It’s a funny thing, was you to look at me now, you’d see an old man, dried out by age; lined and scored. The kind of person to stare intently into the depths of the glowing hearth. The kind of man to shy away from grasping shadow. These aren’t uncommon traits among the agèd, however most come to this state of irrational, superstitious fear by way of a long life, and failing mind; and it is just that, which sets me apart, unlike my peers, I know to the day —and perhaps to the very moment— that I changed. So, here follows the story of just how I lost that handsome sense of youthful immortality.   It’s no complex story, more of a puzzle: the solution of which had eluded me for countless years, each more fleeting than the last. Now, conjure into your mind —if possible— the heath hills of Shropshire, around March, rocky, yew lined meadows dotted with sheep, I was walking down a long cart lane locally known as “Frogs Gutter”. To my right as I walked rose a long line of poldered trees, and to my left stretched the aforementioned countryside, broken only by small knots of bare trees, or the occasional spinney of fir. The sun was failing towards the gloaming and I was returning to my friends house (where I had wintered) after a long walk around the Bog and up through the Stiperstones and past old Devil’s Chair. I recall it had been an uncommon good day, crisp and cool. My only regret as I returned for my dinner was that I had neglected to take my camera along with me; the chair had looked wonderful that morning, all covered in frost that glistered and glinted in the pale morning light. But I digress. I was less than half way down the Gutter when it began to rain, as it had threatened to do all day. I cursed myself for having forgotten my umbrella and hurried my pace. Before I reached the lane’s end the rain had shifted into a forbidding and potentially deadly hail, and I was obliged to find some cover. The trees which should have shaded Frogs Gutter had recently been cut back, and so were of no use to me and I was forced into a field where I had spied a lonely linden tree, bare boughed, but with the expected broad spread, enough for shelter, thought I. I jumped the dry stone wall and with all the speed I could muster I charged through the knee high grass.   The tree left nothing to be desired in terms of shelter, though It was a wasted effort on my part, almost as soon as I had come under the eaves of the grand and solitary tree, the hail had shifted back into rain. I considered returning back to the road, but for my life, I couldn’t. There was something about that field that had drawn me in, something more than the hail. I considered for a moment, and wondered then why I had chosen this particular tree, from where I stood I could see several more suitable shelters on the other side of the road, and I had even passed a small cottage no great time ago. I looked around the field. I saw that on all sides (there were five) besides the one I had entered by, it was hedged in by yew. Not uncommon, or particularly strange, what did strike me was that there were no gates; just tall hedges and the wall, which was, I now saw, much higher on this side. I wandered around the border, looking for signs of an overgrown fence-gate, but I found nothing, I investigated the earth. Now, I can’t pretend that I know a great deal about farming, but the grass was green, and more tall in places than seemed at all right. I was completely lost as to why this plot of land perhaps less than an acre all told should have been so abandoned, no crops grown here, no animals set to graze. The only thing of significance here —so far as I could see— was the tree in the centre, which seemed to have grown in my mind since I had entered the field.   I returned to the wall, it was from the inside about as tall as I was, and only on my tiptoes could I see over the top and into the lane. The sun was sinking fast. I never was the most agile, and I had no intention of ruining my good tweed, so I decided that, before I would throw myself at the wall, I should take a look around. I returned to the linden its branches creaking ominously as I approached. Surprisingly enough there were few branches strewn on the ground about, in fact, there were none. I looked up, and saw that there were none hanging limp or loose, an odd thing in a tree of this size I thought. There was one thing in its limbs that caught my attention, the only thing of note in the tree was a ragged knot of rotting rope in one of the higher limbs. At first I believed it the remains of an old swing, but the more I reasoned the more I knew that it wasn’t. At the time I wasn’t a man easily frightened, nor was I a man taken by fancy, but even so, I had no desire to spend the night under a hangman’s lime. I made quickly for the old wall, but before I had taken a half dozen paces I fell, my foot caught in a root, I couldn’t see through the darkening light and the wretched grass, so I was left fumbling blindly hoping against hope to find the clasping root. Something in the earth cut me then, a nasty gash on my little finger, something that only added to my growing fear, and want for home. Again I applied myself to the root, finding it with my good hand and pulling with all the strength I could muster. I unearthed it, and found then that it wasn’t indeed a root, but a bone. Logically I should have thrown the thing away, and run for all the fear it put in me, but I couldn’t. I frantically patted the earth, searching for anything it might be attached to —though I really couldn’t say what possessed me to— and just as the sun sank behind the hills, abandoning me to the last vestiges of lingering light I found it: a very nearly skeletal hand, I ought have been repulsed, but I wasn’t. The hand was clenched shut. I opened it. Between the leather-clad, boney fingers was a stone, black as the night, flecked with silver, smooth; and in the center was a symbol or rune, one that despite my best efforts I’ve never seen since. It was in gold, shaped like a heraldic lozenge with a diagonal strike passing through it and underlined by a “zig-zag” shape with eleven high points and twelve low, that was the sign. On the reverse was a series of rough marks, almost like a talley, but they were too small and too many for me to ever count with success. Against my better judgement I took the stone, placed it in my pocket and made for the wall. A sharp wind gusted through the field, and the sound it made as it played through the top of the Devil’s Lindon can only be likened to a dusty creaking laughter. I mounted the wall, and looked back one last time, and there where the limbs had been bare and empty I now saw countless limp and lank shadows, swinging and twisting in the breeze. I couldn’t bear to look, so I closed fast my eyes and turned back to the lane, never again daring to look back on that field.   It has been over forty years since I took the stone, and in all that time it has never once left my person for more than a few minutes. But that’s not all: I have never been rid of the shadows, from the corner of my eye, in the reflections of glass’ I see their hanged forms. To begin I believed that it was the stone keeping them away, a sort of magical ward, preventing them from closing in on me and finishing me off. But recently I have come to believe that maybe they want it back. For the first time since, I have returned to Ratlinghope, I have etched my talley on the back of the stone and tomorrow, in the morning I will return it. The stone will be claimed or I will. If ever you pass down Frogs Gutter, look for the linden tree, but never approach it. Who knows, you may even see me there.


I hate the way my brain works. It’s a crisp October morning, bright but frigid enough to remind you that winter is just around the corner. Iridescent leaves of brilliant reds and oranges (like fire, she used to say) are dancing around my feet along with the eastern breeze that carries them. Off in the distance, clouds swirl with the promise of coming rain and if you close your eyes long enough and just wait, you can smell it. The lightning in the air, the change of the bright sunshine to something wet, something chilling, something utterly fall like. Try as I might, it’s a feeling I can’t quite put into words. That’s what she was always for – that’s what she was good at. I am standing on the edge of a freshly dug grave, my mind everywhere else except the service currently underway. It’s why I hate my brain. It loves to taunt me, to reach into its innermost parts and pull out half-formed thoughts that have no bearing on what is happening now. On this day a year ago, she was alive, its saying now. Why am I thinking like that? Moreover, why can I remember so clearly exactly where I was and what I was doing on this exact date one year previous? Baking cookies, my mind supplies. In preparation for your friend’s impending visit. A mundane task, I think to myself as the minister begins to say a prayer. For heaven’s sake, it didn’t even have anything to do with her. But that’s the way my brain works: God forbid I recall how to create a spreadsheet at my new job or the varied names of my coworkers, no – I can just remember that on October 10 th of last year, I was baking cookies. Because Annalise was coming on the 11 th and staying for a full two nights and I wanted to have something tasty to greet her with. A week ago you had no idea this is where you’d be standing today. Obviously, yes. One of death’s primary attributes is that it sneaks in, catches you unaware in order to more hideously deliver the damaging blow. A week ago I had no idea I would be envying those who were granted that extra time to mourn; the ones who receive the cancer diagnosis, or the organ failure, or any of the other verdicts that are impossible to conquer but still they have time to say goodbye, make peace. I wasn’t afforded that opportunity, and neither was she and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. You don’t like it because you don’t like being reminded you’re not really in control. I inhale sharply through my nose and close my eyes, trying and failing to stop the well of tears that are threatening to fall. She loved this season. It was always her favorite – the colors, Jules. The inherent paradox of the end of life being so beautiful. It figures she would die just after fall started. I’ve attempted to make sense of why that was, how in the hell the end of her life could ever be considered something beautiful. But that’s not how life (or death) works. We don’t get the dénouement at the end of the story or the meaningful connection found after the fact.

