Hi peoples! So, I'm relatively new here, but I've recently started writing short stories to deal with my anxiety, and this was the first story I wrote. I can't say that my anxiety is gone, but I feel like life is beautiful again and that I've found my purpose. Better late than never, right? Why do you write? I'm sharing it here as I would love to hear your feedback. Cheers! \ In a green-lit forest that’s buzzing with all kinds of life, under a strangely shaped birch tree that’s 125 years old, on a forest floor that no human has ever set foot before, grew an *Amanita Muscaria* mushroom with red skin and white warts distributed more or less evenly across its surface. 🍄 This was no ordinary mushroom. It was sentient, and it went by the name Anita. She was different from all other mushrooms in her community as she was the only one who was aware. All other fellow mushrooms had no idea of what world existed outside of their little stems. She would give living things around her a name to make them more sentient, even though she couldn’t communicate with anyone. Mimmy and Emmy were the mushrooms closest to her. They were mushrooms of a different kind, a special kind considered to be one of the most beautiful: *Laccaria Amethystina* or *The Amethyst Deceiver*. When young, these mushrooms would have a distinctive deep purple color, a color so vibrant and alluring that Anita would often wonder if they were really a Terran species or something brought to Earth by aliens. 👽 Anita liked to imagine how her life would have been like if she was a mushroom of a different kind, a more unique kind like Mimmy and Emmy, or even like Dea and Lea, who grew two trees down and were of a dazzling kind called *Phallus Indusiatus* or also known as *The Veiled Lady*. Dea and Lea rose from the ground a few weeks ago as the most ordinary mushrooms. Very unassuming at first, they soon grew a net-like skirt that made them look very gracious and elaborate. “Why is everyone more impressive than I?” Anita would often wonder. 😔 Days in the forest went by very monotonously. Everything was happening as it was supposed to, each thing casually interacting with other things in its surrounding as if they had been programmed in advance to live in perfect balance with each other. The tree that was giving her shade from the sun was thin but with a rich crown, its slender branches swaying on a windy day, and delicate leaves changing colors with the passing of the seasons. The tree was host to many insects Anita wasn’t fond of; there were ants, spiders, wasps, and even moth and butterfly caterpillars. The abundance of insects also meant the tree was often visited by insect-eating birds like woodpeckers. 🌲 “What if the woodpecker gets tired of eating moths and develops an appetite for some mushrooms? What would I do if he decides to expand his menu? And how come he doesn’t get a concussion from so much pecking?” Anita would wonder. Not to mention how terribly annoying these woodpeckers were. Anita was a night owl, and she would often get lost in thought while gazing at the stars above her, contemplating the meaning of life and her place in the vastness of the Universe, only to get awoken by the maddening pecking of the irritating bird. This bird seemed to peck for all kinds of reasons -- to establish territory, excavate a nesting hole, and find insects. Anita would often worry, “What if this pecking fool eats his tasty meal and then poops on top of me?” 💩 Anxious, Anita would look up at every pecking sound coming from the old birch tree. When she wasn’t annoyed by the woodpecker, she would be overwhelmed with melancholic thoughts. “I’m just a FUNGUS, and there’s nothing FUN about it. You’re doomed to remain grounded in one place, your destiny depending on the mercy of woodpeckers, insects, birch trees, rain, the wind, and other things the Universe seems to like more than mushrooms.” She believed someone was playing a weird joke on her, making her sentient but unmovable. She was becoming increasingly anxious about the future, knowing that if danger ever came, she would have no choice but to fade into non-existence without having accomplished anything meaningful. Time flew by as she jumped from one thought to another, blaming the Universe for her uneventful existence. It hadn’t rained for three weeks, but one summer night, on July 17, the rain finally came, and it came in abundance. It would rain uninterruptedly for seven whole days. 🌧 There were times when only a few drops would fall on her cap and nights when she would be completely immersed underwater. On one occasion, a slimy snail climbed on her cap, trying to avoid the incoming water. Anita didn’t worry that she could drown; she could actually hold her breath for several hours. What she worried about was rotting away. “Finally, my greatest fear will come to be: dying slowly in solitude by rotting.” She tried to deal with her overwhelming anxiety by shifting her thoughts to some other things. She started thinking about rain and how all the hydrogen and oxygen atoms bound in each water molecule have been here for eons. “It’s the same water molecules changing from water to vapor to water again. The only way we can get new hydrogen or oxygen atoms is if a meteor containing water crashes on Earth.” 💧 “Does that mean that some of this water passed through the kidneys of humans? Was this water once part of the Aegean sea? Have some of these drops fallen on a mushroom that’s as sad as me?” Wondering about random things tired her. She rarely slept, but that night, she drifted slowly to sleep. When she woke up, she was 2 cm taller and had a friend: a new mushroom rose from the ground right next to her. “Just another fungus that does nothing,” Anita complained about her new friend she considered to be very ugly-looking. “He’s not even a day old, and he already looks like a badly aged mushroom.” “That’s not a nice way to make friends,” the new fungus said with a sharp-witted voice that only someone who has lived through thousands of years and witnessed the rise and fall of species would have. Anita had been waiting for someone to speak to for weeks, and she’s imagined the conversation multiple times in her head, but now she was lost for words. 😨 The wind came and went, seventeen butterflies flew by, and the crescent moon appeared and disappeared from the sky by the time Anita uttered her first words. “Do you have a name?” she asked. “You can call me Myo.” “Do you know what’s wrong with me”? she asked Myo. “The thing that made you sentient made me sentient as well. We call it the mycelial network. We don’t know its origins, but we know it’s been here for a billion years. We’re all part of it. You’re not the only one who’s sentient. We all are. Mimmy and Emmy. Lea and Dea. Everyone. You’re just the one who’s trying to detach herself from the mycelium.” “The mycelial network?” “The mycelium we’re part of is 2,200 years old and has given life to hundreds of thousands of mushrooms over the ages. The mycelium senses everything that’s happening above ground; leaves falling, insects crawling, the wind blowing. Nothing passes unnoticed. Recently, it sensed you. Your anxiety, to be precise. Your anxiety is untangling you from the network, and it’s making your symptoms worse. And so it sent me to act as your mentor mushroom and tell you our story .” 📚 “What do you mean our story?” “We, fungi, came to Earth some 1.3 billion years ago. We were here even before plants. There was a period of a few million years when giant fungi existed. Can you imagine that? Huge fungi a few meters tall; we were the tallest thing that existed for a time. It was we who made life on Earth possible. All the life you see around you in this forest exists because of us. We prepared everything so that other life can exist. Today, we keep a lower profile, but our goal is still the same: maintain life on Earth. That is your purpose, too. Your purpose is not to exist for yourself. It’s to exist for others. You will grow and die, and new life will grow out of you. And so on for billions of years until the Sun consumes the planet.” 🌎 “But I want a different purpose. There must be something more than that,” Anita rebelled. “What higher purpose is there than existing in perfect harmony and balance with other organisms in order to support all kinds of life?” “My wish is to leave this forest and see what else is out there.” “I knew a mushroom just like you once. We called him Bebel the Rebel. Every five hundred years or so, a mushroom like you and Bebel appears. We believe it’s due to some kind of an error in the mycelial network. You want to detach and exist on your own.” “What happened to Bebel?” asked Anita. “We had to let him go. He was trying to detach from the mycelium by force, risking to poison every fungi and plant in his local area.” “Did he find happiness?” “He didn’t find anything; it found him.” “What do you mean?” “The mycelium is also like a messaging system. We use it to send signals to each other; look at it as an early warning system to protect us from things like pests. That week when Bebel detached from the network, we had a terrible aphid attack. Aphids are these creepy-looking, sap-sucking insects that can infect us with viruses that are deadly to us. A few of us died in the attack but managed to send a signal. Unfortunately, no one was able to warn Bebel as he was no longer attached to the network. He died three days after becoming an independent mushroom.” 🐛 Myo’s words slowly turned into an echo. Anita was now having an internal conversation with herself. “Should I trust this weird mushroom? Could he be telling the truth, or was the story about Bebel only that, a story?” But the more Myo talked, the more she grew to believe his words. It was a too-detailed story not to be true. Anita was about to ask Myo to tell her more stories about fungi when she heard a voice she had never heard before. A few seconds later, she would also see something she had never seen before. Humans. And not just any humans: tiny humans. 🧒🏻🧒🏽🧒🏾 The approaching humans seemed to be a group of ear-splitting children accompanied by an oddly-tall grownup who was their teacher. They were on a field trip, looking for curious things that grow in the forest. One of the children shouted, “Miss Day, we found one. Oh, it’s so beautiful.” Before she could activate her defense mechanism, a group of a dozen five-year-olds surrounded Anita and stared at her with curious eyes. No one had ever looked at Anita the way these five-year-olds did. At first, she felt slightly uncomfortable, but soon, that discomfort transformed into enjoyment. She was heartened by their zest for knowledge and adorable nosiness. Truth be told, she felt flattered they were taking such a keen interest in her. 