It was May 2019 at a dive bar named Rocky's off Main St in Bowling Green, KY. I was six Orange Gose drinks deep and a week removed from slashing my own finger open while filleting a steak in my apartment at 2 AM while many more drinks deep than six. It was 3:30 AM by the time I went to the hospital. I'd spent the previous hour and a half with a beach towel on my finger while I ate the steak. It was May 2019 and that's where I was at. I digress; a week later, I was at Rocky's and sitting outside on the bench, shaking off the Orange Gose. That's when a girl in her early 20s plopped down next to me and, as if we were old friends, started telling me about her boyfriend. He was inside the bar, apparently as hammered as I was when I was spewing blood and methodically eating a sirloin a week prior. She told me about how tired she was of having to babysit her boyfriend while he swung between being the man she wanted to be with and the man she was waiting on outside of Rocky's off Main St. I had been that Jekyll and Hyde boyfriend, more than once. I knew the story even through a drunken haze where my ability to retain the details was, at best, as questionable as my decision making. After all, I still had stitches in my finger as evidence of both of those failings. It was at this point she pulled out her phone and asked to show me something. Let me preface this by saying, yes, this girl was insanely adorable. Well, here's what she showed me: a photo spread, taken somewhere in the woods, of herself seemingly themed on the Garden of Eden. Through the aforementioned haze, I remember a picture of her nude save a leaf covering her genital region. It was probably the hottest thing I'd ever seen, to be frank. She didn't ask if I liked it. She didn't say anything. She just kept showing me photos, apropos of very little. At this moment, I asked if she was drunk like me. She shook her head. Stone cold sober, she claimed. She wasn't slurring words. She looked as clear of mind as she claimed. She was just waiting on the man she loved, unsure if she was mistaken in possessing that love. And, for some reason, showing a drunk hippy a pictorial of herself. The conservation shifted back to her uncertainty about her boyfriend. She was asking the right guy. I had no clue if her boyfriend was worth keeping but I knew that I understood what it meant to be the man you should simply leave at the bar...and run far, far away. So I shook off the preoccupation I had on the hottest picture I'd ever seen and told her, best I could through slurred words and deep confusion, my idea of what the warning signs were. Part of me wanted to see if this girl wanted to go home with me. Most of me, thankfully, wanted to let her know the signs of what a bad home looked like. I have a working dick and a working soul and I've been swinging the pendulum of my instincts and actions from the former to the latter as best I can. Such is the nature of being an increasingly aged man. I was in the middle of my attempts at giving her answers when a guy approached us. It was him. He looked at her. He looked at me. I wondered if I was in for a fight. Instead, a smile came across her face. She jumped up and all but leapt into his arms, but the uncertainty was still evident in her tone and posture. Even six beers deep, I could see that. And even six beers deep, I could see how much she loved him. I excused myself. I walked toward Main St. and hoped that this young guy was not at all like I used to be and was still so terrified that I still might be. I looked back at them. He was facing away and she facing toward me. She waved at me over his shoulder and I could still see her smiling and exuding the same dual presence of warmth and conflict. I began to round the corner and walk down Main Street. I'm not sure if it was due to rounding the corner or the increasingly fish-eyed nature of my reddening eyes. But at that point, I couldn't see her anymore.


Emma Robbins was sitting on her sofa in her living room in her little flat. All these things were hers and only hers. But exactly the fact that this all thing belong to her was her biggest pride and biggest problem at once. She was able to pay rent and food and buy herself a little present from time to time. She was independent and free. But she was also single and very lonely. Being single wasn't a bad thing unless you don't wanna be single anymore. She had a date tonight. But she wasn't sure if she wanna go. Those few last dates were a total disaster. There were three options for tonight. She could go to her friend's party. She could go on the date or she could stay home and have a comfortable film and chips evening. And this is the point when things are getting interesting because now the Universe splits into three more universes. The universe was already used to this kind of situation because it was doing it quite often. Every time someone made a big decision, there was a part of him or her who made a different decision, went a different way, and live a different life. The universe was calling it trousers of the time and was very disappointed that it can't share this name with some other existences. *** From now on it's a bit difficult for me to make clear which Emma Robbins am I writing about because all of them are the same person who is however on her way becoming very different from the original Emma Robbins. So let's call them numbers, you sure know it if your parents named you Tom or Emma, that feeling when a teacher from lack of creativity calls you Tom the second one Or Emma number two. But I will use it as well because it's much easier than calling her The Emma who decided to stay home and in the conclusion of this one decision she started staying home much more often. Because all the lights in the city suddenly turned off and she spends a very long and stressful hour imagining the worst scenarios. It made her feel truly safe just in her flat and gave her quality anxiety. It went so far she almost lost her job because of it. She also got really fat. But one day her old lady neighbor came to her and the look on her face was so pitting that Emma decided to start working out, going out more and she found her love for a sport especially running. She never got married but she won a lot of prizes because she started to run professionally and she lived a happy life until the bus hit her one day. Yes. Calling her Emma number one is definitely shorter. And because there isn't much more to say about Emma number one except describing her funeral, we can start the story of Emma number Two. Emma number two decided to go to her friend's house. She took a sip of wine to go though she never really was a party type she finally decided to have a bit of fun. The wine gave her the confidence to wear a slightly slutty outfit. None of her dress was actually slutty but she did her best. Her friend doesn't live so far so she was there quite soon. There were about thirty people which was much more than Emma expected. She was looking around nervously for her friend Lydia. Then she saw Josh's back. Finally someone familiar face... She thought heading to him. "Hey." she said and hugged him. "Hello" said the man. It wasn't Josh. "Omg, I'm so sorry. I thought you are Josh." Sophie apologized. "It's fine, I'm not but would John be enough?" he asked. Emma was silent for a while not sure how to react and then both started laughing. "I'm Emma by the way." she said. "Nice to meet you." smiled John and they both smile at each other. They were chatting and they also had a few drinks so after a while nature started to call. "Do you know where the toilets are?" asked John. Lydia's house was actually quite big and not even Emma was sure about the location of the restroom. "I think so. Let's find it." said Emma, the alcohol giving her the needed courage. They went upstairs randomly opening few doors. There was nothing except one room where were two people called by nature too just a bit different kind of calling. "What is this? High school party?" asked John rhetorical question so Emma didn't reply just smiled. They continued with searching, entered few doors which lead them to a new corridor. Then suddenly the lights went off. "What happened?" asked John. If they would know each other longer and if Emma would be just a bit more sarcastic she would probably answer. "I think the light went off but I'm not sure about it." or maybe "Oh this is the blackout I planned for so long." there were a few more answers she could use but she, unfortunately, went with just "I don't know." They were standing there in the dark waiting if something happens. And something did happen. Underground was happening very hot and nasty romance between two rats. But the dark was still the same underground as it was in the whole city now. "Maybe we should try to find others?" he asked. "I'm not sure we have a chance, maybe we can just sit here and wait." answered Emma. After some time the lights turned on again. Emma and John became very close lifetime friends. I don't have personal experiences but I date to say that small talk during a blackout could make you good friends. *** And there is just one story to tell now. The third Emma Robbins went on her date. She took more of the wine than second Emma Robbins and stepped out from the door. She got to a rather good mood by the time she reached the restaurant where they were supposed to meet. It wasn't much of a fancy restaurant but it looked good. It was the kind of place you meet every Friday with friends and the barman already know you by name. Emma was looking around for Oliver's face. Well, to be precise she was looking for his tie, she actually didn't know how does he look like. He was Lydia's old friend who was just in the town and Lydia thought there was perfect math. She told Emma how does he looks and that he is gonna have a tie with purple stripes. She described him as spontaneous and "something you really need right now". Emma's thoughts cut off the sight of a very handsome man around 20 years old with a tie fasten on his neck. He clearly didn't know how to wear a tie. The tie was pink with a Purple Stripes Tie written on it. The lettering surely wasn't there when the tie was bought. She couldn't help and laugh out loud. The man turned in her direction and smiled at her. He got up from his chair heading to Emma. "I'm sorry." she said but still smiling. "And you must be Emma." Oliver ignored her apologizing. "And I'm pretty sure you're Oliver." she bit her lip because she just couldn't stop smiling. "I'm fine with The Guy Who Can't Tie A Tie." he answered with a smile. Emma laughed again. It wasn't just the alcohol he was really funny. He looked like a combination of the hot guy and funny guy in every group of friends. "Could you?" he asked looking at the unfortunate tie. "I hoped you'll ask." she sighed and tied the tie though it would probably be better if she just took it off and threw it into the garbage. "Well I have a tie and we're at a restaurant, this sounds cliche." he sighed and looked around for something interesting, and then his eyes stopped at Emma. "Your tie says Purple Stripes Tie though." answered Emma. "That's the only thing that saves us from too cliche." he smirked. Emma smiled and looked at the bar. "Let's have a drink then." she said. "What a wonderful idea. You know with just a bit of alcohol everything is more interesting." he sounded like a child which finds out that the yellow snow actually doesn't taste so bad. Emma just smiled. "So you're a director right?" asked Emma to start a conversation. "That's right and you look like an actress. And I'm not saying this just because we are on a date." he said. "Don't you really?" asked Emma with a playful smile and raised eyebrow. "No, seriously because when I tell a girl she looks like an actress, she better really became one and, you know, when she is on the set shooting an important film she will remember this moment and then she maybe give me a call. Which could lead to one less lonely night for me." he smirked."And then when she is famous they will maybe make a whole film about her. And then there is gonna be some actor playing me, obviously not as handsome as me, and he will tell her what I just told you and then there is gonna be cut and the scene with her on the set." his eyes shined as he was describing the situation and leaned against the bar. "I can see it." he added. *** Emma Robbins was on the set, shooting a very important film. It was all over newspapers. She wasn't in front of cameras yet. She was in her dressing room with her new assistant doing her hair. She suddenly remembered the night when she was on a date with the now famous director that introduced her to a different director and that was basically how she became a famous actress. It was one of the best dates she ever been on. Maybe the best one. The night all the lights in the city turned suddenly off and he was holding her close and whispering to her ear. He was telling her story about her future. She thought he does it always and maybe he did but since the night her life was completely different. And she intended to enjoy every second of it and don't think too much about the future but... "Alison?" she said to her assistant. "...Oh! You meant me. It's Anna actually." said the girl. "Sorry, Anna. Make a note and you really can't lose it. Ok?" Emma assured. "Yes, of course." answered the girl. "Fine. Write: If-" Emma's words interrupted a voice from outside. "We need you on the set honey!" the voice said. "I'm there in 5 seconds!" she called back. "Give me a pen I will write it by myself, just don't lose it, you own it to future generations." grinned Emma, quickly wrote a short note, and run from the dressing room. The assistant looked after her and then she read the note. It said: If they will ever make a movie about me, make sure there will be Oliver Stone saying I'm gonna be a famous actress. He was right after all. ps: get me the strawberry shake.


