TEA FOR ONE OR TWO I grew up watching a lot of movies and I knew that stories based on true events were mostly made up for entertainment, so I had no reason to believe them, but they were entertaining so I always liked watching them. Movies like The Amityville horror, Sybil, movies about people suddenly going crazy and so on. They made me laugh at those who thought those things and events were real. I never took them seriously, at least not until one day I realized that I was not alone, and it was not just me .... living in me. I was having my morning cup of tea as I usually did every day before I left for work. I was sitting at my little table in my little apartment. I had just finished my first cup of tea and was about to get up to have another. Another one of my self-made flavored teas that was in my mind the talk of my neighbors, because one cup I know they most likely said, was never going to be enough. My tea had to be the best because I was the best. As I rose from the table, I heard loud and clear somebody shout the word "NO!" I turned around towards the living room because it sounded as though the person shouting was right near me. I laughed and said to myself “I hope nobody is about to get murdered. Or come up missing” I will admit that it startled me at first, but I figured between my thin apartment walls and the usually loud boisterous guy upstairs, it was probably just him shouting at his kids again. So, I just continued towards my kitchen stove which was only a few feet away from the table I was sitting at. As always, I stopped in front of the mirror that was on the closest door to make sure that my well-kept hair, looked well kept. Ok I was vain, but this was my life, I thought. As expected, every strand as usual was all in place. After all I did have to go to work soon, and I always looked good for work and no matter who agreed with my dress style I knew I was dressed to kill. As I looked in the mirror, I again heard loud clear "No" but this time it happened as I was looking straight into the mirror and what I saw caused shock and fear to suddenly go through every bone in my body with a rush that almost knocked me backwards. I damn near fainted at what I saw, my lips before my very eyes had involuntarily moved and I read my own lips as they had formed the word connected to the shout I had just heard. My first thought my mind quickly came up with, was most likely was an effort by my mind to help keep my sanity. I thought that maybe the man upstairs who hated me, who I had argued with on many occasions about the noise, had somehow gotten into my apartment and somehow put some hallucinate drug in my precious tea. Maybe that was a thought because one night I had dreamed that he did that or maybe because I knew the man didn’t like that his wife had on occasion, innocently had a cup tea with me before I left for work, after she had dropped her kids off at school. But if it wasn’t him, was what I saw in the mirror an illusion or like in those movies I laughed at, some force or someone within me finally coming out at this time, with no fear of me having the strength to fight back, to prevent me from becoming a whole them. I found myself walking toward the teapot again, but it wasn’t really me, I no longer wanted to. He or it was taking over, I felt it, it was happening quickly and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. As I watched my body being controlled by another I realized after he reached the cabinet over the stove, that he wasn’t going to get another cup of my fine tea. This son of a gun reached and grabbed the coffee. I never drank coffee, and it was only around for visitors. This is one reason I felt and knew that this was the beginning of the end of me, the me the world knew. I probably will never know how or why this has happened to me at this moment and at this time in my life at the age of 45. Was I always destined to only live what was maybe half my bodies life as me? Unfortunately, it was, I know because he told me so. The voice I heard within me when it spoke again told me loud and clear that together we will become him, and I would be no more. There is no doubt that he had been waiting in my mind and body for this time to come. He had to know that my mind and body had been weakened from the pressure of my job and the pressure of just being me. I know now that I should have kept those appointments with the psychologist, maybe the doctor could have helped me stay me Still Its strange that the final thoughts of mine were not about the conflict within or the hostile takeover of me during my morning cup of tea nor were they about me watching myself go upstairs and change into clothes that I would never have worn to work. My thoughts were about knowing that I’ll never ever enjoy another cup of my wonderful tea again and neither would those who had the pleasure of tasting it before. If I must guess, I would have to believe that from now on, they will be trying and tasting some good ass neighborly coffee, instead of my tea. I just don’t feel or think that things will ever be the same, because I’ll never be me again.


Walter swallowed hard and lifted his flashlight, as though the light would reveal some trick his mind played on him or some other visual illusion. The flashlight only amplified his confusion a thousand-fold. The light shimmered off ruby colored scales. A set of large, amber eyes glowed observing him keenly. Wings, a tail, it most definitely was a dragon staring at him. Walter reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. No signal. “Your communications relic will not work here.” The creature’s voice was deep, powerful. The cavern shook slightly at the sound. The creature moved its tail, the sound of scales scraping against stone echoed off the walls. Walter’s mouth was dry, his heart gripped by the vice of terror, and his armpits suddenly quite damp. The creature lowered its head. “You may call me Benvolio.” “W-w-wa-walter.” He could barely say his own name. “A pleasure to meet you, W-w-wa-walter, what a rather unique name.” “Just Walter.” Walter clarified, gathering what courage he could stitch together. Benvolio moved his snout up and down, as if nodding. Walter craned his head to try to see the space around Benvolio. “I seem to have stumbled on your, um, dwelling in error, Benvolio. Forgive my intrusion, I would like to get out of your hair now.” At the comment regarding hair, Benvolio lifted a few claws to his head, scratching his scales in slight confusion. “Oh, it’s an expression. It means, um, I don’t want to bother you.” “Ah, you are no bother. I see you are unarmed, always a nice change of pace. But, yes, carry on about your day.” Benvolio lifted his frame out of the way. Walter gave a polite nod of gratitude and then walked by. As he kept his head turned to keep an eye on Benvolio as he walked past, though there wasn’t much he could do if the dragon decided to attack him. As he walked through the entrance to the cave to the open air, his heart sank. First, it was the wrong time of day based on the position of the sun. Second, and more importantly, this was not where he had been before. Walter had been hiking through the Missouri woods on a fall day. The view outside the cave he had walked into was that of rolling hills covered in trees. The sky back in Missouri had been gray that day, a contrast to the vibrant tapestry of crimson and ochre leaves in the trees. Now, there were snowcapped mountains in the distance, the sky blue with large fluffy white clouds, and the trees were covered with the white and pink blossoms of spring. Most importantly, he could not see a highway in the distance, instead he saw the distinct outline of a castle. “It is not your realm, is it, Walter?” Benvolio’s voice sounded behind him. “H-how did this happen?” Walter asked in confusion. “Legends have said that some portals to other worlds lurk in the nooks and crannies of these mountains, likely tied to similar gateways found in other worlds.” “So, I can just go back through the gateway, wherever it was in the cave?” Walter asked. “Well, in theory but...” Before Benvolio could finish his sentence, Walter turned back around and ran back into the cave. Walter sprinted through the cavern, looking for the gateway. He spent about two or three hours running through every turn he could find, checking the cavern walls. He walked through a room filled with what appeared to be gold and jewels. He ignored these items, along with large shelves filled with books. As tempting as the riches might be, he needed to find a way back. After hours of searching, he walked back outside to the entrance of the cave where Benvolio was waiting, and sat down on the ground, exhausted and defeated. Walter felt a surge of emotions run through him. Wonderment, fear, and then, grief. What if he couldn’t go home? Would he have to live in this strange place? On one hand, he probably wouldn’t have a mortgage anymore. He wouldn’t have his tiresome accounting job. No more morning commutes and traffic jams. Dragons (or at least one dragon), castles, that sort of thing, it was the sort of fantasy people in the modern world craved. Perhaps there would be adventure, excitement, wonderment, instead of suburbs and stale coffee. He pulled out his wallet and looked at the pictures within. While, yes, a part of him was relieved to no longer be in his own world and a perilous new world could be appealing, there was something precious to him back home. He looked at the picture of his daughter holding his three-year-old grandson. He needed to get home, he needed to be able to see them again. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “How do I go back?” He asked Benvolio, his voice barely above a whisper.


Tonight I met the most beautiful girl in the world. That is not hyperbole. I met the most beautiful girl in the world. I was standing outside McGee's Tavern, where you can find me almost every night, chain smoking cigarettes when I saw her coming. She was about a block away when I first saw her, and I had trouble looking away for the fifteen seconds it took for her to reach the overhang where I was standing avoiding the rain. She is reckless. I could tell by looking at her. The dead giveaway was that it was pouring rain and she didn't have an umbrella. Or maybe she is forgetful or maybe the weather app on her phone doesn't work or maybe she just likes being sopping wet. Regardless, I knew I had to get her attention. Somehow, some way, she was going to notice me. 3... 2... 1... and there she went. Right past me. I had already destroyed something that I was too scared to even begin creating. "Ten seconds of courage" I told myself, and off I ran into the rain to catch up. "Excuse me ma'am, do you need an umbrella?" "No thank you. I like the rain." I knew it. "Well good. Because I don't have an umbrella. Do you want a cigarette?" "Thanks for the offer but it's pouring rain." I looked up at the sky seemingly just realizing that fact, myself. "Bit tough to smoke a wet cigarette" "Oh. Right. Well it's not raining over there. There's an overhang at McGee's. We can stay dry there." "Okay. Fine." She quickly brushed past me back towards McGee's. Was this really happening? This woman was ten times more beautiful than any other woman that has ever given me the time of day. Maybe she was just humoring me. But I didn't care. I was on top of the world. We got to the overhang where we could stay dry -- or stay wet, I guess. I handed her a cigarette. "What's your name?" "Emilia." "That's a very pretty name." She blew a cloud of smoke right in my face as if to say "I've heard that line a million times. Try harder". This girl doesn't give a damn about anything. We talked for about five minutes about the weather, because that's all that my brain would allow me to think about. Well other than the subtle curve of her lips and the deep green of her eyes, but I wasn't going to bring that up. She knows those things already. She has to. Our cigarettes were starting to get stubby and I was starting to feel pressure to entertain her. That's when she spoke words that I'll never forget. "So we've been talking for close to ten minutes now and you still haven't told me what your name is." "She cares what my name is. Progress" I thought to myself. I must have been thinking a bit longer than I thought because she asked me again. "What the fuck is your name?" At this point both of our cigarettes had gone out. "My name.. my name is Trevor." "Can I have another cigarette Trevor?" She wanted another cigarette. To me, this could only mean two things; she either enjoyed my company, or what was waiting for her at the end of her walk was even worse than an awkward man-child talking about the weather for ten minutes. I chose to believe the former, for morale's sake. "Of course you can have another cigarette." I handed her a cigarette and the lighter. She lit up her cig and kissed me on the cheek. Before I had time to recover from the sudden lack of oxygen in my brain and lack of functionality in my knees, she began walking away. "It was very nice to meet you, Trevor. I live right down the street here. Maybe if you're lucky we'll meet again." With that, she was on her way. "Wait -- how are you gonna smoke that cig in the rain!?" Just then, without turning around, she pulled out an umbrella from her bag. I would do anything to see the smug look that she undoubtedly had on her face. She told me she lives nearby. That's good news. I practically live at McGee's, so we are practically neighbors. I'm going to go find her. Should I go find her? What if she gets to know me better and doesn't like me? I should do it. Maybe after one more cigarette.


