Secondhand Smoke            The way she took a drag from her cigarette was not unlike Lady Godiva dismounting from her mount. No matter how hard someone tried, they could not match her grace. It was as if the tobacco burned in anticipation of touching her lips. Her exhale clouded my view of her face but highlighted the moon beams, which were the only source of light. Taking another long drag, she extended the butt to me, which I reluctantly took. To buy myself another five minutes with her, I lied about my own smoking habits. I had long been tempted to start smoking, but to this point had resisted the temptation.  Inhaling, or rather attempting to look as if this wasn’t my maiden voyage, I sucked in the smoke and was immediately met with the disapproval of both my lungs and throat. Holding in my urge to cough only accentuated the heat festering in my chest, the pain finding release through mucus out of my nostrils.            I handed the cigarette back to her, trying to mask my grimace as an off-handed Robert DeNiro impression. She noticed my discomfort and commiserated my pain with a devilish laugh.            “So, tell me, what do you hope to do with your fancy college degree?” she asked as she disarmed the torch on the bottom of her shoe.            “Honestly, I don’t really know. Being a CPA was never high on my totem pole, but I know it’s a safe profession and my parents have no qualms with it”.            “That’s really sad, y’know that? You sound defeated. At our age you’re supposed to be still dreaming of what changes you can make in the world, not picturing yourself balding, paying into some bullshit Ruth IPA”.            “It’s a Roth IRA.”            “Whatever the hell it’s called, it makes no difference.”            She took her phone out of her purse, quickly glanced at the brightened screen and smirked.            “My ex-boyfriend, well, ok my current boyfriend but soon to be ex-boyfriend is begging for me to go over his apartment tonight.”            “Go if you want to.” I offered the choice for her to leave, but in my stomach, I wished I could muster the courage to reveal my ulterior motives for sharing her cigarette.            “Oh please, that’s not what either of us want to do.” She squinted her eyes as she replied, insinuating she had concocted a devious plan.            Perhaps the decision to smoke inspired my newfound audacity. She was my vessel to discovering what gumption I had. Up until we disrobed in the back of my car, I longed for an opportunity to truly seize and live in a moment. Too often people allow society’s undertow to determine their path. Sitting in the back seat, behind the driver’s side, with her head across my lap, I began to run my fingers through her hair. Her eyes were closed and breathing became increasingly shallow as her voice trailed off in between answers. While she talked about a memory of running around her yard during a thunderstorm as a child, I had an epiphany. My ears tuned out her words, but my eyes and heart listened to what her body was really saying. She had put on a mask, a cloud of allusion she was removed from the claws of societal pressures and norms. But the truth was, she was not much different than the girl she described dancing in the rain. As lost as I had found myself, chipping away at a degree in a career I so desperately loathed, I could at least be attributed purpose in life. Sure, an accountant is not the sexiest profession, but the stability and reverence my parents have for it gave me a sense of superiority to the lost girl who was falling asleep in my lap. I folded my jacket, using it as a replacement pillow as I slipped out of the car. I was immediately met with the cool salty air of the ocean. The breeze was welcomed and refreshing. Only then did I realize how hot it had become inside my Honda. Walking down the beach, I found my way to a lifeguard stand, propping myself onto it. Waves slowly reaching for the shore before retreating back to the sea echoed in the silent chamber of my thoughts. Flashing lights emitted from a tanker anchored a few miles offshore, the only indication of life beyond the sand.            Summertime brings a sense of carefree inclinations and freedom from reality. I wasn’t sure if I was beginning to love her or merely love the idea of her. She made me irrational. She made me lust. She made me yearn. She made me walk a tightrope between self-respect and dark desire.            The scurrying of a fox beneath me broke my concentration. I unsheathed my phone from my pocket and was met with the reality of the time. Dismounting my post as nocturnal guard of the beach, I returned to the sleeping beauty.            I opened the door which had been moonlighting as an ottoman for her feet. She remained unstirred, prompting me to prod her ribs.            “Hey, you’ve got to wake up” I whispered, continuing to lightly shake her.            Still unmoving, I began trying a myriad of techniques to get her to wake up. Pinching her leg, to rubbing her sternum, none working any better than the other. I became increasingly worried, practically frantic when the glow of headlights illuminated the cabin of the car.            I quickly closed the door and took a few steps away from the car, holding my phone to my head in an attempt to feign an imaginary call. The foreign SUV pulled past and began a U-turn. They rolled down the passenger side window, asking something I could not quite make out. I took a few steps closer, not quite able to make out the features of the driver, but close enough to hear him over the humming of the engine.            “Hey! Where’s Kutter Rd? My phone’s got no service out here man”            “Oh, yeah, just take a left when you pull out of here and it should be the third or fourth road on your right”            He thanked me and quickly jetted out of the parking lot. I immediately returned to the back seat where she still laid unmoved. With no previous CPR training, I tried to emulate scenes from shows and movies. I pressed on her chest and began breathing into her mouth. Each gasp of air became increasingly desperate.            Her chest rose and sank, repeating the breathing process after about two minutes of my novice attempt to resuscitate her. I lifted her eye lids, and she pushed my hands away from her face.            She stretched a bit and smiled up at me, completely unaware of the horror I nearly experienced.            “Hey love, you trynna cop a feel while I’m sleeping?” she said as she smirked and sat up. She reached into her purse for a cigarette. . I peered into the rearview mirror, watching our reflections coexist. The smokescreen of her cigarette could not hide my gaunt expression. We sat in the backseat, in silence as the ocean breeze carried the secondhand smoke into my face.


"There's a theory," McCall intoned as he checked the cameras a third time. "A line of reasoning, I should say, that time travel to the past is impossible. Otherwise, we would be inundated with tourists from the future." He continued with a small chuckle. Blakely nodded. "Plenty of logical arguments against. Creating paradoxes is too easy. Some even believe that any universe in which the conditions make time travel possible ceases to exist because of paradox." The monitor's glow reflected off his glasses, and he glanced at the steady green bar indicating the power levels were holding. "So the conditions in our universe, therefore, must make it impossible." "By all accounts, this shouldn't work at all, but the maths check out." McCall moved carefully back beyond the line of safety tape. "When activated, the field —" "Yes, I know." Blakely's forehead furrowed. "Focus on the task at hand." "You see," McCall blundered on, unabated, "the multiverse of possible timelines... A tree with near infinite branches." He held his hands up, fingers splayed. "The sphere will pass down one branch, into our past, and create a new branch where it simply emerges into existence at that point in time. It will cease to exist on this branch of the tree, and will exist on that one. Will have always existed as that branch stretches—" "Three seconds before you hit the switch, the iron sphere will appear on the charged plate in the sealed chamber." Blakely muttered. "'Effect prior to cause,' so you keep saying. Every time we run this experiment." McCall scowled, "For the record! For the *cameras*, not for you. I know *you* know all this." *For the Nobel committee, you mean*, Blakely thought, but did not say. A loud, metallic thud emitted from the white, pill-shaped vessel on the table. "Did we lose the vacuum seal again?" McCall stepped gingerly over cables snaking on the floor, and navigated his way around the camera tripod. He bent down over the table to inspect the pressure valve. Blakely stared at the display, his mouth slightly open. Within the sealed vacuum chamber across the lab, at the focal point of dozens of instruments and cameras, a one-kilogram sphere of iron had appeared. He sat back, slowly, then started.


