s eyes were a golden brown and kind. It’s nose long and regal. It’s chest, neck, and underside a snowy white. Its back a golden brown with dark freckles. It came nearly to her chest, but she had to kneel to fit under the limb. In her kneeling position, the owl towered over her. They looked at each other, neither making a sound. “I can see that we have both gotten separated from our families,” the owl finally said. Yanti was surprised. She was still not used to this land of talking animals. “Uh, yes.” “My brother went off on his own and I had to go in search of him.” “Me too,” Yanti said looking sad. Yet feeling a camaraderie. “Are you hungry? I have some warm broth. I don’t know what owls eat.” She poured the broth into a bowl. Sila would have drunk it straight from the thermos, but she was a girl. As she began to pour the broth, it turned a bright golden color. Light radiated from it and lit up the entire space under the dark limb. “I am very grateful. Your kindness radiates light.” Not knowing what to think, “It’s just broth from the kitchen, I swear. I was going to make soup with it.” “But when you are kind to a stranger, it makes a magical light. Sometimes you can see it, sometimes you cannot. But it is always there. Why are you seeking your brother?” “He had a dream and our other sister told him he was a Shaman. So, he went to visit the Ijiraat to see if it were true. He should’ve been back days ago but has not returned. I am afraid that they decided to keep him. For he is a gifted storyteller and that is what they seek most.” “Do you know where you are going?” “No, I sent out a message to the universe to lead me where to go.” “Ah, that is why you were sent to me.” “Do you know where the Ijiratt are?” “I know the general area. But you will know you are near when the landscape starts looking distorted. They might disguise themselves as animals or humans, but you can recognize them by their eyes and mouths. They will be vertical, instead of horizontal. A change is coming.” “That is what Nanook told Sila.” “Yes, but this change is for you specifically. I am glad you listened to your gut to help your brother. He needs your help. You will need to set boundaries and develop a thick skin to avoid the negativities of others. Be careful of what you wish for.” “I can usually manifest what I want, how did you know?” “We are kindred spirits, you and me. We are old souls and guardians of the ancient knowledge. I will go with you to the Ijiratt land. I am glad you are adventurous. For it is time to fly into unchartered territory. You have a kind heart and lots of power. Be sure to use your light when you look into the dark.” As the owl spoke, Yanti could feel herself being filled with hope. “Let’s go.” They had walked about an hour when they heard talking. Yanti struggled to climb a small hill. Gasping for air when she reached the top, she looked down. She could see for miles. Sila was talking with a girl with vertical eyes. Yanti could not hear, but she could see he was upset by the intensity of his body language. The girl was just nodding her head passively. Coming up on both flanks were dozens of Ijiratt people. They would soon have him trapped in a circle. She guessed them to be unfriendly by the fact that they were sneaking behind trees and snow mounds. Sila didn’t have a clue of the danger he was in. Yanti made a swift and determined decision. She started running down the hill. The owl flying beside her, yelling for her to stop. But there was no stopping. No turning back. Sila and the girl looked at Yanti in surprise. Nanook gave a great roar of warning. Yanti raised her arms, stretched out at the girl and the hidden Ijiratt people. Some were already turning into wolves. She concentrated. Gave her best mental image. Commanded, “I wish you to be gone!” And they were. “No, no, no,” yelled Sila, his anguish enunciated in every syllable he spoke. “Yanti you don’t know what you have done!” “They were going to hurt you.” “The Ijiratt chief gave me a message. A message that I believe is key to finding Father. I told Nanook that I needed to get it to Alora immediately. I wasn’t allowed to tell him, just you guys. I wrote it down and then forgot it, according to their rules of spiritual messages.” “Just read the message!” she said exasperated. “I can’t. The Dark One sent his evil crows. They snatched it from me. The girl was going to tell me the message again. We were negotiating the terms since she was risking so much.” “It was a trap. I saw dozens of them sneaking in the woods. They were coming to get you.” “They were probably coming to get her! She was forbidden to tell me the message again. But she took sympathy on me because she knows the Dark One is evil. And it is important to finding Father. Important for me to tell Alora and Aiden. Now she is gone! She was my last chance!” The impact of Yanti’s rashness suddenly hit her. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” The words ‘Be careful what you wish for’ echoed in her mind. She was ashamed. Not knowing what to do, she dug into her backpack. Pulled out two containers. One held the revenge dessert. The other had no pecans and no ice cream. Just rich, delicious spicy hot chocolate dessert. She reached her hand out as a peace offering to him. Her eyes as contrite and appealing as she could make them, “Cake?” she asked.


Dear Diary, I am writing to you, against my own interest, because I no longer have anyone else to speak with. Not that you are able to speak with me, but nevertheless - here we are. This exercise is rather ridiculous, if you ask me, and I’d prefer another human being for company, but it’s too late for that. No longer an option; there are no others left. I am alone now. I’ve never been the type to keep a journal, and it seems as though I’m speaking to myself, because a record of my thoughts is unnecessary, and speaking to myself is insane. Well, I guess it’s as insane as thinking thoughts. It appears that I’ve placed myself in a moral juxtaposition - I can’t justify writing my thoughts down, but I can justify thinking my thoughts. Quite the paradox, for lack of a more suitable term. Seeing as I can’t imagine that I’ve lost my mind (although a crazy person can’t understand that they’re crazy..), I will continue writing to you, Diary. So - the idea of writing a log of my thoughts and feelings was brought to me by my father first, and I understand why he thought it important. My father was a researcher with a team of scientists and engineers, and he kept meticulous notes, extensive journals filled with tens of millions of words of findings, theories and data of various types. He loved what he did and he did it well, right up to the moment he died. My father was the first of us - the first of five to die in this chamber. Next to encourage my keeping a diary was my mother. She always hoped I’d follow in my father’s path, but I didn’t care much for the massive amount of time and effort that was required of a scientist, and I believed that I’d be bored to tears just sitting in place reading all of those letters and numbers. I never once feigned interest in my father’s work. Regardless, my mother suggested I write my thoughts down on a regular basis. Another thing to add to my list of disinterests - I never once wrote in a journal. That is until today. Mother died last night, peacefully while she slept. Perhaps it wasn’t peaceful. She had suffered for months from a blood infection that father couldn’t prevent from entering her brain. And then father died before he could attempt to remedy mother’s condition from there. Once father died, the rest of us went into panic mode, and my brother and sister cried more than anything else. Mother cried as well, but she also spent a lot of time trying to crack father’s code to the door lock - a keypad that required a thirteen-digit number to unlock the door. She clearly failed in her thousands of attempts. Now I sit here alone, writing to a notebook about things that no longer matter, and that can’t be changed or fixed. I’m trailing off now. My younger siblings both died from malnutrition, starvation, or something related to either or both. Father apparently thought that mother was maintaining the food supply; mother apparently thought that father was maintaining the food supply. Both brother and sister suffered terribly for weeks before neither of them woke up suddenly. Mother cried for days. That is, she cried until madness overcame her and, after days of holding both of them tightly, sobbing and moaning, she decided that starvation wouldn’t be what killed her. I caught mother chewing brother’s ear, or at least what remained of it. I hadn’t been paying much attention - spinning out in my own spat with starving to death - and I wasn’t able to stop her before she’d nearly finished her meal. Disgusted by her lack of self-control, and rather taken aback by her utter lack of compassion for her own child, I stuffed my siblings’ corpses into a corner, sat diligently in front of them for months. Mother had lost her mind long before she lost her life, and I made sure not to let my guard down until after she could no longer move from her bed. For so long I’ve been waiting for her to not wake up. Although I despised her, I only wanted her suffering to end, and that would only happen if she died. Mother’s breathing had become weak, wheezing and whistling, and I knew that she’d stopped suffering as soon I no longer heard that agony issuing from her lungs. I waited awhile - five days, to be exact - before I checked her pulse. I couldn’t force myself to touch my mother’s neck, place my ear to her lifeless lips. She’d been dead, and I knew it to be true, but I waited, and I would’ve waited longer had I not tripped over sister’s femur, stumbling right on top of mother. When I checked mother’s pulse, she felt cold, stiff. Dead. Still I placed my face close to hers, an ear pressed against her mouth just enough to hear and feel that no air remained in her body. Sleepless through the night, I decided to have a little snack, and then I drank the final bottled water. I couldn’t seem to stomach more than a few nibbles, and the rot caused me to gag until I vomited the last sips of the last water. Oh well. I’d only been delaying the inevitable anyhow. The bunker probably smelled horrendous, for more than one reason. The septic system malfunctioned months ago, and the corpses of my family - what remained of them - had long been rotting. And now we’ve arrived at our current destination - I’ve decided that, with literally nothing else to do, I should write my thoughts in this old notebook. These pages mostly filled with father’s data. Every single piece of information that he could produce concerning mother’s condition. Disorganized scribblings of an intelligent man gone mad. I’ve taken my parents’ advice, and now I’m writing to you, Diary. I’m finally recording my thoughts. The last of us now on the brink of death. No more water. No more food (although I could give another try at the leftovers..). I’ve decided now, three-hundred-and-sixty-six days since father trapped us down here, to “take up journaling”. My first, and my last, on this seventh day of March in the year of two-thousand-and-twenty-eight. Oh, Diary - don’t be so silent now. You are the only one that I have to speak with. The rest are gone, and I too shall join them soon. Who, then, will YOU have to speak with, Diary? Reluctantly Yours, Me


