THE ICE-CREAM VENDOR “Mum, where’s that music coming from?” Stephanie Pearson paused. Desperate for a shower, her fingers plucked at the clammy t-shirt embracing her body. Unpacking nearly done; a cool drink would be heavenly. Faint strains of tinny music sailed the air: haunting, then strangely familiar. Suddenly, she was ten years old again. “Ha! Beat ya!” shouted Peter. Stephanie poked her brother in the ribs. “Next time. Just you wait.” Childhood Sundays. Sunday School was first, where Peter always belted out his favourite song, The Angels are Watchin’ Over Me . His zest for life and his enthusiasm were infectious. On the way home it was a race to their front gate. Of course, Peter always won. In Summer after a quick change of clothes, Mum gathered supplies. Then it was a bus trip and ferry ride to the beach. Whenever they heard the Mr Dairy Dream music , the siblings raced each other across the burning sand to line up with all the other kids for a choc-topped Squishy Cone. Tears stung her eyes. Her stomach twisted. Ah, Peter, where did you go? “Mum...the music?” Alana repeated. “Well, love, it sounds like an old ice cream van.” “What’s that?” “They were a thing when I was your age. On summer days, the van drove around selling ice-creams and cold drinks, playing music to attract kids. I haven’t seen one for years.” This aroused Alana’s interest. “You mean someone drove around selling ice-creams? Cool!” She grinned, her rounded tanned cheeks almost reaching to her earlobes. “Well, that’s the whole point of ice cream,” her mother joked. “It is cool!” “Oh, funny! If it comes up here, can we have one? Please?” “Okay, just let me get rid of this box. Where’s your brother?” “He’s poking around the backyard. HEY! Curtis! Where are you?” yelled Alana at the top of her lungs. A freckled, red-cheeked face, topped by a head with spiky brown hair poked around the corner of the side passage, followed by Curtis’ skinny frame. He held an old bird cage in one hand. “Yeah?” “Want an ice-cream or what?” Alana asked, poking out her tongue. “From where?” He inspected the cage and changed the subject. “Can I get a bird, Mum?” His mother stared at the rusty cage. “I’ll think about it. There’s an ice-cream van coming. Do you want one?” “What’s an ice-cream van?” “Explain it to your brother, Alana, while I get my purse.” The removalists unloaded the last item of furniture. Glad to finish, they headed off to have a cold beer after a long, hot Friday. Curtis and Alana leaned over the front fence, waiting. Before long an old blue and white van, topped by a large fake ice-cream cone bearing the sign Mr Dairy Dream, beetled along the road. “Wow! Look at that!” exclaimed Alana. “Hey Mum, he’s getting closer!” she shouted. “Okay! I’m coming,” Stephanie called. She waved to the van driver. He pulled over to the kerb, and the music stopped. The old vans had noisy motors whilst they were idling, yet this one was strangely silent. A white-haired man with twinkling grey eyes appeared at the serving window dressed in a retro uniform; a beige coloured jacket fastened down one side and a peaked cap. The name Bert was embroidered in dark blue thread on the left lapel. “Hi Bert,” said Stephanie. “I haven’t seen one of these vans for years. It’s great to know they’re still around.” “I might be the last of my kind in town,” the man replied in a gentle voice. “What’ll it be?” “Three double Squishy Cones, please. My kids haven’t had one of these before.” “In that case, let me serve you all with an extra-large dollop for no added cost. Enjoy yourselves.” The children’s eyes almost fell out of their heads when they saw the size of the ice-creams. “Don’t start on them yet,” said their mother, “I want to show you something.” She turned back to Bert. “They’re great! Instant memories of my childhood. How much do I owe you?” The old man smiled, showing a row of perfectly white teeth. “That will be one dollar-fifty, thank you.” “Oh, that can’t be right. That’s how much I used to pay with my brother twenty-five years ago.” “Yes. Ma-am, it is right. I like to provide old-fashioned service at old-fashioned prices. There should be lots of happiness in this sad old world.” He smiled again and waved before resuming his place in the driver’s seat and slowly driving away. “Hey Mum,” quipped Alana, “I didn’t see anyone else getting ice-cream.” “Me either. That’s odd on a day like this. Let’s get started before they melt. This is how Uncle Pete and I used to do it. Ready, go!” There was a race to see who could lick the chocolate off the top first. Stephanie upturned her chin and deftly bit the point from the cone base, sucking down the soft, gooey ice cream. The children did likewise. “Hey this is fun!” giggled Alana. They headed back inside and unpacked some kitchen boxes before there was a tap, tap, tap on the screen door. “Hello? Anyone in?” “Coming!” Stephanie called. She opened the door to an older, smiling man. She guessed he was in his eighties. “Hello!” he greeted cheerily. “I’m Ken, from number 47 across the road. Welcome to the neighbourhood.” He thrust out a well-worn, lightly tanned hand and grinned broadly. Stephanie shook hands. “Hi, Ken. I’m Stephanie Pearson and ....” She turned to call down the hallway. “Hey kids, come and meet one of our neighbours.” The children stepped in front of their mother. “This is Alana and Curtis. Say hello to Mr.?” “Farnley. Hi kids. Pleased to meet you. I was just wondering. You’ll be busy unpacking. Have you arranged anything for your evening meal?” “I packed bread and supplies for making some sandwiches later, nothing too fussy.” “How about joining my wife Joyce and I for a light meal? That’ll save you some bother. We’d like to make you feel welcome. Would six o’clock be okay?’ “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” Ken grinned broadly again. “No trouble at all. We’re a very friendly community. See you at six.” He waved and wandered back across the road. “ Thank you,” Stephanie called. * Showered and freshened up, the Pearsons crossed the road at six and rang a cowbell fastened on a hook beside the front door. It was a neat fibro cottage, with a tidy garden. Two cheeky garden gnomes kept watch on the verandah overlooking the garden path. A small tabby cat poked his face around the corner to investigate the visitors, running up behind Curtis and rubbing the back of his leg. “Hello, puss,” he said bending down to stroke the cat. “What’s your name?” Ken appeared at the screen door. “Oh, that’s Tiger,” he smiled. “We call him that because he’s so small. Get it?” The children giggled at the joke. “He’s very cute,” said Alana. “And friendly.” “Yes, he is. Come on in and meet the missus.” He showed them into a cosy eating area just off the kitchen, where a small round table was set out for dinner, with a beautifully embroidered tablecloth and cheerfully coloured napkins. A short, plump woman entered from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a sunflower-patterned apron. She had snowy white hair and a kindly face like her husband. “Hello, I’m Joyce.” “Hello, Mrs. Farnley.” Stephanie answered. “Say hello, kids.” “Oh, please call me Joyce. Everyone else does.” “Thank you. I do insist on a little formality with the children, however, so I’d like them to call you Mr. and Mrs. Farnley.” Joyce smiled. “That’s fine. Now, being so hot, we thought that we would just have a salad. Is that alright with you?” “Oh, yes, Joyce. Please don’t go to too much trouble for us.” Stephanie looked at the children. “Why don’t you give Mrs. Farnley a hand in the kitchen?” Joyce and the two assistants wandered off to prepare food. Stephanie noticed only three places set at the table. Ken gestured for her to sit down and said the children could take their meal outside at the little wooden table reserved for when the grandchildren came to visit. They chatted over dinner. “Is it just you and the children?” Ken asked. “No, my husband Brad had to work today, which was the only date the removalists were available, so we came on ahead. He’ll have Monday off and join us on Tuesday.” “Oh, what does he do?” Ken asked. “He’s a branch manager for the Country-Wide Credit Union. He applied for a transfer two months ago, and the position here became available. We’re hoping it will be a fresh start for all of us.” “I think you’ll like our small town. Have you always been country people?” Ken ventured. “No. We’re from Sydney but moved to the country five years ago. My twin brother Peter came to live with us three years ago after his wife left him. He suffered depression and a mild heart attack. His health started to recover, and he was even able to take on light duties at the local aged-care hostel, such as gardening and running errands for the residents, which he really enjoyed.” Stephanie paused to check on the children and returned to her seat. “The children adored Peter, and he adored them. Suddenly, he had a major heart attack and died. It’s been a distressing time for us, so we decided as a family to move away and start somewhere else.” Ken nodded. “Sounds as though you were very close to your brother.” Tears welled in Stephanie’s eyes. “We were peas in a pod. I wish I could hear his voice one more time.” “We’re always here if you need us,” offered Joyce. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” * It was Curtis who heard the music first the next day, while busily cleaning the old bird cage. “MUM!” he called from the back yard. “The ice-cream man’s coming again. Can we have one?” “Yes, of course. Bring my purse from the kitchen.” Stephanie stood upright, a clump of dirt-encrusted weeds limp in her hand. Sure enough, there was the familiar tinny music again. She threw the clump into the bucket and rinsed her hands. It was another sweltering day, and the cold soft serve would be very welcome. “Hello there!” Bert cheerfully called as he pulled into the kerb. “What’ll it be today?” “The same as yesterday, I’m sure.” Stephanie looked at her children. “Is that right, kids?” The children nodded eagerly. The double squishy cone seemed even bigger than the previous day. “Take them into the backyard,” Stephanie advised. “There’s a shady spot under the tree. How much do I owe you, Bert?” “One dollar-fifty,” the ice-cream vendor grinned. “No inflation here.” “You’re a lifesaver, Bert and it takes me back to my childhood. Happy memories of when my brother Peter and I would race each other to the Mr Dairy Dream van at the beach.” “Only too pleased to help. There should be plenty of happiness in this old world, I always say.” “Have you been doing this a long time?” Stephanie enquired. “Since I retired. Gave me a new lease on life, a new purpose. Do you still race your brother?” “Not any more,” replied Stephanie sadly. “He’s probably racing in Heaven.” “Well, my dear, I hope this brings you a little joy.” “Yes, it does. Joy tinged with sadness but thank you. Will we see you tomorrow?” “Tomorrow is my church