Cigar, Carmichael? Like many baby boomers, my parents saw the new suburbs as utopia. The open spaces beckoned those suffering from the crush of the concrete jungle. What my parents apparently forgot was that just a few decades prior, cities provided safety from the wild things that roam open spaces like wolves and mountain lions. However, as a kid and dedicated viewer of Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie, and Davey Crockett, I was acutely aware of the dangers. Hey, don’t laugh. Davey Crockett killed a bear when he was only three. They were out there and those wild things were the nocturnal visitors haunting my dreams. During construction of our future home, we often visited the blossoming neighborhood. At first it was a huge expanse of prairie grass. A clever play by the developer; there would be no expense for tree removal. Soon the landscape began to change. Popping up everywhere like spring flowers were new houses. As far as my eight-year-old eyes could see there were houses in various stages of construction but not a single flower, or tree, and to my great relief no wild things. That is until we moved in. *** Our car had not yet stopped when I spotted it. A wild thing on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s house, glowering at me with large yellow cat eyes. “A puma,” I thought because it was gray, not brown, and big, but not mountain lion size. Come on I’m not dense, I was eight and didn’t know that a puma is a mountain lion. Suddenly a knock on the car’s window startled the beejesus out of me. Okay, maybe not the beejesus, but it was close to requiring a change of pants. “Hi! I’m Linda McCall and this is my little sister Diane. Wanna play?” “Bingo,” I thought, “built-in playmates.” Cautiously I opened the door, wary of the puma pouncing. Seeing my hesitancy and following my gaze, Diane said, “That’s my Dad’s cat, Carmichael. It’s best to leave him alone. He can be mean.” “I knew it,” my brain screamed. “Crockett was right. There’s danger in these here hills.” As the weeks passed my neighbors and I became fast friends. Of course, I always steered a wide path around Carmichael. I had seen him in the moonlight, prowling the neighborhood, hunting the denizens of the dark. I heard his yowl in the wee hours announcing his reign of the neighborhood. One morning I found his prize from the night before meticulously displayed at our backdoor. I was certain it was a direct, and not so subtle, warning to me. His every move was that of a cold, calculated, serial killer. I was terrified but could not help admiring the regal way he moved and how downright beautiful and dangerous he was. One afternoon the girls and I burst into Mr. McCall’s study. Okay, it was the basement Mr. McCall turned into a library with a lounge chair, sofa, reading table and television. On the reading table was a polished wood box with a lock on it. A man cave before it’s time. Mr. McCall was quietly reading with Carmichael contentedly curled on his lap. “He’s growling. Is he going to bite you,” I asked. Glancing up from his book, Mr. McCall chuckled, “No, he won’t bite me. He’s purring and trying to trick me.” “It sure sounds like growling.” “You see this box,” Mr. McCall explained, “it’s full of cigars that I have had since before Linda was born. Where I’m from cigars are handed out by a new father if the baby is a boy. After Linda’s birth I came home to find Carmichael, then just a kitten, had opened the box and was munching away on my Cuban cigars. Well, I put a lock on the box and occasionally I’ll open it for a smoke. Carmichael waits for the box to open and then pounces to steal what he can. He knows by purring on my lap I get relaxed and may fall into his clever plan.” “I knew it,” I thought, “he’s a deranged wild thing that likes to chew tobacco probably because it tastes better than mice.” A few months later big news rolled through the neighborhood. No, the news wasn’t another tree was being planted, but rather the McCall’s were expecting a baby. The whole expecting thing, from beginning to end, was a mystery to me and none of the adults were inclined to give any details. However, I was pretty certain the stork had nothing to do with it. I watched in amazement, always keeping my distance from the king-of-beasts, as Ms. McCall transformed from a thin, fragile-looking, woman into a glowing, round, mom-to-be. As the weeks passed I also noticed the number and frequency of Carmichael’s nocturnal conquests left at the McCall door increased as did his interest in the forbidden box. *** One day the girls and I were outside playing jacks when the McCall car unexpectedly roared away. My mother, ever the calm and understated epitome of Southern properness and decorum, popped her head out our back door, “Y’all stay over heah. The girls’ parents are going to be away for a bit.” “Geez Mom, tell us something we don’t know,” I thought, but discretion overcame stupidity, “Ok, we will,” I replied. Diane, unaware of Southern protocol in never asking an adult a direct question, went straight for what we all wanted to know, “Is Mom having the baby,” she asked. Caught between the Southern maxims of elusiveness to children and telling the truth, my Mother skillfully navigated the middle ground, “I’m not sure, we’ll see.” Finally, after what seemed like days but was really just hours, the McCall vehicle arrived home. Mr. McCall stoically walked to his front door and disappeared inside. The three of us, led by my mom, rushed after him. So much for Southern decorum, there were questions to be asked and answers to be had. In the front door, down the stairs, and into the library the four horsemen charged. Sitting in his chair with Carmichael in his lap, Mr. McCall glanced at us and reached for the forbidden box. Without saying a word, he slowly unlocked it, opened the top, looked at the royalty purring in his lap and asked, “Cigar, Carmichael?” The End


Two and a half hours after touching down in Innsbruck and boarding the SUV that waited to greet her, Amelia Carver’s overnight expedition came to an end at a squat, crumbling structure in the rugged terrain of Saminatal Valley. From Dublin to Austria to Liechtenstein, from 12am to 6, from civilisation to desolation, and she still didn’t know if it was worth it. Looking at the building, little more than an abandoned mound of concrete, it was difficult to see how it could be. She hadn’t accomplished anything of note since last year. She wasn’t expecting to receive any awards. There were no contemporaries she still wanted to meet. And even if by some chance she was to be acknowledged for her endeavours, she had no desire to receive a tacky statue. Not that it mattered. She was contracted to be here so she was. At least this year promised to be different, since Bertram was introducing something new. And she’d made her own assumptions about what that meant. A special guest. An unexpected attendee. One that would be worth turning up for. If it was him . “So, you’re not gonna throw me a bone?” she asked the driver, as he stopped by the secret military installation, which has been constructed by Nazi forces during World War II. “Not so much as a nod or shake of the head?” The driver, mannequin-like in black suit and mirrored sunglasses, said precisely as many words as he’d said since collecting her at the airport. A sum total of zero. “Cool,” said his ‘fare’, adjusting the Venetian half-mask that covered the left of her face before popping the passenger door, the fabric of her crimson gown rustling as she got out. “Good talk, thanks for the riveting repartee.” Out of the vehicle, in the pale morning light, Amelia shut the door and straightened her skirt. Gravel spat like an angry rattlesnake as the driver stomped the gas and crunched away. “Rude,” said Amelia, tottering on heels towards the entrance, a rusted steel door partially concealed by tangled vines. Exactly the kind of place she wanted to spend the first evening of the last month of the year, when she could be curled up watching TV. But here she was. Pushing through a squealing slab of history to meet another expressionless brute, who was as conversational as the one who’d dropped her off. “Hey,” she said, as the passage she’d entered closed around her. “Am I last again? I’m always late. Shucks.” The grunt showed no emotion while placing a barcode-scanner type device against the scar on her neck, allowing a beep to confirm her identity. While he did this, she removed her phone from her clutch and tapped on it to display the invite she’d received, which was also scanned and accepted. Once done, the guard stepped aside, allowing her access to a drape-covered door. “Thanks,” Amelia said, maintaining eye contact with the goon while adjusting her breasts. “So...is it true? Is it Abyss?” No response, the bouncer flicked his eyes back to the wall. Amelia sighed and pulled the drape aside, stepping into a better lit chamber that she lost sight of immediately when a pair of calloused hands fell over her eyes. “Guess who?” came a gravelly voice, laced with playful menace. Amelia peeled the hands away and turned to face their owner, a beast of a man wearing jeans, a white cotton waistcoat and a wolf’s head mask. Blue eyes stared from its sockets, his lips curled up within its maw. “Wolfclawe. Always a pleasure.” Of all the associates she’d met since joining the Network, Wolfclawe was the one she liked most. He had a sense of humour to go with his violent nature and was capable of faking social niceties. “Carver,” he greeted. “Thought it was you I heard coming in behind me. Looking pasty as ever. Still not getting any sun?” “Still got the same machete?” Amelia asked, peering over his shoulder at the curved weapon strapped to his back. “Thought it might have broke from overuse. Heard it's taken thirty heads this year. Not jealous.” “Old Betsy’s stronger than she looks,” the masked man grinned. “What about you? I remember you saying last year how your kill-count was too low. Any success ramping things up?” “In Ireland? Not as much as I’d like,” she said, rolling her visible eye, the taped up hole of her masquerade mask concealing the empty socket of the other. “Came in with a solid thirteen. Three more than last year. But shy of the twenty I wanted.” “An improvement is an improvement. And you are a more discerning kind of killer. Targeting assholes who mock the less fortunate and lack empathy is a task in and of itself. Unless you're starting to feel less philanthropic?" “Nope,” Amelia shook her head, turning away from the wolf-headed killer. "If I'm compelled to get my hands dirty, may as well clean some shit up. Anyway, never mind that. We better grab seats if there’s any left. Bertram starts on time and we’re late.” The interior of the chamber had been prepared for Bertram’s event--rows of chairs arranged before a makeshift stage holding a podium, spotlights casting shadows on red curtained walls. The seats were occupied by figures in