Nightcap A man in a dark overcoat and gloves is standing off to the side in a room with a bar to his right, well lit by a small lamp. Across the room, on a loveseat sits plump a woman in her twenties. *Please, sit, have a drink.* The woman, sitting mostly in shadow, gestured to the armchair across from her seat and near the bar, a glass of wine in her hand. The killer was somehow enthralled by this strangely confident woman. She was not intimidating in stature, far from it in fact. She was short and round with a soft heart-shaped face and piercing eyes under a shock of curly hair. “I don’t think you fully grasp your situation, said the man,” blade in hand. He cautiously turned over the knife, blade glinting in the warm lamplight from the bar beside him. *All the more reason for you to sit. Have a drink, I’d like to talk. Understand why it is you’re here.* “Doesn’t the knife make that fairly obvious” The man asked impetuously, and the woman merely laughed, unafraid, and gestured again towards the seat to her right. *There’s whiskey, port, and a nice malbec on the bar, help yourself.* She sipped her own wine and watched him as he looked at her curiously, shook his head and walked to the bar, pouring a large glass of whiskey and drinking deeply. “Why aren’t you afraid?” He demanded, genuinely perplexed. “I’m here to kill you, being paid a lot to do it too. But you’re sitting here, completely unfazed and offering me a drink? You should be afraid, making a deal for your life, or at least wondering why someone wants you dead.” The woman smiled a cheshire grin and shrugged, *I guess you’re right, but here we are. And if I could make a deal with you, you wouldn’t last long in your line of work. Paid killers tend to be required to complete jobs, don’t they?* “That’s true enough.” *So, why a knife?* “What?” *Why a knife? Seems a little overly personal to me.* “Oh. Just quieter, easier to get in and out if you know what you’re doing.” *Awfully messy, though, isn’t it hard to leave without being noticed? Being covered in blood and all.* He shrugs, “I have gloves and an overcoat, do my best to avoid the splash zone.” She laughs abruptly, *the splash zone? Really?* “What? “ *Not the description I was expecting, I guess.* “Is what it is. Knives create spray and cast-off.” *Wouldn’t poison or a garrote be.... Neater?* “A garotte? Does this look like 19th century Spain?“ *Spain? Is that really where garottes started?* “Used there for Capital Punishment, but not invented there, no I don’t think so. Humans have been reinventing the same ways to kill each other since Cain and Abel. We really aren’t that creative about it,” He murmured. *I think crime tv junkies would disagree.* “Eh, sure, there are the occasional psychos who mutilate bodies and such, but for the most part? Stab, strangle, beat, or shoot.” He mused. *Or poison.* “Or poison,” he concedes, then glances to the whiskey he’s been drinking and back at the woman with an alarmed look. “You didn’t?” *No, definitely not. That’s my favorite bottle. I just happen to have been in a wine mood tonight.* “But you were expecting me?” *Yes.* “How?” *Is that important?* “I guess not,” He drinks deeply. *So, why this line of work?* “I’m good at it.” *I’m sure you are good at more than taking life.* “Not particularly.” *Come on now, it’s rude to lie.* “I’m here to kill you and LYING is rude?” *She stares at him expectantly.* “Fine,” he says, exasperated. “I wanted to be a paramedic.” *...what?* “Yeah.” *Well that’s a full 180. How did you go from wanting to save lives to ending them for a living?* “Again, I’m good at it.” *Must take a toll on someone who wanted to save people.* “Not really.” *Lying is rude.* “So is prying.“ *You’re my murderer. I’m allowed to be a little rude.* “Guess I can’t argue that. I’m still not understanding why you’re so calm.” *Why fight what I can’t change?* “You don’t strike me as the type to give up easily.” *I never was.* “So what changed?” *Who says anything has?* “I’m not sure I get it.“ *I’m not sure that I do either. But i’d like to try and understand. That’s why we’re chatting, isn’t it?* “Or maybe you’re just stalling? Waiting for someone to come home and catch me?” *I lived alone, you know that, I’m sure.* “I did, but nothing is certain, no matter how thoroughly you prepare.” *You can do everything right and still lose.* “Didn’t some pop star say that?” *I was going for Captain Picard, but sure.* “Trekkie, huh?” *Generalized nerd. You never answered my question.* “Which question?” *How do you go from paramedic to assassin?* “Assassin is a little melodramatic.” He looks at her sheepishly then stares off in the other direction. “Couldn’t afford the schooling to be a medic, some guys from my neighborhood said they’d help with the tuition if I did them a favor. Favor just so happened to be roughing up a guy who owed them money. One favor turned into two, roughing up turned into taking care of. I did manage to finish the schooling, top of my class too. At the end of the day, I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy of it. Lasted one day on the job, my last pickup was a guy I knew got tuned up by the same guys I worked for in the neighborhood. They beat him half to death for not paying back a loan. If I hadn’t been on duty, it would’ve been me that beat him, not picking him up to bring to the hospital.” *You could’ve chosen to stay a paramedic.* “I owed them too much money, was in too deep. It was one or the other, and I didn’t wanna end up in the back of a rig half dead for choosing wrong.” *I guess I get that.* “No you don’t.” *You’re right, I don’t, but you’d feel better about it if I did.* “Maybe.” *Is it lonely?* “What?” *Being a killer. Is it lonely?* “It can be.... “He abruptly puts down his glass. “This has gotta stop.” *What do you mean?* “This conversation. I’m not here for a therapy session. I’m here to do a job.” *Clearly you needed someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge you.* “You haven’t judged me? I thought lying was rude.” *I can’t judge you.* “What is that supposed to mean?” *I’m only here because of you, Ronnie.* “How do you know my name?” She doesn’t answer. Ronnie paces in front of the bar for a moment. “Look, this isn’t going to work. Whatever this is that you’re trying to pull. You are a job and I intend to finish it.” *But Ronnie,* the woman says gently, *you already did.* “What are you talking about?” Ronnie picks up the lamp from the bar and shines it on the woman’s lifeless body in the chair, the blood from her slit throat soaked through her blouse, her skin alabaster and bloodless, eyes staring blankly forward. Ronnie drops the lamp in horror, looking again at the knife in his hand, seeing the blade stained red, and his bloody handprints on the glass he’d been drinking from. “What the fuck?” He exclaims in shock as his cell rings. He answers the phone, “Yeah?...... Yeah, it’s done.. Hey, Rico... Nah, nevermind man. Everything’s good. He hangs up. Everything’s good...


REEDSY #217 Prompt #1 We'd known each other for more than fifty years. That's a long time - some days. Other days it's a mere blink of an eye. In all that time there's one thing we've always done together...watch the sunrise. That's how I met Mr. McTyre. On my way home from work every morning, I would stop at the bluff to watch the sun rise. One morning someone else was sitting on the rock wall I claimed as mine at 6am daily. He didn't take up the entire wall and I ignored him. Day after day, he was sitting on my wall watching the sunrise. After a few weeks, he finally spoke to me. Was I on my way to work? No, I'm on my way home. He didn't ask where and I didn't volunteer. We sat ten feet apart on a wall overlooking the lake and watched the sun rise - every day but Sunday for nearly six months. About then he introduced himself. “Philip McTyre at your service, Ma'am.” I extended my hand. “Rachel Feldon.” Conversation was sparse but, after that, did occur. Good morning, mostly. Sometimes, nice day I believe. He was always very polite. And well groomed. I learned he was on his way to work. I didn't ask where and he didn't volunteer. So while we knew one another, we didn't know each other at all. One glorious day it was announced that the war was over. And soon it was common knowledge that many of us would be laid off - especially the night shift. I tried to imagine what it would be like living in the daylight again. I had worked nights for three years. Perhaps I could get back on track and return to college. The war had interrupted so many lives; I couldn't complain about mine. Oft times I had wonder why Philip McTyre was not in the armed forces. He seemed to be the right age for induction. While I knew he was employed, I had not ventured to inquire how or where. Perhaps he was one of those essential services that kept young men out of the military. I didn't ask. Several weeks after the end of the war was officially declared, I learned I would be laid off beginning the next week. When I reached the wall overlooking the lake, Mr. McTyre was facing the road, not the sun rise. “I'm being laid off starting next week”, he said. “So am I.” “Will you still be coming to watch the sun rise?” “I haven't thought that far ahead, Mr. McTyre. The thought of living in the daylight again has occupied my mind since I've been given notice.” “Ah, yes, that may be difficult to readjust your inner clock after so long a time.” I hadn't thought about having an inner clock. My concern was how long would it take for me to adjust to going to bed instead of going to work. I was worried about my cat. He will be terribly upset that I am not following a routine he's accustomed to following. “Indeed. It will be a challenge.” We watched the sunrise in silence after that rather lengthy exchange. I could tell his mind was not with the rising sun today. Perhaps his unemployment will create a greater challenge than a disgruntled cat. On the ordinary day, I always left the wall first. But on this day, Mr. McTyre excused himself saying, “I will see you tomorrow?” He stood up and began a very halting walk to his bicycle. Rather than leaning his bicycle against the wall, he always laid it on a bush by the road. He was lame. I quickly diverted my eyes so as not to make him self-conscious. Perhaps this was the reason he was not in the military. Or had he gotten lame while in the military? And came home to find work in a factory to continue his war effort? I felt slightly ashamed for having doubted him. The following week, I found myself up at five. I had a fitful night that first night of my unemployment. I went to the bluff. Mr. McTyre was there, as usual. “You don't have to be at work; why are you up so early?” I could not believe I had been so bold to challenge him. “You aren't at work; why are you up so early?” We laughed at each other's curiosity. Friendship followed so easily after that. Soon we were meeting for coffee in a small cafe close to my home. And, it turned out, close to his also. We still managed to watch the sun rise several mornings a week. Those mornings were never predetermined but we somehow always chose the same days to go to the bluff. We both found employment within the month. We began to see each other more often. Movies a few times a month. Occasionally dinner. Two years after we met, we married. Neither of us had family near so we went to the court house, got a license and was married by a judge. We needed a witness and one of the custodians at the courthouse agreed to stand for us. He was a very kind man. Mr. McTyre gave him five dollars for the favor. What an extravagant, generous gesture. Five dollars. Ah, fifty years of watching the sun rise. When we bought a home, we selected a house on a hill overlooking the same lake that our wall overlooks. Each morning at six, we would sit on the swing on the back porch and watch the sun rise. Then we had breakfast before going to work. We never had children. But I am sure they would have been sun rise watchers. There's something magical about the sun rising to start a new day. Inclement weather might dampen or darken it, but the sun always rose. But now, I tend to sit on the back porch swing and watch the moon reflecting off the lake below. One morning Mr. McTyre didn't awake as usual. By the time the coroner and the police had come and gone, the sun had risen and the day was half done. Since that day I have not watched the sun rise. Somehow the moon is more comforting, more forgiving. It reflects so gently on the lake; it is calm and reassuring. But I will always remember the sun rise and Philip McTyre.