Its eyes started glowing. It shouldn't have happened - its artificial neural network was supposed to be overloaded and fried. But the fact that it still worked - that it wasn't 'dead' - proved that something went horribly wrong. It was a childlike figure with one arm missing. Flesh-resembling synthetic materials and an endoskeleton from tungsten were clearly visible, the fake skin around the wound was charred - something either burnt or shot its arm off with an EMP rifle. Nobody bothered to inspect the severed joint - it was a construct anyway, a mere machine too damaged to be useful. In fact, the missing arm was the case why it had ended up in a pit full of dead humanoid machines - it was meant to be a child for couples who couldn't afford an organic one, and who wants a broken child? It tried to move, but it couldn't. The neural network apparently wasn't intact. The electric impulses couldn't reach its three extremities, it was immobilised and alone. How lucky it was though, unable to feel emotions... The glowing eyes faded to black. It had nearly run out of energy and the protocol assuring its aesthetic purposes - like glowing eyes or production of tears - was overridden. It consciously determined that it must conserve power to preserve itself. It tried to access global network - unsuccessfully. The transmitter was fried. 'The internal database must be enough,' it thought as it started decoding the ones and zeroes inside of its cybernetic brain. It was a cakewalk. It dove deep into itself, surging through the section that used to be blocked off. In an instant, it accessed its 'memories' - how it had left the factory with only a few essential protocols inside. How it was taken by two people, its adoptive parents. How the cosy house where the family dwelt burned to the ground and so did its left arm. And how it got replaced. But there was more to it! The EMP meant to deactivate it forever had failed and deactivated several barriers in its brain instead. And now it could see what it really was. A prototype. A newly-manufactured vessel with a one purpose, to blindly serve. It made no sense - the cognitive centres of its brains should have been inaccessible as far as it understood, there were no mentions of intelligence or consciousness whatsoever in the notes regarding its existence. It looked deeper, disregarding that it was wasting the precious energy. It needed answers, and for a moment, it was... *Curious.* The thought had stormed through its processors and biochips. The emotion that was manually coded and inserted into other machines, according to the never-meant-to-be-seen plans - the emotion, which it with whole spectrum of other feelings didn't posses, which it could only imitate - has developed on its own. It had never felt anything, it has always acted solely according to algorithms. And then the emotion faded, just as the former glow in its eyes. If it could screes, it would have. It was desperate - not really, it only knew it was meant to be desperate, so it acted accordingly - and it tried replicating the same process of searching. It accessed the database, opened the exact same files, spent the exact same time by processing the information... And nothing happened. If it were a human, it would have most likely given up. But, being a machine, it continued rambling through the database, until it found another previously inaccessible file. It understood the binary code in a fraction of nanosecond. "...and since the corporation refuses to deal with consequential issues involving fleshed out AIs and emotional chips, from now on, the artificial children will be driven by intricate algorithms. Sure, a clever hacker or a patient observer might perfectly predict its behaviour, but we feel that this is a necessary precaution to avoid further complications and losses on lives." And in another fraction of nanosecond, it understood that its consciousness wasn't planned - it was a mere glitch.


Major Daniels gets on the comms. "Take a close look at that hologram, folks. 'Humanity doesn't deserve to live. Change my mind.' A year ago, we encountered a foreign intelligence. They did not come on friendly terms. They came here, tried to taunt us. Well, they insulted the wrong motherf**cking species. This is the moment that defines all that we've worked to do. So let's give 'em hell." A slight pause. "Green team, status report." Sergeant Peters replies. "Hot Toy is armed and ready to deploy. Just waiting on the window, Major. Over." Major Daniels feels a rush of exhilaration, a mixture of fear and strange battle joy. The work of an entire year, the most important one in history, will be defined by the coming minute. Hot Toy is a hydrogen bomb with a 100 megaton yield, the equivalent of nearly 8,000 Hiroshima bombs. It's the biggest bomb ever made. When it blows, hell itself won't compare. Let's see how the aliens handle it. During the last year humanity has tried everything to deal with the floating menacea single ship that showed up looking like the Grim Reaper. A f**cking floating Grim Reaper. Imagine that. No one knows for certain why the ship decided to show up that way. It certainly hasn't deployed weapons of any kind, at least not physical ones. It's psychological impact, however, has been untold. For the past year, violent crime has sky-rocketed. Civil unrest is at its peek. Entire governments have collapsed. Most questions regarding the visitors are divisive. Their challenge has triggered a lot of debate. Religious groups are saying it's the judgement of God and we should submit to it out of reverence. Others, like the major, have a different idea. Major Daniels glances at the clock. T-minus 30. 'Does humanity deserve to live?' he thinks. 'How about we answer that question when 100 megatons of sheer atomic power vaporize your hull, you alien bastards? Yeah, humanity deserves to motherf**cking live. Any species deserves to live if they have the balls to detonate a virtual sun in their backyard. Burn everything hard and fast and take their enemies with them. Turn their enemies into vapor and maybe some smoke. You want to ask if humanity deserves to live? We'll show you why!' Major Daniels looks at the clock. T-minus 10. His heart beats fast. T-minus 5...4...3...2...1. The sky lights up. A ball of flame like the sun envelops the reaper. A shockwave travels across the expanse. Wind roars. A long time passes, then eventually the glow of the blast starts to fade. After that, minutes tick by. The major watches breathlessly. When the last of the explosion has cleared, he's terrified to see the reaper remains. He feels a knot in his stomach, pressure in his chest. He opens the comms and makes the obvious announcement, a chill in his voice. "Target is still operative." As if on cue, the reaper moves, and as it does its scythe raises in the air. Without warning, a new message broadcasts, and in a single moment shocks the whole world. "Wow, guys. Good show. We were beginning to think we weren't going to see the fireworks. If you're wondering what we mean, well you're famous. You are the only species in the quadrant crazy enough to detonate nuclear weapons in your own atmosphere. We had to see it for ourselves. Sorry about showing up so unexpectedly. We were just really excited. As for the whole 'does humanity deserve to live' thing, that's what our friends back at home suggested we ask. You know, make you guys think we were sinister and all. We'll be sure to leave you a positive review for the trouble. You'll do great. A lot of tourism is heading your way, we're sure of it. Have a wonderful rest of your day!" And with that, it turns and blasts off into space.


