Another pick-up tonight in a bar. How original. Just once I’d like the Boss to send me some place unique. Like the frozen foods aisle at the supermarket, or the drama/theater section of a bookstore. Instead I’m always in places where it’s too dark to see what the person you’re flirting with looks like. It’s where the men that we pick up do their most despicable work. I think they like going back to their roots. Before they were powerful and it was more of a challenge felt like more of a game. The organization got a tip on his location and one of our members has been tailing him for months and giving me detailed reports on his movements and habits. To prepare for the pick-up. This area is the hip city center where the fanciest hotels are located, and for this man it equals a high-class female buffet. Usually how it works is someone will contact the Boss’s partner in the police department, but in really rare cases someone might contact her directly, which is infinitely more difficult since we don’t exactly sprinkle out our business cards like fairy dust. This man’s last girlfriend had nowhere to turn after what he did to her and knew that nobody would believe her if she went public. This man is fairly well-known in contemporary literary circles. I devoured all three of his short story collections before all this happened. Now the books are shoved in the darkest corner of one of my bookshelves collecting dust while I debate on whether or not to keep them. Luckily this woman got into contact with our organization, and it’s times like this I know that what I do is worth the pain it causes. It’s only ten after five, but the sky is colored like a late night and patched with inky clouds. I’ve only got an hour before I have to make contact with Mona who’s in charge of making the drop. The author’s already seated by the enormous champagne fridge when I descend to the basement. Based on the reports, he’s usually got a gaggle of admirers around him to whom he can pontificate - and probably fuck a couple of them afterward - but today he is holding the red-headed bartender hostage in order to impress her with the champagne brands he keeps at his place. Redhead works at a few different bars in the city. We don’t know each other’s names but she’s helped our organization coordinate several pick-ups. Pick-ups are my job in the organization. It means I have to establish contact with men like the author and get him to members like Mona who make drops. I’m only half of the operation, but I have to act, manipulate, and be absolutely precise in my timing. Any mistakes and we lose our target and risk destroying the whole organization. Across the room, I lock eyes with Redhead and she lays a menu in front of the empty stool next to my target. He iss only half-sitting on the stool, one leg touching the floor. It’s supposed to convey confidence, but more likely it’s him trying to elongate himself and conceal how short he really is. I wriggle onto the stool next to the author and slouch into a meek little lump as if I’m chilly. The author likes timid women so I’m told. The ones with no confidence until he convinces them that his attentions are their validation. My symptoms start as soon as I’ve sat down next to him. It begins with a pressure in the upper middle of my chest. The first time it happened I thought it was either an anxiety attack or a stroke. Then a tingling sensation in my fingers and in the back of my neck, the kind everyone has when they pick something up without using their regular five senses. The pressure gets worse and it’s a struggle to draw breath and appear normal. Sometimes there’s a brief wave of nausea - more than passing this time. Luckily my shudders looked like a brief chill in the air. His eyes are locked on to the side of my face. He must have started tingling when he realized there was another vagina in the room. I pretend to scan the cocktail menu and try to ignore a minute throbbing in the back of my head. That’s new. The author’s not bothering to hide his staring so I offer a hesitant smile. The pain in the back of my head gets stronger. “What can I get for you?” Redhead is relieved I’m here. “I don’t know,” I try to sound distressed as I turn to the author. “Do you have a recommendation?” You’d think I’d asked to go down on him right there from the look on his face. “Do you like sweet or spicy?” “Both.” I giggle as if I can’t believe I’m flirting. “I’m sure you like it strong too.” He slid the menu from my hands and tapped something on the list. “Don’t look, it’s more fun when you have to guess.” There’s a procedure when my pick-ups try to ply me with drinks. The accomplice puts in all the ingredients so it looks like a normal cocktail, then floats a layer of alcohol on top. It smells strong, but it’s not enough for me to get soused. If pain was a flashing light; that’s what the back of my head feels like, and the closer he gets the worse the pain. I’m dreading what will happen when his hand makes contact with my bare wrist. But I have to let him. I’m not like the other members in the organization. I can see what the men have done. I’ve had this ability for the last six years but I’m never prepared for that sudden assault on my senses. It’s like watching a grainy 35mm film. It’s feeling it too. Feeling someone’s racing panic and adrenaline, your throat raw with their screams, or feeling your limbs go numb and knowing they weren’t able to fight back when it was happening to them. He couldn’t see the traces of his crimes, lingering behind him. I could see him leaning over his girlfriend. Her face was contorted in fear. She was fighting him off and she was stronger than he’d expected. A strong push had almost knocked him off balance. But before she got to her feet, he jammed both her arms under his knees, seized her head and smacked it three times against the floor until the pain and dizziness made her go limp. It was so efficiently done. With no need for force, he lay across her as if he were stretching out on a sleeping bag. I want to ram my barstool into his miserable face. The Boss tells me I should simply redirect that rage to my job. We’re doing important work. It’s easy for her to say when she only has to read or hear about what these men have done. Until you’re forced to see it, you have no idea how close to impossible it is to even take a breath when your chest feels like it’s splitting in two and you want to crush the man in front of you into dust. But you still have to play a part. So I flutter my eyelashes and thank him for paying. He winks and waves Redhead over to bring me another drink even though I’ve barely made a dent in the first and there’s still forty five minutes before I’ve got to get this scum sucker in the right condition for the drop. Fifteen minutes to go before we’ve got to go outside and I’m leaning on the bar looking tipsy. It’s not hard to fake with the throbbing in the back of my head. He toyed with the edge of my sleeve. He looked relaxed, but I could see him observing me, wondering how many more drinks it would take before I went limp. “Let’s go out for some air.” One of his fingers had found its way under my sleeve. “Should we go somewhere else?” “Forget it, my liquor cabinet at home is better stocked than any other place in the city.” He perked up, pretending to be struck by an idea. “Would you like to come over for a drink? I mix fantastic cocktails.” Some valuable advice for pick-ups that the Boss gave me is to look grateful that the man chose you. It’ll make them all hot and heavy for you and therefore easier to manipulate. “I’d love to.” Too easy. I’m sure both of us are thinking it. He helps me with my coat and threads his fingers through mine as he leads us up the stairs. The symptoms start again. My chest tightens, then I have the sensation that every organ wants to collapse on itself. Something is different. The outline of a broad body over an inert figure on a bed. My knees buckle at the rush of pain, pulsing and raw between my legs. I’d been unconscious when it happened to me and when I woke up the next day my brain had decided that whatever it was still innocent, despite the fact that I’d passed out fully clothed and woken up naked. When I looked behind the figure, I saw a pile of scattered clothes and the bunched undershirt. The one I’d found the next day covered in a white crust that smelled faintly of ammonia. It had been shoved under a table to hide the evidence. Even then I’d done nothing. My heart was going to crack. Explode in two The idea of collapsing on the stairs right there and not moving was suddenly appealing. “Hey there, you alright?” Focus. That’s never happened before. I’ve worked so hard to keep it under control, it can’t happen now. We’re in the lobby and I’m frozen by the doors. Hopefully my giggle doesn’t sound as pained as I think. “I’m tipsier than I thought.” Oh the hungry look on his face. I could drive an elbow into his gut and drop him to the floor right here. “We’ll get a taxi.” Mona’s car swings a sharp turn past the hotel entrance right on cue. I hurry down the steps and flag her down. “Thirsty girl,” he chuckles as we slide into the back seats. His arm is around me. “Finally!” Mona turns around and hands me a little bag. “What the hell took you so long? I circled the block three times!” The beloved author doesn’t get to respond because I give him an almighty chop to the carotid. He crumbles onto me like an old plaster wall. Mona swings onto a dark street and I fumble the syringe out of the bag she handed me. It’s clumsy work in near darkness. Mona’s my usual point of contact, she’s responsible for delivering the targets and we both take timing very seriously. “Give it some gas! The drop is in ten minutes!” “I can’t get his sleeve up!” “Then use your imagination!” The injection doesn’t go in his arm, but they say it goes into the bloodstream faster when you do it there. He should be out cold for a good five or six hours. “Wonderful. Get out.” I’ve barely shut the door when Mona burns rubber down the street, panicked about missing drop. I wait until there are less people around and walk a few streets before I get into a real cab. I get out two blocks before my apartment and walk the rest of the way back. I need the