My high school years were the least memorable, At least for me, it was. However, among the pockets of my mind, I do remember the librarian. The librarian was a short and stumpy little man. His clothes looked as if they were a decade old and he reeked of fresh cut lumber. Since the library was adjacent to the cafeteria, I would often peer into the rows of shelves only to see him twiddling his thumbs. One day a friend and I entered the library to complete a research paper. It was cold and the only light in the room came from the windows. As I walked deeper into the library, my friend nudged me. "Perhaps it is closed," he whispered loudly. I nodded and rushed toward the exit. As I rushed, my eyes fell upon the librarian, Who was reading a purple author-less book. On the next day, three oak bookshelves sat outside the library. One of them was warped and most of its stain had been peeled off. The librarian shuffled outside and slid the bookshelves inside the library in one motion. Curious, I got up from my lunch table and went inside. He had already stocked up one bookshelf, an impossible but yet amazing feature. He noticed me. "An old trick my grandfather taught me. He was also a librarian." I nodded as I watched his fingers pick up a stack of books and swept them across the bookshelves. He tossed a red book in my direction which I caught foolishly. "A gift," he exclaimed. I looked at the book. There was no cover art or author noted in the book. In fact, all of the books he stacked where like that. "What kind of books are these?" I asked while flipping through the book. "Obviously a person's story. " he chuckled and went back to stocking the shelves. I bought the book close to my nose. It was warm and had the new book fragrance. Around 10 o'clock at night, I tossed the book onto my bed. I observed the book for a moment and flipped to the first page. I began reading it but it felt as if I were reading a foreign language. I stopped on the fifth page and went back to sleep. I went back to the library the next day, Hoping for an explanation about this odd book. I found the librarian at his desk, reading one of the mystery novels. "I don't get it!" The librarian frowned and closed his book. "The story doesn't make any sense!" "You don't understand the book," he said sharply. "You are the book," he added. I smirked at his comment. "Have you tried reading it from the author's feelings and thoughts?" "It's kinda hard when the author's name isn't even printed in the book!" I was starting to yell. "I host the high school book club, maybe you should stop by." He returned back to his book. I left the library with rage. I reached into my backpack and grabbed the book that was gifted to me. I cursed to myself and tossed it into a trashcan. That was the first time I ever threw away a book. After school, I entered the library and was immediately greeted by the librarian who was surrounded by at least thirteen other students. "We were just about to begin our discussion!" he held up a few of the mysterious books. "Oh, and one more thing..." he tossed me my red book that I threw away earlier. It had a stain on it. "Alright, I want you guys to tell me one word that best describes the book you are reading." He signaled me to go first. I shook my head politely and he gave me a sigh. As he was trying to choose a person, I looked around. Everyone at the meeting had a mysterious novel. All different colors. He finally picked a boy who was engrossed in his book. "Sorry, sir. this book is very interesting! The author uses a unique choice of words to describe and set his story. It is simply remarkable!" The boy held up a yellow book and went back to reading it. The librarian nodded and pointed at me. Still trying to process the ecstatic boy's words, I nodded. "I honestly disliked this book." I paused as everyone looked at each other in bewilderment. "It felt as if I was being thrown into this person's life and expected to take it all in. It's brutal." A blond girl raised her hand. "Perhaps the author is bound by anger and confusion." Everyone agreed. "Whatever, it's just odd. I can't wr-" my watch beeped. "Sorry, I have to go now." I turned around and left. I spent the weekend reading and analyzing the book. "Perhaps the author is bound by confusion and anger." I thought while I downed a cup of water. The girl from the book club was right. The intense nature of the book truly represented anger and confusion. I was relieved that I found the true mood of the book. I began reading it with an angry approach and every word spoke out to me. When I finished the book, I wanted to cry but my mind ached for more. On Monday, I got up as early as I can and ran down to the school. I must've gotten up so early, even the janitors weren't there yet. I made my way to the library, grabbed two books, and sat down on a couch. Around two hours later, the librarian walked in. "Who the-" he exclaimed as he recognized me. "Oh. It's you. Scared me for a minute." "Pretty good collection?" I ignored his question. "Hello?" I looked up. "These are amazing, where did you get these?" He ignored the question. "I should be expecting a new set tomorrow." Confused, I went back to my book. The afternoon had arrived. While everyone was pouring out of the school. I poured my way into the library. "You're late!" the librarian exclaimed. I caught my breath and sat down. I looked at the group. The ecstatic boy and the blonde girl weren't there. In fact, no members of the previous book club were there. They were all new members. The librarian handed me a plate of cheese and crackers. I took some and stuffed them into my mouth. "Alright, I want you guys to tell me one word that best describes the book you are reading." I had recognized the question. I looked around once more. The unfamiliar faces were holding the strange books. I stood up quickly. "What's the matter?" the librarian asked. "I...I need to go..." I was sweating. "Is something wrong?" the librarian added. The librarian started to smile. I stumbled to the ground and looked up. The last image my brain produced was the librarian's devilish smile. My head was dark. I had no recollection of what just happened. Was I dead, alive, or maybe asleep? I opened my eyelids and was immediately blinded by the light above me. I looked around. On the other side of me, I saw the members of the book club. They were shuddering. Tears glistened down their cheeks as my head bobbed. A firm tap landed on my shoulder. I turned around and I was promptly stabbed four times right in my stomach. Inches away from an artery. I couldn't tell if that were his intention. He threw me down on a cold metallic platform. I groaned. My blood was flowing into a machine in front of me. I knew I wouldn't have much time left., so I asked him a question. "What's the deal." I croaked. He was cleaning the knife that he used to stab me. He stopped and set it right by my foot. He must've thought I was paralyzed. "This machine is a family heirloom. It was built by my great-grandfather during the great war to extract plan's or information from a prisoner...by turning them into a book." He smirked. "I wonder what your story is." My hands were turning white and I felt a chill up my spine. I made a sudden and foolish move to grab the knife but the librarian had beaten me to it. He threw the knife up in the air, caught it and stabbed me in the head. I was truly dead.