ROMANIA’S PROPOSALS Romania had wished for a proposal this Christmas. All her high school friends were already married and had started their families, and she was tired of being the professional bridesmaid or wedding arranger. She dreamed of the day she would walk up the aisle with Sam Rogers, but somehow, he seemed to see her as a good friend. They had spent countless special times together but, he seemed unaware of her love for him. Romania had dated a few men over the past two years, but none of the relationships seem destined for the altar, at least so she thought. Apart from Sam, there was James an astute businessman who spent most of his time at the office and, when on dates, on his phone. Then, there was Terry, the boisterous, humorous guy who always made her laugh and could move the clouds away on a cloudy day. She loved being with him but felt he needed to be a bit more balanced. He didn’t know the meaning of the word serious. Alex was a fitness instructor who kept her on track to maintain her fine figure but, would she have to be constantly looking over her shoulder every time she went to the refrigerator? He was so particular about the types of food she should eat, and how often she should snack.! And finally, there was Nathan. Nathan was fun, cool, and romantic, but he was a spendthrift with no thought of tomorrow. So, here she was seven days before Christmas, wondering if she was going to end the year singing Celine Dion’s “Another Year Has Gone By” to her ever- present teddy bear. The guys had all asked her out to dinner that week so, at least her schedule did not shout loneliness. She would make the best of it and forget about her musings. Dinner with James was the usual, and she wondered why he had bothered. His attention was so focused on the phone and constant business calls that he did not even enjoy the beautiful and cheerful songs played by the band. Was she surprised then, when during desert, he handed her a beautifully wrapped tiny box. “Thanks James”, she said as she gave her gift in exchange, thinking that a pair of earrings was just what she needed. But much to her surprise, James put aside his phone as she opened the gift and asked, “Will you marry me?” Shocked at the question, Romania hesitated then told him she was not sure about it. Seemingly a bit disappointed, he agreed to give her time to consider as he answered another call. Well, that was enough for her to make her decision! Her next date was Terry, and what fun she had as they sang along with the carolers, took pictures with the snowmen along the way and bit into juicy burgers (Terry’s favorite). When they arrived at her door, Terry jokingly reached for a twig of mistletoe from his pocket, hung it over her head and kissed her. “Christmas will be truly the best for me”, he said if you’ll agree to marry me”. Dazed, she wondered if Santa was playing tricks on her. Did he really hear her plea for a husband? She knew however, that Terry was not her choice and she told him she only considered him as a very good friend. “Ouch”, he said, but his disappointment quickly disappeared as he returned to his old bantering and kissed her good night again. Well, two proposals in one week was a record she thought, but when Alex proposed to her the next night, she could not keep silent. “How can one girl get three proposals in three days?”, she asked. He was taken aback at the question and, after some discussion about the proposals, asked about her choice. Of course, that was easy. No! She wanted her moments of cheesecake and chocolates and fun! She did not tell him her thoughts though. She just said she would rather they remain friends. It was more difficult for her the next night though when Nathan proposed openly at the mall. Singers came from every area of the mall singing “Will you Marry Me” to a Christmas tune, as he knelt on his knees and proposed to her. Everyone waited with bated breath for the “yes”, but she hastily took his hands and lead him to a corner to explain how great a guy he was but was not sure about marriage to him at this stage. He was crushed but said he would not give up. On Christmas Eve, Sam picked her up to take her to her favorite restaurant. She wondered if Santa’s proposal surprises would continue! During the meal, an announcement was made for a special song dedicated to her from Sam. As the song ended, the singer approached their table and handed Sam a tiny gold box. Sam then knelt as he opened the box, while Romania watched on in utter disbelief. She could hardly believe the words she was hearing. Sam was asking her to be his wife. He was telling her how much he always loved her and how he wanted them to be together forever! She felt like pinching herself to ensure it was real. Without a second thought, the words four other men had hoped to hear that week came out without hesitation! “Yes”, she said. “I will marry you”, as he slid the diamond ring on her finger. A loud applause resounded through the restaurant. For a moment, she had forgotten there was any one around and as they left the restaurant holding hands, Romania knew that the next wedding she would attend was her own. The air was crisp, the carolers were singing, children were shouting as the songs of Christmas filled the air; but Romania was in her own world, with Sam right beside her. She would finally be the bride, and not the bridesmaid. The lights seemed brighter, the carols sounded sweeter and she truly felt that she had gotten the best gift for Christmas. She was going to be Sam Roger’s wife! Mrs. Romania Rogers! Her wish had come through! Carolyn G. Philip


I was sitting at my desk watching Boris Johnson attempt to educate the general public. He looked like a thoroughly melted candle as he preached the importance of saving a health service which previous conservative governments had disembowelled veraciously for funding. He was 10 minutes into his spiel about how alert we all need to stay in order to take back control from the virus when a fly bolted across my vision. It was windy outside, and I’d made sure that all the windows were closed. But closed doors and windows simply don’t exist for them. They make a mockery of our feeble thresholds, finding an entry point with the prowess of the perfect burglar. No matter how much I tried to forget about it, there was no way that I was focussing on anything until it was out of my room. I paused the video and slowly closed my laptop for dramatic effect. I felt as if I was about to enter the ring with prime Mike Tyson as I mentally geared up to try and stop a fly from putting its arms and legs all covered in shit over me and my stuff. I jolted up from my seat and scanned the room in vain. The monotonous buzz came from every direction simultaneously. I was befuddled and confused from the get-go. A poor start to say the least. It stopped in the vicinity of my record collection. I went over to my bedside table to roll up an old newspaper as a make-shift baton to smash the bejesus out of this fly with. I read online that they can see in slow motion. I’ve never heard of anything more unfair, but evolution has no regard for my petit notions of justice. I slowly approached the fly, but for all the skill I had in baton-engineering, I severely lacked in common sense. All of my windows and doors were still shut! My room was as tightly sealed as an airplane cabin. The fly was certain to outmanoeuvre my baton swat and land somewhere else in my room. I was despaired by my own ineptitude and for the first time empathised with Boris. I walked over to the window and flung it open with attitude, but when I turned around it had moved positions. It landed on my Martin D-18. For those who aren’t aware, that’s a *nice* guitar. There is no conceivable world in which I’d smash my pride-and-joy with anything, so I was left in a bit of a mess. This fly kept running rings around me, and because of the windows being wide open, my room was freezing. My desk is next to my window, so pages of books were fluttering like birds in a panic. But after 20 minutes of trying to kill a fly and failing miserably, my goose was roasted when it just got up and fucked off on its own accord. My dignity had been well and truly ransacked. ‘God must have been so bored when he created the fly’, I thought to myself. After I’d cleaned my desk and shut my windows, I was curious to understand why flies pester us so much. In the depths of COVID boredom I did some research, and in the process, I stumbled upon one of the greatest internet threads of all time. On *Quora*, someone asked: ‘Why are flies so persistently annoying?’ Rishabh Darmsakhtu responded: ‘years of carnage and atrocities by the bourgeois had built up resentment among the lower class. The downtrodden, the poor, the marginalised had retaliated by making genetically engineered flies which only annoys the so called middle and higher class society people. To make your life miserable they will return every second and target you continuously.’ Interesting theory, but I needed something more scientific. With the eloquence of Hemingway, Isaac Guiste answered: ‘on Earth HATE FLIES THEY’RE FUCKING STUPID ANNOYING LITTLE CUNTS… I HATE FLIES HOPE THEY ALL DIE OF FUCKING FLY CANCER OR BURN IN HELL. THEY’RE DIGUSTING, ANNOYING BASTARDS, THEY EAT SHIT, SHIT, SHIT ALL DAY EVERYDAY THEY’RE VIAL AND MAKE ME SICK EVEN SEEING ONE, THE TOUCH MY SKIN I’LL GO AS FAR AS DEODERANT SPRYING’. Poetic, but still not what I was after. I finally came across a report by the Director of the Australian National Insect Collection, Dr David Yeates. He states that there are only two species of flies which are known to be attracted to human beings and their homes. The *Musca vetutissima* \- the Bush Fly - and the *Musca domestica -* the House Fly. There are certain secretions in the skin which nourish flies and help mature their eggs before they’re laid. There's sweat, proteins, carbohydrates, salts, sugars and other chemicals which flies feed on for nourishment. Interestingly, they can’t bite, but instead have a ‘sponge’ mechanism. When they land on a table to eat a grain of sugar, they don't have mouths to chew it up, so they regurgitate or spew on to it, turning it into a liquid which they can suck up. They also feed off dead skin, and all of this makes human beings particularly appealing because we don’t have any fur to cover it with. So having watched ten minutes of the Prime Minister blunder and spent a good portion of my afternoon being subjugated to a fly, what’s the moral of this story? Don't vote for Conservative governments.


