One would think the biggest problems encountered during the apocalypse would be staying hydrated, foraging for food or maybe even finding a not-so-dirty dick to sit on. But, in 2022, that wasn't the case. There was still a ton of food and water because most poeple had died from the virus, and the giant Costco's and Wal-Mart's and BJ's and Sam's clubs were still filled with miles of unperishables and dams full of unopened water bottles. We considered this the one consulation prize for being a capitalist society. The need to consume may have been the reason most of us perished, but atleast this abortion of capitalism was making up for it. In some areas, there was even still electricity due to the fact that before the year of death, some poeple actually still believed in solar and water power. Who knew it would actually pay off in the end. If only the republicans could see us now, too bad they were mostly dead. That's what happens when you're old, stubborn and don't wear a mask. Most of us that were still alive were considered immuned because after the first worldwide vaccination, old people started dropping like beats in a dupstep song. One after the other, after the other. It was right out of an Eli Roth film. Something in the new vaccine was making old people's hearts explode right out of their chests. Which would've been extremely tragic if there weren't so many tik tok videos about it. By Valentine's day of 2021, no one was getting money in their birthday cards. Grandsparents had gone extinct. To think that none of us would ever get an awkward, boney hug ever again. By St. Patricks day, poeple were remixing the videos on YouTube and even doing recreations and reaction videos. Which sounds vulgar, but it really was the only thing that was lightening the mood, at that point. We thought after that, the American gov't would finally take notice and try to use our scientists to create a better vaccine, but they just kept trying to figure out a way to get to Mars. A lot of ppl, including myself, think it was because all the billionaires were trying to abadon us underlings on the first day of 2021. Well, those scientists must not have been that great because the space shuttle blew up on ignition. It killed the entire executive and judicial branches of the gov't, as well as all of Silicon Valley. Now that was an anarchy party. Things got a little weird after that and the exploding hearts. Russia and China were in competition to finish the new vaccine, and finally, amongst all the tensions on April 20th, 2021, devastated, we ran out of weed. Oh, and they created a new vaccine. It was a bittersweet symphony just like the band the Verve said it would be, but since both countries were so huge and powerful, and our country had no discernable people in power. China and Russia decided to deliver the vaccine through the air attempting one of the biggest crop dusts is human history. Which probably would've worked had all of the crop-dusting tanks been cleaned properly before being filled with the vaccine juice. Something about the mixture of trace amounts of bug killer with the vaccine messed with the chemistry. By the time the second vaccine rained down upon us, it had somehow converted itself into a relentless supervirus. Killing everyone and everything that wasn't immuned. Turns out making me and my boyfriend take elderberry for no reason at all for all those years really wasn't the "waste of time" that someone thought it was. Roughly one in a thousand people seemed to be immuned. How both of us ended up alive together still weirds me out and is somewhat stressful if we ever decide to grow apart. But if the virus didnt get you outside, it eventually seeped through the window seals and got eveyone in their homes. Along with most of the plants and animals. Most everything was dead by the next day. But the worst part was all the weed, aka marijuana, aka the devil's crab grass, was gone. The one thing that we needed during these trying times beside food and water was Finito. Extinct. Justin and I looked everywhere, within a 100 ft square footage. Nothing. So what else does one do when they have no weed and all the free gas in the world. Motherfucking Road trip. Which would've been the juiciest of tits. But no one really emphasizes the importance of weed on a road trip. It's basically the whole reason they're fun. Otherwise it's just long periods of driving through nowhere with nothing more to say. Atleast on weed you can appreciate what nowhere has to offer. All the California farms were done-zo. Same with Colorado. Our only chance was to find a dispensary that wasn't yet tainted. We only had 2,476 of them to look through, so it was going to be tight. We found most of them occupied all ready by whoever in that area survived the vaccine and had a bunch of guns. If you thought everyone smoked weed when the world was normal. Wait 'til you have a global pandemic and national weed shortage. It's the only thing people want to do. We finally found a small dispensary in Colorado Springs that had been left ransacked but wasn't occupied with angry stoners, or so we thought. There was one old, top-bun wearing hipster in the back of the small store guarding the safe. He was obviously protecting something good because he was holding a throwing ax and his eyes were too tiny for regular weed. "Back up, man, I know how to use this thing and I'm afriad to use it." We were confused. So, I tried to clarify. "Huh?" He stammered. "Wait. I mean. You know how to use this thing, but I'm not afraid to. Or something like that. You know what I mean! Back the fuck up." "Uh, yea, we get it. I guess. If we move you'll lizzie borden us to death." Jealousy set in. The weed he was hiding strong. I could tell. If the horrible sentence structure didn't clench my suspicion, his general paranoid demeanor gave it away. He obviously couldn't even handle this kind of weed. I could liberate him. So, I charged. "Hey, wha-!" he exclaimed while clumsily releasing his ax opposite my direction. He missed me as I tackled him to the ground and knocked him out with a giant handblown stash jar. They are way more sturdy than you might think. "Ooh, these are nice, look around for some..." Before I could give my full review of the newly found stash jars, I saw Justin had been hit. The hand-whittled axe handle hung from the meaty part of his upper right arm. He tried taking it out and I screamed. "Don't! I have something better than that." "Better than taking it out of my arm?! What is better than the sweet relief of no ax in my arm?" "Wait for it!" I leaned down, found the everpresent post-it note on the side of the safe donning the code and finally found the one thing that could save us. "Shrooms!? What in the shitbag kinda luck!?" Aw, Fuck. That wasn't what I was expecting. In fact, I completely forgot about shrooms. Like all together. They werent my thing. So, I shoved a handful in mine and Justin's faces, waited the applicable 45 minutes. Justin complained. "So, when you said wait for it, I guess you meant 45 minutes." "Did I sound specific to you?" So, we waited. For the record, it took 38 minutes, and right when my beloved started grabbing flowers that weren't there, I ripped that underused and overembelished hatchet out of his arm like a giant, sharp bandaid and kept it for sentimental value. There wasn't much of that in this new normal. And that guy seemed pretty cool when he wasn't throwing sharp sticks at us. Justin survived as we quickly found another lead on weed in the store. But he had the weirdest trip of his life. Pro tip: Don't ever do shrooms when you're bleeding. I probably should have thought of that before I forced them down his gullet. For us, there was still no weed in the apocalypse, for now. But we vowed we would never give up until we found it. Unless we were hungry and tired. We're not machines.


A nice, two-story brick home sits on a lush green lawn in the middle of suburbia. Angela Rollins opens the front door. Black with long braids pulled back into a ponytail, she’s dressed like she’s going to yoga. A duffle bag is slung over her shoulder and a veil of grief covers her pretty face. She holds the door open for her ten-year-old son, Jase. Light-skinned with a backwards baseball cap and an iPad clutched to his chest, Jase’s gray eyes keep to the ground as he walks past her. Angela presses numbers on a keypad and the door lock engages. They walk down a cobblestone path to the driveway where a newer model Audi waits. Jase gets in the front passenger seat. He pushes a button on his iPad and the screensaver shows a picture of him, Angela, and his father, who has curly red hair and fair skin, in front of a Christmas tree. They look happy. The Audi cruises down the highway. Angela drives with earbuds in and Jase plays a game on his iPad. A cellphone mounted on the dashboard lights up and vibrates. Angela taps the screen. “Angela Rollins,” she says, and listens to someone on the other end. “Yes I understand the D.A.’s desire for a speedy trial, but I still have boxes of discovery to go through,” she explains. “I’m playing catch up. Didn’t my office inform you I was on a personal leave?” Angela listens again and furrows her brows. “Thank you. I plan on spending the weekend working on this. I’ll be in touch.” Angela taps her cell phone to end the call and pulls the earbuds out. She turns on the radio to a news report. “Authorities say the body of a woman found naked and missing her right hand is likely the work of a serial killer,” says a reporter in a serious voice. Angela shudders and turns off the radio. She looks down at Jase. “Whatchya playing?” “Roblox." “Your Grandma and Grandpa Rollins are excited for you to spend the weekend with them. They texted me right before we left,” she says in an encouraging voice. Jase’s eyes grow wide. “They know how to text?” Angela nods. “Daddy taught them before he...” she says before stopping. “You can say it, Mom,” says Jase. “I don’t like to,” she softly answers back. Angela looks down at him, her face softens. “This weekend will be good for you, son. All of you. Your grandparents miss your daddy so much, and you’re so much like him.” Jase shrugs. “I guess.” Angela sees an exit sign off the highway that reads: Conroy, Ohio. She points to it. “My own grandparents used to live down that road. I spent time at their house when I was about your age.” Jase turns to her with a desperate look on his face. “Do you think they’re gonna have WiFi?” Angela smiles. “It had secret passageways.” “What did?” Jase replies. “I told you. My pappy and nana’s house,” says Angela. Jase looks incredulous. “Secret passageways?” Angela nods. “One day, nana went to play bingo at church and I stayed back. Pappy was in the garage tinkering on his ol’ truck like he always did, and I was bored as all get out.” She looks at Jase. “No WiFi.” He smiles. She continues on, “So I started doing cartwheels all over the house. My goal was to do twenty cartwheels in a row. I made it to about fifteen when I cartwheeled into the office. But it had a low hanging light, so I turned and was this close to number twenty when BANG! I collided into the back wall of a closet. Except... it wasn’t really a wall." Jase’s face lights up. “A fake wall?” “Mmm-hmm,” says Angela. “It opened to a very small room with steps.” “Where did they go to?” “Up and down to different rooms. Lawd, it’s been thirty years...” Angela