They think I did it. That we did it. Did IT. I was seven when I met Steve for the first time. He was picking up my mom for a date and I answered the door when the bell rang. He had flowers in his hand, yellow daisies mixed with the regular white ones tied with a blue ribbon. His other hand was behind his back. He said hello and “surprise, this is for you!” and held his hand out in front of me. He opened his fingers and inside there was a bracelet made with pink beads. I just stood there and whispered thank you. With a slow smile, he asked if he could come in and, turning red, I opened the door, partly hiding behind it. Mom was still upstairs, probably trying on her 20th outfit with the ones she discarded in a pile on her bed. Her lips would be bright red from the lipstick she saves for special occasions. I wished I’d brushed my hair. He came inside and went straight to the kitchen like he’d been here before. I watched him from the hall as he opened the cupboard, took out a tall glass, filled it with water and put the bouquet inside. He placed it on the small table where mom and I eat breakfast and sometimes supper. Without turning around, he said ‘now come in here and let me put this bracelet on your pretty little wrist”. Mom came down and with her fake smile and a high pitched voice and asked “what’s going on in here? Steve, I see you’ve met Lizzie”. I showed her my wrist with the new bracelet and she said “why Steve, you are just the sweetest! Lizzie, we are going out to dinner. I left you some chicken in the fridge. You can go next door to Mrs. Pratt’s if you need anything. Don’t open the door for anyone”. Before long, Steve was living with us. He would smile at me between bites of cereal at breakfast, walk past me from the bathroom as I was heading in to get ready for school. He’d be wet from the shower and only have a towel on, pat the top of my head as he walked by. He worked days and my mom worked the lunch shift, and sometimes dinner, at a restaurant in town. Steve would be there when I got home from school. He would help me with my homework and then sometime we would do things around the house for mom or go grocery shopping. Usually though, we would go outside and walk around the neighborhood. As I got older, he would teach me how to play basketball, standing behind me guiding my arm for a layup or standing close to me with his arms circled around me, guarding me. So close I could feel his breath on my face. By the time I was in middle school, I was taller than all the other girls and even some of the boys. I made the basketball team and Steve would come to all my games. Mom would come when she could. I could hear Steve cheering me on. Mom didn’t like sports very much and didn’t really understand them. I don’t think she even watched me that much or knew if we won or lost. Walking to the car, he would say “way to go Kiddo!”. Steve and I would talk about the game all the way home, He would talk about missed three point opportunities or what I could do to improve foul shots. Mom would stare out the window. I knew she felt left out but I didn’t care. Steve was my biggest supporter. I could talk to him about anything. Sometimes, when he worked overtime and had extra money, he would buy me a pair of jeans or some nail polish. Mom would say he bought me more gifts than he bought her but he would just laugh and say “come on Maggie, you know you are my special girl”. Now when I got home from school Steve would be there with a snack and a plan. We would take long drives to neighborhoods with big houses, green lawns and swing sets in the back for the kids, Some even had pools. He would say “Lizzie, work hard and you can live here someday. You can be anything you want”. He’d look at me and smile. He had a sweet smile, one that really made me feel loved, secure. If the weather was bad, we would sit on the couch and watch TV. I’d get sleepy sometimes and lay my head on his shoulder or in his lap and wake up to the door slamming loudly shut when mom came home, angry that dinner wasn’t ready. By the time I was in high school, I was still one of the tallest and still playing basketball. I was pretty confident on the court, but awkward everywhere else. My mom was an expert with her makeup and when I tried it on, I looked like a clown, One time, she caught me trying on her red lipstick and said it wasn’t my color. Actually, what she said was “ that color looks awful on you. who are you trying to impress anyway, Steve?”’. I only wear pink lip gloss now and only in school. All my friends talked about was boys. Who they thought was cute, who they liked, who they wished would ask them to the dance. I didn’t want anyone to ask me to the dance. The boys at school were so immature. They could learn a few things from Steve. He knew how to listen and didn’t try to snap my bra when I walked by. He could wipe away a tear and make you smile so quickly, you couldn’t remember why you were upset in the first place. I went to the dance with my friends. The dances were in the gym with just a few decorations and tired teachers as chaperones. It was easy to sneak in alcohol and this time, most of the boys basketball team had small bottles in their pockets. They had some respect for me because of my skills on the court so they invited my friends and I to go out to the parking lot to drink. I didn’t want to go but my friends were excited and Laurie was begging to go because she had a crush on one of the players. While they were all flirting easily, I was by myself, drinking vodka and mountain dew. No one noticed when I left to walk home. A block before I got to my house, I puked in the bushes. Steve was waiting up and could tell right away what happened. He put the stray hair that was hanging in my face gently behind my ear, grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. He gave me a glass of water and some aspirin, told me to take a quick shower and get some rest. Mom was working late he said so we could keep this between us. I woke up late the next morning with a headache like I have never had before, I went downstairs ready to thank Steve with a silent smile but he wasn’t there. Mom was at the table with a cup of coffee. She barely looked at me as I walked in. As I walked by her to get some juice out of the fridge, she grabbed my robe so hard I almost fell. She groaned “how could you? How could you take the one good thing in my life?’. I had no idea what she was talking about. She threw pictures at me and they spread across the floor. I bent to get them and as I was picking them up, I recognized the bathroom. Me as a little girl in the bathtub. Who took these? Then there were pictures of me in my bed. 8 years old, cuddling with a stuffed rabbit Steve had given me. 11 years old in one of my mothers fancy negligees I tried on and fell asleep in. Me, last night, passed out on top of the covers, naked with the towel down by my feet. Suddenly I heard my mom screaming that I disgusted her. That I had been trying to steal Steve from her since I was in middle school. She said she couldn’t blame him, the way I always tried to look older, giggle at his jokes. The sexy looks I was always giving him. “GET OUT” she screamed. “NOW”. I ran upstairs to put clothes on and as quickly as I could, stuffed a few things in my book bag and left, wondering where Steve was.


Callie’s entire body is shaking. She’s being ridiculous, she thinks. This shouldn’t be as hard as it is. Despite the fact that they’re shaking, her hands are clutching onto the heart-shaped box cutters as hard as they can. She knows she should let go. She’s worked to get to the point where she can, yet she holds on with all the force in the world. It’s not the first time she would be throwing out her box cutters. She has to throw them away whenever they get dull. However, this time is different. This time, there’s no identical pair waiting for her in the box under her bed. This time, she won’t be going out to buy more. The heart-shaped box cutters have kept her afloat for ten years. Whenever she was drowning, a simple slight of hand would bring her to the surface. The sight of blood would ground her. Callie remembers when she first saw them at the stationery store near her house. Her thirteen year old self thought they were adorable. She remembers thinking that if she was going to do such horrible things to herself, she might as well romanticize it. And that, she did. She wrote poems and stories of how much the pain soothed her, refusing to acknowledge any of the sorrow it brought her afterwards. Ever since she started therapy, she tried to find excuses to keep cutting. She can’t count the amount of times she’s said something along the lines of “It only harms me, so why shouldn’t I?” . Countless therapists assured Callie that it wasn’t true, that it harmed others. They also kept telling her that her body cannot distinguish when trauma is self-induced, but she didn’t care. She thought, “What was more trauma in a life already riddled with it?” It wasn’t until she met her current therapist that she was able to see things somewhat differently. The shift started slowly. She noticed that everyone around her seemed to grow, yet she stayed stuck. At twenty-three, she was still in the same place she was at thirteen. She has lost all her friends and relationships because she chose her pain over them. The slashes across her skin became her only companion. Then, one day, Callie realized she wanted to change. She wanted to try to experience a different life. It’s been ten years since she last bathed in a pool, and she misses it. Perhaps she even wanted to find a partner and have the courage to undress in front of them. Yet, part of her wished to remain safe. To remain stagnant. She realized she self-harms because it’s comfortable. The pain reminds her of what she knows. When she has nothing else, she has her self-inflicted pain. It’s the only constant in her life. Which is why she’s here. Crying over a trash can, holding onto her box cutters. Her therapist had challenged her to throw them away, to go without access to them. She’s at the point in her recovery where she had plenty of other skills she could use to cope, yet sometimes she still turned back to cutting. It was a way for her mental illness to remind her that it’s still there, that it would never leave. She acknowledges that her depression won’t magically disappear. It will still be there, but she will cope in other ways. Still, part of her is going to miss the pain. Nothing will ever compare to the cuts she inflicts on herself, but she’ll learn to be okay with that. At least, that’s what part of her thinks. The other side of her keeps telling her to turn back, to put the heart-shaped box cutters back under her bed. It tells her that she won’t be able to survive without them, that self-injury is the only way. Her knees wouldn’t hold up her weight, taking her down to the floor. The box cutters never left her hands. This ritual was taking too much out of her. Her thoughts were a whirlwind. Will I be able to live without it? What if nothing makes me feel as good as my misery? Will I ever feel safe without this despair? She could stay the entire night thinking next to the trash can. Callie knew that this was going to happen, which is why she considered rescheduling this goodbye ceremony. Maybe she could get away with doing it another day, she’d still do it, just not today. But part of her knew that wasn’t true. If she didn’t do it now, she never will. She’ll keep rescheduling, making excuses. It had to be today. She had to say goodbye. She holds the heart-shaped box cutters in front of her, and recites the words she had come to memorize for this occasion. “ Thank you for helping me for so long. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have been able to cope. You were there for me when nobody else was. However, I realized that our relationship is toxic. You control me. You cause me pain. You don’t actually fix anything, you just make me put it off. I keep coming back to you precisely because the relief you give me is temporary. I can’t stay in this relationship that doesn’t help me anymore. I love you, but I hate you. I hope to never return to you again. I am setting myself free. Goodbye.” Callie drops the box cutters onto the trash can. She’s still crying and shaking as she ties the bag. She probably looks a mess, but in this moment it doesn’t matter. Taking the bag, she walks through her apartment hallway until she makes it to the garbage disposal. She hesitates, but throws the bag in it. For a moment, she stands there and debates taking the bag out. Even though it would be disgusting, she can take the bag out and grab her heart-shaped box cutters again. She can return to safety. But she doesn’t. Callie turns around and leaves, heading back into her apartment. She feels different. Despite the emotional toll this has taken on her, a sense of relief washes over her. Callie is finally free.