From the time we are born, even minutes old, we start learning to please someone. We are unaware of our surroundings. We feel heat, cold, and we hear loud sounds. Crying and screaming are our only means of communication. We know nothing about love or how to please someone into feeding us or keeping us warm. That warmth and the feeling of belonging is a feeling we spend a lifetime trying to recapture. I think I was an hour old when my mother put me in that trash can. Within minutes my big brother's tiny hands pulled me out. I cried and he held me close to his chest as he took me to a neighbor's house. My mother would have a total of five children before the state took us away. The orphanage was full of kids, like the five of us, who were trying to please someone else. We all wanted to belong. We all wanted to be loved. All living creatures seek that sense of belonging. My sister and I were very fortunate when we were adopted by two wonderful people. However, learning to belong still presented me with challenges. My grandmother was my closest friend. I guess you could say were kindred spirits. I had no doubt about her love for me and she had no doubt about my love for her. Sometimes, even then, I had to pick out a switch and get a wack on the bottom to get through my stubbornness. Sometimes my logic was not exactly accurate. I also remember my grandmother telling me the only person I ever really had to please was myself. I had to believe in myself or no one else would. Then she added it might be a good idea to please the person who cooks your meals. We both giggled on that one because she was a good cook and knew all my favorites. Once a little boy she was babysitting started making fun of me. He was surprised when I looked at him and apologized. I said "I am so sorry. I do not know how you got the idea I cared about what you think." I then skipped away and left him there trying to figure out what to do with the mud pies I had prepared so carefully. Maybe it had something to do with being a little boy. He came in for lunch with mud on his face. He was trying to tattle to my grandmother that I had fed him mud pies. I instantly jumped up and yelled, "You ate my bug pies? I made those with flies for the frogs and lizards in the yard. Now, I have to make them all over again." I think that is the day he decided not to eat lunch. My grandmother got a chuckle out of it. I know she did because I overheard her telling Aunt Lilly about it on the phone. I was reminded of this incident just last week. Becky, the little girl who lives here on the Funny Farm with me and Barbra, my caretaker. Betty, Becky's mother, manages the house and Barbra manages the farm. It has worked out well for all of us. Betty and Becky are both little people. Becky had a birthday recently and I gave her Sidekick, a miniature horse for her very own. She and Sidekick walk together and even ride together since we had the saddle made. Betty was concerned that Becky was not learning how to get along with other children. Since they had come to stay with me there was no need for her to go to daycare anymore. I had the brilliant idea of going to talk to the school board and find out if any of the teachers would like to one, recommend a school for Becky to start in the fall and,  two,  one that would enjoy coming to the farm for a day of picnics and fun. My grandmother always said breaking bread with others is the best way to get to know them. I have learned over the years that sometimes, like diamonds, brilliant ideas need to have some careful cutting and polishing done before the shine or sparkle shows. They are call facets. We had two kindergarten groups coming for the day. We worked very hard to make sure every safety issue was handled. We actually put a gate across the tree that stretches out over the pond. We did not need anyone falling into the pond. I knew if anyone saw how it works like a ramp they would be tempted, just like me, to walk up the trunk. Everyone turns at the same time to overlook the area and slips right into the pond. The gate kept that from happening. Things were going along wonderfully. The parents were having as much fun as the children. Becky seemed to be getting along wonderfully with everyone. No one seemed to be upset over Becky and Betty being little people. All the animals were helping take care of entertaining the children. Tarzan, the African grey parrot was singing, Oscar and Grammy (the pet squirrels) were chatting away. Even Loverboy and Mrs. Holcomb (his mate) were spitting at bull's eye targets. We had worked for weeks on that one. When you have two llamas who hate anyone in uniform, especially men,  you have to make adjustments. We had stretched out several bedspreads as picnic blankets. We had even finished with the third picnic table just in time. Barbra was so talented. She turned out to be a very good carpenter.  She was really great at managing the farm.  Breaking bread would be easier on everyone if it was done casually. I knew we could accommodate the two groups we expected. The party had been going on for about an hour. We had hamburgers, fried chicken, and hot dogs. French fries, mac and cheese, and a veggie medley worked as side dishes. We had chocolate cream pie, blueberry pie, and apple pies for desserts. We even had homemade ice cream (vanilla) to top off anything. Then the party took on a whole new tone. There was a small group, a third group of party crashers. This group decided they needed to explain some things to the rest of us. There seemed to be three sets of parents within the group. Each one had children who had started having problems with the other kids. The oldest of the little boys was six. He seemed to think it was funny to take the other kids' plates and turn them over in the dirt. He then stepped on their foot. He laughed at them and created nicknames for each one he encountered. The situation came to a head when Becky came crying to me. It was apparent that she had been pushed down because she was all skinned up and had dirt all over the front of her shirt and jeans. "Help us, Jane, help us. We have some mean kids here." I looked in the direction from which Becky had run and saw a little boy kick another little girl in the back. There did not seem to be a reason. Then I watched over the grown-ups to see if I could determine to which set of parents he belonged. I realized what was happening. Three men and three women seemed to actually three couples who had one child each at the party. The two little girls were being cruel to the animals and hitting everyone else with sticks. "Why does he not like me? I gave him my lunch like he asked me to. I even told him I was sorry I got in his way when he pushed me down. Why, Ms. Jane?" "Becky, do you like yourself?" She wiped her tears away. "Yeah. Then that is all that matters. You are the one you have to please, not him. Why would you care what he thinks? He is not important to you. What you think of yourself is the most important. Remember that as long as you like yourself when it is over... you are all right." I gathered a few of the other parents along with two teachers. It seemed that these parents or at least two of the men and one of the women were also new teachers that were going to start in the new school year. I had the other parents start watching to make sure the other kids did not get hurt. I excused myself and went inside and call the friend I had on the school board. I told her she would need to call another member of the board because they were needed and to come immediately as my guest. I knew she lives about two miles away and it would not take long for her to get here. I whispered to leaders of the two invited groups told them that the thing we needed was a wake-up call for these people. They have been in the dark so long they can't see the light. Remember the golden rule I think it is time to put it into action. What I did not know is that Becky had heard every word I said about our plans to save the picnic. Mrs. Baxster showed up in record time. Two more board members followed soon after. I pointed out the children and then the parents. She watched for a few minutes. She whispered to her colleges. I also told her about the golden rule idea. Brilliant? Maybe. I clapped my hands and yelled for everyone to come to the bank of the pond where the area had been cleared to make room for everyone. "Grab your deserts and meander right this way." I pointed as people started strolling towards the pond.  When we got there I unlocked the gate on the tree that stretched out over the pond. I stood there, holding onto the gate, and started to speak... "Lady, we don't need to hear a lecture."  The man is the one who had been pointed out as one of the new teachers. "We only came out today to find out what kind of brats we would have to put up with when school starts. I tell you what, why don't you come on down and let me address this group of know-nothings." The man was surprised when I smiled and stepped aside to let him go up a little higher on the tree. He had fallen in the pond by the time I got to the base of the tree. His son started to run straight to his dad when Becky came riding up on Sidekick. Sidekick had been rescued from the circus where he had carried water buckets for the clowns.  Becky took the bucket from Sidekick.  She just poured the whole bucket over the little boy. The others in the crasher's group started trying to help the man who was now screaming in the pond for someone to get him out. We all knew the root from the tree was under the water. The group of would-be party crashers got hit with blueberry pie, apple pie, and even a cart of barn scrappings from when the barn was mucked out.  I would call that breaking bread the hard way.  I knew one thing the farm animals were going to have a blast cleaning up the mess.  Hamstring,  our pot-bellied pig will think he is in heaven. I clapped my hands again. The man was still yelling. He was now cursing and calling the rest of us some very nasty names. My friend from the school board yelled over to him and told him to stand up. Then everyone told him to stand up. He did so. "Imagine that, all that hullabaloo over three feet of water." He started to speak when my friend yelled for silence. "I want to make sure all three of you and your spouses understand what I am saying. You are fired. You will not be working in any school in this district. We have just had a meeting of the school board and you, sir have been voted off the island.  I will also send my report on your conduct to every school board in Texas." The man's wife started to speak when their little boy started crying about being wet. Becky walked up to the kid. "You are a lot like your father. You make a lot of noise about a little bit of water. We only did to you what you did to us.  It is the golden rule.  I was proud of Becky.  She was a little person, six years old, eighteen inches high but she had mastered standing up for herself. The man, now out of the pond and shaking water off himself, pointed his finger at me and said, "You want to know what I think?" I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I am so sorry, I have no idea how you got the idea that I cared what you think. I do apologize for making you think that." Everyone laughed. Becky turned to the little boy and said, "I really do not care if I ever please you." The party crashers started to their cars within minutes after Becky's statement got a round of applause. We were all settled in for more food and fun when Becky came out of the barn riding Loverboy. It was a surprise, to say the least. "  Anyone for a little target practice?" Becky had a grin across her face. She and Loverboy galloped to the edge of the drive. Loverboy did one of his spitballs and it landed right on the back of the man's neck as he was getting into his car after Oscar had closed the gate behind them. When she got back I started to ask...Becky looked at me and simply said, "Because it pleased me." We all laughed. I could tell I was going to have to fine-tune my lessons with Becky going forward. One thing that was for sure she would never again lose her own self-worth while trying to please someone else. Another thing the day had taught me. We belong in this wonderful little community. Finding a place to belong is fundamental.  It is natural to want to please someone we care about but the only one we really have to please is ourselves.  How do you feel about yourself when it is all over? Grandmother was right. Breaking bread with someone is the best way to get to know them.


Right as I thought everything was finally falling into place, I looked at my watch to see if I was still on track. I had things to do and cookies to bake for Santa. "10:33" Huh. That's weird. I could have sworn it was later than that. I shrugged off the feeling and opened my computer again. The first thing on my list was to write a story that sums up this past year. I also still had 8,000 photos from just 2021 I needed to upload to the cloud, and a handful of articles to write before the year ended. But finding the motivation was becoming harder and harder. A new variant has been spreading like wildfire and we had to make the hard decision to skip our annual Christmas Eve party at the in-laws again this year. I could have thrown in the towel, given up. The world would have understood. There are only 10 days left. And it's been another hard year. Call it a year, wrap it up, put it under the mistletoe. No...that doesn't make sense... As I dragged and dropped a thousand photos at a time, I stared at the blank page the next tab over. Waiting for me to write something. Anything. My fingers begged for my brain to come up with something. ANYTHING. My brain, in turn, raced through its reserves but came up empty-handed. Is this writer's block? I don't like this feeling. It's heavy and it hurts. I guess I should consider myself lucky for not having experienced this before now. But I still don't like it. I pride myself on being able to look at a blank page and just start writing. I may not know where the story I build will go, but I am proud of my ability to write the story that needed to be written without fail. As the seconds ticked by, I was failing. Formulating a sentence right now felt like my fingers were dodging a thousand sharp daggers lodged between the keys on the board. Looking back at my Fitbit, it still read 10:33. I pressed the buttons to see if it was frozen and it wasn't. I could start the timer just fine so it clearly wasn't dead or it would have just simply shut off. "Mom, my Fitbit isn't working," I heard the 9-year-old as she found me in the living room. "Ok bring it here," I told her, keeping in mind that my Fitbit was also not working right. As I took her Fitbit, I pressed a button to wake it up. "10:33" "Huh, that's weird," I commented. "What's weird?" the 9-year-old asked anxiously. Whoops. "Oh nothin," I replied, trying to not exacerbate her anxiety. "Both our watches say 10:33. What does your tablet say?" "Oh," she said, looking at the tablet she brought with her. "10:33. Why?" She wanted to know the answer. For her - time is numbers. And numbers are logical. And logical is black and white and predictable. "I am not sure. I wonder what time it actually is, maybe we can manually update our watches," I told her, hoping a possible solution would lower her increasing anxiety. Before trying to figure out how to manually reset an automatic electronic, we looked at the clock on my computer I had open in front of me: "10:33" Without skipping another beat, I turned on the TV and checked the menu: "10:33" We looked at each other and we had the same question. What the heck? "Let's go to Papa's and check their wall clock. It's an old analog so it should be working just fine," I told her shyly. I didn't know what was going on, but I sure as heck didn't want to give her any anxious worries for her to feed off of. We put our shoes on and grabbed our coats. It wasn't raining but it was cold. Supposedly there is snow in the forecast, but as Oregonians - we know better. We will believe it when we see it. Papa's house was just next door so it took not even 30 seconds to realize that their analog wall clock was also not working. I had to think fast to ward off a full panic attack from the 9-year-old. "I am not sure what is happening. There is probably just a glitch. Since you can still play Minecraft - go back home and we can check later," I hoped this would appease her for the time being. And thankfully it did. I have never seen all clocks just stop working. And I didn't have a solution. Heck, I didn't even know why time it was. I assumed somewhere around noon because the winter sun was halfway to the Western horizon. As the 9-year-old ran back home, I headed back to my computer. Did I cause it? I probably did. I finally felt like everything was falling into place and my future was finally coming together. And then poof! Will it forever be 10:33? Nothing else seemed to stop. The clouds were still moving, the cats still meowing to escape, the dogs still needed to be run, and my stories still needed to be written. Ugh. I don't have time to stop and catastrophize why time has suddenly stopped or philosophize about how time is just a number and yet there is never enough of it.