says as she thinks hard. “One room had a tunnel that led all the way to the garage. You should’ve seen my pappy’s face when I came up from a door in the floor.” “He didn’t know about it?” Angela shakes her head no and continues on, “So, Pappy and I went back through the dark tunnel. He led the way with a flashlight and at the end of it was a small brick room. Pappy shined the light all over. We saw an old roadmap of the United States with lined routes leading up to Canada and there was a musket hanging on the wall. Pappy handed me the flashlight and took it down to get a closer look. It was all rusty and scratched, but the bayonet was still sharp. There was an inscription that read, U.S. Union Army.” “Whoa!” exclaims Jase. “Pappy said the musket must’ve belonged to a Union soldier from the Civil War. He figured, given the map and that the house was built in the 1850’s, it was part of the Underground Railroad,” says Angela. “I’ve told you about that, right?” “Is that where they hid the slaves that escaped?” “Yes, son.” “And all that happened when you were my age?” “Mmm-hmm." “Wow, Mom. Maybe you were right...” he says with a look of amusement. “Maybe kids did have more fun in the Eighties!” "We sure did," she laughs. The Audi pulls up to a modest rambler. An older white couple in their seventies stand on the front porch and wave enthusiastically. Angela looks at Jase. “I told you they were excited.” He looks at her with big, glassy eyes. She pulls him in for an embrace. “I love you, son.” Angela drives back down the highway. Her face reflects the pain in her heart as she wipes away the start of each new tear. She turns on the radio. “Authorities are hoping a sketch of the suspected serial killer terrorizing women in the Ohio River Valley will lead to his capture. It was made public after a witness says she saw a man in the vicinity where the latest victim was found. He’s described as a black man with a medium build, dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie,” says the reporter in a serious voice. Angela changes the station. The last few chords of a gospel song plays, then the Deejay comes on. “That was, *Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen*, by the queen of gospel herself.” Angela smiles and shakes her head. “Mahalia Jackson,” she coos. The Deejay continues on, “When Miss Jackson had trouble in life, she sang about the goodness of God. Praise, my friends, is a powerful weapon against the enemy.” Another gospel song starts, and Angela cranks up the volume and sings along. She passes a sign off the highway that reads, Conroy, Ohio. One Mile. Angela stops singing. She bites her lip and looks to the right. The exit to Conroy is approaching. She hesitates, then veers to the right, taking the exit. Angela drives down a tree lined street where large restored homes from the mid-to-late 1800’s sit on well-manicured lawns. A sign reads: “Welcome to Conroy. America’s Historic Home-Town.” Angela looks around as she slowly drives down the street, carefully studying each home she passes. She looks intently at a large Victorian with scalloped siding and large shutters. She pulls over and parks. Angela takes another look at the house, then turns the engine off and gets out of the car. She walks to the sidewalk in front of the house and stares at it. Next door, an uppity woman with a blonde coiffure and tennis outfit checks her mailbox. She sees Angela, looks her up and down, and sneers. Angela doesn’t notice. She just stares at the house, reminiscing about her time with Pappy and Nana. Suddenly, a man walks out of the front door carrying a garbage bag. Frank is in his fifties with pasty-white skin and a receding hairline. His checkered sweater vest fits snug against his pooch. Frank whistles as he walks to the adjacent garage with the bag. He presses buttons on a keypad and the garage door raises with a loud rumble. He throws the bag into a garbage can and pushes a button, and the garage door rumbles back down. As Frank turns back toward the house, he sees Angela. “I was just admiring the house!” she shouts to him with a smile. Two little girls on bikes ride down the sidewalk past Angela. They ring their bells and shout in unison, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank smiles and waves back at the girls. “I hope you don’t think I'm a weirdo,” Angela says as Frank approaches. “Not at all,” says Frank, who stands next to her and looks at the house. “I admire it, too. That’s why I bought it!” Angela chuckles. “Truth be told, I spent a lot of time in that house when I was a child." Frank’s face lights up. “Oh? Do tell!” “My grandparents lived here. I haven’t been back since... ‘89 I think,” says Angela. “How long have you lived here?” “About a year,” he answers. Frank looks to the right and left, then leans into Angela. "I got a killer deal on it, too!” he snickers. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?” “Foreclosure,” he says. “It sat vacant for years before it went to auction.” Angela looks sadly at the house. “That’s too bad,” she laments. “But good for you. It’s a big house, do you live here by yourself?” “No, no I’m married. We just celebrated twenty years." “Congratulations.” “Would you like to come inside and take a look around? I’m sure my wife would love to meet you." “Oh, no, that’s quite alright. Thank you, though,” she politely responds. The girls on bikes ride past again. They ring their bells and wave at Frank. Frank smiles and waves back. He turns to Angela and offers his hand. “Well, it was very nice to meet you...? Angela looks down at Frank’s hand. It's deformed, gimpy, the fingers are curled inward. She awkwardly shakes it. “Angela,” she says. Frank notices the uncomfortable moment and raises his other hand. “Lucky for me I’m left-handed!” he says with a jovial grin. Angela embarrassedly smiles. “And you are Mister Frank?” “Or just Frank." She nods. “Well, I have soup on the stove,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Angela.” “Goodbye,” she says. Frank turns, walks back toward the house, and resumes whistling. Angela stares at the house. She wrings her hands and bites her lip. She really wants to get a look inside. She looks over at the girls on their bikes and then back at the house. Angela lifts her hand and calls out, “Frank!” Frank stops in his tracks and smiles like a Cheshire cat.  INSIDE THE HOUSE Angela follows Frank through a doorway that leads into the kitchen. It is immaculate with white cabinets and marble countertops. A large pot boils on the stove and a small table is set for one. “Honey! We have company!” shouts Frank. He turns to Angela. “Is it how you remembered?” “Sort of,” she says as she studies the room. “The cabinets have been painted and there used to be wallpaper, floral I think. And the counters were butcher board.” “Oh, butcher board would have been nice,” he says. Angela walks into the dining room, Frank follows closely behind. A large rectangular table sits under a chandelier adorned with prisms. “Oh yes, I remember that chandelier,” says Angela. She looks behind her and points to a closed mahogany door. “And that was my grandfather's office.” Frank walks to the mahogany door and stands in front of it. “I use it as an office, too. It’s just a tad messy at the moment,” he says as he smiles and extends his hand. “After you.” Angela walks out of the dining room into the living room. She looks around at the classical furniture and built-in mahogany bookshelves. An old Victrola catches her attention and she walks up to it. “It was here when I bought the home,” says Frank. Angela inspects the Victrola. “It has to be the same one,” she murmurs under her breath as she touches the needle. “Nana wore down the vinyl of her Mahalia Jackson record from playing it so much." Frank walks over to the built-in bookshelf, fingers down a stack of record albums and pulls one out. He hands it to Angela. “Was it this?” Angela’s eyes grow wide as she takes the album. The cover has the name Mahalia Jackson in big red letters. Angela pulls out the record and sees an indentation on the vinyl. Her eyes well up with tears. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “Why would my uncle have left all this?” “Your uncle?” Frank asks. “Yes. My grandparents died in a car accident while they lived here. My uncle sold the home and must have included some of their belongings,” Angela says as she stares wistfully at the album. “You keep it,” says Frank. He walks to a stairwell leading up and slides his good hand over a mahogany spindle. “Really excellent craftsmanship throughout the home,” he states. “I can’t tell you how many times I slid down that banister,” Angela says with a chuckle. “Feel free to give it a whirl!” he playfully answers back. Angela shakes her head as she looks around nostalgically. “A house of stairways and secrets isn’t it?” “Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Frank asks in a deep voice. Angela, startled by his change in tone, looks at him. For the first time she notices large beads of sweat on his forehead. “Did you say your wife was home?” “Who? Oh, yes. She must be napping,” he says. Angela sees that Frank's hand is gripping the spindle so tightly his fingernails are digging into the wood. She shudders. “Shall we tour the second floor?” he asks. “No, I should really be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality,” says Angela, as she turns and begins to walk back through the living room into the dining room. This time through she notices white bars behind burgundy curtains on the windows. Her gait becomes more brisk. Angela enters the kitchen and narrows in on the single place setting. Her eyes then go to the boiling pot on the stove. A human hand suddenly rises to the top. A look of horror covers her face. “Finally, some color to add to my collection,” says Frank in a gravelly voice. Angela spins around to find Frank inches from her face. His eyes are wild, and he presses a handkerchief over her mouth that muffles her screams. Angela’s attempt to fight back is short-lived as she succumbs to the chloroform. Angela lays on the floor in the middle of the office. There is a closet, desk, chair, and hanging ceiling light. Sunlight streams through gaps in the curtains onto Angela’s face. She comes to and slowly opens her eyes. The realization of where she is hits her and she jumps to her feet. She puts up her hands in a defensive posture and frantically looks around. She runs to the window and rips open the curtains to find bars covering the glass. She pulls on the bars with all her might, but they don’t budge. Angela runs to the mahogany door and sees the knob is missing. She puts her ear against it and listens... In the kitchen, Frank sharpens a large butcher knife on a whetstone. His eyes in a crazed trance as he stares at the metallic dust flying off the blade. Angela, ear pressed against the door, recognizes the sound of a knife being sharpened. Her eyes water, she covers her mouth to stifle her cries. She turns around and sees newspaper clippings about the serial killer scattered about the desk. She picks one up. It shows a sketch of the suspect: black, wide nose, big lips, hoodie. Angela shakes her head in disgust. She sees the Mahalia Jackson album on the desk, picks it up, and hugs it against her chest. She closes her eyes. “Not this way, God. Not this way,” she softly cries out. Suddenly, her eyes open wide and