I was on a tour in London when this had all begun. It was July 6th of 2030, and it had been pouring since 8 o’clock in the morning. The thunderstorm woke me up at 8 but I went back to sleep after the thunder came in at such a frequency that it established a soothing rhythm. When I finally got out of bed at noon I rushed to the Rivoli Ballroom to get ready for the performance in the evening. It was still as dark outside as if it were midnight. I stared into the darkness, and asked David, “Is this type of weather normal to you? ” “Aye, more and more normal in recent years. Last year, we had a storm season throughout July, August and September. Streets were flooded everywhere. Thought London was turning into Venice.” David put on a kilt over his pants and took off his pants from inside the kilt. “Strange,” I looked outside while putting powder on my cheek and nose. I have always insisted on doing my own makeup, even after I went big, I still do my own makeup for any medium and small events. “Strange indeed,” David chortled. As if he just thought of something interesting, David walked towards me with an intrigued look on his face. “May I ask you something? ” David asked. “Of course,” I answered while trying to pick out a color of lipstick for my lips. “Where are you guys from? ” “New York,” I looked at David as if he was silly. This was not the first year I performed in London nor the first time with David. He knows that my entire team is from New York. “No, what I meant was just you...and ah, originally, ” David said with a sense of hesitance. The room was silent for half a second. In 2027, 48 countries banned initiating questions for a person’s nationality in public. The UK was one of them, but not the U.S. By ‘a person’ they really mean a Far East looking person. The reason behind these policies is so that Chinese national or ethnic people do not have to live in terror like they did before the Berkeley Terro in the U.S or Paddington or Gould street in Australia.... Ever since the Global Covid 19 Pandemic in 2020, the Chinese-U.S Nuclear War Scare in 2022 and Mainlander Guerrilla Warfare in Philadelphia in 2025, the global anti-Asians sentiment, have been extreme. People have been robbed, raped and killed. “You know I am serious about fight racial discrimination!” David claimed. He said that but they all hate mainlanders. It is in fact both politically right to be against racial discrimination and hating a Chinese mainlander. After a short pause, I said, “I was a Singaporean before I became an American citizen.” David bursts into a nervous laugh and becomes relaxed after the laugh. “I thought you were. That’s what I would have guessed. Your accent sounds like you are from Singapore.” No, it doesn’t. I have an almost perfect American accent even though you can still tell English is not my native language after talking to me for 10 mins or so. But I do not have a Singaporean accent! “Are you asking to see if I’m a Mainlander Chinese? ” I asked sharply. “No...absolutely not. I am not like one of those people. You see...” David mumbled while approached me from the other side of the room, then the six-foot strong built man got down on one knee next to my vanity. He reached out to hold my hand. “You are the most beautiful woman and performer I have ever seen and I have been a fan of yours since 2023. I’ve had deep respect and love for you ever since. I do feel strongly about protecting my country from the Chinese communists’ propaganda and nuclear attacks. But I am not a racist against asians. I’m not like those thugs. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm or disrespect you! ” I smiled awkwardly after David stared at me sincerely for about 5 seconds. “It’s okay David. I believe your heart is in the right place.” “I cannot imagine what you have gone through these years getting mixed up with the Communist Chinese Mainlanders, those rogue, brutal animals...” David looked at me with real sympathy in his eyes. “It’s not right to kill Mainlander civilians or assault Mainlander immigrants on the streets either, you know?” “Certainly.” David quickly responded and he put on a very superficial smile. “I’m very sorry if I upset you and about my inappropriate comments.” I turned to my mirror glumly and did not say another word on the subject. I had a strange and tingling feeling when I took off my smart watch and saw two messages unread on the watch before getting on stage. I put my watch in my performance jewelry box and took off my robe. Out there on the stage, the cheering and the clapping sounds from the audience drags me back to my reality, or is this actually my fantasy? People think performers put on makeup, costumes, a character to be someone else, but I feel more real in my makeup and costumes than any other time. 7 years have gone by since I became famous and I still worry that this has all been just a sweet dream for me, that I will wake up one day and realize that I have never been me. The stage feels like a sanctuary. I took a deep breath and felt that serenity took over my body and swept away all the stress and anxiety I had from the talk with David backstage. This is my fourth year touring Europe, at the age of 34. I have always believed that the thirties are the best years in one’s life. You are just done with that crisis in your twenties when you think you should start to put your life in order but you are so young and know so little about the world, you are caught by the earlier childhood trauma that you freeze and think you have no value to offer to the world. Then one day at the end of your twenties and when you are heading towards your thirties, you are lifted by fate to take a drastic turn, you manage to snap out of all that negativity and start a family and a career. The family and career are so young too, just like you, they haven't got enough time to go sour yet in your thirties. It's truly the best time in one’s life. I closed my eyes calmly, felt alive and entered a meditative state. The world quiets down. After a short while, the host’s voice breaks the short silence before the show. “Let’s welcome our Lady Hotaru! ” It was around 2 a.m when I got back to my hotel room. David walked with me and Jenny, my assistant/manager, to my room and kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye. I pretended as if I were too drunk to behave in a proper manner. I waved my purse at David while waiting for Jenny to reach for my finger to unlock the door. Jenny pushed me in bed and hooked my face up with the make up remover machine. “Are you going to be good? Do you need me to get you some sober-up? ” It was obviously a rhetorical question for Jenny because as she speaks, she’s already pressing buttons on the espresso machine. “I am fine.” I murmured. I buried half of my face in the sheets and had a peek at the green stuff going into the cup. “Am I becoming an alcoholic, Jenny? ” “Far from it. ” Jenny laughed. “But I have dealt with way too many drunk artists and performers to be a fair judge to that question. Well, you are far from an alcoholic by your profession’s standards. ” Jenny handed me the green gel that was prepared by the espresso machine. “Also that’s an outdated word, alcoholic. Don’t you know kids nowadays are boycotting that word? I am old fashioned on that question: nobody should be pumping poison without any limits. But many of our old morals don't apply anymore, do they? With these newly developed, fixes, drugs, sober-ups, whatever stupid names they have, kids can just drink as much as they want as long as they took some green pills or liquid! ” “Unless they were too drunk to remember to get the green stuff! ” I sat up and had a sip or a bite of the gell-ish “beverage” Jenny offered me. “You are quite right. Sober-ups don’t give people work ethics either, do they? ” Jenny kissed me on the forehead. “Kinsley darling, Now drink up and have a good night's rest. We are leaving early for Warsaw in the morning. Then we can go home! And you can see Jamie and the kids! I know it has been stressful for you. Just hang in there. We are almost done!” “Good night Jenny,” I finished the drink. It really started to grow on me. The sweet, cool aloe taste has already made my stomach feel better. “Good night, Kinsley! ” As the sober-up started to work, the heaviness of my body was leaving, being replaced by a comfortable relaxing feeling. I was almost falling asleep until I remembered the unread messages on my watch. I sat up and reached for my purse. It is rare that I receive messages from that watch. It was connected with my mac instead of my phone. And my mac was connected to this old cloud account with an email address I haven’t used since I was in college. I hardly ever receive any messages from my watch. I grew curious. Maybe it’s from an old boyfriend or a college friend. My world started to spin when I saw the messages in Chinese on the watch. It’s from a number with a Russian area code. Message 1: “Banny, your father is under house arrest. I’m afraid we will not make it to see you again in this life. I am sorry for how our last conversation has ended. We love you..” Message 2: “We miss you, Banny. We miss you.” My heart sank horribly as I read the messages. I was hopeful that this is a prank, except no one who would make such a prank knows enough information about me to do it and no one who does know enough information about me would prank me in such a cruel fashion. And even if they did, they would not call me Banny. There is only one person on this planet that calls me Banny...my mother, Jan, who lives in mainland China with my father, Chief Lee, the Chief engineer of No.3 National Factory of Heavy Industry. That’s right. I’m no singaporean. I am a mainlander. My parents refused to move to the U.S. in 2023 when China had first adopted its 21st century closed door policy. That was the last time I saw them. It has been 7 years. During the China- U.S. nuclear missile competition, the western countries had put up a united front against China in trade and adopted policies to decouple from China. The Chinese government established control of 40 African countries and launched