Opening my laptop again, I stared at the blank page that was burning a hole in my soul. Pressing the shift button over and over as if I was capitalizing the first word of the first sentence to be written, the sticky keys notification popped up, reminding me I still hadn't written a single letter. Out of habit - I looked at the time at the lower right-hand corner, hoping bedtime was creeping closer. "10:33" Oh yeah... What happens after time ends? Fine fine FINE! I shut my laptop and grabbed my phone. Not surprised the time said 10:33 there too. I opened my journaling app. And I did what I do best - overthink why the clocks aren't working. Clearly, they stopped because I finally figured out who I am. It took me till my mid 30's, but now that I am here - silly me for thinking that life would get better from here. Nope. The universe just loves to laugh at me. Last time the universe laughed - my bank account was overdrafted and my checking account closed. This time - time has ended. Or just froze? Wait, did I take a nap and now I am stuck in a Disney special of Christmas past, present, and future? Do I have to escape to unfreeze time? Nah. Overthinking is my middle name and overthinker is my game. Or is it overthinker is my middle name, overthinking is my game? Eh, oh well. But it never ceases to amaze me that when I finally make sense of my world, the world throws me a wrench. Maybe there was a solar flare that took out time. How do you exist in a world without time? Time hasn't been around forever. But living without time gives me as much anxiety as forgetting my phone at home does. Everything we do is dictated by time. When we wake up, when we go to work, lunchtime, nap time, daytime, nighttime. We are either on time, early, or late. I remember laughing when I first met my husband 16 years ago and went to my very first Native American Pow-Wow. He had to teach me Indian Time. Being the rule follower I am, I start panicking at the remote possibility of arriving less than 10 minutes early to, well, anything . So when I learned about Indian Time, I laughed. I couldn't imagine a world where things happen when they happen. When we are told that Christmas Eve dinner at my in-laws is at 5pm - we know it will be closer to 6 or 7pm that we will eat, so might as well grab a late lunch on the way. As I started reminiscing about my past with time, it occurred to me that at some point during the Pandemic, I mentally embraced Indian Time while physically still holding on to the heartbeat of the clock on my wrist...and on my phone...and on my computer... Our ancestors rose with the sun and laid down with the moon. When the day reached its hottest - they found shade and took a break. Their stomachs ruled meal times, and not the other way around. Could the end of time heal our Earth? Nah....that's a stretch. Putting my phone down to stop from spiraling, I couldn't help but come back to the present moment. The present moment where I finally feel like I have arrived at something I had been working towards for almost a decade. As my friends and family all figured out their purposes, their missions in this life, their reasons for living...I was on the sideline cheering them on. Genuinely happy for them because that's who I am. But I'd be lying if I didn't feel alone and in last place. I know, I know. Life isn't a race. But over the last four years, I had never been more depressed. The political environment didn't help. But I am referring to not knowing who I was or why I was even here. Based on chronological time, I was late. I was late to the "what do I want to do, who do I want to be, when I grow up" party. I was late to the "career, not just a job" phase. The only thing I was early too, was getting my period at 9-years-old. And nearly every appointment for the past 20 years. Peeking at the clock to see if it started counting again, I was thankful I didn't get my hopes up. "10:33" Screw it. Just because the clocks have stopped, doesn't mean I stop. I may be struggling right now to find the words, but this is only temporary. The words will come when the words come. Maybe at 11pm. Maybe at 3am. But I trust they will come. Just like I trust that the days will continue even if all the clocks in the world stop ticking. I opened my laptop again and went to that blank page. When time stood still, I came alive. I wrote the first sentence, not knowing the next. In the silence of the extinct ticks, I listened to my gut. I wrote the second sentence, not knowing where I was headed. My fingers typed slower than the words started forming on my tongue. As I reached the final couple of sentences, a sense of relief washed over me. As the clock on the wall freezes, I finally understand. I am where I am supposed to be on my journey - at just the right time. Not a moment too early. Not a second too late. At the end of the day, time is what we need it to be. Therefore, I am not late. I never was. Sure, following my dreams is taking a little longer than I expected. But had I sped through, I would have missed the love my kids have for one another. I would have missed the fog lift from the wetlands just past our front yard as a double rainbow emerged. I would have missed the moment my girls learned how to cannonball into the pool and demanded I let them do it over and over and over... Maybe watching the clock so closely, is holding me back. Lifting my fingers from the blank page now full of words, I almost closed my laptop when a sudden urge made me look at the clock in the lower right-hand corner. "10:34"


I stand in the docking bay, it reminds me of a giant pigeon hole, opening up into space. The cavern is dwarfed only by the fact that I know that hundreds of openings like this encrust the structure. Utilitarian spaces like this are most definitely not human (or sentience) friendly. Huge structures careen about the expanse, carrying out the arcane tasks surrounding intergalactic mass transit. Pulling ships into dock, transferring cargo, ferrying matter and energy around like playthings. I've chosen to present in my human sim again, 'mostly for the vices that come with it', I muse as I drag on my cigarette. A looming, pockmarked orb floats over to me. This must be Bezerk, a roiling ball of plasma in a nest-space, contained inside a Neopodian transport pod. Garlorkians can move fairly quickly in the physical space, so the transport pods don't hold much advantage for them, but they keep their surroundings intact. I quickly do a frequency check, and then link in. Bezerk appears abruptly in my comms field. He brings my ship into focus and sputters, "This is the ship that you claim can take us through the Inactive Zone undetected?" It's translated from Garlax, (an energy/matter based language), through Neopod universal, and into an analogue of Earth tongue I find easiest to operate in, but I can still hear his cynicism. No matter to me, he's paid up, and ready to load, it's not my job to make him feel good about the whole thing. "I'll send through docking protocols - accept them and the ship will lift you into its containment field," I say brusquely, turning to the ship. As I see his sphere elevate and get swallowed into my ship, I prepare for the meld. Switching from terrestrial to ship-state is something I'll never get used to. No matter the sim or bot I use, I generally go bipedal, one head, two legs, that sort of thing. Either a genetic memory turned digital, or maybe just vanity. Either way, transferring to ship-mind feels weird. Instead of the fairly standard mammalian sensor network I grew up - hands, feet and skin, a visual input across a fairly narrow spectrum - I have information feeding into my consciousness from an array of sensors in and around the ship. Air pressure, gamma levels, radiation, all presented as data arrays, and interpreted as an almost physical experience. Instead of muscle memory telling me I can jump, crouch, laugh or shit, I know with a thought I can undock, pivot in zero-G, and trigger fusion reactions that push me across the galaxy. It's weird, but it's exhilarating once I get my space legs. The only problem is the itches. For some reason, even after all the advances in neurotechnology, the older sentient humanoid bases like myself can't shake some bodily impulses. There's nothing worse than crossing the void with an itch you can't scratch, the twinge of a phantom body part left on a moon a few thousand years ago.


Amy awoke feeling exhausted from her terrifying dream.

She had been trapped in this cycle of fighting with her best friend, Lilith, over and over.

She felt relieved that it was just a dream or at least she hoped it was.

She remembered that it was Lilith's birthday as she ran down stairs and grabbed the forest fluffy pancakes her mom made.

She darted upstairs and got ready, rushing out the door, late for school and needing a gift for Lilith.

“Papers! Come and get your papers!” yelled the newspaper boy.

Amy rushed and grabbed onto the paper, nearly knocking the boy over.

She felt so bad, but just couldn't stop.

She had to get to school.

She read the paper, hoping it would have a gift idea in it, but nothing.

“Oh no! Now what?”

Amy ran into the school and barged into the class.

The teacher scolded Amy, but she had no excuse this time so she sat down and looked at her friend with frantic eyes. Lilith looked back, then Amy gazed at her book hoping that something would come to mind.

Some idea of what to give to Lilith for her birthday.

When the bell rang, Amy paced over to Lilith and told her that she didn't get her a gift yet and Lilith began to turn bright red.

She was mad and stomped off.

 Amy thought that was selfish of Lilith to have done.

Then Amy began to cry and slowly she came to be mad.

 “How rude of Lilith to get so mad at me for not having a birthday present right this second!”

she mumbled.

Just then Amy felt a weird feeling deep in her gut.

It was a feeling that said that she needed to get back at Lilith for being so selfish.

