This was my secret santa story for u/zetakh! This was really fun to write and I hope everyone likes it too. Constraints: 1. Something derails a holiday celebration. 2. An unlikely alliance. 3. Food is used as a weapon. 4. Bonus: use the following words: "Defenestrate" 5. "Kerfuffle" 6. "Bamboozle" \ A little boy sat at the banquet table that his grandmother had set out in the living room. He glanced around at all of the family members that surrounded him, many of which he didn’t recognize that well. Aunts, uncles, great-grandparents... Christmas was the only time of year that he saw them, so who could blame him for not knowing them? The only two people he recognized were Dad and Grandma. At the very least, though, he wasn’t the only child here. There were a few cousins around his age here, too. Maybe he could play with them after dinner? Speaking of that, when were they gonna eat? He glanced down at his plate, which was empty. He turned to his father, who sat beside him, and whimpered, “Dad, can I pleaaaaase eat now? I’m so hungry!” “Not yet, Buddy,” Dad replied as he gently patted his son’s head. “We have to wait for Grandma to pray.” “But why?” “Grandma will get upset if we don’t pray. Just be patient, okay?” Buddy crossed his arms and pouted, but otherwise didn’t reply. There was no sense in arguing with Dad, after all. Especially not if it concerned Grandma since she was much taller and much more terrifying than Dad could even dream of being! He watched as a few more people sat down. After what felt like years to him, Grandma finally chirped, “I think that’s everyone! Let’s pray, then.” The whole family seemed to bow their heads synchronously, except for Buddy. He stared at the food once more, before his eyes gravitated to one of his cousins who sat across from him. She stared right back at him, with a somewhat unsettling smile on her face. Was she planning something? Grandma began to hum, “Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us to thy service, and keep us ever mindful of the needs of others....” The cousin’s grin widened at Buddy as she picked up her spoon and placed it in the bowl of mashed potatoes. “For this and all we are about to receive, make us truly grateful, Lord...” Buddy squinted at her, before putting his own spoon in the stuffing. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he certainly wasn’t one to back down from a challenge! “In Jesus' Name, Amen." As the adults lifted their heads, the cousin flicked the mashed potatoes, which landed directly on Buddy's shoulder. He could hear one of them shout, "Lucy! That's not nice! Apologize!" but it was already much too late. This was war! He flicked the spoonful of stuffing right in her face, making a laugh as it splattered. Dad shouted, "Buddy! What are you doing?!" Alas, it fell on deaf ears as Buddy decided to pelt even more stuffing at Lucy. A splash of cranberry sauce came from a different direction and landed on Buddy's cheek. He whirled around to see one of his aunts, preparing to slam him with more cranberry sauce. In response, he began to pelt her with stuffing right back. From there, the situation devolved rapidly. Every single member of the family was now involved. What was once just a little kerfuffle between two cousins was now a full-on battle between everyone! Food flew with such force and speed all across the room, with no signs of the war slowing down or stopping. After a while, Buddy began to run out of food to throw. He scrambled to find more ammunition but instead got pelted by several others whose ammo was plentiful. He stopped in his tracks as he realized there was nothing he could grab. Everyone else was hoarding their food! He whimpered, before laying down on the ground and accepting his fate. Unfortunately for him, Grandma soon towered over him, a scowl on her face as she tightly held a couple of family-sized chip bags. "Do you know just how much trouble you're in, mister?" she asked, the fury clear in her voice. Buddy sat up, and yelped out, "I'm sorry, Grandma! I won't do it again! I didn't mean to start this!" The throwing of food slowed as everyone saw what was happening. Grandma smirked as she tossed one of the bags to Buddy. She scoffed, "Hah! I bamboozled all of you! My turn!" and opened the remaining bag. Soon, potato chip crumbs were flying everywhere, and the battle ramped up again. Buddy opted to hide behind Grandma and helped her throw chips at the family members who had barely gotten hit. She seemed the safest, after all! She was intimidating, strong, and clearly on his side despite the scare she had given him. Why wouldn’t he decide to have an alliance with her? Finally, after what felt like forever, everyone ran out of food. The battle was now over, and all that was left was the disastrous aftermath. Food covered almost every part of the house now, from the ceiling to the floor. It had even gotten outside, where some of the food had gotten accidentally defenestrated out of an open window. Buddy surveyed the massive mess that was now in the living room and felt a pang of guilt. Grandma was going to have to painstakingly clean this up, wasn’t she? He was at least partially responsible for this, so this was his mess to clean. The presents and celebration could wait until after this mess was cleaned up. He decided to grab a towel from the bathroom and began to scrub out the carpet. Soon, the rest of his family followed suit and began to clean up the disaster they caused. The war was over, and now they had to clean up the mess. Buddy didn’t mind much, though.


This whole flaring potato thing started about a week ago. You see, my wife had been eyeballing the bone-in, spiral cut ham that had been floating around in the bottom of my garage freezer since two Christmases ago. Hell, it could have been five Christmases for all I know--time sure does seem to fly by these days. Anyway, she's eyeballing this frosty ball of pig flesh and decides she’s got a real hankering for honeyed ham. Not just sugar coated ham--mind you--but bee juice glazed ham and flaring garlic mashed potatoes. Now, the only problem is that we ain’t got no flaring potatoes. And--I don’t know if you’ve been living under a rock for the past couple of months--but we got a real motherflaring pandemic on our hands, here. Next thing you know, the wife and I are smack dab in the middle of a little argument about the necessity of root vegetables during the apocalypse. And I gotta say, I think I did pretty good. So there I was, dumbdeffer me all masked up and covered in hand sanitizer like I found a surplus of Drakkar Noir, roaming the aisles of the local discount grocery chain in search of tubers. I searched high, I searched low, and I couldn’t find a single tater anywhere I looked--skin red, brown, or even canned for Sol’s sake. That was, until I turned a corner and found the holy grail. Sitting on a pallet far off in the corner was a single cardboard box with a glowing red word: Idaho. It called to me like a message from the sun god, himself. I strode up to that coveted box, placed my hands upon the sides of it, and lifted with all my might. Fueled by the thought of a happy wife and the happy life that went with it, I hefted that box all the way to the register and slapped it down on the conveyor with a flourish. I think I might have even slapped the top of the box and tossed the cashier a wink. I can’t be certain--adrenaline was coursing through my veins like Monster in a Twitch streamer. I paid, hauled the box home to my fortress of quarantine, and proudly presented it to the mother of my children. I was filled with joy! My innate manly need to provide filled to the brim by the most epic of quests and the bounty received from it. I waited for her reaction. And waited. And waited. She looked at me for the longest time, expression blank, clearly overwhelmed by my success. I stared back, patiently waiting for the recognition that was due to me. The seconds stretched to minutes, and the minutes to an eternity. When she finally spoke, she said, “I’ve decided that I don’t want potatoes anymore. Too many carbs.” So anyway, that’s how I wound up with a fifty pound box of potatoes. I microwaved one for breakfast today, with a little sour cream and black pepper. It was pretty good. Forty-nine more pounds to go...


