"Do you know, Taz? Why is honey sweet?" Asked Vedantha, coming into his hut, drenched and dusted from a long day of Divine Labour: a term coined by the Emporer Shah Jahan to make the labourers believe their work is sacred. "Not just honey! Have you ever wondered yet? Why is honeycomb itself sweet?" "Would you care to enlighten me, my love?" Taziana replied playfully without looking at him as she was busy cutting vegetables at the table. "Because every cell of it is made of love." He said and hugged his young wife from behind. She giggled and wiggled loosely to break out, wishing never to succeed. "Honey bees love what they do, for they believe their cause is sacred. Hence every little act of theirs becomes love. And love is sweet. Every soul, such as us, who is fortunate enough to taste it knows it. Don't they?" He whispered in her ears and kissed her gently on her cheek. "Now tell me, what is it that gathered honey bees into your mind coming straight from work?" She elbowed him lightly on his belly as she headed towards the kitchen. "It is the Mumtaz Mahal we are building." He slid up the window curtain and allowed the gold of the winter evening to grace their hut. The sun was setting red over the magnificent foundation of the piece of architecture that would colour the hearts of the beholders with love and sorrow at the same time in years to come. "What about it?" She put aside her chores and went near him. "Your heart is not at ease for some days now, you may not tell me, but I have felt it." "The Mumtaz Mahal is being built as the Emblem of Love in memory of our late Empress. Our Emporer would leave no stone unturned to ensure that songs of love between him and Mumtaz would be sung and remembered as long as the great monument stands, and believe me, it would stand for an eternity. It is being built at such a scale and fashion that our history has never seen. Never again such a feat will be accomplished in the future. It would enchant its beholders with a sense of might and marvel, but will they marvel with love? Because no love is being poured in the process." He said while swaying his hands slowly through the gold dust from the window, trying to form abstract patterns. "Tell me more." "Every day, the nobles tell us that our work is sacred, but they do not treat us well. Every day someone dies in an accident; many suffer fatal injuries while working, and we are not even allowed to mourn them. If they find someone catching a breath while working, they beat them to unconsciousness. They think they are building the Emblem of Love, but in reality, it is an Emblem of Cruelty. If we do nothing and the construction finishes in the manner it is proceeding, all the efforts and sacrifices of these labourers, all the resources and an opportunity to give the world a true Emblem of Love will go wasted upon an enormous pile of marble. I can not let it happen, Taz. My soul will not let me." "Oh! Ved, your ways of perceiving the world is a wonder to me." She took his hands in her hands. "But it is no good meddling in the matters of the big people. We are small people, Ved. We can't do anything about it." "It's not the riches one possesses that decides who is big or small; It's what one does with the life given to oneself. I believe if god has blessed me with the ability to dream, it's my duty to find the courage to fulfil it." He said, looking deep into her brown eyes as if asking her to stand by him as she always has. She couldn't help but smile at him with utmost gratitude to Allah for blessing him with such a man. "Tell me, how are we to accomplish it?" She asked. * To set his vision afoot, Vedantha must meet The Emporer in person. It was no easy task. Fortunately, he knew the person who could help him with this: Ustad-Ahmad Lahori. Ustad was the chief architect of the Mumtaz Mahal. Vedantha was his only Hindu apprentice. Ustad always favoured Vedantha over his other apprentices for his deep understanding of architecture and labourer management skills. Vedantha's marriage with the Muslim girl Taziana was also one of his favours, for which Vedantha will always be indebted to him. Vedantha knocked on the door of the chamber of Ustad. "It's open." said the voice from inside, followed by a series of dry coughing. Vedantha went inside. Ustad had wrapped himself in a shawl and seemed to be working on something under his study lamp. Slow and steady flickers of the yellow lamp were the only serving light in the room. Even in the afternoon, it felt like midnight of a new moon once he closed the door behind him. "Don't come near me..." "Stand where you are..." "It seems I've caught a viral fever." Ustad managed in between his coughing. Vedantha stood there waiting for Ustad to gather his composer. "I won't be able to continue my duty from tomorrow until I'm on my feet again." Ustad began. "I've decided to divide my responsibilities and my men among Eight of my apprentices until then. The rest of the seven are on their tasks already. For the most daunting task among them, I've chosen you. You're the only one capable of handling it besides me." "What is it, Master?" Asked Vedantha, already knowing the answer. "I've assigned you to the group of 2500 labourers who call themselves Varuna Sena: The army of the god of water. Their work is to fetch water from the Yamuna river to the construction site. A tedious task indeed, but you understand how important it is. Right? Even a small delay in water supply could prove fatal for the construction. Your task is to ensure that doesn't happen." "You've trusted me with this master. I am grateful. Nothing will go amiss in my watch. I assure you." He said and stood there for a while, hesitating to ask for a favour. "What is it, my son?" "I was thinking about asking for a favour, Master." "Oh, laddie, I am in no shape to fulfil any favours right now. But, I can give you one thing, a hint, perhaps. Accomplish this task, and you will never have to ask for favours from anyone." He said with a mysterious grin on his face. Vedantha left the chamber confused and feeling strangely satisfied. He didn't know what to make of those last words of Ustad. 'Maybe Taz can tell.' He thought. * "Do you know, Taz? What is it that keeps the human race alive?" Asked Vedantha, coming into his hut feeling fresh and fortunate. "Ah, I think I should know this one. Gods, maybe?" Said Taziana, coming out from the bath and wiping her hair with a towel. "It is hope, my love. A possibility of seeing the light some distant day that keeps us fighting the dark." He said as he tried to play with her wet hair. "Something interesting has happened today, has it not?" She pushed him away gleefully and walked in front of the mirror to brush her hair. Vedantha gave a detailed account of what happened in the chamber and asked her opinion about the words of Ustad. "I think the fortune is about to favour us in unlikely ways." "In unlikely ways! Strange choice of words. I would say." He walked to stand behind her, took a strand of her long brown hair and tucked it carefully behind her ears. "So, tell me, Ved. How are you to approach the first day of your new endeavour?" She said, looking into his eyes from the mirror. "The gold you received on our wedding day, which we were saving for building our new home, we still have it, right? I think the time has ripened to use it wisely." He said. * As Vedantha rightly presumed, it was hard to keep the labourers motivated throughout the day. A dirt ramp was built between the Yamuna and the construction site to allow the easy conveyance of water. Still, it was a demanding task to carry water uphill. That too under the sun and with an empty belly. Vedantha realised that the excessive hard work and hunger were killing his labourers slowly. 'They may carry on like this for a few more years, but they would not survive to see the fulfilment of the monument.' He thought and decided to take the responsibility of providing afternoon meals for Varuna sena. Taziana had voluntarily chosen herself as the chief chef for the endeavour. As the days passed, the morale and efficiency of the Vauna sena rose. The stories of Vedantha feeding his 2500 labourers by himself every day became the talk of the town in no time. And with it rose the name of Vedantha in the hierarchy of the significant men of Agra. "Our gold is about to deplete, Ved," Taziana said one day during the afternoon meal. "Two more days, and we will have to find another source to fund the daily meals." "I think the gold has played its part, Taz. The labourers under the other apprentices have begun demanding the same treatment as the Varuna sena. The labourers are awakening about their rights. Some of them are even threatening to go on strike. Pressure is building on the nobles. The court of Shah Jahan will be sending for me any day now." Two days went by. Nobody from The Darbar of Shah Jahan came looking for Vedantha. There was no news about Ustad's health as well. From the day he took this new responsibility, he was living a dream from which he would never want to wake. But now, the situation was such that he would love to see Ustad return from his deathbed and take back the reigns from his hands. When they first took up the responsibility, Every apprentice had received an Elephant to command the groups of labourers from above. Vedantha had named his Elephant: Airavatha. He loved riding Airavatha as much as he loved the beast. But he never took Airavatha on the construction site, for he wanted the Varuna sena to feel that he was one of them, not above them. That morning he fed Airavatha well, climbed on him with tears running down his cheeks, and departed for their last ride together. He knew an animal dealer who would offer a fair amount for a well-kept beast. It would cover the cost of daily meals of Varuna sena for a week more. 'Taziana will kill me once she finds out about my sin.' He thought Just then few horse riders came shouting from behind him and encircled Airavatha. One of them came in front of Airavatha and removed his helmet, "Ustad seeks a word with you. Immediately." He shouted. Vedantha entered the dark chamber of Ustad, thinking that Ustad had recovered and was ready to reclaim the charge. But what he saw in front of him, his startled heart refused to believe. The Emporer of the realm himself was waiting for him beside Ustad under the dim yellow flickerings of the old lamp. "So you are the one who has the whole Agra talking about the labourers' rights." Shah Jahan spoke. Until now, all Vedantha needed was a chance to reach the ears of the Emporer. Now when the Emporer was right in front of him, all he could do was shake his head in agreement. "You are the reason my entire court can't sleep at night nowadays. In normal circumstances, you'd have been inside the dungeons by now, counting bars. But Ustad believes that he will not be able to fulfil the dream we both wove together and that you're the only capable person who can help me do it. So tell me, Vedantha, will you take the responsibility of the chief architect of the Mumtaz Mahal from today on? * "Do you know, Taz? Why god gives us hard times?" Asked Vedantha, coming into his hut, trying so hard not to cry out loud with excitement and spoil the surprise. "So that we learn to savour the good times with all our hearts while they last," Taziana said quietly, lying on her bed. The answer left him speechless for a while. It was so beautiful that he almost forgot that he was about to surprise Taziana. "It is beautiful, Taz. What you have just said." "Because it has come straight from my heart. Everything that comes from the heart is beautiful. Only those who have learned the art of doing things with their hearts know this, don't they?" "Of course they do." He said and went near her, trying to keep the excitement alive. But he noticed that Taz was