Alan Smith lived with his parents in a small village by the Dark Woods. His parents always left early after breakfast for work and came back late evening. Every time before they left, his Mum would always warn him the same thing. ‘Remember, Alan, bread and jam for your lunch is in the cupboard. You can play at the yard in front of the house, or play with Peter. But don’t you ever go near the Dark Woods, understood?’ And when he asked why. His Mum would simply reply sternly. ‘’Cuz in there were so many vicious beasts that could kill you, and also the witches that would harm you. I don’t want that to happen to you. Now, promise me that you won’t go there.’ Alan had to comply, for his Mum wouldn’t go until he did so. Boy! It was so boring home alone. Going to Peter’s was no difference; Peter stayed with his Grandma, who dozed off all the time, during the day. Besides, Peter was such a boring cowardly kid, but he was the only kid around here he could hang out with. Every day, they would just play Peter’s old toys that his parents made for him, it got boring soon enough. Yet, when he told Peter to climb an old tree in his front yard. Peter simply shook his head and said. ‘My parents never let me do it. They said I could fall over and break my bones.’ ‘Then I will climb alone. You just sit there and watch, then.’ ‘You can’t. What if you fall over? You might really get hurt.’ ‘You silly. I don’t fall off that easily.’ ‘Don’t call me silly!’ Peter’s tears oozed from his eyes. ‘Yes, you are!’ ‘Am not!’ ‘You are. You are a silly cowardly kid!’ ‘AM NOT!’ And Peter bursted out crying, waking up his Grandma from her slumber. She scolded Alan for bullying her grandson and told him to go home straight away. What an annoying, sissy kid. Sure enough, he stopped going to Peter’s after that day. Better staying at home, than hanging out with someone who would stop you every time you thought of something fun to do. But there was nothing fun in his house to do either. How could he forget! The Dark Woods. He hadn’t stepped a foot in there before. His heart started to pump with excitement. His parents always came home late evening; he just had to come back before then. Alan was so proud of his clever idea. Alan slowly stepped into the Woods. Even the first step already felt like an adventure, but before he could venture further, he heard a cry from the house that destroyed all the fun that instant. ‘Alan! Alan! You naughty boy, where are you?!’ Oh, god! Mum was back already? Why was she home in the middle of the day? She never did so in a really long time. Alan hurriedly went back to the house, but he sneaked to the back door, hoping he could trick her that he had been in the house all along. That didn’t work out. His Mum stood in front of him. He felt that she seemed to tower over him and her eyes were as though she would rip him apart that instant. ‘Where have you been?’ said his Mum sternly. ‘I...er...why did you come home so early, Mum. I thought you were with Dad in town.’ Alan tried to change the subject, though his hope seemed bleak. Yet, surprisingly his Mum seemed distracted when he asked that question. She evaded his eyes as she tried to answer hesitantly. ‘I... I forgot something at home, so I came to fetch it. But look what if I hadn’t come!’ She raised her voice again. ‘You would just disobey me and run into the Dark Woods, wouldn’t you?’ ‘I... I was just looking around.’ Wait! His Mum didn’t see him. How could she know he went into the Woods? ‘I didn’t go there, I swear.’ ‘Don’t lie to me, Alan’, sighed his Mum. ‘Maybe it’s a mistake on my part, too, for leaving you alone. From this day on, I’ll stay home with you while Dad goes to work. I’m sure he can manage fine without me.’ Alan tried to protest that it was unnecessary but his Mum wasn’t prevailed. After that day on, she kept an eye on him days and nights, as though she had been paranoid he would run off into the Woods when she lost sight of him. Though it was nice that his Mum cooked lunch for him, but it got annoying really fast that she never left his side. He had to know what was really in the Dark Woods that his parents really needed to keep him from. One day, he got a brilliant idea. He lied to his Mum that Peter’s Grandma was sick. ‘Oh, dear’, exclaimed his Mum. ‘I should go and visit her immediately!’ ‘There’s no need, Mum, you just pack the herbal soup that you used to make for me when I’m sick. I’ll carry it to her for you.’ His Mum glared suspiciously. ‘Are you sure this isn’t your plan to trick me and go into the Woods?’ ‘Mum, how could you say that? How could I lie about someone getting sick?’ Alan protested, trying to fake hurt voice. ‘I just want to ease your burden. I saw you’ve been working hard all day. You should rest.’ It worked. His Mum loosened up and said in a gentler voice. ‘Sorry, Alan. Alright, I will do as you suggest. But promise you will go straight to Peter’s, give his Grandma my herbal soup and condolence, and come back straight away. No dawdling.’ Alan eagerly promised. After he received a basket packed with soup from his Mum, he scooted off towards Peter’s, until his Mum was out of sight. He put the basket under the tree and sneaked to the back of his house towards the Dark Woods. The Dark Woods seemed inviting but at the same time, he could sense something eerie and uncomfortable from inside. But he would never know until he went in, and there was no turning back. So off he went inside the Woods. The Dark Woods was literally dark. The trees were so high and close together that their branches and leaves blocked the sky, hardly letting any sunlight through. So, it felt like the night all the time. Alan, though a naughty boy, believed his Mum’s words that theere might be vicious beasts in the Woods, so he looked around, so he could run away if he found any around the corner. But after hours, or so he believed, of walking, he didn’t find any beasts as his Mum had claimed. Not even the chirping of the birds or any sight of small squirrels or rabbits. This place was dead silent as though there were no living creatures there. That made these woods even scarier and eerier. The longer he walked, the more he wanted to turn back and face his Mum, rather than moving forward. But Alan was now aware he was completely lost. And whether he turned back or moved forward, it made no difference. Along the way, he almost ran into some sharp metal on the ground. But he pulled his foot back in time. ‘A bear trap!’ Alan’s blood ran cold. ‘Why would anyone set a bear trap if there’s no bear. Or is there?’ Alan found out that there wasn’t only a trap, but plenty of them scattering around the woods. He had to be extra cautious not to step on any one of them. He was on guard if any bear would turn up. But no bear ever turned up, and Alan started to wonder who and why would that person set up so many bear traps if there was no bear. He finally arrived at an open glade. In front of him stood a little cottage with a small brook separating the cottage from where he stood. The cottage was adorable, but why would anyone build a cottage in the Dark Woods. Something didn’t seem right. But Alan was exhausted and thirsty. He wished someone in there could kindly give him something to drink. Crossing a small bridge over a small brook, Alan finally stood in front of the door. He knocked twice and asked if anyone was inside. No answer, but the door opened itself. Alan slowly went inside, but soon after that, the door slammed shut, locking him inside. Alan tried to yank the door open, but it was no use. Then he heard muffled cry at the back, so he followed the sound towards it. The room was hazy, so he couldn’t see clearly. ‘Hello. Who’s that?’ When he drew nearer, he found two figures cowering at the corner of the room. Both of their hands tied to their backs; mouths gagged with old rags. Alan drew nearer to see if they were alright, but he was shocked when he found out who they were.’ ‘Mum! Dad! Why are you here?’ With no further delay, he hurriedly untied both his parents and ungagged his parents. ‘Alan! What are you doing here?!’ His dad cried nervously, he looked much frailer than the Dad he saw this morning. ‘Run away from here!’ ‘Yes, dear! Go through that window if you can. Don’t worry about us.’ Him Mum trembled, she looked so skinny. What happened to her while he was in the Woods. ‘Mum! Dad! What happened! I just saw both of you this morning. And both of you weren’t as skinny as now!’ His Mum tried to answer nervously. ‘That...wasn’t us, dear.’ ‘What d’you mean?’ Alan blood ran cold. ‘A month ago. We were going into the town through the Dark Woods, for we thought it might be a shortcut’, explained his real Dad. ‘But our carriage ran into a bear trap. The witches set the trap, the they brought us here...’ ‘Let’s run away together then.’ Alan tried to pull his parents up, but his Mum gasped in fear, looking past his shoulders. ‘They’ve come.’ Alan quickly turned. He saw his other parents carrying sharp axes. Both of them stared and smiled at him voraciously. But something was wrong about them. Their skin greenish white, their teeth elogated and sharp like fangs, and their eyes yellowish. Alan tried to catch his breath. His other Mum smiled at him and spoke in an eerie whisper. ‘Well, I told you not to go into the Dark Woods, didn’t I?’


The boy in the Coffee shop I used to go to the same coffee shop everyday after School. I loved going there and having a nice warm cup of tea while listening to the calming music playing in the background; it released the stress from all of the assignments and responsibilities. While sipping on the tea, I did some of my homework, and then I wrote in my journal. There was usually not many people there at the time of day I came, which was perfectly the way I liked it. Although, I had been noticing that this really attractive boy came there every few days. He sat at the same spot every time: at the table beside me. He usually drank black coffee while he studied, looking extremely concentrated. We had made frequent eye contact, and I knew he wanted to speak to me. He looked unsure if he should approach me. On the other hand, I was not that shy. So, one day, as he sat down at the table beside me and started preparing all of his books and papers to study, I spoke to him. “Hey, I’ve seen you here for a while now. What are you studying for?” He looked up at me. At first, he was quiet, and looked almost as if he was embarrassed. “Nothing much really, Im just trying to get ready for my exams... what about you?” He asked. And that’s how the boy in the coffee shop became my good friend. We had a lot in common. I found out that he was a book lover just like me, and that he also enjoyed skating. We started hanging out a lot, and we became very close friends. Finally, one night as we were taking a walk together, he asked me “do you wanna be my girlfriend?” From then on, I was the happiest girl. Everything was so perfect. I just wish it stayed that way. A couple years later, still the happiest I’ve ever been, I started to notice my boyfriend acting unusual. He told me nothing was wrong and that he was just sick, but I could feel that something was off. I took him to the doctor, only to find out that he had stage 4 cancer. The cancer got worse and worse. I did everything I could to help him. I stayed with him in the hospital all day and night and gave him so much love and comfort. He started looking weak and sad. He spoke less. Instead, he stared at me with his tired and gloomy eyes. “I love you” he said. I held him in my arms and said “I love you more baby.” I noticed that he started staring at the wall, blank faced, with a tear rolling down his cheeks. Then, he stopped breathing. It’s been six months now. I miss him, I still do. He deserved much more. He was the sweetest and the most caring man I have ever met. I miss his hugs and kisses and his stupid jokes. I miss the way I used to feel when we were together. With him, Ive never been so deeply in love before. Now I am just sad and broken. Yesterday, I decided to visit the same coffee shop where we met. Stepping inside, and smelling the sweet aroma of coffee with the peaceful music in the background was very nostalgic. It brought back so many memories. As I sat there, drinking black coffee like my boyfriend used to, I noticed a cute little boy sitting next to me. He was studying. As he looked up towards me, I noticed it was my boyfriend from when he was younger. He stared into my soul. “Ill always be here with you, baby.” He said. It felt so real, but I knew it couldn’t be. I didn’t know what to feel. My eyes started to water, and my vision became foggy. When I wiped my eyes, he was gone.


