The power was out. I groaned and slammed my phone into the couch I had been lounging on. It was summer and everyone blasting their ACs probably caused a power outage. I got up from the purple velvet couch and walked out of the living room. “Dad! Can you call the power company!” I yelled into what seemed like an empty house. My words echoed off the walls. The eerie silence sent a tingle through my back. “I’m doing it right now! Go check the electrical box first.” My dad replied. Also yelling. My dad had always said a man had to learn to take proper care of the house. You know. Manly stuff. I never had an interest in building things or sports. My dad always thought of it as a weakness. I just saw it as an unfair stereotype. I like video games and art. I don’t want to nail things together in the garage. Nonetheless, I was taught. I grabbed a flashlight from the drawer in the kitchen. It was still light out but the basement and electrical room were pitch black. I walked down the wooden stairs into the basement. It was a nice basement. It was furnished and well decorated. But something felt off. I could explain it. I told myself I was being crazy. I probably was. I went about my business and went into the electrical room. I turned on my flashlight with a little click. I shined my light on the gray wooden box in the corner. I gasped. The buttons had been scrapped out. I ran my fingers along the cut metal. What is this? And out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadowy figure. I screamed and turned around to shine my light at it with one quick swoop. My dad stood there laughing. I frowned. I'm surrounded by idiots. I thought. “Can you not?! It’s not funny.” I said in an agitated tone. “Lighten up.” He said patting my back. Well more like slamming all the air out of my lungs. He examined the board and frowned. “Isn’t it weird the buttons are missing like someone clawed it out?!” I practically screamed. “What do you mean? Quit joking around it is just a short circuit.” He said in his usual disappointed tone. That's when I looked over and it was as if the buttons were never gone. He was right, it was just a short circuit. I scratched my head in confusion. Am I losing my mind? “I thought I taught you better than that. Oh well. I don’t have the parts to fix it today. I will have to go tomorrow, your sister has the car.” I sighed. I was not looking forward to staying at home with this group of nut jobs. And especially now that our air conditioning didn’t work. “Hey you know what. Let’s go get your mom and have a camping night!” He said in an enthusiastic tone. I nodded. That was at least better than staying inside tonight. I sprinted up the stairs toward my moms room. When I knocked on the door she didn’t answer. I almost thought she wasn’t there. But when I knocked again she answered in her meek voice. “Come in!” She said. When I came in she was sifting through her closet with clothes all over the floor. This was unusual for her. She was always a neat freak. “What are you doing?” I asked She turned around and smiled at me. The smile calmed me. It sent happy waves down my spine. “Oh just looking for my flashlight honey.” She said in her usual voice. “Okay, dad says to tell you he was thinking about having a camping night in the backyard!” “Oh! That sounds great! I’ll make us lunches and start packing.” “Okay mom. I will go help dad get the camping stuff.” Once we were all packed and ready to go we set our stuff out in our backyard. We actually had a nice set up. We had our firepit tents and picnic table. It was starting to get dark out so we sprayed ourselves with bug spray and started to cover up. Mom and dad went in their tent to grab some food. So I sat on my chair and looked out at the house. I couldn’t explain it but this whole day after the power went out I felt watched. It was a chilling feeling. I hated it. I looked over at the house. I was probably just fooling myself. Dad always said I have an overactive imagination. Wait. No. A figure stood in the window. It caught my eye. The second I saw it my blood ran cold. I rubbed my eyes as hard as I could but it didn’t go away. The figure was barely visible in the light of the fire and the lanterns. It was pitch black now which didn’t help to relieve my stress. The figure turned from a shadow to a long droopy balck mass. It had a large gaping mouth with several rows of gapping teeth. A long tongue licked the clear and pristine glass. I turned around to alert my parents. They were feet away from me. Just standing there. “Guys?!!!!” I said in a trembling voice. My parents looked at me. Dead in the eyes. Their eyes were almost blank. Nothing there. Just cold, darkness, and fear. The people I loved. We're gone. That’s the second I knew it. Just like the figure in the window. They morphed. They both turned into the horrifying monster I had just seen. I fell out of my chair. Every muscle in my body vibrates with alarm. I reach for something. Anything. A thought radiates in my head. It is almost primal. RUN. I get myself up and run through my yard. My Converse slap against the damp lawn. My heart is beating out of my chest. I have to get out of here. I think. But where is that? Suddenly a bright light blinds me. I try to make out where it is coming from. The driveway. My sister. OH NO MY SISTER. I ran as fast as I could to the driveway on the other side of my house. I stood in the headlights with a look of sheer terror. Without thinking I climbed into the passenger seat. “GO!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. My sister looked at me, startled. She hesitated unsure of what to do. But she saw the look on my face and knew it was urgent. “What about mom and dad?” She said. “It’s not them! I swear they are going to kill us!” I yelled. She put her key in but before she could start the car she looked forward. I have never seen here so terrified. Because there it is in the headlights. Looking right at us. There was no use now. We are already dead.


1208 words Rated PG; blood, gore Prompt: Set your story on (or in) a winding river. My shoe was gone. I was walking along the stream at noon when it fell in. I was trudging along, tired from lunch, kicking at all the stones in my path. One kept staying in front of me. I made a game of aiming it straight so that I could kick it again. My foot had been off one time. I had kicked it to the left. On either side of me, fields. Tall stalks of grass shoot out of them. If I cared to venture further, if I wanted to push the grass aside, then I might have found beautiful creatures. There could have been snakes and frogs, crossing paths and nodding. I might have seen a fox, a mouse, or even an owl flying by. Then I wouldn’t have lost my shoe. Instead, I kicked at the ground in anger. I missed the dirt, and my red sandal with white trim was launched into the air. It landed in the water and sank like a brick. babbling water turned into an overwhelming force when the shoe landed. There was a splash, and instantly the waves became so big that they could swallow my waist. It didn’t slow down. It became a typhoon, expanding onto the other shore and eating up the land. It took about 10 metres of grass before finally settling down, and going back to its calm and peaceful existence. In less than a minute, the stream became a deep river. I had to get my shoe back. I took off my other shoe and placed it gently on the ground. I could not risk having to do the same thing twice. I removed my beige sweater. It was knitted especially for me, and ruining it would not be a good idea. I also took off my glasses. They would do nothing for me underwater. Following the actions of my shoe, I dove into the water. I no longer needed to breathe. It wasn’t that I couldn’t--I was frequently inhaling and exhaling. However, breathing no longer did anything to help me live. The water was the only thing I knew I had to have. I began swimming down and was immediately immersed in light. I squinted. The light was warm and looked to be coming from many different spheres. They were mystical, and I had to look closer. I kicked downward just a little more to see what was going on. I was right. My glasses didn’t help my vision. I could perfectly see the scene in front of me without any help. It was unusual to be able to rely on my eyes. But I trusted them. I trusted them that I was seeing a card game, illuminated by a string of lanterns hung in between two rocks. Who was playing, you ask? I’ll tell you. It was minnows. Lake chubs, to be exact. The small fish with a black stripe and yellow and grey bodies were hovering over cards. The cards lay on the river bed and were as big as each fish’s body. They were all extremely focused on their game. It seemed as though they were playing something of the utmost elegance. Is this what water life does while we humans aren’t watching? Engage in activities that we might not even be able to comprehend? “Go fish!” Yelled a fish. The fish in question was one with deep yellow scales that faded into black at the very bottom. They grabbed one of the cards in front of them, swam to the middle of the circle, and tossed it out of the light of the lanterns. Another fish--probably the one who inquired about what card the first fish had--dutifully turned around and raced out to catch it. The rest of the circle looked in the direction the fish rushed to. For a few seconds, the silence and suspense were unbearable. I found myself holding my breath, which still didn’t do anything. With an ace of spades in their mouth, the fish emerged. They spat it towards the first fish. “There you go.” They smirked. I think they did, at least. It was a bit hard to tell. The circle cheered and congratulated the fish. They chanted their name--Cora--and danced around them joyfully. “You know,” Cora said, staring straight at the first fish. “There were a lot of human things down there.” The other fish quieted down. Humans had intrigued them. “A tire, a shoe, and even an old telephone.” My shoe was close. The fish exchanged looks. Maybe. Again, fish aren’t the best at expressing their emotions. “Dinner!” One of the fish exclaimed. They were going to eat my shoe. I turned my head to where the fish had gone. As quickly as I could, I dove in that direction. My Dad would not be happy if I didn’t get my shoe back. It was darker there. I still had faint light from the lanterns, but it was getting further away with each kick. As soon as I found my shoe, I could go back to land. It would be fine. The gravel was small. I might even consider it sand. I tried to put my foot on it. It worked. Suddenly this was my gravity, walking on the river bed like a floor. I would have to go back to where I came from to escape it. My hair still floated above my head, though. I saw two of the human treasures the fish had been talking about. The tire was that of a bike, and the telephone was blue with a twisting cord and no receiver. The third thing that fish had promised, my shoe, was not there. In the place of my shoe was a monster. It had that vague outline of a fish. I could see flippers, a tail, and a fin in front. It was about the size of a refrigerator. I could make out no other details. It was painted in shadows. It reminded me of a black hole, the way it could suck up light. It faced me. I could not see its eyes, or know if eyes were something it had, but it was facing me. It knew I was there. When I moved a bit to the left or a bit to the right, it followed me. No matter how I maneuvered it was blocking me from going forward. I started walking backwards. I slowly took steps behind me. The thing still followed. It kept pace with me. It had no concern with touching me, only to be able to feel my presence. I had to run. I could come back later when the creature had gotten bored, and look for my shoe. Until then I could just play and talk with the minnows. As long as I didn’t have to fetch any cards. The thing opened its big mouth and swallowed my entire being. It gulped down my essence. they trapped me forever in a void in the universe. It cut off my arm, and the blood stained my existence. It gouged out my eyes, and my world was now as black as it. It turned my insides to stone, and now I’ll never recover. I didn’t find my shoe.