Darsha blinked twice and took a moment to admire her surroundings. She had summited this hill a hundred times before and would never again return. The wind stroked her cheek and brought the beautiful flowers into her nose. She took a long breath in, enjoying the infusion of grass and wild flowers. It felt like a lifetime since the trek up the hill, yet in reality she knew she had only just stepped above the crest. Or had she? She coughed as she remembered to breathe. She took a moment to sit down on the grassy verge of the hill. The grass was moist as she placed her palm down but she figured she could survive a soggy bum for the next hour. Darsha sat staring over the valley. She pictured the beautiful pallet of greens and browns. The leaves falling from the trees and the way the sun would glisten off the droplets on the grass. Darsha loved the view from this hill; and today was no different, this was her favourite childhood chill-out spot and she would make the most of it. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and requested her phone's voice assistant to play her favourite track. She focused on the way the drums built up to that first powerful line of singing. She tapped her foot along to the beat mouthing the words she remembered. ‘Ugh! Smelly cows!’ she sighed, deciding now would be a good time to venture out towards the treeline. Darsha picked up herself up stumbling slightly as blood returned to her legs. She cautiously made her way down the hill towards the woods, minding not to slip on the wet slope. As she neared the edge of the forest, and the darkness of the forest began to darken her vision, Darsha allowed herself a moment to run through the field. She was feeling good today and nothing could bring her down. She felt the wind singing through her ears and she felt unstoppable. A loud noise ahead brought her to a sudden halt, almost falling forwards as she tried to stop on the slippery grass. She was momentarily startled by the sound before reassuring herself of the distinctive flutter of wings beating against the leaves and branches. Must have been a pigeon. Birds aren’t scary, usually. She remembered a film she had seen one time at a friend’s house. Something about aggressive birds. She could hardly remember the details, yet felt saddened nonetheless. She missed the way she used to be so carefree. She loved watching films with her friends, but that felt like some previous life now. If this was her reincarnation then she figured she needed a new religion. Her destination grew close, as she made her way towards the growing darkness. Before entering she glanced back at the grey sky. Nothing much to see at any rate. The leaves crunched under her feet as she stepped through the tree archways. She walked slow at first, lifting one leg, then the other, over the bed of twigs and roots, taking great care not to overbalance. The leaves crunched and the ground underneath was soft, she thought to herself, noting the contrast. Every little detail was important to her now; ‘an epiphany will do that to you’ she muttered, rolling her eyes. She heard the clattering of branches in the treetops. Although she couldn’t see it, she imagined it was a squirrel. THUMP! Darsha hit the ground with a squelchy bang. She should have noticed that tree root. Why the hell didn’t she notice it?! She had told herself she wouldn’t fall today. Got to pay more attention. She calmed herself down as she put her hand beside her chest to lift herself up. She was expecting to feel mud or leaves, but was surprised to wrap her fingers over something with more clearly defined edges, something man-made. The object was cold to the touch, partially covered by leaves. She brushed away the leaves and noticed there was a second material on the object, less cold and more grainy. She felt the intricate engraving on the side of the object. Antlers? Like a deer or something? She lifted up the metal object and immediately threw it away. CRACK! She reeled in fear from the ear piercing sound, throwing her arms over her head and curling her knees to her chest. Her ears ringing, her heart pounding. She lay shivering on the ground for some time. At first she dare not move, but slowly she began to uncurl her limbs one by one. Once comfortable, she lay motionless on the ground. When she decided to try to push herself up, she was met with the most horrible pain in her abdomen. She clutched at it with her right hand, pressing against the painful area. There was no way she could bring herself to stand right now. She managed to move herself into an upright position and shuffled herself to the damn tree she tripped over, leaning against it for support. Now was not the time for a debate about what was and was not irony, but she couldn’t help but get drawn to the thought that this tree which had put her in such a state was now supporting her. She allowed herself this momentary distraction from the pain. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her hand and realised her hand was sticky. She reached out with her left hand to touch her palm. Sticky. Her throat filled with vomit as the realisation dawned on her. She swallowed and began to take deep breaths. She finally worked up the courage to reach her hand down to inspect the pain. She carefully reached out with outstretched fingers, peeling her shirt away from her stomach enough to reach under. She found the bullet wound where she expected it to be. Darsha began to cry. Tears ran down her face and dripped off her nose. The convulsions pulled at her abdomen and hurt her each time. But she wasn’t crying because of the pain, she had learned to block out a lot of pain in the previous few weeks, but rather because she didn’t know what was going to happen. Her thoughts raced from family back in India to friends to her career to those terrible medical videos she had seen in school. She could picture at least 2 first aid boxes and their exact locations and contents. None were in this forest. Darsha removed her top, whelping as she lifted her arms above her head, and began to tear it. She wrapped the makeshift bandage around her waist and tied it as tight as she dare, wincing slightly as the cloth laid upon her wound. Next step she thought, still shaking slightly as she regained composure, was to get help. She pulled her phone from her pocket and spoke to her voice assistant. She requested 999 but heard no confirmation reply. She tried again and still nothing. She cursed loudly and then realised she couldn’t even hear her own voice. The gunshot had deafened her for now. Great, another problem, she sighed. ‘HELP!’ She cried; or at least she thought she did. Her hearing had returned enough to hear the pathetic attempt at shouting. Was she shouting loud enough? It was hard to tell when she didn’t know if her hearing was back to normal. How loud does one need to shout to get help in the middle of the woods? The effects of the gunshot wound were getting to her. She slipped in and out of conscious, not knowing how long she had been sat there. 5 minutes? An hour? Longer? Her stomach growled. She groaned. How much longer did she have? Darsha awoke from a period of unconsciousness, eyes wide with equal parts fear and excitement. She suddenly collapsed onto hands and knees and began to crawl along the undergrowth, pushing aside leaves and fallen branches. The longer she crawled the more frantic her movements became, throwing aside large piles of debris in one sweep of her arm. She ignored the pain this was causing her as she knew it would be worth it. Her breathing by this point was out of control, she stole panicked breaths in between arm swings, knowing time was short. Finally, after some unknown time she stopped. Her hand resting on her prize, she began to regain control of her breathing. She was shaking and her breaths were short, but now save could relax. Her fate was in her hands. She picked up the gun. Her hands moved across the cold metal and carved handle, caressing the edges and balancing the weight. She continued to run her fingers across the gun before finally lifting it up and pointing it into the distance. She would never hit anything, but she knew she didn’t need to aim at her intended target. She lowered the hammer with her thumb, preparing it to fire at a moment’s notice. She rubbed the gun against her cheek for a moment, then quickly shoved the barrel into her temple. Darsha sat like this for a long time. She was losing track of time. Everything seemed to last so long. Her breathing slowed, her body tensed and her hand wobbled as she pushed the gun harder into her head. Darsha fired the gun as she threw her arm into the air, screaming at the top of her voice. She put all her effort into screaming, yet heard only the faintest, most pathetic squeal. Darsha laid the gun to rest on her leg, continuing to grip the handle as tight as she could. She laughed as her thoughts came to evaluate her so-called family. The loving parents who gave all their love and attention to their son, expecting her to marry into some rich family. The father who told her she could never achieve her dreams and that moving away wouldn’t bring them any closer. The woman who should have been her mother died long before she could ruin Darsha's life any further. The brother who had disowned her and vowed never to speak to her again. This was where she so clumsily threw the word ‘family’. She had spoken once each to her father and brother in the last 3 years. And they had shown no sympathy for her condition. She had asked for help with medical bills, knowing these men could fill a swimming pool with their wealth. They had brushed her aside once again, doubting her and questioning, assuming she was tricking them. A smug smile slithered across her face as she considered how she would never have to see their faces again. Darsha couldn’t name a single friend to even judge. She tried and tried; perhaps if she could think of just one then maybe she would be safe. But the names floating in her head crashed to the ground one by one. They had all abandoned her. Nobody wants a cripple friend. Darsha winced in pain, clutching her stomach, her breathing momentarily paused. ‘Cripple’ she uttered through the pain. The only person Darsha could even imagine would care about her was her boss. Or at least, the man who used to be her boss. She had always liked him. She had even kissed him at last year’s Christmas party. She knew he had lied about not crying when he told her he had no choice but to let her go. She remembered his words clearly ‘your condition is going to make it impossible for you to work here any longer’. A liability; that’s how people saw her. Darsha slid the gun across her leg to point it at the ground beside her. She poked it into the dirt and began to drag it along the floor, curving and twisting it through the mud. When finished, she had written but one word: SORRY. She considered her own condition, the way the doctors had given up all hope. She smashed her fist against the ground. Why should she suffer? What had she done wrong? How could she have been so stupid? It was always meant to be. She should never have been happy, never had a chance to try. This was her fate, and she had no right to deny the Gods their plans. Darsha was sat in a beautiful forest in her favourite season of the year. She saw no beauty. Clearly it was not for her eyes to enjoy. Darsha’s hand began to work its way towards her wound. With a mind of its own, her fingers uncurled, and she began to probe and poke at the bandage. She pressed harder, harder; testing her resolve. Darsha was long past needing to vocalise her discomfort. She was ready. Darsha proposed herself an ultimatum: read the word she had scratched into the ground and maybe she could escape. She moved her head from side to side, scanning the floor around her. She couldn’t find it, so she allowed herself to run her hand along the ground carefully so as not to damage the writing. Once found, Darsha began to focus on the word, tilting her head as if that might help. But no matter how hard she tried, she squinted and leaned in close, putting much pressure on her wound, she could not make out the letters. She couldn’t even read her farewell to the world. There was no use denying the truth; she was blind, and dying in a forest with no hope of help. Her ears still ringing, as if something ethereal was calling her. Pounding headache, burning eyes, she must look like death. The metallic tang of blood clung to the back of her throat. The taste of vomit still lingered, unwelcome. She coughed, wiping the bloody spit from her lips. She was out of time. Darsha's mind was made up. Tears rolled down her face as she pressed the cold barrel to her head. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably. One last breath. Darsha screwed up her eyes and focused on her next reincarnation.


“Let’s pretend, just for a minute, that I believe everything you say,” Officer Scott Wilde began, pushing the evidence bag toward Nikolaus as he edged about uncomfortably in his plastic chair. “The whole story, from the beginning. What is so special about this.” The clear wrapper of the bag chuckled as he pressed it and Nikolaus flinched before speaking. “It’s too complicated and...” He paused before continuing, “Outlandish for you to understand. If I tried to tell you even half the story, you’ll either loose interest or try to get me sectioned.” Officer Wilde raised his blonde eyebrows and smiled encouragingly “Please Niko, can I call you Niko? Try me.” Niko twirled his long dark hair between around his index finger for a while, his eyes constantly flicking back to the book. “It’s not a major crime, body-snatching, but it turns a few heads...” “It wasn’t the body I needed.” Niko interrupted irritably before nodding to the bag on the table. “It was that thing.” The thing he referred to was a book bound in what appeared to be moleskin with a strange yellow sigil on it, like a twisted question mark, or several fused eyes looking in indeterminable directions. “So, it’s robbery then? Because that is a little more serious.” “If it is robbery, you accuse me of sir then I will take it on the chin. But please do not detain me for anymore that what you need to because I really must be on my way, and that must come with me.” “See Niko.” Wilde pressed his hand onto the bag. “It’s evidence now. I’m afraid it can’t go anywhere.” Niko expressed an unreadable expression of both astonishment, horror and pitiable anguish before lounging back in his chair as if all vigor had been sucked out of him. “Then you doom us all officer.” Wilde cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a threatening word Niko, is there more you want to tell me?” “Only if it’ll get me out of here sooner.” *** Firstly, I don’t know what that book is called. It’s just got that symbol on it, no real title so I just call it “The Twist”. The Twist is different to other books because it was not written. It was imagined. See, you already don’t believe me I can see, but I’ll tell you anyway. There was a man or a woman, either way they were a magician who knew a great deal about alchemy and black magic. They both eluded and shaped history in ways far too subtle and overarching for you to appreciate in the short time I have to explain it. Anyway, their knowledge was originally written down in a great many books and note pads that they kept in a library. Alas, for them, during the great purge their library was burned down and all the writings were lost. Reaching the end of their lifespan they came up with an ingenious solution to preserve the knowledge so that it may be passed on to a worthy successor, and that was this. In a single ritual they transferred all their dark knowledge into this tome, extracting the thoughts and memories like straining bones from a stock. That’s what you’re looking at right now. That is a grimoire of memories of that long dead sorcerer. No. I’m not a power-hungry grave robber keen on uncovering secret powers from the past to thwart my enemies. No indeed. What we forget about memories, is that they are the construct of a personality. They are alive in themselves, but they are shapeless with a will all unto their own. So, tell me. What do you think happens when the mind of a man sorcerer is stowed away in a magical tome with the ability to shape spirits out of the air itself? *** Wilde blinked and shuddered. He touched the back of his neck and realised that he had been sweating, cold sweat apparently for some time. His shirt clung to him in uncomfortable cold patches and he unbuttoned his collar. Niko still sat across from him, a vacant expression on his face and a narrow track of red running from a nostril. “It’s here.” He said, both calmly and shakily. Wilde frowned a prickle running across his skin like the brush of animal fur as Niko’s voice shivered the words. “What’s here Niko?” The head tilted and the eyes focused, but Niko was hollow now. He had hidden away within himself, too afraid to face reality. “Hastur. The Twist. He has come for The Twist.” *** You see, my bloodline is tied very closely with that nameless sorcerer, and it was to my family that The Twist has come to. *** Wilde staggered out of the interview room and into the corridor, lined with grey carpet, skirted in blue and painted bone white. He rubbed his eyes, still seeing the interview room as if through a third eye. Niko was speaking. *** The book brought power, but it also brought its twisted self. It’s alive you see. Well, I say alive. It’s more of a living imagination if you will. It kept making things happen. Bad things. Bloody things. *** “Niko...Have you done something to me?” *** It imagined itself drifting from place to place, room to room unmaking things as it went. Treasures, nature, laws, families, lives. But eventually relentless destruction became tiresome and it decided that it wanted a body. Like it had used to have. *** Something had been in the station. Windows were smashed, tables and chairs were overturned. There were scratches on the walls, and ceiling as if a storm of knives had come spinning down it, rending gleefully as it went. *** So, my father took it to the grave. Buried it with himself but not after sending me away to an orphanage, in the hope that I would forget. But of-course I didn’t I couldn’t. The Twist wouldn’t let me. *** Wilde found himself back outside the doorway to the interview chamber, in darkness but for a ring of yellow candles that hung in the air like sinister fireflies. Niko was still sitting at the chair, and a figure unnaturally tall stood straight and hunched forward over him, a thin, crooked hand trembling over the volume. It exuded an overwhelming malice as its focus twitched in Wilde’s direction, and its appearance was akin to drowning. The eyes see so much that the mind simply gives up and succumbs to madness. *** I thought I was going to take it back, but I was wrong. I wanted to take it to the foundations of that first library that had burned down and cast it into a fresh flame, but little did I know, they had sown that idea in me. To make me come. To make me find them. To make me dig up my own father and lay my hands on its cover. To turn those pages. They needed me. They chose me. I was the body. *** Officer Wilde did not die as such. He didn’t collapse, burn away, crumple to the ground in fits of agony or begin to bleed out. He simply ceased to be. Becoming ashes, which became ash, which became light, which was then gone. Where does the flame on a candle go when it is blown out? The Twist seized itself up from the table with slow delicate fingers and then the three of them unfolded out of room.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about GOALS. Let’s talk about wants and needs. Get out your notebook! Questions to ask yourself when thinking about serial goals: Do your characters *want* something? * How badly do they want it? * How far will they go to get it? * What’s standing in their way? Other people, distance, finances, knowledge, or outside forces? * Are there lines a character *won’t* cross to get what they want? * Will their wants change? Will the journey enrich them more than the destination? A character’s want doesn’t have to always be a grand plan. Sometimes it’s as simple as wanting a nice quiet night at home while the world falls down around their ears. Sometimes it’s just being the best version of themselves. The best student, friend, parent, or follower. Sometimes it’s working towards the weekend or that sweet, sweet ice cream sundae that makes it all worth it. Sometimes it’s . Next, what do your characters need? * Are their needs actually important to the story, or anyone else in it? * What will happen if their need isn’t met? * Do any of those needs conflict with each other? * Why do they need that item *right now?* Needs won’t always be physical. In fact, most of the time they’re not, unless the thing your character needs is a drink of water after wandering in the desert for three days. At some point your characters may come to a point when they are willing to sacrifice what they want in order to get what they need, or vice versa. Finally, what story do *you* want to tell, as the author? Do you want to tell a story of humility and compassion? Finding causes worth fighting for? Discovering that the real treasures were the friends we made along the way? You don’t have to know the answer to all of these questions right now, but it is what we’ll be thinking about this week. Even the most wholesome slice of life stories have these important elements that keep us engaged as readers. Setup and payoff can be simple wish fulfillment, or it could be ten layers deep. This little post isn’t meant to cover all the delicate facets of wants, needs, and story goals, but it should get you thinking about where you want to take your story and what your focus should be. ***You do not need to set up and accomplish the want, need, or goal in this single installment.*** Wants, needs and goals should be a theme we see as a cohesive thread that pulls your story together. This is the serial post to do lay that groundwork, if it hasn’t been an established theme for your universe already.  **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 8/22, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here.** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, : **Undisputed fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, with his of Mouse Noir. For those who are not apprised of Kammerice’s mouse investigator story, I wholeheartedly recommend catching up with it, you will not regret it! This week the **Smoking Hot Serial Sash** (my top pick of the week) goes to two authors for absolutely nailing the spirit of the assignment: /u/Ryter99, for in the tragic tale of the Bundarr we know and love, And /u/Mazinjaz, for And in no particular order, a couple other fan favorites: /u/Mobaisle_writing, /u/Chineseartist, \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # New to /r/ShortStories and Serial Saturday, but want to join in the fun? We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and are happy to offer the freedom of choice for our current and new users alike. All submissions are of course welcomed. We hope you enjoy your time in the community. **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * E**ach author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some things to keep in mind. **Join us for Serial Saturday’s Campfire!** * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** * There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! # Reminders: * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post. Join to chat with prompters, authors, and readers! Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


