"Sorry" said Viv. "you're too late." Muted colours that dance in the shadows, the words reverberated in Edwin's mind. For what this time? "You're too late". A crack in the plate. The words hung in the air, sort of as if it was a lingering melancholic melody that pulled the strings of Edwin's heart. Words that seemed lost, whispering a lost dream, tantalizingly close yet ever so distant. Like a song you cherish, but the lyrics slip through the cracks of your memory. Leaving nothing but a faint resonance. Edwin thought, “something new?” Open doors. Once ajar. Now stood as sentinels of a reminder of what withered into the clouds, echoing with the weight of burdens only later will I feel he thought. The Autumn leaves next to the door on the floor, brittle and fragile. Untouched purities. Now surrender to the footsteps and crumble beneath my feet. The cold is never really lingering, and the warmth never really arrives.” A mirror of no reflection. The hampered birds, beneath unmarked leaves, sing harmonies. But eternality skips these lines in this tranquillity, tasteless strawberries. In this domain of no law, that voice sounds ever so familiar, yet distinct. Hums noiselessly in a world that’s neither fully dark nor bathed in light. Playing in a tuneless hum. For here, I am a traveller on a ferries wheel, a traveller submerged in an empty sea, a traveller no more. I tread lightly, leaving only footprints engulfed by the waves. Actions manifested and dissolve swiftly, emerge from the depths of slumber and gone within the blink of sharp-eyed observer. A silent witness of the shift in moment, as the days melt into the expanding records of history. In this labyrinth, the emerald grass, withered. Shades of grey are smeared across the exquisite blue skies. Lost melodies, sing the warmth of feeble rays in world full of butterflies but no flowers, bottles drift unwillingly in a boundless sea, where their messages were never written; The wheels on the ferries wheel spins on. The variegated wings of nature reduced to fragments of an elapsed dream. Yet among the relinquished realm, a pot sits above one singular campfire, heating for what seems to be a millennium, never boiling. Next to a tree with five apples that never fall. It a riddle without resolution, this malicious riddle that strips away the essence of identity. For I am dragged on by the nightmarish chasm where all that remained is unearthly jinxed by the ghost of annellation, a dimension of a single line of thought, feelings left, only to be swallowed into the hollow shell of the living. Here where the rules set by normalities are blurred. The feeling of nothing at all, tears are shed yet you don’t know why. Nothing wants to move forward or backwards, for the world is frozen only for me and I won't unfreeze for I cannot see myself. In this desolate landscape, where the boundaries between consciousness and oblivion blurred, the seeker found themselves caught in a perpetual nightmare of bareness, a relentless echo chamber of despair where nothingness had devoured every resemblance of meaning and sensation. It is a realm of an infinite void, where every thought, every emotion, had been swallowed by the all-consuming abyss, leaving behind a chilling blankness that haunts your very essence. Here, in this twilight zone of existence, you struggle against the darkest corners of your consciousness, navigating the faithless terrain of a reality wanting of hope. Placing your yearnings in something you no longer believe in, where the only certainty is the unyielding grip of the void. Your void. In these moments one would gasp for breath because it's suffocating here, but nothing seems to come in. Because the mirrors no longer reflect one’s identity, shattered, fractured into distorted stripes that no longer bore resemblance to the familiar self. The pages turn forward and turn back, revisited, recollected. Buried deep within us, plaguing our eyes like ghosts of what once was. Only knowing you before, its desperate. You blood flows without the scarlet river being drawn, a sensation of no pain, no pleasure. Trapped in a frozen world, unable to see or understand, bewildered by emotions that can't be felt. The days will bleed, each day bled into the next, unending cycle of this peculiar feeling. How can one stare at something over and over but forget the next day, for everyday? As you and I sit upon this ferries wheel lingering on till the butterflies submerge into this empty sea with no noise at all. It’s awfully quiet, it always is. Yet I could feel this labyrinth getting louder and louder. Like the walls of existence were awakening; I stumbled on those forgotten words. Words that carried the weight that I’ve lost. Split memories that vibrated with an endless and unsettling drumbeat that pounded relentlessly, persistently taunting me. Butterflies placed on my hands before altered into sand. The crack in the plate. Each grain was like a piece of life that could no longer be grasped. Slipping away leaving a momentarily bitter taste that seemed to last forever. Once blazing now decay, a realm where time holds naught at bay Here where the whispers are faint but ever so loud, never to sway. Wishing to go ahead but which path to seek Trapped in a sky where senses grow weak. Where your tossed and twirled, Past and future collapsed into a whirlpool. The melodies of the anguished followed by the symphonies in waiting, Never to be played forever hesitating. I scream not in terror, nor for I or you, But for I to finally hear, a voice long overdue. A scream to fill the hollow apple tree core No escape, no exit, hope to glean. In the abyss of what seems to be someone else's mind, I'm forever unseen. For a moment, just a moment you just decide to think of things, maybe it was the heavens that grant you this one second, a split second if you weren’t so far away you would notice. In this second, I thought. “Mother?” The traveller stops watching; something clicks, the ferries wheel stops. The strings stop playing, the crack in the plate opens; it breaks, all the smudges on the mirror erased. Edwin opens a door that seemingly was always there. The water for once starts to boil. It still is so quiet, yet something deafening could be heard, something was roaring, but it is noiseless. For once Edwin could hear something in this realm, a silence that screams. An apple has fallen.


The contest of flowers would be the first battle in Taru’s campaign to imprint himself on the world. Any angel who would go on to create something grand, something to endure unchanged and admired in the world for generations, should have no trouble conquering a school competition. Well read on the landmarks of past angel’s creations, Taru had little interest in the modest crafting that fascinated his peers. Taru failed to understand why anyone committed years to learning to sculpt dirt, granite, or worms. His father spent the duration of his tenure with the Institute of Palm Trees working on a single coconut, and not even creating it, just altering the composition of the shell to better “harmonize with the surrounding ecosystem” as he would say it. Taru saw dark comedy in his father’s humorless pride in this work and the institute’s willingness to generously compensate him for it. When the gods ended the world and started it up again they filled it with the angel’s new creations. They carried few creations forward from one cycle to the next, but the French Marigold made the cut in every rebirth since its creator introduced it over a hundred cycles ago. The French Marigold, the oldest creation, proved beyond doubt the exceptional talent of its sculptor. Taru would devote himself to no less than this grandeur, so when he graduated secondary school and it was time for him to earn his creation license, he enrolled in the Florist School of Seneca. The morning after Taru moved onto campus he accepted an invitation from the dean to visit the auditorium. The first and third place winners from the last contest of flowers remained on the stage. The flower in third place seemed wholly superior to the flower in first, less an imitation and of finer construction, with a dark purple stem in the form of a trident. Each prong of the trident ended in bright blue lotus petals, all aligned as if a scaled lizard’s tale had been twisted. As Taru studied the winning flower, a cheap Marigold derivative, he realized he did not understand what separated winners from losers in this place. Factors presently hidden to him which were unrelated to the quality of the flowers must decide, possibly the tensions of some invisible social order. “Are you Taru?” a man asked, interrupting Taru’s study of the flower. Taru looked down at the man, an inch or three shorter than him. His posture leaned forward to accommodate a large gut over which a red t-shirt had been impressively tucked into jeans. Taru prayed this man was not the dean. “I’m Dr. Haman, the Dean of Students,” the man continued, “and this is Blue.” He pointed to a young boy beside him, perhaps sixteen, who was bouncing on his toes and scanning for the appropriate moment to introduce himself, which had now passed. Dr. Haman explained that all new students were matched in “buddy pairs”, and that Blue and Taru were one such pair. Taru took Blue for a walk through the campus garden, which exhibited flowers designed by the school’s alumni. Taru explained to Blue that the reason he chose to enroll in the Florist School of Seneca, the flower which earned the school its reputation and continued to attract the greatest florists, waited at the end of the garden’s meandering path. It was of course the French Marigold. The French Marigold enjoyed precisely the notoriety and envy which Taru so wanted to earn in a creation of his own. Taru often regretted that he had himself not created the French Marigold. To Blue he made clear that in the world of florists one had to choose between the pursuit of perfection, of the ideal, and reaching beyond what people will say is reasonable, or else to settle for a life of building derivatives, of flowers like the flowers that came before. In the latter life, since it compromises the integrity of creation anyway, one might as well pick up a consistent paycheck by designing rocks. Taru