It just…stops. The people around me are shuffling now, dabbing moist cheeks with embroidered handkerchiefs, and a select few are already making their way across the muddied graveyard. I wonder if their thoughts are mirroring my own. I wonder how much they care about the woman whose just been laid to rest, how much this simple service is going to impact the rest of their day and week and year. Its astounding to me that my entire world could be crumbling at my feet, my lungs gasping for air as I drown in the depths of my sorrow, only to be patted on the shoulder and told, “Sorry about your mom.” Me too. Me too. There’s a man doing that now, gripping my shoulder and looking at me with watery eyes. I can’t remember who he is – someone she worked with, maybe. I nod at him, my mouth forming practiced words that will suffice to answer their condolences while also letting them know I’m not up for conversation. He smiles at me and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and this brain, this horrible, nasty brain. Standing on the edge of the grave, I try and fail to focus on the way she looked across the breakfast table, or how she would snort a little bit as she laughed whenever she was telling a dumb joke. But all that comes to mind is the imagery of her now-rotting corpse, hidden away beneath my feet. *** There’s a lump of rolled ham lodged in the back of my throat that doesn’t seem to want to go down. My aunt is talking to me in conspiratorial tones beneath the window my mom had painted autumn leaves all over ten years ago. She didn’t have the auburn paint like she thought she did, so she had used red and I had told her it looked like blood drops all over the windowpanes. She had laughed and said that must mean she wasn’t a very good artist. I had agreed, arrogant ten-year-old that I was. Its stupid but now I wish I hadn’t said that. “Anything you need, anything at all,” Aunt Marcy is saying and I still can’t seem to swallow this piece of ham. “We’re here for you, honey. Please know that.” I set my plate of food down because the sight of it is making me feel like I’m going to vomit. “Thank you,” I choke out, finally grabbing a napkin and spitting out the bite of food I had taken out of nervous habit instead of actual desire. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know what to say to any of these people who feel the need to approach me when all I really want is to be left alone to think for a minute about what I’m going to do now. I don’t know why its considered traditional to have a little party after a funeral anyway. None of this makes sense. The world doesn’t make sense without her in it. “Julia.” A gentle touch on my elbow and my heart swells with conflicting emotion as I turn to find Eric standing there. “Hey.” “Hey,” I reply to my childhood best friend. I’ve been in love with him since second grade and somehow even that feels stupid now. I shouldn’t be allowed to continue loving when the woman who gave me life is buried six feet under. Eric looks at me for a second, then subtly nods his head towards the door. I nod, understanding his request, and I manage a hasty “excuse me” to my Aunt before following him outside to my backyard. The swingset we had played on as kids is still standing, tucked in amongst the maple trees. We both wordlessly take a seat and he offers me a cigarette. I take it without thinking, and my brain cheerfully reminds me as he lights it that I’d promised her I would quit. That was over a year ago, I think. When I made that promise she was still alive. We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the altering drags we take on our cigarettes. Its weird to be sitting here with him, facing my old home. I can’t remember the last time we sat here like this on the swings, living our lives that were yet untouched by the unknown. We must have been kids, and I find it funny I can’t withdraw a specific memory to immediate recollection. Instead all that circles through is, the last time you sat here, she was alive – “Your mom would have hated this.” The rusted chain links squeak as I turn to look at him, my legs folded awkwardly beneath me. He exhales the smoke from his lungs and shakes his head, gazing at the house as if he too is looking back in time. “All these people here. She didn’t have most of them over by choice and now they’re getting a glimpse into her private life. She wouldn’t have wanted that.” I snort, flicking the ash off the tip of my cig. “You’re right, of course. And she would have told you that.” He eyes me sideways. “You were always right in her eyes.” “Not that time she caught us painting your room black.” A series of images flash through my mind: a roll brush stained with paint, old newspaper crunching beneath my feet, the tone of her voice when she saw I’d ruined my new pair of overalls. “I couldn’t look her in the eyes for weeks.” “She secretly thought it was cool though.” The breeze rustles the loose strands of hair around my face and I swallow down the rising lump in my throat. “That’s why she let me keep it that way.” Silence falls between us because he knows I’ll cry if we keep talking about it. He’s a dear and he would let me, of course, but he’s well aware of how much I hate to cry. It’s a little mercy I find myself ridiculously grateful for. “Its such a beautiful day.” “It really is.” My gaze is fixed on the house again but I can tell he’s looking at me. Oh boy. Here it comes. “You okay, Jules?” It’s a stupid question and its one we both know the answer to. But all that’s on my mind is the clatter of the pots as she made dinner, the breathy sound of her voice as she sang Make You Feel My Love. “I don’t understand why,” I say. I finally muster the courage to look at him and those familiar brown eyes are brimming with an emotion I can’t quite place. “Why it had to be her?” he asks quietly and I shake my head. “No….no.” The thoughts slowly crystalizing into words feel stupid somehow and I hesitate, wondering if I should just fill in the gap between us with one of my practiced clichés. The leaves are swirling once more against the toes of my boots and they remind me of blood drops, rainy days, and all the things I never got the chance to say to her. “I don’t understand why I can’t feel her anymore.” Eric nods, his brows dipping in contemplation. “She was light and she was my…my muse. I could be walking through a dark parking lot after work and still take a moment to look at the stars and think, huh. I should call mom. Or I’d be on a coffee date with a friend, watching the cherry blossoms drifting off to nowhere and I’d suddenly remember what a kick ass cherry pie she made.” I shrug, swallowing down yet another sob threatening to climb up my throat. “It’s like the day she died the light went out. And I can’t get it back.” “Maybe you won’t,” he says without hesitation. “And that’s okay, Jules. Its okay to carry that with you, cherish it. The memories that you have and the impact your mom had – those are yours. Uniquely, and privately, yours.” The swings creak again as he reaches over to wrap an arm around my shoulder. “And that’s something no one can ever take away from you.” You’ll never hear the actual sound of her voice again. Its something you took for granted and now its lost forever. “You’re right,” is all I say, trying to hide the brittle shatter of my traitorous thoughts. “Thank you.” And he is right, in a way. Maybe not in the way I need, but he is. “Come on,” he says, suddenly standing. He reaches out a hand towards me and I take it, rising with him as we each take one last puff. “We’ll get back and engage in the pleasantries and then we’ll get that old scrapbook off the shelf – see if we can find your muse again.” I smile at him and crush my cigarette into the wet earth. “Okay. Deal.” We move back towards the house, and I marvel at the warm glow that appears in my chest when he slips his fingers between mine. Thank God for him , I think as we walk back inside. I should make him a cherry pie.


u/SAOkirito1's writing prompt: Humanity joins the greater galactic civilization. Turns out earth is a pretty normal planet culturally speaking, but we adamantly refuses to believe that we aren't actually the brutal space orcs of the galaxy “Son of a bitch!” (He didn’t actually say bitch, but this was the closest translation I could manage.) “What is it?” C’laarc used his third arm to point at his screen: the name Johnson was flashing repeatedly. Z@m muttered, “Jesus Christ.” (This is actually not a translation, these were her exact words.) Seconds later, Johnson appeared in the lunch room with them. While most Earth media depicted teleportation as a process that involves glowing lights and synth noises, it turned out that real teleportation had the same amount of flair as copy and pasting something on your computer. “Hi, Johnson,” C’laarc and Z@m said simultaneously, trying to remain cordial despite the small issue of them hating Johnson. Of course if Johnson had learned of his coworkers dislike of him, he would’ve been elated for being proven right. And if they had known this, they would’ve happily obliged and told Johnson to *fuck off*. But since they didn’t know, they settled for only thinking it. “Hello, nice weather we’re having, aren’t we?” Johnson replied, determined to make small talk about the weather, even on a space station. Johnson- like many Earthlings- had two arms, two legs, two eyes, and the ability to piss off any intelligent lifeform he spoke to. It’s not that the Earthlings were a particularly bad bunch. Like any of the planets, their people had their ups and downs. Their ups being art, music, literature, and the internet, and their downs being war, discrimination, poverty, and the internet. To be honest, the only thing that made them unique was their inability to shut up about how unique they were. Johnson sat with his coworkers and sighed. “Have you guys heard? Another war started on my planet yesterday.” “Sorry, Johnson, that’s awful,” C’laarc said. “Yes, but I don’t think anyone should be surprised about it. I mean, it is *Earth* after all. Humanity is doomed to always repeat a cycle of violence. Look at Hitler and Stalin. They both came from my planet. The two evilest men in history.” *My planet was the home to W3122, the destroyer of five different planets, and you don’t see me bringing him up all the damn time*, Z@m wanted to say, but instead she asked, “So, do you have any plans for tomorrow?” “Nothing much. Just going to church with my family. Ha, church! What a laugh. You two must see my people as a bunch of primitive idiots worshiping a fairy tale. No wonder it took so long for aliens to land on Earth.” “Johnson, how many times do we have to tell you this? Your God is real. He’s a powerful being from a higher plane of existence that created your people. I’ve had him over for dinner once!” “Thanks, Z@m, but you don’t have to pretend that you agree with my childish beliefs. I bet you find them as silly as those flat-Earthers running around.” Z@m didn’t think of herself as a racist (she didn’t find out about the concept of race until recently), but at that moment, a part of her was hoping that W3122 would one day end Earth’s one race, the human race.