What follows is a transcript of an apology to the people of Earth, and specifically the residents of Silver Lake, Indiana. [BRACKETED] words indicate imprecise translation. Hello, people of Earth. This message is being translated into the language practiced by the humans who reside in the area designated Silver Lake, Indiana, using the Verpal Language Unscrambler 2. As my segment-mate Zolak is so fond of reminding me, our model is very outdated and overdue for replacement. Any translation errors that may occur are the result of this technical deficiency and are not intended to be an act of disrespect. I humbly apologize for any confusion that may arise as a result of my negligence in the upkeep of our private Dimensional Collapser Transport. Zolak has secured a promise from me that I will replace it when we return to [THE HIVE]. Let me begin by apologizing for everything that has unfolded in the days following our unplanned arrival on your world. I assure you this was quite accidental, owed in large part to two hundred rambunctious hatchlings who were [RAISING THE DICKENS] in the back of the ship. This proved quite a distraction to Zolak, who was navigating and who gave me the wrong directions. Zolak insists the directions were correct and that I missed my turn because I was the one not paying attention. We have agreed to disagree. Compromise is the [ADHESIVE BODILY FLUID] that keeps us together. We do hope you understand how deeply and truly sorry we are for causing such a cultural [HULABALOO]. Our misadventure no doubt caught all of you by surprise, as it did the [ASSIMILATION] Phages when we reported the incident to the proper authorities. As it turns out, your planet isn’t set for [ASSIMILATION] for another 250 years! Zolak joked that this is the first time we have been early for something. This is a joke at my expense as I am occasionally tardy to [HIVE] functions. Also, we want to assure you that your immediate military response upon our arrival was completely justified and certainly not an overreaction on your part. Protect what’s yours, that’s a law followed in all corners of the universe. Where we come from, when a [SKITTERING DEATH SWARM] arrives at your [HOME] unannounced, you do not give them a chance to [KILL AND CONSUME], you [KILL AND CONSUME] first. So fear not, we were in the wrong, not you. With this in mind, I would like to also apologize for the deployment of the Organic Liquidator Orbitals as a countermeasure. That was a step too far. When Zolak and I purchased the ship, I argued that the standard defense array was more than reasonable for casual space travel, but Zolak insisted we have the orbitals installed because of an [AUNT] who ended up in a [BAD PART OF TOWN] planet and was overtaken and consumed by highly evolved predatory fauna. I have had to hear this story over and over again, as if this one [AUNT] was more special than the others. Zolak has 200 [AUNTS]! Anyway, we [SPLURGED] and got the orbitals. And yes, I am forced to admit that they were highly effective, and mildly thrilling as well, especially for the brood. And no doubt a sight to behold for any of your species who were outside the liquidation zone. But I still think they were an extravagance and an overreaction on our part. As they say in the parlance of your people, “My bad”. We would also like to apologize to the human residents of the Silver Lake area. We are so, so sorry that the timing of our arrival coincided with a number of events occurring in the city limits. Our species has a deep and profound respect for the individuality of the [UNASSIMILATED], and as such, we offer our apologies to these specific people who were affected by our arrival: The members of the local Civil War Re-enactment Community, Chapter 239. We are so sorry for not only disrupting your sacred religious violence simulation but also for the extensive damage caused by our ship’s defense response system. Our onboard AI misidentified your replica weapons as authentic, and all your shooting and screaming as aggression. The AI later indicated that 43 human war zealots were vaporized. Zolak and I will be sending personalized apologies to each of the genetic units whose humans were vaporized, once we return to the [HIVE]. We have left two vats of bio-paste to offset any food loss you would have to endure at not getting to consume their remains in the typical fashion. The Silver Lake Fire Department, Women’s Auxiliary, Girl Scout Troop #782, the Silver Lake Chapter of the Rotary Club, the Starlight Junior Girls Dance Team, the Chippewa County Antique Car Club, and the countless humans who were in attendance at what the AI has determined is the “Fall Harvest Parade”. I did not take into account just how much heat is produced by our ship’s atmospheric retro-thrusters. In my search for a good place to land I lost track of how close to the ground we were flying. We are truly, deeply sorry for all the lives lost and the labor cost to rebuild. To anyone who was impregnated by our [PRECIOUS] spawn, we apologize for any discomfort you may have experienced in the implantation process, as well as any lingering side effects. It has been a long enough trip that many of our brood reached adulthood and needed to secrete their pod glisteners before they started devouring their younger broodmates. The implantation process, while beautiful to us, has been described as [DEEPLY UNSETTLING] by other species we have encountered, depending on the physiology of the host. The good news is that the gestation period for an implanted [NEEDLE-TOOTHED STOMACH EXPLODER] larva is quite short! Oh, and please, do not feel guilty about any offspring you may have slaughtered as they ran through your humble village [SOWING THEIR WILD OATS]. If there is one thing Zolak and I agree on, it’s that we have entirely too many mouths to feed. We probably should say a few words on behalf of the lake itself. So sorry about that. Unfortunately, the Organic Liquid Orbitals produce an inordinate amount of radioactive runoff that needs to be dumped before it can be reignited. I suggested we wait until we were in the vacuum of space before jettisoning the waste but Zolak was rubbing its legs together quite vociferously at this point insisting that nobody would even care if we just dump and go. The bad news about your lake though is the water will not be [PALATABLE] again for another 3000 years, and organic life will likely never return. The good news is the green glow is a permanent feature that I think is quite pretty. We understand that we have probably set back relations between humankind and [THE INSATIABLE HORDE] before they’ve even had a chance to start, but I assure you, despite the carnage, we are a very [GREGARIOUS] and welcoming species. We do hope you can find a way to forgive us for our transgressions and understand that we never would have been here in the first place if not for Zolak’s insistence on being the navigator when they have time and again given us inaccurate directions leading to situations like this, where I am having to apologize to a species for ruining their lives. I just wanted a nice [FAMILY VACATION]. Just me, Zolak, and 200 of our offspring, taking some time away from the endless toil of [FEEDING THE INSATIABLE QUEEN]. My [BROODFATHER] used to take us on trips to Troxon IV to watch the skinworms emerge from the sludge pools, back when I was of an age where I still hadn’t developed my pod glisteners. I don’t know how they did it back then. My brood was well over 400! Can you imagine the mess just in the Dimensional Collapser Transport? I’m rambling. Anyway, I wanted to take them somewhere amazing, like the Feces Pits of Roobe II. I wouldn’t have brought my brood to a [BACKWATER] planet like this under normal circumstances. You can’t be too careful where you go these days. But, had we ended up where I wanted to go, I don’t think we would be returning to [THE HIVE] so engorged with important life lessons. My brood have a newfound respect for how [PRE-ASSIMILATION] species like your own have managed to barely scrape by with such primitive means. Witnessing such futile determination has truly inspired them to be even more productive members of our worker society. My brood are not the only ones whose [GULLET STONES] are wearing away the edges of a newly learned truth. I realized that I have been trying to give my brood the same experience I had when I was their age. I thought if I could show them something amazing, maybe they would respect me as much as I respected my own [BROODFATHER]. But then, when I heard them cheering as our ship obliterated your pitiable attempts to defend yourselves, I realized that it isn’t the destination so much as it is the experience. How many of my kind can say they watched their [BROODFATHER] heroically fend off the assaults of a [PRE-ASSIMILATION] species? Nothing will replace those memories. You know, I really thought I [BLEW IT] with this trip. But maybe I didn't after all. Maybe it takes getting lost to truly find what we are all looking for. Oh, before we go, our onboard AI has determined that you are currently experiencing a [CALDERA POX] outbreak. As this is endemic to our planet, I have to imagine you contracted it from one of our pesky brood. Not to worry, the symptoms are very mild--your species should only experience headaches, nausea, dimensional blindness, and moderate to severe hemorrhaging. It's one of our more survivable [COMMON COLDS]. You'll be fine! See you in 250 years!