said these things confidently, though he had never created anything himself. While Taru looked ahead as he spoke, Blue looked at Taru. He listened earnestly to Taru’s sermon and demonstrated that he was paying attention by asking “how do you know so much?” or remarking at his luck for matching with a studious buddy. When they reached the French Marigold, Blue studied it at all angles. Taru watched Blue admire this flower, its beautiful layering like the eruption of a volcano, its petals spraying out in deep red with a gold trim in some places sharp and in others approaching from the edges in a dithered gradient. He realized he had created an association for Blue between himself and this flower which even the smallest failure could shatter. A vision came to him of placing second, or third, or unimaginably, not at all in the monthly contest of flowers he would soon participate in as a student. It may become another student, less well read than Taru, who in the end designed the next flower to withstand the cycles, which authors would discuss at length in books on the process of design. This intolerable fate could not come to pass. He excused himself from their walk by telling Blue he wanted to review the syllabus, and went to his room to try creating a flower for the first time. He knew failures were inevitable, but he could preserve his future by getting them out of the way in private. With his books on the French Marigold as reference, by morning Taru succeeded in creating a stem with petals at the end, though it had nothing else, no carpels or sepals, and the petals did not unfold in bloom. He did not even vary the color of the petals, covering them in a uniform diffuse red. When he tried to create the core and fill it with carpels, the centerpiece on which bees would land to carry his flower forward into its future generations, arguably the most important and essential part of any flower, he struggled. No matter which angle he tried to construct the core from, whether he placed the sepals, carpels, or petals first, they would become an obstruction and prevent the placement of the other two. Not even petals were required for the first lab described in the syllabus, but Taru had expected far more from himself considering the depth of his knowledge. He had no pride in the result, but there was a moment, in the second hour, in which he forgot himself. He saw only the curve of the stem as he bent it at the ends with his pliers, like it was the only illuminated object in a far reaching darkness. When the moment concluded he again heard the clock ticking toward morning. Taru worried that the other students had already learned to construct flower cores, and he would suffer their explanations the next day in the lab. Assuring himself this was unlikely, he called it a night with his coreless flower. Thankfully it was enough. In the first day’s lab class they were to create a leafless stem, a smooth tube with a subtle curve and change in thickness. Blue sat next to Taru and admired how quickly he created a satisfactory stem. Taru helped Blue and some other students to apply the curve correctly, who said “how did you do that?” and “wow, you’re good at this.” For that day at least, Taru crossed the battlefield unscathed. At the end of the lab their lecturer made two announcements. One, the first contest of flowers for his class would be held at the end of the month. She expected every student to sculpt a sexually reproductive flower, including a core with carpels, though it did not need to be alive of course. Two, an optional workshop would be held after class each day to work on cores and carpels, which all new students were encouraged to attend because this was a difficult task. Signing up for the workshop did not even occur to Taru. He only took note that he had a short deadline for learning to build flower cores on his own. He tapped his foot waiting for the lecturer to finish her speech so he could rush off to the library and then his room. By the time Blue turned to pass the workshop sign up clipboard to Taru, he had already left. Late that night a knock on his dorm room door relieved Taru of his still fruitless efforts to build the core of a French Marigold. Seeing through the peephole that his visitor was Blue, Taru stored the incomplete flower in his drawer and welcomed his guest. Blue had just returned from a study session with some of their classmates, arranged impromptu after the flower core workshop. He paced as he explained to Taru that, though he had never been a smart student himself, he thought the students at the Florist School of Seneca were serious and he could learn a lot by studying with them, with people like Taru. Taru forgave Blue for comparing him to other students. As much as Blue radiated the mediocrity which Taru so resented in prouder people, Blue was all together too earnest to ascribe ill intent. This brand of mediocrity was less infectious and Taru did not fear it. As he watched the boy pace eagerly back and forth in the room, Taru noticed a condescending affection in himself. From his backpack Blue pulled out a daisy, patchy and fragile but complete with a core. “Look at what I made in the workshop!” Taru thought until then he might show his incomplete flower to Blue, to show that he was attempting to build a Marigold, not a basic Shasta Daisy like they covered in the workshop. Now he certainly would not. “That’s great Blue! Which core assembly method did they teach in the workshop?” “Core assembly method? I’m not sure if I know that term. We used clamps to hold the stem in place while we assembled it, if that’s what you mean?” Taru gripped his hairline and stared off behind Blue. Why had he not thought of using clamps to hold the stem in place? It was so simple and obvious. So simple in fact, that Taru began to wonder if there was anything this school had to teach him at all. “Oh um,” Blue said hesitantly, “is that not the right way or..?” Taru laughed once and reassured Blue he was only tired. “You did good, Blue” he said, and sent him home for the night. Taru waited twenty minutes to be certain Blue had made it back to his own dorm, and then walked to a late night store across the street to purchase clamps. A week later in lab class, Taru’s completed daisy met the requirements of the assignment but earned no one’s envy. He sat in his seat with small posture, even once pretending to be sleepy on his desk, to ensure no one misinterpreted the janky flower as the product of his devoted effort. Their lab instructor introduced a student in the front. Taru recognized the student from having seen him walk out of the workshop with Blue. Blue leaned over to Taru and whispered unwanted context. “That’s Don. He really knows his stuff.” The projector painted Don’s flower on the wall for the class to see. In the finely creased off white petals, the dense and uniform carpel placements in varying shades and hues of yellow, the continuous curve of the stem with leaves at appropriate points, Taru realized what had been bothering him about the school since his arrival. Don’s flower was undeniably a quality reconstruction of a Shasta Daisy, but only a reconstruction. If Taru were ever to achieve anything, to make a genuinely novel contribution to the world, he would have to forsake all precedent and make his own way. But however genius his creation would be in the end, it would never enter the world without his having a creation license. He must continue, however trite it may be. And trite it was. Their instructor, who wrote each student a note with criticisms of their flower, had said of his, “unrealistic shapes, sculpted from memory; consider the evening workshops.” By Taru’s account, “realism” meant nothing more than conformity to precedent, the death of idealism. The poison of pragmatism should never have been allowed to take root in the veins of society, to drain its color and pride until it was only a room full of people afraid to leave the room simply because they had never left the room before. This was the infectious mediocrity which Taru wanted to escape, and it had a tight grip on the institutions. To the contest Taru submitted a rubric flower. It met the criteria and offered to the corrupt ceremony no more of his soul than necessary. By so carefully abstaining, Taru had hoped he would survive the charade, secure his creation license in a few months’ time, and be free to do right by nature in the end. Taru stood at the back of the auditorium and watched Dr. Haman waddle onto the stage, looking at every step like he would fall forward on that large gut of his. Imagining it to be the fattle little man himself, Taru reached in his pocket and crushed in his fist the note Dr. Haman had given him that morning, which placed Taru on academic probation for lack of effort. Dr. Haman announced the winning flowers. An imitation daffodil received third place and an imitation Rose received second. Having then heard enough, Taru walked out of the auditorium. After the ceremony Taru accepted Blue’s invitation to celebrate over drinks with his friends, though Blue did not mention to celebrate what. Taru slid into their corner booth and drank three old fashions, a pina colada, and began work on a lager beer. He felt strangely comfortable around Blue’s study group friends, who seemed to him eager in the way of young children who successfully persuaded their babysitter to play house with them. His liberal tongue and readiness to criticize the school fascinated them as if dissent itself were a novelty. The most enjoyable of this attention came from Don. When Taru arrived, Don greeted him first and said “We’ve heard a lot about you from Blue.” Taru felt free to show his indignation, knowing they would assume it was a familiar joke, and shouted “And what the hell does Blue know about me?” Blue laughed so the others laughed, and Taru was welcome. With the confidence he collected from the so far warm reception of his loose mouth, he turned his critiques toward the contest of flowers. He began “And this institution is the most perverse of them all. It’s a law of nature that every angel wants to be better than every other angel, and knowing this they create a system in which only surrender to their worldview can earn you the superiority