DESIRES BEYOND REASON Elinor Stevencox was average. Average height, average hair, average age. In a crowd of average people, she would pass unnoticed for Elinor Stevencox was as average as can be. Although, Elinor Stevencox wanted to be someone else. She wanted to be something else. Someone worthy of a book! Working at a dead-end job, in a dead-end office, squeezed in a cubicle of average size did not fit her standards anymore. “I want my life to be in a book one day! She would tell her best friend. -Most people in books are dead or fictional, unless you are a president or something. Then you cannot escape the book industry! Replied her friend. - I know. Isn’t that great? To live a life that others would think worthy to be remembered. To transmit a legacy to humanity! To have my name on a biography... - I am sorry my friend. Your standards are too elevated for me. I feel more concerned by earthly or local matters! - You just don’t understand! Replied Elinor Stevencox. But I can tell you this: as of now, I am going to devote my time, my money, my person into becoming somebody!” And there she went... To achieve her dream, to nourish her obsession, Elinor Stevencox began by quitting her day job and became very engaged in multiple causes: humanitarian, educational, health and nutrition issues... Within a few weeks, Elinor Stevencox was everywhere, and everybody was talking about her. At the homeless shelter, she helped with the distribution of the food. At the public library, she gave talks on health and gardening. At the mayor’s garden party, she entertained the children with fantastic stories. One day, she was helping at the food bank when a tall man with a long black coat and a large hood came to her: “Looks like you are on the path of becoming someone important, he said. -Well, I wouldn’t say that, at least not in those terms. I do my best to serve the community, you see... - You will go far if you stay on this path!” Replied the man. Elinor began to feel strange in the presence of the man with the black coat. -If you will excuse me, sir, I need to go to the pantry. We need... well, we need more cans of carrots. Yes, that’s it, carrots. Good day!” This funny encounter left a strange impression deep in Elinor’s heart. An uneasy feeling, like a threat. Although, memory was not Elinor Stevencox’ strength. The encounter was soon to be forgotten. On the following Saturday morning, Elinor Stevencox was helping students with their homework at the Educational Center. Her best friend came along: - “Hi Elinor, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you that much ever since you began your little quest for fame. - Don’t joke about it. I am very engaged at the moment, and I love it! I feel useful. People know me, they call me by my name! and... Oh my head! - Elinor, what’s happening? Are you all right? -I think, ... I think I need to eat something. I haven’t eaten this morning yet. I have been helping here since I woke up! - Wait a minute. What about yesterday? Did you eat last night? - Not really, no... she replied. I was too tired when I arrived home to cook anything. - Yesterday, at all? - No... yes, few crackers around 3pm. -Elinor, since when haven’t you eaten a real meal? - I don’t have time to eat. I must help people! - Okay, I understand you want to be famous. But you cannot do that and kill yourself at the same time! - You sound exactly like my mother! Leave me alone. Go away!” The friend left. At 9 pm, Elinor left the Educational Center. She had volunteered there all day, helped thirty-four students with their homework, given three reading classes, and two talks on Good Nutrition and the Brain. She walked to the closest bus stop. Exhausted, she waited over an hour for a bus that would never come. After a while, a tall man with a long black coat and a large hood came to her: “Looks like you are on the path of becoming someone important, he said. - Who are you? What do you want with me? Why are you following me? - You will go far if you stay on this path! Replied the man. - My bus is coming, said Elinor standing abruptly. Good night!” She climbed hastily on the bus. As it departed, Elinor looked back through the window: the tall man with a black coat and a large hood was looking in her direction. That night, Elinor went straight to bed. Still, she could not sleep. On the Sunday morning, Elinor woke up at 5 am, dressed, and caught the bus. Today, she was schedule to volunteer at the hospital all day. As she was sitting quietly in the bus, looking through the tainted glass the city still asleep, the bus stopped. One passenger hopped on the bus. A tall man with a long black coat and a large hood who sat next to Elinor: “Looks like you are on the path of becoming someone important, he said. - You! You again! What do you want? - You will go far if you stay on this path! Replied the man. - What do you want with me? Why are you following me? Let me pass. Driver? The driver remained deaf to her calls. Elinor looked around: the bus was empty. - Leave me alone! Do you hear me? Leave me alone! She yelled almost hysteric. - I know what you aim to! Whispered the man. I can help you! - I don’t know what you are talking about, Elinor replied, worried. - You want fame! You want recognition, he continued with his soft voice. You want people to know you, call you by your name. Write about you! You want your name on a book ... Stupefied, Elinor sat back on her seat, looking at the tall man. - Who are you, she barely asked. Fame? Recognition? Yes, yes, a book, a biography about me. How do you know...? - I know everything! Said the man raising a bony finger in her direction. Everything. And I can help you achieve your deepest desires. - How? What should I do? How much would it cost me? Please, tell me! - Oh, you may have to pay me something. Something small, barely significant. Very small, compared to the value of fame and success I can give you! - I will pay you anything! - Alright then. I just need your signature at the bottom of this document after you read it, and your initials right by mine. Here. - D. A. Is that you? The man did not reply. Elinor signed the document right away. - Now, listen to me carefully. Go to the hospital, do whatever you need to do. Tonight, go to the library. Make sure to be locked in after closing hours and read. - Read? Read what? - Biographies of famous peoples. Read all the biographies you can find. Every night, come back and read until you have read them all. Don’t miss a night! Your lapse would cancel my engagement. - I see... I think I can do that. I love to read. Yes! I can do it! But, ... I see, this is my bus stop coming next, said Elinor looking outside the window. If you’ll excuse me, I need to...” But no excuses were needed. The tall man with a black coat and a large hood was gone. Elinor was alone on the bus... She went to the hospital, worked all day. The thought of the man and his promises didn’t leave her mind one instant. At the end of the day, Elinor went to her usual bus stop. She was alone. She remained alone untill the bus reached the library. Elinor Stevencox began to search for all the biographies in the catalog of the library. She looked for the most remote table located in the darkest corner of the library. At the end of the day, when the librarian announced on the speaker that the library was closing its doors, Elinor went and hide in the bathroom. And she spent the night reading biographies, one after another. From Roosevelt to Reagan, from Rosa Parks to Abraham Lincoln. She read, and read, and read all night. When the morning came, it found her reading a biography of J. F. Kennedy. Elinor gathered all her belongings, went home, and changed. Then she walked to the Children’s Museum for it was Monday, and she would volunteer at the Children’s Museum every Monday. This lasted for weeks. Her friend did not hear from her. Her family either. Time passed. The tall man never came. One night, exhausted, hungry, Elinor contemplated for the first time the possibility of going home, eat, and sleep. She was sitting on the bus at the exact same place, when it stopped. Through the window, the Moon was reflecting its dull light. Elinor turned, the tall man was sitting next to her: “Looks like you are in pass of becoming someone important, he said. I see you have been faithful to your engagements. This is your time, my dear. - So, what do I have to do now to be famous and successful? - Tonight, go to the library as usual. Go straight to the biography section. Do not talk to anyone, do not look at anyone. There, you will find a book waiting for you. - A book? What book? How will I know which one to pick? - You will know when you see it! - And, what about your payment? When do I pay you? When will I be famous? - Tonight, once you find your book... Ah! This is your stop. See you soon! At the sight of the ugly dentures, and the bony fingers, Elinor felt a chill down her spine. She stepped out of the bus and walked straight towards the library. Once again, she hid to be locked in. Once alone, she looked for the biography section she knew so well and began to browse the shelves. All these biographies, she knew them. She had spent countless hours, sleepless nights reading, and studying. She looked at all the shelves. How could she know what book was supposed to be for her? “You will know when you see it”. She kept looking for hours. It was a dark and rainy night. Tired from searching, Elinor sat on the floor. Was she going to fail this close to fame and success? Her eyes semi-closed, in a state of partial sleep she was falling asleep when a ray from the Moon enlightened a book on the shelf ahead of her. At that moment, Elinor knew it was THE book. A book with no name, no title, no author. Elinor knew this was going to be her book. She stood on her feet, and slowly grab the book by its tranche. At that very moment, a shelf on the right opened like a door. The bright green glow that was coming out of it fascinated Elinor. Silently, she stepped in the secret room. As she was entering the room, she dropped her book on the floor. The shelf silently closed behind her. ********************* As the sun was rising on a bright and shiny morning, the employees entered the library to start a new day of work. One of them was walking down the biography section aisle when he noticed a book on the floor. - Oh, I know that book, this is one of our newest acquisitions. What is it doing in here? This is not at all its place. Let’s see: “The Strange Case of Elinor Stevencox: A Study on Schizophrenia” by Doctor Death Angel. This book shouldn’t be in here at all. Its place should be in the psychiatric section...”


