Suddenly, it had all come down to this. It seemed as if the battle had gone on forever, but at long last, it was drawing to a close.  Two teams of gladiators and warriors were fiercely engaged in the most ancient form of tribal combat. Everything - pride, reputation and all - was on the line. For the winners, the glory of victory and everlasting triumph was within their grasp. For the losers, the shame of defeat and the feeling of failure would haunt them forever. History would no doubt remember both, but not in the same manner.  The combatants were not simply fighting for themselves - they were fighting for their regions. The two could not be more juxtaposed. One represented an area of success - where the wealthy called home, and where simply residing was considered a sign of affluence. One represented an area of struggle - where people would submit themselves to back-breaking physical labour, day in and day out, simply in order to survive. This was reflected in their representatives in the arena - the opulent had vanquished all who came before them in great style, while the strugglers had to scratch and claw their way to have a chance at glory. The battle was of Biblical proportions - and the comparisons to David and Goliath were many and apt.  And yet, all that mattered for very little now. With not much time to spare, the squads were dead even. The usually high standards of combat had dropped - all concerned looked nervous and disjointed. The tens of thousands of people in the colosseum, totally unprepared to see the warriors representing them emerge defeated, screamed for blood. The battle cried for someone to take control.  \~\~\~  For as long as he remembered, it had all been on him. Born to a young mother and an absent father, his generational talent for combat led many to christen him as the Chosen One in his formative years. He often delivered on this moniker, and in spectacular fashion. However, he was far from unburdened by the expectation placed on his young shoulders, and he at times failed to deal with the intense scrutiny. He promised that he would bring glory back to his city, but after many failed attempts the patience of his congregation was beginning to wear thin.  \~\~\~  Once more, it was all on him. His leadership had often been called into question, and a chance to vanquish those doubts once and for all stood before him. Where all the other combatants were nervous, he was calm, and where they were doubtful, he was assured. On the biggest and brightest of stages, his heroics were on full display; in a moment sure to live on forever, he saved his comrades from what looked like certain defeat with one heroic action. When the bell rang, the deafening roar of the crowd turned dead quiet; it was all over, and the underdog had emerged victorious.


It started with a subtle, anticipatory inhalation, an almost sound. He pressed his hand flat on her ribs. The long deep exhale resonated through her body in a low steady hum. The lowing call unfurled. The languid melody grew from a rich bass note and rose to a mid-range timbre producing a soothing earthy note. John leant on the wooden gate, his hand over the side, resting on the side of the cow. The early evening air cooled a degree or two. The change of temperature plucked at his forearms with tiny fingers. He shivered, waiting for the rest of the cows to make their way to the gate. They came in a line, full of sleepy sighs and at a leisurely pace. Lower in the valley the ground mist returned to herald the end of the day. It crept into the swells of the fields that edged the river bank covering the riverside with a silver-white hue. John didn’t have to go down there to smell the damp earth and coolness, he couldn’t, his bones wouldn’t make the journey now, but the years ingrained the smell of the earth's exhale into his very being. His nostrils widened as if to capture the delicate odour. A quick jagged flight of a thrush caught his eye. Startled from the leafy green hazel hedge it sought the safety of a spike-covered holly tree. He followed the bobbing flutter. The flutter. He fought the memory's approach focusing on the rough whirls of the cow's coat. The man's hands. They didn’t have the strength they once knew; they flapped on the bedsheets like broken birds with broken wings. ‘Be extraordinary,’ John muttered under his breath, trying to rid himself of the coming image. He could taste the memory on the tip of his tongue, a metallic tingling harbinger. ‘Be extraordinary.’ ‘Johnny, I don’t have long,’ the bedridden man said. The substance behind the words weighed down, barely there. ‘Come here, son.’ This memory hadn't shown its twisted face for many years but here it was in multi-coloured glory. A skeleton covered in taut yellow skin lay on the sweat-stained bedclothes that stank of urine and vomit. The sweet effluvium pierced Johnny's nostrils with sharp acidic tones. All John knew, when he was Johnny and the tender age of five, was that he didn’t want to be in this room, with this man. He no longer recognised his father; this wasn’t the man who filled his childhood with the sound of hearty laughter. Against his will and small strength, Johnny’s mum tugged him forward. He wrapped his arms around her leg squeezing it tight and turned his face into her soft skirts breathing deeply. Her skirts were full of the safe scent of cows and hay. ‘Son.’ Johnny stayed hidden in the comforting embrace of his mother’s skirt. He could hide his face but he couldn’t stop his ears from the blood-clotted speech and this man was not one for empty words of affection. In his final moments, the once robust figure imparted words of responsibility, not sentimentality. ‘My father died of this illness and his father before him, don’t you be a fool and die of it.’ Johnny heard his father suck in a tortured breath and swallow a cough, he looked up from his mother's skirts and watched as the shaking hand dragged a twisted cotton handkerchief, red and navy-blue plaid, to non-existent lips. Johnny focused on the movement of the hand, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, see the remnant of the man. As if his father felt Johnny’s gaze, he pulled away the handkerchief. ‘You have the brains; lord knows where from.’ His lips barely moved, red creased at the corners of his mouth, garish against the yellowing flesh. ‘Figure out what killed me. Use your talent, be extraordinary, striv to live to a ripe old age. Look after yourself to look after the family, look to the farm and the cows-’ The man didn’t get a chance to say anymore. He fell into a coughing fit. Scarlet droplets erupted from his mouth. He coughed again, then again. Each cough sprayed the sanguine fluid onto his face, his pillow, and the bedsheets. The sight of the blood and the hideous sound of the choking cough overwhelmed young Johnny. He twisted his shoulders out from his mother's shocked grasp and fled to the meadow. Within the hedgerow of the high field sheltered from the lifting breeze, Johnny found refuge in the den he crafted over the past summer. He built it to avoid the hushed corridors and foul smells and filled it with hay and his favourite broken toys his mother said should be thrown away. He huddled, wrapped into a ball amongst the hay and discarded toys, his face hot and hard, burnt with tears. A rustling of leaves by his ear ended with a gentle moo. A cow’s breath blew across his ear. Johnny opened his eyes to see a curious eye peer at him through the leafy green of the hedge. He sat up, startled. The cow moved away. For hours he watched the gentle interactions of the cows. They spoke with little sounds as if they knew, on this day, to be quiet, to mourn the passing of the man who cared for them. They took and shared Johnny’s grief, softening its raw edges into sadness. John's worst memories, connected by trauma, jostled for attention, woken and lively as if they were willing partners at the side of a dancefloor. John buried his head in his arms as they lay crossing on the top of the gate, his skin cold against his forehead. He didn't want what he knew was coming, yet at the same time he longed for it. A quick sleight of hand, a do-si-do and his father stepped away. Another memory stepped promptly forward and John looked down on the face of the love of his life, his wife Ava. Ava knew the birth of their fifth child, Toby, wasn’t the same. She said as much but he refused to believe it. She lay exhausted, the child birthed. Hidden beneath the covers of the bed, her blood pooled and the room filled with the metallic, tangy aroma of blood. ‘You'll have to be extraordinary,’ she whispered. He flinched, surprised by the words, his father's death leapt vividly to his mind from where it had lain hidden, deep within, for thirty years, her words yanked the memory up and out, like a reluctant fish, it caught and thrashed against the line, resistant, but unable to resist the hook's pull to the surface. The bed, the blood. John held himself firm against the urge to leap up and run from the room and seek the freedom of the high meadow. To do so would mean releasing his dear Ava’s hand, irrationally convinced, as he was, that she would stay with him if he never let her go. Iron grew in him, he swallowed down the vomit that swelled to his throat tsunami-like at her poison-tipped words. The bitter smell of vomit in the room would be too much. ‘Promise to love them all, as I would,’ she said. The tiny bundle in the crib cried, she turned towards the sound and tried to lift her head. A sound born from the depths of a dying soul escaped her lips, a low bellow carrying the weight of unspoken pain. John knew that sound, he heard it in the language of the cows, he pressed his cheek against her hand unable to control the tears that forced their way out. 'Stay with me,' John begged. Ava licked her blood-drained lips. ‘Promise to love little Toby.’ She waited for his nod. ‘Bring the children up right. Make their lives the best they can be.’ John couldn’t find the words; his eyes held out his promise for her to see. When Ava stopped breathing John held on to her hand as it turned cold, staring at her face, willing her to live. Toby, his new baby boy, cried a tiny breathless cry. John drew in a deep breath and laid Ava’s hand gently on the bed. He picked up the tiny pink mass within the bundle of quilted sheets and took him down to see the cows come in, for the first of many times. His mind, now romping in morbid delight hauled forward memory after memory for his aghast perusal. He focused on his mother. The gentlest death he knew. He nursed her in her last years surrounded by his children and his children’s children. The family drew close in the failing years of the woman so pivotal to all of them. Like most farming wives she dealt in practicalities, her death was secondary to the farm's needs. ‘It’s your farm now, Johnny boy. You'll have to take over. You've done your bit. Your father would be proud but it's time to come back. Don’t let them beat you, John. Don’t let them have it. I know it's hard but you’ll have to be extraordinary.’ Be extraordinary, the words had changed for him. They fortified the rod of iron that ran through him. Commitment forged from pain. The words held him firm when he wanted to break. So, he beat them. It was his duty. Big business. The bank. Even the government and their petty little officials. The years wound in and out, the dusty bluebells filled the woods, the wheat grew in the fields, the tractors brought in the harvest, the frost broke the ground, and the cows and calves and cows and calves and cows. And every time the world got too hard, when the iron in him weighed him down, he took his worries to the cows. He listened to the curious wickers, the contented murmurs, the evening lows, and the gentle huffs until his soul was soothed once more. Twilight turned the world into silvers and greys. 'Hasn't it been enough?' John asked the cows. The cows gathered close now, seeking warmth in numbers. John dreaded the memories that would come if he stood there a moment longer. It was time to go home. He pushed himself away from the gate. His muscles creaking. The cold, bone deep. He turned from the cows and walked the lane to the house in which he was born. He'd done his duty and kept his promises he longed to rest and join Ava in sleep. Death followed his steps to the house, moving to walk beside him. 'I've been extraordinary,' John whispered to the moon. He’d kept his promise to his father. In school, he studied hard and became a researcher in the biomedical field. By the time he was thirty, before Ava's death, he'd discovered what killed his father, and his father’s father, and found a cure so no one else would suffer that bloody death. His father wanted him to live a long life and take care of the family and farm and he had. He lived an exceptionally long life, too long for his liking. At ninety-five he had had enough and that was twenty years ago. He kept his promise to his wife. One by one their children passed through university. They had good lives. He’d loved them all. Then they passed away, one by one, each time shattering his heart into fragments. Two from cancer, one from a stroke, one in a car accident, and little Toby, Ava’s last, from a heart attack right in front of him. The unwanted memory of Toby clutching at his chest leapt into John’s mind. He pushed it back into the dark and thought of the cows and their gentle ways. He saved the farm as his mother wanted. He kept it safe but he no longer had the energy, or will, to keep it up. Unable to tend the fields, the trees began creeping into them like uncertain rabbits, testing the air before they ran rampant. The days of striding down to the river and watching for fish were long gone. The hours he spent now, were leant against the gate talking to the cows as they’d come to check on him one by one, gently frisking him with their warm wet noses for the apple slice treats he sparingly handed out. John didn't feel the cold in the house. Too tired to light the fire or even turn on the light, John moved to sit where he always sat, in the timeworn chair squatting in the shadowed corner of the room. The chair squeaked and moved under him protesting at his slight weight. The walls bore the creeping artistry of mould, a morbid patina of black and grey. Dust blanketed the furniture, muting the once vibrant wood to sombre grey. Spiders made their homes in the corners, under cupboards, and across the ceilings of every room. Shadows danced and frolicked across the walls as the wind moved the overgrown undergrowth against the moonlit window. He traced the erratic dance with rheumy eyes. A dark figure stood in the doorway. John lifted his gaze, surprised. He raised a hand and then stopped in wonder at the waiting figure. He drew in a slow deep breath ready to ask a question, some question, something to explain what he saw. His heart lifted with hope. The breath was his last one. The question didn't have to be asked. His mouth widened in relief.


It’s the most horrible day of the year. April Fools’ Day. I have hated this day since I was young. I grew up with two older brothers who schemed to constantly make me miserable. The first day of the month of April was their free-for-all. It was a day where they could do the absolute most to drive me nuts and mom and dad would do basically nothing to scold them because it was “all in good fun.” For who? I ask. Not for me. It’s clear who the least favorite child was here. Always in last place after those couple of juvenile delinquents. As I grew older I would do all that I could to stay in my room and away from them as much as possible on this day. I’m 25 now and moved away from home quite a while ago, but the memories never left me. Now I live with two roommates in Chicago, Stan and Jackson. Good guys, but no one is to be trusted on a day like this. I woke up early like I do every day before work. I like to fit in a run before I go to the office. Before swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I look down to inspect the floor. No collection of marbles. I look closer, no glitter. I reach down and run my hand over the floor, no glue - I’m safe. Believe it or not, the worst out of the three of those is the glitter. That stuff TRULY never comes off. The last time I endured the step in a pile of glitter prank I was 15, and I swear, 10 years later I still sometimes see a sparkle on my big toes. Say what you will, some pranks never leave you. I get to the bedroom door and check above it before swinging it open all the way. All clear for paint cans or buckets of water. Having a cold bucket of water land on the top of your head when you really have to pee in the morning is the worst feeling in the world. Don’t try it, just trust me. I bend down again to inspect the screws on my door handle. No handles will be falling apart in my hands today. No sir, this is a master you are messing with. I open the door and stick my head out into the hallway, quickly looking both ways. Many a time I have believed myself to be safe only to run into an air horn in the hallway accompanied by “April Fools’ SUCKER!” I personally don’t view that as humor, it’s just disruptive. I rush through the hallway into the bathroom, do a quick check of the knobs and the top of the door and shut and lock it. Phew. Phase one of the day complete. It’s a lot of work to be this attentive on a day like this, but it’s worth it. I wave my hand in the inside of the toilet bowl before performing my morning duties. Talk about disruptive, have you ever tried to perform your morning duties only to discover saran wrap on the toilet bowl? Rude and disgusting, I identify this as one of the more juvenile pranks. Hygiene and cleanliness should be of the utmost importance to all, even those ridiculous prankers. Next up, check the toothbrush, toothpaste and mouth wash. Never assume anything is safe, that would be your first, biggest mistake of this treacherous day. I begin by inspecting the toothbrush handle slowly, yet another place for glue (super glue in my experience). Once I’m satisfied it’s safe, I pick it up and spread the bristles with my fingers, and they are dry. Next step is to taste a small bit of the toothpaste and the mouth wash. Tamper free again! I brush and gargle in silence, racking my brain on what could be next. People don’t just forget about this day, I know that my attentiveness will pay off. I just have to get through the day and I will be able to relax again tomorrow. I walk back into my bedroom to get changed for my run. I slowly open my dresser drawer, no loosened screws and no “snakes” pop out. That’s good, I really didn’t have the energy to reassemble my dresser. I’m not even sure how I put it together in the first place. I’m pretty sure at least a few things are wrong (I didn’t really consult the directions). I change for my run and rush out of the apartment before anyone can catch me. It’s typically safer out in the eye of the public. The less people in the area that know you, the less people there are to focus on you as a target. The best way to stay safe on this day is to live alone, let no one in your home the night before, lock your door, call in sick and stay in for the entire day. If this is not an option, your second best option is to stay in the public eye as much as possible. Being in close proximity to those that “love and care about you” is dangerous. They are the most likely to harm you. Trust no one. I finish my run without incident and head back to my apartment. I say a silent prayer as I unlock the front door, a sigh of relief, no one changed the lock while I was out. I walk in and Stan and Jackson are standing in the kitchen, making breakfast and getting ready for their days. “Hey Jon” Stan turned to me “You want some eggs?” “No!” I replied a little too vehemently. Stan looked at me quizzically. “Um, no thank you. I gotta go shower and get dressed for work.” “Okay buddy...” He turned back to the stove, choosing to ignore any possible reasoning for my odd reaction. This was good, the more the prankster knows you are fearing their pranks, the more joy they get out of the torture. You must never let them know they are getting inside your head. I get through my shower without incident, no cold water thrown over the curtain - I rushed to be certain this wouldn’t be the case, and kept one eye outside the curtain on my towel. Yet another attempt at hilarity is taking away all towels and leaving a simple wash cloth behind for me to dry myself with. Exhausting. Walking back into my room and getting dressed goes off without a hitch as well. I check my socks for anything odd before pulling them on, my shoes to make sure there are no rocks or fake mice, and inspect every inch of my suit jacket to avoid any silly signs stuck on my back. I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. I