you all naturally crave. “If you take a step back and a deep breath, what do you see in those winning flowers? They are imitations, knock offs, shadows of what greater artists contributed to the world cycles ago. That’s what this school, and the whole concept of studying precedent, are designed to do: trap the new artists in the shadow of the ones that came before them. “Like all men want to be the best, all artists want the envy of other artists. They want their work to hurt other artists simply by existing, to make them feel worthless and forsake the arts. And how better to accomplish that than seizing the institutions? How better than by controlling the education systems, and forcing every new artist who might have become a threat to struggle in futility to imitate your unique style which is yours alone? “And here I warn you all. Never give them your soul. When they demand your passion, hold it tight to your heart. Otherwise you become complicit, your hands as dirty as the oppressors and eventually your mind as well. And the crime, a crime against the world itself, is to deprive the world of beauty, the beauty that you and the artists you lead astray might have given us.” In the passion of his sermon Taru failed to notice Blue’s friends had looked away from him, toward Blue. Don put a hand on Taru’s shoulder. “Ah, uh, Taru,” he began awkwardly, “Maybe Blue’s celebration is not the occasion.” Through his five drinks Taru managed to recall that Blue did not tell him the purpose of their celebration, and that he did not ask. If Blue didn’t say, he must have assumed Taru already knew, which would only make sense if, not having known that Taru walked out of the auditorium early... The conclusion did not make sense to him. But, in his drunkenness, he asked anyway. “Blue did you win?” He had. Taru needed to escape. He excused himself to the restroom and walked home. His theory had failed to account for Blue, who by all accounts was above reproach, and for whom even imitation was not a given but something to strive for. It could be consistent if Blue, and Taru’s own father in the same way, were simply victims of the oppressors. But Blue would soon be prescribing his own path to others, tutoring underclassmen or recommending florist school to friends. He would not need to change in character to do these things, in fact they followed naturally from his present character. If it was a crime to become cozy with oppressors, Blue was guilty of it even now, and must be condemned along with the worst of them. But later in the night when Blue knocked on the door, Taru invited him in. Taru sat in his desk chair and offered a seat on the bed to Blue, and in his mind rehearsed the defenses he had prepared for his belief. He could feel the bluntness ready in himself, a drunk too tired to think about two things at once. Blue didn’t mention Taru’s sermon at all. He said “You said you were going to the restroom, but didn’t come back. We checked the restrooms to make sure you hadn’t passed out, and when we didn’t find you I assumed you came back here.” Taru had not rehearsed a defense for this angle of attack. Understanding he was cornered, that being in the right was no longer viable, he strategized instead to at least contain the knowledge of this defeat between him and Blue alone. He must establish trust, change this from a quarrel between schoolmates to an issue privileged with the discretion of close friends. And in his uninhibited state he reached for the broken marigold he hid in his desk drawer days earlier, and set it on the desk. “A flower from your discard pile? Why are you pulling that out?” Blue asked, barely looking at it for a second. A discard pile. Where Taru labored on a single flower, struggling to restore it and backtrack after each mistake, Blue had been starting over with a clean slate each time. Iterating that way was surely faster. As he struggled to summon the kind of rationale he always had readily available in his sobriety, it occurred gently to Taru that perhaps he should be more skeptical of thoughts that only make sense in one state of mind. Blue hugged Taru and wished him a good night, adding that he might do well to “talk to someone”. Taru could not sleep. He saw the flowers from the campus garden in his mind, the ones at the front which no one worshipped, and wondered if the artists behind them were like Blue. Did they invite their friends to celebrate when their flowers were selected for the world? In the seconds just before falling asleep, Taru imagined an ordinary daisy and the worm filled dirt in which it grew, and felt in his chest a warm affection for his unremarkable father. After finishing a mediocre flower, Taru put his head down to daydream through lab class. He thought about calling his father back home and asking him about his work, since it might earn Taru some authority at the school to have an industry connection. Blue interrupted Taru’s thoughts by tapping his head with the workshop’s sign up clipboard. Taru sat up and looked to his side at Don, who was not yet expecting to be passed the board, and decided that after their night at the bar, getting his attention was worth procrastinating. Taru scanned the classroom for anyone who might be looking his way, then signed the clipboard beneath Blue’s name and placed it on the corner of Don’s desk. *Feedback requested. I will thank you for it even if it hurts my feelings. Thank you.


I wanted someone who wasn't me to read this. If one person who needs it, sees it, that's enough. Disclaimer: Not a writer. Just use writing as an outlet. Also, lemme know if this isn't the appropriate subreddit. **just listen.** i haven't written in years, but tonight you made me pick up the figurative pen for the sadness is choking. it won't let me say this to your face, but do i not convey it in a million other ways? why can't you understand? why won't you just listen and change your thoughts, words, actions, and behaviour, before i can't save you anymore? for your mind is in pieces, your senseless screaming isn't being heard - every word out of your mouth is a lie, the rare tears the fragmented pieces of humanity left in you force to flow no longer mean anything to me as they come selfishly while bringing pain. why can't you see all you have to do is stop? but after nineteen yrs it doesn't matter anymore. keep screaming - may heaven hear and take you away, to someplace that'll force you to repent, forgive your sins and mend your broken soul - for this world, for i, cant. i feel terrible for hoping something happened to you as a child to make you like this, but it's unbearable to think you are this way all on your own. i don't know what scars you have but i can't heal it, its too late. someday you will leave, or we will leave you. but wherever you are, be safe. may you never know, that as much as i want to hate you, i love you instead. seen so many years yet still a child, where is your innocence? tell me that who you are is not what you did.


"He broke up with me, I guess." I couldn't sleep at night. I was thinking about it for a very long time. I couldn't eat nor could go to work. I called my best friend to my place. I know she is going to hate me. "I know Mike. He won't do this to you, Amy," Tina said. "You are saying because he is your brother!" My best friend Tina and my boyfriend, I guess my ex-boyfriend are siblings. I met Mike through her. "Oh, dear. Why do you think I will side with him? I, myself had a fight with him last night." "Now, what he do this time? Oh, leave it. I don't wanna know. I hate him." I was looking all around my room. I have his photos near my bedpost. should I start cleaning it? Or should I wait? "You think that bitch is behind all this?" Tina asked. "Who? Claire?" I couldn't think of that but this piece fits here. Claire is his ex-girlfriend and I have been seeing her near his workplace and his apartment for the past few days. Not a good sign. "We couldn't forget that they both have been friends before. Good friends actually," I said. "You should give him one more chance. You are making it complicated," Tina said as she walked towards the window. I looked at his photograph. The last night we had a fight. We have been in a relationship for a very long time, and now it's time for us to take our relationship further. And boom...everything went down. I was so happy that finally, we are going to talk about it. You know, how much we wait for this moment. "I think he is really not interested in me anymore. Or maybe, he is having some second thoughts? or he is thinking of going back to Claire." This thought was killing me from the inside. I don't want to even see her around him. I am sure that Claire is after him. She wants him back. But my question comes to Mike. Does he want that too? I could feel my body shaking. I was getting goosebumps all over my body. I really hate this feeling. What if everything I am thinking is true? I looked at the clock. It was getting close to midnight. Now was the time when we used to talk over the phone. His work always come in midway so midnight was the best when we were completely free for each other. Now, I hate this feeling. What the hell has gotten into me? "Are you listening to me?" I looked at Tina. she was silent for the whole moment. What's her problem now? "I think you should see this, Amy." I walked towards the door and looked down. There was standing Mike with a flower in one hand and a ring in another. "Mike, what are you doing here?" I asked. It was freezing outside and seeing him without any coat, I was worrying. "I wanna confess something, Amy." "Okay..." I looked at his sister and I could see her smiling. Did she know all this before? "Oh dear...has the moment arrived?" I said. "Yes, the moment has arrived Amy." Tina smiled at me. "So what you say?" Mike asked. "Won't you bend down to your knees.." He cut me off. "No, I am not. It's freezing. Tell me fast!" "But I thought..." "It was my fault, Amy. I was so scared. You know what kind of a person I was before. Claire and I ... we had things before but not now. Not when you arrived. I can assure you that." "So you are saying that.." "Would you go out to the beach this weekend?" Really? "Oh dear... what you think of me, Amy? I am asking you...


