The End “How am I supposed to sleep after that?” “RAWR,” I shout, making several campers scream themselves, “That was the scream of a Black Panther. It may or may not be the demon of legend, but I wouldn’t want to find out. Now, time to go to bed.” I heard one camper say, as they all huddled together, as they walked back to the cabins, “That sounded like a woman screaming bloody murder,” A spooked camper stuttered in awe. “The demon remains and now and then, a couple of campers that wander off by themselves disappear, never to be seen or heard from again.” Just then a scream rends the air. “So why can’t we go into the woods, if everyone was arrested?” “We subdued the guards, obtained the key to our freedom from one of them, and made our escape. Long into the night we walked, until we were in the next town, where we made our way to the police station. We told our harrowing story, and they started an investigation into proving it. Everyone involved was arrested, and they sealed the prisons up for good. The cabin, on the side of the mountain, still stands there, but deserted. Eagle Ridge came under new management, because every adult was arrested.” “I worked, when the overseers were standing guard, but when they took a break, I would talk to some of the other prisoners and I found the adults had been there since they were children. There were even some, I was told, that had died of old age, so that told me it had been going on for a very long time, even before Eagle Ridge was established. I got the idea one day to get the others to start a revolution, with me, and that we would take down the guards, by any means possible. I told them I refused to die down there without a fight, and they agreed. The ones that were in charge of the wood, secretly made weapons and the ones that sewed made restraints. We waited until the time was right, then, we attacked.” “I crept forward and encountered the door, which had a handle, and when I tugged, the door opened. I was being blinded by light, and when my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw several children and adults. They were doing a lot of different menial chores, and all the chores were being monitored by overseers. Some chores that I noticed immediately were sewing and mending stuff like sheets, pillows, and camping tents. One was making wooden items such as benches, picnic tables, and bunk beds. I was in a sweatshop, of sorts, for Eagle Ridge.” “The other campers did not believe them, so they did not turn me over to them. We made our way back to our cabins, and they took me to the camp nurse. She removed the stitches, from my mouth, and told me not to tell anyone how this happened. When my parents came to pick me up, they were told the same. She whispered to me about the prison that tellers would go to, if they told, but I knew that someone needed to tell, so that the authorities could arrest everyone that did these atrocities. I told a cop, whom was my dad’s best friend, and in the middle of the night I men that I didn’t know came and took me away, from my home. I was blindfolded and when the blindfold was removed, I found I was in a dark void. Had I dreamed my escape, I thought, but when I felt the wall, I found it was cement blocks. I felt my mouth and found no stitches, only healing wounds.” “I saw moving lights, further down the side of the mountain, and I headed for them, as hard as I could run. It turned out to be the rest of the campers, returning to the campfire pit, as we had planned. After I made it to them, one of them was about to untie my hands, when my pursuers caught up, and told them to give me to them. They were told no and the shortest, of the two men, told them they didn’t understand; That if they, the men, did not offer me as a sacrifice that we all were doomed. He said a demon lived in a cave at the very top of the mountain and that it enjoys eating people, but that it only eats two people every week.” “When I felt I had gone far enough, I started digging above my head, trying to make a shaft that would bring me to the surface. I made footholds to aid in my ascent and I kept going until I had to stop. The bone struck something solid, and when I reached my bound hands up, I found more wood. I surmised my prison had been in a basement, under the cabin. I turned to my left and dug along the wooden cabin floor, until I encountered more dirt, then I started digging upwards once more. Then I was out in the open and running down the side of the mountain, falling over roots, rocks, fallen trees, and other unseen things, with the sound of running feet closing in on me.” “I felt around for anything that to use, as a weapon, and found what felt like a bone. Cringed at the thought of it being a human bone, I steeled my nerves and I brushed the side, of the end, of the bone against the wall, opposite of the door. Doing that a few times, trying to make the end into a sharp point, then when I touched it I found not changed. I felt the wall and found that the bone was gouging out a hole, because the wall was dirt. I began rubbing faster, and the dirt began falling away. Before long I had a hole big enough to crawl into, which I did and kept digging.” “There were some for a long time, after I escaped the camp prison, but my parents paid a lot of money to have a plastic surgeon fix my mouth. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. A noise came from somewhere behind my prison door and I slowly made my way through the black void. Keeping my hands held out, my fingers touched wood. Groping for a door handle, but there was not one. I banged on the wood, until my hands bled, then a dim light appeared around the edge of the door. I hoped that someone let me out, but a raspy voice on the other side, warned me that my time would come soon enough.” “If someone had sewn it shut, then you would have scars,” Scoffed a camper. “They had sewn it shut.” “What was it? What had they done to your mouth?” “I went to yell for Josh, but found my mouth unable to speak. I raised my hands, which were shackled together, to my mouth, but what I touched there had me very frightened.” “Well, I looked over to tell Josh to run, but he wasn’t able to. The man had his giant hand holding the top of Josh’s head. He was squeezing Josh’s head until Josh stopped flailing his arms, trying to hit the man. His eyes rolled back until all you could see where the white of his eyes. I shouted to the man to stop that he was killing Josh. I was looking back up at the man’s chin, when he slowly looked down and grinned. His mouth had no teeth and his eyes had no irises; And, what should have been white was a light yellow, as if he had yellow jaundice. He opened his mouth, wide enough to look like he was going to bite something and sharp teeth sprang forth, from his gums. I screamed and when I came to, I was in the dark, by myself.” “Where was Josh?” “I’m getting to that, just be patient,” I answered, “I went to take a step forward, when a twig under my foot snapped. The music stopped, as if someone were listening for another telltale sign that there was someone outside the cabin. I turned to run, but found myself nose-to-chest, of a giant man. He was so tall that I had to look up, in order to see his face, but even then I was staring at the underside of his chin.” “It will be happy then? What is it and what will make it happy?” “Josh and I made our way into the spooky woods. I forgot to bring batteries for my flashlight, so when mine died, we only had Joshua’s. We came upon a cabin that seemed like it was deserted, except there was a haunting song coming from it. The music sounded out of tune and gave me the creeps,” I said and then I sang the words, “One two... I hear you... Three four... I’ll get some more... Five six... Just for kicks... Seven eight... leave them at the gate... Nine ten... It will be happy then.” “We met, right here, beside the darkened campfire pit and hatched a plan, one that was sure to shed light on the mysterious disappearances. We partnered off, so that we could scour more ground. Most of the teams had three or more campers, but there was one team that had only two. I and Joshua Baker were the ones that made up the two-person team.” “A week later two more campers disappeared, without a trace, and some of us older campers formed our own search party. So, after the official search party came back and went to bed, we snuck out, into the darkness, of the night; Much like the way it looks tonight.” A piece of firewood popped, making us all jump, although I pretended to. “I had been there when, one night, a girl and her brother went missing, from this very camp. A search party was formed, but it was told that they could find nothing, not even a footprint. It was like they just vanished.” The kid next to me gasps and, in a hoarse whisper, asks what happened to the offenders, “There are asylums, which are under the ground beneath our very feet, that they’re admitted to. I know about them, because I was in one, but I escaped.” “As you know, the counselors have advised you to stay out of the woods. They give no reason, except to say that it is unsafe and that it is very easy to get lost. That is not the only reasons, but it is taboo to speak of the real reason. If someone’s caught telling the reason...,” I shiver for their benefit, “that person’s sent away and never seen again; By anyone, not even their families.” “Let me just start off by saying that you must never, ever, tell let the counselors catch that you telling what you are about to hear this night.” I held up the story stick, and all became quiet, except for the crackle of the fire. Even the frogs and crickets hushed, so that they could hear the story. “Did they get lost?” “What happened?” “Enough,” I commanded, as the two girls argued, “I think you all need to hear this story; Especially the two of you, Rachelle and Betty, because it was an argument, among the campers, that perpetrated a night of terror, for a boy and girl.” “We’re not babies, Betty,” Rachelle Dimwitty rebutted, with an equally mocking sneer, as she said Betty’s name. “Tell us, Carolina,” Betty Rankin said, “the babies can just go back to the cabins, if they don’t want to hear the scary story,” She put an emphasis, with a very mocking sneer, on the fifth word and the last two. “Tell us,” Micah MacDonald said, and several others agreed with him, although a few others did not. “What I learned when I was camper, at Eagle Ridge, when I was your age, is scarier than any urban legend.” I shiver, although the temperature is a nice, balmy seventy-five degrees and I wrap my arms around my midriff. “Why not,” Veronicka Balducci shyly queries. “I know what it is,” I tell the group, “However, I don’t think I should tell you guys.” “I don’t know,” Replies Adam Rizzoli, as he peers into the darkness, “but it sounded huge.” “What... was that,” Angelina Braxton asked, as she holds her hand to her heart. I am a counselor at Eagle Ridge, a youth summer camp, and this is my first time being a camp counselor. My name is Carolina Stokely and I am about ready to hand the story stick to Jerrod Hemsley. A noise from out of the darkness, beyond the circle of firelight that is created by the campfire, has made us all about to jump out of our skins. The Beginning