As long as I shall live, till the day that my beard is long and grey and my eyes have grown dim with time, I will never forget the day that the thunder stopped. It had been five months since we had dug the trenches and hunkered down to defend ourselves against the Germans. We didn’t expect to have to hunker down for such a defense, as when we came from across the English Channel to deal with the Central Powers we had been told that the war would be a quick one. All that we had to do was show Germany that we would not take their attacks against France lying down, kick them back into their borders, and everything would be over. We would be home in front of the fire regaling others with tales of our heroism my Christmas morning. But no. As the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned into months, we found ourselves being stuck in the trenches as we waited for the war to end. Then the storm began, and the thunder would echo across no-mans land. The storm took many forms across each day, varying in how hard it would hit us in the trenches. Some days the storm would be just the ever present thunder of cannon fire from both our and the German’s artillery. Some days the storm would be the blinding flashes of lightning from German and British rifles along with the cracks of thunder and the screams of men. But the worst days, the days that everyone feared, the days that you wish you could go home and hide in the covers to wait out the storm were the days where the thunder came from the stomping of men’s boots in the mud. It didn’t matter if it was the boots of the Germans or our own boots, it all meant the same thing. It meant that someone was trying to bring an end to the war by taking the opposing trenches through a tactical charge and a storm of violence, only to inevitably fail. It was those days that you would hear the endless fire of machine guns cutting down charging soldiers, the loud terrifying cracks of sniper rifles trying to pick off anyone of importance, the screams of both Germans and Englishmen as they would tear each other down all for the sake of a few dozen or so yards. Then, when the attackers retreated to lick their wounds and you would think the storm would stop, a commander would always demand a counter attack. After all, they were weakened and we beat them back, surely we can take the trench this time. Only it never worked. The thunder would reign across no-mans land as the storm took countless lives from both us and the krauts, only to result in no change. We would still be in our trenches, and the Germans still in theirs. We would sleep, knowing that tomorrow the storm would begin again. This is simply how life was in the trenches. Sometimes you would have a brief moment of respite. Sometime you would get to go back to France for some well deserved R&R to try and get back what little sanity you had left. Some men would get lucky and take a bullet in the arm or leg and be sent to an aid station. If they were really lucky, they would then be sent home with all four limbs. There were many who were less lucky who went home with an empty sleeve, or left one of their boots behind with the army. But at least they went home. I can still remember the faces of many people who took a bullet and were sent home in a box. If they could find their remains at all. And yet despite all this, despite the screams of pain and cries of death and pleads to God that this bloody war would end, it refused. The storm would never stop, never tire, never rest until one of the trenches was empty of living souls. Even in the harshest of climates would it continue. You would hear the thunder of cannons try to out shine the thunder in the sky, with the lightning of God himself occasionally illuminating no-man’s land so you could see the endless muddy fields filled with barbed wire and rotting bodies. When it grew cold, you had to be careful of patches of ice in the trenches. I heard one too many tales of men not keeping an eye on where they were walking only to slip and impale themselves on their own bayonets. And so the storm pressed on. Day or night, rain or shine, holiday or not, it did not matter. The storm pressed on, trying with all it’s might to kill all the men who found themselves deployed into hell itself. The endless war made the days start to meld into one another. I recall once asking what day it was, thinking that October was only around the corner only to learn it was November 12th. And in what felt like a single blink of an eye, I was later informed by one of my fellow soldier that Christmas was right around the corner. Christmas. A day a reverence, a day that should have been spent with family and friends was now to be spent in the mud and snow filled trenches with a gun in hand and the sound of thunder ever present. We should have been without any hope and miserable that we would be spending this most holy of holidays fighting a war that no one wanted to fight. And yet... as we sat there in the trench on Christmas eve, we could hear something from across no-man’s land. It was faint, almost too faint to make out what exactly was being sung. But after a moment or two of listening close, as the thunder of cannons came to a rest, we could hear the faint sounds of singing coming from the German side. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nact... Alles schlaft... einsam wacht...” I did not and still cannot understand German, aside from a couple of phrases that have managed to stick in my head. Yet the melody was one we all knew, one that had been playing in our heads for the past week. The krauts were singing Silent Night. “’Round yon virgin Mother and Child... Holy infant so tender and mild.” I couldn’t help it, nor could many of the men with me. As we heard our sworn enemies sing the carol, we began to join in. Men who had spent the last several months getting bombarded with shells and bullets in a storm of violence that never ended were now just... singing. Sitting in trenches in the cold and mud just... singing carols with the enemy. “Sleep in himmlischar Ruuuuuuuuuuh! Schlaf in heavenly peace...” After a few verses of this, I could feel sleep overtake me, with the last thing I remember being the sounds of holy carols echoing across the storm scarred landscape. The next morning I awoke to the feeling of snowflakes on my nose. It had begun snowing overnight, with a light powder having already built up across the bottom of the trenches. When I was a lad, waking up to a white Christmas would have been a joyous occasion. I could look forward to opening my presents alongside my brother and sister before taking our sled out and racing the family dog down the hills behind our house. Now, however, I knew the snow would only make the storm colder and harsher. I knew that, in time, I would be running through slush and muck trying to stop the German advance. After a moment or two though, I realized something. Every day previously I would be awakened to the sound of the thunder, with each sides artillery trying to catch the enemy by surprise. Many a fresh face recruit had been lost to a rouge shell from the Germans if they didn’t find a good spot to sleep in the night before. Yet this day... I woke up to snow and silence. No thunderous bootsteps, no echoing artillery, no cracks of rifles and screams of dying men. Just... silence. Silence and lightly falling snow. It was... peaceful. Quiet. Tranquil. Almost enough to make you forget about the impeding storm. “ENEMY APPROACHING!” I heard someone shout, and instinctively I shot to my feet and aimed my rifle down no-man’s land. I knew it couldn’t last, the peace and tranquility. The storm had to return, as it always did. I looked down the sights of my rifle to see a lone man who had emerged from the trenches. But... strangely enough he was not charging at is with bloodthirst and hate in his eyes. No... instead he looked scared, like a stray dog approaching a man for scraps of food. He wore no helmet, carried no rifle, he didn’t even have a knife or grenade on his person. What was approaching us was not a soldier. It was a man who was scared and wanting something from us. “HOLD YOUR FIRE MEN!” Our commander shouted, an order we all obeyed. We all looked to each other, as if one of us had the answer. Who was this German? Why was he approaching us? Was this a trick? A secret ploy? Or was this... because it was Christmas? There was a corporal in my unit, a young fellow named George McClellan. The lad was one of the youngest in our unit, and had clearly lied about his age in order to come earn glory in war. In terms of a soldier, he wasn’t a very good one. He wasn’t a great shot, nor could he run that fast or throw a grenade with any sort of skill, but the lad was good company and quick to cheer you up. He had a sort of enthusiasm that was infectious, and always quick with a joke even in the direst of circumstances. To this day I still send his family a small portion of my paycheck whenever I can. It’s the least I could do to try and help them after George was unable to fit his gas mask on properly a few days before he was supposed to be sent home. If George couldn’t be sent home, then at least I could send a bit of money to the grieving family. I remember watching as George looked up from his rifle’s sights, set his weapon down to lean against the trench and, even