go straight to the low hanging ceiling light. She turns her head to the open closet. Angela steps inside the closet, puts her hands against the back wall and pushes on it. A click, and then it opens with a creak. In the kitchen, Frank stops sharpening the knife and tilts his ear to the left. What was that he heard? Angela closes the fake wall behind her. She unzips her jacket and stuffs the Mahalia Jackson album inside. Angela looks around the tiny room. Wooden slats on a brick wall lead up. A piece of plywood covers a section of slats leading down. Angela bends down to move the plywood but hears the sound of the office door opening on the other side of the fake wall. She quickly starts climbing up the narrow steps. Frank enters the office holding a long butcher knife. He looks at the spot where Angela was lying, then quickly turns on the ceiling light. He looks all around the room, under the desk, and in the closet. He inspects the bars on the window. Frank, panic-stricken and confused, lets out a bone-chilling scream. Angela freezes mid-climb when she hears Frank scream. She looks down, takes a deep breath, then takes another step up. Frank rips up the carpet and examines the baseboards. He checks the windows again. His face becomes distorted with rage and he throws the butcher knife across the room like a dagger. It sticks to the back of the closet, rattling the fake wall. Angela looks down when she hears something hit the wall. She takes one more step then reaches the top. She presses against a large boxed cutout, a click, then it opens. Franks walks to the closet wall and sees it vibrating. He pushes on it and it clicks open. Angela emerges from the cutout into a bedroom with red walls; a hinged bookcase hangs open behind her. Frank takes a step inside the small room. He looks around, eyes bugged out of his head, and chortles a maniacal laugh. Angela looks around the room in horror. Women’s torn and bloody clothes hang from a four-poster bed like a canopy. Five mason jars sit on a dresser, each filled with liquid and a human hand, polish still on some of the fingernails. Angela gags, hunches over and heaves. “Jesus... Jesus...” she pleads. Angela wipes her mouth and looks up. A thought! She unzips her jacket and takes out the Mahalia Jackson album. She looks at the cover. “Praise is a weapon." Angela pulls out the vinyl record and breaks it in two. She holds a jagged piece up like a weapon and slowly walks toward an open doorway. Frank begins to climb up the steps but has trouble grasping the slats with his gimpy hand. He slips down a few steps and shrieks with rage. When he finally gets to the top, he pushes on the cutout. It opens, and Frank sees that it leads to the bedroom. He pokes his head out to look for Angela, but she's nowhere in sight. Angela slowly walks down the hallway. She looks around the corner and sees the staircase with the mahogany spindles. There’s no sign of Frank. Angela begins to descend the stairwell, but each step she takes makes the wood creak loudly. There’s only one way to get to the bottom unheard. She gets on the railing and slides down the banister. She gets off at the bottom and peeks around the corner. She can see the door she came through in kitchen, but first she has to make it past the living and dining rooms. With the jagged vinyl record raised high, she takes a deep breath and makes a run for it. Angela dashes through the living room and into the dining room. She sees the office door open and the carpeting pulled up. She runs into the kitchen to the front door. She turns the knob, but it’s locked in place. She jiggles and pulls on it, but it doesn’t budge. A keypad sits in place of a deadbolt and she frantically presses the buttons. Suddenly she hears footsteps coming up behind her. She turns around and Frank, like a wild beast, comes lunging at her with a knife. Angela whips her arm around and stabs him in the neck with the jagged record. Frank howls and drops to the ground. Angela jumps over him, but he slits the back of her ankle with the knife before she can get away. She shrieks and limps out of the kitchen. Angela swiftly hobbles into the office and goes straight through the open fake wall. She pulls up the plywood that covers the steps leading down. She looks at her bloody ankle, the cut is so wide she can see her Achilles tendon. She takes off her jacket, wraps it around her ankle, and wipes her bloody hands onto her sports bra. She quickly descends into the narrow hollow, her face ravaged with pain. She stops and looks up. “Damn it!” she cries. She forgot to cover the opening. In the kitchen, Frank pulls the jagged record out from his bleeding neck. He wraps a tea towel around the gaping wound and picks up the butcher knife. He looks ahead, his eyes dark and demonic. Angela slides the plywood over the opening. She quickly goes back down the steps, gritting her teeth through the pain. She steps off the last rung onto the floor. It’s dark, so she feels around the brick walls of the hollow for an opening. Frank follows the trail of blood into the closet. He steps through the opening of the fake wall and looks up the steps. Angela finds an opening and enters into another room. A sliver of light carves through the darkness so that it's not pitch black. Her hand bumps into something on the wall. She squints to see it’s the musket and pulls it off. “The tunnel has to be close,” she says in breathy voice. Frank starts to climb up the steps when he notices a bloody handprint on the floorboard beneath. He jumps down, pulls off the plywood, and sees the opening going down. Angela holds the musket under her arm and feels around the brick walls for the opening to the tunnel. “Help me, Pappy. Show me the way," she cries. Her hand brushes over a smooth surface. It’s more plywood. She finds an edge, wedges in the musket and rips it off. Frank descends the steps in the narrow hollow. Angela limps as fast as she can through the tunnel carrying the musket under her arm. Frank, like an animal hunting its prey, sniffs and feels around the walls. “I can smell you, Angela!” he hisses loudly. Angela comes to the end of the tunnel. She feels around and again finds slats nailed to the wall. She climbs up the steps, still holding on to the musket. She can’t hold in her cries of pain anymore and wails loudly. Frank hears her and begins slashing the air with the knife. “I’m coming for you, bitch!” he screams. Angela reaches the top of the steps and uses the musket to push open the hatch. A square piece of the flooring in the garage lifts up and Angela emerges. With every ounce of strength, she hoists her way up through the opening. She rolls onto the garage floor and tries to catch her breath, still clutching the musket. She looks down at her ankle and sees the jacket is saturated in blood. She closes her eyes, then opens them, as if going in and out of consciousness. “Angie!” a man’s voice calls to her. Angela opens her eyes and sees Pappy standing over her. He has a shorn gray afro and wears overalls. “You’re almost free. But you have to get up, Angie. Get up!” Angela mutters, “Pappy...” She looks again but Pappy is gone. She turns to her side and sits up. She looks ahead and sees the garage door. Angela moans in agony as she gets to her feet, picks up the musket, and limps to the garage door. She finds the opener on the wall and frantically pushes the button. The garage door rumbles opens a little, then rumbles back down as she erratically pushes the button. Frank hears the sound of the garage door. “Fuck!” he screams, and runs out. Angela, musket under her arm, sweats profusely as her eyes flutter open and shut. She presses the garage door opener one more time and falls backward. She is close to losing consciousness. The light from the setting sun hits her face as the garage door opens all the way. Her eyes open wide and she limps toward the outside. Suddenly Frank appears in front of her. He raises his knife. Then the sound of ringing bells, the little girls call out, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank instinctively cocks his head to side. Angela plunges the bayonet into his stomach. Shocked, Frank's demon eyes stare back at her. “Not today, Satan." Angela thrusts the bayonet deeper into his bowels. Frank falls to the ground, blood oozing from his stomach. Angela limps out from the garage as fast as she can to her car. The neighbor lady opens her front door to let in a little dog. She sees Angela getting in her car with just a sports bra on. The lady rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Angela lays against the steering wheel and lets out a guttural cry. She turns the key still in the ignition. The radio comes on to the gospel station. Mahalia Jackson belts out “His Eye Is On the Sparrow.” Angela’s car speeds down the street of historic homes on well-manicured lawns.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - **For this first week, let’s get to know each other a bit. Introduce yourself! Tell us a little about yourself and the things you enjoy writing!** I’ll start us off. I’m Bay and I *love love love* all things horror, thriller and suspense, whether I’m reading it or writing it! I also really enjoy dabbling in lit-fic. I enjoy exploring atmosphere, mood, and (especially) emotions in my writing and how they affect character behavior. **Additional Questions this Week:** - **What are your preferred genres to write in?** - **Are there genres you’d like to try but haven’t? Why haven’t you?** *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


“Tell me your biggest fear.” I looked into Sam’s emerald eyes and smiled. Sam was so beautiful and I was the luckiest person in the world. I leaned in for a kiss. “Don’t try and avoid the question! Tell me your biggest fear.” “Just one kiss and I promise I’ll tell you.” I pressed my lips against Sam’s and, just like every other time, it was a drug I could never get enough of. When we pulled away, I could still taste its sweetness on my lips. “Now, what did you want to know?” A smack landed on my arm. “You know exactly what I asked.” Suddenly, I felt pang of sadness. I couldn’t figure out why. Here I was, intertwined with the love of my life, without a care in the world and I was feeling sad? I tried to shake it off but it lingered. “I suppose... um... it would be... being forced to watch White Chicks on a loop forever.” Another smack, this time on my belly. “What?? It is! I love that film and if I ever over did it and stopped loving it, it’d be hell!” “I’m serious! I want to know what shakes you to your core; the one thing that you would rather die than live through.” Those green orbs looked into me and all I felt was the same gloom. My brow furrowed as I wondered why I felt this way. I didn’t like it and tried to change the subject. “Why do you want to know this so badly, right now? Let’s just lay here and enjoy this moment before Life comes along and ruins it.” I burrowed my head into Sam’s brown locks and got lost in the scent. Sam always smelt like coconut. Always. But there was something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Different soap? Hair cream? Something wasn’t right. It was almost... metallic. “Babe, did you change your shampoo or something?” No answer. “Babe, are you sleeping?” I pulled back to check if Sam was asleep and a scream tore out of me. I jerked back and pushed away. Sam was covered in blood. But it wasn’t just that; it was the eyes. They were slit like a cat’s. “SAM? WHAT THE FUCK, SAM?” Again, no answer came but a hideous, spike-tooth grin spread across this *thing’s* face. “What’s the matter, honey? Aren’t I your ‘babe’? Don’t you want to just enjoy the moment anymore?” It was Sam’s voice mocking me. What the fuck was going on? I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. My heart was pounding and my chest was about to explode. What the FUCK?! “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” it laughed. “Your tongue’s not the only thing I’ve got.” A blood-soaked hand - no, claw - reached out towards my chest and I scrambled back until my back hit the wall. Shit. “Oh shh shhhhh. Don’t be scared, I don’t bite,” it said soothingly. Almost sincerely. Then, a large sinister smile. “Not unless you want me to,” it sneered. “S-Sam?” “Is that what you want? Ok, one sec.” Instantly, Sam, *normal Sam*, was back. “Sam? Is that really you?” “What kind of a stupid question is that? Yes, it’s me! Why wouldn’t it be? What are you doing over there? Come back and let’s cuddle.” “I- I could have sworn you were just - I don’t know. It must have been a nightmare or something.” I shook my head to clear it. Such a vivid hallucination. “Oh, honey. You must be terrified. Come tell me about it.” Open arms beckoned me and I started to shift back towards them. “You stupid FUCK!” It was back! “That’s the problem with you people. One speck of affection and you’ll throw common sense away.” “Who- What are you?” I whispered. It was all I could do. My throat was closing up from pure fear. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is, I’ve won my bet.” “What?” “It took me a while. Considering I’ve only been doing this for a few weeks, I got you to crack in 2. The bet was 3. I tried all the cliché stuff first: spiders all over you, falling off a cliff; you know, the usual. But nothing truly scared you, not like this.” “What?” I couldn’t make sense of any of what it had just said, or that it was still Sam’s voice. Spiders? Cliffs? What? “I know you’re not stupid. But you do need to close your eyes and we can do this again, from the top. It’s so fun!” I was never taking my eyes off this creature. Not if my life depended on it. It probably did. I needed to get out. Somehow, I needed to distract the beast and make a break for it. My mind raced as I thought of how the hell I was going to do that. “Come on,” it goaded, “I promise it’ll be just as exciting!” It started to slither towards me and I didn’t think twice! I punched it in the face, jumped out of the bed and sprinted to the door. I was going to get out! Talons landed on my shoulder and dug in painfully just as I grabbed the door handle and Sam said, “you’re going to wish you’d never done that.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ “Tell me your biggest fear.” I got lost in Sam’s emerald eyes and leaned in for a kiss. “Don’t try and avoid the question! Tell me your biggest fear.


The soft sound, delicate against my not-yet fully awakened ears, echoes throughout the space like a pebble skipping across still waters. It threatens to rouse me to awakeness, to pull me from the peace, quiet and safety of the deep and empty slumber that my mind had slipped into. My mind slips back into darkness, away from the prying, grating noise that threatens to steal me away from my place of safety. Again. *Hoot. Hoot.* My eyebrows knit together in solemn acceptance, recognizing the significance of the sound as my mind stirs into lucidity. I am alive. Now is not the time for rest; there is work that must be done. My eyes slide open, pupils dilating in silent protest as shafts of dim light snake their way between the hoods of my eyelids to assail my still waking eyes. I lick my lips, the modest amount of saliva attempting to saturate their parched, cracked, and desert-like surface. I swallow, the spittle on my tongue feeling like sandpaper as it treks its way through the bone-dry crevasses of my tortured throat. The dull, throbbing aching in my joints, my bones, and my muscles crying out like a single voice, lost within a vast and uncaring wasteland. A third time. *Hoot. Hoot.* Now fully awake, but still not fully alert, I open my eyes to survey the wreckage around me. I lay within the shattered remnants of the still-smoking ruins of our battalion. Around me are the dozens of hollowed out shells of our trucks, carrier ships and machines of war. It’s then that the scent finally hits me, the putrid, agonizing stench of decay mixed with motor oil. I gag on it, the implications of its presence tightening around my mind like a vice, threatening to overtake my still recuperating mental faculties. It would seem I was the only survivor of this conflict. Still not wanting to believe it, my thin, raspy husk of a voice quietly, solemnly calls out, the sensation and the weight of the noise tearing through my aching vocal cords with the force of a gunshot. “H..Hello?” I whisper to the vast, empty void of space around me. “Is.. anyone t..”, I pause mid-sentence and cough, lungs forcing the air out of my chest in a violent, painful burst of sound. “Is anyone there?” I try again, hoping beyond hope that I have not been left alone in this wasteland. Much to my surprise, a response comes, the syllables tickling my ears as it travels through the air, the meaning of the words still incomprehensible to my tortured senses. I blink, muscles protesting as I raise a sooty hand to my eyes, wiping away the grime and stains of warfare that coat my eyelids. The voice comes again, words now much more clear, the threatening tone and harsh meaning cutting straight to the core of my being, and I know that I am undone. “Kyle, get off the floor and turn your alarm off, it’s time for school”. “But Moooooom...” I protest, looking at the circle of toy army-men and figurines scattered around me. “I don’t WANT to!”.


A tumbleweed rolled across the empty dusty road. Whatever pushed it along its way was unknown to Kristy as she baked under the brightness above her. She was hunched over the hood of her broken down El Camino. It was little better than sitting inside the hot car, but at least out here she could breathe. She had no water, and she had no idea how long she would have before the tow truck reached her. Kristy stared off into the distance toward the mountains of red sandstone. The bases of the mountains were blurred behind the water-like mirage rising from the ground. Looking at it made Kristy even more thirsty. She started to turn her head away until she noticed a large dark figure coming toward her through the haze. She stood up to see if her eyes were deceiving her. Sure enough, the figure of a tall, slender, and dirty man came into focus as he continued to approach the car. He had on a tank that used to be white, but it was now covered in stains of the sands that had clung onto his sweat. Kristy could also see that a small boy was following behind him. The dirt on his face matched that of his father’s. Kristy straightened up and tried to gather her composure. She quickly switched from being tired and groggy to alert and focused. She wanted to run into the car to grab her switchblade before he got too close, but she didn’t think that she had enough time before he reached her. “’Ya need some help?” the slender man yelled as he continued to walk toward her. She stood silent until he was close enough to hear her. “No, I’m alright,” she said cautiously, “just waitin’ on my tow. He should be here any moment now.” “You want some water while you wait?” the man asked. “We live just over those rocks and it wouldn’t take ‘ya too long ta git back.” Kristy was hesitant to follow a man she didn’t know, but her thirst got the better of her. After all, a man with a little boy couldn’t be that bad, could he? Kristy walked over toward the man without grabbing her razor. After about 5 minutes, all three of them climbed over a small mountain of rocks, and Kristy could see a rusty trailer in what appeared to be a small canyon. There was a little dirty pond of water near the rock wall, not too far from the trailer. Hundreds of flies flew just above the murky surface. The area smelled of dead animals and sulfur. Once they reached the trailer, the boy picked up an empty old plastic milk jug from the miscellaneous items strewn about the ground and walked over to the pond. The flies darted in every direction as the boy punched his arm into the water. After submerging the jug until it was filled, the boy took the water behind the trailer. “Is... is that the water you’re offering?” Kristy asked hesitantly. She followed the boy and saw that there was a small campfire burning in a ring of rocks. The boy picked up a pot that was sitting on a grate above the fire and poured the water from the pond into it. “Yeah,” the boy said, “it gets really clean after boiling it, I promise.” There was no way she was letting that water anywhere near her lips. But what was she to do? Should she politely excuse herself? Or should she bolt to the car and lock herself inside, despite the suffocation she would have to endure? Was she overreacting? Likely out of utter confusion, Kristy started to sit in one of the tattered lawn chairs by the fire. It wasn’t until she felt the drip down her elbow that decided against it. You aren’t safe , she thought she heard the boy whisper, but when she looked over at him, his gaze hadn’t left the fire. The man joined them near the lawn chairs. “Sorry for the mess,” the man said. “It’s been just me and the boy for past couple of weeks. We don’t ever expect any... lady guests while we’re here. This is really the perfect spot to catch the animals that stop at the pond.” Animals? she thought to herself. How can they catch animals out here, and in these conditions? It wasn’t until then that she noticed the pistol tucked into the waist of his pants. Kristy clasped her hands together. “Ya know, I appreciate you all for your hospitality and everything, but I think I’m gonna head on back now.” She wished she didn’t have to pass the man to get back to her car. She figured her only option was to walk back calmly. “But... but you didn’t get’chur water yet,” he said, gruffly. “I’m okay, really. My tow will be here any minute now.” She continued to walk toward her car. As she tried to walk past the man to leave the canyon, he caught her by the wrist and squeezed it tightly. “What did that boy say to you?” he hissed close to her ear. “N- nothing,” she uttered. “I just didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be able to see the tow truck from here.” As he reached for his gun, she broke free from his grasp and grabbed a fistful of sand from the ground. She threw it into his eyes and ran back toward the car without looking back. She made it all the way back when she heard the unmistakable sound of a gun shot in the air. She collapsed onto the hood of the car. The light started to fade around her. “Miss! Miss! Are you alright?” Kristy jumped as she felt someone vigorously shake her shoulder. A man in a grey mechanic uniform and a baseball cap had awakened her. A tow truck was parked in front of her car. She peered around and realized that it was now dark out. “Was I sleeping?” she asked the man. “Passed out, more likely,” he said, and handed her a bottle of water. “Sorry it took so long for me to come, but you’re waaaaay out here. You got your keys?”