You would never imagine that every drop of rain is perfectly orchestrated and directed and yet that fact remains undisputed. Thankfully this body of mine can’t feel any of the elements. I can only sense the intangible of the tangible, the sound of the unheard if you will. The fact that I also can acutely sense the effects of things I suppose somewhat dulls the boredom of this immortal life. There is something strangely precious about each individual drop of water slipping down a windowpane. They're almost human in the uniqueness of their existence. I guess that’s why I don’t usually change their path because they, like so many other things, are children of time. Ten seconds remain I have no idea why humans call time slow or fast. She's nothing if not perfectly steady. For me though she’s always slow. That may just be because I'm always in the future or the past waiting for her. Despite knowing what's coming the wait is often an unnecessary bore. I'm not usually early to appointments for soul retrieval but this is the last one slated for tonight so I don't mind. I’m suspended somewhere between sky and earth as though standing on the moonbeams filtering down to the lakeside cabin in front of me. I wish I knew what rain on my skin would feel like- I wonder what skin feels like. Can this body made by the combination of shadow and light held together by the red thread of immortality even be called a body? Descending slowly I pass through the walls and come to stand on the wooden floor directly opposite of a young lady in a rocking chair. She’s staring out the rain soaked window towards the mountains in the distance. Times moves on her pace never slowing, seven seconds remain. The burled cedar floor is warm, heated slowly by small fire in the brick fireplace against the wall. There’s dust on the mantelpiece and wood chips scattered around the grate surrounding the fireplace. The rug on the floor is old, almost worn through on the fringed edges. There’s a small stain towards the corner that the rocking chair resides on. The lady in the rocking chair is still facing south towards the mountains. Her gaze steady as time itself, almost. Her hair still glows with the vitality of her youth, its golden tresses framing her face gently. For me her seventeen years are just as fair as the 93 year old man I picked up earlier this morning. Despite all human tears and sadness that accompany their departure time is nothing if not fair. When she gives, she gives just enough. Five seconds. A log in the fire snaps sending a shower of sparks upwards. The young girl seems to start at the sound as though returning from a place much farther away than the distant snow covered slopes. She reaches down to the side table beside her and brings the china tea cup there to her lips softly. There's little wisps of golden steam sailing skyward from the cup carrying the gentle fragrance throughout the room. Soft scents of orange and hibiscus mix with the deep woody smell of the rest of the room. From somewhere else in the house a piano starts playing, warming the air more than the flames at the fireplace. Over in the corner there’s a small wooden desk with a vase of flowers tucked into the corner. They’re the last marigolds before winter comes to steal some beauty from the world. I suppose there’s fairness in the balance of that too. Balance in the repetition of life even when time moves on steady, balance in the unfinished letter on the desk its ink not even completely dry. I could tell you every word written there, every thought the girl has ever had even the ones she doesn’t remember but there’s no reason. There’s no magic in knowing everything. I swear immortality is just a curse for those of us too lazy to do anything. Three seconds. She breathes out softly probably without even thinking of it. I know she only has four breaths left. Time runs slowly for me. I was here when it was created and i'll probably be the one to stop its hands when it’s time has run. Outside the window leaves fall to the ground plucked from the trees in a burst of wind. It’s just another day. The piano slowly fades to a stop as two more seconds disappear forever, to wherever the finite go. Everythings in place, nothing creating any current of color or sound. It’s all so... ordinary yet she’s smiling. A smile not even big enough to pull up the corners of her mouth. My watch makes a distant click at the same time as the grandfather clock beside the fireplace continues its smooth pendulum swing. Its not on time of course, nothing in this world of humans is ever accurate. Not their creations or their decisions or even their breaths. It’s 11:57 and I can see that soul slipping loose from the body resting in the rocking chair. It's a vibrant ball of light small enough to hold in your hands but yet it seems bigger. Not much just a little bigger. Souls might be the only perfect child of time. I never move when souls are loosed from their bodies. They always find me. I suppose they’re looking for some sort of anchor in the world between their mortality and utter boredom that is my prison. I cradle the ball of light softly wondering at the color and warmth. It’s always a wonder to see a full life compacted into such a different form. Every time I go collecting for each soul the feeling is completely the same, a little wonder at the end, a little interest in the colors, a little jealousy of the finality. No matter the circumstances every soul collected is full in its own way, even the two second old ones. I’ve never forgotten a single soul. They’re a myriad of stories inside me, a collection of endless paintings filling me and yet always leaving space. I should be used to these flowing feelings but everytime there always just as new. I overstay my visit slightly just looking at the empty room. I can see everything from the dust on the bookshelves to the sparks in the fire and yet, just like every other time, I feel like there's something that I just can’t see. I know everything about her and everything about every single thing in that room. I know when the ink was made, how old the tree that the floor is made out of was, the exact temperature of the flames in the fire and yet... Every soul always seems to be made up of more than what I know. Is that time’s gift to mortal life? Why was that girl smiling? I guess immortality isn’t long enough to understand 17 years. Times fairness to her children is beyond my understanding. Someones crying somewhere... there is rain falling after all. I wonder if time remembers her little one's as much as I do... Entry 4,758,465,215 Thought Diary of Shinigami Azreal III


She knew it was a mistake. She watched as the detective chewed the end cap of his pen, brow furrowed in concentration at the file on the table. The detective lifted his piercing eyes towards hers for just a moment; her breath caught in her throat. A small sound escaped much like an inflated balloon when you pinch off the end. She fiddled with her locket. She shifted her focus towards the outside world. A distraction. She thought about her beautiful, talented, poised Stacy. She was an incredible performer. She could almost hear Stacy’s playing, could see her sitting at the baby grand in the sitting room, windows open so the entire neighborhood could listen. She closed her eyes to absorb it. The last time she saw Stacy was when she was getting into the car with Evelyn to head to her next piano lesson. She was really going to miss her. She couldn’t read what his look meant. Maybe he was trying to figure out how a middle-aged, middle-class, white, yoga-loving, American archetype would be sitting across from him accompanied with a folder that told the sadistic story of how she murdered those random people. Or maybe he was impressed. It was a mistake. Detective Caulder leaned back in his chair--the buttons on his suit dangerously close to popping. Caulder sighed for what felt like hours, then finally, he spoke for the first time since she had walked into the room. “This doesn’t add up.” This is not what she had been expecting. “I---I’m sorry?” Caulder glowered. “I’m not a man that likes to repeat myself. Especially when I know you heard me.” She stared unblinking. Another mistake. She finally broke the silence. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” She shifted nervously in her seat. The detective noticed and smirked. “What I don’t understand,” continued Caulder, “is the motive. How does someone snap like without any feasible connection between them, nor a connection to you? Explain that, and I’ll put this to rest right now.” She knew this was a mistake. “Look, detective. Why do I have to answer these questions? It’s not like I’m trying to hide the fact that I did it. I did the crimes. All of them.” She seemed certain; she seemed sure of herself. She spun the ring on her finger. She smiled. “I’m not buying it.” The detective’s blunt words shattered her confidence like glass. “You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me, with total honesty, everything I need to know..” She stammered, “Wh---why?!” “Exactly” the detective stood up and leaned over the table. “Why?” Officer Samantha Montgomery paced back and forth in front of the glass. She had watched the entire exchange between her and Detective Caulder. Easy, Caulder , she thought to herself as he continued to berate this fragile woman. Samantha stared at her empty notepad. She had nothing left. Another fucking dead end. She slumped into the chair. At that exact moment, Caulder rose from his chair to hiss his acidic breath into the poor woman’s face. Jesus, Caulder. She knew Caulder would want to talk to her, to hear the latest updates, but she had nothing for him. To avoid all of it if only for a little while, Samantha hastened quickly out of the room, out of the side door, and deep into the alley. There, she lit a cigarette and tried not to think at all. But what is she hiding? Who is she protecting? Samantha just couldn’t find the trail. None of it was adding up. Even Dickenson was scratching his head, and he had the most solves (including cold cases) for the entire precinct. Samantha lit another cigarette. At some point, something would change. Someone forgot something somewhere--a small, inconsequential step--and we’ll catch it. But until then, Samantha enjoyed the last drags before the inevitable shit storm hit. This was a mistake. She was left alone in the room. Her mind felt blank. Her body, numb. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the moment this would all be over. But it’s definitely a mistake. She wondered about her troubled boy, Evan. His grades were pretty low in Chemistry and Calculus. He needed to attend tutoring or he’d have to take summer school or even repeat the classes next year. Another worry was soccer. It was his passion--his obsession. But with his failing grades, he was benched. Watching him at the last game was heartbreaking. He just sat there. She lamented that she wouldn’t be able to make it better for him. Not now. She shifted in her seat at the thought, bent down and pulled her loose sock back up her leg. This is a mistake. Andrew met Samantha on her way back inside. “Caulder wants to see us.” Samantha rolled her eyes. Sam knocked on Caulder’s door. “Come in,” was the gruff reply. Andrew grabbed a peppermint from the bowl that was probably older than he was, but he hadn’t eaten in well over 24-hours and needed something. Samantha’s eyes followed his hand from the bowl to his mouth. Her expression conveyed nothing. “She didn’t do this; that much is obvious. What isn’t obvious,” Caulder continued, “is what in the hell she is covering up. Tell me you got something.” Silence. Andrew coughed, “Well, sir, to be quite frank...” Andrew glanced at his partner to help him out. She stared at her hands. “Nothing, sir. We’ve got nothing. Everything is clear. The house, the car, the office, her tox screen, even her character witnesses...Not a speck out of place.” Caulder was silent for a couple of seconds. It was deafening. “Well, no shit you found nothing on her, ” Caulder boomed. “She’s not the one that did it. Do I have to do your job for you? Look for connections between the victims. Even the simplest of commonalities could have a connection here. This is basic-level detective work. She’s hiding something for someone. I want to know who that someone is and why. Got it?” Samantha nodded. Andrew nodded. “Dismissed.” Samantha and Andrew both left in a hurry. This was going to be a really long night. “Let me talk to her again. I think I can get through to her.” Samantha’s knuckles turned white as her grip tightened on the back of the chair. “Why? Because it’s a ‘woman-thing’?” Caulder scoffed. “Enlighten me, what exactly are you expecting to do in order to get an answer?” Samantha’s grip relaxed. “Sir, with all due respect. I think we’re making a lot of assumptions about this case that we shouldn’t be.” She knew she was taking a risk. Caulder’s eyes bore into hers. She couldn’t back down now. “Young lady, I’ve been on this force for thirty nine years. You’ve been here a minute. She doesn’t fit the profile. The evidence doesn’t add up. Are you honestly going to stand there and say that I’m the one who’s wrong here?” Samantha went on without pause, “Yes.” Caulder didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Just waited for her to continue. “Not all cases fit the profile. I think we may be wrong here to completely dismiss this woman’s involvement with these murders. She’s too clean. Sometimes, that screams ‘guilty’ louder than the man in the corner holding the gun.” Caulder chewed the inside of his lip. “You have five minutes with her to get her to talk and to change my mind. Clear?” Samantha gave one curt nod, and B-lined through the door. She watched as the new officer came in. She remembered her before. She was too angry; too sharp. She wouldn’t be able to stick to the plan. She shifted in her seat and began playing spinning her ring. “Good afternoon, ma’am. You may remember me, Samantha.If you work with me and talk to me, I can help you. If you don’t...” She left that idea hanging for effect. She stared at Samantha. Where would she even begin? A minute and a half passed incomplete silence. She thought of MaryJo and her carefree, always optimistic attitude. Yoga every Monday without fail. Always the liveliest and sprightliest dancer. She lived for the follow up dinners at Taco Town with half-priced Margarita Monday specials. MaryJo really knew how to bring the party wherever she went. God, she would miss Mondays with her. Finally, Samantha spoke. “ I’m trying to figure you out. Do you even want to be helped?” Samantha looked at her as if she was trying to look at a painting from a different angle. “The way I figure it, you either are being blackmailed to keep your mouth shut for what you witnessed or conspired with, or,” Samantha smirked, “you have something to gain from taking the blame for the murders. Am I getting warm here?” Don’t react. Just don’t react. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. “I’m going to assume your silence as an affirmation. Just for argument’s sake, of course,” Samantha crossed her legs, leaned back, and open the file. “So for me, this doesn’t really seem like you are covering for someone else. There’s not a pattern to the murders. There’s not even a connection. So how would you even become involved? There are just too many gaps.” Samantha turned a page. Licked her lips. “But, given the way you live your life, your character witnesses...it all seems so bland, typical, comfortable, normal. Too normal? My real rub with this whole situation is the murders themselves. The victims. No connections to each other that we can find, no connection to you that we can find...so why then do you waltz in and confess to all five of these seemingly unrelated murders that didn’t happen in the same town, at same time, in the same way, or even on the same date?” Samantha blows air through her lips. “This leaves me with the only possible conclusion that you have something to gain by suddenly being labeled a ‘murderer’” Samantha’s exaggerated the air quotes on the last word and lingered her fingers there a few seconds longer before slowly bringing her arms to rest calmly on the table before her. “Do you want to die?” She studied her intently. “Why are you wanting to go down for five--FIVE--murders? TELL ME!” Samantha slammed her hand on the table. The file went flying. She flinched, and with it, her steely resolve cracked. She felt herself crumbling. She knew she was going to start talking. Just a few more minutes and she’ll leave. Her mind shifted to Mark. Wonderful, hard-working Mark. Such a great man. At least once a month, she’d see him walking up the driveway with a dozen roses. Pink--her favorite. With a smile on his face, he set the dinner table every night. He’d spend time with the kids. He’d clean up the house, do the laundry. The sex was frequent, and it was passionate. That, she remembered , was the true definition of love-making. She really couldn’t imagine not seeing him everyday. “Listen, whatever your reasons,” sighed Samantha in a resigned tone, “if you don’t start talking, you’re going to be let go.” Her eyes widened as the weight of Samantha’s words resonated. Mistake. Two hours later, Samantha, Andrew, and Caulder watched dejectedly as she collected her belongings and exited the precinct. “It just doesn’t make any sense,” Samantha’s voice was a whisper. “She needs help. I can only imagine what she’s going to do to herself or what someone might do to her.” “Keep your radios on. There’s a chance we get another call tonight,” Caulder lamented. Samantha had never seem him show this much emotion before. Was it sympathy? Was it compassion? It confused her more than his usual stolid exterior. Caulder walked towards his office. Samantha let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. She turned to Andrew. Andrew’s brow was furrowed deeply. He hadn’t said a word ever since they left Caulder’s office. “What?” Samantha asked trying to see what he was looking at. “I can’t help feeling that we’re missing something,” Andrew’s voice was thin. He was deep in thought. “What else can we do? She gave us nothing.” Samantha didn’t have the patience to placate Andrew’s “winning streak” ego right now. She turned to start heading back towards the lounge. “But did you hear what she said under her breath as we were walking her out?” Samantha spun around with a curious look on her face. “She said,” Andrew paused. “She said ‘it’s a mistake’.” It’s a mistake. All a giant mistake. I stuck to the plan, they didn’t follow what they were supposed to do. But of course, who could ever rely on law enforcement to do their actual fucking job. They made a mistake. Too bad they won’t live to regret it. I don’t know that any of this would have played out this way had it not been for witnesses. They really piled up one after another. When that last one got away...I knew I had to do something. I didn’t really think that they’d believe me. Nor did I want them to. They made so many mistakes. I really loved watching Stacy. She was so elegant and beautiful. She lost herself in the music. When she became enraptured in her songs, I became even more enraptured in her. But when she shunned me when I tried to compliment her--when she brushed me off like I was three week old milk--that was unforgivable. It would’ve just been Stacy, had not Evelyn, the uber driver, gotten out of her car. Witness number one. Then when I was ditching the car, I picked up Evelyn’s ping for an uber request. Evan needed a ride home from soccer. Evan was very quick to tell me all about his life. But he was bratty. Dismissive. When I showed up at his house two weeks later offering to tutor him, he had the nerve to try to call the police. Didn’t he see that I just wanted to help? This, too would’ve been a one-off had it not been for the busybody MaryJo walking neighborhoods trying to shove “Jesus Loves You” pamphlets down everybody’s throats. She noticed the door cracked and tried to peek inside. She saw Evan’s body, came inside and called 911. I hid in the dumbwaiter. Pretty sure she saw me through the window. She didn’t say so to the police on the phone that she saw anyone, but I felt her tension. She knew she wasn’t alone. For two months I followed her. Lived her life. Decided that I might actually be better off befriending her. She had wide social circles. She seemed to have it all. She really screwed herself when she had the audacity to laugh when I fell over during yoga. Not even a “just laughing with you” sort of sympathy giggle. Full on merriment for my embarrassment. Bitch had to go. As I was tossing her bloodied yoga mat into the dumpster the next day a few towns over, Mark happened to be dumping his trash away, too. He saw the mat. He briefly made eye contact with me. Definitely a hesitant, observant fellow. I tittered and batted my eyelashes and told him it was paint, not blood! A can fell off a shelf in the garage. But I knew he didn’t buy it. For weeks I watched Mark. He had such a good life, a good family. I truly thought about sparing him. Maybe I could have him. Maybe the bloody yoga mat would be a funny story we’d recall when we were in our 80s--”remember when I thought you were a murderer?” But the next time Mark went to take his trash out, I met him out there (with normal trash this time) and tried to turn on the charm. He looked at me like he looked at his garbage---something terrible to be rid of as soon as possible. That took care of that. But someone saw me. In his driveway. Struggling to shut the trunk of his car. With his body inside. It was too dark to see who they were, and they took off in a hurry. They knew. I couldn’t abandon the car and chase after them, not when his wife and kids would be home any minute. I had to handle this situation presently. That’s when I decided to turn myself in. Lay on the charm. Show them my non-threatening, nervous house-wife qualities. They’d be too absorbed in the stereotypical profile to notice my flaws. They’d be blinded by their own, self-made prejudices and biases. You can’t even see what I’m capable of even when I’m right in front of you literally telling you the truth. I made it so easy. I was wearing Stacy’s music note locket with a picture of her parents on the inside. I had Evelyn’s phone in my purse, which sat underneath me the entire time. They didn’t even search it. I was wearing Evan’s soccer socks that still had his blood on them. They are white. The quarter-sized spot of blood is visible at the ankle which I crossed just so they could see it. I was wearing MaryJo’s signature yoga top that she wore at least three times a month with an embroidered MJ on the front. And finally, I was wearing Mark’s wedding ring engraved with his and his wife’s anniversary and initials. Seriously? It was all right there. It was screaming in their face. The truth they didn’t want to see--didn’t want to believe because it would shatter the ideas they had built up about what certain people who check certain boxes will do. As I wait in shadows of the house of Samantha Montgomery, I see her car turn into the driveway. As she closes her car door, I quickly approach from behind. She sees me. Recognition sets in. She could run. But that would be a mistake.