vast propaganda campaigns against the west. China created the Afro-China Metro State (ACMS) to promote business and trade between China and African countries. ACMS initiated a series of beneficial policies for Africans including enabling African students to go to top Chinese universities with far more lenient standards than were used to screen Chinese students and provide African students with financial aid. There are other policies for African citizens such as being able to enlist in the Afro- China Metro Military and receive training and benefits in Mainland China. In Kenya and Tanzania, over 70 percent of the adult males are enlisted in the ACMS military. The forced merging of Africans in Chinese societies did not receive welcome from China’s societies. Instead these policies drove Chinese society to have widespread complaints against Africans and intensified the deep rooted racism against the Africans. The west think the Africans were used as body shields and dispensable soldiers to protect Chinese’s interest. China, however, claimed that it has solved the African problem that the white struggles to solve for centuries. China claimed that states that joined ACMS had doubled its GDP every three years and more children were put in school than ever in the history of these states. Then there is the offended common Chinese people. When they read about the prosperity in Africa in the news they think, is that my tax money being put into building other people’s countries? Sure it would be nice to live in a country where you have everyone join the military and get free money when we are busting our asses more and more everyday while getting less and less. Nonetheless, the mass surveillance control made sure nobody could do anything to challenge the execution of the nation’s policies. China, as its propaganda claims, remains the safest country in the world while ACMS runs as a close second in the rank therefore makes China the “true savior” for the Africa continent. However, anticipating the economy going soft which would result in undermining the Communist regimes’ legitimacy of ruling in China, in 2023, China closed its borders from all countries, including Russia, except for ACMS and North Korea. The Chinese commercial airplane companies were all merged and acquired by the government at zero cost. China used the new Five Ones policy which was an updated version of the Five Ones policy used during the 2020 Covid 19 Pandemic. There shall be ONE flight on ONE route every ONE month to ONE ACMS member state from ONE airline company. Basically except for one full plane after another full plane of African and Chinese soldiers traveling between China and the African countries, no one can get in and out of China legally anymore. The internet was also replaced by the local area network within China. Although getting connected with the outside world is not impossible technically for many mainlanders, the severe punishment deters people’s online activities. From 2023-2028, 80 million people were arrested or sentenced to re-education camps. Knowing my parents, being the patriots and uptight people they are, they wouldn’t ever do anything illegal trying to contact the outside world, not even to contact me. I didn’t think I would hear from them today, or any day, or maybe at all during my life. I haven’t seen or heard from my mom or my dad for 7 years. I did not know if they were leading a good life or a crappy one. I didn't know if they were dead or alive. We have such distinctively different souls, except that they don’t believe in souls. As a kid, I wished to have different kinds of parents, the ones I saw on TV shows. The warm, flexible, loving ones. On the other hand, I can’t blame my parents for hating me because I want things that are so foreign to them. I am an alien in the family because I don’t worship anything they do, things they devote their lives to: the older family members, the state authorities, and a joyless life. Joy was literally punishable by humiliation when I was growing up. My mom used to rip all of my fiction books while I cried hysterically when I was 7. We stared at each other in my room while the white pieces of papers flew everywhere over my bed, my desk and on the floor. She said she can’t understand how weak I am to absorb those emotions and feelings and the evilest of all, doubts, from the books I read. At the same time I can't understand her cruelty, numbness and inability to appreciate and relate to other human beings. She felt betrayed and I felt disappointed. I believe that the wedge between me and my parents was forever drawn on that day when she ripped all of my books. I developed a ritual to bury my books periodically after reading them. It made perfect sense to me while others found it bizarre. They don't understand, where I grew up, books are just like people, they die sometimes. When Chinese first announced its policies to close the borders, when most of my mainlander friends in the U.S. managed to get their parents out so they can stay together. My parents rejected with deep contempt my proposal for them to move. My mother called me back after the second last unpleasant conversation which I thought was to be the last. She called me back and stayed silent for a while. “What do you want, Mama?” I asked softly. “Will you move back? You can still move back.” She asked me, sounding even a little vulnerable. “I’m sorry but I won’t. ” I answered. “That’s great!” She got her normal sarcastic voice back. I hung up the phone before she could say any other thing. I want to remember her with that little bit of rare vulnerability. It feels like love. There is a void in my heart where my parents lie, but I understand their decisions at the end of the day. I know why they made it. I know how different we are and how we are different. The knowledge that comes with the indication of the impossible reconciliation, hurts me in all eternity. But on the other hand, their reasons, morality, and values also hurt me. Everything hurts. I don’t know what to do with their message which seems to carry so much information, yet delivers so little at the same time. What’s going on with them? Is my Dad being arrested? Is my mom sick? She has always had a sensitive nervous system. Do they want to see me? .... Do they still love me?


Kat watched her house burn to the ground with her entire family in it. That was the problem with a tiny bit of magic. You always hear that you’ll go on grand adventures, and save lives with it, but no one ever tells you that you could accidentally burn down your house with it. It was only a tiny bit of magic after all, just enough to make a ball roll, or maybe make a spark. It’s only a tiny bit of magic, so it’s like a toy, a tiny bit of magic never hurt anyone right? Well, a tiny bit of magic was burning Kats little sisters’ skin off her bone and had caused part of the master bedroom to collapse atop of her mother. Because of a tiny bit of magic, her dog would die from smoke long before the fire reached him, and her father would be swallowed by the flames before he could get to her mother or little sister. Because of a tiny bit of magic, the bedroom she grew up in would soon be ash, and her father’s little library that was filled off all the books she loved wouldn’t last through the night. That was the problem with a tiny bit of magic, as it’s just small enough to feel safe, but it is still magic, and like all magic it is volatile. The real problem with a tiny bit of magic, however, was not the flames. It was not that Kat's entire family was burning to death, or that the home that she had loved so much would be devoured by the growing fire. The real problem with a tiny bit of magic was that Kat didn’t mind. Kat didn’t mind because a tiny bit of magic is addictive. A tiny bit of magic is like a year’s supply of cocaine, or a bars worth of empty liquor bottles. Because if she could do this with a tiny bit of magic if she could bring down the giant mansion that lay before her on accident, then what could she do when she tried. What could she do with a lot of magic? A smile curled on Kat's lips as she began to realize her potential. Even with just a tiny bit of magic, her life would never be the same. She would never have to go to school again, and if they tried to make her, she could just burn the school down along with them. Cindy, the girl who had once been Kat's best friend would soon be a charred corpse, only recognizable by her teeth, and David, the boy who had chosen Cindy over her, well she might give him a second chance. Kat turned away from her burning home and took a deep breath of the cool night air. To her, it tasted of opportunity and excitement.


