#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: Let’s do something a little different this week! **Media Prompt: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth extra pts.): Something is lost and/or found.* This week’s challenge is to use the above song as inspiration for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the music video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.) #This Past Week’s Spotlights I was blown away by all the amazing stories this week. There were so many beautiful and touching tales told. Each person who wrote a story should congratulate themselves. You all did fantastic work! - - Submitted by u/elephantulus - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - - Submitted by u/OldBayJ - - Submitted by u/littlewing333 ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


This was a once in a life time social experiment I wanted to conduct since I have been on the work force. All my life, I have been surrounded with noise, pollution, traffic, and technology. Always on the move and always trying to keep up with time. I no longer wish to be slave of time. I want to be master of time. I want to breathe, see the time slow down, think about myself… A friend of a friend recommended me to go spend a month in this remote winter cabin. All alone. With no electricity, no internet, and no phone service. Basically, with no technology. I would feel like I am living before the Industrial Revolution. I would feel like taking a trip to the early 19 th century.  I need this. My brain requires to get away from noise, pollution, time, and technology. This will be a unique vacation. Even if I wanted, no one will be able to reach me. No cell phone, no power to charge my laptop or any electrical device. I need fresh air and keep my eyes away from any type of screen. For food, I was mentioned that I would have to hunt for my own food and cook it. No electricity means no fridge. I must hunt or collect food from the wilderness on a daily basis. I will not be able to store food. In the brochure my friend gave me, it mentions that there are no human beings in a 100 km radius. I will be dropped off by a valet service and after thirty days, someone from the same travel agency, will come pick me up. The cost of this solo adventure is a $5,000.    I do know that I will have access to a vast collection of novels during my stay. Thank God! At least I will have time to read. Only hard copy books, not in a digital form. I always preferred the smell of a good book in hands. Especially, a new book that was never opened.    The day has finally arrived. I am dropped off by the valet service. I am asked to sign a contract and a brochure is handed to me. Similar to the one my friend had given me. It is a remote area, on a hill, with a beautiful view of the forest, the valley and the frozen lake.    The cabin is one huge room where kitchen, living room and bedroom are one big unit. Only the bathroom is separate room of its own. No hot water because of no electricity! Oh boy! I will have to heat my water when I need to take a bath. No shower here…    I did lot of wilderness camping with my dad and my Uncle Wayne during my childhood. That experience will come handy for the next few weeks. We did hunt, fishing, picking up edible mushrooms. I will have to rely more on hunting because in this snow, it will be a challenge to find mushrooms, fruits or veggies.    It is 6 PM by now. I did bring with me a tuna sandwich with me. I am not going out to get food at this time. Not in this cold, and snow. In fact, I brought with me a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. That stuff can stay out without being refrigerated. The days I will not feel like going hunting, I will have this backup food. I won’t starve but it won’t be the best food to enjoy.    Almost time for bed. It is such a great feeling to hear only the sound of the nature. Unbelievable how it feels. How your mind and body can benefit from this silence. I hear the wind blowing, snow is everywhere, night has settled, I see an owl on the tree from a dozen yard. It is so peaceful that it feels like I am in a haunted place. It feels like the dawn of time. When our ancestors lived in the nature.    Before I go to bed, let’s start reading one of the novels offered to me. Oh wow! I have seen the movie but never read the novel it was based upon. The Shining. This novel will be a perfect read for the situation I am in. Like the main character Jack, I am in a remote cold snowy place but yes, I am not in an immense hotel. Moreover, this place is not haunted. Well…I hope not…   Almost 11:15 PM. I am well immersed into the story of Stephen King. As I stand up to head to go to sleep, I hear heavy knocks on the door. Who could that be at this time? I was told there was no living soul in this area. I open the door. Nobody. I look to my left…to my right…no one. Weird. Am I hearing things? I get back inside and close the door.    I will go to bed. Hope to get a good sleep. Tomorrow will be another day. They furnished plenty of blankets. I will be fine. In the morning I will need to go out into the woods to hunt or fish by a river or a lake.    After a good night rest, I feel great today. Looking from the window, it seems like we go twelve inches of snow. Not the time to venture I guess. I should stick to my bread and peanut butter. I will go get the woods from the back of the cabin in the storage facility and heat up water for my bath.    It has not been a full twenty-four hours yet in this cabin but I can say that mentally and physically I feel less drained compared to my daily urban life. Maybe I should look to move somewhere quiet like this place. Somewhere in the Colorado Rockies maybe.   Almost time to leave the place. I feel re-energized. I was getting used to live without technology but I miss my tv shows, movies, online gaming, the social media, etc. I am considering to move in such a place when I retire. Maybe with a dog.   The valet is here. I am packing my stuff and about to leave. As I am talking to him, he asked me if I had any usual encounter at night. Maybe a big knock on the door at precisely 11:11PM. I said yes.

‘’That was the so-called ghost of Walter. People say that cabin used to belong to him. For some reason, he committed suicide apparently at 11:11 PM,’’ said the valet.    “Oh my God! Are you saying my life was in danger during my stay here?’’    ‘’No. I would not think so. You are not the only person who has stayed here.’’    ‘’You should mention this in your brochure.’’    “It is there, in fine prints…’’    As I drive away with the valet, I see a face through the window of the cabin. Well now…for sure I am not returning here again. It will have to be another location next time.