It is my first day back in school since it happened. Everything is different now. I am different. I walk down the hallway feeling paranoid, like all eyes are on me. I dread passing by groups of boys laughing and being loud. My heart is beating fast, I am out of breath. A panic attack is coming and I know it but I continue walking. They've become something daily for me now. My eyes are glued to the floor, I don't dare look up. At last I reach my classroom and hurriedly enter. Everyone is looking at me. Some with pity, others disappointment, third disgust. I can hear them whispering to each other, glancing in my direction, pointing their fingers at me. I run to my desk and sit, plugging my earphones in, trying to block them out. I struggle to stop the tears from spilling out. I feel ashamed, dirty, disgusted with myself. The class goes by. I can't focus, I can't think about anything but what had happened. The teacher doesn't tell me anything. She knows. I am collecting my books to go to my next class when someone taps my shoulder. I flinch, panic taking over me. I turn around to see one of my classmates. A girl I would talk to before it happened. "Hey, I'm sorry I didn't mean to startle you." She smiles at me apologetically. I smile back, trying to be polite. She is pitying me, I can see it. "Want to go to the next class together?" She offers. I accept with a quiet nod, thankful I won't have to go through that hell alone again. We walk there. The whole time she's talking to me but I can't concentrate, everyone's looking at me, everyone is... They all know. We enter the classroom and sit down. She places her bag next to me. That's not her usual seat but I don't say anything. She exits the room. I feel another tap on my shoulder. It's much harder, making me flinch once again. It's a boy. He laughs at my reaction. "Don't be all defensive and shit, I know you enjoyed it." He turns to look at his friends and they all laugh. I can feel the hot tears in my eyes. "Aw, you're gonna cry. Little whore. You wanted it, admit it. You just didn't want everyone to think you're a slut for sleeping with him so you lied." With that he leans closer, whispering "We all know the truth." Then he proceeds to grab my inner thigh, giving it a squeeze with his huge hands. I am frozen, I can't move. Everything that had happened replays in my head. They are laughing. I try to stand up but my legs give out. I need to get out of here, but I can't. I can't breathe. They all know, they're laughing, they know. I feel so dirty. Maybe they're right. I am sitting on the floor, hiding my face in my knees, crying. I can't stop, I'm going to die. I am going to suffocate. He is coming for me. Again. I feel hands on me and scream. A feminine voice speaks out. "Shh, shh it's okay. You're here. Nobody will hurt you. It's okay. Breathe, copy my breathing." She rubs my back comfortingly. A male voice says "Fucking freak. At least we know she's a good actress." I cry harder. The girl screams at him. I can't hear what she's saying. I'm not paying attention. "Hey, hey, hold my hand. I am here, nobody will hurt you. They are gone." I hold her hand, gripping onto it for dear life. She continues to talk to me, chasing the thoughts away. After what seems like eternity I am able to breathe. I turn to see the same girl that walked with me to the classroom. "Why are you doing this for me?" I ask, my voice raspy from crying. She smiles a sad smile and speaks. "Because the same thing happened to me once." Yo, ya'll that's my first ever post on reddit! I'm kinda nervous to share my writing, as I'm not very good yet and on top of that English isn't my first language, buttt I hope ya'll like it.


The thread started to unravel. He figured he could be 20 minutes late to the meeting in conference room 3. An annual update on compliance with regulations regarding regulatory compliance. Six mandatory hours, with a 45 minute break for some bland turkey pitas with too much mayo and shredded iceberg lettuce and your choice of a 12 ounce can of Coke, Diet Coke or Sprite from the red Igloo cooler with the scuff on the side. Six years of this meeting, and not a single memory that stuck in his mind from any of them. Except for the cooler. He remembered that scuff because it resembled the scar on his leg from that time he crashed his bike when he was 13, trying to impress the new girl who had just moved in across the street. She laughed. He ran. He hid. He planning to avoid her until the end of time, but three months later he got over it. And now he had a cool scar and a story to tell. But nothing interesting ever happened in these meetings. The lecture droned on so his mind wandered. His eyes lethargically searched the room for something more visually appealing than yet another Powerpoint presentation with star wipes between pie charts and boxes of text which were not only printed out in the handout booklet but were being read word for word by a man who had no inflection in his voice of any kind. For the third year in a row the ceiling light in the front left corner of the room was flickering. And then he noticed her. He didn’t really notice her at first, but her blouse. With a hint of a reflection from the lights above, the thin and loose grey fabric forced his mind to stop wandering. The drape of the blouse formed interesting arcs as it flowed across and down her shoulders, reminding him of the heavy, dull surf at the pier ahead of an approaching storm. Her neck was hidden by thick curls of brown, neatly bundled in a black tie, dangling a puffed bundle below that danced and flowed with every slight movement of her head. Her brown hair gave way to shades of red as it intercepted the stream of the morning sun, only to vanish a moment later as the vision of distraction stepped out of the light. But above all, the sight of a lone thread protruding from the seam on her right shoulder demanded consideration. About an inch in length it was all but unnoticeable, but as the speaker droned on it was a hot spring oasis in a tundric wasteland of monotony. Given the choice between wondering how it came to be, how it affected the strength of the fabric, pondering if she knew about it or listening to the mnemonic devices to help you remember for which forms the automated review system would prompt you during third quarter auditing reviews, there was no choice at all. He lived a quiet, solitary life. Work, home, TV, sleep. In earlier years he had explored the world, usually getting on his trustworthy Honda motorcycle and randomly driving down freeways and highways just to see where they went. In 14 years he had visited every state except Alaska, Hawaii, and New Jersey - which bothered him, because while he could ride a bike to New Jersey he couldn’t come up with a single reason why he would. He dove the reefs in Mexico, climbed an eruption volcano in Guatemala, visited Panama where he helped extinguish a fire in a cane field one week then came back the next and helped burn it down. The canvas of his life had once been vibrant and varied, but he had replaced all of that with a simple life of simple routine. His new canvas was empty, framed, and hung on the wall for all to see. And now he was contemplating a single loose thread which was the most interesting thing in the room. Until she, the woman with the freckles, stood up and turned around and walked towards the bland pitas with too much mayonnaise. She, with the gold wire frame glasses balanced in front of her eyes, the flicker of the failing light dancing in a corporate approximation of starlight and shooting stars. She was now the most interesting thing in the room. He would say hi. And in his soul, at the edge of that plain canvas so neatly framed and hung on display, a thread of his known life worked itself free and began to unravel.