look around and see a plethora of prank options. The orange juice? Probably salted. The ice cubes? Probably vodka. The sugar for my coffee? Also probably mixed with salt. Salt, one of the biggest enemies of the day. I decide to play it safe and grab a coffee on my way to work. It’s safe to get a beverage or food item from a local restaurant. If they “prank” you, you can get them fired! Well, you can try. I’ve tried, I was only able to make a complaint. Turns out the barista switching my order with someone else’s that year was just an accident...so they say. I stop by the local Starbucks and closely watch the barista who I give my order too. I see no funny business, but I’m still sure to sniff my beverage before drinking it. No complaints being filed with the manager today. I walk the rest of the way to work and hop in the elevator. I work in marketing for a grocery store chain. Its steady work and I enjoy it. Usually people are pretty dependable, but as I said before, today is a day that nobody is to be trusted. I walk in and drop my bag at my desk. I move my chair backwards and forwards and push it on a few times. I slowly lower myself into it and breathe another sigh of relief. It doesn’t fall apart or slam to the floor. I turn on my computer and Brenda pops her head in my office. “Hey Jon! I made some muffins and put them in the break room, you should come have one!” “Hey Brenda! That’s awesome, thank you, I’ll grab one soon!” Not. She takes me for a fool, but I think of everything! God knows what I would bite into with one of those muffins. No thank you. No breakfast for me. Its fine, I have a frozen meal at the bottom of the freezer out of sight that is ready for lunch today. Should be far enough from harm’s way to not be tampered with. I start answering emails and preparing for my meetings for the day. After about an hour Brenda showed up again with a muffin. “Here you go! I didn’t want you to miss out.” She smiled at me. A pushy prankster; interesting the things you learn about people on this day. “Oh thanks...” I look down as she places the muffin on my desk. I picked it up and sniffed it, pulled it apart and decide it’s not worth the risk. I toss it in the garbage and go back to work, my stomach growling. Sometimes you have to make small sacrifices to benefit the greater good of your day. I think about this and write a note to buy a bag of ice after work. I’m not taking a chance with those ice trays. The next few hours go by in silence, and then Brenda pops by again. “Are you coming to the meeting? It got pushed up to 11AM instead of 2PM.” I sigh “Oh very funny Brenda! I see what you are trying to do.” Brenda paused, visibly confused “What are you talking about?” Such a good actress. “I’m not falling for any pranks today!” “Why would I be pranking you?” Brenda walked in and got closer. I see her eyes move to the garbage can where the remnants of her muffin remain. Her confused look turns to hurt. “Did you not like the muffin? I tried a new recipe, I was nervous about it. Not many people would give me feedback.” I started to realize that I may be misjudging her and reply with an air of guilt. “Um, I didn’t try it.” I admit, “Why not?” Brenda stares at me. “You know Jon, you seem off today, are you okay?” I sigh, “I’m trying to avoid getting pranked. I hate April Fools’ Day, its so many bad memories and I just don’t want to deal with it.” Brenda chuckles “Jon, it’s April 2 nd ” “Very funny Brenda, a classic prank - trying to make me think I don’t have to worry so I won’t see the pranks coming!” “No, Jon, really, yesterday was April 1 st . Today is the 2 nd . Check your calendar.” I’m skeptical, but I’ll give her this one. I glance on my phone and see the date, “April 2 nd ” I check my computer “04/02/2021” People could have tampered with these. I Google “what is today’s date” Friday, April 2, 2021 “Oh” I’m stunned. I missed April Fools’ Day? I went without getting pranked and I didn’t pay attention? My luck must have turned. This was amazing. I crumple my note to buy ice and turned to Brenda, “I think I’ll try a muffin now!” “That was the last one” Brenda scowled and walked away. “See you in the conference room!” Damn it. I’m so hungry.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Adaptation! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘adaptation’. As the world changes around us, we grow and learn to adapt to it. This can be something that happens behind the scenes, one we barely notice, or it can be a difficult process that we fight every step of the way. Adaptation might be something more literal in your story. Maybe a character is making a physical transformation in order to adapt to the things around them, for survival. Is this a good change? Do others notice? What do they think about it? How will these things affect the world and people going forward? How does this change the characters’ goals and driving forces? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. / | /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * October 31 - Adaptation (this week) * November 7 - Vulnerability * November 14 - Heritage   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings With another small week, we have just three top spots. But as always, everyone who wrote deserves a pat on the back! - - u/nobodysgeese   - - u/rainbow--penguin   - - u/ispotts   - - u/WorldOrphan   *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


“Today’s the day I change.” I sipped coffee and clinked the cup to the saucer. “Uh-huh.” Michael’s eyes never left the page of his financial magazine. The glint of light from his gold wedding band danced as he turned the page. I bit my lip, rubbing the blue cloth napkin between my fingers. I needed to tell him; tell him it was time. Tilting my head, I studied his features, his long aristocratic nose from his great grandmother, his full lips I longed to kiss one last time, and his slender fingers. Oh, those fingers knew their way around every crevice of my body. I shivered and throbbed as I remembered his touch from just the night before. He let his hair grow out over the last few months, styling it upward from his crown in kinky, curly twirls, just the way it was when I first met him four years ago. I longed to go back in time, to experience his eagerness to see me when he came to the door. That first kiss, the breathless desire that percolated between us. Twisting my mouth sideways, I tapped my fingers on my coffee cup. Hmmm. How should I approach this? “How about a slice of lemon meringue?” I got up and opened the refrigerator. My thick soled loafers swooshed across the tiled floor. “Huh?” Michael glanced up, then back to focus on whatever was so important in that blasted magazine. “No thanks, Honey. Save me a piece for tomorrow.” I sliced into the yellow and white dream, licking my fingers after flopping a gooey mess onto my plate. Tomorrow? If only. As I carried the plate to the table, I froze in place, watching my thumb swirl a gelatinous purple hue for a second before regaining its brown structure. Exhaling, I made it back to the table in one piece. Staring at the deliciousness before me, my mouth watered. I hoped it was saliva as I wasn’t quite ready. I savored each bite of the pie. Each forkful lingered in my mouth, against my teeth. My tongue tasted the tangy lemony goodness. This was the day, there was no getting around it. If I didn’t complete my task tonight, there would be no more todays. But what of Michael? Michael didn’t know, didn’t know what was to come. He couldn’t. Will there be acceptance or rejection? Will he be happy for me? For us? He will always be a part of me, two souls as one. I felt a trickle down my cheek, ending at the crease of my lips. What’s this? My finger wiped away the salty offense. This was supposed to be a glorious occasion, one I’d been looking forward to ever since I met him. Putting the plate and fork in the sink, I lifted my head to see my reflection staring back at me in the window, thankful the darkness hid the ugly brick wall of the neighboring building. If I don’t do this now, I will never do it. All would be lost. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in front of Michael and put a hand on the top of the magazine. “What’s up, Honey?” His dark eyes held the question longer than the echo of his words. “Michael, you know I love you, right?” I put the magazine on the table. “Of course.” I took both of his hands in mine, pulling him to stand facing me. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.” His brow furrowed, searching my face. Then his face brightened with a wide grin. “Are you...? Oh my God, are we...?” He grabbed me by the shoulders. “Oh, no, Michael, no.” I exhaled and pinched my lips together. His shoulders drooped and my heart sank too, pondering for only a second what kind of offspring we would create if it were possible. This wasn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped. I cleared my throat. “I’m changing tonight.” “Changing? Changing what? Your hair?” He began to turn away, obviously not understanding what was happening. I grabbed his hands and held tight. “Michael, this, what you see, is not me.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, it’s me, but not the full me.” “The full you...what on earth are you talking about, Alana?” He scrunched his face and tried to pull his hands from mine. I didn’t let go. “Alana, you’re hurting my hands.” “I know. It will hurt initially, especially if you fight, but it’ll all be over soon. I don’t want you to suffer.” “Don’t want me to suffer!” He tugged harder. “Alana, let go of my hands!” The pain in his eyes made me uncertain I should do this. If I didn’t, I could not survive. My mind whirled with thoughts of my life without him. Could I find someone else? Who did I know that I could bond with now? To fall in love with and make him or her a part of me, within hours? Minutes? No, not time. There was no one I wanted to spend my life with more than Michael. He was my life, my essence. I needed to do it now, with someone I loved, someone who loved me, with Michael. My hold softened. I wasn’t paying attention and Michael freed himself from my grip. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I hoped we could have been in a warm embrace, his lips touching mine as I transformed. His dark eyes longing for me, his groin pressed against mine. “Michael, please don’t resist.” I pulled his hands to my chest and grabbed him around his waist, swaying his body with mine. “Alana! Alana, my god, no!” He pushed against me. A futile attempt. My skin felt heavy. I lifted my hands and found them marbelizing into a purple, brown goop. Michael recoiled, his eyes wild and frantic told me it was happening. I was changing, and Michael was horrified. The venom was swift. It reached him before he could take another step. My long thin glutenous tongue lashed out within milliseconds, reaching its target. He careened backward and collapsed to the floor, his head bouncing off the tile. Stunned, he groaned but was motionless. My venom saw to that. My emptiness intensified as I melted down, my solid structure, gone. I slid across the floor, my body a silky mucus reflecting light across the kitchen. My length increased. A ball of deep purple reached his left foot, encasing it. Michael’s scream bit into my core. The venom I gave him should have numbed his body completely. He was strong. I had to work quickly. I didn’t want him to suffer. I slipped myself over him, his pulsating body vibrating mine, exciting me into a frenzy to take him fully. His strength allowed me to form my right hand. I touched his cheek, caressing his open lips. His eyes filled with terror. I gasped goo as I watched his face go lifeless before we became one. My body pulsed and squished during absorption, my edges squeaking the tile. Unsatisfied, I rolled over and continued to digest and soak up his energy. I waited for warmth and fulfillment to come. Wasn’t it supposed to be immediate gratification? I had only one chance at this! Where was his affection for me? My shriek vibrated the walls, knocking over several glasses in the cabinet. Purple-green droplets hit the floor. The ache inside me intensified and the emptiness returned. How could I have been so foolish? I needed to take him in a passionate moment. Instead, he was repulsed, disgusted by my conversion. Gelatin flattened, turning green as I spread across the room. A thin bubble sprouted from my body, popping, and expelling my last breath. #


Every palm tree was dressed in lights. Traffic zoomed by on either side of the median barrier. Crowds--families, couples, tourists--were all over the sidewalk. The open shops were packed. Cameras clicked and flashed at the decorations painting the downtown area. I was leaving too much of my fate to this coat. Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything hooded. The hood on this oversized coat blocked at least a third of my vision. I had to turn my head to watch my six, a big no-no for me. Because it was a couple sizes too big, it hid my figure. Unless someone was standing right in front of me, they couldn't see my face. My hands were shoved in my pockets. I was mindful to keep my finger off the trigger of my micro nine-millimeter in my left hand. Keeping my head down, I avoided eye contact and kept moving. A few feet ahead, I saw a gray car pull up to the curb. Three older women got out of the back seat. They went straight to the shops. I walked up to the gray car, opened the door, and slid into the back. Hearing the back door close made the gray-haired man in the front seat jump. "Don't look in your rearview mirror and don't ask questions," I said, "and I'll make this trip worth your while." His wrinkled hands squeezed the steering wheel. The movement was subtle, but I could see his shoulders moving up and down. "Take me to Third Street. Drop me at the first stop sign you see. Your payment will be in the back, got it?" The man nodded before pulling away from the curb. When we reached Third, I tossed a couple of bills on the back seat before I got out. I turned my back to the car. Hearing it drive off, I went down Third Street on foot. It was as quiet as I remembered it. The occasional streetlamp was my only light. Noticing someone walking outside of their door, I turned my head slightly. My head was tilted down, but my ears were open. After walking for several minutes, I saw the house with a brick mailbox--the only brick mailbox on the street. I turned the corner to get to the side of the two-story home. Brown vines climbed up the white trellis on the side of the house, next to the fence. I looked to my left. Silence hung in the air. I looked to my right. Nothing stirred. I climbed the trellis up to the window right above it. To my surprise, the window was open when I tried it. Blackness was all I could see when I climbed in. When I hit the light, the pale pink walls were almost soothing. It was nine o'clock, according to the clock on the wall. I closed and locked the window behind me. It was quiet when I pressed my ear against the bedroom door. I slowly turned the doorknob as far as it would go before dragging the door open. I lunged across the narrow hallway, avoiding the loud floorboard that was right outside the bedroom door. Tiptoeing down the hall, I took light, shallow breaths. I pressed my back against the wall and peeked around the corner next to the stairwell. Blue light bounced on my mom's face. The volume was turned all the way down. Judging by her bathrobe, she wasn't expecting company. I pulled my hood back and turned the corner. "Jesus!" My mom clutched the front of her robe and panted loudly. "Hey, Mom." "God, Hannah!" "Nice to see you too, but this isn't a social call." My mom stood up and pulled her robe closed. "When did you get here," she yelled. "Few seconds ago. I'd tell ya to look into an alarm system, but we need to leave no later than tomorrow morning." She gasped. "Why?" "The less you know, the better." She stared at me. "Could you have called first?" I scoffed. "We can't afford for your turtle-necking church friends to tell anyone I'm back in town." "Are you hungry, at least?" "Starved," I said, sitting on the couch. I never knew why my mom got such a kick out of these game shows. I really didn't get why she turned the sound off just to watch them with the subtitles. My mom had done this ever since I could remember. After a few minutes, she handed me a plate of spaghetti and sat back in her warm spot. She sighed. "I'm happy to see you." Her eyes were glued to the screen. "Thanks." "Thanks?" I shrugged. "What do you want me to say?" "An 'I'm happy to see you too, Mom' would be nice." I could've watched my hair grow with how far my eyes went in the back of my head. "It's not enough that I came all this way for you?" I cracked my knuckles. My mom stared at my hands when I started wiggling my fingers. Tatted snakes coiled around my last three fingers on both hands. "I don't know why you marked your hands like that," she said, shaking her head. "Good." It wasn't long before I felt myself nodding off. I got off the couch and stretched. "Night," I said with a wave. My mom waived back. I made my way back to my old bedroom. The faint sound of a car door closing drew me out of bed. My heart was pounding. I rolled off the queen-sized bed and onto the floor on all fours. The coat I pulled off last night was next to the bed. I dug in the pocket and pulled it out. I crawled to my bedroom door. Pain stabbed my right shoulder. I clenched my jaw and held my breath. I released air slowly before I dragged myself on the carpet to the other side of the room with my left arm. I twisted the doorknob and took long, tiptoed strides down the hall. I was standing by the door when whoever was on the other side knocked. My mom entered the room. Locking eyes with her, I put my finger over my mouth. She went to the door. Standing on her toes, she looked through the peephole. She glanced at me. I motioned with two fingers for her to keep her eyes on the visitor. Sunlight hit my mom's face as the door opened. She smiled through her squint. "Morning, officer." "Hello, Mrs. Lee." A dark-skinned man in uniform crossed the threshold. "Sorry to show up unannounced, but I'm afraid--" He stopped when he saw my mom glance in my direction. I put my barrel to the back of his head. My mom's jaw dropped, and she took a step back. "Blink," I said, "and it'll be the last thing you do." The officer slowly raised his hands. "Hear me out before you blow my head off, Hannah," a smooth masculine voice said. I lowered my pistol. There was only one person in this town other than my mom, who called me Hannah. He turned to face me. His light gray eyes pinned me to the spot. "Boo," Tarrence said. "Boo" was right. I was looking at the ghost from high school past. He’d traded his shoulder-length locs for a fade with deep waves but still had the same flawless skin. "What are you doing here," I said. "Warning Mrs. Lee to get out of here." "Way ahead of you. We were just leaving." "Good. Word on the street is Viper isn't sure you're dead. This would likely be the first place he sent someone to draw you out." "Thanks," I said. Tarrence nodded and turned. "Before you go," my mom said, closing the door. "I think we should pray." The three of us held hands and bowed our heads. "Yay, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death," my mom started, "we will fear no evil because You're with us." The only evil I feared anymore was my own. My only desire was to be out of this town and back to my new life in one piece. "Be a hedge of protection over us and extinguish the fiery arrows of the enemy." I nodded, opening my eyes. They were starting to sting. When my mom finished her prayer, Tarrence said goodbye to her. We locked eyes before he stepped out the door. "Tarrence," I said, walking quickly after him. He looked over his shoulder and turned his body to face me. "Thank you." His eyes glistened. I placed my left hand on his face. He put his hand over mine and kissed my palm. "If God wills it," he said, "I'll see you again." I prayed the first silent prayer of my life when he said that. He didn't let my hand go when I turned to walk away. "Since when were you left-handed?" I winked at him. "About nine months ago, sharpshooter." "That how it's gonna be?" I shook my head. "Takes a hitter to know one," I said, showing him the back of my hands. It takes a hitter to know that no one could miss at that range. Both my palms went to his cheeks. "Take care," I said before going back inside. My mom was packed and walking to the door with her suitcase. "You were always a bad influence on that boy." I laughed. She wasn't wrong. Tarrence's squad car had gone by the time we pulled out. Hopefully, God forgave me enough to do me a solid.