As We Speak the Truth. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me.” “I, Wilfred McNab do solemnly affirm that the evidence to be given by me shall be the truth , the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Wilfred looked nervously around the courtroom. He’d been in jail several times in his life and the prospect of returning was not one he relished. His big dilemma about taking the required oath was whether to tell the truth, or slightly bend the edges in order to shape an outcome that hopefully would keep him out of prison. He blinked several times, adjusted his glasses and met the gaze of his partner in crime, Myrtle Dubois. She smiled serenely, the effect immediately calming Wilfred’s fears, bringing his world into a balanced centre. He stoically repeated the oath, his eyes never leaving Myrtle’s face. The crown prosecutor began building his case. He methodically laid out the charges and began a grilling, which though casual in appearance was a carefully constructed framework designed to snare and trap Wilfred into a guilty charge. Wilfred sensed the danger and did his best to foil the hunter in front of him. He quietly answered the questions being asked and only occasionally glanced towards Myrtle for assurance. Things had begun rather innocently with a plan. Viewed through the eyes of many, especially those steely orbs of Lady Justice, it was a bad plan. Myrtle and Wilfred however failed to consider the full extent of what they were contemplating, especially the possible consequences. The pair lived within a marginalized reality that respected little of conventional systems of law and order. Basic survival was the main drive and rules that bound many, failed to deter them from the scheme they began to devise. It was Myrtle who first broached her partner. “Wilfred, we need food.” “I know Myrtle.” Wilfred sighed. He dug into worn jeans, pulled out a thin wallet and realized that he had just enough currency to cover a limited number of choices. Cigarettes? With their treaty card they could squeeze out maybe two packs, three if they turned a bit of change on the street. Booze? They actually had a fairly good routine going at their favourite LCB. Wilfred would play his fiddle while Myrtle, wearing her favourite ribbon skirt, primly danced to the fiddle’s call. She would smile beguilingly at passersby. One might imagine her toothless grin would scare people off. That gaping dark hole seemed instead to prod the occasional person out of a numb zone of indifference. Some deep well of forgotten guilt edged its way to consciousness. Gratitude for a mouthful of pristine white enamel came with a cost. Many passing by had a vague awareness that a company dental plan absorbed most of the exorbitant fees of their oral upkeep. They managed to avoid the reality that this was a luxury denied to the less fortunate in life. “Those lucky bastards live off the government.” “My hard earned tax dollar supports these sponges.” “Why don’t they get a real job?” These attitudes conveniently overrode any compassion with the ignorant assumption that ‘those sponges’, got way more than their fair share of the pot. Myrtle and Wilfred played the odds. They knew they could count on those rare souls burdened with an awareness of their entitlement. This knowledge inevitably overrode a more measured sense of caution. These benefactors knew full well that their contribution to the pot of change at Wilfred’s feet was not going to any dentist. For the most part they were inured to the various and sundry stable of performers, begging for their ‘hard earned’ money. These reluctant caretakers, upright members of a reputable community, managed to overcome their repugnance and stopped to politely watch the entertainment. They understood that the “Need food for our children”, “Homeless,need shelter”, “Trying to get to ...” signs were nothing but a ruse. The clever signs served to further poke away at their conscience and induced some sense of obligation to compensate for all they had. Some simply sighed, aware that the scene before them would be best forgotten if they pulled out a few loonies, tossed them into the pot and walked away quickly. Wilfred and Myrtle actually did need food. They lived somewhat frugally and yet often found themselves short at the end of the month. They were grateful for a small pension that guaranteed them a roof over their heads, enough food to stave off starvation and a little extra to supplement the needs of less fortunate relatives. They understood that their vices, cigarettes and alcohol were a problem Fortunately, they had a plan and more importantly, a good friend who was ‘white’ and looked like an upright member of acceptable society. Sandy had been brought up in a foster homes that endeavoured to instill values that might better guide the destiny of her life. Her birth home had held little promise of that opportunity and it was hoped that her removal at a young age would assist in a more productive outcome. This was not to happen and when she aged out, starting life on her own, barely managed to stay off the streets. She began associating with questionable companions and quickly became familiar with the many ways to relieve others of the burden of their earthly possessions. Sandy was a most proficient con artist and an accomplished thief. Over the years, she honed her skills and was able to make a rather comfortable living from the profits of selling her ill gotten goods. Her friendship with Wilfred and Myrtle had begun early in their lives. They’d all lived in the same foster home at one time and had formed a bond which had stood the test of time. Wilfred and Myrtle were sometimes a little shocked at the deviousness of Sandy’s schemes. They were astonished that she had managed to escape the long arm of the law and were quite baffled as to how she had achieved this skill. It was not exactly a talent they possessed. They had each been strongly influenced by Kookums who had raised them til death had placed the two children into the care of the social services system. It was in this environment that their traditional values began to falter and eventually, they simply accepted that Sandy had a real good thing going. So, they were having tea with Sandy and casually mentioned their problem. Sandy smiled, forefinger to nose, thumb to chin and said, “Hmmm, I may have a plan. to solve that.” Wilfred only cringed a little. His youthful ‘plans’ had earned him a place in a gang and that experience had not turned out well. He’d spent several years in jail for crimes mostly related to violence and was determined not to make that mistake ever again. Myrtle however, knew the potential of a good shill and was not above capitalizing on Sandy’s ability to pass as a normal, middle class, white woman. The next day found them at a well known high end department store. They were careful to enter separately and though they perused the same areas, made sure that no one would guess they had connection. Sandy, dressed to the nines and disguised as a wealthy suburbanite, carefully filled her cart with expensive electronics and pricey gadgets which would bring a good price on the street. In the clothing department, she selected top of the line leather jackets, fancy high heels and an assortment of classy costume jewellery. Myrtle nodded as Sandy’s hands passed over various articles, indicating an especially good catch. Next came the difficult part of the scheme. The three friends would head to the main floor, select a checkout till close to an exit which afforded a quick getaway. Sandy had borrowed a friend's van. The handicap placard allowed her to park in a spot designated to assist those unfortunates. This spot further facilitated a quick escape. Sandy parked her cart by the door, pretending to look for a magazine on a rack facing the exit. Myrtle and Wilfred proceeded through the checkout. Wilfred tried to look as guilty as possible, fumbling in his pocket for change to pay for some small items they had chosen. Myrtle glanced around furtively, pretending to watch for suspicious security. Their act was successful. The clerk punched in their purchase and with disdain queried, “Is that everything? Do you have anything else?” Wilfred pulled out a dirty handkerchief, wiped sweat from his brow and mumbled, “No, that is all.” As they proceeded to leave the store, the clerk had already pressed the buzzer that alerted security. Within minutes, two burly security guards appeared and told Wilfred he was going to have to wait for the police to arrive before leaving. Myrtle went into high theatrics, yelling, “What? What are you assholes trying to do to us? This is racism, you’re targeting us ‘cause we’re Indians.” “Get your hands off my man or I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Wilfred joined the act. “You people are crazy, I’ve stolen nothing, everything in this bag is paid for.” By this time the police had arrived and a rather large audience of bored shoppers was watching the live drama unfold before their eyes. Wilfred went to reach into his pocket, pretending to hesitate as though looking for a weapon. All hell broke loose. The police pulled their guns out, Myrtle started screaming and Wilfred dropped to the floor pretending to have a seizure of some sort. The surrounding audience began to panic, people saw the guns and were terrified of being caught in the crossfire of a shoot out. Shoppers turned and began running away as fast as possible. Those who could, darted out the exit doorway and along with them, pushing her stolen booty, went Sandy. The police, the store security, all the gathered clerks, never even noticed her departure with several thousand dollars worth of merchandise. Sandy made her way to the parked car and quickly began dumping her haul into the opened hatchback. No one even noticed her as she slammed the door closed, got into the vehicle and calmly drove off. It was only after Wilfred and Myrtle had been released and time had passed for the store to do an inventory that estimated the damage of the threesome’s shopping spree, that more serious justice was sought. The police arrived at the McNab residence, read Wilfred his rights and hauled him off to the city jail. The next morning found him in front of a judge, the courtroom clerk read him his rights and invoked his oath to tell the truth. Wilfred felt trapped. He knew there was no way he or Myrtle could be connected to the theft in question and yet he was torn. His Kookum’s spirit sat on one shoulder, gently nudging him, “Son, tell the truth, tell them what your plan was.” Myrtle’s steely gaze from the courtroom spectators warned him, “Don’t you DARE!” Wilfred took several minutes to debate his choices. He made an invisible sign of the cross, placed his third finger over his index finger and firmly stated, “I stole nothing from the store that day.” The frustrated prosecutor decided to give up and not waste any more money on this useless game of revenge and retribution. Wilfred and Myrtle left the courthouse, took the bus across town and met Sandy in a divvy bar. The three chortled as they counted out the dividends from the fenced items and made the three way split. The money greatly relieved Wilfred’s sense of guilt and what little remained was washed away by the straight whiskey in his glass. My question for you dear reader is this... “Would you have dared to tell the truth?”