Have you ever gazed up towards the skies in the dead of night? It won't work in cities, and it seems only a few are able to see it at all; I've only managed to see it maybe once or twice of what must be hundreds of times I've tried by now. Nothing fancy really, in fact if you weren't paying close attention, you might even mistake it for a bright star or one of the hundreds of satellites that now orbit our Earth. But, if you pay close attention, and you're extremely lucky, you just might see it - a small red light, no bigger than a thumb when pressed against the sky. I know what you're thinking - I'm just uneducated, and the light I saw is indeed the reflection from one of our satellites, or a distant star shining brighter than normal. For a long time, I thought the same - I didn't even give it a second thought the first time I saw it. I must have been around fourteen years old when it happened. I was away at a small summer camp for my church youth group. We had all played capture the flag during the day, so the campers were worn out, and decided, perhaps unwillingly, to call it a night earlier than usual. For me, this was a perfect opportunity to run off into the woods and do something naughty with one of the girls I had known. If you've ever been to a church camp, you understand this isn't at all unusual - with the vows of semi-voluntary chastity waging a never-ending war against one's newly blossoming desires, escapades like mine were almost certain to take place at some point during those trips. Older kids even used to make an effort of staying up to point and giggle when witnessing red-faced freshmen duos reappearing, awkwardly separated, from the thick woods that bordered the campsite. This time was no different - Susannah and I had been getting closer and closer to one another over the course of the two days we had been there so far. Susannah was the daughter of one of the youth pastors at that church, which meant of course that she was far more adventurous than her peers. Shared lunch tables turned to hand holding and hand holding turned to… well that's not really the point of the story. Anyways, that night after some of the campers had gone to sleep, Susannah and I snuck out per our plans and headed to a spot we had both discussed as the meetup spot during the day. I brought along one of my longer jackets - taking a full sleeping bag would have been way too obvious, and she was just supposed to bring her wide-eyed excitement. As I hurried through the forest, careful not to make too much of a ruckus on my way, I was greeted by an unusually dark night. A light fog had formed as was usually the case, but the skies that managed to pierce through the canopy above seemed clear and yet starless altogether. When I had finally stumbled to the meeting spot, I was expectedly alone. Being the good gentleboy I was, I had decided to leave earlier than we had planned so Susannah wouldn't have had to be kept waiting, and to further decrease the suspicion of the counselors. I set up the long-jacket picnic blanket and assumed my most striking fourteen year-old pose I could muster as I lay down and observed the sky above while I waited. The sky was still just as odd as it had appeared during my romp through the woods - cloudless and unusually dark for this time of year, and this area out in the country; but, there was one star that shone brightly amidst the rest. The star was somewhat larger than the small white dots that generally speckled the area, and its red hue seemed to cast a perfectly devious atmosphere over the equally devious scene about to unfold. I took turns between staring at the sky, thinking anxiously about the activities I was about to engage in, and gawking at my watch. When our original meeting time had finally arrived, I felt my body tense up and my hands begin to clam. Not now, dammit… I changed positions a few times, fixed my hair, and perched myself perfectly awkwardly against the now-slightly-damp jacket. But, as I waited, Susannah never came. After a few minutes, I checked my watch, and sure enough it had been ten minutes past when we said we would meet. My hormones wouldn't be so easily quelled though, and I gave Susannah the benefit of the doubt as I continued to wait. Eventually half an hour had passed, and I hadn't so much as naughtily held hands - much less enacted the plans I had fantasized about. Once an hour had passed, even my hormones couldn't fight my growing annoyance and the onset of drowsiness that had finally caught up with me. I stood up atop the wet jacket, and threw it over one shoulder as I made the hike back towards the cabin. At this point, I could care less if a counselor saw me - it wasn't like I had really done anything anyways. I trudged back towards the cabin, into the boys' room, and plopped into bed all without hassle. Another uncomfortable night with my biology painfully reminding me of my adventurous failures. \ The next morning, I woke up with the previous night's events weighing heavily on my mind. I planned to confront Susannah, but I thought it more than likely that she had simply been overcome by the demons of exhaustion that plague us all. The boys showered, dressed, and made our way over to the mess hall for breakfast as per usual. When we arrived, we saw some of the girls crowding around Mr. Knightly, one of the senior camp counselors, by the worship stage. We figured they were just discussing girl drama, and didn't really give it a second thought. I grabbed a plate and lined it with all the usual assortments of camp breakfast food - eggs, mini sausages, pancakes, and all with a healthy helping of syrup drizzled on top. It wasn't until I went to sit down that I noticed something was off. I meant to sit with Susannah at breakfast and talk to her then, but she seemed nowhere to be found. I looked for her clique, and that's when I noticed they were the girls talking to Mr. Knightly. I set my food on a nearby table, grabbed a sausage to snack on for good measure, and headed towards the group to see if I could overhear what they were talking about. Sure enough, the girls were asking somewhat frantically about Susannah's whereabouts. They saw me approach and, knowing of our obvious involvement together, asked me to confirm her disappearance. My face must have flushed with blood, but sparing the counselor some of the more vivid details, I could at least let him know that I hadn't seen her since the day before either. Mr. Knightly seemed distressed by all this news and let us know that he'd immediately make an announcement, and that we'd go on a search of the grounds to find Susannah as soon as the kids had had their breakfasts. Once the time had come, we ventured off into the woods, separating into small groups - each comprising a counselor, a walkie-talkie, and about seven neurotic high schoolers. I had the dreadfully ironic misfortune of being in the group that would end up visiting my forest hideaway. I was delighted when we reached the spot, and there were no bedraggled corpses that the worst of imagination had conjured up. That being said, guilt at my likelier and likelier responsibility for Susannah's disappearance had definitely begun to creep up on me. God was punishing us, the avidly religious forefront of my mind kept repeating. When we had cleared our section of the woods, we communicated with the other teams, and eventually backtracked our way to the cabin. That night was somber, we ate in near-silence and even those of us who hardly knew Susannah had faces painted with dejection. Susannah's family had driven in from the city and were exchanging heated words with Mr. Knightly and the rest of the counselors. After dinner was over, we were given another announcement from Mr. Knightly about how our parents would be collecting us the next day instead of at the end of the week as previously planned, and how the county sheriff's office would be coming in after we left to do a thorough investigation of the area. He reminded us to remain calm, and assured us we'd see Susannah at church that coming Sunday. We never did. \ What made matters worse was the fact that no body or evidence was ever found relating to her disappearance. Initially, there were some torn fabrics that were brought to the family's attention, but her mother immediately knew she had never bought anything like the floral material they had found. It was as though Susannah had vanished - she had been there the day before… and then she simply wasn't. The lack of news devastated her family - her mother, perhaps most of all. During the first Christmas after Susannah's disappearance, her mother had begun announcing delusions of a rapturous nature regarding her daughter. It wasn't a tragedy, but a miracle that she had gone missing - she claimed to have visions in the night of her daughter standing with Jesus, telling her everything was alright. The rest of her family must have known, but I guess they decided to go along with her superstitions; after all, they couldn't disprove her mother's claims, and it would have been heartless to unknowingly insist upon her cruel fate as an alternative. The years treated me poorly as well. The guilt of having potentially led Susannah to her demise was birthed in my consciousness, and then slowly found its way deep into the annals of repression and denial over time. High school came and went, in college I had my fair share of rebellious behavior, but I avoided anything having to do with Susannah - including my hometown - for years. That is, until I saw the light again. \ I was nineteen the second time I saw it. That time was different; that time, I couldn't mistake it for a star. My freshman year of college was full of surprises. I never gained fifteen pounds and I felt surprisingly adequate in most of my classes, which in its own way was surprising to some around me. Though, perhaps the greatest source of surprise for me was in learning about myself. My life wasn't exactly modest, and I wasn't prudish by any means; but, as many of us raised in strict, Biblical families can attest to, there's a certain indelible mischief that awakens on the precipice of one’s eighteenth birthday. Some never know this desire; some learn of it early on, and cooperate with it to satisfy their needs; these days, most of us meet this inner fiend in our dorm rooms, as though it greets us within our first inhalation of college air. What's that taste? Freedom. I went into college somewhat reserved. I had a plan, and unlike the strugglers around me, I was capable of executing it. Every day for me started at 7:00 AM; my first classes, an hour later. Some may have thought it taxing, but at the time, I found it exhilarating. I had always had a fascination with efficiency and the capabilities of man, were he to live up to his potential. I didn't take the free-ride classes either - my freshman schedule was booked with advanced calculus, chemistry, biology, and physics all at once. Up until this point, I had been subject to the rules and guidelines which governed which courses I could and couldn't take concurrently. I wanted to push myself beyond those rules and guidelines - to succeed in a way not previously possible, and to indulge in the fruits of that success. Surprisingly, I managed to make it through, getting commendable marks in each of my classes, whilst also feeling a tremendous burden that I might not have been ready to admit to. I believe it was this burden that pushed me into drugs and alcohol my second semester - two vices I had had almost no experience with. My maternal uncle and grandfather had both died, lips on the bottle, and my mother was a vehement prohibitionist as a result. Alcohol to our family was like pork to a Hassidic Jew, drugs were despised even more. Perhaps this abstinence was what drove me to indulge these demons, perhaps it was meant to be. It wasn't too difficult to find a source, though I thought it definitely would be. As soon as I began looking, it seemed many of the relatively small group of church friends that had attended university with me had begun seeking the same nefarious affairs, and even earlier than myself. It only took discussing my desires with two of my friends, John and Abraham, before I was offered the chance at turning my fantasies into reality. According to Abraham, there was to be a party - one in which all affects one could hope for would be present: booze, drugs, girls, what not to love? I agreed, nervously, but quickly just the same. My mind had been made up, there were no more decisions for me to rifle through. The night of the party came more quickly than I had expected, my anxiousness to experience an entirely new reality seemed to cast a haze over the rest of my activities in the preceding days. I donned my grungiest jeans, and made an effort to tousle up my fresh crew-cut in an attempt to look less like the bible-beating nerd I was doomed to appear as. I caught a ride with Abraham, who intended not to drink, as a girl he really liked, and planned to make an impression on, was certain to be there that night. When I breached the doors, I was greeted by a sight unlike any I had witnessed before. It reminded me of those presentations they give to teenagers to try and scare them away from the very situation I had volunteered myself into. The smell of skunk and sweat permeated the air, and haughtily dressed boys and girls thrust their hips and chests against one another in a surreal dance that filled the room. Lights flashed in every color, and the music, though loud, seemed to gently blend into the trance of the entire occasion. There was a table at the end of the entrance hall adorned with every spirit and concoction my young mind could have fathomed - vodka, whiskey, tequila, beverages I had only seen on TV or in health classes. Abraham had quickly abandoned me in search of his temptation. I looked around aimlessly and met the eyes of one of the girls who had owned the venue we were debauching; she seemed kind, though certainly inebriated, and noticing my confusion, politely offered me to have whatever I'd like. I reached for a cup, filled it halfway with Vodka, and began to sip. Certainly, nobody was drinking this for its flavor. I began to swim awkwardly through the crowd, making a vulgar attempt to dance as I walked, looking for some girl to indulge me in the real reasons I had attended this gathering. I was offered a hit of something that smelled so pungent, it watered the eyes without needing to smoke it. I accepted; this was after all what I had wanted. The smoking circle I had managed to invade passed around the little pale idol as we all gave worship to it with our lips and with our lungs. One of the girls liked a joke I made and we got around to talking one-on-one by the end of the rotation. She was cute, only slightly shorter than me, and seemed to be almost as new to this experience as I was. Her hair was a bright blonde, and she wore a tight red tube top you could tell she felt uncomfortable in. Eventually the raucousness of the night, or my charm, or some combination of both had managed to convince her to find a secluded place where we could "hear each other better." We investigated the house for empty bedrooms, but found them all locked or occupied, so I faintly suggested we might head to some of the woods that bordered the house's rear edge. We talked and giggled awkwardly as we snuck our way out beyond the fence. I could tell she was just as nervous as I, and I tried to joke more to lighten the mood. As we approached the line where the trees began, she seemed to tense up - I assured her everything was fine. As I talked, I faced the house, and as I glanced towards one of the windows on the second floor, I saw a light coming from within. It wasn't a glare, it wasn't a reflection, and it wasn't one of the many colored lights that dotted the house. This light was different, it was brighter, and it was unobscured by any of the other colors that flashed and blended throughout the scene. I stared at it for at least ten seconds just to make sure it was truly there. I blinked and it remained, though when I looked back at the girl, it disappeared behind her. My stomach turned immediately, and I was instantly reminded of Susannah all those years prior. Not wanting to upset the girl that I was with though, I brushed it off. She reluctantly agreed to follow me deeper into the woods. There was a clearing we reached after a brief walk. The stars shone through, and the red star was nowhere among them. I felt vindicated in my decision to bring this girl along after all. I stared back at her, and a smile had been painted on her face. My arms subtly wrapped around her waist, and instinctually, we both leaned in to kiss one another. It was passionate, fiery, but it was short. She said she needed to use the bathroom, and I agreed to wait while she found a nearby spot in the woods. Finally, after so many years, I would seal the colloquial deal. I waited. But she didn't return. After not too long, my giddiness got the best of me, and I decided to search after her in the direction she had vanished. Nothing. I called out for her, realizing I hadn't asked for her name in the most unpleasant of ways. "Where'd you go? … Hey!" I shouted, but there was no response. There hadn't been a scream, there hadn't been a scuffle, there had only been silence. She walked out into the woods, and she never returned. A better man than I would have ran back to the party and asked for her friends, but I knew how that would have looked. The stranger arrives to the party, takes some girl to the woods, and the girl doesn't return. Plus, I figured there was still a chance something anomalous might have happened to her. She could have tripped and fallen, or passed out from the cocktail in her system, any number of random events could have taken her, and I most certainly was not going to involve myself in a situation that could so deeply damn my reputation. I found Abraham, who looked distraught - he had been unable to find the girl he had been looking for. I assured him it was just the party that likely scared her, and it had nothing to do with him. We drove home, and discussed the blues of relationships drunkenly along the way. I don't know how I did it, but the soul-crushing fear that had begun to well up within me didn't manage to appear in my demeanor. That night, I was restless. Dark memories tucked deeply away to be forgotten had surfaced. Things I had convinced myself were nothing more than childhood fancy, once more paced into my threshold of unmistakable reality. The star had not been a coincidence, and only a fool could dismiss such a clear modus operandi. Twice, I had seen the star; twice, I had found myself without a lover. My head raced; my heart raced. I stared blankly through my ceiling. After about a week passed and my inward self matched my outward appearance once more, I decided I needed to investigate the anomaly which now certainly plagued my mind, once and for all. I wasted no time questioning where my search would have to begin; that answer was clear to me - home. \ I decided to skip out on a week of classes. That's all it would take, I assured myself. When Friday came, I loaded the back of my 2005 Impact Orange Wrangler with a week's worth of clothes, some beef jerky, and some generalized camping supplies in case I'd need to stay out overnight near the old campsite. The drive was slow and steady, and my mind raced all the while. Feelings I hadn't had to confront since starting high school quickly boiled their way to the surface of my conscience. My phone died pretty soon after I started driving, so I relied on the staticky radio stations that came in and out of range periodically. I watched closely for the road signs as this would also be one of the first times driving home from out-of-town on my own. Eventually I saw the exit sign loom against the tan, dry, dying grass backdrop. Bear Creek, the campsite I'd unknowingly tried to forget, was now feeling closer and closer to me with every shallow breath I took. The woods looked different now, these four and a half years later. They seemed smaller, less inviting, and stripped of the adventure they had once held for me. Many of the small streams and offshoots of Bear Creek had since dried up; the camp itself had closed shortly after Susannah's disappearance. You could feel a certain melancholy in the air there, as if the sum total of emotions and nervousness that had been present that day had left some sort of stain on the air itself. Rain began to softly poor, and the horizon therefore greyed, as I veered into the small parking lot next to the trailhead that led into camp. A small, wooden, "Welcome to Bear Creek" had been overwritten by, "KID KILLERS" in bold red spray paint. The place had seen better days. I strapped on my camping pack, donned a navy blue rain jacket, and ventured off down the trail to meet whatever fate had in store for me. There was something odd about the whole occasion, however. I couldn't have possibly known what would lie in store for me, but for whatever reason, I knew I would find something. It was simply impossible to me that my heart could have been so misguidedly pulled towards this ethereal site. The surrounding atmosphere only confirmed this ominous sensation. Sure enough, I did find something - though now I wish I would have let the star be, undisturbed - a force of nature to be reckoned, not reasoned with. I made my way first to the cabin which had become boarded and vandalized with every curse word imaginable. The soft, homely appeal of the building had been replaced with a visage that warned others to keep away if they valued their lives. It wasn't difficult to break into the building - I climbed through one of the broken windows that led into the boy's sleeping room. The room was damp and musty, black mold dotted the ceiling, and small twigs and leaves had found their way into the cabin. I searched the rest of the building, which didn't take me long - I didn't know what I was looking to find, but the whole ordeal felt therapeutic in a sense. A part of me had never come back out of lack of reason to do so; a part of me had been too scared. After I had searched the cabin, I mustered the courage to search where I knew I needed to go - to the place where I least wanted to look - to the clearing beneath the stars. The rain picked up as I started down that old familiar path through the woods. I could feel the thunder as it shook me from within. The ground had become wet and soggy, and my shoes sank in places where it wasn't covered in dead brush. I imagined Susannah walking through these same woods all those years ago, frightened in the way only the mind can frighten when presented with a playground as fascinating as the woods at night. I imagined her treading through the forest, and finally reaching the clearing - maybe she had woken later in the night after all; maybe she had reached this place, only to find me missing. I shuddered at the thought. I brushed aside the last bit of branches blocking my view. There it was, still and silent, pattered on the edges with the occasional splash of rain that trickled down from the canopy above. I walked out to the center of the clearing, it was almost completely dark by now. I looked up, and there were no stars to behold, only sullen grey clouds and the water they poured over me. Thunder rumbled once more, and seemed to be getting closer to where I stood. I considered my position amongst the trees, but decided to stay, if only for a few minutes longer. I looked up to peer at my position in the rain once more, but this time, the bright red hue shewed even through the thick clouds above. "What're you doing here?" I heard a familiar shout from the edge of the clearing. I squinted my eyes, It was Abraham. "You hear me, Zach? I asked what you were doing here." I was startled. Caught off guard, my hands shook as I looked at him, trying to come up with an answer. "I uh- needed to get away. Homecoming, you know?" "This isn't home," his shouting continued as he began to pace along the outer perimeter. "This is where Susannah disappeared from. Remember?" His question seemed to mock me, and he must have seen the startled reaction that reflexively painted my face. The red star seemed to grow brighter. "I remember fine. What are you doing here, then?" "I know, Zach. I know about Hannah - did you know that was her name?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, sure you do! Remember that party, Zach? I didn't see Hannah that night, but her friends said she had come with them. They didn't know where she had gone though! They told me some stranger had taken her into the woods. They lost the two of them after that. Hannah never came back though. Sound familiar, Zach-o?" My shaking intensified. The light had grown much brighter by now; the entire clearing was illuminated with the dark crimson glow of that terrible star. "You don't understand!" I started, trying with whatever I could to explain the situation to Abraham. "There's a red star that-" "I understand perfectly! And it's starting to make even more sense now! You were interested in Susannah that year too weren't you? I saw you get up that night, I saw you leave the boy's room. I didn't think anything then, but I know now. "Tell me, Zach, is there some sick urge in your head? Is there anything that helps you pick your victims, or is it all just random chance?" "Shut up!" I gazed at that vicious star that had now consumed almost everything it had touched. "Why'd you pick Hannah?! You couldn't have known, Zach! How did you know she was the girl I had fallen for?! How did you get her to trust you so quickly?! Just some predator instinct you have?" "I said, shut up!" "That's what you did, right? You shut them up - Hannah and Susannah - you shut them up well! Where'd you hide the bodies, huh?! … Oh God…" "SHUT UP!" "It's here, isn't it… They're here… that's why you came!" "SHUT UP!" The star flashed. Brighter than I'd ever seen. It overtook my vision completely, and replaced it with bloody, red light. Purer in color, and brighter than even the deepest depths of my imagination could have conjured. It flashed. And, when it had finished flashing, Abraham too was gone. I don't know where the star takes them, or what it wants with me. I never got the answers I was looking for. But, I don't think I'll search for them again. If you ever see the red star, especially if you see it where it doesn't make sense - in your room, in the backseat of your car - if you see that star, don't think, don't plan; run, just run.