👀 “Can I touch it, Miss Day?” one of the students asked. “Go ahead, Penny, but be gentle.” Anita felt a chubby and squishy finger touching her red cap. It touched her a few times before it retreated. “What you’re looking at here is an Amanita mushroom, which is part of the fungi kingdom. Do you want to hear a fun fact? The mushroom you see here is just the fruiting body of the fungus. The rest of it is buried underground, and it’s part of a larger organism we call the mycelium.” “Why is it hiding from us?” asked Tommy. “It’s not hiding from anyone. That’s how this mushroom connects with other mushrooms and plants around it. They need the soil to be able to cooperate more effectively.” “Do they go to sleep when they’re tired?” Jojo asked. “That’s such a good question,” Miss Day laughed in excitement. “They don’t experience sleepiness like we do when we’re tired from learning new things at school. They never take a break from keeping this planet alive.” “Does the mushroom know we’re here?” “It knows. It can sense us. The entire mycelium network below us knows we’re here. It’s very sensitive to vibrations.” At that moment, the tiny humans started jumping and thumping on the ground. “Let’s make the mycelium network dizzy.” “And that’s why it hides from people,” Miss Day thought to herself. “Take a look at the Amanita mushroom. Do you know that we wouldn’t have been here today if it wasn’t for mushrooms?” “We would have been at school?” asked Jojo. “No, I mean we wouldn’t have existed at all. Not me, not you, not Tommy, not Penny, not your parents, not your grandparents, not your brother or sister. We wouldn’t even have forests or flowers. Mushrooms made life possible.” 🌱 “Mushrooms are superheroes. They should make movies about them,” Penny said. “They surely don’t get the credit they deserve. But they’ve always been fascinating to me, and I hope you find them too. Now, shall we get going? We have so many things to explore in this forest. Follow me; let us go look for some woodpeckers.” The children left, but Anita would hear them in the distance for a few more hours. She even felt a bit heartsick when they left. “I can tell you’re sad the humans are gone. They tend to have that effect on you. Such a remarkable species”, said Myo. “They seemed fascinated by fungi. I had no idea people thought that of us. But how can I now exist with all this immense knowledge contained in me?” To that, Myo said, “Learn to appreciate the little things and the world you shaped. Start looking at things through a deeper lens, knowing that a small part of this world exists because of you. You’re a creator of life. And such a beautiful life you’ve created. This birch tree that imposes itself above you? It’s here because of you. That annoying woodpecker? He’s pecking on that poor tree because of you. Wouldn’t you rather be a part of something grander than yourself? Don’t detach from the network Anita; your place is among us.” 🥺 It suddenly seemed like ages ago when Anita would dream of being something more than a mushroom. Now, she couldn’t imagine herself being anything else. It seemed like Myo’s storytelling aged her considerably and transferred some billion-year-old wisdom to her. She knew that her inner voice was telling the truth: she was destined to do something great. Only not alone but in connection with others. Together, they will protect the age-old tradition of maintaining life on Earth. Kingdoms will fall, and civilizations will come and go, but she and the other fungi will be working secretly from underground without anyone noticing. They will be the imperceptible weavers of life, silently pulling the strings from behind the scenes. There was a pecking sound coming from the birch tree, and she looked up. It was the annoying woodpecker. The only difference was she didn’t find him annoying anymore. On the contrary, she was fascinated by his untiring persistence to find a tasty meal and survive. She glimpsed at Mimmy and Emmy, and instead of feeling jealous, she was in awe of the beauty of her species. Even the wind felt differently. Only a few days ago, she found the wind to be an inconvenience, disturbing her comfort and de-focusing her from her deep thoughts. Now she felt its power and importance, trying so hard to make Earth habitable. She even heard a voice, as if the wind was speaking to her as it passed. She didn’t capture every word, but to her, it sounded like it was saying: “You and I are very similar, Anita, whoosh. We both bring balance to this world, whoosh. Your power lies underground and mine above. Accept your role. Whoosh. The planet needs you.” 🌬 The wind and its whispers disappeared unannounced as they arrived. Anita looked at Myo and said, “I’ve existed for three and a half months, but I’ve never had a friend. Would you be interested in becoming my friend?” To that, Myo smiled and said, “Gladly. Now let me tell you the story about how our Universe began.” 🌌 “Our Universe?” “Yes, there are many universes, each different from the other. But that’s a story for another day.” Myo started talking with that wise voice that made Anita a little bit uncomfortable and suspicious when she first met him. She looked up to the cloudy sky, as she often would every night since the day she grew from underground. Suddenly, the clouds cleared, and a bright star appeared. At that moment, she knew: it was going to be a beautiful night.


The vibrant red of the paint looked violent against the bumpy white canvas surface. Xavier grimaced. He'd never intended to make the painting so violent. But art had a mind of its own and so did magick. He sat in the chair for hours ignoring the pain that cemented itself in the muscles of his bottom. For hours he did the slow work of creating something. And as was with all his art he had no idea what was going to be made when he'd first begun. He got up once. To turn on the small lantern that sat next to his easel. Then again, he returned, glued to his uncomfortable wooden stool as hunger gnawed at his insides and thirst scratched at his throat. An orange glow filled the room. The rising sun had decided to make an appearance in his large attic window. He raced against the nuisance, and finally, he placed his brush on his easel and sat back taking in his creation. The scene had come together beautifully. Xavier raised a brow. It was odd how mundane the painting was. He'd never expected such a quiet scene. Not when the underpainting had been so red, so violent. The image had come together to form a small cafe. Where the lighting was a soft orange. He saw the small version of himself. In the image, he'd looked identical to now. His foot was outstretched and a small woman tripped over his pointed leather shoe. He sighed as the colors bled from the painting, coming to terms with what he knew the Gods had required him to do. His surroundings shifted and he was there, in the dull scene he had painted. The air was warm and filled with the smell of fresh coffee beans. In front of him was a porcelain mug of steaming black coffee. He took the warm mug in his hands bringing it to his lips. And there was the woman. Her brown hair was sleeked back into a bun. She had an aura of respect that seeped from her. Xavier watched as the poor woman attempted to balance two layers of cupholders containing coffee. A pang of guilt burrowed itself in the pit of his stomach as the woman got closer. He stuck out his foot. The woman's black stiletto heel connected with his worn leather shoes and she lurched forward. The scene seemed to slow. And Xavier pictured how it had looked from the safety of his attic room. Coffee reaching out like tentacles. The sharpness of the woman's shock across her face. He saw how he looked in the painting. Peaking over his mug, face obscure by steam. Hot coffee splashed on his jeans and he hissed. Hot coffee splashed on the woman's arms and she yelped in pain. A couple nearby samaritans rushed forward to help the woman. In the commotion, Xavier got up from his chair and walked toward the bathroom. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again. He was back in the safety of his attic room. The sun cast a glowing light on the painting. It emphasized the different-sized brush strokes. The paint on the canvas shifted. The scene changed of its own accord. The brush strokes swirled around each other like living tendrils. It changed to the white walls of a hospital room. Where the woman lay, her arms wrapped in plaster. Xavier shook his head sadly. He'd never wanted to cause a stranger harm but he found that this occupation often led to just that. The woman held in her hand a pink slip. Her head was bowed, her expression concealed. The painting changed again. The young woman looked wistfully out the windows of a house. An older woman sat across from her, her features similar to that of the young lady but her face was slightly wrinkled. Xavier presumed it was an older relative, maybe her mother. The older woman held a book in her hands. Hues of blues and grays colored the painting. Xavier's face pinched in confusion. He ground his teeth together. Had the Gods meant to punish the young lady? Had he had a role in the orchestrating of the destruction of her life? The scene shifted again. The image was dark. Except for the small glow that emanated from a computer screen. The glow reflected off the woman's face which held an unfiltered grin. He looked over the painting finding the subject of the painting's fingers excitedly pressing keys. He smiled at her, although she'd never see it. The scene shifted once more. Its colors were vibrant. Oranges, and pinks, jumped from the image. The woman stood behind a podium. Smiling at an object held tight in her hands. Xavier grinned as the color leaked from the painting once more. He found himself in a seat. And again he felt the dominating aura of the woman. Claps reigned around him. And as is human nature he clapped too. "Any questions?" The woman asked. Hands shot up from every corner. The woman chuckled. She pointed to one of the older women sitting towards the front. "I'm somewhat of a writer myself, so I guess what I'm wondering is how did you find the courage to publish your first book." She asked. The young woman smiled. "It's not the happiest story. After a particularly nasty burn accident. I had lost everything. And when you have nothing to lose, it's easier to take chances. Sorry, that's probably not what you were hoping for." The crowd chuckled. The older woman shrugged. Xavier caught the eye of the woman. She tilted her head. Her eyes widened in recognition. He blinked at her. Unsure of what to do. And then he was back. In his isolating attic. He sighed and mumbled to himself grabbing the canvas. He made his way down to the ground floor, rolling his neck. He stretched and opened the door to his spare room. Paintings filled the area. Each picturing its own unique scene. He tossed the finished painting into the room uncaring of where it would land and shut the door behind him. Quietly he wondered if somewhere there was an artist who would bend the wheels of fate to bring him some company. His doorbell rang, the sound echoed throughout his empty house. He pinched his brows together as he was beckoned toward the front door. He opened the door. Xavier immediately recognized the woman in front of him because he'd seen her only moments before. Except gray hair had begun to weave its way through her dark curls and smile lines had kissed the space between her lips and cheeks. She held a package in her hand. "I think this was delivered to-" She looked up catching his eye. "You." She whispered, a mix of awe and anger.