"O Dark Lord, we present to you this man as an offering!" The hooded figure's voice echoed in the darkness, bouncing off the cave walls before fading into an eerie, ambient drone. A heavy silence followed. The cultists exchanged nervous glances, holding their breath in anticipation, yet the man bound to the alter lay still and expressionless. The hiss of a faint whisper resonated briefly from the back of the crowd before a deafening crack split the silence. Hooded men and women toppled to the ground and uttered helpless cries as the cave trembled violently, causing rubble to rain down from every angle. A rift tore through the solid rock floor of the cave amid the chaos, and from it a jet of red steam burst skyward, emanating intense heat and the stench of burning flesh. A massive, imposing figure began to materialize through the steam. Now grinning, eyes wide and bulging with a mix of pure awe and terror, the cult leader scrambled to his feet with arms outstretched. At last, The Dark Lord appeared in all his horrendous glory, his eyes glowing red, with menacing horns wreathed in flames. Through the pointed teeth of his mighty jaws came a mildly irritated voice. "What do you want?" When the stunned cultists offered no immediate response, the demon continued. "Listen, you just woke me from my thousand-year slumber, so this better be good. Speak up now." "Your great and omnipotent majesty!" The cult leader exclaimed before gesturing to the prisoner bound to the alter. "We offer you this man as a sacrifice to symbolize our worship, so that you might favour us and accept us into your service as disciples!" "*F a v o u r u s !*" The enraptured gathering of cultists echoed his words. The Dark Lord turned his head, aiming his fiery gaze at the prisoner. For the first time since he was captured and bound to the stone alter, the man spoke, his voice firm and unwavering: "O Dark Lord, I present to you these cultists as an offering." A second silence befell the cave. "Well..." The Dark Lord spoke with a hint of amusement, fixing his gaze on the cult leader. "...What do you say to that?" The hooded man's eyes were wide with disbelief. "M-my lord Balthegor--" "*B a l t h e g o r !*" Droned the crowd. "Please, enough with the formalities," Balthegor waved a clawed hand dismissively and rolled his glowing eyes. "It's Jeff Balthegor. Call me Jeff." "Forgive me... Jeff..." the cult leader apologized incredulously. "*J e f f !*" He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his racing thoughts. "...But the prisoner's claim is preposterous! He has not recited the Infernal Creed, and accepted your will as his omnipotent overlord!" He raised an ancient, unsavoury-looking tome, bound in the skin of some unidentifiable creature. "*I n f e r n a l C r e e d !*" Jeff approached the prisoner, rattling the cave walls with each thunderous step. He leaned over, until his gaunt, dead face hovered inches above that of the man. "So, prisoner... do you accept my will?" "Sure," he deadpanned. The cult leader huffed in frustration as Jeff glanced back at him, raising his scaled brow matter-of-factly. "But Jeff, he doesn't even bear The Mark!" "*T h e M a r k !*" With a yank at the sleeve of his robe, the leader revealed the charred mark of a brand on his forearm, which depicted a crude likeness of the demons visage. The crowd of cultists did the same. "No, that looks stupid," said the prisoner. "Yeah what the *hell* guys?!" Jeff hissed indignantly, his anger causing his flaming horns to flare with greater intensity. "Is that supposed to be *me*? I'll have you know, my horns are *not* that comically small! And brands are overdone anyway... jeez, disciples this millennium are *so* unoriginal." "You can't be serious!" Now visibly angered, the cult leader's wide eyes darted about the crowd of hooded men and women, desperate for support. "This man has no say in the matter! He is a prisoner of the cult!" "*P r i s o n--*" "Oh shut *up*, will you?!" The leader shouted in exasperation. The demon let out a low, growling sigh. Pinching his eyes shut, he rested the tips of his claws on his furrowed brow in vexation. "Look guys, I run a tight ship here. All *you've* done so far is wake me up a few hundred years early to summon me here--for what? *One* measly sacrifice? But *this* guy," he pointed a long, tapered claw at the prisoner, "he's got initiative. I like that. I mean, you have no idea how many souls I need to devour before returning to my slumber! This guy delivers results, and that's exactly the kind of strength I need in a disciple. Not any of this '*Infernal Creed*' baloney. I mean, how long did it take you guys to set all this up? Honestly." "About three weeks or so," a voice called out from the back of the cultist gathering. "Maybe four," another chimed. "*ENOUGH!*" The leader shrieked, and gestured wildly at his following. "Take the lot of them then, I don't care! They're worthless to me. Just leave me to teach others of your power and glory, O mighty Jeff!" "Hey, that's not right!" One cultist objected, sparking a chorus of mumbling protest from the crowd. Jeff clicked his forked tongue scornfully, shaking his fiery head. "What a shame. Well, I can't be bothered to listen to your whining anymore, so I think it's about time you learned your lesson." With the snap of his finger, Jeff set the leader up in flames. Screams of agony echoed through the cave, soon morphing into a horrific, inhuman wail of torment. In a matter of seconds, the man was reduced to a sizzling pile of bone. A cheer erupted from the crowd in celebration of Jeff's demonstration of power. "Ah, you like that do you?" He grinned. "You're in luck, I've got plenty more where that came from!" Hoots of joy turned to howls of pain as the hooded figures burst into flames, running into each other and rolling on the damp cave floor to no avail, before swiftly disintegrating. Finally, the chaos subsided and Jeff let out a weary sigh. He ambled over to a puddle on the cave floor, only to notice his flaming horns. "Wha--? You're telling me these things have been on fire this *whole time*? And no one thought to let me know?" He swatted at his head, distinguishing the flames. "Ugh so *embarrassing*!" And with that, Jeff snapped his clawed fingers once more and evaporated into the darkness.


(WP) I Will Survive They’d thought they’d killed her. They’d thought they’d eradicated the rest of her kind, and they would be right about that. She was the only one left. In space, it was impossible to track the passage of time. It had been years since Laika had even seen another life form, let alone someone like her. She hadn’t known how much time had passed, and her memories were foggy. All she remembered was her lover’s face, and the way that she had looked when she let Laika go. A fierce, almost predatory grin lit up her lovely face, and her laugh, sounding to Laika like birdsong, or what she remembered of it. But the betrayal had faded, leaving behind only her rage. It had grown inside of what was left of her heart, watered by her desperate need for vengeance. How odd, that the face she’d loved so dearly had been nearly erased by time. She might have been a cyborg, but even her memory was not infallible. The ruins of the ship around her had been the only thing to shield her from being blown to bits, once she’d hit the atmosphere. For a while, this dazzling new planet had dulled the agony of almost dying. It was like the earth she remembered in some ways, and in others it was totally different. The sky was a dark, rich purple, no matter what time of day or night it was. Laika couldn’t look at the sky anymore; she had a job to do. She would return to the colony and make certain that the people who betrayed her would pay. \*\* By the time Laika was through with the rest of her repairs, her entire body was aching, even the robot parts, and the sky turned from purple to a bright neon teal. She would allow herself a few hours of rest, a small meal, and then she would set out for Volterra, to the planet where her life had begun and ended. Laika didn’t like thinking about the past, about what came before. Even if she could remember it all, she didn’t want to. In those days, Callie had been all she had. Even when she’d lived on the streets, Callie always found her, usually with a sandwich, water. But she’d come back, again and again, no matter where Laika went. Somehow, she was always able to find her. And then one rainy night, Callie had stayed with her, and they’d kissed for the first time. From that point out, it hadn’t just been Laika, not anymore. It had been Laika and Callie, badass queer women who would take Earth, and the galaxies beyond it, by storm. What killed her most about Callie’s betrayal was that Laika had seen it coming. Callie’s father, a scientist, always had a scowl on his face whenever he saw Laika, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. She’d only learned of Callie’s true motives right before she’d abandoned ship: she and the rest of her kind were mistakes, results of a failed experiment, and they’d been taken into space not for a new life on a different planet, but to be erased, forgotten. Reborn. But she’d survived, and she was coming home to get even.