though the rest of us were asking if he knew what he was doing, George slowly emerged from the trenches and tossed his helmet down to the bottom of the trench. We watched with rapt attention as George slowly walked towards the German, both of their hands held high in the air before slowly they both lowered their arms and began to shake one another’s hands. It was that handshake that managed to break us all out of our stupors, both German and English. All of us slowly began to lower our weapons, climb out of the trenches, and cross the death field known as no-mans land to go great our brothers on this most holy of days. Christmas had come, and the storm had stopped. God bless us all. I too had joined my country men in making my way across the field to speak to our fellow men. I met a young man who seemed to be around my age. We were both young men, the ideal for the army, and both men who would be lucky to see the rest of our lives if the war continued. I shook his hand, and introduced myself to him. He told me his name was Hans Müller, and after a few minutes of talking we became the closest of chaps. We shared tales of our families back home, of our mothers and fathers who we missed so desperately. I showed him a small picture of my family, noting that he reminded me a lot of my little sister with his blonde hair and green eyes. He laughed, and told me I reminded him of his father who had come to fight in the war as well. His father was stationed at another unit on the eastern front, and he hoped that both he and his father would go home to Chemnitz. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend from back in Chemnitz, a lovely woman by the name of Anna. They had met shortly after starting high school together and had been near inseparable ever since then. He told me that every week he tries to write her a letter, and every week he almost cries in joy upon getting a letter back from her. I told him not of my girlfriend, as I did not have one at that time, but of a lovely nurse at our aid station who I always was sure to say hello to every chance I could get. I told him of her pretty smile, and her beautiful black hair, and the way her nose would crinkle every time I told her a joke and managed to make her laugh. Hans was quick to offer some good nature teasing about my little crush and told me that when the war was over that I should bring my nurse and myself to come meet him and Anna, that we would have the most lovely of holiday together. We had not noticed, but as we continued to talk we had begun to walk across no-mans land. We probably would have kept walking and talking for hours had it not been for Hans noticing something before breaking down into tears. I asked him what was wrong, and he pointed at a body that hung from some barbed wire. He told me through his tears that the lad was a friend of his who had gone missing a few days ago. My guess was that he had been trying to run back to the trenches, only to be shot down when he got stuck in the wire. I tried to apologize for what happened, to console my new friend, but the words he said to me were powerful enough to silence me. “Do not apologize, mein Freund. Even if you fired the shot, you were not the one that chose to send us both here, to put us against one another. I blame those who sent us here, and pray to God that someday soon they shall resolve their differences and send us home.” We did not speak for a while after that. Instead I returned to my trench, grabbed a shovel, and slowly helped my enemy dig a grave for the man that my fellow soldiers had killed. Over time both Germans and Englishmen came by, adding their dead to Hans’ friend as they helped dig a grave. At some point someone, I don’t know who, brought over a large wooden cross. We etched into it the date, December 25, 1914, and scratched in the initials off all those we knew would not make it home. We all stood there, German and English hand in hand, and said a prayer for those we would now miss. When we returned to the rest of the men, they had started to organize a football match between both sides. In desperate need for some joy after the grief we just shared, Hans and I were quick to join in. I remember the sounds of laughter, the cheers of men as we had the greatest fun any of us would ever remember. We laughed and sang and teased in good fun while playing, all of us brothers and friends. I don’t remember who won, but I am pretty sure that English skill won the day in our favor (and if Hans says any different, he is just trying to make himself look better after accidentally passing the ball to me). At some point one of the Germans had returned from his side of the war with a few spirits in hand, and we quickly sent one of our own boys to grab a bottle or two of the French wine that we had gotten not too long ago. We all knew the day would be best ended with drinks, in a toast to the happy day we shared and a hope for many more of them to come. We did not think about what tomorrow would bring. Instead, we poured each other a drink, sang carols in drunken English and German, and shared stories of Christmases past. I remember George running over, sporting a new haircut and a slightly slurred speech going on about how “one of the machine gunners from the German side used to be a barber. He’s offering haircuts to anyone who wants one, and all it costs is a fun story from home.” We laughed and asked him to share his story with us while we drank. He told us the story about the time he tried to get a cat out of a tree for a girl he liked, only for his suspenders to get caught on a loose branch causing him to be stuck in the tree too. This set us all into an uproar, and poor George was the subject of endless teasing for the weeks to come. He took it all in good stride though, and never seemed to hold any hate towards our joking manners. God, I miss the lad. As the eve creeped along, and Christmas came to an end, we all softly sang carols and prayed for a better future. We all knew that tomorrow the thunder would begin again. Tomorrow these men would be our enemies once again. Tomorrow our sights would point at the men we called brothers and we would be forced to kill our friends in the name of Queen and Country. But we chose to forget that. We chose to ignore those dark thoughts, for as the most holy of days continued we knew that we were not Germans or Englishmen. We were not Allied Forces or Soldiers of the Central Powers. No, instead we were friends. We were brothers. We were family. Tomorrow the thunder would start again. Tomorrow the terror would begin once more. But as I went to sleep that night after saying goodbye to my dear friend Hans, a new hope filled my dreams. A hope that one day the thunder would forever stop, and the storm would never start again.


This is the last time I'll see this place. I'm writing this while riding the last trip of the Southern Tracks. Not many people know of this railway - in fact, most of them look at me like I'm crazy when I even mention such a route - but I know about it. When I heard it was shutting down and doing its last runs tonight, I had to take one last trip. No one ever checks the cars on this route; no one cares enough. I've been able to ride this millions of times without once being caught. I'm not the only one, either; once, a few years ago, I met a rather lovely old, blind man sleeping in the car that I hopped on who told me stories of the way the world used to be; another trip, I came across a kind young woman in the most extravagant black dress you have ever seen, with rich silky ribbons and glittering jewels that shone in a way that I had only ever read about in stories, and she had no idea how she got aboard the train! “One minute,” she had said, all those years ago, “I was on my way to downtown, and next thing I know, I wake up in the hay in some...” Well, I'd rather not repeat what else she said. I'll miss this, though, watching as the dark fields and rolling night hills zip past beneath the waning moon. My mom used to tell me to be wary of the night time rides, as you never know where you were going to end up. She was a smart woman, and for years I never once touched the midnight Southern Tracks train. Then, one day, they found her dead by the noon Southern Tracks train. I'm still not entirely sure who “they” were, exactly, but I'm rather inclined to believe them; she was never the best at telling the difference between noon and midnight when written down. I've only been going on the midnight train rides ever since. I'm not sure I recognize this place anymore. Of course, that's one of the joys of travel, seeing new places. But, I don't think I've ever seen a place in all of these train rides where the night feels like all there is; I can't even make out the tracks below the train. In fact, I'm not entirely sure the train is on any tracks anymore. I'm not sure where this train is heading. I'm not sure where \*I'm\* headed. In fact, I'm not quite sure how long I've been on the Southern Tracks now. Maybe there's a stop not too far from wherever I am now. I can see the hills again now. The same, rolling ones, illuminated faintly by a waxing moon in the otherwise void of night. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help but smile as I reminisce on the past with this train. This is the last time I'll see this place.