Someday I want to be able to walk the earth, just like the greatest minds through history have. Think about it, Albert Einstein, Julius Caesar, Isaac Newton and in the future, me, Mike the fish. It will happen, i am fully convinced it will. I just need to find out how to get up there. Some people might wonder why, but the answer is very simple... Fish, are not particulary smart. I have yet to meet a fish whom I can have an intellegent discussion with. It seems that noone possess a deeper mind, a more profound way of thinking. I have searched every corner of the Atlantic ocean for answers. I have talked to every kind of creature that exists in this otherwise marvelous place, only to be met with more questions. All they seem to care about is food and procreation, what about the big questions. What about the purpose of evolution. What about the fearful afterlife. To fish or not to fish? To me it is obvious that I need to find a way to get up there, with the land-fauna, or at least that is what I call them. Although, I'm sure they have a more sophisticated name for themselves. If you wonder how I know that they are smarter than fish, it is because I have seen it. I have seen their faces, their tall and not very fine prospected faces. Most of them have have big goggles surrounding their small marble eyes. Some have this big plastic gadget in their mouth that produces bubbles every once in a while. I'm certain that the goggles and the bubble-gizmo is of external constructions and not a natural part of their body, however I do not know what their purpose is. At first, I believed that the mouth-device was used for them to breathe under water. To my surprise, I some time later found out that they can indeed breathe in this, to them, foreign realm. I know because I have met a land-fauna who did not have a mouth-gizmo. It was somewhere in the southwest Atlantic, not too far from the shore. I was of course thrilled to see him, however as it seemed, unresponded. He was rather rude to me to be honest. I introduced myself but he did not respond. He just stared at me with his seemingly fearful eyes. His pale white face appeared to be apathetic to my presence. He was not moving a single limb, he was not responding to anything I did. He did not put an effort to communicate. Not even a single bubble. There was not much I could do, so I left. I suppose land-faunas can be as dumb as fish. I have a plan on how to reach the other realm. The only problem is that it is slightly, just slightly based on luck. The plan itself is rather simple, it does not require much of me. The plan is as follows: 1. Find the right land-fauna. 2. Get the land-fauna to pick me up. 3. Use land-faunas ship to travel to shore. 4. Find answers. See it is very simple. I have seen land-faunas use these lines with a shiny metal figure on the end of it. I reckon it is to give us fish opportunity to get to the upper realm. I need to search long enough and not give up. Tenacity is the key to success, is what my father used to say, he was great fish. Right there! My fate has finally crossed the path of the right land-fauna. He is the one. His line is right over there. I swim ferociously to it, I will not miss this opportunity. I examine the metal figure thoroughly. It is quite sharp and the only way to grip it is with my mouth. The metal figure pierce through my jaw. The excruciating pain that ensues is beyond comprehension, however not in vain. The line is rising, it is working. We are going towards the surface. I try to ignore the pain as much as possible, I drown the taste of blood with the soothing thought of lifelong fulfillment. Slowly but surely we reach above the surface. There he is, the land-fauna in his rightful realm. Majestic. My head is dizzy and it is getting darker. It must be from the pain and the loss of blood. I just hope he hurries to get aid. I will be greater than Mozart, Julius Caesar and Albert Einstein combined. I am Mike the fish, is the last thought before everything disappears.