I’ve been in New York city for six years and in that time so much has changed. After spending nine years in LA with Sandra, my ex-wife, we escaped the West Coast. We bought a lavish penthouse in the heart of Manhattan with views that cost us multiple millions. We hired an assistant named Claire who moved into one of the bedrooms and handled the day to day cleaning, ran errands, managed our bills, did our shopping. I still remember meeting her for the first time and wondered how in the hell such a beautiful woman would coexist in this home with us without me fucking her. Sandra seemed distracted with work and Claire and I carried on an affair in secret. When Sandra was home on a business call in the office or when she was down at the pool, Claire and I would make love or sit and talk like we were a couple. It became clear very quickly that my love for Sandra had been redirected at Claire. And to think that we had talked about having children before moving to New York. Sandra’s face was pure shock when she came home early from a business trip. She was holding the mail and must have been there for several seconds before I noticed. My cock was still inside of Claire on the sofa. And while at first Sandra tried to make a big deal that I had been fucking Claire, it was soon revealed that she had been sleeping with her boss. It was a rather quick divroce. Claire was passionate about art. She would often catch me watching her from the doorway in the studio we created out of one of the spare bedrooms. She painted landscapes and portraits. I was her model more than once. How marvelous she was at everything. Its a shame she had to die so young. I remember first reading about a spreading virus that originated somewhere in Europe. It was hitting all the places I had been on vacation in my previous life with Sandra. It was hard to imagine all those wonderful places that had once been so lively now filled with death. Eventually it would hit New York and spread across the nation killing millions. When Claire developed symptoms she fell to the illness quickly and when she died I wanted to die too. I would eventually find out that I had it too but didn’t develop any symptoms. It was like a sick joke. I’ve gotten used to the way the city looks now. The buildings towering like trees made of concrete and glass. Central park is a green symbol of culture and progress. What economy is left is deeply wounded and day by day like a starving animal it crawls across the landscape searching for sustenance. But all it finds is shuttered businesses and empty streets. The living are dead things that blink and moan from inside of their homes waiting for something new to happen. But nothing ever does. Life just goes on and people are always dying. They have always been dying, but now they die so often it's just rolling digits like numbers on a stopwatch. After Claire died I didn’t sleep. I still don’t sleep. I get by. I work for a very successful firm that despite the chaos is “killing it” in the global marketplace. But it doesn't really mean anything to me anymore. But every morning my alarm goes off to remind me that it matters to someone. The glow of the laptop illuminates my tired face and my fingers type away like nothing was amiss. It's three in the afternoon on a Thursday when the power shuts off. The sudden quiet causes me to rise to my feet and I look out across Manhattan to see if anything else has changed. Ten seconds later the power clicks back on and it must be the building’s generators because I can see that the street lights are out. From this high up it feels like nothing bad could happen. The world is sort of distorted in its reality. If you choose not to look too closely everything seems normal. It's when my eyes begin to pry that I notice the streets are empty. A few cars drive up the long avenues unencumbered by traffic of any kind. The only thing in the skies are migrating birds. I receive emails from others on my team that they’ve lost power. Many of them are spread out across New York. Someone an hour later notifies us that the problem may be a part of a larger issue. A terrorist attack on the grid. I recieve an email from someone from the executive team: Scott.. Grid is down. Maybe this is when it finally happens... The last few hours of sanity. I shut the laptop and wonder what I have left to drink. I have been good at keeping the stress away with rigorous workouts in my gym, supplemented by yoga and meditation. But sometimes a strong drink works just as well. Whiskey coke, an old habit from my London days. I turn on the TV, a huge 80” flat screen that envelops me. A woman news anchor, middle aged and attractive confirms the attack on the power grid. The source seems to be an anti establishment group that has been growing in power over the last several months. I turn the TV off. Back at my computer I have an email from the building manager informing me of the power outage. The generators have been activated and if there are any disruptions to the generator I’ll be notified. Impulsively I walk to the elevator in the center of the penthouse and push the button. The doors open revealing the white marble interior and nothing more. I step inside but as the doors begin to close I stop them and cross the threshold back into the penthouse. I spend the next several hours getting drunk. When I wake up I”m laying on the living room floor and the lights are off and it's so dark I can’t see anything. When I finally make it to a window I see nothing but stars and the eerie figures of skyscrapers standing silent in a forest of black. Stars, I can see stars like i’ve never seen before. When I enter my bedroom to look for a flashlight I notice what looks like fire. And it is. Fire all over the streets, buildings burning. I watch it for a long time and can barely make out small figures in the dark on the street. There's hundreds of them like tiny insects devouring the city. The elevator doesn’t work and so I take the stairs. I forget to grab the flashlight and so use the one on my phone to light the way. I suddenly feel claustrophobic and need to get out. It's twenty five minutes later that I emerge into the lobby and there is a man standing at the concierge desk with a flashlight. He hits me with the beam and I cover my eyes. “What are you doing out here?” he asks. “Where is everyone?” “Who?” “Anyone?” “What do you mean?” “I mean where is everyone?” “No one lives here anymore. You’re the only tenant.” At that moment I hear a loud crash and someone has thrown a brick at one of the windows but the brick just bounces off. “I don’t think they can get through that glass. It's bulletproof,” the concierge says. I watch as a mob assembles outside with torches and rocks. They are battering at the glass and pulling at the locked door. The concierge looks terrified, he shines the light into the masked faces. I don’t say anything and slowly back up to the stairwell and begin the ascent to my penthouse. In the stairwell it's so dark and complete that no matter what direction I look it all looks the same. I’m swimming in a black pool of my own reality. It's only when the glow of my phone again lights the way that I can see where I'm going. I feel like a deep sea diver in a cave, a tether around my waist so that I can find my way back to the surface, or so that those up top can pull my corpse up after I've lost consciousness. After a few levels my phone dies and I realize I didn’t charge it. I go swimming in the great abyss. The cement cave where I can’t see anything and the imaginary tether isn’t actually there. And I know that I’ll eventually starve or be pulled to pieces by a mob.