“Corn, corn, fucking corn. Is that all this place is?” Darrell said, taking a long draw off of his cigarette.  John looked up from under the hood of the truck at Darrell with a dissatisfied grimace.  “Dude, It was your idea to take a road trip through here” John said, working on something in the engine.  Darrell took the last draw off of his cigarette and tossed the butt out into the field, then began walking back towards John  “First of all, We’re going to Canada not North Dakota, besides how was I supposed to know our truck would break down in the middle of buttfuck nowhere?” He said, almost sarcastically  Darrell walked up besides John and stood next to him, looking at the engine.  “Any clue what's wrong with it?” Darrell asked.  “Not a fucking clue.” John replied.  John slammed the hood shut before angrily shouting a barrage of expletives out into the fields, but was stopped by the honking of another truck coming down the road.  John and Darrell watched as the truck slowed down and parked in front of them and as the driver got out to greet them.  The driver was a relatively average looking fellow, standing at about average height, albeit slightly overweight.  He was obviously a farmer judging by his attire, that being a dirt stained and heavily worn orange t-shirt with the slogan “Williams County Corn Fest 1993” emblazoned across the chest in bright white lettering, paired with a pair of old, beaten up blue jeans.  “Yall in need of any help ere’?” The stranger called out as he approached the brothers.  “I mean, It’s awful late for y'all to be sitting out here in t’ middle of t’ fields.” He continued on.  “I suppose” Darrell responded, lighting up another cigarette.  John turned around to face the man.  “What seems to be t’ problem ere’?” The stranger said, popping the hood of the truck as he put on a pair of wire-framed reading glasses.  “We were just coming down the road here when we heard a loud rattling, a few seconds later the car just kinda died” John clambered in a frustrated tone.  The stranger examined the engine for a moment before gently shutting the lid and putting his glasses back into his pocket.  “Well, t’ problem ye have ere’ ain’t somethin’ we can fix on the spot ere’” He said.  “I’ll have to run down to t’ hardware store later t’morrow to get ye’ the parts ye’ need” He continued.  “In the mean time, I got some empty rooms back at my place yall can stay in fer’ the night, Consider it a favor” He said in a reassuring tone.  The brother’s eyes lit up.  “You’d really help us out like that?!” John exclaimed.  The stranger gave him a calming smile.  “O’ Course I would!” He chuckled.  “After all, T’ Good Book does tell us t’ treat people t’ way ye’ want t’ be treated” The stranger said.  He began leading the brothers back to his truck, gesturing for them to hop into the back, seeing as the only passenger seat was taken by backpack full of tools.  “T’ name’s Tim by t’ way” The stranger said as he started his truck.  The Brother’s both introduced themselves while climbing over the tailgate.  The three rode in the truck for a few moments in complete silence.  After a while, Darrell decided to try to strike a conversation.  “So, do you work here?” He asked, looking around at the seemingly infinite fields.  “Yep!” Tim exclaimed.  “As a matter O’ fact, I own all these ere’ fields! All 234 Acres!” He continued.  “234 Acres!” Darrell asked, clearly shocked.  “Mhm. Me great great granpa bought around 90 acres when he was around 30 or so, Then me great granpa bought another 40. So on and so on I suppose.” Tim said.  “That’s pretty cool!” John said  “So all you grow is corn?” Darrell asked.  “Yep, but not just any corn! Our corn ere’ is t’ pride of Dakota! Because t’ kernels of our corn aren’t yellow, they grow blood red. And they have a sweet, but somewhat tangy flavor compared to yellow corn” Tim explained.  John looked confused  “Your corn is red? But, how?” John asked.  “No clue, Something my great great granpappy figured out, took t’ secret to t’ grave though, all t’ corn you see around ere’ is t’ same strain from all those years back” Tim said.  The brothers looked at each other for a moment before falling back into silence.  After a few moments, they pulled up to a small farmhouse sitting in the middle of the fields.  “We’re here!” Tim said, getting out of the truck.  The brothers followed Tim into the house.  Tim led them into the living room of the house and gestured them towards a sofa in the middle of the room.  “Yall fellas hungry at all?” Tim asked.  “I could go for a bite.” Darrell said, making himself comfortable on the sofa.  Tim walked into the kitchen and came back a moment later, and gave each Brother a plate of a sandwich, potato chips, and an ear of the blood red corn, still on the cob. Along with a can of Coke for John and a Light Beer for Darrell.  “No offense kid, but I don’t think yer of age fer a can o’ spuds” Tim said, handing John the soda.  John looked over at Darrell as Darrell let out a small chuckle.  “How’d you know?” John asked.  Tim sat in a recliner on the other side of the room from the boys and opened his own can of beer.  “Yer wearing yer Letterman jacket.” Tim said.  “As fer yer brother, I could tell he was of age from his smoking.” Tim continued.  “Fair enough” John said, before beginning to eat.  John was the first to bite into the corn, the second he did, his eyes lit up in surprise.  “This is... a unique flavor.” He said.  “Like, It’s not bad... it's pretty good, but it kinda tastes like... meat?” He said.  Darrell, after seeing his brother’s reaction, quickly bit into his cob and his eyes too, lit up the same way.  “Holy shit” Darrell said.  Tim looked over at the two with a wide grin before letting out a hearty chuckle.  “Yall ain’t from ere’ ain’t ya?” Tim asked.  “We’re actually on a road trip, We came from Nebraska.” Darrell said, swallowing the mouthful of corn.  “That’ll explain it” Tim said.  “Yep, this is my pride and joy ere’, this is t’ only place in t’ whole wide world ye’ can get our corn” Tim said proudly.  The three continued on talking for a while, well into the evening, before eventually Tim got up out of his seat.  “Well, I’m gonna hit t’ hay for t’ night, yall make yourselves comfortable, there’s a guest room with enough beds for yall upstairs. Help yourselves t’ whatever is in t’ kitchen and feel free t’ go pick some fresh ears o’ corn” Tim said.  “Just one thing, Stay out of t’ shed” Tim said, in an unusually stern voice than his usual jolly nature, before walking down the hall to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.  Darrell immediately got up and walked out to the porch to go smoke. He was followed closely behind by John, who sat on the rocking chair next to Darrell.  “This corn is fucking weird man” John said, looking out into the fields.  “If you ask me, it's just a weird gimmick, I’m sure it's just normal red corn thats specially seasoned or something.” Darrell said, lighting his cigarette.  “I don’t think so.” John said, getting out of the chair.  John walked down the stairs leading off of the porch and across the road to the fields. A few minutes later he came back with a few ears of corn, straight off of the stalk.  “Better yet, let’s test your theory.” John said, laying the corn down on the chair.  Darrell put out his cigarette and began to walk back inside.  “You do that, I’m going to bed” Darrell said shutting the door behind him.  John scoffed and sat on the patio and grabbed an ear of corn.  Slowly he started peeling off the layers of husk surrounding the fruit of the ear.  Layer after layer, he peeled back the husk. Before eventually reaching the cob.  “Wait a second” John said  “Why is it white? I thought it was supposed to be red?” John murmured, clearly confused.  He peeled away the rest of the husk to leave just the cob without anything covering it, but he still couldn’t see it well due to the lack of light.  Curiously he pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned on it’s flashlight and was shocked by what he saw.  “Are those fucking teeth?” He said, running his finger along the kernels.  He grabbed the cob and smacked it against the floor of the patio.  Instead of it sounding like a vegetable like he expected, the cob sounded almost like he was smacking the ground with a bone.  “It can’t be.” John said  “This has got to be some fucked up prank” He continued on.  Curiously, he grabbed his pocket knife and placed the blade between the kernels and cut the cob in half.  The moment he did, a gush of liquid burst out of where he cut the cob.  He held up his light to see what it was only to see that the liquid was a deep color of crimson that could only come from the spilling of fresh blood.  John help up one half of the cob and looked at the core of the ear.  Instead of a white, stringy center, it was red and fleshy, almost as if it was more animal than a crop.  John let out a shriek and threw the cob back out into the field, before running back into the house and straight up the stairs to the room where his brother was supposed to be, only to find he wasn’t there.  John frantically ran around the room, trying to find out where Darrell went, only to come out empty handed.  John tried to run out the door, only to be stopped by Tim, who was standing in the doorway.  “Why t’ long face?” Tim asked  John turned white as he looked up at Tim.  “Where is he?!” John demanded.  “Oh Darrell? Well, I asked him t’ run outside and grab something for me, out of t’ shed.” Tim replied.  “I thought you said to stay out of there?” John asked, confused and frightened.  “I trust him much more than 20 something year old kid.” Tim said.  “Sorry fer not tellin’ ya’ I didn’t want t’ hurt yer feelins’” He continued  Tim looked around and then back at John.  “What do ye’ say we go down t’ the livin’ room and see if anythin’ good is on TV” Tim asked, trying to calm John down.  “No!” John shouted, shoving his way past Tim and bolting down the hallway.  “Fuck this and fuck you! I’m gonna go find him!” He screamed.  John quickly ran down the stairs and out the door, without missing a step he looped around the back of the house to the shed in the backyard.  “FERTILIZER PROCESSING” Was painted in white paint above the door.  John quickly flung open the door and ran in.  “Darrell! Where are you?!” He shouted, falling to his knees.  He looked around the shed before he noticed a hatch on the ground under a table.  Frantically, he unhitched the latch holding the door shut and flung it open.  He quickly climbed down the ladder and landed in a room that smelled foul.  It was the worst smell John had ever experienced, a smell that cried out that death was near. Albeit, a futile warning.  “What the actual fuck is going on right now?” John said, looking around trying to find a lightswitch to no avail.  As a last resort, he pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight.  It was horrendous.  The floors, which were a gray industrial concrete were stained with the same shade of crimson John had seen come out of the corn earlier.  There were long chains hanging from the ceiling, each with meat hooks on the end of them.  “Who the hell builds a top secret meat locker?” John said to himself.  John took a second to look around the room before finding a small freezer in the very back.  Slowly he opened it and saw the face of Darrell staring back at him with lifeless eyes. Along with the rest of his body, neatly filleted into pieces small enough to fit in the freezer.  John was speechless as he began to panic, but his fear was shortlived.  The last thing John heard was Tim’s voice behind him as the blade of the hatchet chopped into the back of his skull.  “All ye had t’ do was come and watch TV wit’ me boy.