not her usual self today. "Hey, what happened to you? Come on, wake up! I've something to tell you." He tickled her by lightly touching her waist. But she did not spring up on her knees laughing as she would usually do. "I also have something to tell you. But I don't know how to. I do not want to ruin your moment, but it is important." "Taz? Why are you talking like this? What is the matter?" "Your Taz is dying, Ved. She is halfway there already." "What are you saying? Are you crazy? Take back your words, Taz. It is no joking matter." "I wish I were lying. I have been ignoring the chest pain for a month now. Today it was unbearable, and blood started to come out with my coughing. So I went to the healer. She says I've Karka in my lunges. It is uncurable." "No! It can't be true. TELL ME YOU'RE LYING." Vedantha let out a muffled wail, his body trembling with sheer pain. "From the day we met, I've been promising you the life of your dreams. Now when the time has come when we can live our dreams, god is taking you from me." Vedantha put his head in her lap, sobbing. "I am not dying tomorrow, you idiot. We may still have six or seven years of togetherness. And who told you I did not have a good life with you? From the day we met, I've been living the life of my dreams." She said, leaning on his head and they stayed put together for a while without saying anything. "I am the chief architect of the Mumtaz Mahal now, Taz. It will take ten more years to complete. I'll not let you go without seeing it." Vedantha broke the silence wiping his tears. "Until now, I was building it as the Mumtaz Mahal. From today on, I will raise it as The Taz Mahal. I will ensure that it will have the essence of the pure soul that you are. I will try to pour as much love into it as I have for you. It will be the emblem of love as true as our love is for each other." * So the years passed, and the Taz Mahal began blossoming as a thing of wonder. Labourers pour their hearts into it, for they start believing that their work is sacred. They were treated and fed well. On the other hand, Taziana withered with time as the greens do under Autumn. But they both had accepted their fate now. They had decided never to let the sadness creep into their warm hearts ever again. Another significant thing happened during this time. Stories of love between their chief architect and his sickly wife slowly became popular among the labourers who admired Vedantha and then spread into the entire Agra like wildfire into a summer forest. Everything about it was merrily received in Agra. Until one day, an ill-intentioned foul-mouthed adviser twisted the tale and warned Shah Jahan about Vedantha. He made the Emporer believe that Vedantha was circulating the stories on purpose so that when people see The Mumtaz Mahal, they remember his love for Taziana. That enraged the Emporer beyond any measure, but he did not act until the construction concluded. Finally, the dark day arrived, which would be remembered as one of the cruellest days in the history of Hindustan. "It is marvellous, Veda. Its charm touches my heart from the distance as well." Taziana said, who was sitting with Vedantha on the balcony of their new home watching the Taz Mahal. As soon as she said that, she fell on Vedantha's lap groaning in pain, blood coming out of her mouth. Before Vedantha could do something about it, he heard heavy footsteps hurrying along the steps. The construction had concluded. The Emporer had decided to act. The soldiers dragged Vedantha along the floor, who was wailing and begging them to allow him a moment with her dying wife. "LEAVE ME ALONE... MY WIFE... SHE IS DYING..." He cried, trying all his might to escape and ran back to Taziana, who was stretching her arm for him lying on the floor, unable to speak. "AT LEAST GIVE ME A MOMENT... LET ME SEE HER FACE ONE LAST TIME..." He kept on crying. They did not listen. It is known all over Hindustan that enraged Shah Jahan had ordered to hang Vedantha and cut the hands of the entire Varuna sena for being loyal to Vedantha. Some people see it as the Emblem of Love, and some as the Emblem of Cruelty. But those who understand why it is called Taz Mahal and not Mumtaz Mahal know it is the true Emblem of Love. *


“It’s just I don’t know what to do anymore,” I said, pacing around the room, “really I don’t. If it’s not one thing, it’s another--” “You’re inability to make decisions has lead you to this point, and refusing to make a choice will continuously lead you to here.” I heard a wispy voice say from somewhere in my room. I spun around, searching for the voice. “Not with just this decision,” the voice continued, “but all others that will inevitably come in the future.” “Hello? Who’s there?” I asked, looking from the bed to the closet to the dresser. “Who said that?” “I have spoken.” It came from the dresser, near the potted succulent sitting atop. “Who?” I said. “I.” It was definitely near the plant. I opened a drawer and ruffled through my underwear. Nothing. “Who is I?” “I am I.” I opened the next dresser drawer and found nothing there either. “Can’t you stop messing with me and just tell me who’s talking?” I spat, straightening, glaring towards the succulent. “I am speaking.” The succulent’s bright green leaves shook with each word. “I am I.” I took a step back, the wind pushed suddenly from my lungs. “You-- what?” I took a deep breath, exhaled. “You can talk?” “A lot of species can and do,” it said, leaves jingling together. I ran my hand through my hair, glanced around the room, looked back at the plant. “But... How? Why?” “I have always been able to speak, but I have chosen not to until this moment. Why? Why is because you have spent many years speaking about your issues and problems with life and I have absorbed them like the water in my soil. You are about to embark on a new chapter in your life, Gary, and I believe that you will need to hear my advice.” “Oh?” I said, “and what advice can a plant give?” “My advice is the same is what I said before. You are indecisive and continuously find yourself in predicaments that you are not confident or knowledgeable of to understand. You make rash decisions due to this, and nearly a hundred percent of the time, they are the incorrect ones. You are anxious and depressed, more so the former than the latter. You are young but not young enough for it to be an excuse. You will move out from this place and have your own house, and that frightens you but you believe you will be fine because the other people of your race have done it and continue to do it without much issue. But the fear is still there and--” I unclenched my hands and snatched the plant from my dresser. I stomped over to the trash bin and chucked it in. “Throwing me away Gary will not solve the problems that you have, especially the ones of intimacy you have been currently having with Megan--” I wrenched the trash bag from the bin and tied it tight, then threw open the window. The cold wind was sharp on my warm skin. I could still hear the plant through the plastic. “And, you still continue to make rash decis--” That’s all I heard it say before I threw it outside and slammed the window shut. If I had wanted a therapist, I would’ve went and seen one. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


It first started as a whisper in my ear, a devil on my shoulder promising a better future, a guilty pleasure daydream I adopted in the absence of chocolate before bed, and then before I knew it, I woke up one morning and had an inkling of an idea of life without you. No more sandy feet on my dashboard, no more morning breath, no more losing my keys and not helping me find them. I had an idea of a life free of your bad habits, and I slowly started to hate them. I hated the way you left the ice cream spoon on the counter instead of putting it in the sink, I hated the way you always sneezed three times in a row, I hated how I couldn’t get a cat because you were afraid it’d eat your fish, whose tank leaked at the top and smelled of rancid sea stink. I grew to hate all of these things I promised you were not deal breakers at the beginning of our relationship, your hair in my clean laundry, your hair in the shower drain, your hair in my mouth and on my pillow and in my hair brush that I asked you not use a million times. And so, I grew to hate all of you. I grew to hate us, our relationship, the life we had built together, so I wanted to leave you. I tried, but it was Christmas, and then it was your birthday, then Valentine’s day, then your dad died, then Fourth of July. There was never a good time to end it, so my hatred grew into pure resentment, a hot white flash that scarred our life. I could tell you could sense it, your smile grew sadder, you found every excuse to wear the dress I deemed my favorite, you changed your hair, your diet, your taste in music. I know that your efforts should have made me love you more, or forgive the small things that irked me so much that I couldn’t stand the thought of dealing with them for the rest of my life, but it made me want to leave you more. Neither of us deserved the other, and so to ease the guilt I felt for falling out of love with you, I turned to her. She, everything you were not, was my savior the last few months of our relationship. Instead of taking my anger and desperation out on you, I fucked her. Instead of yelling at you while you were grieving your father, your dead fish, the stain on the couch, I brought her on dates and bought her expensive jewelry. I brought her coffee in the morning and held her hand in between sales calls while ignoring your good morning text messages. I kissed her in the rain and came home and left the wet clothes for you to wash. I gave her flowers and came home late the night you cooked my favorite dinner, left cold on the table while I stared blankly and you screamed and threw the couch pillows. “Why are you with me if you hate me so much?” You asked me many times, and always, I told you I didn’t hate you, even though I did. Even though I had moments where I would sit and think about how exactly I would finally leave you and your colorful dresses and your dull brown eyes behind, I would tell you I didn’t hate you. Then, the company dinner. Every year my office brought the employees and their families out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant on Main Street. You, wanting to make a good impression on the coworkers that knew I was cheating on you, wore a long red dress. You did your makeup, you wore your hair down, you had on the earrings I gave you our first Christmas together. You looked beautiful, but that was not enough to stop me from thinking about how annoying it was that you took thirty minutes trying to find shoes that matched, how much I hated having to drive extra careful so that you could finish your mascara in the car, the looks we got as we strolled in five minutes late because you didn’t want to spend the five dollars for valet parking and we had to walk from the parking garage to the restaurant, blocks away. We saw her, the woman who was taking your place, and her date for the night, a husband she wanted to leave, a husband who she said didn’t know her as well as I did, and you suggested we sit next to them. After drinks were served but before our orders were taken, they got into a whispered argument, quiet but obvious, and he stormed out. By the time we had ordered and our food had arrived, she was on my arm. By the time were ordering our dessert, she was whispering in my ear and laughing, and I didn’t care anymore, I breathed on her neck softly and toyed with the hint of my hand being close to hers, and you finally understood the lock on my phone, the late nights, the perfume on my collar. In a moment of weakness, you looked at us and your eyes were screaming. Your wine glass to