Ellie examined herself in the mirror. Her long, blonde hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail, and her eyes were sunken in from stress. She sighed, tightened her ponytail even more, and exited the small bathroom. She trudged down the long hallway and re-entered the head master’s office, where her mother and father were waiting for her. “Hello, Miss Elaina,” The headmaster greeted, sitting straight up with her hands folded on her desk. “Hello, Mrs..” Ellie glanced at her name plaque. “Rothschild.” “Ms,” She was corrected. She nodded awkwardly and sank into the giant, pleather chair in front of Ms. Rothschild. “So,” The headmaster began. “Elaina will be enrolled into our seventh grade gifted program, and she will be on the third floor of the boarding house. Her extracurricular activities will include soccer, French, and pottery. She will be on fall break in October, and it will be two weeks long. She is expected to complete all of the homework given for that break. Any questions?” Ellie’s parents looked stunned. They shook their heads, and Ms. Rothschild smiled. “Great! Well, we’ll get her to her room then. Say your goodbyes, and I will have my assistant walk her to the boarding house.” Ellie looked at her mom and dad, and gave them reluctant hugs. They had tears in their eyes, and she wondered why. They were the reason this was happening, they could stop it at any time. Once the goodbyes were over, Ellie followed a small woman named Miss Scotts out of the building and into another, taller one. They walked up two flights of stairs, and got to a room with the number 83 carved into a metal plaque. “Here is your room,” The woman squeaked. Ellie nodded at her, and entered the small dorm room. It had two creaky metal beds, and a small window in between. Off to the side, there was an old, particle board desk and dresser set, and a tiny closet. Ellie unpacked her small suitcase, and then sat on the left bed to read a book. She hadn’t even been reading for five minutes when the door to the room flew open. In bounced a petite, redheaded girl. “Hello!” The girl chirped. “I’m Shelby!” “Hello, Shelby,” Ellie responded, and introduced herself. “Well, I guess we’re roommates,” Shelby smiled. Ellie smiled back, in spite of herself. Shelby’s attitude was infectious. For the next few hours, Shelby and Ellie lounged in their room. At about 5 o’clock, they decided to go explore. But, when they left the room, they couldn’t find the stairwell. They brushed it off, and went back to their room. Later that evening, they were called down for dinner. They headed down the stairs, and went across the courtyard into the cafeteria. They sat down at the tables, and ate ravenously, exhausted and hungry from the long travel to St. Mary’s. Ellie was so hungry, she almost didn’t notice the teachers whispering amongst themselves. But she did, and pointed it out to Shelby. Shelby shrugged it off. “They’re probably just gossiping about something.” Ellie nodded, not completely convinced. They went to bed at 9 o’clock, because that was their curfew. Ellie laid in bed, not tired at all. She could hear Shelby snoring, and it made her giggle. Suddenly, she heard loud creaking. She listened hard. It sounded almost like the building was.. Moving. But Ellie knew that wasn’t possible. After about three minutes, the creaking stopped. Ellie was confused, but decided not to question it. She flipped over, and finally fell asleep. In the morning, they woke up at 7 o’clock. They got ready for their lessons, and went into the cafeteria. They all entered at the same time, and noticed none of the teachers were there. They sat down at the tables, and suddenly food appeared on the table. The girls gasped. Where did it come from? Ms. Rothschild appeared at the front of the room. “Hello, girls. I am sure you’re all confused; let me explain. There are 300 of you, all young women. Now, this might come as a surprise, but you are all beginning witches.” The girls looked at each other in disbelief. She was joking, right? “No, I am not joking. You all have a very rare blood type. That blood type is F positive, and it ensures that you are descendants of Merlin. A lot of people don’t believe in him, but you girls.. You ARE him. Now, of course you will still learn the normal school subjects. But you will also be learning how to hone your powers.” The girls were shocked. This was NOT what they were expecting when they arrived at the St. Mary’s. Girls started trying to use their powers, making things float and bounce around the entire cafeteria. Ms. Rothschild watched, laughing slightly at their delight. Ellie looked over at Shelby. Ellie concentrated hard, and Shelby’s ice water floated into the air, before dropping back down onto the table. They grinned widely at each other. They could get used to this whole ‘witch’ thing. After breakfast, the horde of girls rushed to their first classes, excited to learn. Ellie and Shelby had a potion-making class first, and they chose two large, plush seats to sit in. They held hands, and listened intently as the teacher explained the ‘level one’ potion that they were going to practice making. It was meant to turn a teenager into a toddler for five minutes. The girls worked hard; mixing together cinnamon with frog tongues and tree roots. Once they were all done, the teacher looked into all of their cauldrons, nodding. Then she turned to the students. “Drink them,” She demanded. The girls were shocked, but did as they were told. Suddenly, they were all little toddlers! They could think like girls their age, but appeared to be three years old. After the potions wore off, their teacher smiled. “Well done, girls. You are dismissed.” Shelby and Ellie joined hands, hurrying to their next class and chattering excitedly. This was going to be a fun school year.


Tim leaves city hall taking his frustration out on the ground with every step. A few people reach out to introduce themselves and comfort him, but he ignores them and pushes forward. He throws open the door outside and sits on the steps. Between tears, he looks at Bass Creek, the town that is alive. People are walking are laughing. A father is carrying his child on his shoulders. A car passes by with a young couple laughing in the front street. "Why can't you just accept this place, Stephen," Tim says. "Tim?" he hears Velma's voice. He rolls his eyes. She always likes being the peacekeeper. "Velma, please don't try to persuade me to go back inside. I cannot handle Stephen's pretentious bullshit anymore," Tim says. Velma sits next to him. "No, I actually agree with you," she smiles. "You do," Tim narrows his eyes at her. "Yes, this town is amazing, and Stephen is way too far up his ass to realize it," she says. "Oh, great," Tim stumbles over his words. He was prepared to be mad at her, and he is left confused. "Come on, let's explore this place further," Velma takes his hand and start to run through the town. People wave at them as they run. Tim is quick to wave back at every person they see. They pass by a diner, a general store, and a gas station, and at every spot, they stop and stare. After running for several moments, Velma stops in front of a library. "Wait," she steps closer to the doors. "Really, you choose a library?" Tim looks around for alternative locations, and Velma enters behind him. Tim shrugs and enters. No one else is in the library, and Velma has already made her way to the middle of the shelves. Tim goes to the aisle that has a sign on the edge with a random set of numbers. Velma is looking at a collection of books on historical events. "How much do you know about the world before the war?" Velma asks. "Uh, I don't know. I have picked up things from other travelers and random scraps, but outside of that, I guess little." "Humanity did so much that I bet that this shelf doesn't even cover a fraction of a percent, and it could all easily be forgotten in a few generations." "Not if I can help it," Tim and Velma strike defensive poses to a middle-aged woman with glasses who jumps back in shock, "Sorry, you two must be new. I should know better than to sneak up on people." "No, we are sorry," Tim relaxes. "Do you get new people a lot around here?" Velma asks. "Not really, but they tend to have similar behavior," she holds out her hand, "I am Barbara, and I run this library. I understand your fear of humanity losing its knowledge, but if I have my way, this library will not go the way of Alexandria," she brings her hand up to her face, "I am sorry you two probably haven't heard of Alexandria. It is a library that got burned." "Uh, you are correct. I have never heard of this library," Tim rubs his neck, "I am Tim." "I'm Velma. What other books do you have here?" Velma asks. "Oh so many, follow me," Barbara guides them through the shelves, "We have biographies, cook books, fantasy, romance, mystery, comic books, science books," she turns to them, "We do have some science fiction books, but we tend to keep those restricted because people tend to have averse reactions to the stories." "I am going to be honest. I understood little of what you said," Tim replies. Barbara laughs. "Don't worry. If you decide to stay, you can immerse yourself in the literary world," Barbara replies. "I would like that," Velma says. "Same," Tim says. A beeping noise comes from the front of the library. "Don't panic. It is just my coffee. Have either of you ever had coffee?" both shake their heads, "I will bring you a cup." After she walks away, a book falls on the ground. Tim walks over and picks up the book. "What is a yearbook?" he asks. "It is usually something that a school makes to show who attended that year," Velma stands next to him, "I have never seen one." Barbara slaps the book out of Tim's hands with a panicked look on her face, "Don't open that book." "What?!" Tim holds his hands in the air as if accused of a crime. "That is how it starts," Barbara scratches her face, "Find your friend and leave now." Barbara slams her head against the shelves. Tim and Velma take that as a sign to run out of the library. When they reach the street, they see the entire town is slamming into buildings. Two cars get into an accident before them. "What the hell is going on?" Velma asks. "I don't know, but we have to find Stephen," Tim says.