I look around myself and watch the smoke rising into the dark stormclouds over my head. I watch the freshly lit fires destroying what I loved: I passed my burning schoolhouse and watch my 4th-grade teacher narrowly escaping and joining me and the other new refugees. I sprint past one of the town farms where our food is grown that had been set alight. I am too focused on getting away to feel the throbbing in my legs from sprinting away from my town, and I am much too focused on getting away to worry about how the other women and children I know are running with me are doing. I hope they can keep it up, as I flashback to the trauma starting at the beginning of the day, watching the man who lived in our house shot in the head, then reeling through the following events of escaping and starting to run. The day before I would never have fathomed what was happening so close to us: I had helped Didier and my mother, Mary, attach the signature epaulet of a Lieutenant Colonel to prepare my father’s uniform so he could lead his troops in Boston, but that was 25 miles away. I could never have imagined what was happening today. I was out on a morning walk around the town with my friends when we saw the enemy ships under the looming stormclouds steaming towards our defenseless town. My friends and I decided that they would be just passing through, on their way to attack their next target. We decided to stop and watch them go by when we saw the scout ship drop her anchor and the fleet begin to slow. We look up and see the storm clouds darkening and lowering. It suddenly became evident that they were targeting our defenseless town. My friends all looked at each other and split, each trying to get home. I sprinted the short trip up Elk and Main Street, desperately trying to get to my mother, hoping she might be able to save us. Her eyes widened, and she abruptly ran to the door to see for herself. She took a good look then hurriedly wrote to Hammond: My dear Hammond Please turn back; Concord has been overrun, the enemy has anchored on our shores. Your love, Mary She desperately gathered what little money we had in the house and dragged me on to the now nearly abandoned town hall on Bedford Street where she paid the mail boy all the money she could find and told him to go as fast as his horse would take him and intercept the town’s warriors before they got too far. We made it home and Mother told Didier it was time to pay for his stay and ordered him to get dressed and ready. We began to prepare our house for what we hoped would not follow: we threw water on the floors and walls, soaked our bedsheets, and boarded up our windows. No sooner had we sealed our cabin then did we hear a loud thunderclap. I could see through the cracks in our walls that our dark ceiling was continuing to close in. It was dark enough to feel like dusk. I continued to peer through a crack, with Didier watching through another, his facing the river. I watched the turbulent skies as I heard a gasp from Didier. I looked back and watched him recoil, spring for his bayonet, and station himself next to our door. I went back to watching through the crack, and noticed a new haze, accompanied by an orange light. Mother peered through another crack facing the river and exclaimed what she saw: South Bridge and Elm Street had been lit aflame, and the fire was spreading fast. Mother took me into her arms and reassured me. Moments later, a man dressed in a red jacket with a white sash burst into our house. He looked disdainfully at Didier, asking why he wasn’t with his men. Didier proudly responded that he was French, and the rest of his men had not yet arrived. Hardly allowing Didier to finish his sentence, the soldier raised his pistol and killed Didier. My mother squeezed me tightly and covered my eyes, but I could still feel the soldier’s glare land upon us. “This should teach you about harboring traitors,” he said and closed the door. My mother uncovered my eyes to see a small fire the soldier had left. I looked at my mother fearfully, and she reflected my look. We put the fire out and covered Didier’s body with one of our damp sheets. It had seemed that we saved our home, but we soon saw smoke pouring in through the gaps in our house as we began to get hotter. Eventually, it became obvious that we could not weather the siege. Mother and I burst outside and quickly took account of what was left of our surroundings: the clouds were so low and thick that once mixed with the smoke of our burning town, the flames were the only source of light. Mother and I began to run towards Boston, joining the other recently created refugees as we sprinted down Thoreau Street into the woods that surrounded our town. I looked around and saw my mother was beginning to fall behind the group. Knowing nothing else, I instinctively slowed down and kept by my mother as we ran past much of our hometown. She told me to continue running with the group; she would meet me once it was all over. I hoped she was right, and looked back to see the soldiers several hundred yards behind us in pursuit, destroying everything in their path. I saw there were several others who were lagging behind, and I could do nothing more than pray that they would make it through. I look around myself and watch the smoke rising into the dark stormclouds low over my head. I watch the freshly lit fires destroying what I loved: I passed my burning schoolhouse and watch my 4th-grade teacher narrowly escaping her home and joining me and the other new refugees; I sprint past one of the town farms where our food is grown that had been set alight. I begin to feel the effects of the run I have endured, but I am too focused on getting away to feel the throbbing in my legs from sprinting away from my town, and I am much too focused on getting away to worry about how the other women and children I know are running with me are doing. We continue to run deeper into the woods, keeping to a thin path used by buggies, praying we can lose our invaders, despite them being just a minute behind us. As I am running, I begin to feel the sweet drops of rain on my sweaty, smoky face, and before we know it, we are running through a downpour. I clench my teeth and continue to run through the now mud and focus on getting through the woods. I hear my father shout “hold”. I shake my head, thinking I was hearing things, but I hear him shout “fire”. Our group is jarred out of our running daze by the sound of 50 simultaneous gunshots around us. Startled, I trip and fall. I stand up and look around. Several others are also getting up, covered in mud. I look deeper into the woods, and watch my father shout “push” and see all of our fighters from our town step out of the woods and begin to make their way back to Concord. As we all gather our wits, it occurs to us that our town is ours, and, not only had we made it out, but we will be going back. Several hours later, after the Concord Regiment push the intruders back to the coastlines and their ships, we are brought back into our town. Over the next several weeks, we begin to rebuild. My father and several other soldiers dressed in their most formal uniforms escort Didier’s body to Boston. Upon his return, I finally gather the courage to ask what happened. I ask why he goes to Boston so much. I ask what happened to Didier. I asked what happened to our town. My father takes me into our half-built house and pulls up a chair, and continues to tell me everything. He explains that the colonies had elected to break away from England and the rule of King George. He explains that the British are fighting for control of Boston as a city from which to base their forceful takeover of the colonial governments. He explains to me Didier was a French soldier who was staying with us as he was waiting for the rest of his men to come to assist the colonies fighting the British, and the British do not like the French. He explains to me that our town supplies the colonial army in Boston when the city is held under siege by the British navy. The next day, I am told to clean myself up as best I can, and we make our way to the town hall, where much of the town is gathered. I see my father and his commander, Brigadier General David on the stage. Brigadier General David awards my father the rank of Colonel, and gives a brief speech: “Lieutenant Colonel Hammond led the men that took back control of our town, and has rescued a critical source of resources for the Continental army. In the weeks since Hammond commanded his men to attack the pursuing British soldiers, the tide of the entire war has turned. I have been told by my commanders and colleagues that they have felt the impact of his attack all along each of our fronts. I venture to presume that this brave counterassault will go down in history, and given its effects, it may perhaps go down as ‘the shot heard around the world’”.


We, as humans, have the propensity to create our own answers to questions nor science, nor common sense can offer a reasonable explanation for. Examples of this are best found in the older religions. We didn't know why the sun set and rose every day, so we attributed these happenings to a God. An almighty creature, of whom we were at its mercy every day. We have come a long way since then and most of humanity no longer subscribes to the notion of a sun, rain, harvest or moongod. We now look to religion for a moral compass, guidance and support through the rougher times in our lives. However; our modern science only takes us so far and with a big part of both the universe and the human mind left unexplored we sometimes still have to find our answers elsewhere. Cryptids, ghosts, ghouls and monsters. They aren't just for entertainment on a gloomy saturdaynight, they are, in rare cases, the only reasonable explanation. In others just a viable option. Did those campers get mauled to death by a bear, or was it a wendigo? Did that ship perish due to a storm or did it venture in to a grumpy krakens territory? One thing all of these creatures, all be it gods, cryptids or ghosts, have in common is that they are hunters. They survive off of humans in some fashion. Gods thrive off of our admiration, cryptids tend to be a lot less elegant and just eat us and ghosts are alledged to feed off of our energy and fear. With our world being as vast and unexplored as it is, it is very likely that there are creatures out there we aren't talking about. Creatures that walk and talk like we do, but still view us as prey. As a means to their survival. A way for them to thrive. This leads me to the point I am trying to make, the story I am trying to tell. What if we're wrong? What if we overscienced things and accidentally left the door wide open for the more intelligent creatures among us to feed of of us, our energy, our love. Because when you think about it; is there anything more intense, more consuming, more powerful than loving someone? What if there are creatures out there, walking around looking for people to love them, to feed off of, to absolutely drain and move on to their next victim? To leave their victims uncapable of love. To leave them longing and in doing so creating an infinite source of energy to tap in to, growing ever more powerful and desirable with every person they leave as a shell of themselves. Maybe some creatures out there don't need to do us physical harm to feed off of us. I know they're out there. I know, because I loved one of them. These "monsters", for a lack of a better term, seem to appear when you're at a point in life when you're "okay". You're not miserable, but you're not great either. Life is, as they say, "good enough". They appear, seemingly out of nowhere, and seemlessly find a way to become a steady part of your mind. Maybe they're the cute barista that keeps giving you that free muffin, maybe they're that one friend that never really feels platonic. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to never meet one. How do you protect yourself if you do? Well, it serves us well to remember that certain monsters only have the power we give them. Just as demons who feed off of fear don't have anything to feed off if we're not scared of them, these "cupids" have nothing to gain if we learn to never love someone more than we love ourselves. They can't win if we don't take all of our self esteem, happiness and general sense of being content from the, admittedly, tainted bank they offer us. Supplies always seem to be plenty, but beware, they never are. Said recourses will appear to be dwindling, and you will react by working harder, doing more in an attempt to get back to that initial level. That's where they thrive, feed, grow stronger. That's how they drain you, break you and once they do, you will never be the same. Love is the most powerful thing out there, but you're in control. Hopefully.