This story was inspired by the Advenged Sevenfold some by the same name. I hope you enjoy it! \*\*\* She was brought forward, struggling, her hands bound behind her back. The guards threw her to the ground. She landed heavily on her shoulder, whimpering from the pain. Silence fell over the throne room. She lifted her head to meet the gaze of the one that sat over her. He wore no crown, his clothes were simple, but he had a presence. It weighed heavily on her. His hand lifted, flicking a few fingers and the guards gripped her arms and lifted her back into a kneeling position. “She’s bleeding.” The king murmured. “Yes, my king.” The guard to her left dropped quickly to one knee. “She fought us off when we tried to bring her from her cell. One of-” There was only a slight whisper of fabric, but the guard fell silent. She jerked herself to the side, pulling her arm from his hold. He reached out to take her arm again, scowling at her darkly under his helmet. “Enough. Leave her.” The king muttered. “Leave.” “S-Sir?” The king stood in one smooth motion, staring down at them. “I will not repeat myself.” The doors closed and she rose shakily to her feet. The king had not moved from where he stood. She sneered at him. In return he gave her an amused look. “I’m surprised you feel safe enough to be left alone with me.” She spat. “I am not afraid of you. You’re only a woman.” He descended the stairs and took her chin in his hand. “A weak and half-beaten woman. You won’t harm me.” She pulled her chin from his hold with a glare. “I will kill you. You’re corrupt and cruel.” He chuckled, the sound prickling at her anger. “Turn around.” Her heart began pounding in her chest. Her fingers curled into fists. She turned, waiting for the pain she was sure was coming. She could feel the king’s hands on her arms, near her bonds. Then they came loose and her arms were free. Skipping away, she turned to face him. He stood with a dagger in his hand. Casually, he slipped it back into his belt and lowered himself back into his throne. His eyes never left her as she crept across the room, trying the handle of the door. It was locked. “What do you want from me?” She asked. “I want you to kneel.” The king smiled, laying his hands on the arm rests. “I will never kneel to you!” “That’s a shame.” His eyes trailed up and down her body. “It would be disappointing to see such a beautiful woman die.” The king lifted his hand. From his fingers swung a gold chain, a locket hanging from it. Her hand pressed to her neck, pained to see something so precious in his hands. “If you kneel, I’ll return this to you.” “Never.” “Such a shame.” The king waved his hand. “I’ll be sure to give your body a proper funeral after you pass. Wouldn’t want that beauty of yours rotting away too quickly.” She snarled, throwing herself forward at him. And his smile was the last thing she saw.