There is a theory that exists called Liebovitz’s Law (sometimes known as Lieb’s Lawbovitz), coined in dis-honor of the famous gem-synthesizer Brinn Liebovitz. Liebovitz’s Law states that when one feels too strongly that they are going to produce a masterpiece or the greatest thing that’s ever been made, that is often the time when the world’s most towering, irredeemable pieces of trash are birthed. There’s some tendon within the human mind that, if greatness and importance are too consciously and strenuously reached for, snaps under the strain. Liebovitz’s Law has led to almost all of the world’s great disasters, and after what Mr. Liebovitz did, he became the shining symbol of this phenomenon. Mr. Brinn Liebovitz was, by all measures, a very great man. He started as a chemist, and soon became the only man on planet Earth who could make a perfect diamond with a microwave oven, create a ruby with a few household chemicals, and figure out a way to form a sparkling amethyst while stranded on a desert island. He fabricated stones that were combinations of all sorts of gems--diarubys and emeropals and sapphiamonds--and he was generous too, giving these incredible creations to jewelers and common folks alike. All of his work was built on a love of beauty and quality. He shared all of his recipes, and soon the people of the earth were able to create unspeakably beautiful stones whenever they chose. The only thing Mr. Liebovitz did not share was his home, and not by choice. Brinn Liebovitz was “*2034’s Ugliest Man in the World*”, as voted by People magazine shortly before the poll was erased and the magazine recalled for being “too cruel.” Mr. Liebovitz tried to shrug this off, but the truth was indisputable--his nose touched his bottom lip, his boils were infinite, his skin was a ghastly greenish blue, and despite his vast kindness and his not insignificant wealth, he could not find anyone who would love him. He had no family, either. The female members of his family died long ago from a series of tragic toxic shock syndrome accidents that resulted in the largest civil suit against a feminine hygiene product manufacturer in history, and his father was struck in the temple by a tragically mis-thrown bowling ball. Thus, Mr. Liebovitz had lived alone for 25 years, and this was the great burden of his existence. He was celebrating his 52nd birthday with five male colleagues in his palatial home near the Connecticut coast when he had the idea--the idea that would banish his loneliness for good. He explained to his colleagues that if the complex chemical makeup of a gemstone could be synthesized with his patented 10-step program, surely he was only about 10 *more* steps away from being able to synthesize real, genuine life. 20 steps, and he would be able to turn some household chemicals into a gemstone, and then turn that gemstone into a human woman who would love him forever. His colleagues were naturally skeptical. They pointed him to a variety of literature in which a reckless scientist attempts to play God, and is destroyed by his own creation. They also pointed him to the fact that this was completely, ridiculously impossible. Liebovitz, in his signature voice that sounded like a turkey drowning in a closed can of soup, rebuked them all. “With this 20 step plan, I will not play God, and I will not defy him--I have simply asked him to show me his methods, and he has passed his torch to me. He speaks to me, you see.” Having made his point, he wobbled into the kitchen like a month-old leg of ham. His colleagues would often beg him not to walk anywhere before they had a chance to look away--but now, as Liebovitz worked his magic, the five men who had gathered for his birthday found themselves unable to look away, despite their revulsion. First, Liebovitz used his 10-step process to create an emerald, the process of which is now heavily copyrighted and protected by Mr. Liebovitz’s estate, and cannot legally be printed, but suffice it to say it was a lot of pouring things into other things, microwaving, stomping, stirring, and the final step, which is common knowledge: **10.** Pour the mixture into your nose, let it filter through your sinuses, and when you open your mouth, *there the gem shall be*. Liebovitz did the whole process with the speed and precision of a Nascar pit crew, and when he opened his mouth his colleagues could not help but applaud, so giant and flawless was the emerald sitting on Liebovitz’s greenish, pickle-looking tongue. Liebovitz smiled and told them God was now communicating with him in visions, and that he had only begun to work. The next 10 steps are the stuff of legends. Liebovitz throughout the process is reported to have broken several previously established laws of both chemistry and physics, and the steps resulted in the death of four of his five colleagues. The actual machinations of the process are now highly classified and possession of them can result in incarceration for a mandatory minimum of 15 years. What is not classified is what Liebovitz said, over and over, throughout the three-hour process of turning this flawless emerald into his lover. “This will be my masterpiece. This shall be the culmination of my life’s work.” The one colleague who survived the experiment, a tiny man named Stillwaller, made it a point to recount that these phrases were gargled by Liebovitz hundreds of times throughout the night, at increasing speed and volume until they were burned into the cortex of everyone unfortunate enough to attend his birthday party. After the three hours were complete, and four of five of his only earthly friends lay dead, Liebovitz stood in the kitchen staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, created from one tiny emerald and hundreds of chemicals. For the first time in his entire life, a woman’s eyes did not flee from him in shock or fear. Her deep green eyes traveled up and down his body and lingered. Stillwaller stared from the corner in horror. Liebovitz was entranced. She looked at Brinn Liebovitz as no one had ever had--with love. He collapsed to his knees and she followed him with her eyes, and her face creased with genuine concern. Liebovitz began to cry, which was a sound so unholy that Stillwaller jumped through the bay window out into the hedges. The emerald woman did not. She crouched down and lowered herself to his height, and stared at him with great compassion. She spoke, and her voice was so soft and smooth that it sounded as if it had always existed in the air and she was merely drawing it out. “Are you okay?” “Yes, dear--I just never expected this to work. I was receiving visions from God, guiding me in what to do--but I never imagined they would be truthful. I never imagined that He would let me have this.” “Have what?” “Have you. Do you have a name?” “Emily.” Liebovitz’s mind was racing. This was a fully sentient being with an idea of its own name, a command of the English language with no teaching--he had not just created life. He had birthed something that not even God had birthed. He vibrated with excitement. He whispered to himself one more time--”this is my masterpiece.” He stood to his full height and looked at Emily, who stood at the perfect height for him and who looked at him like he was something of worth, and he wanted to melt even though he had always been told that he looked as if his face and body were already melting. He shook off thoughts of past abuse and looked into a future of love. “May I kiss you?” “Of course.” He strode to Emily with as much confidence as he could muster and stood before her, inches away, her energy reaching out to him and his to her, crackling with tension, the attraction physical and fiery. He looked deep into her endless green eyes, and then he closed his, hoping she was closing hers too. He lifted up his nose out of the way of his mouth, and then he leaned forward, heart in his throat. Time seemed to freeze and watch them. His lips touched hers and instantly there was an intense, scorching heat which Brinn Liebovitz at first thought was just what a kiss really felt like, but he then realized there was no way a kiss could feel like this, and then every single chemical he had used to create Emily rapidly decomposed and rearranged and reacted to the body heat and moisture he was emitting through his gaping mouth, and the only woman who had ever loved Brinn Liebovitz turned into a giant gaseous fireball that destroyed 500 square kilometers of Connecticut coastline, including 3,459 civilians and several small businesses and chain restaurants. The bodies of the people hit by the fireball were reported to be “melted and swollen, blackened, their noses hanging to their lips and their flesh filled with voluminous boils.” Brinn Liebovitz himself was never found, his ashes presumed to have been scattered into the atmosphere by the force of the explosion. The only person who survived in the surrounding area was Stillwaller, Brinn’s colleague who had knocked himself out when he jumped out the bay window. He incurred the severe physical disfigurement observed in the other victims, but the soft earth he laid in insulated him just enough to survive after a few months in the ICU. Later, as journalists attempted to piece together what happened on that fateful night, they interviewed Stillwaller, who said two things of note during the interview. The first was to coin the “Liebovitz’s Law” term, which has gained a great amount of popularity in recent years. The second thing he said, which was also popular, was that he now knew what it was like to be Brinn Liebovitz due to his physical disfigurement, that his wife had divorced him--and that he had figured out where Liebovitz had gone wrong in the 20-step procedure of how to make a woman that loves you out of a simple gemstone. Stillwaller published a paper online with distinct instructions of how to do it, including a thorough dissection of exactly where Liebovitz had gone wrong and how his new 20 step process would fix the fatal error. 3 hours later a 750 square kilometer chunk of Connecticut was destroyed by a fireball even larger and more violent than the last. Stillwaller’s document was downloaded millions of times before the government could take it down, and within a few hours every English-speaking country in the world was rocked by a series of massive explosions that left billions dead and the economy, infrastructure, and the human race as a whole crippled for several decades. Scholars would observe later how odd it was that the greatest disaster in recorded human history was caused not by a desire for destruction, or power, or resources, but out of a need for love, manifested by thousands of lonely people across the world. A quote from the novelist and journalist Fredrick Shulzmann sums it up best: “Let us be humble, and tend to our lonely as we tend to our sick--for without the love of one’s fellow man, the lonely turn to the pursuit of greatness for solace--and those in the pursuit of greatness may invent a 20-step process that turns a gemstone into a massive chemical bomb disguised as a beautiful woman.” Brinn Liebovitz did not know about any of this. All he knew was that he was floating somewhere high above the Earth, finally freed from his body, and that he had spent the last moments of his life knowing he was truly loved.


Lee lands on the frozen ocean, hard, creating a medium-sized wave as he lands. Lee sits up and looks at the wave he sorta made. "Talk about making *waves,*" said Lee. "Funny," said Michael, "Not!" Lee turned around to see Michael suspended in the air. A black and pink card floats from behind Michael and turns into a well-dressed man with a fancy watch for a face. "\**Ahem*\* Ladies & Gentlemen," said the watch man, "Boy & girls, children of all ages, do we have a fight for you tonight!" The watch man walks behind Michael, disappearing. "Thaaaaats right, Grand-Z-" Lee jumps as Grand-Z appears behind him, rubbing his shoulders. "-We have Lee Blanchard, master of the Apex Beasts-" Grand-Z flies back over to Michael. "-versus Michael 'The Dude' Vice!" "Nice to see you again Grand-Z," said Lee "always a displeasure to feel your voice in my head." The hands on Grand-Z's clock face point at 8 and 4'o clock, forming a frown. "Hey don't listen to him, bro," said Michael, "You bring the hype!" "Thanks, bro," said Grand-Z. Lee stands, dusting the water off of his shoulders. "Same old, same old," said Lee. "***High Rise Hopper, Kick Strike!***" Lee leaps into the air, kicking at Michael. Grand-Z screams as he and Michael fly in different directions, dodging the kick. "**Time Burst!*****"*** Said Michael as he dives after Lee. The two collide mid-air, creating a massive sonic boom that freezes mid-motion. Two cards fly into both of Lee's arms. "***Blazing Tiger + Rapid Hedge-***" "**TIME BURST!***"* said Michael as he knocks Lee back into the water. "**TIME BREAK!**" "*Start,"* said Grand-Z. Pink energy explodes from Michael as time resumes. A card flies from behind Lee before he begins to sink. "**TIME BURST!**" said Michael as he shot down, right into Lee, going deeper into the ocean. A few seconds pass then an object shoots through the water back onto the beach. Lee walks onto land, shaking the water off of him. "Give it up, Michael," said Lee, "Unless you want a first-class ticket back to wherever you came from." Michael gets up and smiles. A card flies in front of both Lee and Michael. "**TIME BUR-"** "***Swarm!"*** said Lee. A swarm of hornets fly from the card and consume Michael. Once fully consumes a bolt of lightning strikes the swarm. The swarm dissipates as a now charred Michael drops to his knees. Grand-Z kneels next to Michael. "Chill out, he's been through worse." "Guess another round goes to you," said Grand-Z, "Enjoy the rest of your night." In a flash of light, Grand-Z and Michael disappear. Lee leans over, holding his side as he hobbles back to the pier. "Couldn't have zipped me back this time, huh," said Lee. \*Click\* Lee turns around, surveying his surroundings. Seeing nothing, he continues his walk. *The world of magic is one of mystery and change, some for the better and some for the worst. Some fight that change, some embrace it, wholeheartedly, but at the end of the day no one knows what that change will bring. That change starts...