various states, some in their work clothes (boiler suits, leather aprons, lab coats, military fatigues), others in more casual attire, some sporting face-coverings (canvas bags, chrome constructions, cliched hockey masks or things that had been assembled from strips of flesh) some displaying faces not even mothers could love, but all unmistakably killers. “Indeed,” said Wolfclawe, following Amelia towards the front, where she’d spotted a pair of vacant seats. “Wouldn’t do to be kicked out, when I’m in with a chance of Best Massacre.” “You deserve an award for that,” Amelia nodded. “Speaking of awards, I guess you heard about the new one?” “Mmm,” Wolfeclawe said, turning into the front row behind her. “Lifetime Achievement Award. Arguably long overdue for a ceremony that honours psycho killers. Half us fuckers are near immortal. The question is...” “Who’s the inaugural recipient?” Amelia finished, nodding at the motley crew of weird and wonderful murderers she passed as she made her way to a seat. “You know what they’ve been saying on Instagrim.” “Well, it’s got to be Abyss,” Wolfclawe said, taking a seat alongside her. “How many times did he win ‘Killer of the Year’? Twelve? Does anyone have a better record?” “Not only that. Best Dismemberment. Most Depraved Violation. Goriest Cut. You name it, he got it. Every year for a decade. Until he vanished. He’s the GOAT, would be an insult to give it to anyone else. The question is...is he alive? All the rumours that circulate, about him being locked away by the Government, retiring to live as a lumberjack...being turned into mince by a ‘final girl’!” “Fuck,” Wolfclawe gasped, as she organised her dress on her chair. “I know! The ultimate humiliation for serial slashers...” “Not that,” Wolfclawe interrupted, touching her arm. “ That .” Amelia followed his gaze to the left of the stage, where three men stood partially obscured behind curtains, two of Bertram’s goons and... Him. Clad in an oil-stained pair of overalls, feet stuffed into boots that were coming apart, head concealed by a latex S&M hood replete with zips, straps and buckles, the seven foot tall hulking form was unmistakably Abyss. The shifting, awkward posture. The way his arms flexed. The movement of his head, glitching like stop-motion animation. She’d only seen videos but she knew it was him. Wolfclawe was squinting behind his mask as he studied the granddaddy of killers. “He’s bulkier than I expected. Taller. But look how they’re restraining him. Is that a neck manacle? Connected to prods?” Amelia had noticed this too, but before she could consider it the lights dimmed and the piped music came to a halt. A hush fell over the crowd and all eyes went to the stage as the curtain on the right was thrown back, allowing a bearded man in a suit to stride out, beckoning applause. Which he got. In buckets. From all. Because this was their benefactor, Bertram Belasco, long-serving head of the Serial Killer Network. Amelia took part in the adulation as he soaked it up. In the five years since he found her and signed her up to his ‘club’, she’d come to respect him like everyone else. Being selected was nothing short of an honour. It meant her killer credentials were on point. It meant, despite the exorbitant subscription fee Bertram charged for membership, that she had access to all SK Network resources; anonymity, medical aid, protection and sanctuary when required. Luckily, she hadn’t needed to avail of much yet, being a small fish in the pond. A little treatment for wounds, some hacking to remove her image from cctv footage. All in a day’s work for the Network. “Welcome, friends,” Bertram said, when the applause died down. “Delighted to see you all again. Our venue is a little less luxurious than usual but there’s a reason for that, one that will become clear soon. Before we start, I want to take a moment to say that this year’s nominees for our various awards were highly impressive--Kill of the Year, Sickest Mutilation, Most Creative Execution... You’ve outdone yourselves and I want to congratulate everyone for their efforts. You’ve made me proud and... Well, just... Well done.” “Weird start,” Wolfclawe whispered, and Amelia nodded. Bertram seemed more sombre than usual. “However,” he blurted then, perking up as his eyes went to Abyss. “Before we get to that...a surprise!” A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Amelia felt goosebumps on her arms. “As you know from my invite,” their host went on, “we have a special award tonight. And along with it comes a special guest. There’s been a lot of speculation online as to who it might be, with one particular name being mooted more than others. Well. I don’t want to keep you-or him-waiting any longer, so let’s kick things off with our first ever Lifetime Achievement Award. Won’t you join me please in welcoming...Abyss!” Applause filled the room as Abyss was guided out by the goons. His footsteps as he stomped to the podium were louder than the chants and cheers around her. But why was he secured like that? Was he here against his will? Was he a danger to his own kind? “I know this looks weird,” said Bertram, as Abyss was brought to a halt alongside him, quivering as though volts flowed into his neck. “But sadly dear Abyss is not the force of nature he used to be. He’s had to keep a low profile these last ten years. Two decades as the world’s most prolific serial killer is something that can take a toll. He absorbed more pure guilt than anyone before him and handled it like a trooper. But there’s a limit to all things. And ten years ago today, he reached his. He had to be put away, for everyone’s safety. Just one more kill would have broken him, released the guilt, and we weren’t ready.” “What’s he talking about?” Wolfclawe hissed. Amelia shook her head. She had no idea. But whatever it was, it had the potential to be epic. As he spoke, Bertram retrieved an award from behind the podium, a grotesque creation made of twisted steel. “For you,” he continued, presenting the award to the monster. “With gratitude. But this isn’t your true reward. A polished lump of metal in your hands is nothing but a weapon. I know what you’d really like is...closure.” Abyss closed his fist around the award, gripping it like a bludgeon while Bertram raised an arm and clicked his fingers. Amelia sat up in her chair, watching the curtains at the back of the stage part and another suited mook wheel out a crate. “This is different,” said Wolfclawe. “What’s the old boy up to?” “Does everyone remember Diamond Lagoon, 1995? Abyss’ most infamous rampage. He took out an entire settlement in one night. An incredible feat of savagery. Sixty seven residents, sixty six victims, because one slipped through the net. A plucky young girl. Don’t you hate them? We’ve all been frustrated by one of those. For Abyss though, in a twenty year reign of terror, she was the only one who ever got away. The only blemish in an otherwise spotless career. And guess what?” Bertram moved to the edge of the stage as his man undid latches on the crate. “We have her here tonight!” Gasps in the crowd as the guard opened the box and a dishevelled woman fell out, barely getting her hands in front of her before hitting the floor. Her face was lined with age, her hair was grey. She whimpered where she’d landed by Abyss, whose head was turned down as he watched. “No way,” Amelia said, as Bertram and his goons walked off the stage. “Are we going to see a live kill?” “You’re free, Abyss!” Bertram called as he slipped through the curtains. “Let it go!” The crowd had gotten to their feet and Amelia joined them, all eyes on the scene, keen to see what would happen next. And what happened next was...like watching a movie sped up. 2x. Abyss threw his head back and howled. The woman screamed up at his hood. Abyss drove the trophy into her skull. The onlookers in the crowd cheered and jumped. Amelia’s mouth fell open. Wolfclawe whistled. Abyss turned to the crowd and started to shudder. Not from being electrocuted, from something else. What was it Bertram had said? Amelia wondered. One more kill would have broken him, released the guilt. The shuddering turned to convulsions and Abyss roared, not now in fury but in pain. He staggered, his body shaking violently. His head jerked back, and with a sickening crack it split open, ripping through latex and spilling blood and bone to the floor. 3x. Black mist poured from his mask. Smoky tendrils shot forth, snaking through the air and filling the room. Writhing, maleficent tentacles, that multiplied and wriggled like worms before plunging into the heads of those below, squeezing screams from their lungs. Their bodies convulsed and their faces contorted as the Guilt from Abyss took control. Amelia watched chaos unfold beginning with Wolfclawe, who stared wide-eyed in horror from his mask as he took his machete, lifted it to his neck and sliced through. Hot, scarlet liquid splattered her face as she looked away, her eye falling on the killers behind her, who were turning their weapons on themselves, tearing at flesh, gouging out eyes, ripping their own jaws off in a frenzy. 4x. Tendrils of mist withdrew from falling bodies. Returned to the hovering mass over Abyss’ corpse. Amelia tottered, unsteady on heels slipping in blood. The screams were abating, the crowd was diminishing, not many remained on their feet. Not many continued to be overwhelmed by the guilt of their actions, encouraged by the fingers of mist that had entered their brains. All of their brains. Even hers. And that’s when she realised...she, too, had been invaded. But she, alone, was still standing. With a tendril of smoke connecting her to the pulsating mass, which was slowly drifting towards her from the stage. Drifting/oozing/throbbing, shrinking as it flowed into her head. Filling her mind with images of her victims. Bullies. Narcissists. Sociopaths. Bigots. Gaslighters. Abusers. Jerks. Am I supposed to feel bad for killing them? her inner voice queried. Am I supposed to break under the weight of massive guilt? And that’s when someone hit... Pause. “I knew it would be you,” a voice behind her, Bertram’s, said and she turned, the last of the Guilt devouring her soul. "Thought we’d have more time to nurture your talent but Abyss’ willpower was waning. He was going to release it soon, one last murder or not. And it needed to happen in a controlled environment. It needed to feast after being locked away for so long. And it needed to choose a new host." "What...is it?" Amelia asked, aware of fresh darkness inside her. "A force as old as time," Bertram said, taking her hand. "An insatiable force that needs to be fed. But keeping it fed is not easy. And keeping it restrained? Even harder. You see what it does when it’s not. But it takes a certain kind of person. Abyss was that person before. Thirty years he held it--a record. But it fucked him up. He was a discerning killer too, once upon a time. An idealist. He focused his darkness, like you. Til he was chosen." “What...have you done to me?” "I’m sorry,” Bertram said, leading her away from the carnage. “As its Guardian, I have to oversee the transference. It’s never easy. But it’s necessary. I do it to keep the world safe, believe it or not. Safe from unstoppable evil. It picked you today because you could hold it. But it’s going to change you, over time. It will naturally make you more feral. Less controlled. A rampaging beast, if I’m honest. But it will also make you a legend. The best of the best. With the Guilty Conscience fueling you, you'll be Killer of the Year for as long as you want. And the next Lifetime Achievement Award will be yours." Amelia’s mind was racing. His words sounded insane but she could feel it, a growing hunger that demanded to be sated. A hunger that would make her a Queen. "Then I suppose I have work to do," she said, her voice sharp, like the switchblade in her clutch. Bertram nodded. "And I’ve a new Network to build. Welcome to your new life, Amelia Carver.” “Glad to be here,” she replied, accepting a kiss to her hand. “I look forward to carving a fresh abyss."