The Sweater That Didn’t Happen            Audrey, 18, at an all-girls school, had her mind on boys all the darn time, Audrey determined she’d have to find something to fill her nights besides fantasies about imaginary boys. Bev knew how to knit, said it was easy and she’d teach Audrey. Knitting wasn’t easy for Audrey. Her fingers froze on the needles. She couldn’t concentrate. Knitting wasn’t fun. It was a chore. The little potholder Bev started her with looked like someone with a bad cold had used it for a hanky.            Audrey had fallen for Pete last month, December. He’d, along with about 100 other guys, had come to the all-girls junior college to meet girls. There was a tea and cookies party in the ninety-year-old gym for the purpose of boys meeting girls and girls meeting boys. The goal for the girls was to be invited to Dartmouth by a boy for what was called Winter Carnival Weekend. What the boys’ goals were, no one at the all-girls school knew.            Audrey met Pete at the party which was more like an awkward meeting in an orthodontist’s waiting room. She, as the sayings go, caught his eye across the crowded room. Not only was the room crowded it smelled like sweat. The boys wore crewneck sweaters with starched blue or yellow Oxford cloth shirts and khakis. The girls wore woolen slacks and pink or lime green cashmere or lambswool sweaters. Woolen coats hung on hooks throughout the area. Old pipes hissed. The combination of wool and the bodily bouquet of late teen and early 20s humans made for a distinct odor of players just coming off a hotly contested tennis match in an indoor tennis court in January.            He nodded. She nodded back. And then they strolled toward one another. The word of the time to describe what a girl of that era called a boy she was attracted to was cute. Since Audrey was five feet and nine inches tall, it was, to her, unthinkable that she’d ever, ever, what she called be seen with, a date who was not at least six feet tall. That criterion was indisputable. During the seven second walk to meet him, Audrey practiced what she’d say. It came out of her mouth okay, she thought.            “Hi. I was thinking you look like my cousin Ernie. He goes to Princeton.”            “Hi, I’m Pete, Dartmouth. We all are Dartmouth here. Care to get out of here, walk around. Hot in here. Freezing out there, but right now freezing is better than hot.”            “Sure,” Audrey said. “Sure thing.”            This meeting was love for Audrey. They wrote. He called. They said they’d meet over Christmas vacation. He lived in Connecticut. She lived in New Jersey. He said he’d drive to New Jersey, meet her parents and they’d “take in dinner and a show in the city.” She said that would be “neat.” Her mother said she’d make up the guest room for Pete. When he left the next day, she told him she would knit him a sweater. He said that would be “outstanding.”            Now she sat in the dorm’s lounge with Bev and what seemed like miles of yarn. Bev said a sweater was easy, but she’d said that about the potholder. Audrey said she didn’t believe it but would “give it another shot.”            Winter Carnival was in February and it was now mid-January. Pete called every other night since they’d been back at their schools. They talked about their courses, about what Pete called “the stupid war in Korea” and about the plays they wanted to see on spring break. Surely, she thought, he’d soon be asking me for Winter Carnival.            The teal-blue crewneck sweater was taking shape. With Bev’s help, she finished the front. It looked to be too big. Bev said she had a shaper, and they’d use it to fit the sweater when it was done. Audrey worked on the sweater’s neck for a week, and still couldn’t get it right. The hole was too small for even an infant’s head. Bev fixed that.            Valentine’s Day came with a card from her father and her brother. Nothing from Pete. The next weekend was Winter Carnival and not a word about it from Pete. Some of the girls in her dorm had been invited and asked Audrey about Pete. Audrey shrugged and said she didn’t know, but maybe Pete had invited someone else, that he hadn’t called in a week.            She still hadn’t finished the front of the sweater and there were the sleeves which, she thought, were going to be too, too much. And why hadn’t he called in four days and why hadn’t he invited her to Carnival? And what about the plays they were going to on spring break? He’d never given her his phone number. It occurred to her now that maybe there was a reason. She could call Dartmouth and ask how to reach him, but she doubted they’d give out a student’s number. She knew he lived in a fraternity house but couldn’t remember the name of the fraternity. Those places were all Greek to Audrey.            Then it was Winter Carnival weekend. Five girls on her floor had been invited and were all atwitter about their clothes and what Audrey called trifles – hairdos, jewelry, what soaps to bring, those sorts of things were what they talked about, on and on.            For the first time in her life she felt dumped. There had been Bobby in second grade, but she hadn’t been dumped by him because he didn’t know she was all pitter patter about him. This was the real thing – she was being dumped by Pete at Dartmouth who hadn’t even the courtesy to call and tell her he’d invited someone else or that he was no longer interested or maybe sometime they could be friends. She’d said the being friends line to boys in high school.            She called her parents and told them she’d been dumped and it hurt and she had this sweater about half done. Her father said he’d be proud to have it. She said she’d worked so hard on the bleeping sweater only to be dumped by the guy who’d never wear it. After all the hours she’d spent. After the terrible time with the collar, she almost gave up. Her mother said she didn’t think Pete was her type.            Bev said it had happened to her twice in the last four years, being dumped. This had not made Audrey feel better.            What did make her feel better and what she did was take the sweater parts, roll them up into tight balls. She put the tight balls into a paper bag, went out into the frigid air and buried the bag in the snow in the back of her dorm.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Standing on the rickety front porch of Reiner Hall, I could already see the top of the blaze from across the road, and down the open field in the center of campus. The annual Fall Fire Fest at Linfeld School was a tradition no one knew the true origin of. I like to imagine it was a wholesome gathering of students who enjoyed kicking off the season by coming together to enjoy a big bonfire together and catch up on each other’s summer happenings. If I close my eyes I can almost see the young men dressed in their slacks, high-end polos and fresh sweaters slung casually across their shoulders as they ambled in their brown leather loafers nearer to the fire’s warmth. Many of them are walking hand-in-hand with their steady girlfriends whose beauty is amplified by the warm orange glow of the massive bonfire. Instead, I open my eyes and see boys in dirty ripped jeans, fitted V-neck shirts, and over-priced sneakers carrying red solo cups filled with who knows what.

It’s only just 7:30, but it’s already dark out. The street lamps along the busy main road and the giant blaze are the only sources of light, but the night is mild enough not to need a jacket. As I made my way to the street crossing, pressing the button to set off the blinking pedestrian crossing lights along the perimeter of the large yellow signs above, I adjusted my bag on my already sore right shoulder. With my laptop and British Literature anthologies in tow, that shoulder must be bearing a good 15 pounds of academia on it. Walking along the main path from the dorm halls across the road from campus, I start to smell the burning leaves. The smell is absolutely intoxicating and immediately transports me to childhood. The leaves poetically fall beside me from the trees lining the path almost as if purposely abetting my nostalgic reverie — creating and then jumping into piles of leaves, fresh notebooks, new shoes, and a new year of teachers and books to read. A time of simple pleasures. A time of innocence and hope unencumbered by pain. A time before time meant anything other than when to eat and sleep.

The approaching library doors ended my depressing musings for the moment. I quickly scanned the first floor — not a single person was in the library other than the girl behind the desk. I could sit anywhere, but I know I’d just sit in my usual spot. Walking up the stairs to the third floor, I made my way to the table closest to the furthest window and started unpacking the contents of my bag. My laptop quickly awoke and my assignment was already up on the screen awaiting my return. Finding the correct place in my notes, I reread the section circled in red pen and heavily underlined in thick black pen strokes: “don’t restrain your voice.” Those were the exact words my advisor used. Her advice wasn’t totally wrong — I was restrained, but it wasn’t a voice issue. Restraining your voice insinuates that you know what you want say, but purposely aren’t saying it. But my problem is really a perspective issue, in that I have none. Just as I was about to awake my now sleeping computer, I noticed someone at the very last cubicle seat at the opposite end of the room. He seemed to be frantically rifling through his worn backpack in the hopes of uncovering whatever item it is that he needed, but to no avail. His thick rimmed glasses were slightly askew and his dark wavy hair was flatteringly tousled, adding to the overall frenetic effect. Returning to my laptop, I opened up a new tab in the browser and began typing. Before I could finish though, the guy across the room somehow silently transported himself right next to my table, startling me. I must’ve shown my surprise because he looked at me contritely when he spoke. “Hi, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just over there looking for my notebook when I remembered I was sitting over here earlier today, so I thought I’d come over to look for it here.” Pausing to catch his breath briefly he hurriedly continued, “No one is ever in the library on a Friday night especially on Fall Fest night, so I didn’t notice you over here until I was right up on you.” He blushed at his blundered use of the common college colloquialism. He started to mutter something to clarify what he meant, but I spoke before he could further embarrass us both.

“I haven’t seen a notebook, but I only just got here. Feel free to take a look,” I said uninterestedly as I returned to my laptop.