Her gut was telling her to get back at her. Amy soon calmed down a bit, and snapped back to the zone, quickly ran to her next class.

Amy’s brain couldn’t stop being angry at Lilith.

She started to think of a plan, even though she didn't know if she wanted to continue with her idea.

An idea came to Amy's mind on how she would get back at her selfish friend.

She remembered that there was going to be a surprise party tomorrow night for Lilith’s birthday.

Just then she knew what she had to do.

SHE was going to ruin Lilith’s party and get her back for being so selfish.

Amy had stayed up all night planning and she had felt so energetic but burnt out at the same time.

She dropped onto her floor and fell fast asleep, drifting away to soft fluffy clouds and sheep jumping around.

She came back awake 2 hours later and ran to school, not even fully ready! Her friend gave her even worse of a glare than she had expected.

Amy sat alone at lunch and planned out how she was going to do it.

She placed the paper in her bag and finished the school day feeling ready.

When Amy got home, her mom stopped her and said, “Hunny, can I wash your bag? It is just growing dirt on it!”

Amy told her mom that she could wash it, ran upstairs, and rushed to sleep.

When she woke up she noticed the time and realized it was time to begin getting her revenge.

She looked around for her plan and remembered that she left it in her bag.

Just then her mom knocked on the door yelling her name.

She opened the door and asked, ”Hi sweetheart can I talk to you?” Amy's mom told her to sit down and she began to say, “I saw your plan.

Why would you do something like that to your best friend? I think we both know that's not what you want.” She was right. Amy had to tell her mom what happened.

After she talked with her mom, her mom gave her the

look that said, “It's going to be ok!”

causing Amy to start crying.

Her mom hugged her like she was saving her from falling.

Amy's eyes began flooding with tears again.

Her mom gave Amy a soft kiss on my forehead and walked out of the room.

Amy layed back down and began to think to herself that she didn't want to do this. She needed some time to think about everything but then her body just began to move, like she wasn’t in control anymore.

She ran to Lilith’s house and set up her plan to pour food coloring on Lilith’s head when she walked in.

Time flies by and next thing Amy knew it was time for the guests to come.

She sat down behind the couch thinking to herself about how she didn't want to do this to her best friend.

But then, the door opens and everyone shouts, “SURPRISE!” Her first prank was to cover Lilith with food coloring when she walked in the door.

She sprinted under the prank and set it off. Amy got covered in food coloring!

The next prank was to make Lilith slip in oil. Amy ran to the oil and blocked off the area.

Lilith ran upstairs crying. Amy followed her,

knocked on the door, and then opened it slowly.

It creaked and Amy said, “Are you ok?”

Lilith says that she is fine and that she asked if Amy did all of that.

Amy told her that it was going to be a prank because she got mad when she didn’t have enough time to get her gift.

Lilith stands up and opens her arms for a hug. Amy ran over to her and said, ”I'm sorry, I just have been having a really bad day and I got overwhelmed with everything going on.” Lilith told Amy that it's ok that most people have bad days and have to let it out somehow.

We both had tears running down our faces as we hugged and cried for a few minutes.

We got ourselves together and went downstairs to the party like nothing ever happened.

We stayed up all night watching movies and laughing about war and happened.

We both stayed best friends and grew up laughing about it for the rest of our years together, and of course dreaming about sheep and clouds jumping around together.


The room was empty and pale, except for the old man and the boy asleep on the floor. The window in the center of the wall directly in front of the old man was streaked with dirt, and the paint that had once given the crossing panes a dark black color was now flaking and dull. The floor boards creaked as the old man paced; the uneven floor joists between the floor and the damp ground below groaning in protest. There would be spiders there, and mold. The joists themselves were probably mostly mold at this point. A family of ants walked single file through the cracks in the boards, up the wall, and out the window where a small vine from a bush outside had made its way in. There were no lights. The house had never been wired for electricity. There was no heat, save for a small wood-burning stove that was not safe to use. The man stopped his pacing in front of the window with his hands behind him, lost in thought. The youth was glad the man was there. Waking up was never easy, and he could tell he was about to fade again. Before he could say anything, the man looked over at him noticing he had finally regained consciousness. “Ah, you’re awake! Good! I wasn’t sure this time that I hadn’t lost you. Quickly, tell me what you saw?” He walked closer to the boy, the echoes of his heavy boots reverberating like hammers in the boy’s head. He crouched down so that his eyes were even with the boy, and took his head into his hands and peered into his eyes like he was a doctor and the boy was his patient. The physical contact made the boy’s skin crawl, though he wasn’t sure why. Had the youth really been glad for his company only moments ago? From somewhere he pulled a cup of water and tried to get the boy to drink. With what little strength he had, the youth pushed his hand away and tried to stand up. “You ask me that every time, and every time it’s the same. I saw nothing! I always see nothing! I am not aware of being conscious until I wake up here in this god-forsaken room.” The youth did not know how long he had been in this room. He could remember having a family, going to school, playing with friends. The memories felt old, as if they belonged to someone else. He had lost count of how many times he had woken up to find this man pacing in front of the window. “I’m thirsty”. The old man passed the cup back to the boy without looking at him. He was already lost in thought as he stood up and walked back to the window, his hands behind his back. The boy drank the water greedily, his throat feeling less constricted as the liquid made its way down into his stomach. These trips were taxing on his body. If there were a mirror, he would see that the boy he had been before being brought to this place had aged a good five years. Was the age natural though? Had he really been here that long? He knew he was no longer the boy he had been even without seeing the proof for himself. A man knows when he becomes a man. The boy had been a man since the first time he woke up with the Old Man crouching over him, the worry clearly etched in his face and his wrinkles folding his skin into artful patterns. “What are you thinking Old Man? Usually you try harder for information when I wake, but this time you barely asked anything.” The Old Man turned around and looked at the boy, mild surprise and humor touching his eyes. The Boy used to fear those eyes, but now they were just another puzzle he knew he would never figure out. The Boy knew he would probably die in this place, whether from old age or the elements. He often wondered if maybe he was insane and would die from hunger or thirst while his brain convinced his body that he was fine. The Old Man seemed very real though. The Old Man stared for a few moments more before turning back to the window, his hands still behind him and his back straight. His frame didn’t seem to be touched by age, though it had clearly taken his face and hands. The Boy could see the age spots, clearly visible on those hands. Those hands had comforted him when exhaustion and sadness had taken him to the brink of death, and those hands had beat him into submission after being taken from his home all those years ago. “I’m thinking that we may need to leave this place soon. You’re a bit of a disappointment, but you clearly have the gift and the strength of spirit necessary to grow into it.” The Old Man shook his head and turned around again, his eyes now tired and reflecting the age of his soul if not his frame. “I misspoke. It’s not you who are the disappointment. I have failed so far to direct you where you need to go. These last few years have been taxing for both of us, and I can no longer feel the wind as I could when I was a young man like you. I could never dream the way you do, and that strength is hard to control and shape. You may be the greatest dreamer who ever lived, and I am not sure I can teach you what you need to know.” The Boy stared at the Old Man in disbelief (did he say years?). He still thought of himself as a boy, but the Old Man had just called him a man. Did this really make him feel …. proud? He tried to remember his own father, to see his face and hear his voice, but couldn’t. He still ached for the loss of his parents, but it was a distant echo. It had just been him and the Old Man for a long while. *Years? Really?* He barely had time to reflect on this when he began to fade again. The Old Man watched him crumple into the floor, gravity winning though he tried to will himself awake. Swirls of color began to cloud his vision and the last thing he was aware of was the Old Man turning again to look out the window, his hands clasped together tightly behind his back.


It was a beautiful old truck. Used to be my dad’s. Though he could never quite get it to start. The 1959 Chevrolet Apache with pearlescent blue finish used to be quite flashy. The last owner had driven around in it back in the 60’s. Back when it could move, it must have been a sight to see. I can imagine it. Windows down, radio on, maybe a girl in the passenger seat. Hands on the leather steering wheel as I drove along the highway, the world spread out before me. Maybe I’d even stop at one of those places where the waitresses are all on skates and I’d get a milkshake and a burger. Then take that magnificent machine and spend the night at a drive-in and try and get lucky with that girl in the passenger seat. But as I said, the truck doesn’t start. It hasn’t for years. My dad got it cheap, and he got what he paid for. The thing only ran for a year while he had it. It’s been sitting in our backyard next to the garage ever since. The paint is faded and the body is beginning to rust. Weeds have grown up around it. A blanket of pine needles and spider webs fills the truck bed. I walk past it every time I climb into my Nissan. It always reminds me of that old idyllic lifestyle when I pass by it. I wonder if one day fifty years from now, some kid will pass by my Nissan and think back to the time I live in. Perhaps by whatever year in the future he is, our time has already been romanticized. The era of hipsters and social networking. Some kid in the future will see an old rusted 2006 Nissan and think, “man I wish I could go back in time and see The Lord of The Rings when it was still in theaters.” Everyone is always thinking about the past as if it were some magical place where everything was right. No one stops to shed the romanticism and see it for what it is. An old dilapidated truck with rusted paint, sitting next to a garage as it fades from memory.