“Faster!” A gun against his head, Carl filled the bag with bills as fast as he could, then handed it back to the hooded man over the counter. The police sirens could already be heard outside in the far distance. “The watch too!” screamed the assailant. The clerk glanced at the golden watch on his wrist and swallowed with great difficulty. “It has sentimental value,” he replied in a shaky voice. “THE WATCH TOO!” Betty, the bank’s financial advisor, crept up from behind her desk, her square glasses sliding down to the edge of her nose. “Give it to him Carl,” she pleaded. “Give it now!” Under pressure, Carl complied and mechanically tossed the golden watch into the bag. The assailant’s female accomplice grew impatient. “C’mon, we have to go! The cops are almost here.” Both robbers dashed out, leaving the bank’s employees and clients trembling like leaves in their frozen positions. “Are you insane?” yelled Betty as she tried to put one foot in front of the other to walk towards the counter, putting her glasses back into place. “You never refuse to do something when there’s a gun to your head.” “It was my father’s watch,” replied the clerk. “It’s all I have left of him. All I had left.” “At least you’re alive! These guys were going full on Bonnie & Clyde, they were not to be messed with.” The policemen arrived, brandishing their revolvers left and right, oblivious to the fact they were much too late. Sergeant Harris took both the clerk and the financial advisor apart in the loan manager’s office to get their depositions. “Did you notice any detail that could help in identifying them?” “No,” replied Carl. “They were dressed in black from head to toe, there was barely an inch of skin visible.” “What sum of money did they take out?” “Roughly twenty thousand, plus my watch.” “How much was the watch worth?” “It was fake gold, so probably six hundred tops, but it had sentimental value.” The Sergeant rolled his eyes. “Sentimental value is the least of our concerns here.” He got up and gathered his belongings, ready to walk out of the narrow office. “Wait, so that’s it?” asked Carl. “Unless you have something else to tell me, yes.” “What about my watch?” “We’ll investigate for sure, but it’s a long shot. Judging from the similarities, it’s probably these wannabe Bonnie & Clyde who have been hopping from state to state carrying out heists. Nobody has managed to catch them. We’re looking at pros here.” “Are you saying they’ve done this multiple times? You better do something then!” Betty grabbed his hand in an attempt to calm him down. “Carl, please,” she said. “We should just let the policemen do their work.” “You’re absolutely right Miss,” chuckled the Sergeant, dismissing Carl’s outburst. “Let’s keep your boyfriend under control.” “He’s not my—” “Not my business,” he replied, hastily walking out the door and shutting it behind him. Carl banged against the table, his skin bright red from the blood boiling under the surface. “You’re taking this watch business a bit too seriously,” stated Betty. “I get it, family heirlooms are important, but so is survival. Besides, the Sergeant is right, they don’t have much to work with right now.” “It’s not just about the family heirloom,” he said, his body still quaking. “What is it, then?” “The watch… I lied. It's quite valuable. I discovered last week it was a rare Italian item. I already put it up for auction online, it could easily sell for half a million dollars.” “Oh dear," sighed Betty. "That’s tragic, for sure. I guess you’ll just have to live without it.” “Actually, I can’t. I’ve been gambling a little bit recently… let’s just say I owe money to bad people right now.” "Bad people?" "Yeah. Pretty bad people. I never thought I'd say this, but I might as well be dead if I'm not able to repay my debts." The admission shocked Betty to the core. Carl, the respected bank clerk with a boring life and boring name, had just revealed himself to be wilder than she expected. A part of her pitied him. Yet, another part felt excited. Her life was also quite boring, and the morning heist was certainly the most exhilarating rush of adrenaline she had felt in her lifetime. Somehow, she craved to feel that rush again. She got up and paced back and forth around the office. “I didn’t expect that kind of behaviour from you.” “I didn’t even expect it from myself.” “What if I help you track them down? Would you be willing to share a bit of that money with me?” “How would you even do that? You said it yourself, the policemen have nothing. We’re just two boring bankers, I hardly think we can go fight off professional criminals.” She booted the manager’s computer and launched an online search. “Don’t underestimate me, Carl. I predict the stocks all day. There’s more than one algorithm in my bag to predict where they’ll go next.” *** Bonnie & Clyde parked in an alleyway three blocks away from Chicago’s Millenium Bank in their old-fashioned grey Rolls Royce. “Are you sure we should be going for this one?” asked Clyde. “I think we should drive further up north. We’re too close to the last bank.” “Don’t be stupid,” replied Bonnie. “I’ve been making the choices so far, and we always got away with it. Maybe you should stop questioning me. Put your hood on.” They both put on their black garments and got out of the car. Much to their surprise, a woman was waiting for them at the end of the alleyway. It was Betty, although Bonnie and Clyde did not recognize her as the banker from their last heist. “Who are you?” yelled Clyde menacingly. “Your worst nightmare,” replied Betty with the fierceness of a lynx. The line was cliché, but it gave her the feeling of being in an old film noir, and the inebriating rush of adrenaline came to her. Clyde pointed his weapon at the advisor. “Step aside, now! We have some business to do.” “Poor you. So simple minded. You’re awfully predictable, you know that. I just had to do a simple data mining extraction to pinpoint exactly your selection pattern. You always stalk the bank clerk on LinkedIn two days ahead of your heist, with the exact same account.” "How do you--" "Because the last clerk you robbed gave me access to his LinkedIn history, you idiot." “Shut up, old hag,” yelled Bonnie. Step aside now!” “I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you.” "And what exactly are you going to do? It's two against one, and you have no weapon." "No, but I do." The criminals froze. Carl stood behind them, pointing guns at their scalps. “I’ll take my watch back,” he declared. “And the car, too.” *** Betty and Carl rolled down the interstate highway back to Indiana with their brand new Rolls Royce, with Betty in the driver’s seat. “I didn’t know you were so badass,” said Carl gleefully, counting the money in the bag. “They'll welcome us like heroes at the bank. I can sell that watch now, plus we have a sweet ride. It’ll be hard to go back to normal life after this.” “Actually, I’m a bit tired of the banker lifestyle,” replied Betty. "But... that's the only thing we know how to do." "Not true. Looks like we're pretty good private detectives. I am, at least, but I could use a sidekick. Don't you want to keep feeling this rush Carl?" "You can't be serious." "I see it from here. Betty and Carl, Partners Against Crime." "That does sound pretty good." "Of course it does. I came up with it." Betty's square glasses slid down her nose again, but this time, she threw them out the window of the Rolls Royce. The financial advisor was no more. The new partners against crime rode into the sunset, wild and free.


The accident was sure to make the news considering all of the after events. There were squealing tires and a very loud crash that made everyone jump. There were three vehicles involved and it tied up traffic on the busiest corner in town. It created a lot of chaos and people ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. The police were dispatched right away and showed up trying to untangle the mess. One of the drivers was Jane Tyne, the manager of the town’s water system. The other driver was Michelle Henderson, the principal of the high school. The third driver involved was Geraldine Moffat, the owner of the town’s only hair salon. The three women were screaming at each other arguing over who had the right of way and who had caused the accident. Officer Talbot was trying to make sure there were no fist fights. “Ladies, can we please calm down?  Now, I am going to get everyone’s statement, just give me a second. I want everyone to return to their vehicle and wait.” There was hesitation and then the three walked over to their respected dented vehicles and got inside. Neither one seemed too pleased to be ordered around. After all, they were all powerful women in positions of authority and were used to giving out the orders not taking them.