He must’ve noticed my massive anthologies next to me on the table because he said, “I’m guessing that isn’t casual Friday night reading,” as he nodded his head toward the books and smirked at his own humor. He was so close I could see his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiled. It gave him the effect of age even though he clearly wasn’t older than nineteen and looked barely over sixteen.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wasn’t in the mood for any talk, really. Isn’t that the point of being in the library on a Friday night? It’s very clearly a loner move. I didn’t want to be unfriendly, I just wanted to be left alone. “No, but I have read most of them for pleasure already,” I said with a quick glance in his direction, and then just as quickly returning to my computer screen. “Oh yeah? I guess I have too,” he said with a casual shrug, his frayed backpack strap slipping off his right shoulder.

He removed the remaining tattered strap from his shoulder and placed the backpack on the chair across from me. He bent down to look beneath the table, presumably for his lost notebook.

“I don’t know where it could’ve gone. I know I had it with me earlier. I remember writing in it over here,” he said distractedly as he pointed to the tabletop to the left of where he was standing. I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how to. Was he looking for something comforting like, ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up’ or ‘I always lose things too” or was he just musing out loud without expecting a response?

Realizing he was just standing there distractedly for an awkward beat, he forced himself to snap out of his inner replay of his day. “Well, no luck here,” he shrugged. “But listen, thanks for letting me invade your space to look for it. I’ll leave you and old Ollie to it.” I looked at him puzzlingly. I was beginning to be concerned about his sanity — does he see another person sitting at the table with me and named him Ollie?

Seeing that I didn’t have a clue what he was getting at, he chuckled and said, “Sorry, I call my British Literature anthology old Ollie, sometimes old chap. It’s something my father used to do.”

His eyes crinkled again warmly as he smiled at the memory. I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t help but smile back. I guess I’m a sucker for a guy who has a nice relationship with his father seeing as that’s a completely foreign concept to me.

“Anyway,” he continued not at all awkwardly, “I’m sorry again for interrupting. Maybe I can make it up to you with a cup of coffee?” He said as he looked at me expectantly.

I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, which was, ‘Why in the hell would I go get coffee with someone whose name I don’t even know and who just stumbled upon me five minutes ago?’ But even more confusingly, what I found myself wanting to say despite what I was thinking was, ‘Sure, why not.’ I mean in all honesty I know I’m not going to get anything accomplished with this paper tonight, and if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m terribly lonely. As much of a loner I’ve become in the past few years, it’s certainly not out of enjoying being alone. It’s just how it always ends up being, so I’ve tried to accept it — embrace it even. All of this was running through my head while he was standing in front of me, which made me realize I waited way too long to respond to him now.

He didn’t seem to mind waiting. Instead, he took the opportunity to take a seat across from me, turn to my anthology and say, “As long as that’s okay by you, Ollie.” I genuinely chuckled at his joke, which put me momentarily at ease. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I smiled and said, “What makes you think the girl who’s in the library on a Friday night would be the same girl to take you up on your invitation?”

He contemplated my question for a bit. To him, it seemed there was a right and wrong way to answer — that it was a test and if he passed, I’d consent to coffee. But he was wrong, it wasn’t a test, not for him anyway.

Before he could answer, I continued, “I don’t even know your name.” His response was immediate: “Knowing my name won’t make a difference though, will it?” He was right, it wouldn’t. Knowing his name was meaningless. Knowing his name wouldn’t tell me if he was a good person, or if he was worthy of having coffee with. Knowing his name didn’t really tell me anything about him other than what his parents decided they wanted to call their small, squishy baby over nineteen years ago.

As if reading my mind, he looked directly in my dark brown eyes and said, “Not knowing something is still knowing something else. You know?” I did know. I knew exactly what he meant. Looking back into his disarmingly, precociously compassionate eyes, I reached for my anthology and fingered the thin pages along the bottom corner. I could tuck the book back into my bag, close my laptop and leave my favorite table on the third floor of the library empty, to silently keep the desolate rows of books company. I could also stay and sit contentedly knowing that not knowing something is still knowing something else.