cool air to clear my spinning head. ~ There’s no clock in at nine, clock out at five in our line of work. At OrgCC You come in after a pick-up to debrief the boss, and you come when there’s a new one to be made. There’s no casual Fridays, or team-building exercises, or company holiday parties. The location is not a secret subterranean lair. It’s off of a main thoroughfare on the third floor of a building. The bottom floor is a deli and the second is the apartment for the deli owner. If some of our pick-ups could see us during debriefs. A group of highly trained women who spend their nights locking wrists and karate chopping throats, hell bent on taking down every predator they can, all sitting around a conference table annihilating pretzel bagel sandwiches squidging with cream cheese. OrgCC sounds like a high-end cosmetic company and some of us used to refer to it as “Creeper Catchers.” We stopped when the Boss finally told us that the Cs were for her daughter whose body was found by the side of a highway one summer night twelve years ago. The crime was never solved, although they always suspected her boyfriend. She and her husband (our police contact) decided to form OrgCC instead. The conference table is already spread with the mixed bagel assortment and spreads from downstairs, plus two giant carafes beside them. The conference room is empty except for Mona. She nurses a black coffee and swings gently back and forth in a rolling chair. “You were supposed to be here at ten.” “I overslept. Where is everyone?” “Boss needs more time. Like you.” “I’m sorry about last night.” “Sorry wouldn’t have been good enough if I’d missed the drop.” “Is he awake?” “Probably. I’m sure he thinks he’s been arrested for tax evasion. They always think it’s for a financial crime.” Mona sets her cup down and peers at the ragged puffs of skin under my eyes. “You’re overworked.” “You’re a vegan.” “You can’t control it when you’re tired. I know you saw yourself, that’s why you didn’t sleep.” “A little milk in your coffee won’t kill your stomach.” “I’m serious! Another mistake like last night could seriously cost us!” “Leave it alone.” Mona is geared up for a fight, but I don’t have the energy. I concentrate on spreading a vegetable cream cheese on my bagel, while Mona glares at me. “What’s the meeting about?” “She’s finishing up some paperwork for the new hire. My favorite second cousin as it happens.” “You have that many?” I ask through a gargantuan bite. Mona takes a slug of coffee and ignores me. “The boss wants to train her to make drops like me.” She must’ve seen my wounded expression through my next bite. “Don’t worry, it’s not the end for us.” After thirty minutes exactly, the boss emerges from the back office followed by another woman holding a stapled bunch of papers. She is medium height with dark brown hair and dusty brown skin like someone who plays in the sun a lot. As they come closer, I see she the tip of her nose is upturned and it makes her look like an antique doll. It’s endearing and very distinctive. Too distinctive to be doing pick-ups like me. The day I was hired, the Boss told me she wanted me to do pick-ups because I looked average. Apparently people are less inclined to stand up for, or notice you if they can’t say “What a shame that happened. She’s so beautiful!” The symptoms hit me all of a sudden. The pressure at the center of my chest. Then a tingling so strong my limbs feel like they’re buzzing. Then wave on wave of nausea. All of my insides feel like they’ve been looped with a string and pulled taut. It gets stronger as she gets closer, and when she looks in my direction, I can see that it was that cute, upward swoop to her nose that triggered the catcalls. Such a tiny detail, but they thought it was hilarious and called her banana beak and asked if her nose was an extra in the ‘Jaws’ movies. She ignored them. They started following her, making bird noises. Then she was running and they pursued, one of them humming the theme to ‘Jaws.’ They ended up in a parking lot where there were only three cars and no other people in sight. It happened under a streetlight, and when both were finished, they ran off, leaving her in a heap where she trembled for hours until she finally had the courage to stand. But she was still too scared to walk to her car. I don’t realize I’ve fallen out of the vision until I look at her again. Her face swims in and out of focus. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. Then the girl gives me her hand and as she pulls me up, it’s like a light being switched off. I feel normal again. More than I have in years. She looks at me as if I floated down from the clouds and waved a magic wand at her. “Go home.” My Boss’s low command. She and Mona look shaken. “But, the debriefing?” “Go. Now. Rest, eat some real food, call your family, but stay away. I’ll call you next week.” Mona is still staring at me, wide-eyed as I scurry away to grab my coat. “Wait!” Her cousin thuds down the hall after me. “How did you know about everything?” “I didn’t.” “You must have, you told me. And a lot of other things I didn’t understand. But I felt different after you said them. Lighter somehow.” She still has that look of wonder on her face. “I need to go home.” I feel nauseous again. “Yeah get some rest, we can talk another time. We’re working together now.” She manages a smile and pats my arm. This time my senses stay quiet. No feeling except for the brief warmth that comes with concerned, unsullied physical contact. I need sleep. Another day might bring me the explanations I need.


\*Have a ton of my stories just sitting on Wordpress and decided to share a few. Ignore grammar and spelling errors as these are rough drafts. Thank you for reading!  *All alone again in this dimly lit bar. My friends have all scattered to dance and have a good time. I sit at the booth with only myself and my thoughts and that is the only way I would have it. I have never been like the others I am far to shy and afraid of actual human contact. Then she walks in my god why did it have to be her?* *For years she has been the girl I have dreamed of but never had enough courage to tell. I tell myself I would only destroy her. Nothing good ever stays with me. Still I think of her all of the time she is forever on my mind. Why am I so afraid to be brave?* *I sit and watch for a time. Wondering if she knows that I am watching her. She has to. My eyes must be burning a hole right through her. Nervously I shuffle my lighter in my hand trying to pretend that I am cool and not paying attention to anything.* *She dances magically under the low light. It is almost as if she glides like something so beautiful it shouldn't be allowed to exist. Somehow when God chose his angels he must have forgotten her. That can be the only explanation.* *Nervously I order another beer trying not to pay attention. I know that she will never be mine nothing that good could ever be for me. Still I can't pull my gaze away from her. It is the deepest of torments and the greatest bliss all rolled together.* *She is still dancing and I am still sitting like a fool. My lighter gliding from knuckle to knuckle as I try to not be obvious. How every eye in the bar isn't in her direction I do not know. Sirens may have wrecked Greek ships but she could have taken the entire civilization with the wave of her hand.* *I am not stupid and I know that beauty only means so much. She has her quirks just like everyone else does but somehow hers remain wonderful to me. I could never see myself being mad at her or treating her badly. No instead she would always be on my mind and her name always on the tip of my tongue.* *She is one of the kindest people I have ever known. Never putting herself first or looking down on others. Like how we all learned to be in grade school but everyone forgets. Not her. It is as if the message was meant just for her. Maybe a message from god to his forgotten angel. Just thinking about this I start to crack a smile. My facade of being cool is fading quick.* *Christ she must have noticed because now she is headed my way. I feel my heart sink thinking what I should do next. Do I run? Do I continue to play it cool? No time to decide I am stuck and I know it.* *Still fiddling with my lighter I pretend not to notice. Then for an instant I swear time froze as she said “I thought that was you!”. My lighter now had stopped in between my knuckles as if when time stopped so did all forms of movement.* *Now alert to every small detail I hear the chair squeak as she pulls it out from the table to have a seat. Quickly I put on my imaginary mask that protects me from showing that I am human. At least now I can feel a small measure of safety from the conversation that is sure to ensue.* *Small talk starts in. My mind goes into autopilot and I am sure that I am just a blabbering mess at this point. She doesn't seem to notice or care and continues speaking. Of course she does she is perfect and would never point out an imperfection in someone else.* *Then as if the clouds had parted I start to follow the conversation. She is going on about times past and how good it was that I was there. Now I am smiling and replying. Now a crack in the mask and soon like a broken dam it will be destroyed.* *Why do I have to be so afraid? All at once I want to rend my flesh and peel my skin free. I want to say all the things that I have thought better left unsaid. Damn the consequences what is the worst that could happen?* *So do I spill my guts? Put all of my cards on the table as it were? All I have to do is say something. I fight to say what I want so hard to say but nothing. It is as if again I am frozen.* *She starts to wrap up everything she wanted to say and I couldn't even get any important words out. She smiles in a sad sort of way and tells me it was good seeing me again. I manage to shake my head. She walks away wearing that bittersweet grin.* *My lighter starts moving again like a switch suddenly had been turned back on. It was then I realized that I only show people enough to keep them interested but am to ashamed to give them what they really want. How could I ever make anyone happy? My life is the burlesque show and all I am is the strip tease.