Natasha drew the knife from the sheathe to run her gloved finger across it stopping at the tip. She could feel it begin to pierce through the leather as she stopped it before it could pierce the skin. She did not put it away but held it as she looked at the woman in front of her.  “Hello, Natasha,” said the woman.  “Hello, Mira,” replied Natasha.  Natasha had not seen Mira in years as their friendship had drifted apart. Natasha had become the one who would say what Mira, the artist, could and could not create. She looked up at the cabin and the patches of snow that hadn’t yet melted away on its roof as well as the ground. Natasha could feel her boots want to sink into the ground as she approached Mira.  “Your hair has grown longer since I last saw it. I remember you liked to keep it at shoulder length,” said Natasha.  Natasha could see Mira looking through a sketch book as Mira said, “I wanted to try something new.”  Natasha sat down next to her.  “You kept it blonde. It goes well with your blue eyes,” said Natasha.  Natasha said nothing else, and, for a few minutes, there was silence between the two friends. Natasha would let he knife drop into the ground and take it back out only to let it fall to pierce through the ground causing a small hole to form.  “When you cut my throat will you let the snow bury me?” asked Mira.  Natasha let the knife sit in the hole as it fell one last time. She didn’t want to pick it up.  “Mira,” said Natasha.  Natasha heard the book close with a hand touching her shoulder a few seconds later.  “You don’t want to ask why?” asked Mira.  Natasha placed a hand on top of Mira’s. At first, Natasha felt a coldness bite at her gloved hand but soon that changed to warmth.  “Because I know the answer,” said Natasha.  “Is it wrong to love who we want to love? Is it wrong to express that love through art? It is wrong to express it through the written word?” asked Mira.  Natasha took Mira’s hand and held it tighter.  “Mira, you’re getting repetitive in your questions,” said Natasha.  Natasha could see the snow starting to gather on her clothes as they were almost covered by a patchy white blanket of snow.  “Sorry, I guess I started them all the same, didn’t I?” asked Mira.  “Yes,” said Natasha.  Natasha let go of Mira’s hand before standing up.  “You should have created the content they told you to create. You should have just loved who they told you to love,” said Natasha.  “No, I don’t think I’ll do that anymore. Natasha, lets go inside and have a drink,” said Mira.  Natasha had placed her hand on her gun but didn’t draw it.  “Just a drink between us before you kill me?” asked Mira.  Natasha watched Mira get up and place a hand over her hand that laid over the gun. Natasha loosened her grip on the gun.  “One last drink,” said Natasha.  Natasha felt Mira remove her hand to go pick up her sketch book. Natasha followed Mira inside only stopping to look around the room. A simple kitchen, with a dining table not too far from it. She could see Mira still had the same old couch with its teal colored blanket draped over it and the fireplace straight across from it with a television on the wall to the right. She went into the kitchen as Mira had placed down the sketchbook on the counter.  Natasha opened it and began to look through the pictures. They were drawings of couples. Some were same sex couples while others weren’t. She looked at them taking in the forests, the walk through the snow, the cherry blossoms that fell around them, and the couples that sat on the porch watching the moon. Natasha stopped to see a drawn picture of her and Mira.  They sat on the couch hand in hand. Natasha noticed Mira’s head on her shoulder. Natasha could tell this was younger version of herself as her black hair had gone past her shoulders. She still had her green eyes and still stood a bit taller than Mira.  “What do you think?’ asked Mira.  Natasha looked up at her and took her drink.  “They’re beautiful. I like that you chose the couch,” said Natasha.  Natasha downed the drink not wanting to enjoy it. She watched Mira set down her drink before Natasha felt Mira’s lips on hers. Her instinct wanted to go for the gun, but she didn’t. Natasha wrapped her arms around Mira like a rope holding onto her. For a couple minutes they kissed before Mira stopped.  “The world changed too quickly on us, didn’t it?” asked Natasha.  Natasha looked at her wondering why love could be hated so much just because of who people chose to love. All the people she had to kill, and now they wanted to test her loyalty.  “Yes, it did,” said Natasha.  Natasha watched Mira placed the side of her head against Natasha’s shoulder.  “I should have said I loved you before all this. What would you say back?” asked Mira.  Natasha looked in Mira’s eyes as Mira looked up to her.  “I would have said I loved you back,” said Natasha.  Natasha gave Mira another long kiss.  “They’re waiting out there. The Federation sent more with me,” said Natasha.  Natasha reached for her gun but only placed her hand on the holster.  “They’re expecting a test of loyalty. Either I kill your, or I die with you,” said Natasha.  Natasha watched Mira take the book.  “Is it possible to get away?” asked Mira.  Natasha shook her head knowing they wouldn’t make it.  “It’s not likely,” said Natasha.  Natasha held her tight as she briefly saw a round ball like device shatter the window and land a few feet beyond them.  “I love you,” said Natasha.  “I love you too,” said Mira.  Natasha closed her eyes feeling her feet lift from the ground as the device detonated. She held Mira tight as Natasha could feel her body impact the wood its splinters cutting at her with pieces of glass stabbing through her skin. She could feel the heat on her skin her clothes ripped away from her left side, and arm. The cold snow embraced her before chasing away the heat. Natasha turned her head to see Mira lying in the snow next to her.  She could see signs of life, but the damage had also been done. Natasha knew neither of them were in any condition to get up and run much less fire a weapon. She took Mira’s hand as it reached out for her. A gun echoed like thunder as Natasha could feel Mira’s hand go limp. Natasha reached for her gun wanting to at least kill one of the bastards before it all ended.  She grabbed it her arm growing hot from the burns on it that grew irritated by her arm’s movement. She drew it and took aim in a direction facing forward. The shots rang out her clip growing empty until only a click played like a record player. She let her arm fall gaining some satisfaction that she heard something heavy fall to the ground. Natasha looked to her side her last sight being the symbol of the Federation. A red and blue bear against a white background.


Death walked towards me and I turned away. When I turned, I found no place to go. So Death took my hand to lightly look at my face and I could not say no. I walked with Death. If there was light, I do not know. If there was dark, I do not know. All I could see was Death walking in front of me. “Death,” I said. “Are you my Death?” *“I am Death,”* they said. *“But not your death, I am the winter that comes without warning. I am the sun that sets without mourning. I am the leaves that turn yellow come autumn. I am the final note birds ever sing. I am the ending of everything. But, with every winter comes a new spring.”* “You are what takes without forgiveness. You are what stops the clocks that just started ticking. You are not fair and end all beginnings.” Death nodded at me and knew it was true. *“I do not decide when you will go. I am forever and will not stop existing, even to let you grow. Yes, I did end so many things but life does not stop at the ending of things. I can not say that I bring joy or that with me comes a new dawn of summer. But I can say that without me, love and life would suffer.”* I did not understand why I had to leave just yet but I think I was starting to. “Without the ending of things life can not live?” I squeezed their hand a little harder. *“If I did not come then things would stand still. Things have to wait their turn to come but without me they’d be waiting forever, because there are no endings. Yes, I am sad and an ending should not go unnoticed, but when there is an ending there is still an after.”* And Death smiled at me and squeezed my hand back. “What will come after me?” I was shaking with tears. *“You friends and family and every life you touched. They will go on.”* I thought about every person I had ever seen, even those I did not know the name of. Even those I had never seen the face of. “What if they forget me? What if they die before they can remember me?” The fear still lingered. *“You will not be forgotten. The worms under your feet remember your steps. The birds flying over you will know you are gone. All living things shake in my presence. They know when I am here and they know who I guide away. You have left a mark on the world. No life is useless and no life is truly forgotten.”* We walked for an eternity. I wondered how far we were going. “Did I waste my life focusing on death?” Death shook their head and smiled more softly. They told me that they had come to find that all humans feared death at one time. That I was just a person, a mortal who did all I could with my time. That I had not wasted a moment. “And what comes after?” I asked after they finished. *“That is up to you.”* “I think I am ready to go now.” And Death let go of my hand.