Where she and her lineage of wizened eyes, handsomely greyed heads, often gnarled hands, and beautifully scarred feet have their placentas buried and bones interred, it is said it takes a village to raise a child. Well, they had a village and it did raise its children. Mama Mutai would with lightning-quick speed smack you on the back of your head if you happened to be within her vicinity and answered the call of original sin to talk back to anyone of the same age as the first sibling in your home; let alone attempting to do so to one of an age similar to that of your parents. Mama Achieng would, when the burnt orange meets the darkening blue and all animals great and small knew to troop back to where they call home, start grabbing and scrubbing dusty heads and muddy feet all the while profusely complaining about the most horrible state the growing pile of dirtied clothes was in, as she flung them all next to the water tank for them to think about their lives before they were also beaten and scrubbed to within an inch of their threadbare lives by Achieng herself. Mama Njenga was the designated headquarters for all functions; courting couples were watched hawk-eyed because weddings are no matter to be trifled with, babies were born into the pomp and flare they deserved, were dedicated to the Lord pots and pans a’banging, men, women, and children were laid to rest and not a soul near or far could question the grief that shrouded our village or that the departed belonged. My mother was the one whom they did not talk of or even mention her name often enough. She was the one who as a child was the quiet one, did not play too well or often enough with other children, and grew to be a loner of a girl. Our matriarch, Mama Neserian had long given up on being a wife, though not for lack of trying, hoping, praying, being beaten into, counselled to submit to and often out rightly shamed to; she however gave herself to the call of being a mother with all the fierceness of a wounded bear. She had five including my mother and another five from our grandfather’s other mother-of-his-children to raise, dote on, love, feed, scrub, spank or beat depending on the crime, and encourage with gruff words for after all who out rightly tells children that they are loved or can and must succeed and all the while using actual words. To call both my grandmother and she wives would be to grant my grandfather the honour of being a husband. Too high an honour! My mother grew into a quiet girl, one who was easy to forget, hard to notice she was there, an observer of people and life’s events, she never truly or convincingly enough said no to anyone or anything and embraced the fascinating habit of never lifting her head too long from watching the ground when she walked and of getting genuinely shocked when one called her beautiful or kind or strong or gracious, all things she was and did effortlessly and with a pull that invited one to prepare that which their heart so desperately longed for in food or drink, choose a sunrise or set as befits their spirit, tuck feet under, blissfully sigh and adoringly behold. Even more, despite and in spite of it all, she evolved into a fascinating woman. More beautiful, kinder, more gracious and stronger than we would know or think and at every re-telling of this tale, she would grow stronger still. Yet, she carried this shadow with her. When spotted in her eyes it drew the most shaken of gasps followed in quick succession by inquiry, horror, resolve and only much later, defeat and despair! Mama Neserian cannot even under the threat of hot coals to the bottom of her feet tell you when or why my mother was so different from her other children, all ten of them, she just was. Was it possible for either one or even two or three of her children at a time to be off somewhere doing and being something she would often worry or frown upon? A most resounding yes. After all, in raising its children our village provided all manner of thrills and spills. From roaring down the river after coming tumbling and screaming down the muddy ravine during the rainy season, to trying to spot and see how close we could get to a gazelle before it bounded away or even an elephant if we strayed far enough and serendipity smiled and no adult could be spotted or could spot us. There was such mischief to get up to and we were all such willing slaves to her. When a new family found their way to our village and were certified welcome after many shifting eyes and more wagging tongues, their children were taken under wing and none was allowed to be found unable to swim, incapable of stealing Babu’s bicycle from in front of his retail shop, afraid of flora or fauna and thoroughly seasoned in being on the receiving end of the cane of many a mother including their own. One such family came into town a little before I came to be and as soon as my mother and grandmother agreed that maybe the city with its twinkling lights, not as fresh air or water, ominous air, hope, and promise wasn’t a bad idea for my mother. My mother never did say who my father was and no one explicitly remembered seeing her leaning suggestively over fences, taking the long way around on errands, tracing and retracing with her shy feet the contours of our great motherland as sweet nothings were sent her way; so my announcement and boisterous arrival into our village remained unspoken of. Mama Neserian would not be bothered, bullied or otherwise cajoled to reveal such information because the truth was too much for her heart to re-tell. The night my mother sat next to her in front of the deliciously warm hearth, as the flames licked the walls and boiled evening tea along with the morning maize, my grandmother felt the air shift to make room for whatever it was her daughter needed to lay at her feet and she instinctively knew that because it was my mother, it would serve them both well to let her lead the way. And so my mother let it be known of my impending arrival in 7 or so months, that she was okay as okay can be for a 16-year-old girl, and had been and would continue to take care of herself and thus me as I lay cosy and budding, and that when she was done with the business of bringing me forth, could my grandmother then please do that which my mother was sure only she could for her, raise me and raise me well. And that is how my mother became a distant connection to an enchanting place over the horizon. My grandmother never let me forget that she was my grandmother and not my mother so at that same warm hearth, late in the evening, she would tell me tales of who she knew my mother to be, what she was up to through her letters first, and later through the most fascinating of contraptions called a mobile phone. My mother tried to visit and the first time she did I have heard it said that it seemed the shadow she bore had faded, quieted and she seemed all the better for it. Laughed easier, more freely, was gentler to interact with. As I grew and morphed into my own person embarking on that often arduous journey of finding and being self, my mother and I settled for camaraderie and she served us well. I eventually found myself in that twinkling, promising place on the horizon and Mama Neserian could not be prouder or sadder in equal measures. We missed each other terribly yet I was her connect to my other siblings and her children, a task I loathed or thoroughly relished depending on which relative was on the other side of the coffee, lunch, dinner, Saturday afternoon meet-up or phone call. One evening as I put up my feet and freed my braids, my mother appeared unannounced at my door. This happened often and was never a cause for concern yet on this particular evening, she was antsy. She was battling cervical cancer. She wore her bald black head with pride, fought her doctors at every turn, attempted to live life on her own terms and, so when she walked in, settled on the couch wrapping a blanket across her legs to keep warm and looked me straight in the eye and said, “it is time!”, my heart leapt to my throat. Unhurriedly, unfeelingly, in a voice devoid of extremes and calmly still, my mother proceeded to tell me our story. How she and her shadow were forever merged, how I came to be. When my mother turned twelve, she remembers, a new family came to the village. One of the whole ones so there was a mother, a father, six children of four rambunctious boys and two pretty girls, their livestock for no village is complete without a corral of them, and as is our African nature, theirs was a revolving door of various relatives. That year, an uncle came to live with them and that man came to be the life of our village! Young and old drew to him like flies to filth. He was the quintessential uncle to watch over children, chase them down hills, the eager goat bounding along with them, he drank at the table of men and spurred ideas of growth, better farming, higher yields, promising marriages and one last try for a boy, and he was the ever-helpful hand for mothers needing an extra sinewy hand. My mother watched all these things like she watched all life then, from under her downcast eyes and bowed head, quietly reading the random newspapers that were used to line the inside of some houses. This uncle finally came around to noticing her and would always try to stop and talk to her or sit next to her as she read or accompany her on errands. My mother never protested or acquiesced and sometimes his presence helped to keep off cat-calling boys and bullies and gaggling, whispering girls and that suited my mother just fine. By the time my mother turned 14, she and he were now on speaking and laughing terms and so they would remain. He was the only one other than family that my mother would raise her head from staring at the ground for, and he became and would remain her fiercest