Well, this is quite the predicament. They offered me top of the line but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when they said “The best security”, well whatever a room is a room. I walk in and feel the plush carpeting hit my feet, it’s like walking on a sheep. I look for my bed and toilet and see nothing.

“Hey, where do I sleep?” I asked, “Where else but on the floor? Have you felt it? It’s amazing.” He says back.

“Ok, but where do I go to...go?” I ask, “Oh, there’s a panel that pop’s out and has a toilet, forgot which one though.” He says with a laugh.

“Well alright then” I reply. Well, I should probably assess my current living situation. No bed, a toilet I can’t find, and it’s so damn bright in here. That’s the best I can see for now, well, I suppose I should try and make myself comfortable, they’re saying I could be here for a while with all that’s happened. I go to sit on the floor and immediately regret it. The floor smells of a person who hasn’t bathed in a week. It felt soft through my socks but I guess it must just be my socks. It has a smooth leatherish feeling to it, I can feel that the flooring has different segments to it, like its multiple pillows layed on the floor. But I cannot explain how soft it is. It’s like pressing down on a mattress but there is no end to how far you can press. I lay my head back in comfort as I start to drift into a deep sleep. I wake up back in my bed, back at my house. What was that? Was that a dream? I’m so lost in my thoughts that I nearly forget to glance at the clock. Nine am, shit I’m late for work! I arrive at the office at Twelve, now I am even more late than I was before. Now I have to deal with my boss which is great.

“Why the hell are you so late?!” The boss asks me, he has a bit of a bourbon smell to his breath as he screams at me. So he’s been drinking? That makes my luck even better. “Hey boss, my car broke down on the way here sorry.” A lie but it’s to save my skin. I don’t know what would happen to me if he knew the truth. “So it took you five hours to get your damn car fixed?!” A bit of his saliva hits my co-worker Steph, sorry Steph but better you than me.

“Uhhh yeah?” I reply “This is the last damn straw, if you’re late one more time I swear I will fire faster than you can even blink!” He walks back to his office after he says this. Thank god I get one more chance. Well now to go back to my daily routine of… what is it I do again? Wait why am I blanking on this, I spent four years of my life to get a master’s in… I blink and find that I’m back in the room. What the hell? So it wasn’t a dream? I can barely wrap my head around it when a man puts down a plate of food and simply says, “Dinner” So that must mean that it’s evening time right? But when it got to work it was Noon, what the hell is going on here. I get up and go to the door and ask where I am. “Where you belong” is the only reply I get. Well, that answered zero of my million questions. But at least I know the people outside my room are just the sweetest kindest little things. I try to peer out the door’s mail slot but I get the door opened on my face. Which doesn’t hurt really but it sure does hurt my feelings. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” A man asks me, “I just want to know where I am, frankly I’m very confused,” I reply. I wonder why they’re looking at me like that, all I asked was a… I wake up back in the void I now call home, feels great to be in control again. I look to see two guards looking at me with the weirdest expressions.

“What are you two looking at?” I ask simply. “Oh, you’re back. It was nothing, just some suspicious activity, carry on.” I’m back? What the hell does that mean. Well, whatever I suppose I could find something to do now that I’m awake again. I move to some of the walls, seem like they’re made of the same stuff as the floor, interesting.

I rip the parts of the wall off and make myself a little bed of sorts, I get yelled at by the men but I don’t care, it’s better than sleeping on the floor. I lie down to rest my head and reminisce on why I’m here… I wake up back in the room, what happened to the guards? Weren’t they right in front of me just a second ago? And why am I lying down? I’m lost in my thoughts that I don’t even see someone come inside.

“Hello? Mr. Schmidt? Is that you?” She asks softly. “What? No no, my name is James Cameron. Could you tell me where the hell I am and what’s going on?” I ask frazzled.

“Oh well I am sorry Mr. Cameron but that’s Classified to you, I suggest that you go back to sleep now.” She says to me. “But I don’t want sleep I want answers! Where am I? What’s going on? Why won’t you people tell me anything?!” “Administrate the sedatives,” She says to the men outside, “Wait what? Get your hands off me! I said get them off-” I awaken on the floor with guards surrounding me, I sit up and they start to question me. “Hello Mr.Schmidt, how are you today?” She asks “I’m quite alright thank you for asking” I respond. “Wait I’m confused,” A guard whispers “What’s going on here? Earlier he said he wasn’t Mr. Schmidt, now he’s saying he is.” “Oh well, it’s quite simple,” She responds “He, Mr. Cameron, Has undiagnosed DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. While we were talking to Mr. James Cameron earlier we are now talking to Mr. Richard Schmidt.” Well, that’s not surprising, I’ve always wondered why I wake up in the middle of the night and sleep in the morning. Well in that case maybe I could have some fun with this other personality. “Hey,” I ask “Could you tell James what I did? I think it would be hilarious.” “I can’t Mr. Schmidt, that is classified information to him. You’re the only one meant to be in here but we can’t help that he’s in here too.” Is the unsatisfying response I get. Dammit, I guess I have to be a bit smarter with this question. “Well technically speaking he and I are the same people, so he has every right to know as I do,” I ask. “Well that is a good point, but like I said it’s classified to him,” she says. “Then can you remind me what I did I seem to be blanking,” I ask and then I close my eyes in a split second to make the switch, I want him to hear what I’ve done, this false personality will be in for a shock… I wake up again and the lady from before is saying something. “Three accounts of First Degree Murder and One of Involuntary Manslaughter.” “Wait what?!” I say shock ringing in my voice. “Hold on.... Tell me your name.” “James Cameron I told you that already.” “Ugh Damn it he tricked me!” She’s very upset with someone. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag I might as well tell you everything,” Well I guess it’s time to learn why I’m in here. “You have DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder you, or the other you, decided enough was enough at your workplace and brought an automatic assault rifle and shot twelve people. Killing three and injuring the other nine. We have reason to believe the three he killed were for a reason so that’s where the three accounts of First Degree. The account of involuntary is when you ran over a woman crossing the street as you, the other you, ran.” Holy shit… Holy shit so… I have another person inside me?! This doesn’t make any sense… i-if I did I would know right? I’m so lost… Wait… “Wait if this… other personality did these things then why am I here? I didn’t do anything wrong.” I say sternly “While that is the case Mr. Cameron you and he share a body per se. So we can’t just let a known murderer walk free even if you did nothing wrong.” She says “Well, how long will I, we,

be in here for?” “A very very long time Mr. Cameron, goodbye.” She moves toward the door but stops suddenly, she turns back to me, “I’m very sorry that this has happened to you Mr. Cameron, I wish I could change things but I cannot.” She then opens the door and leaves with the guards. That was the last time I ever saw her again. But this is just the beginning of my other self’s antics.