Love is a gamble. There are times it turns out well, living a life of fulfillment and pleasure, and there are times you lose every penny you own and the house in the divorce. But when it came to the Valdez women and love, they had exceptionally terrible luck when rolling the dice. That didn’t stop Mel Valdez from developing the biggest crush on Jack Brunson that had ever existed in the history of unrequited high school love. When she spotted him across the hall in freshman year: his olive skin, big brown eyes, beautiful dark hair, and those luscious lips that were the same color as-- Mel stopped herself. She was a Valdez, born to be cursed by love like all the other women in her family. Tiá Monica, at her late husband’s funeral, was surprised by unknown gambling debts, and his girlfriend. Turns out he faked his death in the end. Her abuelo left her abuela when he discovered she was pregnant with triplets. Her cousin Rosie’s husband turned out to be a crypto miner that sold all of their possessions only to lose them in a bad investment. Mel’s own father was currently doing time for being a serial arsonist who took pleasure in burning down abandoned malls. Jack Brunson and the way his soccer shorts made Mel’s heart flutter were buried far beneath the earth’s surface. Freshman year went without incident and Mel forced herself to forget everything about him and enjoy the few friends she had. Sisters before misters. Which worked until sophomore year, when Jack’s family moved and now he used the same train station as Mel to make it to school and her feelings came back with a vengeance. In order to survive Mel resurrected the “don’t talk to me” uniform she invented in middle school: AirPods in, eyes glued to the phone, and stand so far away from any other living thing that you melt into the background. Mel dusted off the old grunge hits for special effect and stood so far away from Jack on the platform she almost fell off the cement and onto the grass. That worked for a while, until it didn’t. Jack’s radiant smile and the way he always had so much energy no matter the heat in May or if the train shed was covered in snow by December, made it impossible to ignore him forever. Mel could at least say “good morning”. He was much too magnetic and far too gorgeous for her to not at least try. They would be seniors next year, practically adults, and Mel felt trapped by the idea that she was still the shy little immigrant girl who learned English in third grade. She couldn’t even talk to a boy and it put her so down in the dumps even her family began to notice. “What’s wrong mija?” Madre asked, not looking up from her papers across the dining room table. She had that annoying ability to sense that something was off even without looking. “Its nothing.” Mel pretend to read her economics textbook again. She heard Madre shuffle her papers and put them to the side. “Look at me Melody, I know what that look means.” Against every fiber of her being, Mel looked up, lovesickness practically pouring from her eyes. She hated her mother’s intuition. “Ma, how do you talk to a boy?” She asked. Mel knew just how this would go. Her mother sighed. “You don’t mija, get a cat instead, pretty much the same thing. They’re cute at first, smell, and eat all the time. But a pet won’t leave you to raise a daughter alone.” Mel frowned, she had heard that line a million times before. “Tiá Calista has ten cats and she’s still miserable. Her house reeks.” Mel said. “Don’t do it Melody. The Valdez women have learned--the hard way--that love is far more trouble than its worth. Your house still smells when you get married although Calista could get an air freshener or two.” “But--” “Is it that boy at the train stop?” Madre asked. “No. Yes, but he’s not like other--” “Oh mija, cute boys are worse than ugly ones. Your tió Pablo was alright looking and faked his own death. Your father was the most beautiful man on the island and his hobby was burning old malls.” Mel’s mother snarled, the anger flooding back to her. “Madré.” Mel complained. If she didn’t stop this now her mother would slip into Spanish and say things that would turn Mel’s ears red. Her mother shook her head “Lo siento, your father is just a colossal--anyways. No boys, never boys. Love and the Valdez women do not mix.” Melody felt even worse and as disappointed as she may have been, she could not argue with her mother. Her father was a decently handsome man and an arsonist. If her and someone as gorgeous as Jack ever got together he would come out as a terrorist or the leader of some massive cartel. Mel became resolute in ignoring Jack’s kind morning nods or the way he sang to himself and she especially had to look away when he came to school in his soccer uniform. Those short shorts and tight jersey made her swoon so hard she was tempted to jump off the platform to hide her cherry colored cheeks. They would never work out anyways. Jack was popular, star defender of the soccer team, and able to answer every question in class with ease. Mel was an introverted girl who learned to speak English well after her peers did, and just thinking about speaking up in class transported her back to the days of being embarrassed by classmates that made fun of her accent, smelly foreign food, and Dora light up shoes. Mel learned how to ditch the accent, brought more American food for lunch, and learned to dress well, but her timid nature remained. She was more comfortable in the shadows of obscurity rather than the limelight that would come with being the girlfriend of Jack Brunson, leader of an infamous and dangerous drug cartel. It was stupid to think she could talk to him and he would give her more than a cursory good morning nod. So the days came and went. Mel would arrive every morning, silent as ever despite being the only two lifeforms at the platform and donning her bulletproof “don’t talk to me” uniform. Senior year arrived, the college applications were filled out, and Melody’s mother was proud that her daughter chose to follow in her footsteps and study pre-law a few hours away in the city. Jack was awarded a soccer scholarship out of state and Mel wasn’t surprised. She didn’t find out from Jack of course, she just couldn’t help herself from following all the gossip that pertained to him and his muscular calves. May approached and soon this game of avoiding her crush at the train station would come to an end. Mel could drown herself in classwork, get herself a pleasant non--smelly cat, and find fulfilment in a career as a lawyer. She had avoided the curse of love, dancing around it for years only to come out victorious in the end. Melody would be the one Valdez woman never burned by such evil. That was until she broke her ankle, was tossed into a cast, and expected to carry a massive foam board onto the train while using crutches. “Are you sure mija? I can go in late and drive you all the way. I’m always early, they won’t care this one time.” Madre asked as she dropped Melody off at the platform. Mel rolled her eyes. Her mother was always late. “No, its fine. Lucy always gets on at the stop after mine. She’ll help.” “Alright. Just checking.“ It was unbelievably hot and walking with crutches and holding a massive foam board and trying to avoid the boy she was in love with was stupid. She should have taken her mother up on her offer, but Mel would live, although navigating the stairs was an olympic feat. Jack arrived later than usual, gave her his cursory nod and a quizzical look at her cast and project, but went back to his humming. The train sounded down the hill, motoring along with its familiar squeak and squeals and just as Mel gathered her things the world fell apart. Her crutches slipped from beneath her, her project slid across the platform, and her AirPods popped out as she tumbled. The cement platform bit into her legs, her already broken ankle throbbed with pain, and Mel’s hands were raw from her fall. “Are you okay?” Jack gathered her board and was at her side, holding her things. It would be a dream to be helped by the most handsome boy on the planet, but Mel was filled with dread. She looked like a toddling mess in front of Jack and he was looking directly into her eyes. And oh, what gorgeous eyes they were. “Mhmm.” Mel mumbled. Idiot! She couldn’t even use an actual word in the English dictionary. Stupid. “I can carry your stuff for you. Looks like you’ve got a lot going on.” Jack smiled and then did a small chuckle. His laugh sweetened the air, it brightened the sun, the clouds even seemed to melt away. Mel’s heart was ready to eject itself from her chest. The Valdez women were to avoid love and cute boys, like oil did water or models did a bad hair day. “Here, let me help you.” Jack’s hands were on hers, helping her up. They were soft and yet so strong. She made another unintelligent sound and Jack laughed. Mel was an idiot. She got an A in advanced placement language arts and literature. She loved to write and read so why was English deserting her now? Heck, Spanish would be better than sounding like Sméagol. “Don’t want to be late.” Jack said. He handed her the crutches, shouldered her bag and project and even kicked a stray flyer out of her way. The train was slowing down. “Its Melody right?” Jack asked. “Yes. You’re Jack.” Mel was glad she rediscovered her voice, but she could have said something cooler than stating the obvious. “Yeah that’s me. I remember that time in debate where you totally owned Larissa. It was pretty epic.” He laughed again, as the doors opened. “You’ve been on the soccer team and took them to state three years in a row.” Mel said, forcing her face to not flush. Jack rubbed the back of his head, teen heartthrob style and chuckled. “I didn’t really have anything to do with that. Conner is the real M.V.P.” Smart, athletic, and humble. He must have been the leader of the illuminati or plotting to bomb the UN. Mel was convinced. She sat down on the train and about fainted realizing that Jack chose to sit next to her. Her chest was about ready to tear itself apart. The conversation lasted all the way to school and couldn’t have gone any better, but Mel wondered when it would end. Jack would move on with his life and one day tell the story to his children about how he helped this klutz wearing crutches in high school. But the conversation didn’t stop: not after graduation, not after the first year of college, not even after years of dating when he told her he had something big to tell her. Turns out he wasn’t the leader of Al Qaeda or part of a shadow government. Jack just had a ring and an important question to ask her. Sometimes even for those with the worst luck, worst tíos, and worst padres, the dice could roll just right.