They immediately all started to text on their phones.  The officer watched them and then started to try and put the puzzle together. It wasn’t going to be very easy. Officer Talbot looked around and wasn’t sure how exactly to proceed. The veteran policeman had witnessed hundreds of fender benders, but this one was a real pickle. He didn’t want to anger any of the women because he needed water, his wife went to the salon and he had two teenagers in high school. Suddenly, Candace, a young teenage girl, walked up. She sported a healthy amount of tattoos and piercings. Her hair was red, pink and green.  She chewed bubblegum like a cow munching on cud. He didn’t recognize the girl right way. “Hey, Mr. Officer, I saw what happened.  Do you want to hear about it?” Officer Talbot smiled sort of and grimaced at the same time. He had a two teenage daughters and thankfully they weren’t into self-expressionism as this young lady. Then he remembered her. “I would love to hear your statement, young lady.  It has been a long time since we have talked.” “It is. How is Heather doing?” “She’s doing just fine. I remember when you two were best friends in like grade two.” “Yeah, it was a long time ago. We just kind of went separate ways. I really love a man in uniform.” “Thanks.  Did you see what happened?” “I sure did. Okay, so you have the white pickup truck arriving at the three way stop first. The driver went to turn and the red BMW turned at the same time. They both stopped. Then a second later, the blue business van smashed into both of them. It was the one driving the van that is responsible for the accident.” “Thank you for your statement, Candace.” “Do I get a reward? I could really use the money. I have lots of bills to pay.” “I am not sure about that.” She looked rather sad. “I’ll see what I can do.” “Okay, thanks. Say hello to Heather for me.” “I will.” She left and he smiled. “I always wondered what happened to that girl.” What Candace had failed to say was that she had gone to Geraldine’s hair salon and they had really botched up her hair. She had refused to pay them and they had taken her to court. Officer Talbot looked around and an elderly man approached him. He looked a little scruffy, but was all smiles. “My name is George James and I saw what happened Officer.” “That’s great,” said Officer Talbot.

George James had been in trouble with the law plenty of times. Officer Talbot had arrested the man on more than one occasion and knew him rather well. “The woman driving the Red BMW is totally responsible for the accident. She plowed into white pickup truck, backed up and smacked into the blue van.” Officer Talbot smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “This is what happened?” “Yup, sure is what happened.” “Okay, thanks for your input.” “You are welcome. Is there a reward?” “I am not sure about that George.” George walked away. What he didn’t say to the officer was he hated Michelle Henderson. He was supposed to go to the high school to teach the kids woodcarving, but it had been cancelled. But, no one had called him and he showed up anyway.  The interchange between George and the principal got very heated and drew a crowd. Eventually, he left cursing under his breath. Officer Talbot was very confused at this point. He didn’t know whom to believe. Just then, Susan Course with her four dirty little children arrived. The kids looked like they needed a bath, as did their mother. “I saw what happened officer.” He smiled at her and nodded his head. “Let’s hear it.” “The blue van had the right of way and it was turning. The red BMW was stopped at the stop sign, when the white Public Works truck slammed into the stationary BMW and forced it into the blue van. It was all the fault of the white pickup truck.” “Thank you for the information,” said Officer Talbot. “Is there a reward?” “I am not sure about it.” Susan and her four children walked away. What she had not told the officer was that her water had been cut off when there was a mixup with the bill.  She had called the Public Works Department and after not getting anywhere and being put on hold for like forever, she had demanded to talk to Jane personally,  They had gotten into a huge argument.

Later, Susan had protested with her four kids how cruel the water department was and truly embarrassed them. Other citizens joined in.  It had gotten really heated when some of the Public Works Department personnel had walked out of the building and started to shout at the protesters. Officer Talbot had to break up the demonstration. Officer Talbot was now in a real predicament. He didn’t know what to do and so he motioned for all three women to get out of their respective vehicles. At this point, other officers had arrived on the scene to direct traffic. “Okay, ladies, I am not sure what to do here. I have three eyewitness accounts and they are all different. Each one blames one of you.” “I am not sure who you were talking to officer, but I was not in the wrong.” Jane was defiant. “Yes, you were, Jane. Isn’t it against the law to lie to an officer?” Michelle burst out laughing.

“You are such a hypocrite.” Before, Officer Talbot could react, the three started swinging at each other.  It was a real donnybrook with fists and feet flying everywhere. He attempted to break up the fight and for his efforts received a fat lip and a black eye. “Okay, that’s it. I’m taking all three of you.” He pulled out the handcuffs and linked two of them together. He grabbed the other and hauled all three into the cruiser in the back seat.

The ride to the precinct was horrible. They screamed and used language that made the officer blush many, many different shades of red. They tried to escape and he really got mad. He arrived at the precinct and hauled them inside. Since the jail wasn’t very big, he put all three of them in the same cell. “If you kill each other it would solve a lot of problems,” he said as he went off to tend to his wounds. It was hours later when they were released. What the judge did was to make each one pay for their own damage. Plus, they had to apologize to Officer Talbot.

The women went out to lunch to settle everything and had a great time. They got stinking drunk and staggered home. Then they decided to go to the police precinct and moon the officers. Just as they were dropping their pants/skirts, Officer Talbot pulled up.

He shook his head and couldn’t believe it. “I guess we didn’t learn our lesson ladies.” A few minutes later, they found themselves in jail again.


“MOM! WHERE ARE YOU?”, a little boy shouts. A war is taking place in the middle of a city. Debris is flying everywhere. There are demons, warriors, and wizards as far as one can see. The sun is barely shining through the dense clouds. A voice yells “IT IS DONE!”, followed by a female voice “What is it, Damon?” “It is a way to end the war, Nursha.” Damon is a fair built man, around mid 20’s. He has noticeable small horns on his head and a pitch black tail with a point on the end. He is wearing a pair of black pants and a dark gray t-shirt. Nursha is a petite lady, also in the mid 20’s, and is wearing an all white dress with red accents. She can be seen wielding a staff that has a small red cross on the top. “Bill, I’m going to need your dagger.” Damon says, while holding out his hand. Bill, a large guy in heavy gray armor with a sword that's nearly as large as him, says “I lost mine during a fight with a demon not too long ago. Maybe Izrid still has his.” Izrid, a guy who is about the same size as Damon and in dark blue robes and holding a book, searches himself to see if he still has his dagger. He finds it and hands it to Damon. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Bill says. Damon takes the dagger and turns towards a machine that's as big as him. “I have programmed this device to isolate the demon DNA in me and send out an impulse. Anything that contains any demon DNA will be vaporized.” He takes the dagger and cuts a small sliver into his palm, dropping some blood into a small vile. “So all I need to do is give it something to use as a base to analyze and hit start.” “But what about you?” Nursha exclaims worriedly. “There is only one thing that can and will happen.” After realizing what he means, she shouts, “No. No, no, YOU CAN’T DO THIS! THERE HAS TO BE ANOTHER WAY!” “I’ve checked all of the other possibilities, this is the only way without sacrificing anymore people to this damn war.” He turns around to face Nursha while hitting ‘start’ on the screen, the machine starts to whirr and charge up. “Everything will be fine, I will still be a happy man knowing that you’re still alive, I promise.” Bill walks over to Nursha and says ”He knows what he is doing. We'll all miss him. Right, Izrid?” Izrid silently nods. “See? Even Izrid understands that there is nothing else we can do. It will be fine.” “It is almost charged.” Damon says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Here, I've been meaning to give you this for a while. Don't read it until everything is over.” As he handed the letter to Nursha, the machine starts to crackle with energy. “It's time for me to go now. One last thing Nursha, I knew the whole time.” The machine sends out a huge shockwave and as soon as hits Damon, smiling ear to ear, Nursha yells “NO!” and tries to grab him. But she grabbed nothing but the envelope and air. As the shockwave travels, demons start disappearing into thin air. Screams of joy erupt as people start cheering. “WE DID IT!” Many soldiers yell. “It’s over. That idiot actually pulled it off.” Bill says. “Let’s head home. We all know Damon wouldn’t want us grieving. He would say something like ‘Don’t mourn my death, rather, celebrate my life.’ or, something like that.” “You’re right. It’s time we head home. Let’s go Izrid.” Nursha says as she wipes tears off her face. ONE YEAR LATER A statue of Damon was built and sits in the middle of the town square. Nursha, who is in her casual clothes, blue jeans and a white shirt with a red cross, walks up to the statue. “Bill and Izrid couldn’t make it. It’s been a year since then. After I told the king what happened, he demanded that a statue must be built immediately. I was trying to tell him not to worry about, but said ‘He is a hero! Heroes must be honored!’ So I told him it was fine then. I haven’t read the letter yet, I’m scared of what it will say, what did you write? Maybe I should it read it now?” She grabs the letter from her pocket and hesitantly opened it. The reads “You never had to say anything to me. I always knew how you felt about me. You are probably reading this about a year later, after you told the king what happened, a statue of me was built, and you are still sad that I am gone. All I have to say is this. I felt the same way towards you since the first time we met, but I knew what I was, what was coming, and what I would have to do. That's why I never bothered. It would have been worse on both of us. Stop being sad. Be a happy little healer. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.” As she closes the letter, a flower floats by and lands at her feet. She picks it up, stares at it for a minute, and then places it at the base of the statue. “You were always good at predicting what will happen.” She says as she places the flower. She stands and starts to walk off. As she does, she smiles with a single tear going down her face. “I guess this really is goodbye.