“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Daniel’s voice comes softly from the doorway, quiet and tentative. He stands there, looking into her room as though he can’t quite bring himself to enter, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. He is taller than her, and has been for some years now, with thick muscled arms and a broad frame, but Jessica looks at him and all she can see is the little seven year old who would creep into her room during thunderstorms, or whenever he was woken by nightmares. Uncertain, hesitant, and always looking so very small. Her baby brother. The anger drains out of her. She glances down at the shattered pottery strewn across the floor at her feet, and then back to the door. “What, this? No, that one’s on me. It broke when I dropped it.” Daniel just stares at her. “You didn’t drop it. I saw.” She winces. Shrugs. “Alright, so it broke when I threw it against the wall. Nothing to do with you either way.” He looks unconvinced. That’s reasonable, because Jessica isn’t being very convincing. And perhaps that is reasonable too, because truth be told it isn’t not Daniel’s fault that she threw the pot out in her rage. He is just not to blame for it, a subtle but significant distinction that she knows is not worth bringing up now. He would hear the words ‘your fault’ and nothing else and spiral into guilt and self-reproach, which will help no one. Within an hour, Jessica and Daniel Winston need to have disappeared. If only she can make up her mind on what will disappear with them. Jessica has always prided herself on being careful. Diligent. She is not rash, she doesn’t not speak before she thinks. Her actions are measured and well-considered, her words perhaps even more so. She thinks and she plans and she deliberates, certain in the knowledge that if she takes her time, eventually she will end up wherever she needs to go. She would call herself, cautious, perhaps. Level-headed. Calm, collected Jessica, utterly immune to impulse and flights of fancy. But she is here now, with all her worldly possessions strewn across her bed, and her knapsack sitting open and empty beside them, and she cannot help but wonder if, looking back, all her mindfulness was really just indecision after all. When she had first earned the eye and then confidence of the late Earl of Sutton, perhaps a year after she had first started working at Bryer Castle, had she really been acting out of some desire to secure a more permanent role for herself and her family behind those tall stone walls, or had that fortunate consequence been mere coincidence, the Earl simply appreciating the captive audience inherent in someone who lacked the will power to end or even sway a conversation? When, barely days after the funeral, the younger Sutton - Charles - had begun to pester her for information, had she remained quiet out of some lingering sense of loyalty, or because she hoped to leverage her knowledge for her own gain, or were those simply the rationales her mind provided her to justify how in the dry heat of a direct confrontation, the words had simply stuck in her throat, refusing to be spoken aloud? When Charles, second Earl of Sutton, had grown aggressive earlier that day, and Daniel had found her, by chance, with her back against the wall of a disused corridor and a blade at her throat, he had drawn his knife without a second thought and stabbed the Earl through the gut, and she had pulled him away. Had she known, in that moment, that fleeing was the right move? She is certain now, that it must be - even now, with the Earl alive when they left him, she knows they will face near certain death if caught, and though dead men can tell no tales, she knows her brother does not truly have it in him to kill a man and live with the burden, for all that he is built like a bruiser - but was she at the time? How much of that calculus did she perform after the fact, and how much of their escape came down to her seeing the bleeding man before her, there for her to harm or help heal, and running from him because that felt the least like making a choice? “I really messed up, didn’t I?” Daniel again, oddly choked, and luckily this is one area she has always been happy to work on instinct for. She walks over to him, tiptoeing around the ceramic shards, and reaches up to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, no, breathe,” she whispers to him, nonsense mutterings as she draws him towards her, head towards her chest. He goes willingly, and it ought to look comical - her holding and comforting a boy twice her size. Perhaps it does. But it is also right and as natural to her as breathing, and as Daniel sobs silently into her shirt and then calms, she finds herself relaxing as well, bit by bit. Perhaps she does have a tendency to overthink, and perhaps that can manifest itself as indecision. But that is not all she is - an anxious and stifled mess. Perhaps gaining the late Earl’s trust had more to do with his own designs paired with her unwillingness to cause waves. She had still become his confidant - a true confidant - through her own merits. Maybe she will never be sure why she did not wish to cave to the second Earl’s demands, but for whatever reason she made the decision to stay silent and she held fast. What does it matter, if in her tangled anxieties and stresses and rage, she could not decide which, if any, of the functionally worthless trinkets she stored in her little clay pot should accompany them as they run, when the bigger question, of whether they should run, whether she should run at all, had never even crossed her mind? From the moment she had seen the hilt of Daniel’s blade, recognised the shaggy hair that obscured his hung head, and even before, she had known she would do whatever it takes to keep him as safe as he can be, and here she is, doing it, so surely that she knows this could never be a conscious decision she had to make. And perhaps that can be enough.


      “It can’t be…”            “Oh my God! ”            “What are you doing here?”            “What are YOU doing here?”            “It’s good to see you.”            “You’re looking good.”            “Thank you… it’s been, what—”            “Two years.”            “I can’t even… fathom that.”            “Well, fathom it.”            “… I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered.”            “Oh, that’s okay—”            “Daniel, I’m kidding.”            “You looked so serious!”            “Of course I waited for you. What do I look like?”            “Yourself?”            “Good one.”            “Have you been here before?”            “No. Have you?—Or, never mind…”            “I haven’t been anywhere around here in two years.”            “Yes, that is true.”            “Too true, too true.”            “Oof, is that the line?”            “I think so… Out the door? I thought this was a coffee shop.”            “It’s actually a secret Eminem concert.”            “Eminem?! Is that the first person you could think of?”            “No comment.”            “You’ve changed.”            “Shut up, I hate when people say that.”            “That you’ve changed?”            “They make it sound like change is a bad thing.”            “I mean, sometimes it can be a bad thing, can’t it? I know everyone likes to say otherwise, but I know that when my dog died, it was definitely a negative life change.”            “Wow, point taken.”            “Do you think all change is good in some way?”            “Why are you asking me this right now?”            “Don’t know.”            “Anyway, I can’t answer—I’m trying to figure out what to order.”            “You can read that?? It’s all shapes from here.”            “You can’t read that? It’s only like twelve feet away!”            “You’re proving my point.”            “… This is so weird.”            “What is?”            “Being together. But at the same time, I don’t feel like it’s been that long since we last saw each other.”            “Well, two years isn’t that long in the grand scheme of life.”            “I think I’m gonna get a matcha.”            “Since when do you drink matcha?”            “Since I started working at a coffee shop at school.”            “Ahh, so that’s how the caffeine addiction started…”            “I know, I bet it’s written all over my face.”            “What’re you studying again?”            “Social psychology.”            “Mmm. Freud is such a… funny dude.”            “I mean, yeah, but he is a foundational figure in psychology—”            “Blah blah blah…”            “Rude.”            “It’s a joke.”            “What are you going to get?”            “I don’t know, I probably shouldn’t have coffee. Maybe a tea?”            “What kind of tea?”            “Green… tea?”            “Why do you sound so suspicious when you say it?”            “Oh—you don’t want to know.”            “At least the line’s moving.”            “Well, anyway, social psychology sounds like you.”            “I’d hope so.”            “I remember in high school you were into serial killers and stuff like that. Y’know, Jon Benet.”            “Jon Benet’s not a serial killer.”            “You know what I mean.”            “You’re international business, right?”            “Yes.”            “Whatever that means…”            “Or, I was— I actually deferred. I’m gonna take a gap year.”            “Really?”            “Yeah, just decided.”            “Wow. Big decision.”            “It just felt like the right thing to do. I wanna focus on myself. Figure out what I want to do.”            “Still don’t know?”            “Does anyone?”            “Okay, that’s a valid point.”            “You know I think I want to go to Costa Rica.”            “Costa Rica? Where did that come from?”            “I don’t know. My aunt went there when she was young. Said it changed her life.”            “This is your aunt you live with now?”            “The very same.”            “I mean, I’m sure it’s amazing there…”            “Where do you want to travel?”            “I don’t know really.”            “You have to know. Everyone daydreams about where they’ll go one day.”            “Not me.”            “You’re joking.”            “Fine. Scotland.”            “ Scotland ???”            “What’s wrong with Scotland? Costa Rica is just as random as Scotland!”            “I mean, Costa Rica makes more sense—”