Anything Else? “It’s tough, Mom. My career hinges on getting 80% on the exam day after tomorrow.” Immediately regretting comparing exam results to doomsday, Rhondi continued. “But I’m sure I’ll do fine, and by the way, the kids are doing great; all three like their teachers this year.” “Well, I don’t see how you’re doing this on your own. If I moved down there, I could...” “Mom, it’s okay. Anyone in health care will always have a job.” “It won’t be easy. My two nurse friends are always exhausted. Not to mention the politics that go along with...” “Politics are everywhere, Mom, no matter what field you’re in. Anyway, I need to get the kids organized for homework and bed, but I’m glad you called.” “They’re such sweethearts. Do they talk about Jack? You’re so much better off without...” “Sometimes.” Rhondi gave herself a mental high five for not reacting. “Okay, I really need to go. We’ll call soon. Love you.” How can it be eight o’clock already, Rhondi wondered. “Seth, April, Jon. Everyone to the kitchen - quick. Guys, I’m super tired, so what if April reads Jon a story while I go over Seth’s homework with him? After a little ice cream, of course.” When April and Jon were in bed, Rhondi could hear Seth in the shower. At 12, he was more mature than most of his friends. She worried that he felt responsible for his brother and sister - and for me. She heated a cup of tea and headed upstairs. Always thankful for a few minutes to relax after the kids were in bed, tonight was an exception. Books were spread across the bed for another hour of study. “Mom?” Rhondi looked up to see Seth in the doorway. “Hey buddy, come in.” “I know you have a test, but do you have a minute?” “Of course. I knew something was on your mind earlier. What’s up?” He sat down in the rocker. “First things first. I don’t like that guy you go to school with.” “Brent, the one in my study group?” “Yeah.” “Seth, he’s just part of the group, nothing more. These classes are hard and going over this stuff together helps me a lot. I’m not exactly a spring chicken, you know.” “Huh?” “Never mind. Something more?” “Alright, the other thing is, there’s a science project due next week. Today Billy and Mason said they’d pay me if I write theirs for them.” Rhondi put her cup down. “They asked you to help them or to actually write it?” “They want me to do the whole thing.” Oh, God, help me handle this right she silently prayed. “You guys have been friends for a long time, haven’t you?” “Since first grade.” “Well,” Rhondi said slowly, “those kinds of projects are easy for you, and you enjoy them.” She smiled as he rolled his eyes. “If you do it, you’d still have your friends - and some extra money.” She stayed silent for a moment. “Would there be a downside?” “They’d probably ask me to do it again,” he replied thoughtfully. “And I wouldn’t have time to get my own stuff done. And I might get caught.” “Hmm, those things could happen.” More silence. “Anything else?” He looked around the room and then looked her in the eye. “It wouldn’t be right.” “Bingo.” “Now what?” “So, what if you told them exactly what you told me and see what happens. It’s called ‘letting the chips fall.’ Check it out online and see what you think.” Pulling into the hospital parking lot the next morning, Rhondi tried not to stress about the day ahead for Seth. She was also concerned that her lunch date, now just four hours away, may not be a good idea. I can’t think about either right now she decided as clinicals began. Several weeks of treating patients on her own had instilled confidence, and this whole nurse thing was actually starting to feel real. She started three IVs , needing help with only one. Rhondi’s supervisor complimented her bedside manner as she adeptly inserted a needle while engaging the patient about his new grandson. After three hours of rounds, Rhondi eased into the seat next to Sylvia as Legal Aspects of Nursing class began. “How’d your IVs go?” Sylvia asked. “Pretty good. Right now, though, I’d like to skip this class and go study.” “I almost did. By the way, Brent and Carly want to eat at Jose’s right after clinicals around five and then study at the library. Brent will drive. You up for that?” “Yes.” Rhondi closed her eyes. “This exam just has me spooked.” “It has everyone spooked. Can you get your sitter, Elsa, right?” “Yep, I’m texting her now.” The instructor launched into various legal pitfalls of nursing, including horror stories of career altering consequences of negligence. Rhondi had little patience for such anecdotes. Weren’t IVs and wound treatment procedures enough to assimilate in one morning? Wanting class to end but anxious about lunch, Rhondi knew that an emotional upheaval today could scuttle passing the exam. She wondered what her kids and everyone else would think if they knew who she was meeting. “Doing anything for lunch?” Sylvia asked as they gathered their books. “Errands. See you after clinicals at five.” Rhondi checked the time and headed to her car. Arriving a little early, she decided to go ahead and get a table when the hostess approached her. “Rhondi?” “Yes.” “Right over here.” Looking where the hostess motioned she spotted him by a window in the corner. Wow, she thought, taken aback. He stood when he saw her and pulled out a chair. “You still look great in scrubs,” he said with a half smile. “I figured you probably wouldn’t have much time, so I’ve already ordered Pellegrino’s and our usual pasta.” “I have about an hour.” She sat across from him keeping her expression neutral. “You look good, Jack.” “What did you expect, greasy hair, grubby clothes and stubble?” His smile softened the words. “Something like that.” She returned the smile. “But last time you were at the house I could tell you’d made progress. About six weeks ago, right?” “Yeah.” Their food arrived and small talk about her classes and his rehab workshops followed. It seemed so normal, and Rhondi had to catch herself again from the pattern of hoping for a reboot that would make everything fine. “How are the kids?” “They’re good. Still unjaded enough to be excited about school - and life.” “I love those kids - our kids.” “That was never an issue, Jack. Everyone knows you do.” They ate in silence for a few moments. “April wants you to come to her birthday party in three weeks.” “I can’t believe she’s almost 11.” “Eighteen in her mind. She’s Jon’s self-appointed keeper since he’s four years younger, which of course includes telling him what to watch, what to eat, when to go to bed, etc.” Jack laughed. “I’d like to see them sooner than the party if possible.” “We could probably arrange that.” She briefly thought of cancelling Elsa and asking if he wanted to stay with them tonight. Instead, she recounted her conversation with Seth about his science project. Jack looked down at his plate. “I’m proud of that kid.” Then he met her gaze and said softly, “you’re doing a great job.” “Thanks. So, how’s everything going?” “We have classes each morning on diet, relationships, boundaries, a bunch of stuff. Afternoons are for exercise and workshops. I’m staying at a glorified halfway house for professionals who screwed something up. Anyway, if you’re wondering if I’m ‘clean,’ I am. I report to a sponsor, who I hated at first, but now I’m kind of liking this accountability thing.” Rhondi looked at her former husband who’d been a leader, funny, full of energy. “Has anyone said anything about ever practicing...” “Possibly clinical psychology - not psychiatry. Psychologists can’t prescribe medicine.” “How are you with that?” “Getting used to the idea.” Her fingers brushed the bottle of unopened anti-anxiety medication in her scrubs pocket as he continued disclosing details about his present life. Several of her classmates claimed these pills were getting them through school. I don’t want to be a martyr, but I don’t want dependency, she had decided. Prescription medication had destroyed Jack’s medical career and their family. She often wondered what would happen if she got hooked. More small talk until Rhondi looked at her watch. Tossing a virtual coin to decide who would take care of the kids tonight fell on the side for Elsa. “I have to get eighty percent on a tough exam tomorrow, so I’ll call in a couple days and we’ll figure out a time to come over.” Instead of pressuring her for an exact time, he simply said “thanks.” On the way to her car, she once again almost decided on Jack over Elsa for tonight, but she smiled and waved instead. Afternoon Clinicals went well, and by the end of the day, she was more than ready for supper at Jose’s and her group study session. She started to call Seth for an update but decided to wait till she could see him in person. Arriving at the parking lot, she saw Carly and Sylvia waiting by Brent’s car. They were a safety net, they all looked out for each other. Rhondi wasn’t even sure she would still be here without their encouragement and late-night study binges, usually at her house so she wouldn’t need a sitter. She suspected Brent would’ve liked a closer relationship, but she had never encouraged it. “Going to be a productive evening,” Brent said getting in the car. Sitting in the back seat, Rhondi felt her tension ease and began to relax. “I have to pass this test,” Sylvia announced. “No repeating classes. No more school loans. I need a job.” “Me too,” Carly said. “I can’t imagine going through this class again or delaying graduation. I just have one older kid. Rhondi has three young ones.” “Not sure how you two are surviving nursing school with kids,” Sylvia said. “How are yours, Rhondi?” “Better than I could have hoped, considering the ‘single mom in school thing’.” She was about to recap Seth’s friends issue but decided against it. “Overall, things are good.” Brent had remained silent during the short ride, but he caught Rhondi’s eye in the rearview mirror and winked as they arrived. She smiled briefly in return. After everyone ordered, Rhondi realized she was anticipating an evening for the first time in ages, even though it was just for study. The kids were in good hands, there’d been no major incidents during morning rounds, and Jack seemed better, much better actually. “Why’d you bring your briefcase in, Brent?” Sylvia asked. “Can’t stay away from the books even during supper?” “About that,” he said pulling a packet out of his briefcase. “I have great news for us all.” Small talk ended as he had everyone’s attention. Dramatically opening the packet, he announced, “right here is a copy of the test we’ll all be taking tomorrow.” He looked around the table, eyes lingering a bit longer on Rhondi. “And for a mere twenty-five dollars - each, of course - we’ll study it this evening.” A stunned silence followed. “What, no takers? We all want, we need, to pass don’t we?” “How’d you get that?” Sylvia finally found her voice. “Who gave it to you?” Carly was indignant. “That’s it?” Brent looked at each one. “How do you know it’s the real test?” Sylvia demanded. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to...” Smiling mischievously, he uncovered the top portion to reveal the school insignia and the title. Carly and Sylvia leaned forward to read the small print. More silence. “Let me think for a minute,” Carly said slowly. “Me, too,” Sylvia shot a glance at Rhondi. “Cat got your tongue, Rhondi?” Brent asked with a friendly smile. Right in front of her was a gift, a free pass to a career that would support her children. But all she could see was Seth’s face as they had discussed options. Then she heard her voice. “Sorry, guys, this probably isn’t my thing.” They stared at her. “What do you mean?” Carly was obviously torn. “We need this. It’s not like we’re slacking.” Sylvia nodded in agreement. “We’ve been killing ourselves. This isn’t that big a deal.” “Which, passing the test or buying a copy?” Rhondi asked. Sylvia glared at her, an expression Rhondi had never seen. “The world won’t end if we use it,” Carly pointed to the test. Their food arrived but was ignored. Brent watched Rhondi but spoke to the others softly. “Take it easy, you two. Give Rhondi some space, a chance to look at the upside. It’s not like we haven’t been learning this stuff all term. This just allows us to focus on key points. How can there be a downside? She deserves to get through this just like we do. And she knows her kids would benefit. Nothing more to consider. Anything else?” All eyes were on her again. Rhondi looked around, aware that she was expected to respond. Once again she heard her own voice. “Look, you guys go ahead. Consequences aside, it’s not right. I’ll just head on home after we eat.” Rhondi maneuvered through light traffic on her way home. There had been small talk in Brent’s car on the way back to the library, none of it directed toward her. Nearing the house, she considered going to the public library to study on her own. Her energy was depleted, though, and she needed a welcoming atmosphere, she needed to see her kids. As she turned on to her street, her heart nearly stopped. Whose car was in her driveway? Elsa lived only a few doors away and always walked. Was that Jack’s car? Expecting another blow, Rhondi rushed through the door. “What’s going on?” she could barely speak. Laughter? Sitting at the dining room table were Seth, Jon, April and Jack, playing Monopoly. All four looked at her. “Mom, why are you back so early?” April asked. “We’re having fun, Mom,” Jon said grinning. “Whoa, everybody, hold on,” Jack commanded. “One at a time.” “Everything’s fine. I just decided to study here instead. Where’s Elsa?” “Her dad was rushed to the hospital, so she called me,” Jack said. “She had your number?” “She said you texted it to her when she agreed to stay with the kids tonight - in case anything ever came up.” “Oh, that’s right, I did.” Rhondi stood watching them, still holding her books. “Are you okay, Mom?” Seth had a concerned look. “Of course she is,” Jack assured them, taking Rhondi’s books and setting them on the sofa. He looked at her for a long moment. “Why not have dessert with us and then go study in the den. I’ll clean the kitchen and make sure everyone’s ‘on task’.” All three kids chimed their approval. “By the way, Mom,”Seth said, “I did what you said and let the chips fall. Billy said he wants to do his project himself anyway, but Mason’s still a toss-up. It’ll work out. It’s good you’re back. Dad got ice cream sundaes.” The background sounds of Jack cleaning the kitchen and supervising bed-time provided a calming atmosphere as Rhondi went through several practice exams online. “Doing okay?” Jack asked from the doorway. “I think so. What time is it?” She realized the house had grown quiet. “Ten. So, what happened earlier?” “The guy in my study group got a copy of the exam, and for twenty-five dollars each, he said we could all study it together.” Jack sat down in the chair facing her. “Wow. So, you’re the boy scout. How do you feel?” “Still processing.” “What if I quiz you on chapter summary questions? I’ve got a couple of hours till curfew.” “Okay.” The next morning, after the exam, Rhondi walked quickly to her car and drove to the café where she’d been twenty-four hours earlier. The same hostess guided her to the same corner table where Pelligrino’s had already arrived. “So?” Jack asked. “So, it was a killer. Results popped up immediately online. Only three people passed with over eighty percent.” “Your study group?” Rhondi nodded. “What did you get?” “Seventy-eight point nine.” Jack took a sip of water. “You may not remember when I failed that final in my third year and had to retake the class. Anyway, it proved helpful because the material was repeated in a few other classes. At first I thought it was the end of the world, but it wasn’t. Neither is this.” “I want to believe that.” “We - you need a plan. Elsa and I can alternate watching the kids. You know this material. Seventy eight point nine with all that was going on; you’ll ace it next time.” Rhondi nodded. “What are you doing after lunch?” “Probably just take a break and maybe a nap before the kids get home. If you’re free later, maybe you could help plan April’s party.” “Sounds good.” Jack handed her a menu. “What would you like?”