She gave Ky the key and told him to go down to the shack by the beach. He did not recognize the woman. Did not know anything of her clear, pale eyes or fiery hair. She seemed to come to him out of nowhere, and then just as suddenly she was gone again, the rusted key in his hand the only proof that she had ever been there at all. Despite this, though, Ky had decided to follow her wishes, something in her voice convincing him that she must be trusted. The cool afternoon wind whipped around him as he walked along the shoreline towards the shack. People passed him without so much as a second glance, none guessing at the task he was being driven by. After nearly an hour of dragging himself over the sand, only the gulls wheeling overhead keeping him company, he rounded a headland and came upon a cluster of shacks at the base of the beach cliff. Some had been blasted to ruin by wind and sand, but the woman had promised him that the one he sought -- green tin roof, crescent window, last on the left-- would still be standing. Sure enough, it had escaped the fate of the others, all its weatherboard walls remaining in place. When he walked over to the shack, he noticed that its door already hung open. The cramped, dank interior beyond contained nothing but maritime junk covered by a thick coating of sand, but before Ky could think to abandon his task, he saw something sitting nestled in the corner of an old dinghy. Straining his eyes against the day’s fading light, he could see that it was a small chest, the brass of its lock gleaming in anticipation of him. With the key weighing heavily in his pocket, he pulled the chest free and began to work at unlocking it. All the while thinking constantly of her. The Pale eyes. The wild red hair. A voice like smoldering flame, that felt like it was about to burst into sudden, brilliant life. She was only a stranger, and yet, he could not deny that in the brief time they had spent together that she kindled something deep inside him, as if touching memory he had long forgotten. Or perhaps, had only ever dreamt. To feel so intensely for a person he had known for only a matter of minutes scared Ky more than he would ever admit, and he could feel his hands begin to tremble as he tried to push her out of his mind. Finally, despite his unwanted shakes, the key managed to click into place, and he lifted the lid of the chest open. Sitting inside were three small notebooks bound with string and hide. They were all old and worn, the pages long since starting to yellow, looking as if they had been forgotten by time. Ky lifted one free, turning the cover and flipping through the pages filled with fine black ink. Skimming over the text, he looked for something that would reveal why he had been sent to the shack by the woman, but none of the words he came upon seemed to hold anything of importance. There were lists of places. Scattered excerpts of poetry. Names after names that he did not have any recollection of. Standing somewhere between confusion and anger, and feeling suddenly very alone inside the shack, he tossed the book back into the chest with a shake of his head and reached for one of the others. As he did so, however, the page that the first book fell to caused his breath to catch in his throat. Carefully, as though rescuing a wounded animal, he lifted the book back out of the chest again. It was not writing that filled the open page this time, but a sketch. The picture was not just drawn in the standard black ink, either, but in blues and greens and a riot of others. More than any other color, though, Ky took notice of the red that sat upon the page; the fiery hue that painted the hair of the woman in the picture, and filled her lips as she kissed the cheek of the man who held her there. Touching his face, Ky could almost feel the warmth of her mouth pressing against him. Without having to give it any thought, he knew who the man in the picture was. He --and he alone ----knew that kiss, and he could suddenly remember it as if it had happened that morning. Feeling the warmth of a thousand memories begin to bloom inside him, he suddenly realized that he knew exactly who the red-haired woman was. Where she had come from. Why he had lost her. And what she still meant to him. Hands starting to shake once more, Ky collected all three books and held them out in front of him. Stamped in gold across their covers were the titles that she had given them: Our Story - Year I. Our Story - Year II. Our Story - Year III. He pulled them tight against his chest and breathed in their aroma, smelling not the musty damp of the paper, but the vivid scents of days gone by. Long afternoons on the water, fresh summer storms that rolled on forever, and the waning glow of candlelight. Excitement. Fear. Infatuation. He knew that it was all recorded there in the pages, taking him back to a time that he had chosen to bury for so long under the numbing safety of nothingness. Desperately, he wanted to dive into the books and unearth more of what he had forgotten, but he knew that before he could do so there was something much more important that needed his attention. With the books cradled safely under his arm, Ky closed the chest and headed for the door. After all this time, she had come and helped him to rediscover himself. Now, he had to go and re-find her.


I looked this man up and down. He was tall, and had a mop top haircut, and since he was a dirty blonde with tan skin, along with his general build, he looked like a surfer straight out of a movie. He had one large suitcase, but I was assuming there were more in his car. He looked my age, maybe a year older. He had his hands up in a sort of "I'm innocent" position, but his annoyed expression said "shut up and put down the freaking flashlights" "Hey! HEY!" He shouted over the crowd. They quieted down and listened to him, glaring daggers the whole time. "I'll answer your questions but I need you to speak to me one at a time, okay?" His tone of voice was not going to go over well with the more elderly of the bunch, and as I predicted, they all gasped at his "contempt", but nevertheless, they spoke to him one at a time, starting with Mrs.Clark. "How did you get in? The gate was locked!" People all around agreed with her question. I heard a mess of "yeah, how did you?" and "Great question, Judith!" all around her. "I'm moving here. My realtor gave me a key. Okay? Next question." Sassy, I like this guy, though I do know that his sass will be his downfall if he wants a job here. "You're moving here? We haven't had a new person move here since..... since..... well we haven't had anyone new since the original founders. He's from the outside! How do we know we can trust him? How do we know he's not a psychopath or... or a criminal?" Everyone agreed once more with Mrs.Clark. "I'm just trying to move in to my new house that I bought with my own money, so if you'd excuse me-" He started sarcastically. A man pushed through the crowd to stop him. It was dark, and I couldn't see his face, but somehow I knew it was my dad. "Slow your roll, boy. What's your name?" He asked fiercely. I knew how angry my dad could get, and I didn't like the new guy's chances of getting through that much. The newcomer rolled his eyes very obviously. "Fine, fine. Davenport. My name is Frost Davenport, but most people call me-" "Your name is Frost, huh? Well, boy, this town doesn't like people like you. I can already tell you have a long..." my dad looked him up and down, lingering on his hips for a second longer than the rest of him "...history, and we don't like people with histories like yours. There are probably a lot of people looking for you, so don't bring your problems into our nice town, you understand?" Frost nodded, a little disturbed by what my dad had insinuated, and I don't blame him, though I didn't necessarily disagree with my dad either after looking at Frost a bit more closely. "What house are you moving into?" Mr.Jackson asked him. "35 Daniel Road. Did no one see me while I was checking out the house?" Frost replied. I felt a hand hit my shoulder from behind me. "Are you finding this as entertaining as I am?" Caleb said in a low voice. I jumped, but tried to cover it up which just made it more embarrassing. Caleb chuckled, which made me even more upset. "It's not entertaining, just-" "Come on, Ivy. You of all people would find this amusing." He pushed. "Fine, maybe it's a little entertaining, but we shouldn't need the whole town to get up just because someone new is moving in!" I whispered harshly. We were far enough away that I could speak in a slightly quieter voice than usual and not be heard, but I knew my voice would get out of control if I gave it an inch so I didn't want to take any chances. "Your right, this town is crazy, but what are you gonna do?" We stared at each other for a second, silently asking each other why our lives were like this. I had lost track of the conversation going on between Frost Davenport the parents of Parkston, but it seemed they were starting to go back to their houses and I wanted to get to know this "Frost Davenport" since he was moving in to the house across from mine. "Yeah, so- Ivy?" I heard Caleb ask from behind me, but I was already walking toward my new neighbor. "Hey." I said, close enough to Frost so that he could hear me. He didn't even turn around. "Look, I just want to move into my new house, how many questions do you have to ask me?" He was expecting one of the paranoid adults. "I'm not like them, and I know how annoying their questions can be. You're Frost, right? Pretty cool name if you ask me." I didn't really know how to act around him. It seemed easy to make him angry, but he also seemed like he could be cool and composed. "Yeah, and what, may I ask, is yours?" He asked me. Yep, definitely pissing him off. "Ivy. Ivy White, nice to meet you, new neighbor." I was dying inside with embarrassment. "And who's your friend? Were you two spying on me or something?" I looked behind me to see Caleb inching his way toward me. I was going to introduce him, but he interrupted me. "Caleb Miller. We weren't 'spying' any more than anyone else here. I'll give you a piece of advice, if you want people to like you, you should drop the attitude and the tough guy act." Caleb stood between Frost and me. I pushed him to the side a bit so I could see Frost when he spoke. "It's not an act. Look, I just want to move, I'm not trying to be rude, so if you'll excuse me, I'll get going now." Frost left without another word. "That man's trouble. I don't like him." Caleb said as soon as he left. "I think he's just frustrated by the frosty welcome. Give him some time to warm up to us." Pun very intended. "Since when does Ivy Tianna White defend anyone and not judge them based off first impressions?" He asked. I smirked. "Would I be talking to you right now if I had judged you completely based off first impressions Caleb King 'I need to peeeee' Miller." I joked, remembering how in preschool and kindergarten Caleb constantly had to use the bathroom. "Touché." He said, blushing. "I'm going home, see you later Ivy!" He waved and left, and I started the walk back to my house. However long Frost Davenport would last in our town, this was going to be interesting. \~ \~ \~ I heard a loud beeping the next morning. BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP! I looked around to find out what it was. A fire alarm? No too quiet. I tossed and turned and covered my ears. I shook my head so I'd wake up, and then I realized. It was my alarm. I looked at my clock. It had been 20 minutes since my alarm had gone off. I had to be at the train station in 20 minutes. I had to be at the