Debtor's Jail - A short story by Nick Carter 2021  The dim light flickered across the chrome table, the mildew smell in the cement brick room was slightly nauseating. He's not sure why he's here, but he's not looking forward to finding out. If only they'd bring him a sandwich, he hasn't eaten for hours... The door creaked shut behind the man, gaunt and official looking, pale stubbled skin turning gray from years of tension. He sat down across from the young man, briefly eyed him with distaste, noting his heavy metal t-shirt and cycling cap, both covered in indecipherable doodles. "They let you wear that in here?" the man asked, disintested, as he flipped through the file. "Nobody said otherwise." He sat with a demure posture, trying not to squirm, his right arm grasping his left. He resisted the urge to play with the lighter clip stamped flat on the edge of the hat's bill, something he often did when he was nervous. The air stood still and silent as the pages turned. Then the man looked up and locked eyes with him, casting a tangible smugness. "When's the last time you paid your bills, Roger?" He was put off: nobody called him Roger. "My name's Roy, sir... if you don't mind." The man leaned forward. "When is the last time, you paid your bills.... Roger Morris?" Roy started to sweat under his hat. "I pay on time every month! My rent, my phone, internet... I own my car... I barely make it, but I haven't missed a payment in 2 years!" He was right, he hadn't missed a payment on any of those things. But he wasn't being completely honest. "You're not being honest with me, Roger. What about the money you owe Key Bank?" Fuck, thought Roy. This is it. This is the end of the road. He started stammering, he took off the hat and brushed his hair, desperately trying to find the words to convey his situation. "Ok, look.... I USED to pay them. I did! I just couldn't do it anymore, it's.... it's not tenable, man!" "Tenable!" The man scoffed. "Looks like that college education really paid off for you, fancy word like that." In fact college had NOT paid off for him. After going for a dual major in Design and Communications, he found he was only suitable for work that was freelance, highly competitive, and quickly losing demand. He had managed to eke out his living washing dishes at the corner bar, which allowed him time to practice his art and persue his dream. That dream, it now seemed, was quickly going nowhere. "Sir..." He quivered at the notion of avoiding the man's questions, "is there any way I could get a snack? My blood sugar is getting low and..." SMACK! The file landed on the table hard, letting out a soft metallic ring. It was thick, and now he knew what was in there: his credit report. He'd seen it a few years ago when he made the decision - The decision to buck the system and stop paying for what amounted to a giant paperweight on his livelihood. "Do you think you're entitled to a snack?" Roy stared blankly at him. The man continued, "do you know what pays for those snacks, in that vending machine, in this public facility?" "Tax dollars," he replied quickly. The man's lip curled. "Yes. Exactly. Tax dollars." They pay your salary too, you fascist fuck, thought Roy - he immediately bit his mental lip and hoped his insolence wasn't visible on his face. "Tax dollars that come from corporations. Corporations like Key Bank. And where do they make the money to pay those taxes? From people like you, who take out loans, such as this one for $16k back in 2005. And another in 2006. And another in 2007." Roy noticed that the man didn't mention the fourth year of college - 2008 - which never came to fruition. "Sir, I pay my taxes." "But KeyCorp pays a hell of a lot more in taxes than you do." Roy doubted this: so many corporations had managed to zero out their federal taxes, and he knew for a fact that Key Bank had accrued almost $20 million in penalties since the turn of the century. "And just because you pay your taxes, doesn't change the fact that you are a Fiscal Radical if you don't keep current on your debts." Fiscal Radicals. This is what the police and politicians were labeling people who refused to pay their student loan debts. It gave the impression that these people were a united political force; when in reality they were everyday men and women who woke up to the realization that paying $200, $400, $800 a month towards a debt that continued to grow despite loyal payments, was not a sustainable way of life. It amounted to slavery, and to recognize it as such was to label yourself a criminal. "Sir." Roy's blood sugar was starting to crash, his temper growing as his stomach growled. "Do you realize that I only make $2,000 a month? I can hardly afford health insurance, let alone my rent and food. I'm lucky to have a good car and a bicycle to get to work. I work 12 hour days 5 days a week, usually more. I stopped drinking so I could keep up with my bills. I have less than $100 in savings - if anything bad happens to me it will be the end of my life!" "But you still smoke grass, don't you?" Roy rolled his eyes clear out of his head - despite the fact that marijuana had been legalized for recreation, cops still loved to throw it in your face: they still used it as probable cause to harass hundreds of people, and for some reason this was completely acceptable. "You try working as hard as I do and not medicating yourself." His anger subsided, turning to shame and depression. The man smiled, a crooked dark smile. He pulled a vape pen from his breast pocket. "Don't worry... we're here to help, Roger." Roy eyed the pen suspiciously as the man took a large puff, then offered it to him. He hesitated for just a moment, then snatched it from the man's hand and took a long draw. The nicotine relieved his craving for sustenance, making the emptiness more tolerable. "How's that?" he said tersely. "Simple. You pay what you owe, right now, and we let you go." The man folded his hands, his expression warming. Roy squinted: "didn't I just tell you I only have $100 in savings? Doesn't it say that in that file of yours?" The man shrugged, lips curled, hands turned up. "In that case, we can sign you up for a PLP Card. The debt will go on your PLP, and once that is paid off, you'll be free to go." PLP Card? Roy was not familiar with this. From the folder, the man produced a small plastic card, complete with copper chip, in bold official fonts it read:  PRESIDENTIAL LOAN PROGRAM BROUGHT TO YOU BY AMAZON ROGER L MORRIS INTERNED 2026  "...You'll be here, working off your debt, and once it is done, you'll be free to go." Roy saw it clearly now: the debt would be transferred to the Amazon Financial Group, and he would be subject to prison labor, at a much lower rate of pay than even his minimum wage existance. He would lose his job, his apartment, his car and bike, everything he had worked for. He would be stuck here 'working off his debt' until he died... a virtual ward of the state, in perpetual "unpaid student" status, doing menial labor in excrutiating conditions and never seeing a single dime.  "....Fucking Jeff." "Oh, don't thank Mr. Bezos, remember: It's President AmazonCorp." And this was true: thanks to the Supreme Court's new extended interpretation of Citizen's United, the Amazon Corporation was eligible to run for president in 2024 - which it did, and it won handily. This is it, Roy thought: this is where the institutional slavery becomes actual slavery, from the frying pan into the fire as they say... and it happens the exact same way he got into this mess in the first place. "Sign here.


Salisbury steak for the mister. Of course. Sheridan has always loved steak, especially on this lovely day--Valentine's Day. I make the most exquisite steak in town, that much he brags about every chance he gets. "I am just so lucky I met her," he usually adds. On my way to the market this morning, I saw several trinkets and what-nots solely dedicated to celebrating this day. I saw lots of children running up and down the town with red balloons floating above them. Lovers here and there share a moment of public bliss. Oh, it's a joy to see; it's a joy to love. This delicious weight of the tenderloin I bring home is a promise of one. How long have I been with Sheridan, you ask? Oh, it feels like it has only been a day. (If you can call three decades and a half a day.) Now, this makes me feel old. But, he looks as dashing as he was back when I first met him. Oh, I can tell you--those eyes can create wonders... Ehem. What cutlery do you think I should use this time? The wooden ones from my grandma? The silver ones Sheridan brought back from Canada? Or--yes. Of course. These fancy Victorian-style ones we bought from our Roman trip! That trip was very memorable. One I often think about before I close my eyes. We were both in our blushing 20's. The wedding was just a few days ago. I was thrilled to be alone with him for the first time. (Not quite alone, though. There was old Martha and a bodyguard, of course.) He was wearing that dark green suit I always loved on him. I, to compliment him, wore my green halter dress and red shoes. Oh, the smile his face produced when he saw me was legendary. "You are the ginchiest in that dress, Emily." he mused back then. You should have witnessed the way he even had to remove his sunglasses. It was on the fifth day of the one-week long honeymoon that we bought the cutleries. Old Martha scoffed and tried to take Sheridan away from the stall, saying it will be a proper waste of money for something that will be sitting in the cupboards. But, my Sheridan had more sense than that. He agreed with me and bought them fancy things without a moment's hesitation! Sheridan and I are both spontaneous. A match made in Heaven, indeed. These peonies will be perfect on the table. What do you think? Sheridan and I tend several peony bushes along the fence. He knows I am inclined to them, so he planted them in the '80s just to get me to stay with him. I kid, I kid. Oh--I need to get started on the Salisbury steak. Sheridan will come home by 8. I need to get this special dinner done before that. I also need to get chrome-plated, you know? I may be pushing 70, but this gal still got some classy chassis. You can stop grinning like the Cheshire cat. I did have a lovely body. Some used to say I can rival Marilyn Monroe herself, and that my eyes can put Lauren Bacall's to shame! These ingredients are perfect. What do you think of these mushrooms? Aren't they beautiful? I should have gotten the ones in the can? No way, youngster. Call me anything you'd like, but I like my food fresh and as real as they can get. My Sheridan only deserves the best. No , I am far from worshipping him. The big guy up there only deserves that. But, I do love dear Sheridan. You cannot blame me. You have seen his pictures--he is a dreamboat. He is a principled, responsible gentleman. They do not make men in his model any longer. Women nowadays settle for boys who pretend to be grown up, and it is sad. Now, will you be a dear and pass me those eggs and onions? Thank you. Sheridan likes his steaks saucy. I, myself, am not too indulging with Salisbury steaks. I prefer the classic buttered steak with garlic and herbs. But, you see, even though Salisbury steak is the last dish I want to cook, I will still cook it every day if Sheridan only asks it of me. That's how I love him. That's how you should love: A compromising, unreserved love. Do you shake your head? Oh, I know. You had been taught to hold your emotions back and save some for yourself. I understand. This