_I might start turning these little story starters into actual stories. I'm going to just give a sample of one, and you can tell me what your thoughts are on it, deal? Thanks! First up!_ **19. Rose Garden** *A soft humming tune filled the air, as a petite figure busied herself with watering the large garden of red, golden yellow, and pink roses. As she hummed, and the water can went spraying all over the petals and leaves, she thought to herself, 'What a wonderful morning for gardening.' A soft giggle followed, as her strawberry blonde hair bounced from the joy in her step, as she pranced over to refill the can.* *"Quite a wonderful garden you have there, Cherilee!" a male's voice rang out, catching her off guard, making her nearly drop the can of water.* *"Oh, um, good morning to you too, Mr. Finner! I see you're admiring my garden," she replied, running over to the gate to open it up for the 30 year old man.* *He wore a dark blue and black suit proudly, with a spectacle covering one eye, and a top hat sitting upon his mop of brown hair, combed nicely. With a smile, he looked upon the roses of many colors, and walked in with his hands behind his back.* *"My, my, you sure have been busy, haven't you Miss Cherilee," he commented, taking out his pocket watch to check the time briefly, before putting it away.* *"Why yes, Mr. Finner! Getting up every morning to make sure my beautiful children get their water is what I live for!" Cherilee spoke proudly, giggling as she pranced back over to a bush she hadn't attended to yet.* *The man watched her in silence, keeping his hands behind his back. He wondered how such a petite young lady managed a garden like this all by herself. Walking over to watch her water the red roses, he raised an eyebrow with curiosity.* *"So, how did you manage to work on this garden of yours? It's pretty exquisite to be one of such talent."* *Cheriliee gives a dark smirk for a moment's glance from the Professor, before giggling lightly. "Oh Mr, Finner, you flatter me. I've been working on this garden for years. It's one of my greatest achievements! To keep the garden fed, and the leaves trimmed, it's one of my greatest pleasures."* *"Oh really? Well, that sounds absolutely splendid. Oh my, look at the time! I must be off. History won't teach itself. Have a wonderful day, Miss Cherilee."* *The man quickly left her humble garden, only to hear a whisper in his ear speak softly to him.* *"Help us!"* *Hearing the sudden sound of a whisper calling for help, the Professor turned his gaze back towards Cherilee, who was busy pulling up some weeds for the moment.* *"Did you say something, dear?" he asks, scratching his head lightly.* *"Pardon? I don't believe I said anything, but I hope your day goes well!"* *"Yes...uh...you too..."* *Once the gate was closed behind him, it locked automatically, making Cherilee stand slowly with the weed cutter held tightly in her grip. Giving off a dark aura of anger, she turned to the rest of her garden with a wicked grin, "Who spoke up? Who?"* *The garden stayed silent, making her eyebrow twitch with impatient, "Speak up now! Who was it?!"* *A small rose bud peeked out of the corner of one of the bushes, showing off a pair of bright blue eyes full of fear. "I-it was me..." it spoke in a soft tone.* *Cherilee walked over slowly to them, and fell to her knees, before taking the bud gently within her fingers. She could feel the rose bud shivering, rustling up their leaves and wanting to hide their face with its petals.* *"So, what made you think you can go around asking strangers for help, hm? Did I give you permission to speak? DO you want the others to pay for your disobedience?? Must I always be so patient with you??"* *Without waiting for a word, she used the weed cutter to snip the rose from its stem, making a dribble of blood pour from the bush. The rest of the garden whimpered and gasped as Cherilee mercilessly crushed the rose bud.* *Standing to her feet, she growls, "Let this be a lesson to you, lot! I will only keep you here for as long as I want, and you will never defy me, or you'll all end up with the same fate! I gave you a home, I keep you well fed, and this is the thanks I get?!" She threw the rose on the ground, and stomped it to pieces. "You will stay silent, unless I give the order to speak, understand!?"* *The garden fell silent, making her chuckle, as she went back to her pretty cheerful tone, "Good. That's all I wanted to hear. Silence."* *~~* A pile of papers were placed inside of another filing cabinet, as Bennett did his best not to complain. The work pile up was ridiculous, his coworkers were off on other duties, and he still hadn't been able to capture the one causing so much trouble for the city. There have been many cases of children going missing in the nearby areas, as of late, and still the only clues the man has found, were pictures with info of whom was missing. The parents were becoming devastated, and some even began thinking of moving to a different state or another city. None would think that their children was dead, since it has been a few years that these cases have come about. Just where is this captor, and why children under the ages from 5 to 9? Sighing deeply, Bennett plopped down into his seat, running a hand over his tired face. Working late night hours again, just for this; it was slowly driving him nuts. Who knows what those children were up against? What was the captor trying to say? Opening up a cabinet underneath his desk, he took out the files of the recent missing children of this year. Mattie Williams. Age 8. Kasey Jockins. Age 9. Peter Alleck. Age 6. Raven Yorkshire. Age 9. And Thomas Dilsworth. Age 7. 5 children in a span of a few months. How did it get so bad, and what was this captor’s motive? For all Bennett knew, this captor was interested in gingers and dirty blondes, but why? It was already creepy enough, but to be specific, the girls were the red heads, and the boys were dirty blondes. Why? Just why? Groaning in frustration, he bends over the folders and paperwork. “Ugh.” A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, making him nearly jump out of his chair, only to see one of his friends grinning down at him. “Hey Ben, what’s going on tonight? Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya.” Groaning again, Ben turned back to his friend with a light smirk, “Very funny, Kyle. I’m just going over some more paperwork.” “Business is still booming?” “For the most part, trying to solve this case without any leads is getting me nowhere.” The tall man gives a chuckle, placing a platter of food next to the detective, while taking a seat next to him. “What are you doing here anyway, Kyle? I thought you were banned from coming to see me,” Ben joked, taking the can of soda from his friend, who gives a soft laugh. “I just wanted to check up on my buddy. Can’t have you staying overnight again, can I? You do have a bad habit of letting your work get to you. Can I see what you got working for ya?” Sliding the files over to him, Kyle studied the children’s profiles, humming lightly in thought. “Hm. Seems like a pattern to me. Why do you think they are interested in children, anyways?” After taking a swig from his drink, Ben gave a shrug, placing it onto the table, “Who knows? I’m not getting anywhere like this.” “Oh, that reminds me, I brought you this too,” Kyle mentions, placing a file down onto the table. It was a brand new kind of envelope that was black, with white letters written on it: Classified. “What’s this?” Ben asks, opening the file carefully, so as not to rip anything. Usually files like these meant whatever profile was behind it, the person was seriously dangerous, or just mentally insane. “You know that mansion up on Blue Hill, Ave?” Kyle asks curiously, watching as Ben looks over the file. “The one with that huge rose garden you mean?” Ben frowns in thought, while Kyle nodded. “Yes. Lovely garden, isn’t it?” Ben nods, now concentrating on the file. There was a girl with long dark brown hair on it, with a wide smile that looked a little too forced to be real. She had pale skin, and light green eyes, and was wearing a prisoner’s outfit. Her name was Muriel Josephine Kinley, Age 24. Her reasons for imprisonment were blotted out, and her history wasn’t there either. Ben couldn’t get much from this, if anything at all. “Just thought I’d give you another file to add to your suspects list,” Kyle mentions, sipping his soda, before crushing it and throwing it far into the trash bin. “Have you ever seen this girl? Why would she be a suspect? Isn’t she in prison?” “Nope. Word got out that she’s escaped, and is on the run, apparently. But, it’s been a few years, and no one’s seen her since. Think she could be out there wrecking havoc?” “Could be. I’ll keep an eye out for the time being. I think I’ll call it quits for tonight, my head hurts.” Ben placed all of the files back into his drawer, locking it with the key, before planting it into his pocket. Getting up and grabbing his jacket, he turns back to see Kyle cleaning their food and placing it into a bag. “Are you crashing at my place again, Ky?” he asks, while he looked over the office, before turning out the lights. “Yes man, if you don’t mind. My roommate was having friends over, and I wanted to get some air anyways. While you get some rest, I might watch some footage we had gotten that may confirm who the perp was that robbed the city’s museum again.” “Don’t they usually have the Eagle Agency working in that department?” Ben led them both to his car, quickly getting in and turning the engine on. “You’re forgetting that I had to go undercover as the museum manager, while he was on vacation to keep a lookout. Sadly, the perp got away with the find, and the police are on the case. The Agency though I heard, has hired another to get on the case. Black Phoenix is the name.” “Black Phoenix, huh? If heros are taking lightly to such petty names, I’d say that one is unique, but you know, who cares nowadays?” “Haha, you got that right.” “What was stolen again?” “The Egyptian Sphere. Says it can grant anyone any wish, but it’s limited. Some say others who have sought after it, and used its powers, ended up dead in the long run.” Ben chuckles, “Guess they couldn’t handle the rules, huh?” To be continued...