#Hello r/Shortstories! For the last 14 weeks, we’ve been running a ‘Serial Sunday’ feature here on the sub (a rebranding of ‘Serial Saturday’). I’ve had the pleasure of watching numerous writers build an entire world from scratch, and I’ve watched their characters grow and develop as they’ve faced different challenges. I’ve seen each and every SerSun participant improve week to week and it’s been a delightful experience. One such writer is u/ColeZalias. He’s been with the WP family for some time now, and I’ve really enjoyed getting to know him and his writing. He’s even joined us on the mod team over at r/WritingPrompts. He began his serial, Subsidized, on Serial Saturday, and he continued it on SerSun, through to the very end, with a whopping 22 parts! That’s quite the accomplishment. Take a minute to leave him some love in the comments below! #Subsidized - Written by u/ColeZalias If you haven’t yet read the latest installments of his serial, I encourage you to check it out. Take an afternoon, kick your feet up, and dive in. **A little synopsis from Cole:** Subsidized tells the story of David, a lowly man whose world is shaken after hearing unexpected news from his sister regarding his mental health. Whilst dealing with personal troubles, including lingering ones from a previous relationship, David faces the harsh realities of the lifestyle he has been living and the struggle to resolve the mistakes he has made. - - - - - - - - - - *Note: If you’re brand new to Subsidized, you can check out and more on his personal subreddit, r/ColeZalias.   ***   #A Chat with u/ColeZalias about Serial Writing I thought the perfect way to celebrate Subsidized’s conclusion was to sit down with Cole and ask him about his experience writing a serial. ##**What have you learned through the serial writing process?** Subsidized was the first long piece of writing that I saw through to its completion. Before I got into the rhythm of writing an entry every week, I noticed for a long time that I’d often have trouble finishing a piece of work. Most of the motivation to start a serial was just to feel more intune to the community, seeing as how I already wrote for other weekly activities, it seemed like I should try SerSun even if it didn’t yield any writing for me to be proud of. The fact that it went on for as long as it did taught me to become a more confident writer. I learned how to manage my time and even how to develop long term planning to these sorts of projects and I can now confidently tell myself that it is a possibility for me to work towards something bigger. That mindset only became a reality because I did SerSun. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** The fact that I had no idea where I was gonna go with it. It was only towards Subsidized’s conclusion that I felt certain of how I wanted everything structured. Though, in the beginning, I was learning about my world and my story nearly at the same pace as the reader. There was no outline so I was sorta winging it for most of it. I loved the fact that it turned out as well as it did with very minimal planning and I honestly don’t think it’s something I can replicate again. It was a truly wonderful experience and when it was finally over, it was an amazing sense of satisfaction. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** 100% the ending. From the start I knew I wanted to make a story that was more grounded and that I could connect with at a personal level. All my “planning” had been to tell a journey of someone who picked themselves up from a difficult situation and finally came out of it feeling proud of themselves and of their actions. As a person, I never had a moment like that where I felt like I achieved what the character of David achieved at the end of the story. For me to have a solid ending from day one meant that I knew how to get over these problems if they happened to me, which I didn’t. I sat at my keyboard for a solid two days, non stop. I had four endings written out and it just came down to choosing the simplest. By the end, there was a mutual understanding with myself where I said “this doesn’t need to be extravagant or spectacular in any way, I just want something subtle” and I think I did that pretty well. At least I hope so. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Don’t think. When I first started I had a rough draft of a story. I had no concrete plans of where I wanted to go and if you asked me when I first started you would have received a plan for a story that is colossally different to what I ended with. If you’re just starting out writing longer pieces of work, try not to overthink it. Try to remove yourself from your own expectations and just take a chance. Obviously you should have an idea of the story you want to write, but don’t let the fact that you have to have something ready every week affect your process. Being unsure is not a bad thing. Being unsure just allows you to discover the limits of your story along with the people reading it every week. It’s good to have an outline and if that works for you then go ahead and do what’s comfortable. But if you find yourself doubting the idea that you want to express into writing, don’t limit yourself. Don’t believe it needs to be perfect. And don’t think for a second that you can’t turn it into something wonderful.   ***   Cole, thank you so much for your insight. It’s been a treat reading your stories and watching your writing grow over time. Thank you for joining Serial Sunday. I hope your next project brings you even greater joys. You’re a pleasure to have in the community. Have this as a prize.   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Imagine you are out in the wilderness, camping with your family. You need some alone time. So you walk off into the woods. There is something of a path. It may be a game trail. It goes off in a direction you have seldom travelled. Away from the camp, the lake, the anything interesting in the area. A path for someone who truly wants to be alone as they wander off into the woods. It is the middle of the afternoon, on a bright and cheery day, in a secret camp. A place your family has come for years. You don’t know how they first found it. This is the place they have always spent at least one week in the summer going back generations. You walk out. The woods are as bright as the day. Along the way you meet another trail. A wider one. Much easier to follow. Leading you deeper into the woods. There is something strange about this new path. You have moved into the shade of a thick forest now. As you walk along you start to notice that the trees to each side grow unnaturally close together. Then you notice the ruts and it clicks. This was once a road. The trees on each side have closed off light. Preventing any plants from growing where the road itself used to be. Along the way there are indents in the dirt with unnaturally sharp angles. Places where basement walls must have collapsed. Which implies that the buildings were not left behind. Only the foundations were. Then the forest opens up. Trees blot out the sun and no underbrush grows. It is getting a little harder to pick your way through. Fallen trees and branches litter the ground. Still there are flattened paths. You can vaguely guess where roads once passed. As though you are in the middle of a long forgotten town. The easiest path leads you down. Into something of a valley. Or at least a depression. Ahead the forest wall thickens. It looks like a clearing. With the leaves thick to absorb the sun. Unlike the more open space you have been walking through so far. Pushing past a large branch. A rough scratchy bit of pine with long thin needles that brush uncomfortably against your arm. You find yourself in a large open space. The first thing you notice is the church. A big black stone building with a sagging wood roof. Around it the land is covered with dying brown shrubs. You see several toppled tombstones beside what little path there is. Even in the bright sun this place seems dreary and slightly repellant. Still, there is something compulsive about it. Details start to click. You can see the main doors. But, the steeple is on the far side. The opposite of a Christian church. The windows, stained glass, are all intact. Despite the collapse of some buttresses, part of the roof, and the generally rotten state of the wood. The building slants slightly to the side. Its walls bulged and slightly twisted as the structure is slowly failing to support its own weight. Curiosity overwhelms caution. You approach the door. It looks hinged to open inwards. You are about to simply push. When you realize the wood has long rotted away from the hinges. This place does not welcome noise. You carefully lift the door inwards. Leaning it against the stone wall. Sunlight follows you. Intruding in this place. Again, unlike a church, the entrance is fairly small. Stone closes it off from the main room. There are paths to each side. You explore these side rooms. Wrought iron and dust show where benches, shelves, and hooks used to be. Changing rooms perhaps? But, what church requires costumes for the flock? You pull out your phone. Of course there is no reception here. But, it still makes a perfectly useful flashlight. The floor is a mess of dust and pine needles. The walls pale and moldy over peeling paint of some dark color. Each change room leads back to the middle. To the worship room. This place is well yet strangely lit. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass. Windows in geometric patterns that seem unsettling. Odd colors play over every surface. Stone benches in the place of pews. Most everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Even the debris from where part of the roof collapsed. Light streams through that hole like water into a sinking ship. Highlighting a random section of stone along the far wall. As though that one brick in particular was exceptionally important. Instead of a cross. The far wall is dominated by what appears to be an upside down ankh. You make your way to the back. The room beyond the pulpit, on the right hand side, appears to be an office. Inside you find a surprisingly intact desk. Intact in that it is instantly recognizable as such. It has collapsed to one side. The wood is warped and rotten. The walls are covered in shelves. These are in even better shape. Perhaps more amazing are the books. Many of which are not merely recognizable as such. But, are also somewhat legible along the spine. Or they appear to be. Most seem to be titled in a language you do not understand. Many are covered in unfamiliar glyphs. From an alphabet unlike any you have ever seen. There are two books in Latin. And you find one leather bound volume that appears to be Arabic. On the desk is a notebook, perhaps a journal. It is in better shape than the others. You dare to pick it up and glance through a few pages. It is written in some sort of cipher. The letters, numbers, and astrological signs are familiar. The order is not. It begins to fall apart in your hand. As though no hard evidence is willing to leave this place. Or maybe that is needlessly dire and it is just paper exposed to the elements for too long. There is another doorway beyond the office. It leads to a staircase. You head back to the worship room for a moment. Grab a branch from the rubble. Then return. Wielding the branch, your weapon against the thick cobwebs along the stairs. You head up to the steeple. Your phone the only light in this place. The top does not possess a bell. Instead there is a room fifteen feet square. This place is filled with cobwebs. So thick you can hardly see anything before you start to brush them away with your stick. A stone dais in the center. Surrounded by eight wrought iron chairs. Between the chairs the walls have more windows. Once they had shutters. Those now lay on the floor. Behind the chairs are painted slabs of wood. Everything in this room is impossibly intact. The paintings are of some bizarre alien life forms. The stained glass in the windows is still geometric. There is something maddeningly close to meaning in those shapes. A small asymmetric metal box sits open on the dais. Dust and cobwebs hide it. You brush them clear to find what appears to be a snow globe. Inside is a simple representation of a creature you recognize easily. How could you not? It has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember. Everything about the shape is exactly what it must be. In the same way you know exactly what it wants. The only thing it ever wants or ever could have wanted. On the underside of the bauble is a faded yellow price tag. It reads “tree fiddy.