He brandished the second finger from the thumb as he sped away on his rocket powered tricycle, the tassels flowing majesticly in the wind just as a grenade drops at his enemy's feet. The guy exclaimed a swear that was quickly cut short by the shrapnel ripping through his esophagus and up into his brain lining the pavement with his blood. When the dust settled all that remained was just a man and his trike riding off into the night as tiny squeaks emanate from his bloodied wheels. Three children, traumatized by this sight watch him ride off. The look of pure terror etched into their face and that gruesome scene now burned into their mind. They turn and walk home as the heart of the man beats it's last. He takes a sip from his flask, as he swears under his breath, "I got cocky" he said to seemingly nobody. As he sped along the desolate landscape he noticed a something strange moving along the horizon. Before he could react something catches him by the neck and he flies off his trike tumbling into the pavement, the tricycle lands far away with a barely audible crash. He searches around frantically taking in his surroundings. As he begins to get up he feels a sharp pain in his side and falls to the ground, hissing a stream of vulgar words. Dark figures emerge out of the darkness and begin to approach, he tries to get a good look at them but the movement causes him to double over and his vision doubles. "Did we kill him?" the first figure asked. "Im not so sure" said the second figure who seemed to be holding something long and thin. He begins to panick because while not knowing why, his body understands he is not safe. "If it were anyone else i bet they would have died on the spot, not many people can take a hit like that." "Well don't underestimate him, remember what he did to Fin back there? The poor man, didn't even get a chance to escape." *Ah so his name was Fin, i'll be sure to pay my respects later* he thought to himself still frantically looking for a way to escape. As the first figure nears he leaps forward biting down on his ear and feeling something warm and metallic trickle into his mouth. A scream echoes through the canyon as he is thrown against the wall, a large chunk of flesh now in his mouth. "The little shit took my ear off!" The first figure said as he picked up what he could now make out was a sword. As he gets up he sees a second figure out of the corner of his eye and jumps out of the way just in time to dodge a shot from what seems to be a crossbow. He begins to run but another sharp pain slices through his body as he topples to the ground. A boot lands on the square of his back knocking the air from his lungs and he gets lifted by his hair. The man, now clearly visible to him had a scar over his left eye that seemed to go all the way past his lip and disappear into the entrance of his shirt, and a now bloody space where his right ear should be. "You better be worth it after what you've done." The man said as he pulled back his arm and landed one final blow knocking him unconscious.


If I were to die at this very moment, life would move on as if I never existed. Sometimes I question if I’m already dead, people look at me as if I’m a ghost anyway. I am the next and only heir to the crown, even though most don’t know I exist. I haven’t left the castle since I was a little girl and I stopped talking at all a few months ago. My mother died when I was a child, we were never close but my father and I were even farther. When he realized I was going to be the only heir to be born in his lifetime he decided it was only appropriate to “keep me safe.” I wasn’t allowed outside, I couldn’t walk the grounds of the property alone and all my food intake was monitored. My head was being held underwater with no possible way to breathe, I had no other choice but to drown. After a while I grew familiar with this life, content even. Then it happened, they started preparing me. My father now weak and sickly lay in bed and gaze into my eyes, they’re empty. You think at this moment he would show compassion, be honest, tells me he’s sorry, but he doesn't. He grips my hand tight enough to turn it white and I hold back a wince, “The time has come,” he says, monotone and feeble. He gazes at me expectantly, but I suck in a breath and turn my gaze towards the window, there’s a songbird sitting on the edge. I let my mind wander for I do not wish to be here. I wonder how far it’s flown, I wonder if it has a family, I wonder if it’s scared of people and if its call is beautiful. My father shifts his gaze towards the window, and as if the bird could sense it, it flew away as fast as it came. He speaks up again, “You have been prepared for this, I will be stepping down as the king in due time, and you will take my place.” Every word spoken he grips my hand tighter and tighter, I refuse to let him know it hurts. I feel many things, anger, sadness, resentment; but this feeling was new. I am panicking. I can’t breathe and I need air, I can’t keep breathing in the same air, I need more. I crave more than this life that’s been forcefully given to me. I abruptly stand up, still, not haven spoke a single word. I’m escorted out of the room and taken to mine; I stare intensely at the window. I shift my gaze past and look at the clearing of trees seen above the city walls. It’s lush and beautiful, and the air is probably so fresh. My body knows whats it’s doing before my mind, and I move towards the window. I trace my finger along the rough stone; it’s cold and damp to the touch and it sends a chill down my spine. There is no hope without some risk involved and all I can do is hope. I hope for a new beginning; I hope for a place to belong, and I hope for comfort. I make my decision and by nightfall, I’m roaming the quiet city for the first time in almost 16 years. I walk by a bar, and I hear laughter inside, I can smell the aroma of beer and bread and I almost walk right in. The streets feel as if they’re stretching miles, I slowly lift my arms and a breeze flows under and my mind wanders back to the bird. I yearn to know if it has ambitions if it has dreams if birds can feel. I wonder if it knows how lucky it is, how freeing of a life it truly has. I softly smile to myself when another gust of wind blows up my coat, I imagine it as my feathers. By the time the outer gates come into view, I begin to register what I did. I left. and I left when they needed me. They’re going to look for me. I can’t stay in the town or go to any of our neighboring towns. I reach the wall and lay my hand upon it, it’s cold and damp and I’m reminded of the windowsill and of the forest. Logically it’s the only place that I can go. No man has ever survived long enough to come back and speak of his journey, though with that in mind I would rather die there than live the life I have planned out for me. I step outside the walls for the first time in my life, and with my head turned up towards the sky, the air feeling thick and the smell of fresh rain in my nose I breathe in. It’s long and deep, and I’m out of breath when I finish. Laughter bubbles out of me and my hands go up to the sky as if hoping it would allow me to fly. My feet wander to the start of the trail into the forest. There’s a sign that’s been clumsily hammered into the ground as if they didn’t want to linger here for longer than they had to. The sign reads, “DANGER! DO NOT ADVANCE!” My eyes seem to scan the words over and over and without hesitation, I begin walking. It’s quiet, almost eerily so. The leaves and twigs on the ground splinter and crunch under the weight of my feet. My hands are grasped tightly around myself seeking some comfort, any kind of familiarity. My eyes seem to trace the trees, and everything suddenly feels sinister, they seem to tower over me and obstruct all moonlight that should be shining through. I begin to grow emotional which I didn’t know was possible after all these years. My face blotchy and red, I frantically wipe my tears away. I always thought I was an ugly crier, though isn’t everyone? Through my blurry vision, I spot a small pond and as I get closer my ears are no longer filled with silence but the croaking of bullfrogs. I’ve only ever read about them, but they’re about as beautiful as you would imagine. I crouch down and right at the base of my feet lies a rather large frog. My movement must have scarred him as he jumps away when I move towards him kicking muddy water up into my face. My tears are gone and I laugh, I am alive. I have survived up until this point, counting down the hours until I could go to bed and repeat the same day over and over again. I will never live the same day twice past this point. Every wake will be a new start, a new life, a new chance at happiness. By the time I collect myself and start walking down the trail once again I spot a run-down house that looks almost abandoned. My pace quickens when I realize how much time has passed, the sun will begin to rise soon and I need shelter before that can happen. As I grow closer to the house, I see a clothesline hanging up with an array of sheets and black garments drying, glancing at the garden I see a wide range of herbs and spices, and the house is illuminated by candlelight from inside. I advance to the entrance, and I can hear pots clacking inside, I take a deep breath and slowly raise my hand to the old rotting door, my knuckles softly pound against it. Everything stills and I suddenly feel cold, the forest is perfectly silent again. The door opens a crack, and I can see the eye of an old, elderly woman, her wrinkles especially accentuated around her eyes as if she smiles too much. We stare at each other silently until she speaks up “What are your intentions?” she says slow and careful her voice breaking halfway through. It sounds as if she hasn’t spoken in years. I clear my throat and tilt my head down, speaking for the first time in a long time “I seek shelter and a way to leave my past life, I don’t mean any harm, I swear” I grow quieter as I speak. Her eyes visibly soften and they look kinder, “I know that feeling well, you may come in.” The door is opened all the way and I can gaze into the house. What looked like a small one-room cottage from the outside is now a large and cluttered home, bookshelves and potion bottles line the walls and I come to realize she’s a witch. She walks right over to a table on the verge of toppling over, piled high with everything you can imagine. I’ve never had these many worldly possessions in my life. I glance around in wonderment, and she watches me with a soft gaze, “What