modern age is cruel to those who love. It grapples and chokes the slightest sign of love in anyone. This new world hates big love--but it is the only thing it needs. If you'll take a quiet moment in my chair and think about it, you will agree that only love can solve every problem in the world. War? If country leaders love each other, they would think for each other's betterment. War stops. Poverty? If only the richest men on earth love other people and not just his money, no one will ever be hungry again. I can say more, but this dish has simmered enough, and I have to get dressed. Do you mind watching the door for me while I go upstairs? Thank you, thank you. Oh--and do not turn the stereo up loud. We do not want to wake old Martha and ruin this moment with her spiteful remarks, do we? That's a dear. It is always a jolly moment when Sheridan comes home with just the great dinner I set up, and not her old tongue. I will be ready in a few minutes. There. How do I look? Stunning is an understatement! I kid, I kid. But, thank you, dear. You have been a real treat today, too. I hope you do not get tired of the old me. The steak! I still have to transfer it to the golden dish. No, no . I will be fine myself, thank you. It is tradition to plate it all by myself. But, you can help with the candles. Sheridan loves candlelit dinners. Especially this one. And, there! Oh, this table looks wonderful. Thank you for your big help. But, I can take it from here. It is already 7:38. I do not want to keep you from your own Valentine's dinner date with...who was it again? Oh, yes. Alex . I do hope you have a wonderful night. Yes. I will be fine. You have been a charm not to interrupt me with all my musings about Sheridan. I know you think it very silly of me. This evening will be perfect for us, I am sure. If only old Martha is not here to rain on my parade. Just like how it was in this photograph, where Sheridan decided to marry her instead of me. But, who was I to howl and cry? I was just their handmaiden. Now, off you go. Don't let my silly tears ruin your night. And remember: love unreserved. You deserve it. Good night, dear. Take care.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: This is your final **Spooktober** prompt. And this week we’re taking a dive into the slasher horror genre. Show me someone who survives against all odds, a final girl, or even an unexpected hero that takes the killer down. Or maybe you want to twist it and go with the big bads POV. One of my favorite things about this particular subgenre is the age-old question at the very end: Is it *really* over? Have fun! - **Sentence: I wouldn’t let him win.** - **Bonus Constraint 1:** Genre is Slasher Horror. *Please keep the subreddit rules in mind while writing. Nothing overly gory, graphic, or explicit please.* - **Bonus Constraint 2: A weapon malfunctions.** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You can change the tense and/or pronouns if you like, but the sentence should remain intact. **Stories without the sentence will be disqualified from rankings.** Use of the bonus constraint and image are not required. You can check out my ever growing if you’d like some fun, spooky music! **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/luckiestredditor - **Second:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Third:** - Submitted by u/Prof_Bloodsoe - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/RobbieMargo - **Crit Star:** - u/TheLettre7 *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - On **November 11**, we’re hosting a **World-Building Interview** on our Discord. Come check it out and sign up by November 4th to get in on the fun and chat about your world with other writers! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


On a windy, desolate beach in South Georgia, Miss Percy assembled her pupils. “Class--pay attention,” she admonished. “I know you’re all excited about Kingmas break, but there’s work to do.” The fledglings looked up from their ice desks as she called roll. “Charlotte Chinstrap?” “Present.” “Ginny Gentoo? Edward Emperor? Marty Macaroni--“ One by one, the pupils confirmed their presence. Then little Rainbow Rockhopper raised her flipper. A recent transfer from the North, the concept of Kingmas was new to her. “Yes, Rainbow?” “Ma’am--why do we celebrate Kingmas?” “Well, once upon a time, there was a cold, bad winter. It was so awful that mommy and daddy penguins couldn’t get back to feed their little ones.” “That sounds terrible, ma’am.” “It gets worse, I fear. The snow-covered beaches of South Georgia echoed with the sound of hungry little penguins. As you know, each caw is different, so grown-up penguins can find their own young. But there were no parents to be found.” The children of the class nodded, riveted even though they’d heard the tale before. “Things got so terrible that many were in danger of losing their lives. And then a miracle happened.” “What’s a *miracle*?” “When something so good happens that it’s hard to believe. When all hope was lost, Kenny King flew over with the help of a team of magic seals in a great wooden sledge filled with sardines. Bells ringing to draw their attention, he flew over the rookery and threw fish for all the boys and girls. The children rejoiced--they were saved. When their mamas and papas came back after a long time at sea, the parents feared the worst. But instead, they found a rookery full of happy, well-fed fledglings.” “What a nice penguin! Thanks, Miss Percy.” “Indeed he is. And that’s why every year on December 25th, Kingmas is celebrated.” Rainbow looked out over the cold, unforgiving beach as the wind ruffled her feathers. Imagining how tough it was for the fledglings, she was thankful for her luck. Born in the comparatively warm Tristan de Cunha, such hardships were rare. Miss Percy waddled over to Ginny and put a protective wing around her. “It’s tough to imagine, isn’t it--“ “I wish we could thank Mr. Kenny somehow.” “We can--every year, we lay out offerings for him in thanks. And each year, he rides in his sleigh and brings gifts to all of the good penguin boys and girls.” “What’s an *offering*?” “It’s like a little present for him. We decorate the beach with kelp tinsel spelling out his name and leave a big pile of fish for him and the seals.” “I wanna do that.” “This year is special as we wrote a song just for him. All our friends and families will gather around and sing it.” That night, before bed, Rainbow went to the beach with her parents and helped to lay out the kelp. And then the singing began. “Jingle Bells, jingle bells Jingle all the way Thank you, Kenny For all you do and say Hey!” Later, a tired Rainbow curled under her mother’s flipper and fell asleep. She dreamed of Kenny and his team of seals with a smile on her beak.


Nadia was irritated. Her temper was always close to its boiling point these days; any minor hitch was enough to set her off. Today was no exception. She grumbled to herself as she blindly groped along the surface of her dresser, hoping to make contact with her glasses. Where had they gone? She racked her brain, trying to remember. She had removed her glasses just a minute ago, placing them carelessly on the dresser, turning, and leaning back against the wood in exhaustion. Nadia recalled rubbing her eyes and taking several deep breaths before reaching for the spectacles, which, of course, hadn’t been where she had left them. They’ve probably just fallen to the floor , she told herself sternly. Muttering under her breath, she sank slowly to her hands and knees, all the while casting her arm out wildly in front of her. Her hand hit the open suitcase on the ground with a dull thud , and she drew her arm back immediately, cursing in pain. This was ridiculous. There was nothing else for it; she would have to ask Harry to help her find them, no matter how unappealing the idea of asking for his help was. “Harry!” she shouted loudly, to no response. Nadia felt a familiar anger start to blossom in her chest. She always had to call his name multiple times before he even acknowledged her. She bellowed his name again and attempted to calm her quickly growing annoyance as she heard the slow pounding of his footsteps down the hall. He was in no rush to get to her, she noted resentfully. “What?” Harry demanded, sounding irritated himself, as Nadia had known he would. “What do you want?” “You don’t have to take that tone,” she started, and sensed rather than saw him open his mouth to snap back. “Anyway, I’ve misplaced my glasses,” she hurried on. “Your glasses?” Harry repeated. Nadia could see his blurred image moving around the room, searching. She imagined how she must look right now, seated hopelessly in the corner of their bedroom next to her packed belongings. She had been planning to leave for her sister’s house tonight; what would she do if she couldn’t find her glasses by then? A sharp panic overtook her at the thought, and she coaxed it away -- what an unreasonable fear. The glasses certainly weren’t lost forever; Harry was probably going to locate them any second now. She squinted up at his fuzzy form just in time to see him resignedly collapse onto the bed. “Can’t find them. Don’t you have a spare pair?” “This was my spare pair,” Nadia said, frustration creeping into her voice. “My regular pair broke last month, and I never got around to replacing it, what with all this mess about the divorce.” She couldn’t see him, but she knew he had cringed. He always winced every time she spoke about the divorce aloud, as if the word itself were poisonous. Nadia didn’t understand what the issue was; they were ending their marriage, weren’t they? What was the point of beating around the bush about it? Harry had seemed strangely unwilling to proceed with the divorce paperwork despite being the one who had asked for the divorce. She sighed. “Look, Harry, don’t you have a spare pair of glasses? I know our prescriptions aren’t exactly the same, but at least I’ll be able to see something . Can I borrow them?” He grunted in assent, and Nadia heard him rummage through the drawer of his bedside table. Harry was almost