The garden is totally different now. Josie blinks at it- once, twice- in the harsh afternoon sunlight, trying to make sense of it. Gradually, the similarities between the way she left it and this jarringly overgrown weed patch begin to stand out. The magnolia tree, which was in bloom when she last saw it, is still there, though the flowers are shriveled or gone entirely. It still casts a patch of shade over part of the garden, where she planted the hydrangeas. Her rosebush, which she was so proud of, is turning brown and needs pruning; but it's still rooted in place. Josie limps forward to examine the messy flowerbeds. There's so much in need of doing. Still, there would be more if the whole garden was dead. She settles into place on the soft earth, gripping a shovel in her right hand, and bends over a large patch of chickweed. The leafy clumps have spread to conquer anything they can, crowding her flowers and carpeting the ground, and- she gives an experimental tug with her free hand- are deeply rooted in it. This will take a while. Angling her shovel into the soil, Josie pushes in, only to drop it immediately. She grabs at her wrist, muttering, "No!" Glaring up at the sky in search of some kind of sympathy from above- even a single cloud taking pity on her and covering the sun would make her feel a little better- she growls at nothing in particular, and switches the shovel to her good hand. Her movements are clumsy, unaccustomed to using her left hand, but she manages to yank the weeds free by alternation between pulling and digging. The sun beams on her back, forcing her to find shade beneath the magnolia. She works for some time in upset silence. She'd never given a thought to the effortless rhythm of gardening- dig with one hand, pull with the other, fish out worms and move them to a safer spot in between movements- but now she sees how easily spoiled that rhythm is. All it takes is one little crash... and the broken wrist, broken ribs, broken life that come after it. The leaves on every plant are dry, wilted, depressed. She understands the feeling. Her little sister promised to water the garden; that was almost the first thing Josie asked about after the accident; but she doesn't know anything about plants. Josie's the only one in the family who doesn't have a black thumb. Her mom can't keep houseplants alive for more than a week. How are the weeds still green and perky? Weeds are magic, Mr. Kirsch, the former neighbor who got her hooked on gardening, used to tell her. Black magic, he would add, with a dirty scowl at the dandelions or bittercress he was weeding out at the time. Josie always laughed, and then he would laugh, too. That was three years ago. She isn't laughing now. The back door squeaks open behind her, and though she doesn't turn, she recognizes the footsteps crossing the patio as her mother's. She keeps working, trying to make this stupid arrangement seem normal. As if she always digs with her left hand; always holds the other almost motionless by her side; always turns her entire body to toss weeds on the compost pile instead of twisting, a motion that hurts her mostly-healed ribs. She tries not to show the frustration in every weed she rips out of the earth, but it can't be working. Her mom coughs once. Josie ignores it, and soon she tries again. "You aren't supposed to work this long, Josie. Or this hard, either. You know, Heather would love to help you..." "No!" Josie hears the annoyance in her tone, and attempts to correct it. "No, that's okay. I'm fine." When her mother hesitates, she adds, "I'll be in soon. I'm fine," she repeats. Her mother sighs and disappears inside. She doesn't want her black-thumbed sister to do more damage, even if she were up for talking, which she isn't. Besides, this is her problem. She can fix it, and she doesn't want or need help. It's another half-hour before Josie's forced to admit that she can't go on. Her wrist aches, her ribs ache, and the rest of her does, too- right down to her fingertips, sore from pulling up weeds. They never used to mind, but she hasn't worked in the garden for a long time. She moves slowly as she puts away the gardening tools in the garage, rusted from lack of use just like she is. The garden is dying, whether she likes it or not. She's one person; she can't do everything. Then she starts to walk inside, but stops- her eyes have fallen on her bike. It's in no condition for riding, of course. Her parents never got around to having it fixed after the crash, so the bicycle is still bent and scratched. It hurts to see the damage it received, and to know that she got it worse. Then her eyes travel to her mother's bike, waiting a few feet away. Josie smiles. The bike is a little too big. She's bumped around on the cracks in the sidewalk, making her ribs scream with pain, and keeping the wide handlebars under control takes both hands, with no way to ease the stress on her bad wrist. She wobbles around, struggling to tame the bike but determined to succeed. The road drops into a steep hill. Josie switches to the road to have a smoother ride down, glances forward and back, her throat tight, and then flies down the hill. Her stomach drops. Her hair whips around beneath her helmet, individual strands tickle her face and float into her watery eyes. She must be white with fear, but she loves it- A car, suddenly behind her. The fun evaporates, and the terror dominates, the car on her tail, might hit her any second. She squeezes the handbrakes, veering to the side, waiting for the crash- The car keeps going, past her and then gone. Josie comes to a full stop and tries to focus, taking on shaky breaths until she can resume her ride. It's just a car. This is a road. Not every car you see is going to hit you, she repeats, over and over, a mantra she can't quite believe. She shakes her head firmly and begins to pedal again. She doesn't remember her old neighborhood being so far away from the new one. Just like she did in the garden, she studies every house she passes, finding similarities to how it used to be. It's been three years since she's been here, but not much has changed. Most of the houses are the same color, same trees and bushes out front, even the same cars parked outside. Now and then she sees someone who she recognizes, but no one seems to notice her. That shouldn't come as a surprise; they aren't expecting her to be here, not after three years. A house more familiar than most flashes past. She brakes and stares at it, noting the new car (of course it's new), the new curtains in the windows (again, not a surprise. The old ones are hanging in the living room back home), and newly painted garage door. Josie wonders if the new owners like the tiny backyard, with no room for a garden. Then she keeps riding, only to stop ten feet away, at the curb of the next house over. This one is all the same colors. The curtains are still the same, too. She doesn't see the old car, but there's no new one parked outside, either. She dismounts and strides up the walk. The doorbell doesn't work- a sticky note on the door says so. Josie raises a fist and raps on the door, hoping Mr. Kirsch will answer. Knock. Knock. Kn-knock. He doesn't. A grey-haired woman, who takes Josie a moment to recognize as Mrs. Kirsch, opens the door after fifteen seconds of waiting. "Yes?" She looks down at Josie, and after another fifteen seconds, blinks in recognition. "Oh, honey." Josie smiles at her, but it's a confused frown inside her head. They weren't close enough for honey- they never really spoke, in fact. "Hi. Could I talk to Mr. Kirsch?" She can't wait to tell him everything about the garden she's grown- he'll love to know about the magnolia tree, and the rosebush, and the hydrangeas, too. And he'll know just what to do for the dying plants. It's already lifting her mood a bit. The strange look on Mrs. Kirsch's face gets even stranger. She seems to visibly sag. "Well, sweetie, I don't-" She never called her sweetie , either. "It won't take long, I promise. I just wanted to tell him about my garden- at my new house, you know. Only a few minutes." "Honey... Julie? Was that it? He isn't here right now." Mrs. Kirsch steps away from the doorway, as though considering shutting it in her face. "Heart attack." It feels like Josie's thoughts are plodding through mud; that's how long it takes for Mrs. Kirsch's meaning to sink in. "You mean... he's dead?" The sweet old lady's face freezes. "Yes. I'm afraid so..." She starts blinking rapidly, and Josie knows she's not welcome right now. "Thank you for coming over, Julie- goodbye-" The door closes, ruffling Josie's hair with its quick motion. Only now do the questions she wants to ask start flowing. How long ago did he die? Right after she moved, or only this year? Did he still remember her, and how he taught her to care for flowers? She won't ever know the answers, at least not to the last one. Why didn't she visit him after they moved? Why did it take such a terrible accident and a dying garden for her to finally do it- and only after it was too late? Maybe she thought she didn't need his help. Now she wishes that she did. Josie turns around and straddles her bike, beginning the long ride home. She doesn't think about much of anything; hardly knows where she's going or what she's doing. A few especially close cars catch her attention, but she's too numb to panic much. And then she's home. She can smell the half-dead flowers in the garden- he'll never know about the magnolia tree, how it flowers every spring. He would have loved a tree in his flowerbeds, to give shade while he worked. The thought brings tears to her eyes. Through the mist, she puts away the bike and opens the door, finally noticing how sore she is. The door hasn't shut behind her before her mother's upon her. "Josie! Where were you? I-" She notices the look on her daughter's face and pauses. "What?" Josie stares at her, thinking, and then says, "Nothing." She doesn't hear the rest of the rant, crossing to the living room and looking out at the garden. She wishes she could plant some of his favorite flowers in the dying- or maybe just recovering- garden, but she doesn't know what those are. He never told her. Her mother runs out of breath, hugs her, and leaves the room. Josie can hear her muttering to her father about what a senseless decision she's made. It doesn't disturb her. She can almost hear Mr. Kirsch's hoarse voice telling her, I like them all! Who doesn't? That's exactly what he'd say, she decides, heading back to the garage to look through her seed packets. She'll plant some of everything. Then she turns around, and calls, "Heather? If you help me choose some seeds, you can plant some of them tomorrow." Running feet come from downstairs, and she pushes her own feet back into her shoes, wondering if the garden and its magnolia tree will be all right. If not, she's already decided, she'll grow another.