The snowflakes felt like pellets hitting Alice’s face as she trudged through the snow trying to get home from school. Even Alice’s wool scarf couldn’t keep her warm in this blizzard. Her snow boots left prints in the fresh snow. She could even see some hail in the distance. Alice adjusted her beanie and continued walking. More like trudging. Once Alice got home she hung her soaking wet parka on a hook and walked into the kitchen where her mom was sitting drinking hot cocoa. The smell of freshly baked brownies filled the air. As Alice made her way to the dining table she noticed her mom had a painful look on her face. “Are you okay mother?” asked Alice in a worried tone. “There’s nothing for you to worry about hon.” her mother answered. As Alice bit into her gooey, melted, brownie, she noticed that her mom’s belly was bigger than usual. Normally Alice’s mother only ate the healthiest things like broccoli, salmon, and even cooked worms! That Alice thought, was disgusting. Maybe my mommy ate too many carbs and now she is fat! Thought Alice. Alice didn’t have the guts to ask her mom what happened, so Alice just washed her dish, put it in the dishwasher, cleaned her hands, and went upstairs. That night Alice couldn’t fall asleep because of the growling sound of the blizzard. She tossed and turned but couldn’t find a comfortable position. She could also hear the distant chatter of her mom and dad. It sounded as if Alice’s mom was shouting at Alice’s dad. 20 minutes passed by. Alice decided to think about the time she first went sledding to bring a smile back to her face. She liked to think about that moment whenever she needed help falling asleep or needed to calm down. It started off with her mom noticing that all of the good and sturdy sleds were sold out. Alice's mother bought the last sled at the store which was a small red sled made out of plastic that had cracked and rough edges. Later that day, Alice ran into the park with the biggest grin on her face. She found the steepest hill and climbed all the way up in her fluffy pink snow boots. There she stood at the top of the hill like a mountain lion standing at the peek gazing off into the distance. She took a deep breath in and exhaled steam like a dragon. She took a nice look around and then sat down in the sled and adjusted her position. It was still snowing dazzling snowflakes and the wind whipped through Alice's blondish strawberry colored hair. She pushed herself and the sled down a little and it was officially take off. Alice wasn't thinking about her troubles at school or how bad the sled was or how cold she was or even why her mom's belly was getting bigger. The one thought that was on Alice's mind was the how she felt free. With the wind through her hair and her nose getting redder from the cold, and even all of the snow that was collecting inside of her sled. There was no feeling like glossing down the hill feeling the nature surrounding you. There was nothing like it and nothing could compare. That was and will forever be Alice's most favorite memory and her happy place. Still even after that, Alice couldn’t fall asleep. Finally what seemed like hours later when she was about to doze off, she heard the loudest scream of her life. “I THINK I’M GOING INTO LABOR!” screamed Alice’s mom. She heard the distant rushing of her dad trying to find his phone so he could call 911. Alice pulled off the covers and ran downstairs. That’s why my mommy’s belly was so big. Thought Alice. It all makes sense now. 5 minutes later an ambulance arrived in front of their door. Alice’s dad had called Alice’s babysitter to watch her as Alice’s dad and mom went to the hospital. Alice’s mom got in the ambulance and drove away. “You are going to be a big sister!” said Annie, Alice’s babysitter. “I hope it’s a girl.” said Alice. “Whatever gender it is, you will be a loving, caring, old sister. Someday you will take care of him/her!” A couple hours later, Alice got a call from her dad saying she had a new baby sister! Alice screamed so loud and hard that a glass was knocked off the dining table. Another couple of hours later, her mom and dad were home. Alice got to hold the baby whose name was Sally. Dear Callie, Callie oh Callie i’m so glad we talked It was actually very fun when we took that walk You explained yourself without throwing a fit You were having a hard time and that was it I forgave you because what else would I do I’m just so happy that we are through Now you are there for me unlike before Cheers to more memories, memories and more I also listened while you talked, thank you for staying calm I just had to forgive you because after all, you are my mom Even though Alice's mom never told her she was going to have a sibling, it was a pretty amazing surprise. Alice now has an awesome mother, an incredible father, and the cutest little sister. Alice went outside to see if it was snowing but it had stopped. Something outside her front door was something magical, beautiful, and mysterious. That something was a Winter Wonderland. The flurries in the air, dazzled like lights Sun was shining just as bright Wind whipped just like when making cream Or cupcake and cookie batter, you know what I mean Snow coated the grass and was as fluffy as the clouds Children played around while the moms watched, feeling proud THE END and remember that snow is as magical as you make it. Have an amazing winter and start of the new year!


The roadside was overgrown with the dewy green of spring. The woodlands were quiet except for the clicking pecks of Woodpeckers, and the hum of throttled engines. A two coach convoy of double-decker buses was making its way past the river-bend. The two were in good shape if not slightly dented, with holes peppered throughout. The leader of the pack was painted a rather good looking red, while the trailing coach was slightly more orange colored. Large quantities of good paints were hard to come by in the post-clyism world. If you could find something close enough, you were lucky. The two buses were associated with a larger fleet of coaches, that ran consistently down Route-24, in the leafy North West. This region was in much better affairs as compared to the tumultuous South-west with the ongoing Navajo wars. Though not without its trouble. Gas was still scarce. Perhaps even more so, as supply lines from the South West were constantly disrupted by Navajo. There were weeks at a time when only a couple odd buses could be ran though the region. The difficulty was compounded by gangs of bandits that roamed the area, so fuel was scarce. It was also likely to be stolen. This was one of those weeks. The convoy was leading down a slightly narrow feeder street, as the main route had flooded. What was once a road was now a few feet under water, and while the convoy could have just plowed through the river, it was likely that they would've stalled out and died. Stalling always leads to death. So, yes, flooding. Flooding was not convenient, but post-clyism life was often not convenient, rarely was it. And the coaches were especially privy to this. They knew the drill: find a detour, don't stop, keep cruising. Never stop cruising. And so the convoy continued through the woodland, undeterred by the obstructions posed to the main route. The cabin of the main bus was wildly noisy. These vessels were antique machines, and not in especially great condition. The captain sat behind the driver, intently peering over his shoulder. Something did not look right. Above the noise, the captain alerted the flagman to wave the "get ready to slow down" flag. A window on the starboard side slid down, and out it came a diagonally split yellow and red flag. The flag man waved this flag vigorously, until the trailing flagman waved back a white flag meaning OK. The trailing member began to slow, and soon the convoy was at a full stop. The pneumatic brakes seized and purged their remaining pressure. This was very uncommon. This was very bad. The captain of the leading bus and the first mate of the trailing stepped off onto the asphalt, and convened. At that moment, the problem became clear. The two men were expecting a bridge that no longer existed. Looking down into the river below, the captain could see the fragments of said bridge. It appeared to have fallen recently, as it's presence was used to great effect days before. It was no secret that the many bridges in the North West woodlands were prone to collapse. Most were more than a century old. However, the captain did not suspect mere ordinary collapse. From the side of the bridge, the captain got a look at the iron supports. They were horribly sheered and partial melted and in the grass, the first mate spotted what appeared to be blasting cable. This confirmed the captains theory. The bridge had been blown apart at the supports. Quickly, the captain grabbed the first mate, and the two scurried up the hillside, back towards the blacktop. The captain ran with the boy all the way to the trailing coach. The trailing captain was confused and worried, but the leading coach declared that they were going to have to turn around. The leading captain was sweating bullets as he sprinted back to his bus. He had turned white; for this was truly, an unprecedented terror. The leading captain alerted the flagman to signal with the "let's get moving" flag. The flagman waved the flag with a powerful yet fluid motion, indicative of its urgency. The OK signal was received, and the captain ordered the driver to begin a U-turn. This was to be a difficult maneuver. Slowly the craft inched forward, with unease, working its way back and forth, over and over, to make a U-turn. Minutes passed, with each growing more tense, more unsure. It was coming, that they knew. No one, but a backwards hick would blow a bridge without reason. It was a trap and they were going to try like hell to get out of it. After several more minutes of casually bumping into trees, pissing off birds, excessive shouting, and awkwardly avoiding one another, the two buses made their way back down the road, hoping to make it back to the main route. Hoping to make it back home. The gunnery was on high alert. They didn't know what was coming or where it was coming from, so they had to keep their eyes and ears open. Lest they be slain, which to each man seemed a less than stellar choice. On top of the coach, the gunnery could still feel the hum of the engine, as well as the cool morning air of spring. It was very refreshing, almost nippy. It would've been nice if they weren't about to die. And indeed it seemed they were, because as a gunnery, they were the first line of defense for their coach and also, perhaps, the most exposed. They got all the view they wanted, except for when they couldn't