That? That's the castle of the Snow Queen. And what’s that look for? Ah! You must know one of THOSE tales. Never believe a tale, young man. If only my throat weren't so dry, the stories I could tell...Mm...My thanks, traveler! This story begins here, with Kay, the clockmaker's son, and Gerda, the weaver's daughter. They grew up together; born next door to one another, walked to school together as children, and learned their trades side-by-side as youths. Gerda’s journey weaver’s project was a cloak of the softest green wool for Kay: carded, spun, and woven with love in every strand and stitch. Kay made her a present in return: a shiny clockwork flower, no bigger than Gerda's hand, which opened to the sun every morning and closed as twilight fell at night. For his mother, there was a clockwork teapot that poured itself, and for his father a cunning little gadget that would polish the man's spectacles. Gerda knew that Kay was never happier than when he was inventing new and better clockwork marvels, and she knew that her clockwork flower was a true token of Kay's love. Gerda was sitting in a corner, silently watching Kay work, when the shushing of sleigh runners stopped in front of the clock shop door and the woman came in. She was very different from Gerda and the other women in the village. The woman was tall where Gerda was small, willowy where Gerda was plump, and pale as moonlight where Gerda was rosy-cheeked. She walked straight to the front of the shop and stood before the counter and waited while Kay stayed bent over his jeweler's glass, tweezing a cog just so into place, bending a wire around in this way, and soldering with the tiniest dab of heat. After several long, silent minutes, he raised his head. “Thank you for waiting,” Kay said, “What can I do for you?” The woman's voice was soft and lilting. “On my mountain the cold is fierce, and the clocks run slow. My clockwork servants creak and groan and will soon stop if I cannot find a way to protect them from the elements. I have heard of your genius with clockwork even in the palace. Can you help me?” “She calls it ‘her’ mountain?” Gerda thought, “Oh, no! This must be the Snow Queen!” Gerda had heard the stories, perhaps the same stories that you have heard, traveler, and she knew in her heart that the woman had come to take away her Kay, her love. Kay, however, was oblivious to Gerda's fear and worry. “I do not know how to protect the metal gears and cogs from the cold,” he said, “But I will think on it. Give me three days, and I will, perhaps, have a course of action when you return. However, I think I ought to see your clockwork servants and experiment to find a solution.” “Very well,” said the Snow Queen, “I will return in three days. Then, if you would like, I will take you to the palace, but it will be a journey of several days.” “I will have my tools and supplies ready, in the case that I must go.” “In three days, then,” the Snow Queen said as she left the shop. Before the doorbell had stilled, Gerda burst out, “Kay, you must not go!” “Hmm...?” Kay did not even seem to be listening. Gerda put her hand on his arm. “Do you know who that is? The mountain, the palace...she must be the Snow Queen. Her magical ice will blind your eyes to the people of the village. She will freeze your heart in your chest! You will become ensorcelled by her until you grow cold and unfeeling, and care only about the Snow Queen and your work. You will wither and die!” Gerda was panting at the end of her impassioned plea. “Do not worry so, Gerda. She is just a person. Yes, she is rich and lives in a palace, but she has a problem that needs a solution, just like anyone else. And what a fascinating problem! How to keep the gears from becoming brittle in the cold...” Kay turned away from Gerda and pulled a book from his shelf. “Listen to me, Kay! Please!” Gerda's eyes filled with tears, “She will take you away to her palace and never let you go. I cannot bear to lose you, Kay, I love you!” Kay turned back to Gerda and was quiet for a moment. Gerda held her breath. She knew that this what she had dreamed of: when Kay would see her love shining in her eyes and take her in his arms at last. She just knew this moment would come! Yes, well, 17-year-old girls know a lot of things. When you're my age, traveler, you’ll understand just how little you really know. Kay put his hands gently over hers, but his eyes slid away. “I love you, too, Gerda.” he said softly, “But not that way. You are my dearest friend--for all our lives--but I don't feel like...that...about you. I hope we can keep being good friends...” “Oh, no!” said Gerda, “She has already taken your heart!” “No! I do not feel that way about her, either. I do not feel that way about anyone. Honestly, I do not think that I can. I am happy to spend time with my family, and you, and the others in the village, but I have never been comfortable with thoughts of romance, or kisses, or...well, anything of that sort.” “I will save you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as Gerda grabbed Kay's shoulders and pulled him down to her. “I will not let her freeze your heart!” Gerda pressed her lips to Kay's, imagining her love flowing into him and melting the shard of ice that had taken over his heart. She had imagined this moment so many times, her first kiss with her beloved, but it did not seem quite...right. Kay's lips were dry and cool, and his eyes bulged open. His hands were on her arms, but they seemed to be pushing her away, not pulling her close. She let go and stumbled back a step. Kay put the back of his hand against his lips and shook his head. “Gerda, I am sorry; the fault is not with you, but I cannot be with you the way that you want...” Gerda was mortified, and her tears fell harder and faster. She turned and ran out the door, across the street, and into her house. She threw herself across her bed and soaked her pillow with her tears for hours before she finally fell asleep. After all that crying, she must've been as parched as a desert when she woke up, eh? I know just how she felt...Oh, another ale? How kind! For the next three days, Gerda watched the clock shop from her window. Kay arrived early and didn’t leave until late. He turned the sign on the door to “closed” and did not let anyone in. Then, finally, the afternoon of the third day, Gerda heard the jingle of bells and saw four reindeer pull a glittering white sleigh to a stop in front of the shop. The Snow Queen pulled aside the white fur across her knees and stepped out into the street. Kay opened the door before the woman even had a chance to knock and motioned her inside. Gerda waited for the Snow Queen to leave--hoped for the Snow Queen to leave--for so long that she must have fallen asleep because it was dark when she was woken by the sound of bells. She lifted her head just in time to see the sleigh and its two passengers leave. “Wait, two passengers?” Gerda thought as she ran down the stairs and out into the night. On the front door of the clock shop, there was a sign: Closed. Out of town for three weeks. Gerda knew right away what she must do. She gathered up her warmest clothing and assembled a pack with bread, cheese, and sausages. If the trip was several days by sleigh, she knew she would be traveling for more than a week, perhaps a little less if the magical white bear found her sooner. Ah! I see you've heard the story with the bear, traveler. Well, there aren't any bears in this story, no matter what you and Gerda think you know. Gerda set out that very night. Resolutely, she took her first steps onto the mountain. The road was wide, but the firs were thick and tall, and no sun reached the packed snow where Gerda walked. For days she trudged ever upward, stopping only to wrap herself in her damp cloak and close her eyes when it became too dark to see where she was going. At first, she imagined her reunion with her love and practiced what she would do and say to win him. As the days passed, Gerda began looking for the magical white bear that she knew would come to carry her to confront the Snow Queen. Her feet ached, and then grew numb in the cold and wet, and she daydreamed about riding with her toes buried in the warm fur of the bear. As she climbed, the trees grew farther and farther apart and finally ended altogether, and the wind grew fiercer and more biting. It took everything she had for Gerda to continue. She forgot to look for the bear, she forgot her speech to the Snow Queen, she forgot to eat. At the last, she even forgot Kay. She simply trudged forward, head down, eyes on the road in front of her, one foot and then the other. She cried, and the tears froze to her face. She wanted more than anything to sit and sleep. She might have done just that, and then the story would have ended here, but the Snow Queen's gamekeeper was riding down the mountain just in time to catch sight as Gerda finally collapsed in the middle of the road. When she woke, Gerda found herself nestled in warm fur. Her limbs burned as the feeling returned, and she gasped. “Oh, it looks like the poor dear is awake!” an echoing voice called, and then there was a buzz and a clank and a whirr, and a shiny copper clockwork woman trundled over to Gerda and peered into her face with bright, mirrored eyes. “How are we feeling?” “Is this the palace? Is Kay here? Where is he? Where is the Snow Queen?” Gerda struggled to sit up. “Now, dear,” said the clockwork maid, “If you mean M'Lady, she is at supper just across the hall, and she does have a guest, but...” “I must find Kay! I must save him!” Gerda pushed her way out of the chair where she had been sitting and almost knocked the clockwork maid down as she stumbled to the door. She could hear silverware clinking on china and feel the warmth of a fire as she pushed open the heavy door, but all she could see was Kay, drinking from a golden goblet and smiling up at the Snow Queen. “She cannot have you!” Gerda shouted as she flung herself at Kay. She knocked him out of his chair and onto a plush carpet behind the table. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and waited for the trials that she knew would soon begin. Yes, traveler, the trials. I see that face! It looks like you know the same stories that Gerda knew. The room was silent for ten long heartbeats. “Gerda?” Kay asked from below her on the floor. “Is that you? What are you doing here? What are you doing?!?” Gerda heard a soft, low laugh from the table. “I think she is waiting for him to turn into a snake.” That voice was the Snow Queen, “Or perhaps a pillar of fire? I have heard those stories, too.” “Gerda,” Kay whispered in her ear. “I think you have the wrong idea. Please let me up, so I can explain...and introduce you to my new friend.” Gerda rolled off of Kay and tucked her knees under her on the floor, but she did not look up. “Is this your friend that you told me about, Kay? She looks famished. Let the introductions wait until the two of you have eaten, and perhaps talked. I will wait for you to join me in the library for dessert.” The Snow Queen held out her hand to Gerda. “You, dear girl, must decide for yourself who you will trust: your stories or your friend.” At a loss for anything else to do, Gerda let herself be lifted to her feet and guided to a chair. But she could not seem to raise her eyes, even when she heard the Snow Queen leaving and knew that she was alone at the table with Kay. “Gerda...” Kay began. “I have just made a fool of myself and embarrassed you. There is no enchanted ice, is there? You are not being held captive, your heart is not freezing, and you are not slowly wasting away and dying. You simply do not love me.” “Gerda...” He started again. “Gerda, I do love you, but not for the reasons that you want me to. I love you because you are kind and generous and intelligent and hard working. I love you because you pushed me into the lake when we were children