Break Free by Jay Lugun Ara tossed and turned. Another sleepless night for her. It was impossible to ignore how things kept repeating themselves in her life and how it became difficult solving them by herself. She thought instead of begging for assistance and understanding here and there, she would feel better if she prayed. Ara was being unfairly treated by her employer. In a few weeks she would be redeployed and had been summoned to leave her office. Working for the company in another state would have suited her was she younger. Now it was an absolute no-no. They simply could not eject her from her seat and replace her but all her supplication had been to no avail. The day before as she walked along the corridor to her boss office, the knob of the door was momentarily stuck and she needed to push hard for it to open. It appeared strange because she had opened and entered that office many a times. Just as she was struggling with that issue suddenly external events also appeared to align with her feelings. She could not help noticing how some days back, while heading towards a colleague office, she found him standing and locking his door at an unusual time. And guess what? That colleague told her squarely that he could not do anything to help her and excused herself. Stuck and closed doors. She wondered if they were signs that there would be delays in her endeavour or people would not stand by her? Or mere coincidences? Whatever they were, she would not be discouraged because she was certain that she was being discriminated against. Other colleagues would simply not answer her calls and Ara was infuriated as she had always stood by them in tough times! She thought of another manager in the same company. Someone she had a short date with in the past but she backed off as they had very little in common. When she called him he listened and even proposed her to meet him over lunch. What a relief! Finally, someone was out there for her! Her respite was short lived because she discovered her ex-boyfriend had other plans and was more interested in having her in his bed! She sat up in bed as she assimilated all the lessons learnt during the past week and how lonely and desperate she felt. At first she thought she would simply give up her fight specially as she found nobody gave a damn about her or how the odds were threatening her health and life. It was so unexpected from a company she served for twenty long years of her life and where she sacrificed many a pleasures in order to invest herself totally in her work. But it was clear that hard work and commitment were dismissed by the new team in management. She was merely another cog in the machine. She could still find another job if she left but she would not lose heart so easily. She wanted to shout out at their faces that it was against the laws of the country to treat her the way they did but she knew her new boss would not appreciate and perhaps make a hell of her life. Yet she mustered all her courage and prepared a long and legally correct letter but the moment she decided to email it to the human resource department, her laptop went blank and started an interminable configuration! She never sent the email. Another blockage or sign? It was hard for her to figure out. Karma seemed all set against her! She cried and felt lonely as never before. To cut out the all-consuming stress from her life, the young woman decided to stop trying for a while. She felt she was living in a bubble thinking day and night of all her options, of her finance, of her choices and she felt sick deep down that her life no longer belonged to her. Rather she was a mere puppet in her employers’ hands. People she had thought to be her friends were simply coworkers and it was entirely her fault if she believed of finding friends or considerate colleagues in her workplace. The following morning, feeling drained out, she left for a long walk in the nearby park. She listened to her inner voice and tried to comprehend what was happening to her and the reasons behind it all. She felt serene as she sat and listened to the rustling of the leaves and some distant birds chirping. Nature seemed to absorb all her pains and distress. Ara also felt refreshed and energized and walked back home and prepared herself a large and generous breakfast. It was days since she had had a decent meal. Besides, she took the day off and cleaned her two room apartment thoroughly. After taking a bath, it was as if she had taken a rebirth. She experienced so much freshness and vigour. The connection felt in the park stayed with her as she went on with her house chores. Later as Ara dozed off on her sofa bed, she prayed the Universe with all her might to send her a sign as to what lay ahead for her. She sensed she was ready to let go and accept her fate because she was too disgusted to fight any more. It was perhaps better finally to leave. When she woke up it was 04:44 on her mobile. She took it and immediately scrolled her contact list and smiled. She knew exactly what her next step would be. During a residential work seminar and a chance meeting a couple of years back, she had come across one of the leading directors in another major branch. That elderly lady had expressed her admiration for Ara’s dedication towards the company. They had shared a great deal together during that week end going for swims and other sports events organized by the company in a spirit of team building. The director’s parting words had been to contact her anytime should she need it. But Ara never did because there was no need of that until now.  She left a message to her praying with all her soul that she would call back and she did later on that same day. Lady Luck took on her to inquire and a few days later the matter was cleared up in Ara’s favour! Ara was dumbfounded! How could it be possible that a chance meeting a couple of years back solve a burning issue that was threatening to capsize her life? How was it possible that she woke up thinking of that director? How did her brain made all that connection and came up with exactly what she needed? It was so surreal, so bizarre that she would never be able to explain it to herself! How could she ever explain that to someone else? She felt the Universe did indeed send her a sign at a moment she had tried everything and everyone she knew could help. It was a most incredible occurrence and it happened after she had time to find out some bitter truths about her colleagues’ sincerity towards her. It was as if that incident occurred with a purpose. That of awakening her to the people in her life. Or was it to awaken her to other truths about Existence? Her own dilemma appeared a calculated divine design. Ara had the feeling she was not alone and there was a power somewhere and she could connect to that source to have her prayers answered.


“Careful with that!” said Mrs Confidence to the removal team as they walked into Confidence Towers. She had been planning this move for nearly a month whilst her superhero husband was out saving the day. So far today she had been liaising with the previous Mayor Happiness, the removal team, the lagoon renovators for the back garden, the dog sitter for their pet ice cream Vanilla and then her family. The Confidence house working like clockwork was also completely down to her and the move was going well so far for the same reason. “We will be extra careful Mrs Confidence, we’ll go slower if you like?” said Mr Box, owner of Box and Family Removals. Being a family of walking talking boxes made it very easy for them to pack up people’s houses and then walk all the way to the new property, sometimes using Ellie Lorry and her family to get everyone there if it was more than a mile away.