The lights flickered overhead. I was getting dizzy, but I had no choice other than to continue on. Our family needed supplies, and we didn't have much time left. I looked at my husband, hoping to communicate all my love for him in with eye contact. I nodded to him silently, and we separated, hoping to cover more ground between the two of us. My beloved, may your journey be successful. I will see you again, I swear it. Oh, gosh, here they come again. The employees at Savings Mart were quite familiar with them by now. They must have moved here a few years ago, because one week they showed up and started making their weird habits everyone else’s problem. Once a week, this family came in and did the strangest things while shopping for their groceries. The cashiers looked at each other and whispered about how maybe this week they would just shop like normal people. They all knew deep down that this would not be the case. I peered my head around the corner, searching for signs of life. Seeing none, I crept cautiously onward. Ah, yes, the bread. A life-sustaining substance, useful in so many situations. But I must pick the right one. If I pick the wrong one, I may poison my children or prevent them from getting the nutrition they need. Man cannot live on bread alone. I needed something from nature to encourage the fighting strength of my loved ones. Tree nuts were usually a safe choice, but again, I cannot be too hasty in selecting one. The wrong nuts can be fatal, especially to my poor Timothy. Aha, almond butter, at last. I only hoped my husband was having luck, wherever he ended up. Come on, they don’t even use shopping carts. If you are shopping for a week, you probably need a good amount of stuff. Instead of using the carts, these weirdos brought their own bags from home. Ok, so bringing the bags from home is not so bad in itself, but they brought the strangest ones. Sometimes they’d bring in these shiny boxes and load their groceries in slowly and carefully, speaking in some weird language to each other. Other times they brought worn leather bags and stuffed groceries in like they were packing for a long trip. Occasionally they would just use cardboard boxes, and the cashiers would be relieved, thinking maybe they were going to be normal for once, but they were wrong. Those days usually involved throwing items into the box quickly and haphazardly, as if the couple was just grabbing necessities before running from their lives, like preparing for a zombie apocalypse, as one of the nerdier stockers pointed out. I pulled my cloak closer around my shoulders and hurried through the frozen passes. This dangerous path is the only way to get the freshest of the finest foods. Milk from the right cows combined with a secret blend of fruits can be the best motivator. We worked hard this week, my family has earned something special. As I rub my freezing hands together, I spot it at last, the perfect one. I carefully place it with my other findings, and hurry on. How long have I been here? Will I make it home in time? I pray that I do. The stockers never knew what to make of that couple. You’d just be rearranging the products and see something out of the corner of your eye, but by the time you turned your head, it would be gone. It only took a few weeks for the breakroom chatter to come to the consensus that it must be them . It’s not really so hard to put together with all the other weird stuff they do. And if they did come up to you while you were working the shelves, be prepared for an odd conversation. The nerdy stocker said it was like being the side character in a video game. The customer would go on and on about their quest, asking seemingly random questions and then just wander off. My weariness was beginning to take over me, but I must push on farther. An orb of light can conquer my children’s deepest fears of the caves of our home. My memory is getting fuzzy, and I struggle to recall the right sequence. The code makes all the difference. I should have sent my husband on this quest, but I recognized the needs for his skills elsewhere. No, this one I must take on alone. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. I must center myself and reach out to the knowledge and strength buried in me. My eyes shot open as I knew the code, of course I did. It had been inside me all along. Hold on, dearest, I am coming. The weirdest part is when they checked out. They would meet up at the register and act like they had not seen each other in years, barely paying attention to the poor cashier. Today it was Linda who got to deal with them. Linda was only three weeks into this job and trying so very had to do it right. It is hard to ask if a couple if they want to sign up for the in-store credit card when they were staring deeply into each other’s eyes. I gazed at him tenderly. My own darling, returned to me at last. I cupped his cheek in my hand, admiring again the deep green of his eyes and the beautiful texture of his dark hair. I smiled, for I felt again that surge of love and surety that this is the man I was to spend the rest of my life with. I found my prince, and together we had built a wonderful home and a loving family. This man is the greatest partner, the best father, and the most loving adventure companion a woman could hope for. And he was mine . He gave me that little smile and my heart melted. “Dearest, every moment away from you is pained, but the joy of seeing you again makes all of our journeys worthwhile.” The lovely shopkeeper said something, but I didn’t listen, too focused on the sweet words spoken by my husband. Hand in hand, we returned to our family, successful in our quest once again.


It was going to be a fresh start for our family. My parents had been scrimping and saving every penny for the last five years just so they could buy a piece of land in the country. For as far back as I can remember, which is only the fifteen years of my life, we moved every few months from one dingy apartment to the next. It was the only life I knew. So, when my parents took my little sister, Jackie, and I on a road trip one weekend, I had no idea what to expect. “K.K.” my mom said, (K.K. was short for Kevin Keith, my actual name.) “Did you remember to bring your camera along?” Photography was my passion. I had a second-hand Nikon camera that my mom picked up at a yard sale when I was ten. It wasn’t digital like modern cameras; it was an old 35mm camera that you had to load with film. Once my dad showed me how to operate it, I was shooting pictures everywhere I went. That is, until my parents told me that I couldn’t have any more film unless I could pay for it and the developing myself. That deterred me a bit, but I never lost interest. One Christmas, when I was thirteen, my parents surprised me with a brand-new digital camera. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a point-and-shoot, but it meant no more limits on how many pictures I could take. All along the way, I snapped pictures as we drove. I took photos of houses, signs, barns, and I even caught a picture of a man picking his nose while we were stopped at a red light. The further away from the city we travelled, the more beautiful the pictures became. There were horses and cattle in the fields. I saw a crop-dusting plane flying over our car too, but when my dad stopped the car and said, “We’re here!”, that is when things really started getting interesting. We sat parked in front of a beautiful two-story house with a huge yard. A mailbox sat on a post near the gate that read, “THOMPSON” on it. I looked to my parents, and they just smiled gleefully. “So, what do you think?” asked mother. Jackie replied, “It’s so pretty.” Her eyes were as big as golf balls. “What about you, K.K.?” “It’s pretty sweet,” I said nonchalantly as I snapped off more shots of the house. “Kids,” my mother began, “this is our new home!” “But, how?” I asked. “With all of the money we saved up, your father and I were able to buy this property, and ever since then, your father and Uncle Rick have been working very hard to build this house.” My sister and I looked at one another, then ran to our parents and wrapped our arms around them tightly. I never dreamed that we would ever live in a place this nice. We gathered up the bags that we brought with us and hurried to the front door. I was very excited to see what the inside looked like. The interior of the house was even more eye-catching than the outside. The floors were all a red hardwood. My dad said it was hickory. There was a staircase leading from the foyer to the second floor, and past the staircase, was the kitchen. To the right of the foyer was a large living room with a great big window. I had never seen windows this big in the apartments we lived in. It reminded me of a storefront window. The kitchen had cupboards to match the floors and a big, walk-in pantry for all the food and ingredients. To the right of the kitchen, was the dining room with a round table in the center with wooden chairs surrounding it. We raced mom and dad up the stairs next and argued over who got the bedroom at the front of the house. When my parents heard what the argument was about, they quickly settled it by saying that the front bedroom was theirs. I settled for the room with the bigger bed while my sister was happy with the room with the larger closet. My mom said that the rest of our belongings would be arriving the next day, so we would need to get a good sleep and be ready when the movers arrived the next day. My dad ran into town and picked up a pizza for us to eat for dinner, then it was straight to bed. The next morning, I woke to a commotion outside my bedroom door. I sleepily dragged my tired legs across the floor and propped open the door just a crack. There were strange men walking around outside my bedroom. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I closed my door and sat up against it, hoping to keep them from opening it. I heard a tapping on the door and jumped slightly, then my mom’s voice asked me if I was ready for breakfast. I told her that I would be right down. What a relief that was. I quickly threw on some clothes and hurried down the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with a burly man in blue overalls carrying my mom’s bedroom lamps that she loved so much. I could smell the bacon and eggs before I ever entered the room, and it made my tummy growl loudly. It felt like I hadn’t eaten in days. My mom told me that the country air always makes you hungrier than the city air. She even cooked up some extra food for the men that helped move the furniture, which they gratefully accepted. After everything was unloaded, the unpacking began. My mom helped Jackie in her room while I worked on my own room. My dad started with the kitchen and dining room. By dinner that night, everything was put away in its place, and we all sat down to watch a DVD. My sister’s choice was always the same movie, “The Little Mermaid”. I didn’t want to admit it, but I kind of liked it too. Scuttle, the seagull was always my favourite character. Before the film finished, Jackie was already sleeping, so my dad carried her up to bed. My mom asked me to help her tidy up a bit before I headed up to bed too. As I was putting a box of popcorn back into the pantry, I noticed a light coming from behind the wall. I tried to figure out what was on the other side of that wall when my mom called out my name. I shut the pantry door and decided to check it out another time. It was a few days later when my dad ran into town for some supplies and my mom was upstairs bathing Jackie, that I saw my opportunity to investigate. I looked inside the pantry to see if there was a door that opened to another room, but I couldn’t find anything. I then slipped on my shoes and snuck outside and around to the side of the house. I estimated where the pantry was located and looked for an entrance along that wall. All I could see was wood siding and a bunch of junk piled next to an old rowboat that my dad said he was going to fix up one day so we could go fishing. I approached the boat and saw that it was fasten to the wall with bungee cords. I undid one of the bungee cords and pulled the boat away from the house. There behind it, was what appeared to be a door hidden by the lapboard siding. I undid the other cords and pulled the boat back some more for a better look. That was when I heard the distinct sound of my dad’s old 1980s Ford LTD Crown Victoria that he bought at a police auction. About every ten minutes or so, it would backfire. I quickly refastened the bungee cords and hurried back into the house before he pulled in the driveway. My mom came down with Jackie soon after I walked in the door and kicked my shoes off. When my dad entered, my mom greeted him at the door with a kiss. That was when she saw my shoes tossed haphazardly across the floor with chunks of mud left in a mess around them. When she brought it to my attention, my dad gave me a strange look. It was if he knew what I was doing. I apologized and cleaned up the mess, then went up to my room. I tried to read a novel, but my mind kept turning toward the hidden door. I tried to imagine what could be hidden behind it and wondered why my dad was trying to keep it a secret. An hour had passed, and I heard a knock at my bedroom door. “Come