see the guy who shot first. With this in mind, the gunnery mounts were trained every which way. They swerved in an instant, at every stick cracking dear, and bird call in the surrounding woods. It never once occurred to them that it might be on the road, where most things are. And in fact it was. The captain gave a holler, noting the presence of a barricade. The gunnery swerved once again, finally training on a single target. Further down the road a triple-decker bus was turned starboard side out, in an attempt to create a make-shift barricade. Men stood in the road, and one made a gesture to the upper deck. The enemy gunnery took aim at the convoy. The one man began to wave his arms in a stopping gesture. He seemed confident this would work, but as seconds drew on, he became concerned. The convoy was not stopping. The leading captain ordered full speed ahead. There was no stopping for other motorists, no negotiations, they had this one chance to floor it and ram the motherfuckers. The captain ordered the flagman to prepare to signal the other coach to pull alongside. Not yet, but if the driver should've died, the other would have to pull ahead. This was near suicide, but stopping was not an option. The gunnery opened up. Firing on the man in the road, in hopes that he was the captain. And that he was, that is, until he was shot dead running for cover. The enemy gunnery began to fire, and many other small arms popped off from behind the starboard wall. Little pops and bangs lit up the windshield, and bits of metal whipped through the cabin. The trailing gunnery took aim at the enemy gun, with a distinct disadvantage: the enemy had the high ground. The gunnery knew that he wasn't likely to get a body shot, or a head shot, but he reckoned that he could shred the other guy's legs, and so the gunnery took the shot. Tearing through the thin metal walls of the third deck, tiny chunks of metal ripped through the gunnery's legs, severing many arteries. He was mortally wounded. As many others tried to shoot the driver and carry the mortal captain inside the bus, It seemed that failure was imminent. There was no leadership and the convoy was coming fast. About a hundred yards down the road, the convoy continued it's charge seemingly unphased. A man or two had been shot through the foot and the flagman caught flak through the shoulder, but he was alive, most of the crew was, and disregarding the myriad holes punched through the front of the bus, it seemed this would be a successful assault. About a dozen men bailed out of the triple-decker, some firing stray rounds as the dove to the ground. It was at this moment that the convoy blew straight through the tail end of the bus, breaking the blockade. The triple-decker bus caught fire from the resulting fuel leak, cooking any of the crew who survived the impact, and sadly wasting fuel. The double-decker convoy continued down the road, the leading bus, once a lovely red, now scratched and shot to hell. The two buses continued until finally they met with the main route. From there they returned back to the bus yard. The run was a bust, but the buses were intact, and the crew were mostly spared. The leading bus was painted orange, and mended the best that post-clyism tech could muster. As for the bridge, that posed a much larger issue, the resolution of which had much less to do with buses..


#Welcome to Serial Saturday: Rebirth! To those brand new to the feature and those returning for round two, welcome! This is the perfect time for you to join in on the fun, as we re-launch Serial Saturday to better suit all of our readers and writers out there. We’ve heard your feedback, and our hope is to make this feature useful to writers of all genres, backgrounds, and skill levels. To our returning Serial Saturday participants, we hope you’ve had a wonderful break and are ready to dive back in. As we’ve made a few changes, please remember to read the entire post before submitting! *** #This week's theme is Rebirth! Rebirth can take on many meanings in literature. Will fallen heroes come back to life? Or is it as simple as rejuvenating a lost spark of desire? Maybe this week marks a great change for your characters and their world. The interpretation is completely up to you. / #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. *** #The Rules: - All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - Your story must be written for this post. Pre-written content will not be allowed. - Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your wordcount. - Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You must use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. - Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. - Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. - While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! *** #Reminders: Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday posts or to your own subreddit/profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule.


I brace myself as we pull up to the banquet hall, a white stucco monstrosity flaunting French windows echoed by excessive arches. As expected, a crowd packs the sidewalk before it: reporters readying microphones and cameramen hoisting their equipment on their shoulders; photographers, bulky cameras clicking and flashing (they can’t see us through our limousine’s tinted windows, but, apparently, they see a public demand for pictures of the vehicle); others here simply because idolize us, because of who we are rather than what we do. I’ve been dreading this for days now, fighting the temptation to try to back out. But I know Mother wouldn’t stand for it; I am a princess, and, as such, I need to make sure that I don’t seem “aloof” to our citizens. We govern them, and they, in turn, govern us. I pull a breath into stiff lungs. The driver reaches my door and opens it for me, as if I haven’t the strength to do so myself. I force reluctant legs to propel me out, into the throng. As my mother slides out behind me, questions pelt me. Too many at once to make out any of them. My mother takes charge, telling the crowd that they will have their questions answered if they kindly wait until she calls on them. The crowd instantly quiets; my mother is a true queen, her presence commanding the respect and obedience her slim frame and average height cannot. I swallow what feels like a baseball and prepare for the onslaught. The first person my mother calls on--a reporter for Channel 7--remarks to me, “I love your coat, and I think I recognize it. Did you get that from Queen Holly?” My late grandmother. Yes, I’ve topped my shift dress with one of her coats, a gray wool belted trench. One of her favorites. I didn’t want to wear it; I feel as if, after clothing Grandma, it finds my inhabiting it a colossal disappointment. But my mother insisted, proclaiming it a symbol of tradition--something that she holds as dear as she does my brother and me, or maybe even more (I don’t like to ruminate on that question). I tell the reporter that yes, it did belong to my grandmother, and I feel honored to wear it. Another reporter asks us whether we look forward to the gala. A big to-do where we’ll parade around like zoo animals, making small talk with people who love us but don’t know us, people in glitzy gowns and custom-made suits sipping from champagne flutes that they’ll refill far too many times. Mother says we can’t wait. A reporter asks me when Arthur and I are going to have children. The question wracks my gut with pain very much like that that I felt three nights ago. I see myself doubling over on the toilet, Arthur smoothing stray hairs off my sweat-drenched forehead, my mother in the other room, talking on the phone with our doctor. We didn’t speak, didn’t dare voice the panic twisting our brains, as if that would jinx it, as if that would make a difference. It didn’t. When he arrived, the doctor confirmed our worst fears. Even though I’d spent the last hour contemplating it, it hit me like an asteroid fresh from space. I collapsed into Arthur’s arms, and he collapsed onto me, and we cried ourselves as dry as cacti in the Sahara. I’ve spent every free moment since either trying to convince myself that I don’t deserve the blame or excoriating myself because I feel I do. And now I have to pretend it never happened because Mother says we can’t reveal it, because it would “weaken our bloodline” in the public’s eyes. They would, she feared, lament Grandma’s decision to, after the death of her son--her only living relative except for me and my brother, who were both too young to take the throne at the time--allow my mother, a commoner by blood, to take the throne following her death. I don’t think they’d judge us so harshly, and, if they did, I wouldn’t want their support, anyway. But I will oblige, because I have to. Because I’m a princess. I don’t tell the reporter of the pain. I don’t tell her that we don’t have to have kids if we don’t want them. I don’t tell her that it’s none of her business. Instead, I swallow my grief and anger and tell her that we’ll get to it when the time feels right, with a smile that I can’t help hoping will tell her she’s offended me but know won’t. They move onto other topics, other questions. Mother fields a few. Then, they ask me about Kristin--my brother’s girlfriend of two years. They tell me--as if I don’t already know--that rumor has it that she and I don’t like each other very much. The rumors are true. I tried to like Kristin, I really did, but she’s made it impossible for me. The way she drags my brother window shopping to not-so-subtly point out that she “adores” a piece of jewelry that they “happen” to pass by in one of said windows; the way she reminded him at least twenty times that she had a birthday coming up; her snide remarks about the clothing of people who probably can’t afford better, or who would rather spend their money on more worthwhile things than Michael Kors dresses or Giuseppe Zanotti heels; the way she constantly whines about having to work, just like almost everyone else. It gets to a person. But I assure the reporter that such talk could not be further from the truth; Kristin and I adore each other. The reporter nods, smiling, but I can see disappointment flashing in her eyes. Another woman comes forward. A baby wriggles in her arms. I freeze for a moment, the glint of its denim-blue eyes piercing my flesh, its coos ice picks thrust into my ears. The woman asks if I’ll take a picture with the child. I force a breath into lungs as stiff as crackers. I’ll do as she asks. It will break me. But not here, not now, not until I’m alone in my room, with a pillow to muffle my sobs. Because I will not let Mother down. Because I’m a princess.