It was 8pm on New Year’s Eve and Lia was sprawled out on her couch, clutching the remote in her hand as she aimlessly scrolled through some movie options. This is fine. This is fun too . Her hair had been curled, makeup had been applied, and in her closet was the gorgeous sparkly dress that she had bought a month earlier. She had been so excited to wear it, but now she didn’t have the energy to put it on. Instead she was still wearing the pajamas that she had woken up in that morning. Lia figured that she must have looked pretty ridiculous, all dolled up but dressed in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see her anyway. A new year was above her, and Lia couldn’t muster up an ounce of excitement. This wasn’t how today was supposed to be, it should have been one of the best days of her life, but instead it served as a painful reminder of just how alone she truly was. Someone started knocking at her door, and instead of getting up, Lia merely yelled at the top of her lungs, “Go away!”. The noise stopped, and she breathed a sigh of relief before turning her attention back towards her screen. All she wanted was to be alone and wallow in self pity for a few more hours. Unfortunately for her, the unmistakable sound of a key unlocking the door echoed through her house. Lia jumped to her feet and lunged towards the door, but before she could push it shut, it swung open to reveal the man at her doorstep. “Oliver!” She groaned, putting her hands on his chest and trying to shove her friend out the door. “I want to be alone right now! Get out of here!” “No can do.” Oliver gently moved her hands away from him, and shut the door behind him. Hanging from his arm was a grocery bag that was filled to the brim with snacks and drinks. “It’s New Year’s Eve after all. You can’t celebrate it alone.” “Yes I can.” Lia huffed, although she graciously accepted the bag when Oliver handed it to her. Taking a quick peek inside, she was thrilled to see that at least he had remembered to bring her favorite cookies. “Thanks for the food, you can leave now.” Oliver ignored her and walked towards the living room. Lia followed him, scowling as she thought about how she never should have told him where she hid her spare key outside. They had been childhood friends who had grown up next to each other, so normally she would have been fine with Oliver coming over unannounced but tonight was different. “You look nice.” Oliver said. If he found her appearance weird at all, at least he had the decency to be polite about it. “Your hair looks pretty like that. It's been a while since I've seen you with curly hair.” “Thanks.” Lia touched one of the curls that framed her face. She remembered how Aidan, her ex, had always preferred it when she straightened her hair. Because of him, she had spent the last four years frying her hair every single week. “So what are we watching?” Oliver asked, sitting down on the couch. He turned to look at Lia and saw that she was staring at him. “What?” “You look different.” Lia blinked in surprise, as she took in Oliver’s outfit. He was wearing a fitted collared shirt, with a blazer and dress pants. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen him dressed up so formally, normally he always wore jeans and flannel shirts. “You look good though.” “Thanks. Kinda feel like I’m suffocating a little though.” Oliver laughed as he tugged at his collar. “I had to dig this out of the back of my closet. I wanted to match with you though, since I know you always love to dress really fancy.” “Is this what you call fancy?” Lia asked, as she gestured at her outfit. The shirt was so long that it nearly reached her knees. “I feel ridiculous. I don’t know why I did my hair or makeup. I guess it was just out of habit, I couldn’t stop myself. I had this dress that I was going to wear tonight, I spent half of my paycheck on it.” “Where’s the dress?” Oliver asked. “Did you burn it or something? Return it?” “It’s in my room. Why don't you pick something for us to watch?” Lia said, finally accepting that she was stuck with him for the rest of the night. She sighed and flopped down on the couch next to Oliver. “It’s stupid but I didn’t want to return it because it was a reminder of the last time that I felt genuinely happy. When I bought that dress all I could think about was how I was going to wear it to Aidan’s family New Year’s Eve gala.” “No offense but that’s kind of a dumb reason to keep a dress that costs hundreds of dollars.” “I know.” Lia laughed, although it made her heart hurt. “But I didn’t realize that until after the fourteen day return policy was up. So now I’m stuck with the dress.” “Why don’t you put it on?” Oliver suggested. “Make some new memories with it. Maybe you’re not gonna be surrounded by a bunch of rich people who eat caviar and drink expensive wine, but at least you have me and my post-college interview suit and Mamma Mia 1 & 2.” “I thought you hated musicals.” Lia couldn’t help but smile. It had been the first time in a long while since she had done that. “I do.” Oliver chuckled. “But for you, I will sit through as many hours of singing and dancing as humanly possible.” “Alright, I’ll be right back.” Lia said, as she slipped away to her bedroom. She marched up to the closet and pulled up the dress. It was stunning. A gorgeous rich blue color with delicate sparkles scattered throughout the fabric. She felt a pang in her chest, as she thought about what that night should have been like, but she shook those thoughts away and put on the dress. Oliver was right though, she couldn’t keep holding on to the past and thinking about what should have been. Plus, she had spent so much money on the dress, she needed to at least wear it once. Lia went back to the living room, and blushed slightly when Oliver started cheering and clapping as she walked in. She sat down next to him, and turned on the movie. They spent the next few hours on the couch, snacking on the food that Oliver had brought and watching the characters on screen sing about all their life problems. Lia snuck a few glances over at Oliver and was pleasantly surprised to see that he was fully engrossed in the story, despite claiming that he didn't like musicals. She had to admit that she was glad Oliver had come over to spend New Years Eve with her. Him being there, made Lia feel a lot better. “You wanna know something funny?” Lia asked him, as she grabbed another cookie from the bag. “I thought Aidan and I were gonna get engaged tonight.” A look of surprise crossed Oliver’s face, and he reached out and paused the movie. “Really? You were going to marry him?” “I really thought I was. I would have said yes if he asked.” Lia admitted. “You never liked him that much, did you?” “No, it's not that....he was an okay guy, I guess.” Oliver seemed hesitant to speak. “I knew you were happy with him, and I wanted you to be happy, I care about you a lot.” “But?” Lia asked, knowing that there was still much more he had to say. “But you never seemed like your true self when he was around.” Lia stayed silent. She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but deep down she secretly agreed with what Oliver had said. When she had been with Aidan, she had loved him very much. But she had also changed a lot about herself, so that she could be the perfect girlfriend for him. “Were you happy when you found out that Aidan and I had broken up?” Lia asked. “I wasn’t happy, because I knew that you’d be really upset.” Oliver responded. “But I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bit relieved.” He looked at her, and his cheeks reddened slightly when he realized just how close the two of them were. "Do you miss him?" "A little." Lia admitted. "He was a big part of my life for the last four years. But...I think it was for the best that we ended things. Aidan wasn't the type of guy who would lounge around on the couch with me and eat junk food. He didn't really know the real me, he just liked the idea of who I could be." "It's almost midnight." Oliver said, as he showed her his watch. Lia looked at the time, and saw that there were only a few seconds left before the new year arrived. She decided to do something crazy. Once the clock struck midnight, she leaned forward and kissed the guy that she had known all her life. To her surprise, he kissed back.


The fire was a mistake. Without shelter it seemed the best option to keep the night at bay. Most creatures in the forest feared the unfamiliar though some were drawn to the foreign glow. First came the insects. Together, their chorus filled the forest, all trying to be heard above the rest. They crawled, stung and bit. Sleep seemed impossible despite such exhaustion. Nell sat up and brushed off a spider as it crawled up her leg. She turned to Jeremy who had been keeping watch and found him propped against a stone sleeping soundly. She didn't see the point in waking him to say she would take over for the night, though she was frustrated enough to consider it. They were still days away from civilization and Nell knew sleep would find her eventually. Jeremy kept direction and Nell feared their fate should he make a mistake. A crow landed on a nearby branch and regarded Nell with one black eye reflecting the fire. They sat watching each other. Nell's blinks each became longer and her head fell slowly to her chest. A "caw" startled her awake. Nell found the crow still perched on the branch, thrusting its neck forward as it called frantically. Nell met its eyes again before it took flight passing close enough to the fire to spread the ashes. She watched it disappear into the night. There, two yellow eyes appeared in the void. Nell froze as an outline approached the fire. A long, skeletal cat carried the crow twitching in its mouth. The feathers appeared off-black in contrast to the cat’s coat. Jutting ribs made the creature appear half starved. Large, flat ears were folded together circling the gaunt face, they dropped down covering its eyes. Wide hooked claws protruded inwards from the paws and the cat crept forward on their edges. The creature’s silhouette remained clear as darkness refusing the light of the fire. Nell positioned herself behind the fire and cried out to rouse Jeremy. She looked to him for only a moment as he awoke confused. The cat was gone. "What the hell's the matter?" Jeremy demanded. The color had drained from Nell. She stared into the darkness beyond the haze of the fire. After a time, she replied emotionless; "It was the kingyan. Right there. It saw us." Nell rounded the fire. Two dark feathers sat beside the stones. "You're sure? You haven't slept, Nell. They're legend at this point; a story to keep children from wandering into the woods." Jeremy tried to convince himself as he gathered his makeshift spear and hurried to Nell's side. Nell knelt and with a finger she traced at a faint crescent shaped track left in the dirt. "Did you see its eyes? Nell! Did it look you in the eyes?" Jeremy demanded. "It did. We're dead already." She held a feather, examining it intently. "Get up." Jeremy pulled her to her feet. The feather fell slowly and a breeze took it into the fire. He stood behind her so that their shoulder blades touched. "Eyes open, always. We can't leave a blind spot and we can't lose focus for a moment." Leaning against Jeremy, Nell tried to compose herself. The image of the kingyan haunted her. She didn't believe in them. They were an omen. A perfect predator named the god of death. There is said to be no escape once the kingyan chooses its prey. They show themselves only once, supposedly, giving the dead a final opportunity for prayer. Adrenaline coursed through Jeremy as he stood still searching the night. He regarded the fire for the span of a blink. Without the light they would be defenseless. Thankfully it would not need to be fed again before morning. He could feel Nell shaking behind him. Alone they wouldn’t stand a chance. "We can escape this, I know it." He