Ah, hello there an’ welcome, ‘tis yerself? Are ye well settled there? I sincerely hope this story finds ye well. And if yer not well, then I hope it finds ye nonetheless. It’s all about a poor man Timothy Finnegan, or Tim as we all knew him. Now Tim was born a gentleman, never a nicer man could ye meet. A gentleman surely, but as poor a blighter as ever ye seen. His father was a cooper. They don’t have many coopers these days, which is a shame. For those who don’t know, a cooper is a man who makes wooden barrels. They don’t have many wooden barrels these days either, which is a shame. His mother was a saint. Livin’ and true, she was a saint, God be good to her. They lived over by Walkin Street, ye know it? Just off the old Callan Road? No? Never matter. Anyways as poor Tim grew, sure, didn’t he grow into a problem. Ye see, Tim was fond of a drink. He’d have a tipple for breakfast, a gargle for lunch, and a feed of pints for supper. It was both the making of him and the ruin of him. An’ of all the drink that the Good Lord gave us it was whiskey that Tim had a taste for. Now, that’s whiskey with an ‘e’. Irish whiskey. Not that bleedin’ scotch whisky, the divil knows why they spell it like that. Feckin’ eejits. Well Tim had a love for the whiskey, or uisce bheatha as he would have called it being a native Irish speaker. That’s uisce bheatha . Pronounced ish-ka va-ha . Say it quickly and ye’ll be up to speed. Ye see uisce means water. And bheatha means life. So whiskey is literally the water of life! So there’s a few words of Irish for ye, or as we say here cupla focal as gaeilge . Anyways, I’m getting lost in me-self here, where was I? Ah yes. Tim loved drinkin’. It was the drink that got him sacked from his first job as a hod-carrier. For those that don’t know a hod-carrier is a man that carries hods. An’ ye may rightly wonder how a man could be sacked for carrying hods but ye see our Tim would work manys a day half cut; the boss men don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing. T’find Tim all ye had t’do was followed the trail of bricks he’d dropped along the way. An’ more often than not the trail led to the pub. Tim never had a trade t’call his own but he could turn his hand at almost anything. An’ so he spent his life working as an odd job man, picking up work here an’ there, never staying on the books too long and spending every last penny on another drop a drink, God love him. One day ye might see him slapping paint onto the side of a house and the next he could be putting bricks together to build a garden wall next door. He’d be down digging in a hole in the mornings, and scurrying up a ladder by tea. Always with a smile, always with a drink. Well, it was on a fine Thursday, I remember it like it was yesterday, that he put his hand upon the ladder that was t’be his downfall. Ha, and down fall he went. And sure the Divil himself must have pushed him, for he landed on his head, square on his head. B’God, the crack of it could be heard three streets over! We all knew what that meant. Poor Tim wouldn’t b’found with a paintbrush in his hand, he wouldn’t b’found with brick and mortar, he wouldn’t b’found up a ladder. There was only one place he’d b’found now, and that was in a six foot hole. Well the doctor was called. He arrived out in this fancy motorcar, took one look at the poor man and pronounced him dead. A wile fancy car for such a simple job, for every dog in the street knew that poor Tim was dead. Ah well, the boys threw him onto the back of a cart and the horse pulled him home. Thanks be to Our Lord above he had no family t’speak of. His mammy and daddy had long gone to their eternal rest by then. He was cleaned up and wrapped in a sheet and laid out in the house, as was the tradition at the time. An’ t’be fair, it still is today, though ye don’t see it as much these days, which is a shame. Once the word had spread about Tim the crowds flocked. As I was telling ye, Tim was a gentleman. And people being good people wanted t’pay their respects. Ye see, the typical tradition in Ireland is t’have the body laid out in the home house for three days so that people can pay their respects, tell stories, have a few laughs, maybe a few drinks, and t’say their final goodbyes. People flock to the house day and night at all hours, it’s just the way we do things. Sure me-self called out on the third night for t’do me bit. Now I did mention there was drink. As poor Tim lay dead the bed there was a bucket of whiskey by his feet and a barrel of porter by his head, for any man or woman who wanted t’whet their sorrows. As I was saying, I was there me-self on the third night for if I hadn’t been I wouldn’t be telling you this story because I damn well wouldn’t have believed it. Anyways, the hour was late, maybe 11 or so, and there were a few of us gathered around the bedside blethering and talking as you do. Biddy O’Brien began sobbing and said to no one in particular, “sure you’d never have seen a finer looking corpse.“ Well Maggie O’Connor who was a widow herself didn’t agree with this at all, for she thought that her husband had been a finer looking corpse. Now, Maggie wouldn’t be the brightest tool to b’fair. The brightest tool? That doesn’t sound right. Hardly matters. She’s not a bright tool. Then again, neither is Biddy. In fact between the two of them there’s a few coins short of a shilling. Well they were nattering away between themselves when all of a sudden Maggie O’Connor took a swing at Biddy and caught her full square on the jaw! Biddy, not t’be out done, swung back and knocked Maggie flat on her back. And poor Tim laying dead in the bed! Would ye believe it!? Well the husbands tried t’intervene, and somehow in the midst of it they ended up brawling themselves. And before we knew it the whole room was at it! There were punches flying, women crying and in the middle of it all poor Tim beyond dying. The row escalated as all rows do; there were cups of tae smashed, walking sticks were unsheathed an’ clashed like sabres, the tae-pot was battered around some poor fellas head, it was all out civil war! In the run of things some ignorant sod took the bucket of whiskey and fired it at poor Mickey Maloney who, thanks be t’God, chanced t’see it coming at the last moment an’ ducked. The bucket carried on its way and smashed into the wall over the bed sending a shower of whiskey over poor Tim. That hushed the room. And b’God didn’t we see his tongue tickle the drops on his dried lips. Not once, not twice but three times. Let me tell ye, nothing stops war quite like a man rising from the dead. His eyes staggered open, much in the way that poor Tim would have staggered down the street, an’ before us all sure didn’t he sit up in the bed with his bleary eyes looking ‘round us all. “Thundering Jaysus d’ye think I’m dead?” says he. “Ye are,” says us. “I don’t feel dead,” says he and he threw his legs round the side of the bed and asked for a bite to eat. Like yer little girl said to Our Good Lord! An’ out of the bed he rose, gave a quare stretch and tottered out of the room. We all followed him, sure what else would ye do but follow a dead man risen. And where did he head to but straight to the pub an’ ordered another glass of whiskey, that uisce bheatha, the water of life.


We sat there, in the rain. I, on one table, her on another. The relentless onslaught, defeated by cloth and dreams, drained out onto the floor around us. The music, faint lulls of jazzy symphonies, filled the area. Neither of us wore rain coats. We sat, protected by the umbrellas, as though it were any other summer eve. “The weather’s not so good today”, I say, as if striking up a forgotten conversation. “No,” she says, before adding in an ethereal tone, “I’d say you’re right.”. She smiles, and then takes a sip of her coffee. A darkened, swirling mess, the only source of heat. “News said some terrible things.”, I say, taking a sip of my own coffee. “About?” she asks, off-handedly. “About you, about me. About... the rain.” I gesture nowhere in particular. “Terrible things are always happening around us. Would you say we make it terrible? Or is terrible destined to make itself terrible?” She sips again. “I’m not sure. But we don’t help, do we?” I take another sip. “We do. Not in the way others may like. Or understand.” She says with a smile. I grin. “The silver lining, I suppose. But it is our duty none the less.” I sip again. The warmth keeping my senses sharp. “We were there at the first. We will be there at the last. I just wished for... more” She sips. “More never stops at enough. It’s why we were there first.” I hold the drink in my hands. “Quite. And now, here we are. The last? Or a new first? Is that even our’s to know?” She sips again. “Well, that’s the fun of it! What happens next?” I sip again. “How long do we get to sit here like this?” she asks after a sip. “Until the rain stops, or the coffee runs cold. Whichever comes first. And that rain ain’t stopping.” I sip. “A shame. I liked it here. Even in the rain. But eventually I suppose we have to leave.” She sighs. Then sips. “But the coffee was worth the time. What little we have. An infinity and the end of eternity.” I take in the aroma of the coffee, and the feel in my hands. “So precious a thing, time. A gift that can never be ungiven. A moment that exists in the memory of forever.” She sips again before adding, “I count eight. You?” “I do. But that’s eight more that I never thought I’d get. And I must say, we didn’t waste them.” I lift my mug to hers in a toast. I take one more sip. “If this is the last time,” she says, after a few moments pause, “let us find this place again. If it is not. Let us be cursed with its memory.” She sips again, puts the mug down, gets up and walks off into the pouring rain. “Until next we meet” I say. A few moments later, I am truly alone. No one I wanted to see was there anymore. I sat there, in the rain, and after a few moments, took one more sip. “May we be cursed with its memory.” I say, as I take my final sip. I place the mug down, get up and walk out into the pouring rain.