in,” I called out. The door opened and my dad walked in, closing the door behind him. “Can I talk to you, Kevin?” he asked. “Sure dad, what’s up?” I responded with hesitation in my voice. “Were you out by the side of the house today?” I figured this was it. He caught me. “Yes dad, I was.” “Were you messing around with that boat, Kevin?” I had to think fast. “Well, kind of. I was checking it out to see what had to be done to it. I figured that you and I could work on it together. Can we do that. Dad?” My dad stared at me silently for what seemed an eternity, then said, “I think that’s a great idea, Kevin, but it may be a while before I have time to start on it. Do you mind waiting?” “Of course not, dad. Whenever you are ready.” He smiled and asked me to stay away from the boat for now because he claimed it could be damaged easily in its current condition. Then he messed up my hair, gave me a playful shove, then left the room. I sighed with relief. It was weeks later before I had another opportunity to go outside by myself. My dad was gone into town again, and my mom was in the garden out back with Jackie. This time, I slipped on my dad’s work boots and walked out to the boat. I quickly undid the cords and laid the boat down on the ground. There was no handle that I could see on the door, so I started pulling around the edges where I thought the door was located. It wouldn’t budge. I leaned up against the wall of the house while I tried to think of another solution, and that is when I heard a click. I stood back, and a section of the wall popped away from the rest of the house. I swung it open slowly and behind the door was a room about six feet by six feet. Along one wall sat a shelf with several DVDs and some magazines. At the back of the room sat a small table and a chair. On top of the chair was a laptop. I grabbed one of the magazines and discovered pictures of young girls around my age on the cover. I skimmed through and saw that the girls inside were all naked. I quickly put the magazine back where I found it and ran back out of the room. I stood there for a minute and pondered what I should do next. I decided to go tell my mom what I had discovered. I ran back to the garden as fast as I could in my dad’s oversized boots, and I called my mom over. I told her that she needed to go see what I found around the side of the house. Jackie tried to follow, but I told Jackie that I needed her help to plant seeds. Five minutes later, my mom walked unsteadily around the corner of the house. She had a look of shock on her face. When I caught her attention, she told me to bring Jackie into the house. A few minutes later, she came in too. We sat in the living room and waited silently, except for Jackie. She was oblivious to what was going on and played joyfully with her dolls by the fireplace. It wasn’t long before we heard that familiar sound like gunshots in the wind. My dad was home. He walked in through the front door carrying several bags of groceries and a brown paper bag that he tried concealing inside his jacket, but both my mom and I saw it poking through. “K.K., take Jackie upstairs, please. Your father and I need to talk,” she stated in a gruff voice. I grabbed Jackie by the arm and told her to come with me. She argued stating that she wanted to play with her dolls. I gathered up her dolls and told her to go. She wanted to bring her dollhouse too, but I told her that she would have to get it later. Once we were upstairs, I heard my mom laying into my dad about the hidden room. I turned on the radio so Jackie couldn’t hear them argue. The yelling began to increase and then I heard a shriek. I told Jackie to stay in her room and I went downstairs to see what happened. I saw my dad racing out the door and I rushed to the living room where I spotted my mom laying unconscious by the fireplace. The hem of her dress was sitting on hot embers and ignited. I grabbed her under the arms and pulled her away from the fireplace. The fire was beginning to spread on the lower part of her dress, so I began to hit it with a pillow that I grabbed off the couch. The pillow soon caught fire as well, so I threw it out of my hand before it burned me. I then rolled my mother’s body over until I was able to smother the fire. That is when I saw the pillow that I threw away ignite the couch. I shook my mom and yelled out her name until she finally woke up. Jackie came down the stairs during the commotion, and I told her to wait by the front door. I helped my mom to the door, and we stood out in the driveway as the flames began to spread throughout the house. When my mom was able to focus, she reached into her pocket, pulled out her cellphone, and called the fire department. By the time the police, fire and ambulance arrived, the house was almost completely engulfed in flames. When the fire was finally out, the Fire Marshall inspected the burnt structure and came across some of the materials that I had discovered in my dad’s hidden room. He brought it to the police officer on scene. The officer took my mom to the side and took her statement. I saw my mom pointing at me and assumed she was talking about my discovery. Before the officer finished talking to my mom, my dad returned. When my mom told the officer who he was, my dad was taken into custody. I watched through the swirling rings of smoke as the police car drove away with my dad in the backseat looking back at me. His face was void of any expression. My mom rejoined Jackie and I and we sat on the back of the ambulance watching the red glow of the embers beneath the skeleton of what was once our dream home. “All that matters, is that we still have each other,” my mother began. “I spoke to your Aunt Barbara, and she said we can stay with her for a while until we get back on our feet.” We climbed into the old Ford after everyone was gone, and we headed back into the city. The house that dad built was never going to be a home after discovering my dad’s dark secret. His life would go up in flames just like his dream home. I managed to grab my camera before we left the house, and as I scrolled through the pictures, I came across my first picture of the house. I stared at it momentarily, then pressed “delete”.


“Are you coming tonight?” Enola questions. I pace back and forth, as an awkward silence emerges. I didn't know how to answer her question. I didn't want to let her down, but my mother did not know about me being bi, let alone dating Enola. “I don’t know if my mom is available with her busy work schedule and everything” I answer. Enola sighs, “Reservations sell out fast. I just want to ensure tonight’s special, if we do go. It is our anniversary after all.” She says disappointed. “I know, I really want to come. I can ask my mom about it again when she gets off work.” I say with a fake smile. Not that she could see it anyways. “Okay just keep me updated, don’t worry if you can’t make it, I understand.” She commented. I instantly feel guilt for the lies I have just created. “How perfect can she be?” I think to myself. Even though I am practically saying no to the thing she desires the most, she still comforts me. “I love you Olivia.” She utters. Simultaneously, she declines the call, not even giving me a chance to say love you back. Hurt by the closing of our phone call, I collapsed on my bed. A million and one thoughts filling my brain. “Really, Olivia?” I groan. She always calls me Liz, so her calling me by my full name is a big red flag. Was she really that mad at me? What should I do? Should I make an excuse that I can’t go?? No, it would break her heart. “Ughhhhhh”, feeling frustrated with how today started I get up. Suddenly I hear a knock on my bedroom door. “Hi honey” my mom says excitedly, “Happy Saturday!” “Happy Saturday” I mutter, wondering why she decided to barge in without confirmation that I was awake. Ignoring my tone of voice, she continues. “I am really excited for some quality time with you!” My mother declares. I remain quiet for a quick minute. I honestly didn't know how to talk to my mom anymore, she hadn't been around for so long, that it didn't feel right to share things with her. Normally, at a time like this I would turn to Enola but of course I can’t this time around. Spontaneously I reveal “I have something to tell you.” Enola’s point of view -------------------------------------- My stomach drops as I decline. I instantly feel bad for cutting her off. But at the same time I’m frustrated with her. Did she forget about our anniversary dinner? Did she not realize how happy I was for this day? This is my first serious relationship, and I wanted this night to be special. I know her mom is busy but I don’t think she is taking this seriously. I began getting lost in a whirlpool of emotions and unbearable thoughts before getting cut back into reality by my mothers agitated voice. “What time did she want you to book us for?” My mom asks. “She didn’t say a time.” I sorrowfully answered. “She needs to get back to you soon, your father took off work for this.” She mumbles. “Give her a break, she’s going through a lot right now.” I pointed out. “Like?” My mom rudely questions. I stumbled over words...what was she really going through? Honestly, I had been cutting her slack for some time now, but why? “Well, for starters she’s trying to talk to her mom. It can be really tough sometimes, since she’s always working.” “I don’t understand how hard it is just to ask her hey can you come tonight? Besides, haven't you been planning this for weeks with her?” My mom questions. “I guess she wants to tell her in person. I mean this is a pretty big deal.” I blush, giving myself added confidence to Liz’s prolonged response. “Sure it is a big deal. But you’ll see, there will be many more wonderful girls for you to date, who can actually commit to things.” She explains. “Mom, please just clear your mind about her. She’s honestly amazing, I don't want this to be a negative experience.” I plead. “Of course I’ll love her.” She comforts. “And if it doesn’t work out at least I won’t have to see Kristopher”. “Thanks for looking on the bright side of things mom!” I say sarcastically. “No problem” she winks, and walks away leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. Not long after, I hear keys rattling outside the door. My brothers must be home from practice early. But instead my father “Kristopher” walks in through the front door. Hearing the door open my mom walks out. “Kristopher, when did I ever say we would be meeting here?!” My mom exclaims, caught completely off guard. “I didn't know I needed a ticket to come to dinner.” He laughs. “You don't need a ticket for dinner, but to enter my house you do!” She shouts. Ignoring their usual bickering, I run to my father. “Hi Dad!” I hollar collapsing him with a huge hug. At first I was mad at my dad for becoming an alcoholic after coming back from the military. He had been away off and on for my whole childhood, so when he came back different it freaked me out. My father took up drinking as his way of coping with PTSD. He left three months after he got back. Saying his reasons were to “fix things”. While he was away we only communicated through hand written letters, I still have all of them in a box below my bed. Over time I began to forgive him. He stumbles back, caught off guard by my big hug, nevertheless, he tightly throws his arms around me, and I feel a level of safety I had been lacking for some time. No “I am so glad that you made it!” I smile. He looks down into my eyes. “Sweet Heart, I am always here for, I know that in the past I've been a selfish man, but I promise I’m here now.” He whispers never ending his strong gaze. My eyes grow teary so I quickly look away, I am not one to cry in front of others. “Kristophor, can we please chat for a minute.” My mother declares, her eyes slightly crossed. I watch as they walk towards the bedroom together. “Kris, I told you to never see the kids without my consent!” “You invited me to dinner... with the kids , you gave me consent right there!” “This is not the restaurant where you would be seeing them though.” “I thought it would be less stressful for Enola to see her dad before, rather than at the same time as the first family get together between the couple’s.” “There you go thinking again. I am this close to cutting you off completely.” “Kayla, you can’t do that, I have full custody as well. You're lucky I dont go crazy on you for having kids all the time.” “Ha, you're the alcoholic, not me.” “I am sober Kayla. I have been attending AA meetings, got a good job, and even made some amendments. I am not that man anymore” “I don’t want to hear it Kris.” “Are you telling me to leave?” “No... I am telling you to make sure this never happens again.” “I don’t want to argue with you Kayla, I will leave if it makes you more comfortable.” “No, Enola needs you here.” *sighs “and to be completely honest I wouldn't mind if you’d stay either, I’ve missed you. I just have had all this pent up aggression since you left and I had to get off my chest... sorry” “No it’s fine I deserve it” Time passes and silence arises. A few minutes later they step out of the room. I try to make it look casual, so it doesn’t look like I was just eavesdropping over them the entire time. Just then my phone buzzes and I get an alarming message from Liz.