and helped me study Latin when we were at school. I love you because you are my friend, and that is more important and more necessary to me than anything. Please do not leave me because I cannot be what you want me to be.” “Can you not?” Gerda took a roll from the table and started to shred it in her fingers but had to stop. The bread was pale cream, light and fluffy, and still warm from the oven. It was nothing like the heavy, dark bread that she had brought from the village. “When she looks at you and says that you can solve all of her problems, that she needs you and depends on you, does your heart not beat faster then? In the dark of night, do you not think of her pale skin and long white hair lying next to you in your bed?” “Oh, Gerda. No, I do not.” The tremble in Kay’s voice made Gerda look up. “I have never thought about anyone in that way. I have never longed for someone or daydreamed about kisses in the dark. I do not think that I ever will; that desire is simply not in me. I am never as fully alive as I am when I am immersed in creativity, when the idea of a new invention sweeps me away. The touch of my muse is more glorious than the touch of any human love.” Gerda breathed shallowly so that her sobs would not break free. “I cannot love you in the way that you need me to, Gerda, but I hope you will let me continue to love you in my own way, as my closest, dearest friend. Please do not push me away over something that I cannot control and cannot change. Can you love me anyway, broken as I am?” Gerda looked into Kay's face and saw her own tears mirrored in his eyes. “I have hurt him,” she thought. “I have been impulsive and thoughtless...and so selfish, and I have hurt him.” “Oh, Kay, I am so, so very sorry. We are the very best of friends, now and forever. You are not broken, you are my Kay, my friend, and you always will be. Forgive me for pressing you, and following you, and...” Gerda's eyes widened and her face grew red, “What have I done? I have come here and...and in front of the Snow Queen! At her home! Oh, Kay, what must she think of me? I'm so sorry, I've embarrassed you, and now I know she will throw us out of her palace into the dark forest where we will be at the mercy of the beasts! Or, worse, she will lock us away in her dungeon, I just know it...” “Gerda!” Kay was laughing as he interrupted her panicked tirade. “Gerda, you are doing it again. Take a deep breath and let us go actually speak to your 'Snow Queen' before you can think of anything else that you 'just know.' Her name is Elfrida, and I think that she will like you...Or at least be amused.” So Gerda followed her Kay into the library, met the Snow Queen (who was, indeed, amused), and then returned to the village where they lived happily--well, happily enough. Nor the story you were expecting, eh, traveler? There's no spells, or magic bears, or pillars of fire, just a silly girl too caught up in what she knows to see what is. Now? Kay's retired but still living above the clock shop; he never married or had children, but passed the business on to a cousin who had the knack. See that giant wagon being pulled up the mountain on the thick cable? That's his newest invention, and it means Elfrida can visit the village even now that her bones aren't what they used to be. And Gerda? Gerda still has tea with Kay once a week, but she married the innkeeper's son. They had five children and twenty-two grandchildren, and now they take care of her, so she has nothing better to do with her time than sit in sun outside the inn cozening drinks from passing strangers in exchange for a story. Another? Why, thank you, traveler, I don't mind if I do.


The Inmate By: Jacob Slankard Click... Click... Click... 37-year-old security guard Rick Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned as he checked the prison’s security cameras. Click. A view of the outer wall. Click. A view of the front entrance. Click. A view of the first-floor cells. Click... Click... Click... After he clicked through all the camera feeds, Rick stood up and began walking towards the staff restroom. *I can’t wait for four am so I can leave this hellhole and get shit-faced drunk,* he thought as he walked into the staff restroom. Rick urinated, flushed the toilet, washed his hands, then looked in the mirror. “What the hell!” he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his skin in surprise. Standing next to him in the mirror was a middle-aged Hispanic male wearing a striped prison jumpsuit. Rick yanked his taser out of its holster, spun around, and aimed it at... nothing. He swiveled his head left and right, but the man he saw in the mirror was no longer in the restroom with him. Rick opened the restroom door and glanced around the guard station, but the room was empty. He shook his head and went back to the sink. *I must be going crazy,* he thought as he splashed cold water on his face. Back at his desk, Rick clicked through all the camera feeds again. Click. A view of the recreation yard. Click. A view of the visitation room. Click. A view of the cafeteria. Just as he was about to switch to the next feed, Rick saw something on the screen that caught his attention. Sitting at one of the tables was an inmate staring at the far wall. Rick was examining the feed when the image disappeared into a burst of static. “Come on, you piece of shit,” he muttered while banging on the side of the computer monitor. After a few more seconds of banging the camera feed returned, but the cafeteria was empty. *I know I saw someone,* he thought, getting up and leaving the guard station. Rick walked across the grass to the main prison building and entered. As he walked down the corridor that led to the cafeteria, a whispering sound blew through the corridor. Rick froze in place, staring at something in front of him. Standing a few feet in front of him was the inmate he had seen in the restroom and on the cameras. The inmate was about 6’2” and stout. He was wearing a tattered and stained prison jumpsuit. Rick unholstered his taser and aimed it at the inmate. “How did you get out of your cell?” Rick asked him. The inmate said nothing, only continued to stare vacantly past Rick’s shoulder. Rick took a step towards the inmate and said, “I asked you a question, inmate,” The inmate looked Rick in the eyes as a sinister grin spread across his face. Seeing the grin, Rick took a couple of steps backward. “What are you smiling at?” he asked. In the blink of an eye, the inmate started running full speed towards Rick. “Stop, don’t come any closer!” Rick yelled, tightening his grip on his taser. The inmate ignored him and continued his approach. Rick took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. The prongs shot out, but as soon as they touched the inmate, he dissolved into a mist. Rick’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in surprise. “What th-,” he started to say, but was cut off when something slammed into him and knocked him to the ground. Rick rolled onto his back and looked to see what pushed him down, but the corridor was empty. Rick started to get up off the floor but froze when the lights started flickering. *What is going on here?* he thought to himself, starting to feel afraid. As quick as the lights started to flicker, they stopped. *Must have been a power surge,* Rick thought as he got back to his feet and tried to dismiss his fear. He was walking back down to the guard station when the lights went out. Rick fumbled for his flashlight, found it, and switched it on. The bright, powerful beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the inmate that kept on popping up. *I’m losing my mind,* Rick thought, then said, more to himself than anyone else, “You’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination.” The inmate smiled and said, “Tell me, Rick, if I’m just a figment of your imagination, how was I able to push you down a few minutes ago?” Rick’s mind scrambled to find an answer to the question but came up with nothing. “Frustrating, isn’t it. It’s amazing how you think something is a figment of your imagination and it turns out to be real and concrete,” the inmate said, slowly walking towards Rick. “What do you want?” Rick asked The inmate stopped approaching and said, “Well, first I want to get out of this body and show you my true form. Then I want to take your body and use it as my host.” “Your true form?” Rick thought out loud, not understanding what he meant. The inmate smiled, then his face started to ripple and deform. Rick watched in horror as the inmate’s face bulged out and ripped open, exposing a pale, sickly grey face. Extremely skinny and hunched over, the creature that burst out of the inmate was about 6’5” and had a bat-like face with horns curling out of its forehead. It flapped its leathery wings and whipped its tail back and forth. Rick watched in wide-eyed terror as the creature leaped across the corridor and landed in front of him. “My true form is frightening, isn’t it?” the creature said in a deep, booming voice. “Wha... Wha... What are you?” Rick stammered. The creature smiled and said, “I’m a demon.” As soon as the demon said this the building started to rumble violently, and the lights flicked on, emitting a deep red glow. Rick lost his balance and fell to the ground, his flashlight rolling a few inches away. The demon took advantage of the situation and jumped on top of Rick, wrapping its tail around his throat. As his airway was restricted, Rick began to beat on the demon with his fists. The demon chuckled, then said, “It’s futile. There’s no way that a puny human like you could defeat a demon of my rank.” Rick groped for his flashlight, grabbed it, then slammed it into the demon’s left temple. The demon moaned in pain as it rolled off Rick. Rick didn’t miss a beat, getting up and running down the corridor. The demon shook off its daze and flew down the corridor, landing in front of Rick. Rick skidded to a stop and turned to run in the other direction, but the demon was faster, its hand flicking out and wrapping around Rick’s throat, squeezing tight. “You’re in good shape for an alcoholic,” the demon said, smiling. “It’s too bad you’re about to die.” “Please... I got a... family,” Rick gasped painfully as memories of his wife and two daughters flashed through his mind. The demon chuckled and said, “Aren’t you just a hypocrite, only thinking about your family when you’re about to die. You should have thought about them when you were getting shit-faced drunk. You should’ve thought about your daughters when they didn’t get any Christmas presents from you for the third year in a row.” As a tear fell from his eye, the demon plunged its hand deep inside Rick’s chest, bones snapping like twigs, and clenched his heart. “Aargh!” Rick coughed up blood that was pooling in his throat as agonizing pain pulsed through his body. The demon’s tongue shot out and licked the blood off Rick’s face. The demon, satisfied that it had caused him enough pain, ripped Rick’s heart out of his chest and threw his body to the side. The demon lifted the heart to its mouth and took a bite out of it. It closed its eyes and savored the meaty texture of the heart, the finished it in three bites. After consuming Rick’s heart the demon began to ripple and change. The demon doubled over in pain as patches of skin appeared and began to spread all over its body. Once the skin covered its whole body, the demon stood straight up. The face it now wore was the face of Rick Thomas. The demon lifted its face to the camera on the ceiling and smiled. 1 week later... Mallory Thomas noticed a dramatic change in her husband Rick’s behavior but satisfied her curiosity with the idea that he realized his problems and received help. Life went happily on until two months later when the Thomas family mysteriously disappeared, sparking a missing-persons case that to this day hasn’t been solved. The End.