day. Enjoy.” With that, Bert resumed his place in the driver’s seat and slowly continued along the street. Stephanie sighed. Oh Peter, where are you now? I wish we’d had more time together . It was all so quick. * Sunday evening rolled around. Stephanie, Curtis, and Alana sat down to a simple meal of sandwiches and cold drinks. Glancing at the wall clock, Stephanie noted it was 7.30. “Gosh, I didn’t realise the time. You two need to be in bed in an hour ready for school tomorrow. I hope it’ll be a good first day for you. Don’t forget to pack your bags.” Alana nodded. “Okay. I hope it’s good too. It’s always hard making new friends and having new teachers.” Curtis agreed. The children cleaned up their plates and glasses, then headed into the garden for a few minutes. Tiger had wandered across the road into their yard to say hello. Stephanie watched them through the window, fussing over the little tabby. I hope this is the right move. Maybe I should get them a pet when things have settled. The next morning Stephanie walked with the children to the local public school, a short distance from home. After checking them in at the office, they meandered across the playground. She hoped they would make at least one new friend each. Stephanie made her way back on the opposite side of the road. After passing a few houses, she stopped in front of a tumble-down fibro house with a rusty leaning carport. Under the carport roof was an old Mr Dairy Dream van, paint faded and flaking, the large ice-cream cone on top tilted sideways. She decided to call on the Farnleys and ask them about it. As she rang the doorbell, her mind wandered to the previous day and how good the ice-cream had been. Ken answered the door, beaming. “Come in, come in, it’s good to see you,” he gushed. “Joyce, a cool drink. We’ve got a visitor.” Cradling the tumbler in her hands, Stephanie asked them how long they had lived there. “Oh, we’ve been here fifty years now,” Ken beamed. “This little town is home.” “Wow. That’s a long time. It’s hard for me to imagine living in one place for so long.” “Never had any reason to move.” Joyce remarked. She produced a battered photo album and placed it on the table in front of Stephanie. “Have a look for yourself. Lots of memories in there.” Engrossed in the album, the question of the ice-cream van was forgotten. Stephanie remembered just as she was leaving. “Oh, that’s old Bert Kettle’s van.” Ken replied. “He retired and bought that van to make the neighbourhood kids happy. He was a deacon at our church and wanted to feel like he still had a purpose after retirement. The old house is empty now that his wife has gone into care. Heart of gold, that man.” “But... I bought ice-cream from him yesterday. The name Bert was embroidered on his jacket. Didn’t you hear the music?” The Farnleys shook their heads. “Not possible,” said Ken. “He passed away some years back. Must be someone else with another van. Maybe one of his friends has his uniform.” “Oh, I suppose it must have been. Thanks for the tea and the chat.” Stephanie was puzzled. I’m not imagining things. His jacket said Bert, and he was an older man. He didn’t correct me when I called him by name. How strange. Alana and Curtis arrived home just after three, with reports of a positive day all round. Stephanie looked forward to Brad’s arrival. * The next day, sweat poured down Stephanie’s forehead as she removed more weeds from the front garden. Pausing to wash her hands, she heard the familiar strains of the Mr Dairy Dream van coming along the road and raced inside for money. She glanced at the wall clock. He was early today. Brad was due to arrive just after lunch. A cold treat would be extremely welcome right now, and then she could freshen up. Wandering back down to the front gate, she wondered about what Ken and Joyce had said. It didn’t make any sense. Somebody else called Bert? Is that possible? The van pulled into the kerb. It almost seemed to glide to a halt, and once again, Stephanie marvelled at the quietness of the engine. “What will it be?” Bert beamed. “The usual?” “Yes please. Gosh, it’s so hot that I thought you’d be run off your feet, but it looks like I’m your only customer today. Come to think of it, I didn’t see anyone else come out to you on Friday or Saturday.” “Seems that way. How’s your day going?” “I’m keeping myself busy in the yard,” Stephanie replied, licking the melting ice-cream off the side of the cone. “That way I’m not dwelling on the past too much.” “Been thinking about your brother again?” Bert asked. “Yes. It’s hard not to. I have a huge empty spot inside.” Bert leaned forward. His kindly grey eyes focussed on Stephanie’s blue ones. “Well,” he said in a soothing voice, “You don’t need to worry. He’s fine. Misses you too, but he’s quite okay. No more pain and suffering.” Stephanie wondered how he knew that. Bert resumed his driver’s seat before she could get the words out to ask. “By the way,” he called as the van left the kerb, “he thinks you run like a girl, and he could beat you any time.” Stephanie stopped, dumbfounded. What did he just say? The music started up again, but this time it was different. Still hauntingly familiar. A tune from the past. What was it? Slowly she realised she was hearing the strains of The Angels are Watchin’ Over Me. Suddenly, Bert and his van vanished. She nodded, absorbing Bert’s message. Finally, she turned and headed back inside. Yes, Peter, angel s are real. They’re watching over you and me, and that’s the way it’ll always be.


The land had been riddled and left a vast wasteland from the war between the revolt of creatures. Long ago their had been peace among creatures such as vampires,werewolves,elves. However humans feared such things so riots and fights broke out. War had begun between species. Humans fearing the things they could not understand set off nuclear war heads. Leaving the world in ruins only few structures stood now. Survivors fought for recources keeping their own territories while some were mutated from the war and nuclear blast. Creatures kept to their own places while humans did the same. One girl though set out to help others and to find the safe haven from which her brother had went. With the help of a vampire she had rescued from a few raiders who were about to kill him. The two stuck together like glue although they didnt get along at first. Her name was Anna Thorn she was a pretty and slim young girl with long curly brown hair and eyes as blue as the sea. Her skin tan from the long journeys under the sun. She stood under a old broken down building looking to a homemade map examining it closely from the location they were at. She wore a green tank top and brown cargo shorts with boots on her feet with a backpack strapped to her back. "According to the map we should be close to the safe haven once we make it there we can be safe." She told the tall vampire that stood nearby who hair was slicked back and black as night itself slightly spiked in the back. He wore a trench coat and black pants. His skin pale like porcelain while his eyes were crimson a piercingly dazzling. He was unaffected by the sun despite being a vampire and only drank animal blood and could eat human food well recources they could find anyway. As his gaze looked to the girl. "Yes but we have to be careful we are cutting threw nasty pixie territory those guys are not friendly and I dont want you to get hurt." He told her stepping over looking over her shoulder at the map. Anna could feel his breath against her skin. Looking down with shyness but smiled up at him reassuringly. "I can handle them. As long as we get their together thats all that matters Bane." She told him softly while she felt the vampire kiss the top of her head before he embraced her so close. Lately feelings had sprung up between them dare Anna say love. She cared for Bane and he cared for her. Bane smiled with a fang showing against his lips. "Well I dont doubt that. Lets get going." He told her softly letting go slowly while he held her hand stepping along threw the path keeping Anna close to his side. Anna could tell Bane was protective over her. He had been ever since they had kissed under the stars during a cold night so many nights ago. Stepping along quietly she kept close to his side as she froze hearing something glancing back to the sounds of twigs breaking. "Did you hear that?" She asked Bane quietly who nodded in response before pulling her behind him in a instant from a mutated pixie crawling out onto a boulder its figure hideous and grotesque its skin blue and as broken mutated wings on its back as it shrieked with teeth as a sharp as needles its eyes like black sapphires in color but in a instant it ran at them sneering fangs drawn as Bane pulled Anna away drop kicking the Pixie clear across the ground grabbing a machete that was strapped at his side. "Come on!" He picked up Anna bridal style with one arm running at quick speed threw the dessert lands as more shrieks of pixies would pierce there ears as Bane sliced threw one that dare try to attack slicing them into turning them into black dust from cutting them down dead while holding Anna protectively in his other arm running toward the direction of the so called safe haven he spotted a markings on rocks that matched the map running toward them as the mutated pixies were hot on their tales a horde them like zombies chasing them except these were ravenous mutated pixies way nastier. All pixies knew was too eat anything and everything. Some pixies were normal but these were ones that were long since mutated and turned into monsters well more monstrous than they ever where before. Bane jumped down a whole in a instant with Anna sliding down a mostly covered tunnel holding Anna losing the pixies from jumping down the hole. The tunnel they slide down seem to go on for ages as Anna held onto Bane with all her might until they fell being submerged in water swimming up Anna looked around not seeing Bane! "Bane!" She called out as he soon popped up from the water coughing his hair wet as was hers from the water. "Im here dont worry." He swam over to her touching her cheek before looking around. "The secret underground water like on the map. Its untouched by the radiation." He mumbled looking around. Anna swam up to the cave shore standing up soaked she waited for Bane to swim up as he got up out of the water. Anna stepped along until they reached the end of the cave she gasped. "We made it.." She mumbled softly while her eyes adjusted to the sunlight and the vast civilization filled with green and life along with huts built into the trees and and different passageways into the rocks like this cave that lead into the safe haven. Bane stepped at her side smiling from the sunlight against his skin looking to Anna smiling. "We made it together." He mumbled softly leaning in pressing his lips against hers in a passionate kiss. They had finally made it to their new home.