troubles you, child?” I can sense no malice behind her words and my troubles still lie heavy on my soul. Would it be okay if I told her? I feel like a child when I shrug my shoulders and attempt to shrink myself down, she gestures to the chair at one of the tables and I slowly sit. The cabinet is opened, and she’s studying an array of herb mixtures. I don’t pay any mind to the contents because I’m sure none of the names would ring a bell. I hear water boiling and I question when it was started in the first place. I’m silent as she opens one of the jars and pours it into a cup and then fills the rest with the water. She walks slowly back to me as she stirs it and places it in front of me. I hesitate and anxiously peer down, “What is it?” I mutter, fear evident in my voice. She smiles wide and gives a hearty laugh, “Oh dear, you think that low of me? It’s tea!” She ends her sentence by gesturing to the mug and bringing her cupped hands up to her mouth to signify drinking. My hands shake as I take the cup and bring it up to my lips. I stare at her as I take a sip, the powerful flavor of chai tea washes over me and I calm down. She runs her hand through her hair, and it somehow becomes messier, “Is it good?” she asks genuinely. I smile and whisper my answer, “Yes, thank you.” A comfortable silence follows, and she asks her question again, “What troubles you?” I straighten myself out and start talking, like really talking, “I need to get away from my father and never be recognized again,” I say frantically, “I’m trapped, I want to be free. I feel as if I could never live a normal life in this body” Her gaze lingers on me for longer than what I feel comfortable with, “Do you want another one?” she asks in a slow voice. I tilt my head in confusion, “Another what?” I say, confused and frustrated. She laughs slightly, and the room feels lighter and warm, I feel safe, “Why another body of course!” I reel back and grip my cup tighter, now the hot tea being lukewarm, “You can do that?” She taps her head with a single finger and says “I can do anything, but it always comes at a cost, that’s just how these things work” A sense of panic rises in me, “And what would that cost be?” I prepare for the worst but I am pleasantly surprised, “Well, you’d lose your beauty and youth. Are you willing to pay that price?” Without a doubt in my mind, I say fast and clear, “Absolutely” Looking in the mirror still feels foreign, but not bad, I no longer have my father’s eyes and that makes me smile. I’m old and hunched over, with the same messy grey hair that the witch has but thinner. I walk outside into the garden where she works surrounded by lush flowers and plenty of vegetables, she doesn't glance at me when I walk over, “So, how do you feel?” The voice that comes out of me is unrecognizable and scratchy, “I feel great.” I say with a wide smile, and I realize I’m missing a few teeth. I wander around the grass clearing and I see it, a songbird. My eyes widen and my old wrinkled skin moves with it, it’s really here, all the way in the forest, and it’s singing so loud and clear. It’s so beautiful. I’m free, nobody can hurt me here or in this form. I must’ve been there for a while watching the birds come and go as I feel a thin hand on my shoulder, I turn my head and those kind eyes look back at me. Before she can speak I ask her something I’ve been wondering, “Do you think I’ll ever live how I want? Free and happy? Will I grow?” She looks thoughtful for a moment and looks up to the sky, “The flowers grow back even after they’ve been trampled on, every season they have grown back without me replanting them” Her gaze shifts to meet my eyes “They always grow back and so will you”


Hey everyone , I am not native English speaker so please dont judge hard on grammar. P.S it is unedited People tend to go to the supermarket after 5 pm to shop after work. It is also the time when many damned, jobless alcoholics, drug addicts, homeless, poor and crippled people can be seen lurking around public areas, such as shops, begging for some money. Some of them are going to use this cash to enjoy another synthetic nirvana provided by another dose of heroine, others are going to drown themselves in a bottle of cheap liquor. But for some it is the only source of their survival. So it is for this crippled man who lost both of his legs many years ago. He can be seen coming around 5 pm next to the shop, taking out this already yellow plastic cup and standing on what is left of his knees while keeping his balance on cheap, already repaired many times, wooden crutches. Nobody knows his name. In fact, nobody ever asked. All they know is that he comes here every day and begs for money while silently looking into the void. And everything people ever have heard from him was silent ,,Thank you” after they dropped few coins into his cup. Most of them simply pass through him and never ever notice this man. Although, some people always pour into his cup few spare coins. He never looks into their eyes. At least it is good for this crippled man that it is May. During the winter it’s very tough for him. When snow is falling there is no distinction between him and a snowman. Although, no matter the weather, he still keeps coming. Rain in autumn, snow in winter. It does not matter. There was a vendor who had her own coffee and tea cart next to the shop that was giving him tea to warm himself up during low temperature. But due to disputes with the supermarket that has their own coffee machine she lost her spot near the shop. So, nobody provided tea for this man this winter. That time he coughed very hard and people were afraid that they may catch tuberculosis from him. But as the May came and sun started to shine more often, temperature was over 15 degrees Celsius, he regained what is left of his health and people were more likely to give him some money because he wasn’t frightening them anymore. He always liked May. The smell of spring, the blossom of flowers were one of the very few things that made him happy. As he was standing near the shop doing his regular activity he noticed a group of kids around 12-13 years old kicking a football ball while going to the shop. Most likely they are going to buy some soda and chips he thought of himself. Those kids always do. He remember his youth. Kicking the ball as good as you can to impress a that dark haired girl with grey eyes, laughing with friends, running from the neighbour’s dog after stealing apples. Those memories started to fade away long time ago. There was merely what is left of them. But they still managed to help him not kill himself every day he came to the place home. This home was a social housing provided to him. It was only 10 square meters bedroom. Bathroom, kitchen, laundering room and other necessary things he had to share with whores, drug addicts and different anti social people. Poor families were not housed with them due to possible bad impact on children. He tried to find a woman himself but he never succeeded. Most likely due his bad sense of humor. As he didn’t liked his place he spent most of his spare time lurking around and begging for money as his pension couldn’t cover his basic expenses for medicine. Yet the only joy in his apartment was a vinyl. He enjoyed classic rock music. Very often while he was begging he sang his favorite lyrics in his head. ,,*There’s feeling I get when I look to the west, and my spirit is crying for leaving, in my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking, that’s you”.* He remembered his youth and that girl. Yet he never smiled. He was just still looking into the void while hearing coins dropping and saying both mandatory and sincere ,,Thank you”. That Monday after he collected nearly a half of his cup he struggled to the shop to buy some bread, tea and cheapest vodka. Most people are going to judge him for buying booze but it was something that could help him loosen that tension from being a cripple. He knew that it wont help, but at least it was something that allowed him to forget in what miserable situation he lives in. He came home, put on a vinyl and stared to drink. Not that he felt himself a rockstar, but at least he was jamming. ,, *Why she had to go? I don’t know, she wouldn’t say, I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday”.* As he finished his bottle he passed out quite early. Not that he had to wake up early he tried to maintain regular schedule to keep himself sane. Tuesday wasn’t his favorite day. There wasn’t many people that went shopping on Tuesdays, which meant, that his ability to collect enough money for a day was very much limited. And yet he still came around 4 pm this time and patiently waited. Some people were passing by. Others came and gave him some money but didn’t forget to mention don’t drink (most likely they have smelled amber from yesterday). All he said in response was silent ,,Thank you”. It was already 7 o’clock and his cup wasn’t even half full. He was already hungry but hadn’t enough money to buy food. He was staring in front of him and was hating every moment he stood there. He hated himself, people that passed by and those who gave him money while not forgetting to say something about that he should not drink. It was already getting dark. He wasnt expecting much anymore. Just staring into the void. Thinking something. You couldnt guess whether his thoughts were happy or sad. But you could understand that he wasnt happy. And then this family passed by with this young girl. As they were passing by they stopped in front of him, gave something into a hand of this yound, innocent angel and while smiling encouraged her to do something. She started walking towards this crippled man. He didint lift his eyes up until he noticed very small feet when she was already next to him. As she was pouring coins, cup felt very heavy. He looked into his eyes and you could say that there was both joy and tears gathering. Shy girl ran away from this man. After she left his eyes were focued on a spot where she stood. But he wasnt looking there. It was a long time since he smiled. After few hours he went to the shop to buy some bread, jam and tea. This evening will be different he thought of himself. Week after this family went to the shop again with their daughter. They promised that they will allow her to give this poor man some money again. As they came they noticed that he wasnt there. A girl asked her father *Maybe he changed his spot?“. ,,Yes, most likely“* her father answered looking at his daughter with eyes full of tears but still smiling.