           “No it doesn’t, you’re biased!”            “I mean, for me it makes more sense. I’ll go—take my camera, fly solo—”            “What are you saying, that I wouldn’t belong in Scotland?”            “Hey, I’m sorry. You belong in Scotland.”            “Thank you.”            “I’m thinking of going at the end of this year. Supposed to be good weather.”            “Hmm…”            “What’s that look?”            “What look?”            “That one.”            “That’s not a look, that’s just my face. I’m thinking.”            “Don’t judge me, okay?”            “I’m not judging you! Have I ever judged you?”            “I don’t know, have you?”            “Daniel, please.”            “So, are you gonna be a fancy psychologist or something when you graduate?”            “I’d have to go to grad school for that, so probably not.”            “I feel like that’d be right up your alley.”            “Really? I don’t.”            “I don’t know—you’ve just always been really smart. Like, academic. I’ve always thought you’ll do something big and important.”            “Eesh, I don’t know about that.”            “I don’t know why you doubt yourself.”            “Can I change the subject?”            “It’s a free country.”            “Can I ask about your last relationship?”            “Well…”            “It’s just you were so vague and mysterious over text. I’m kind of dying to know.”            “God, you’re always in my business!”            “I know, I’m horrible!”            “It was only for a few months. We broke up just before I came down to visit. It was okay, amicable, it just got complicated because she graduated—”            “She was a senior?”            “…yes?”            “Okay, go on.”            “Why are you so surprised?”            “I said go on!”            “I attract mature, interesting women.”            “Yuck. Go. On.”            “There’s not much else. That’s it, actually.”            “Boring.”            “You asked.”            “Well, thanks for bringing me up to date.”            “What about you?”            “What about me?”            “Have you let any man into the impenetrable Frances-Fortress?”            “I don’t like the way you worded that.”            “Sorry. But have you?”            “What does it matter?”            “You’re blushing!”            “I’m not!”            “You totally have.”            “I totally haven’t.”            “Really?”            “Don’t make it weird.”            “It’s by choice, then. Sending them on their way…”            “I don’t know what makes you say that…”            “Do I have to spell it out?”            “Look—we’re almost up. Do you know what you want?”            “… No, I’ll have to ask what teas they have.”            “It says they have green pomegranate, sencha, or peach green.”            “Ooh! Peach green.”            “I’d have picked the pomegranate.”            “Typical.”            “No, I’m getting a matcha.”            “That’s right—I stand corrected. You’re so unpredictable.”            “Are you being sarcastic?”            “When have I ever been sarcastic?”            “You’re being so sarcastic right now.”            “Is it that obvious?”            “Is everyone in Canada this sarcastic?”            “No, they’re all just terribly, terribly nice.”            “It sounds absolutely awful.”            “I know, you should come visit me next time.”


Scrolling past each and every post on his feed, growing weary of all that was on screen, he couldn't stop. They kept on going like a ladder into a bottomless grave, every post joining to form one foolproof, easy-to-climb-down ladder. His thumb felt like it were completely out of his control. It was in perpetual motion, addicted to the ecstasy of swiping up, like a little nose sniffing a glass screen. Being in Marketing, it was part of his job, he reassured himself. He continued to gaze at the screen with his dark droopy eyes, staring at the lives of the happy cheerful people living their life to the fullest, on screen, going places and finding success, or at the very least, a very antiquated version of it. It seemed as though the world was on a collective upward mobility streak and he was late to the party. He knew that there was more for him to do, he knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it, but, what eluded him was why he just could not find it in him to get up and do it. Something was keeping him from taking that first step. The search for that obstacle took him to some very dark places, places filled with obstacles of different shapes and sizes, no solutions. He spent half a day thinking about different ways to get to his goal, and the rest thinking about all the obstacles that he may or may not have to overcome as part of pursuing the well-thought-out plan. At the end of the day, his tired mind would come to the conclusion that the pain is much greater than the reward and spends whatever is left of the day, week or year recouping from the mental toll of figuring out his life. This goes on till that nagging feeling of failure overtakes the pleasures his glass-sniffing thumb brings. Life, he thought, is a circle with a set diameter, and he runs around that circle like a helpless hamster, witnessing everything around him, convincing himself to run faster to ‘watch more of the world, to come up with an idea for himself one of these days but, not today, it’s too late today’. “Why not today? This is why I never do anything. I should do something, today! “ “The only question is what? if I can answer that I am golden, I will work towards it no matter what.” “But First, I need some fresh air and a coffee.” He did not wait to discuss, with himself, whether to go out or not, because he knew that he would end up on the couch with his thoughts taking a dark turn. That was the motivation he needed to get out of the couch and out of his stuffy room. He walked to his favourite bench in the park next to his house. It was empty as usual, and that was a relief. He was not in the mood to start a conversation. He usually enjoyed it, but this was not the time. He just wanted to be with himself. He sat down and his mind was empty. Nothing. For some reason, he could not think of anything to think about. He was overwhelmed and felt strange. His vision started to tunnel, everyone in the park started to disappear. He realized that the doughnuts which he was surviving on for the last two days were probably not enough. He could not even move his eyes from the tree that he locked on to to avoid the couple who were about to enter his line of sight. They too disappeared in a few seconds, he felt a bit terrified, not enough to keep his curiosity at bay. When he finally turned to see if he was hallucinating he realized that all the people had been replaced with himself from different phases of his life. He saw himself on his first bike, just after he fell down and bruised his knees, himself when he was in school just after he was pinned down to a desk and got some disgustingly poignant water poured all over him, him just after he was dumped by the love of his life, it felt surreal. He slowly turned to the right to see Stan Rogers, the last artist he listened to, give him a nod and started singing *“It's a damn tough life full of toil and strife”* He turned around to see more of himself. The closer he looked at the apparitions he realized something, it was neither the first nor the last time that any of those things happened to him. He could feel the sun and the wind like they were there just for him, he felt like he owned that moment. He felt like he was in control, he felt like he was in ‘his’ world. It felt strangely familiar.


There once was a being plagued by immortality, in a likewise unending void. They traveled the uncaring constellation of stars, asteroids, planets, quasars and whatnot, looking for meaning. They eventually found out there was no meaning but fact, and as such, found meaning in learning. And so they learned. Learned and learned, for millennia, digging into the fabric of reality. But the further they dug, the further they distanced themselves from their original basis of knowledge. They were forgetting at a quicker pace than they were remembering. And it seemed the pace of their forgetting increased the more they learned. This broke them, as they eventually grappled with the fact that they could never learn all the secrets of the universe. That their own *self* was but an iteration to be forgotten. This led to an apathy that consumed their entire being. In this dulled state of complete indifference, they eventually forgot **everything.** And as such, were reborn anew in their own ignorance. Their hunt for knowledge began once more, and so the cycle continued for an inconceivable amount of time. But as infinity has it, every possible possibility must be entertained, and eventually, this cycle suffered a chain-breaking variation. They learned how to retain their knowledge. How to combat the entropy of information within their own mind. Through ingenuity and persistence, they constructed the means to store all the information they carried within their mind. It became an ever-present chore to expand this storage, and the larger it grew, the quicker they gained knowledge, and the more they had to expand. This went on for eons, until they had learned every secret of the universe. Until every question was answered. Reality itself was as transparent as nothing. As such, this being had lost their meaning. There was no more knowledge to search for. The only information they stored was the observation of the trivial and rather predictable evolution of space in front of them, as well as a whole lot of random, quantum indifference. The sliver of happiness left within this being faded as they realized their search had reached its definite end, and that there was nothing left for them to do but exist. They fell into a catatonic state no different than the one they found themselves in when first realizing the limitations of their memory. And there was no way to end it, their immortality as unshakable as the constants of reality. It seemed there was no way for them to be released by death; in whatever form it could possibly take. To reset their memory would only lead to the same outcome they found themselves in, and this unending cycle was not desirable in its entirety, although the being did find it tempting to submit to ignorance. That was when they found a new solution. They continued their search for knowledge; now reduced to a fervorous observation of **everything.** They stored all the seemingly useless information in their ever-expanding mind, investing resources into compressing said information. After years, they finally fulfilled their plan, as their immensely information-packed mind collapsed into a singularity. Within this singularity, existed a new universe.