##Good Morning ShortStories! Cody here to formally announce a few changes to the sub. We aren't making any titanic shifts in how we do things or cracking down on content. What we do want to do is make this place look a bit more polished. This is a sub more for readers than writers. After all, our authors post stories here with the intent that they will be read. With that in mind we want to make the reading experience a bit more pleasant. This entails a few things:   1. **Present your story as a story.** This means in your post title, use proper titling rules: capitalizing first letters appropriately. The good rule of thumb is 'important' words - nouns, action verbs, adjectives, and adverbs - are capitalized while transitive verbs and articles stay lowercased. Look to any published book for an example of this or go and let it do it for you. This will help make a post standout in a feed as a short story and make prospective readers more likely to open your post. Plus, it just looks nice when scrolling through. 2. **Keep it to the story**. Please don't treat your story like the front half of a recipe online. We don't need to know the origins and circumstances of it's creation. If you want to share it, please make it a top level comment, but keep the body of your post to the story, a link to the subreddit, and a feedback request if you are looking for it. 3. **Format your story itself.** Don't post a single block of text. Very few people want to read that. A few common mistakes we see and will be reasons for removal: * The aforementioned wall of text. Break up your paragraphs. Besides making it easier to look at, those breaks make it easier to not get fatigued. Our brains take a small breath of air at the ends of paragraphs. * Make new paragraphs when speakers change in dialogue, and use the correct punctuation - quotation marks - to indicate dialogue. We aren't going to remove because you didn't follow the minutia of English grammar. We understand everyone is at a different level, but we do have a base standard that we are going to hold you to. * Codeblocks. These are basically textboxes inside the post that can stretch on into infinity. These happen because you wanted to indent your paragraphs. 4 spaces = "This section is in code" to reddit markdown. We recommend just not indenting. Reddit is weird and we are used to reading without indents. If you really want to include them copy and paste this: >\ \ \ \  There may be a narrative reason to use these such as actually showing code in a software espionage thriller story. If they fit the narrative that is fine, but 99% of the codeblocks we see are in error. * We know getting used to Reddit's markdown quirks can be difficult. If you are on new reddit with the fancypants editor, many of these things are handled for you and you won't notice a problem unless you specifically enter markdown mode. Old Reddit and mobile reddit though still have to contend with the markdown. The moderation team recommends getting the Reddit Enhancement Suite extension and viewing from old reddit. It offers a live preview of your post so you can see what it will look like before posting. If that isn't for you, or you are on mobile apps - which it looks like about 70% of you are - you can also go and preview your post. * A lot of this can be boiled down to one simple imperative: post polished work. It shouldn't look like a rough draft. Have pride in what you are putting out there for people to read. In turn readers are far more likely to enjoy what you spent time and energy making.   We know there is a lot of legacy content that does not follow these rules, but we have to start somewhere. So please do not come to us saying, "But I saw it here" and link to old approved stories. This is the now, and the rules on the sidebar clearly state our new expectations. We are one of the larger repositories of stories on reddit.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Media Prompt: ** ***Bonus Constraint (worth extra pts.): Use of an **: A reference, typically brief, to a person, place, thing, event, or other literary work with which the reader is presumably familiar (e.g. I wish I could just click my heels. - a passing reference to Wizard of Oz) See the link for additional explanation and examples. If the allusion isn't obvious, be sure to include a note at the end of the story so you don’t miss points.* This week’s challenge is to use **the above song as inspiration** for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all sub and post rules**.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make adjustments where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/ktril89   - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis   *** ###Subreddit News - Our sister sub, r/WritingPrompts, now has a ! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


(Implied violence) The pump is dry--or broken. It has probably been that way for a long time. It is also quite possible, the man considers with some degree of annoyance, that it has never worked at all. That it has always existed in this state. One not unlike the town of its residence, or the land surrounding; empty, restful, wanting. He swears under his breath. He doesn’t typically enjoy doing so where the sun can see him, but his current situation certainly warrants it. He knows his car is on its last legs. The fuel light on his dash has been worrying at his peripheral for an uncomfortably long time and this is the first small slice of civilisation in what was a half day sized cake of sweet fuck-all. He replaces the nozzle to its original position, where it will likely stay for another two or three lifetimes, until the arrival of yet another poor soul shit out of luck and unleaded who would find themselves equally as disappointed. He wipes what is either rust-dust or red-dirt from his palm to the denim of his thigh. It’s possibly both. This specific shade of copperhead orange is a familiar sight around this part of the country. Everything here--when there was anything here at all--is either dirtied or deteriorated to the point where no other colour dare remain. And as a man of many shades of black, this and the sun make for a rather unfavourable pairing to say the least. Finding a means of escape is imperative. He checks his phone for reception. If he can’t find fuel here, he can at least scour his map app for the closest alternative. His phone gives him nothing, not even enough bars to make an emergency call lest he be approached by a psycho with a shotgun or a cannibal from the distant hills; irony be damned. He wields his phone to the sky, a beacon of betrayal that offers him nothing in return for his extended efforts. He will change providers--if he can ever reach a town where such a change can be provided. He lets his arm drop. “You’re in the country now, boy.” A voice calls to him, thickly accented, each word halved in size, incomprehensible if one aren’t fluent in this very particular brand of local drawl. The man feigns nescience, offering the voices wielder a leisurely wave, careful not to let his irritation show. No shit. He thinks but does not say. I never would have guessed. A secondary survey of his surroundings offers up not much more than his initial had. Beyond the functionless pump there is a functioning carpark, occupying a series of cars and carcasses whose differences are indiscernible to the naked eye. Along with this, there is a single large building that likely once operated as separate businesses but is now connected by wooden panels and rusted corrugated pieces to form a single beast of a thing that no doubt housed primarily the motel-servo monster that is this town’s only lure. Everything is rust and ruin, dirt and detritus; ancient relics of times gone by. No wonder they didn’t have phone reception, they probably didn’t even have indoor plumbing. In an odd way it is both charming and eery. With too much time here one could easily fall prey to red dust homey quality unique to inland towns, as inconvenient as their services might be. Withdrawn from the reach of the rest of society, townships such as this often maintained an air of timelessness. Whether it is the eighteen-hundreds, nineteen-fifties, or the same day he left the place before this one, he can’t tell. He’s unsure whether the locals would even know themselves, stuck in their perpetual state of desert-town dormancy--listless things they are. He won’t allow himself to fall into this trap. In-and-out. Fuel and finis. He will give himself twenty minutes at most. He makes his way to what he presumes is the front door, letting himself in with a jingle and sway of waterlogged veneer. The heat of the day follows him, only to make a hasty retreat the very moment before the door clammers shut. Looking around, he can’t blame it. The scent of distilled spirits and the zestless air of dying ones is his only greeting. He knows then why vacuity is worn so boldly from pump to patio--no one would want to stay amongst this energy of the damned for long. So many eyes, not one of them friendly. He hardly looks like anything worth such open, unmetered hostility, surely. He smiles, inoffensive. He is good at inoffensive. It’s a trademark of his. Inoffensive and preferably invisible. Dissolved of the heat’s company, he ventures alone, making his way past the bar’s testy occupants and through a connecting archway eloquently labelled simply as ‘STORE’. Time continues to evade him. The classic, soulful sound of FM radio makes love to his every step; the mellow, acoustic twang of country diluted through with the gapping nothingness that is the store’s lack of patrons. It’s been a lifetime since he’s listened to the radio. Why would he? It’s difficult to trust someone who enjoys midrolls in their music. Only a real weirdo vetoes Spotify in exchange for the skipless prison that is public broadcasting. No DJ you may not spin him a pretty little number that only half the audience will actually enjoy, whilst the other half graciously suffers through it in hopes that the next song just might be their jam. He will play what he pleases, thank