as visually impaired as she was. Years ago, they had joked that they would produce children with the worst eyesight ever when they decided to have kids. Yes, Nadia thought to herself bitterly, it had always been “ when we have children,” never “ if we have children.” But that ship had sailed, she reminded herself. She was roused from her recollections by an apologetic grunt from Harry. “Nadia?” he began uncertainly. “I... can’t find my spare pair. But also...” “What?” she demanded, a slight trace of panic invading her voice. Harry rarely sounded so unsure. “Don’t be angry, Nadia...” “Don’t be angry about what ?” she growled. This situation was quickly spiraling out of control. She should have been fully packed by now. “I also... can’t find my first pair.” “Your first pair?” Nadia asked blankly. “You don’t mean... you don’t mean the pair that was on your face when you came into the room, do you?” “Yes.” “ Yes ? Is this a joke? What, did they vanish into thin air?” “It... certainly seems like it.” Nadia let out a low moan of distress. “Harry, this isn’t funny,” she said. “I don’t have time for this right now; I need to --” “Look, Nadia,” Harry began. His voice was worried and shaky, and this calmed Nadia’s anger more than anything else. Could this actually be happening? “I don’t know what happened, or how it happened. I know I’m forgetful and messy, but this is absurd, even for me. All I know is that I have lost my glasses, too, and you know that I can’t see very much more than you can right now.” Nadia sat in stunned silence. This was not at all how she had imagined her Friday evening; she had expected to throw some clothes in her suitcase and be off. Instead, here she was, seated blindly on the floor, accompanied by her soon-to-be ex-husband, who was just as sightless as she was. The situation was ludicrous, she thought to herself with an involuntary giggle. A small noise startled her from her musings, and Nadia realized with a jolt of unrecognizable emotion that Harry was chuckling along with her. She couldn’t help herself, and within seconds they were both convulsed with laughter. Her anger had evaporated; the situation just seemed funny now, just overly bizarre. “You know,” Harry murmured, once their giggles had subsided, “We would have found this hilarious, back in the day, I mean.” “We’re laughing at it now, too,” Nadia pointed out. “I know, but we would have made something of the situation. We would have enjoyed it while it lasted.” “Enjoyed... our blindness ?” Nadia said incredulously, but she had an inkling of what he meant. A year or two earlier, before the hospitals and emergency surgeries and constant disappointments had turned their relationship sour, they’d have relished the opportunity to be together, ludicrous as the situation might be. She carefully pulled herself upright and joined him on the navy blue blur that was their bed. The emotion she hadn’t been able to name shot through her again, seemingly landing at the base of her throat and lodging itself there. Steeling her resolve, Nadia inhaled deeply. “Let’s enjoy this, then. What would we have done?” Harry’s voice wavered as he began to speak, and Nadia knew he was deciding whether to play along. For a fleeting moment, she wished he would snap at her and tell her this was ridiculous, that they had better call for help and rectify this situation. A fight, at least, would be familiar territory, comforting in a horrible sort of way. He didn’t try to start an argument, however, and Nadia couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. “We would have probably tried to do something enjoyable anyway... you know, we would have thought it was just more fun to watch each other struggle without our glasses.” “Something enjoyable...” Nadia repeated. “Are you hungry? Do you want to cook something? We used to cook together all the time, remember?” “Yes, that was before you started screaming at me for every drop of food spilled on the counter while cooking,” Harry remarked bitterly. “But,” he continued hastily, as if expecting her to retort with her own cutting remark -- which, Nadia admitted to herself, was not improbable in the least -- “I’m game. Let’s do it.” Nadia felt his hand close around her upper arm and almost jerked away before she grasped that he was trying to help her up. They stood and stumbled toward the hallway, holding tight to one another as they tripped over furniture and almost slammed into a wall. “Maybe it’s for the best that all our attempts to reproduce were foiled,” Nadia joked as they groped for the kitchen door’s handle and were met with solid wall instead. “It would have probably been against the wishes of natural selection.” An uncomfortable, stony silence met her words, and she immediately regretted what she had said. “Sorry --” she stammered. “I was just kidding, you know, because we’re both so blind, and you know, survival of the fittest and all that....” She trailed off, feeling guilty, but the shame was almost immediately overpowered by annoyance. How dare he make her feel bad for trying to lighten the mood? Why was he the one offended by the joke? Hadn’t it been Nadia who had spent heartbreaking nights in hospital gowns? Hadn’t it been her body that had suffered, her body that had betrayed her? She opened her mouth to tell him so, but that something that had settled at the bottom of her throat caught the words before they could come out. For some reason, she didn’t want to spoil what was happening now. She swallowed the words, and, locating the door’s handle, swung it open and pulled Harry into their kitchen. Looking back, Nadia doesn’t remember whose idea it was to bake a cake, but she does remember laughing harder than she had in months as they struggled to recall the recipe for hummingbird cake. Harry still knew most of the instructions, Nadia realized with a pang -- it had been their favorite cake, and they had baked it together for almost every anniversary and birthday. They both had gaps in their memory, however, and they spent the evening happily inventing steps to fill in the blanks. “Can you feel this? Does it feel more like a teaspoon measure or a tablespoon measure to you -- wait! What are you doing? ” “What do you mean, what am I doing? Clearly, I’m mashing a banana.” Laughter. “I don’t know what you’re doing to that banana, but mashing is definitely not the word I’d use. And I don’t think that’s the mixing bowl! I think that’s the microwave! I think the mixing bowl is on your left!” More giggling. “And stop eating all the pineapple! We only have one can!” “I’m eating the mashed banana, actually.” “Then why is it in a can?” A thud. “Oops.” “I need a drink. I’ve never appreciated corrective lenses so much in my life.” Harry fumbled for a cabinet with his flour-covered hands. Had her vision been restored, Nadia would have berated him immediately for the streaks of white powder left in the wake of his touch; however, neither of them could see the current wreckage of the kitchen. Nadia could imagine it, of course, but for some reason, she could summon no anger, only mirth. The kitchen would eventually be cleaned up, she assured herself. “Ouch!” Harry yelled, too close to her ear. “I stepped on whatever you dropped earlier!” He stumbled backwards, straight into Nadia, and the breath left her lungs as his elbow met her diaphragm. She toppled, and they collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor, covered in flour and sugar and something sticky. “I... I think we broke an egg,” Nadia said breathlessly as she attempted to untangle her limbs from Harry’s and stand up. They rose a few feet before tripping over one another and falling back down on top of each other. They dissolved into laughter once more; Nadia clutched her stomach as she distinctly heard Harry snort. Nadia wasn’t sure who initiated it, but in the next moment, she was wrapped in a tangled embrace and pulled into a sticky kiss. She felt flour on Harry’s lips and eggshells in his hair -- how had that happened? -- and something lurched in the pit of her stomach. Just as the kiss began to evolve into something deeper and more passionate, Nadia’s arm, on which she had been propping herself up, slipped on the mess on the floor and gave out beneath her. Her head shifted, and Harry’s teeth slammed into hers awkwardly and painfully. They pulled themselves apart, panting in confusion. After a few moments, Harry broke the silence first. “I’m... I’m sorry.” Nadia paused. He wasn’t apologizing for the spoiled kiss, she knew. And neither was she -- “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly. She rose shakily to her feet and extended a hand to pull him up. They stood in silence for a moment, and Harry’s voice once again cut through the quiet, this time to Nadia’s slight annoyance. “Nadia.” “Shh,” she muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “No,” Harry replied, more insistently, disbelief in his voice. “Nadia.” He grabbed her hand and guided it along the kitchen counter to where his other hand was grasping something. For a minute, Nadia didn’t realize what she felt under her fingertips; suddenly, though, it became abundantly clear. There were two pairs of glasses sitting neatly on the kitchen countertop. Harry and Nadia grabbed them up and shoved them on their noses clumsily, hands still covered in ingredients that would never become hummingbird cake. Looking back, Nadia remembers avoiding Harry’s eyes as she busied herself cleaning the mess they had made. Harry had followed suit. Nadia recalls the uncomfortable, vibrating air between them as she announced, as casually as she could, that perhaps she shouldn’t be driving to her sister’s that night, and maybe she would just go the next morning. They went to bed without further conversation, each awkwardly huddling on one side of the bed. The next morning, as Nadia rolled her suitcase out into the hall, she found the divorce papers signed and ready on the coffee table. Something swelled in her chest -- was it heartbreak or relief? -- but as she walked out of the house that had been hers and Harry’s, she felt more free than she had in a long, long time.