Chapter 1 A plaster of anxiety covered him but it was not dominated fully by the fear of deep, blue seas waiting to uncover it's secrets but a much meeker fear ,the fear of people. He had to be stuck fully in an enclosed tube with a few people, underwater where anything could strike anyone and safety would be towering above them. Thwarting their efforts to reach it but then, it was covered by another fear when the turbines swished and pushed them to the unknown and he became so frustrated to have many anxieties. The turbines were slow but steady and it pushed them deeper into the sea and his fear suddenly subsided. Even in chaos, there was calmness . Chapter 2 The submarine lunged downwards like an arrow to the murky waters below. He turned his attention to a story he read, ' The Survey'. T he roars and howls of the submarine became no more than mere sounds. They were not far from humanity, they were cut off from it. Interaction with the others were going to be scant. A bit terrified and desperate, he actually spoke out. Chapter 3 ''Is it going to be a long ride?'' It was the sentence, he had spoken, that day. ''No. Depends on your definition of 'long'?'', the man near him spoke. He was at a towering height of 6'1, 2 inches above him. ''Duration?'', he asked objectively. ''Around 2 days. 1 day narrowing it down to the least.'', he answered but he didn't like him and sheepishly admitted to himself that he would have not liked any man speaking out those words. It brought inferiority with it. ''Thanks'', he said in a mechanical voice and the man had caught the mechanical tone of his voice. He went to his designated room. It resembled more of a cubicle. It camouflaged with the other cubicles and everyone came rushing to their rooms. An empty sense of formality filled him as he entered his room and when he laid down to sleep, he felt he could almost cry but during nighttime, that was a good thing. It helped you sleep better. He started to fantasize of how things would be, when he got to the surface. Submarine A11 is marked the best submarine in Diamondwood by 'The Times'. And then, suddenly, the world around him roared with the coming of dangerous truths. It was thrust deeper into the ocean and it was darker. They had come to the part of the journey where there was no turning back. It was when the real fear started. He slept without further complications as the sea around him wobbled in the darkness. Chapter 4 They had a bit of irritation while waking up, the next day but they all, decided finally and a bit, grudgingly that irritation was better than getting rusticated from the mission. He felt drowsiness heaving heavily on his eyebrows but he was glad, the so-called first day was over .'Everyday was the same. No light. Just the white bulbs in the submarine. No real sunlight.' He thought with a pessimistic inner voice and the tall man was there. The similar twinge of anger returned. He felt that the man was too practical. The real pessimism wasn't in the submarine but on the roughness of their mission. Floating like a rock in the endless and unforgiving darkness of the sea outside. A man, probably their leader, stood with great strictness. He didn't really look at the tall man with a mental disgust and anger but he felt exactly so, when he saw the assumed leader. ''I am your leader! Submarine A11 is on the drive.''. It was with a great authoritarian anger, he had said that. He had never felt as much anger for a person until this fateful day. ''Nobody wants your opinion'', he muttered under his breath in few tired and angry breaths. The crew broke off like disintegrating bread. He swished through the crowd as if it were the sea itself. ''What mission?'', he asked and was rooted to the spot in a rigid way like a tree. ''To find some species of fish'', the man said in a friendly way. He admitted to himself that he was actually a good man. His head was making up things like an insane person. ''Thank you'', he said mechanically and strode off from the scene. They were becoming friends and he was happy about it. Chapter 5 He started to feel good about himself. The training for research hadn't been so bad after all. He got a friend. The luxury, he didn't have so far. The anger suddenly returned as the man returned too. To him, it seemed like the actions of a maniac but to others, it seemed like the doing of a caring and broad-minded leader. ''Sorry to disturb your minds but we are in distress!'', he said. His underlying anxiety turned out to be true after all. Voices screamed in panic and scrambled around like splintering wood. He followed their actions and ran along. He rubbed his lips, closed his eyes for a brief second, and ran to the heap. He pulled out a swimsuit from the heap. The feeling, he had when the submarine was ready to push them to dangerous depths, came back now. He wore his swimsuits. He looked back and the white bulbs took the color of the sinister red bulbs. An alarm, suddenly broke out like a jump scare. It took him aback, but he sprang back and wore his suit, having no idea, of how he did it. Chapter 6 He followed the crowd looking like a penguin, desperate for help. A red bulb fused out and the crowd repelled from it like 2 like poles in a magnet. Then, the sound of breaking glass filled his ears and his eyes closed to darkness. Before passing out, he knew one thing. It was the sound of the window breaking, but he was not scared because he couldn't. He didn't have time for that. The darkness started, both physically and mentally. Chapter 7 He felt his leg wobble around in his sleepy state. His face started to stretch and his eyes seemed to eject itself from the body. He was in the deep sea. He screamed and kicked in fear. He kicked something solid. ''Help'', he screamed though it passed out only as bubbles. Everything was dark, like ink had been poured on his eyes. Suddenly, a providential image of the swimsuit, whizzed through his mind and it had a torchlight. He was lost with nothing to help , except the torchlight. He reached to it, as he swished the water around. He caught it and felt his way for the switch. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he hadn't checked the oxygen level and made up his mind, that he won't check it at all. He finally found the switch and clicked it. The light flowed outside and he saw particles dancing like dancers within the spotlight. His mind was in the crossover where desperation and smartness aligned. He started to think of how, he could go to the surface. He might have probably lost the submarine and that metal rock would be floating in the darkness, not knowing that a resident of it, was not in the safety of it's metal walls. The octopus or kraken could be here. Worse, the Cthulhu could be pulling him down to dangerous depths...... He shook off the thoughts as he looked back and a figure passed through the darkness. It had a cylindrical beak and green, cold eyes. He pushed it off. Then, he realized that it was a man, wearing a diving suit. Never, had he been so happy to see a man wearing a diving suit. The man held onto him and swam around, using his torchlight to guide them. He took out his torchlight like a warrior taking his sword and shone it against something like a rock. It was a rock wall that was shielding something beyond......... Chapter 8 He carved something but the sound of it did not reach him. To him, it all seemed like the breaking of the stone instead of a carving. The man showed a long thumbs up . ''You wouldn't believe what I found beyond this wall when I pushed it'' ,It was carved. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on the rock. Ready to push it open and reveal it. It could either give him, a new chance at survival and redemption. It could be some providential force to save him or it could be the contrary, the definition of death, he could be pushed into an endless, underwater abyss. Together, they both, touched the rock and pushed it .It fell to the other side ,whatever it was. Chapter 9 He couldn't believe his eyes and his heart started to pump fast. His face was stretched to the bone, making him look like a skeleton with a layer of flesh and he could feel his muscles crunch together to his nose. There were lights. Lights of color, blooming vividly. His mind shook with the surprise. His body wobbled with the shock of what he just saw. Then, he started to feel a sudden surge of excitement and realized that they weren't just lights. There was a whole underwater city. It had a large flawless obelisk, standing out, apart from the other buildings, undisturbed by the ruthless flow of the dangerous sea. There were no fish, which was obvious, considering, how much the town was safely pampered from the rest of the sea. There were shopping malls, supermarkets and houses ,not to miss the underwater sheds. Though, he didn't know why, those were used for. There were lots of buildings and to the far side of the border, there were statues of hungry tigers and lions . The ruthlessness present in their stony eyes, but the most magnificent was the obelisk holding the position of a leader ,holding the high ground. He was dreaming. There had been many dreams since he joined this mission. Dreams that blurred the line between reality and unreality. He squeezed in, through the hole in the wall. Chapter 10 His imaginative side. The one that refused to grow apart had been waded off, and was replaced by his practical side. The highest potential, this funny-looking city had was to give them a new submarine ready to plummet them above, just like how it was before all this drama, took place. The city was probably the ghost of what should have been around 1000 years back and 1000 meters above, from where it stood now but still, the reason, why it stood nestled inside a stone wall was unanswered. What he saw defied the limits of his imagination and mocked humanity's logic. Something caught his leg and he shuddered. The familiar image of the kraken came back to his mind as he turned to his back. Then, he realized it was the man and a huge wave of relief passed through him. Chapter 11 The extent of his admiration over the city was extreme, to the point, that the person near him slipped out of his mind. He bent his straight and rigid spine and drowned, vertically as he sunk below sunken city which was like Atlantis but it didn't seem to mimic it's architecture. He landed with a sudden, soft thump as the neon lights welcomed his arrival. The good thing was, nobody needed to die out of suffocation, under these depths. The pressure, alone can smash him into bits. He walked around and stumbled upon a hotel. The illogical neon letters were above the hotel. ''Stay with us'', it read blatantly. ''HOOOSH! SHOOOOHHH'' Something passed. Slowly but fast enough to escape his gaze. He continued with his walk again, briefly swimming for fun. Chapter 12 He saw a house, the modest among the buildings here. No neon lights present, yet it was visible, thanks to the light, emanated by the other buildings in the city. As he looked onto it, a black figure flashed before the corner of his eye like a jump scare. The sight of it could make him, turn vertical again. It was a man or at least, something that appeared to be a man. He had large pupils in his eyes and a bony neck, that was so thin to the extent, that it could break his flesh and come out but the strange thing of all, was that, there was a hexagonal patch of purple around his neck, which painted his hidden necks, like a cloud in a drawing. He swam again, as he realized that the surreal and beautiful city had a much darker thing, nestled in it ready to reach him out in the form of people with bony necks and then, the oxygen mask flashed back to his mind. The level would have significantly lowered by now. It could go all out of the cylinder and into the deep, unforgiving sea. Lost and unused, just like the city was. Chapter 13 He swam, using all his energy. Desperation and fear molded into madness as he sent ripples of water wading backwards. A image started to form inside his head again as fully developed like a baby bird in a egg shell but, it wasn't terrifying. It was an image of the modest house . He swam back, in unknown directions, hoping it wouldn't lead him to a terrifying thing and the word, 'terrifying', had taken on a much more realistic tone and not just something as funny as a monster in a closet. The wooden house was there, drowned and held by something that was probably, under the seabed. Strange. First, a whole underwater city, flourishing in the depths against potential predators and crushing pressures. Second, funny looking people with thin necks. He swam in and scanned the room around him, they were intact and there were the objects, which people had, back on the surface. Chapter 14 He awoke with a start. He was still underwater. Now, he started to feel anger rush through his eyes, instead of fear. So many thoughts had passed through his mind, that he forgot, that he had a heard a wobbly voice, like songs, heard in the restrooms of a ballroom. He started to come to terms with the situation but sometimes, life got absolutely bonkers to come to terms with. He looked at the timer of his oxygen mask. The level was full, and a wave of relief passed through him, that was beyond words....... Chapter 15 The door swished against the water and revealed a man. A thin man with a bony neck, just like the man, outside. He should have been excited of his discovery but impending danger was close to him and a discovery is nothing more than a sight, if he didn't live to tell the story. ''Cure the plague'', the man croaked out, in a tone that couldn't be spoken by a species that was not as old as the city. ''We are going through a plague. If you don't help us, the master will serve you right?", he croaked out again. Whatever it was, it should be faced by him. All he hoped, was the punishment was confined within the dangers of death. ''Swooooooshhhh'' A voice whirled around and the next thing, he saw was that the man was floating vertically upwards, absent-mindedly. Either fainted or dead. He didn't care about that. ''A whole protest is waiting outside'', his rescuer carved on the wall quickly. All things seemed to stop for him. Nevertheless, he rippled the water backward, as he followed. Chapter 16 There were hundreds of those, outside (Bony necks ). There were strange tubes, that were enclosed and looked like large bullets, floating and whirring around in dizzying sounds as they flew around him. The man swam upwards as his hand tugged his hands too. 'Swooooooooooooshhh' He heard the sound. The very same sound that he heard in that house. The house of that mad man. As he swam, the fact that he was a fugitive was thrust heavily on him. He turned around and he saw a feat, that couldn't have been done by the same person. His eyes widened and he started to feel dizzy. The man was holding something. Some talismanic object that repelled the tube-like vehicle and the city below them glowed with sinister red colors of lights. Almost everything went red now, like buildings when an alarm broke out. More tube-like vehicles charged towards them like a gunslinger and a horse in a Wild West movie. The man swung it in all directions and it did have some effect on the vehicles. It sent a vehicle plummeting downwards with a crashing speed, that he thought that it would crash near the building . The buildings turned on the sinister red glow as well. The whole city was painted in red now. The tube-like vehicles followed them as his head dangled like a bobblehead. They neared the wall with neon lights. The wall, where the exit lay. He swam, with all his energy with his companion to that wall. He swam to the the hole ,the exit. A wave here, a wave there and he was out of the city. Where the people wouldn't dare to come near. His friend was out too. He turned back and a huge white light flashed, ready to temporarily blind him. It was not the lights of danger in the underwater city but the light of hope. The light of a submarine. With that he picked up the rock. For some reason, he wanted to shield the city from the dangers of the outside force. He didn't want their efforts to go to waste. Enemy or not .With the last bit of adrenaline kicking him, he closed the hole with the rock, keeping it enclosed until it was found again.