Mrs Confidence nodded at Mr Box, he shouted out at his numerous box children and they all started to take smaller steps. She stood in the echoey reception area with her large foam turtle body and newly permed hair casting a huge shadow on the marble floor, pointing each box in the direction of the room they required. She had carefully marked up each box with the room location on the outside so her task was as simple as possible. Within half an hour all their belongings were in the house and she began to instruct each room of boxes where to unpack the items. Master and Miss Confidence were up in their rooms starting to unpack their things and couldn’t believe how much space there was. They were individually planning the epic sleepovers and birthday parties they could host and couldn't wait to be the one who got their parents’ permission first, each one thinking the parents would side with their better idea. Mr Confidence had finished work slightly early so flew through the back door to a flurry of activity with boxes unpacking themselves everywhere. He quickly saw his wife in the midst of directing the box traffic and asked what every spare part husband asks their partner. “Need a hand?” he asked knowing his wife was more than capable of handling this with her head fully inside her shell. “Green algae tea, please!” she said sounding relieved she was having a conversation with someone who wasn't a box. “Coming up!” he flew over to the cupboards and quickly looked around realising he wasn't in his old house anymore. He slowly turned his bulky amphibian body back round to find Mrs Confidence was smirking at him. “It’s all in that box that says Tea and Coffee on your left behind you.” Mr Confidence spun back round and helped the tinier box with Tea and Coffee on the outside unpack its cargo, which it thanked him for in a tiny high pitched voice. He plugged in the kettle and got started. He knew his wife was better than him in every way when it came to their home life but he did pride himself on the fact he was King of Tea. Of course, Mrs Confidence let him believe that so she got a nice cup of tea on a regular basis, but in actual fact she had a black belt in tea making. An hour later the Confidence family were chilling in the living room on their new sofas when there was a knock at the front door. Mrs Confidence opened the door thinking it might be Mr Box with the missing box from the move but instead no-one was there. She heard someone clear their throat and say: “Excuse me?” She quickly looked down and there was a medium sized box looking back at her. “Can I help you?” she asked confused that the package was here on its own, she looked down the road for anyone else and only heard the faint buzz of a nearby bee. “I‘m the missing box with your things.” said the box sounding quite tinny and faint for someone who was standing right in front of Mrs Confidence. She had no reason to question it, and she was waiting for a missing box, so invited her new cardboard buddy into the house. Mrs Confidence and the mystery box walked into the living room together as Mr Confidence asked, “Who was it?”, only to have his question answered as this strange looking parcel appeared by the side of his wife. “Oh? Hello.. erm box!” “Hello Mr Confidence I bring your things. Please help me open myself.” As the box reached the centre of the room a number of things happened at once: ·       Mr Confidence got up from the sofa to walk over to the box. ·       Mrs Confidence heard that faint buzzing again and thought the bee must have followed the box into the house. ·       Master Confidence thought it was weird his Mum had not put a sticker on this box to say which room it should go in. ·       Miss Confidence noticed the box’s arms and legs were made from plastic pipes and toilet rolls and it’s eyes were drawn on in black marker. The box seemed to be floating as if it was fake!? Miss Confidence leapt from the sofa screaming “DAD, NOOO!” Mr Confidence had already partially opened one of the flaps of the box and that activated the gallons of green sticky gunge that exploded out of the fake box. It covered everything and everyone within the living room. In the space of two seconds there was a drippy shade of green covering every part of the room. The whole family stood there in silence as gunge slowly dripped from their faces. In the silence the buzzing of the bee grew louder as a cackled laugh could be heard from it’s tiny body: “HAHAHA! Like my housewarming gift?” said their arch nemesis Tommy Terror coming to them live from his bee drone camera. Mr Confidence cleared the green goo from his mouth and eyes and slowly responded, “Tommy, what a lovely surprise! Where are you, I’d love to give you a hug in person!” he said through gritted teeth, hearing his wife seething underneath the many oozy layers next to him. “I’m sat here in my lovely back garden looking at my water fountain as I see a live feed of your wonderful new green décor in your living room,” Tommy said. “Do you like the smell I added to the gunge by the way – that comes straight from Gas Town. I hope you...” Mr Confidence hit the bee drone with the back of his hand and it crashed against the wall landing on the floor in a heap with no more buzzes to give. Mr Confidence, with goo still dripping from every part of his squashy body, looked at his beautiful home now covered in green stickiness and started to think through what to do next. It didn’t take long for the best idea to rise into his mind and take shape. “Dad? What...” Before Master Confidence could finish his sentence Mr Confidence interrupted him. "Nobody move until I say you can. Honey, where is the bucket and the spare lagoon pool?” Mrs Confidence spat out enough green gunge from her mouth to respond, “They're both in the garage next to your bike.” In a split second, where Mr Confidence had been standing there was just a number of green gooey splats in flight as the rest of him had flown off to get the bucket from the garage.

He dashed into the garage, grabbed the bucket and spare lagoon plastic pool and flew back to the house, leaving the pool in the centre of the garden. The Mayor and bucket shot back into the living room and quickly removed the goo from every piece of furniture, light fitting and member of the family he could find. As soon as the bucket was full, he dashed back to the pool outside and emptied the putrid green goo into it. Within a few minutes the living room was back to normal and the pool was filled with the green gunge. He even grabbed the raspberry ripple scented furniture polish and air freshener from under the sink to remove every piece of the pooey odour from the room. The Confidence family - still picking bits of green from under their scaley nails - followed their dad into the back garden to find the pool almost up to the brim with goo. “What are we going to do with that?” asked Mrs Confidence. Mr Confidence gave a cheeky smile back at her. ---------------------- Tommy Terror was catching some grey rays from the overcast sky above him wearing his cool (in his mind anyway) glum glasses humming his favourite theme tune about himself to himself. It wasn't often his plans worked but, on that rare occasion when they did, he had earned the right to gloat and kick back and enjoy his victory.

In fact he was enjoying his victory so much that he didn’t notice the additional shadow overhead or the faint foul gunk spitting on his arm which became a heavy downpour.

Within a matter of seconds Tommy Terror and a large part of his water fountain and garden were covered in disgusting green gelatinous goo from the skies. He lay frozen in time covered in gunk but could just make out, despite all the festering funk in his eyes, someone or something flying overhead holding a large object. He knew immediately who it was as Mr Confidence shouted down at him before flying back home, leaving Tommy sat in his pooey fluorescent mess. “Enjoy the smell!”


Author’s Note

Hello again! I thought I’d use this note to say a thank you to those who liked my previous stories and followed me. Could you kindly also comment on them? Thank you. I’m feeling the urge and am very curious to know why they got liked by you all, lol. Anyway, this is also a brief wording into what this story is. It is partially written based on a true-life story, and I hope you can understand whatever words I mixed and matched into this work XD. If you do, could you drop a quick ‘thumbs-up, you did a wonderful job’? Without further ado, let’s dive right in!

Copyright © 2021 by Fallow. All rights reserved.

There are times in life when making choices are compulsory. Times when you have that one interview that would probably land you your dream job; or when you know you are sick, you need to go to the hospital and begin using medications; or even when your elders find out you were behind a horrendous event. Whatever it is, those times are just definitely the worst, and that’s what Wemimo Atinuke Oluwatumininu thinks.

Wemimo is not entirely your everyday rich kid who goes to school in a range rover or a GMC with a stolid chauffeur, in smashing black liveries, who listens to her every complaint or command of whatnots. Instead, she attends Duntro Schools, the only private institution her bustling Lawanson neighbourhood can afford. Or where her parents can pay to take her to. ‘ Education is very key’ , her Yoruba parents never seem to stop reminding her. Undoubtedly, it was not a lie, and possibly not the truth also.

Wemimo learnt in school that the British missionaries in the 1840s introduced education to her country, the giant of Africa with 54 nations. She found out about her roots, her people, her tribe, her culture, her religion, her personality and her duties as a growing child through this education. Had they not been colonised by them, she would probably still be in Ikare, her hometown in Ondo State, plucking taros, cashews and cocoas to brew the breakfast tea, like her cousins with ignorant parents. Yes, Wemimo’s parents were not the least bright or learned, but they did know how to care for a child they wanted to be responsible to them.

Ko omo re ki o le fun o ni isimi , teach your child to give you rest, and that was what they were racing.

Education had saved Wemimo on days like when she wanted to wash clothes or dishes in the house. On Thursdays, when she learnt how to handle a dishwasher or washer-dryer in home economics classes, she made it a habit to come home to tell her mother and father.

The respectful name attributed by students in her school always found a way into each sentence, dropping casually from her full pink lips, “ Teacher

said—”

And, she would only continue after grabbing their attention, “—to maximise time and effort, we use a washer-dryer to wash and dry all our clothes, no matter how small or big.” She would demonstrate in such phenomenal ways that would make graduates in marketing flop and feel useless. The following week, or month, her parents would buy it, depending on how prayerful she was.

So, she liked it – education, even if it wasn’t something she could make as a choice of hers to do.

When it came to achievements in all her life studies, her mother would pick the perfect style for her, and she would wear it to congratulate a new stage. It was not something she needed to argue. She was indecisive in the smallest of choices and nondifferent in the largest of them.

Two years ago, she had told her parents she would become a secondary school student, and she would be taking her Basic Education Certificate Examination (BECE) the week after. Her mother had looked her in the eye and replied, “Study sciences and become a big doctor like Baba Akinnuoye-Agbaje in that TV station you like watching!” It was evident that she had gotten most of her gestural expressions from her pepper-selling mother. Her father, on the other hand, hadn’t spoken, quietly thinking of all possibilities of the future. Later at night, he went to her while she was getting ready to go to bed and said, “I believe in you to make the right choice, Atinuke mi; whatever you would like to become, your mother and I would support you, be it a doctor, a lawyer or an accountant.”