you. What would be the point of a premium subscription otherwise? Possibly this is the pitfall. The radio is fiscal liberty whose true cost lay in theft of choice. To each their own. He approaches the counter, hands pilled with packaged foods past their expiration date, that he will not eat, but will make him look at least purposeful. He addresses the cashier, “Are you the king of this fine establishment?” Nothing. Silence. Humour is lost on the sequestered. His nametag reads Glen. “You see, Glen . I was having a little trouble outside. Is your fuel pump--?” “Working.” Glen amends but elaborates no further. “Right.” “That tank’s been dry as a nun’s nasty since the yanks drained in back in forty-five.” The man didn’t believe the United States was likely to have drained this particular tank in this particular province of Nowhereland at any given point of time, but this wasn’t his problem. “But the pump works?” There’s a beat of nothing. Nothing but FM and smoker’s wheeze. He needs to leave. “It’s cracked. There’s a spare out back. Hand fill. Rhody will fill ‘er up. You’ll pay here.” He isn’t sure what a Rhody is and how it would fill his car when the pump is debunked and tank dry as a Prioress’ privates, but he’ll take what he can get. He upturns his expired confectionary upon the counter, shuffling each item into some semblance of order more for the benefit of his own amusement then Glen’s convenience. He spots them then, the pile of newspaper’s stacked just shy of the counter’s edge. Local rags from the look of them, maybe regional, but with definitively no further reach than that. It is the front page that strikes his eye: in clear and imposing block letters. “Terrible.” He comments, with some level of casualty, tapping a sole finger to the paper’s edge. Glen says nothing, but does with the briefest of movements, drops his eyes momentarily to the newspaper. Face-up the headline reads, ‘ANOTHER MISSING IN ONGOING DISAPPEARANCES IN REGION.’ “Coppers will sort it.” “That they will.” The man agreed, “Do you take card?” “Cash only.” Smalltowners are a simple people: cash, caution, and Hits Top 100. He slips his presumptuously attained debit card back into his wallet alongside half a dozen others, near identical in all but name. He hands Glen a hundred. “Donate the change.” He proclaims, gesturing to the ambiguously labelled charity tin, “Can never be too charitable.” When he re-enters the bar, not much has changed, but now he is once again invisible at least. No one turns to him as he steps back in, too intent on eying their drinks, or the TV, or each other. He is no one to them. A passer-by, a blip, a stranger. This is how the man prefers it. He observes them: a room full of people that have probably been here since before the room was even constructed. The type of townsfolk that had fallen here as seeds--carried on the wind or shat out by a bird or propped up from the very crust of the earth itself--settling their roots exactly in place and then never budging for a lifetime. They’d all know one another. By name, by birth, by the grace of the limited available space. They are both a tragedy and an inconvenience. He needs to leave . Yet for now, he has no choice. Glen had mentioned around a half hour wait for Rhody’s fuel services and as enticing as the prospect of standing outside under the direct rays of the peak-hour sun is, he thinks he at least deserves a drink and a short reprieve. He orders a beer. He assesses the room once more. Wariness, hostility, and flannel. There is so much flannel. There are two distinct groups of people that wear flannel in public unabashed and they are generally the same two groups that frequent establishments such as these. Sadly, neither of these groups are generally his opted choice of company. Then he spots the girl. Tucked in the deep recesses of a corner table, curled in upon herself as if hiding or hibernating in the shadowless crevice that seems to protect her from the oppressive air of the surrounding environment. She’s reading a tattered paperback. A strangely old-fashioned gesture for her presumed age, with a mobile phone and the endless void of social networking resting in such close proximity to her hand. Probably dead. He thinks. No, definitely dead. There is no flannel in sight. He approaches. He greets her with a smile: inoffensive. She gives him her name: Toni. He gave her one of his. She invites him to sit, having clearly assessed him against the bars other occupants and finding him to be of a more agreeable variety. It’s probably his lack of missing teeth. They tell their stories. He, a man on his way cross-country to visit a Great Aunt on the verge of cardiac collapse. His childhood caretaker, he explained, like a mother. Though men like him didn’t often have mothers and if they did, they weren’t the good kind. Her, a young woman on run from an unspoken responsibility like something out of a coming-of-age novella. Vague, clipped. He doesn’t prod for details. How did you end up here? Car problems. How long have you been here? Too long. Though her situation is a tad more complicated as too long was two days rather than less than an hour, and car problems was that she had blown some sort of hose that fed some sort of important fluid to another sort of important mechanism that was beyond her mechanical understanding. Leaving Toni and the vehicle at a deadly ultimatum: divorce or a joint suicide. In the end the car and Toni had parted ways. The lack of a prenup and sufficient arm muscles meant that it kept all her belongings bar her phone, wallet, and a one-point-five litre bottle of Evian. Somewhere along the line she had been whisked up from the roadside by a pair of middle-aged women who had been either cousins or a couple and had done nothing but bicker between themselves until they’d reached this point. Toni, desperate to salvage her sanity, had bailed from the vehicle with promises of safety and cell service that she had not realised to be falsehoods until long after the women were out of sight. And here she is. Her phone: dead. Her book: borrowed. Her plan: Dicey. Maybe she would come up with one tomorrow. Maybe she would finish the book first. She’ll take things as they come. What’s the rush? She has nowhere to be. And nowhere she is. “Chatty bunch, aren’t they?” He mentions partway in, two drinks down, Toni’s book forgotten by her deceased phone’s side. A crime novel. The kind that’s vivid attention to detail and vaguely concerning insider knowledge oft leaves readers unnerved enough to scour online criminal records with the authors name in mind, or at the very least leaving them questioning their sanity. They aren’t his preferred choice of reading. With a pointed gaze towards the bar, she nods in the direction of a specific man. Long, gangly, hair the desaturated, dying yellow of the rooms artificial light, “He definitely keeps human skins in his wardrobe.” “One for each day of the week.” He agrees. “You would make a mighty fine Sunday best.” This draws a hesitant laugh, “I’ll steer clear.” “So, how long for your wait?” She is sipping a coffee. Black. Like his clothing, like their corner. “ Rhody has to fill me up from the tank out back. Apparently, the American’s drained the other one.” He explains. “Tale as old as time.” “Would you like a lift somewhere when I’m done?” Hesitation, justifiably. There is always hesitation. She wears it as the other’s wear their flannel: dated, with practice. The hesitation of a young woman alone, speaking to a man she does not know and can not trust. Smart girl. “I promise to keep your skin intact.” Her expression is thoughtful. Her mind weighing the virtue of one relatively unassuming man against a room full of hostile, sentient flannel, swiftly finding one marginally preferable to the other. Not so smart after all. “Well with an offer like that, who could refuse?” The tank is full. The windscreen is washed. The mysterious Rhody is neigh to be seen. They are off. Toni does not settle immediately, though her demeanour had shifted slightly to the left of caution when she had spotted his car. Something small and Japanese. Silver. Inconspicuous, but not too inconspicuous as to become conspicuous simply by the way of human assumption. It is just a car. The type of car you would expect an older gentleman to drive on the way to visit their moribund maternal figure. She flicks on the radio, drowning the car in sound. Yet another action odd only for her youth. He had not known this car was even tuned for the radio. The song is something crass and pop-y, strategically designed to be beloved by adolescents and algorithms alike. “This is my jam.” Of course, it is. God bless streaming services. He allows her the three or so minutes of electronic mayhem, then an extra forty of equally, if not more intolerable, musical free reign. Then he pulls out the gun. The man likes guns. They are his natural opposite. The bad cop to his good cop--or either or. Flashy where he is subdued; boisterous where he is muted. The irony of his weapon choice isn’t lost, just misplaced. It’s likely somewhere out in the desert, probably making friends with Toni’s car. The silencer brings them back to equal footing. A stabiliser that is both a precautionary measure and a modest attempt at maintaining his inoffensive image. Not that there is much of an imagine to be had. No one lives long enough to question the authenticity of his character, so he supposes it matters to none but him. This includes Toni, whose death--although not as silent as his gun’s attachment had promised--cares for nothing now as he closes the boot of the car upon her body, gagged and bound for a shallow grave somewhere amongst the barren expanse of desert and nothingness, his driving companion for just a short while more. Much like his friend the fuel pump, he isn’t running. Running would require he believed himself to be obtainable in the first place. He is simply moving. Albeit at a faster pace to those on a different side of the law. He’s convinced himself of this, facts be damned. He isn’t running, but he would keep moving. And move he does.