protector. The day I was conceived, my mother’s protector was away. Over the hill in another village doing what men do in providing and protecting. Mama Neserian had developed a cough that sounded like an old coal train announcing its ascent from the very bowels of the earth and by the time it exited her body, she was spitting black sputum and blood. And so, despite her protests, my mother had taken it upon herself to go see the medicine woman across the ridge. My mother was fifteen and oblivious to the fact that the new family’s father had come into the village, set down roots and proceeded to notice her and keep noticing her through the years. So on this particular day, as she set off on her mission to bring back respite and relief, he noticed and followed. Respite and relief never made it back and instead, Mama Neserian was found fretting and worrying for darkness had preceded my mother’s return. Uncle Murata returned from being provider and protector to find Mama Neserian waiting for him with sputum-laden breath. He needed no coaxing and became the search party. Two days later, him red-eyed and bone-weary, my mother bruised, battered and bloodied showed up with the dawn. The medicine woman was fetched and in the middle of her “tsk, tsk, tsk” and frequent wiping away of tears, she pronounced my mother alive but violently robbed of virtue. Mama Neserian stood there shell-shocked and after she had stared unseeingly into the walls of her home, she sent one of my mother’s brothers to fetch the ‘modern’ medicine woman. His feet cycled like a bat from hell and only briefly slowed at the melee that was at Uncle Murata’s compound that he would later hear left the father of that home dead and Uncle Murata packed up, never to return. My uncle returned with the nurse in tow who wiped, disinfected, examined, patched up and cuddled my mother back into what would now be her new self. She spoke with my grandmother and left strict instructions and the promise to return every day until she was satisfied she had healed that which medicine could, the rest would have to be left to God. Mama Neserian and the other elders were informed of the happenings at the new family’s homestead and the conclusion that the dead man was responsible and Uncle Murata our hero. He never stayed to receive punishment or accolade and only left behind the instruction that my mother was the only one who could reach him if and when she wanted and for whom he would return should she need him. My mother’s body healed, her mind limped, she never did reach out for Uncle Murata and only because she knew he would face grueling yet half-hearted punishment. When she went into the city, she did find him and they did remain protector and protected until three days before she showed up at my door. She said she had gotten the dreaded call from an emergency room and went in to find Uncle Murata laid upon a cold, metal slab. As her heart shattered, he remained still, peaceful, unmoved by her screams that though she thought were silent, rent the air and resulted in her in a heap upon the floor. When she rejoined the conscious, the emergency room doctor explained that Uncle Murata had been dumped at their doors, too many stab wounds for them to keep from discharging his precious life. They asked if she wanted his possessions to which she answered, “and his body as well. He deserved to be buried in love.” So here she was with a crumpled, bloodied note she had found among his things and all the note said was, “for dad.” In the days since she had found it, she had unearthed its meaning and was here to ask that I accompany her to face its writer. Without thinking twice, we left and as I drove, she stared out the window and then the tears came. They tore a wail from the bottom of her soul that I was sure had everything to do with not just the present but some 20-odd years ago. We got to a quiet neighbourhood, the kind that reminds you of the Desperate Housewives. She pointed to a red-brick townhouse, picket fence and all on the left and we sat and bore witness to its occupant go about the rituals of an eager host. Just as he and friends and family sat down to an elaborately laid out dinner, my mother weaved her fingers with mine, I heard her hold her breath and the night air tore with an explosion! Between reacting to it and watching my mother, the scene plays out in slow motion for me. That red-brick townhouse, its occupants and elaborate dinner go up in a whoosh of flames while my mother lets out that held breath. She had found the writer of the note and taken her own pound of flesh.


“Cameras in the house?” Rhea stared at the producer in such an unflinching way one could have wondered whether her soul had left her body. Had someone looked up the word incredulous , her face might as well have defined it. “Yes,” replied the producer, calm and composed. “That’s the deal. If you want the Extras, that is.” “Of course we do!” screamed Nick, elated. All three sat in a luxurious office at the Beverly Studios administration building. “What are the extras exactly?” asked Rhea. “Five thousand dollars a week for the rest of your lives. Multiple endorsement deals with commercial products. Oh, and lifelong fame, of course.” Nick’s eyes gleamed at the prospect, while Rhea remained unconvinced. “This wasn’t in the contract,” she said. “The contract you signed was for The Great Love Search. You’ll be signing a new one for The Great Love Found. That’s the principle of a spin-off.” “It’s just...” she mumbled, glancing at Nick awkwardly. “We’re... we’re not really in love. It was all make-believe for the show, I thought you knew this.” “I do,” replied the producer. “Few contestants come to The Great Love Search for love. They do it for money and fame.” “Exactly,” said Nick. “It’s all that matters, right. C’mon Rhea, we can do this. They don’t call you Rhea the Wrecker for nothing.” “For the rest of our lives? Isn’t that a little bit extreme?” Rhea could not even admit it to herself, but love was indeed what pushed her to audition for The Great Love Search. Like many young women, she dreamed of finding a Prince Charming to warm her on the cold winter nights back in Colorado. When all conventional dating methods failed, she packed her bags and put her candidacy forward for the reality dating show hoping this would provide an environment conducive to finding the right one. What could possibly go wrong with fifteen men and fifteen women mingling together on a paradise island? Of course, things quickly spiraled out of control. Her memory drifted back to the first fight. *** Filming took place in a lavish seaside house in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The sights defied Rhea’s wildest dreams. Amid palm trees and turquoise waves washing up on the shore, she took a long walk on the sandy beach upon landing. Colorado seemed like nothing more than a distant dream, leftover from a past life. Yet, there was this unnerving impression at the back of her mind. Something would go wrong. Rebecca provoked her on the first evening. Cleanliness mattered to Rhea: her mother always emphasized the importance of washing the dishes before going to bed. She gently reminded her roommate of the house rules regarding dishes etiquette, but the reminder was met with quite a lot of resistance. From there, the situation escalated quickly. Voices soared. Chairs flew. Knifes were pointed. “You freakin’ psychopath!” yelled Rebecca as she threw her dishes on the ground. The shattered pieces dispersed all around, one of them cutting lodging itself between Rhea’s toes. “What makes you think you can boss me around?” “Me?” replied Rhea, out of her mind. “A psychopath? When is the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror? I have to boss you around because you’re literally a five-year-old child!” She threw back the broken pieces at her rival, who ran away upstairs screaming swear words. It didn’t take long for Rhea to resonate with viewers. The editing made her look like the cast member who did everything in her power to shake up the house. Clips of her outburst went viral, and she quickly became an overnight sensation, dubbed Rhea the Wrecker. She hated the moniker with a fiery passion and avoided conflicts to the best of her ability, but Rebecca’s constant bullying exacerbated their relationship’s toxicity to unmanageable levels. All men on the island turned out to be jerks. When the prospect of love clearly became hopeless wish, Rhea sought to get voted off, but the viewers gave her immunity week after week; such was their addiction to the feud between the two women. The finale came. Nick, the last man standing, had to choose between the two sworn enemies. “This was a very difficult decision,” he said, an envelope in his hands. They all stood with the rest of the crew by the beach as the sunset flamed up the sky behind them. “At the end of the day, I had to choose a woman with whom I felt I could spend the rest of my life with, so I picked...” He opened the envelope and pulled out a picture. It was Rhea’s. She acted ecstatic, of course. First off, Rebecca had been defeated, which was an accomplishment worth celebrating in itself. Winning a house in Malibu didn’t feel bad either. Only one thing had escaped: love. The minute the cameras turned off, an indifferent Nick went back to his trailer as she watched alone the last golden rays vanishing beyond the horizon in the distance. *** Three weeks had passed since then, and a new contract lay on the desk in front of her. Nick quickly signed it, then walked out of the office. “So long girl,” he said without looking at her. “See you in Malibu.” Rhea and the producer were now alone. She looked at the contract absent-mindedly, dreaming of the cold Colorado winters. “I know how you feel,” he said. “Believe me, I hate asking people to sign away their lives.” “Then don’t.” “It’s not that easy. The executives are the ones who make the decisions around here.” “They sure make it hard to turn down, with all these Extras. The question is, are the Extras worth the price? When I moved from Colorado for the show, it never occurred to me I would never get to go back. I certainly wasn’t expecting to live with cameras in my house forever... especially not in the presence of someone like Nick.” “Interesting.” “What’s interesting? My life falling apart?” “No. I come from Colorado too. I guess we were both disenchanted by the Hollywood dream.” He swallowed nervously. All along, Rhea had the impression there was something he wanted to say but did not dare to. “You know, I never liked that nickname,” he declared. “ Rhea the Wrecker. Whoever came up with that is messed up. How about we go finish this discussion over a cup of coffee?” Rhea smiled. This was the sweetest thing someone had told her in a long time. Without even thinking about it, she picked up the contract and reduced it to a wad of paper before throwing it in a bin. “I would love to. Coffee is my favorite.”