Forbidden Expedition - a Covert Exploration The air is dense with silence. My energy is focussed on resisting the soothing draw of mesmerisation, a natural by-product of rhythmic breathing: breathe in, hold for three, pause, breathe out, repeat. When my focus fades and my thoughts slip into the pre-sleep relaxed unconscious state, I pinch the tender skin on my stomach, jolting me back to consciousness. Mindful of the night vision camers, I keep my eyes closed tight, ignoring the tiny electric green glint that flashes in the top corner, angled towards my pillow. The four walls that encase me are the blackest black, pure darkness, intentionally designed to make the lure of sleep irresistible. My eyelids are beckoned towards heavy relaxation, my body starts to succumb towards dreamland. The Waiting Sometimes I am no match for the instinctive need to sleep. The night time feels like grasping with bare hands at water flowing from a tap, my body desperately dehydrated, but unable to contain the liquid for longer than mere moments. Finally, and quite possibly in the nick of time, I hear the much-awaited swish-swish-swish telltale sign of the 2am bed-check. The owner of the sound is one of the watchdogs, wearing plastic rain pants to keep warm and dry. The rhythmic swish of nylon rubbing, back-and-forth, reminds me of the feel of ski pants, of snowflakes falling on my upturned nose and gracing my outstretched tongue; of sitting on a chairlift that invites a biting wind to frost my cheeks. Adrenaline jolts through my body, setting my nerves on edge. I envision my heart beating clean through the left pocket on my smooth cotton pajama shirt. Carefully, I regulate my breathing, adding a little extra intensity to the exhale, and wait for the glow of the flashlight to cease. And it does, which signals the beginning of counting, first in English, then French, followed by Russian and German. As I reach the last 100, I begin slithering, ever so slowly, to the ridge of the bed. The Escape ... With the pillow nestled in the place of my head, I army crawl across the floor, carrying my full weight on forearms and toes. My notebook and pen, nestled into the crevice of my left pant pocket, gently bump up-and-down with each jerk forward from my left knee. Excitement wrestles fear to the ground, and I just know that the harshest of punishments is outweighed by the probative value of my late-night exploration. Darkness, something that used to be a catalyst for fear, brings comfort because it heightens my senses and aids in camouflage. The ring finger on my right-hand cruises over the tell-tale notch in the tile floor, signaling the end of the hallway and the beginning of my entry into the Realm. Carefully, I pluck out two tiles and ease my body into a tunnel of darkness. For the briefest of seconds, I experience an antonymic state - I enter the Realm exactly as I exit the Base. Mindful of precious resources and the unstoppable clock of time, I greedily reach for my stash: metal blue flashlight, what remains of a snickers bar, and a fleece-lined vest. Like Pavlov’s dog, my body loosens and my mind lasers on the insurmountable task before me: satiate my insatiable curiosity to discover the gems and hidden truths. Only revealable in the Realm. A self-satisfied grin that rivals the one renoun by the Cheshire Cat overtakes my horse-like features; my shoulders square back in pride. By golly, it seems that 6-months of repetition and rigorous training are paying off! ... A flash, quick like a streak of lightening, flicks between the mountainous crevices that form the circumference for my surroundings - a clue to wrap it up, pack it up, and scurry back to Base. The rising sun is my clue that what felt like mere seconds accounts for the passage of 180 minutes, and ergo, high time for me to get my tushy back to base, before ... my body stiffens at the prospect of being found out. Leaving the Base, much less exploration, is forbidden. And violators are ixnayed from the pack, out of necessity and with good reason. Because conformity and compliance keep us safe, alive. “Putting out a match with a fire hose” gnarls a disgruntled voice from deep within my unconscious - this one spouts my Id, the “Inner Sinner” that entices me to take risks and be dangerous. In reflexive response, my right foot juts up-and-down, like that of a petulant child building to a tantrum. A mental photo of my Inner Sinner, clad in black, clenches her fists with crossed arms and mutters “not fair”. In a sugary sweet retort, my alter ego, dubbed “Sweet Susie-Q” singsongs “life ain’t fair, sugar plum”. My equilibrium is mollified, maybe because I have lived too long to believe that one can exist in a panacea of happiness; satisfaction is the result of competing forces. The strangely pleasant sensation of sweat trickling from my suprasternal notch, straight down, through my breastbone and into my navel, an innie no doubt, draws me to the present. Daylight is winning the battle of darkness, and the crew will be rising straight away. As I trot back to the slot of entry, I emerge into the Base, simultaneous with my exit from the Realm. And I accept that my insatiable curiosity is my dark abyss. Like a record player set to loop, my mind reels to the cause of reality, which I best understand by cataloguing time into the “then” and the “now”. Back then ...Contrary to what is labeled within the name, the frightening impact of the COVID-19 Pandemic was felt most keenly during 2020, with the effects malingering clean through 2021, eventually fading away, like a fart in the wind, by the Fall of 2022. During the pandemic, humanity took cover indoors and watched as the virus reigned a war of uncertainty and terror. And, true to form, people developed an immunity to the scandalous effects of the pandemic. Most moved forward and recalled this era when casually recalling the path traveled to arrive at the present. This time serves as a reminder that time heals wounds - no matter the scandal or atrocity, life moves on. By 2023 civilization had returned to the fast-paced living pre-pandemic, lingering effects were largely felt by those that suffered tangible loss and didn’t want to return to the 9-5 grind. It seemed that the pandemic came and went, nothing more than another accurate predication by the Simpsons, a prolific television series that is both idiot and savant. Fast forward five years, and women were failing to conceive, monogamy was a word known for its dice and rules (a.k.a. a boardgame), and individuality was a thing of the past. Women were the same height and weight and came in a variety of blonde, brunette and redhead, the same for men. Plagues, viruses, STI’s, and radiation took over towns, cities, countries, and then continents, leaving the lucky 100 - I was collected and tagged at number 99. We forged on berries and crafted an underground habitat - leaving the sanctuary is prohibited because rules are made to accommodate the lowest common denominator. I slung my exhausted body into my single bed and prayed for a few moments of shut eye before my hallmates roused for morning breakfast and assignments. As I drift between the sacred state of lucidity and sleep, Susie-Q tut-tuts about the risks associated with my selfish ways, reminding me that I might be responsible for the extinction of the human being. The last thing I remember, before I am taken over by sleep, is Inner Sinner, urging me forwards, promising awards and recognition for saving humanity - for becoming a true rival to Noah’s Ark. Self-satisfaction creates a feeling of euphoria ... I love it, and pretty much nothing is going to keep me from continuing my exploration and research. Contest 247: Prompt - The Great Unknown Story: A world where exploration is forbidden - a story about a character who defies this rule to satisfy her innate curiosity. Author: Elysa


The metal bars slammed shut and the keys turned as Kalam stood from the corner he was just shoved into, he lunged at the bars with a seething rage, "You can't keep me here forever! You hear that! You're all gonna pay! You can't keep Kalam here forever!" In the cell opposite him emerged a face from the shadows chuckling, "Of course they can't keep you here forever, you're going to die someday" the man said He kicked the skull laying on the floor to the stone wall of his cell then paused, "Or maybe they could... My apologies Cassian" he said to the skull Kalam diverted his burning scowl to the old man, breathing heavily Bemused, the man stepped back startled, then he took a step forward and squinted as they held eye contact, "What was that?" "What?" Kalam snapped "That glint... in your eye... I've only seen it when... Ahhhh" “When what? What glint?” "I see you've met the Wizard...", he stepped forward, illuminating the wrinkles on his face "You met the one" He pressed his face against the bars "Ohhh but you didn't just meet him, you really really met him" he said, stroking his long grey beard Now worried, Kalam relaxed his scowl "What? What do you know?" "Don't waste my time young man, I know you met him, the one they call the Time Walker" he said now gripping the bars till his knuckles went white Kalam staggered backwards "How... How do you..." "He leaves an imprint on the souls of those he connects with, and you, you have his signature in bold" "That's... " "Conceited on his part, I know, but then again, I suppose we all have our quirks." he stepped back from the light, leaning his back to the wall He looked up at the ceiling with half a smile, shook his head, "So what prophecy did he tell you?" he scoffed "Wizards... Oh wizards and their prophecies, that's all they're good for anyway..." he smiled "They are the only ones with the power to single-handedly stop this madness, but all they do is push poor young saps like you to battle in the shadows." With folded arms, he stared into the darkness shaking his head, "So, spill it young fellow, What did he tell you?" Kalam dropped his head and began to speak *He said just a couple dozen particles drew the line* *Between the King's chains and mine* *But iron is more stable than gold* *That's why Kings surround themselves with walls of stone,* *Reinforced with steel columns, gates and doors* *And men with iron armour and steel swords* *Eventually, the weight of all of that takes its toll* *The weight of the screams of pain and hunger and sorrow* *And when those screams are sharpened by the pressure of souls,* *Then heads, oh heads will begin to roll* "Ominous..." "Ya..." Kalam sat, still staring blankly "Wait, he said iron is more stable than gold?" Kalam nodded slowly, "What does that mean?" The old man held a vapid stare like he was in a trance, rapidly tapping his right foot... Pensive... Then he stopped He turned his blank stare to Kalam "So?" Kalam shrugged, "What does it mean?" "It means we'd better get to work" he replied as he receded to the shadows at the back of his cell "What work? And who are you by the way?" The man knocked on a sequence of stone tiles on the floor, four knocks, then seven, then one and finally, two slow gentle knocks.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m here to talk about yet *another* author! Let’s give a big congratulations to... ... u/Xacktar! His serial, Captain’s Orders, came to an end just a few weeks ago, with 19 chapters. That’s quite a feat. I’m so happy to have gotten to know Xack over the last couple years. He’s been an active member of the rWP and rSS community for a long time, way before me. You can often find him on the Theme Thursday threads, making everyone laugh, as well as on our discord, where he’s encouraging writers and chatting about random things (. ) Again, congrats Xack! I hope you’ve taken some time to treat yourself to something nice.   ***   #Captain’s Orders - Written by u/Xacktar **A brief synopsis from Xack:** A socially-inept police cadet gets assigned to the enigmatic, and poorly named, '22th' Precinct. Assisted by a former classmate and an eccentric coroner's assistant, Joe attempts to solve a murder, uncover the truth of the 22th, and keep the public safe from the force of nature that is Captain Boss. *If you haven’t had the chance to read this yet, get ready for some belly laughs! I highly recommend kicking your feet up and making an afternoon of it.* | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/Xacktar about Serial Writing Let’s take a few minutes to see what Xacktar has to say about writing a serial! ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Cutting a story apart into sections made me throw out a lot of my usual habits and forced me to really get into the small bits of sentences and dialogue to keep the tone throughout the piece. Comedy alone is difficult, comedy in a serial was so much so. I'm not sure I succeeded in keeping the levity alive throughout the whole piece, but attempting to do so really pushed me to use new skills and techniques. A fellow redditor /r/Ryter had some great advice about slowly making things 1% more funny and I had to put that in practice a lot over the last few weeks. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Hearing everyone in Campfire lose their composure after the readings was definitely a highlight. Captain Boss is so much fun to write and twice as fun to read. I love, love, love making him abuse the English language. There is this fine line I have to keep between making his tirades completely off-base while also keeping them understood by the audience. Running in-between that line is always immensely fun, and incredibly satisfying when it plays perfectly to the audience. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Keeping the tone consistent and giving all the characters a moment to shine were my two biggest issues. I attempted to solve the tone issues with the advice from Ryter, which helped but not to the level I had hoped. The character issue was a bit trickier as I'd added a lot of 'third wheels' to a story that, at its core, is all about Joe and Captain Boss. I tried to fix it by spreading out the ending and tying up some of the loose ends with each character, but I think I failed a bit as it left Captain Boss out of the finale. It's something I need to go back and examine at some point in the future so that I can learn from it. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Having a strong, well-developed character idea helps a bunch with a serial. If you have a character who can cause a lot of change or emotion, it makes it easier to roll with the ever-changing themes and limitations of Serial Sunday. It's a great place to put those characters you never had a story for, you throw them out there into the Serial and the setting and plot and everything else just grows around them. Also, don't be afraid to fail. Things like this are perfect for trying new things and seeing how they fly. The weekly feedback gives you a good idea if your experiments fly or fall so go ahead and push yourself! This is a great place to jump out of your comfort zone and tackle something new!   ***   Xack, thank you so much for taking the time to talk and share with us. No two writers’ experience or advice is the same, and it’s why I love taking the time to do these. I very much enjoyed watching your writing and characters grow over the last several months, and all the laughs you gave me along the way. Fellow writers and readers, please take a moment to leave u/Xacktar some love in the comments below! You can even ask him questions! Even completely random and silly ones...   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It was just a normal day out on the boat - a salty sea breeze blew lazily across the water, the sun and the heat were high, the waves lapped gently against the bow, seagulls flew above and called out to each other. Yup, it was a perfectly normal, almost cliché, day. It was exactly what I’d hoped for when I set out this morning; a picture-perfect postcard day. I’d been here only 20mins but already my tensions and stresses had disappeared, just like the coastline beyond the horizon. I could barely see nor hear the busy port from which I’d set off. It was almost like I’d left my debt and unemployment in a neat little box on the jetty, and, with any luck, it would be gone before I got back. The thought did cross my mind to stay here forever. I could learn to fish. I could travel from country to country and take on little jobs for extra cash when I needed. I could make friends all over the world, never needing to face the darker side of life. I would be my own captain, a slave to none. It would be perfect! ‘If only,’ I sighed. I shook off the feeling. ‘No time for melancholy here. Just enjoy the sway of the sea under the boat. Let it ease your mind like a masseuse.’ It helped to talk to myself like one of those calming apps. Time passed and the sun began to travel West; it would be dark in a few hours. I suppose I’ll start on my last iced tea. Story-telling dictates that I should be drinking beer but I could never like the stuff. So iced tea. I stood up to get a bottle from the cooler and heard a splash. That’s nothing unusual; fish occasionally splash about or the gulls dive in when on the hunt, but for some reason this sound caught my attention. It sounded different somehow. Should I go check and see what it might be? Maybe it’s the answer to all my problems! You never know what lies in these waters, they’ve always said, so why not that? Looking over the side and I couldn’t see anything immediately. I searched hard for any indication of anything in the water. It could have been nothing. I leant in lower, my face was inches from the surface. Still nothing. What on Earth could have made that splash? Two eyes snap open at me. I screamed. I screamed so loud the birds started screaming back. I was still screaming when I pulled myself back into the middle of the boat. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL WAS THAT?! My mind raced from blind panic. I’m out here alone with that thing, whatever it is! I need to get back to shore NOW! I scrambled up and ran to the engine. I yanked frantically at the cord. Silence. Yanked again. Nothing. SHIT! This was not the time to be dead. I yanked again over and over and finally the engine sputtered to life. YES! Time to get the hell out of here! But I wasn’t moving. There was no jerk forward to get home. The engine was on and loudly chugging but I was not moving. What’s going on? Why am I not moving? There’s a thing in the water right there! I couldn’t understand what’s happening! Why am I not moving? ‘Come on, come on, come on.’ I slapped the engine, willing it to move the boat forward. Nothing. I started crying. I was so scared. So very fucking scared. I wouldn’t be able to get away. I didn’t have a weapon. I didn’t know what was coming next. I was just so petrified that all I could do was cry. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. I was going to die here. Alone. Everyone would be looking for me and they would never find me and I was about to be eaten by that monster and I couldn’t save myself! I just had to come out today. I just had to say no to company. I just had to take a day for myself. Fucking idiot. Now you’re going to die. I wiped my eyes. If this was the end, then I was going to try to go with some class. I actually laughed. What class? I’d almost pissed myself a moment ago and here I was talking about class! The nerve. I put on a brave face and waited. Just waited. For anything to happen, really. I waited and waited. The engine cut out. I wasn’t sure if I was out of fuel or it just died. I watched the sun setting. I sniffled but held back the tears that threatened to flow. Class, remember. The sun started to dip below the horizon and I knew my time was up. I knew all the luck in the world couldn’t save me and I was ok with that. I’d lived a decent life and if I was going to go, so be it. I tried not to cry. The orange hues in the sky started to turn purple and they, in turn, became a dark blue, beckoning in the night. Stars began to twinkle in the sky and it was so beautiful. A beautiful last thing to see. I smiled and tears started to roll down my face. I just hoped it wouldn’t be painful. It was dark now and I could only hear the birds cawing at each other as they returned to their nests. Waves broke gently against the hull and I was being rocked back and forth. How ironic that hours ago this is exactly what I’d wanted, so peaceful and serene; just me on the boat without a care in the world. I could hear my breaths and they were deceitfully calm. My heart was beating steadily and I could feel the tension rising in my shoulders. All around me was quiet and calm. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. And then I heard it rise out of the water behind me. Every bone in my body froze and willed me not to look but by God, I was going to look my death in the eyes. A noble end for a noble life. I rotated and, surprisingly, all I saw was a column of murky water in front of me. It moved like an endless water fall but flowed seamlessly into the vast ocean. What the-? Cold, salty brine crashed around me and I was drenched instantly. My eyes stung and it took me a moment to blink away the pain and restore my vision. My heart was pounding, maybe from the cold? I couldn’t tell. The impossible column was still in front of me and as I looked up, I realised it was a body. Vast wings attached themselves either side of it and above me was a head, as if carved from the water itself. I couldn’t feel my heart anymore and hot fear rushed into my ears. No. It couldn’t be. It’s impossible. This can’t be real. I must be hallucinating. Surely this can’t be real. Was that-? It looked like... A Dragon? I was struck with awe at the clouded beauty before me that filled up the night sky. A dragon. A BIG dragon. Reality came crashing down around me and I wanted to weep. Anger, fear, confusion and disbelief swirled in me like a whirlpool that overwhelmed any common sense I had left. Not that any common sense would help me now. IT WAS A FREAKING DRAGON MADE OF WATER! Holy fuck. It stood before me for an eternity. I just stared, speechless. Me and my world were impossibly small compared to this ethereal being. Its wings were spread, showing off the entirety of its monumental size. The mighty body flowed into a majestic neck, elegantly curved so that its head was facing me directly. It was beautiful. How could something so colossal be so graceful? I almost wanted to reach out and touch it. The head was truly magnificent. As if cut from marble, it had a long, narrow, angular snout with a strong jaw that could probably crush me without any resistance. The bottom of the lower jaw was lined with what looked like whiskers that flowed endlessly. It was hypnotic. But the eyes. The eyes were enrapturing. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the piercing blue jewels that peered down and spiralled into my very soul. There was an intensity in them that stirred reverence in me. They glistened knowingly, and as we locked gazes, I knew I was looking into the sights of a thousand years. I understood that there was so much I didn’t and would never know. Whatever this was, I was fortunate to have ever glimpsed it. I could hardly come to terms with what I’d learnt when the behemoth began to lower itself back in the ocean, as silent as the waves around it. Panic rose in me. I didn’t want this moment to end! ‘Please don’t go! Please! Stay!’ To my relief, it stopped when its head was level with mine. I almost wished it hadn’t. My breath stopped in my throat. Whatever I thought I’d experienced was dwarfed by this moment; this moment of pure euphoria that engulfed me completely. It was spectacular. Before me, looking into me, was the whole universe and I was nothing - just a speck. It took me to the edges of life and back. I ceased to exist. I was just a piece of the un-ending puzzle that was always growing. I couldn’t look away from the frightening realisation that everything was as it should and would always be what it was meant to be. I dropped to my knees, frozen, unblinking. Without a sound, the eyes that had started this slowly disappeared into the dark waters below. The last thing I remember was the feeling of nausea that swept over me and the world tilting.