The day is dark when you awake. In complete honesty, it's nothing new, the black smog rolling off your pointed tower turrets. It doesn't surprise you. Neither does the occasional scream as a soul rushes past your cracked bedroom window; the house is just plain stuffy were you to close it. No, none of this is new to you. Another long, long day in Hell. Yes, that's a capital H. When you're the devil, things get old fast. Really fast. Like breakfast. Your morning tea boils over, staining the crisp, red suit you so painstakingly put on. It didn't do wonders for your thighs, so it's a relief to get off. The stains... Not so much. The Hellhounds eat your bacon. When the postman chucks the morning mail at your castle doorstep, you lift it with little enthusiasm. Another court case requesting your presence, along with a signed letter from the man in it. Harold. Not your first rodeo with him. No matter how often you told him he still committed murder, no matter how many paperclips he used, no matter how cool he might've looked doing it, he still killed one hundred people. On the dot. Multiply that by seven, and you might get close to the number of paperclips Harold used. You keep sifting through the pile. It seems to grow more every day. Lists of new arrivals, the landscapers wanting their bill for your decorative lava fountains, and then one makes you pause. Stop in your tracks. A child's messy handwriting, delicately looped and surrounded by sideways stickers of candy canes and reindeer. And your name. Front and center on the red and green striped envelope. Satan. You slice open the top with your fingernail, carefully withdrawing the letter. Inside, there is twice as much holiday cheer and more stickers than Harold's paperclips. Dear Satan, I pormise that I have ben graet (many scribbles here, and then:) o.k. this year. Mom tels me my speling is better. She says I can right you becuase I got a star (several Christmas star stickers follow) on my homewrk. Here is my list: -A puppy -A doll, like Lilys but not with blond hair bcause that is vry ugly -that is all Thanks Satan. Love Kira (Heart, heart, heart) Gently, you fold the letter and tuck it into your breast pocket. How had it been delivered? This wasn't your forte, your job, in the slightest. You hadn't even been aware of what time of the year it was. Last time you'd checked, it was July, which probably means that your fast past to the Bahamas has expired. Pulling out Kira's letter, you scan the list again. A puppy... Your gaze instantly drifts to one of the Hellhounds, busily chewing at the remains of a poor soul in the corner. They don't look so bad, if you squint, maybe ignore their demon-like eyes... No. Absolutely not. The next item. A doll, except not blond. Because blond is- you roll your eyes here- very ugly. Fingering your own blond locks, you scoff in disgust. Kira wouldn't know beauty if it came to collect her innocent little soul. That takes you back to the puppy. Surely, pet stores would be open this time of year. You wouldn't actually know. The Hellhounds are purebred. You falter. Why are you even doing this? It isn't your line of work. You have things to do. Why should you give even one of Harold's paperclips if Kira receives absolutely nothing on her sticker-bathed Christmas list? Before you are fully conscious of it, her letter is dangling over the trashcan. You are about to drop it in when you look around you for the first time. Around at the castle that still needs sweeping, the pile of mail you weren't even halfway through. That's just your personal business. That's not even including work-related activities. Your eyes drift to the holiday cheer on her letter, and grudgingly, you nod. You need a vacation. Kira's just a convenient way to get it. That's all. That's the only reason you're doing it. Gently tucking away her lovingly written note, you dial your butler on the landline. "Javier? Yes. Bring me my car." The first destination: A pet shop. The next: Kira's house. She'll have to deal with an unwrapped puppy. They don't fold neatly like Hellhounds do in confined spaces. The Upper World in snowy when you arrive to Kira's hometown. It's a scraggly place, somewhere in Northern Canada. A place you've never even heard of, which means a great deal considering the souls you receive from everywhere else. Its only four streets are lined with strands of flickering Christmas light, illuminating the fast-falling snow. The flakes sizzle as they touch your skin, sending up dancing tendrils of steam. Waving them away, you scan the shop windows, sidestepping passerbyes. All of them stop to ogle at you, and you sigh. For a town this small, anyone new most likely guarantees that type of reaction. Presumably, the suit and lavish leather biker boots don't help your case. Or the soulless onyx eyes. After the fifth pedestrian flattens themselves against a store, clutching their chest, you rub your forehead. "Could you please direct me to the nearest pet store? I have a terrible amount of work I must return to and this errand is taking up enough of my time already." With a shaking hand, the middle-aged man points down the sidewalk. "On that corner there. Downstairs shop." "Thank you, my good man." You try to shake his hand but he shies away and, failing to disguise the gesture as one of those cool finger guns the 'hip' kids do, you continue on. The man, however frightened, was not a liar. As promised, a pet store awaits. A faint bell tings when you open the door, and you're greeted with the overwhelming aroma of urine and hairballs. The young woman behind the counter trembles when she sees you but holds her ground. It's refreshing, so refreshing in fact you fix the leaky pipe in the corner of the room with a flick of your fingers. "May I help you?" she squeaks out. "All pet food is half off for the holidays." "Yes, yes. I would like to purchase a..." A quick glance at the letter. "A puppy?" She nods, leading you to a kennel in the corner of the room while keeping a wide birth. "As you can see, we have many different breeds. Are you buying one for yourself or your..." Her eyes graze over you quickly. "Your child?" "No, no. Just filling a request." You overlook the yapping balls of fur, their small paws pressed against the wire cage. One is curled in the corner, far milder than the rest, and you gesture toward him. "That one." He will do far less damage to your suit. She nods, reaching inside to draw him out. Handing it to you, she says, "If you'll follow me, I'll give you your complimentary bag of puppy chow. We also have a wide selection of bedding." Holding the squirming puppy, you listen to her rattle on about their deals. It is clear whatever initial shock surfaced at the sight of you is now replaced by the saleswoman she is. In minutes, all that is needed for Kira's puppy needs has been established and, bags and dog in hand, the woman stares at you expectantly for payment. Sliding a single bone-crafted coin across the counter, you offer generously, "Keep the change." You're out the door seconds later, leaving her stuttering self behind. The snow had begun to fall again, this time denser than the last, and the streets had cleared up significantly. The letter holds Kira's address on it and you follow it to a sagging mobile home on the edge of town. Through the windows, you glimpse Kira and her mother, Christmas carols blasting through the grimy windows as they decorate their Christmas tree. You set down the puppy and all its needed essentials, finger brushing the doorbell. At the last minute, you ring it before hurrying away, already calling to your car. The last thing Kira, or her mother needs, is to see you on their doorstep. No. The gift will be anonymous. You're back in Hell before they even reach their door. Left in the hotness and blackness of your castle, you release a breath, gazing down at Kira's letter. The smallest smile tugging at your lips, you pin it to your fridge. Task completed. Turning back to the mail, you sift through it, your usual ball and chain already re-attached. Until a letter catches your eye. Stops you in your tracks. Return address: Jimmy Franklin. And your name, lovingly inscribed on the envelope, followed by several snowflake stickers. And the letter, addressed: Dear Satan...