The Shady Hand  “I’ll bet all my winnings on the next hand,” announced Francis Calleja, a big time wheeler and dealer that had stolen many a poor man’s pocket of wealth. “If I lose whoever accepts the deal will win all my land but if I win then I take over their property.” Calleja was on a role this afternoon and it was too early to quit playing and go home. Sitting around the card table with Francis were another four men from prominent families around the little village. These men knew trouble was brewing but there was no stopping Calleja when he put his mind to something. His friends at the table each had a lot to lose so they were quick to throw in the towel and refuse Calleja’s bet.

  At another table close enough to Calleja’s to be within earshot a young very confident man stood up and stared at Calleja intensely. He needed an opportunity like this to be able to change his ways for good and he felt life owed him something for all crap he endured in his youth. “Today might just be that day,” he thought to himself. “I’ll take that bet Calleja” said the brave stranger. “What’s your name?” asked Francis. “My name is Ivan. So let me get this straight, if I win, I’ll get your land, right? Does that include your family residence?” Ivan wanted to make sure he understood the deal.  “A house for a house,” replied the wealthy bachelor.

 “Deal the cards then.” Shouted someone from across the room. The bar was alive with men who had just finished work and wanted a cool drink after their laborious day in the sun or office. The music echoed in the background as the young man went to sit across from Francis. “So how should we do this Calleja?” enquired Ivan. " Manuel here will write up the agreement and we both sign it before dealing out the cards” continued Francis. “That’s OK by me, does anyone have a pen?” asked Ivan. Manuel was prepared for the occasion due to him working in the local courthouse as a legal officer. After the gentlemen concluded their tedious paperwork, the documents were placed in the centre of the card table and each man waited for the cards to be delt out.  The room became silent. White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane was playing on the radio before the bar owner switched it off. No one in the room would even notice the music though because everyone was focusing on the two men who took centre stage. The room was thick with the smell of tobacco and sweat as the gentlemen looked at each other blankly, waiting for their cards.  In the background, beer and whiskey glasses could be heard clinking over tabletops as the waiters picked up empty glasses and handed refills. The bar owner loved days like these because people seemed to drink more and stay longer. Ivan began to pick up the first two cards delt. The native onlookers recognized this as a naïve move. Calleja confidently waited. No smile was to be seen on either of the men’s faces. The game had suddenly metamorphosized into a life altering decision with consequences. Calleja loved the feeling of uncertainty. He had everything he ever wanted or needed but he was only happy when he felt he could lose it all. Someone coughed in the background and the sound of a chair being pushed echoed through the silence. The men looked at their delt hand then looked at each other a couple of times. The whole afternoon had been uneventful and now, suddenly someone wasn’t going to leave this bar a happy man. Most people rooted for young Ivan.  Everyone loved a longshot. Calleja didn’t bother about the onlookers who would judge him harshly and tried to put on a show even though he knew most people didn’t like him but he was ok with that. Being successful meant there would always be those that held bitter feelings towards him, and they probably had reason to. Ivan though was not known by the more frequent customers to the bar but he was young, with a future ahead of him and this fact made Ivan rather a relatable character with his story resembling their own stories and this made him the favourite of the moment.   Ivan had recently married a girl named Maria. He believed she was the one thing in his life that made him want to be good. He tried to live an honest life at first, but times were tough and finding a job that would help him take care of his wife and future family proved more difficult than he had expected. This deal would mean a burst of hope at a time when all he had were empty pockets. Sure, Ivan had won a couple of games of cards in these last weeks prior to this moment but they weren’t enough to pay the bills or ensure a comfortable life. This game could change things. As he held those cards, he thought of how excited he would be to go home and give Mary the crazy news. A hint of pride was seen in Ivan's eyes that day, for that short time, because he was fully aware that he could be about to bring down one of the richest and stingiest men in the bar. Ivan couldn’t control his anticipation. As the cards were being delt he started to pick them up with his hands trembling. He tried to keep himself calm by holding his breath and trying to recite short words of encouragement to himself but the pressure was on. His first two cards were an ace of spades and a two of hearts. Next cards were the eight of clubs, Jack of diamonds and a nine of clubs. He traded the two of hearts and the nine of clubs receiving the eight of spades and an ace of clubs. The cards weren’t great but they were good enough to hold on to. When Calleja was ready they agreed to show their cards at the same time. As the cards were placed on the table for everyone in the room to see, it was apparent that Calleja had lost with a pair of kings which really left their audience in a stir, but that is not what impressed the onlookers who stood in silence and waited for someone to speak. Ivan thought everyone was disappointed that he had won but that is not why they were all staring at him with sombre expressions on their faces. The young man had won no doubt about that but the cards he held in his hands were called “the black hand” by native poker players. It was also known as THE HAND OF DEATH. All the witnesses around these two gambling men that day said a dark cloud passed over them. The hot sun that had been blazing down for most of the day had now disappeared and a shadow could be seen behind Ivan marking his end for the more superstitious patrons. The audience that had collected around the gamblers table walked away without saying a word but kept their heads down as if the man was already dead. Calleja who was not a superstitious man kept his thoughts to himself and started to plan with Ivan the best way to give over his property which was very impressive in comparison to Ivan’s poor living conditions. The young man had lived in a small house that he was buying slowly from a farmer he helped on the weekends.  In his mind Ivan felt relieved that he wouldn’t have to pick up anymore horse manure at six in the morning. At this point the whole sudden change of fortune was slowly shaping into a reality. At one moment he was as wild and crazy with joy as we could imagine but on the other hand he wasn’t sure if all that just happened was actually going to be realised.  Ivan walked taller that day as they made their way down the street.  Everyone became a friend to him and he loved the attention his new place in his town's society was going to be automatically placed upon him.  Now he would be in a position to help people not run away from them, he thought to himself.  He had tested the odds and won.  "Wow," he thought, "it felt good".   As Ivan left the bar with Calleja, the two men quietly started walking to Ivan’s house to tell Mary about the huge transformation that has occurred in their lives, when all of a sudden a dusty looking drunkard walked through the two men who hardly had taken notice of him and fell heavily on Ivan. This wobbling man seemed to trip and push Ivan to the ground before getting up and running off through the narrow streets just off the main road. As Ivan attempted to get up on his feet he fell back to the ground due to a great pain in his lower abdomen. When he pressed his hand to his body a wet sticky dark red patch of blood was starting to soak through his clothes. The pain he felt was overwhelming and he lay on the ground until someone brought the doctor. Calleja stayed with Ivan in those last moments before the young man exhaled his last breadth.  While Calleja kept Ivan’s body safe he eyed the signed document the two men had organised before the game of cards started and placed it in his pocket for safe keeping. When a doctor finally arrived to the scene it was too late. The onlookers stared in horror at the scene of the unfortunate young man who’s foretold death left him no chance to see his beloved wife one last time.   The funeral took place a couple of days after the historic card game. The people in the village were saddened by Ivan’s story but it was later whispered on family porches and in the bars that Ivan had visited shortly before his demise, that he had accumulated a lot of debt. Though he had been very lucky in the last month his winnings were never enough to pay the bills. There was a rumour that Ivan even manipulated the card games in his favour and the man that killed Ivan on that day was one of the poor souls that lost more than he bargained for.  Mary ended up living in a small one roomed house for the rest of her life never remarrying and never knowing that she was supposed to have had a very different life. The papers that were signed before Ivan and Calleja’s last game were never found and no one asked questions. The kids in the street called her the white lady because she let her hair go white and her ivory skin made her look ghost like. She could be seen each morning dressed in a black dress with her dark veil in hand walking quietly to the seven o’clock mass. She would always have some candy in her pockets to give to the kids in the streets and was never known to utter the slightest mean remark to anyone. As the days went by the story of her beloved Ivan became legend.  Mary's love for him would remain as fresh as the day they first met but she would never speak his name again.