your thinly stretched lips, your eyes were begging me to stop. I slid my hand up her thigh and you inhaled sharply, conversation around us slowing to whispers and big eyed glances as you stood, clutching your glass. You let out a breath I felt you had been holding for weeks, and you cocked your arm back, and threw the wine glass above our heads. Everyone silent, no hint of silverware clinking, no sound of conversation, only the light jazz playing through the uptop speakers, you excused yourself to the restroom, and by the time the staff had cleaned up your mess, and the surrounding tables had continued their meals no longer entertained by our drama, you returned. You asked if we could take a walk, I told you I’d be out in a minute. Three, five, ten minutes passed, and you came back inside. You asked if we could go home, and I told you to wait just another minute. Playing drinking games with my coworkers, a captivating woman begging for my whole attention, I left you to sit outside by yourself. As the kitchen closed and the bar did last call, my coworkers slowly gathered their families and left. She asked me to spend the night and I called her a taxi, explaining that you were outside expecting me. Pouting, she kissed me in full view of you, and I saw your knees shake as I kissed her back, helping her step into the taxi. The walk to the car was silent, and cold. I offered you my jacket and you refused with a shake of your head, your hair so meticulous hours earlier, now falling in your face, sweaty and disgusting. Your freckles, I once adored, looked like dirt on your ankles and your nose, and you sniffled every few seconds, and I hated you. I felt no remorse or regret, only relief at the thought of no longer having to lie to you. At the light before the street where we would turn to our car, you stopped. My hands in my pockets, I turned to you. “Let’s go, it’s late and I’m tired.” You looked at me, and I could see mascara running down your cheeks, I could see your nose was red and snot was running, I could see your chapped lips, and I hated you. I hated you so much, that when you asked me if I was going to leave you, I smiled, and turned around, and walked away.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: The Second Wind After the rollercoaster our characters have been on for the past couple of weeks, they are finally catching a break with renewed energy for the task ahead of them. It’s been a series of knock downs the past couple of weeks. Are they gonna take that? No. They’re not six feet under yet. (.) Just like the Giant Sequoias, our protagonists need to feel the fire before they can thrive to see a new day. This is where the heat of battle brings out a new strength of resolve in full force. The beat following this one is Victory, and this installment should show how hard-won that victory will be. Do we sense a little bravado in our main characters as they get ? Maybe a little. Maybe the horse is l (what’s their secret? Is it Mane and Tail? I bet it is). But we don’t mind By the end of this installment we as readers should feel that if our hero is goin’ down, it’s not without a fight. , ‘cause we’re ! Our characters still have some gumption in them. They’re tackling their challenges in a new way, doubling down on their commitment, this time This is another opportunity for us to that didn’t seem important at the time, and now could be vital to a resolution. We’ve been knocked down but is that gonna stop us? Nah. Just like Mostly Dead Wesley, . So get those little plot children out there, and **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/31, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Re-Invigoration: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, as he delivers a knife twist to the gut when this mouse noir tale turns personal. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ATIWTK, with a subversion of expectations in a way that is truly refreshing *and* satisfying. And two honorable mentions: /u/Xacktar, for keeping us on our toes with a story that has stepped on the gas and won’t let up with the djinn and unfortunate victims. And /u/lynx_elia, with a story that makes us wonder if this is all a subtle Among Us story, but way better. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Re-invigoration** Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


Author’s note: This story is written from the perspective of an orthodox Jew, so very few concepts are explained within the story. To better understand the story, please refer to the glossary I have included below. "Happy Chanukah," Bubbie told me as she handed me the small gift box. It looked like it could hold jewelry, like a ring or necklace. "Thank you!" The box opened on a hinge. Nestled inside the velvet was a small dreidel. Its four faces were each no bigger than a squared off nickel, and the tapered part beneath seemed worn down. The stick for spinning the dreidel was glossy from all the fingers that had gripped it over the years, and there was a chocolate stain on the light wood. On closer inspection, the letters on the sides had been painted over at some point, but even the newest layer was faded. 'It's not about the presents. It's not about the presents. It's not about the presents.' I repeated in my head. And really, at fifteen, I should have known Chanukah is not about the gifts we give each other, but the miracle(s) that took place for my ancestors. But... Who doesn't like a nice gift from time to time? I looked up at my grandmother's face. She looked back at me with pure joy, like I should be excited about a tiny dreidel. I tried to smile. "Thank you, Bubbie. It's..." old. That was all I could think of. My grandmother laughed. "I bet you think I'm crazy. You're at that age where you consider playing dreidel childish. In the days of the Beit Hamikdash you would have been married by now. You're wondering why I could possibly think you would want an old dreidel." I smiled in relief. It was a joke, then. My Bubbie knew better than to give me this. "This dreidel has a story," she continued. Of course it did. "A Chanukah miracle of its own." She took a deep breath, as if to begin the story, but then stopped and looked around. I looked around too. We were sitting on the overstuffed couch facing the table where the menorahs belonging to my father, my Zaidie, and my three brothers stood. Each menorah proudly bearing the flames for the first night of Chanukah and the shammash. The windows beyond the table showed the dark streets beyond, and one of the houses across the street also had a menorah up. I sniffed the air. The smell of fried oil let me know that my mother and older sister were both in the kitchen making latkes for the Chanukah party we were going to have as soon as the cousins close enough to drive over got here. The men and boys had been watching their candles for a while, but they left that to me and Bubbie and went to help set up the dining room and kitchen for the party. "We should go help your mother," Bubbie said finally. "Chedva is helping her. We would just be in the way," I pointed out. Bubbie nodded. "Okay then. Do you want to hear the story?" So I leaned back on the couch, turned to face my grandmother, and waited for her to begin. *** "Many years ago, there was a little girl named Yehudit. My grandmother. She wished to be an ordinary girl, go to school and jump rope, but she was not. She and her mother, Bubbie Shaina, had come from Russia to escape the communists, but her father had been sent to Siberia by the time the boat left with my grandmother and great-grandmother on board. "You know that when Jews in this situation came to America, they chose one of three options. Either, they threw away tradition and threw themselves into a new life, or they lived in the same pattern all Jews who held on to their faith lived. On Sunday morning they would find a job, and then they would work from Monday to Friday. Then, they would hurry home from work and light the Shabbat candles. At this point, there was another split. Some people went to work on Saturday, despite it being against the laws of Jewish tradition, and some just didn't. Perhaps they claimed they were sick, but sooner or later, they lost their jobs for not coming in to work on Shabbat. "This was the way that Yehudit and her mother lived. Every Shabbat, they lost their jobs. Every Sunday they found a new one for that week. So they were very poor, and Rosh Hashanah was coming. Bubbie Shaina wanted very much to get a few of the simanim, or at least a bit of meat for the meals, but she doubted she would be able to. Although Yehudit and her mother worked very hard, they barely made enough money to get fish for Shabbat, and even that didn't happen every week. "So Bubbie Shaina decided to take in some sewing as well. If she worked in the supermarket during the day and then sewed by candlelight, she could perhaps afford a small piece of meat." Bubbie paused, then thought about what she said. "At least, I think the two of them were working in a shop of some sort then. They probably didn't have big supermarkets yet." "Anyway," she continued "The plan worked, and Bubbie Shaina was able to buy a bit of meat. More than that, she was so successful with the sewing, and had enough people asking her to sew for them, that she was able to quit her job and make her own hours. She wanted to teach Yehudit to sew as well, but she had no spare scraps to practice on. All the fabric she had was given to her for the clothing her customers wanted. "Yehudit was fifteen at the time, like you, so she was old enough to continue the cycle of losing and finding jobs on her own. The difference was that while before they had been working on shops or sewing factories, Yehudit found a small shop that sold wood carvings, and walked in without hesitation. The man behind the counter told her that they would teach her to carve for free, if she agreed to work for them for free for the same amount of time it took to train her. The man even agreed to give her Shabbat off, saying that he was Jewish too, but felt that he was unable to make a living without working on Shabbat. But that didn't mean he didn't feel guilty about it, so he was happy to let her skip Saturdays. "So the man's daughter taught Yehudit to carve simple things, like a spoon, and then more intricate detailing. Eventually, she could carve extremely well, and, as a happy side effect, she had a friend. So Yehudit was very happy, which made her mama very happy, except for one thing. "At that point in time, Bubbie Shaina's sewing business had expanded. She had a small shop where she took customers, and she had hired another Jewish woman to help with the sewing. She had saved enough money to send some to her husband in Siberia, but she didn't know if it would reach him. She decided to take a risk, so she sent a small package just before Pesach, so it might be good enough weather to not get lost. She had no way of knowing if he got it, though. "The next year, Yehudit started selling her own carved wares in her mother's shop, but she kept in touch with her friend. In fact, she carved a very intricate dreidel for her friend as a Chanukah gift, saying that life in America was full of excitement, and you never know quite where you'll land when you stop spinning. Yehudit's friend responded by carving a simple dreidel for Yehudit, saying that sometimes plain and simple is better, but even then, there is an element of uncertainty. The part they found the funniest, was the fact that when spinning, you couldn't tell whose dreidel was whose. "Then Yehudit's friend got married and moved to her husband's town which was not close enough to visit regularly, and the dreidels were all they had of each other. The day after the newly married couple left, Yehudit sat playing with the dreidel. She