The most difficult things to imagine absent from life are those which have always been present. In 2027, when I was in second grade, Mani Inc. revealed their breakthrough “ManiWatch”: a rechargeable wrist device that, through tracking various physiological metrics such as heart rate, HRV, functional lactate threshold, and VO2max, could calculate a revolutionary new metric called a “Readiness Score.” This would conveniently notify the user which tasks they should and should not engage with given their score, as well as if working out was worthwhile that day, if a nap was a smart choice, and when exactly they should sip coffee for the largest benefit. It revolutionized productivity in ways that humankind could’ve only dreamed of before its emergence. Through letting objective analyzation dictate activity and monitor the most important metrics, society started to prioritize readiness scores over subjective measures of wellbeing, as the scores had proven themselves to be more accurate than someone trying to guess their subjective mental and physical potential. It wasn’t until seventh grade that I got my first “ManiBand”--a device which you’re supposed to wear around your head every night to enhance the “Readiness Score” accuracy from solely wrist-based metrics. It tracks the user’s sleep cycles and integrates the scores into a more accurate estimate of readiness. A breakthrough study by Harvard found that year, with just the fourth generation ManiWatch and first generation ManiBand, that by consistently wearing Mani Inc.’s “wearables,” one could boost their productivity by a whopping 110%. Parents started to encourage their kids to remember to charge and wear their wearables before bed in the same way they encouraged them to brush their teeth every night. Wearables were a significant advancement to the human condition, but through the Readiness Revolution humanity discovered something curious: the data that wearables provided over time indicated the existence of “rogue days.” These are days where, due to no identifiable precondition, the Readiness Score is incredibly low. Through early studies in the infancy of the Readiness Revolution on rogue days, it was determined that to do anything but rest and sleep would throw off the next several days of wearable tracking, Readiness Scores, and by consequence, a productive and happy life. These occurrences are extremely rare and decrease in frequency with each new Mani Inc. generation of wearables, yet it is still of upmost research to understand these seemingly random anomalies to develop techniques to counter them. Sensing a niche for a new product (the market share of Mani Inc. is the highest of any product in the world) the “M-pill” was introduced--the best antidote to a rogue day, which simultaneously eases the mind and tranquilizes the user, and is solely indicated for rogue days. As Mani Inc. has already eradicated the majority mental health challenges through their wearable’s contributions and M-pills, Mani Inc. is considered the most popular, reputable, and important business entity in the history of the world for all of humankind. I had rogue days often, but never more than twice in a year; nowadays most folks might have one in a decade. Nowadays, there are several iterations of the devices that Mani Inc. so infamously revealed since 2027. I personally use the ManiWatch 9, the ManiBand 6, and practice caloric tracking too, a new trend also affiliated with what people are starting to call “Metricism,” the preeminent philosophical movement of my time. Metricism posits that life--physical, emotional, mental, and even spiritual health--are emphatically improved by the meticulous tracking and analyzation through advanced algorithms of physiological metrics. Action follows the suggestion of these algorithms. Most everyone that begins to practice the values of Metricism becomes happier, healthier, and far more productive than those who do not engage in it. The more one commits to consistent and thorough Metricism practices, the more rewarding Metricism seems to be. I woke up Monday with a score of about 89/100, which meant I was in great condition, though all I felt was the urge to sleep another 5 minutes. I woke myself up, and groggily checked my ManiBand to try and understand why I felt so drained despite my high readiness score and discovered that I had only had 20 minutes of my REM cycle. When all the devices synced on the Mani companion app, my updated score dropped to a 67/100, which made more sense; it’s hard to achieve your dreams on days you didn’t dream, after all. The Mani companion app told me that today would be a day where a M-pill would be necessary in the evening, which gave me a sense of private relief, despite the rogue day designation. I ate precisely 450 calories as recommended by the app, as my ManiWatch had tracked exactly that amount had been burned by my base metabolic rate since my last meal input. I dutifully inputted the exact amounts of fats, proteins, carbohydrates, and fluids into the Mani companion app, hoping it would save the designation of the day from “rogue” to “poor.” My morning classes were stressful. The Mani companion app advised against putting any effort into studying, as the Readiness Score predicted that it would be futile compared to the potential of the next day’s score, given my weekly average, which was much higher. But I was already behind in my classes from the week prior, and it stressed me out knowing I’d be even more behind this week with the rogue day designation. The M-pill that night, I knew, would soothe my anxiety, but I still couldn’t help feeling restless through classes, and like I could do more. But like a sensible person, I obeyed the assessment. At lunch, my friend Sloan tried to help me feel better, but ended up just making me feel worse about my restlessness and agitation. “You know, we can just work out together tomorrow! My score today is barely enough to qualify for a run, so it’ll probably be a shitty run anyways,” he tried to reassure me, even though after an agitating day of low potential and tons of opportunities for productivity, all I wanted to do was burn the stress away with a run. My macros were looking great, but I was low on potassium, sodium, magnesium, and water, which factored into the activity contraindication I was given. Sloan never really had rogue days, and it felt difficult for him to identify with the stress of not being ready enough to complete already late work I had on my plate, plus not being able to run off the stress. The only thing to do was that which the companion app indicated--nothing of any importance. I got home and took my M-pill, and immediately the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I played videogames until the rogue day ceased to be a concern, and I drifted off peacefully into sleep. I dreamt. When Tuesday morning rolled around, it was a shock to see that it was yet another rogue day. Not just any rogue day, but a 26/100 Readiness Score! I was consistent with what the algorithm had told me to do the day prior yet had two rogue day designations in a row. I had received perfect sleep, and my diet the night prior hit all my macros and micros that were deficient that morning. It felt like a blow to the chest, knowing that there was nothing to be done despite so many assignments, studying, and obligations to be done. Thoughts raced through my head, trying to tackle how this could’ve happened, but I arrived without any rational reason why I had now had two rogue days in a row. The philosophy of Metricism asserts that if you are not at a certain threshold of readiness given an opportunity to do something meaningful, that it is better to rest that day and pursue it the next. Better to complete a three-hour task on a day you’re Readiness Score indicates it’d only take you two hours, after all. The protocol for rogue days is to simply balance your macros, take a M-pill, and sleep it off, which makes another rogue day highly improbable. Rogue days are typically infrequent, yet I had had four that month alone, and in the past two days, two in a row. I spent Tuesday in limbo. I felt wholly capable of doing things but restrained by that which was supposed to objectively tell me when exactly to do what and when not to. I weighed violating the companion apps’ recommendation but assumed it would be futile, because I had never been put in a spot to consider such a drastic move. I told my professors, and they accepted the predicament I was in graciously and patiently, but Jackson, my supervisor, did not. I had had too many rogue days in the past month to justify keeping me, and I was promptly removed from my internship opportunity. “You seem alright to me, you pitiful subjectivite,” he said grinning as I packed up my possessions from my desk, with the tone of someone who was confident they had discovered a personal lie. I didn’t believe his sincerity initially, as every single other rogue day hadn’t been an issue, but the animosity in the air following the comment, and his grin indicated a completed shift of my reputation, and so I bowed my head and left. To lie about a Readiness Score is an offence that is prosecutable by law. The Metrics Act of 2035 codified the legal use of the Readiness Score, lying about which is prosecutable as fraud. Many worldwide countries joined the “Readiness Revolution” alongside the United States, and many resisted; those who evaded the revolution were later forced to join it as all their economies tanked next to the Metricistic countries’ economies, bolstered by the surge in productivity of its citizens. To lie about having a rogue day to evade responsibilities was nonetheless common, and we called those types of people “subjectivites.” To not participate in the Readiness Revolution was a freedom of choice that only the foolish and the elderly opted for. I was not a subjectivite, but I sure felt as lowly as one. It was true--I had had more rogue days in a month than most people had in years. Usually, the wearables pick up on any health condition days before doctors would have back in the 2020s, but mine indicated nothing unusual. Moreover, I was hungry to run, hungry to complete homework and study, and devastated by the sudden removal of my position from a job I cared so much about. I took an M-pill and let the world drift away from importance yet again, and fell into a deep sleep. M-pill sleep is usually the best kind of sleep. On Wednesday, I woke up feeling absolutely burnt out from the stress of the day before, the effects of which were just hitting me. The tens of hours of outstanding work to catch up on in university only weighed my head more into the pillow before I checked my Readiness Score, which read 90/100. I puked in my toilet from the anxiety of what faced me that day, and got dressed, intent on utilizing all of the potential my Readiness Score had indicated. My professors were most pleased at how rapidly I caught up in everything, but all I felt was dissatisfaction and emptiness. I could barely remember my name, or what I even liked. A pretty woman at Starbucks spilled my drink on herself, and I yelled at her, which I apologized for profusely, but she just stared, blankly. I got the work done, and the Readiness Score was accurate to how capable I was of completing everything I had fallen behind in, but I felt like I was a robot programmed to feel devoid of emotion the entire time. I skipped my evening physics class, and came home early, without even caring about the lecture I had just missed. As soon as I arrived home, I cried without a distinguishable reason. My ManiWatch automatically enabled activity mode due to my heart rate soaring to 180bpm, indicative of physical activity, as I sunk into a desperate madness. Nothing could comfort me, and as my ManiWatch congratulated me for hitting a weekly heart rate peak with beeping and animated confetti, I ripped it off and screamed into my pillow, anxious for my thousands of thoughts to cease, and my breaths to slow. I fell asleep at 5pm in the afternoon, fully clothed, without addressing any more of the unproductive thoughts from the productive day I felt like I had just barely made it through. I awoke Thursday morning to my ManiWatch