It was a usual afternoon at the Argyll St branch of the Bank of Scotland with customers queuing as they waited patiently to be served. A teller, sitting at her desk with a hollow look on her face, shouted “can I help someone over here’ to the que to call over her next customer. As the man approached she noted he was very well trimmed and wore smart casual clothes, the kind that don’t draw attention to oneself but still look very much look “I mean business”. Over the top he wore woollen coat and a white shirt underneath with the collar undone. His hair was short on the sides with longer dirty blonde wavy thick hair on top. As he approached she noticed his sharp blue eyes and stern look. She cracked a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. The teller was about to raise her voice when the man began to raise his hand. As it happens, she had caught her tongue just in time as the man was now pointing an M1911 pistol at her. Her vague presence at work had now passed and she felt every second as her heart started racing. The man whispered the words “call the police” in a confident tone, cracking a smile in the corner of his mouth. Moments passed with the teller doing nothing but trembling in her chair. The man impatient with not having his request made turned to the que and yelled “everybody down!”. Within seconds everyone had fallen to the ground with not one person standing the man moved towards the only door in the building. “I simply ask that you call the police” the man said in a non-threating and relaxed tone. When no one moved the frustration began to show on his face. He sighed and pull the trigger. Two rounds were fired at the wall adjacent to the entrance, no one was hit. “I’ll ask again, can someone please phone the police?” The door greeter stood up and walked slowly toward the reception desk, the man tracked him with the muzzle of the gun. Within in minutes the police responded. Police cars piled up around the building surrounding every means of escape. Sgt Millar was an older man who, through stress of the job, had not aged very well. For being only 45 his face was wrinkled and his hair was all but gone. “I’d do it all again” he thought every so often, “to protect my family and the families of this nation.” He stepped out of his vehicle and walked towards the door, his Glock 17 in hand and by his waist, two officers in bullet proof vests followed close behind. The automatic doors whirled open as they approached. They scanned the room quickly and saw, immediately, a gun on the floor and a tall man standing behind it with his hands raised. Millar walked the man off the premises and towards his vehicle in handcuffs. *What on earth did he want?* He pilled him into the car and then let himself into the drivers seat. “You had your fun? You’ll probably spend the rest of your young life in prison now you know?” he said with a subtle mocking tone. The man stared forward in silence. Millar, unsatisfied with the reaction, turn in his seat “what is wrong with you? High as a kite?” The man remained staunch, not even flinching he remained silent. At this point Millar started the vehicle and pulled off. About halfway through the journey the man finally spoke. “Which station are we going to?” Millar paused for a moment, trying to place the accent but couldn’t crack it, it seemed to be undoubtable Scots but had a blend of something else. “Giffnock” both of the men said in perfect unison. Millar scowled at the man in the rear view mirror. *What’s he playing at?*“So you’re from around here, are you?” Millar questioned the man. Once again though, he remained silent. About 10 minutes later the man blurted out once again, “your daughter, Beth, she’s wants to go to Heriot Watt to do engineering is that correct?” A mixture of emotions came over Millar as he asked himself how could he know that. “Patricia does deserve a promotion, you are right Scott, she works the hardest and should ask for a promotion.” Now Millar was fuming, his wife had had this exact conversation with him the previous night before in bed falling asleep, *how could he know that? Is he threating my family?* Millar decided to take things into his own hands, he took a right and headed down an unused farm road. When Millar eventually stopped he stepped out of the vehicle and stared at the abandoned barn. The weather had taken its toll on the structure. The steel was all rusty with many panels bent in the wind, some were simply missing. Millar walked the man inside the barn and stopped him in the centre. “What is your goal from all this?” Millar questioned. The man stood still. Millar paused to think. “Did you intend to be arrest…” the man interrupted, “how would you feel if your family knew about how you abuse your power? The drug gang pay offs? The paedophile rings you take part in? Your secrete affair?” Millar began to vent with rage. He was an upstanding member of the community. He would never do anything of the like. “How dare you, I would never do anything of the such!” Millar barked very offended. “I know about it all and I intend to let the information out.” The man said it with a straight and truthful face. This push Millar over the edge. Like a cosmic silver back, Millar slammed his fist off the man cheek. Blood spattered over the concrete floor of the barn as the man feel to his knees. Millar dragged him back to the car and pilled him into the back once again. The man spoke one final time just as they left. In a calm and collect manor he said, “you’re going to regret doing that.” Millar went home that night still thinking about the things that were said. *How could he know these personal details? And where did the rest come from? Has he mistaken me for someone else?*The words bothered him right until he went to bed, after which he forgot the whole situation completely. A week or so passed when Millar was sitting at his desk when his superior approach him. His superior was Captain Blair. She presented her phone open on the Daily Record with the main headline for today. It read “Police Sargent and Team Disgraced at Hearing.” A video showed the highlights of the hearing. It was a colourful event with witnesses and evidence that damned everyone within Millar’s team. From drug gang members to a women who claimed to have been Millar’s mistress. The cherry on the cake was a small boy who cried in the stand about the alleged times Sgt Millar abused him. Finally the man who Millar had arrested took to the stand, with a very bruised, cut and stitched face he struggled to speak of the time Millar threated him with is police authority and beat him for his money in a back alley obviously recognising him. Millar was shocked to see that the man was a Scots American self-made millionaire called Alexander Fraser. He had been in the news occasionally as being the richest Scot to ever lived, making his money in construction. Blair asked Millar what he made of this. Millar was stunned. Soon afterward Millar was told to go home as he was on suspension until further notice. Along with his team he was almost certain he’d never be able to show his face again. Over the days to come Fraser watched as the papers and news painted him as a hero and damned the police services. The fake witnesses, the makeup all told the story he had intended. This was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to strike fear among the ranks. What history could he pull up on anyone else? Most police officers wouldn’t mess with him now. Fraser decided to test this theory. Months on from the firing of Sgt Millar, at the Argyll St branch of the Bank of Scotland, the tellers were serving the afternoon customers when a familiar face walked in the door. This time Fraser wielded the gun from the beginning. “Hello again” he said with a cruel smile on his face. Everyone hit the ground. “This time I would like to see the safe”. A teller jumped to their feet and walked Fraser to the safe on the lower level of the bank, unlocked the door and ran back up the stairs. Fraser Helped himself to as much as pockets would fill. He didn’t really need the money, it was more for show. Police began to surround the building much like the time before bracing for a shootout. As they poised themselves they saw who was coming. The Sargent with the squad ordered them to lower their weapons. Fraser walked over and placed the gun on the bonnet of the vehicle and began to pull the cash from his pockets. He filled the pockets of the Sargent and the other officers as well. The officers were not very awkward about this and tried not to pay it any attention. The Sargent hesitated but went through with saying what everyone was thinking. “Sargent Millar was a good man” she said trembling. “It’s a shame the people he works for are not.” Fraser said with a hint of passion. He then wondered to the side of the building next to the underground station and didn’t move for a moment or two. Then a large roar occurred. Fraser drove round the corner in a white Lamborghini Gallardo. The sound of the V10 boomed off the walls of the surrounding buildings as he rocketed down Argyll St and then under the Central Tunnel. The Sargent, disappointed with the results of today, lifted the gun off the bonnet and climbed into her car. She noted the gun was offlay light and pressed the magazine release button. Nothing happened. It dawned on her the arrogance of Alexander Fraser. He robbed a bank, left the evidence with the police who reposed and all the while with an empty gun.