Another group exercise to help build moral like they actually care about us and the hours as put in, good grief . I hope they’re going to at least feed us this time I mean mandatory overtime and request for the need or urgency would be much more fueled off free lunch . As I grabbed my chair to take to the meeting room , I noticed a new face in the break room. Now typically fishing from the company dock has been a moral no for me , ok I did was at 18 but I was young and well hot and ready so to speak . But this woman was different someone I’ve never would’ve thought would catch my attention in such a manner . As she looked up at me , she did a double take not only did it make me embarrass myself and turn obviously red I managed to utter out what I was hoping a hello , was in fact the coffee in my mouth that I had foolishly taken a sip of . “Here we go again” I whispered as I reminded myself how I always tend to do something so dumb because of nerves . Needles to say I walked away in shame and upset because I had just bought this shirt . I’m fair on the eyes some would say average build has some sense of care to self present ability and by the chance the luck of knowing how to match and coordinate . My thought once she took that second glance like well I guess this color (shirt) paid off after all , but who was this woman where did she come from I’ve been here a solid 5 productive years , as far as to know the levels of management and the staff coming in so to speak . We weren’t a big company but financially at the time beneficial . As the meeting gathered an all personnel required to be in attendance finally sat in their leather chairs in their sloppy suits and boasted on how activities for us going forward were on our way and even got to go over process management skills and the benefits of production like break downs etc.... Very beneficial information but I’m not here to do this I’m a student with no money who unfortunately is not rich or expecting to inherit large money in the future . I have to pay for my college right now where is the lady from earlier and why is she here was all I cared about as I mentally took notes k the message trying to be given . Finally! time for introductions , end of every group meeting we go over birthdays etc one being new hires . I sat up out of my chair finally without the slouch and tapped my co worker sitting next to me . Kumar was my long time co worker /turned friend who started at the time with me so guess you can say a strong force was built there , and both dedicated to accomplishing goals set forth. Dynamic duo and at times the gruesome twosome when off the record . He looked up at me with his goofy smile and Un even goatee he had been trying to grow all year. I whispered that’s her that’s the woman I told you about , as his smile diminished and looks of disappointment sat in first let me be clear and say the act of sexual harassment and speaking of individuals in vulgar manners is not condoned here or trying to be oddly justified if it comes across as such. As a woman myself I am not for maltreatment especially because of my gender. Back to the meeting , Kumar I guess expected someone younger more in our age group and voiced how he thought he was gna see Ariana grande the way I described this mystery beautiful woman I ran into and made a fool of myself in . He assured me I was ok considering I’ve done worse . She was older clearly but something about her stuck me , as she introduced her self and made eye contact yet again quite a few times during the meeting mind you . Now I’m not foolish to think they were all meant for me but it happened a lot and the eyes , they don’t lie . She was part of a wave that came from another company whom specialized in what we do as well along with a few others brought in by new boss . My new boss Kathy was an interesting character , upon meeting her a month prior she introduced herself but remained seated in her chair and didn’t even extend a hand shake . Now I’m not the upmost moral citizen but in such circumstances I feel that is necessary. Here we go again Strike one , fast forward turns out her and this mystery woman we are going to call Red for now are long time colleagues turned friendship as well . One not so good considering Kathy was also a lesbian who favored the more butch looking side like myself. I however don’t consider myself that nor any other label I’m more feminine than I appear some would say , still tbd. One lesbian in someone’s life is all you need sometimes we can tend to be alot just kidding . Here go again a new crush it’s been so long since I declared “hoe-atus” and chose to live in a weird sense of celibacy no contact nor want or desire to . My luck in the love train department tends to well not exist and I’m an expert at choosing those who are entirely wrong for me when doing so . Here we go again how is she different from the others cause you need to pick better as I told myself cleaning up after the meeting . I tend to like to stay behind process and gather the information received and this new gut punch that was consuming me all the sudden . As the next coup em of days went on she came into my area of the lab frequently mostly to understand our operation and mostly help manage and perfect our processes . A flirtation ship oddly enough built , now mind you my I didn’t appreciate what looked back at me in the mirror so constant wondering if she meant otherwise when she flirted was in fact that or possibly just in my head. I’m not one to make the first move in rare cases I will but that’s why their rare. Friday morning as I rolled into work hungover and wondering why I thought it was a splendid idea to stay up dancing and drinking all night with a girl I forgot her name and lost the number she wrote down for me . Here we go again another day another dollar I said as I walked in grabbed my coffee said hello to some colleagues and checked my email which I new was going to be a long day due to so many unread emails needing my attention. One sent that morning from Kathy congratulating the team and myself for hitting record quarters and goal accomplishments being at an all high . Special thanks was given to myself and colleague Kumar for our long hours invested and skills to get product out in good standing was bold and clear where the message was going as far as celebratory actions are to be in order “TONIGHT WE WILL BE GATHERING AT THE LOCAL BREWERY TO CELEBRATE QUARTER END, birthdays new hire etc” holy crap this is it this is my chance to step outside the office with red and relax a little , we both took our jobs serious at times and needed the stress relief. immediately scheduled my hair cut grabbed a new shirt and went to this event. It was a low key celebratory “group exercise “ newly given for recent accomplishments designated for after hours out of office fun. Till this day I wonder why I was so eager to go, till this day I question why I felt red was such a mystery . Till this I ask myself why I didn’t walk away when red finally made her advance , here we go again.... What started as a innocent work flirtationship turned into a web of sex , lies , drugs life altering decision making ,to a sad ending of friendship possible love all to total deception. Red was hiding a lot that was about to come on to me and have me so entangled no reasonable voice in my life made sense ,when it came to the seduction the sex and the lies and to keep it all under radar was even too much the manipulative Red . Here we go again , all from that group exercise


ten. “Hi.” I look up to the source of the voice. There stands a woman, sunny hair, umber skin, and eyes like the coffee swirling in my cup. Frills brush her neck, a bloody brooch resting at the hollow of her throat. The rest of her outfit echoes the frilly sentiment, white and plaid with brogues on shoes bearing intermittent patches of dirt and white petals. Her fingers tighten around her bag strap as she extends a hand. “I’m Amelia--you must be Wichita?” Closing the book, I shake her hand. Yes, that would be me,” I say, setting the book face down beside my coffee. The cup is growing cold--I don’t even like coffee. Instead, I slide over a plate of strawberry cheesecake, two forks glinting on either side of blush-coloured desert, a single heart shaped strawberry sitting on top. “Hopefully I didn’t make you wait too long?” Amelia laughs, taking a seat. She shakes her head, sunlight flying from her braids. There is a dip in the left side of her cheek, growing deeper as she eyes the cake like a bird does sparkling trinkets. “No.” Putting on my best smile, I pass her a fork. “You’re just in time.” nine. It’s hard for humans to conceptualize the fourth dimension as anything but a straight line, a river flowing from a point we cannot see to a point we cannot identify. We try, sometimes, to fold time into a box within a box, the shape endlessly consuming itself as we do with the memories that so often pass by. A smile, a touch, the press of a forehead to mine where cold plastic now rests--a link of chains, one memory connects me to another until I’m pressed back into my seat thinking of how I got here. The weight of the earth pushes me down, forcing me to tilt my head back. Aquamarine reflects across my eyes, light glinting off the visor. Fingers of warmth hold me close, a bracketed hand to keep the cold out as we climb. Everything is so fast, the images that flash by are but blurry steaks glowing with emotion. eight. “Wichita,” she says, gesturing me over. “Come see! It’s awake.” A sigh accompanies the smile I can’t keep away as I press a hand to Amelia’s shoulder. “I’m here, love. What is it?” Looking up, Amelia sends me a smile that rivals the sun. She’s radiant, the lines on her face indicative of her time spent on this world. Silver threads through golden locks, laying in a braid across the tattoo on her bared clavicle. The strap of her overalls falls aside forgotten, a spade peeking from the pocket at the centre with a sunflower painted on it. Squeezing my hand, she pulls me down to her garden of hopes and dreams. A laugh escapes, unbidden. “The succulent is peeking out! I wasn’t sure if it would take considering the landscape, but it’s succeeded my expectations.” Amelia waves a dirty hand across the plants. Three of them-- Amoura, Constantine , and Big Tom --all large and green with ripened leaves, dirt spilling around the bottom of the pot. But there is a fourth pot, Ira , the colour of a burning sunset dotted with white childlike spots. A near translucent tendril peeks from the fresh dirt. Earth fills my nose as I coo at our new plant child. Wet lips press to my cheek, startling Big Tom’s leaves from my hand. “Amy!” “Witch,” she teases, nosing my jaw like a cub in need of affection. “We did good, didn’t we?” Waxy leaves between my fingers, the hair-like brush of Ira’s sprout--slow growths of life, new things that need tender hands and patient hearts. Everything I am not, but she is. “We did.” seven. When you spend your whole life watching a horizon that never moves, you never think of anything else. Not of what happens when the ground opens up beneath your feet, nor when the sky rests just inches from your fingertips. Trapped in a cylinder of steel, worked over by minds that know only numbers, is one of many meanings of discomfort. Another is a blanket of darkness across the sky, or where you think the sky is. Oppressive like a smothering hug, walls far too close to touch with no discernible division where the metal was sheared together by human hands. Sometimes we’re too smart to see the danger--that point where the animal brain takes over to send you scrabbling at walls for purchase as ambition climbs ever higher. A long breath and I blink to clear the fluid away. The strain makes pushes a hollow through my chest, abdomen heavy with the equipment vital to life. Luckily our fear as a civilization has made us paranoid, scared of the very slow lions that permeate everyday life. Still, there are