Wemimo didn’t sleep, not like she had a choice. She tossed and turned in bed severally. Her father was always a wise man, and she wondered why she hadn’t grabbed that part of him. Instead, she only took his brains and looks. That was why Wemimo was probably anxious. This stage in her life would determine the rest of it; if there were the slightest glitch, that would be the end of their hard-earned money. Her father had told her what to do in the junior grades of secondary school. Telling her again what to do shouldn’t be difficult, but he didn’t, and he never would. So, Wemimo skipped school for two days, praying fervently in the local mosque for God to intervene, make her father decide for her or send a helper to her.

She took the examination; as expected, she passed in multiple flying colours. She had the best distinction in her local government and was given a scholarship to a school in the finest communities – Lekki. Pinefield Schools had now become her citadel of learning. She knew her prayers had worked, but not in the ways she had wanted, most likely.

The following year, she began senior secondary school. As a student, she needed to participate in extra-curricular activities and few screenings to determine the department she would be placed. The day of the activities had been a Friday, as a part of the norms. Wemimo had dressed in blue sportswear, one of the many clothes given to her on her first day. Thankfully, the divisions of the clubs, one of the activities, were at different time intervals. With naïvete, Wemimo danced through the various clubs, from homemakers, debating, press to even the team of the STEM or commonly called JETS (Junior Engineers, Technicians and Scientists).

She had come home in joy, narrating continuously, till she was exhausted or her parents skipped together to the kitchen to prepare supper or dinner, “Mother and father, today we learnt many things. I learnt how to sew a button to a dress, how to make a volcano, how to give a speech, and I speak French!”

And, every day, she awaited another Friday to come. Not until the next one did she realise she had to make two decisions that would finally be by her. Wemimo had gone to the French club first to say a few words of

bonjour ,

Je m’appelle , and

j’aime  or just some other random new phrases. Then, it had been the homemakers club, where she stated the various types of stitches and explained briefly.

Unfortunately, there had been a clash between the press and the JETS clubs. When Wemimo had sauntered upstairs to fetch her book, pen and CASIO calculator had been when she saw the headmaster with a long stick in hand. Wemimo had run for her life because the one impact the

cane

had on her buttocks in her previous school was an experience she would never forget.

It had been between the chess and JETS clubs; both were on the same floor, facing each other. Wemimo preferred mixing things to form a new compound better than sitting in silence, calculating people's expressions to know their next move between pawns or bishops. When the insects the young scientists scrutinised on the tables called her in short buzzes, she obliged and ran towards the laboratory. Yes, that day had been in her small diary by the window with a picture attached to it of how she had made the best decision to join the JETS club and the science department. Maybe, become a doctor like Baba Akinnuoye-Agbaje as mother had said.

Now, fifteen-year-old Wemimo is the leader of the JETS club, all-around A student and youngest to make a 320 in JAMB (Joint Admissions and Matriculations Board), the examination that would allow her to enter the school of her choice. The University of Medical Sciences in Ondo, where she would make her hometown better than ever. Not by colonisation, but by treating the sick, including children, who would improve the state with the different choices they make.


“There’s a monster in the house Mamma,” Daisy rubbed her bleary eyes as she shuffled into the living room, where her Mother sat with a cup of tea. The Mother opened her arms as the little girl crawled into her lap. The radio hummed quietly in the background and a soft glow from a lamp warmed the room. “Don’t be silly darling,” the Mother soothed, smoothing Daisy’s long, brown braided hair. “Daddy wouldn’t let any monsters inside, would he?” Daisy frowned. “But Daddy’s been sick for an awfully long time. How can he fight the monsters if he’s sick?”  “The monsters are scared of Daddy. They wouldn’t dare come here. Now, off to bed with you.” The Mother kissed Daisy’s head and held her hand as she led her back upstairs. Her husband, Eric, had fallen ill two months ago. At first, it had seemed like merely a slight cold but he had quickly deteriorated. Chills, aches, nausea, headaches, dizziness, cramps, weakness, exhaustion, confusion-the doctors were at a loss. He had been forced to take a leave of absence from work. The doctors suggested a change of scenery might help along with clean country air. So, the family of three rented a charming farmhouse on a popular lake for the summer. The house was tucked away about a ten-minute drive from town on an overgrown apple orchard. The lake was only an hour or so from the city so many fathers, and sometimes mothers, would drive to work each day while their children attended day camp. This also meant that Eric was not far from his doctors. Friends, family and colleagues often called to check up on him. When he was too weak to speak, the Wife updated them on his health. The Wife could tend to her husband, wheeling him around in the fresh air, and visit with other mothers while he slept. Daisy had made many friends and spent the days running around in the sunshine. Eric even joked that they might finally have the son he wanted after this trip.

The Wife enjoyed the peace and quiet. She had not had to attend or host a dinner party or afternoon tea in weeks. In all honesty, Eric's illness was a blessing. No more deadly quiet words, no more plates smashed to the black and white tile floor, no more long sleeves, no more sips of gin to calm the nerves, no more holes in the wall. Just peace. Silence. Normalcy. No more, “Yes dear, of course dear, I’m sorry dear." No more shaking in fear as she desperately clutched a shirt she had managed to burn while ironing.

Her husband was a loving father but a demanding and harsh spouse. Afterwards, there were always new dresses, a wonderful night out and fresh flowers for weeks. He never meant any harm, of course, she just always managed to push his buttons.

They had been high school sweethearts, a surprising combination of a football star and a bookworm. She had been ecstatic when he had asked her to prom. They married shortly after graduation and began college together. In their third year of school, the Wife became pregnant. Eric wisely encouraged her to put school on hold to take care of their new daughter. The new Mother obliged. Eric said that was what he loved about her-she knew when to listen and she valued her family above everything else. She gave up her dreams in order to be a good Mother and Wife. So, she needed to be the best Mother and Wife she could be. There was nothing else left. *** The Wife hummed as she stirred a pot of soup on the stove. It was Eric’s favorite. She had won awards for this soup. It was one of the only things that made him feel a bit better. She thought after this batch, he would almost be as good as new. They had been at the farmhouse for three weeks and he was finally doing well. He even had the energy to work on his models and play a game of golf. She knew her soup was a key component to his improved health. Eric was still built like the linebacker he used to be, but lately, he had looked like a giant skeleton, skin hanging off his bones, eyes sunken and face sallow. He was finally starting to fill out again.

The whole family had gone to the beach today. The weather had been perfect. Eric had a burst of energy and they basked in the sun, letting the water lap at their toes while Daisy splashed around. He was kinder now, calmer. He seemed grateful that his Wife took such good care of him. It was nice to see this side of her husband. Afterwards, Eric had been exhausted and she put him to bed. Daisy went off to her afternoon day camp and the Mother had lunch with a few other Mothers she knew from the city.

“Mamma!” Daisy shrieked happily, slamming the screen door as she skipped into the kitchen, wrapping her skinny arms around the Mother’s waist.

“Hello, Sweetheart!” The Mother squeezed her daughter back. “How was your afternoon?” “It was super fun! We went to the park and had a water balloon fight and-and we made friendship bracelets and um made fruit salad!” “That sounds like a great day. You wore sunscreen, right?” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Of course, Mamma. What are you making for dinner?”

“Fried chicken. I thought we could all go on a walk after we eat, maybe get some ice cream.” Daisy’s eyes brightened in delight as she grinned a gap tooth smile. “Yes, yes, that sounds great! I’ll go clean up and visit with Daddy.” She hugged her Mother before running up the stairs, sneakers squeaking.

*** Her husband had continued to do well the past two weeks and had regained much of his strength. The doctors had said Eric was on the mend and that no more appointments were needed. Things have been wonderful. He took Daisy to the park, the family often went out for ice cream and he helped around the house. The couple was spending a nice day at home while Daisy attended a traveling carnival with her day camp.

That afternoon, after a lovely lunch, the Wife and Eric were washing up before Daisy arrived home. The plan was to spend a night playing board games with their daughter. The Wife was washing the dishes while Eric dried them. She grabbed a mug from amongst the warm suds, wiping it down with a sponge before rinsing it off. As she went to hand it to Eric, her grip slipped. The Wife froze in fear as she watched as the mug fell to the floor, almost in slow motion, before it shattered. She slowly raised her eyes to her husband’s. His hazel eyes blazed with fury, his mouth tight, jaw clenched. “You fucking klutz!” Eric boomed, voice full of a painful promise. He raised his hand and the Wife flinched, cowering.

“Daddy?” Daisy asked, timidly, as she entered the room, her wide brown eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?” Eric paused.