A long, long, time ago, in a flourishing seaside kingdom ruled by a benevolent King, there was a humble Fisherman. One day he cast his net out and caught the most brilliantly green sunfish. So beautiful was the fish that the Fisherman thought it a pity to for it to be served as dinner, thus he let it go. In gratitude, the fish spoke and asked the man. “You seem a kind, and honest soul with a deep love. Tell me, how can I reward you for sparing my life?” The Fisherman, surprised at the talking fish, was at a loss for words, gaping at the creature, before he replied, “Well, I live in a small, peaceful village. Everything is great except for my shack by the sea, it's cold and uncomfortable in the winter. It would be nice if it could be a better house.” “It is done. When you return home, you’ll have a new house.” The fish declared. When the Fisherman returned home, he found his wife excited in a new abode with a pretty yard, wonderfully furnished. “What happened? I was sitting in our hut one moment, then the next, our shack became beautiful!” The Fisherman explained the story, and the wife became ponderous. “You’ve met with a magical fish and all you asked for is a house?” She queried, “Why didn't you ask for land and a farm? That way, we can have wealth beyond this hut.” The Fisherman thought for a moment and he came to agree. Taking his wife's advice, he went back to the sea, to the same place as the fish and he asked, “Sunfish sunfish, bless me with your magic. I have a request.” To sunfish rose from the sea and listened to the Fisherman as he requested for a farm. “…So we can be self-sustaining you see.” The man explained nervously. “I quite admire that,” the Fish said. “It is good to labor over long yielding fruits. When you return, you will have a farm. Just remember that abundance doesn’t compare to quality. Sometimes a single sweet berry one cultivates could taste sweeter than a thousand others.” The Fisherman returned home and he and his wife were happy for days, but then one night, his wife sighed. “Husband, I am tired of working the fields and tending to the animals. Go ask the fish if we can have a manor instead, where we can rule over the others like lords.” The man’s heart grew weary. “The farm is grand, our gardens are filled with fruit and food, our stocks are plump with creatures, we will never go hungry. Why would you want to be a lord?” “Like cattle, we labor and give money to the lord. Why not be lords ourselves?” The wife chided, “The fish can do it, if its magic can do this much. Just go.” The man hesitantly approached the sea, sailing to the same spot again in his small craft. “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic. I have a request. It is at the behest of my wife.” The sea churned, and from the blue ocean waves rose the fish. “Very well. What does she want?” “My wife wishes to live in a manor and become a lord.” He said. “And your wish?” “The same.” He lied. “Very well, go home. You both will have the title and manor.” The fish said, its eyes flashing, noting the change in the Fisherman. When the man returned home, he was confronted with a stone manor, with a grand entry and servants running about the home. Food and the best wine overflowed the oak tables, and he indulged with his wife until they nearly collapsed. “Now,” said the wife, “Isn’t this nice?” “Oh yes, I am very satisfied.” The man said. "Hmmm,” said the woman, “Let us sleep on this for now.” The next few mornings the couple passed contently with their servants and control over their lands. Though dealing with the many complaints of the farmers and peasants wore on the man, and he found himself curt and often unnecessarily cruel when he needed to dole out punishment, work he did not enjoy. Then one day his wife suggested, “Husband, I’ve been thinking, what if we become king and queen over all the land?” “Why would we want to be rulers?” He asked, “I’m already doing too much as lord, and there’s so many households to care for.” “But as King you would have people to take care of that for you, for us!” the wife advised. “Ask the fish to make you King.” “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Then ask to make me Queen. I want a crown.” The woman insisted. Begrudgingly, the husband went back to the ocean. “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic. My wife has a request.” He said to the sea surrounding his boat, and soon it churned turbulent purple. The sunfish rose out from the water and asked, “What does your wife want?” “She wishes to be Queen…” The man frowned. “And what do you want?” The fish asked. The man sighed. “I have noticed that I’ve been more unlike myself and I don’t know…” “I do not have the power to make her Queen on my own.” The fish interrupted, shaking off two brilliant green scales and gave them to the man. “She will need to exchange life for magic if she wants to rule. You both may borrow my magic infused in these scales. Passing willing life force into these will transfer magic to me, and give you power over others. Know this - you can convince others to give years off their lives.” The man took both scales and thought it a solution to his woes. He gave one to his wife while he secretly kept the other out of caution, fashioning it into a ring upon his hand. She fashioned it to a pendant, and within the week; she visited the crown. At the end of the month, she summoned the Fisherman to the palace. Visiting the capital, he traversed the winding road to the gilded stone palace, then passed obedient rows of gentry walking across the echoing hall at the kingdom’s center. Till, at last, he found his wife on the throne. “Look darling, I’m Queen!” she greeted, seated high with a crown too big for her head, and he trembled. “Aren’t you glad to see it?” “Yes dear, of course, I’m so happy for you,” He lied, eyes unable to leave the marbled floor, then added, “What happened to the King?” She didn’t answer, but he knew. He felt the power glowing from the necklace on her chest. Afraid, he made up an excuse: he preferred the quiet life compared to the lavishment of the palace, and left to return to his house by the sea. Days passed, then weeks. The humble Fisherman began hearing of missing people, the gathering of armies, consulting with dark wizards. Even in the remote sea-side village, there were rumors of how the Queen’s desire to conquer neighboring kingdoms pushed the nation on the brink of war. Soon, strange figures intruded into the small town, and while the Queen's ambition spread, his deep love he felt for her waned. With a heavy heart, the Fisherman returned to the sea in his tiny boat, “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic. I have a request.” The sea toiled in dark black water, and the fish rose from the ocean. “What do you want?” The fish asked. And before the man answered, boats he hadn’t noticed rushed to surround his vessel, capturing the man and the fish. “Let us go!” The man demanded, but the soldiers didn’t listen. He tried to push his life into the green scale on his ring to gain control of their captors, but the fish stopped him. “She is stronger than you. She had fed on many willing lives.” The Fish advised. “Let us see what her wish is.” The man nodded, resigned to his fate, and the two were brought to the Palace, bound in chains of steel and a meager bowl of water. They were led through golden doors and tapestries threaded with silver, but the ornate furnishings no longer caught the Fisherman's eyes, and instead he gasped in horror. “Sunfish, sunfish, bless me with your magic.” The Queen declared on her throne, a bloody sword in one hand. Around her were bodies, lifeless eyes stared up to the ceiling. “I’m about to go to war, but I needn’t have to if the scale you gave me worked properly. The neighboring prince was immune to me even after I sacrificed a dozen people!” She gestured with the blade, scattering blood drops across the ground. The Fisherman recoiled at the sight. “My Queen, please, isn’t this enough? Why must you demand more?” The Queen scoffed, “Silence, peasant, I wasn’t speaking to you.” And in his chains, the Fisherman’s fist gripped tight, scowling at the pool of blood staining the hall, letting regret seep into his veins. “There are men who will be incompatible with the magic I have leant you, and for those, you can not control them as you can others.” The Fish replied cooly. “Your husband, for example, is immune to such magics.” The Queen sneered, “I want more than kingdoms. I want to control the very fabric of reality across the realm, like you.” “Across the realm? I’m afraid I don’t have that much power,” the Fish said. “Oh, but you could,” the Queen insisted. “Lives sacrificed in war are the same, are they not?” “Yes, some, but—” “But what? You grow stronger too, every time a life passes in sacrifice.” the Queen rose from her throne, her blade aimed at the Fish and the Fisherman, “And I know your secret Fish. The King, before he died, told me he rid the land of demons, beings that corrupted and consumed souls, before he came into the throne. But he did not speak of ridding the ocean. So a demon is what you are, is it not?” She took a bold step away from her seat at the front of the room, kicking away the rotting body of some noble, long dead. “The wizards too repeat the same, that the scale you gave me is not of this world but of another, higher magic. Shouldn’t you want me to succeed? So that we can bend the world to our will and feed your power?” “Is…is what she said true?” The Fisherman looked at the Fish. The creature whipped its tail. “She’s obviously mad. I have done nothing but help you and given you what you’ve asked for. Now, her thirst for power threatens to destroy us.” “My thirst?” The Queen declared, cackling, “I am only claiming what is right, to set the world right—” “By killing?” the Fisherman interrupted, disgust strewn across his face. “By sacrifice.” The Queen corrected, pressing the sword to Fisherman’s chest. He cliched his fist and wished and wished for it to be as it was before the gifts, before he met the Fish, when he had been kind and honest, before his love for his wife was ruined. Yet he knew reversing time was beyond his power, so as his ring gleamed—blinding green, he settled for another wish. For it all to end. And the Fish smiled, savoring the single fruit that it labored over while the hall and the lands bathed in a green glow. In the aftermath of the mad Queen, those under her control woke from her spell as if from a nightmare, but the damage was already done, and the kingdom tore itself asunder, before the neighboring empires picked apart its bones. A benign version of the tale was passed down generations, though the ending was changed: When the Fish tired of the escalating requests, the Fish simply returned the Fisherman and his wife to their humble home. Through tales, the Fisherman’s last wish came true.