Author’s note: This is part of the “Diana’s Life Tips” story series where the stories are all stand-alone with relevant info I will provide. Relevant info: Daemon is a demon Diana accidentally summoned. They think Satan’s ex-wife is planning an invasion so they went to ask an ancient demon what happened during the last demonic invasion (AKA the Great Demon War). Dry heaving, Diana collapsing outside the passenger’s side door of the latest Jeep Daemon stole. She’s never been more happy from skipping lunch or else she’d be actually heaving. Wiping her mouth, she stood on jelly legs, dusting off stones and dirt from the pavement that impressed on her red knees. “I don’t know why I agreed to get in a car with you driving after what happened last time,” she said. “It wasn’t that bad,” Daemon said as he got out. “We crashed into a tree,” Diana screeched. “But wasn’t that mostly your fault?” She stared daggers at him. “Okay, okay. Point taken. But we’re here, so stop trying to murder me with your eyes.” “Oh, don’t worry. I can murder you with something else. I’m flexible .” Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Daemon said, “ Anyway , we’re here in one piece so there’s no need to go chopping out anyone into... more pieces?” “Where is here?” Daemon pointed at the giant billboard that read “Legal Demon Intuition”. “Context clues, Diana. Context clues. I thought you were a journalist, how can you be this bad at putting things together?” “And suddenly we’re back to murder.” Daemon took a step back. “Are you sure this is the right guy?” She asked as she stretched out her sore arms from the long arms. “Yup, Carbraken. He’s an ancient demonic giant from the age of Mayans. He’s existed longer than Christianity. If anyone can tell us about the last demon invasion attempt, it’s him.” Daemon slid closer to Diana. “And if you want to pay me back for this critical information by say... creating a contract with me?” Diana smirked. “But you’re already helping me. Why would I buy the cow when I can get the milk for free?” He cocked his head to the side. “I thought that was about sex?” “It can be applied to other things.” Daemon looked unconvinced. “ Can it? Come on, let’s go inside.” *** Legal Demon Intuition was on the top floor of a five story office building nestled in between a butcher’s shop, bakery, and fruit stand out front. Inside, Daemon breathed in the smell of rotting blood, moldy oranges, and vanilla. “Ah, smells like home.” “Why would this smell like your home? I thought you were a Christian demon? And if he’s older than Christianity...” “There are multiple different versions of hell based on different human cultures that all live bunched together inside the earth called the hell realms. When a significant enough culture or religion is created with their version of hell, it gets added. As you can imagine, it’s pretty crowded down there. The hell realms are basically a New York apartment building inside the earth. Hot, sticky, terrible neighbors, and the faint scent of death which is--” “Rotting blood, moldy oranges, and vanilla,” a male voice with a Mexican accent from behind answered. The pair spun around on their heels to meet a seven foot tall Mexican man with grey, spiky hair in a pinstripe suit. Wrinkles dominated his face making into the human version of a bulldog. He hunched over at a slight degree, but otherwise was looking pretty good for an ancient demon that was thousands of years old. A real silver fox type. The man smiled at Daemon’s tiny holes barely peeking through his curly red hair. “Ah, it's always nice to see another demon. Lawyers are good evil company, sure, but it’s good to see a true kindred spirit. Where are you from?” “Christianity,” Daemon answered. “Ah,” he said. “And you little lady? Where are your horns?” “Actually--” Diana began. “She’s Christian, too.” Daemon interrupted with a lie. “Lost her horns in a freak buzzsaw accident.” He mimed a buzzsaw going over his head. “A really funny, semi-tragic accident.” The man chuckled. “I bet.” Grabbing Daemon’s arm, Diana leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Why did you lie? I’m human.” “I doubt many demons want to spill ancient demonic history to humans. Especially ancient ones. They’re set in their old ways.” Diana rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just get the info.” Daemon cleared his throat. “I take it you’re Cabrakan?” “The one and only. I run this law firm with my brother, Zipanca, and some interns we underpay and overwork. What did you come here for? I doubt it was legal counsel.” Rolling back on his heels, Daemon said, “Actually, we were hoping you could tell us about the Great Demon War.” Before Daemon could finish the words ‘Great Demon War’, Cabrakan’s face fell and his gaze turned to ice. “I’d think we should step inside my office for privacy.” *** To say Cabrakan’s office was earth themed would be an understatement. Everything. Was. Brown. The walls? Brown. Carpet? Brown. The ceiling? A slightly lighter shade of brown. Why? Probably to keep it spicy even though brown is the second most boring color in the world. The first is beige and that’s brown’s pale sister that’s never seen the sun. The only pop of color was framed pictures of green mountains and canyons that hung on the walls. And strangest of all, was Cabrakan’s desk that had a mess of papers and a wooden tray with just a pile of dirt on it. A worm popped up in it and wiggled a little. Diana took it as a hello and named him Melvin in her head. Cabrakan took a seat behind the desk while Daemon took the only seat in front of the desk meant for clients. Diana stood awkwardly, pretending to be interested in a photo on the wall so she wouldn’t have to look at Cabrakan and face the reality that he was still taller than she was standing. Folding his hands on his desk, Cabrakan broke the silence. “Why do you want to know about the Great Demon War?” “We have reason to believe that Satan’s ex-wife may be planning an invasion,” Daemon explained. “And that reason would be?” Cabrakan asked. “We found a piece of paper with a partial part of a plan written in pencil on a desk in my school’s main office.” Cabrakan cracked a smile, leaned back, and chuckled. “So nothing serious then. That’s a relief.” Diana pouted. “It is a big deal.” “Kid, look, no offense, but it isn’t and you don’t want it to be. Demon invasions from any culture are bad news for everyone involved.” “What do you mean?” Cabrakan sighed. “Basically, the human world, earth, the surface--whatever you want to call it; it means the same--is a huge neutral zone. Demons of any hell realm or culture can come here to prey on humans that we all need to survive. Human cultures create and feed demons. Demons make deals to ‘improve human life’, as the propaganda goes. Humans and demons are intertwined and need each other. Now, if a demon or group or demons were to try and take over the human world, then that would be bad news for all other demons. All hell would break loose as everyone would scramble to secure their stakes or fight to gain more.” “Is that what happened during the Great Demon War?” With a grim expression, Cabrakan nodded. “And we have officially circled back to the reason we’re here,” Daemon said. “Care to tell us about it?” Cabrakan swished his head from side to side, trying to make up his mind. “Ah, what the hell. For a couple of love birds like you, I’ll do it.” “We’re not--” Diana began. Daemon cut her off. “My wife and I are so gracious.” She glared at him. As she leaned into his ear, she said, “I’m beginning to think this is just about you having a lying problem as big as your stealing problem.” Daemon shrugged and whispered back. His hot breath on her ear made Diana flinch; she swore he did it on purpose. “Probably. I am a demon, wifey . Besides, he’s talking now. Let’s just let him believe what he wants to believe.” “Fine.” She raised her voice to speak to Cabrakan. “You were talking about the Great Demon War?” Cabrakan closed his eyes as he imagined the memories before him. “It was roughly twenty-one to twenty-two hundred years ago. The Mayan empire was doing great, but on the other side of the world... not so much. I heard this new guy, Hades, god of the Greek underworld was causing trouble with Pluto, god of the Roman underworld. Both wanted to upstage the other since they were so similar. And the feud between Romans and Greeks certainly didn’t help. “Eventually, Pluto wanted Hades out of the game, so he launched an invasion on the surface and--as mentioned before--all hell broke loose. Everyone got involved seeing this as an opportunity or the end of the world. Most demons joined the fight--regardless of wanting to or not. They struggled over the humans and limited space for the hell realms. Millions of demons were destroyed in the process. It was a bloodbath.” Daemon swallowed. “So, hypothetically speaking, if another invasion were to break out...” “Satan would draft your butt and a skinny lad like you would get killed the first day,” Cabrakan said. “Oh man, we need to stop this invasion, Diana.” “You finally got on my page, huh?” Diana remarked. Cabarkan continued. “My brother and I fought for the Mayan mythology, though we didn’t have a lot of demonic beings on our side. The fighting didn’t come to an end due to some demons winning--no. The Romans conquered the Greeks and the demonic world stopped shortly after due to that. Not a lot of pride or power to defend when your culture gets dominated. However, the demonic war surely did have an effect on the humans’ battle because--” “Humans and demons are intertwined,” Diana finished. “Exactly.” Cabrakan said. “In the end, nothing good came of the Great Demon War. Few gained anything and over the years, the hell realms shifted back to normal. This really stops the idiots from trying. What stops them is other demons with more than one brain cell not wanting to go through all this again. The human world must stay neutral.” Cabrakan relaxed into his chair. “I hope that satisfies your thirst for knowledge.” “So... the world was almost destroyed so two gods could hold a d*ck measuring contest?” Diana asked. “Pretty much,” Daemon agreed. “Demons really aren’t the rational type, are they?” “Why did you say that like you’re not one?” Cabrakan asked. A panicking red blush spread across Diana’s cheeks. “I just talk about myself in the third person sometimes. It’s a perfectly normal thing for Diana to do.” “Look who’s lying now,” Daemon whispered in her ear. “Only to cover yours.” “Wives and husbands have to stick together.” “Wives also kill their annoying husbands. Ever seen Snapped ?” “Again with the murder? Don’t you think you’re repeating yourself too much?” Diana pressed her lips together. “Let’s just go.” “Whatever you say, wifey.” *** As she strapped her seatbelt in for the trip back, Diana paused. “Wait, so all we learned is that we have to stop the invasion or things could get bad? I could have inferred that from the words ‘demons’ and ‘invasion’. We still don’t know how to stop the invasion. This trip was a huge waste. I got car sick for nothing.” “Not true. Now, you have me on your side,” Daemon chipped in. “You were already doing what I wanted you to do.” “Yes, but now I will do it with a n x i e t y because my ass is suddenly on the line.” “Great. So, it was pointless.” “If I stop for a plate of nachos on the way back, will that make it less pointless?” “Better make it two. If I’m gonna throw the first one up, I can at least find the silver lining with the fact that I get to each more.” “Smart.”