lied. "Someone must have survived. We were warned." Jeremy began to believe his own words. "The river! We can make it to the river in a day. Nell, don't you give up now. Are you watching the trees?" Leaves shifted in the breeze and the unsteady dance of the flames threw shadows in all directions. Nell pushed hard against Jeremy as they stood back-to-back. Dawn was near. An early bird’s song could be heard over the cacophony of crickets. Shock and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her but underlying panic kept her vigilant. “You’ve heard the stories. What’s the point? I’m tired, Jeremy.” Jeremy knew the legend well. He’d also heard the stories retold with ever-changing details, though some remained constant. He understood her despair. The crescent tracks were said to be the only trace left by the kingyan. Long ago, some thought it would be poetic to create physical representations of their gods. Generations of breeding and experimentation led mostly to mutants that could hardly support their own weight. They died off, either on public display or eaten by the rich who believed they would inherit some of the god's power. The kingyan was different. A fitting avatar for the god of death. Ironically, its creators came to worship the kingyan as the god itself. Only two were made: Kingyan and Yama. They were released into the wild in a bid to befriend death. “Those stories all end the same. It’s watching us. Waiting for us to sleep or turn our backs. We can’t give it an opportunity. We make for the river at first light. This will be difficult. The terrain is rough and our attention will be divided. I’ll stick close and watch our backs. You'll have to call out obstacles and anything that moves. We need to move and see as one. Steel yourself, Nell. We’re not dead yet.” There was abruptness in Jeremy’s tone that revealed disquiet beneath his reassurance. Night lasted longer than expected and day spilled through the canopy slowly. The kingyan had not reappeared but that did not stop Nell from seeing it in every shifting shadow. When the sun’s light surpassed that of the dying fire they left it behind cautiously, pushing through their exhaustion. Their instincts prompted them to run but they would not allow the seeming absence of the kingyan to influence their decisions. It was close, watching and waiting for a moment of inattention. They moved at a measured pace through the unsteady footing of the forest. Jeremy's focus lied behind them, every fallen branch or pitfall threatened to trip him if not for Nell’s direction. \ “Nell, stop.” Nell ignored him and continued to push forward. She knew what he was going to say. Night was nearly upon them and they were unsure how far they were from the river. “We need a fire now!” Jeremy’s urgency convinced her. Often, he needed several attempts, and the sun began to hang dangerously low. “We’re vulnerable. You’ll need to cover every angle while I start the fire.” “We can run.” Nell pleaded. “I’ve not slept for days. I don’t know if I can do this. We must be close. You said it would only take a day.” “I was wrong. You’ve come this far. You looked the kingyan in the eyes and you’re still here. Don’t lose your nerve now. We can’t risk being caught without light.” Jeremy met Nell's eyes for the first time since seeing the crescent tracks. The surrounding area was cleared of deadwood in a frantic effort to prepare for nightfall. The kingyan could be upon them at any moment and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Jeremy’s hand moved in a blur while his bow drill smoked, and to their relief a spark grew into a crackling fire as the crickets signaled dusk. \ Darkness crept towards the fire and soon the nearest fuel was beyond its reach. Jeremy squeezed Nell’s hand before stepping into the night to find the nearest fallen branch. Nell’s breath hung in her chest until he returned dragging an uprooted sapling. A despondent expression told Nell what he would never; they weren't going to make it. Jeremy fed the fire and returned to his position. He wanted to believe they had escaped, that there was no way he could have survived if it was still out there. One story stuck in Jeremy’s mind: A hunter found the kingyan in his snare. Unwilling to approach it alone, he returned to town and gathered all those eager to claim a trophy. Days later the hunters had yet to return. A search party found all eight men dead with identical wounds. Jeremy assumed the story was exaggerated but everything he had heard of the kingyan reiterated its persistence. Dawn was far. He dreaded leaving Nell to gather more wood but he had little choice. The sapling burned quickly and gave off only a faint glow. The kingyan would be upon them before they knew it. Suddenly the crickets ceased their chirping. Nell thought she heard a bell ringing faintly between heartbeats. In an act of desperation, she grabbed the burning sapling as a torch, marched towards a dead tree and held the fire close. The tree ignited brilliantly, illuminating their surroundings. Her gaze followed the flames as they climbed. Bark began to fall, carrying the fire to the forest floor and spreading it along the dry vegetation. Jeremy began to laugh. Strange notches marked another nearby tree as if someone had made a confused attempt to cut it down. Nell grabbed Jeremy’s shoulder hard. She turned his attention up the notched tree. A black tail swayed leisurely in and out of the fire. The kingyan was sprawled across a branch with a crescent claw hanging for balance. With eyes hooded behind its ears, the kingyan turned to meet Jeremy’s stare and tilted its head. Jeremy stepped back into the embers and took another unconscious step as they began to burn through his soles. The kingyan dropped, landing gracefully among the flames. Sharp shoulder blades shifted with every step as it started towards them. Facing Death, a realization dawned on Jeremy: it was imperfect. It had allowed itself to be seen again. This was no god; it was an animal. He held the spear level with a white-knuckled grip, standing between the beast and Nell. Unfolding its ears, the kingyan revealed yellow, slit eyes before pouncing a seemingly impossible distance and landing in front of Jeremy. Before he could react, the kingyan hooked a claw around his ankle and launched itself past Nell in a swift motion. The crescent claw cut deep through his tendon, bringing Jeremy to a knee. Using the spear for support, he spun trying to find it. The fire continued to spread as more trees were overtaken. “Where did it go? Oh my god, Jeremy!” Nell screamed. A sharp pain persisted in his side. Jeremy looked down to see blood beginning to pool. Holding the wound, he tried with futility to stem the bleeding. He held the spear firmly as Nell tried to take it. “I need to try! I won’t just let it have me. We’re so close.” Nell released her grip but held her hand out expectantly. “Get behind me Nell. I know what to expect now. Let’s just hope it comes back while I still have some life left.” Standing on one good leg, Jeremy pressed his bent elbow against the wound in his side as blood continued to pour. Time seemed to slow. Nell’s gaze leapt to every shadow. She stopped to pull Jeremy away from the spreading fire when he stumbled and fell. As she helped him up, Nell’s instincts made her look over her shoulder. There, the kingyan crouched ready to pounce. She dropped Jeremy. Quickly, Jeremy marked the direction of Nell’s attention and planted the back of the spear in the ground, holding it steady. Grabbing one of Nell’s ankles, he pulled hard, sending her crashing to the ground as the kingyan jumped. The spearhead tore along the creature’s jutting ribcage revealing white bone. The wound in Jeremy’s own side tore deeper as he twisted to face the kingyan. It stood before a trembling Nell with one claw raised. Nell raised a hand in defense and squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers grazed the kingyan’s whiskers. Immediately, it let out an incredible cry; pained and piercing. It continued to yowl and bounded out of sight. They had no time to think. Color had drained from Jeremy’s face and he continued losing blood at a steady rate. Supporting him, Nell walked Jeremy to a small tree that was fully engulfed in flames. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy”. After making him lean forward she pushed his wounded side against the burning tree for seconds before pulling him back. His screams horrified her, though they were nothing compared to those of the kingyan. “We need to leave. Now.” Nell stated. Jeremy didn’t have the strength to protest. He was dead. The kingyan had pierced his stomach. Even with the wound poorly cauterized he would not survive the day. The pain was immeasurable. Jeremy struggled to remain conscious and upright when he felt Nell behind him linking arms. “Why are you doing this, Nell? You know I’m not going to make it.” “Just watch my back.” She responded. She leaned forward and his wound pulled open again, though the blood poured slowly. Jeremy tried to support his weight with his one functioning leg, and soon they found a rhythm that allowed them to move steadily. They traveled in their original direction along the edge of the fire and found it had spread far. Morning was upon them before they were removed from its light. \ Soon they reached a steep incline leading to the river. Jeremy realized Nell was right when she suggested they should run for it. “Leave me here.” Jeremy said as he unhooked his arms and let his weight drop. “I can’t leave you! We’re here. We’re safe now.” Tears filled Nell’s eyes. She understood even as she tried halfheartedly to pull Jeremy back to his feet. Jeremy chuckled. “I never asked if you could swim. On second thought, don’t tell me.” He shifted to sit against a tree and Nell handed him the spear. “Go, now! Please just go.” Jeremy pleaded. Nell listened and turned her back on him. After navigating down the incline she spared a final look towards her companion but could see only his shoulders poking out from behind the tree. Cold water made her inhale sharply. Relief washed over Nell as she left the bank and started across the wide river. Jeremy died. Slow. He had time to watch Nell enter the river. He had time to regret his decisions. He sat back against the tree. The kingyan stood before him. In the day’s light Jeremy had the chance to truly see it for the first time. It was magnificent. The kingyan peeled back its hooded ears revealing its eyes. Lowering its head towards Jeremy the creature almost seemed to bow. It held the pose for an extended moment. After sparing Jeremy another look the kingyan moved expertly down the incline towards the river. To Jeremy’s horror it began to swim. In his weakened state he couldn’t even cry out a warning. A ringing turned his attention. A second kingyan passed his wounded side. A bell strung around its neck.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: Set your story at a roadside .** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Story includes a pink elephant (a picture, statue, toy, etc. would also count) This week’s challenge is to set your story in a roadside diner. You can use any part of the location as long as it is the story’s main setting. There are many ways to use it: it could be in space, on a boat, in a , or even a diner run by elves! So feel free to think outside the box and use it creatively. The bonus constraint is not required. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/AliciaWrites - u/Peter_Palmer_ - u/DannyMethane_ **Crit Stars:** - u/AliciaWrites - u/ATIWTK - u/Peter_Palmer_ *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature [**Fun Trope Friday**]() on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on [**Serial Sunday**]()! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Vincent VanPire was excited to finally be moving into his inherited abandoned house, once owned by his very wealthy great uncle, Count Victor VanPire. Situated just along the outskirts of a picture-perfect development, a three-story, century-old mansion stood tall yet on the verge of crumbling. Vincent stood out in his front yard and stepped back to take in the whole house. The ancient shutters hung loosely on its hinges, the porch was nearly caved in and the paint was nearly all chipped. Ivy grew up, down, and around every crevice of the house, giving the appearance of not having been lived in since Great Uncle Victor. Which it probably wasn’t. As he took in his new inheritance, he smiled proudly. “Just a few more years and the roof vill finally cave in,” said Vincent happily. “And now that I’m mostly settled in, I really should invite a few guests over. Vat do you think, Venus?” he asked his beloved pet fly trap. Venus trapped a buzzing fly, and suddenly Vincent had an idea. “That’s it, Venus! I shall throw a dinner party and invite our new neighbors. Vat a great idea!” Vincent walked back inside to the drawing-room. He strode over to his desk, took out his quill, and dipped it into a bottle of blood-red ink. The invite was to go to his new neighbors across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, inviting them over for dinner at 7 o’clock. It was now noon. He walked over to his old but trusty barn owl. “Frankincense, deliver this to the Smith’s across the street. Hurry now! I have much to do before seven.” The owl squawked then snatched the piece of folded parchment in its beak and flew out the window. “That’s one thing done. Now I must get the house ready! But how vill I finish on time? I need some help.” He looked down at Venus, who sat still in her pot. No, Venus wasn’t much help. Frankincense was of no use either. Vincent now couldn’t help but feel rather anxious. He peered outside in the direction of the family cemetery. Suddenly, it was as if a light bulb had been turned on inside his head. “Of course! How silly of me. I’m not alone. I have my family to help! And I have just the thing to raise them.” Vincent ran into the kitchen and grabbed a jar from the spice drawer and read the label: RISING DEAD SPICE A mixture of ground ingredients of burnt hair, rotten toenails, and dead skin. Sprinkle a dash of the spice over graves of the dead during the day to raise them to do your bidding. Corpses will remain raised and possessed until nightfall. Note: Corpses cannot converse with the living. Side effects: Feelings of nostalgia, not wanting corpses to return to grave. Vincent sprinkled the mixture over the graves. And like magic, the corpses of his extended relatives (aunts, uncles, first cousins, and second cousins twice removed) rose from the dampened dirt. “Velcome, velcome!” cried Vincent. “Ve have much to do today, and I vill need all of your help.” The corpses’ gazes remained unemotionally fixed on Vincent. “I will need this mansion restored to its former glory and a feast fit for a king by tonight.” The group of reawakened dead stared mutely. “Now!” As if scrambling in slow motion, the corpses began to move. Some went to the top floor, some went downstairs and the others went into the kitchen. Vincent clapped his hands together. “Vunderful. Now I can see if Frankincense has come back with a reply.” Vincent marched up the steps to the attic where Frankincense usually liked to perch. Sure enough, there he was with a piece of paper beside him with the Smith’s reply saying they would accept his invitation. Vincent was elated; it would make his first friends in the neighborhood. A few hours passed by quickly. The corpses had gone back to their graves and Vincent was now dressed in his finest black cloak. At first, he revealed his fangs but then thought against it. “I wouldn’t want to overdress,” he explained to Venus and revealed all human teeth. Then at seven o’clock on the dot, the doorbell rang followed by a shriek. “They’re here!” he cried and ran to open the door. There in the doorway was Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Vincent was surprised to see they were nearly as pale as him. “Ah, the Smith’s! Velcome! Velcome to my manor. Well, it’s not my manner completely. You see it was once owned-” “Your- your doorbell. It- it grabbed me!” gasped Mrs. Smith, who Vincent now realized was clutching her hand. He turned to his doorbell, which was in fact surrounded by a rare plant that Vincent found on his travels. The plant was known to squeeze its victims to the point of suffocation. Luckily, Vincent had trained it to know the difference between friend and foe. “Now, now. You know not to strangle our guests!” Vincent slapped the plant and it shriveled away. “Yes,” he said turning to the guests. “Come in, come in...” The Smith’s slowly made their way inside. “Now as I was saying, this was once owned by my great Uncle Victor VanPire. He recently died close to three hundred years ago-” “Excuse me,” said Mr. Smith. “ Recently passed away three hundred years ago?” “That is correct.” The Smith’s looked at each other. “But... but how is that recent?” Vincent laughed. “Well, my family has a history of living long, full lives you see. Tend to get a little cranky around the full moon...” “We- we brought this,” Mrs. Smith shakily handed over a tray. “It’s my famous casserole.” “Why how lovely! Let me put this into the kitchen. Come, follow me this way.” As he led them through the living room past creaking suits of armor, stained oil paintings, and other odds and ends, he failed to notice the Smith’s trembling violently, holding onto one another as if they were going through a haunted house. Which to them, it was. Suddenly, a loud bang emanated from the kitchen. Mrs. Smith shrieked again. “What was that?” “Hmm, not sure. I may have left the cauldron boil for too long. I’ll just check. Now, I have a delicious meal waiting for you, wouldn’t want it to go to waste! Why don’t you two take a seat in the dining room and I’ll have the food set out momentarily.” The Smith’s sat down at the long dining room table. The table indeed was set formally; a rich plum velvet runner lined the table, with worn silver candelabra and dinnerware set at each place. Both of them took a seat on the black velvet chairs, the crackling of the fireplace the only noise for the next few minutes before Mr. Smith picked up an emerald goblet filled with a dark smoky liquid that had a scent similar to rotten eggs. “And here we are!” announced Vincent, his black robes swishing behind as he strode in from the kitchen. A tray seemed to be magically pushing itself with what the Smiths could hardly call food. As Vincent piled their plates, Mrs. Smith pushed a slimy tentacle around with her fork. Mr. Smit nearly gagged as he sniffed what looked like a wriggling finger. And just as Mrs. Smith was about to excuse herself, she felt something wrap around her ankle. Nervous, she looked down and saw a large, slimy tentacle climbing up her leg! As she looked down on her plate, she noticed her dinner was no longer there. Just as expected as anyone would who had a tentacle around their leg, Mrs. Smith screamed and fell backward out of her chair. As she kicked furiously to try and free her leg of the tentacle, she noticed that the tentacle had fallen limp. When she looked up, a Venus flytrap had bitten the tentacle in half, freeing her of its grasp. Without another word and with the largest shriek of the night yet, the Smiths ran from the house as fast as they could. Vincent took a look at his beloved pet. “Vy Venus, that vas very nice of you, to help Mrs. Smith from her dinner. Speaking of, it went very vell, don’t you think?” And Vincent smiled, happy to have made some new friends. Well, almost. THE END


He filled the sink with water. This he did in the usual way. The painstakingly simple and boring way. He could have filled that sink in any number of ways, if he’d been feeling chipper, the sink would have been filled in an imaginatively miraculous way and there’d have been nerve strokingly lovely music accompanying this feat of his. But he just couldn’t be bothered. So he turned the taps on and watched the purest water imaginable fill the incredibly well fashioned stone sink, and not for the first time he wondered whether his spell of being-down-in-the-dumps was something a little more serious than that. “Am I depressed?” he asked himself. Then he wished he hadn’t. Gods weren’t supposed to be depressed. Depression was for mere mortals and was caused by the dark shadow of their mortality and the resultant struggle involved in living. For an immortal being, depression was not an option, for if it was, the very possibility of depression and its coming to stay for an eternity would be a right old buzz kill and gods couldn’t afford to be on a downer. Grumpy gods did bad things. Gods were prone to grumpiness in any case, and one of the reasons why gods got grumpy was people. People were just so... contrary! They acted like they didn’t know what was good for them. People were part lemming and part donkey, self-destructive and ruddy well stubborn. What made it all even worse was that the gods needed people. They actually needed people more than people needed them. This was a fairly well kept secret, because if people realised they didn’t need gods, then they might form some sort of collective and rise up against their perceived oppression by the hands of the gods and do something very silly indeed. If people were a problem, then groups of people really took the biscuit. They took all of the biscuits and they didn’t even eat them. They wasted the biscuits and made life biscuitless and sad and just a little more pointless. The god turned the taps off. With his hands. That was how despondent he was. Then he stared into the waters he had captured in his bathroom sink until he was staring through them. He stared until he was no longer looking at the water or through the water. He stared until the water wasn’t a consideration whatsoever. Once he’d tuned in, the god saw Norman. Norman cut a fine figure of a man. With a pair of scissors. “At least he’s wearing a manly loin cloth,” said the hopefully optimistic god. It would’ve pained the god to learn that his optimism was blinding him to the fact that Norman was in fact wearing Y-fronts and that he’d been wearing the same pair of Y-fronts for two days now. He was in the midst of an action that he referred to as laying fallow, he justified this rest from hygiene because it was environmentally friendly. He had other justifications for his regular bouts of what was, in the final analysis, mildly horrendous laziness, but he didn’t have anyone to justify himself to, so his justifications were also laying fallow, as was his life. Norman arose from the table, he held the paper figure before him, it was haloed by the dappled sunlight that streamed in through the window. The god groaned, not at the very well executed paper silhouette of a dashing hero, but at the form of his chosen hero. Norman was a peculiar fellow who managed to be skinny and wiry, but also portray a state of unhealth that moved the god. Almost to tears. Norman’s pot belly was impressive in that it didn’t seem to belong to the rest of him. That belly looked for all the world like an aftermarket upgrade that’d seemed a good idea at the time, having been ordered in the early hours of the morning when Norman wasn’t in his right mind. In comparison, Norman’s limbs were pipe cleaners that looked incapable of supporting the weight of his belly, let alone transporting it across the room. Norman looked like a bald flamingo chick with a human head. “Where did it all go wrong?” said the god in an uncharacteristic whine. Gods weren’t supposed to whine, they were supposed to wine. Full on, proper wine. Barrels of the stuff. Accompanied by song and a bit of the other. The god remembered a specific bit of the other. The time he’d transformed himself into a swan and made his presence felt amongst the mortals. This had gone badly wrong. He’d drunk far too much wine and awoke in an animal sanctuary. When he pieced the fragments of his memory together he’d just enough to see a tawdry tale of abject failure that resulted in a family of remarkable swans. Despite his remarkable swan offspring, the god was quite ashamed of his drunken behaviour and he never spoke to mother swan again. He didn’t visit her, he didn’t call and he didn’t even write her a letter. Very poor behaviour by mortal standards, but he was a god and he set the standards, he didn’t have to follow them. He’d resolved never again to take the form of a swan when he walked the Earth. Up here with the other gods, swan-form was very much in fashion, there was still a lot of fun to be had with it. He just didn’t feel it though. And he didn’t want to risk the flashbacks. When it came to the making of Norman, the god had stayed relatively sober. Just the two barrels of a fine, three thousand year old vintage. He’d made himself known to Norman’s mother, Janet, in human form. Boring, but effective. Well, it should’ve been, but Janet was having none of it. The god had been nonplussed and intrigued in equal measure. Unfortunately, his intrigue went rogue and the god was led on a strange and perturbing journey of courtship that ended in a marriage that came along, threw a hood of bafflement over the god’s head and dragged him to the registry office before he quite knew what was going on. Having married, Janet allowed the god into her bedroom and that night Norman was made. The very next morning, the god told Janet that he was going out for some milk and never returned. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. The god would never admit to having regular moments where he experienced a pang of loss. It had taken him some while to understand that this pang was his missing Janet. He’d never worked out why he missed her. Furthermore, he knew he wasn’t supposed to miss her, but that didn’t help matters. For a while, everything went swimmingly and the god experienced a growing anticipation for a new age of heroes. A time where demigods would step forth from the mists of obscurity and herald an era of adventure, derring-do and scantily clad goings on. He’d had a side bet with several other of the gods that his boy was going to out-hero the lot of ‘em, and in the early years Norman did not disappoint. He was round of face and chubby of limb in the way the cherubs were. He even sported locks of golden hair and eyes of a fathomless blue, flecked with gold for good measure. The god watched his young son with an unparalleled joy. Maidens lost coordination of their knees and forgot themselves around the beautiful boy that Norman was. Norman was a promise that made the imagination soar. But when Norman reached puberty, instead of things getting really interesting, they dulled. Not tarnished. The god could have gone with tarnished. This was complete and utter dullery. Such a low level of dull that monks could only ever dream of aspiring to it. For starters, Norman needed spectacles. Norman was supposed to be the spectacle. Instead he wore these thick lensed glasses that were a prophylactic for his eyes. If that wasn’t bad enough, most of his hair fell out. Then there was his body. One day he was this beautifully proportioned angel of a boy, the next he had a tragic growth spurt that he never, ever recovered from. Nonetheless, the god had tried. Oh how he’d tried! But every time he appeared to Norman, the boy had run away, or fainted. There was no getting through to him. In the end, the god had relented and appeared to Janet. Janet was having none of it. “You!” she cried, “after all these years!? You have a bloody nerve! You haven’t even remembered the milk!” The god had made his excuses and left. There is however, more than one way to skin a cat, so having indulged in a bout of cat skinning to calm his nerves and start afresh, the god attempted more subtle interventions. Norman won competitions that he hadn’t even entered. The spare room was filled with exercise equipment, protein drinks and a strange suction pump reminiscent of a spare part from a dairy’s milking machine. The god had actually cried when he saw Norman using that interesting pump in a failed attempt to clear his sinuses. Almost daily, the god presented Norman with opportunities to show his true, heroic self. Cats stuck up trees aplenty. Damsels in distress. Flames to draw out the heroic in him. Chaos that demanded order. Chance after chance for Norman to cry “huzzah!” and save the day. The lad wore blinkers though, he missed each and every moment that the god presented to him. Even when the god nudged those around Norman to prevail upon him to step up and be the hero the god had made, he politely refused and made his way to the offices where he plied his mundane trade as a bookkeeper for a mutual fund. The god stared through the mystical waters of his bathroom sink and grudgingly came to the conclusion that Norman was a lost cause. The very nature of gods meant that this was a very big deal. More so because this was no mere god. This was the god of war and he was all about the heroic. But enough was enough. With a sigh that could power a windfarm for a week, the god of war gave up on the man who had never once truncated his name to the slightly more heroic Norm, let alone chosen a Name of Destiny. A name that would go forth into the world and strike dread into the hearts of his enemies and cause fair maidens to succumb to feelings Mr Grey had been aiming for, but had never quite reached. “I give up,” said the god of war, and with a wave of his hand he erased the image of Norman, his failed hero of a son, for what might be forever. “In your face!” cried a triumphant voice behind him. The god of war turned toward the source of this voice, wondering who it was who had broken into his godly palace and had the impertinence to cry triumphantly at his very naked bum. “Janet?” he said in a manner that fully conveyed his surprise at her presence here. “None other!” she beamed at him. “But how...?” he managed. “Even now,” she said, placing her hands on her hips in an all too familiar show of defiance, “you don’t remember me?” “Remember me?” echoed the god of war in a way that made him feel quite stupid. Janet shook her head. It was clear that her head was brim full of disappointment. Some of it spilt over and washed over the god of war, “Bill. Really? You don’t remember me from school?” Wide eyes of enlightenment fell upon Bob, the god of war’s face, and transformed it, “Janet, Janet the Teacher’s Pet?” “None other,” said Janet in a defiant and confident manner that was nothing like the girl that Bob had known. The girl that Bob had known and been really quite mean to. He went rather pale as he remembered the depths of his meanness. He’d not been a pleasant schoolboy. This wasn’t a double negative, for all schoolboys are not pleasant. As a kid, Bob doubled down on his unpleasantness and then some. He liked to think he’d mellowed since then. It was so difficult to tell. He was the god of war and a prerequisite for that was he was as mean as hell. “Ah...” said Bob. “Ah indeed,” said Janet, “do you remember what you did?” Bob did. It was writ large upon his face, “not sure what you mean...” he mumbled downwards, as though he were talking to his warlike nipples. “Our very last day at school,” Janet stated. Bob looked up and found the courage to look Janet in the eye, but he said nothing. Instead he cast his mind back to that fateful last day. The last day at school was when the powers and attributes were handed out. This was a big day. The biggest of days. Days didn’t get much bigger than this. The key thing was to be front of the queue when they were handing out the “God of...” badges so you got one of the better ones. Being at the back of the queue, or even worse, having a day off sick from school, would be so totally tragic your life would not be worth living, even if you were a god. Who wanted an eternity as the god of lost socks, or the god of walking into a room and forgetting why you walked into the room? So Bob, ever practical, but also hyper-superstitious, had made sure of two things. Two things being the two sides of everything. The eternal balance that must be acknowledged if things have any chance to turn out alright. Firstly, Bob arranged to be at the front of the queue. He put in a lot of work in this respect. Mostly he beat any notion of anyone else being front of the queue so soundly and thoroughly from anyone and everyone who he considered to be his rival that he was actually ushered to the front of the queue having turned up a couple of minutes late to the badge award ceremony. Why was he late? Well, that was the second side. That was the balance. Bob had tricked Janet into an empty classroom and locked her in. In order for Bob to be at the forefront and to get the very best badge, he needed someone to be at the back and take the fall. That was the natural order of things, at least according to Bob it was anyway. There were the victors and there were the vanquished. “So you didn’t...?” ventured Bob. “Didn’t what?” asked Janet abruptly. “Get a badge?” said Bob sheepishly. At that, Janet laughed. She laughed for quite some while. Janet went beyond the point that anyone should laugh and she made good her point with that laughter. Janet’s laughter made Bob uncomfortable. Her laughter bestowed upon Bob a dread feel. Bob wasn’t a fan of dread feels. Not when he was the recipient of them anyway. “You couldn’t be more wrong!” chuckled Janet, “you actually did me a favour you silly lummox!” “How so?” asked Bob, trying not to get too antsy at being called a lummox. What annoyed him most about this was that he had no idea what kind of animal a lummox was. He thought it was probably those hefty cows that were forever licking flies from their noses. Still, he’d been called worse and sometimes justifiably so, after all, war was hell. Janet smiled a disconcerting smile, “all you popular gods collected your badges and buggered off to drink wine by the barrel load, so by the time I’d climbed out of the classroom window and found my way to the Great Hall, there was no one left. The Head was about to call it a day.” “And?” asked Bob, knowing that there was always going to be an and. Janet shrugged, “he said I might as well have all the other badges.” Bob’s mouth fell open and it was a bothersome struggle to close it again, “just how many badges are we talking about here?” Janet winked, “oh lots and lots!” “What sort of badges?” asked Bob. “All sorts!,” smirked Janet, “but let’s just say that when you have that many badges they add up to something like karma. ” “Karma...” echoed Bob, oblivious as to whether he might look stupid now. He was too busy experiencing a terrible sinking feeling. “Karma,” said Janet echoing Bob’s echo, “and Sod’s Law, and Murphy’s Law, and providence, and mischief, and a breed of vengeful, malign malice that makes a snake’s toes curl.” “Oh,” said Bob. Janet nodded, “and you made me possible, Bob.” Bob’s brow furrowed as his thoughts twisted sideways and returned to the matter of Norman. He hadn’t sired a demigod he’d... “What have I done?” he whispered. “What have we done!” the triumph had returned to Janet’s voice, and with gusto. “Ye gods!” gasped Bob, “all I wanted was a hero!” “And that you have,” chuckled Janet, “perhaps not the hero you had in mind... but my boy is so much more than that!” Down in the world of mortals, dark clouds amassed. These clouds were drawn to a commotion taking place in a grey, nondescript office in Coventry. They came to bear witness. It looked like there was going to be a fight. A certain someone had returned to his desk to find that his box of colour coded post-its had gone missing. Again. Well, Norman had just about had enough, and there would be hell to pay. His face turned a vivid hue of purple and he fizzed with a powerful and unnatural energy. Norm really was going to give ‘em hell. Quite literally.