I peered through the viewfinder, encasing the vista within my shot. The air was still and stifling. I paused, taking in the rolling valleys, barns, and farmhouses, with my finger on the button as though it were a trigger. Every picture on this thing is money spent, money I don't have. I have to be exact. I dropped the camera from my face and let it dangle around my neck. The trees here are deceptively lush on the river roars, abundant with fish as though this were that kind of place. I'm not sure of the kind of place this is. Everything about as far as the eye could see had secrecy and deception built into the rocks at the core of the mountains and dark secrets run deep in the groundwater. That being said, it looks appealing from a distance. The houses are brightly painted, and cars move like beetles to and fro. It's like when you're on an airplane, and all that occupies your mind is getting off and returning to society. There's an unsteadiness about being suspended and apart, which shakes you in ways you didn't know it could. Then you land. You realize how awful and suffocating it is and why humans have always been so adamant to take flight. That's exactly what it's like, except here the forces that keep you returning are far more complex and elusive. But they do just that. They keep you here until your flesh rots from your bones. I continued to walk along the dirt track back to my truck. I took snapshots of birds and flowers and occasionally found a perspective I hadn't imagined before. Although that's very rare. The truck began to appear in the distance. It was once a vibrant red but had since faded to terracotta. Rust had begun to eat away at the body, and someone had written “clean me” in the window dust. It works, that's what matters. Anyway, trucks are expensive. I noticed the sky began to fade to a dusky orange hue and realized it must have been some time since I checked my watch. It hadn't felt as though as much time had passed as evidently did. I can spend half an hour on one photograph and only perceive about 30 seconds of it. It's as though my mind is a vacuum of everything else for those minutes. I glanced down at my watch. The band was thick tanned and cracked leather with a gold clock face. It was already 6:00. Was Hugo’s flight landing at 5:00 or 6:00? I couldn't quite remember. Vivian told me yesterday, but I honestly hadn't been listening. I had to abandon my follies and return home. Inside, the truck smelled of familiarity. Even though I don't smoke anymore, the aroma had fused into the fabric of the seats long ago. Tobacco mixed with the smell of the vanilla freshener I always buy. I took in the comfort of my intimate awareness of it, then turned the key in the ignition, expecting to hear a low grumble as it came to life. Much to my surprise, the air remained thick with silence. I tried once more but to no avail. I let out a deep and frustrated sigh as what had happened finally clicked. I hopped out of the truck and glanced up and down the road. For once in my life, I was hoping to see another human being. I stood there for a few minutes. Just as the interior of my truck had greeted me with its familiar aroma, the smells of the valley were something that I knew deeply. The perfume of the wildflowers hung delicately in the atmosphere. Somewhere in the distance, someone had obviously lit a campfire, and the smoky smell mixed with pungent moss. Just as I was about to give up and call Vivian, I heard the wheels of some vehicle as it moved swiftly across the dirt road. From my right, I could see a blue van rounding the corner. I stepped to the side of the road and waved frantically, hoping I might get out of this mess. When the van slowed to a stop, I let out a sigh of relief. Before me was Tom. I knew Tom from where we used to work at the paper mill. Of course, it no longer existed. Like many things in this place, it had succumbed to ruin. It always seemed it was the best things that met this fate, at least around here. Tom's a very lively man, to put it lightly. Like many of this disposition, his laughter was infectious. And like many infectious things, you didn't always want to catch it. He could make a joke out of anything, and you'd find yourself in hysterics. Perhaps against your better judgment. As soon as he saw me, his face lit up for reasons I cannot explain. Sure, we knew each other, but I had always felt as though he had merely put up with me. He rolled down his window. “Gus! You all right there, buddy?” He seemed genuinely concerned, which I had not seen coming. “Ah, just a bit of trouble with my truck. I was going to call Vivian and—” “Hop in, seriously don't worry about it. I'm sure they can send someone to pick it up in the morning.” I looked around as though I really had another option before saying, “I really appreciate it, Tom, with Hugo coming home and all.” He smiled at the mention of Hugo. Everyone around here knew of Hugo’s important job in the city. His success had become the talk of the town for some time. Some more distasteful voices had started saying that he was sending money back home and that we were hoarding it all to ourselves. Of course, this wasn't true. I rarely even heard from Hugo. In fact, I don't think we'd had a proper conversation since he was a boy. When we did, both of us could sense the superficial nature of what was being said. “Of course, of course. What's he doing back in this dump?” He said it in a sort of affectionate way. Only he could really call it a dump, whereas if I had said it, I would have really meant it. “Just visiting really.” I honestly don't know why he decided to come. I got a call last week out of the blue to tell me of this trip to town. It wasn't like him at all. He's far more planned, I would say, but I don't really know if I know him. Sure, he's my son, but I had always felt there was a chasm between us, uncrossable and treacherous. “You and Hugo should come round for drinks if you're up for it. Even later tonight, Jenna won’t—” Normally, I would say no, but to be honest, the prospect of having everyone back in the house just sitting there scared me slightly. I could already sense the tension that even the sharpest of knives wouldn't be able to cut through. “Uh, you know what, I think I might take you up on that offer.” Tom took one hand off the wheel and gave my shoulder a hard pat and shook it slightly. “That's the spirit, Gus! You know, I really do miss the good old days.” I'm not sure exactly which days he's referring to. Sure, the paper mill wasn't the worst of it, but it made me slightly sad to think of this old man reminiscing about a time that he would never get back. We pulled into the driveway of my house just as Vivian’s car was coming down the road. In the passenger seat, I could see Hugo. He looked slightly different from the last time I saw him. I could see a few grey hairs poking out between his mop of jet-black curly hair. His face seemed more gaunt, and bags marred his under eyes. I jumped out to greet him. “What happened to the truck?” Vivian asked just as Hugo was gathering his things. “The darn thing broke down on me. I’ll have to send someone out in the morning.” “Hugo's pretty tired,” she declared, obviously having moved on from my truck. I nodded in response, with some awareness of what that might mean. Tom walked from behind me, just as Hugo got out of the car. “Hey, there Hugo. I was just asking your dad if the two of you would like to come for drinks.” “Um, yeah, I guess so.” He looked to me for reassurance, which was a rare thing. “I'd be happy to go.” I looked to Vivian. She didn't seem too miffed at the prospect of being excluded. I very much doubt she would have wanted to join anyway. The thing about Tom is that he is very much a traditionalist or man's man as you might say. I'm sure he would be shocked and appalled to see Vivian outdrink him as I'm almost certain she would. Perhaps, a younger version of her would question him on her lack of an invite and bring up his patriarchal standards for drinking buddies. However, in the moment, she remained silent. I thanked Tom for the lift and began to help Hugo in with his things. He had a surprising amount with him, a large suitcase as well as an oversized duffel bag. I couldn't remember how long he said he would stay. Maybe I hadn't asked. As we walked into the kitchen, I realized I hadn't eaten all day. Usually Julie did the cooking. I turned to Vivian for answers, and she looked back at me as though she knew what I was thinking and thought in return that I was being extremely rude to be expecting anything from her. “Pizza is alright with you guys?” Hugo had sat down at the kitchen table as though he didn't quite fit in with the surroundings or as though this were new and unfamiliar territory. They both nodded in response, and Vivian joined Hugo. As we sat around the table tucking into our pizza, there was a distinct silence. It wasn't a casual silence, the one you might find while food is being enjoyed. This was a far different thing. It was uncomfortable, and it seemed to shout violently at us. As we sat around the table tucking into our pizza, there was a distinct silence. It wasn't a casual silence, the one you might find while food is being enjoyed. This was a far different thing. It was uncomfortable, and it seemed to shout violently at us. “It’s almost eight, you guys should get going. I'm gonna go to bed, I have work unfortunately.” She dramatically rolled her eyes justice Hugo scoffed. She turned to him sharply, “what was that?!” He looked shocked at being accused of anything. “Nothing” he replied. She wasn't going to let go of this, “no seriously, what is it?!” Realising he wasn't going to get away with it he replied “So what exactly are you working at now? Last I remember, you worked in a bar.” “So?!” She answered back sharply. “I'm just saying, it's not exactly the most serious profession. Who cares if you sleep in.” “Like I said I'm going to bed.” She got up and threw her plate down onto the counter. Once she had left, I turned to Hugo, “You really do have to be less harsh on her.” “You know, you're the reason she never got up off her ass.” I was taken aback by the sudden direction of hostility towards me. “You know what happened.” I said, trying my best to not actually get into it. I stood up, “We can walk to Tom's place.” We walked once again in silence to Tom's house. The night had well set in at this stage. The smokiness I had detected in the air was now in full force. On the neighbouring mountain, I could see the flicker of headlights as they wound round the windy roads. At Tom’s, the wine flowed in red tidal waves and we had abandoned our hostilities with the help of alcohol . I took it in, knowing it would not be soon to come again. The whole night is a sort of haze now. I remember we went to the local bar and, with my camera still in hand I took snapshots of the night. The next thing that seemingly came was my warm and soft bed. It held me as my head spun. I stared up at the ceiling and watched the fan and everything else go round and round. Then sleep enveloped my senses. I was awoken by the song of morning birds, as they went from their nests into the brand new day. I could hear some sort of hum of activity coming from the kitchen. As I entered, freshly cooked bacon and eggs wafted from the door. Just inside Vivian was standing over a hot stove. In the corner, a very deflated looking Hugo sat, in front of a steaming cup of coffee, blacker than his hair. The smoke curled in the air like kelp at the bottom of a lake. “Morning,” I said, greeting them both. Hugo grunted in response, clearly not able for much more. I walked past them both into the garage where I had my darkroom setup. I flicked on the red lights and got to work. The place had an eerie feel, it was almost unsettling in the bask of red light. At some point Vivian had placed a plate of egg and bacon just inside the door. I must have been so consumed with my work that I'd hardly noticed. I left them untouched and they grew cold in the uninsulated garage. As my photo of the valley, I thought I was so intimately aware of came into fruition something wasn't right. I was expecting one thing and sure enough I got the other as always seems to happen. But this was different, as I looked down at the picture the mountains didn't look quite right. They were out of place and even the houses seemed to have been rearranged. I called Vivian in quickly, knowing she's the only other person who like me reluctantly knew every elevation and shape of the valley. “What is it?” She said opening the door. “Take a look at this!” She glanced over my shoulder, with a confused look. “It's a nice photo I guess.” “Does something not look off to you?” She let out a nervous laugh “Should it?” “I'm serious.” I retorted, “Everything's in the wrong place.” “What do you mean, it's just the valley.” Realising I was getting nowhere I dropped it, “Never mind.” She skulked away back to whatever she'd been doing but the image still played on my mind. How could something so close, so fundamentally a part of my life be unrecognisable? I was there yesterday, I knew the indentations of every slope and the shade every house was painted. This wasn't what I saw. This was something entirely different. Next thing I knew, I heard the shrill ring of the doorbell interrupting my train of thought. I heard no one stir to answer it and so I temporarily abandoned my confusion. I opened the door to see a cleanly shaven young man with sandy hair standing before me. He smiled at me, with a knowing look. Maybe he was one of the lad’s kids from town. He continued to look at me expectantly. He must have seen my confusion and he went on to explain himself, “I was just grabbing some milk and I forgot my keys.” This startled me, why on earth would this stranger have keys to my house. “Vivian!” he called, I was still shell shocked, how did he know Vivian? Vivian came running to the door. “What's wrong?!” She wasn't talking to me but rather the sandy haired strange man. “Is dad OK?” At this point I exploded, “What on earth are you talking about? Who are you and what are you doing at my house?” Perhaps, this was some cruel trick Vivian had come up with to confuse me. It wasn't very funny. But instead of amusement Vivian wore a look of utter horror. “Dad! It's Jacob, your son.” “I don't have a son called Jacob what are you talking about?” I started both of them, trying to crack the facade but to no avail. I ran into the house into to my darkroom. I locked the door quickly and dragged a chair to block the entrance. At least I still had my egg and bacon, even if they had gone cold. I could hear footsteps getting closer and whispering just outside. I could vaguely hear Vivian say, “I don't know what's wrong with him.” And the supposed Jacob say, “Jesus Christ, he didn't recognise me.” There was a panic in his voice, it seemed almost genuine. Then I had an idea, if this Jacob really did exist, then surely he would have been with us last night. I glanced at the pictures which were hung up on string around the room. In the dim red light, it was hard to make out which photo was which. Eventually, I came across the evidence of our big night out. The first photo, was of me with my arm wrapped around Tom. Obviously, I had given my camera to someone else, something which is markedly unlike me. Then as I looked at the next photo I froze in sheer terror or perhaps shock. Right there in the photo the sandy haired man stood next to Hugo with big grins across their faces and pints in hand. I remember taking this photo except it was only a portrait of Hugo. And now this stranger had somehow appeared. There was obviously something very wrong whether it was with me or the universe. Something deeply fundamental had shifted and altered the course of my existence. Next I had to decide what to do. I could continue to not recognise “Jacob” and Vivian and Hugo’s concerns could rise or I could play along with it. Either way it wasn't going to end well but one way would certainly end worse. I compose myself and gingerly opened the door. Vivian, Hugo, and Jacob looked up like startled lambs. “Hey dad, are you OK?! You really scared us.” Vivian was the one to ask this. “I’m sorry, I really didn't mean to frighten you. I just” “It's OK, we just wanna make sure you're OK" Vivian gave me sort of hug and sat me down. I hadn’t realised how weak my legs had become. I honestly don’t think I am okay, at least by any familiar definition of the word. The very fabric of my mind had to twist and contort to contend with such a lie, just as reality had done the same.