It was hard to see the therapist in the dark. The dim overhead light cast deep shadows over his face, barely illuminating the tops of his ears and bridge of a long nose. The rest was lost in darkness, swathed in the deep black of the silent room. I breathed out slowly, trying to focus myself. The session was taking me to difficult questions, making me focus on thoughts I would rather ignore, and it took effort. I felt like I was stumbling barefoot across jagged rocks, knowing that if I didn’t, eventually they would get too sharp to walk on and I’d be stuck on the other side forever. ‘I said I’d stay until Adrian was 18,’ I sighed, putting my head in my hands again and rubbing at my face, as though I could invigorate some decisiveness into my skin. ‘But he’s 16 now, and two years just seems like a lifetime. I don’t know if I could take it.’ ‘What is it that scares you about that?’ the therapist asked in his soft, considered voice. So non-judgmental. So understanding. I hated him, and wanted a drink very badly. I leaned back on my chair, resting my head on the cold hard shelf behind me. A bookshelf, I assumed. I couldn’t see it in the dark, but therapists always had bookshelves in movies. ‘At 16 he’s old enough to understand,’ the doctor continued, ‘so if you had to leave sooner you wouldn’t be letting him down -‘ ‘That’s not what I meant.’ I said flatly, perhaps rudely, cutting across him. ‘I mean that if I don’t go, I think I might do something I regret. I’m just so, angry. All the time. Everything she does makes me want to sneer and snarl, and it’s all I can do to restrain myself.’ ‘And how does she feel?’ asked the voice in the darkness. I rubbed at my throbbing temples. ‘I think she knows. I’m sure she’s been different recently. More waspish, more irritable. She marches around doing household chores like some indignant martyr, even though I do most of them now, since I lost my job, as though making an effort to highlight how much she’s doing for us. For me. And how little I’m doing. Like I’m nothing but a man-child in her way. A bum. An alcoh -‘ I cut myself off and sat silently in the dark, staring at the approximate spot where my feet should be. A few moments passed, the still air broken only by my slightly elevated breathing. ‘An alcoholic?’ the velvet voice almost whispered. I nodded, forgetting for a moment that the therapist couldn’t see me any more than I could see him. ‘Are you sure this anger is really about her?’ the unseen doctor asked, and I felt something within me twinge at the suggestion. Something defensive. Of course it was about her. She was being unreasonable. She was the one making a bad situation worse. She was the one who - Wasn’t having therapy. I gritted my teeth, biting back the sudden resentment I felt towards the therapist. On the heels of that feeling a thought crossed my mind. ‘Hey, why do you keep it so dark in here anyway?’ ‘You wanted it this way. And these kinds of sessions need to feel...private, wouldn’t you say?’ I nodded heavily again, trying to remember if I’d asked for the darkness. Perhaps it was because of the headache. Or the thirst. ‘How does Carla feel about your drinking?’ Asked the therapist, after a pause. I squinted up at the light, suddenly wishing I had a drink in my hand and hating myself for it. Carla hated it, of course. Hated it and blamed it for what had happened to me. But she had it backwards. I wasn’t a wreck before I lost my job, but I’d been trying to avoid becoming one ever since. ‘She says she’s being supportive,’ I muttered, not liking the catch in my throat or the feeling of tingling heat behind my eyes. ‘But every time she looks at me, every time I catch her shaking her head and staring out the window, every time I overhear her on the phone. I just...get worse. And she gets worse. She’s making me this way.’ I felt a hot blaze of rage building up inside me, and was grateful to have a replacement for the empty despair that had been filling my stomach before. ‘Making me into a drunk,’ I growled, and kicked out at the unseen room. My foot connected with something hard and I heard the tinkle of glass bouncing on a hard surface. I paused, confused. ‘Hey what was that?’ I asked, the hot rage receding and the unhappy thoughts returning. With them came the thirst. ‘You tell me,’ the therapist replied, ‘it’s your house.’ At that the mists cleared a bit and I remembered. A house call, of course. The thought seemed to float in front of me for a moment, as though wondering whether I would accept it or not. I wanted to, felt myself leaning toward it, only for it to flit away on insubstantial wings. Something wasn’t quite right. ‘Do you often do house calls?’ I asked, blinking at the dim light and trying to think my way through my muddled thoughts. ‘Very often,’ the soft voice replied. ‘I’m always available.’ ‘Even on Christmas,’ it added, with a single mirthless chuckle. ‘Tell me more about the relationship now,’ the therapist said from the chair in the deep shadows. ‘Tell me about this week.’ In my mind I saw Carla’s face, hard and unsmiling. Looking at me in that awful way, like she didn’t even know me anymore, and wouldn’t care to if she met me now for the first time. I felt the guilt, the failure, the anguish that arose in me at the sight of that face, and the cleansing anger that followed behind. The terrible rage that burned away those gut-wrenching feelings and replaced them with a light and heat that gave me structure, gave me dignity. Let me feel like I was the one wronged, like I was justified. ‘This week was the last straw,’ I said bitterly, realising as I said it that it was true. I’d made my mind up after all, it seemed. ‘I went to the job centre. This was on Monday. Got up early, really early, and took care not to wake her. I wanted to show her I could be responsible like I was before.’ ‘Admirable,’ the voice commented, but I barely registered the almost sardonic intonation. ‘I got there long before they opened, but so had hundreds of others. There was a line outside, stretching all the way through the parking lot. Even at five in the morning. So I stood there, behind this fat guy with a pillow in his hand. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but as time went on and he ended up lying on the ground with it tucked under his head, I started to envy him. The centre didn’t open until 9, so I had to stand there for four hours.’ ‘A considerable effort,’ the voice said soothingly. ‘It was! And then I spent all day waiting to be seen, only to be told that I was too under-qualified for anything on their books and I needed to come back the next day when they might have some unskilled roles. I told them I would do anything, literally anything, and they said no. I got angry, they got angry. And I ended up being thrown out. It made no sense.’ ‘Didn’t it?’ ‘No!’ ‘Were you drinking?’ ‘No! Not so you’d notice! I had a few swigs in the car park over the four hours I was standing there, but lots of people were doing that. I can’t have been the only one who had whiskey on his breath.’ ‘Is that what you told Carla?’ ‘Damn her!’ I shouted in a flash of vicious anger. ‘Yes that’s what I told her. But she’d already been on the phone with her friends. Some of their husbands had been in the line too - we’d all lost our jobs when the plant closed - and they’d heard what that job centre guy said. About me needing to clean myself up and come back the next day. Word had gone round that I’d been drunk.’ ‘But you hadn’t?’ ‘No! I’d had a drink. I wasn’t drunk. But she didn’t believe me. She believed them.’ ‘So what did you do?’ I smirked bitterly in the darkness. ‘I drank. I drank like crazy just to spite her. I drank everything in the fridge whilst she stood and shouted at me. I opened the cabinet and started on the whiskey as she screamed and cried in the kitchen. I was heading to the door to the garage to see what else I could find when I heard her on the phone. She’d called the police. The police! She had me arrested. I was in jail overnight.’ ‘I’m not surprised,’ the voice said flatly, a note of disgust creeping into its icy tone. I paused, blinking away the anger that had been rising up within me at the thought of that night. The police arriving, gripping me by the arms, dragging me to the car as I screamed and shouted at Carla. The neighbours staring. My dignity in tatters, my marriage on fire, my life in ruins. The awful way she’d treated me since that day. ‘I said I’m not surprised,’ the therapist continued, ‘what else should she have done? You’d become a bum. A nothing. A down-and-out drunkard not fit for human company.’ ‘What the hell...?’ I stammered, taken aback by the suddenly vicious voice, the snarling contempt of the therapist’s tone. ‘She could never love such a failure as you,’ it continued mercilessly, a deep chuckle reverberating behind the words, as though emanating from another throat. A hideous sinking feeling settled into my stomach, festering alongside the anger, stoking it further. Fear. ‘You’re worthless. Reviled. Less than nothing.’ ‘Shut up!’ I shrieked, my eyes frantically darting around the darkness of my basement, trying to locate the therapist and the dim light above his head. Only shadow swirled before me, the light extinguished. I tried to stumble to my feet, accidentally knocking the glass bottle I’d kicked before. I made a blind grab for it as it tinkled into the darkness. The realisation flashed through my mind as my fingers brushed the bottle; therapists don’t make house calls or conduct interviews in basements... My mind cleared as the chuckling unseen thing in the blackness broke into full blown laughter. My hand closed around the weighty bottle, and I raised it in a two handed grip as I faced where I thought the ‘therapist’ was. ‘You pathetic mess,’ it spat at me in a rasping voice like death itself, ‘you deserve everything you will get.’ I screamed and threw myself at the darkness, brandishing the bottle in an overhead swipe I hoped would smash over my unseen tormentor’s head. But then a light exploded into my eyes, a squeal of a basement door opening on a rusted hinge deafening me, and I stumbled at the dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. I fell bodily onto the figure, bringing down the bottle with as much force as I could muster. The body crumpled beneath me without a sound, and I landed awkwardly sprawled on it, my fall cushioned. I felt the crack of ribs beneath me and the warmth of blood on my hands, but it wasn’t until I sat back that I realised what I’d done. My vision swam in an alcoholic haze as I looked down on Carla’s ruined face amid the shards of the whiskey bottle, and from somewhere far away I heard a deep, cruel laughter echoing in my mind. I swear that’s how it happened.