Despising the cocktail of cigarettes and fast food in his mouth, Randoulph put out his third cigarette of the night and pretended to watch another know-it-all become a millionaire. At this point he’s drowned out the pounding on his door. He knows who it is and what they want, and that he doesn’t have it because he spent it. Randoulph has long forgotten the fruitless efforts of his landlord and his thoughts have snowballed into a realization. Randoulph just realized that he’s leaving. Randy grabbed his keys, wallet, cell phone, pen, and notepad. Nearly running right into his fuming landlord he said, “Yeah, I got you on Thursday, don’t worry about.” He marched to his car, got in and drove to a gas station. The fuel was flowing and so were his thoughts, “Maybe I should let someone know.” he decided. Flipping through his phone he remembered why he decided to leave in the first place.      “Yeah, check please.” Randy requested from the waitress. It has been one week and he hasn’t settled down yet. At this point he’s feeling foolish thinking, “Yeah, right, like I’d actually just find some random town to fit my insatiable desire to be somewhere ‘different’ by driving aimlessly down the highway.” Turning back isn’t an option knowing the shit storm of unpaid debts and an angry chain of bosses. Randy did notice one thing. He can’t help but feel like he’s felt a tug, like a fish just took a nibble. He knows he’s onto something and doesn’t quite know what, he knows it starts with liberation and ends with content, and he knows that’s more than enough to keep going. The bell rings as the door swings open, and wanting to savor the taste of bacon, eggs, and pancakes he hesitates before lighting a cigarette. He settles in a quiet residential area with enough parked cars to avoid raising attention to his modest white sedan until morning.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Balance! This week we’re going to take a look at the theme of ‘balance’. Everything in our lives, both good and bad, needs a balance. Too much of one thing can upset the natural order and flow of things. This is no different in fictional worlds. This could be something big, like a new planet or world, or even a new character. It can be a balance of justice, or maybe it’s about things we consume. It can even be something internal, like thoughts or beliefs. What happens when that balance is upset? How does it affect their surroundings? What are the consequences for the people involved? Is there a time where a lack of balance is preferred? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. This week, I am giving you the next 3! * August 1 - Balance (this week) * August 8 - Twist * August 15 - Silence * August 22 - Complications   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial, prior to beginning. Those links must be direct links to the previous installments (on a feature or personal subreddit).But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/throwthisoneintrash   - - u/Zetakh   - - u/Xacktar   - - u/OneSidedDice   - - u/OldBayJ   - - u/nobodysgeese   - - u/WorldOrphan   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


The mirror had grey specks that had settled after swirling in the morning sun. And a few smudges of fingers that imprinted nothing but their desperation; the same desperation that stared back at her. The morning light was now long gone and along with it any premise that today might be different. The day was a monochrome of virtual meetings and emails. Everything had been accomplished by the taps of fingers that elucidated sense as they ran across letters and numbers. They didn’t seem connected to any other part of her, the words not imprinting on her synapses as they appeared on the screen. She had moved twice: once to make herself a bowl of cereal and once to pee. She used to get up more often to make the twenty-yard journey to the kitchen to get water and decided to obviate the trip by springing for a water fountain- like the ones you had in clinic waiting rooms, where you press down on the blue nozzle to get cold water and the other nozzle stays untouched. Time for her last meeting of the day: click, open, mute - her fingers worked with the deftness of an expert flutist. Video on (unfortunately). She mumbled a few words to register her presence on the call before collapsing into her vacuous apartment. The space that shrieked silence at her. She had moved here after her roommate and best friend of seven years had decided to move in with her boyfriend. She had long wondered what it would be like to live alone and hadn’t expected to find out while the whole world was locked away in their apartments for over a year. A movement on the screen caught her attention and it took her a minute to realize it was her tile on the screen. She spent most meetings staring at herself in her virtual mirror, eyeing with dismay the puffiness on her cheeks and the skin sagging behind her chin. Her forehead resembled an un-ironed dress more and more everyday, or perhaps it was the optical illusion of her webcam that seemed to keep her wanting. She figured if she found herself looking acceptable, she’d spend a lot less time looking at herself. Back to the disturbance on the screen; somehow a moth had found itself into her apartment that no human had ventured into in some time. It fluttered neurotically as it perched on her life - first the bed, then the dresser, and then her yoga mat that laid unfurled from two weeks ago when she had last promised herself she would be on it everyday. She contemplated turning off her video to go fight the good fight against the moth but pictured getting asked something just when she went off camera. The best way to avoid attention was to be a bobblehead on camera and feign attention. After what seemed like eternity, the meeting ended with a wave from each screen tile like the Brady Bunch. As much as the meetings seemed endless, she was now faced with the possibility of time and impossibility of doing all that she wanted to with it. Faced with this enormity, lately, she had been choosing mundanity. The trite trifecta of Takeout, TV shows, and Twitter. Hang on; was the moth still around? She looked around for the winged intruder, scouring her chair strewn with unfolded laundry and the plant that looked worse for the wear of existing in her room. She finally spotted it on her mirror in the corner of her room. It had been a long time since she had made it to that corner; full-length mirrors were only useful when she was in danger of being seen full-length in public. Nothing below her waist had been displayed for public viewing in quite some time. The moth beckoned her to the corner, having colonized it as its own. The sauciness of the situation enthralled her; that a space she had so fully occupied without reprieve could be so casually under siege. She made her way over, clumsily tripping over a basket full of unfinished crochet yarns; yet another hobby she had failed to routinize. Just as she reached the mirror, the moth un-perched and glided effortlessly out of her slightly cracked window. She stood there astounded by the abandonment for a few seconds, before realizing she was staring back at herself. Her right arm lifted in front of her to flatten her hair. The ravage of her unfocused tendrils smirked at her. Gone were the days she would spend thirty minutes every evening ironing out her corkscrew hair. Three months ago, she had thrown out her straightening iron in a desperate coup so that she might learn to embrace her frizzy curls rather than erase their existence. It wasn’t going too well. And then without registering the intent or rationale, she dropped down her senescent sweatpants and shirked off her nubby t-shirt. She was mesmerized by what was gawking back at her. Tufts of black peaked out nestled between her bra strap and her arms, matching the lazy protrusions from her underwear resembling a tarantula's legs. She moved her gaze to her torso where the sight of her stomach distended with loneliness sprung hot tears that seeped down her globular cheeks. As unlovable as she felt, the evidence was staring back at her, unrelenting, all-knowing. It shamed her to think this way, to feel so sorry for herself. All over her instagram feed were women of all shapes screaming body positivity at her. “Love yourself as you are; it begins with self-love; if you don’t love yourself who will; you’re beautiful at any size”. But it wasn’t that simple. Even those posters showed women with luscious, glossy hair, cheekbones that seemed to angle up at the sun, eyes that sparkled atop petite noses. She had always felt her face was too round, her eyes too small and her nose too big. She never saw someone who looked like her that got what they wanted and accepted as they were. It felt like a trick. The world yelled to her that she didn’t belong. And now, in the cringing silence of her life, she couldn’t pretend not to hear it.