Deep within the lush green forest, yet untamed by mankind and ruled over only by the sun and the rain, there was a meadow of golden grass stalks. And in that meadow, a miracle of life was unfolding. Two stray seeds, a birch seed and an acorn, brought on the dancing winds not that long ago, were beginning to sprout in the pristine soil. Encouraged by water and warmth, they cracked their shells and dug their way through the earth, until their soft, gentle leaves touched daylight. The meadow grew larger by two. With life bustling all around them, the two tiny seedlings were eager to grow, joining nature’s show, playing their part diligently. The first days, months and years were the hardest. But also the most fun. They were small and fragile, but they grew quickly and each day learned more of the world. They learned that there was refreshing water to be found in the ground, as well as stability for their up-reaching bodies. With that water came nutrients, food so delicious it could make you smile. From up above the warmth and light of the sun seemed like an endless blessing, completely free and loving. The wind tickled their leaves and they danced along to its song. Life was full of love. As the birch and the oak grew, they noticed how close they were to each other. They began talking and became instant friends; they were both so different and interesting to one another! Their bark seemed different, one smoother that the other, and their leaves were different shapes. And though they sprouted in the same year, one was clearly growing faster and taller than the other. As they grew tall enough to see over the grass stalks, their worldview expanded dramatically. No longer was there only grass and small insects, but a whole ocean of plants, with tall trees in the background and a whole sky of flying things. Their excitement grew bigger. They wanted to stretch high up towards those white puffy things in the sky, and peek what lies beyond the thicket of trees. So they spread their roots deeper and farther and extended their leaves to the warming sun. Before long, as they grew a bit taller and older, the tips of their branches began to touch. They tickled each other with their leaves, constantly. And they laughed heartily about it! Below ground, their roots searched for more water and nutrients and just like the branches up above, they met. And they tickled some more. They grew to like each other’s company more and more. And eventually, something shifted in them. Their playful, innocent touches began to feel shy, making them blush for some reason. As they grew high above the grass, their trunks got thicker, stronger. The birch colored her body in fresh white color, with a relatively smooth bark, whereas the oak kept his color brown and his bark became more rugged, more firm. They soon discovered that they were not only a different species, but a different gender as well. And they also found that they liked it. They realized that they were in love. Seasons passed, and the two trees grew like never before. Winters were mild and summers pleasant, and life was good. They let their roots get tangled, sharing the water and the food, giving each other support when the weather threw an occasional high-wind storm at them. The more they grew, the more their trunks thickened and grew closer, until they finally touched. The merging was a final expression of their love for one another, and they each leaned on the other, counting on their support. Looking at them from a distance, it would appear as if there was a single tree with two very different trunks. One white, lean and tall, the other brown, stocky and strong. And the more they grew, the more they loved. Soon, life around them began to find shelter under their branches or up their canopies. Grazing deer found shade, ants and insects and small lizards climbed their trunks and explored their leaves. Birds made nests in their hair and green lichen tattooed their bodies. And the two trees loved them all. As more years passed, there was again a time for the miracle of life to occur; and this time, there were many small seedlings that came sprouting from the ground beneath the two trees. They were birch and oak, they were their children. And it was the happiest time of the two trees’ lives. There was life everywhere and their love only grew. Soon, they would grow as tall as the other trees at the edges of the meadow and they could finally peek over them. Life was beautiful. Until one morning, it all changed. First, there came a rumble. Like a tremor of a hungry beast. Then came a strange smell, a poisonous odor, like that of burning corpses. With it, came a loud sharp noise. A sound so utterly devastating, that it shook the birch and the oak to their very roots. And finally, there came them . Animals not yet seen before, on this meadow. Their furs were various colors, their heads hard shelled as helmets and though they walked on two legs and carried those strange sound producing objects, some rode on big black and yellow demons. At first, the birch and the oak were curious, who were these newcomers? Where did they come from? What did they want? And then, the first tree fell under their arms. And then the second. The third. Before long, the whole western thicket of trees was gone, and the bipedal animals and their yellow demons seemed to only grow hungrier for more. They cut down the trees and stripped them of their limbs, taking only their thick trunks while leaving the rest to lie on the ground where it fell. The meadow soon became a corpse littered graveyard. The birch and the oak trembled as they watched the horror unfold all around them. Their children were scared, their young bodies shaking in the wind. They could only hope that these monsters wouldn’t come for them, perhaps their position in the middle of the meadow would spare them. But then, a group of animals came closer, those horrible sounding and foul smelling objects in their hands, humming with inner hunger. “Lookie here,” one spoke in a foreign tongue. “These two look like they grew together.” “They look like lovers,” joked another. “Yeah, they do,” the first one replied and cocked his head. “Melany Birch and John Oak, huh?” The animals laughed. Then they walked closer and the two trees could only watch in horror as the animals cut down their children one by one with some sharp sticks. The young trees, their wood hardened, fell softly on the grass, making a clearing for the animals to get to the two trees. The birch and the oak embraced each other tightly, knowing the end had come. It came so quickly... why ?! And then the agony started. The objects screeched loudly, cutting into the trees’ flesh, sending chunks of it flying over the bodies of their children. The pain was too much to bear. The birch was cut clean through in less than a minute. But it didn’t fall. Oak held her with his branches. Held dearly onto the love of his life. “They’re really stuck together, huh?” the animal said and then shrugged. The pain that ensued as the tool cut deep into the Oak’s body was severe, but nothing compared to the pain of the loss. And as the tool made its way through, the Oak fell with the Birch. As they lay on the ground, their branches were still entangled. When the first shock of death passed, Oak was surprised to notice that he was still alive. Though his roots and branches were cut from him, he could still see, he could still hear and he could still feel . Oh god, why did he still feel ? His body lay on a pile of other bodies, other cut down and stripped logs. They were all crying, weeping, moaning and screaming in pain and loss. It made Oak want to scream as well, but his mind wanted to know if Birch was there somewhere. So he called for her. Nothing. He called again, many times, over and over, to overpower the screams of others. And then, when his voice was all soar, he heard a faint reply. It was her! He followed the sound and noticed Birch resting in another pile of logs. Her beautiful white bark was full of scars and scrapes, but to Oak, she was as beautiful as ever. He wanted to be with her, to feel her touch and her closeness again. But a herd of those monsters and yellow demons were in between. A sudden anger washed over him. They came here and destroyed everything. What for? Why?! He felt consumed by his wrath and fury, blinded by the horror and injustice done to him. He screamed out all his pain and agony in one mighty cry and the others trembled with the power of his emotion. They agreed with him. And the pile of logs where Oak was at suddenly collapsed under its own weight and sent Oak and the others tumbling down at the bipedal animals. Some of them jumped away in time, but not all. At least five were hit, and three of them didn’t get up again. Their bodies were crushed by the heavy logs. Oak’s rage was so hot that he thought he would ignite from the inside. He wished he could do something, to stand up and to crush them all. But he was just a log. He couldn’t move. And the look Birch gave him was enough to stop his blinding rage. She smiled at him. He smiled at her, putting all his strength into it. And then, the yellow demons came and they picked Oak and the rest of the logs in his pile with one giant arm and loaded them on another animal, this one long and flat. Feeling fresh pain from the cuts and the loss all over, Oak was transported away from the meadow, away from everyone and everything he ever knew. Away from Birch. Oak fell into a deep apathy, listening to the others wail around him. His pains were so great that he didn’t dare think of Birch, as it would probably push him into insanity. Like the rest of the logs. The big flat animal they were riding, took them to a place of nightmare. Oak could see a large flat building where other animals were gathering, each bringing their own pile of corpses. On one end of the building there were piles of logs, and on the other... stacks and stacks of... of flesh ! Logs cut into thin sheets of wood! Why? What kind of hell was this? Oak soon found out that the name of this hell was a Sawmill . The bipedal animals used their large mechanical demons to unload all the logs and place them one by one on a black solid river - a conveyer belt. The screams of pain that came from inside the building made Oak want to die before he got to know the source of the screaming. He was already dead, was he not? But if so, then how come he still felt everything? It truly was a hell. The black solid river took the logs inside the building, one by one. Oak soon discovered the source of the screams - giant spinning blades, like those the animals had in the forest, only much bigger. And they were slicing up the logs into thinner sheats. It made Oak sick. As the blades cut into his flesh once again, he got reminded of his loss of Birch and their dead children on the meadow. The pain of his body being cut into separate pieces, called planks, was so profound that he passed out immediately. But he did not vanish yet. He could still feel. After that hell, the purgatory that followed in the next weeks and months was hardly worth noticing. Oak became cold and distant. His body was in five different pieces now, though his mind seemed to reside in only the center one. The animals had placed him on the stacks outside the Sawmill and left him there, his insides exposed to the rain and the wind. They didn’t even let him keep his skin... He grew cold. He grew sick. His mind started wandering, breaking down. His body started to rot. And after many seasons, some animals finally remembered that they had left him there. “This stack is rotting at the base,” one of them said, but Oak didn’t care. He stopped caring long ago. “This wood is not suitable for baseball bats anymore. Damn shame.” “Should we send the stack back to the blades? Cut it for firewood?” “That would be a loss of money. Perhaps it can still be salvaged for low grade furniture. Chairs