He may be dying, but the boy never felt more alive. Voices, loud and blaring, echoing through the brain late in the night are not the kind of thing you'd expect to enjoy, but the boy found an almost serene solace in listening to them. They berated him, making mountains of every small mistake from the hours prior, and yet the boy felt that no one else could even begin to understand him more. He felt powerless to stop the Voices, sure, but never really paid any mind to that. Misery was his home, and the Voices were the toads croaking him to sleep. The Voices, as it turned out, would eventually consume the boy. Night after night, they rang out like the dripping of a faucet, their words slowly chipping away at the boy. By the time he had an inkling of understanding as to their true intentions, it was already too late. The Voices had become the boy and the boy a single voice. While the Voices themselves rang out like an orchestra, the boy's Voice was quiet, a single wavering flame in a sea of darkness. The boy could do naught but watch in horror as the Voices took the control away. The Voices would harm the boy in numerous ways, whether it was neglecting to care for his health, refusing to communicate with his friends and family, or even slicing away at the boy's armor in the dark of the night. Yet, the boy held steadfast. He hadn't the strength to overcome the Voices, but he wasn't about to let himself fade away in the ether. It was his body, his life, after all, and if there was anything to be done, the boy was going to find it. There were days where the Voices seemingly relinquished control. The boy would awake midday, as was the Voice's usual schedule, but would find that instead of being trapped in his head, he was able to move his own body, to make his own decisions. Of course, the constant fear of the Voices' return paralyzed him. He knew they'd be back, they always came back, so the boy could do nothing but breathe and wait. The boy and the Voices performed this macabre dance for years, varying in complexity and severity. There were times where the boy felt as though he were close to fading away, like a candle in a hurricane. Even still, there were days where the Voices never made an appearance, days where the boy could feel the warmth of the sun and smell the aromas of the flowers around him. The boy yearned for those days, prayed loudly to any deity that would listen for just one more day like those. The Voices would always say that this was the last day, but the boy knew better. He knew that the Voices would work to keep those days away from him, so he needed to work even harder to keep the Voices away from those days. The boy devised a plan. He'd always been smart, almost to a fault, attempting to find the logic in even the most minutiae of details. He patiently waited for that next day of control, for the Voices to return to whatever Circle of Hell they came from, and got to work. He wrote a letter to his family, and the few remaining friends he still had, and placed them in the mailbox. He paid his bills and took a long, hot shower. He grabbed a large knife from the kitchen. Then, he locked the door, sat in his recliner and waited. Hours passed until the boy could feel the Voices bubbling up again. They begain to sneer at him, attempting to make light of the day's progress. He paid them no mind. He was about to discover whether or not the day he'd been planning forever would end as he wished it would. The boy stood from his chair, fighting an internal struggle for control, and walked towards the center of the room. There, inside a circle of candles, the boy began to chant, softly at first, then louder. And louder. And louder still. There was a loud flash, then nothing. When the boy awoke, he found himself staring at himself. This version of himself was a fraud, a compilation of all the things the Voices had tried to convince the boy were true. The plan had worked, but now was not the time for celebration. The boy rushes to pick up the blade he had dropped. The Voices, realizing the plan the boy had hatched, struggled to stop the boy by any means necessary. The Voices berated the boy, accusing him of awful, heinous things, screaming in the boy's voice to put the knife down, that he'll never accomplish anything, that he'll always be under their control. The boy had had enough. No more talking. He thrust the blade into his doppelganger's chest and twisted. The Voices howled in pain, screaming as the body fell to the floor, rapidly convulsed, and then...nothing. The boy had done it. The Voices were no more. The boy looks down at his chest, noticing his own large, wet spot developing, and smiles. He may be dying, but the boy never felt more alive.


“Hey lady! Your truck is on fire!” “I’m a man, asshole!” The two drivers exchanged the finger most prominently associated with *fuck you* before John’s eyes started to well up from the smoke. “Cindy, for Satan’s sake, can’t you put that shit out?” “I’m trying, John! Don’t yell at me!” “Hard not to when I’m going seventy and can’t see the shoulder to pull over!” John hit his steering wheel in frustration and grunted when they hit *something*. He just prayed whatever it was it had already been dead. The smoke seemed to clear for a moment and John looked over to see his passenger blowing on the small blue flame between them. This, as his mentor would say, was a teachable moment. The rules to arcane magick were simple: don’t practice distracted, and always keep a counterspell on lockdown in case of shit hitting the fan. Or spontaneous fires in truck cabs. “Blowing on it ain’t gonna help. That’s fucking *hellfire*.” “I know what it is, John. I’m the one who summoned it, yeah?” Another car passed them honking. John eased over to the right praying this road was laid with those rivets that woke you up when you fell asleep. His right two tires came off the shoulder and hit grass. He rode the car to a stop and looked over. Cindy had her coffee held up over her head, fucking priorities. John wrenched the cup from her hand and poured it over the fire. This somehow made things worse. “Saints alive! Was that vodka?!” Cindy only managed a sheepish smile before going back to blowing on the fire. Her full lips fluttered outward on the exhale and she made a soft raspberry noise. John rolled his eyes heavenward and started mumbling the first spell he could think of that might be appropriate. Cindy sucked in a startled breath and on her next exhale she spit out white flecks of snow. “John! It *hurts*.” “Keep blowing!” He continued the mantra both in his head and on his lips. In a couple of minutes, the flame had shrunk, but now his copilot was turning blue. John reached to the back cab and grabbed an empty can. He cut the top off with his pocket knife and shoved it over the last flame. “There... that’ll seal it for now.” Cindy didn’t respond. John looked up to see her eyes starting to freeze over. “Oh, for fuck’s sake...” Five minutes later Cindy sat outside the truck in the July sun with blankets and a temper hotter than the pavement. “You *coulda* killed me, John!” “You about killed both of us!” Cindy’s shoulders sagged. John could see the beads of sweat on the back of her neck, but her arms still wrapped around her core trying to warm herself up. He kicked a rock off the shoulder and watched it fly down the embankment. *Shit.* Sitting next to her, John threw his arms around her middle. “I’m sorry, babe. I was--I was just scared. That’s no excuse.” “I’m only leaning on you ‘cause you’re warm.” “I know.” The sun started to drop in the sky. They’d have to get moving soon. Take that thing back to John’s mentor and figure out what the hell to do with it. “What were you tryin’ to conjure anyway?” John asked. He felt Cindy’s body go rigid. “Well...” Her saucer sized brown eyes looked so innocent among the constellations of freckles on her face. “I sort of got a new pet. A, uh, hellhound.” John’s free hand clenched hard into the pavement and he tried hard not to let the anger rise back up in his voice. “You know, I hear those are pretty fu--pretty big, babe.” “This one’s just a pup,” Cindy said. She smiled to herself and cast her eyes down at the road. “He’s tiny. Maybe the size of my fist. You shoulda seen him when I first summoned him, John. He’s great.” “I’m sure he is.” By Lucifer, he needed to have a sit down with her. If she was going to be summoning demons, she couldn’t just be a dabbler throwing around magick all willy-nilly. If there was one thing in this whole damn universe he could count on, it was Cindy keeping him on his toes. “Hey, John?” “Mmhmm?” “That man who called you a ‘lady’ was a dick. You’re the handsomest, manliest man I know.” *Damn, how does she do that?* “Sometimes I don’t know,” John admitted, though to what end he wasn’t sure. “Well, *I* do. And I’m gonna remind you of it until the day I die.” The sun was going down fast, and the sky turned ruddy. John wondered just how long she would go on reminding him, and he prayed that the devil took him first. He got up and shook off the road dust, then helped his girl to her feet. He thought about magick--about how nothing comes from nothing--and when he looked at Cindy, he wondered how the hell he got something so beautiful when he wasn’t even complete himself. Back in the cab, Cindy used the blanket as an impromptu mitt to handle the can. They rode on without talking, hands occasionally reaching out to touch the other person. Just as the moon began to smile down and the stars peaked out, a muffled howl broke the silence.


#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 1 of my absolute favorite month, **Spooktober!** Each week, your prompt will be **inspired by the horror genre**. There will be **2 Bonus Constraints** each week; one will be a subgenre and the other something to include. I 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. - **Image Prompt:** *Image originally titled ‘Halloween’.* - **Bonus Constraint 1: Genre is comedy horror.** - **Bonus Constraint 2: A talking pet appears or is mentioned.** 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 title, theme, subject, setting, etc.). **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/NotMuchChop - **Third:** - Submitted by u/Pancakes-and-Waffles - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Crit Star:** - u/katpoker666 - **Crit Star:** - u/FyeNite *** ###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.