Now you may be asking how I got into this situation, well it all started when I went with my friend to an abandoned mental facility. It was a nice breezy normal January night, and I was at my friend's house. We were sitting on the couch watching TV when I had an idea, what if we were to go explore the old mental hospital that's not too far away? So I casually said “Hey, Johnny, why don't we go and do something interesting and go explore the old Wynner Mental Facility?” He had a questionable look on his face but he eventually responded back with “I don't see why not, we don't got anything going on” So we packed a few supplies like a flashlight and a spare jacket just in case and then we left a note on the kitchen table telling his mom that we went out for a bit and we’ll be back in a couple of hours, and then we were off. We grabbed our bikes and headed out to the mental facility and on our ride there we saw a small black car just sitting around the corner of Johnny’s block and we just shrugged it off and continued on our way. When we finally got there we put our bikes somewhere out of sight but easily accessible in case we needed to make a quick escape, then we grab a flashlight and head inside being careful as well as cautious. At first, there was just rubble and trash everywhere but when we went deeper inside we found some rooms that were locked and some areas that were not destroyed or graffitied. Then we found a basement and it had to have perfect timing because that's when we heard a loud bang from the entrance and without thinking we ran into the basement and hid behind a few big boxes and then we heard a heavy footfall. I was sitting on the cold hard floor of the basement behind some tall boxes, trying not to make a noise as I was listening for movement and auditory cues as to who the people were chasing us. We assumed it was the guy in the black car because it seemed to be the only rational thing. And so while we were sitting there Johnny accidentally kicked an old beer can and it seemed to bring the guys attention to the basement. We heard what sounded like a pipe drag across the ground as one of them walked from the stairs to the basement level. Neither of us dared to make a move or sound during those moments until we heard a voice say “I know your down here, come out now and no one will get hurt” Johnny looked over at me and I can see the terror in his eyes as the guy walked right past him and to the backroom. Johnny then despite me telling him not to, ran for the entrance of the basement. As you would expect the guy heard this and chased after him and I didn’t know what to do and so without thinking I just grabbed an old beer bottle and ran towards the staircase that leads out of the basement and saw Johnny pinned against a wall and the guy had a pocket knife pulled out and it looked like he was about to cut him and so I yelled out “Hey! Put him down!” Then I hit the back of the bottle against the wall and it shattered into a million pieces but it left enough for me to use as a weapon in case I needed to. He just looked at me and laughed, then dropped him and walked towards me. I didn’t expect it to work and so I just stood there scared and not knowing what to do until I heard a loud bang similar to the one we heard earlier and the guy fell to the floor unconscious. Then I heard a voice say “That was a close one, good thing I got here when I did” It was the guy from the black car, he followed us here and conveniently helped us out. He then told us how he has been watching us for a couple of days and said how he lives close to Johnny and happened to see us go towards this place and know how there are bad people who go here during these hours and so he knew that we might get in trouble. He was a good guy overall. He gave us a water bottle and some chocolate chip cookies his wife made just the other night which were delicious by the way, and he offered to drive us home and we accepted and when we got in the car we started to get uncontrollably drowsy and I could barely keep my eyes open but during the time that I could I saw that we passed Johnny's block and kept going and during those last seconds before I fell asleep I looked at the guy and he was smiling devilishly and simply said “Shhh” Then me and Johnny fell asleep and we knew we weren't going home anytime soon.


“Where were you last night?” Max peered over my Economics textbook. He had a look of anticipation, as if he was waiting for some pain relieving gossip. “I was home,” I responded innocently before he rolled his eyes at me. “Now, don’t bother me, I’m trying to focus.” Although normally I would use anything to distract me from school, I wasn’t about to involve Max in last night’s mess. “Are you expecting me to believe you weren’t at Nina’s party?” He raised his eyebrows at me. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Frankly, no expectation in the world would have prepared me well enough. But I wanted to be there for Nina like she had for me. Perhaps I couldn’t fix her parent’s divorce, but I could at least attend her house party. Especially after her break up with Todd, the leather jacket douche that called her “babe” so much I would wonder if he knew her real name. “I promise you’ll have a great time,” Nina had told me. And at first, I really did. There is something comforting about the stagnant smell of beer penetrating every fiber of clothing and hair follicle. Something nostalgic about repetitive rap songs preaching about the wonders of big asses. Everything seemed normal at first. The music was pounding loudly and the dim lights carried shadows across the cramped living room. I could feel the air thickening. Minutes before terror, I was standing unnoticed next to a group of girls I recognized. “Someone told me her dad was abusive,” I heard one say with wide eyes. “Yeah, apparently the neighbors called the cops on them,” another responded. “Well, I wouldn’t point fingers just yet. Nina’s mom’s a bitch. Maybe she deserved it,” a brunette shrugged and took a sip of her drink right before our eyes met. Her face flared red as she realized her words had been overhead. I clenched my fists in rage. “How about you all mind your own-”. My response was cut short by a piercing scream. I quickly stood up in alert. The room became still. The music stopped and those still standing looked at one another with puzzled looks. The source was nowhere to be seen. It came again, this time along with a cry. I recognized Nina immediately. I pushed my way across the living room and ran up the stairs before barging into Nina’s bedroom. I noticed him first. His leather jacket shimmered in the moonlight as he stood tall and angry. A millisecond later, I spotted Nina on the floor. Hands covering her face in defense. The lack of light in the room didn’t stop the fierceness of her blood as it dripped down her temple and into her hair. I stood still. My brain called in fear but my body made no response. Not even when Todd walked passed me, into the hallway and shut the door behind him. Nina remained on the floor. She held herself and rocked back and forth, letting silent cries out into the thick air. “Don’t tell anyone.” She whispered.   “Hello?” Max snapped at me. “Are you going to tell me or not?” I stared at him blankly as the vivid flashbacks flew through my head. My heart stung in bitterness as I recognized that all I wanted to do was say it. To write it out in sharpie on all student lockers. Nina’s bloody face burned in my head. “There’s nothing to tell.