those who stare into the abyss, the eyes of megafauna watching from corners yet unexplored. six. “I’m not sure about this--” The words are cut off as Amelia tugs me into a precarious spin. The ice is firm but my heart is not. A hummingbird in my chest, I grasp her forearms for balance, sending her a look . Eyes following the scuffed toes of her skates, I’m able to get some semblance of balance. The rink around us is full of others in similar states, tripping to the frigid floor and skating in groups with arms interlinked like a life vest. “Amelia... I hate this,” I say, unable to keep the whine at bay. She merely laughs, sliding back as a swan through water. Atop her head is a hat she knitted herself, matching the one hiding my hair. A single fishtail swims at her back, stark against the bloody coat that keeps her warm. Her gloved fingers twine through mine, long and thick to my patchwork mittens. “Relax Wichita, you’re getting the hang of it.” She whispers, tinged with laughter. “I won’t let you fall.” “That’s what you said before I fell--three times!” I can’t help but huff. Pushing my body forward, I try to match her footwork as she skates in reverse. A quill across a page, we trace shapes in the ice, marking it with the words of my efforts. I look up at smiling red lips, and that is my downfall. I’m not sure who falls first, but soon I find myself meeting gemstone eyes, crinkling at the corner from a pained chuckle. Apologies fall from my mouth. Our breaths come out as clouds, hiding the words I cannot say. The things too precious for even the air to hold. It’s silly--Amelia can’t help but make the joke. But that’s when I know--I know who I belong to, the flowers amid my tangle of thorns. A searing hand over her mouth, she throws her head back and giggles, “It seems I’ve fallen for you again.” five. Breaking through the clouds is like diving into the depths. Through a layer of unmoving ice and snow, humans punch into the beyond as they do the watery world below. We try to bend it to our will, light the darkness, map the caverns of our world to fill the spaces in our hearts and mind. We are caught in between, dragged along fourth dimensional rivers as we go to extremes to stake a place in the ceaseless marching. We stumble, we trip, we fall--and hand in hand, humanity goes on. My hands curl on my seat, fingers pressed to thermal fabric in search of what I know. The strain is nearly unbearable, and my eyes are forced to close. Like a marble in a tin can, I tremble. The cold takes me close, but part of my shivering comes from somewhere else. A dark fear, tendrils of longing with roots as far deep as unexplored trenches. four. “I have something for you, Witch!” She says in the tone of voice I know just screams trouble. Beneath a knit hat resembling a cat, Amelia wears a smile just as crafty. She stands in the hall, with something behind her back. A grey strand of hair hangs in her eye, distinct from the yellow field tumbling down her back. Despite the autumn chill, her skirt reaches just above her knees above a pair of tights that look they had scissors taken to them--a fact I can imagine with startling clarity. “Can I come in?” Softly breathing, I guide her inside. There was no other answer--I am a willing satellite in the orbit of a woman like the sun. She knows the way like the back of her hand, making a beeline to the couch. In her lap rests a box hastily wrapped in rosy paper bearing her signature scrawl. “That for me?” I pick it from her eager hands and turn around. Hair falls into her eyes, and she pushes it back to hook her chin over my shoulder. A warm huff of breath prickles the skin there, the sensation new but familiar. Once the string is pulled, the rest comes away easily. A blossom unfurling, the box falls apart to reveal a small plant with strange tendrils, green fingers twisting among each other. “It’s a Capitata Peach!” Amelia cheers, forgetting to regulate her volume. I pat her cheek and she quiets, but energy thrums from her form as she kneels before me, a worshipper. Raising the standard green pot, I eye the plant. There is a ladybug perched on a leaf. “A... peach plant?” “No, it’ll turn peach in the future,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What’re you naming it? You have to give it a name, it’s the law.” If she says it is, it must be. In the space formed by the curve of her nose and the dip in my shoulder rests a certain trust. Nurtured by months and tended to by effort. Like the effort it takes to grow a plant--this silly plant I now have to care for. But I know I will--there was never anything else. “So the name?” Amelia pushes. “... Amoura.” three. We are pulled to the earth--by gravity, by human nature, or some other force. There is a part of us that long to delve into the natural, immerse ourselves in the waters of a world growing smaller by the day. And every day as we are pulled to the earth, so too are other celestial bodies to us. Feet to the dirt and hands to the stars, reaching for things beyond the little blue dot, an eye in the cosmic expanse. To think humanity the centre of the universe--it’s the way it’s always been. We’ve tried--we’re there--and at least we can be sure what awaits when we return. The floor presses up into me, a sound like water rushing through my ears. Explosions, a thousand times a minute, are occurring just below. As I am pushed away from all I know, the stars envelop me. Darkness fills my visor only for a moment before--the sun. The sun, a smile, burning light I can touch if only I reach out. Tears blur the sight, but emotions fill in the rest. two. “So you’re going there?” Amelia’s voice is barely a whisper. A shower of meteors blurs across my vision, the image burned to the back of my eyes. Glancing to the side, I’m met with earthen eyes, the stars reflected in them. The moon highlights her face, shadowing filling the valleys and contours. A braided crown of spun gold sits on her head, held in place by hidden pins. She pulls up her turtleneck and meets my eye. It’s chilly yet her hands are bare. There is dirt beneath the chipped nail polish. “Hopefully,” I say, shrugging her heated gaze from my face. “Haven’t heard back from the company yet.” Pinpricks of warmth seem to follow me as I lean back, grass tickling my sides. Like a green shag rug, the field stretches in every direction, and we are but splotches of colour. In the sky above, the silent show continues. The stars that fall are ones we cannot touch, but still, my gaze tries to follow each white streak in the heavens. “Space is so far away, don’t you think?” Amelia falls back beside me, hand clasped over her stomach. “I like it here where I can smell the dirt, drown in green rivers of moss, brush the dust from waxy leaves.” I wonder what they call homesickness of the earth--whatever it is, she embodies it in every facet, covered in vital greenery and the stains of life. “There are gardens in space--for air.” “But here, air is free.” She turns her head, grass kissing her cheek. The cold is barely an inconvenience among the dirt and weeds. “And here is where I am.” A digit tugs at my pinkie, slender and calloused. A stranger in the night, tension flees my form. Our fingers interlock, a single connection stronger than gravity. Meteors continue to fall, white rain on a cosmic backdrop I can’t comprehend. “Here is where we are.” one. Eons and eras, centuries and years, humanity has tried to put meaning into bodies so far away they’re dying as we see them. Impossible shapes and sacred patterns. It’s what we are wont to do. Time and time again we are caught endlessly staring at the stars, tracing the paths we dream to take somewhere along the river. A smile the devil would long for, a laugh like water rushing down the slope of a leaf. When time runs out, we’ll always have the memories, consumed by minds caught by the unstoppable currents of that dimension. Eyes wide I watch the world fall away until there is nothing for darkness under my feet. Like kisses across a dark field of skin, the stars fill my vision as I trace Amelia’s name in the stars. Though we are not together, you are here with me. I hoped to find you out there--out in the endless where there are dreams and love and promises.


The warm breeze of early fall rustled through the amber-colored leaves urging them into flight for the very first time. The flight was more like a graceful descent, landing momentarily on the tops of children's heads only to be brushed off to continue their peaceful fall to the ground. They crunched and crackled underfoot as people wandered through the various tents and canopies, looking for some little piece of nostalgic antiquity. A portly fellow with thick round glasses was rummaging through different small chests and boxes on his table under a worn and frayed canopy that protected him from the leaves raining down. He almost knocked over a well-aged and olive-colored bronze statue of some Greek philosopher as he searched the last box in desperation. He stood up very straight and slowly looked around with suspicion lurking in his eyes. The leaves crunched rapidly as he moved through the crowd to the microphone that was set up close to the parking lot. “Ahh, excuse me,” he cleared his throat and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the mic. “I have discovered,” he continued as people turned to look at him and his round face began to turn red. “That I am missing a very old and valuable ring !” The crowd gasped but I did not. “So what are you saying, John?!?” A man shouted out as others nodded in agreement. John’s face was very flush now and moisture glistened on his forehead as he ran a hand through his hair. “I-I...” John started again. “I guess what I’m saying is that someone stole my ring!” There were more gasps from the crowd and I studied each face as they whispered to each other. “Are you making accusations?!?” The same man, wearing a brown tweed suit, shouted out and I noticed his face was getting quite red. “Gentlemen!” I said very loudly as I stepped up to John. “I think it’s a little premature to start making accusations.” I looked at John and he cocked his head as he peered back. “And who are you?” John asked in a strained voice as he pointed at me and all heads turned to emphasize the inquiry. “Yeah!” Blurted the man wearing the tweed suit. “Who are you, mister? We’ve never seen you before!” The glaring eyes of the crowd cast a judgemental stare, and I felt like I was sinking into the ground as blood rushed up my neck. “Listen,” I said as I raised my hands, palms towards the crowd as if the physical gesture could ward off the oncoming onslaught of suspicion. “My name is Rodger Finnvick. I’m a retired police detective. And yes,” I shrugged my shoulders as my hands came down and forced a smile. “This is my first time at an antique roadshow. I’m looking for something special for my mother.” Some of the people in the crowd nodded and their stares subsided, but my explanation only fueled the shouting man's furious disposition. “Ha!” He replied. “I’ll bet you did find something special! Show us your pockets!” The majority of the crowd was not supportive of his accusations this time, and a young woman wearing very clean white gloves had eased her way forward. “Oh, Mark!” She looked at the man. “It seems pretty obvious that Detective Finnvick is simply trying to assist in locating the missing ring. And you,” she pointed a slender finger at Mark, “are trying to start a lynching mob! This is not the old west and the Detective is certainly not a horse thief! Can’t you detect that?!?” She forced a smile and wrinkles formed around her scrunched nose. “Would you care to show us your pockets?!?” He scowled at her as he slumped his shoulders and kicked leaves up while walking back to his tent filled with porcelain busts. She turned towards me and seemed to smile with her eyes as a spark of intensity flashed through them. “Detective,” she continued as her green eyes wandered over me, “you seem to be quite the gentleman.” She