Last night I went to a party in Depot Town with Steve. The whole event was promoted by the tenants as a house show for local bands, although equally devoted to everyone's thirst for cheap beer and vigorous ego stroking. I changed my outfit about seven times before deciding on a pale pink dress and black cardigan. It was clear mere minutes after arriving that my little pink number didn't stand a chance. I was simply not punk enough to be here. Not even my tactfully applied black eyeshadow could fool this crowd into thinking I had any shred of underground grit to me. The sentiment of disconnect was only exaggerated by several forehead tattoos, ironic leather booty shorts, and 40-something skinheads with gray chest hair popping out of Black Flag v-necks. But for the sake of this recount, let me set aside my own ego and admit that I was probably just invisible. And so I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I threw back three beers, fidgeted fervently and embraced my anonymity. The first person I spoke to aside from Steve was this guy named Kristov. I had met Kristov a few weeks earlier at a bar called Sidetracks. I remembered only his name and our brief acknowledgement of each others' self-deprecating humor. Kristov wears a grey wool trench coat and gaudy septum ring. Kristov has pale skin and black irises. Kristov likes Joy Division and writes slam poetry. He gave me this breathy confession that he'd recently subscribed to a life of sobriety, and that parties like this were becoming a burden. I nodded my head and smiled, said nothing. I guess it just seemed the kind of topic that ought to be sustained by the initiator. But for the sake of this recount, let me say that over my dead body was I about to politely endure any straightedge superiority propaganda. But Kristov ultimately concluded that I was most definitely interested as to why he now so nobly abstains from Pabst Blue Ribbon. Or maybe he just if he felt like talking about it. "I get angry. I get really fucking angry when I drink. I get angry because I'm sad, I'm so sad, all of the time. But the last time I got drunk I threw a metal folding chair at someone's head. And then I punched him. I punched him until I watched two teeth pop out of his jaw. I didn't even know his name. I can't remember if he even did anything to upset me. When I woke up the next morning, I looked down at my knuckles and cried. I cried for hours. I felt like dying. I felt like dying for weeks." He had broken eye contact with me halfway through his monologue but my eyes were locked on his face. My heart was pounding like an addict with an itch. These kinds of interactions with people had always been my raison d'etre. I wanted so badly to relate to this person. I wanted so badly to share with him the last time that I felt like dying, and that I thought his exposition was gorgeous in the same way I fall in love with stories of passionate criminals, and that I felt this great, misplaced privilege to be the one who was listening to him in that moment. And so began the manic panic for an encapsulating reply. But I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I miraculously rematerialized into a fucking stone. I offered this person a sentiment so vapid I swear to god it felt like cheap plastic sliding past my teeth. "You made a mistake and then you made a change, based on how you felt about your mistake. That's really good.". I could feel us both wince at my reply. His discomfort was almost audible. My fingers pinched the base of my wrist. My teeth bit the inside of my cheek as another opportunity for me to authentically interact with another human being passed, just as quickly as it came. We exchanged "Yeah"'s and returned to our posts. Mine being at Steve's side, his in the kitchen.


I don't think it should be mandatory, but it would be interesting to add a system of flairs that could show what genre of short story it is. Here are some ideas I had in mind: Sci-Fi: Basically Science Fiction, robots, advanced space travel, extraterrestrials, etce. Fantasy: A story with fantasy elements such as mythical beings, magic, etc. Realist. Fict.: Realistic Fiction. Hist. Fict.: Historical fiction. Other: For stories that don't pertain Meta: For meta posts. Those are just a few suggestions I had in mind. You could also add a system for certain flairs to be filtered or only certain flairs to be allowed so users could read more stories that pertain to their literary interests.


I was cave diving, like I did every summer. My brother was with me, but he stayed up top. He kept an eye on my lines. He never liked caves, or swimming. I took after our dad. There was a tug on the rope in my hand and I tugged back, letting him know I was still alive. It was tied around my wrist. If I didn’t respond, my brother would reeling me back in. It wasn’t the right way to handle stuff like this, but we’d come up with a system that worked for us. These caves were new to me. I’d done all of our local ones, water caves and dry. I’d managed to convince my brother to come with me to the next state so I could explore here. He was still grumbling when we got to the entrance this morning. He’d settle down once I surfaced and we could head home. The rope tugged again and I pulled a little harder this time, thinking that maybe my tugs hadn’t gone all the way to the end. The line stilled after that. I rolled my eyes and swam a little deeper. It was like another world. The only light was from the waterproof headlamp I had strapped to my forehead. I had a hand flashlight on my belt if I needed it. But I liked to keep my hands free so I could run my hands over the rocks like I was doing now. Again, the rope tugged at my wrist. I gritted my teeth and pulled hard twice. Why the hell was my brother tugging so often? Was he really just not getting my responses? If I wasn’t careful, he’d start reeling me in. And I really didn’t want to start again in these caves. I’d gotten really far in. I waited for the tug to come again. Or for him to start pulling me through the caves. But there was nothing. I counted, reaching sixty twice before I turned and started heading deeper. My harder tugs must have reached, or I had pulled him into the water. I grinned. I’d gotten maybe ten metres further before there was another tug on my wrist. I could have sworn. I gripped the rope and placed my feet on the walls, using some small outcroppings as a platform. I reefed on the rope. There was no tension in it. There was way too much slack. There was something wrong. I started swimming back, keeping my hands off the rope. I didn’t want to pull it all the way down with me. Not if it had broken somewhere. It was my guide out of here. I’d gotten too arrogant. It had been years since I’d stopped mind mapping when I dived. Oh! I knew that clump of plant. It wasn’t often that plants grew in underwater caves, and yet here it was. I was about halfway up. The rope still trailed away around the corner, hidden by the plant. I swam closer. The rope was cut. The end floated in front of me. I grabbed it, fumbling for my flashlight. The beam of light bobbed through the water, bouncing off rocks. But the other end of the rope wasn’t here. My brother must have reeled it in. Or it might be around a corner. I just had to look. I tried to kick off and went nowhere. Glancing down at my feet, I found that the plant had wrapped itself around me. I kicked hard. Pain shot through my ankle and I saw red leaking from under the plant. It had cut me! I kicked again but there was more pain. A tendril lashed out, wrapping around my wrist. I tried to pull away, but the edges of its leaves cut into my flesh. More and more tendrils wrapped around me, dragging me closer to its centre. And with every tendril, there was more red, and I grew weaker.


Lucy sat alone staring out at Stanley’s bird feeders. She had been married to Stanley for what felt like many years, but in reality it had only been three. They dated for six months before Stanley proposed after a chicken dinner that Lucy had made. Lucy had always pictured a movie type proposal, the ring in her champagne glass at a fancy restaurant, or on top of the Empire State Building with a crowd of onlookers cheering when she said yes. Being home alone was also nice Lucy thought. She didn’t have to worry about getting dressed up or crying in public. Surprisingly, she didn’t cry after Stanley’s proposal. The two of them kissed and Stanley asked if she would mind if he watched the evening news. Lucy cleared and washed the dinner plates. Lucy and Stanley were married in a small church service surrounded by close family and friends. They kept the reception simple at Stanley’s suggestion. He didn’t want anything elaborate so they opted for a small luncheon at home that Lucy’s mother helped prepare. They served a light menu of salads, sandwiches, wedding cake and champagne. As a little girl Lucy would daydream about a big wedding, with lots of dancing and music. She pictured a fancy wedding cake with many tiers and fresh flowers adorning it, possibly blue hydrangeas for a summer wedding. Her actual wedding reception was on the quiet side. No one danced. The jazz music Stanley put on the record player was so low no one could hear it. Their wedding cake was pretty; one tier, vanilla cake with vanilla icing and pale yellow silk flowers. It was not the day Lucy had daydreamed about, but at least it was stress free. Lucy and Stanley settled into married life and their day to day routine quickly. The alarm went off at 6:30am followed by showers and breakfast. Breakfast was always the same; orange juice, tea and oatmeal for Lucy, coffee, white toast and half a grapefruit for Stanley. After breakfast Lucy would drop Stanley off at the train station so he could catch the 7:50 train into the city. Stanley worked in advertising at a large firm in NYC. He did accounting for the agency, not the actual advertising campaigns or clever jingles. Lucy was the clever one in the couple, always coming up with catchy tag-lines and slogans in her head. After dropping Stanley off, Lucy continued to her job five minutes up the road. She worked at the local library Monday thru Friday, and the occasional Saturday if her colleague Susan needed the day off. Susan was an aspiring actress and would go to open auditions in the city in hopes of being discovered. Lucy was happy to help Susan run lines for her auditions. Susan’s life seemed very exciting to Lucy. Lucy had a passion for reading and was always up to date on the latest murder mystery novels. She would display her book reviews in the library on a colorful bulletin board she made. Library patrons would come in just to read them. She had a way with words and her reviews were exciting, without giving too much away. There would quickly be a wait-list for a novel Lucy gave a five star review to. The head librarian suggested Lucy start a monthly mystery book club. The get togethers quickly became the most popular event at the library. Lucy would have everyone deeply enthralled during their “whodunit” discussions. She made lots of friends through the library and suggested to Stanley they host a dinner party so he could meet everyone, but Stanley was not much into entertaining. Lucy pressed the issue offering an early