Nothing is worse than having your sleep stolen from you unexpectedly. But, in retrospect, the unexpected is becoming the new norm. Death is in the air; people are hiding themselves from anything that’s real anymore and here I am, sitting up in bed, stirring due to a case of late-night insomnia. At any rate, I decide to check the time on my phone, despite knowing it would only make the fight for sleep all the more challenging. The simple action of pressing down the rubbery power button provides some sense of ease in my late-night unrest. I immediately wince upon turning on my cellular idol but a millisecond after open my eyes completely to realize some more of the unexpected. Atop my lock page, I see a message sent from my best friend Derek. Derek was always more outgoing and adventurous then I am, but even I was surprised to see a message from him at two-twenty-five. After I quickly opened my phone, like a thief typing in some digital safe code, I was welcomed with a message from Derek asking what I was doing. A part of me wants to send him a message in all caps saying, I WAS SLEEPING, YOU MORON! But he’s the closest friend I got, and I don’t want to seem like a loser that does homework on the weekend and goes to bed early. So, I send a more casual retort. Why? After a single blink, his response dots appear making me wonder what’s Derek is getting into this late in the night. Meet me at this club. What club is open now and why does he pick tonight of all nights for that matter. So without a further thought I franticly type, Isn’t that illegal ? As the message leaves my safe place secluded by three dots, I regret sending the message at all. As before, his reply is almost immediate leading me to believe this must be pretty important, because Derek hardly texts me at all when he’s out. Maybe but just get down here. By now. I’ve had it with the ambiguity of his proposal and my sleep deprived animosity types away, Why do you need me to be there? Don’t you have more exciting friends to ask out? His reply appears. Becauuse, guess who just showed up? Thanks to my introverted nature his guessing game feels more like scratching at my brain, but I reply anyway . Who? I anxiously observe as his message generates. Sydney Wilcox. As soon as that message appears, I feel excitement accompanied by a nauseous feeling. But even that would be an understatement. Maybe this is what people mean by getting butterflies? See, ever since I first laid eyes on Sydney in my English class last year, I felt that feeling. But, of course, time went on and class after class would pass without a word. Before I got a chance to confess how I felt about her, it was already too late. The semester had ended and the only person I mustered up the courage to tell was Derek. Of course he made fun of me for it, but after he saw how broken I was he helped me through it. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now. Or maybe this is just some scheme to get me to go clubbing with him. Whatever it may be, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen Sydney or really anyone outside my parents for that matter. So I sprint to my shower and wash out my bedhead and hopefully the dread that comes with significant social interaction. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to go home with her tonight! Or even have a simple conversation... At any rate, both felt equally impossible until tonight. After I turn off the showerhead I spend way too much time doing my hair in the mirror, then sprint to my room. I realize I forget the stray textbook on my floor as I fall flat on my face. Just like that, the illusion dies, and it all comes back to me. Why I want to see her in the first place? Why I study on the weekend when I could be out raising Hell with Derek? And why would a scrawny college nerd would never have a chance with a girl like Sydney? My self-deprecation is suddenly brought to a hiatus after I hear a buzz come from atop my bed, followed by a murmuring from below. I must have woken my parents with my tumble. Then, with the speed of a cheetah, I rise to my feet, throw on a black t-shirt and jeans and almost leap out my window onto the tree outside. While I may dedicate way too much of my free time to my studies, I still love to climb trees. Upon reaching the bottom of the tree trunk in a manner even a ninja would admire, I quickly turn on my car and speed off to the nameless coordinates that Derek sent me. Shortly after parallel parking my car in a spot where I pray it’s too late to be towed, I make my way over to the “entrance” of the club. Upon my arrival, I am met by a burly, yet dapper man who stops me and asks for my identification. Luckily, in the same moment Derek, sporting a polo shirt and slacks comes out of the club and drags me in. Now I’m getting the a-okay and even a smile from the same man I thought could bury me. Luckily, Derek was an upperclassman who took me under his wing, an analogy that was quite literal as we descended down the stairs with his arm around my shoulder. The nauseous feeling comes back, except this time without the excitement. This feeling seemed to only get worse as we entered the club. As stated previously, this is not my scene, not before the pandemic, not now. My eyes flutter around the war-like landscape tattered with blinding strobes, deafening music, and enough people to fill out a small army. Eventually, Derek approaches a group of five that I can only assume is his usual crew. I hold back and begin to look around for you know who, but the search is fleeting. Because just as my eyes start to dance around the room like most of the people in there, my attention is pulled right back to Derek, who is now waving me over with a Cheshire grin. I hesitantly approach and once I am introduced to Derek’s band of clubbers, I begin to look around at each member of the group. My anxiety builds to a crescendo. I feel each one of their piercing stares penetrate my mind and maybe even my soul. I start to wonder, “Can they hear my thoughts? Do they know behind my hard outer layer hides a scared little boy who wants to go home?” As my anxious thoughts race, one of Derek’s friends breaks the ice with me after handing me a drink. As he mouths words that sound more like gibberish in this bedlam, my heart begins to race. Not knowing what he said but wanting to reply, I take a sip from the already open beer and scream the obvious, “This music’s really loud!” With ears adept for the environment, they hear me and respond in an uproar of laughter. My nausea seems to only get worse, and I begin feeling sweltering heat in my upper body. Suddenly I begin to hear a voice in my head. This voice, unlike my own, makes the room spin around me as if I where a couple bottles in. They’re not laughing because you're funny, they’re laughing at you, you loser. Why did you even come out of your hole in the first place? Not only are you a loser, you’re an incompetent idiot. All the while, Derek’s friends talk to him and occasionally talk to me, but all I hear is this damn voice. Why don’t you just go home? I mean, Sydney? Really? “Just go away. Just go away. Just go away!” I yelled. Seconds after, I realize the implications of the thought that escaped my mind. Everything comes into focus and I can hear again. Sydney had just approached me and the group and was now running away with tears fleeing her eyes. “Way to go. I set up a night for you and the girl of your dreams, and what do you do? You scream in her face,” Derek said. I sprint to the bathroom to at least try and recollect myself, and guess who comes along. Nice going bud. Maybe next time she’ll tell you she loves ya. Once again, my thought escapes, “Just shut up!” Everyone near the bathroom looks over to me as I shove the door open. It’s as if I am stepping off a boat. As I enter, I hear whispering strewn with faint giggling. As I drunkenly make my way over to the first stall, I’m on the verge of puking. Suddenly, the seemingly distant noises sound closer than ever. Could this random ambience be trapped in my mind like my unwanted, commanding visitor? The truth was revealed too soon; I cautiously pushed on the stall door revealing the source. Right before my eyes was a man sporting jeans and a biker top with a silver cross. He had a mean look and arms that could probably pop my eyes out with one squeeze. As for the woman that he was kissing she wore a tattered belly shirt and jean shorts so short you could see the pockets. As I awkwardly watched them, I felt the vomit rise to my throat, but even in my frozen state I was able to choke it down. It was this faint revolting sound, however, that caused the woman to open her eyes and draw the attention of her lover. “Get get of here, freak!” Just like that my trance is broken, but not soon enough. Just as I am about to leave, the man screams, “You better run before I kick your little ass, es scortum obscenus vilis!” As he yells what sounds like some dead language, the man’s eyes turn as black as sin and make me question my own morality before adrenaline takes the wheel. Almost immediately after making a b-line out of the club, I spew my guts out onto the stairwell. By now, I no longer have the energy to stand so I fall to the floor. Then the bouncer, looks down at me with the same eyes the biker had and starts screaming, “fututus et mori in igni!” To my surprise, and surprisingly my delight, Derek bursts out of the club not a second after, screaming at the man. “Leave him alone Morris, I’m sure Jack’s not the first one to vomit on your precious, might I add, illegal, club steps.” He looks down at me, following up his confident backlash with a voice one might use to talk to a child as he puts his hand down. “Hey bud, let’s get you home, okay?” In that moment, the voice