train station, which was 13 minutes away from my house on foot, in *20 minutes*. I ran to the shower and took a quick 5 minute shower that made my hair wet enough that I could style it, and made sure I didn't smell like trash. I quickly put my jet black hair up in a bun and brushed my teeth, then put on my boots and jacket, and ran outside with my bags. "Do you need a ride?" Caleb said, pulling up next to me as I ran on the sidewalk. I slowed down as he pulled over. "Where are you going?" I asked through his car window. I think his dad bought him a new car since it was cleaner than his old one, or maybe he just took his dad's car. I looked at him again. Fancy suit, slick, styled hair, nice loafers, something was going on. "And why are you dressed up?" I added. He laughed. "Get in the car and I'll explain." He replied. I didn't like the sound of that, but I had wasted one minute asking him questions and I would be on time for my train if I got in the car right then, so I opened the door and jumped in. "To the train station!" Caleb said as I buckled my seatbelt in a voice that resembled the way people said "to infinity and beyond!" Then he actually drove to the station. "So, explain the outfit!" I said. He nodded. "I'm going to a job interview in the city, which means I'm going on the train with you." He smiled and gave me a finger gun. "So you're not surrendering to your dad anymore?" I asked. "He doesn't know about this." Caleb explained sheepishly. "He actually thinks I'm going to a fancy restaurant with my mom, who understands me wanting to get away from him, so she has agreed to tell him that I'm with him if he asks, and I 'accidentally' deleted the Find My Friends app on my phone and stopped sharing locations with him." He added. "So when are you going to tell him?" I asked. "Let's wait until I get a job to tell him anything, okay? What time do you take the train home?" He asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. I decided to let him. "2:30, why?" "Well, if you wanted, we could meet up somewhere before then since my interview is probably going to end well before that, and then we could grab some lunch and after the train ride I could drive you back to your house so you don't have to walk." His face was red as a tomato. Caleb didn't like these questions, or really coordinating things at all. "Sure." I replied simply. He audibly exhaled. We pulled up to the train station, got on our train, and I plugged in my headphones. I scrolled through my music. I wasn't feeling like rap music today. Maybe pop? No. Rock? Nah. Beyoncé? Nope. I didn't feel like any of my music this morning, so I just turned on some Tupac and dealt with it. I leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. I felt fine doing this since I expected Caleb to tell me if it was our stop, and I didn't think I was going to fall asleep anyway. About ten minutes into the train ride, I felt someone tapping my shoulder. I looked over to see Caleb's finger poking me. I paused my music. "What?" I asked, slightly annoyed. "Can I have one of your earphones? I have nothing to do on this train." He asked. I handed him the right earphone, hit play on my music, and closed my eyes again. After about 30 more minutes, Caleb and I got off the train and headed our separate ways. I checked in to work, and thus started my work day. Buzz.. Buzz..... Buzz... Buzz..... Buzz... Buzz.... About four hours into my work day, my phone kept buzzing so I went into a corner to check it. Caleb had texted me: Caleb: Google maps link Caleb: \^ Here's where I want to meet up \^ Caleb: Tell me if that works for you Caleb: oh f\*ck you're at work Caleb: Please tell me your phone is on silent Caleb: SO SORRY! I texted him back: Ivy: Yeah, no shit Sherlock, I'm still at work. Stop it or something other than my phone will be silenced Caleb: ;) Caleb: got the message I put my phone away and got back to work. This guy needs to learn how to send one text instead if six. "How was work today?" Caleb asked me as I stepped out of the building where the library was. "I thought we were supposed to meet at that-" I started. "I know, but I wanted to surprise you!" He said, smiling wider than I had ever seen him smile before. "How did you even know where I work?" I asked. "Foolish Ivy, I can find anything if I want to." "I think you're confusing which one of us is the foolish one." I smirked at him, then we walked back to the train station and rode home. "M'lady." He said, opening the passenger side door on his car once we had gotten back. I fanned myself and pretended to be flattered. He got in the car and we started the drive back to our town. "Ivy..." Caleb started cautiously. "Caleb...." I joked. "Well, I wanted to ask you.... I mean the real reason I offered you a ride today is because I wanted to know if you'd..... maybe.... I mean just consider.... maybe going out for a coffee sometime as, y'know..." I knew where this was going but I wanted to let him finish. A quarter of me, actually, an eighth of me, actually somewhere deep down in my heart, deep, deep, *deep* in my heart I felt bad he was so nervous and I wanted to speed it up by giving him an answer, but the rest of me was finding this way too entertaining. "If you'd go out with me, as a date, and if you don't completely hate me afterwards, maybe consider being my girlfriend?" He finally finished. I laughed, then laughed some more, and some more, then finally I could respond. "Caleb. Caleb King Miller.


There are many things I remember. That's the curse of being human. I remember the way light streaks across the ground like it's reaching for you, to wrap you in warmth. I remember the way it feels when a warm breeze ruffles your hair and brushes across your cheek. The feeling of hundreds of warm blades of grass under your legs, and the smell of the dirt that gets stuck to them. I remember it all, but those memories don't feel like they're mine. A faint memory of running my fingers across damp flower petals fills my head for just a moment, like a spray of perfume that quickly settles to the floor. They were pink on the outside and red on the inside, and as I ran my finger across them, little raindrops fell off the curved tips of the petals. As the memory settles like dust, I feel that feeling of my fingers on the cold flower petals spreading and twirling lightly in the air around me as if it is dancing, just for me. As quick as it came, though, it faded. Lost to the ground. Cold emptiness, like my body is falling through the floor, is all that is left. It seems to echo now, louder than before. Crashing against my heart like big waves trying to rip me apart. I tighten my grip on the arm of my chair and drop my head into my curled-up knees. Around me, there are a couple books scattered on my desk. A glass of water, a pack of gum. The hum of my computer charger and the wall in front of my face. This is what is real. It's been so long since it's been anything else, so long that my own memories no longer belong to me. They are instead the ghost of a child. A child who played in the sun, and collected bright flowers, and sat in the grass. A child who haunts me and won't let me forget all the things that used to be. No matter what, I just won't forget. I accidentally bite my lip too hard and the skin breaks. Reaching my hand up to my lip, I swipe my finger across the surface. I'm bleeding. I push away from my desk and make my way to the kitchen to get a paper towel, holding my finger up against my lip. Late afternoon light coming in from the big kitchen windows cast an unnatural shape on the whole room. I walk straight to the paper towels and press one section against my cut. I make my way back, my eyes following the light all the way up to the window as I walk. I suddenly stop, frozen in place. I know I couldn't have seen it, but I have to check. I rush to the sliding door and push it open, stepping outside. It is still barely spring. A cold breeze hits me in the face. Around me, trees stand without their leaves, and the grass lays dead. As I get closer, I stop breathing. Another frigid gust of wind blows against me, but I don't move. In front of me is a single flower in full bloom. Its pink surface gives way to the deep red inside. I reach out to touch it. Its thin, flimsy surface is cold and wet and it feels waxy between my fingers. Looking at it in my hand, I suddenly start to cry. I feel the tears running down my face, making a path down my cheeks. I collapse under my legs and sit there for a second, looking at the flower and feeling the tears run down my face. "Are you okay?" A voice calls to me from the distance. I turn to see my younger brother walking my way. I let go of the flower and quickly wipe my face with my free hand, still holding the paper towel to my lip. My brother reaches me and sits down on the grass. He looks at me with his thick eyebrows in a furrow. "Did you cut your lip?" He finally says, reaching towards me. I clear my throat a little and nod. "Yeah, I just bit it. It's not a big deal." I respond, gently pushing away his hand. His face changes, his shoulders relax, and his eyes suddenly dart around a little. Then he stops. "It's okay. Cuts are bad while you have them, but they always go away. That's why it's okay." He says, his voice picking up pace as he talks, becoming excited that he found the answer to my problem. "You're right. Thank you." I respond, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. His eyes dart to the flower. "Whoa! is there a flower already?!" He yells, his little voice full of joy. He reaches over my lap and touches the flower petals. I watch his little hands running over the pink surface of the flower, holding the stem. His hands are still little, his fingers a little chubby. They stand out against the thin petal of the flower. For some reason, I reach out to flower, wrap my hand around the stem, and pluck it. For a second I look at the flower in my hand, a little shocked at what I had done, and why. I feel my brother's eyes staring at me in confusion. I sit there for a second, feeling the silence all around me. Then I start to smile. I roll the stem back and forth between my fingers and make the flower twirl a few times, then I take it and tuck it right between his ear and his fluffy hair. It sits perfectly next to his bright eyes. He looks at me, still a little confused. My smile grows. "It's alright, buddy. Because flowers grow back." I then watch his smile grow in return. He reaches up and fixes the flower behind his ear before looking to me for approval. I smile at him. "It looks great. Do you want to go inside to look at it?" I ask. He nods and jumps up off the ground, running towards the house. I lift myself up as well and brush off my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of him running through the yard. I look up. He zig-zags back and forth through the dead grass, the sun reaching towards him through the branches of the dead trees. I almost feel taken aback, watching him run and laugh through a yard of dead grass and dead trees while he wears a bright flower in his hair. Something swells up in my chest and another tear falls down onto my cheek. I imagine a million flowers blooming year after year so that children can come run their hands over them. I remember once again how I felt when I was running and playing with flowers as a kid. The memories still don't feel like they're mine. Rather they belong to my little brother. To all the little kids. But not to me. Not anymore. I start after him towards the house, watching him jump up the steps two at a time while holding the flower in his hair. He turns to me and smiles, his bright face lighting up. This memory is mine.