“So what?” Vijay said. “It’s an eclipse. It gets dark. What’s the big deal?” Robin took a sip from her drink, trying to look anywhere but at Vijay. The taste of strawberries from her daiquiri was a welcome reprieve from this loser.

“People like it,” Robin said as politely as she could. “It brings people together, don’t you think?” Vijay shoved another handful of peanuts into his mouth. Robin watched him munch on them. She imagined kissing that salty mouth, and winced.

“I guess,” Vijay said with a shrug. “So how many of these things have you been to?”

“Two,” Robin said. It was actually six, but Vijay didn’t need to know that.

“I’m at these things every month,” Vijay said.

Robin took another sip. She glanced at the tables to her left, then her right. Where was Freda? She couldn’t find her in the ocean of evenly spaced tables around her. She had talked her into this. What a way to spend a once-in-two-decades event.

“You looking for someone?”

“No,” Robin said. “Sorry, can we start over?”

Vijay huffed and checked the clock on the table. “We don’t have long left, you know. It’s happening soon.” Robin looked up at the sky, then blinked as her eyes met the sun’s blaze.

“You shouldn’t look directly at the sun,” Vijay said.

“Thanks dude. You always full of good advice?” “Just looking out for you. Women like to feel protected.” Robin shrugged. She couldn’t disagree with that.

“That’s what my mom always said.” Robin snickered. She couldn’t believe his ability to ruin a promising turning point.

“What?” “Nothing,” she said, stifling laughter, “sorry.” “I can’t believe you’re laughing at me.” There was then a sudden movement of everyone in the tables surrounding them, as they reached for their cardboard glasses and shifted in their chairs. It was happening.

“Quick, put them on,” Vijay said, reaching for his glasses.

Robin put them on and hastily shifted her chair to the side. She looked up and saw it.

“Wow,” Vijay said in that dumb, loud voice of his.

Robin furrowed her brow and tried to ignore him. Freda might not be here, but this was a moment she wanted to capture in her mind forever. She hoped she was also with a Vijay, or someone even worse.

“You’re not looking at it right,” Vijay said.

“Shut up,” Robin said.

“Don’t look directly at it. You’ll hurt your eyes.” Robin ignored him.

“Look, I’ll show you,” he said.

Still staring up at it, she felt her glasses being torn off her head.

“What the--“ “See,” Vijay said, “you ruined it.” Robin shielded her eyes and stopped herself from snapping at this idiot. Screw politeness, she wanted to throw the table on top of him.

“Give me those, now.” “You’ll listen to me this time?” “You almost *blinded* me.”

She groped at his hands and felt cardboard on her fingertips.

“You’re being rude,” he said.

She gritted her teeth and tugged. It slipped out of his hands.

“Now look what you’ve done. That’s what you get for being *rude*.” She looked down at the torn remains of her cardboard glasses.

--- “Robin, come back!”

She couldn’t look back at him. He’d ruined it. Ruined *everything*. Now she had to wait another *twenty years*. Why had she listened to Freda? Eclipse *speed dating*? Who had ever heard of such a thing? The couples staring at her as she stormed past could go to hell.

At length she made it to the parking lot, and she heard footsteps on the crunchy gravel behind her. They were getting faster. Was he following her all the way to her car?

She turned around to find Vijay, bent over, hands on his legs as he took heaving breaths.

“I’m… sorry,” he said with difficulty.

“Don’t follow me,” she said. “We’re done.” “Didn’t you come with your friend?” “I… I didn’t think of that. I’ll wait for her in the car.” “Want me to sit with you?” “Vijay…” “You’ll be by yourself.” “I’m fine with that.” She turned around and made towards her car.

“Can you tell me what I did wrong?” She laughed louder than she meant to. Teach *him*? Where could she start?

“Vijay,” she said, “do you really want me to do that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He had reached the car, and looked like a lost puppy. Maybe his request was genuine, and not a creepy way of getting close to her again.

“Fine,” she said with a huff. “Get in.” --- “You’re wrong,” Vijay said. “That doesn’t make any sense.” “You’re doing it again,” Robin said. “When you’re talking to a girl—or anyone, really—don’t tell them they’re wrong. Dates are about emotion, not logic.” “Oh,” he said, and then looked out of the windshield ponderously.

“And I’m not wrong. You want your date to enjoy spending time with you. You don’t want to just impress them with your job, what school you went to.” “Everything my mom taught me was wrong, then.” “Not everything. She was right about the protecting thing you said. People like a gentleman. Just don’t be condescending about it, okay?” “Oh god,” he said. “You think I’m condescending, too?” “Um…” “That means yes. Just be honest.” “Yeah. Like, *really* condescending.” “When? During our speed date?” “Yes,” she said, staring at him, stretching out the word for emphasis. “You kept telling me I was wrong about the eclipse, and then, you took my freaking glasses off my head when I was looking at the sun.” He shrugged. “You’re not supposed to look at the sun.” “We were looking at the eclipse. It’s up in the sky. Therefore, I was looking up. QED.” “QE… what?” “Never mind. Just stop thinking you know better than everyone else.” “Oh,” he said, staring out ponderously again, as if a lightbulb had flashed in his head.