# Gummy Worms When I heard the news about his death, I decided to go to the nearest sweet shop down the street to buy gummy worms. It was raining outside, but I didn’t take an umbrella, nor did I wear boots. I forgot that my sneakers had holes in them, thus it was inevitable that they got soaked along with my socks. At the sweet shop, the lady asked how much gummy worms I wanted. “A lot.” I answered. “And a lot is how much?” she chuckled. “A whole pack or less?” With a straight face I asked her to show me what a whole pack looked like and how much it cost. It cost $10 dollars. It didn’t need much thinking, I took half. On my way back to the apartment, I couldn’t help but notice the earthworms that appeared on the ground and pavement. I was reminded of the time when I had a drastic fear of earthworms. I remembered having to go to classes once on a rainy day and there had been many earthworms on the pavement that day. I cried with each step I took and the earthworms I came across. The bigger the earthworm, the louder my cries. I was pained the most by those that had been stepped on and those who had half of their body squashed and the other half struggling desperately to move. But why was I afraid of earthworms, you might ask. You see, it goes way back to my childhood home which had a mild infestation of millipedes. These harmless creatures presented themselves as frequent visitors of the household, most especially the bathrooms. On one pleasant day, seemingly after taking a pleasant shower, I met with a rather unpleasant situation. I had failed to notice the abnormally large millipede the size of an adult’s middle finger but longer than the average, taking a stroll right along the entrance of the bathroom. I accidentally stepped on the other half of its body, its exoskeleton giving off a cracking sound as it broke underneath my heel, and I knew I had committed a crime destined to haunt me for as long as I lived. I didn’t have to look at the ordeal for I already knew what had occurred. I can’t say what happened next because this is where my memory begins to fail me. I can only guess that my lack of memory could be due to my losing consciousness a few seconds after the ordeal. Or perhaps I screamed out my whole essence until there was nothing left. This trauma of some sort has been with me since then and served as the foundation of my fear of not only worms or millipedes but helpless miniature creatures in general. I was afraid of accidentally killing them. I was brought back to the present upon noticing a rather big earthworm before me. As I walked over it I hoped that no one would accidentally step on him. Why did earthworms have to come out of the surface anyways? Finally, I arrived at my apartment. I sat on my work desk, turned on my PC, opened the pack of gummy worms and was ready to begin work. But on hearing the news of his death, I realized I’d lost my appetite.


A few months ago I stayed a few weeks in a small duplex in the suburbs of NYC while I worked a freelance job. It wasn’t the best neighborhood. As in, while walking home in the dark I would often comfort myself by thinking I was in a foxhole in Afghanistan. To paint a picture, the place was situated between an abandoned gas station and a Boost Mobile, and the section 8 housing across the street sported three sports cars in the parking lot. A few days after I moved in, I was getting ready for work, and just as I was leaving I found a series of photos under my door. They were of me, inside an apartment that looked identical to mine. I was tied to a chair over a pentagram, surrounded by... Teletubbies. Now, I’m going to go on the record here and state that I fucking hate Teletubbies. I don’t mean they annoy me, I mean they genuinely scare the endorphins out of me. You know how some people are with clowns? I’m that but with Teletubbies. Aside from teaching kids how to walk like morons and how to count in an annoying manner, there’s a sinister atmosphere around the freaky impish dancing of those furry sinspawns. In a parallel universe, where the water is tears and air is made of fear, they exist as bloodthirsty lunatics, something you’d want to fire a twelve gauge into, only to recoil in horror as it continues its death march towards your soul. Oh, and did I mention they’re 10 feet tall? Fuck that. Whoever invented them is in need of dire intense psychiatric evaluation and should be on an FBI watch list. But I digress. There was no doubt the photos were me. I looked at my face in the photos, my expression was the epitome of fright, the same face of every rational American when Trump was elected. I was so baffled I couldn’t quite process it. My logical reasoning short-circuited, as it seemed so unreal I just threw them in the trash and went on with my day, hoping I could bury that memory in some dusty corner of my mind, behind my distant high-school knowledge of algebra and the French Revolution. But then it happened again, the very next night. This time I couldn’t just brush it off. I observed them closely they might be coming from my neighbor’s apartment. Because in each photo, the room looked just like my room, but the doors and windows were flipped, like it was a mirror. I realized that must be how the apartment across the hall from mine is set up, like a backwards layout to mine. So I called the police. But I didn’t know what to say. The officer took one look at the photos and said, “you know, I could be sitting comfortably in my squad car, using my police database to spy on the 20-year-old nursing student next-door and score some dates, but instead I have to deal with this bullshit. Did you know, right now my arch enemy in the department is dealing with a guy on meth who hijacked an ice cream truck and is running down innocent people? And my partner is in a high-speed chase with a college freshman with alcohol poisoning driving her dad’s BMW down the wrong lane on I-95, yet I’m supposed to one-up their stories tomorrow at the water cooler with this horseshit?” He was there for a mere 20 minutes, and most of it was spent arguing my way out of being charged with a false-report. Seeing that the fuzz was unable to help with my dilemma, I figured my next step was to do some investigative work on my own. So I took the photos to a developing center, and they confirmed the photos were developed by hand, and were authentic. They could find no signs of photoshop or digital manipulation. I thought I was going crazy, but as work piled up and I was missing phone calls from my clients by the hour, I figured I could distract myself from the astounding reality that I’m being terrorized by Teletubbies with some good ol’ fashion excel spreadsheets of hair-care product inventory. If I can make some quick cash over the next few weeks with this job, I can get the hell out of there sooner than later. But it only got worse. Day after day, I would wake up, in excruciating pain, with more photos slipped under my door. After a full week had gone by, I decided to set up a camera to record myself as I slept. But upon awakening the next morning, my camera had suddenly shit the bed. It wouldn’t even turn on, and the SD card was corrupt. The following day was a Friday, so I had another plan--I’ll just pull an all-nighter. I gulped down six Red Bulls, figuring even if my heart explodes, it would be better than dealing with this. From dusk to nearly dawn, I was awake. But all that caffeine mixed with the waterfall of emotions caused my heart to beat like a dog in heat and my brain to flatline like a vegetable. Just before the sun came up, I knocked out. Not more than an hour had passed, and I awoke again, in the same position I was in when I knocked out. But this time, in excruciating pain, and once again, more photos on the floor. Over the course of the week, I had continued to contact the landlord to inquire about the apartment across from me, but she refused to answer. I finally went down to her office and banged on her door, upon answering I shouted, “who the fuck lives next door? And what do they want from m--“ she cut me off. “Nobody lives there, dude. It’s been under construction since the last guy dropped a deuce hotter than a Hiroshima bomb and caused a catastrophic detonation of the plumbing system. It’s speculated he ate from the Chipolte down the street earlier that day. I suggest steering clear of their pork burritos.” Well, that was a bust. But I wasn’t having it. I was sleep deprived, terrified, angry, and ready to go full Harambe on whoever was hiding out in that room, because somebody was in there, and I was not going to be their sacrificial lamb to the church of satanic Teletubbies any longer. I stormed back into the building, and armed with a can of pepper spray and a baseball bat, I kicked down the door and bursted in, ready for a death-match with some Teletubbies--but the room was empty. In fact, it looked like nobody had even stepped foot in the apartment in ages. Regardless, I crossed into the bedroom, where the photos were taken. Lo and behold, was a chair bolted to the floor, with a pentagram painted around it in blood. Just to the right, a tripod with a camera was set up in the corner. I hauled my ass out of there faster than Sonic the Hedgehog on adderall. I called up the police and waited anxiously outside. And sure enough, it was the same cop. “You again? Jesus, what is it this time--mutant Ronald McDonald with a chainsaw? Santa Claus with a lightsaber? This better be good!” I took him upstairs to the apartment, but upon entering the room, the chair was gone, the camera was nowhere to be seen, and the pentagram had disappeared faster than an 8 ball on Miami Beach. I moved out that day.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: ** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - *Something is passed from one character to another.* This week’s challenge is to use the theme of **“blues”** in your story. Blues can be interpreted many different ways. Is it a cafe that hosts live blues performerances, maybe one with a little southern charm? Maybe you want to bring to life the deep, blue sea and all its majestic creatures. Blue is also a feeling, and can be inspiration for some emotionally bittersweet tales. It could be a character’s favorite color, or their name, or anything you think up! Blues (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. I’ve included an image for additional inspiration, but its use is **not required**. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.)   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/DmonRth - **Third:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/GrindingMyGrayMatter - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Check out our brand new feature, on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Fate. A word that truly depicts the odyssey of life. Life remains a journey of integrity that each breathing person strives through, day after monotonous day. Yet moments of joy can be found even in the darkest of places, as long as one remembers to turn on the light. Unfortunately that was not always as easy as counting to 10. After stepping forth into the blinding daylight, one would expect the sign of a smile, though not for Franco, for his day was declining into the realm of pure madness. Running wild, running free, such ideologies were not currently achievable for him; his few brief moments of glee were snatched away in an instance by the cruel hands of society. As he peered over the ever-apparent cliff-edge of his life, both mentally and physically, a tear strolled down his paling cheek as he fell forth over the edge, his mind in shambles and his body in agony. When your life is flashing before your eyes, most would expect the moments of bliss. All Franco saw as he accompanied the abyss was the negativity that forever imbedded the forsaken shred of life that was his own. Thoughts of thousands fluttered like pigeons in his mindscape, chaotic and wanting an escape. ‘An escape’, an escape from what? His dispiriting escapade of mortality? His discouraging collapse into madness throughout his 30s? Nonetheless, scarper was essential no matter the cause. After a presumed eternity of flailing about in the gale, a supposed image of solid ground materialised beneath his frail skeleton. Thankfully enough, the ground was a familiar clear volume of aquamarine. Bedraggled with fear and salt water, Franco spat out the despair, as well as the solemn goldfish that had found its way past his cyan lips. He suddenly pondered as to how his life was still in his hands, though instantly neglecting the confrontation of notions for he had not a second to waste. Peering in the assumed direction of North, he acknowledged the fact that the environment around him was all supposedly full of luscious grass and herbs. Although he discouraged his vision for his perception of reality had betrayed him countless times before. Unfortunately his suspicions were correct, for he watched as two solemn squirrels sauntered past him in absolute union. A false sense of serenity lay rest in the palms of his hands for the world was not what it seemed to be. He ambitiously stumbled around glancing momentarily at the birds flying overhead. Tremendous trees of mahogany were planted northbound; creating a canopy of corruption, for once again the exact same squirrels ran past Franco. “I’m not going crazy.” He now had upmost confirmation for the sake of his sanity for the shoddy design of this presumed prison was evidently not up to standards. Henceforth escapade was now a necessity. The first sign the failure in the circuits, was truly the aura of solemnity he had experienced when arriving on the hardened terra firma of the place. Life had never truly been at peace for Franco, not since the very day he arrived on this planet he currently resides upon. As he stumbled forth in the prison of both mentality and physicality, he noticed a peculiar sight, strictly west of his field of view. A solemn rowan tree lay unprovoked and isolated from all of the mahogany, perhaps a sign from whoever was in charge of this stockade. Upon encroaching upon the cocoa roots of the tree, he noticed an array of wires and cables spreading like a virus from the trunk. Since no further harm could be caused to his life, Franco began tearing the wires from their sources and lacerating them as he went along. Strangely no electrocution was in play, at least not to Franco, for in an instant bling of light, the prison appeared to collapse to ashes as its true form took place. All around Franco, the once viridescent and illuminated environment transformed into a greyscale horror of an augmented reality set. Fraud was present and Franco took advantage of this. Sprinting towards the nearest rusted door in sight, a yell could be heard from the ceiling as footsteps shunned his eardrums. As he escaped the institute of illusions, he arrived at an even more hebetude office block, peculiar yet familiar. He began to saunter around until a sudden sixth sense struck his mindscape. “This isn’t real.” He blurted aloud, realising the horrifying truth and immediately screaming an array of expletives that no living person should be forced to hear. Reality had once again deceived him for it was further becoming apparent that an attempt at escape was fruitless. “Is this a test?” Franco yelled out loud, yet to his assumption no response was active, however that was not his intention. In conjunction with the words leaving his mouth, air accompanied it and he noticed a distinct lack of movement all around him. This information further proving his perception for the stack of paper before him lay restless and seemingly sly. Assuming anything but success, he suddenly sprinted at the nearest wall, yet additional flimsy design led to Franco tearing straight through the combination of electronics and cardboard. He now stood in the opposite of the previous serene environments, for now he was in what once was considered no man’s land. A bleak and disconsolate wasteland. Hope had truly left his ideology and at this rate would never submerge. Franco now lay upon the brink of pure insanity, as he knew not at what end the madness would conclude. He fell to his knees in dismay, apparently too hard for he tore through the ‘soil’ and fell upon a begrimed Victorian style house, further implying the inevitability of his failure. A laugh rang out from far away, not a happy laugh at a humorous joke, but a soulless sinister snicker at the collapse of a man’s mindscape. The laugh belonged to a man sat atop a throne, a throne of human failure for the laugh belonged to the man responsible for Franco’s eternal imprisonment. The man responsible for the beginning and current end of Franco’s life.


[SF] Beer and Bots       Twenty years of marriage *God,* he thought, *he could do less time for murder.* Michael sat in the driveway, the Chevy idling loudly. Lydia's obnoxious solar powered miniature excuse for a car was mercifully absent. If he was lucky, she’d gotten hung up in traffic, better yet - maybe even a wreck, he thought halfheartedly, enjoying the moment alone in the cab of his truck.       He was in no mood to fight with his wife. What he wanted was to relax in his recliner, drink a beer and watch the Dodgers without her nightly friggen' tirade, but knowing her that wasn't likely.       What had she said to him the night before, “You're not the man I married anymore,” That’s right, he thought to himself, grinning as he recalled his response, "You know what Lydia, you ain't no spring chicken anymore, either."       He tossed his keys where she *liked* them to go and grabbed a cold one out the fridge. Halfway through the first bottle he grabbed another and headed for the living room. Something in his peripheral stopped him dead in his tracks.       *He* was sitting in his chair. *He*, as in the exact damn personification of himself in polymer synthetic flesh. And the damned thing was smiling at him like some nightmarishly happy concierge.       "What in the hell..." Michael said, his beer suddenly seeming suspended in front of him on its way to his mouth.       "Good evening, Michael. I took the liberty of letting myself in. You'll find the spare key back in its place under the....."       "Youuu...... youu... you shut your face," he stammered, his beer apparently unfrozen now, he pointed it with an outstretched arm at the bot like a weapon.       ,"I cannot shut my face, Michael. Please examine the Synathalife 11097-A3 owner's manual online for further...."       "SHUT UP," he enunciated each word slowly.       "Command understood," the bot answered still smiling, tilting its head every once in a while, like a human, Michael noted.       *She'd gone and done it- she'd finally gone and done it,* he thought.       He needed another beer. He needed lots of beer. Michael cracked open the unopened bottle half forgotten in his hand, downed it faster than if he were in college then made his way slowly to the couch across from his synthetic doppelganger.       You had to admire what they could do these days. He, *it* smelled like a new car, like polymer. Its skin was smooth, impossibly smooth. Hell, it even had a bronze tan that looked like he'd just got back from the Caribbean.       To add insult to injury, the robotic bastard looked a hell of a lot younger than he did. It was thinner by a good thirty pounds, taller by several inches and even had the build he'd worked so hard for when he gave a crap ten years ago. And then there was its hair. *Not a single damn gray hair on it, Michael thought.*       *What other enhancements did you put on my credit card*, he wondered, fending off a sudden angry sense of inadequacy.       "Reason for purchase?" Michael demanded.       “I’m sorry Michael, but you do not have the authority for such a query. "       His face snickered in irritation. He finished his latest beer and pointed a bottle once again to the synth. “Resend query. Password,” he paused in thought, “Admin. Reason for purchase? "       The bots face, *his face* tilted strangely and twitched for several seconds.       "Query received. Reason for purchase noted: Want a better version of my husband. "       ”*Oh hell no*," Michael snarled. "*Get outta my damn chair*!"       With perfect posture, his robotic counterpart stood, complying contently.       Michael could hear the sound of Lydia's keys rattling at the front door and then the sound of her dropping them the ground.       "For crying out loud, how freaking hard is it to get someone to open the door? "       "Lydia needs assistance," the bot said, moving towards the door, as if ready to swoop in and open it at her beck and call. “Would you like to assist, Michael?"       "I'm good,” he answered flippantly, turning on the game and leaning back into *his* chair with a wide angry grin. "Nah, buddy- she's *all yours.