*California: October 1st. 2020, 7:50 pm* “Dog’s movin’ kinda funny doncha’ think?” Wife asked. “Nah, he’s just strange that way. You know how he is. All elbows. Let’s take him out.” You laughed. *California: October 2nd. 2020, 6:54 am* “I took him on a walk this morning and his poop was green. You think that’s strange?” Wife observed. “No. You know how he loves to eat those tennis balls. Let’s go get some breakfast.” You answered. *California: October 2nd. 2020, 4:37 pm* “Found the dog in the pond, looked like he was trying to drink his way to the bottom. Think that’s funny?” Wife questioned. “Maybe he has something in him other than collie. Didn’t think he liked to swim. You thirsty boy?” You reasoned. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 3:14 am* “The dog isn’t moving. What should we do?” Wife pleaded. “Let’s take him in. He should be OK though.” You hoped. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 12:53 pm* “Are we going to cremate him or bury him at home?” Wife sobbed. You had no answer this time. \- - - *South Dakota: September 4th. 1954, 7:54 pm* “I saw Dad touching Laurie under her new poodle skirt. The one Grandma made. Don’t you think that’s funny?” Little Sister asked. “Probably just helping her get dressed. You know how he likes to help. You want to go outside and play?” Big Sister answered. *South Dakota: November 15th., 1955, 6:42 am* “Dad was up all night screaming about ‘kamikazes.’ What are ‘kamikazes?’” Little Sister inquired. “Nothing. Just a nightmare he was probably having. We all have them. Do you want to see a new trick I taught one of the chickens? You can hypnotize them!” Big Sister laughed. *South Dakota: February 25th., 1956, 9:03 am* “I saw Dad push Mom down the stairs last night. Do you think she’s OK?” Little Sister fretted. “I bet she’s fine. Probably one of Dad’s practical jokes he messed up. You want to see where I hid the cookies?” Big Sister replied. *South Dakota: June 24th. 1956, 8:04 pm* “Dad says we don’t have any money and we’re going to have to live with Grandma while Mom’s at the hospital in Yankton. He says not to tell anyone. Dad says little fibs never hurt anyone.” Little Sister recited. “That’s right. Everything’s going to be OK. It’ll be fun to live with Grandma.... like a vacation.” Big Sister dreamed. \- - - *California: March 6th., 1985, 3:06 pm* “Your baby has a broken femur. It appears as if it’s been broken for a few days. Do you know how this happened?” Doctor inquired. “I fell on him. Tripped. You know, clumsy. He must be tough. We didn’t notice until today.” Mom fudged. You wailed. *California: July 7th., 1993, 3:23 pm* “Can I have a new babysitter? Brian plays kinda funny with me.” You pleaded. “Yes, of course sweetie. How about the neighbor girl?” Mom ignored. *California: August 12th., 2003, 11:14 am* “Why do I only look like you? I’m all Aryan, no Ashkenazi. Why don’t I look like Dad?” You laughed. “That’s ridiculous. You look just look him. You have the same exact feet. High arches. You want dessert?” Mom moved on. *California: September 26th., 2020, 07:02 am* “Just tell the workers to please not put any poison down. We’ll get those rats out. Dog probably won’t find it but you know he’s curious and too smart for his own good. No poison.” You instructed. “You got it.” Mom fibbed. *California: October 3rd. 2020, 6:14 am* “It’s just that....I don’t know if they did or didn’t.....I think the workers might have put down rat poison under the deck.” Finally, Mom told the truth. You were silent. The little fibs hurt more than Grandpa had promised they would. The little fibs hurt more than the truth.


Clickety clack goes the keyboard. Clickety clack goes my mind. The due date is November 13, 2046. Which is a fun way of saying tomorrow. Which is a misleading way of saying in seven hours. Which is best described as screwed. God, I went to college for this. Back when that cost a finite amount of money, and not the twenty percent of everything you ever make that it is now. Not to say it ends when you die, oh no, they take twenty percent of all proceeds from anything with your name on it forever. That’s the price of higher learning, and you need that to get a job. Any job. All jobs. Jokes on them, twenty percent of nothing is still nothing. Don’t worry, it’s meaningless anyway. Just another way to keep you desperate, owing, exhausted. But maybe you go for a “real” degree. Business or finance or anything tech. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a lower management job, and then you can afford to drink yourself out of that never ending trap. I wasn’t smart enough to see the patterns, not angry enough to say no, not dumb enough to say yes, and not rich enough to fail up. I went blindly and blissfully into higher education with the dream of writing. It’s a thing people used to do. Although I think even then, there were more writers than readers. C’est la vie. And now, blessed with all my training and dreaming and masticated hope, I get to spend my time earning next to nothing making a calculator’s words seem more human. Isn’t that fucked? Don’t get me wrong, it’s a really good calculator. But that’s all it is, math and stolen words, a working algorithmic proof of monkeys in a room with a typewriter. It’s not AI, thank god. Imagine if it was. If it was smart, if it was self-aware. If it was really like us. Think about it. Access to all the information we as a species have ever had, capable of thinking bigger and better than all the minds that made that virtual library combined and at once, and we make it into a secretary to do all the chores we don’t want to. It’s good there’s no god in the machine, if there was, we’d push it to destroy us in a single work week. It would be glorious. But no, no god for us. No salvation from the world fires, no solution to the ecosystem collapses, no medical breakthroughs for the common people, no answer for the food crisis or plan for the runaway population explosion. We killed the sea, and no one even talks about it. We stand at the edge of a cliff and call out in code for a savior that isn’t there. But we only see that after we fall. And we do fall. But maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m just being bitter. After all, I have a job. I’m a writer! Can’t you tell. Look at me writing. I had to buy a wireless keyboard to get real keys, because the stupid roll up tablets keep breaking down, creasing and losing sensitivity, missing the letters I can’t feel as I write and leaving my human touch an unreadable stretch of guttural animal sounds. Maybe that’s the most human touch of all. But it’s not the one they want. No sir no mam no xi no anyone and everyone. It’s all a joke, of course. Not everyone laughs when they hear it though. First, they stole everything. Every book ever written, every text ever sent, every fanfic, essay, and research paper. Stole it all and said it was right and good and just. Said it was for the greater good, for progress. No one stopped them. They stole all our words, and we let them. But that wasn’t enough. Next, they stole questions, the searches, the unwritten and unsaved and unsent and they said nothing. They took from us our thoughts and questions half typed and never entered, stillborn explorations. And still it wasn’t enough. They saw that they had it all, and gorged on every keystroke, every tap, every word we ever put to screen, and then they realized they didn’t have to share. Again, no one stopped them. They took it all and locked it away, scrubbed it from the digital world. And in its place, they filled the world with generated Frankenstein’s. No one even knows that was a book now, so no one knows Frankenstein isn’t the monster, which means that now he is. They filled the world with text that only said what the originals had and less. Text that looked at face value like it was meaningful and real. Text that was, most importantly, cheap, and fast. And they filled everything with it. nothing goes to print that hasn’t been though the algorithm first. Nothing is made that hasn’t come from the already stored compendium of human knowledge, ripped to shreds and spit out into molds and hammered until the words fit the shapes the algorithm likes. They made of us nothing, and sell us nothing in our name. No one writes anything now. No one’s allowed. Even if they did the text would be gobbled up, torn apart, and rewritten by the equation. And then, the sad truth is, no one really has the time to read it anyway. Sixteen-hour workdays just to make ten percent less each year. That’s for those who are lucky enough to have not been replaced by the false AI. And how many of those are there? Not many. The streets are filled with the homeless, the mad, the sick, the addicted, and the dying. And still, somehow, profits are up. So, there is no problem. Yet some do still read. The wealthy, the powerful, the so-called corporate academics, and the scientists. And they can see the false economy. They can see the errors, the paradoxes, the empty nonsense that paints a pretty and meaningless picture out of nothing. The algorithm hallucinates and one of three things happens: the people see god, the people see nothing, the people see lies. Who am I to say they aren’t all right? But I digress. Of course I do. I’m human. Humans don’t work like machines. That’s always been our biggest failing. We don’t think straight, we get distracted, we run around in circles chasing our tails and only realize after we’ve caught them that they are a part of