reached into her purse for a hand fan and pointed it toward Mark. “I’m very sorry about him , he can be a bit of a hothead.” Mark swatted his hand in the air and turned his back to the crowd with a grunt. “How,” she gazed up at me through thick lashes as she fanned herself, “do you suggest we find the missing ring?” I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Ma’am,” I nodded at the young woman and turned to John. “Tell us what the ring looks like. It’s quite possible that the ring is not stolen and simply got knocked onto the ground and is somewhere,” I gestured at the thick carpet of autumn leaves, ”under that.” John’s face was not so flush now and the crowd nodded in agreement as their eyes swept over the leaves. “Yes, yes of course,” stated John. “Thank you Detective for being so level-headed.” He shrugged as he continued. “The ring is very special to me. It’s made of 24-karat gold and has the Latin words ‘Non nobis Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam’ engraved on the band. It was custom-made for a knight of the Templar and has been passed down for generations.” He paused to wipe his brow. “I am not a direct descendant but it was given to my father by someone who was, during the war,” he paused again to push his glasses up. “But that's another story.” I nodded and asked, “What does the Latin inscription mean?” “Right,” he replied. “It’s the mantra of the knights and means ‘Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but to thy name give the glory’.” He paused to scratch his chin. “It also has a cross on the top and there is a red ruby fixed in the center. The ruby is very well cut for the time, and certainly by a master craftsman.” “No doubt John,” I said as I walked towards his table. “It sounds like a very special piece indeed.” I squatted down to search through the leaves. “Did you show the ring to anyone? And if so, where were you standing at the time?” I looked up at him. He scratched his head. “Um, yes! Yes, I did.” He put the mic down and came over to me. “I was right here by my table with the ring in my hand.” He cupped his chubby chin with his pointer and thumb. “Hmm. I walked over here,” he walked to the table in the tent next to his own. “And I showed the ring to Martha.” He turned to look at an older and very proper woman as she stepped up to us. There was a little dark-haired boy trailing closely behind her. “Yes,” she said. “I was standing right here admiring the craftsmanship of the ring.” She touched John's shoulder. “And it truly is a fantastic piece, John.” He smiled wide revealing his crooked teeth. “Then,” she turned around. “I set the ring down on his table because he was talking with Mark and I thought they had seen me do it.” She looked at John and he nodded. “Yes I did see you out of the corner of my eye, but then,” he looked around and his eyes stopped on the little dark-haired boy behind Martha. “I was distracted by your grandson. He was running behind me.” John squatted down as low as he could and the fabric of his pants stretched almost to the breaking point. “Come here, boy.” He waved his hand at the boy. “Come talk to me.” The boy slid out from behind Martha’s skirt with his hands deep in his pockets and head hanging. “Ralphy,” Martha said. “Were you running around in here?” Ralphy nodded his head. “Didn’t I tell you ‘no running’?” The crowd moved a little closer as he looked up at her with glassy eyes. “Yeah.” His little voice was almost a whisper. John looked at Martha then back at Ralphy. “Ralphy,” John said. “Did you see my ring?” Some of the crowd squatted down to watch him and the other children moved closer to their parents. Ralphy hung his head lower. “Yeah,” he squeaked out. “Was it here on the table?” John patted the edge of the table. Ralphy shook his head no. “Where did you see it?” Ralphy shuffled over to John and pointed to a spot on the ground. “Here?” John asked as he grazed his hand over the ground where Ralphy was pointing. Ralphy shook his head yes. “Did you pick it up?” Ralphy nodded his head again very slowly. “And where is it now?” Ralphy took a step closer to Martha and turned his back to John as he buried his face in his grandmother's skirt. “Where is it Ralphy?” Martha asked. He slid his hand into his pocket and slowly pulled it back out to reveal the missing ring. I heard many gasps as Martha took a very quick breath in and John reached over to pluck the ring out of Ralphy’s hand. “Ralphy!” Her voice was sharp. “Why would you steal the ring?” I cleared my throat. “Hold on now,” I said. “There’s no need for harshness.” I patted Ralphy on the head and squatted down in front of him. “Why did you take the ring, Ralphy?” He turned to look at me with puffy red eyes. “I didn’t mean to steal nothin', I found it on the ground!” He choked out. “And the rule at school is, finder’s keepers!”


Ezra awoke in a pool of his own sweat. Clumsily his hand swatted about the floor until it was able to rip his phone free of its charging cable. His finger swiped lazily across the screen. It was eight am on a random Tuesday in July. Nothing special. At least not for the rest of the world. For Ezra this was a day that would live in infamy. It was a day over a decade in the making. Today was the day he was going to start writing the greatest novel ever written. Ezra had it all meticulously planned out. He had perfectly crafted the plots and subplots, the drama, intrigue, scheming, twist and turns. His army of complex characters were fully fleshed out and ready to be unleashed. He had even imagined a thousand years of lore just to sprinkle it in and texturize his stunning, fantastical world. It was a novel that would revolutionize the country, maybe even the entire globe. Take the reader onto a metaphorical journey that would forever transform them. It would challenge societal views, force debates, break the current divides and inspire future storytellers for centuries to come. It was truly going to be an epic in every sense of the word. But first Ezra had to figure out why his phone kept beeping after he had shut off his alarm. He looked at the device in a mixture of tiredness, confusion and annoyance. Then he realized that a menacing red triangle was the culprit. He tapped on the icon. It was an urgent message from the weather services. A severe heat warning. According to them, today was going to be the hottest day of the year. Of course it was. Even the heavens were afraid of how amazing his story was going to be. But it was going to take more than a heat wave to stop him. Ezra sprang from his bed, took a seat at his computer desk, cracked his knuckles and his neck and quickly opened a blank word document. It was going to happen, he was about to begin changing the word, but his phone had other plans. It vibrated and its screen lit up repeatedly. Maybe it was important, maybe his dad had another heart attack, or his mom had another car accident, or his sister got fired from her job. He had to check. It would be irresponsible not to, right? Ezra unlocked the phone and blew out a sigh of relief; it was just a notification that there was a new episode of the Joey Coogan podcast available. Joey Coogan used to be Ezra’s favorite podcast host. Recently Joey had slipped too far down the conspiracy rabbit hole. Ezra knew he could change that. He often fantasized about it while driving to work. Once he had written the greatest novel ever, Joey would have to invite him onto the pod as a guest. Ezra knew he would kill it. He would be charismatic, funny, and philosophical. People would clip parts of his episode and post them to Nurv@na. Finally everyone would see him in the same light as Plato, or that other philosophy guy that one rapper used to talk about. Speaking of rappers he needed to update his playlist. Maybe even make a new playlist. A writing playlist. Yeah that was a great idea. He just needed to find the perfect songs. Shouldn’t take that long. When he was done constructing the perfect playlist his eyes glanced at the top of his phone's screen. 9:45am read the digital numbers. Ezra gulped, that had taken him longer than he thought. It was fine, he still had the whole day in front of him. But then came another notification, this time from his Nurv@na app. Alley Hazel had a new post. Ezra couldn’t miss that. Alley Hazel was after all the perfect woman. She was beautiful, funny and down to Earth. She would never be interested in a guy like Ezra though. At least not as he was now, but after he wrote the greatest novel, well that would be a different story entirely. Then Alley would see him. She’ll be so surprised when she finds out that the author of the greatest novel had been following her for all these years. Then she would definitely follow him back. She’d probably even DM him. Ezra of course would reply with something witty, something that would win over her heart. Yep, it was definitely going to happen, he thought as he once again scrolled through all her posts. Oh, but there was something different this time. A link. She had done it. Alley Hazel had made an OnlySpicy account. Ezra had to check that out. How could he not. She might be his future wife after all. Three hours later Ezra was a couple hundred dollars poorer, but his mind was at least clear. He was ready. It was for real this time. He was going to start. But it was so hot. Unbelievably hot really. Was his AC even working? He had to check that out. His thermostat seemed to be working just fine, but his vents weren’t blowing as strong as he remembered them blowing last year. Maybe they were all dirty. It had been a long time since he cleaned them. He had to do that, or else he would never be able to focus on his writing. Two hours into his cleaning efforts a new realization smacked him in the head. Filters. You have to change the filter on the big thingy in the garage every couple of years, or so, right? Maybe that was why his AC wasn’t working as well as it should. The big thingy in the garage seemed like a simple appliance, but it turned out to be quite the daunting foe. He unscrewed several panels before he finally read the writing on the side which directly pointed to where the filter was located. With the old filter in tow Ezra took a quick trip to the hardware store. He looked through the aisles several times before almost accidentally stumbling across the filters. Then he proceeded to stare and scrutinize each and every one trying to find the perfect match. Finally happy with his selection he paid and hopped back into his car. A sense of dread hit him as the car’s clock revealed that it was now 5:55 pm. How could that be, where had the day gone. It was ok though. He still had more time, all he had to do was start writing. That was the hardest part. As long as he started then everything else would surely flow afterwards. Or maybe he was just thinking about too much stuff and he needed to slow down his brain. And there was one sure fire concoction that always slowed down an overly active mind. Beer. An hour later Ezra found himself in his backyard. With the satisfaction of his filter being successfully changed and a nice cold beer in his hand, he sat back in his lawn chair and relaxed. It was then that he remembered that the fourth season of his favorite series was supposed to be available to stream today. He rushed inside, plopped down on his couch, turned on his TV and there they were in all their glory. All eight, hour long, episodes ready for his enjoyment. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to just watch one episode and have just one more beer. Then he could start. Six episodes and six beers later Ezra found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. It was late now. Really late and Ezra had work in the morning. A sense of shame briefly washed over him. Another day had slipped away. Another chance to begin physically working on the greatest novel ever had vanished. But it was ok. There would always be another Tuesday, and another, and another, and another, right?