Don’t you remember? I was young, and the sun was yellow on the grass. We were chaotic children, traipsing with scraped knees and bulging pockets, in the meadow between the library and the brick museum with the two-headed lamb. I don’t remember the other tents on the edge, but I remember the cool of the shadow as I sat crisscrossed, slowly peeling leaves from the grass, as I listened. I don’t remember her face or her voice, but I remember the softness of her sheep and the warm wood of her wheel. And she gave us a clump of her wool to keep. But I forget until I touch it again. For you, it is tangled lint that I should have thrown away years ago. You’re just trying to make me organized, make me into a neat child. And I don’t need it, there’s nothing I can use it for. But for me, it is sunshine, warmth, softness, the curiosity of childhood, and the old ways surviving. All in a fuzzy pocket clump. Do you remember this bracelet? I’ve almost thrown it away a thousand times. It’s broken, and even if I tried to fix it, it wouldn’t fit any more. The shiny is peeling off the beads and it couldn’t have been more than 50 pesos. Only a dollar. But it is Rhealyn, Rosalyn, and Charmaine and when I thought they loved me. It is dangling our feet over the church balcony, over the red abandoned house next door, watching the wind swirl through the rice paddies. It is popcorn and movie nights every Saturday. When I thought maybe I wasn’t weird anymore. Maybe people could actually want me. People who weren’t my family. People who like me and who didn’t have to love me. Maybe, I could be someone beyond Alexie’s sister or Tom and Lisa’s daughter, “another one of those A girls.” It is my birthday, laughter, and playing Twister, and knowing exactly who to invite, and their present to me. But it is also unexplained silence after, its thinking maybe they moved away but seeing them around town, it’s inviting and them not coming. It’s wondering what I did wrong, how I messed up, if any of it was even real. Or was it nice to watch movies and have free food and I was just the price they had to pay? Six months of sitting shoulder to shoulder and then nothing. Was I just an amusing oddity? A status symbol? Did they just want to brag that they had an American friend? If my skin was a different color, would they have even bothered? It is a shadow spread over all the relationships afterwards. It is my sisters shutting everyone off as insincere. But I was too desperate, too lonely. I knew that people talked to me because I was foreign, because of my skin and my height. But if they were talking to me, maybe eventually it would be more. People didn’t talk to me in the U.S. They talked to my sisters because they were pretty, active, exciting, and knew social signals. At least, here, I had a chance. I didn’t know about the loan. About their brother asking you to pay 200 pesos for his school fee the next day. And how you said, “no”, because he waited until the last minute so you couldn’t give him a small job to pay for it and you wanted to be friends not wallets. I don’t know what I wanted you to do. Whether it would have been better to pay and keep it going but then it would have still been insincere. Either way, my friendship was only worth $4. But I wish I would have known it wasn’t just me. This bracelet is hope, heartbreak, and loneliness, and I can’t throw it away. This? This is only a scrap of ridged cardboard, probably used to carry coffee before being tossed aside on a playground. But Yoyo wrote “Tree loves Miss Maxwell” on it and now it is her squinched up smile and Olivia’s giggles. It is walking back in the dark, sky pink with streetlights, lonely in a foreign city. I’m in over my head but still trying, and it’s worth it because I will see “my kids” again tomorrow. It’s Jessie teaching me Chinese. It’s Steve and Jack Chen’s hamster comics. It’s Sky diving through the layers of the earth for months after my geography classes. It’s love and childhood imagination. It’s thinking “Maybe one day, I do want to be a mom.” It’s teaching and it’s not easy work but it’s good. And it’s sobbing together in the parking lot after seeing pandas because, of course, I can’t stay and everything has to end. But, sometimes, when my heart is brave, I pull it out and remind myself that it happened. And I wish I could have done better. I could do better now. But that was my best back then and I gave them all of it. And I hope they carry the same excitement they did when they rushed me at recess about the “earthquake” crack in the playground when the news said nothing happened. We all grabbed our rulers and our geology notebooks, observing and hypothesizing until we realized it was probably from the hole for the new hotel next door. Or when they saw me writing in cursive and begged me to write them cursive alphabets to take home and teach their parents. But they know I love them. And that is the most important thing. And they loved me, too. Even if sometimes, they had a tree say it. I’m scared because time keeps slipping and I can’t catch it in my head. Sometimes, it seems like yesterday, sometimes it feels like a story you read to me long ago in the red couch with the white coil phone. You keep your time in order, trap it in tight calendar boxes. I tuck my memories into objects. Keep them safe, I plead, don’t let me forget. Remind me. Because I don’t know what I’ll remember. I still get irritated when people say butterflies come out of a cocoon, because I learned that cocoons are for moths, butterflies come from a chrysalis when I was 5 years old. But the teacher I worked with for two years, it was weeks trying to remember her name. I remembered her smile, remembered that she was nice, that her grandfather loved cardinals. I knew I knew it, but I couldn’t find it. I am haunted by faces without names and names without faces. I know they were important, but I had nothing to hold them. You like things clean and neat. “Spring cleaning” refreshes you, removing clutter, making a clear path. But it hollows me out. I’m the one afraid and fighting “Over”, continuing the chapters in my head after the last page is read. I remember the dress. I was new-18, coming back to the U.S., terrified of a nightmare of cardboard in a grocery store covering blood puddles, worried about my scholarship competition and being in college half the world away. I wanted to be a grown-up, to go past the awkward little girl, always sure I was doing something wrong. I was promised a teenage know-it-all phase and the bliss of ignorance, but I still haven’t received it. But in my fear, at least, I would be there for my grandparent’s 50 th wedding anniversary. Because those are important. And 51 isn’t the same, the numbers do matter. We can celebrate any day we want, and we still have holidays. Because when you set a day aside, it matters. My Grammie gave me an emerald dress to wear to it. It was wool and long sleeves for the winter with lace around the collar and shoulder pads. It was pretty but it wasn’t new. That’s what made it important. She had gotten it for a date with my Papa before they were even married and now, they were almost at their 50 th , too. It was my emerald princess dress, made me feel a little taller, a little steadier. I was carrying on a legacy. But you said it was too old. That I kept dressing like a grandma. That I needed to dress more modern, $20 t-shirts that don’t look their price, shave my legs, and start using make-up. That you’re just trying to help. You don’t want me to be lonely. This is America. I need to fit in. But it made me feel pretty. And you threw it away. We don’t always remember the same. You don’t remember waking me up to put the soap away. It was on the bathroom sink, no dip or dish to put it in. You said it wasn’t that hard and moved it two inches. I still don’t understand the difference. You said it never happened. I remember it happened at least twice. It’s in the heaviness of my blankets and cracked ivory soap. But I don’t remember growing alone in a house, making supper and changing my older brother’s sheets while he was out with his friends. I don’t know holding the whole house on my shoulders, having money, but a mom too busy to be at home, and a dad who never said, “I love you.” But I once was in that tiptoe house, cold with air conditioning, dimmed by heavy curtains, no lines in the carpet and no room for my shoes. I can imagine, where affection required perfection, bleaching yourself into acceptance, still tiptoeing around “no’s”, and waiting for nods, where the house had to be clean because you were good . It’s different. And I'm sorry. Why would you carry rocks in your pockets? They’ll just tear up the washing machine. You don’t need it. It’s just a clump of lint. But I tie myself to memories with things, so I don’t blow away and lose myself. And I’ll keep gathering my wool.


Cocoa Beach 1981 On January 14, 1981, I had twins, a boy named Mark and a daughter named Amanda. They were prom babies, nine months to the day of the prom. They were born in a military hospital in Jacksonville. When I graduated from high school in June of 1980 no one except my boyfriend Johnnie knew that I was pregnant. There was a reason for this as I went to a private Christian School. It was an Episcopal Church school which was more progressive than other Christian private schools but a pregnancy would have been grounds to be expelled. Johnnie came to my prom at my school and hated it. We were watched like a hawk, but when I went to the Cocoa High School Prom, two weeks later, we skipped the prom and spent the evening in the wealthier section of town at my parent's condo. They were away for the weekend. Johnnie had always wanted to be a professional surfer. He hated school and barely graduated from high school in 1979. My parents thought he was a beach bum. The more they disliked him and the surfing culture, the more I liked him. We got married two weeks after graduation and the whole town knew about it. My parents were very upset about it but grateful that at least when the babies were born, we would be married. In their generation, this was important on the birth certificate to have married parents. We lived in a cottage house that my parents let us live in. It was old and dated but at least we didn't live under their roof. After the babies were born, Mark decided he wanted to join the military to everyone's surprise. He was doing pretty good as a surfer which was why people were surprised. He joined the navy and we headed to Mayport which is near Jacksonville. I waved as the ship pulled out of port. The twins was a couple of months old. He would be gone for three months but I didn't know that this would be the last time that I saw him alive. Right before the ship returned to Mayport, Johnnie was found dead in his bed on the ship. The findings were that he had taken his own life but no one knew exactly how he did this. It couldn't be proven that he had taken his own life, so cause of death of undetermined. I was heartbroken and couldn't believe that Johnnie had taken his own life. At the viewing, he looked like he was asleep. My parents as much as they didn't like Johnnie, made sure that he had a proper funeral and burial. He had no family as his father had died in the surf when he was 5 years old, trying to save Johnnie's life and when he was 16 years old, his mom had died on cancer. His parents had grown up in the Florida Methodist Home in Melbourne and both had been abandoned by their parents. So here I am at nearly 19 years old, a widow with two infants under six months old. I went to Cocoa Episcopal College and graduated with a business degree. My son Mark looked like a clone of Johnnie and shared his talent for surfing. Mark though was much better than Johnnie ever was. Tears came to my eyes when Mark won the Eastern Conference championship. Happy for him and sad that Johnnie wasn't here to see this. With his long blonde hair and green eyes and thin body, Mark looked like Johnnie did at age 19. I had remarried a surfer who got along well with my kids. Actually my husband Keith trained my son. I knew him from Johnnie. We had two more children. Shortly after Johnnie died, I got a phone call from an unknown woman telling me that Johnnie's death was no accident. Then I got a letter telling me the same thing with no details. I ignored it and didn't tell anyone about it. I had suspected that something wasn't right especially when it was reported that Johnnie was depressed. Johnnie had no gunshot wounds, nor did he have drugs in his system. The autopsy stated that Johnnie didn't have any wounds on his body indicating a fight or indicating that he'd been stabbed. He had no known medical problems. 2021 Nearly 40 years after Johnnie died, someone came forward and admitting to killing Johnnie by poking him with something that caused the heart to stop. This person admitted to doing this to several other people while he was in the Navy. The Navy suspected something was up but dealt with the problem by moving him around. He worked at Naval base hospitals. He also admitted to killing others as well when he retired from the Navy and worked in a hospital. . This person was on their death bed (it was a death bed confession) so nothing could be done. Amanda and Mark never got to know their father personally. All they knew him from were pictures, footage of surfing competition, a few family movies. I gave an impact statement to military police. Since I really didn't know Johnnie's medical history, I know Amanda was concerned that he might have had heart issues, which thankfully he didn't have. I know my husband Keith was always suspicious that something had happened to Johnnie. He told me a scary story about his uncle who was in the navy who witnessed a murder while hiding in a closet. Never knew what happened except that the person who did it got away with it.