beeping at me for my alarm and felt something was very wrong momentarily before it came to me--I had forgotten to wear either wearable to bed. Shocked, I looked at my ManiBand, resting peacefully in its charging port, the charge LED light indicating that it was ready for a full night of logging, only it was 6:15am. My ManiWatch on the ground read in big red letters across the screen: “INSUFFICIENT DATA.” I couldn’t believe what had happened; I hadn’t forgotten to wear a wearable since middle school. The weight of the previous day resurfaced in my head as I breathed heavily. I decided that I couldn’t afford to fall behind through another panic attack. I got dressed for the day, and tried to forget about the predicament I was in. It was my only option. The first thing I noticed was my stomach grumbling, and I remembered: I hadn’t tracked my macros and micros to completion Wednesday. The sensation was unfamiliar. I quickly ate a meal that was more than the amount I was supposed to for breakfast, to make up for the night prior, and tracked my macros as if the frequency of my meals hadn’t been interrupted from my episode the night prior. I ate, drank, and then ran errands for the rest of the morning, completing everything that I had still not completed from my productivity hiatus. Dr. Stevens, my biology professor, jokingly asked if I was experiencing *another* rogue day as I entered the room. His expression indicated that he had perceived my chaotic mental state, and I replied that I was fine-- I was unwilling to fall behind and risk the chaos of catching up again by admitting my legitimate situation. He was my favorite professor: always organized, genuine, and wickedly intelligent, and after being sacked from the most promising biology internship in the state, I had no intentions of swaying another person’s perception of myself. “Ah, well that’s great news to hear. You don’t look well though,” he replied with a tone of concern. “How’re your vitals?” he asked. I snapped back that they were normal, and hurriedly sat down before the confrontation could continue. To everyone’s mutual surprise, Dr. Stevens announced a pop quiz on the central dogma of biology. I answered the questions quickly, my stylus shiny with sweat, before anyone else finished. I sat down again relieved at how easy the pop quiz was and waited for everyone else to complete the quiz before Dr. Stevens interrupted my state of contentment by requesting that I go see him in his office after class. Reluctantly, I nodded. His office was the most colorful in the entire building, with diagrams of complex biochemical pathways stretching endlessly into the corners of the room. A photo of his family sat on the shelf behind his desk. The young Dr. Stevens in the photo stared back at me, his face unhappy, almost glaring back at me. “All of my kids are married and raising their own kids now. I think that it’s very peculiar to be a biology professor and a parent at the same time; I can’t help but to acknowledge that they are my contributions to the same theory of evolution we talk about endlessly in class!” He smiled, as if expecting a laugh from me, but I didn’t feel like responding. “You didn’t look at your ManiWatch when I asked you if your vitals were normal,” he said as he mixed a bag of green tea into his heated mug. I could feel his aged eyes scanning my face as the silence of the room met his question. “You look sickly. Is everything going alright, Seth?” My thoughts raced through a dozen excuses simultaneously, but I had so many running through my head that I failed to commit to any at all as his eyes remained analyzing mine. The smell of his tea rank in my nose; it had been years since I had smelled a beverage that wasn’t coffee. “Are you doing alright, Seth? You don’t seem yourself.” I didn’t move. “You’ve had two rogue days back-to-back with each other, yet somehow look worse today,” he said. I remained silent. “I’m concerned, not upset; your grades are among the highest of the class,” he reassured me, but I was in another planet, the last 72 hours racing behind my paralyzed eyes, locked looking through the floor as my hands trembled silently under the desk. “Seth? Do you hear me?” Children, the ill, and the elderly most often forget to wear their wearables. Sometimes, they break in the middle of the night, though extremely rare--Mani Inc.’s product quality is the best in the world. The protocol to attain a proper Readiness Score in the event of a null reading is to immediately consult with a representative from Mani Inc. It takes about an hour and a half, but the importance of attaining an accurate estimate of a score from a licensed expert is almost always of such importance that virtually nobody risks not getting assessed, despite the irritatingly long and tedious assessment process. Overwhelmed by the contents of my mind, I broke my silence. I told him everything, all at once. I told him about the two rogue days, and the M-pills, my job, and the panic of the night before. I told him that I hadn’t worn my wearables, and didn’t know my Readiness Score, and that I had lied to his face about it. I told him about how desperate I was to not fall behind again from my peers and plead with him to not judge me for daring to lie about such a serious topic in the face of his genuine concern. I finished venting to him before I knew I had started, and sat in a state of helpless exasperation, staring again into the space beyond the floor. He sat silent for a moment, staring at the same place my gaze continued to shoot through on the carpet. After the moment had passed, and the silence of the room grown loud, he sipped his tea, and sat down in his office chair. “Your scores came back from the quiz perfect, Seth.” I was surprised at his irrelevant response and looked at him from the prison of a chair I had been bound into. Sensing the shift in my attention, he continued, not moving his eyes from the preferred spot in the carpet as he spoke. I noticed his eyes eased as he spoke, and his expression changed from one of concern to total ease throughout his admission. When he was done talking to me, he calmly met my blank stare, and stood up. As he unstrapped his ManiWatch from his wrist he smiled and left me alone in his office, humming a tune into the hallway as he walked away. Big red letters continued to flash across the screen as I walked out of his office a few minutes later.


I awake. The red LEDs of my alarm clock next to me glow dimly in the dark. 2:30. I had gotten not but an hour of sleep, but still I know I will not be able to return to it. Ah, sleep, the mindless slumber that has eluded me for years. Ever since *you* left. I turn the dial on the knob next to my bed. The lamp glows, illuminating the room. I get out of my bed and walk to my front room. I consider putting on music, but decide that the rain outside is enough. Rain is my favorite weather. It rained when we lived in Seattle, do you remember that? On my table lies a folded note I once had written long ago to you. The paper, now soft from age and wear, seems out-of-place in this kind of world. I open it and read it for what seems like the thousandth time in the last few days. I walk outside. The rain softly lands on my clothes. I'm reminded of the old poem I wrote back in high school, sitting in my English class. Swish, sway, flux and flow Why this happened I don't know The man is dead this much is true His body hangs, his life is through A cotton rope would form a noose Not too tight, not too loose His life had flashed before his eyes Ending in a suicide Pitter-patter, says the rain Everybody feels the blame For a while, the grief is shared But in the end nobody cared I remembered about how I used to be angry all the time. Angry at my family for some dumb reason. Angry at the world for being the harsh reality that it is. Angry at myself for not quite fitting into the world, the way everyone else does, even the odd little boys and girls who spend their nights alone. As I walk down my street, a stoplight flickers on. I think I see your before realizing that it was just a fence post. I thought I saw you, but perhaps it was just wishful thinking. What would I do if we met again? If I could see you once more? *I* certainly don't know. I wouldn't like you to see the way I live my life nowadays, half-drunk and wearing last year's clothes, thinking last year's thoughts. I think about what I used to live for. I realize that my biggest reason to live was for people who needed me, people who were like you. I guess I let you down then. That's why you left. It turns out that no matter how much I wish I could, I couldn't take responsibility for your happiness. I think if I could do it over, I would have gone with you. Or maybe a few days later. There's no point now. No point to anything. We had grown around each other, and when you had left, I collapsed.


High up in the stands I gazed at her. She was swimming her usual twenty-seven laps warm up. I knew her training schedule by heart. She would emerge from the changing rooms at 08:27 exactly. She entered the water at 08:30 and, without wasting any minute, started her training. After the warmup, there was an eight minutes break. She would jump elegantly out of the water, take a sip from her water bottle and stretch. She was now on her twenty-fifth lap, with two more to go. Her body was slicing the water effortlessly, creating no wave. She was in a lane by herself. She was not the fastest in the pool, but she was the most beautiful to look at. She pulled her arm out of the water, rotating her shoulder and extending her arm to the front, her fingers brushing the water below. She reached out forward, as if pulling on a rope, her hand stretching out before disappearing under the water as the other arm came out. The choreography was perfect and mesmerising. She reached the end of the pool, dove, flipped underwater before powerfully pushing herself back in the other direction. I watched as she broke the water surface and took a breath, looking in my direction, but not seeing me. She didn't know I existed. She would never know I existed because I was in love with her. Usually, I swam in the lane next to her, catching a glimpse of her every time she overtook me in her lane. In the water, I was everything she was not. I was slow and clumsy. I had no endurance, having to stop every five laps. I was just another amateur swimming in the pool, in the slow lane. I was invisible. I had not mastered my breathing. I breathed at variable intervals whenever I ran out of breath. After a lap or two, I would generally be out of breath, breathing every opportunity I got. By then, my arms would start aching, and my speed would slow down further. Progress became inexistent as I looked at the unreachable pool wall in the distance. I watched her emerge from the water, taking a sip from her bottle once on solid ground. Her body as perfect as her planning, nothing out of place, everything was looking as it should. She went to sit a few meters behind the back of the pool, under the four-handed clock. She had looked at it as she sat. Everything was timed with her. Every stretching exercise lasted twenty seconds. It was the optimal time for her muscle to loosen up. I watched how she stretched her arms, then her legs. When she was done, she put back her goggles on. She placed herself at the tip of the pool, her lane empty of any amateurs. She would now go fifty laps freestyle without stopping, mixed with butterfly once every six laps. I tried that training regimen once. It was so exhausting I quit mid-way through the first butterfly lap. That has been on a day I was in a good mood, a day when I thought I could attract her attention, make her notice me. But she had not. "Hon, did you see?" I was abruptly brought back to reality. I blushed as my head spun to look at my husband. He was staring at me in the side pool, our son in his arms. "He just did his first lap without me helping," he commented. My son laughed as he jumped into the water. I forced a smile and nodded, waiting for him to focus back on our son, so I could focus back on her. She was all that mattered. As my gaze fell back upon her, I swore to myself that one day I would learn her name.