“Welcome to Day 1,247,” a voice billows through an invisible speaker. “It’s a new day,” I say through gritted teeth. I take the same three steps to grab the same backpack that sits in the same corner of the same room where I have started every day for the last 1,246 days. You see, 1,247 days ago, an almighty force which still remains unnamed announced to all of us humans of the world that it would destroy the concept of time. Everyone thought this was just another crazed cult leader thinking he was God. We were wrong. This force actually followed through on its promise and has had us all living the same day every day. We can only do one days work over and over and over again for the rest of our lives. We can’t celebrate holidays. We can’t predict tomorrow’s weather. We can’t pick up where we left off yesterday. We can’t grow. We can’t die. So how do I spend my time? I spend every day trying to find the damn force that killed my baby. Since this all started, I can never remember what I did the day before. I have no belongings or writings or reminders that carry over from previous days. I can’t retrace steps. I’m only told what number day it is when I wake up each morning. All I know is that I was pregnant before this but no longer am. How exactly does one find a mythical, probably intangible, godly powerful thing? Isn’t this just a hopeless mission? Along with everything and everyone else I had before, I’ve lost all hope too. I’m just doing this to pass the time. *** Yeah, yeah, yeah. I killed her fetus. If you’ve got power like mine, shit happens. Protecting unborn humans is not my priority. Rather, teaching humans the dangers of their own narcissistic nature is. I spent millennia after millennia looking after these dimwits, assigned to pulling off miracles for the undeserving few that either showed an instance of selflessness or needed a supreme slap in the face in order to realize the basic truth that they don’t matter anymore than anyone else. How can you tell me that a well-off woman shopping for her thirteenth onesie for her only-conceived-two-weeks-before fetus is more important than an animal tortured or a child starved? Sitting in my high and mighty office, witnessing day after day of different humans doing the same selfish shit, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took over the highest power, destroyed the entire concept of time, blessed these lab rats with a completely self-absorbed eternity, and have enjoyed day after day of watching them drive themselves mad with the very selves they once adored. Hm. Bliss. *** I still remember everything from before time was destroyed. Before this concrete cell, there was my partner and me renovating a nursery. Before I was given only this backpack and jumpsuit to wear every day, there was us shopping for baby clothes. I was pregnant. We were expecting, but then it all stopped. I leave my cell like I do every day, hoping to find that one crucial thing that leads to the next crucial thing that leads me to that force. Maybe, on some already-lived day, I already found it. Have I seen that child before? Have I seen that man before? Have I seen that cloud before? I stand on top of the drained fountain in the middle of our gray townsquare, looking at the crowd around me, everyone looking for anything that makes sense. We all bend and wander and shuffle, twisting our eyes in the hope of turning them into magical binoculars which have the power to point out the important. “Mom?” a young boy calls out to a woman across the way. Like oil separating from water, the surrounding crowd follows the boy’s eyes to make an instant path to his mother. I know that the unnamed force already destroyed the concept of time, but when that mother hugged her son and when he cried into her shoulder, I swear I felt time freeze. Every person in that square, still and silent. The only thing moving was the wind carrying the faint smell of saltwater. *** Did you just see what happened in Territory 73? The humans made way for a mother and son. They didn’t get bitter. They didn’t pout for someone else’s happiness. They only did what they should have done. They’re learning! See? This apocalypse isn’t all negative. I’m not all horrible. This woman wants to find me and end me, I guess. I don’t know what she wants. She doesn’t even know what she wants! She blames the loss of her fetus on me, when she should blame it on all the very humans surrounding her. They’re the ones who upset me, who disappointed me! Without them, we wouldn’t be in the mess, and she would be with child. But the humans are learning. I’ll give them that, but that doesn’t earn I’ll ease up. I’ll never ease up. *** Saltwater. Nick loved the smell of saltwater. He grew up near a beach, would spend all the time he could swimming, sea shell hunting, sand castle building. He wanted us to live in a beach house. He wanted his child to love the smell of saltwater just like he did. I can see him now like he’s walking along his favorite shore. Wait. I can see him now. “Nick?” I stumble off the fountain’s ledge, the people around me treating me like they did that boy. “Nick!” They watch my every move to curve the path with my steps. “Nick!” The man was always hard of hearing. “Nick!” The whole crowd echoes his name and becomes my choir. He hears us. He turns the right way. We see each other. We don’t know if we’ve seen each other every day for the past 1,246 days or not yet once since this whole thing started, but we cry. *** Wow, it is a dramatic day for Territory 73! I remember these two. They threw the biggest tantrum when I separated them and seemingly ended their life together. However, they are miraculous, and that shouldn’t be taken lightly coming from a supreme being like me. These two have somehow managed to find each other every single day for the past 1,246 days, and today, they continue their streak. They baffle me, which I thought was impossible to do. I just don’t understand how they can pull this off every single day. Is it luck? It must be luck. Luck, the one and only thing higher than me. But I can’t let them get to me. I can’t let them strike down my confidence. I can’t let them deter me from my priority. They’re nothing more than lucky. They’re nothing more than lucky. They’re nothing more than lucky.


\[ III \] Matilda sat atop her hill and watched the Boar as her favorite Argonauts attempted to make understanding of their land, as it had managed to suddenly split into two overnight. The land near the North Sea had found issue as the public couldn’t make a decision on whether to concede to two pieces, or to mend the land and unanimously participate in fixing all the problems that had arose from this problem. She reflected on the conversation she had held with(the one some called Hercules) and how she had expressed she had no place to suggest her personal opinion on the matter, as her own land was currently being terrorized by a mechanical Boar. Hercules respected this stance and laughed at her for open triteness for the Boar and his many talents for demolishing and squealing at anything he didn’t understand. Matilda knew her personality often came across as strict and well-versed, but giggled at the assumption she were a megalomaniac on topics surrounding all sciences and politics. To this they shrugged their shoulders and held up their doubled brandy to the many issues that they were too weak to face head on without their weapons of silver and gold. They hailed one another and to their battle fighting for the children who lived with little hope, as they thankfully admired the First Minister who they had met with earlier that day. To this praise: opened conversation as they wondered amongst themselves what solutions the First Minister would apprehend on the topic again of the dangerous splitting of the land. They felt worried she were burdened with the numerous tasks she had upon her shoulders at all hours, and felt helpless to their inability to assist in taking the burden from the First Minister as she juggles her tasks despite the continual disruption brought by the Breaking Land. Matilda agitatedly sharpened her weapons of gold and silver and as she gazed off missing her famed Argonauts. She longed for the admiration they wrapped her in, and for the tall stature that the foreign Warriors held whenever they lead her aboot the land that lay along the North Sea. She would think fondly of her travels and often took to view the gold paintings that captured the one day in which she had been forced by the Argonauts to take a vacation. With the accompany and guidance of the one they called Hercules and the one that resembled Mars they took to the winds and sought adventure as they walked up a mountain and to play atop some broken pillars. They struggled to climb up the broken pillars with no steps and doubled over in laughter as they clumsily boosted one another up, as Matilda had wanted to see the full view of the North Sea as to further navigate and understand the Breaking Land. The three stood above the land and watched delightfully as the locals participated in the ritual of Pagan celebrations in which their drums and dances would welcome in the winter season, and admired the blue goddess that they all stomped around. As the locals had also summoned the rain with this commencement: the three decided it best that they descend from the pillars, as to avoid bringing foreign sickness upon Matilda. The two men made their way down and prepared to assist Matilda as she sat patiently and watched the others around her struggle to depart themselves from the heights of the pillars. Matilda saw a woman laughing nearby and giggled to herself as she watched one woman paint her friends picture in gold, as the other woman laughed on the ledge: stuck with no aid. Matilda offered her hand to the woman on the ledge, and despite their inability to speak the same language, the woman laughed and pointed out that the aid would cause both of them to fall. To this Matilda yelled for the one some call Hercules as he stood nearby and turned in surprise as he joined in laughter at the now three women laughing helplessly stuck aside the narrow ledges of the pillars. He pointed at his broad shoulder as the woman took wise, and sat on the strangers tall figure as he daintily whisked her down from the tall pillar with ease. As all three women touched safely down on the ground, they bid the two strangers farewell and preserved the feat with pictures painted in gold, and went aboot their separate ways fully unaware that they had all unknowingly taken part of fulfilling one of labors of Hercules. The three Warriors strolled down the hill in the rain and left the place that is now known as the Pillars of Hercules, as they continued to take in the breathtaking scenery near the North Sea and holding disregard to the political erosion brought forward with the Breaking Land. Matilda now sat listening to the winds and read her magic book lined with gold, as she lay eight hours east of the Argonauts and observed the late details transpiring along the fractured land that she missed dearly during her spells of boredom. She began to worry aboot her young protege named Devon and admired the beautiful cursed pen that he had once gifted her, and thought it best to cast her quill to her golden fleece, as opposed to using the gifted (but still cursed)silver pen. She wrote down small details of her epic journey, and knew the day soon would come that she’d need to retake office in the building of that bore the crest of hope. To this plan she had previously instructed Devon to return a gold pin she had personally tacked to his uniform: a small round pin that displayed the blue crest of hope. She left his side angered that she remained helpless to protect him, and instead hoped to assist Devon gain focus to his love of engineering, and sorted plans to reclaim her place in which her and Devon had planned to rendezvous. Matilda felt apprehension in regard to her protege named Devon each day, as he too was left under the direct care of the mighty Argonauts who fought tirelessly for the children with little hope in the dark. \-A Traditional Yurok origin myth composed and re-mixed with Greek myths by: Matilda BrooksUS Federally Recognized Property #562-6146, Yurok Tribe, CA.