“Nothing, Pumpkin,” He lowered his hand. “Your Mother and I just had a little disagreement. Why don’t you wait outside and we’ll go for ice cream?” Daisy beamed and happily skipped away. The mask fell away and Eric turned on his Wife, shaking with rage.

“Can you do anything right?” Eric clutched her shoulders tightly, his fingernails making her wince. “Clean this mess up and don’t make me yell in front of our daughter again.” He shoved her away and she stumbled. “Yes dear, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.” The Wife meekly whispered. Eric stomped away and back, shoving the broom and dustpan into her hands. The broom handle smacked roughly into her jaw. She refused to flinch again.

“What are we having for dinner tonight?” The Wife stood up straight and looked him in the eye. “Soup.”

*** The Wife stirred the soup that was bubbling away on the stove. Eric fell ill again shortly after their little spat two weeks ago. He seemed even worse this time around, but she didn’t call the doctors. She had almost become a nurse, after all. She knew how to care for him better than those quacks. He needed rest, vitamin tablets and aspirin, plenty of water, tea, fresh juice and soup. Most of all soup. He always perked up when he had it and then slept soundly through the night. “Mamma!” Daisy scrambled into the kitchen and threw her backpack on the ground as she ran into her Mother’s arms.

“How was your sleepover, darling?” The Mother asked as she scooped her daughter up, spinning her around as Daisy giggled.

“It was sooo much fun! We had ice cream sundaes and stayed up late playing flashlight tag outside! Her daddy made us pancakes this morning. You know what the best thing was though?” She leant to whisper into her Mother’s ear. “There were no monsters.” The Mother stiffened and set her daughter on the ground. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “That’s wonderful! Why don’t you go unpack your things and wash up? I can make you grilled cheese for lunch.” *** “What are you making Mamma?” Daisy stood on her tip-toes, trying to peer into the pot. “Soup”. The Mother gently nudged her daughter away, worried she would accidentally touch the scalding hot stove or pot.

“Ooh, can I have some?” “No!” The Mother said sharply but she pasted on a smile as Daisy flinched. “No, sweetheart, this soup is for your Daddy. It helps him feel better”. “Oh, okay, like medicine?” “Yes, like medicine”. She breathed a sigh of relief. Daisy motioned for her to lean down. She whispered in her Mother’s ear. “I can hear the monsters in Daddy’s room now, Mamma. Buzzing, squeaking, scraping, squealing. They sound hungry. How can Daddy get better if the monsters are in there with him? Can I go see him?” The Mother’s blood ran cold but she maintained her cheery facade.

“Daddy is very tired, darling. He needs all the rest he can get. He might get you sick. Why don’t you make him a card tomorrow and I can bring it to him? I’m sure that would cheer him up."  She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek before ushering her towards the door. “Okay! I’ll work on it right now!” The little girl hurried up the stairs, forgetting her backpack.

The Mother went back to her soup. *** Summer had started its sweltering rebellion against the looming fall. Record high heat and humidity caused the Wife to constantly wipe sweat from her brow as she stirred her newest batch of soup. She was trying a slightly new recipe today. Three more weeks had passed and Eric was not doing any better. Who wouldn’t be tired of eating the same thing three times a day? She gave him bowl after bowl of her soup yet it seemed to work less and less. Eric was too weak to even sit outside anymore so she left the window in his room open. Hopefully, fresh air would help. Summer was almost over and their daughter was coming back today from an overnight end-of-summer camping trip with her day camp, which was really just in the Johnson’s backyard. The Mother had wanted to chaperone but, of course, she couldn’t leave Eric. He was so quiet lately, the Wife wondered if she did need to call a doctor, after all. The Wife paused her stirring as she heard the screen door bang open, followed by the sound of sneakers hurriedly scuffling across the floor. “Mamma!” Daisy barrels into the kitchen, making the Mother let out an “oof” as the little girl slammed into her body. “Hello, darling!” The Mother squeezed her daughter tight. “How was it?” “We had s’mores and went on a nature hike and told ghost stories and Kelly’s story was reeeeally scary but I was brave!” The Mother chuckled and ruffled her daughter's hair. “Of course, you were, my big brave girl. I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep last night. Why don’t you go clean up and take a nap? I’ll wake you for lunch.” Daisy gave her Mother another hug before running upstairs. She forgot her backpack. The Mother went back to stirring her soup as she hummed along to the radio. An hour later, Daisy came down the stairs and entered the kitchen with a concerned frown on her face. The Mother put down a plate with a ham and cheese sandwich, carrots and chips on the table before opening her arms for her daughter to run into. “What is it, darling?” The Mother squeezed her tight as Daisy buried her face into the Mother’s chest. “Mamma, I can still hear the monsters. I smell them now too. It smells like when that possum got stuck under the porch last summer, only worser.” The Mother’s heart skipped a beat. She took a deep breath. “Daddy’s sick, remember? People who are sick sometimes don’t smell very good. I left the window open. Hopefully, that will air things out and help him feel better. If you want, you can sleep in my room with me tonight.” *** The Woman settled into her reading chair with a crime novel and a hot toddy. She had given her husband his supper and played with Daisy before putting her to bed. Finally, she had time alone. The Woman blew gently on her drink before taking a sip. She had just opened her book, the newest who-done-it, when she heard a blood-curdling scream upstairs. The Mother jumped up, knocking her hot drink to the floor, where it rapidly seeped into her book. She ran upstairs, heart pounding a tattoo of Daisy, Daisy, Daisy .

The Mother frantically checked her daughter’s bedroom, but Daisy was not there. Another scream sounded at the end of the hall. She rushed to her daughter. Daisy stumbled out of the room at the end of the hall. Eric’s room. Daisy scrambled to her mother, falling at her feet.

“Mamma!” The little girl sobbed, clutching her Mother’s skirt. “A monster!” The Mother shushed her daughter and led her to her bedroom. With trepidation, she took the seemingly endless walk down the hall. The door was slightly ajar, darkness seeping from within with strange sounds, buzzing, squeaking, scratching, and squealing drifting into the hall.

The Mother took a deep breath before pushing open the door and a few cheerful drawings floated out. Daisy must have been putting them under the door. She smiled down at a picture of a happy stick family of three but faltered, the father’s figure had an odd shadow stretched behind him. It almost seemed ready to swallow him whole. Kids and their wild imaginations. She breathed a sigh of relief as she looked up to see nothing was amiss.  A decomposing corpse rested in the bed. A permanent grin stretched rotting tendons and hanging skin across its bony jaw as flies buzzed, cockroaches scuttled, and rats squeaked while they feasted on the buffet before them. Maggots spilled from its eye sockets. Bowls upon bowls of uneaten fetid soup are piled around it. A disturbing, putrid and sickly sweet scent permeates the air. A rat tranquilly sips from a cup of untouched gray murky tea. Two weeks of the morning paper are stacked by its head, torn apart by rats for nesting material. But, the Wife doesn’t see the grisly tableau before her.

She walked towards the bed with a smile, causing the carnivorous menagerie to scatter. She fluffed the pillows which oozed brown liquid with a wet squelch . She hoped her husband was comfortable. “How are you feeling today, dear? Daisy has this wild notion that there’s a monster in here with you,” She chuckled as she stacked a few of the bowls of soup. “I’ll go fix you something to eat.”

The Wife entered the kitchen and began to chop vegetables. She did not notice the brown slime dripping from her fingers. She started to sing. “ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine ,” She heard a sniffle coming from beneath the table. A tear rolled down her cheek. How strange, she mused as she wiped it away. “Daisy, dear, there’s nothing to be upset about,” The Mother said calmly. “Your father will be right as rain in no time. He just needs rest and more soup. I swear this recipe is pure magic,” She filled the pot with chicken stock and water to begin boiling the vegetables. “ You’ll never know dear, how much I love you ”.

Daisy quietly sobbed as her mother continued to croon the lullaby. Daisy had really let her imagination get away from her. The poor thing was really frightened. Some nice, warm soup would cheer her up. The Mother added her secret ingredients. “ Please don’t take my sunshine away .