spun it many times to remember how life could give you a gimel or a shin. You can gain or you can lose, but either way, you have to keep going. You have to try again. “Yehudit spun the dreidel, and I imagine she sighed and decided this would be the last time before she put the dreidel away and went to help her mother. "She watched the dreidel spin. Its carefully painted letters a blur barely visible on the wood. And then it fell. She looked at it, and even though she was not playing against anyone, even though she was not playing to win anything, she cheered because the letter on the top was a gimel, so if she had been playing against someone, she would have won the pile. "And then she heard a knock on the door of the small apartment. She figured it was for her mother, but she had been avoiding helping for long enough. So she went to answer the door, and she was sure glad she did, for it was her papa who stood there. Exhausted, but alive and within reach. "From that day forward, she considered the dreidel a messenger of G-d. It was a memento of both the friend who taught her to carve, and the day her father came home." *** As Bubbie stopped speaking, I suddenly remembered that I was not with my great-great-grandmother as her father arrived in America for the first time, but sitting on the couch, safely wealthy, and able to be an orthodox Jew without too much trouble. I didn't have to worry about getting married yet, or even about getting a job. All I had to deal with was school and disappointing presents. "Wait," I realized, "This is the dreidel that her friend made?” Bubbie nodded. "I know you're a bit old for a dreidel, or a bit young since I believe Chedva likes playing dreidel again, so if you would like, I will take that back and get you that necklace you've had your eye on." I smiled. "I think I'll keep the dreidel. I may not appreciate the dreidel itself, but I really appreciate the story behind it. Besides, Chanukah is not about the presents, it's about how the past gave us the present. Right?" I grinned, satisfied with my pun. Bubbie laughed. "Right. Now let's go see if there's anything we can help with. Your cousins should be here any minute." Glossary: Chanukah: An eight day long minor Jewish festival which celebrates the rededication of the Beit Hamikdash, celebrated mainly by lighting a menorah although many Jews also make latkes and doughnuts, play dreidel, and give each other gifts and/or gelt (either in chocolate form or actual money) Bubbie: Yiddish for Grandma dreidel: 1 a small four sided spinning toy with a Hebrew letter on each side, the letters: Nun, Gimel, Hey, and Shin stand for the sentence Nes Gadol Hayah Sham, which means A great miracle happened there (there being Israel during the time of Chanukah. In Israel, the last letter is pey, which stands for po, meaning here.) 2 a game played with a dreidel and coins (real or chocolate) or nuts. How to play: Each player has a few coins, preferably an equal amount to each of the other players. Players sit in a circle, and start by contributing one coin to the middle pile. Players take turns spinning the dreidel and complete their turn based on the result. Nun - nothing; Gimel - gold, take the whole pile; Hey - half, take half the pile; Shin (or Pey) - shove/put one coin in the middle from your pile. When the pile in the middle is emptied, all players put one coin in the middle and play continues. Beit Hamikdash: The central Temple for Jews which was built and destroyed twice; the second destruction took place in the year 66 CE at the hands of the Romans. Still considered the holiest site, located in Jerusalem, Israel, the only remainder being the Western Wall. Zaidie: Yiddish for Grandpa menorah: Hebrew for lamp, but in this case, a nine branched candelabra or oil cup holder with eight of its branches in a straight line, and one branch or cup offset from the others. On the first night, the offset candle and the one on the far right are lit, on the second night, the offset candle and the two on the far right, and so on. shammash: literally, helper; the offset flame on the menorah, often used to light the other candles latkes: potato pancakes fried in oil Shabbat: from Friday at nightfall to Saturday at full dark, a festival on which a Jew may not do many forms of work Rosh Hashanah: the Jewish new year, also restricted, though less so than Shabbat simanim: symbolic foods over which certain prayers for a good year are said


“It’s spreading across the east coast, hitting DC the hardest. Patients are exhibiting signs of delirium and jaw soreness. On top of losing some verbal control and inhibition.” My lab partner, Eric, was drawn into the hysteria of what they were saying in the press. “I can’t believe it took this long to call in the CDC.” Even with a subtle neurological symptom the spreading of a condition through large population almost always meant something viral. I prepped the slides and microscope. “How many specimens do we have?” “Four, and the boss wants results.” He placed the vials on the counter without gloves. “The subject talked himself to death, if you can believe it. Went into a full syphilitic seizure.” His descriptions were always so grotesque. “Grab some sterilized tweezers and wash your hands please. What’s the head count so far?” “20 million, 800 thousand dead. It spreads through the mouth, that’s about all we know. The Organization thinks it has something to do with the physiology of the mouth.” I counted the seconds while he washed his hands. It was never long enough. “Quite the opposite from what I’ve heard, that it starts in the feet. We need to know what we’re looking for. The environment of the foot and the mouth are completely different.” “The only thing I can think of are the memory pills doled out by that sham health company. They use some kind of deep-sea mussel protein, ‘foot protein 5.’ If they’d test the ingredients, I’m sure they’d find something.” Eric glanced at my chest again, not thinking I would notice. I examined the specimens without assistance and recorded my findings. By the afternoon I had discovered enzymes used to break down food; nitrogenous waste was found on the sample, along with evidence of chitin fibrils, commonly found in insect species. “Are you sure this was taken from tongue tissue?” I asked Eric later. “This appears to be more linked to what you’d find in insects, parasites, and other isopods. A digestive system-“ He brought afternoon tea, “Sarah, I think you’ve watched too many scary movies. Tongues taste, they don’t digest.” The rest of the day was spent reading reports from WHO, trying to understand the condition. Infected patients were often unable to speak clearly, their tongues enflamed and scaly. After losing control of their speech they would become hostile and claim to say things they didn’t mean. No neurological damage was detected and all other motor functions were normal. Social issues were the first symptoms to be documented, when the patients found that they could not control their inner monologs, expressing their worst fears and deepest animosity. One man had to be escorted from a church when he couldn’t help but point out the number of black individuals who were in attendance. The wife of a politician went off her husband’s political policies and admitted to adultery with her fitness instructor. In New York a professor spoke in front of a large Psychology class, and proclaimed his love for large, busty women. “Whatever is happening, with the proteins found in the mouth, and abnormal social behavior, it is something completely new.” Eric was looking at me in that way again. I rubbed my forehead, “I think it’s time to go home for the day. I put what appear to be spores in petri dishes. They’ll observe them tomorrow. I don’t expect them to grow that fast.” Eric nodded and we followed the decontamination procedures. I arrived early the next day and discovered that the petri dishes contained biofilm, the spores were completely unrecognizable. “More inquiry requests?” Eric arrived forty minutes late and noticed the papers stacked on his desk. “I glossed over them. We’ll have more samples later. A few scientists in Wyoming believe they know what it is.” He read through the papers the rest of the morning while I examined the biofilm under the microscope. The bacteria within the slides were strange and foreign. I recorded my findings and signed the logs while Eric seemed to be getting more and more uncomfortable reading the transcripts and reports. He was giving me a headache with his constant shuffling. “Talk to me.” “It just doesn’t make sense.” He rubbed his mouth. “I don’t think we’re looking at tongue samples. This is --I have to make a few phone calls “ He never liked to jump to conclusions, let alone share his deductions with me. He never followed his gut feelings. I was thinking of the word “moron” but the words that came out of my mouth, in an angry, muttering tone, were “rapist.” I stood up in shock. I felt my mouth for any abnormalities or pain. Had I just said that? Everything that had happened since the arrival of the specimens and the information provided by WHO went through my head. Eric’s unsanitary workmanship drove me into a fury. After prodding my tongue with a depressor, he came back in the lab with a look of concern, his eyes were wide. I threw my tea cup at him and wanted to tell him that our lab had been compromised. But instead I shouted “You pig! Why are all men rapists!” I couldn’t focus and panicked, slapping my mouth. He remained silent while I looked into a mirror, examining my mouth for any discoloration. My tongue was sore to the touch. He tried to touch my back in comfort and said, “Sometimes women are asking for it” and stepped back, holding his mouth. His eyes darted around and tried to speak again, “Maybe you should try being with a woman.” He put his hands up as if to prevent a slap and ran from the lab, fumbling for his badge at the door. What did he know that he wasn’t telling me, or was not able to tell me? I ran to the papers on his desk and skimmed through them, my throat becoming sorer, head pounding. In my disgust I saw the phrases “tongues being replaced,” “parasitic lifeform,” and “flesh eating louse.” I quickly reacted, after taking in quick breaths, by putting the mirror to my mouth. That was when I noticed that my jaw was numb. I instinctually lifted my tongue and saw a mass of black fluid. Grabbing a scalpel, I placed it to the underside of my tongue, shaking and sweating as I placed an incision. Black fluid seeped out and filled my mouth with pain and dark blood. I had to stop and spit into the sink. A grotesque string of fluid, pus, and other visceral spilled into the drain. I returned to the mirror and probed the mass under my tongue with a depressor. Within seconds there was foreign movement inside. I gagged, trying to hold my tongue against the roof of my mouth. That was when the tiny legs of the louse appeared, unraveling and shuffling, disturbed by my wooden depressor. My eyes rolled into the back of my head; I could feel the legs bristle with excitement. My heartbeat faded and I passed out. Eric woke me up several minutes later by calling me “bitch” and “useless.” My mouth was numb and my tongue, if it was my tongue, was puffy and sore. When I tried to speak the words that came out were racial slurs. I held my face in dismay, trying to warn Eric of what was happening but judging from his responses of homophobia he was also infected. We gave each other glances of worry and proceeded to write each other notes, desperately trying to express ourselves. These were the events as they transpired. We are going to try to remove the louse that had eaten away and replaced our tongues. If something happens during the procedure please tell my family I love them because I can’t tell them myself.