“Aren’t you, like, thirty?” “Yeah? What of it?” “Never mind. Just… can’t believe this is new to you.” “I’m trying, alright? I’m sorry, I messed everything up.” She smiled. Maybe this idiot was worth spending time with, after all. He was listening, after all, and god knew that was a rare thing.

“You didn’t mess *everything* up,” she said, shaking her head. “I made a fool of myself. I stormed off. God, I got grass stains and mud on my favourite flats.” He chuckled. “Yeah, flats weren’t a great choice for outdoor speed dating.” She grinned. “Alright, alright. Whoever heard of outdoor speed dating during an eclipse?” “Hard to see the eclipse from inside a restaurant.” “Or a movie theater,” he said.

“Yeah… well, maybe we can have that fresh start I talked about.” Vijay’s face brightened up. “Really?”

She tried on her best attempt at a wry smile. “No correcting me?” “No. No way,” he said, smiling.

Seconds past as they looked at each other.

A knock on the driver’s side window shocked them both out of the moment.

Robin looked out, cringed, and wound down the window.

“Vijay, this is Freda. My best friend, and my worst enemy.” “You got something to say?” Freda said.

“I’m sorry?” Robin said, still cringing.

“Not nearly enough,” Freda said, shaking her head. One side of her mouth twisted into a half-smile. “You made up?”

“I think so?” Robin said, turning to Vijay.

“Yeah,” Vijay said. “She’s right.”


I'm sitting in my first period class, half dead, half asleep. My teacher was running late, so most people are just on their phones or chatting. I receive a text message during this time. I assume it's my mom reminding me that I got to school safely, but it's not. This is the first text I have received in months that wasn't from my mom. It's from an unknown number, and it reads "Hey cutie <3". I'm both shocked and puzzled at the same time. Did I just get a text from a girl? No, it can't be. I hastily reply, "Sorry, but I think you have the wrong number". He responds with "Oh, sorry". A minute later, I get another text. "Wait no... Are you Dylan?" This perks my interest. I respond with, "Yeah, what do you want?" I've got nothing to lose at this point. My teacher had showed up by now, so I spend the rest of the period waiting in suspense. I could not focus whatsoever. We're supposed to be reading a long, boring book, but I just can't stop thinking about that text for the life of me. As the period reaches a close, I pull out my phone and see a couple more flirty texts. This has to be a girl. I look around, seeing if any girls in my class are laughing or immediately look away. Nothing. The only other option left is it being a prank by my friends, which I would consider rather unlikely. I don't give my number out to many people, so it can't be a random prank either, because she used my name. But how did she get my number in the first place? Regardless, there's a 10% chance it's a girl that's into me, so I'm not going to fuck it up by questioning it. As I walk into second period, she asks me to come to room 109 during lunch. I immediately take a screenshot and post it to Reddit just before the bell rings. Once again, I cannot stop thinking about this. Third and fourth period roll around, same story. I check my Reddit post throughout the day, and while I don't remember specifics, it did amass a couple hundred updoots by lunch time. The bell rings for lunch time. I head straight for room 109 like it owes me money. As I approach, my anxiety increases. Is it a trap? Is it a prank? Does she actually like me? I approach the door. My heart is flying out of my chest. My mind is spinning in 88 different directions. Full of confusion, fear, anxiety, and excitement, I breathe in, open the door, and am engulfed by an overwhelming darkness. My bedroom ceiling lies in front of me. I look around, and see the all familiar four walls in which I spend the majority of my life. I look over to my left. 3:59 am, the clock says. And then it hits me. I leap out of bed and check my text messages. Sure enough, my most recent text (besides my mom) is from four months ago. I check my Reddit. My most recent post is a meme with 14 updoots. I scream at the top of my lungs. My scream is so loud that it sets off nearby car alarms, yet so quiet that nobody in my house, including myself, can hear it. I crawl back in bed completely defeated. My best and perhaps only chance to find love had been thwarted by my own mind. I desperately cling to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a gltich in the matrix, a lapse in reality, or some weird ass quantum time shit had happened. After thrashing around for a surprisingly short amount of time, I drift off to sleep. I wake up, throw on some clothes, and drive to school, just like usual. I can't stop thinking about that dream I had had. It felt so real, realer than any dream I had ever had. Yet it still had a dreamlike quality to it. The dream had slightly faded from memory, but not as much as usual, and still had that dreamlike storyline to it. I walk into my first period, and sure enough, the teacher is late. I eagerly await that text message, but it does not come. Once again, I cannot focus on my work. Second, third, and fourth periods roll around. No random texts, no posts on Reddit, no strange looks, no nothing. At this point, I am convinced that it was just a hyperrealistic dream. For the hell of it, I decide to go to room 109 during lunch anyway. The bell rings for lunch time. I head straight for room 109 like it owes me money. As I approach, my anxiety increases. Is it a trap? Is it a prank? Does she actually like me? I approach the door. My heart is flying out of my chest. My mind is spinning in 88 different directions. Full of confusion, fear, anxiety, and excitement, I breathe in, open the door, and am greeted by an empty classroom, with a girl sitting in the middle of the back row. This is the girl that I had been crushing on for quite some time now, yet never had the courage to even speak a word to her. And there she is. She nervously waves to me and says "Hello." My body freezes in place. I couldn't move or speak. My mind is racing faster than light. HOW IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME!!! Eventually, i manage to reach for the door, and begin to leave. However, a cute laugh interrupts my escape. "Hey, you remind me of a dream I had last night." I once again freeze in place. "Are you just gonna stand there all day? Come on, take a seat. I think you're pretty cool." With that sentence, the tension instantly falls out of the air, and you could hear it hit the floor. I begin my walk towards this girl, and take the seat to her left. She begins telling me about this dream she had, where her friends convinced her to text her crush, and gave her his number. At first, he thought she had the wrong number, but after confirming with her friends, she continued the conversation. After a while of fliritng, she told him to meet her in room 109 during lunch. However, when he arrived, he froze in place in the doorway. Suddenly, she was awoken by a car alarm around 4 in the morning. I panicked out as she described her dream to me. I couldn't believe this had happened. I would have been skeptical, but there's no way she would have known. I've told nobody about this dream, nor have I ever spoken a word to her prior to today. I then shared my dream with her, and she reacted the same way. I asked her to describe the guy. She didn't remember him too well, but what she could piece together fit my description pretty well. She even reacted similarly to me when she woke up, minus the silent scream of doom. When she got to school, her friends told her to text her crush, except they didn't have his number, so she couldn't do so. We talked for the rest of lunch, and it turns out that she was also crushing on me as well and was about to make the first move.


They are looking at me. Why? Why won't they stop? They are scared, I feel it. They are anxious. My hands are hugging this mug, so... Tight. So Strong, but so soft. The neon lights reflecting from the windows hurt my eyes, and so do the headlights, and the sirens. The flashing red, the flashing blue. The hot steam caressing my eyeballs, it's awful. The heat burning my hand, and burning my palms, my flesh. The smell, Absolutely terrible. This cafeteria, it's too bizarre. Something feels odd. I feel odd. I feel out of this place, like an outsider. My hands... They bleed? The floor under me. It's covered with blood. My head, aching like hell. It's agony. Why are they looking at me? What are they looking at? What do they see that I don't? What do they want? What could they want? Their eyes. I can't see them. They hide them from me. Looking anywhere but at me, but I feel their gaze nonetheless. Their eyes see me or see through me. My hands are shaking, the puddle of blood growing under me. Is this what it feels like to... Have I gone mad? Is this a dream? Must be, but it hurts. It hurts so much, i can barely breathe. Somebody could help... Nobody will. Fucking hell! It burns, and it feels like a knife in my brain. I can feel it, etched into my mind. The stainless steel rotting by my thoughts. And I can feel something else. It feels like bullets penetrating my skin, breaking my bones and scorching the tissues, my muscles, my flesh. But there is no knife here, and no bullets. His body flops onto the floor from the barstool, the body of the man who was once next to me. Now he is on the floor, motionless. In the puddle, of his own blood. But nobody moves. No one wants to help him? Should I be surprised? I certainly won't do anything. Why would I help a stranger? But then, why would they? Somebody should do something. Call someone. Did they? These lights, make them stop. These sounds, they should cease to exist. I think he's dead. Just twitching on the floor like a fish. It's funny, is it not? I laugh at him. Feels good to finally laugh. But it's no laughing matter. It's horrible. I should be ashamed. But does it matter? He's dead. Have to be. After all, there is a hole in his head. There would be a hole left in his head, if I were to pull out the knife... I should do that. Would be interesting to see inside, to see how different they are. How different I am. I should grab the knife. It is mine, after all. I grew to like those looks they give me. Even if I only see dead, and empty eyeballs, with meaningless animals behind them. But j feel better now. I see through them, not the other way around. And those bullets? Went through them, not me. Penetrated them, not me. Broke their bones, not mine. Scorched their tissues, and their flesh, not mine. I shot them. And it felt good. Wouldn't you have done the same, if they were staring at you? I mean, it would've been all right. They could've lived. But they stared. At me...