Start your story with someone being presented with a dilemma. On that first Tuesday in March, all Lisa could do is lay in bed and sob. She had two terrible blows in 24 hours; the first was her partner was pulling away, yet again, and the other was her visa, that she had sacrificed everything to be with him, was rejected. The former, she could have the patience to deal with, but this time they had never been happier, and to pull away now just gutted her. The latter, she only had days to respond and react to the rejection letter on her visa. What should she do? The dilemma was many fold; was she being forced to return to the States, to have only one choice legally to return to her abusive marriage? Right now, during the pandemic, the only way a person could return was with a marriage certificate in hand, and since she had used her savings to support herself in a foreign country, she had no funds to start over. Should she stay and fight? The only option was an appeal; they had completely messed up the timeline and not followed the new, easier way to swap a visa. For Lisa, it was more frustrating, because so many come to this country illegally, get picked up on a boat, and have benefits and the Covid jab before the rest of the population. She followed the rules, and after spending much of the last 24 years with England as her home, spending thousands on visas, jumping through hoops both on fire and underwater at the same time...her only choice was to stay, with the person she was here for mot wanting her suddenly, or leave, and have all this joy and happiness dashed back to the life she had left behind. It was a dilemma with no right answer...but for today, all she could do was sob in bed. Lately, the love she had for her partner had become its own entity; she saw it as a warm pink chakra light, encasing her in happiness. When her partner pulled away,, suddenly and with no reason, that pink glow was still there; it would be a month or more of Lisa waking up and seeing the pink light, then realizing the hell she was living. How does one feel safe and loved, and have the love pulled away from you? On that day, she cried like no other day. At one point, she got up and wrote her last wishes. Her partner was always the one that was going to deal with her ashes, since much of where she wanted the scattered was here in the UK. They had plans to grow old together. She wrote, as tears rolled down her cheeks, how much she loved him, that she didn’t know if they would be married or not at the time of her demise, but if the choice was to return to someone who daily tried to kill her, it was better to write this sooner than later. She had been planning a wedding, and used the pandemic as a time to make and order things; frugal as she was, she preferred to create beautiful items from nothing. The last gown and his daughters’ bridesmaid dresses were already in a bag, the other gowns had been hanging in his closet for ages now...it’s just that he kept waffling on the commitment. She would draft her last wishes, and put it in this bag. If nothing else, the dilemma made it so maybe she would never see him again, and this may be the last thing she ever leaves for him on his porch, as she has left treasures and home-cooking there for years now. The imminent issue was reacting to the threat of visa denial. The nest day, she had to go back to fight mode. The email, ironically, took seven days to reach her, which meant of the two weeks she had to respond, that was really only one week. She sent the rejection letter to her best friend, who was better at deciphering details like this...Lisa was not, especially in the fragile state of mind she was in. Her bff found the loopholes, and Lisa also contacted Home Office, their Assurance team, and CIH Covid team, as well as immigration solicitors...they all agreed that errors had been created. So, an appeal had to be received by the Home Office in a matter of days...this was complicated further by the pandemic and things like, where to find a computer with a printer near a post office to send the documents registered to prove they had been done in time...not an easy task. Lisa knew that taking a few buses was required, and that there was a city with the only library open in her area, that had printers, and a post office nearby. Lisa typed her heart out, pre-drafted much, and emailed to herself so she could print and post...the documents ended up being 64 pages to satisfy the requirements! She had already gotten an assurance so she could stay longer in the country without getting in trouble. They had messed up her visa and the timeline so badly, she wished she had entered on a boat somewhere; it would have been less stressful! Now, the imminent thing Lisa needed to do was some self-care, once that hoop-jumping was done. She was still in love with her partner, she ached for him, longed for him, and cried more than she ever had before in her life. To heal, she started watching every video, reading every bit of research, on trying to figure out this particular part of the dilemma. She did reach out to her partner, they were in contact, and since he was her best friend, there was a line of communication...just no answers. If she pushed, he pulled further away, and it broke her heart. So, she focused on herself; she meditated, did yoga, but there were also weeks that she couldn’t bother to get off the couch, as her relationship seemed doomed. She studied every mystical and psychological thing she could get her hands on, to manifest her man back. They say, put cheerful, sexy pics on social media, they say, do self-love, so once lockdown eased, she saw her beauty place for much needed TLC; still nothing. She still saw him at work, and would pop by his, but he was guarded, but would always kiss her. A good 45 days in, as was the expert predictions o when to see your man, and after so many times asking to see him, she sensed a shift. One day, she decided to go to church in his village. She wore her best dress; it looked like something you would run across a meadow in. As luck would have it, her man was outside his gardening. She chatted, she flirted....she ended up pulling weeds and dancing with freshly pulled onions and carrots to get his attention, all in her white frilly dress! Not easy to be sexy with a trowel in hand, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. Eventually, she realized she had clothes at his house, and went in and grabbed some grubbies and trainors, and helped weed some more; his mother passed by and looked on with approval. Unlike the other times she popped by, he didn’t dismiss her, and asked her to cook tea. The ate, watched movies and hung out like always. When it got late, he asked if she wanted to go home or not...she did not. So, months pass, and they gradually see each other like usual. There isn’t the pink glow of love, but there is love nonetheless. But, still no commitment, so she mentions nothing about her visa, just happy to have what time she still has with the man she moves. Meantime, she has made plans to return to the States, hopefully just temporary, but she does miss her family, and has much unfinished business there. Flights are booked and cancelled, along with a holiday she had booked with her partner, because of the pandemic. Ultimately, the dilemma has come more clear; she could return to her ex, hoping for the best either short or long term, but ultimately she plans on telling her partner the night before, since there is no point of telling him when lights get cancelled. She had brought up visa issues before and he always pulled away, but the fact he would not support her was why she was in this boat in the first place. She knew he loved her, but all the research she read was that turning herself into a pretzel was why she was not getting anywhere. She would calmly sit him down and say, ‘Look, I love you, and i want to grow old with you, but my return is based on when YOU want me to come back. It’s not like we have to get married right away, but I need to live with you; I can’t afford to support myself and not be legally allowed to work. If you want me, you will ask me to come back. My life is here...with you. It’s up to you’. This was the thought that entered Lisa’s mind that early Tuesday in March; the whole idea that her life was out of her own control, but now she was at least at peace with the decision in this dilemma, as she had to out her faith in something bigger than herself...