**These are the accounts journaled by an unknown man who is suspected to be deceased.** **We can not guarantee that the following events written happened or not... but how can we be for sure?** September 21st 2002 I suppose it is as good as a time as any to start a journal, from the direction my life has been going in these past few weeks I'll be dead within the year. In case anybody reads this I guess I should start from the beginning, get all the facts straight. Ever since I was young my life has been off by just a tick, one notch below normal. Something always seems to be just a bit different from another person's life, growing up in the mountains will do that to a boy. When I was younger I was scared of the woods that surround my home but with age that fear subsided, I guess I shouldn't have let that fear fade. When I was about eight years old my life took a turn for the worse. My life was invaded by a source of evil, something I can’t even describe. I guess some would call it a demon or a monster but I just call it my own personal hell. The first time this thing presented itself I was in my safe place. in the snow forming angels in the snow with my body. That is when I felt the wind, that warm wind that felt like an oven had just been opened right beside me, I stopped what I was doing and slowly got up, I was only eight years old and I still felt unsettled. When I was on my feet I looked around, the warmth had escaped past me, for it had only stayed for a moment, like a wave. That is when I felt as though I should go back home, I walked into my front door letting the screen door clap into its resting place. I took off my boots and smacked them onto the ground letting the snow flying. As I entered the house I was greeted immediately with the smell of freshly baked cookies immediately making me forget of the wave of warmth that I had just felt in the Mountains on a snowy December day. As I stepped into the kitchen my mother handed me a plate of cookies and told me to enjoy them in my room. I took the cookies and ran up the stairs to my attic room, the way they had it set up the ladder to the attic was always open so I could climb up. I had specifically asked for that room, it made me feel like a king living above everyone, and most of all I had a window where I could survey the whole front yard; there had been tons of amazing things I had seen, coyotes fighting, eagles carrying prey, and bears digging through our trash. Along with all these things I had seen I took notes of them, and categorized into folders like “weather” or “animal sightings”. By time I was 16 I had a full box of notes and sightings which sat right by that window. As I walked out of the kitchen with my fresh cookies I thought about snow angels again, and how good I was at making them, when I would get up to my room I would look down at the snow angels and take notes of how much better I had gotten at creating them. Once I got up the ladder I set the cookies down and began to remove my winter apparel, that is when I noticed something move in the treeline, I stopped and ran over to grab the notebook to be ready write down what it was. I was expecting it to be one of the foxes from the hole 30 meters into the woods, but that definitely was not the case. I squinted my eyes trying to find it but it seemed to disappear, after a few more moments of searching I gave up and went back to dressing into some comfortable clothes while munching on some cookies thinking about snow angels. That is when it happened, I turned around to grab my pajama shirt, but I saw something in my window and not just outside it was standing right up against the glass looking right at me, standing at what I estimate was at least 2 and a half meters tall with cracking gray skin that looked like tree bark. Its only facial feature were two empty holes that still felt as if they were staring at me. It’s arms were open as if they were inviting me outside, asking me to play, go make snow angels. I jumped back and screamed at my loudest while backed up against the window trying to hide behind a pile of clothes. It all gets hazy from here but from what I can remember the room began to vibrate, not like an earthquake or anything just a subtle vibration that tingled my feet, then came the noise, it was quiet at first but then got louder and higher in pitch. After that there was nothing I guess I had blacked out. I was brought back to consciousness by my mother shaking me asking if I was alright, i could see she was worried and crying, “how long had I been out?” I thought. My mom was hugging me and crying and saying she had called the ambulance and I would have to go to the hospital. When I was boarding the ambulance I noticed something odd, my snow angels, they were gone. I stayed in the hospital for a few hours until they diagnosed me, apparently I had some kind of seizure, but there was no way... those snow angels could never just go away that fast, and the snow wasn’t falling they were just gone replaced with flat white snow. From then on out I was diagnosed an epileptic, which made my life even more of a personal hell. They told me that when I started to feel how I felt before I blacked out to bite my tongue to help me feel better, so I did, every time I saw that... creature I bit my tongue but it was to no avail, it seemed to follow me throughout my years. I would look out my window at night and the flood light would show its shape just watching me, but I only blacked out if it got close, like it was antagonizing me showing me it had power over me. The problem I had growing up was that no one else would ever see it, because it would only show when I was alone, every time I told my mom about it she always told me “You are just seeing things because of the seizures hun, just bite your tongue and then everything will be A-OK.” then she would smile and go back to baking some new pastry. I do miss my mom, she was a great woman, what happened to her... it was just wrong, but poetic at the same time. I will always remember the trickle of blood that ran down her face and landed into the snow of the mountains, she was still shaking in my arms but there was nothing I could do. I reached forward and closed her eyes and whispered “Just bite your tongue ma... just bite your tongue and everything will be A-OK...”. From that moment on I vowed to never get close to someone again, I didn’t want to hurt anyone else, I was a danger to myself and others.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **“Something wasn’t right.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week: Spotlights Wonderful stories this week. You never cease to amaze me with the unique take on the prompts and the many ways of interpretation. I hope to see more feedback going around the thread this week. Thank you, as always, to everyone who took the time to leave a comment for another writer. - - Submitted by u/rare27 - A traveller searches for buried treasure. - - Submitted by u/Thelettre7 - A man contemplates his options as he heads to a new town for work. #Two Weeks Ago: Spotlights You all did a great job all around. Thank you for being so patient! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A poignant tale about the childhood memories and wishes we hang onto. - - Submitted by u/patheticoptimist - A story about an ominous sacrifice as one prepares for his future.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“What do I do now, Tommo?” “Breathe in, Granddad. Then, slowly breathe out - as you release your grip.” “Why’s it shaking?” “Coz, you’re pulling too hard. Just relax a bit. There! Now, breathe in... Good. Now, slowly breathe out; then, let it go.” “Nothing’s ‘appened.” “You’re still gripping it tightly, Granddad.” “It’s me fuckin’ arthritis in me index finger, innit? I can’t straighten it quick enough.” “Look down, Granddad. Can you see what you’re doing wrong?” “I’m extending it too much?” “Correct. And you’re holding on to it with your middle finger. Your thumb should be tucked in, and you should be using both index and middle finger in the shape of the letter V .” “Like Winston Churchill used to do in the war to signify victory?” “Yes, Granddad. An ancient symbolic and iconic gesture of defiance. Subsequently adopted by the British population to animatedly demonstrate a way to express themselves when telling people to F-Off .” “One of the few good things that came out of the war. Churchill was good at stickin’ his fingers up at everyone.” “I know you’re old and melancholic, Granddad, but wasn’t the war over before you were born?” “Less of the old, you cheeky bugger, and yes, I was born after it ended. I grew up in a different world from yours. Didn’t have everything given to us. Didn’t have a television in our home, gas and electricity had to be paid for by putting coins in a meter in your hallway, and telephones were a luxury item with expensive bills. We had to work hard for what we earned.” “So you keep telling me.” “I mean, after the war, Britain was practically bankrupt. A third world country in a new world order. We ‘ad returning servicemen who couldn’t find work after fighting for their country, refugees creating food shortages, septics that stole our women - whisking them away to the land of Uncle Sam, chewing gum, and Coca Cola. Then, there was the Jewish problem.” “You’re not going to say anything bigoted, are you?” “Wot you take me for, Tommo? Everyone has a right to live free of tyranny, slavery, and persecution. Wot I’m talkin’ about is ‘ow the lost children of Zion were relocated to Palestine, cuckooing the natives out of their nests. I mean, it wasn’t their fault. It was the bloody British that created that mess, and they couldn’t just say, There you go . Your new home. Enjoy it . We’ll be keeping an eye on things from afar . No, the idiots in government decided to oversee the displaced Jews, rule them like subjects of an empire long lost, and treat them nearly as bad as the bloody Nazis did.” “What, our British government?” “No, you pillock. My British government. Your British government is too busy impinging on the rights of its people with CCTV, parking fines, tv licenses in the age of the Internet, VAT, low wages, and high taxes. George Orwell saw it all coming.” “Wasn’t he anti-Semitic, Granddad?” “Yeah, but not a lot of people know that. He once wrote that Jehovah was a tribal deity of the worst type .” “Wow! That must have been controversial to his fans.” “Confusing, more like it. He later wrote about being sympathetic to Holocaust Jews trying to get to the land of Israel - which doesn’t make sense. Poor buggers. No-one wanted the Jews. The Arabs hated ‘em. Then, after the Arab revolt - where they