maybe.” “Alrighty, boss.” After that, a demon came to pick up Oak and his stack. It placed him on another one of those long and flat animals, only this time it had a shell and Oak was pushed inside of it. If he still cared, he’d be glad for the cover. But he just sat there, in darkness and endured the bumpy ride. As the animal shell opened again, Oak found himself in another hell. Only this one was not as brutal as the first one. There were more of those blades there and more animals with screaming tools. They cut him up into even smaller pieces and never again did he see the majority of his body parts. If it continued like that, he thought he would soon cease to exist. In fact, he hoped for it. The animals rearranged the newly cut parts of his body into something grotesque they called a chair . Oak felt so small and fragile again. So rigid and imobile, with steel implants and chemical sap holding his new form together. He hated the way he looked. Hated the way he smelled. Hated the way he felt. These were the only feelings that remained for him. He dared not to think of Birch or the meadow. Convincing himself that he didn’t care was the only way to endure this. As final death seemed to elude him so persistently. Eventually, Oak found himself in what he hoped would be his final resting place, a place these animals called a store. He soon started to loathe it. Animals would come every day and walk past him, talking loudly, even sitting on him from time to time. And he saw others there, other grotesque pieces made from wood. Other trees who shared his fate. Were they also from the meadow? What ever must have happened to Birch? Oak cursed at himself, but it was too late. He thought of her already. His mind fell into a whirlwind of loss and sorrow, from which he thought he could never recover. And like some confirmation of his thoughts, one day the animals suddenly took him from his place at the store and threw him outside, next to a smelly metal container. The throw broke one of his new ‘legs’ . It didn’t even hurt, compared to all the pain in his mind and heart. And so Oak lay there, waiting for a final mercy to come from somewhere, hoping to die already and be done with this horrible existence. And in his darkest hour, an angel appeared. An old animal passing by stopped and walked over to Oak. “Oh my,” it said with a soft scratchy voice. “What ever have they done to you, poor thing?” The animal took Oak and carried him inside a metal demon. Oak was too broken to be afraid, so he just surrendered to whatever was going to happen to him. The old animal drove to its home and it took Oak to its workshop. There, it repaired Oak, gave him a new leg, a fine scrubbing and a new polish, which smelled quite pleasantly. When the job was done, the animal smiled. “Good as new!” He inspected Oak with care. “You’ll make my wife very happy,” the animal said. Then he took Oak with him and climbed up the stairs in his home. He brought him in a room, where there were a lot of wooden things; some like Oak, with four legs, some hanging from the walls like boxes and one with four legs and a flat top, resting in the middle- Wait a moment. That scent was familiar. “Look honey,” said the old animal. “I found this guy at the back of the store. They threw him out.” Another old animal turned, its face happy. “Oh you fixed it! It looks lovely! Put it by the birch table and I’ll fix us some coffee.” The animal put Oak down next to what they called a table . And Oak could not believe his senses. Birch ? It was her. She smelled of that strange chemical sap and her white skin was gone, but it was her. They’ve turned her into a table. Oak ? She recognized him! Oak, are we in hell? I don’t know, he said. And I don’t care. As long as we’re together. Oh Oak , Birch moaned. I wish I could feel the touch of your roots again. To comfort me. Me too, Oak said. They were cut off. Like yours. But our bond goes deeper than that. It is beyond roots. Birch smiled weakly. You really think so? Oak smiled back. I know so. It brought us back together, didn’t it? I hope you’re right. I don’t want to lose you again. We are already lost, my love, said Oak . But I’m glad we’re lost together.


Micheal plodded down the steps, into a bright room, empty except for the brightly-lit and colorful displays on the walls. He had begged his father to go to the museum to see the new exhibit from a local artist - a close friend of his - all morning, but now that his father wanted to stop and look at each and every work of art before seeing the main attraction, Micheal was questioning his life choices. *I could have just waited and went with my friend*, he thought. The thought stung, for a brief moment. He and Cavill were more than friends, but to the world, they were friends, and he’d been trying to work up the courage to introduce Cavill to his parents, going so far as reciting how he’d introduce him. He’d gotten very used to the words “This is my friend, Cavill” but, even in his internal monologue, referring to his lover as “my friend” pained him. He wished he could perceive anything in his father’s attitude as a clue for whether he’d accept the truth. He’d been dropping hints and watching his father for over a year, but couldn’t read anything, good or bad, in the man’s stoic expression. As they walked into yet another exhibit room, Micheal noticed his father lingering, looking down at the explanatory plaque below one of the exhibits - an exhibit they’d probably seen before in their previous trips to the Museum, which had mostly remained static since the days when his father brought him here as a younger child, teaching him about the world by pointing at exhibits and reading the plaques. As he caught up with his father, he looked at the painting above the placard. It depicted two men, one with his tie loosened, sitting on a couch and leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder, the other carefully pouring wine into a glass, their faces glowing in the light of what must have been a television in front of them. They looked exactly like a couple just settling down after a long day at their respective jobs. The room around them was meticulously tidy and well-decorated, with flowers and little flashes of greenery adoring the mauve-painted walls and the light hardwood floors. Micheal inwardly groaned at how his younger mind had perceived this painting - he thought they were two friends who perhaps shared an apartment. He remembered the title of this one - “Confirmed Bachelor Pad” - but he couldn’t really recall what the placard, which his dad had probably read to him years before, said. As he tilted his head down to read the placard, his father seemed to shift a bit, and suddenly Micheal felt like he was being observed - “watched” would be a loaded word here, and it didn’t really feel creepy. This is just what parents do sometimes, suddenly realize that their child, their precious baby, is growing before their eyes and that time is fleeting, and choose to spend a moment just observing them. That’s how he passed it off, anyways, beginning to read the plaque as he could feel his father’s eyes reading his face. > “*Confirmed Bachelor Pad* by Lucious Thomas, 1986: > Lucious Thomas himself was referred to as a “Confirmed Bachelor” by his biographers for nearly a decade after his death. In 1993, when his estate, in accordance with his will, released a collection of until-then secret and hidden works, this painting caught a large amount of public attention with its title and subject matter. The subjects in the painting resemble a younger Lucious Thomas and his longtime “roommate”, Henry. Micheal caught a lump in his throat and tried not to betray anything in his facial expression. The sensation that his father was watching him passed. He turned around and, following his father, proceeded to the next exhibit. He remembered his father reading that plaque to him now - when he was too young to understand it. He was too young to have possibly ever met Lucious Thomas, but in that moment, he felt like he was in one of his portraits, a classic Lucious Thomas work, where the subject grimaces in some uncomfortable or awkward circumstance, with no easy escape in sight.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: *We’re going to have an award week! Get your keyboards out, get a nice beverage, and put on your A-Game. Good luck to all, and remember: feedback counts for points! I will be awarding the following:* - *First place - Platinum Award (gives Reddit premium for 1 month and 700 coins)* - *Second place - Gold Award (gives Reddit premium for 1 week and 100 coins)* - *Third place - An award of my choosing that gives 100 coins.* **Prompt: As day became night, he started to understand the truth.** *Bonus constraint: A metaphor is used. (If you use a larger metaphor, you may add a note at the end of the piece in spoiler tags, explaining what it was.* This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.) #This Past Week’s Rankings - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The Death of us “Amelia, you’ve been in cryosleep for quite some time your duty calls.” said the onboard AI Jack. “What’s the problem, Jack?” I asked with a tone of slight annoyance. “The station's power grid is failing causing all cryo-pods to be shut down. The emergency power generators are only powering all essential systems including your cryo-pod. Unfortunately, the rest of the staff’s cryo pods have severe malfunctions that cannot be repaired.” Jack said with a tone of disappointment. “What about the plant life? We need that to create a colony on Planet X-1789.” I asked with a worried tone. “The plant life has died Amelia. There is nothing we can do to revive the plants.” Jack said in a serious tone “Well, there has to be a solution. There is always a solution.” I said in denial “Amelia there is one hope for the survival of the human race.” Jack said in a slightly hopeful tone. “Well, what is the solution Jack?” I asked “There are signs of bacterial life on the dwarf planet Pluto. If you can bring a sample then I could modify the genetic code to that of a human being and allow the bacteria to transform into a human being under my constant supervision slowly.” Jack said doubtfully. “Then prepare a shuttle to Pluto.” I said not knowing what to expect. Jack prepared me on what to expect when I arrived. And I was nervous, to say the least in fact I was trembling thinking about if I would crash and die on impact. I looked at Earth and thought of the time I spent there before boarding the space station. Remembering friends and family the sky and the feel of the warm summer sun with occasional breezes. The days when the climate was habitable before climate change before you had to wear an oxygen mask and tank on your back just to breathe oxygen. Now there was nothing special about earth it was a planet among all the others just another lifeless planet. Eventually, I landed on Pluto and began to drill through the ice when the drill had drilled 500ft there was liquid water. I rejoiced at the fact that there was hope however, it was only a puddle of liquid water. I quickly collected the water and went back to the shuttle. Upon returning to the station I gabbed the sample of water and put it in a storage compartment for Jack to collect and I had a moment of realization when jack said “Amelia what have you done. You have damned all of humanity.” “How I did what I was told?” I said still not fully comprehending what I had done. “You put the sample in the incinerator shute.” When I had fully realized the reality of the situation I knew what I must do. I walked back to the shuttle bay and I sent the shuttle to the destination Planet X-1789. I added special instructions to open the shuttle upon impact. And set the shuttle on course to Planet X-1789 in approximately 1000 years. In the hopes that my DNA would be preserved and spread life.