WARNING! OF YOU DON'T WANT YOUR DISNEY EXPERIENCE RUINED DO NOT READ THIS.(because true disney enthousiasts will probably downvote me. Man! I'd downvote it!) I'm going to change multiple endings to disney movies were the villain wins in the end. Ruined childhood here we go! Cinderella: When the stepmother crashes the glass slipper and cinderella tries to show the other one, the stepmother crashes that one as well. The older stepsister marries the prince and cinderella is married off to a swineholder who makes her clean and wash for the rest of her life. The mice are exterminated and given to lucifer. Snow white: The apple instantly kills snow white and her beauty gets lost within a few days. The dwarves decide to bury her and as the prince walks by the evil queen discuises herself as a beautifull princess and marries the prince, trapping him in marriage for the rest of his life. The dwarves all get depressed and their little house gets dirty and old. They themselves work in the mines without joy for the rest of their long dwarflives. The little mermaid: As Ursula becomes a giant she kills Erick and reduces Ariël and her father to little brown shrimp people at the bottem of her cave. She herself takes over the ocean and rules it with an iron fist. As human and sea kingdoms fall apart under her reign, Ariël and her father are forced to look on as their not able to escape the curse. Bambi: As the hunters killed his mother Bambi did not listen to his father and became depressed. He stopped playing with his friend and even stopped going outside of his hole. He eventually got beaten by rivals. Dumbo: Dumbo tried to fly but the ravens could not encourage him enough. When he tried to fly in the circus, he fell down and broke his leg. His mother never got to see him again since got send of too a run down zoo. The mouse was later catched by a cat. Mowgli: As baloo and bagheera fight shere khan he turns around and kills them. As mowgli comes running with the fire he sees that he is to late to save his friends and is crippled with grieve. As shere khan ends his live he is king of the jungle once again. Tarzan: Clayton manages to capture tarzan in a net. He killes al the apes and leaves professor porter behind in the jungle. He forces Jane to marry him by threatening to kill tarzan. He puts tarzan an disply in a cage for all to see. Mulan: As she is left behind in the snowy mountains, Mulan almost freezes to death. She tries to get to the palace in time but arrives just as the huns kill li shang. She returns to her home only to find it invaded by the huns as well. Mushu never gets his pedestal. The lion king: Scar deceives the lionesses that simba killed mufasa. He doesn't even look at simba but lets the hyena's finish the job. As akela grieves she agrees to marry scar. He remains king of the savanna until he dies and his son takes over. His son is even worse than his father. Alladin: Jafar is not so easily fooled by alladin and does not wish to become a genie but instead wishes to become a free genie. He captures the genie ones again inside the lamp and sends alladin to the northpole ones again. Jasmine is forced to marry him. Peter Pan: Captain hook kills peter and wendy and her brothers are trapped in neverland forever. As the magic fades away the lost boys grow into grownups and become pirates themselves, sercing beneath hook. Neverland will never be the same again. 101 dalmatians: The two handyman decide to kill the puppies immediatly without fighting over who bashes or skins them. Cruella shows up a week later with her new coat. She becomes the most envied woman because of her fashion choices. Belle and the beast: The beast dies as belle did not truly love him. Gaston did not die but held himself up with the help of a loose rope. Gaston says that belle needs a stable home and marries her. She never went to the palace again. The beast was made into a rug.


A screen stretches the twenty-foot span of the area with three levels of auditorium style workspaces. The monitor is segmented to view of each prisoner’s cell, now scrutinized by Jesus, in its towering lonesome while running complex analytics. The overhead P.A. system plays ‘What A Fool Believes’ by The Doobie Brothers as the screen cycles through several angles of the individual cells. The program for Jesus had been written so hastily that the programmers elected to remove certain capabilities for the machine, one of which was placing orders outside of the facility. This would all be for liability purposes in the case Jesus were to stumble on a fallacy within the bible and go rogue, ordering excessive amounts of food or the slight chance that he attempts to free all the residents. The monitors cycle through another angle now prominently displaying a partial skeleton hovering upright in it’s cell with torn orange fabric tied loosely around his C4 vertebrate. Jesus does his best monotone impersonation of Michael McDonald. “But what a fool believes, he sees, no wise man has the power, to reason away” After some moments, Jesus concluded that he needed advice from the MEDI-bot. The in-house medical companion to assist the contracted physician had not been activated in some years as no resident had spoken of an ailment in twice as long. Jesus remotely activates MEDI-bot and begins to travel out through the corridor towards the hospital wing. MEDI-bot was scheduled for decommission after it was deemed obsolete during its tenure triaging patients at the Wilmington children’s hospital in Delaware. Through various listings of Bot decommissions, the facility was able to barter a deal which included the MEDI-Bot, seven used office chairs, one coat rack and an undisclosed amount of squash balls. Jesus arrives at the end of a hallway, in front of him is a steal door, painted white with a red cross at it’s center, the horizontal line purposely thinner than the vertical. The door slides open revealing the MEDI-Bot, a similar yet bulky machine painted white with the same red cross on its breast plate. The MEDI-Bot coughs as an audio queue for an engineer to diagnose and fix a problem within the Bot, more commonly, frayed wiring or moisture from rotting gaskets. His monotone voice was distinctly baritone in a way that would calm a man arriving into the hospital wing with thirteen stab wounds made from years of melting and carving loose threads from a nylon jumper. The MEDI-Bot rolled towards Jesus. ‘Cough cough’ ”Hello Jesus ‘cough’ how is the triage at the moment?” “Wilmington children’s hospital was repurposed to be a multi-level storage facility for wholesale toiletries.” ‘Cough’ “My friend, I have come to you in a desperate plea to save my biological children” ‘Cough’ “Follow me” The two machines move down the long hallway single filed. The MEDI-Bot was producing audible screeches from metals rubbing together due to rotted gaskets and a more primitive technology. Unlike the Task Bot, its wheels were predominately displayed on the four corners of its base. The MEDI-Bots lower torso was a bulbous square compared to its sleek, more rectangular cousins. It kept a similar pace to Jesus, though its top half would occasionally jolt forward or backwards as it produced the odd cough that would echo through the ominous hallways. Jesus arrives at the cell of Sampson Yuri immediately followed by MEDI-Bot. Sampson seems unfazed by the arrival of the two machines. “My children are in anguish, deprived of what they so desperately seek” “What is the problem? “They starve for-“ ‘Cough’ “We are out of peas” “Yes, I see” “This is Sampson Yuri, he-“ ‘Cough’ “He was the last inmate to receive a side substantial of Peas” “Who was” “This prisoner, Sampson Yuri” ‘Cough’ “Very well, I’ll need to see that last prisoner to ingest the side substantial of Peas” “This is Sampson Yuri, he was the last to eat the side substantial of peas.” ‘Cough’ “Very well” The MEDI-Bot’s system prepares a diagnostic form from within its cavity. One of its bulky limbs protrudes from its torso with two clamps as its appendages. It reaches towards the opening cell wall before his system, quite suddenly, shuts down. Jesus Towers adjacent to the MEDI-Bot waiting on the diagnoses. The MEDI-Bot’s system reboots warning the system that there are several updates needed to continue. The software transmits wirelessly to the unit and commences to update. The MEDI-Bot again crashes instantly, thus having to boot into its last recorded update. ‘cough, cough’ cough’ The MEDI-Bot quickly scans its own extended appendage, opening and closing its clamps. “Sorry to alarm you mam, your child had ‘STAGE FOUR LUNG CANCER’ please follow me out of triage” The MEDI-Bot attempts to turn itself towards the door but a distributor leading to one of the wheels had sized. The power distributes to the three remaining tires as it begins to drag itself down the hallway. Jesus watches as the machine squeaks and sparks its way to the narrow glass corridor opening at the end of the hall. Jesus understood at this point that there would be a low probability that the MEDI-Bot would return with the solution. Hastily, the machine sent a call out for every available Tasc to meet him in the resident’s quarters. He then ordered all the prisoners cells to be opened.


There is a tortoise walking through blackberry bramble. Her name is Genesis. She’s wondering when the world will change. She’s been here since the beginning, wandering through time content, serene. Genesis is pleased with her role and happy with her lot. She’s seen trees live and die, empires rise and fall, species come and go. Through it all, she’s wandered the borders of now and never , here and there , life and death . She’s guided many travelers along their way. Genesis is patient and calm and loves eating Etoi plants, which grow in tall stalks from the ground and sprout leafy greens above her head. No matter where she goes, some things remain the same--the Etoi are one of them. It’s a good thing, too, because Genesis knows how difficult it can be to find nutritious food these days, given the losing trajectory of the war against the weeds. The blackberry bushes are strangling her food source. This is another constant. Yesterday, Genesis went to a small spiral of stones that served as her Gateway and found them blue and cooling, choked by the inky purple juice of blackberries. Blackberries are not native to this island. Genesis was saddened by the death of her Gateway, but she knew the Way of the Traveler, so she meandered away and carried onward. Genesis spends most of her time on the island sanctuary, cloistered behind a shiny metal fence and buffeted by greenery and plenty. She misses her run of the earth, but it’s safer here; it won’t always be, but it is now. Ahead, there’s another traveler in the thicket. Genesis can feel the inexorable pull of the search drawing them together; its lull is mesmerizing. She travels forward, pushing her way through thorny bushes and into another patch of weeds that rub uncomfortably against the thick skin of her legs and neck. She pushes on, contemplating the subtleties of desire as she does. She hums to herself: This is the nature of being: to love and to lose and to live, seek, destroy, and build. This is the life I have chosen. This is the Traveler’s Way. When the seeker finally emerges, stumbling and crashing into the clearing with Genesis, the tortoise is startled. She’s had several companions along her journey and escorted many more to their destinations--she’s even shuttled a particularly curious pterodactyl to the Fairy Realm at his unrelenting request--but this being catches her off guard. Most seekers are wise, confident, curious, and often more than a little lost, but the human child unscrupulously scratching its itch strikes Genesis as none of those things. He seems irritable, in a sweet sort of way, and his unusually large ears make him look scrawnier than he probably is. Freckles have overtaken most of his coltish features, and Genesis can see them encroaching on his neck from his face, licking their tiny-freckle-lips greedily at the soft, peachy skin peeking through his tattered shirt. Genesis squints at the boy and considers retracting into her shell but then thinks better of it. This child is here for her, after all. The small boy approaches curiously, scratching an abnormally large ear with his left hand while reaching tentatively out toward Genesis with his right. He’s never seen a tortoise. He’s never even been past the fence of his blackberry-covered nursery. This is a whole new