She looked around her third floor apartment and imagined all the changes she would have to make if he accepted her request. She wondered if she’d have to move to a bigger house with a backyard and a bigger kitchen, or if her coach was comfortable enough. She liked the building on Falcon Street the first time she set her eyes on it; it was particularly refreshing that the window in the sitting room overlooked the street. It was a normal street but watching people live life on the street for five years was her favorite thing to do; the old lady who every morning walked across the street to the bakery gripping her walker with her dog strutting ahead of her then stopping mid crossing to sniff at the zebra crossing lines; the young boy who despite his mother’s pleas always ran circling all the posts and jumping over the bins as they went towards the corner library; and Mister Jo who sat on the bus stop bench reading the morning paper and waving the buses away as they slowed down. She had asked him in an email but he had not responded yet. She had been trying not to overthink but she was afraid he might say no. The boxes didn’t check but she wasn’t trying to check them, she had never been restricted by ticking the boxes where her heart was involved. Time was running out and the doctor told her she has six months left. She’s been on a marathon, getting the timing right, the bucket list done and passing all the tests. In the last five years she travelled to twenty one countries, visited the yogis in India, the Taj Mahal, the Amazon and the pyramids. She was planning her next promotion at the 100 billion dollar advertising company where she was the head of strategic management when the doctor put a different plan on her plate. She always thought she had time and options. After all she’s always been in perfect control. Why couldn’t she be normal and do things like other people did? Why did she always want things that were out of reach, for others, but always seemed attainable to her. Her mother had begged her to consider putting her busy schedule aside, her father had reassuringly said, ‘ your time will come’. She was a daddy’s girl so her incline was to take her father’s advice. Now her mother’s words were haunting her as she looked at the results the doctor had handed over to her. So she hatched a plan, but like her business plans she needed a willing team, time and sacrifice. But it wasn’t a business strategy she needed now, it wasn’t a corner office or a conference call to pitch to potential clients. That has always been the easy part in her life. She was a born leader, a natural influencer and had an acumen for business that was unparalleled in her field. But why was the one thing she needed most now so unnerving? She suddenly felt like a rookie, a new recruit. She remembered feeling more confident as a junior associate in the company 10 years ago. Her parents were progressive in many ways but conservative in particular areas just as she felt now considering her options. She considered sending a follow up email then recanted that idea. She picked up the phone to ask if he’d received the email but thought that move had desperation painted in red. She decided to give it a month then make a move. A month and a week passed and she thought maybe she’d start considering other options but that would be her life secret. She’d lie and tell the conservative story that her parents and their people would accept without being the subject of scorn for the rest of her life. Her extended family already gossiped about her so if they found out about the truth they’d roast an already burned chicken. Monday morning routines have been in place all her working life and this Monday was not exceptional. Trouser suit, bag, coffee and traffic was a norm she never broke. Once settled in the back seat, good mornings said and on her way to the office she opened her emails and almost dropped her coffee. He’d replied! She couldn’t open it, not now, she decided to wait until she was home alone. That way she could cry, jump for joy and nobody would know. The clock’s tick tock on her corner office wall sounded bizarre, her office assistant seemed slow today and her work went on a hiatus _unlike Monday. She stared at the email notification guessing what he’d written, how he’d let her down easy and how he might have written, ‘I couldn’t risk destroying our family’s existing relationship’. Because he’d be cordial like that, tactful and measured, that’s why she had chosen him in the first place. Monday was conspiring with her mind to read the email and despite her best restraint, she clicked open. Dear Henrietta, How are you going? It’s been a while and I’ve been meaning to get in touch but busy gets in the way_you know how it is! I received your email and was a bit surprised by your request though pleasantly so. I remembered how I pursued you but you were so focused on your career you said you didn’t have time for a relationship. Have you changed your mind? You said you wanted me to father your child with no strings attached, I wondered what that meant. After thinking about it for a while now, I’ve decided If I can’t have you by my side then I’d be happy to have a child with you. So, Yes! Please call me and let’s plan to meet soon. Always, Mark. Henrietta was tearing when she read the email, smiling when she thought about having a child with him. She could now refer to ‘the baby’s father’ in conversations with her nosy relatives and not worry about them spreading rumors about her having a test tube baby! Her parents would understand her need to have a child without a marriage but how could she explain a lab baby?


The engine dies. He takes out the keys and sets them on his leg. The last vestige of the life of his dreams, that car. He sits out front of the small house he barely makes rent on. Not what he had planned. He pops the handle on door and slides out into the cool fall air. The door slams with a metallic thud. They don’t make them like they used to. Nothing’s like it used to be. He trudges up the walk, a highway to all his broken dreams. He unlocks the door, all is quiet. He slips the key-ring back into his pocket and drops his bag by the door. Home. “In here,” she calls from the kitchen. He trudges into further in, stops at the kitchen door and leans against the frame. She’s just pulling dinner from the oven. He’s always thought she was beautiful. Since the first day they met. Freshman year of high school. She was the mousy book-nerd in the back of class. He was the lone wolf, tough out of necessity, friendless. She never paid him any attention. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was short. Like really short. And it drove him insane. Hadn’t grown an inch in the eight years he’d known her. Her hair has changed a lot though. Brown. Blonde. Blue. Bright pink once. Back to natural now. She did that for the wedding. Her eyes, though tired now, still sparkle. Dark, dark pools of starry liquid. She is his salvation. He moves to her, hands on her hips. Lips caress her shoulder, nudging her dress strap off with his nose. “Missed you today,” he whispers, then closes his lips around her earlobe. The smell of her hair is intoxicating. Still wet from a shower hours earlier. He presses her against him, her small frame cradled against his. Fingers entwined, now moving up her stomach. Not as flat as it once was. Now rippled with marks. Still drives him wild. He turns her around. Hungrily covers her mouth with his. The taste of her is ecstasy. Her hands grip his shirt, pulling him close. His hands move now, down her back, tugging her dress up, hands moving up warm thighs. Lifting her with firm hands. Planting her on the counter. Kisses frantic. She’s pulling at the buttons of his shirt. His lips move down her neck. Slowly. Hands caress the tops of her legs. Teasing, hinting at what he wants. She wraps her legs around him. He groans, feeling his need for her thrumming in his soul. “I need you,” he whispers, barely audible against her skin. But then the pitter-patter of bare feet. A solid weight against his leg. “Hi daddy! You’re home!” she squeals. He pulls away, picks the little curly haired girl up and spins her around. “I missed you too sweetie!” He kisses her cheek. Offers his wife a hand and she slips off the counter. “Tonight,” he whispers and kisses her palm. “Tonight.” And he forgets that his dreams were dashed that night she told him she was pregnant. Because, even though they haunt him every day, his dreams were never as good as this.