I wish we spent more time together. I have a faint memory of us playing catch with that bouncy red ball. Even then, you were in a rush to leave. Why couldn’t we be like other families? When you were off work, you’d wash your car and I would get to clean the rims. Every time I was sitting in the back of my friend’s car, his dad would be driving, and I wondered why it was not you. They say there's 24 hours in a day and even then, I only get you for two. At times, I felt like I’ve only seen you in the evening. And even when you got home, you looked too tired to play, too tired to acknowledge me, too tired to be bothered. You bought me new shoes. Shoes that are now worn from walking to school, walking from school, running home, and running away. I wanted to play sports, but I know you’d never come to see me so I didn’t even try. You constantly told me an education is important, but you never taught me anything. You told me what I had to do, but never showed me how. I see you’re getting older, I can hear it in your voice. I witness the way you move and how age really is more than just a number. I feel like I’ll never be the son you wanted. I hope you forgive me. I wish we spent more time together. I was in line to buy some lunch, but got this bouncy red ball instead. I thought that it was bouncy enough for it to jump back so you can have something when I am not around. You loved it and it was worth getting scolded for being late to work. Sometimes I see other families, and I wish we had what they have. You’re old enough to help me wash the car. The rims are low to the ground, so you wouldn’t need to climb a ladder or chair, and it requires a lot of attention to detail, something I need you to learn in life. Sometimes I wish I could leave this place. Working here consumes me...but it is the only way for me to make sure you can live comfortably. I would trade it all to just pick you up from school someday. The hour I see you before school and the hour when I get home make all the hours of work worth it. You’re outgrowing me. I get home from work and you’re never excited anymore. I guess you’re learning to live without your old man. I hide my sorrow behind my sighs. I try to buy you anything you need. With the little we have, I spend it all on you. I don’t understand these trends, but I want you to have the best. I wish you shared more about what you’re involved in, I don’t know how to support you now. I wish I knew more about education. All I know is that you need it, so you don’t have to live like me. I see you getting older. I can hear it in your voice. You’re washing your own car now, working your own jobs, and taking care of yourself. I know I’ll never be the father you wanted. I hope you can forgive me. I wish we spent more time together.


It is said that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They look different for everyone, and many become stuck on one stage for long periods of time, or for others, it becomes an endless cycle that you have no control over. A never-ending cycle that consumes you and leaves you feeling nothing and empty all over again once it is completed. I woke up once again at exactly 3:40 a.m. with a shiver of fear running through my body as I tried to gasp for a breath of air, but I couldn't move a single part of my body, just my eyes. I could see him standing in the corner of the room in front of the fogged-up window staring at me with his empty and frozen eyes, but I couldn't scream for help, I never can for what seems an eternity. I lay there staring into his dead blue eyes that bore through my soul while he continued to smile at me and laugh when I tried to scream. And just when I think it's over, he's right above me screaming so loud I feel like my head is about to explode. "JAYLIN! Don't leave me behind, I am begging you." His voice filled with anger and fear makes my body become full of terror, the same terror I felt that night in the woods. I begin to feel myself come out of my sleep paralysis, and a feeling of relief replaces my fear. And once I am able to control my own body again, I begin to cry uncontrollably to the point I feel I will never be able to stop again, terrified of looking towards the fogged-up window. I slowly lift my head, pleading that he won't be there anymore, and He's gone, my brother is gone. "He's gone," I repeat to myself continuously as I gaze at the pitch-black sky filled with stars through the window where he had just stood a few moments ago. The thought of closing my eyes horrified me, so I stared at the fan spinning on the ceiling as tears streamed down my face, waiting for the sun to come in through the windows. Although I was awake, I still could not shake the suffocating feeling of someone watching me. The continuous loud sound of the ceiling fan's blades spinning made me gradually remember that night. I could still feel my bare feet running through the woods as blood trickled slowly down my face, and I gasped for enough air to make it towards the lights of the cars in the road up ahead. I remember I kept thinking to myself, how is this happening? How did we get here from a simple car ride? My mother, my twin brother, and I had lived in a lower-middle-class neighborhood our entire lives because my single mother worked restlessly in energy devouring jobs to make enough money to pay for our rent. Ever since we were children, my brother, Alex, and I had become comfortable with being alone because of the endless hours our mother worked. In the days leading up to the accident, my brother had mentioned to me that he had an unsettling feeling of being watched all day. Still, I just ignored him, thinking he was just stressed because of our financial problems since our mother had lost one of her jobs during the summer, and she never let us help her out with money no matter the circumstances. Throughout the summer before our second year of high school, Alex became so paranoid that he would not leave his room all day. When he did, he acted as if someone were always behind us, but I just never paid attention to it until the night a week before we would enter school again. I went to sleep late because I stayed up watching T.V, but I never realized at what time I drifted to sleep. I woke up in the passenger seat of our mother's car with my brother driving with bloodshot eyes that made me feel like I was just in a horrible dream. Am I really in a dream? I repeated to myself multiple times as my body remained stiff in the same position because my senses became widened, and I wasn't expecting to be greeted by my brother because I never am in my dreams but is this a dream? I finally gave in and decided I would simply look over at the time on the radio screen, and it was exactly 3:40 a.m. "Alex?" I glanced over at him nervously as my skin crawled as the fright in my body began to rise, but he only looked through me towards the window, staring blankly at the woods we were passing without speaking a word. I began to look around at our surroundings, and it seemed as if we were in the middle of nowhere with no other cars behind us, and suddenly, we came to a stop. "Alex, what's going on? Where are we?" I stared at him anxiously as my voice broke because I feared he wouldn't answer me. "Stay in the car. He's watching us, and I have to get rid of him." His voice sounded so lifeless and empty that it seemed as if I was just having a bad dream, but I wasn't. He slammed the car door before letting me speak a word and went to the trunk of the car, but all I could think of was that he did not leave the keys for me in the ignition. I decided to get out of the car and ask him for them even though every single sense I had was telling me not to. As I slowly stepped out of the car, a wave of cold air hit my face and my bare feet. I took my hair down from the ponytail it was in, hoping it would give my neck some warmth. I was still in my pajamas I had fallen asleep in, and once my feet hit the concrete road, I realized I wasn't wearing any shoes. Everything was dark, and I could not find my phone anywhere to use as my source of light. "Alex, can I have the keys?" I asked him as I looked down at my feet to make sure I did not step on anything, but when I did not receive an answer, I looked up and I was all alone. My brother was gone. Where could he have gone? "JAYLIN!!" I continuously heard my name being yelled from the woods by a voice I could not recognize, but the fear in my body paralyzed me. I hoped that a car would show up on the road, but one never did. "JAYLIN!!" Once again, my name but this time it was my brother's voice, and without a thought, I ran towards the scream, into the woods afraid that he was being hurt. The screams stopped suddenly, making me stop along with an uneasy feeling that made me become alert. I tried to convince myself it was the adrenaline flooding my system, pumping and beating as if it were trying to escape my body because it made my heart feel as if it were about to explode, and my eyes were wide with fear of the darkness. My body wants to run toward the car's safety, so I turn to the direction I had come from and try to run towards the road, but instead, I remain where I am. Every sense in my body alerted me of danger more and more each second that I stood there until I felt the gaze of a predator upon my back, making every hair in my body stand up, but I knew it was not a coyote or a bear. No, it was a different predator, a human. The adrenaline in my body rises so high I become nauseous and sweat begins to trickle down my forehead. At some point, I'll have to move and face the person behind me, so I begin to slowly turn around. Once I turn around, my eyes locked with his bloodshot and cloudy eyes, a stare that seems to reach into my soul and sends shivers down my back. The emptiness in his eyes destroyed any trace of hope I had desperately held on to. His eyes were the eyes that prepared people for their death. I looked at him, his face covered with blood and a kitchen knife in his left hand. "Alex?" My voice seemed to crack as the fear in my body rose. He stared at me as if he did not know who I was as if we were strangers. I searched for one trace of life in his eyes, but there was none. He smiled. He smiled at me, but his eyes were empty. "It's gone. I'm free." He whispered through his grin as he looked down at his blood-covered hands. I could see him begin to lift the knife on his left hand slowly while his smile grew bigger. He slowly began to lift his head towards my direction, and without a single thought, without hesitation, I began to run towards the road. Facing forward, I began to sprint, my feet flying over stones and leaves on the forest floor between the trees. The cold air bites into my lungs as I gasped for air, enough air to make it towards the road. I can feel him behind me, his heavy breathing. With each step, pain shoots through my entire body as my bare feet desperately attempt to pull my tired body forward. My heart beats frantically, the sound filling my ears, adrenaline fills my veins as if it were blood and the cold air begins to make my eyes water, making my vision blurry. The woods seem endless, even though I've only been running for a few minutes. Branches of trees continuously hit my face making blood trickle down from my forehead. I knew I could not hide or fight, but I did not feel like I could go much longer. I felt more human, more mortal than I had ever before. Just before my legs were about to give up, the sight of light beams in the distance on the concrete road gave me a tiny trace of hope. "JAYLIN! Don't leave me behind." I could hear his raspy voice filled with anger and fear all at once, the voice of a stranger I had once known. I could not look back because I knew I would not be able to leave him if I did. The feeling of concrete beneath my bare feet made me lunge forward towards the truck light beams. My hand desperately reached towards the passenger side's silver metal handle with the hope that the truck would be unlocked. "Help me, please. Please!" I screamed in the driver's face as he slowly came to a stop as I pulled the door open. He did not respond, but his facial expressions of concern and terror of what he saw behind me made me jump into the truck without hesitation as he sped off. I was rushed to the hospital by the man who had saved me from the endless woods. My mother and the police kept questioning me about what happened, but I couldn't open my mouth. I could not speak a single word. When I was home the next day, we were informed by the police that my brother had been found murdered in the woods by multiple stab wounds, and they estimated he had been murdered around 3:50 a.m., but that didn't make sense. I saw him with my own two eyes. He was the one chasing me for over 10 minutes. How could that be possible? Now all I can do is wait with my unsettling feeling of being watched, hoping that I won't be next.