As I tie up the trash bag in the can next to the TV table I count six empty Guinness bottles and an empty half-pint of Captain Morgan rum. Whoever stayed in this room last night must feel fantastic this morning. (Yes, that was sarcasm.) I am not surprised to find a wide brown liquor stain in the dead center of the white and green bedspread. Oh well, it's not the worst kind of stain I've ever found on the bedding in the three weeks I've worked here. I strip off the bedspread as well as the sheets and pillowcases. Distracted by a sudden flash of lightning, I walk over to the window to glance outside. The rain is coming down in relentless torrents and the water-heavy branches of the trees are whipping back and forth in the insane wind. After drawing the curtains closed across the rain lashed window I gather up the bundle of dirty bedding and step out of the room to throw it on the bottom of my cart. I grab the clean towels and toiletries from my cart before returning to the room. Based on the contents of the trash can, I am less than enthusiastic about entering the bathroom. To my slight surprise and immense relief, however, it is clean and in good order. I leave the door to the room open as I push my cart down the hallway toward the elevator. This is my least favorite part of the job, going down to the laundry room to retrieve fresh bedding. It's not the laundry room itself that I dislike, but due to severe claustrophobia I don't enjoy sharing the limited elevator space with my cleaning cart. "Hey Chrissy," Claudia greets me, popping her head out of one of the rooms as I trundle past with my cart. "This's some storm, isn't it?" "It's crazy," I agree. We both glance up at the lighting fixtures as they all flicker at once, down the entire length of the hallway ceiling. "You don't think the power's going to go out, do you?" Claudia shrugs her shoulders. "It might. It happens sometimes in bad storms." She disappears back into the room she's cleaning with a little wave. The lights flicker again just as I reach the elevator, this time staying off for a full count of three seconds before coming back on. If I was on the second or third floor I would be tempted to forego the elevator and wrestle my cart down the stairway. I am, however, on the seventh floor so that's not going to happen. I push the 'call' button and wait for the whine of the approaching elevator. When the doors slide open I push my cart in and wedge myself into the corner closest to the door, reminding myself to breathe. I realize, of course, that I'm only going to be in this box for a minute or so but claustrophobia is a real affliction. I let out an involuntary little shriek when the elevator shudders to a complete standstill and the light goes off, plunging me into utter darkness. Once I am able to force myself to breathe again I reach out with one hand and feel around for the panel of buttons, pushing several of them at random. None of them light up. The elevator's dead. The hotel must have lost power after all. I pound on either the door or the wall (it's hard to tell which without any light) with my fist. "Help!" My voice cracks and breaks. I clear my throat and try again, "Help! Please, I'm stuck in here! Can anybody hear me? Please help!" When I press my ear against the cold steel silence is all I hear. No one moving around or talking in the hallway outside (if there even is a hallway outside. For all I know I could be stuck between floors.) No one responding to my frantic pleas. Fuck. I'm going to die in here. I am well aware that panicking will only make it worse, but that knowledge is not enough to help me to calm down. My heart is thudding, there is a sharp pain in my chest, and my breath is tearing in and out of my lungs in ragged little gasps. I bang on the steel and call out again, still with no result. I sit down and concentrate on trying to breathe. Since my cleaning cart is taking up most of the elevator I am not able to extend my legs all the way, so I hug my knees to my chest. The tears slide unbidden down my cheeks despite the fact that crying is not only useless and unhelpful, but is also liable to trigger a bout of hyperventilation, which I'm already dangerously close to. "There's no need to cry, Missus," a child's voice whispers close to my ear. My head snaps up from my knees as I gaze around in panic. My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness by now and I can make out the dim bulk of my cart, but nothing more than that. There's no one in the elevator with me, which I had already known. "H...hello?" Is all I can think to say. Am I going crazy now? I thought it would take longer for that to happen. "You don't need to be frightened, Missus." There is a gentle stirring of the air near my face and I can feel something like a feather brushing against my cheek. I cringe away from it without intending to. "Don't be frightened," the voice admonishes me again. "Who...who are you?" "My name is Marybeth." "Why can't I see you?" "Not everyone can see me, Missus. A few people can, but not most. Even those that can't see me often know I'm around. Have you ever felt like you were being watched when there's no one there?" "That...that's you?" I whisper. I have indeed felt that very sensation of being watched on several occasions while cleaning rooms, although it has never made me feel unduly frightened or uncomfortable. I always just assumed it was my imagination. "Yes, Missus. I like to watch people. But I've never harmed anyone. I wouldn't ever." "So are you...were you a guest here? Did you..." I can't quite bring myself to ask the question did you die at the hotel? I don't even believe in ghosts. "Oh no, Missus," Marybeth answers my unasked question. "I've been around here long before the hotel was built. I worked at the textile mill that used to be here." I was aware that the hotel has only been on this site for six years or so, and before that there was a poorly-managed nightclub that was only here for a few months before the owner went bankrupt. I don't remember what was here before that. A barber shop or hair salon, I think. I don't remember ever hearing that there had been a textile mill built here at any point, but that doesn't mean there hadn't been one. Her voice, however, sounds like that of a child far too young to have worked anywhere. "Did you say you worked at the textile mill?" I ask her. "Yes, Missus." "But you...how old are you?" "Eleven, Missus. The textile mill used me and the others from the orphanage for cheap labor." I don't know whether this makes me more sad or angry. "There was a fire at the mill one day," she tells me, her voice flat and emotionless. "I'm still not sure how it stared. I never made it out. Most of us didn't." Maybe it's a good thing that I can't see her. Does she look blackened and disfigured, with charred bones poking through seared flesh? I don't think that's something I should ask her. "So are the others still here too?" I question instead, curious. The irony is not lost on me that I feel far less panicked trapped in a dark elevator with a dead little girl than trapped in a dark elevator by myself. Maybe that's why she came to me, she knew I needed a distraction. "No, Missus," she responds, "They all crossed over. At least, I think they did. I haven't seen any of them since the fire." "Crossed over? Like white light and harps and halos?" "Well, I don't know anything about harps and halos. But there was a bright white light." "Why didn't you cross over?" "I was afraid to, Missus. I didn't know what was on the other side and I was not ready to leave. I wanted to go on living life here, even if I'm not alive. And I'm glad I stayed. I've seen so much more than I ever would have seen in my lifetime." "So you just...what...hang around and watch people at the hotel?" "Yes, Missus. Sometimes I talk to them like I'm talking to you. Sometimes there's someone who can see me, usually children younger than me, and I play games with them." I have never received any complaints from the guests that the hotel is haunted, and to my knowledge neither have the rest of the staff. Maybe that's because it's quite obvious that Marybeth's presence is in no way malevolent. I suppose guests don't mind sleeping in a haunted hotel as long as the spirit is friendly. The sudden hum of the elevator mechanism accompanied by the light flickering back on brings me back to my feet. Oh, thank God. I still have the sensation that someone is watching my every move with the curiosity of a child. "Marybeth?" I whisper into the empty elevator as I push the button for the laundry room. "Yes, Missus?" Her voice replies. "Thank you. You helped calm me down." "You're welcome, Missus." When the elevator doors open at last I pull my cart out into the laundry room. "Oh, Chrissy," Darla greets me with a smile on her wrinkled face. She is the senior of the housekeeping staff, a pleasant litte old lady whom the rest of us refer to as 'Grandma', but not in her presence of course. "It's good to see someone else!" "Were you stuck down here?" I ask her. "Yes." "I was stuck in the elevator." "Oh, you poor thing. Are you all right?" Her concern is genuine. Everyone on the staff is aware of my claustrophobia, due to the incident on my first day of employment. One of the housekeepers had thought it would be funny to lock me in the broom closet as some sort of 'initiation prank'. He was fired immediately afterward. "Yeah, I'm okay. It was pretty rough at first." I toss the dirty bedding on my cart into the huge half-empty hamper, then walk over to grab some fresh sheets from another hamper. "Darla, can I ask you something?" "Of course. Anything," she answers. "Have you...have you ever seen or experienced anything...anything weird here?" "Oh, you've met Marybeth, haven't you?" The corners of Darla's blue eyes crinkle up in a smile. "Isn't she the sweetest little thing?"