This story contains content that includes issues of mental health, suicide, and physical violence. You pull your black hoody closer tighter around your face as you turn your bike down your tree-lined street toward home. The streetlights are on and making you a stretched black shadow on the deserted block as you pass through their coned light on the bumpy pavement. The red-brick rambler at the end is yours. The house is dark, and the shades are drawn. No one will be home for another three hours or so. Your mom is staying late tonight to set up the fall displays at the store and your dad stopped coming straight home from work about two years ago not long after you had that “trouble” at school when you broke into the computer system to change Zander’s grade. You don’t ask your dad where he has been, and he doesn’t ask you where you have been and that is just the way he wants it. You don’t really talk to him at all anymore, there is nothing to say. You are his biggest disappointment from your hair to your grades, from your friends to the way you dress, and he has written you out of his life with a brick wall of silence. Mom will always try to ask you how your day was as she’s prepping dinner but the last thing you are going to tell her is about what really happens. She doesn’t know that you got caught sluffing school for the fifth time last week because you were able to delete the text on her phone when she left it on the counter after work. She is notoriously awful at checking her texts. Besides, you can no longer stomach the disappointment in her eyes. Worst yet, the disappointment isn’t in you but in herself because clearly, she went wrong somewhere and she’s cataloguing all the times she raised her voice or missed a band performance or didn’t ask you who you were spending time with after school. This time alone has been important for your plans. It is all coming together the way you’ve always talked about. You just left Zander’s house. You have set a date and it’s now only 48 hours away. April 16 th . Two weeks before graduation. You are going to get revenge on all of them. There’s something freeing about knowing you only have two days to live. You pull the garage door opener from the front pocket of your backpack and hit the right button to lift the door. The garage is empty of her CRV and his Mazda CX5. You resist the urge to throw the bike off to the side because your dad will give you his backhand again and remind you to take care of your things. You lean it against the wall near the front of the garage, put the door down and dig in your pack for your house key. You immediately go to the kitchen and pour yourself a gigantic bowl of cereal to get you to dinner. Mom is always complaining that you are almost out of milk, but you are starving. Hardly any of the school lunch is edible and you were making notes with Zander about how many students were in the cafeteria for first lunch. You were working on drawing the floor plan of the school and the best place to come in the building. Second lunch is when the most people are in the cafeteria, and it is just one corridor from the front entrance of the school.

You take the cereal with you down to your room, spilling some milk on the stairs as you go. Your room is at the end of the hall past mom’s sewing room that she hasn’t used since she stopped sewing clothes for you in kindergarten about the time, she took the job downtown. You throw your backpack on the bed and pull out the box that is smashed between the legs of your study desk. You pull the lid off the box and set aside the black trench coat that is on the top. You pull the notebook from your backpack and add two new names to the list. One is a nickname – Mr. Jockstrap the phys ed teacher. Today was the worst. He was the worst. And now he’s going to pay for calling you out in front of Stacia, making you run laps because you refuse to play volleyball, and saying shit about your skinny legs. And Chris Lancaster. Sonofabitch thinks he runs that school. You wouldn’t mind taking out a few of the football players but if you get Chris, that will be enough. You hear the slam of the front door. Dammit. They are early. You throw the coat back in the box over the sawed off shot gun and shove the box back under the desk. You listen for signs of who it is. There are footsteps into the kitchen. A slam of the fridge door and sound of a beer can opening. It’d dad. He won’t come looking for you. Predictably he will lumber into the tv room and hole up there all night long with the sound on too loud. It will rattle your window. You open your notebook and continue with the list of things you need this weekend. You’ve got a lot to do before Monday morning. You draw a picture of what you will wear. Trenchcoat. Cargo pants. Boots. Practice holding Tec 9. Buy bullets. Buy shells. Practice gearing up. You hardly sleep on Sunday night even though everything is ready. Zander’s been texting you since 4 a.m. He clearly isn’t sleeping either. He is ready to go now. You can picture him pacing in his room just itching to pull the trigger on everyone who has ever pissed him off. Which is just about everyone in your claustrophobic town. He calls himself the original NBK. He’s always runs hotter than you. Did he talk you into this or was it your idea? There’s light sliding in under the black drape over your window where the ends have curled between the pins on each corner. You’ve never had a moment’s doubt until now. It is a flash across your mind. You draw in breath and hold it in your chest until it aches. You don’t want to live anymore in this world where you’ve only lived half-assed. Not good enough looking to get the girls. Not good enough for your dad to even look at anymore. Waste of space. Waste of breath. Leaving your mark on the world on your way out. Finding a way to always be remembered. Making history. What will happen to your Mom? You can’t think about that now. The box is no longer under your desk but in the trunk of your car. You have checked off everything on your list.

You have to leave like it is any old Monday. Your mom has on her worried face because instead of wolfing down breakfast, you don’t even touch the plate. She has never understood you. But she has tried. You don’t regret what you are about to do to them, but you regret what you will do to her. She’s the only victim. The rest deserve this. At 11:31, you enter the cafeteria in your trench coat. The Tec 9 in your hand. It is time.


Keith Smith silently watches his partner Lilly Wilson get herself ready to meet her friends. Every movement made by her is scrutinised intently by him. Even though she faces the other direction from him. She is fully aware of his presence. “I don’t understand why you are going out with them. You see them at work every day.” He says abruptly. “When we see each other at the hospital we are really busy with patients. And don’t have time to talk to each other.” She says applying her mascara. “But during lunch hours or when you are on your break. You have time to chat. “ Lilly turned round suppressing her anger towards him and finds her herself in an all too familiar and daunting situation. Then again when she told him about her arrangement to go out at the start of the week. Lilly knew that it would inevitably lead to them arguing over every detail of it. Keith slowly moved closer his eyes swirling with sadness and anger. As if he had been betrayed. The two stop and look at each with a chasm of silence between them. “I promise you we won’t be going far or even for that long. I will be back by midnight “She said through a gentle smile. At the same time praying inside  that Keith would feel any closure from her words. Keith stood silent not really sure what to think of Lilly’s response. He knew that she would never cheat on him. Although he hated seeing other men look at her. Her tall and slim body often caught the attention of many other males. The two of them then moved towards one each other. As they hugged a single tear ran from his left eye. Lilly wiped it away with her hand and then straightened him up. They  stare into each other eyes sharing a moment of tenderness. Something they had not experienced in a long time. Keith put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s just that I worry something will happen to you. There is lots of new variants around. Remember also someone got attacked and mugged not far from here.” “Take it from a staff nurse I will not end up as a corpse. And I won’t be alone or on another planet.” Lilly said, continuing her on the spot form of comedic reassurance.