Thirty-nine was the first year that age showed up on Ellen’s face. It had visited intermittently, before. After a sleepless night, an evening with an extra glass or two of wine. It showed up after a long day in the sun. Then it left as subtly as it had appeared. However, thirty-nine was the year that it settled in. It settled in between her eyebrows. It made itself known on her neck. It was fickle and etched on the left side of her mouth while not even visiting the right side. Standing in front of the mirror, Ellen saw that she no longer looked as young as she had once felt. She cleared her throat. A feeling of foolishness flashed in her stomach. “Hi. My name is Ellen, and I am a lactation consultant. I’ve...” Her voice faltered. Talking to herself. The mirror. The lines. The bad lighting in the hotel bathroom made her look like a ghoul when she had left the house in the morning feeling quite pretty and fresh. Why didn’t life come with a filter like her cell phone? “Hi. My name is Ellen,” she started again. “I’m a lactation consultant with fifteen years of experience. I... I...” Well, she couldn’t really say that, could she? She’d had fifteen years of thinking about being a lactation consultant but in actuality had spent the last fifteen years lactating herself, or weaning, or waking up in the middle of the night for babies, and now teenagers. Fifteen years of wanting not to work so she could focus on family. Now she was approaching middle age with no experience, no Botox, and the inability to form a professional-sounding introduction. “Hi. My name is Ellen,” she stated clearly. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years honing my expertise as a mother and lactation consultant. My goal...” Goals, what about goals? She had no goals. After college, before kids, before and after marriage, maybe somewhere in that decade, there had been some goals. Somewhere in the parenting years, she had had goals. No, she thought bitterly, not goals, just daily targets. A whole running list in her head of targets, a target for bedtime, food for the family, what errands to run. Ellen took a deep breath. The small business meet-up was convening in the conference room down the hall. Signing up had seemed to be an opportunity. Now it just felt like pressure. Pressure to sound professional, to fake it until she made it. She had been doing that all these years without even realizing it. Then one day, she woke up and felt the faking, the heaviness of doing the same stress day in and day out with a smile. The burden of motherhood was the only thing she was offered without any strings attached. “Hi everyone. My name is Ellen, and I am so excited to be here.” Ech. That sounded wretched. Ellen hated unnecessary hyperboles. She hated flowery adjectives and trite, overused expressions. Her brain was overworked and under-stimulated. All that small talk she had to make day after day. She spent her days making small talk with the teenagers in her son’s carpool. Small talk with the grocer. Small talk with the twenty-something with a blue streak in her hair who made her morning coffee. Small talk at the gym. The small talk was exhausting. Keeping herself small was exhausting. Her therapist had asked her why she kept herself small. Small was safe. Small was manageable. Small was the opposite size of all her big feelings. Big feelings had been the theme of thirty-seven and thirty-eight, which is how she ended up at thirty-nine in front of a hotel bathroom mirror talking to herself so that she could make a small introduction to a medium-sized group of people who had bigger ideas than her. And bigger resumes and bigger opportunities. “What is the story you are telling yourself, Ellen?” She asked herself in a serious voice, a nod to her even-toned therapist with who she had spent years thirty-seven and thirty-eight excavating the past decade with. Another deep breath. She felt tears come to her eyes. “Get a hold of yourself, Ellen. A crummy introduction and streaky mascara, and everyone will see you for the middle-aged mother you are trying not to be.” “Hi! My name is Ellen, and I am a lactation consultant. I work with mothers of all types of backgrounds. I am fluent in French and...” What a useless fact. Who in the world would need a French-speaking lactation consultant in Ohio? Who in Ohio even spoke French? French was not a small language. It was not the language of her thirty-nine-year-old face with fickle wrinkles and streaky mascara. It was the language of her fifteen-year-old self who had had not just goals, but more importantly, a vision. The vision certainly hadn’t included this bathroom or the bad lighting. There was no way to do this, the transition to middle-age and working, as opposed to middle-age and bored, as gracefully as she would like. She was simply too rusty to be graceful. Too resentful to be graceful. French women were never rusty or resentful. She should have moved to France. Where was she in this mess of feelings and thoughts? Perhaps, it would be better to wing it. Whatever came out of her mouth would be better than this rehearsed monologue. Sixty seconds to introduce herself. Sixty seconds to sell herself, promote herself. Sixty seconds to sum up her skills and get noticed. At thirty-nine, it was all she was being offered. Her teenagers hardly gave her sixty seconds. Her husband only gave her sixty seconds. At least this sixty seconds was new and fresh. It wasn’t part of the routine on repeat in her life. It wasn’t part of the emotional monologue in her head that she couldn’t escape even with over one hundred sessions of therapy. It was sixty seconds to do something different. Sixty seconds to be someone different. Not someone who resented all that she had settled for. Sixty seconds to flash a smile, make some not-so-meaningful eye contact, and sound more energetic than she felt. “Hi, my name is Ellen,” she said more to herself than her imaginary audience. She cocked her head to one side. Even with thirty-nine years settled upon her face, she knew her best angle. She raised her eyebrows, threw on a smile, and tucked her hair behind her ear. Sixty seconds to fake it as a professional certainly felt like a better form of faking than all the other faking she was used to doing. Thirty-nine and stepping out of her comfort zone, Ellen exited the bathroom and went to talk to someone other than herself.


I'm sorry if I'm doing this wrong - please correct me if so!Basically I saw this post on another sub and thought it would make a hilarious short story, so I used it as a writing prompt! I hope it's okay to post it here. My partner also drew a picture of it for me! Story: The shadow of a man was plastered against the office wall, illuminated by the bright white glow of a set of monitors. The screen on the left displayed a website regarding Cthulhu Mythos and theoretical summoning rituals. Other tabs along the browser displayed much of the same. On the right hand side, a text editor was open - the file was titled “Mythology Essay”, though the flashing cursor on a blank page indicated much more work had to be done. Jake sat hunched in his chair, a stick of chocolate pocky crumbling between his teeth, the dirty fingernails that held it chewed beyond repair. “Ugh, this assignment is stupid...” Jake sighed, using his freehand to run his pale fingers through the mess of dirt-brown hair that spiked out in various directions atop his skull. He clicked through a few more tabs and read a page about ancient human summoning rights and chuckled to himself. “Why would a ‘supreme being’ even bother responding?” He closed that tab and moved on to the next. Instinctively, Jake reached out for another stick of pocky, and found the box empty. He grunted, shrugged, and extended his bony appendage further out, towards a can of soda. There was no resistance, and Jake realised that it, too, was empty. Well, almost. Upon being disturbed, a singular black ant scurried out of the open soda can, using the tab as if it were a bridge to cross to the delicate stack of papers that waited beyond. “Ew, ants.” Jake grumbled, a scowl overtaking his previous bored expression. He pushed his chair out from the desk and across the tiles in a single dramatic sweep, then stood up to his full height. He was reasonably tall and uncomfortably lanky, and his movements made no sound across the marbled floor. As Jake made his way to the next room, the brightness made him wince. He was used to working in the dark in his office, and frequently forgot that he always left the kitchen light on. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, but he didn’t need to wait for it to do so. Jake had lived in the same apartment for the past three years, and was quite comfortable with the layout - he even knew to step over the pile of laundry he left by his bedroom door, and to kick aside the random box of cereal that he left in the lounge-room to snack on, ‘just in case’. By the time Jake’s eyes had adjusted to the light, he had already opened the pantry and was rifling through for something else to shove into his gaping maw. He kept telling his parents that he studied better when eating, but really he just liked the taste. It didn’t take long for Jake to decide on his snack, and he retreated from the pantry with a chocolate chip cookie in hand, and another in his mouth. For the first time since that morning, he actually looked at his kitchen - and noticed something unpleasant. A small hole had formed in the foundation of the windowsill, and a trail of ants had started to push their way through. “Well, I guess that’s where the nest is...” Jake groaned, a mouth full of biscuit, as his eyes followed the black dotted trail. The path of ants snaked across the kitchen bench, over the sink and down the refrigerator. They formed a small s-bend along the curve in the tiles but continued past, into the bathroom. Jake followed them then, curious about how deep their warren had gone in just a few short hours. He watched them struggle to tackle the navy bathmat, the thick spines of fluff more like mountain ranges for the tiny critters. The ants showed intense determination, and a great lack of intelligence. Jake chewed the final bit of his first cookie and stretched out one of his spindly legs, hooked his bare toes on the bathmat and flicked it aside. “Just go AROUND.” He groaned incredulously at the ants, who scattered briefly at the attack. They raced to the edges of the room, then curved back around on the next tile bend to resumed their previous path. Jake cocked an eyebrow and watched as each ant made its way to the very centre of the bathroom. There looked to be several hundred amassed in a large heap, crawling over each other as if fighting for air. Then Jake noticed something strange - from what he could tell, each ant carried the same thing - a small speck of... something? It was some sort of white crystal, maybe sugar or rock dust, he wasn’t sure. But as Jake looked more intently at the ants, they seemed to start to look back. The writhing mass had settled and each creature had found its own space on the floor, directly facing Jake. “That’s... odd...?” Jake straightened up and clenched his hand around his remaining treat, feeling a little intimidated by the hoard of insects before him. He took a step back, and it almost seemed as if the ants did too - but not quite. Instead, they had started to shift apart slowly, all of them at once, forming a large and vaguely circular shape around the entire bathroom floor. Jake’s eyes opened wide in shock and he glanced behind him, noticing that his path to retreat had also been filled in by the hoard of tiny bugs. “Is this how I die?” He whimpered melodramatically. But then the ants stopped - their wall complete. Jake took another look around and noticed that each ant was staring right at him, and had placed down its little white crystal, forming an unbroken line of sparkling powder - with Jake ‘trapped’ inside. He tensed and shook, crumbs falling from the biscuit in his hand. Several of the insects broke formation then, rushing inside the circle to gather the discarded biscuit crumbs before disappearing down the drainpipe. Jake froze, then slowly opened his hand. More ants moved - but not enough to break the formation completely. Each crumb had been collected and carried off without hesitation. “Oooookaaay?” Jake tilted his head and relaxed his composure a little. He shook his head, as if convinced he was dreaming, then took another look around the room. He definitely was standing in the centre of what looked like an ant’s summing circle, or some sort of ‘devil’s trap’. “I think I need to take a break from my essay...” he groaned and ran his free hand over one of his eyes, and then his stubble. “Okay, I’m crazy.” He said to no one in particular, probably the ants. “Cookie?” He bent down slowly and placed his remaining biscuit on the floor about a foot in front of him, and then straightened back up. Immediately the hoard of bugs descended, each ant discarding its crystal behind and rushing to tear apart the cookie and vanish into the drainpipe with it. Within a minute they were gone, crumbs and all. The only thing that remained of the crazy scene was the abnormally large amount of white dust strewn about the room. Jake rubbed both his eyes again and groaned, taking another look at the aftermath. Not a single ant was left behind. He shrugged and gave a slight chuckle as he headed back to his study. “I definitely need more sleep.