I’d love some criticism, not even necessarily constructive lol. TW: Schizophrenia, blood, depression The voices are back. Telling me to do things, say things. I can’t live like this. I want to tear my fucking walls down and find the source of their incessant whispers. It’s worse when I can’t understand them. What are they saying about me? Plotting, waiting for the moment when they can take me down. I can’t do this. I throw open my door and sprint for the woods. The voices are gone, but I know they’ll find me soon enough. A perverted game of hide and seek. As I run, the sky darkens and whispers start to drift from the tree line. Calling me things. Calling me stupid. Calling me lost. I’ve fallen for the trap. I’m lost, wandering with my head in my hands and my eyes pinched shut. The voices call, offering a way out. My eyes open on a fairy ring, something so sweet and innocent twisted by the demons. Death caps form a circle around the small carcass of a baby deer. The voices mutter to themselves louder as the fawn rises, leaving a small pool of red atop the crumpled grass. I watch in horror as the fawn seems to implode, folding in on itself until it’s gone. The mutters grow louder, pushing me towards the ring. Better to wander forever, or resign to my true purpose? The chorus in the trees grows louder, impatient. I need to decide, I need to be faster. The voices almost sound frantic. They’re louder than ever, a deafening chorus of hate. I step into the ring, laying upon the crumpled red grass. I reach for a mushroom, a large one with a thick stem. How do you eat these? Does it even matter? There’s probably no wrong way to eat a poison. The voices are screaming, drowning each other out. They want me to get on with it, give them a show. I take a few bites, and before I know it my vision starts to swim. In the distance, I hear twigs snapping and tall grass being pushed. Everything fades to black. There’s a young boy. Can’t be older than 17, stumbling through the woods with his head in his hands. “Hey” I call to him. I step forward, but I’m stopped by something I can’t see before I can reach the path. I see others, people with sad eyes and desperate voices. They call to the boy, pleading with him. Their voices are turned to whispers by the trees. He grips his ears, like he’s trying to rip them away. We call to him, trying to throw our voices through the barrier. It seems the barrier only grows stronger the more we struggle. I know that yelling louder will just lead to us drowning each other out, but I can’t help it. He’s getting closer to the end. I plead with him, beg him to just hold on a while longer. I yell and scream until my throat bleeds. He reaches the sick imitation fairy ring, a young doe lying in the center. I should be there. I just died, didn’t I? The boy takes a step closer, his face illuminated by a rare patch of light from the setting sun. A face that I know all too well from endless nights in front of the mirror, trying so hard to see who I am. I scream to him, “You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to wander!”. But I falter. What other choice did I have? These voices sounded so hostile from the other side, my path seemed so messy. What else can I possibly do? But how can I know what lies farther on the path? Surely it’s better than surrendering, letting the voices lead me on. Perhaps I’ll learn to hear correctly a mile down the path, I’ll learn to speak a mile after that. Isn’t struggle the only way to learn? He lies in the blood, and a fury overwhelms me. He’s throwing it all away, can’t he fucking understand? He’s letting himself go for no goddamn reason. I scream, I shout, but I know how his story will end. There’s nothing I can do from here. I’m utterly helpless. I let myself go.


The Tree Cat by Gabriel Beury-Moore Commonly being mistaken as other trees when it is spoken of, the tree cat is exactly what its name describes. Some say the tree cat was once a house cat. He lived with a young man who worked hard during the day and would come home to his best friend waiting for him, and everyday the cat would greet him with excitement and joy. He waited for his owner to come home. He waited for days: pacing around outside, running inside at the slightest noise indoors, and running around the whole house just to make sure his owner was not hiding. Eventually, the cat just stopped. He sat patiently outside in the rain, in the snow, at night, and all day. Before his transformation, he did not know of the magic that lived inside him, for he thought he was just a cat. But as a tree grows its root into the ground, the cat’s fur grew into the soil, absorbing his nutrients through the water he drank. His skin became hard with rigor, to become the bark of a tree. His body grew straight up to the sky; he reached for the sweet rays of the sun to drink in the warmth and energy it gave him. Like the leaves of a tree, his fur changed with the seasons. It was bright and full of luster in the summer, colorful and vibrant in fall, cold and dark in the harsh snows of winter, and in the spring his fur would slowly fade its color until it became bright again in the summer as the air became warmer. Unlike the leaves of a tree, his fur never fell. Slowly, over many years, his fur became broader and wider to soak in the sun. Finally, the once small house cat became tall and filled with beautiful leaves, his face hidden perfectly by them. He listened to the messages the wind brought him, and the stories the tall grass told him, but he would only open his eyes once a day to wish the sun a good morning and bid the moon a good night. The rain, when it came, brought news of what was happening around the world. Sometimes the rain told sad tales of war and famine; sometimes the rain told tales of peace. However, when the rain asked what the tree cat would like to know, he asked the same question, “Have you seen my owner?” And every time he asked, the rain was deeply saddened. The rain told him, “I have not seen your owner, but I know he is safe.” With that news, the tree cat shut his eyes and smiled. While it was sad that no one had seen his old friend, he took solace in knowing that his best friend was okay. Why am I telling you this story? I am an old friend of the tree cat. I knew him when he was just a small kitten. I knew him as the cheerful boy who faithfully followed his owner wherever he went. I was there when he could not find him. He asked me, “Have you seen my owner?” And I responded, “I’m sorry, but I have not.” I told him that if he waited, he could drink from me as much as he wanted, that he could bask in the suns that warm the Earth, that he could eat the food that grows by my banks, that he could play in the sand that builds with my ebb and flow. For years, I took care and watched over the once young cat while he sat patiently. I watched him grow into the majestic tree that he is today. He continues to thrive and to smile at me when I say hello. And every day he asks all he sees if they have seen his owner, and every day we lie to him. We keep him company and we keep him happy by telling stories of time and stories of the world. We do not tell him of the day his owner passed. We keep from him that his owner visited him every day, but he could not see him. We fail to mention that he built a home to stay with him forever. We forget that his son would sit in the shade of the tree cat. We remember that every day his owner would tell him that he loves him. We keep from him that his owner’s children buried him just behind the tree cat and he could know that he was always with him if he could just look down. Most importantly, we have not told him that his owner buried him in the exact spot he grows. The owner was special; he spoke to all of us knowing that we were listening. He knew that he would outlive his small friend and he prepared for his passing every day. Every day he told us stories to then tell his friend. On the day of the tree cat’s passing, he asked us one thing. He asked the grass, the suns, the moon, the wind, the rain, and myself just one thing. He asked us not to tell his friend that he has passed. He prepared us and coached us to tell the tree cat the stories he told us for years. Before he placed his small friend into the ground we asked him, “But what do we tell him when we run out of stories?” He told us that by the time we run out of stories, he would be back to relieve us of our responsibility. With that, he ever so carefully placed his small friend into the ground and placed the earth over him. He said a quick goodbye and went on with his life, making sure to see the tree cat everyday. He made sure to thank each of us for our help. He did this every day until the day he died. Soon, the house that he started a family in became covered in vines. With no one to care for it, the house became disheveled and fell apart. As years turned to decades and decades to centuries, the stories we had began to dwindle to smaller and smaller numbers. On the last day, I told my final story to the tree cat. As I ended the story, the tree cat opened his eyes; he smiled and told me what a wonderful story it was. As he told me this, he got a peculiar look on his face. A new wind had arrived, one he had not felt before. It greeted him with a voice as old as he could remember. The tree cat asked, “Where have you been all these years? Why did you leave me?” “I never left you, old friend. I have been with you your whole life and past-life. I was in the stories your friends would tell you and in the air you breathe, the sun that wakes you, and the water you drink.” With that said, the tree cat and his owner looked at each other with the same look they gave each other when they lived, each carrying a slight smile. What I saw then I had never seen since before I flowed into this land. As the two friends stared at each other, not saying a word, a single leaf fell from the tree cat’s face. As the leaf fell, his smile disappeared slowly with each leaf making it smaller and smaller until his face had disappeared. As the leaves fell, the wind began to take form. The shape of a young man appeared next to a small kitten playing in a pile of leaves. As the last leaf fell, the tree cat jumped into the welcome arms of his owner and when the leaf finally fluttered to the ground, the cat and his owner faded away to spend the rest of time together.