#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: Welcome to Week 3 of my favorite month, **Spooktober!** Each week, your prompt will be *inspired by the horror genre*, with 2 bonus constraints (which are not required but worth extra points). I do encourage you to lean into the genre and try new things! But you are not required to write horror or Halloween-themed stories. These are just starting points. - **Prompt: It was the beginning of the end.** - **Bonus Constraint 1: Genre is Sci-fi horror and/or ‘Creature Feature’.** *Creature features are horror films that focus centrally on a creature: an animal, a scientifically-engineered monster, a mutated hybrid, or even an alien.* - **Bonus Constraint 2: Technology of some sort plays a role (it doesn’t have to be a major role).** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret the prompt *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). The bonus constraints 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/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/Blu_Spirit - **Third:** - Submitted by u/HDJoey - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Crit Star:** - u/katpoker666 *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - 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.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! *Please be sure to read the entire post. There are a couple new additions.* Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** **Bonus Points: Use of a circular narrative (ending the same way it begins).** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.). The bonus points constraint is *not* required. Good words to all!   *** #Feedback on the Micro Monday feature Please take a moment this week and fill out . Let me know what you like, what you don’t, and what could be improved. Bonus points this week for those writers who fill it out! (You must include your reddit username to receive points.) Thanks in advance!   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write to submit nominations!   *** #Spotlights The stories were all so very good this week! I loved the variety this week, so many interpretations on the mysteriously appearing door. We’re going to try something a little different. There will be three spots, one category. (Use of the constraint, upvotes, feedback, and nominations all count for points. And occasionally bonus points!) - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - - Submitted by u/rudexvirus - - Submitted by u/Cody_Fox23   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Whodunit!** After a week of dancing and romance, let’s shake things up with a little mystery! ‘’ is generally a mystery in which the characters must figure out who the culprit of a crime is, often a murder. (Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Or Colonel Mustard in Billiards?) But of course, you don’t have to go that way--the possibilities are endless. Maybe it’s all about who ate the last cookie, or Bob in HR’s sandwich. Or something entirely different. There is often a red herring and sometimes even a twist! Maybe Bob ate his own sandwich... ***Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - A misunderstanding occurs.*** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Whodunit’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 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. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal 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! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***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) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings What a tough week! Great job to all the writers. The stories this week were all just absolutely beautiful. (But honestly, that’s true every week!) I was so delighted to see so many of you step outside your comfort zones and try your hand at romance. There were some lovely takes on the prompt, from time-traveling couples to happily-ever-afters to heartbreak. If you haven’t read them yet, I recommend curling up with a blanket and diving in. - - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus   - - Submitted by u/Jurassic_Snark2 *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


This is the story of the most fabulous man I have ever met. I’m telling it because Mr. Leon Miller would be too humble to ever speak highly of himself. Every once in a while you meet that one person who is the embodiment of true selflessness. No skeletons in the closet like the rest of us. Leon went above and beyond to always help others. Whether it was walking an old lady across the street even if he was running late to work, or fixing some young new driver’s flat tire. Leon did it all. He was a yes man. However his yes’s were true yes’s. Never did give a pity yes. Leon loved to help. He was the neighbor you went to when you needed to borrow some sugar. I loved working at the bank with him. He always made the place feel like you were in one big capsule of adderall. The warm rays that this man generated were so euphoric and welcoming. You forgot all of your troubles when Leon walked through the doors. What a beautiful man. I don’t work at the bank anymore. It was too hard for me to be around all of the money always fighting the urge to pocket just a little. Now I am a taxi driver. You would think it is a grueling job but I truly don’t mind. It doesn’t compare to working with Leon though. It felt like I was working with Jesus Christ himself. Except way less annoying and righteous. Leon has a beautiful family. Why wouldn’t he? Good people deserve good things. His wife Heather was a beautiful soul. Most people say they have a happy marriage, but we all know that’s a farce. It seems like we all love to hate each other these days. Leon and Heather really did have a happy marriage. Like a movie. The kind to make a softy cry. Those two high school sweet hearts who went the distance and didn’t regret it. Talk about rarity. Speaking of rarity, he had a set of beautiful twin daughters who were both heart surgeons in the same hospital. How confusing that must get. A family of life savers. Leon saved my life. I’ll never forget the day I woke up. The luminescent lights were so bright. A constant ringing followed by a series of beeps fluctuated in my ears. The noise became my pulse. As I looked down my feet were strapped to my bed. Next to my bed was a man in a brown corduroy suit jacket with matching pants and a brussel sprout green tie. His fading gray hair looking almost like that of an arctic fox. “Hello James.” The man said to me. “Glad to see you are awake!” From that day forward my life was changed. Rehab never helped me. Eleven times and not one successful result. What I needed was Leon to find me face down in the gutter like that poet Edgar Allan Poe. Poor Guy. Was a literary genius and nobody ever knew it. Not I however. I am no literary genius. Just an ex junkie that an old kind soul rushed to the hospital. My Jesus. Leon Christ. When they discharged me I had no place to stay. Leon took me right in. Heather gave him no dirty look. I would listen through the walls and she would only say, “James is a bright young man that we can fix right up, can’t we baby?” “Yes my love.” Leon would reassure her. That’s just the type of people they were. True selflessness. Leon got me cleaned up and off the streets and I never went back. I don’t even smoke reefer now. I’m not one of those kombucha born again yoga hippies. Just a normal guy with a rough past. Leon did fix me up. After I was all clean and ready he got me an interview at the bank. Of course I got the job. Anyone Leon speaks highly of always gets good things. I don’t know if I deserved it but my savior always assured me I did. I worked at the bank with him for three years and cherished every moment. We were all horribly saddened when he announced his retirement and gave his final day. I know I would miss working with him even though I had an apartment a few streets down. The day before his last we threw him a big surprise party because we knew he would turn it down. He said he didn’t deserve such praise but we all knew he did. Such selflessness. I woke up on the day of his final eight hours at the bank and couldn’t help but notice one salty tear glide down my cheek as I took away my five o’clock shadow in the mirror. Leon had changed my life. I owe him everything and it hurt to know he was leaving. I got in my Prius, listening to Primus and prepared for the saddest drive to work I would take. The only sad drive to the bank I’ve ever had. When I arrived Leon had already opened up shop and was sitting at his teller station. “James my son, I got you a gift.” It was a picture of us in the hospital together. That’s when the levee broke. One salty year turned into a river. On his last day he got me a gift. The picture still sits on my night stand. Girls always tell me my dad looks like such a kind man. I always tell them he is the best. We all tried to keep our spirits high that day while the minutes turned to hours. With ten minutes left in Leon’s final day, a man walked through the door. I’ll never forget his ugly wing tipped shoes and noticeable track marks. His ski mask looked like it was worn to the bone. Like he has made this sort of transaction before. “Everyone get in the floor now!” “Let’s make this quick and easy and nobody gets hurt.” He walked up to Leon’s desk. “Okay old man, you know the drill. Put the money in the bag.” Leon complied. The man must’ve known it was closing time because he didn’t ask for money in the safe. Leon dished out a couple grand and the man seemed satisfied. The wing tipped fellow was oddly calm. When the transaction was finished the man calmly turned to leave. “Have a great day sir. I pray you find god.” Leon said. The last words he ever spoke. The man stopped and turned. “Tell him to find me first.” He raised his gun and pulled the trigger and in the blink of an eye my savior was crucified. That was four years ago and the man was never caught. Such a pity. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t reminisce about my best friend Leon. Good people deserve good things but don’t always get them.