“It’s funny”. He spoke through a rictus grin. “I don’t remember you being this angry”. “Angry”? She said sarcastically. ”Why would I be angry”? “I don’t know. Especially as, if I remember correctly, you were the one who made all the decisions”. “Decisions?” Zack leaned a little closer to her.”Not to meet me? Not to even discuss what we had promised to discuss?” Hey! Sandra, what happened? Sexy feet...! Sandra murmured. Huh what, Sandra? ‘I said 60 feet social distance, Sandra asserted. Zack laughed aloud, ’oh no!It’s just 6 feet! Sandra had become paranoid after the Pandemic set in. Zack came forward, Sandra screamed, ’don’t touch my bag! Whenever she touched a surface, a door knob or a simple parcel lying outside her door, she would panic to think “Did I touch COVID-19?”, and wash her hands frequently throughout the day. Zack grimly,”Sandra, get a hold on yourself! Liza came pushing her trolley full of groceries, she almost dashed into Zack. Hey, Zack, you are back on your two feet! Zack tried to silence her with a gesture. But Liza babbled on,’ you know Zack, those 7 weeks at the City Hospital, I had the urge to call Sandra and tell her about you’. Sandra cautiously came forward, Liza jumped to hug her but Sandra took a step back. ‘What happened to Zack?’ Liza turned to Zack, ’so, you didn’t tell her?’ ‘Tell what’, Sandra pestered. ‘Zack was on a ventilator for weeks inside the ICU. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, he was kept in isolation. Sandra gasped, oh NO! Zack grinned, ’I am ok now. ‘Sandra, I know you would dread ‘the news that I had COVID-19. . The last time Sandra met her fiancé, Zack; it was at a restaurant, on March 17,2020. They promised to meet again on April 7,2020 -- birthday of Sandra. Zack had bought a special birthday gift, a diamond ring; to surprise Sandra with his proposal. Little did they know that on her birthday, Zack would fall sick and test positive for COVID-19. Sandra was livid, ‘so you thought you could just disappear from my life, without a trace’. Zack lowered his lids,’ Sandra! Listen! Sandra,’No, I won’t listen! ‘Check your phone, note how many hundreds of calls, texts, emails I did! Zack,’calm down’, calm down please, Sandra. Zack hugged her. Sandra shrunk away,’oh NO! Zack knew Sandra suffered from hypervigilance about cleanliness and the ‘social distance’ norm, she was taking very seriously. Zack smirked,’ see, you shirk being touched, how would you respond if I told you, I was in ICU for COVID-19? Sandra blushed,’umm...I.....I Zack told her,’I know, leave it unsaid! .Seeing Zack suddenly in the supermarket on 14 th September, 2020 it was like waking up from a stupor. They stared at each other for a moment. Zack looked exactly the same, Sandra thought, no -better, damn it- Both were wearing masks, it was just the two of them, marooned on their part of the supermarket. It was a strange meeting, both knew hand-holding, hugging and kissing were taboo! You never were a big one for commitment, were you?” Sandra angrily flashed. She felt his eyes on her and flushed. Shut up, she told herself. Other people were only a matter of some 15 feet away. Zack’s voice dropped to a murmur. ”Are we really going to do this?” Zack felt the need to confess, worried that his proposal might come to a pretty humbling denouement, if Sandra didn’t respond, He might still be hung up on what might have been. Sandra felt a kind of recklessness building within her. How many times had she wanted to have this conversation? How many times had she rehearsed all the things she wanted to say to him? How could he stand there and behave as if nothing had happened after all? “You really want to get into this now, Sandra?” “Why not?” she said, waving back. ”It’s only been 5 months. I figure that’s a pretty decent period of time to put off an argument.” “ “NOT TO MEET YOU?” She turned and stared at him. ”Are we talking about the same relationship during Pandemic” Both in self isolation to protect from the deadly infection of a bat-born, spikey ball-shaped, gorgeous-looking infinitesimal virus with a name befitting a royal! “The day you left,” he hissed beside her,” you were going to meet me at The Hub, so that we could discuss our future, and you never even turned up. There was no way to contact you, Sandra! You refused to answer the phone and you avoided me like the Corona! “The Hub?” “And you knew I couldn’t reach you once you handed in your work phone. What was I supposed to think? Don’t you believe that after everything we’d been through, everything we had promised each other, that I deserved a little more than just a no-show?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.”It was The Hilltop” we were due to meet at “The Hilltop”. And YOU were the one who didn’t turn up.” Their eyes locked. People were increasing in number in the supermarket; Zack was feeling an electric jolt as their hands made contact. “Two hours I waited.” They stared at each other. For a moment, everything disappeared, She was there on a wet Friday, weeping into her jacket in almost empty “The Hilltop”. “There’s nothing to say. We’ve moved on.” She felt the faintest pressure and realized with shock that it was his leg against hers. From day one on Earth, lovers are hardwired to touch, hold and kiss one another. “Have you”? He said quietly, and the words went through her like a seismic tremor. ”Really”? “All this time”, Zack said quietly, ’both of us believing the other had bailed out.” I just figured you’d tired of my indecision.” “I’d waited the best part of a year. I would have waited”. “You never said that”. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to.” She had grieved for him. His lips closed in. She again yelped. Coronavirus stole the sweet magic of kissing. She head-butted him and squealed, and that was the end of it. The “touch starvation.” has affected the psyche of lovers. Both coronavirus pandemic and the protocols that came with changed the trajectory of the relationship between the two.


It had been this way for as long as Azuse could remember. Fuel the fire, collect resources, survive. This was all that he knew how to do. The flame was held within a great stone basin, in the middle of what Azuse called, ‘The Known’. The basin was around one and half feet high, one foot wide, and made of a dark grey granite. It was extraordinarily heavy, more so than it should have been given its dimensions - only once had Azuse tried to lift it in a moment of frustration, to no avail. ‘Flame is life, darkness is death’, read the inscription around the rim of the stone basin in a bright white font. Azuse has lost count of how many times he must have read the instruction. The flickering of the flame that was contained within the basin seemed to sometimes warp the words, or perhaps that was his mind playing tricks on him. Besides the stone basin, The Known contained little else. A few blankets, a stockpile of logs and kindling, a few scraps of food and a cup. The floor was cold and hard, although Azuse always managed a good night's sleep under the heat of the flame. Around the fire stretched endless darkness, or what Azuse referred to as ‘The Beyond’. Due to the warning on the inscription, Azuse had never been brave enough to wander too far from the light of the flame, but he would often picture what might be lurking in the darkness. Azuse did not know a life outside of The Known. He could not remember when he first came to be in this place, nor could he quantify the amount of time he was here. Nothing ever changed or shifted. Measuring the passing of time was impossible when there wasn’t anything tangible he could use to track the moments. He slept, but he could not track for how long, or if each sleep was the same. He wondered what he missed when he was asleep. Perhaps The Known transformed into something else entirely when his eyes were closed. He had decided long ago (or perhaps not so long ago), that trying to understand any of these questions was a fruitless task. -- Azuse woke, more groggy than usual, wrapped up in his usual long grey robe and blankets. He lay on the hard ground, staring up into darkness. His eyes saw swirls and shapes, nonsensical objects, floating around in a sea of black. He would stare at them for as long as he could keep his eyes open, as the moment he blinked they would disappear. Each time he would try and keep his eyes open longer than the time before, hoping that if he kept them open long enough they would reveal something to him. The swirls took on vibrant colours, and swam across the sky with greater speed the longer he stared. Something glimmered in the corner of his eye from somewhere in his peripheral vision that made his head turn - when he looked back the shapes were gone. He rose quickly, glancing around into the darkness trying to pinpoint where the glimmering had come from. Never had this happened before, nothing ever changed in The Known, but he was sure that he had seen something. A light, from something other than the flame. After a few moments of straining his eyes, Azuse gave up. If he knew anything for certain it was that the flickering of the fire could so easily play tricks on his mind. -- The food is running low, Azuse thought mindlessly, as he chewed wearily on a stale chunk of bread, staring into nothingness. Not that it mattered, as food seemed to appear the moment it was all eaten, without him ever noticing. There was a time that Azuse had once thought this strange, but now it didn’t phase him - it was as ordinary as the heat produced by the flame or the breath he produced himself. It did mean that he would have to eat every morsel of food if he wanted more, which could cause problems if mould had started to grow on the stock he currently had. Azuse had learnt to eat food quickly after a period of painful stomach cramps, when he was forced to eat some questionable smelling meat. He downed the rest of the water in his cup (which also refilled itself once empty) and stood up, ready to go and pick up some firewood. Every now and then new logs would appear as far out as the flames light would reach. Azuse started walking towards the first log he saw, about 20 feet from the stone basin. As he approached and the light from the flame grew dimmer, he suddenly heard whispers coming from The Beyond. The volume of these whispers grew louder the further away he got from the safety of the light. “Just ignore them”, he said to himself. This was another thing he had learnt by now, the whispers never hurt him as long as he kept his head down and retrieved the log quickly. He was 2 feet away from the log, but as he reached out his hand to grab the log, he noticed a glimmer of light in the distance, the same glimmer of light he thought he had imagined the last time. Before he had a chance to get a good look, a sudden, immense blast of bitterly cold wind came directly at him, knocking him off his feet. The wind seemed to carry the voices of a thousand, because what was once whispering was suddenly a collection of unintelligible screams, so loud Azuse thought his eardrums would burst. He cowered