returns. He’s not you’re friend. If he was, would he talk to you like a child? Better yet, would he have had one of his friends drug you? After putting the pieces together, I slap Derek’s hand away and start to back Derek up the stairs as I scream, “What did you put in my drink, Derek? Just because I don’t waste my night’s partying like you doesn’t mean you have to drug me!” Derek screams back in a slur as I step closer and closer to the street behind me out of fear, “I didn’t give you anything man. Just because you lost your mind after one drink doesn’t make it my fault!” Derek shoves me a little and the burning sensation returns. “Does it Mr. I’m gonna become a recluse because some chick I’ve never even talked to breaks my heart!” As he yells this, Derek’s eyes blacken and he shoves me so hard, I fall into the street and a car almost hits me. The driver then gets out and screams at me with the same soul-less eyes. After that, I ran away so fast my heart felt like it was going to burst. Once I arrived at my car, I got in and gassed it out of there, only looking back once or twice. For the rest of the night, I sat up in my bed looking out my window every now and then for those nightmarish creatures that were once people. When daybreak finally came, I passed out and slept for almost all of Sunday. I didn’t wake up until my parents asked me if I wanted dinner. I thanked them, but told them I was sick and went right back to staring out my window. By the time Monday rolled around, I was, you guessed it, sleeping late. In fact, the only thing that truly woke me was a call from “Derek,” or whatever was left of him anyway. After letting the call run its course I saw that he had left five calls before now, and even a voicemail that I promptly click on. “Hey man, look, I’m sorry about last night. I was a little drunk, but I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship. Look, you already missed Calc, but if you hurry over you can probably still make Anthropology. Hope to see you soon dude.” After hearing the beep reminiscent of a flatline, I fall back on my bed and start to debate going to class at all. I mean I could go to class, but at the same time, I’d rather keep my head then a couple of A’s. However, that did sound like the Derek I knew growing up. Unless he’s only trying to lure you into a trap. No, he’s only trying to help me. Oh like he helped before when he invited you out to drug you, so you could make a fool of yourself in front of Sydney. A single tear falls from my eye. He’s not your friend anymore he’s one of them. I do start to feel dead inside after I am reminded of, quite possibly the final time I’ll ever see Sydney again. The tears welling up in her eyes make my face and my stomach cringe. No, this can’t be it. It can’t end here. I bound out of bed, my heart beats faster as I near the door. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing. After opening my front door, I feel the sharp burning in my chest. Do you want to die!? Refusing to quit, I make my way to my car and speed off to class. Once I finally arrive at the school, my chest feels like a furnace and my heart is beating a drum. After wiping the sweat off my brow, I look in the rearview mirror. I look as bad as I did the night before, but I follow through with my plan anyway. As I walk to class my hand starts to tremble, so I conceal it with my other hand. Look, If you walk into that classroom, one of two things is gonna happen. One, Derek and his posse will kill you. Or two, you walk into the classroom and spew your guts out again. Then everyone at the school will hate you too. “Just leave me alone!” After looking up from the ground I see two other students diverge to the other side of the walkway. Oh wait, they already do. My bodily conditions only become worse the closer I get to the classroom. Just like last night, my environment starts to spin again. When I finally arrive at the door, my trembling hand reaches out to grab the door handle. Upon making contact, I experience the worst premonition, enveloped in fire. When I come back to reality and pull the door back, I wince and feel vomit bubbling up in the back of my throat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you little faex. Upon hearing this I feel a bodily sensation run from head toe and I come to the realization that it’s all in my head. But to the outside world, I was simply paralyzed in the doorframe. Just then, the entire class looks back at me with eyes blacker than the bottom of the sea. Out of child-like fear, I quickly look over to the professor who also has the same eyes. So I simply close mine and repeat the following mantra, it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head! Is it over? Are they gone? Guess there’s only one way to find out. Just then, I open my eyes to see a class of iris filled corneas. I can’t help but smile as I look at the sea of amber, blue, brown, gray, green, and hazel eyes. I spot Derek who shoots a smile back before yelling through clasped hands, “Don’t fall asleep now. You just got here.” Almost the entire class laughs, and without skipping a beat, I join in. I did notice however, one person was not laughing. A person I never thought I would see again, yet here she was, staring at me with her deep blue eyes. After class, I finally talked to her. I never thought that I might need to apologize, yet here I was, ready to take on the world and whatever black-eyed demons came my way.


Richard's mother never liked me, but ever since her son disappeared, we have become closer than ever. I set a steaming plate of rice and stew before her. I had always been meticulous when preparing the woman's food as she was a very picky eater and was generous with crude criticisms. These days, however, she would eat my food with little nods and approving hums. I even caught her licking her fingers once. "I think I am going to ask Richard's father to start buying game meat instead of beef," she said as she pushed her empty plate forward on the glass coffee table. She used to prod at my food, take a spoonful and claim she was full. A woman on the television piped out an evil cackle. "The spices also do a lot of work," I added as I piled our plates together to carry to the kitchen. Mrs. Ncube didn't respond. She was watching me with a squint - her eyes fixed on my left jaw. I turned my face away. "The bruise is healing well," she said stiffly. She looked uncomfortable acknowledging it. "Yes. Would you like some stew to go home with?" I asked. "Yes, sure," she replied. She reached into her gaudy handbag and pulled out the Tupperware she'd left with the day before and handed it to me, baring her crooked teeth in a sheepish smile. Three months had passed since I'd last seen my husband. The police were vague about their efforts to find him, and I am sure people had grown tired of my lamentations. Mrs. Ncube was the only constant in this ordeal. She visited every day. Some days we'd make calls to Richard's friends and colleagues to garner clues about his whereabouts; in others, we cried together in each other's arms. Today we spent the entire day watching Nollywood movies and eating in the living room. We sat across each other, replenishing the coffee table with snacks and sugary drinks with our eyes fixed on the television until the dark orange of sunset filtered through the curtains and bleached the entire room. She wanted us to take our minds off the situation and even expressed concern about my blood pressure. I assured her that I was fine - but I had grown tired of mourning too. In the kitchen, as I spooned the leftovers from the pot into the Tupperware, Mrs. Ncube wafted in and leaned against the counter. "That's a beautiful cleaver. Where do you buy your kitchenware?" she nodded at the stainless steel cleaver hanging off the wall. I told her it had been gifted to me by Richard on the eve of our wedding. I almost dropped the dishing spoon when she opened her mouth again to speak. "It just makes sense for me to be here with you helping around while we wait," she explained. "If you're moving in because of the game meat, I've run out," I joked with my composure regained. She laughed, the hoarseness in her voice betraying how it had been a while. "I would be happy to have you, Mama." After all, we only had each other now; no immediate family, distant friends, and the gaping hole that my husband left in our hearts. Her smile was warm, but it faded. Suddenly she was solemn. "I haven't treated you right, my child," she walked to me. She took the Tupperware, closed it, and set it aside. She held my hands in hers and looked at my face. "How you must feel, to have the last remembrance of your husband be a bruise that has lasted months. To think you came crying to me for help, and I shut you out," her eyes glossed over. She cast them down before dabbing them with the collar of her blouse. "But here you are looking for my son... your husband harder than anyone. I can only imagine how much you loved him." "I do love him. A lot, mama," I said. And it was true. I loved that man more than I have loved anyone. Even when he picked me up from the hospital with my jaw wired shut. Even the last time I saw him with his eyes open as he screamed and gargled in his blood when I struck his neck with the cleaver his mother seemed to admire. She squeezed my hands. "We will find Richard. In God's grace we'll find him," she said, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew we would never see Richard again. She had already mourned him and was ready for a new chapter, as was I. We were two widows lying to each after having a filling dinner with the flesh of the man we loved as a stew. I thought it was poetic, how in all this grief, her body was being nourished by her son's, even though she didn't know.