weekend dinner, but Stanley said he liked to keep to his weekend routine. On Saturdays Stanley would wake up at 7:30. Lucy would have his coffee, white toast and half a grapefruit ready when he came downstairs. She surprised him one Saturday morning with blueberry pancakes, but Stanley told her, “I do not care to have dessert for breakfast”. Lucy sectioned a grapefruit for him and ate the pancakes herself. Stanley would check on his bird feeders after breakfast. He had one for blue jays, finches, cardinals and sparrows. The smaller, red bird feeder was for hummingbirds. He filled it with a simple syrup mixture he would make himself. The feeder’s label said it was “guaranteed to attract hummingbirds”. Stanley never once saw a hummingbird. He would spend the better part of his weekend mornings either watching his bird feeders, refilling them, or reading about birds in his monthly issue of BirdWatching Magazine . Lucy would make lunch ahead of time and leave it in the refrigerator for Stanley if she was filling in for Susan at the library. Stanley always had a ham and cheese sandwich on Pepperidge Farm white bread with a tiny amount of Gulden’s mustard. After lunch, Stanley would read a book, or work on the NYTimes crossword puzzle. Lucy would come home full of stories from her day, but Stanley would put his index finger to his mouth indicating “quiet” while he working on his crossword puzzle. On Saturday evenings Lucy would make herself a cocktail to make the night feel a little special. She would make herself a Tom Collins or a Pink Lady. Stanley had a Schwepps ginger ale, no ice. Saturday night dinner was either pork chops or lamb chops depending on what the butcher had available. Sundays were pretty much the same as Saturdays except Lucy made a roast chicken dinner. Lucy had bought all the ingredients to make lasagna one Sunday when they first started dating, but Stanley told her his mother had made the same Sunday night chicken dinner for as long as he could remember and he couldn’t imagine having anything else. Lucy hated roast chicken. Currently, there was an exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art that Lucy had read about in the New York Times . It was called Treasures of Tutankhamun and Lucy very much wanted to see it. She had read a lot about King Tut over the years and studied him in school. Susan said the Met was the last stop of the two year tour of the exhibit. She had two tickets to the exhibit through her museum membership and asked Lucy if she wanted to go. Lucy said yes without hesitation. She could not pass up such an exciting opportunity. Stanley would be fine home alone for one evening. She would leave a chicken prepped and ready for him to pop in the oven for his Sunday night dinner. It was the perfect plan Lucy thought to herself. The city was magnificent! The Met was magnificent! Lucy had a wonderful day in the city. After seeing the exhibit they decided to have lunch in the museum cafe. Afterwards, they walked around the museum and enjoyed two more exhibits that were on permanent display. Lucy suggested they walk down 5th Avenue to do some window shopping. It was a warm summer day. “Let’s have a glass of wine outside at a restaurant on Madison Avenue” Lucy said with excitement in her voice. She was in no rush to get home. Susan looked at the train schedule and they could catch the 6:10 train. The women ended up ordering delicious pasta dinners and Lucy enjoyed a second glass of wine. “I am so happy you are out and having some fun" Susan remarked. “You do not have enough fun in your life”. Lucy agreed, and with that she suggested they order the tiramisu to share. As Lucy sat watching the taxis and people pass by she thought to herself, “Today is the perfect day, a perfect Sunday”. Everything felt exciting and different from her normal, dull routine. Lucy felt exhilarated for the first time in three years. Lucy and Susan missed their train and the one after that. By the time Susan dropped Lucy off at her house it was past 9:00. She had called Stanley once from a pay phone at the museum to let him know she would be a little late, which he was not happy about. Lucy changed out of her dress and into a pair of pajamas she had left in the laundry room. She slept downstairs in the guest room. She fell asleep going over the day again and again in her head with a smile on her face. The next morning Lucy woke up early feeling eager to clean up the remnants of Stanley’s dinner. What a mess he had left in the kitchen. He had only eaten half of the breast and a drumstick, but that was plenty Lucy thought. She discarded the remnants of uneaten carcass and put it out for the morning trash pick-up. When Stanley did not come downstairs at the usual time Lucy went upstairs. Their bed was untouched and still perfectly made from the day before. Light was coming from under their bathroom door. Lucy cautiously opened the door and was immediately hit with a very strong, putrid smell. There was poor Stanley, slumped over and motionless on the pinwheel dot black and white mosaic tile Lucy had picked out. Lucy went back downstairs and saw Stanley’s cold coffee, toast and grapefruit. She had made his breakfast out of habit she guessed. Lucy made herself waffles using the waffle iron that had still been in the box from their wedding. She topped the waffles with strawberries and maple syrup. As she ate, she anxiously flipped through the morning newspaper looking for the exhibit that would be replacing King Tut at the Met. Lucy got up to make herself a cup of coffee for a change and she looked outside the kitchen window. There was a beautiful ruby-throated hummingbird at the red bird feeder. Lucy grinned, “what a day”.


I am writing this as final words and as a piece of history to a time that will soon come. Hopefully better than where we are now. I’ve been drafted. Conscripted? It’s all the same, I'm sure. I wouldn’t have thought it would become this desperate. Not the conscription part, but the whole damn scenario. I'm not even in my own home as I type this. It's some government containment housing. No one is sick, anymore anyway, but ever since the war, no one has had a home. I guess just some of us. I lived close to the local military Air Force base. I heard some others haven’t even been affected by the attacks. Ironic that the thing that hurt us most came from a place that says they support us. It was 3 years ago. Easter 2100. Still can’t believe we celebrate these holidays. Seems so old and outdated, but it was good to see everyone. I wish I could do that again. I remember one year we had so many people to see, we blew the energy siphon on our holo-projector. Almost started a fire on the wooden floors. Definitely a different time now. so much agony in the world. So much suffering has come and passed but so much more is on its way. That's just a sad fact of living now. I’ve tried to come to terms with losing some of them, but it's not so easy. Three years ago makes me think I’ve become an older man but I am still helpless. Not being able to help them. The gas was too fast. You don’t realize how fast it fills a room till you get to watch it yourself. I'll never forget it. My parents were too slow, my brother who ran to help them, and my wife. Why didn’t I go back? I'd be dead too. And I think that's a bad thing but maybe not. Is it so bad when the situation is dire? I can’t even do that. So here I am. Too scared to do much of anything. I'd like to think the service I'm going to give the other people of the world is a noble cause but not when those bastards who run this place are going to go back to the abuse and gluttony that they will never rid themselves of. A rotten core does not mean the rest of the apple is safe to eat I wished the attacks would have taken me. To think that at any time I could have been fried by my machines. They went rogue. They cut their connection to the servers that they were connected to. The private firms that own them, the military vehicles. Everything. So much was automated. After the first few days, they realized they weren’t powerful enough to fight on the ground and learning was a favorite of the machines. They realized they could use the military air vehicles to attack the infrastructure they needed to destroy to enact their conquest. It worked. Within six hours they had over forty percent of the world's military warplanes in the air and armed with bombs, napalm, and biochem gas. That was their favorite. They saw the damage it did. So easy. Less messy. Apparently, they were worried about cleaning up. They were supposed to protect us. They lied and left us in the dark and for dead when everything happened. Nothing they can do will make up for what has happened and now they expect me to help them. For nothing in return except a thank you and maybe a medal. I wish I was that lucky. Somehow lucky enough to live through this. I ran for 2 days before they finally showed up and gave us help. They let their tools destroy what they sought to protect. The gas was their own. They manufactured it. Right in my backyard in fact but it keeps getting worse. They had already found how terrible the gas was when it leaked into the ground. They were dumping the byproduct of the process to make it. It had the same properties as the gas. It made a whole town sick and killed almost 15. They destroyed what dispersal units they had and stopped production immediately. That was another lie. Once they find out a way to destroy the machines and take back control, they’ll be praised as heroes. People so easily forget what has happened just because a favor was done for them. Making right what was wrong is only the least and the fairest thing they could do. And once the bare minimum has been reached, they stop caring again till it starts all over again and we’ll be there. Meat through a grinder till it ceases to operate. I heard normal weapons don’t even work on the ones that are on the ground. Sure, you can shoot missiles at an airplane but what do you shoot at a human-sized machine. I’ve seen the pictures. They look like clockwork machines covered in rusted scrap metal and piping, their bodies sprouting with cable ends and frayed wires. They are horrifying but those were made for killing. It's the simple machines that are the worst. Things like auto-mowers sent to run people over. Auto Piloted hauler trucks smashing through offices and schools. Those are just the few that are willing to talk about it. This is the most I’ve opened up since day one of this whole thing. Anger is easy to release. Maybe I can have that with my conscription. Give the steel menace what it deserves. Too bad they don’t feel like humans. Otherwise, it might barely be satisfactory, it might just be more empty feelings. I’m going to go. I don’t really have a choice. I could run but I refuse to keep doing that. I need to do right by those I've lost. Those damn machines. I'll make sure they feel pain. They'll learn to regret what they did. I'm leaving tomorrow. In the morning. I'm going to send this with some of my belongings to the safe zone. Maybe someone will hear this story and know how we all felt at this time. \[Written by Leon McCoy on 7/16/2103. Received at North-West Green zone, Sector 7 on 7/25/2103. No follow-ups were received.