My day started as usual. I woke up, took a shower, and got ready for school. And as usual, I was five minutes late for class. As I walked into class, the professor looks in my direction. "Glad you could join us, Serena." She makes eye contact. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?" "Apologies Professor, I'll take my seat." "Thank you. As I was saying, if you want to write a good article in this Journalism course, you better pay attention." She kept going with the lesson, but my mind spaced out, thinking I remember this... But that was impossible, I couldn't possibly know the whole lesson. maybe just a part of it is familiar. That's right! Only a little part is something I know! Nope. The rest of the lesson was as if I'd already learned it. Weird enough though, I didn't have any notes on the lesson, even though I clearly remember writing them. Oh, well. Looks like I'll just have to re-write them. What was the lesson the day before yesterday? I thought about it, and the lesson didn't make sense. Why would we learn about the proper technique of writing an article for journalism, if we're only learning about Journalism today? Well, that was another thing that didn't make sense. There were no notes for that lesson either. I let the thought leave my mind and decided to talk to Professor Chase after class. Class went by a lot quicker than I thought it would. While everyone was streaming out of the classroom, I walked up to the professor. "Excuse me, Professor Chase, do you have a minute?" "Sure, what's on your mind Serena?" I took a deep breath. " Well, I had a question about today's lesson. It was as if I had already learned it. For some reason, it seemed like this lesson was taught yesterday. Is that normal?" Professor Chase looked like I'd slapped her. "Well, that's certainly odd. How about the day before yesterday?" "I think we learned about the proper technique to writing an article in Journalism. At least, that's what I think we learned about. I don't seem to have the notes for that lesson though." I looked at her. "Professor, are you alright? You look like someone smacked you between the eyes with a book." Her voice was hardly above a whisper when she spoke. "That was tomorrow's lesson. How? I didn't even write the whole lesson plan..." She stares into my eyes for an uncomfortable thirty seconds. "I suggest you go and get a check-up in the infirmary. You might be ill." Okaay, that's weird. She's acting as if you're crazy. But, it would makes sense as to why I know 'the future' or whatever. "Okay, Professor. If I'm not sick, see you tomorrow!" I left the classroom quickly, because the Professor's actions were scaring me. Instead of going to the infirmary, I went to the library. To the science fiction section. I began to look for things like people telling the future, knowing the future, or something like forgetting the past and only "remembering" the future. Nothing. Literally nothing came up. How is it possible that nothing comes up? There has to be something like that in that section, because it makes no logical sense. Since I didn't find anything, I let the subject drop for the time being. I didn't mention already knowing the lessons in class, or how I oddly knew things that didn't happen yet, like the new drink at Starblock's Coffee. (I knew ahead of time by, like three weeks. oops.) Mostly, my life went back to normal, except for the fact that I still didn't remember anything like who my parents were, my friends, other family, and what I liked. But, I put that subject aside. For now. -A couple months later- By now, I had graduated from the University of Journalism, and was currently looking for a job as a journalist. It was a futile search, because it seemed as though all the jobs were already taken. So, I was just working part-time as a barista.(Yes, at Starblock's.) Most days that I worked were easy, but busy. My hourly wage wasn't much, but it was enough to get by, live semi-comfortably. -Two years later- "Serena, are you ready?" an unfamiliar voice says from the shadows of my bedroom. "Ready for what? What's going on?" "Are you ready for the answers you've been looking for for the past three years?" I can't say that I wasn't shocked as to how this person knew who I was, and more so, about my secret. "Who are you first of all? And second, how the hell did you get into my house?!" "All those questions will be answered if you come with me." The voice was definitely female, but not of anyone I knew. "Where are we going? What should I prepare myself for?" "All of that will be explained when we arrive." -A long ride in a fancy car later- "Are we finally here where I will receive the answers I've been seeking for the past three years?" "Yes." I came to know the person who broke into my house as Akira. She was generally average looking, but her eyes were very, very electric green, as if they were fake. She was a lot more intimidating with her voice, but when she was just sitting there, you wouldn't expect her to be the kind of person to sneak into someone's house in the middle of the night. Honestly, I should've known that this would happen today, but oddly, I only saw parts of it. "So, who am I here to see?" "The boss. She's been investigating you for two years." "Is that even legal?!" "Yep, Boss runs her own private detective agency. Hardly any people come though, because she doesn't advertise her services." Akira led me through a building, still dark with the early morning. (More like 2 am, but whatever.) The corridors we walked through were all empty, except for an occasional potted plant. "Here we are. Just through that door, the Boss is waiting for you." "Finally. What should I expect? Is the 'Boss' scary, or just normal?" Akira didn't respond, just nodded her head toward the door. I reluctantly went in. Surprisingly, the inside was well lit, and it looked nice. "You're here," said a voice from across the large room. "Sure, took you long enough." "YOU!" The "Boss" was Professor Charlotte Chase. "Surprised?" "Um, yeah. Were you an undercover detective the whole time?" "Yes. I was assigned to investigate you, before I took the role of your Journalism professor. That was before you got your father's gift, yes?" "My father's gift?" "Yes, Serena. Your father was also gifted. Your mother on the other hand, is just a private detective." "Are you hinting something here?" "Yep, I'm your mother, and I'm guessing you forgot? The gift of knowing the future, comes with memory loss from your past on the day the gift was activated." "How come? What the heck?! how does that logically make sense?" "It doesn't, but going completely off topic here, would you like to work for my agency? You would probably be the best detective around." -Later. Much Later- "And the Detective of the Year award goes to Serena Chase!" ~The End~


“I ain’t working Christmas Eve. I’ll walk out!” Linda took a long slow drag off her Strawberry Vanilla vape and exhaled dramatically. “Are you smoking again?” Toni asked, her voice intermittently fading, just strong enough to push through the weak signal. “Vaping,” Linda answered. “Since Jordan was diagnosed with asthma last month. I swear it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done but, what can you do?” Her lips tugged at the warm electric pen. Feet propped in a red plastic chair and eyes locked on the puddle collecting at the foot of the staff refrigerator, she sighed and said again, “I ain’t doing it. I ain’t working Christmas Eve. I worked half of my Thanksgiving last week and I’m gonna spend Christmas Eve with my boys.” “People need gas on Christmas, too, Linda,” her cousin reminded, passively coaching her to reconsider resignation. “No, the hell they don’t! By Christmas Eve, everybody is where they need to be, and if they ain’t, then they just need to sit their ass at home and let the rest of us enjoy our time with our kids!” The door swung open, barely any time for the arthritic hinges to groan in protest. A young and red-faced Cassie Martin stood in the doorway, dark green eyes ballooned with agitation behind her thick frames. Here was the posterchild of panic. Cassie’s chest visibly heaved beneath her black wool sweater while her hands nervously flapped, communicating her frustration better than her words. “I’m so sorry,” she started breathlessly. “It’s getting backed up and I don’t know what to do!” Linda sighed at the new girl. “This is called a breakroom for a reason.” Were those actual tears forming in the girl’s eyes? Her lip trembled as she started to turn away. “Cassie,” Linda called in a singsong voice. The young cashier turned to the sound of her name. Linda sighed again, eyes connecting with her co-worker. “Breathe, okay? Stress will kill you.” One last draw from the mechanical stick. She assured her cousin she would call her back. “These people act like we’re the only damn place to get gas in this town!” she explained before disconnecting. “We practically are,” Cassie chimed in. Self-righteous Cassie. Always had to find a way to correct someone. “At least, the only good one with clean restrooms.” Linda rolled her eyes. “I admire your passion, new girl, but you sound like a commercial. I give you a month, tops, till you’re looking for somewhere else to go. See how them clean restrooms feel when you’re overworked, underpaid and going home with bricks in your back every night.” There was no real reason for Linda’s bones to click and pop the way they did. She was only 32 but some days those tired bones felt closer to 80. She lurched out of the small quiet paradise of the breakroom, prematurely leaving behind a world of peace. No constant chiming of a door that never closes. No motors revving, teenagers howling, radios blaring through the parking lot. No boys fighting over who gets the remote. In that breakroom, for those 30 minutes, was her time. Was her shameless hideaway. Solitude was worth her weight in gold. “Lord, Jesus!” Linda exasperated as she came around the corner to see a line backed down to the coolers. Cassie’s body relaxed the moment her eyes found Linda entering the battlefield. Her guardian. Her on-the-job savior. Cassie’s heroine wore a baggy gray hoodie, light blue jeans and white laceless high tops. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a careless bun, bangs long overdue for a trim created a curtain over her stormy blue eyes. “Next!” she called out to the long jagged line of bundled bodies. Linda sure loved her pump payers. It wasn’t unusual to glimpse her waving out the window as they fueled up, showing her antisocial appreciation for those diehard “Gas and Go” customers. Flipside to that coin is that most gas stations cannot survive without its cache of on-the-go drinks, junk food and some here-and-there necessities. A cold, fresh cola and a $5 scratch-off. Next! Fistful of corn chips, two drinks and a 2-pill packet of painkillers. Next! Three energy drinks, a pine air freshener and a lottery ticket. Next! The mass of bodies disappeared one by one, sometimes two by two. Moving, moving, moving along. All but one. One small-framed body swallowed up by a thick brown parka. A woman. She stood off to the side, evading the line like a timid doe. That face. Linda didn’t mean to stare, but she knew that face. Zoning into that familiar face, her stomach suddenly clenched. It was Catherine Holmes. Linda took a deep breath as the line of customers dwindled down to three. Two. One. Pump payers outside the window never slowed. An assembly line of gas guzzlers. But for now, quiet. Catherine approached the counter in just a couple slow steps. Weak steps. Heavy. Her face was more pale than Linda remembered. Thinner. More fragile. Sunken cheeks accented the sharp angles of her cheekbones, feeding up into hollow sockets wherein lay eyes the color of syrup and just as sweet. Those docile but tired eyes were islands to the surrounding dark oceans encircling them. Undoubtedly sleepless, shark-infested oceans. Catherine’s hair was unkempt. Listless chestnut faded with a touch of gray in the roots, precocious for Catherine’s age. Linda always believed silver hair was earned and should be celebrated. It’s just that Catherine was so young. The wrinkles mapped at the corners of her thin lips, trailing down her neckline were untimely. “Hey Cathy.” Linda pressed her lips tightly together and offered a smile that fell limp. That one simple greeting wore a tone of sympathy like a thick musk. It was an obvious tone, and one she tried to avoid with zero success. Catherine attempted a friendly smile in return. Old habits. She was so good at it, hiding the devastation just beneath the surface. Years of practice, most likely. Though the effort was genuine, a blind man could clearly see the tremendous strain it took on Catherine to lift and hold the corners of her mouth. It was still odd to see Catherine so bleached of life where once she glowed. The silence quickened Linda’s already racing heart. Flanked by the candy bar rack and a small box of cherry lip balm was a clear plain mason jar. The quart-sized jar held a most demanding presence anytime Catherine or Mark Holmes came in, especially now. An image frozen in a time not long ago, taped at all four corners on the front of the jar, was the sweetly smiling pale face of 9-year-old Luke Holmes. For being captivated by the boy’s gentle eyes that sparkled like emerald gems and a genuine smile that could light the darkest recesses of the world, the hospital bed and oxygen hose were almost unnoticeable. He proudly held his game controller high above his head. Catherine had fondly told the story the day she set the jar up. After giving up twice in six months, Luke had finally defeated the end game boss in Turbo Wars Maximum. He was beyond excited that day. What the photo didn’t capture, Catherine had said, was the tears that followed only minutes later from the pain that ignited through his delicate bones. Linda reflected intimately on that story every payday when she would slip $10 through the slitted top and say a silent prayer for the boy and his family. “Twenty on pump four, please.” Catherine’s request was almost inaudible. Her thin fingers shuffled through a wad of $1 bills. Royal blue nail polish flat and chipped on every nail. Linda noticed the fine shaking in the woman’s hands as she recalled where all those single dollar bills came from. The yard sale just a few short weeks ago on Clarity Lane. Sold damn near everything she had. Linda had found the perfect place in her kitchen for the flamingo figurine she bought at Cathy’s yard sale. And her own two boys loved playing the video games Luke gave them that day. Free of charge with strategic tips, Luke insisted. Linda tucked $40 over asking price into the donation bucket, and an extra $10 for Luke’s generous gameplay tips to Jordan and Cam. Those dollar bills between Catherine’s trembling fingers were the products of true devotion. She and her family sacrificed the things they held dear in order to raise money for Luke. Furniture, clothes, antiques, video games, appliances. It was a wonder they had anything left in their house. Linda reached for the jar. The cold on the glass nipped at her fingers. “While you’re here,” she said, trying to tilt her voice into a more chipper tone. She twisted the lid and withdrew $16.75. It felt good to hand it across the counter to those feebly shuddering hands. To give the other woman anything opened up her lungs just a little. Catherine stopped counting the dollar bills and looked at the money in Linda’s hands. Then, she recounted the bills again, this time passing over $4 to add to the $16. The door chimed with a customer. A gentleman in a thin coat over black slacks and polished black shoes. He grabbed a newspaper and a coffee. Cassie called him over. The quiet mumblings between customer and cashier were whispers on the other side of the counter. The weather talk. The holiday talk. “Thank you,” Catherine quietly spoke, bringing Linda’s attention back around. “People are kind.” “Yeah,” the cashier whispered, tucking a stray blonde lock behind her ear. She tapped the numbers into the cash register, ringing up for pump #4. Every punch of a button felt wrong. She didn’t want to charge Catherine. Not tonight. In fact, she just wanted to give her anything she wanted. But she couldn’t. Not with the all-seeing eyes of the cameras, always watching. Not when she needed this job, especially with the holidays rapidly approaching. As much as Linda hated to admit it, and truly she probably wouldn’t aloud, she did need this job. “How’s Mark?” Linda asked. The woman tossed her head back, sending her long wavy bangs out of her eyes. “Oh,” she said, thinking of how to respond. “He’s been staying at his brother’s. Says he can’t be in the house. Trying all he can to get a loan for a decent stone and a funeral.” She shook her head lightly. Heat blossomed from the inside out. Catherine’s pasty, almost ashen complexion rouged with emotion. Embarrassment. Anger. These emotions shared custody of those blotchy patches of redness. “Told him our credit score isn’t magically going up in a week.” Linda nodded and carefully offered, “I knew someone who couldn’t afford a funeral for her dad. She had him cremated and had a private service at her house instead.” Part of her felt like she was helping. Another part felt intrusive. Overstepping. But the woman nodded understandably. “Mark just doesn’t...” her words trailed off, then dissolved into a whole other subject. “How was your Thanksgiving?” Smoky steel blue eyes rolled dramatically, accompanied by a smile. “Oh, you know the Thanksgiving Shuffle. You go to your parent’s house and stuff yourself. Then gotta go across town to the sister’s house and visit with her family, but you’re too full to eat anything but a small bite of pumpkin pie. By the time you get home later that evening, you’re hungry again!” The woman laughed lightheartedly. Counterfeit and forced, as though socially mandatory. “How was yours?” Linda hated herself the moment those words slipped. Habit. Just friendly habit. Her heart hammered in her ears. You don’t have to answer , she silently pleaded. Please, don’t answer that . But Catherine did. Her dark eyes lost the last bit of lingering light. Snuffed out. Through insurmountable strength, she held that synthetic smile like plaster. That, too, was friendly habit. “It was alright,” she murmured. Warm redness bled across her neckline. It was like being caught in a lie. “I mean,” she backpaddled. “We’ve definitely had better.” She laughed a little to herself. How it felt so inappropriate to laugh. To smile. To be standing here. To breathe. To live when Luke couldn’t. Finally, the smile lost its battle and faded. Linda remembered Thanksgiving day. She was leaving her shift that late morning when Mark Holmes came in for gas and cheap coffee. Heading to the funeral home to discuss arrangements is what he told her. Her heart collapsed as she now stared past the façade of Catherine’s mechanical smiles and automated breathless laughter. She also remembered complaining Thanksgiving morning. She was angry that day. She had wanted to sleep in before having to dress the boys for family visits. The funeral home was open that day, too. She wondered if any of them complained as badly as she had. Hesitantly, Linda deposited the money into the register. It made her stomach churn to take money from the grieving mother. The silence was heartbreaking. “You know,” she began quietly as she looked across the counter. “I was so scared that day Cam fell on that glass table. Right in the middle of the damn store! Blood everywhere!” The woman acknowledged with a nod. “Cam screamed the entire way to the hospital. I did everything to calm him down. Hell, I couldn’t even calm myself down! But you...” Catherine’s smile returned, more natural this time. Authentic. “The moment you came into the room, everything was okay. You brought that train for him to hold while the doctor stitched him up. Do you remember that?” “Trauma Bay 7,” Catherine remembered fondly. “Yep,” Linda nodded. “He said you were his favorite nurse. He still says so, two years later.” The smile rolled into a chuckle. The cashier reached beneath the counter and dipped her hand into the contents of her purse. She collected the last $20 from the crossbody shoulder bag. Tomorrow was payday. She had a half-tank of gas and a refrigerator full of food. She had her boys warm, safe and fed. Most importantly, she had her boys. Period. There would be a Christmas tree welcoming her home from behind the partly drawn curtains, twinkling like a coven of fairies amid the pulsing reds, greens, blues and yellows. She stretched the $20 bill across the counter. Catherine stared at the worn green paper. She deliberated for a moment before gently shaking her head. Her lips parted with a refusal, but words were cut short when Linda interrupted. “Please,” she urged. “I never thanked you for being such an angel for my son that day. For me, too.” Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. She whispered, “You don’t have much, either, Linda.” But I have more than you , she wanted to say. “Please,” she insisted. “It’s the very least I can do.” The woman gently clasped her fingers around the money and slipped it into her coat pocket. “Thank you,” she said. Two words she had to learn to use more often these days. A hard lesson for some to learn. To let others love us. To allow ourselves to be helped. “Have a good night,” Catherine uttered. “Tell those handsome boys of yours Merry Christmas, and to stay away from glass tables.” She smiled lightly and turned for the door before the tears blinked out of her eyes and rushed down her warm cheeks. Linda watched from behind the window until Catherine got to her car. Wispy pockets of breath puffed into the air around her. The woman cradled into the ruby red Honda Civic, unaware of the thoughtfully surveying eyes as she drove out of the parking lot and disappeared into the 8pm darkness descending down Chapman Avenue. Linda plucked her phone from her pocket. Four text messages. Hello?? You calling me back?? Did you get robbed?? Hellooo? She headed back to the break room, connecting the phone to her ear. “Sorry,” she started. “Got real busy for a bit.” Toni smacked obnoxiously. “So, I was thinking about this whole Christmas Eve thing and you’re right. Hell, that’s two holidays in a row he’s making you work! I would tell your manager up there to kiss my crack and shove that gas station right up his--” “Nah,” Linda chimed. “It’s no big deal. Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how blessed we really are. I’ll be home with the boys Christmas morning. For that, I’m truly grateful.”