In a late summer heat in June. Jackson was going through the rounds in his head how everything happened. How could a joke between three of his friends go so horribly wrong. No-one really knew the kid they bought with them, his gang was what you called 'menace'. Jackson liked to think of himself the leader of this so-called gang so at the chance of every opportunity that arisen he would be the second to say things like"hey," yeah...wait".. "Yeah! that was my idea." Sort of deal and most of the time everyone at Oakland High would get sick of it. Clara was always the one whose attention he would try and get by flexing against his new sports car out, by the parking lot most morning's before school started. Which she always felt was so obnoxious and self conceited but being the polite raised girl she was, she just smiled with him and she was cordial. Not enough that he would get the wrong impression but enough so she could walk into class without being bombarded by him all the way to the school corridor. Clara was popular sure, but she wasn't one to know it. Everyone liked her because well.. she was the only real person there, who chose to show kindness rather than rudeness. Also being with the fact, that her father is now a pastor but she begged when they moved to northern Arizona that she would have a normal life and that she would always believe in Christ till the day she died. She just wanted to be a normal teenage girl and get to know what it felt like since he joined the mission. Ron loved their father-daughter time way too much. Clara needed to be around girls her own age as she didn't have her mum there anymore to guide her through the certain rounds of puberty, that a young woman was supposed to go through. She would cringe at the thought of her father trying to take that role. When she started oak Highland high. Jackson had never seen a woman so beautiful and tried his best to show her, he was all for her. She had blond wavy hair which she always wore in a scrungie. Little to no makeup just enough to bring out her eyelashes,rosy cheeks and round lips. She never wore a skirt because of her father. So the rest was a mystery to the boys here at Oakland. While all the other girls were wearing skirts practically up to their thighs to get attention, wraping their skin coloured tights around them to help keep them up that length. Jackson being the rich guy that he was with dark hair,muscles and a sports car. Would get attention by other girls. Partially, most girls who were looking for a cruise around and for abit of action shall we say. A piece of eye candy for a girl to show-off to another girl type of thing. As Jackson HAD biceps.Yes, even for a young teen he had a strict workout regime. People would joke that he looked like a character from Dragonball Z. What people didn't know was his family life wasn't exactly as perfect as he made it out to be. Working out was his distraction. Of how his parents would tell him he was a failure and what is he going to do with this life. Getting yelled at most times by his father whenever he walked in the front door. So, he would often avoid home after school driving out to the grand canyon most evenings to look at the vastness of the the view thinking isn't there more to life then this!! Knowing in himself that when all his studies where done he was going to get out of this place and start a fresh further down in the south. The rest of the so-called gang he was going to have to leave behind. Their was a group of four of them. Rodney, Jasper, Billy and himself. They would be a bunch of hooligans between themselves. Jackson couldn't understand why he chose these acquaintances but he did, they were funny and eventful to be with,at least. Till school finished. Jackson thought about this while thinking about the kid whose name he always forgot about. Whenever he would hear it. Considering Toby, the name of the kid, would keep trying to join his gang by doing crazy stunts in front of them to show that he had what he takes and they should give him a shot. Jackson just found it hilarious and would call all the boys just to sit and gawk at him. Walking away even if he was left on the floor by the sidewalk bruised up, from trying to jump off a high ledge from part of the school building. It was really sad to watch that he would only walk away if Clara wasn't there. Otherwise he would go over to him and make himself useful by going to the school nurse with him. Usually carrying him over his shoulder to show how strong he was. Not knowing that Clara just cared about Toby like she did most people since her mum died. "Toby, ...one of these days your going to kill yourself." After she would say this. He would promise her, he would be careful next time...we'll, Everytime, considering that he felt like ending his life due to peer pressure of his antics sometimes. Hoping it to be true. Toby had no friends and was so lonely. He didn't feel as though he had a good future ahead of him because his family were from a far part if the way in a trailor park. He hated always going to school with old beaten up clothes that would smell of damp, from his parents always forgetting to air them out. Moth eaten holes through the side of them from lack of care. Toby perserved for the time being. This was his life. The tailor park was his home. Arizona was his state. He just needed a few friends to be goofy with to help life go along just that little bit easier. Until one day it was too late. This was thanks to Jackson and his gang getting him all rared up to do the ultimate stunt imaginable. Just him and them. In the early start of May. Toby... died. The depth to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, it is 6,000 feet deep, which reaches its deepest point. It holds the fifth position on the list of the deepest canyons. Going the course to the bottom of the Grand Canyon might last you up to 12 miles or 16 km, depending on how much trail you choose. Nearly five million people visit the canyon annually, but as we later learned, only about one percent of them hike all the way to the bottom, The chosen route being the South Kaibab trail. Toby took this route un-experienced, without help and no guide. Just him. The gang looked on and watched as he started to go in. None of them thought he would actually try to go all the way to the bottom. But he did and failed. Falling 4,000 feet from where he was. He cracked his skull and his body lay all the way down at the bottom. The only ones who could see him were the Indian tribes in Supai Village which is located at the base of the Grand Canyon within the Havasupai Indian Reservation. His gang members had no idea what had happened to him. Just that they had seen him roll all the way down. Jasper and Billy suggested they bolt. Jackson was still caught in shock and Paul was egging him on to come and continue with the rest of them. All the gang were being driven by fear at this moment. Jackson was dreaded with murder! ........ They would go on for weeks after this searching for Toby.. It took at least a day before the parents even bothered to call the police. Jackson... Turned silent after this. The gang barely saw eachother anymore. And, People were suspicious but not so much so that anyone of the school suspected anything. Which takes us back to Jackson looking out on the vista of the grand canyon Ona late summer evening in June. It had been four weeks since Toby died. They still hadn't managed to find him, his body that had now been buried by the Indians 6,000 below in the Supai Village The only ones that new Never said a word... Just a silent secret among themselves. Like the very old famous saying goes: "It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt." In this case it was... Death.


Xalix was disappointed to find out that Sal was shocked at the results. They had won the election and Xalix was expecting a parting mood, instead, he met a stunned Vice president-elect, who showed no sign of happiness. “Have you not heard the results?” Xalix asked. Sal was certain they were not going to win the election. He had decided to be Xalix’s vice since he was Xalix's only friend. He thought it would be unfriendly for him to reject his friend’s request of being his vice. Xalix was a shy and quiet lad who barely knew anyone apart from Sal. He often spent most of his leisure time at the library, not necessarily to read, but to avoid noise. His roommates saw him as a weird boy and wondered how Sal even managed to be a close friend of Xalix. Xalix had made known to his neighbourhood friend Sal, when they went to high school, his intention of becoming the Students’ Representative Council president. Sal was certain Xalix will change his mind if he found out that it was a battle of popularity. “You do not talk to people to even be known, but you are dreaming of becoming a president,” Sal debated. “Famous? Who said you must be famous to win the election?” Xalix rebated. The longest debate, every day, these two friends tried to convince each other. To Sal, the election was a competition for the well-known, and Xalix stood no chance of winning. “Except you and I, who else are you certain that he or she will vote for you?” Sal questioned Xalix. “Everybody” Xalix replied. Sal laughed and said smiling, “Look Xalix, life is not a cartoon, just like their characters, their stories are also not real. Stop watching them.” Confused, Xalix went to the library that day contemplating if should change his mind. That had been his thought the whole day, and Sal's strong rebates kept echoing in his head. It was in this state of dilemma, Xalix stumbled over a library book and collapsed an entire lane of bookshelves. It would not have been so worse had the shelves fell backwards, but they fell forward emptying the books in them. All eyes were fixed on Xalix until the librarian shouted that the library had closed, then each started packing to leave. “Who’s job?” the librarian questioned Xalix, “You or I? Looking at the librarian's rage, Xalix avoided replying. He slowly bent over to lift up a shelf and arrange the books, but the librarian instructed him to leave. It had become news across campus. All knew the library had been closed for the day because a young man had collapsed an entire lane of bookshelves. Xalix returned to his room expecting to be mocked, but to his relief, nobody actually knew who had brought down the bookshelves. The next day, he revealed to Sal that he had caused the library to close down yesterday, but nobody knew, so he should also keep it a secret. “You are obviously going to be revealed and publically shammed today and you think this is a secret?” Sal asked. “How?” Xalix asked back. “Really! You went to the library and caused a disaster, and you think you will go free? Obviously no.” “Alright, but how will the principal know my name? He does not even know who did that,” Xalix boldly defended himself. “You write your name on the library attendees' book when you go to the library, and obviously, being the last person, the librarian is going to give your name to the principal,” Sal elaborated. “As a presidential aspirant, you should be able to analyze such petty stuff,” Sal added. Sal’s prophecy came to pass, and everyone in the school knew Xalix was the guy who caused the disaster at the library. His name had even been converted into a verb; ‘to xalix', which at Spintex High School, meant, to bring down. Later that day, Xalix made known to Sal how his words had caused all that was happening. “I thought you would encourage me to stand as the Students’ Representative Council president, and even run with me since I knew nobody, but you used your words ‘to xalix’ my hopes,” Xalix told Sal softly and left him, Sal pondered over what Xalix said and quickly ran to Xalix to apologize. “You were right Sal, you did not want me to be defeated,” Xalix replied to Sal’s apology. “I am no more going to run as the Students’ Representative Council president,” Xalix added. Sal kept quiet for a few seconds and replied to his friend saying, “If you say I was right, then pursue the Students’ Representative Council president dream. I said it was a battle of the well-known, and now, you are popular, so go for it.” Sal looked with teary eyes into Xalix’s wet cheeks and hugged him saying, “I will be your vice, if we win, we win together, and if we lose, we lose together.” Sal’s classmates kept telling him that he was wasting his time following someone who barely talked to anyone, and that he either quits or runs as the Students’ Representative Council president if that is what he really wanted. Sal’s classmates kept showing their displeasure with Sal being Xalix’s vice. “Yes, it is undebatable that Xalix is popular in this school, but do you think, that his popularity is for a good reason?” Sal’s classmates kept advising him. These daily comments made Sal pessimistic and hence was shocked at the hearing of the election results. After Sal had explained why he was shocked at the results, Xalix hugged his vice and said, ”Your words made me stumble on the library book that day and changed the course of my life for the better. But, it did not change my behaviour, I was still a quiet boy. But you, being very friendly to all, including people like me, did the talking aspect. So we did not win only for my popularity, but majorly for your friendliness. Like you said when we were in the first year, if we win, we win together, rejoice, Sal, for we have won together.”


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Spooktober is upon us! The terrifying, the unexpected, and the strange are everywhere. Horror is my absolute favorite genre (shoutout to , specifically). There’s so much to play with and there’s always new ways to leave your readers feeling a bit unsettled, or completely terrified, whether with creepy creatures, ghostly apparitions, or with utter ridiculousness. So let’s talk about the horror genre a bit. - Have written any horror stories? Do you enjoy writing within this genre? Why/why not? - What do you think makes a good horror tale? What do *you* need in a scary story to feel properly frightened (i.e. a particular kind of monster, a certain atmosphere, etc.)? - If you haven’t dabbled in the genre, what’s stopping you? I challenge you to try writing at least 1 horror story this month. (Don’t forget to come back and tell us how it went!) - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our ! *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.