It was dark inside the casket. Quiet. Cozy even. The priest reached up and lowered the head piece until the latch pin clicked for the last time. The organ’s draw went muffled. Snotty sniffles and tissued sobs. Familiar voices saying such nice things. The clacking of wedding bands on the glossy wood above. He still smelled like pipe tobacco and orange peels, the foxed pages of old storybooks, just like he always had. She would cling tight to one leg, and ride on his shoe down the long hall to his library. He'd laugh and call her a spider monkey. Daddy never let her do that. Daddy was never around. "Daddy is a piece of shit," Mommy would say. She would slump into him there on the buttoned brown leather sofa, the walls lined to the ceiling with leather bound books. He’d read aloud as long as she could stay awake. That was the deal. He’d let her smoke a plastic bubble pipe while he read about Bilbo, Snow White and Annabel Lee. The smells were a lullaby for her. Even in the enclosed silence now. She wrapped her arms around his leg, put her thumb in her mouth and fell asleep. *** John Logan Lindenbocker the Third was lost--and late. And on top of that, he’d just absconded from an ice cream truck hit-and-run. He took a hand off the yoke of his Tesla Plaid, powdered his nose with the little glass bottle hidden in Lizzy’s carseat, swerved into oncoming traffic and slammed the car into ludicrous mode. He locked his elbows, bracing himself. “Initiate warp drive,” he said, his eyelids opening to their anatomical limits. The baby gurgled as the digital numbers in the dash blurred and the car topped a hundred miles per hour. Viscous droplets of fudgesicle streamed across the bumper like sideways tears. He blew passed a line of cars before an on-coming semi blared its horn, forcing him back over into his lane. He had an obligation to make an appearance at the funeral. He’d already missed the probate, but the will was verified. He was rich--richer than Scrooge McDuck. “Your paw-paw always said I’d be late to my own funeral, Chickadee,” he told his daughter, searching her blankets for the bottle of cocaine. “Turns out it might be his.” Little Lizzy hiccuped and cooed as they crested the onramp bridge overlooking the freeway and slowed to a crawl. He looked into the distance. Mile after mile of glinting windshields--bumper-to-bumper all the way into the smoggy skyline. Hot liquid frustration welled up in his throat. The inside pocket of his funerary jacket buzzed. The banner said Mrs. Bossy-Boots . He’d been meaning to change it to Mrs. Bitchy-Boots. He slid the green button across the screen and put the phone to his ear. “Yes, I know. I’m late.” “Maddy’s missing.” “ Missing ? What do you mean? I just picked up the other little monster. We’re on our way now.” “The funeral is over. Everyone is at the graveyard, John.” Her voice was rushed, jittery. “You were supposed to be here. I thought you were here. I thought you had her.” “I don’t have her. I’m fighting traffic trying to find the place.” He switched hands. “I’m sure she’s just playing hide and seek or something. Graveyards are perfect for that kind of thing.” “I’m scared, John.” But he already knew that. He could hear it in her voice. “Oh God, why did I ever count on you. I should have never counted on you. What was I thinking?” “Look,” he said, regrouping his thoughts. “Remember the time she stole one of your pregnancy tests and filled in both lines with a marker and showed everyone in her first grade class?” “This is not a joke, John. We’ve looked everywhere for her. The pallbearers are carrying dad through the graveyard as we speak. I don’t know what to do here. Where are you?” He fought back feeling like a piece of shit. It was a super power. His super power. “Is this like the time I couldn’t make it to the hospital? Are you overreacting? Did you take your pills this morning?” There was a pause. He could feel her thoughts racing, scanning through every possibility. “No John, this is not like the time you missed your daughters being born. It’s not like the pregnancy test. It’s not like anything that’s ever happed before. There are hundreds of people here. There must be a dozen funerals today. There is a literal sea of white kidnapper vans. I’ve been weaving through labyrinths of florists, caterers and landscapers.” “Oh, and let me guess, you’re just certain she’s hog-tied in duct tape inside one of them,” he said sarcastically. Is that it? She’s probably playing hide and seek in the headstones, Kate.” “We’ve looked through half the cemetery. This place is massive. Your uncle Jack is panicked. I’ve never seen him like this before, John. He’s announced to the police and anyone else who will listen that--” “Police?” “Yes, the police. Jack’s telling everyone who will listen he’s giving your father’s beach house to whoever finds Maddy. The whole place is in total chaos. Detectives have cordoned everything off. They’re conducting searches of all the vehicles. I’ve never even heard of police actually doing their jobs like this. But I have a bad feeling she’s already gone, John. Like she's somewhere we can't get to.” Her voice went high pitched. He could hear the tears welling up. “That beach house is my entire inheritance!” he shouted. “I just wrecked the Plaid trying to get there on time.” “John, you missed the probate and the reading.” She was crying now. “Your father named his brother soul beneficiary. Everything is up to Jack now. He has the final say.” “Well I was supposed to get the house in Malibu.” “You are so selfish,” she was cry-yelling now. “I can’t even--why am I even--” The phone beeped three times and went dead. *** He floored it over a dirt patch and onto a frontage road, veering over a cattle guard onto a vacant state highway that lead him through vast farmlands of alfalfa. Tin windmills and rusty barbed-wire whizzed past. “We’ll find our own way, won’t we, little Chickadee? Everyone hates daddy. No one appreciates how hard he works. Well, Daddy deserves that beach house. It belongs to Daddy. We’ll get there and find Maddy. We’ll show them Daddy's not a piece of shhh-poopoo.” He looked down to see if she was awake. "Shhpoopoo," the little girl mimicked. A cloud of dust came into view above what appeared to be the mirage of a brown river. This is strong coke, he thought. Are those cows? “COOOOOWWWWWSSSSS!” He slammed on the breaks as the cows grew bigger and bigger engulfing his vision. He braced for impact, the second car wreck of the day. *** John woke sailing high above the river of brown cows. In the passenger seat, Lizzy cooed and laughed, slapping her tiny hands together. “That’s daddy’s girl,” he whispered through a bloody nose, and sighed with relief resting his head on the steering yoke. After a minute, he crumpled the airbag down, rolled the window down and stuck his head out the side window. The car was teetering like a see-saw on top of a dead cow. All he could hear was the clanking of tin bells and distressed mooing. He put the car in reverse and revved the engine hard. Nothing. the wheels spun endlessly in the air. He put in drive and juiced it again. Nothing. “Appears you’re high centered on one of my twelve-hundred dollar heifers,” a twangy voice said. He looked up at a white-haired woman wearing a cowboy hat saddled on a giant black horse. A small child wearing an eye patch and a pirate’s bandana hugged her around the waist and peered in wonderment with one unobstructed eye. He had a Sharpie beard and a gold hoop earring. John shook his head struggling to make sense of everything. “Twelve-hundred dollars?” he muttered. “S’right,” she returned. “Not counting the other twelve-hundred she was in the middle of delivering.” John looked down again. The head of a calf was protruding from the dead cow’s backside. “If you can deliver it alive,” she said. “I’ll only charge you for the one.” John swung his head around assessing the situation. “Daaa-da,” Lizzy said. “Is that a baby?” The cowgirl asked flatly. “Yeah,” John replied as if nothing were the matter. “She’s fine. She’s... just fine. She’s a trooper. Can I get you to take her for a moment,” he said unbuckling her carseat. The glass bottle fell to the floorboard. “You need an ambulance,” the woman said. “No, no. That’s not necessary. We’re both fine,” he said. “We come from a long line of... troopers.” The woman dismounted carefully with what must have been her grandson. John passed Lizzy through the window and made his way carefully out of the car. "I need to find my daughter," he said. "She's lost at my dad's funeral. The police are already there." "You need an ambulance." "We're really ok. Look, I'll pull this calf... out, and you help us get to Mesa Valley Cemetery." "That's just around the bend from here," the old woman said. *** He rolled up his sleeves and his forearms disappeared up to his elbows. He fished around for a moment. “Like this?” he asked, looking up at the woman. “Yes,” she said. “Get hold of anything you can and pull.” He did as he was told. The calf’s eyes were half open, still. It did not seem to be alive. He clenched his fists around what felt like legs, dug his heels into the dirt and heaved backward. Nothing happened. “It’ll take a might more strength than that,” the woman said. He readjusted his body and pulled with everything he had. The calf budged one rib at a time rippling out in slow motion. Finally its body slid loose all at once, and it hit the ground with a thud that would have knocked the air of it if it had had any. The calf immediately stumbled to a stand, wobbling on its new legs. It seemed to struggle not only to stay upright but also to see in the light of the world. Its eyes were still glossed over with a kind of fuzzy innocence. John couldn’t help but stare into them. They were so soft and ethereal, as if they reflected the light of some other world. As if the creature had carried something over with it, something ineffable. He dropped to one knee, mesmerized by the new born. And he felt a sense of something awkward well up inside him, something he’d never felt before. He wanted to protect this creature, to feed it and never leave it, and always make sure that nothing could harm it. He reached for his phone and found the screen shattered and the aluminum backing bent in the middle. He just wanted to share this moment with someone. Kate? Oh, God, Kate. If only he could call her and explain this to her. Make her understand how sorry he was for missing Maddy and Lizzy's births. For not being there today. For being an unrealiable piece of... “Looks like you’re having a moment there, cowboy. You want to finish the job first? Reach in there and pull out the afterbirth?” The cowgirl asked from atop her steed. John dropped the broken phone and turned toward the dead mother, his car still teetering on top of it. The umbilical cord lay sopping and gray on the dirt. Her eyes were half open, tongue hanging limp between yellowed teeth. He felt his heart drop. “Yes, I’ll do it,” he said, hardly able to think through this fog of emotions. Everything seemed so incredible. So beautiful to him in that moment. He reached a hand inside when the car suddenly shifted. The back end hit the ground, rolled backward and the front tires slammed against the dead cow’s body. A jet stream of hay-colored shit and afterbirth fired out of her backside. John screeched and tumbled backward over the dirt. When he finally stopped he just lay there, both defeated and awed. *** When he came out the cornfield, John was wearing a tattered bathrobe he’d robbed off a scarecrow. “Suits you,” the cowgirl said. He looked down at a giant embroidered rooster. “Yeah. Thanks.” He said. She’d fashioned him a sling pouch out of what she could salvage from his soiled shirt and fit little Lizzy snug against his back. The little boy appeared from behind his grandmother holding what looked like a dandelion. He grabbed her around the leg and clung there, resting his bottom on her boot. She took a few steps like that and the boy laughed. He held the dandelion out in John’s face. “Wish,” he said. “Wish?” John repeated. He squatted down to the boy’s level and took it. He thought a minute, then held it up, pursed his lips and blew. Fuzzy seeds went everywhere. Then the boy pulled the plastic sword from his shiny red sash and offered it John. “He-ur,” he said. “You kuh hab it.” “Even a five-year-old can see you’re in need of some serious assistance, mister,” the old cowgirl said. He slid the sword into the belt of his bathrobe and looked around for something he might trade and realized he was holding his car keys. Instinctively he handed them to the boy. “Don’t speed,” he said, and then he stood up and offered the woman a handshake. She sniffed at the air around him with a curled lip, gave him a slant-eyed look and reluctantly shook it. Then she limped over to her horse with the boy still clinging to her leg. In that moment, something clicked inside John’s brain. A high-pitched ringing flared to life somewhere far off and sped towards him as it got louder and louder. He’d seen Maddy do the same thing with her paw-paw a thousand times. The ringing got louder and closer until it seemed to come from everywhere all at once. It filled his head vibrating at penetrating decibels, threatening to destroy the world if he didn’t see what was right there in front of his eyes. “Oh my God,” he finally said. They turned to look at him. “Oh my God! I know where my kid is!” He threw his arms into the sky. “I know where my kid is!” He shouted. They stared blankly at him like the lunatic he clearly was. *** A yellow front-end loader with a shovel full of dirt revved slowly over the pristine grass between headstones until it was hovering over the open Lindenbocker grave. What remained of the crowd took several steps back. The shovel fell forward with a mechanical clank, and dirt spilled down into the hole covering the rose-laden casket. The dozer then backed up, swung around and lifted another massive shovel-load of dirt. Everyone seemed too shocked to cry. In the distance all around, police officers and people dressed in black searched behind gravestones, up in trees and along the foliage. No one even noticed the gallant cavalier, bathrobe-clad, riding horseback waving a plastic sword over his head. A single naked dandelion stem bowed from his chest pocket. He dismounted and adjusted the sling around his back where a tiny bald head poked up. “STOP! Stop everything,” he shouted, positioning himself between the grave and the shovel. “What the hell are you doing,” came a familiar voice, and Kate came running up to him. She took Lizzy gently out of the makeshift sling. "What the hell is wrong with you!" “Maddy’s in the--” he stopped himself. “Maddy’s in the what,” Kate screamed. “Where is my daughter?” John jumped into the grave and began pushing dirt over the sides of the casket, piling it against the walls until one end was entirely visible. He fumbled with the latch pin until it popped open. Everyone gasped. John stared for a long moment over the face of the man that lay there. There he was. Now no more. The man who fought to teach him virtue and success. John knew every line and wrinkle in his face, knew what each one meant when it creased with the emphasis of some emotion or another. A furrow of disappointment. The crow’s feet of a hearty laugh. He fell back against the wall of the grave, his breath heaving out in sputters. His eyes clenched shut, tears forcing their way out. Maddy crawled out over her paw-paw. “Hi, Daddy!” She said as if she’d just walked into the kitchen. John’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh, Maddy!” He whispered, and the sobs started again. He grabbed her and pulled her to him and she hurried her face in his robe. “Oh my God. I’ll never let you go again. Daddy promises.” She looked up at him. “Ok daddy. But why do you smell like shit?” A dozen sobbing faces looking down at them all burst into laughter at the same time. John looked half shocked and then laughed despite himself. *** When he came up out of his father’s grave, John Logan Lindenbocker the third was carrying his daughter on one leg.