My parents are away for the weekend, leaving me in charge of my 8-year-old sister, Candace. You might think this is a bummer, but if I make it through without incident, guess who will be the new owner of a slightly used and slightly running 2001 Pontiac Aztek? This guy. Tonight went off without a hitch, with one hour of tablet time, a delicacy of dino chicken nuggets, chef kiss, and three rounds of Candyland before putting her to bed. This gig is a piece of cake. It's 1 AM, and I'm scrolling through Tik Tok videos in the dark. My bedroom door swings open. "What are you doing, Candace? Why are you out of bed?" "There's a monster in the house." My eyes adjust to the light in the hallway, and there is a tall creature with glowing eyes, horns, and claws right by her who looks on, nodding its head in agreement. "Jesus!" "What, do you see it?" "Is that it?" Candace casually glances behind her. "No, not him; there's another one." "There are two!" The monster behind her steps into the room, scratching the door frame as it enters. The monster speaks in a raspy, tough-guy tone, with a too-cool-for-the-room exterminator vibe. "Let me step in here, professional. They sent me down from Guardian Monster Transfer. We apparently had an incident; a class 29-C escaped and skedaddled. We tracked him to your domicile, where I made contact with this small human; let me see here…" the monster says as he pulls out a clipboard and traces his finger down the page, "Candace. Where then, she referred me to her supervisor…" scanning again, "Ricardo." "It's Ricky." "All right, just a quick note here," the monster says as he writes on his clipboard. "Are we in danger? "What exactly is a class 29-C?" "Oh boy, oh boy," the monster exclaimed as he took out a cigarette and began to smoke; his eyes widened as he glanced off into the distance, "I remember the summer of 97, there was 29-C and two 33-Bs, I nearly shit my pants." "What the hell? You can't smoke in here, you're not wearing any pants, and don't swear in front of my little sister." "I've heard that word before," Candace said. "Still, he shouldn't…" "All right, all right, let me just make a note here," the monster wrote on his clipboard. He extinguished his cigarette on Ricky's bureau. "What do you need from us?" "Just stay out of my way; I only told you because it's protocol, and I'm by the book. The last thing I need is a couple of amateurs mucking up my investigation." "What does it look like, you know, in case we see it?" The monster stares off into the distance again, "Oh, you'll know, and if you do see it, God help us all." "Alright, we'll just stay in here." "You bet your ass you will; I'll be setting a724q traps and 3c24a enticements; you don't wanna be around when those go off." "Oh, a 3c24a, huh?" Ricky says, joking. "How dare you; my uncle lost a pinky toe to a 3c24a," the monster says. Every day, I leave the house without knowing if I will return home to my wife, Britney, and daughter, Raquel." "Alright, I'm sorry." "I have to grab a few things in my truck; then I'll be in the house." "Thanks for your help," Candace said. "If you see anything, don't be a hero, just call, and I'll come," the monster says to Candace. The monster exits the room, scratching the door frame once more. "I'm scared, Ricky." "Don't worry; I think this monster has done this before, so everything's gonna be alright." I couldn't tell if this was real or a dream because it was so late. We both heard the monster downstairs smashing things. "Mom and Dad are gonna kill me; I guess I can kiss the car goodbye." "I'll help you clean it up." "Thanks, Candace, but I think I just heard a wall come down, so it might need a little more than a dusting." Out of the corner of her eye, Candace saw the tiniest, cutest little kitten. "Look, Ricky," Candace remarked as she scooped up and cuddled the kitty. "Be careful; we don't know where that kitty has been." With those huge eyes, the kitten glanced at both of us and offered the slightest "meow." We both melted and started to play with the kitten to pass the time, Candace had some yarn, and I had a laser pointer. It had been several hours since we had heard anything, and we could hear the monster climbing the stairs. The monster opens the door and sees us playing with the kitten. "What in the mother of God are you doing?! This is the 29-C! Back away, back away." We both moved away from the kitten as it stared up at the monster and purred. "You sick prick, thought you could get away with it, didn't ya?" The monster withdrew the tiniest pair of handcuffs I'd ever seen and fastened them on the kitten's paws. "This can't be right; this the monster you've been looking for? Is this why our house was destroyed?" "I caught it in the nick of time. This scumbag is wanted for tax evasion and doing perverted things with a horse. You're lucky I came in when I did." As we went downstairs, the house was in shambles. "Oh my God, we're dead." The monster removes a card from his pocket and hands it to me. "Um, please fill out a performance survey; we realize you have a lot of options for monster transport, and we appreciate you choosing us." I nodded as I watched the monster load the tiny kitten into the back of his truck, gently closing the door behind it. When my parents returned, they still gave me the Pontiac Aztec. Candace may have told them that the monster was giant, frightening, and wild. As Candace smiled when they gave me the keys, I realized I might not be so terrible at babysitting after all.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! 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. #A Special Surprise for my SerSunners! I have something special for you all! I will personally be offering a little incentive for my SerSunners this week. So strap on your thinking caps and get your keyboards out. I will be rewarding first, second, and third place rank with awards! Platinum goes to first place, Gold to second, and an award that will also give 100 coins to third. Again, make sure you read the entire post to make sure you don’t miss any rules/qualifications. In order to qualify for the awards, you must meet all Serial Sunday criteria, and have made at least one nomination by noon EST next Sunday (you may not nominate yourself). Good luck :)   ***   #This week's theme is Dichotomy! To continue with identity for the month of April, we will focus on ‘dichotomy’ this week. Dichotomy is the sharp division of things or ideas into two contradictory parts. These are typically things that aren’t normally seen as contrasting. How does this show up in your world? Is your character struggling with contrasting ideas in their mind? This could be the voice of right and wrong, or something much deeper. How will they cope? How does it strain the way they see themselves? How does it affect the way others see them? Does it change the way they interact with the world around them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * April 18 - Dichotomy (this week) * April 25 - Preservation * May 2 - Choices   ***   #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. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **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/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **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 stories to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **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 catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings Unfortunately, there are no rankings this week. Nominations were extremely low, and the majority of those who were nominated, failed to meet feedback requirements. Feedback is how we grow and continue to improve as writers. I really hope to see better participation this week. A special thanks to everyone who did leave feedback on at least two other stories this week, and those who continue to do so every week. Your dedication does not go unnoticed; I appreciate you.   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. I’ve recently added two new ways to get points each week. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place and on - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * ***Note:*** Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