The words on the sign didn't stick to her until after she had passed them at a clip. *NEED A LIFT ACROSS THE BRIDGE?* When she whipped her head over her shoulder, she hoped they might be etched on the back of the metal sheet just for her, shrinking as they drew further away like everything else left in the rear view mirror. It was only a few miles back that it had dawned on her how close she was to the bridge. The pit in her stomach had swelled some since then, but not enough to stir her from the trance one enters after an hour of driving through the wholly nondescript. It was because of this spell that she wondered if she had imagined the sign entirely. So, for what had to be the first time in her life, she pulled onto the shoulder with the sole intention of back-pedalling. The cars turned to rockets the way they always do when you’re still on the shoulder and after a slow roll through the celestial blur, she was able to crane her neck across the passenger seat and see, once again from the front, the bright orange sign: *NEED A LIFT ACROSS THE BRIDGE?* *DRIVE OVER SERVICE* *24/7 · 365* *EXIT RIGHT* *Since when?* She sat in her head for a second, probing the likelihood of a strange man getting in her car and never getting out. *LOCAL COMMUTER KILLED BY BURLY, BLADE-BRANDISHING, BAY BRIDGE BACKUP BOY.* She shook herself and moved her hand to switch the car back into drive. The morning glare felt especially prickly on her arm as she glanced to her left to join the other cars, shifting gears until she was one of them again. The lane lines began to blend. She thought of the bridge and its rails and the water below it and service pamphlets and liability waivers and kidnappings done in broad daylight and then the bridge and its tall beams some more until suddenly it was in front of her and suddenly she was turning the wheel. A gangly teen waved her over as she returned to the shoulder again, rolling the window down with her free hand. “Good morning ma’am, need assistance crossing the bridge today?” She eyed the boy for a beat before swiveling her head and coming to realize the flagrant sparsity of the operation at hand. No booth, no table, certainly no waivers, just four cars lining the grass and a gaggle of neon-vested youths to boot. She turned back to the twig who, in all his pubescence, had somehow managed to age considerably in the time it had taken her to assess the scene. The excitement in his smile said she might be the first of the day. “If you’re nervous or need assistance for any reason crossing the bridge today, one of our drivers can take care of that for you. We also offer general messenger and delivery services...for the delivery of your parcels, packages, and documents.” He stumbled slightly on the last line -- perhaps not enough sleep the night before. “Who paid for the sign?” The words rushed out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. A pause. “They’re not as expensive as you’d think.” He and all his eagerness swayed slightly with the passing cars. “Would you like a lift today?” “I guess that’s what it’s going to be, isn’t it?” she said quietly, glancing back at the guys in the distance, trying to figure out which one seemed least capable of harm. She settled on the shortest of the bunch, though he was a bit stockier than she. The host had settled on a different one, however, and had already called him over. He saluted his friends and half-jogged, half-trotted over, awkwardly. “So, it’s going to be $20, you can pay your driver directly. And unfortunately we don’t take card yet, I’m sorry about that.” She rolled up the window and began digging through her wallet. **···** A muskiness followed the man into the car, but not the kind that assaulted the nostrils, rather the kind that felt familiar, the kind that made her want to lean closer to catch a stronger whiff, but she didn’t dare make that move in this tight a car. “Morning,” he said softly, earnestly. She hadn’t realized its tightness until her stomach unclenched slightly at his word. He was stocky like his friend but he didn’t look to feel squished -- in fact he didn’t bother to adjust the seat when he sat down -- of course she couldn’t’ve known whether or not he was just being polite unless she’d asked or maybe even offered, but they had already started driving. She’d adjusted herself enough so that she could look at him without being obvious. He was handsome but not overly so, more brutish with broad shoulders that she thought might be softer than they looked or at least softer than the bones in his face. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled to his elbows. The blond hairs on his arm matched neither the black mop on his head nor the thick beard he wore; an oddity she’d only noticed when he’d reached for the gearswitch to put the car into drive, but now with his right hand on top of the wheel and his left resting by the door handle it was unclear if this was actually the case or if the sunlight had just caught him at a funny angle. He seemingly toed the line between rugged and delicate better than anyone she‘d known. She was not intent on talking to him, or at least she didn’t think so. She would spend the whole ride examining him discreetly, noting the idiosyncrasies; the kind everyone has when they get in a car. A friend once pointed out to her that every time she turned the ignition, in that split second when the car calibrates, when all the icons on the dashboard light up and beep, she would place both hands on the top of the steering wheel and move them each in a half circle around the wheel until they met again at the bottom. Since being made aware of this, it had become ritual for her; an unskippable moment of caress, checking to make sure every rip and ridge in the leather of the wheel was exactly as it was supposed to be. “Have you done this before?” he asked sheepishly, interrupting her line of thought. Her eyes shot forward. Not only was she not interested in conversation at this hour, but bullshit small talk? She felt sick to her stomach. He followed up, hurriedly: “My bad, I don’t wanna, like, force anything. If you’re not trying to talk that's totally cool. Honestly, I’ve just found that if neither of us say anything at the beginning, we won’t say anything at all, so I guess I wanna give you the option, you know?” He seemed sincere enough. Though she wondered if he said something to that effect to everyone that got in the car with him. In some universe, he might’ve rehearsed the bit to a tee, calculating every word, perfecting cadence. How many “likes” is too many “likes”? He could gage each passenger’s reaction to every detail until he’d come up with the perfectly candid line. Although, then how candid was it really? “I appreciate that.” She looked back at him. “I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit quietly.” “Totally.” He stared straight ahead. She leaned over, resting her head on the passenger window. Had she been too terse in her response? She wondered how many people opt to conversate and how many prefer to sit in silence. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her shoulder blade pressed against the lip of the window, rattling in rhythm with the rest of the car. She never sat in this seat of her car, the standard shake that comes with speed actually felt slightly different on this side. Maybe she’d pumped more air into the right-side tires than she had the ones on the left. The air pump at the gas station near her house gave 2 minutes of air pressure for $1.50. If the last time she’d visited, she pulled up to the left of the machine, she’d have pumped air into the right tires first, leaving her running out of air by the time she walked around to the right side. Her dad once told her that it’s important to not over-inflate because tires can explode if they’re pumped up too much. Was that true? She imagined the horror as her body continued to vibrate. Her shoulders as well as her head felt fragile, rattling against the side of the car like that. She opened her eyes and glanced over at the young man’s shoulders once more. If he were leaning against the side as she was, his body might just absorb the shake, she thought as she watched him lift his arm and move towards his face to scratch his beard. It was full and dark and faded to a lighter red around the outs of his chin. She was really staring at it now. It must be so itchy. A type of itch she’d probably never know. His hand twitched suddenly as a drop of blood fell from his nose onto his knuckle. He quickly moved to cover it, cocking his head back some. “Shit.” He took his eyes from the road, searching frantically for something to cover up. “Do you have a tissue or something by chance? I'm sorry, I-” His voice shook some. Nothing disarms quite like a nosebleed. Like losing your balance -- human beings’ ultimate short-circuit, she thought as she reached for the glove box “I actually might, one second,” she said, rifling through strewn papers and ketchup packets. Her hand brushed over her window hammer. She grabbed a couple loose napkins and handed them to him “Thanks. I don’t know why I get these randomly sometimes…” He trailed off. “I don’t know how long those napkins have been sitting in there, I hope they’re not gross.” She looked back at him. He had leaned his head back so far she was sure he couldn't see the road. The bridge was straight enough. She looked out the window. The spot from which they’d left was already too far to see. She poked her head out some more and realized the end was also not in sight — a rare stretch where suddenly everything was suspended. They were floating, maybe 100 or so feet. She hoisted herself up some, lifting her butt off the seat, reaching for the best angle at the water but couldn’t know for sure. She sat back down and opened the glove box again. She reached for the window hammer and pulled it out. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, her eyes not breaking from the silver spiked head. The boy glanced at it for a second and shook his head, redirecting his gaze to the road ahead. A pause. “Oh wait,” he said, turning back towards her, “does that, like, break your window if your car goes under water?” “I wonder how many people have this, I can’t even remember where I bought it. I thought you might have a better sense…” She looked at him. The light streaming through the side window brought out new dashes of strawberry blond in his hair. He’d left weathered behind for elegance -- if just for a fleeting moment. “When I was little, I used to have this dream -- I didn’t get it that much, maybe a few times a year. Actually that’s too often, I don’t really remember -- Anyway, I would have this dream where I was in a car on a bridge and then, like way down the road, I’d see a car break the lane and drive right off. Like have you seen *Thelma and Louise?* It would just fly over the railing just like that. It was stunning. And in the moment it would take me to collect myself, I’d realize that the car right behind it had followed it right off the edge. And then the car after it and the one after it. And every time I was in the midst of all this...” she paused. “Have you ever had a recurring nightmare?” She said, turning to him. “I don’t think so.” It was unclear if he was really listening. “Well, I always thought what was weird about them is that at a certain point, you’d think that the imagery and the way it makes you feel in your gut -- all of which is the exact same every time -- you’d think that you’d start to recognize it. Like when you’re in one of those half cooked dreams in between alarm clock snoozes and you kinda know you’re dreaming the whole time you’re in it. Anyway that’s never how it actually went. I’d gotten so familiar with this dream sequence over the years and every time it happened It was just as shocking, just as appalling as the first time. I can’t even, like, properly articulate the emotions -- or I guess “dreamed emotions” -- I was just frozen in this car. I’m sure my body would probably even seize up if anyone were watching me sleep. And I’d just be watching car after car after car project itself off this bridge and I kept getting closer to the front of the line and out the window to the right, the cars are falling out of the sky like rain and pooling up below the bridge like some sort of floating junkyard and I’m in my head like ‘Am I doing this?’ And then it’s my turn but I’d always wake up before I had to make the jump.” She stopped for a second and caught her breath. “Anyway, I stopped having the dream eventually and I think it must’ve even been so upsetting that I removed the memory of it because one day I was watching TV and I saw this footage of a car that had fallen off a bridge and I burst into tears. I literally just sat alone in my living room and cried. Like for an hour or more even, I don’t quite remember. I didn’t even know the people. And the next day I went out and bought this thing but it’s so dumb because I didn’t remember I even had it until I opened the glove box just now. I don’t even think I’d know how to use it or work it well enough to actually save myself.” She looked over at him, waiting for a response, surprised at her own air-out. “That’s fucking crazy.” **···** They’d been sitting in silence for some time. She was back against the window, lulled half to sleep by the car’s hum when he spoke again. “Where are you going?” His words stirred her plenty. A story like the one she’d given not long before would’ve surely catapulted them past formalities, past common courtesies, and yet here they were: regressed to tedium. She looked back at him, he didn’t fill out the driver’s side like he had when he first got into the car. “Work,” she said dryly, hoping her tone might wrap up the forthcoming chit-chat before it could even start. “What do you do?” She couldn’t believe this was happening. What happened to ‘do you want a quiet ride or a loud ride?’ She looked out the window again, the end of the bridge was nowhere in sight. She turned back to him, unsure if her expression read as ugly as she envisioned it in her head. His eyes were locked on the road anyway. “I’m a consultant.” “Nice. So you work for, like, other companies?” “Kind of.”“What kind of things do you consult them on?” She paused. “I basically help brands think about how to better market themselves.” He sat quietly for a second. “Did you always want to do that?” Her face reddened. “What?” She said, unsure if she even had the energy to deal with him. A child. Who drives a car back and forth across a fucking bridge. “I meant, like, ‘they’re always going through that,’ like rebranding and stuff. Like companies are always...doing stuff like that. You must be in high demand.” “Mmm, yeah, it’s alright,” she said, praying her slight outburst wasn’t so nasty but mostly embarrassed at her own embarrassment. How easily he’d pulled back the curtain! She’d taken her job right out of college and never looked back. Though she wasn’t particularly proud of what she did the way some were, she was rarely made to feel bad about it. Only if she couldn’t sleep at night would she explore the rabbit holes of dreams deferred; just enough to make the mind race but not enough to launch a depressive episode. She attempted to replay the exchange a couple of times in her head before settling, somewhat reluctantly, on a delivery of her line that was somewhere between what she actually said and a version of what she said palatable enough to relieve her of some guilt. “Do you mind if I turn the fan up a little?” she asked, having realized that in her fluster, she’d gotten quite hot. “It’s your car.” She leaned forward to move the knob up two spots and was met with a blast of cold air. A long lock of hair fell in front of her face. She moved to tuck it back behind her ear and brushed past her chin. It felt rough. She moved her hand to her cheek and stroked down to the jaw. She took her other hand and did the same on the other side. Her breathing sped up some. She grabbed a napkin from the glove box and dug into her chin but nothing came off. Not dirt. Had she suddenly broken out in some kind of shame-induced rash? Her skin didn’t feel bumpy but more fuzzy. But it wasn’t peach fuzz either, it was more prickly. She turned quickly to the window to take a look at her reflection. Her heart jumped into her throat. *Am I hallucinating?* She thought, racking her brain for an obvious explanation, suddenly unable to remember if she’d eaten or drank anything since getting in the car. “You know what I like to do sometimes when I’m making this drive?” He interrupted. She kept scrubbing, feverishly. “Sometimes I just close my eyes and imagine the cars around me driving right off. One by one.”She snapped her head back to look at him, his eyes were shut. “I think about which drivers would be hopeless. Which drivers would panic. Which ones would remain calm. Which ones would know what to do...Like that red car behind us,” his eyes were still closed, “that red car behind us has been tailing us so close all day. I bet he just goes for it.” “What are you talking about, can you please open your eyes,” she said, trying not to let the shake in her voice take control. “What will we do?” He took his right hand off the wheel and then his left and held each up by his head. “What the fuck are you doing, this isn’t funny.” The car started to veer some. “Dude, what the fuck put your hands back.” The horn from the car next to them blared. “Seriously, Stop. STOP!!!” Her heart was racing. She reached over to grab the wheel but couldn’t. “What the fuck. What the fuck...stop it, what are you doing…” The right wheels popped the curb, jolting her towards him. Through the short strands of hair pulled over her face, she could see him stamping his right foot, flooring it. “Don’t!” She pressed her feet against the glove box, closing it and pushing all her weight through it, lifting herself and punching him. Her knuckles stung against the spikes of his shoulder blade. She hit him again. “We’ll die.” They were right up against the parapet now. Blows of scraping and screeching notes ripped into her ears. A dissonant symphony accompanied by the dizzying stench of burning rubber. She looked back over at him, his eyes were still closed as the wheel in front of him kept turning. She could feel the pressure of the car against the bridge, it would burst at any moment. And like clockwork, the rail cracked. She screamed. The car flew off the bridge, hurling itself towards the water, flipping in the air and pushing the two of them up against the roof. In the side mirror she could see the red car behind them, following them right off the ledge. Then she saw nothing. **···** They spent the rest of the drive in silence. She pulled her phone out for a stretch. Eventually she looked up and saw land. Relief poured over her. She put her phone in her pocket and turned to face him, no longer caring for subtlety. She stared right at him for those final minutes. She watched every itch and every blink. She counted his breaths. He’d traded rugged for ragged. He looked thin. She could snap him in half if she wanted to. When they pulled off to the shoulder right after exiting, he turned to her and looked through her, “Appreciate the company.” She took a twenty and a five out of her wallet and handed it to him. “Fuck you.” He fumbled the money before putting it in his pocket, pulled the lever and maneuvered around the hood so as to not get hit by the oncoming cars. And there he stood, shielded, waiting for a break in traffic. And when one came he jogged across the three lanes and onto the median, where he stood still again, waiting. Still sitting in the passenger seat, she could see across the road a set up identical to the one that had drawn her in before. A group of boys, a couple of cars. She wondered who he might pick up next. She climbed over to the driver’s side and buckled in. Her reflection stared back at her as she reached for the glove box, grabbing another napkin. She folded it, licked it, and put her tongue gently on the corner to wet it before moving to her face to wipe the blood stain running from her right nostril to the rim of her lips. She discarded the napkin and glanced back into the rearview, where there was nothing. The monotony of the work day was a finger trap and it beckoned like always. Off she went.