on the floor covering his ears, the noises and sound of the wind seemingly growing louder and louder. After what felt like an eternity, Azuse slowly peeled the hands from his face to look for the log. It was miraculously within arms reach, so as fast as his body allowed he grabbed the log and leapt up in one fell swoop, sprinting back towards the safety of the basin. The wind roared against his back and the screams seemed to swirl around him as he ran, faster and faster towards the flame. Finally he reached the fire and fell to the floor, crashing into the base of the granite. The moment he touched the cold stone the wind and screams stopped dead. The silence was deafening. He glanced up at the flame, and swore the inscription, ‘Flame is life, darkness is death’ burned red, but the moment he blinked it returned to its original shining white, contrasting the sea of blackness beyond. -- Azuse carefully stacked the remaining logs inside the stone basin, being careful not to burn himself. The logs had stopped appearing after the incident with the wind, and now the stockpile was empty. He hadn’t heard the whispers or screams since, but sensed they were just out of hearing, in The Beyond. The panic rose slowly in him as the moments dragged on, the flame noticeably getting dimmer. The radius of safety around him shrunk smaller and smaller, making Azuse feel more claustrophobic than ever before. Accepting the fact that he would have to face whatever the diminishing of the flame brought, he lay on the floor, wrapping himself in his blankets for comfort, waiting for the inevitable. -- Azuse lay, eyes closed, as the flame went out. Slowly he opened his eyes. He had never known darkness like it. He could see nothing, not even his hands in front of his face. It was as if everything he had ever known had gone. He looked to where the basin should have been, but could see nothing. Was it still there? Or had it disappeared the moment the flame had extinguished? To his horror, he could suddenly make out the sound of whispering coming from The Beyond. It was faint, but with each passing moment it grew louder. Azuse rose quickly and scanned around him, hoping to see something, anything, but to no avail. There was only suffocating darkness. Azuse felt as if he was going mad, as the whispering grew more and more in volume. “What do you want from me?!” he screamed into The Beyond, “I’ve done as you asked, and now you torment me!” The Beyond responded by growing ever louder, until the voices turned from whispering to screams. Azuse let out a guttural howl until he had no breath left, and fell to the floor. Only after a few moments of trying to get his breath back, he noticed it. A glimmering light in the distance. It was tiny, and seemingly far away, but it was all Azuse had. As the screams continued to swirl around him, and the air grew colder and colder, he picked himself up and started sprinting towards the glimmer. As he ran a wind picked up, so cold it hurt his face. His fingers started to pain him as they grew colder, but still he continued towards the light. The unintelligible screams continued to abuse his eardrums, not letting up. Azuse felt as though he couldn’t take anymore, his senses were overwhelmed beyond anything he had experienced before. He noticed he could see his feet now as he ran, the light was getting closer. The voices turned more sinister the more progress Azuse made, as if they didn’t want him to reach his goal. The wind was bitterly cold making his teeth chatter. He must have only been forty feet away, thirty-five, thirty... It was then that Azuse stopped in his tracks, just outside the boundary of the light. There was someone there, wearing a long grey robe, reaching down to pick a log off the floor. Behind him a stone basin was ablaze with fire. The stranger hadn’t noticed Azuse, despite being only a few feet away. Azuse had frozen, unsure what to do, as the voices in his ears continued to abuse his senses. “Hello?” he said tentatively, not being able to hear his own voice over the roar of The Beyond. His teeth continued to chatter as the bitterly cold wind picked up speed around him. The stranger carried on with his task, paying no attention to Azuse. “Hello!” he screamed, much louder this time. The stranger turned his head towards the direction of Azuse. “Just ignore them”, the stranger muttered to himself. In desperation he screamed once more, “Help! Please!” As Azuse screamed, the wind picked up tremendous speed and blasted towards the stranger, knocking him off his feet. He scrambled to stand and started sprinting back towards the flame, log in hand, looking panicked. Azuse reached out his hand, “Wait, I’m sorry! Please don’t go!” The stranger continued to run, covering his ears as he did so. Azuse went to take a step forward, but something was stopping him, his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down, horrified, as he saw that swirling around his feet were shapes and swirls, wrapping themselves around his ankles like tendrils. The stranger made it to the stone basin, crashing to the floor. Azuse could just make out the words on the basin, ‘Flame is life, darkness is death’. The words burned a deep crimson red. In one swift movement, Azuse was yanked off his feet and dragged into The Beyond.


I can’t stop moving. My body wont let me. My hands grip the bed covers as my legs do a pedaling type movement. I’m freezing yet sweat has covered most of the sheets. My eyes are closed and I see things. Terrible things. Call them demons, monsters, whatever sick, strange, unimaginable things, I see them. Can’t very much keep my eyes open as I’m so very dizzy. My head is light and I feel I am on the cusp of a seizure. Never had one before. By the grace of God only, I would imagine. I’m moaning and repeating ‘’No....please God, no. Make it go away”. It will be sometime until that happens and I’m well aware of that, unfortunately. Saying it out loud makes me feel a little better. I’m in for a ride, and not a good one. I can only hope that its quick. As quick as can be at least. I know what to expect. If I do fall asleep I know what awaits me. The nightmares. The sleep paralysis. I’ve had them before but their exacerbated when this happens. These withdrawals will kill me one day. The Lord will spare me only so many times. And I do believe this may be the last. 48 exhausting and terrifying hours later, he was able to throw his legs over the side of the bed. No food had entered his body and what liquids that were consumed didn’t stay consumed for too long. His legs were wobbling. Weak from not being mobile. As the hours passed and his mind began to clear, he thought. That’s all he could do. He thought of the feelings, the torture that he put himself through. Telling himself over and over and over again that this was no way to live life. He wasn’t always like this. He used to smile. Used to enjoy himself. He laughed and he was full of life. ‘’Where did I go wrong?” he says to himself. Making his way to the balcony window and looking outside he saw the snow fall. Light, but constant. Gray clouds covered the sky. A beautiful sight. Turning, he walks into his library. His bookshelf is filled with so many memories. Stories that he used to get lost in. A faint smile comes across his face. The living room. Art on the walls and so many things collected and given to him. Gifts and items from his mother and his father. His friends. Collectibles of all sorts are scattered on various shelves and desks throughout. So many years spent enjoying what his apartment is filled with. He loves them. Mustering up all of the strength he has, he was able to shower and dress himself. A copy of ‘’The Lord of the Rings’’ sits on his bedside table. His favorite. Grabbing it and walking into the kitchen, he reaches for his keys, opens, and locks the door behind him. Leaving the pain and suffering of the past couple days behind. The park wasn’t far. The drive would be difficult nonetheless. Tunnel vision was a prominent symptom of the withdrawals. He would make it. He was hell bent on doing so. No music. Silence was needed. To think. To clear. To just be. He pulled off into the parking lot. A massive snow covered field with trees lining the perimeter. A steep hill with the parks trails intertwined over it in the distance. Knowing exactly the spot he wanted to go to, his trek began. It would take a while granted his current state, but he needed to make it. Eyes forward, looking all around. Admiring the beauty. The wind was picking up, making the frosted trees sway back and forth, creating an even more calming emotion for him. He crossed the field and entered the trail head. Snow freezing over on the ground, a slight crunch with every step he took was all he could hear. More clarity with each passing minute. An old, weathered bridge crossed the creek after descending for a few minutes. How many people have crossed this in days past? How many feelings and emotions have taken place in this very spot? Were there lost and broken souls standing right where he was at some point? Happiness and optimism? A simple admiration for the scenery. A proposal. A book being read. A story being written. Who would know. It could be a “simple” place to some. It could be a magical place to others. That’s the beauty of where he was. It was what him, and others, chose to make it. Not far passed the bridge, a narrow trail climbed up a brush laden hill to a cleared out area. Stone, amphitheater style seating rows occupied this space. He sat. Eyes up to the sky. A deep breathe in as his eyelids slowly shut, feeling the flakes land softly on his face. Emptying his mind of the negative, off what he had done to himself. Awareness. Only of where he was and what was around him. Silence lay heavy over where he was. Peace. He looked down at his book and flipped the cover open. Page 1. Starting fresh. It was never too late to do that. Some hours later the snow had subsided and he finished up his reading. He took his time heading back on the trail through the woods, over the bridge. Soaking up his surroundings as he did. Every wonderful sight. Crossing the field once more he arrived at his car, ready to open the door, he paused and looked up. One more glance at the trees. At the snow. It was so simple a thing. A park in the winter time and a walk through the woods. A couple hours of his favorite book. By this time the previous hours had all but left his mind and he felt renewed. This strengthened him. He put the key in the lock and opened his front door to a place that he loved, and one that he has taken for granted for far too long. He walked over to the couch and sat, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. This was it. He would no longer carry on the way that he was. There was happiness all around him. His family, his books, his reading chair, food on the table and clothes to wear. These realizations stemming from a simple walk in the park. This was life. Surrounded by the most beautiful things. He wanted to live. To make the most out of everyday. And he would. He would.