Disclaimer: This story has topics of euthanization. PLease be advised. It looks like water, but it is not coming from what I usually drink out of, and I have drunk out of some real doozies let me tell you. Have you ever been so thirsty for water that you will drink it out of anything, well, almost anything. I am not sure I should drink it from where its coming from now. I am not sure it is really safe. Although, it is the third time I have seen water flow like this. Let me tell you about the first time it happened.  I was in the backseat of this shiny black car, and I looked in the mirror and I could see it. It was like magic. It just showed up. Maybe it has something to do with the car, it looks new, the screen has all kinds of weird buttons, and this backseat is very slippery.  In fact, if my butt stopped sliding all over this backseat, I would climb up front and get a drink, but somehow, I think that would not be appropriate. I can wait. I am sure there will be some water whenever I stop. …Ok, hold on, just telling this story is making me thirsty. I got to take a drink of water and then I will tell you about the second time. Plus, and I know this is going to sound weird, but I like the fact that I can just have a drink whenever I want. Yeah, I know that was weird, but seriously, anytime I want. Anytime… All right, the second time I had just left this hotel, if you could even call it that, but that’s a different story. This time, I was the thirstiest I had ever been in my life. It felt like I had not had water in days, but I was also extremely hungry so that tends to skew up my timeline. So, I jumped in the backseat of this car that looks just like the model I was in the first time, so you know I was already gripping my nails in the seat to keep from sliding everywhere. Then I remembered that the driver was able to get water so maybe this one had the same features. As if by some weird mindreading skill there is water. I could not believe it. Here I was, so extremely thirsty I could feel my body twitch as I was about to, literally, leap over the seats, face first and dive in. I almost didn’t care what this person would think, but the thought of having to share this action choice with my therapist did bring a bit of embarrassment to my rationale. So, I looked at the driver in the mirror and smiled. Oddly, this driver looks a lot like the other driver that picked me up the first time this happened. Oh my gosh, even smells like the other driver, or is that because it’s the same model of car? …SKIIIIIIIRRRRRPPPPP…. Hold Up…. Time OUT…. This is definitely time for another water break. If you need one as well, and I am thinking you do, go take one and I will meet you back here in five…Cool? It really is so amazing to me that I can just stop whatever I am doing and get a drink of water. Knowing that I have to trust that there will be more the next time I want a drink is a concept I am working on. Well, the whole trust thing is a concept I am working on, but I am sure you have had to work on that trust thing as well, so you understand. So, from my calculations I have told you about the first and second time I saw water show up from this place. That means this is the third time and I am deciding whether or not to take a drink. Same kind of car, same slippery backseat, and since I have decided that it is the same driver as before I feel more secure in my moving to the front to explore this phenomenon.   I have decided the slow and casual move is better than engaging my athletic skills because it allows me some time to retreat should the driver become angry at my crossing the social boundary. Well, here I am in the front seat, just looking out the window waiting for a moment to sneak in for a closer look at the driver. I stretch my neck and lazily lay my head down as I search for the beginning of where this water comes from. Wait, there it is, right above that beautiful smile the driver just gave me when I laid my head down. The water is coming from her face, more precisely, her eyes. WOW!!!! That is amazing. I never realized humans could produce water straight from their eyes. Fascinating. I wonder what happens to them to do this. Let’s recap. The first time I saw it, I was leaving this cramped 2-bedroom apartment and heard the next day I was going to be put down, which was weird because I was already laying down. This driver shows up, puts me in their car and takes me to a new home where I really didn’t fit in or so they said. Second time, that scary packed hotel I was dropped off at and had to sleep with one eye open. Luckily, I got picked up by this driver before they gave me something that would close both my eyes for good. I heard the lady at the front desk say it was called sedation or something like that. Third time is now, in this car in this garage it is happening again. This time though there is a smile on their face as the water flows. They grab my leash and lead me out of the car and into a warm home. I hear them say, “Baby, we are home.” Before I can really let those words sink in, I spy a shiny silver bowl in the corner that has the words Nela’s Water Bowl written above it. Wait, is that what I think it is? A large clean bowl of water just for me? I look up at the driver as they take off my leash and tell me that is my water bowl. This time I cannot help it; my athleticism takes on a life of its own and I bounce right over to the water. Right before I take my first drink, I look up in time to see the other human, “Baby”, come into the room. I see they are both looking at me and producing water from their eyes. It is at that moment I decide. I think I will drink from my water bowl instead.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Weakness! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘Weakness’. We all have them, whether it's a person, a thing, a feeling, or something else entirely. Weaknesses remind us that we are human, or at the very least, vulnerable. They can take on any shape or form. Maybe the weakness is more literal, due to sickness, or physical exertion. How do your characters experience weaknesses in their daily lives? What type of things make them vulnerable? Who—or what—do they lean on for support and guidance? If you’re writing in a magical world, maybe your characters’ magic is weak to a specific spell or element. How does this endanger them? What happens when an enemy or foe learns of these vulnerabilities? Maybe a new face has to step in the hero's shoes. These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - July 3 - Weakness (this week) - July 10 - Yearning - July 17 - Alliance   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings Rankings are postponed until next week. Thank you for your patience!   *** ###Subreddit News - Call for voters for our on r/WritingPrompts! Check out the post and comment to become a voter! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


   “I was molested.”     “What?!”     It was a Thursday evening; but when your friend had had a fight with his secret boyfriend, you now had an excuse to declare it a long weekend. First , ask your seatmates to cover for you in classes you can’t fuck, and just fuck the rest. But because you’re a roguish student and a good seatmate , they probably got your back in everything until graduation. Second , drop by your apartment to change because someone from school might see you buying booze with your nun-like uniform: white, long sleeve blouse and black, below the knee skirt. You’re not a good student, but you’re not stupid either—you can’t fuck up college, especially when it’s already your last year. Third , let him chose the drink. It’s his night. Buy from small liquor stores to support small businesses. Buy cheaper ones because the goal is to gulp and get drunk; not to sip, smell and whirl it in your father’s fancy tumbler that you stole four years ago because you wanted to punish him for making you go to a sectarian business school in a town you’ve never been. And make sure to buy enough to last you ‘til 5 AM because in a place like this, everyone’s asleep after ten o’clock. Fourth , drink your sorrows away! “Molested?!” I stood up abruptly and towered in front of him, brows furrowed and mouth agape. The neck of my bottle warm in my right hand. We were drinking cheap cut brandy straight from the bottle while sprawled on the wooden floor in the upstairs living room of his house. It was an old Spanish colonial house that had been owned by his family for generations. The huge house was practically empty except for the antique jars and vases of different sizes placed in every corner: foyer, receiving area, dining, even on pillars of staircases. He shared the house with a housekeeper and his two cousins: one who also went to our school, and the older one worked as I-didn’t-know-what somewhere in this town. While the rest of his family were back in the city with a lot of irons in the fire managing their steel factory. Pun intended.     “Shh... I think my cousin’s still up working,” he whispered as he twisted his body to look if there was someone else around; his almost empty bottle toppled but was still safely nestled in his crossed legs.     When we started playing twenty-one questions, it was fun. We laughed and giggled at our stupid questions and silly answers until I asked the question, “How did you become bisexual?” as a joke. “What do you mean molested?!” I scream-whispered. He only sighed, propped his elbows on his bent knees and buried his face in his palms. My head spun, maybe from the sudden movement. So I sat back down beside him, legs stretched, still holding the bottle. I heard him breathe deeply, and then myself. “Who did it?” “My uncle...” he said quietly, face still buried in his hands. “What?” I gasped. “...and my cousin,” ...and a family friend.” His voice quivered. He sniffed and moved his left hand to wipe away his tears that I didn’t see, but knew was there. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Yes, it happens a lot in this country especially to those poor children living in the slums, but to him? He’s from a rich, respected family for Christ's sake! “How? When? Your parents, do they know?... Why not?!” He only kept crying and sniffing and shaking his head while I rapidly blurted out those questions. "Why didn't you tell them?" I pressed on. "I don't want to be the cause of some sort of dispute in the family." "Seriously?!" He didn't answer. “Wait, which cousin?” He jerked his head to the left where there was a hallway lined with bedroom doors, but there was only one occupied room in that part of the house, “Friendly?!” We had been friends since freshman year, and I had been in this house countless of times for the past four years. The people of this house knew me. I’d even assigned nicknames for them, but only used it when talking to my friend. The housekeeper was Mrs. Lovely because she was sweet and kind, one cousin was Friendly because he was warm and welcoming, and the other was Shabby not that he was untidy but because he was either shy or snobby.     He only nodded.     “Is he still doing it?”     “No, it only happened when I was a kid. When I still wasn’t strong enough to fight them off.”     “What about Shabby? Did he also...?”     “No, we’re the same age. It was only my uncle and—“     “Friendly. Because they’re much older and stronger.”     He sobbed, bent his back much lower to hug his knees and bury his face.     “Animals!” I muttered. When you see those innocent girls on the news with their young faces blurred—victims—some are dead, others alive (but are they really?); or the high rate of reported child abuse and trafficking from a research article you were reading for Psychology class, you clenched your teeth while clicking on that down button harder and harder as you read more and more about these bastards! But there was nothing you could do.     A door creaked open then closed. My friend stopped crying, but he was still hiding his face, sniffing. His cousin padded down the hallway. I looked up when he passed by us, and he met my gaze.     “Love life?” he chuckled, pointing at my crying friend. I nodded once.     “Where are you going?” I asked.     “Kitchen,” he never stopped walking, “midnight snack.”

Animal! I thought.     Once he descended the stairs, I stood up. “I need to pee,” I told my friend and walked calmly towards the stairs; bottle of brandy still in hand.     When I reached the wooden rail near the staircase, I placed both of my forearms on top of it and let the half full bottle of cheap brandy dangle from my fingers. I turned to my right and stared at the antique vase placed heavily on top of the pillar. No, too hard. On impulse, I changed my hold of the bottle. I now held it horizontally with the neck in my left hand and bottom in my right. The amber liquor inside took another shape. I leveled the bottle, breathed, and waited. And then, it all happened so quickly: a shatter, Friendly bawled in pain, my friend’s footsteps, then I ran downstairs. When I got to Friendly, there were shards of glass on the floor and he was clutching his head still screaming in pain. “What happened!” my friend exclaimed behind me. “I dropped the bottle and it hit him!” I replied rather honestly. Mrs. Lovely emerged from a dark corridor, confused. When she saw Friendly, she went straight to him and led him to the couch in the middle of the room before hurrying for the first aid cabinet. Once Friendly was seated, in pain, and still clutching his head, a beautiful red blood dripped and stained his sordid face. I sat beside him on the couch, “Oh my god! I’m so drunk. I didn’t mean to...” And then I gently put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry!”