attacked the Jewish population, we went and fuckin’ partitioned the place and named one half, the state of Israel. No getting rid of them, then.” “But wasn’t Israel already a country?” “You know, I sometimes forget that for a history teacher, you know absolutely nothing, Tommo.” “Thanks, Granddad. My degree says otherwise.” “I know. I’ve read it. One of the easiest degrees to get.” “Who says?” “The tossers that fail English studies.” “I didn’t fail English. I switched majors.” “Pardonnez-moi, gentlemen. Shall we continue with your archery lesson, Monsieur. ‘ Arrees ?” “It’s Harris with an H.” “Then, excusez-moi, si’l-vous-plait, Monsieur. ‘ Arris . Ma English is not always H friendly.” “French, are we, Claude?” “Pierre, Monsieur. My name is Pierre. It is written on my name tag stuck to my chest - as you can clearly see.” “Not without me binsies on.” “You’re what, Monsieur?” “His glasses, Pierre.” “Oh, I ‘ave not ‘eard zat one before.” “Traditionally, there’s two English languages here, mate. One for the toffs and one for those born within the sound of the bow bells.” “Ah, I see, Monsieur ‘Arris. I know something of this Cockney rhyme and slang. Apples and pears - stairs , oui?” “Yeah, mate. Apples .” “The shortened version, oui! The nuances of your quaint language are a such a challenge to learn. It seems I am not the only one giving lessons, today.” “Perfect job for a Frenchie to have at an archery school, innit?” “Sorry, I don’t get it.” “You never ‘eard of Agincourt?” “Granddad.” “Perfectly innocent question, Tommo.” “If you are referring to zeh famous battle of the year Fourteen ‘undred and fifteen, then oui, it is as historical to us as it is to you, non?” “That’s where Churchill’s two-fingered salute originated, Tommo.” “He wasn’t at Agincourt, Granddad.” “I know that - you underqualified historian. You see, young Henry the Fifth had his longbows made from the yew tree. Lightweight, bendy, and powerful bows that helped blot out the sun when a couple of thousand arrows filled the sky. You know, the Frenchies used to cut the middle finger off of the captured English archers, so they couldn’t pluck the strings of their longbows properly.” “What did they do?” “Well, typical English behaving like the stereotypical English abroad, they’d pick up their chopped middle fingers and point it at their captors shouting, Pluck Yew, Pluck yew ! Heh heh heh.” “Is that a joke, Granddad, or did that really happen?” “If I may, Messieurs. I ‘ave it on the greatest of authority, zat zat is a complete myth.” “Henry the fifth, mate! Taught you frogs how to fight and win. None of that run away shit you do in every war.” “Granddad. You can’t say that.” “Wot, run away?” “You know what I mean.” “Yeah. Sorry, Pierre. My grandson constantly reminds us he’s awake.” “It’s Woke , Granddad.” “That’s wot we used to say about you when you was a baby - after you was done sleeping. It’s awoke, it’s awoke! On account of you looking a bit like Frankenstein with that oddly shaped head of yours and that mole on your neck that looks like the nut of a bolt.” “Woke, Granddad, is a state of awareness. A sensitivity to the bigotry and xenophobia your generation and the ones preceding it, carry like a badge of honour.” “Wot’s xenophobia - when it’s at home?” “It is like being a nationalist, Monsieur ‘Arris. One zat borders on being a racist.” “I’m not a racist! Tell him, Tommo. I’ve got nothin’ against anyone.” “No, you are not a racist, Granddad. But some of the things you say sometimes, come from an era when that was acceptable speech, and now is thought of as bigotry.” “Oui, Monsieur Tommo. My very own parents are close to your grandfather’s age, and they too speak like him.” “Wot, fuckin’ Cockney?” “Non, Monsieur. ‘Ow you say it... Ah, oui. I think it is referred to as, Jingoistic ! Born from extreme patriotism.” “Fuck me, Tommo. He knows bigger words than you, and you’re from ‘ere wif a failed English degree.” “History, Granddad. And I passed!” “Listen, mate.” “Pierre.” “Pierre. I don’t give a flying fig about nationalism or flag waving. This country went to shit long ago, the minute it opened its borders to people like you.” “What are people like me ?” “...Foreign!” “But you are also foreign, n’est-ce pas? Was this land not the realm of the Anglo-Saxons?” “Yeah, English, mate.” “But the Anglo-Saxons were a collection of people from places like Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia. You know, the Vikings? So, Monsieur, you are just as foreign to zis land as this Frog that stands before you.” “He’s got a point, Granddad.” “...We finishin’ this archery lesson or wot?” “Oui, Monsieur. We can finish this demonstration just like the way in which your King Henry murdered French prisoners at Agincourt... Immediately!” “ O, ‘tis a gallant king .” “What is that, Monsieur ‘Arris? More witticism from the child of a failed empire?” “Shakespeare, Pierre. Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter: besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the king’s tent; wherefore king, most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ‘tis a gallant king! ” “Bravo, Monsieur ‘Arris. I would not have taken you for a fan of the Bard.” “Yeah, Granddad. Surprised me, too.” “Retirement, Tommo. Lots of time for learning something new. The Internet has provided many a snippet of information to be used when needed. I’m getting culturefied , Tommo.” “Is culturefied a word, Granddad?” “It will be when the Urban Dictionary accepts my entry to it.” “You’re full of surprises.” “Learning is not just for kids, Tommo. Remember that when you return to that school for the not-so-gifted you teach at.” “It’s a remedial school.” “Call it what you will, Tommo. In my day, it was called being held back. But these days you can’t do that for fear of stunting the child’s growth.” “Kids are sensitive.” “Kids are kids, Tommo. What’s wrong with a kick up the backside every now and then?” “It’s not an acceptable practice in today’s society.” “ Nambi-Pambi is what today’s society is. Everyone’s too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. In my day..” “..I know. In your day kids were seen but not heard.” “Precisely. Oh, what’s that Junior? You got a C in English? Toughen up ya little..” “It was only a few years ago zat my country also banned corporal punishment in schools. So, England is not the only place accommodating modern societal growth.” “Growth? More like a step to the left, Pierre. Blame them and that wanker, Karl Marx, mate. Bunch of bloody spineless hypocrites, the lot of ‘em.” “How did we get onto this subject, Granddad?” “Dunno. I just felt like griping about something. It comes with age.” “Why don’t you raise your bow and point the arrow at that annoying bullseye down range. Pretend it’s the eye of Karl Marx.” “Don’t get me started on him, Tommo.” “Zat is good, Monsieur ‘Arris. Now breathe. Then, like your grandson instructed, breathe out slightly and let go of the string. Voila! You are a natural! Dead centre of the target.” “Nice one, Granddad.” “Like most things in life, Tommo. I just needed a little motivation. You know, this ain’t a bad pastime. I’ve never shot arrows before.” “Not even in the war, Granddad?” “Less cheek from you, please. In my day, it was catapults and pea shooters and tin cans as targets.” “You ‘ave one arrow remaining, Monsieur ‘Arris.” “Call me, Reggie, Pierre. It sounds younger.” “Okay, Monsieur Reggie. Load your arrow, pull back on the string with your index and middle finger.” “Yes yes. I’ve got it.” “Breathe, relax, and fire. Excellent! Bull’s eye again!” “It’s in the lineage, Pierre. That’s how we won Agincourt.” “Oui, you may ‘ave won the battle, but we ended up winning the war.” “It took you a hundred years.” “It was worth the wait.” “Yeah, but who came back to help you fight the Germans - twice?” “Touché, Reggie. Old combatants became new allies forever.” “Bloody hell, Granddad! There’s not many people that match you for world history and social commentary, but you’ve got to admit that Pierre is pretty good.” “For a Frenchie, oui?” “Yeah, well... You’re not all bad. Got some good footballers.” “Oui, zat is a fact. Who is your favourite player?” “Zidane.” “Ah, Zizou! A legend, oui. But why him?” “For the way he headbutted that Italian prick, Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup. He only headbutted him in the chest, but Materazzi went down like he’d been shot. You see, the real violence wasn’t the headbutt. It was the unheard words Materazzi said about Zidane’s sister.” “What’d he say, Granddad?” “Well, Materazzi was marking Zidane so tightly and holding on to him, that Zidane sarcastically offered him his shirt. Materazzi - being the prick he is - answered by telling Zidane that he would prefer his sister, so Zidane turned to face him and launched his version of a Glasgow kiss toward the Italian. Problem was that Zidane started too far away and ended up hitting Materazzi in the chest. You’d think he’d been hit by a train - the way he fell, clasping his face instead of his chest, like he’d been slapped by a wet fish. He succeeded in fooling the ref, and got Zidane red-carded and sent off.” “Oui. That was a sad moment for French football. It ended his career.” “I’ve had harder kisses on the lips from my missus.” “Thanks for that indelible image you just planted in my brain, Granddad.” “You’re not always young in this life, Tommo. But that don’t mean youth leaves you when you get older.” “Alors, Messieurs Reggie and Tommo! I’m afraid we are past our closing time. Please accept this voucher for a free future visit. I look forward to more stimulating conversations with you.” “Very kind of you, Pierre. Listen, do you fancy a pint with me and Tommo on your way home?” “I don’t see why not. Merci, Reggie.” “There’s a pub nearby that still has a dartboard. I’ll teach you how to play the Agincourt darts game.” “What’s that, Granddad?” “It’s a bit like 301, but you launch all three darts together and subtract your total score. First one to zero wins.” “What happens if any of your darts end up on the floor?” “Then, you play on with whatever darts that don’t - until, you get to zero or you run out of arrows. That’s called surrender . A French invention.” “That is fascinating, Monsieur Reggie. I didn’t realise that arrogance was an English invention. But tell me. What ‘appens if you go past zero?” “That’s called a Henry Five .” “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” “It’s considered a slaughter of all the points you have captured and game over.” “Ah, I see. But you forget that war is not won on one battle alone.” “Don’t worry, Pierre. I’ll give you another chance to lose. Just like the Germans did.” “Granddad...!”