Times are hard with quarantine, especially in a full house. My mother, brother, sister and her three kids living altogether. Mom is a strong-willed Navajo women who did her best to teach native tradition and keep us safe. Vigilance took over as she had everyone in her household on strict disinfectant rules. Anyone who enters has to spray themselves in a cloud of Lysol to kill any trace of the virus. This was also paired with some prayers in Navajo language for good health. Once, while she was out in the middle of work, my sister called her to ask where she had gone. Bewildered by the thought, because she had been at work all day and hadn't left, the question was begged as to what she meant. My sister says she was just there. She continues to tell my mother she came in, sprayed herself down, and made her way to the bedroom. Once she and her daughter came to the room to ask her for a ride someplace, she was no where there. Only her other daughter was to be found and was puzzled when asked about mom's whereabouts. After asking my brother as well, it was clear he hadn't seen her either. And with no evidence of anyone leaving, everyone was confused. Where did she go? My sister and her daughter saw her come right through her own front door. My mother confirmed she never left work and so decided this deserved a call to a medicine man. The medicine men in our tribes perform ceremonies to pinpoint the root of a discrepancy or issue, and do their best to resolve it. She sent some pictures of my sister and her daughter to aid him in finding out what happened. He returns a call to my mother in disbelief. On the only second occasion this has ever happened in his practice, he tells her that she had a twin sister who died in utero. He saw everything in the fire used in the ceremony. The person who my sister and her daughter saw come back home, with such uncanniness, was not my mother, but her sister. I was chilled to the core as I grew chicken skin when she told me what happened. I grew up with a skeptical idea of my tradition. Even though it was an unpleasant thought that my mother practically said ghosts exist, I disregarded it. Also, since a prayer was done, she assured me I shouldn't worry about such a thing, not that I was. I told her "I love you too, Mom. Goodnight." Then I went on with the rest of my day. I live with my girlfriend and black lab at the moment. She recently flew out to visit her auntie on the east coast, leaving the place to myself and the dog. Since we live in a sketchy area of the complex, I always checked our closets and rooms for possible intruders. I'm not sure what I'd do as soon as I found anyone, as I've never been good in a fight, but finding nobody put my mind at ease. The first few days alone, I cleaned the whole apartment and tried recipes that I could stomach if I messed up. I watched whatever I wanted and hogged the bed. It was stretching room, even if I went insane missing my girlfriend. As the night crept, so did my consciousness. I decided to end my evening with some Cowboy Bebop and a cup of iced tea. With every squirm to maintain comfort in that pile of cotton and scrap wood called a couch, I watched my favorite space cowboys take on bounties to jazzy sounds. My cup was empty and I was four episodes in. As soon as the credits rolled, I sprinted to the restroom for relief. As I sleepily lathered the soap, I thought of cleanliness. Ridding of impurities. I counted the 20th 'mississippi,' rinsed, and headed into the living room, back to my shallow crater in the couch. Parched, I blankly reached for my cup and took a few glugs of tea. I washed my dry throat with some cold, dark, iced black tea. I was so thirsty, I didn't even remember pouring the cup. Once it was time to head to bed, I checked the closets and rooms, as usual. I found nothing. Only thing out of place was my front door smelled of lemon scented Lysol.


This couldn’t be happening to me! Not a former lifeguard who had spent her teen years at the pool, slathered in baby oil. Granted, that was in Canada, where the summer sun may not have been as intense. Still, having a reaction to the sun here just didn’t seem feasible. Sandy looked down at her arms and legs. There we small, angry red blisters forming on the tops of both legs where her cotton shorts met her skin. Both forearms showed similar blisters. Reaching her left hand to her right forearm, Sandy gently moved the tips of her fingers over the raised skin. Her fingers were cool to the touch, but the mere action of grazing the affected skin, left Sandy wanting to scratch off the top layer. “I think I’m going to have to get out of the sun for a while, Fran,” Sandy said mournfully, not even looking over at her best friend. Without looking up from, her book, Fran, replied “uh-huh.” They sat there on the beach for another 5 minutes - Sandy silently tracing the dots on her arm with her index finger and Fran engrossed in her latest mystery novel. “Fran, it’s time to go.” Sandy had stated this a bit louder than intended, but she was starting to feel blisters on the tops of her ears and shoulders now. Fran looked at Sandy, puzzled by the sharp tone of her friend’s request. They were on holiday for the first time in almost a year. This was their time to relax and enjoy not having to adhere to a schedule. Sandy turned to her friend and held her arms out. The initial patch of red dots on Sandy’s right arm had become a mass of small clear bubbles, stretching from the crease by her elbow to about an inch above her wrist. “Wow, that’s cool Sandy, how’d you do that? It looks like you stuck your arm in a sink full of soap bubbles!” exclaimed Fran. Fran was fully engaged now, the novel falling to the towel, forgotten as she studied the marks on Sandy’s arm. “I didn’t DO this. Something else did.” Sandy replied woefully. “And it seems to be getting worse with the heat. I need to go back to the air-conditioned room. Now.” “Okay. No problem. We can stop at the desk on our way and see if the hotel doctor has anything to help you.” Fran said cheerfully. “I'm sure those nasty blisters will be gone soon, and you'll be alright in no time!" The two friends gathered up their beach belongings, slipped into their sandals, and made their way across the sand toward the hotel lobby. Switching her towel from her forearm to her shoulder, Sandy tried desperately to avoid anything rubbing on the afflicted skin. "It's so itchy now," Sandy whined. Fran didn't look at her friend. She didn't want to let on that she was concerned with how quickly the blisters were spreading. Instead, Fran responded, "Look, we are almost there, and we'll get you checked." Just as they reached the edge of the stone walkway to the hotel lobby, a gigantic double-decker tour bus pulled up in front of the glass doors. The air brakes let out a decided 'whoosh' sound as the engine came to a stop. "Oh no. If we don't get in front of this group, we will have to wait forever to talk to the people at the desk." Sandy said. "Well, we will just have to get there first, Sandy, so run!" Fran took off before she even completed the sentence. "I'm coming, Fran, but it really hurts to walk, let alone run. You go ahead. I'll catch up." Sandy yelled as Fran was disappearing around the back of the bus. Sandy wasn't even sure if her friend had heard the comment. Fran passed the bus doors just as they started to open. Without looking back, she made her way through the heavy double-glass doors of the hotel and straight to the large oak desk in the lobby. On her way into the hotel, Fran realized it would be best to talk to the concierge instead of being lost in a swarm of tourists at the hotel reception desk. Sandy would not be comfortable wedged in between other people. The red-haired woman behind the oak desk looked up and smiled as Fran approached. "Welcome to the Beachside Bonavista. How can I help you today?" "My friend," Fran gasped, trying to catch her breath, "we were on the beach and now she's bubbling up!" The woman's smile was replaced immediately with a look of concern. "Pardon me?" she said. "My friend Sandy has bubbles all over her!" said Fran. Her breathing had slowed by this time. "Well, not bubbles, really, more like blisters!" Just as Fran finished her sentence, Sandy stumbled through the lobby doors. Her face was red, blotchy and swollen. The beach towel was coiled on the top of Sandy's head in what appeared to be an attempt to protect her ears from the sun. Her shoulders, chest and arms were covered in a mass of boils. As Sandy approached the desk, Fran could tell her friend was suffering. Sandy's arms and legs moved gingerly, never touching each other or the rest of her body. The closer Sandy got, the more apparent the extent of the break out on her skin became. "Help," Sandy whispered as she reached the desk. Both the red-haired woman - whose name tag identified her as Grace - and Fran stared at Sandy. "Wow, you certainly do look like you bubbled up!" said Grace before realizing she had actually said the words out loud. Grace quickly clapped her hand over her mouth as her face turned almost the same shade of red as Sandy. Stifling a smile, Fran quipped, "I could sure go for a pop right now." Silence. Had she gone too far? Fran was known for being tactless at times, but had this latest comment taken it to the point of being heartless? She certainly had not intended to hurt her best friend. Suddenly, Sandy started to shake with laughter. "Oh my! I must be such a sight!" she said. Fran and Grace joined in, and the three women laughed until tears streaked their cheeks. Ten minutes later, they had regained their composure. Wiping the remnants of tears from her face, Fran looked at her friend. "Sandy," she gasped, "Look - your bubbles are smaller now. The ones on your shoulders are almost gone." Sandy looked down at her arms and legs then checked her shoulders. It was true. The bubbles weren't as widespread as they had been twenty minutes ago. "I’m not as itchy as I was outside,” Sandy said tentatively. “Does this mean I will be okay?” Grace smiled at Sandy. “You will be fine. Looks like you got too hot on the beach. Being inside in the air conditioning balanced your body temperature, reducing the swelling you had. Unfortunately, we see it here a lot.” Grace continued, sliding open the desk drawer. “Here, put some of this on the worst areas and stay cool tonight. You will be fine by morning.” Grace handed Sandy a small bottle of hydrocortisone lotion. Sandy thanked Grace and eagerly took the bottle. As Fran and Sandy walked to the elevator, Sandy turned to Fran and said, “Bubbles be damned! The only froth I want this holiday is on top of a cold beer!”