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Theme: ** **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Story is told entirely (or mostly) through texts, emails, and/or (fictional) internet posts. **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story.** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘urban legend’. Get creative! You’re welcome to interpret it however you like as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all post and sub rules**. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Last Week: - **Winner:** by u/rudexvirus You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


50 Stitches of Cloth A novel by Toefirefire Rachel looked at her class calendar in disgust. She thought for sure it was next week;now she has to cancel her burrito plans just to visit a mill in order to write her term paper, even though she considered faking the whole thing. Grudgingly, she went down to Cartwright Street where she found the fading red brick façade of the Cabot Lowell Mill. Inside she met with operations manager Paul Moody who would give her a tour and explain the history of the mill. The front-end of the mill seemed dull: a small office, a break room, a locker room. As she went deeper, she felt an overwhelming power looming about the place,something ethereal but immense. Turning the corner she saw what was behind it--a massive power loom! It sparkled with precision movements; its shuttle screamed back and forth as the loom Shed, Picked, and Battened hundreds of times a minute. Rachel was flooded with a cyclone of thoughts and emotions. The raw intensity, the pure power, the uncontaminated rhythm were more than she could bear. “And this particular loom was purchased in1979, and as you can see it is still running. It can be used to create 50 different stitch patterns” Paul kept talking but Rachel could only pay attention to the masterful workings of the loom and the growing pile of cloth neatly folded in its wake. “Oh how lucky that cloth is” thought Rachel. Weeks passed and the semester ended. Rachel now looked forward to graduating with a 3.9 GPA, buoyed up by her passionate term paper. As her friends talked about internships and summers abroad and all the other adventures they excitedly planned for, Rachel was happy for them but she couldn’t commit to anything, turning down invites for week long beach vacations and a parent’s friend’s house in Brussels. Days passed in a fog; indecision and apathy enveloped her. Of the several plans she made, none seemed to generate any enthusiasm. “Yeah, so starting in July I’ll be interning at the Cummins plant in Columbus, I just like working with the diesel engines they are so massive and really useful,” her friend pratted on at a party, ignorantly glorifying his future. He was unaware of how much more profound the workings of a power loom are, and how much people have benefited from the billions of square feet of fabric that have been almost effortlessly created. It was then that Rachel realized she could never be happy unless she was weaving. Two weeks later, at her interview, Rachel’s heart pounded. She was so close to entering a world that she had just recently discovered. She always knew that industrialized cloth manufacturing took place, but it was just an exotic thing that people talked and giggled about, maybe weaving a little for fun. Now she was on the edge of this world where hundreds of people spent hours, their whole lives dedicated to weaving, to working in perfect harmony with a power loom. The edge of the cliff was falling away and approaching her at an alarming rate. “Please take a look at this labor contract, sorry it’s kind of long,” Paul gurgled as he pushed a thick stack of paper towards her. The contract was incredibly strict, and outlined explicitly her rules for employment: breaks were 30 minutes, can’t call in sick more than 6 times per year, progressive discipline, non-disclosure agreements, non-competearticles. It was almost too much to bear. Rachel had never seen a contract like this before. She felt overwhelmed by the reality of the contract--her head fluttered like a typhoon. If she agreed, she would be spending 40 hours a week doing nothing but weaving, and there was even a possibility of mandatory overtime. If she refused, would never get to work on the power loom. While Paul continued talking about training programs, uniforms, and Christmas parties, Rachel grabbed the pen from his hand and starting signing page after page of the contract, initialing some lines. With every signature, she felt lighter and by the end she soared with excitement. “So when can I start?” she asked excitedly. She arrived early her first day. She put on her denim apron and tied her hair into a tight bun. Her training began, she eagerly jotted down notes on safety and power loom operations, paying particular attention to loading and detecting broken picks -- learning everything the loom tells have to say. Next she practiced repairing broken picks, a challenging and strenuous task that required all her concentration. It left her exhausted after several practice knots, but she had no time to rest before practicing again and again for hours until she had it perfect. She never imagined the training would be so grueling and intense. She even thought of quitting but understood this was the price to pay to make the broadcloth that an entire civilization would benefit from, clothes and blankets and a million other things. The historical significance was not lost on her either. For hundreds of years powerloom mills had been the driving force of the economy of England and New England, and they had far reaching effects, wars happened over cotton and cloth tariffs and trade. Slavery dominated much of America to feed cotton into the loom; unions and massive protests erupted over children working power looms; 146 garment workers would die in the triangle shirt waist factory because of the cheap cloth that came out of powerlooms, very much like the ones humming so nearby. For Rachel the call of the loom was too much for her and she would follow in the footsteps of so many others and ecstatically work the loom. Soon, she was working her own loom hour after amazing hour. Electricity thundered through her like a herd of buffalo each time she completed a bolt of cloth with the loom. The creamy white band pushed out and neatly wrapped around a wooden pin for her to nip and loop the other end around a new pin. The sensations she experienced from combining 50 strands of thread into a continuous sheet of cloth was so satisfying and so new. She felt dirty,the power looms constant shaking and clattering having stirred up a great deal of dust which clouded the room no matter how often she cleaned it. After several months, she learned how fickle and high stakes her new world could be. After several hours of overtime, she was admiring the quick rigid movements of the cloth advancing while checking the tells, when suddenly her hand was pinched with tremendous force by the swift shuttle. She screamed out in pain and her world blurred. She remembered seeing blood ruin the beautiful cloth and workers rushing to bring her to the hospital. The physical injury ended up not being severe. No broken bones, just some deep lacerations. But she didn’t know if she could ever work a power loom again. She had become complacent and hadn’t kept up with the tremendous speed and ferocity of the loom. As a result she now lay in bed a broken woman. She would need to look for some lesser line of work. It would never fulfill her the same way, but at least it would be safe. Even while looking for jobs, her thoughts lingered on how she had flown so high, and experienced things few others would ever understand. She had flown too close to the sun, and put her hands too close to the shuttlecock, but maybe it was all worth it. Ring Ring “Listen Rachel, I hope you’re doing better. All the guys at the mill all wish you the best, and you should be getting a gift basket soon. It’s got some soaps and stuff and this cool thermos thing.” Paul went on and on about trivialities but just hearing a voice from that other world had a profound impact on Rachel, her heart started racing. “And finally I was speaking with HR and we were hoping to hear back from you with a date you could start again. Do you have a doctor’s note or anything?” Thoughts and emotions ricocheted inside of her like a geometric screen saver. This was her chance to leave this weaving world forever, or she could go back and redouble her efforts, triumphant in her devotion to cloth productions. “I’ll do it Paul!! I’ll be back in tomorrow.” “Well we don’t mean right away, you would need a doctor’s note and to clear it through HR first.” Paul kept blabbing about irrelevances, but it didn’t matter. Rachel made up her mind. She would go back, maybe even that very day and start making spool after spool of cloth, maybe until she was 65. And even after, maybe she would work part time or something.