(IP) Family Ties He’d gotten up at dawn and could already see the swarm coming, their pinchers clacking ominously. They were like a mass of moving smoke, deadly and lethal. He should have known that the King would have followed him even all the way out here, in the rocky desert that served as the border between the two kingdoms of Asteria and Brisbain. Even knowing what was coming, Bastian could not—would not—regret his decision. He had no desire to use the dead for his own ends, much less for political gain. Denouncing his father had made him a prince without a kingdom, but he didn’t care. As of his sixteenth birthday, he could no longer turn a blind eye to the fact that his own father was hellbent on conquering everything, including lands that were not his. He’d barely escaped the kingdom with his life, and his father had vowed to follow him to the ends of the realms. But Bastian wasn’t alone; no, he had gathered powerful allies and he had stolen one of his father’s secrets. He had taken a shapeshifter and befriended her, and she’d agreed to help him fight. “They’re coming,” Bastian said, and his father’s former advisor smirked, her violet eyes aglow. “It seems that your father finally made good on his promise,” Dinah said at last, and he could hear the laughter in her voice. “It would appear so,” Bastian agreed, smirking grimly. Dinah had helped him amass a resistance, though he loathed asking the people for help they could not give. He knew how much of the peoples’ money was in the royal coffers. “Wake everyone up and prepare them, please. If you don’t, it will be a bloodbath.” \*\* By the time the sun was high in the sky, the monsters had reached their base, and Dinah was in front, her hands glowing with magic. Her face was pale and tense, and she roared, transforming into a lion and charging into the fray. She led the soldiers, and Bastian was in the front of the crowd, sawing off appendages. The air was tainted with the sick, metallic odor of blood, and Bastian ran ahead with his halberd. Killing off his father’s grotesque creations was certainly entertaining, but he wanted their leader. Mounted upon a giant beetle, a man with a glowing halberd bellowed, giving his soldiers orders. Bastian hated killing, even when it was necessary, but he had no choice. The sand was watered with the blood of his comrades and enemies, and he had to end this before he lost anyone else. “Hurry!” Dinah called, and in a flash, she was in front of him. She transformed into a horse and together they charged. Bastian leapt from Dinah’s back and landed on the hard, thick shell of the beast. He put his blade to the man’s throat and smirked. “Surrender peacefully, and we’ll let you live. In exchange for some information, of course.” Upon closer inspection, Bastian realized that this was his father’s closest advisor. “Foolish prince,” The man hissed, his teeth stained red with his own blood. “You of all people should know that your father would never allow any of his men to be captured alive.” Bastian punched the man, and though he cried out in pain, he spat in the prince’s face. “I’ll be sure to send your dear old father regards.


“Hey you, get out of the premises, what the hell are you doing here, how did you get in, when the whole place is secured”? , the guard was yelling at a young boy who had trespassed into a restricted area. It was a British Defence colony, and the UK flag was flying high on the building with its vibrancy. This irked a lot for a 10 year old Indian boy who was a staunch patriot. He had planned a gate crash into the colony to uproot the British supremacy. He wanted to remove the flag and hoist our tricolour Indian flag and cry the slogan of Vande Mataram . Though he was just a kid his patriotism surpassed his tender age. He had planned this  with his little followers , kids of his own age .  It was a peak time for the Freedom fighters against the British rule. The Quit India Movement which was flagged off by the non violent comrade Mahatma Gandhiji. This kid was a follower of Gandhiji.  Though he hadn’t seen Gandhiji in person he had heard the stories about the Mahatma. He wanted to be a part of the freedom Movement hence he dared to trespass the British colony. Thomas who hailed from Kerala (God’s own country) , was the son of a fisherman named Samuel. Samuel was just a simple fisherman who had his meagre fishing business. He had a few yachts which he used for his fishing business.  Samuel was married Mary and they had two little children Thomas and Violet. Violet was the elder one and Thomas was her little brother. The children were completely different from each other. Mary was a brilliant and smart girl whereas Thomas was an average kid but had a very brave attitude. One day Samuel had ventured the sea with his yachts and to his good luck he got a big catch with most expensive eels, cat fishes, salmons, shrimps , prawns and lobsters. It was a very lucky day for him. Everybody was celebrating his success. Little did they know their catch would be decreased bit by bit by little hands of Thomas. “Hey Thomas what on earth are doing , why are you throwing the catch back into the sea. They are a priceless catch” screamed Samuel. Thomas was then a five year old kid and his pranks were endless. But today he had crossed his limits he had just emptied major part of the catch which irked everyone out there especially his father. Thomas ran to his mother for protection when Samuel tried to hit him . Mary consoled her husband saying, “Sam , he is just a small child he doesn’t understand all these things let me find out first why he threw them back into the sea”. “Thomas dear don’t get scared , will you tell why did you throw dad’s priceless catch back into the sea ,don’t you know he and his friends have worked so much for catching them”. Thomas replied in a faint voice,” Mom, they were withering in pain , they were dying , I couldn’t see them die , I just wanted to give them freedom . They were so happy when I put them back in water , they were back to life”. This was Thomas a gentle affectionate kid . He couldn’t see the fishes die out of breathlessness. Thomas learnt about Gandhiji in his classes , he was inspired by his principles and ethics. Though Thomas was in his tender age , he was more matured for his age. His pranks looked childish but his every action had a matured gesture. Thomas had made a group of his own where he would teach the other children about Gandhiji and his fight for freedom. He had made up his mind to hoist a tricolour in the British colony which was a very dangerous move. “Thomas , you are so brave and daring , I think you are the only one in our group who can hoist the flag barging into a British colony. “. His friends were encouraging him for this daring act. “Hey you , what are trying to do you spoilt brat , just step down else you will given a thrash on your back “ yelled a British officer . But Thomas was out of hearing he climbed the terrace where the British flag was flying , he pulled down the flag , and hoisted our Indian tricolour with a victorious scream Vande Mataram(Salutation to Mother India). His loud scream echoed the whole arena . The security pulled him down and thrashed him hard. He was left alive as many Freedom activists appeared and they attacked on the security guards. Thomas survived with bruises and injuries. But his dedication and patriotism did not die. He joined the Quit India Movement conferred by Gandhiji . He went places along with his young team to educate people the necessity of Freedom from the clutches of British supremacy in India. The Freedom activists were thrown behind bars by the British Thomas was a juvenile , he was send to remand home . Though he was a young lad he was a true freedom fighter. India gained Independence in 1947 . Thomas was conferred the youngest freedom fighter and he was given the highest Honour. “And here we present to you the Great Thomas Kurien the youngest freedom fighter of Indian Independence” , said an elderly aged person who was seated in his armchair and narrating a story to little children who had surrounded him to listen to his stories. “Grandpa, were you so brave in your younger days , did you hoist the flag and scream aloud Vande Mataram?” asked Mala the youngest granddaughter of Thomas. “Yes dear , I didn’t budge a bit when the British security guards thrashed me.” “Oh God grandpa you are such a brave soul, you are pride of our country” “Granny, you are so lucky to have such a brave husband “,said Pinky one of the grand daughter’s of Thomas. “Yes, very lucky indeed, your grand dad is a very brave man, he was going to school one day and he was pushed into a crowd of Freedom activists and he was in jail for a few months. A very brave freedom fighter “thought Fanny. She whispered in his ears “Stop cooking cock and bull stories to children they are growing up they might find out  your fake identity”.