A few weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon in the beautiful English countryside setting of Devonshire, an event involving about fifty friends and family gathered to mark our latest grandson’s birth. Called a ‘naming day’ it represented a kind of non-Christian christening. Perhaps, partly because I think paganism predates Christianity my son and his partner hoped, like themselves, that everyone would be touched by a deeper and more meaningful experience of creation. Obviously, as infants, we would have been present when our parents had us either christened with names or prayed over with thanks to God. This event was markedly different and more interactively engaging than a traditional Christian service. As the ceremony began all those present were acknowledged as having different religious or non-religious backgrounds. This implied, for me at least, that respect for religious diversity was to be considered as ideal and self-evident. Of-course, along with the friendly picnic beforehand, the ceremony itself was deliberately arranged to blend within the natural environment. Using primitive technology my son set a fire in our midst and his partner, our grandson’s mother, engaged us all in singing. Repeating a simple mothering invocation, (she had recalled from her time in Burkina Faso), we echoed her words as we queued around the fire to greet their son and bring to him our own personal welcome. I imagine that the implicit purpose of the event was our grandson’s celebrated welcome into the world of human community. The setting established a connection with that elemental and indefinable something which had brought each of our own lives into existence. For me it was more poignant because it gave effect to a meeting between two families and many longstanding friends, who would otherwise have remained complete strangers. Their only child, a beautiful child born in their middle years, was gifted to them, as well as to us, as representative of something unusually auspicious. In me personally, the occasion also produced a sense of pathos. I had felt it necessary to keep that pathos under control until, seizing an opportunity to speak, my words were soon stifled as my feelings gave way to deep sobs. As he held his son, I was recalling the thanks I had given to God for him as our own second son. With emotional difficulty, I explained that, for me, my son’s name could never be detached from the peace I had received with God almost exactly nine months before he was born. But this naming day sincerely sought to invoke something profoundly important about the blessings attached to the name of that new person whose life was received by us all because of our familial or friendly connection to his parents. In the Areopagus in Athens the first century A.D. inscription that struck the Apostle Paul as being apposite for his message was attributed to an 'unknown god.' Today, my deeply felt and emotional reflection forces me conclude that such an unknown god can neither be thanked nor be called upon to deliver a blessing. Indeed, such a god is impervious to the truth that creation is the blessed reflection of God's glory and power. I think it true, but largely misunderstood, that no creature, pagan or otherwise, can invoke a blessing upon themselves. The true praise of all God’s creatures must surely involve the mission to recognize a naming day in every heart which does invoke the blessing of joy and peace with God. It is an exalted name indeed! “Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name… “ Philippians 2:9. (ESVUK) Discovering the true value of creation cannot be obtained from what is pre-supposed to have occurred with nameless randomness. The value of a name must itself presuppose true meaning and purpose. True meaning and purpose must itself rest upon knowing the name of the Personal Being who gave it that true meaning and purpose. I understand, from one commentary, that "God identifies Himself as Elohim 35 times at the start of Scripture. In fact, Elohim is the only name used for God from Genesis 1:1 to Genesis 2:3.’

“Elohim is one of the most frequently used names for God in the Scriptures. It is this word which is used in Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning [Elohim] created the heavens and the earth.” In fact, the word appears some 2,750 times in the Old Testament.” Literally meaning strong, Elohim suggests the invisible attributes of omnipotence as well as omniscience and omnipresence. By the power of His Exalted Being he not only created all things but transcends all things. By the awesome deeds of creation Elohim ensured his divine signature is writ large upon even the smallest of particles in existence. How is it possible to know and exalt the Person responsible for the value, meaning and purpose of creation? Firstly, the Apostle Paul, writing under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, recorded in his letter to the Romans, how creation supplies its own evidence for who is responsible for its existence.

“For what can be known about God is plain to them because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.” (Romans 1:19-20). Secondly, and because I have argued the need to understand meaning and purpose from the point of view of the One who gave it meaning and purpose, there must be potential in man which meets that need. Faith is what is needed to receive the truth of God’s Word. “ By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.” Hebrews 11:3. It is considered, by the Christian faith, that there is an exalted name whose value, reason and purpose can be understood and known fully in the Gospels. Indeed, there is no other name which better speaks to every other named person, as being more exalted. “Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name…" Philippians 2:9. (ESVUK)