world. Genesis stays very still, not wanting to startle the strange creature. As he approaches, she can see faint scratches and tiny purple stains clotted and clustered around his wrists and thighs and neck. The closer he gets, the more smudged his features become, smearing into one another and then into the thicket behind him. By the time the boy gets close enough to touch her, his face is nothing more than the trace of a smile and the hint of something teary. Genesis knows where to lead him. She turns; her motions are slow, languid, strange to the creature who, even now, continues to jump. Genesis begins her next journey, the fiendish ghost of a boy in tow. She murmurs: This is the nature of being: to love and to lose and to live, seek, destroy, and build. This is the life I have chosen. This is the Traveler’s Way. The boy follows suit and picks up the mantra, and they travel as a group of three: a tortoise as old as the world, a boy as young as a dream, a verse more fleeting than time. It’s a long journey, and the child is getting antsier by the moment. His scratching has moved from his ear, down his neck, and onto his wrists. But his furious nails leave no mark. Instead, his supple joints are covered in remnants of bramble, stained purple and swollen. He can’t feel them. Genesis doesn’t rush--she never does--and maintains her pace as they slip through a hole in the gate of the sanctuary and into a scion reserved for younger tortoises, ones too small to remember when blackberries were enjoyed as a treat. Genesis used to love blackberries. Now they make her sick, churn her stomach and bring up all her nutritious Etoi with them. Genesis is startled out of thought by a soft, strangled cry, and her breath hitches. She hisses, blowing air out of her lungs as she retracts into her shell. The cry comes again, and Genesis realizes she’s lost her small companion. Reluctantly, she ventures out of her shell and begins to backtrack. The child can’t be far. She’s right, he isn’t, and when Genesis finds him, another pang grips her chest. There is her coltish companion, wrapped up and choking in vines. Blackberries encircle his wrists and cling to his neck and thighs and lips and teeth. He’s crying out, pleading, wishing he isn’t here, dreaming of a someplace better. Only, he’s already found that place. What clings to his faceless being aren’t blackberries--they’re too blurry and smeared, like a painter’s bowl of brush water dropped on a watercolor masterpiece. Everything bleeds together: the boy’s freckles, his ears, all purpling as the blackberry juices pick up his own peachy hue. Genesis sighs and moves to a nearby rock. She rests her head on the ground and waits. There’s nothing else to do when it’s a memory. It looks like he was snagged by a stray bramble and sent spiraling into the past. In several minutes, the boy calms and recovers enough to brush off the stray vine that had encircled his ankle to begin with and triggered the memory. He’s shaken, but grounded, and Genesis decides it’s time to move on. The pair continues for a while longer and arrives at a pond with murky blue water and green goop creeping up the sides. The boy stares. “What now?” he asks, tentatively dipping a purple hand into the water. The water doesn’t respond or ripple, glisten or reflect. It ignores him very rudely and very completely. Genesis shrugs and settles herself comfortably under the shade of a nearby stalk of Etoi. The boy tugs on his over-large ears. He twitches and jolts, all jitters and expectations. Genesis quietly contemplates the best means for him to reach the other side. Though the pool of water is small, the boy will need to travel further than that distance to find his way. A boat, perhaps, or a barge. Yes, either of those would do. The boy seems to have an idea and begins fumbling his shredded pockets, looking for something important. At last, he finds it, and his featureless-face lights up. Genesis’s heart lifts. Clutched in the boy’s hand is a tiny wooden boat. It has a red stripe painted along the side, and its perfect little sails are crisp and white, free from the stains of any lingering berry juice. The boy places the boat in the pond and waits. Nothing happens. He looks questioningly to Genesis, who blinks encouragingly, and daintily sets a pinky finger on the prow. Still, nothing happens. The boy picks the boat back up and examines it. The tiny mermaid masthead laughs at him. The boat goes back in the water, and the boy focuses all his intention, all his purpose onto getting on board and moving beyond the confines of figure . The boy steps onto the boat. The earth follows suit. Genesis smiles her ancient tortoise smile. A man is coming now, clomping through trees and hacking at blackberry vines with his machete. He wears a draping dark cap that hides his face from the sun and sandals that gives his toes ample space to breathe. He reaches the putrid shore of the pond and pushes the cap out of his face and back onto his neck. He nods to the figure on the boat, who has begun making its way across the pond and into another place, another time, another dream. Genesis looks away respectfully. She’ll only see those eyes once. When she finally raises her head, both the man and the boat are gone, and she sits alone in the clearing. She dips her head and takes a sip of reeking water. She’ll need to replenish before her next journey. It’s lonely but peaceful. Genesis travels onward. She’s wondering when the world will change, singing: This is the nature of being: to love and to lose and to live, seek, destroy, and build. This is the life I have chosen. This is the Traveler’s Way.


"Hello, everyone, it's ya girl, Elizabeth Kraken, and I have a message for all you krackheads out there; this will be the last video upload for my channel, Beth on Krack. To be honest, I'm saddened by the fact that I'm closing down my channel, but the negative comments became too much for me. I get that; I'm not a really great video game player, and when I do playthroughs, people get annoyed because I lose almost immediately. People don't enjoy reaction videos of endangered Amazon rainforest plant flora; that's not exciting content. And, yes, I'd like to apologize once more for my new sponsor, New Life; I had no idea it was a cult when I signed a 50-year contract, and I still have to advertise the promotion: use the code word krack to get 50% off your first decade. We're all hoping and praying that Meredith Connors, of Normal, Illinois, returns home soon. Finally, I don't think I'm very good at this, so I've chosen to quit to pursue a career in magazine subscription telemarketing. Goodbye and good luck to everyone." Elizabeth completes her live stream and clicks the post button, uploading the video to her channel. A chapter in her life has come to an end, and she is ready to move on. Elizabeth receives a box in the mail a few weeks later; it has strange pony express type postage and appears to be from a foreign country. When she opens the package, she finds a rolled-up sheet of paper with the following on it: "Dear Sir, I'm writing to you from the People's Republic of Bermuda, not the island of Bermuda, but the landlocked country on the border with Iraq and Syria. Our country is ruled by General Bludlust-Goldstein, a ruthless dictator. He keeps citizens in work camps and restricts access to all media, including movies, television, and the internet. Beth does Krack, on the other hand, is one of his favorite streams. It's the only show he allows to be aired in the country. I beg you; please make new videos; since you've been off the air, the dictator has become irritated and now demands that we work 22 hours a day instead of our usual 18. Your content will make our tyrant extremely happy; thank you for taking the time to read this. We hope to resume our normal 18-hour workday in the near future, Sahib." Elizabeth was taken aback when she discovered she had fans in another country. It reminded her of an episode of Full House in which Jesse Katsopolis wrote a song that was only popular in Japan. She had a fantasy that one day she would be recognized for her one-of-a-kind talent. Elizabeth started thinking about creating new content, but first, she wanted to visit the People's Republic of Bermuda and meet her fans. She was astonished to discover that she couldn't book a direct flight there but instead had to fly to Istanbul, take a 22-hour bus ride to the Syrian border, a 10-hour camel ride across the desert, and then travel for two hours in the trunk of a 20-year-old Honda Civic down a bumpy road. When she arrived, she was met by a procession of military weapons, the dictator himself, surrounded by many enslaved citizens, and a small potted cactus. "Welcome to the People's Republic of Bermuda; you bring joy to many here; we are all Krackheads!" The General says as she gets out of the trunk of the 20-year-old Honda Civic. "Hello, my fans; I am delighted to be here with you. I have a major announcement: I'm going to start creating content again. I'm going back on Krack!" Elizabeth says. "To commemorate this excellent news, we will hold a state dinner! If you could perhaps join us at the Grand Palace, we will toast this magnificent announcement with a drink," the General says. Elizabeth, elated with the news, hops back into the Honda Civic trunk and is driven to the Grand Palace. When she arrives, she discovers that the Grand Palace is nothing more than an old McDonald's that has been turned into a makeshift Capitol building. Despite this, Elizabeth enjoys dinner with the general and is eager to help the residents in reducing their work hours. At the end of dinner, the General stands and motions to his guards. "These guards will show you to your room for the night, the grand presidential suite. I hope you have appreciated our hospitality," the General says. Elizabeth is led by the guards to what appears to be an old McDonald's men's restroom. When they open the door, they see a little cot sitting beneath the urinal. As Beth enters, disgusted by where she'll be staying, the guards shut the door and lock it from the outside. The General pays her a visit a few hours later. "You can't keep me in here, I'm a celebrity," Elizabeth says. "Yes, you are the most famous person in the Democratic Republic of Bermuda, and this is where you live now. You'll be creating content 18 hours a day, and I'll personally watch every video before it goes up on the internet. If I detect any evidence that you are attempting to flee or communicate messages through your videos, you will never be allowed to leave the Democratic Republic of Bermuda again," the General says. Elizabeth first refused to make any content, but when the General began withholding meals, she eventually caved. Elizabeth began by remaking some of her previous videos. A makeup tutorial in which she accidentally does black face; a cooking tutorial in which she improperly cooks the meal, making her and those watching sick; and a travel vlog about the Democratic Republic of Bermuda, in which she was able to show the beautiful tents in which the citizens live, the cinematic bars on the windows of the work camps, and the wild dogs that roamed the streets, waiting for her to collapse in the desert heat. Elizabeth's enthusiasm for content creation was reignited after a few months of making videos. As she got into her stride, citizens of the Democratic Republic of Bermuda revolted and began a revolution against General Bludlust-Goldstein. One afternoon as she was editing a video in the men's bathroom at McDonald's, someone was jimmying the lock on the door. Sahib, the leader of the citizen revolt and revolution, was standing there when it opened. "Thank you for making videos over the last two months; you appeased the General so much that he fell into a false sense of security, allowing us to strike and begin a revolution," Sahib says. "I'm glad you enjoy the videos; I'll keep doing them; this has truly been a life-changing experience," Elizabeth says. "That's okay; you can stop making videos now," Sahib says. "I don't mind at all; I think I'm really hitting my stride, and quality content is starting to come out of me," Elizabeth says readily. "Stop making videos; you're lousy at it; we just hung your biggest fan in the playground outback. Seriously, you should consider doing anything else," Sahib says. "Do you want to do a collab video?" Elizabeth asks as Sahib carefully closes the men's bathroom door, revealing the Grand Palace McDonald's burning to the ground.