His head struck the wall repeatedly. *Thud. Thud. Thud*. A U2-esque song rattled through the tinny handset speaker and enveloped his every thought. He’d say that this was the worst experience he’d ever had on the phone, but Mark never had a good experience to compare it to – he *loathed* talking on the phone. The fact that this was a call to his Internet provider was just the cherry on the icing. Why did these call centres even bother playing music? *Probably to get rid of the callers*, Mark suggested to himself. *It’s not in their best interests to speak to me – that’s how they lose money*. At this stage, Mark's paranoia was growing worse with each of Bono's verses – it was a welcome relief to his nerves when the music finally stopped. “Hell-lo you’re through to the customer retention department mynameisAshleyhowcanIhelp?” uttered a young-sounding woman in a tone that could only be described as “tired of this crap”. “I… I… uh” began Mark, who could now only remember bono’s tinny voice – perhaps *this* was the purpose of the music. “I’d like to cancel?” he *asked*, for reasons unbeknownst to him. Now it was time for Ashley the call centre agent to do what she was trained to do – stand in between the way of Mark and his freedom. She struck him hard with a financial counteroffer: “Well, it’d be such a shame to see you go, I can see you’re a loyal customer...” “Was, a loyal customer” Interjected Mark – but Ashley didn't seem to hear him. “...and I’m going to cut your bill in half!” exclaimed Ashley happily, in a disarming tone not-dissimilar to a child who’s just said “I drew you a picture”. Mark's defences were collapsing rapidly, he had to maintain his composure here. “Thank you” he said “but I’m no longer in need of your services, so if you could please just cut me off before the next bill comes around, that’d be fantastic, Ashley.” There was a brief pause in the air where Mark was worried he’d legitimately hurt Ashley’s feelings, but little did he know, Ashley was about to hurt his feelings: “I understand sir,” she began “I'm just going to put you on hold for a moment.” Bono’s voice chimed in once again. Calmly putting down the phone and gently placing it on the hook, Mark realised that he’d learnt a very important lesson today: he’d happily pay the broadband fee every month, just for the privilege of not having call the company ever again.


I stared in the mirror, wearing my long, lacey, wedding gown at the last fitting. I asked the dressmaker for a few last-minute changes. I wanted a bigger bustle, something more dramatic and theatrical. I needed a veil that was at least 20 feet long, maybe something with feathers. I wanted more lace and ruffles.

At that time, the look of my dress was the only thing I had control over. My parents were spending a lot of money to throw me

their  dream wedding to impress

their  friends. A month before everyone’s big day (everyone else's big day, but mine), a shrieking pain surged down my neck causing me to whimper with each micro movement. My pediatrician said it was from stress. Yes, I was 30 and still seeing my pediatrician. Dr. Janet prescribed a muscle relaxant and sent me home with a cervical collar. I spent the next several days in bed on my back, wearing my collar, staring at the ceiling, and listening to The Grateful Dead. Although I claimed to be a fan of The Dead, up until then I had only known the music, not the words. As I listened to the words, they spoke to me. The song, ‘The Wheel’ in particular. “The wheel is turning, and you can’t slow down,” they sang. “You can’t let go and you can’t hold on, you can’t go back, and you can’t stand still…” “Yes,” I cried, “that’s me.” The Dead continued, “If the thunder don’t get you, then the lightning will.”  “The lightning will get me,” I sobbed even harder and cried, “You guys. I love you guys. You know me so well.” I needed help. I had been dating my fiancé for six years and he was a nice guy… aside from his short temper. If only I wouldn’t get him angry and “poke the bear”, he would stay mellow. He was charming when he wasn’t having a tantrum. But after his outbursts, he would apologize by taking somewhere nice and explaining why I had made him “flip out”. Sometimes the reason would be because I wanted to accept a job that would be good for my career but that would mean I would be gone for three months. He would’ve missed me. That’s how much he loved me. What was my problem? He loved me. He never hit me. With the wedding only a month away, my secret plan was to go through with it and then get a divorce a few months later. I did not want to disappoint anybody. Then I heard ‘The Wheel’ again. “Won’t you try just a little bit harder? Couldn’t you try just a little bit more?” The Dead made up of a band of men, but their voices were comforting. “Okay,” I said in between sniffles, “I’ll try.” “Round, round robin run round, got to get back to where you belong, little bit harder just a little bit more.” The Dead inspired, “A little bit further than you’d gone before.” With the help of The Grateful Dead and a new therapist, I mustered up the courage to cancel the wedding. Telling my fiancé and parents tore me up inside. I felt as if I were being ungrateful. My therapist encouraged me to think about myself and what I wanted. This was a new concept. I had denied my own feelings for so long, I felt physical pain expressing them. My parents and fiancé did not take the cancellation well. After their rage storm quieted, something magical happened. I was able to move my neck again. The pain had gone away. I felt lighter. I said what I truly wanted, and I was free. Like the Dead said, “you can’t go back, and you can’t stand still.” The therapist I had been seeing everyday said, “what you were doing, stopped working for you.” What I had been doing was what I was trained to do. To make everyone else happy and cater to their needs and put me last. My body was telling me that I was at a crossroads. Either I wanted my life to continue as I had known it or there was something else out there. I was a product of my environment. My childhood was sheer survival. I was conditioned to read my parents’ moods, match their energy, and serve their needs. I learned that their tempers and outbursts were my fault because I hadn’t jumped fast enough when they called out a command. Thinking back as an adult, their parenting was more like training a dog rather than nurturing a child. They were immigrants from mid-century Korea, and I was a female. Useless to them. At the dinner table, while I was in the middle of eating, my father would tap me on the shoulder and order, “Water…Napkin…Rice”. This was how our family dinners went. Never a questions like, “how was school?”, like I had seen on television. The only interest they showed in me was how I could serve them at that time. When I was twelve, I finally responded to my father, “why can’t you get your water?” Silence fell over the room. It was like when the outlaws from Krypton landed on Earth in

Superman II.  No one at the table made a sound. I was drawing in adrenaline. My father’s face was red and distorted. “What did you say?” he asked. My father stood up and knocked over a plate and yelled at my mother for raising such a disrespectful girl. He held his hand up in a motion to strike me but held back. “Look at everything we do for you. We feed and clothe you. You even get to live in Beverly Hills. You are a like a spoiled brat,” my mother piled on before turning to my father, “I didn’t know she would turn out that way. She’s learning this from her horrible friends.” I ran and hid in my room. Hours later my mother softly knocked on my door. I opened and let her in. “You should be more respectful towards your father. He works so hard for you to give you this life,” she said. Then she handed me a hundred-dollar bill.

 It was no surprise that I found a similar relationship as an adult. What was familiar to me, I had mistaken for love. I thought I was free of one situation only to find myself trapped in another. This was my first of many painful steps towards living my truthful life as a grown-up. I’m still amid the transition from unconscious cave dweller to self-aware, evolved individual. It hasn’t been smooth but I’m a work in progress. I finally stopped going to my pediatrician for medical needs and found a doctor for adults. I was on my way to autonomy.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about:The Darkest Moment This week may be one of the most relatable moments in a story, large or small. The Darkest Moment, otherwise known as the Dark Night of the Soul, is where soul searching takes center stage. This is the moment your hero is beaten, It’s looking in the mirror and seeing an ugly truth. Everything hinges on this moment, and how low it lays your protagonist. They’ve lost hope, and . If there was any appropriate time to have a pity party, . Our heroes are taking stock of their circumstances, and I gotta tell ya, it ain’t pretty. Now’s a good time to start . The Darkest Moment for our characters should reference their stated goals, and overall tone of the story. If your overarching theme is about magical friendships, this installment should show us where the breakdown of relationships threaten that magical, noble goal of harmonious . Make us feel that breakdown when your protagonist sits in their house alone . Even in the coziest of stories a Darkest Moment should be a moment we take a step back to really consider how far a character has come in their story. If your story is about hope, this dark moment may have a glimmer of beauty, a silver lining you can use in the following installment to help your characters dust themselves off and . On the other hand, in the darkest timelines this element may be your character’s undoing-- this could be the night at the bottom of a bottle . This installment should place the ultimate doubt in your reader’s minds about and remind us of what’s really important to this plot. **Things to think about this time around:** For re-invigoration and victory to happen there needs to be a way forward for your characters, whether they know it or not. They’re gettin’ their butts handed to them in this plot, and it’s looking grim. Are your characters sufficiently aware of their predicament? Is there a greater power ? If so, this may be your antagonist’s time to shine. Remind us of why this antagonist is such a threat. . Are your characters lovers or fighters? Show us how desperate or . I look forward to everyone’s Dark Night of the Soul moment. See you on Saturday! **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/17, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Storm: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /r/Ragnulfr, for switching the script on us with a big reveal for our little goblin friend. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Ryter99, with a story that stepped out of the normal comedy comfort zone but still nailed the assignment with a couple tasty burns for those in Jamsen’s path. And honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing’s installment embodied what it means to feel like we’re in the eye of the storm this week with a showdown of powerful magic. And /u/ChineseArtist, who embraced the uncertainty of the storm with throwing us right into the action. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Raised Stakes** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.