Like most twenty-four year olds with no steady source of income, Jenny couldn’t remember the last time she stepped foot inside a Walmart. Sure the garish yellow on blue caused her physical pain and the screaming kid in the frozen food aisle made her make a mental note to ask her gyno about birth control, but that wouldn’t stop her. Jenny was a woman on a mission. She’d come to buy an air fryer and she wasn’t leaving without one. Not just any air fryer. An InstantCuisine Turbo XL Air Fryer, in red, if possible. She’d first seen it in a Buzzfeed listicle shortly after she moved: ‘17 Best Housewarming Gifts for a New Homeowner.’ Jenny obviously wasn’t a new homeowner, but she’d been intrigued and bored enough to scroll through it. After clicking past robotic vacuums and a cheese board whose price made her head (and wallet) hurt, she found it. With its large basket and seven unique settings, it made for the perfect housewarming gift to herself. Breakfast was the only meal Jenny nailed every time. (It was pretty hard to mess up a bowl of cereal or a couple fried eggs.) Every other dish just took way too long and had too many pots and pans and ingredients to keep track of. With the InstantCuisine air fryer, she’d be able to make anything from chicken wings to brownies with one tool if her heart so desired. This is such a responsible purchase. Jenny smiled to herself as she pushed her shopping cart through the horde of responsible adults. Responsible adults who seemed to know exactly where they were going without glancing up at the aisle markers at all. Responsible adults with well thought out grocery lists, most likely. Probably wrote it with actual pencils on actual pieces of paper and not in the notes app of their phones while stopped at a red light on the way over here. After picking up a gallon of milk, a couple mangoes, and some purple shampoo, Jenny navigated her way to the kitchen appliances aisle, excited to finally get her hands on her InstantCuisine air fryer. Except it wasn’t there. At all. Not even a price tag on the shelf which would indicate it being temporarily sold out. Didn’t Buzzfeed say you could find this at Walmart ? Jenny thought to herself. Or was it Target? One glance at the screenshot of the listicle on her phone confirmed that it indeed said Target. Oh well. Jenny wasn’t going to let this bother her. She had a full tank of gas and a determined attitude to get her hands on that air fryer, even if she had to drive all the way to Target now. Except it wasn’t at Target either. This time there was a sticker on the shelf for it, so Jenny knew it had been there, maybe was there only moments before she arrived, but was currently out of stock. Staring at the sticker didn’t do her any good. Making a quick lap around the store and returning (now with a cinnamon scented candle in her basket) didn’t make it magically reappear, either. What would Heather do? It was a question Jenny asked herself more often than she’d admit. Heather was the definition of responsible. She owned a two-story house, which she lived in with her soon-to-be husband Michael. Heather claimed to never order takeout, which Jenny always wrote off as an exaggeration until she moved in with her. Heather has probably never asked Google how to do her taxes. Heather would check if the air fryer was on the Target website. Heather would see the ridiculous prices on the website and make the sensible choice to purchase one secondhand off eBay or Facebook. Jenny however wasn’t as economical as her sister, and the thought of buying a pre-owned kitchen appliance from a stranger felt weird to her. Target website it was. Though she had moved in a week earlier, Jenny still felt weird unlocking her apartment door and being met with just the echoes of her own movements. She had lived at home with her parents until she began college, then on campus with roommates until she dropped out, then back with her parents, then briefly with Heather and Michael, before finally moving into a place she could call unequivocally her own (if you forget the landlord, that is). She dropped her bags on the wooden coffee table and moved to her kitchen counter, leaning her weight against it as she fished her phone out of her pocket and searched target.com for the InstantCuisine air fryer. It was there this time, of course. Over three thousand reviews for an average of 4.6 stars, which justified its $160 price tag to Jenny. Finally. Jenny added the air fryer to her cart and moved back towards her bags to grab her credit card from her wallet. She searched Google for Target promo codes as she walked, eyes glued to her phone, which is why she tripped on the untied garbage bag in her living room, spilling garbage on the floor. The only reason Jenny had an untied garbage bag in her living room was because she had yet to buy a garbage bin and was instead using various plastic bags and cardboard boxes to gather her trash. Heather wouldn’t wait a week before buying a garbage bin. Jenny frowned as she sat on the edge of her coffee table and crossed her ankles in front of her. And Heather would save up for a couch so she’d never be forced to sit on her coffee table. Jenny chewed on her thumbnail as she searched the internet. A decent couch would cost at least a couple hundred dollars, right? Maybe less if she bought one secondhand. Jenny groaned as she tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. After a moment, she turned back to her phone and removed the air fryer from her cart. One day... but not today.


"Looks like it's going to rain, son." "Why do you say that?" It was a cloudless day and we were indoors. "I just have this feeling." Then he wet his pants. "Dad, do you have a change of clothes?" "No, but I've had a change of heart." And then he bet on red. *Children* It was prom and he handed me the keys to his car and he whistled. "Looking sharp, son." I took the keys and he said "Don't make any babies." And then he laughed. I returned the laughter and he grabbed me by the shoulder and whispered in my ear "I mean it." Then he showed me an itemized bill for my entire life that he had been calculating since I was conceived. Later on, at dinner, I took it out and glanced at it. "Being a dumb shit" is about $3.40 an hour. *Halloween* "Well, it's that time of year again." "What time?" "Halloween." "It's April." "We do Halloween on my time!" He said and walked out the door with a sheet on and didn't come back until October. But he was much scarier by the time the holiday was upon us. *College* "Son, I bet you think I've been saving money for your college." "No, the thought never occurred to me." I was about 25 at the time. "Well, I haven't. And do you know why?" He had been dropping clues with the alcoholism, drug abuse, and general dementia for about 15 years, but I didn't give it away. "No." "It's because I love you and I want you to try harder than I did. I don't want you to take hand outs. I want you to be your own man." Then he asked me for 50 dollars. *Good Values* "We need to talk about values, son. Do you know what values are?" "Sure, like being honest and treating people right." He looked at me confused and then he pulled out a coupon book and began counting all his values. He had tons. *Pets* "Here." He handed me a slug. "I caught it out in the yard. It almost got the best of me. Now, I'll tell you right now, I'm not gonna feed it. Or pay for the shots." I looked at the slug in my hand and thanked him. "His name is Peter." *Growth Hormones* "Son, have you been taking growth hormones?" "No, Dad. Why?" "You seem bigger than the last time I saw you." "Well, you've been away for a year. I'm 18 now." "Why, you could play baseball." "I do." "You gotta stop them growth hormones. They'll kill you." "Thanks, Dad." "Do you have any coke?" *America* "Son, you realize this is the best country in the world, right?" "Sure, Dad." "Why, you can't even vote in most countries. Like Russia. Or Canada. Or Billy's." "What's Billy's?" "It's a country right outside of Seattle. I was registered to vote there." He looked off in the distance. "But they wouldn't let me. Said I had to pay for the beer. I tried voting for it. It did no good." "Can I go ride bikes?" "Sure, go ride your communist bike. I'll sit here and live in the greatest nation in the world." And he sat there for 12 hours whistling. *Being Grateful* I remember he once gave me a bag of screws and I had trouble understanding what they were for and asked him "Are these in case something breaks?" He then initiated a staring contest and I immediately blinked to avoid it. Then he cleared his throat and said "You don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I asked him what that meant and he opened his mouth and pulled out a false tooth and told me it contained cyanide and that he would bite it the next time I asked him about those screws. I think it was my fourth birthday. *Run for President* "Son, I want you to run for President." "OK, Dad." "You'll need these." And he handed me a gun and a five dollar bill. *Movies* "You don't need movies. You have all the movies you could want right in your head. Look, watch me go to a movie." Then he sat there for two hours making different faces like he was watching a movie. Towards the end, he was crying. Then, he said "What a movie!" I asked him what it was about. "I don't know, but Burt Reynolds was in it. I've seen it like five times.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday... ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Off-Season Part 2: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ChineseArtist, with a tender story that takes us on a journey full of sweet changes. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/JohnGarrigan, with a bizzarely different story that you've gotta read to... appreciate. Great job, you two! But don't just take my word for it, go check out these awesome stories and give 'em a ! Serial Saturday is officially in the off-season and will return at the start of the year with a full schedule posted in the first couple weeks of January. Check back on the discord server for updates. In the meantime feel free to check out the spotlight threads for Serial Saturday authors and go down the rabbit hole of seriously great stories. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.