*TW Profanity* I had never imagined my life like this. Looking around in an overstuffed storage locker at the odd collection of things that had represented my journey. No, pictures, no accolades, nothing to suggest that I had even existed. At 32 years old, every artifact in my life was a lifeless piece of junk. Just another meaningless entry into the diary of an invisible man. This was never my intention. There once was a time where many around me would have imagined that I would excel socially, and wind up successful. I was certainly smart enough. It was my internal turmoil that anchored me down to my lot in life. Those people who set their definition of who I was, had based their perception of me on a hand crafted lie. Though I had a strong social game, that's all it ever felt like to me a game. For most of my life I had worn a mask designed to fit in. I don't feel like that's uncommon as children on their way to adulthood, as at one point or another we are all looking for our place in the world. For me however, that practice transcended simple youthful angst. It became a mantra, a survival mechanism. My brilliant mind worked overtime convincing myself that no one would like the real me. And so, my life became a game of charades. Everywhere I went, I was someone else, with a different background. Every version of me was just another character, born from a clever combination of bits of truth, and traits I wish I represented. I would be lying if I said that this practice of self-deception didn't earn me a lot of attention, but as I would soon learn later on, it would never last. I began clearing my way through the rubble of the ruins of my life, looking for the divorce papers that I had been meant to sign years ago. I don't know why I hadn't signed them yet. We had been separated for five years. She wanted to get married again, so there was a sense of urgency to get this final tie cut. I wasn't emotional about it; it was good riddance as far as I was concerned. While I was away working, desperately trying to pay the massive bills she incurred, she had done what she always did. Made an impulsive decision to sleep with some random guy she met on Tinder. It wasn't the first time, but this one came with consequences in the form of pregnancy. As if that wasn't bad enough, she then attempted to lie about it for months. When the truth finally came out, she said, and I quote, " Well I know that deep down inside you really love me, and that you'll do the right thing and help me raise this child and treat it like your own." She was wrong on all counts of that. But it's not like I didn't at least consider it. I obviously loved her, but some betrayals are simply too much to sweep under the rug, as was my general nature. Practically I knew it wouldn't be fair to the child. All I would ever be able to see it as is some other's guys fuck trophy. There was no question that I would resent it, and that's no way to raise a child. It wasn't its fault, so to burden it with my internal lament over its existence just to stay attached to something I loved would be selfish on my part. So, I did the sensible thing, and I walked away. Of course, I couldn't help feeling just a bit jaded that Rebecca managed to find someone to love her again and marry her, that someone like her, who was capable of such great emotional violence and volatile impulses could get a happily ever after, while I lamented in my own torment. But such is the game of life, it does not play fair. As I dug through yet another layer of junk, I found the suit I had worn to my senior prom hanging on an old coat rack in the far-left corner of the unit. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, as it had remained there for so long that I had forgotten its existence. It was a welcome sight as it brought back warm memories of the girl I should have married. Christin was a beauty. She had pale freckled skin, and dark, curly hair. Her smile and laugh could light up any room. There is no person on this planet who has stopped my heart so completely like she did the first time I saw her. There was this aura about her, when I was with her it felt like she was the only person in the world that actually saw me. I felt complete when I was with her. I suppose all young lovers probably feel that way the first time, but I still feel that same exact way when I speak to her today. Of course, she is married to another man with two beautiful children, but it doesn't change how I feel. My biggest regret was letting her walk away. But I was different then, less at peace with my internal monologue. I was accustomed to washing the bitter taste of my demons out with a double shot of whiskey and whatever else I could get my hands on. She was the first casualty of the constant war inside my mind that I've been cursed with since birth. When I think of her, I often ponder the age-old philosophical question of whether it truly was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. As I worked my way laterally across the back wall of my storage shed, I came across an old dusty box. It was tattered and well worn. My curiosity compelled me to pick it up and perch it on the top of a black faux marble end table from my first solo apartment circa 2008. I opened it up and pulled out an old blue baby blanket, thinly worn with small holes that somehow gave it character. Underneath the blanket sat a pair of baby OshKosh B'gosh overalls. I immediately recognized these from my kindergarten picture day. Back when I had a full head of rusty-red hair, before it turned dark brown (and eventually all fell out.) I couldn't help but smile at the memories. I enjoyed a good childhood for the most part, after my father was out of the picture. My mother worked a lot, often leaving my brother and I in the hands of our grandparents. My grandmother was the typical old school religious granny. She was always there for a warm hug, and every holiday was welcomed in by the smell her baking her patented banana bread, accompanied by the gift of hand-knitted slippers in any color we asked. As we get older, it’s the simple things we miss the most. My grandfather, Raymond, AKA "The King," AKA "The Champ of Seven Cities" AKA several other ridiculous monikers he bestowed upon himself, was truly the glue that held our family together. He loved mischief and winding us up as children. He would often show up at our house unannounced with bags of toys for us to play with. He was funny, and warm, and people naturally gravitated towards him. I think that's where that quality in myself had come from. I didn't realize until I was older just how unhappy he was. This was on full display when at 70 years old he left my grandmother for another woman in a move that shattered my once airtight family. I understand him better now, I think. He just wanted to be happy, and he sacrificed that happiness for the sake of other people his entire life. At 70 he took his shot. I can only hope that when he died, he at least passed on holding a piece of the happiness he sought in his heart. The aftermath was the beginning of the end for my family. Everyone picked sides, aunts and uncles became distant strangers, and life changed at a rapid pace. My brother went off to college and became a doctor, but not the kind that helps people. Probably for the best, because he's the smartest human I know, but he has the bedside manner of a turnip. He's always prided himself on being the smartest guy in the room, and it makes him unbearable in social situations. Of course, I had seen him probably once in the last 5 years, so he could've changed. My mom grew very sad and distant, as my brother and I both focused on our careers, and somehow forgot about the woman who sacrificed everything for us. I have since rectified that to the best of my ability, but he has remained at arm’s length. All of these events transpired in my mid-20's, and that's when I began to change. I stopped feeling. Even when I tried to connect emotionally with another person, there was a razor-sharp knife hidden in my mind that would sever any hint of emotional connection. It took the form of a little voice that whispered "they don't really like you. They just want something from you. Even if they don't, it won't last. Nothing lasts forever, remember?" So, I untethered myself from humanity, and I just simply existed. I floated around just hoping to float somewhere that would make me feel, but to no avail. I have always been an "all or nothing" with my love type of guy. After years of expending all my love on people and places that always ended up disappointing me, my default setting had turned to "nothing." I stopped being social, I focused on my work, in many ways I gave up on the world. I stopped going on sets, I switched to working remotely, strictly as a writer, and I disappeared from relevance. In every photo that was snapped of me, I saw nothing but the ugly I had become. Crooked teeth, overweight, bald. A far cry from what I used to be. So, I made the photographers delete the pictures, and eventually I stopped taking them at all. The snowball effect had led to self-inflicted isolation. It's ironic that in some sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy, the loneliness I endeavored to stave off has ended up consuming me in a living, breathing coffin. I placed the clothing back in the box and returned it to its concrete home. I located the old leather laptop bag I had been looking for and retrieved the divorce papers. I quickly fished a pen out of my shirt pocket and signed it right there and then. As I took one last look around the storage shed, I caught the reflection of myself in an old standing mirror. I looked haggard, and tired, with grey hairs spouting in all directions off my sea captain like beard. I sighed as a sad realization suddenly dawned on me. Everyone who once knew me, knew me no more. There was nothing in this room that tied any of this to me without direct access to my personal memories. I had become a prisoner of my own mind, and it had driven me into the depths of madness, so far down that no one could see. I knew that one day it would take me under, there was no doubt. And this storage locker would just become a trove a meaningless junk to whomever purchased it. There would be no horcrux here that haunted this room with my essence. On that day I would be wiped from existence in perpetuity, and that was saddening beyond words. I finished scribbling my winding thoughts on a piece of parchment and placed the paper down on an old wooden chest. One day these ramblings of an unstable mind will be all that remains of my time on this spinning rock. I had done my best, but it was never quite good enough. TL;DR -The Invisible Man-