It was a really cold night, the sky was clear with no clouds in sight, but also no stars to be seen. I checked the time which led me to collapse in frustration on my bed. I couldn’t sleep and it was nearly 3:00 in the morning. I tried to think of boring things like math to help me sleep but I couldn’t help it, waiting kept me up until now and I thought to myself all of it would have been for nothing if I slept through the moment my phone received the message... it was from her after all. Checking the time again and realizing I might as well be productive waiting for the stupid reply rather than just wallowing on my bed so I stood up, turned on the desk lamp beside my bed then walked lazily towards the light switch of my room. Just as I was about to reach the switch, my phone rang and I suddenly felt a jolt of excitement within me, I was awake before but at that exact moment, the monotonous tune of my phone seemed to give me more energy than any cup of coffee could give me. Hastily I jump to my bed and immediately open my phone if it was the message I have been waiting since 4:00 in the afternoon for. My eyes scrolled through the countless other messages and notifications on my screen and then it hit me, feeling like my heart skipped a beat, I saw the message I have so anxiously been waiting for. My eyes were glued to the screen carefully reading the words on the message head, as I reached the end, it felt like my heart was going to burst... from anxiousness that is. The message shown was cut because it was longer than 15 words. At that point I didn’t know what to expect really, the only way of knowing whether or not I should be jumping from joy or moping in the corner in so early in the morning was through a simple tap of my thumb. The message head read “Hi! I’m so sorry for the late reply, I’ve been giving it some thought and...” and before I decided to open and read the entirety of the message, I thought about everything that happened the past events that happened today and whether or not they would remain as happy and warm memories or just moments of me merely being young and dumb. Early Morning the Previous Day It was 7:00 in the morning and my phone rang my alarm tune which was the most monotonous sound I have ever heard in my life. Nevertheless, I woke up because the tune seemed so routine and normal to me. This was because it was a company phone given out to all the interns for their first week waiting approval of whether or not they would get the job or not. We were required to answer all the calls made to the phone during working hours and so as not to disturb the other workers in the firm, the phone were programmed to only play one dull tune for every alarm or notification. It was the last day of my internship and we were required to be at the office by 9:00 for the announcement of those who made the cut. I quickly made my way to the kitchen, poured a bowl of cereal and milk, took a spoon from the counter drawer and sat down on the couch located in the living room just adjacent from the small dining area. I turned on the television then changed the channel to the news, there was nothing exciting enough to keep watching so I turned the TV off and quickly finished my breakfast, rushed to the bathroom to do the rest of my morning routine there. After everything was finished and I was neatly dressed in business casual attire, I went out of the room then walked down the hallway. The apartment building I was staying in had five floors, and my room was located on the fifth floor, ever since two weeks ago the elevator broke down and I had to walk down the stairs no matter how bad of an inconvenience it was. So I got down, to the lobby, opened the spinning doors and stepped outside to wait for a taxi. After 5 or so minutes of waiting, a yellow spotted car finally stopped by and gave me a ride. “Where to?” the driver said and replying with an uneasy voice I say “Just a few blocks pass the train station please”, it was after all the day I get to know if I landed the job, saying I was nervous would be an understatement. The next events would seem like a very cruel twist of fate, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way because they all led up to me meeting her. Anyway, after 12 minutes since my car ride started, the engine broke down abruptly and immediately cars behind us started sounding loud horns to get us moving. The driver tried turning on the ignition again and again, but the car just won’t start. This was when I got really jumpy and asked the driver if he has the situation under control “I’m doing my best kid” was what he replied with although clearly he wasn’t. In a bold and desperate action I took 5 dollars, dropped it onto the cushioned seat, opened the door and just walked my way through the ongoing traffic. As I finally reach the pavement I kid you not my phone starts ringing and as I checked to see, it was a call from the firm I was currently and intern in. I answered the call politely saying “Hello? This is Ryan, how may I help you?” the person who answered was the secretary and her reply was about the most frustrating thing I experienced that day, the taxi cab breaking down was nowhere near what I felt about what she said next. “Hi Ryan, we’re so sorry to inform you but unfortunately due to budget cuts in our firm, we can’t hire any new employees as of now, we hope you understand. If it’s any consolation, we are allowing you to keep the company phone as a reimbursement for all you spent in the internship training. Thank you and have a good day!” There were many reasons for me to feel frustrated and angry at the call because for one, I spent 6 days in that firm being an unpaid assistant doing errands for the workers who didn’t even bother to look at me in the eye when they were ordering me to do their dirty work. Another reason was that I had already spent about 200 dollars buying them coffees and snacks all of which remains unpaid because they told me they’d repay me when I finally join them when I land the job. The useless company phone was so old and obsolete that I wager it isn’t even worth more than 30 dollars. This was the moment that I wanted to scream and shout to the heavens to let out all of my steam, but that moment, I knew doing such a thing would be awkward and a little bit stupid considering I was in the middle of the walkway people walking by me not even having a care in the world for what I was doing standing still in the middle of the path. After this, I clenched my fists then resolved to just calm myself through a cup of coffee and maybe a jelly topped bagel at the pastry shop across the street. I waited by the street light post for the light to turn green so that I could walk safely towards the pastry shop. Feeling gloomy and irritated, I start to look around to pass the time and this was the moment I saw her. She had beautiful fiery hair that ran to her shoulders and freckles around her cute little nose, she was so pretty. And the most awkward thing about this incident was that she was standing next to me, in quilted jacket looking at her phone with the most magnificent smile I had ever seen right on her pale face. This immediately took my mind of off what had just happened to me and my internship. I admired her for some time and it was so long I think she noticed because I saw her flinch a little. Immediately I looked the other direction to poorly cover up the fact that I was looking at her for about a minute. After some time I looked ahead to see if the lights went green and they hadn’t, that time when the lights were still red were the longest minutes of my life because even though I admired and practically already had a crush on the girl standing next to me, I wanted to get away from the awkwardness, for me at least, and uneasiness because I don’t do well with girls, especially pretty ones, keeping what I just said in mind, the next thing to happen nearly gave me a heart attack. Still looking at the lights, she suddenly raised her head, also looked forward to check the lights and said the following words without looking at me “If you’re gonna stare at me all day at least do it after you buy me a cup of joe and maybe a bite over there at that pastry shop”. It took me sometime to realize what had just happened, I didn’t even think of the big coincidence that we both had our eyes set upon the small family owned pastry shop down the road. I panicked a little bit inside and slowly turned my eyes, without moving my head so it doesn’t seem obvious, to the left then to the right to check if anyone else was there to see if she was actually talking to me. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” I looked at her in with wide panicked stricken eyes, a sweaty nose and softly asked “A-a-are y-y-you t-talking t-to me?” I swear it was the most embarrassing moment of my life, so far that is, and after some silence she chuckled softly “Dummy, do you see anyone else here with us? Much less anyone who’s staring at me in what could be the most obvious way to look at someone?” I didn’t know what to say so I simply smiled in the worst way possible, it was a half-smile with the right side of my mouth curled up, and the left side only opening a small bit. She laughed in what I can only say is the sweetest laugh imaginable and finally looked at me in the eyes “The light’s green prince charming, now are you gonna buy me a drink or not?” silence followed, my palms became sweaty and in what seemed like a surge of courage inside me I managed to say “Sure” in a voice that wasn’t sheepish at all. She smiled once more the nodded her head left to signal me that we should probably walk now, because we might end up waiting at another red light. After that conundrum, I thought to myself, what is the worst that could happen? I swear, that time, crossing the road was like walking on the tiniest tight rope if it was attached between the tips of two large mountains. My heart was pumping so fast that it probably could have won a tap dancing competition. In short, I was really nervous because one wrong move in that pastry shop and I could end all of my chances with the beautiful girl next to me, if there was any chance to begin with. Speaking of which, I tried ever so slightly to look at her in a non-creepy way to see how she was reacting to everything. Strange enough she was clam and composed, like she had done this thousands of times before. Maybe she just has really good people skills, maybe she just scams people into buying her free stuff because she’s pretty, maybe she’s secretly an assassin that was sent to kill me and the pastry shop was the perfect crime scene. All these ideas were bursting in my head and at that points I didn’t actually know what to do. I was so distraught with everything and my mind felt like it was elsewhere. Suddenly, I bumped hard against the glass pane of the pastry shop and it didn’t occur to me that we finally crossed the road and got to the shop, well I got to the shop at least. She was laughing behind me in the same intoxicating laugh as before. As reality got back to me, my face blushed bright red with embarrassment as I finally grasped the situation. I looked back and she was still laughing, so much so that it seemed like she was about to cry. I quickly looked down and shrugged my shoulders up then slowly entered the shop. As I went in, my face blushed even more as I look around and everybody was just staring at me, they saw what had just happened. I walked to the counter and she finally stopped laughing and went in the shop. I ordered an ice mocha latte and a bagel with jam on top, she put her hands on my shoulders and told me she wanted a Macha infused Cappuccino and a large blueberry muffin. I ordered that too and we sat down on the nearest table. I haven’t actually hung out with a girl before, I was the type of person to just sit in my room curled up on my couch eating ice cream watching cartoons for God knows how long every day, this was a totally new experience for me. “So... what’s your name?” she suddenly asked “G-graves, Ryan Graves” I replied quickly and softly only later finding out that I messed up saying my name right “Oh, so we’re introducing ourselves James Bond style eh? Well I’m...” then suddenly the waitress placed our orders on the table and she gave a quick smirk before meeting me with a big smile. “Well I guess that’s a topic for another time, anyway thank you so much!” She said “Normally, people don’t respond to me asking them to buy me a drink on the account that I caught them staring at me. So far you’ve been the only one to humor me with my request”. Thinking of a reply I took a bite of off my bagel then mumbled a few sounds making as if I was replying she asked “I’m sorry what?” while chuckling. I took this as a chance to chew my food slowly and thought of a reply. Finally swallowing the bite of bagel I answered “Well, I guess I’m just a nice person”. She smiled once more before proceeding to take a big bite of her muffin. After that moment, awkwardness seemed to kick in and at that moment I knew it was so strong that even she felt awkward. In a desperate attempt at ending the awkward silence I ironically said “I’m sorry. But I’m not really good with conversation... and social convention... and pretty much everything that has to do with other people” before proceeding to take a sip of my latte “I know, the moment I noticed you staring at me, I knew you’d be an awkward one” she said. This line almost lead me to spit out my coffee on my freshly laundered clothes. “Woah, cool down dude, it wasn’t in anyway an insult”. Thinking of a reply again I once more took a bite of my bagel, but this time she spoke up, “So why are you dressed like that? I mean it’s not like local pastry shops have a dress code or something...” with a sigh I told her “I was working as an unpaid intern at James and Barnes’ law firm five blocks down town just past the train station” “And what happened?” she said with a concerned look on her face somehow noticing I was distressed when I answered her question. “Well, actually, before we sort of “met” by the street light post, the taxi I was riding broke down and then I received a message from the firm secretary telling me they weren’t accepting new employees anymore”. With a sort of sadness on her face which I couldn’t distinguish neither true nor fake she replied “Oh my God! I’m so sorry”. I gave a small nod then looked down to my food before finally finishing my bagel. “Well, it’s probably about time I get going, thanks for the snack hot shot!” as she proceeded to do a small salute goodbye over her right eyebrow. I don’t know how I managed to do the following things I was about to do but I did and I’m proud of myself for doing them. Before she reached the door handle of the shop, I grabbed her wrist, she looked at me confused not knowing what was happening and then I asked her “Can I have your number?” It took some time for her to process what had just happened and she once again smiled, this time was the prettiest one though. She red hair glimmered in from the light shone through the glass panel of the store front. The light also shone on her face, exposing her cute little freckles on her nose and cheeks which looked like scattered stars in the night sky. It was also just this moment when I noticed she had heterochromia. In the magnificent lighting, her left eye was deep blue and her right eye was a brilliant emerald green. I couldn’t believe at what I was looking at, she was more than just pretty, she was gorgeous. She then took my hand, which was holding her wrist, took out the ball pen neatly hooked on my breast pocket then wrote something down on my arm all while saying “Never thought you’d ask”. After all of this she did the same small salute then finally walked out the door. Unsurprisingly I was looking at her up until the moment she walked out of sight outside. I then looked over to my arm and felt so much joy inside me I felt like I could shout inside the pastry shop with all the people inside. And I did, for a while, everybody looked at me wondering what on earth could possibly be the reason for me screaming, well she did write her number and I was so happy that it made me appreciate the fact that the company left the cell phone to me as a sorry gift for wasting my time. It didn’t matter though, what mattered was that I had her number and I had a phone to contact her. I coughed after shouting and quickly finished my food, tipped the waiter a full 5 dollars then walked happily to my apartment, even though it was 12 blocks away. . It was about noon when I got home to my apartment, given the time I spent walking from the pastry shop. Once I finally got to my room, strangely not tired I decided to lie on the couch and watch some TV, exactly what I would do on a regular day after work. I stood up, changed to my home clothes and ordered Pizza, which thankfully arrived 3 minutes late making the whole box free. I thought to myself, “This day couldn’t possibly get any better”. After eating Pizza in front of the TV for about three hours. I decided that I would take a nap. Then suddenly remembered everything that happened with her earlier. I smiled then remembered she gave me her number. Quickly, I look to my right arm to see if it was still there, because stupidly I forgot to save it. Unfortunately it was smudged, but I did my best to recognize the digits whilst creating a contact on my phone, of which there were only two contacts, the frim desk landline and her. I thought of something to text her but nothing would just come to my head. And there I spent hours pondering on what to message her when I finally resolved that I should tell her this “Hello, I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name earlier. This is Ryan Graves from the pastry shop. I was wondering if you’d like to meet up tomorrow at the same pastry shop maybe around the same time? I really like hanging out with you and maybe we could be friends?” I sent the message at about 4:00 pm then decided that I had nothing better to do at that time so I went to my bedroom then waited for the reply. A few hours have passed and still no reply, different ideas once again surged through my mind, what if I noted down the wrong number? What if she thinks I’m a creep? What if she was an assassin and is just patiently waiting to take me out with a sniper rifle? These ideas sort of lowered my hopes of me ever getting a chance with her, or at least being friends with her, but I hadn’t given up yet. I was determined to wait until the message arrives. Finally, after hours upon hours of waiting, I finally got the message and the number wasn’t wrong, it really was from her. It was about 3:00 in the morning and the stupid phone wouldn’t show the full length of messages, only until 15 words so all I got to see were these words on the message head; “Hi! I’m so sorry for the late reply, I’ve been giving it some thought and...” I stopped for a bit and hesitated to even open the message because I was afraid that she rejected me and thought that I was weird. I thought that she might have just given me her number to get away from me as soon as possible and that all of it was just a con to get free food. I finally got the courage to open the message and I was shocked at was I read. “Hi! I’m so sorry for the late reply, I’ve been giving it some thought and sure why not? You seemed like a great and fun person to hang out with. My only condition though is that you buy me food again. Hahaha Jk, but if you want to then be my guest. Besides you’re cute.Well... see you there ;) P.S The name is Smith, Jacquelyn Smith, but you can call me Jackie for short” I looked up from my screen, smiled then finally went and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. After all I have a big day tomorrow.