Hi im new to reddit but i would like to share some of my stories ive written. If any of my formating is wrong please do inform me. Symphony of Symmetry The soft pitter patter of the rain was contrasted by the baritone clop of boots. It was a sound all of us had grown used to these days. From one place to another we marched. The muted browns of our heavy cloaks offset by the soft reds, quiet yellows, and heavy blacks underneath. Most of us rested our tools on our shoulders, me? I held mine at my side where it belonged. Picking up my pace I could hear my brothers voice carry over the wind. He spoke of a new job. One were we would no longer be cold and hungry, and most importantly, out of this twice damned rain. Settling by his side I asked him of just where we were going. Speaking tersely and quickly he told me it was merely a good day of travel away. I could only scoff at that. Merely a day he says. The ground beneath our feet will have turned to mud and water by then. But at last it was still too good of a job to pass up. So I could only grumble softly to myself as we walked. It was a cold and dreary night fit only for the most desperate and foolish. Unfortunately I guess that includes me, and this half dead band of misfits. As we settled and made camp for the night I could feel the pit in my gut grow deep. I hate being right, and I most definitely hate when my advice is not heeded. The soft whispers of steel through air clashed with the hissing and sharp clanging of metal meeting metal. It was a sound I wish I could have forgotten and moved past. Alas fate has deemed me it’s bitch. And so I drew the tool upon my side and waded into the thick of it. Blade singing as blood was freed from its warm prison, coating the dirt and myself as if it was spilled ink. My tool was one well cared for and despite my misgivings my body remembered the motions well. Bodies fell as if grain before a sickle. But I had grow blind to my own shortcomings, arrogant in my prowess. And as I felt pain blossom from beneath my lungs I could only chuckle wetly. A man once told me that those who killed should be prepared to be killed themselves. I had agreed with him that day. Yet as pins and needles spread from my feet and fingers and my breaths grew shallower and sharper I could only think of my regrets, of the what if’s. Of what I could have done better. But as the tears dried upon my face and the rattle of my breath finally faded I could hear a most beautiful sound. One of duality, of the good and bad, of the right and wrong. Of bright stars and a cold abyss. And it felt so right. Like a missing piece of a whole I did not know was incomplete. And so as I died I knew death. And so as I breathed again I knew life.


8:45pm  I sit on the sofa, you walk through the door and I look up at you, easing my features into a smile. The first lie. You smile back. The second. You're back late, I don't ask why. Maybe I once would have, maybe once you would just have told me. There is food on the table- pasta again. It's getting cold now and you sit down at your place and I sit at mine. Always the same seats. We'll eat together tonight. We could make conversation, laugh like we once would. We don't. I want too. That's not a lie. I wish I could say that I tried then but that would be the third lie. I ask if you'd like a glass of wine, you say "No, thank you." As if we are still strangers. I want to see you smile but I can't think of anything to say. Not a single thing.  9:04pm  We clear up in silence, the practiced routine marches on. You wash, I dry. The dishes are done quickly, into the cupboard even quicker. I don't flick water at you, and you wipe the bubbles off your own nose, that was once my job- the gentle touches. We have given up on irrelevant affections which once provide a reassurance. I guess we didn't need that anymore- who else could there be. No room for such things in this tedious routine.  9:13pm  There is a dish still lying on the counter and we both reach for it. I catch my fingers against your skin. I shiver- the third lie. You look at me, properly for once. I look back at you. I want to smile and laugh together at the jarring corniness of the situation. A moment passes, you get a little sadder when you realise I will not break this silence. I look away. I should have kissed you then, done anything at all. God, I wish I had, more than almost anything. Yet the silence seems inevitable. In my distraction, I knock the plate from the counter. It breaks. You sigh in exasperation at my clumsiness which you had once found so endearing. You had told me that, years ago. Still, you sigh now, I snap at you. You snap back. Our voices rise to anger, hurling meaningless verbal assaults at each other. I know exactly what to say to push you to fury, I hate that. I stop shouting and apologise- the fourth lie. We never used to argue, we would have laughed and just cleaned up the mess, not phased by such a menial issue. Happy to spend even those few minutes together. We are so tired now, maybe we will take a holiday soon; laugh and dance around the kitchen, maybe I'll remember how to call you 'my love' when 'mine' is the fifth lie.  9:57pm  The argument is long over. You're crying again and I want you to stop. I can hear sobs echo from the bathroom, I'll pretend I don't notice like I always do these days. I used to run to you the second you looked sad, always desperate to be your hero and hated to see you hurt. Some things don't change. I would have done anything for you to just stop, except the only thing I could do. So you continue to cry in the bathroom under the pretence of brushing your teeth and I wonder whether you care that I can hear, I hope you don't. I hope you aren't angry at my cowardice. I am sorry. So fucking sorry. I swore to never make you cry, listening and doing nothing is so much worse. I hate myself every second I sit on the edge of our bed and just listen, I'm crying too I think. Neither fact is of any real consequence. I still sit there motionless.  10:00pm  You open the bathroom door. Your eyes are dry now, mine are too. I walk past you into the bathroom. I pick up my toothbrush from the edge of our sink. I look at the mirror as I brush. Darkness under my eyes, wrinkles beginning to from across my forehead. I look tired. I wonder if the mirror thinks so too and if you looked into it and thought the same.  10:03pm  I get into bed, you are already there. The routine persists as if we are only puppets pulled by some unfeeling puppeteer- moving stiffly. Your head is against your pillow, I mirror your position on mine. We lie there in our bed and we face away, justified by the presence of the books in our hands. I do not reach out to touch you, you don't reach for me either. I would usually try- the sixth lie. I hope you find comfort in the story in your hands, that the characters engage you and make you smile, a little at least. I can't focus on the words. You can't either, I know as much as I wish I didn't. So we lie in silence and pretend that it's because we don't want to talk.  10:34pm  You have put your book down. We lie in the dark now, I can feel the heat from your body seeping into the sheets. It does not know the rules of this ritual, this practiced divide. I think of how I used to pull you towards me and how you would laugh. Maybe I would tickle your ribs, I knew exactly where you were most ticklish. I remember how we used to fill this apartment with laughter and I realise I don't remember the last time I heard you properly laugh. The lovely laugh you have which starts as giggles and ends in gasped breaths. It's a bitter thought. I miss you. Even though you are a mere arm's length away and that seems foolish. I could tell you I love you, it wouldn't be a lie. Maybe that is worse. If I didn't love you this wouldn't be so painful. For the millionth time I wonder how we got to this point. Forever used to seem such a short time with you, now it feels so painfully infinite.  11:47pm  You should be asleep by now, you're tired. I know you are awake. You say my name, I almost think I've imagined it like some reach my brain has made to relieve myself from my own thoughts. It's a half-whisper- unsure instead of playful. This is not part of the routine. We both know that.  You take a deep breath and I feel mine catch at my throat.  "I'm so tired of this." You say, it's not so quiet anymore. You have rolled towards me, we face each other now.  Fear jumps through me.  "Please." It's desperate. I do not know what I am asking for. Anything, I suppose.  "Please, what?" You reply, you sound so exhausted, these whispers are so much worse than the crying or the yelling.  "Don't" I'm crying a little now, you are too. "We can fix it."  The last lie.  You pause, not for as long as I hope, I only wish for a few more seconds of this normality, how we have found comfort in it, despite it's fragility.  It is about to break.  "We can't do this anymore."  "I know." And it's the truth. I do know. We can't keep doing this, tearing ourselves apart. What I don't know how to live without you. It's a habit I will force myself to learn. We're crying harder now, I'm still looking at you, I always looked for you.  All at once we are two strangers lying in the same bed but we have been for so long, really.  "I love you." You say. It's a justification in some strange way.  "I love you." The words feel like they mean nothing, I've failed to prove them true. I remember you making me swear to never add a 'too', you'd say it was too much like an agreement instead of a confession or a promise. One last unbroken promise, a beautiful irony. I scoot towards you and you towards me with a forgotten ease. I kiss you then, too late and we both know it. I savour it still; it feels like relief. It doesn't make me feel butterflies or send electricity through me like it once did but it's still you and that has always been enough. We will fall asleep together for the last time, you run your hands through my hair in patterns which used to be unpredictable and I don't lean in to kiss you again, I simply wrap my arms around you and hope you stop crying. You smile at me, a real smile for once and I'm forced to look away; I still love you and I can only take so much. I smile back, though. I hope it looks real enough. "I'm sorry" and then "I love you", decidedly separate because I will never be sorry for loving you. I repeat the words over and over against your skin as though if I say it enough it will matter whether I'm sorry or not.