1.22.2020 Dear Diary, I think we all have something important to say. I haven’t found my story yet, but I intend to. I’ve always wanted to say something that was helpful to others. Or maybe helpful isn’t the right word. I want to say something that gets people thinking, and hopefully, talking to one another. I am only in 8th grade and don’t know much, but I do know that 6th period US History with Mr. Hizal is my favorite part of the day. Right now we are learning about the US Constitution and we have to make over 100 flashcards to memorize. We have debates every Friday morning with the other US History teacher’s class, Mr. Raskin. That class has all of the Academy students, which means they try extra hard and get A’s on everything. We don’t stand a chance, but Mr. Hizal thinks we can beat them at this week's debate. He picked me to go against Conner Nelson, a straight-A student and basketball player. I think now would be a good time to tell you that I have a stutter, which has only gotten worse since I had braces put on last summer. I don’t want to look like an idiot, but I also don’t want to let Mr. Hizal down. He thinks that I’m smart because I was the only kid in the class to get a 50/50 on my US States and Capitol test. He ran around the room and pretended to give the 100% test to five other students before he stopped at my desk, smiled, and placed the paper gently down in front of me. I couldn’t stop smiling that whole day. But this is a different challenge, one where I will have to speak in front of a whole classroom, no, TWO whole classrooms full of 8th graders who already think I’m weird. I’m so nervous. Wish me luck. Love, Zoey ★★★ 1.24.2020 Dear Diary, I surprised myself today. When it was my turn to stand up against Conner, I stood. I walked to center of the room and only looked at Mr. Hizal. He read off the first question and Conner got to his bell before me, even though I knew the answer. He answered Article II and was wrong. The question went to me and I answered Article V, which was correct. The rush of winning flooded through me and it gave me the power to keep trying. Before I knew it, I had answered eight questions correctly, with Conner only getting two. Then the class was over and my friends were cheering and making faces at the Academy class. Mr. Hizal clapped and Mr. Raskin shook my hand. I never stuttered, not even once. On my way out the door, Mr. Raskin asked me to join a Speech Club. I just might. Mom took me out for Golden Spoon frozen yogurt and even let me get Oreo toppings! Love, Zoey ★★★ 3.10.2020 Dear Diary, I know it’s been a while, I’m sorry! I’ve just been so busy with school and speech club, but I made a new friend. Her name is Kensi and she likes Harry Potter too. We met in Speech Club. She’s better than me but she doesn’t make me feel bad after it’s my turn to talk. In Speech Club, we can talk about anything we want as long as it “has a point.” Well that’s what Mr. Raskin says. Oh, and it has to come from a list of topics Mr. Raskin gives up. Last week I stood up in front of my classmates and talked about Global Warming. I kind of knew about it before, but after I had this assignment I learned how scary it all is. I hope things change soon. Conner has started to talk to me and even showed me how to throw a basketball into a net. I’m really bad and it makes him laugh, but it’s nice to have a friend. Love, Zoey ★★★ 3.25.2020 Dear Diary, Everything has changed and my world is upside down. I am scared. One week ago, this virus, the “Coronavirus,” came to our home. Mom says things will be different for a while. She says no more school, no more Speech Club. She says I will have to stay inside most of the time. It makes me sad because I just made two friends and now I can’t see them. The worst part is I can’t see Grandma for a while. I cried last night because I missed seeing her. Now, I’m terrified that I might get her sick, just by giving her a goodbye-kiss on the cheek. I hope this ends soon. Love, Zoey ★★★ 4.29.2020 Dear Diary, My family has stayed in this thing called “quarantine” for one full month now. I’m not allowed to go anywhere without a mask and gloves on. Mom bought me a Chromebook so I can see my friends through Zoom, but it’s not the same. School was transferred completely online and my sister’s college graduation was canceled. Conner says school has been even harder, but I am doing OK. Mom got very sick in the last week of March and we think she had the sickness that’s all over the news. One night, I stayed up until almost midnight watching my mom pace up and down her bedroom. She was breathing hard and sweating. My hand never left the phone; I was ready to dial 911. We tried to schedule Mom for a COVID test, but they said she couldn’t get one. I don't know why, but Dad was mad. The worst thing though, was that my Dad lost his job. Mom was really upset, but Dad is out there trying his best. They tell me to focus on school and Speech Club. If it were not for my weekly Speech Club Zoom meeting, I think I would be even more sad. Love, Zoey ★★★ 5.25.2020 Dear Dairy, Things started to turn around in the early days of May. Mom has finally recovered and even went for a walk last night. The beaches here in San Diego opened up and my parents let me see my friends (as long as I wore a mask and kept 6 feet apart). School ended but we still have Speech Club. Mr. Raskin says he thinks we should still meet each week for our Zoom meeting and prepare a weekly speech. I like that idea very much. I really thought things were starting to get better, but then today something bad happened. A man named George Floyd was killed. I saw the video on my Instagram and started to cry. I texted Kensi and she was really upset. She said her parents were angry, and that the evil in the video could have happened to them. I was really sad but also confused. I didn't understand why the Police Officers were doing that. When mom found out I watched the video, she took my phone and laptop away for a week. I was mad that I missed a Speech Club meeting, but I didn't want to upset mom. Mom says she took my phone away because there are a lot of angry people out there and she doesn’t want me to see them do bad things. I don’t really understand, I just miss Conner and Kensi. Love, Zoey ★★★ 6.26.2020 Dear Diary, Things have gotten worse. I went to the grocery store with mom today and saw a car on fire with a large group of people around it. They were shouting and throwing stuff at a building. It was scary and mom took us home. She says it is going to take a long time for things to get better, but I don’t know if I can wait any longer. The good news is I have my phone and laptop back. Last night was my Speech Club meeting. Mr. Raskin asked me to wait online after the class meeting ended. He told me that he has a special assignment for me. He said he thought some of my classmates were really sad and that he wanted me to write a speech about everything that has happened since March. I told him that I didn’t know if I could find the right words, but that I will try. This assignment makes me a little nervous, but I do have something to say. Love, Zoey ★★★ 7.4.2020 Dear Diary, Happy Fourth of July! Dad found a job and mom is really happy. I have been happier too. I gave my really big speech to my classmates last week. Some of them cried, and Mr. Raskin told me I was brave. I was proud of myself. I decided to write it down here in my Diary, in a safe place where I will always remember it. Here it goes: There is a lot of pain right now. In mid May we hit the 100,000 mark of deaths due to the Coronavirus, and now we watch twitter, snapchat, and the news for videos of Police Officers attacking peaceful protesters. We watch radical activists attacking Police Officers who stand on their side, supporting Black Lives Matter. I suppose at one time or another, we all have a hate so vile, it bubbles up in us, and we can't help but explode. We on the outside have no right to tell someone to “simmer down.” I don’t know what it will take to feel safe again. To not hurt when you wake up, or cry when you watch the news. Political leaders say you can start by coming out and voting. Maybe. But I also think it starts in the morning, when we decide to get out of bed and be the best version of ourselves, each day. Every morning, we are faced with the choice to be kind, to have an open heart, to love our mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. To respect anything alive, from plants to animals, from a white person to a black person. I thought we had overcome racism decades ago. But I guess monsters have a way of lurking in dark places. They decide to jump when you least expect them to, or, when you are least prepared for them. I have decided to find the beauty in everyday things, from the warm yellows the sun sends, to my smiling dog down at my feet now. I remind myself that my family is alive, and well, considering the horrors sweeping the nation. I remind myself that I can read and think for myself, and in some small way, I am making a difference, by choosing to be aware, and choosing to love. I hope you do, too. Love, Zoey


Edward walked around the parking gate since he did not drive and flashed his work badge at the security guard as he approached the gate booth. He was still feeling rejuvenated from his morning coffee and the cold rush hour air. In the mornings he could still feel bits of optimism for the future his job held for him. The clock hit nine as he laid his lunch on the table and then punched in and snapped open the door to the warehouse. He picked up his picking orders for the next hour and grabbed a cart and scanner gun. A forklift was beeping across the warehouse. Derek hadn’t flopped his arm around where his crotch was or grabbed for any crotches yet, but he was sweating. Four levels or temporary shelving stood over the aisles of the warehouse; it wasn’t a claustrophobic space, but it had now windows. The box of cat treats wasn’t scanning when two of Edward’s coworkers came down his aisle. He tried to avoid having social interaction at work; it diminished productivity. He also felt weird about having relationships with coworkers with whom he would have to share the fact that he hated the job which at this point the physical space they worked in was the only real personal link he had in common with them. They didn’t mind him though, he thought. He thought he could feel that. And he didn’t mind them either. They came up behind him and chatted about their weekends directly over his shoulder as he tried to scan in his catnip. “Not working huh?” one of them said in between their conversation. “Fuckin’ labels, I’m gonna lose time for this and it’s always our fault,” he said. The other one came in over his shoulder and snatched the box from his hand and tossed it into the depths of the boxes sitting on skids, grabbing another one from the back. It scanned in and he walked down the aisle to his next order as they followed. Derek always sprinted to work and wore the same sweats and was on caffeine and ephedrine at all hours of the shift for fat burning purposes. He wore his sweatshirt with the hood on, unzipped to show his wife beater underneath. He always smelled a little bit. They could bond with Edward over sports. “What did you do this weekend man?” Derek asked. “Not much man, just watched sports and was on the computer mostly,” he replied. “That’s sick. I bought eighty dollars worth of subway and Doritos and played Street Fighter all weekend. I smashed a small girl on Tinder.” Derek was always smashing chicks on Tinder, and often in the process of trying to smash chicks at work. “Where?” “Toronto.” “And you took the bus?” “Yup.” “Jesus,” Edward could never imagine having that level of dedication for getting laid. “I met someone too.” “That’s sick man. Did you smash?” “No not yet, we haven’t met, just online.” “Like long distance?” “No it said she’s within five miles.” “Five miles. Nice. Was this Tinder?” “On my computer.” “On your computer where?” “It came up on my computer. Her name is Kendra, she’s pretty.” “Messages don’t just come up on computers you dumb fuck.” “But it said there’s lot’s of other girls like her in my area.” “That’s a fucking pop-up. I thought you said you used computers. Were you watching porn again?” “Maybe. I’m trying to stop. I always feel so shitty after.” The other coworker finally popped in, “me too man. I smashed my girl on the weekend and I felt gross after.” “That’s not the same,” Derek said, sighing and returning to the subject, “that’s just a fucking pop-up you idiot.” “But she had a picture and sent a message, her name is Kendra.” “And what else?” “She’s looking to have fun. I swear I’ve seen pop-ups before this didn’t look like one. I couldn’t close it.” “Maybe they’re getting better. These scammers are always evolving. Let me come over this weekend and check it out.” In the lunchroom Derek flopped his arm around with the elbow at his crotch and flopped his forearm on the table. Anyone that tried to avoid him got his attention. Edward mostly kept to himself but talked a bit of sports with the other guys in the short fifteen minute break they had. The fifteen minutes did not include the travel time to and from the punch clock. Edward ate an apple and went back to work for the second half of his shift. After the shift was over Derek slapped Edward on the ass and told him he would see him this weekend, sprinting out the doors carrying his lunch in a grocery bag. Edward had never interacted with any of his coworkers outside of work, and now he had to think about how Derek would behave. He wanted opportunities to be more extroverted and outgoing. Maybe this was an opportunity.