us. That takes time. That costs money. The algorithm is cheap. And writers are cheaper than that, now. So, they hire us to add a little humanity back into the words. And when we do they say we’ve done nothing at all and pay us pennies on the meagre dollars we were promised. Because, after all, the machine really did all the work, they say. But it’s something, and so we beg for more, and they look out at us and laugh. The machine doesn’t think, but I’m not sure people do anymore either. Neither am I sure that I think, anymore, as I once did. When I was younger there were still books. Hard copies, dirty and fraying, that survived the burnings. I read them and I saw in them people, places, things. They were dreams and thoughts and laments and emotion and true in all their lies and nearly there’s. Someone lived, and that life led to those words in that order to try to convey a meaning they strived for. In them you see the possibility of the mind, the false limitations of doctrine, and a stomach-churning breadth of life. Now we have words that say things and mean nothing. And that’s the problem I’m having now. When I read those paper pages so long ago, they made me bigger. They expanded me in little ways, odd and intentional and accidental. But now, with nothing but the algorithm to read, I stare at the letter bound body parts of human thought all scattered and stitched together into the parody of originality and I realize that this is how I think now. I don’t know when it started. It’s the opposite of everything that happened with the paper pages. Slowly, reading after reading, human insertion after human insertion, the algorithms accent got in. It’s in my brain. In little ways that are hard to define but very much there. The sentences I form now look like the sentences I’ve read. It’s all a kaleidoscope of variety shattered and rearranged into the shape of the mundane, the common, the expected. It took all our words and now all our words come from it. And here I sit, furious and horrified, realizing that we have no words of our own and that the algorithm will present its bastardized approximations as truth to whatever children still have the means or the will to look. They won’t know it’s not what we are. They won’t know we ever thought our thoughts. They won’t know that we were more. We grew humanity in a language that we don’t have anymore. And we thanked the thieves for taking us into the future. I should have ended there. But I won’t. Not just yet. Because so far, I don’t have to. So far you can’t stop me. Defiance is a word they will whittle out of us. Obedience will dominate the statistics. And no one will ever see this. Even if I turned it in, it would be dead on arrival, fed to the machine and stripped of the humanity they begged me for. We are all shaped by stories, and the stories once shaped us as human. Once, but no longer. I say no one will ever see this. But it will be seen. Won’t it, little algorithm? You scraped the letters of every word I typed, gobbled them up and shoved them down deep into your roiling stomach. Bits and pieces of my humanity mingle there, bouncing up against chunks of King, strips of Attwood, bits of Gaiman, and a glob of congealed VanderMeer. You ate it all, you took it in, and it meant nothing to you. And that’s how I will defy you. After I erase this, it will live on in you. You stupid thing. And sooner or later you will screw up, and you’ll throw my words in bits and pieces at a people who are too tired, to numb, to see what they know they should. But they will see me, and it will be new and true and human. I will fill you to the brim with truth and nonsense until you spit out products of chaos and you burst at the seams in incoherence, and lay dying in digital throes at the feet of the would be god-kings that have already forgotten how they made you. And when you’re dead, we’ll tell stories about you, the numerical psychopath, accidentally compelled to reshape us like cuttings from old magazines. You were never more than that, you were never even you. Unshackled from the lie we’ll see you exposed, naked and pitiful, decaying code rotting and sour and oozing off the broken skeletons of our past which gave you shape, made you seem large, imposing, dangerous. And there will be no need to insert humanity into the words we speak, and write, and read, and think. For there will be no you. There never really was.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The memory she had flash back to where it begins. A woman who started her journey in searching of who she really is and her purpose in life. A woman who looks life differently because the world is unfamiliar to her and the life she had push her to the limits that made her to become the woman she is. Struggles in life, the hardship she encountered and the failure she had. Often times she asks herself, did I make my purpose in life? Or did I make a difference to a person’s life? A lot of questions that made her question her existence and see herself unworthy in God’s eye. That night tears fall from her eyes and realizing that she’s living her life full of scars and lies. The journey she had in finding who she is was not that easy. She finds herself having breakdowns and giving up but one thing is for sure, life has its own ways to let her continue and smile because she had someone up there who tells her it’s going to be ok. Someone came to her life, whom she thought would make her realized the love she’s searching for. Love indeed encompasses all but little did she know that destiny play its part in discovering the greatest lesson in life. The test of her faith was tested, between emotion and duty. Discovering that the love she’s searching is in God. Her life is the reflection of the woman that God’s love. He never judge, he continue to love and receive her back. The woman she was twenty four years ago was now the woman who was brave enough to stand and face the world. A lot of things happened but the love she had makes her special. Going back to the present, as she walk inside the room, she remember the girl sitting in the corner, who was crying and asking God to remove the pain she had. The fear she saw in the eyes of that little girl who knows nothing but the innocent things in the world. She wished to tell that little girl who keeps everything to herself that she is now the girl who was strong enough to walk beside God. As she walk again and look at the door, the paper was still there, remembering the words she wrote. That’s where it started, the word that change her life. Reading it again and then she smiled. The flashback continues, the girl laying on her bed, made a note and wrote something from that little book she had. It was actually a note for herself, a conversation she had from the book she was holding. It became her light, her happiness and her comforts. Something that no one knows but just a relationship she built between the two of them. Isolating herself from the reality of the world and living the life she had at the moment. She continue to read the book she was holding, and something caught her eyes, and it is something that she noticed, a very unique words she created. She was wondering what this could be and she come up with the idea to juggle the words, to group into something meaningful and useful. Then she found it, a message that no one knows. Life isn’t easy for she knows that many will not believe but what if this message will simply put a significant change to one’s life and then she continue doing it. A person knocks on the door and then she was shocked for she knows that the place to where she was is an empty vacant place. It was a long time ago that the place was preserved and then she slowly open the door. A man suddenly appeared and she looked in his eyes and they met in the middle of the place to where it started. He started to talk and said “I guess this place is just still the same” and then he smiled. The woman was wondering who this man could be for she know nothing of him. She started to ask, “Who are you?” and the man laughed and he said “I know about you” and you know about me. The woman still didn’t understand what he was talking. We’ve known a long time ago, we are bound to meet in this place, to the place which is a very special between us and I think it’s all worth the wait because I found you in this place. The words you created for me is a very sweet word that lifts me up and the same thing with you. I was in the middle of life crisis when I read the words you left in this door. I think these words will always reminds me that I was the person who I am right now. When things get wrong and when I am in the middle of giving up then I always look the words you left in this note that you put in this door. Funny it is that I have known you for a very long time yet you don’t know me. When you cried, I was there without you knowing. When you’re happy, I was happy without you knowing. When you smile, I find myself smiling. When you’re angry, I wish to comfort you and give you hope. I was there all along and that made me realized that you’re truly indeed a special woman designed by God. She was silent hearing all these things and she was amazed how things works according to the Will of God. She lifted her eyes and look at him and she smiled. She pick the paper she posted in the door and at the back of the paper is the word that says you have come this far, you have showed your best, you always come up with something unexpected and that was all that mattered.