“What does this do,” Luci asked me, holding up a dandelion. “What does it do?” I echoed, puzzled. “Well, yeah. Don’t they have magic powers or something?” I grinned, “Oh. Yes, as a matter of fact. You close your eyes,” she acquiesced, “and make a wish. Then blow, sending the wispy bits off into the air!” Her nose crinkled as she thought about what she wanted. She then opened her eyes. “I’ll do it later, daddy. Let’s keep walking.” “Alright,” I chuckled. “Lead the way.” She took my hand as we continued through a picturesque meadow. The grass was long, though not overgrown, and rife with flowers. The sun shone on us from directly overhead, its heat overbearing were it not for the gentle breeze that caressed our every move. All the while, songbirds graced us with their lyrics, emanating from the surrounding maples and pines, among others. I was living in a postcard. “Do you think mommy could come here?” “I don’t see why not.” “Let’s bring her next time. If she isn’t too busy,” she thoughtfully considered. Though she isn’t that old, it seems as though a lifetime has passed since she we first met Luci. Aside from growing taller, not much has changed, however. Dimples still compliment her smile. Her eyes yet hold an innocence I feel will never fade, regardless of when she loses her childlike naivety. As for personality: loving, curious, and rather adventurous, with just enough spunk to see her through. When you’re young, the world around you seems a large and assuredly magical place. Having kids can alter your perspective, causing you to retain this sense, one that would certainly fade otherwise. For this, I’m truly blessed. “Fishies! Daddy, let’s go pet the fishies!” She hastily made her way towards a pond that was just up ahead. “How about we just watch them?” “Nooo! I want to love them like our kitty, Kireina!” “They need water, honey. To breathe.” “Can’t they hold their nose when they come up to the air like I do when I swim?” While bemused at her logic, I paused to discern in my head whether fishes even had noses. She gasped, “Look how many!” As with the flowers, there was an abundance of aquatic life. Carps, pikes, mahi-mahi, even the near-microscopic candiru of the south, they all tangoed before us. I peered over at Luci whose mouth was agape. “Just like the aquarium, huh?” I asked. Silence. Too busy trawling over the ballet taking place before her. “Y’know, I had a goldfish once.” “You did,” she inquired, dryly, her focus unwavering. “That’s boring. I want one of those!” “Ah, Oscar.” “That his name?!” “That’s their species. They actually— “No, that one! Look at its pretty colors! Way more than just gold,” she snorted. “I’m not sure what that one’s called.” “Think we ‘scovered it?” “Maybe. What should we name it?” “Hmm. Let’s name them Xi-fish. After mommy! She always looks so pretty!” “You look just like her, you know.” I smiled, rubbing the top of her head. “Hey! Don’t mess up my hair,” she protested, walking away from the pond. “Sorry.” “I bet I can climb one of those trees! Wanna watch me, daddy?” She sprinted towards the far end of the field. I sighed, admiring her tenacity. Am I really that old? “Go on, sweetie. Let’s see what you got!” We spent what felt like hours in and around the trees, howling like monkeys, frightening the birds, playing tag and hide and seek. Soon, though, we were sitting on a thick branch on the crest of a boisterous cedar. “Think I could fly?” She took a few steps forward before I wrapped my arm around her, yanking her backwards. “I think,” I grunted, positioning her in front of me, “we should leave that to the professionals.” She giggled. Then, for the first time that day, both of us sat in silence, looking out over our little slice of paradise. The sun was far to the West, the day ending as quickly as it began. Luci turned her head to look up at me. “I’m ready, now.” “Ready to go home? You must be tired.” “No, silly. To make my wish.” She reached into the pocket in her jean shorts and pulled out the dandelion. “Oh ok. Well. What do you want to wish for?” She closed her eyes once more before blowing the wisps into the watercolor sky. “Actually, you’re supposed to keep it a secret or it won’t come true.” I playfully mimicked shushing though she remained stoic. “I wished you would wake up. Mommy needs you. Tell her to come. Tell her everything’s okay.” “Honey…” “I love you, Daddy,” she said before turning around and hugging me. Soon the forestry and the fauna gave way to the four walls of my bedroom. My ceiling fan was slowly rotating. My heart sunk as reality set in. I reached over to Xi only to find she was out of bed. I sat up, wiped my eyes, and headed for the hallway. The water was running in the bathroom with her toothbrush sitting on the sink, the paste still fresh, yet resting atop the dry bristles. I turned it off, giving way to the sound of sobbing coming from Luci’s room. The door was cracked. Upon sliding inside, I noticed Xi in the middle of the floor, on her knees, clutching what used to be our daughter’s favorite stuffed bear. She looked up at me and extended an arm. I rushed over and wrapped myself around her. “You found Mr. Fluffy, huh?” “I can’t do it, babe.” Her voice broke before giving way to more tears. “She was just here. She was.” “I know, I know. But I think she’s happy now. Don’t you?” She sniffed, “She did always have the biggest smile on her face.” “I have a feeling… wherever she is… it’s beautiful. She’d love for you to see it.” Xi nodded, placing her hand on my arm.


This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. I took it upon myself to be be the secret santa for u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ who was helping administration of the event. These constraints came from Bay: Genre: Mystery or Horror / Character: A detective or other character named Bay / Theme: Christmas / First sentence: "It was Christmastime, and that meant murder." / Includes: a plot twist, a candycane, another WP Character, snow / Words: bumfuzzle, bamboozled, crab, kerfuffle It was Christmastime, and that meant murder. I got a cold shudder as I felt the color disappear from the room. The whole place felt desaturated, like it was being shown in black and white, which was never a good sign of what was about to come into my office. The door swung open wildly, carried, no doubt, by the wind on the snowy Chicago streets outside. Before me stood the most beautiful dame I’d ever laid my eyes upon. Her face was sullen, and puffy, red eyes that had recently been crying hid behind a thin widow’s veil. She looked like she had walked right out of a really sad 1920’s Jazz club. Her modest flapper dress, adorned with intricate art-deco inspired embroidery, hung around her like mourning to a mood. Short auburn hair twisted into a tight bun on the left side of her head, poking out just below the rim of her cloche hat. An intricate twist of intertwining silver strands clung closely to her neck. “Well hello, madam.” I said with a smile, straightening my coat as I rose to meet her. “Are you Dickey McVeigh?” She asked curtly. “Indeed I am. Private eye, at your service.” I offered her my hand, but she simply walked around me and took a seat in front of my desk. “My husband has been murdered.” She said. “That sounds like a problem for the police. Why come to me?” I asked, taking a seat again behind my desk. “Because he was murdered by the police.” She said. My eyebrows raised in curiosity. “And what makes you say that?” I asked, jotting down notes as she spoke. “I watched it happen.” She said, pausing, waiting for me to prod further. “Let’s start with some basics. Your name?” “Bay.” “Husband’s name?” “Hannibal.” “Who killed him?” “Geese.” I hesitated. “Geese? I thought you said the police killed him.” I asked. “Yes. The officer’s name is Geese.” “What a strange name.” I mused. “Okay, next. What happened?” “Geese killed my husband.” “O,” I hesitated again, “kay. When did this happen?” “About thirty minutes ago.” “How are you already in funeral attire?” I asked, bumfuzzled. “That answers the next question you were going to ask. Where, right? We were at a funeral.” “And lastly, do you know of any sort of motive Geese may have had to kill your husband?” I asked. “Hannibal was just defending my honor. We overheard Geese saying that crab was inferior to lobster, and my husband, knowing I own a crab fishing business on the East coast, stepped in to correct him. A kerfuffle ensued.” “And this,” I recollected, “kerfuffle evolved, I’m assuming?” “Yes. A real donnybrook broke out.” Bay said. “A donnybrook,” I said, jotting the word down, “and Geese punched your husband? Shot him? Told him a secret so shocking his heart stopped?” “He was stabbed.” She said. “Who was stabbed?” I asked. “My husband, try to keep up.” “Apologies. Husband stabbed. Did you see the murder weapon? Do you know where it is?” I asked. She hesitated, her eyes darting around my tiny office in its constant state of disarray. “What is it, Bay? What was your husband stabbed with?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She said after a few moments of silence. “A candy cane?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She confirmed. “Where is the candy cane now?” “In my purse.” She said. I paused. “The murder weapon is in your purse?” I asked. “Yes. I wanted you to see it. You wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” She said. She was right. I would not have believed that her husband was murdered by Geese using a candy cane to stab him. “I absolutely would not have, you were right to bring it here.” “Say, Dicky, do you like crabs?” She asked. “Not particularly. In fact I’m a bit fearful of them.” I said. “You’re right to be afraid of them.” Bay said. She stabbed me with the candy cane. As I lay dying on the rug in the middle of my office, I looked to Bay and asked, “Why?” She simply laughed, and then her form, dress, hat, skin, everything slowly scuttled apart into hundreds of crustaceans. I had been bamboozled by 600 crabs dressed as a widow, and all I could say was: “Not again.