Keith’s face then showed signs of calmness. The two then kissed on the lips and quickly separated. Lilly then continued to get add the final preparations to her much anticipated and well-deserved night out. Keith stayed and watched for a short while before going into the living room. “That’s me away love.” Keith bolted up from his chair to try and catch one final glimpse of Lilly before the door shut. But all he got was a blur of her clothing and a whiff of perfume. He then hurried to the window in the living room to see her walk down the street. Lucky for him the top floor of their flat in Cathcart Road provided an amazing view of the street below. Keith waited up that entire time not doing much expect for going on his phone and watching the odd bit of television. The entirety of his thoughts focused on him imaging Lilly and her friends having and incredible time. Keith in some ways felt inadequate to them. Perhaps it was due to her and them knowing each other for longer or working in the exact same line of work. It was quarter to midnight when Lilly returned home. She reckoned that coming home a little bit earlier in order to reassure Keith and not to reignite their argument from before. To her surprise he was much calmer than he usually was after she had returned from previous night outs. Keith only asked her very few details on what happened. It was a far cry from other interrogations he had given her. One of the worst memories Lilly had, was when she went to the convenance store at the bottom of the flat. She and the owners’ daughters were good friends and regularly chatted to each other. One time when Lilly came home after visiting them, she found Keith in tears with his face scarlet. For a moment Lilly thought something awful had happened. “Your always with them. It’s like you cannot stand to be around me.” He sobbed. Lilly did her best to comfort and reassure Keith. For a short moment she felt she was looking after a child. The true extent of Keith’s insecurities and jealous nature seeped out like his teardrops to her for the first time. During the lockdown Lilly could tell that Keith found it strangely enjoyable with the two just being by themselves. Although she wasn’t made to feel guilty or restricted for speaking to her friends on Zoom or Facebook. Afterall, he had her all to himself in all the other times. Lilly never enforced his sort of behaviour on him with any of his friends both male and female. It was not within her nature. Lilly knew even when Keith hung around other females when she wasn’t there, he wouldn’t be unfaithful. That was a quality he had that always shock off any notions of leaving him. Lilly never felt in any danger from Keith. She found him attractive due to many factors; such as his intelligence, humour and his career as a support worker for people with physical and mental health issues. Convinced her that he was a sincere good person. Everybody who knew him always gave him much praise on his work ethnics and attitude. Keith was much shorter than Lilly which was something she found strangely appealing with male bodies. There was a slight age difference between the two. Lilly was twenty-one. Where Keith was slightly older at twenty-seven. She stayed with him despite how insecure and envious he was with her social life outside of him. Lilly had other male friends who started to see less and less. She did still keep and contact with them but over time that dwindled away. Her and Keith still had fun together. Lilly did see a generous and gentle side to Keith many times. It was only a few months into their relationship when Keith moved into Lilly’s flat. At that time they would sit up late at night and even discussed the idea of having children much further down the line. Lilly imagined him as an amazing role model. The afternoon went very well between them. Lilly even showed Keith photos she took that night. She did have a great time. But at the same was dreading what Keith would be like when she got home. Keith did not ask. Lilly had a sense of reassurance in her that she hadn’t felt in a long time. All that changed when her mobile rang. Lilly picked up and went into the other room to speak. After she finished the call Lilly knew any tranquillity between her and Keith was about to end. “Who was that?” Asked Keith. “It was Peter.” “What did he want?” “He was wondering if he could come over and stay over next week.” She said crestfallen. Keith shrugged. “I was hoping you and I could go and see a film and go for dinner instead.” Lilly knew that Keith secretly resented Peter. This really saddened her due to Peter not only being twelve. But for the sole reason of their bond as brother and sister. Lilly understood that Keith always felt jealously seeing the two together. They had a past albeit sad in parts due to their mother’s death. Even though Keith was nice to Peter. Lilly knew he hated when he came over. She theorised that he felt somehow resented their relationship. Whenever they spoke or shared a joke together the false happy demeaner put up by Keith always dissolved away. Lilly was never fooled by it. She couldn't defend Keith's way of thinking. It was beyond pety and just sad. She never hated him seeing his family or friends. However her soft and timid nature never gave her the confidence to do so. “Please we haven’t seen each other in a while.” “You’re doing this again. Putting everybody in front of me.” Snarled Keith. “Please stop thinking like this he is my family.” You know how much I love you.” Cried Lilly putting her arms around Keith. Who was sitting on the edge of the couch bent forward. He turned round and went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. Lilly followed him not knowing what to say or do to resolve the situation. She went in the room extremly tense. But knew now was the time to clear the air. Keith sat up as Lilly walked in. The two hugged however any relief they desired from it was not there. “I think you and I need to get couples therapy or counselling.” Said Lilly softly standing back. At the same time trying to hold back the tears. “Here you go again trying shove some other person between us. I just wanted to do something nice together. Look I have a lot of stress at work. Peter being here is not going to help.” I am not interested in looking after your annoying brother.” “I don’t exactly enjoy having to sneak around you and justify every conversation I have with someone.” Yelled Lilly stepping forward on her right leg. Keith saying nothing leaves the flat leaving Lilly not knowing what to do. It was around nine when he returned. The two went into hug each other. But found whatever spark they had was now gone. They then went into the bedroom saying nothing. “I don’t think what we have is healthy and should continue.” Said Lilly putting her hand on Keith’s cheek.” “You know I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings about your brother.”

Lilly nodded. But did fully believe him.

Keith then stood up and got out a rucksack and then started to pack various bits of clothes into it. He did not say anything barely making any eye contact with Lilly. As he did Lilly felt strangely sad seeing part of her life being removed. Keith then turned to her. “I am going to go stay in a hotel. I will return for the rest of my things in a few days.” “Okay call me first and please return your key.” Lilly says standing up. Keith handed it over with no resistment. The two then stared for a short while before Keith exited the flat. Lilly sat on the bed staring into every crevice and corner of the room. Every memory of her and Keith flooding back into her mind. For a while she cried before feeling strangely revitalised.

Six months later Lilly had moved into a new flat in Shawlands. She decided not to date but to simply continue on with her life. Her and Keith only saw each other when he was moving the rest of all his things out of the flat. After that she never saw or heard from Keith again. She still had his number. But just couldn't call it. Even though Lilly still loved him in some way. She knew she had made the right choice.


Troy had considered himself pretty prepared for the solar event, already owning a hunting cabin in endless woods far from any habitation, at a time when cities were radically unsafe. Rural real estate might as well be priceless. His wife, Amarie, had wanted to sell it, but her safety was worth more to him than becoming a millionaire. He was one of six bilingual people who understood the factory processes of a thriving industry, and they really might break a million one day regardless if there was a quick recovery. When they left their house, city life was getting grim without power or water. Fires raged with no water to put them out, and they had slowly escaped the crowded streets at the expense of rioters breaking every window and the windshield of their truck. The technologies that had been destroyed by the event comprised an endless list from satellites to transformers to computers, and it would be some time before enough replacements were manufactured to restore previous conditions. “I’ll brew us some acorn coffee,” Amarie said as they stirred from sleep one morning. That crushed acorn concoction she made kept him alive. It was earthy and somewhat reminiscent of coffee. She brewed it with their much distilled rain water water from their constantly breaking roof system in a French press, serving it in their finest cups. She couldn’t stand to leave the fine china behind for looters, so they were using it. The rumor was that the government was going to come down hard on the looters and rioters after this was over. He drank his acorn coffee and his eye was drawn to their supply of canned goods. They were going to need every calorie for winter, and they wouldn’t have enough. There was a strict government mandate of no more than three cans of the limited remaining food for sale per day per person, but that was almost a joke. Stores were frequently looted out of business, and the few heavily fortified ones just couldn’t get any in stock. He was going to have to successfully hunt so many deer that they could make enough pemmican and deer jerky to get through the months of scarcity. His survival guide had clear instructions, thankfully, although he’d found it lacking in some other practical concerns that had come up. He had 400 bullets and no possible way to get more. They were barely sustaining healthy body weight, having found several staple calorie sources in the woods and creek, which they had reluctantly eaten in abundance. He hoped civilization would be civil enough for them to return before they had to endure two winters out here. There were 1,500 seeds in the variety vegetable garden envelope he had paid $1,500 for… and been lucky to get even at that price. The prices of goods there had been a run on were pretty much arbitrarily made up, at the moment. Unfortunately, neither one of them had ever gardened anything, before, and their attempt at a fall crop had produced about 5,000 calories in his best estimation at the expense of untold calories burned in the effort. Troy told himself the vitamins had been worth it, but was hoping warmer temperatures and prayers would make him a better gardener in the spring. It had killed the sportsman in his soul, but this was a survival situation, and he had used some of their seeds to make a deer lure in the woods. Today, he was going to hunt. He measured his breath with a bulky eight point buck thirty-five yards away, taking his best shot. The sound rang loud even through his ear protection, and he could hear the deer scream. It didn’t fall. Instead, the buck went down on it’s knees for a moment, then got up and charged him. He was in a tree moments later, watching in disbelief as the wounded, fierce animal butted the trunk three times before he gathered his wits about him enough to shoot again. He realized that the meat from the deer was unusable. The deer was almost certainly diseased to be behaving so erratically, which meant the whole local herd might be unsafe for consumption. The safest thing to do was to go further out to hunt from another herd, which would mean bringing Amarie to help make preserved meats wherever they were and haul it back. This was going to be an expedition, and likely they would need to hunt all the meat for winter at once to conserve the calories expended hiking so far. Amarie was unenthused. “Can’t we just have a lean winter?” “Not at 630 calories a day. Our muscles would atrophy. Your heart is a muscle. Even if we fasted at first to slow down our metabolisms, we would still lose at least two pounds a week. You can’t lose that much weight. You’re already on the thin side of healthy, now.” “It’s not like we’d be able to hunt up enough to not lose weight in one trip.” “Maybe not, but this season the hunting is good, next season I’d better have learned how to trap and I just won’t be able to provide enough to sustain us.” “We don’t have camping gear.” “God help me, Amarie, I promise you that I will keep you safe and alive until we can return to the city which will hopefully be rebuilt from the smoking what the hell we fled, but I need your help on this one. I just can’t carry it all back by myself. I’d have to return and then go back out, and that would extend the duration of this trip by weeks.” “Weeks? How far do we have to go?” “Far. Deer roam. I don’t know exactly how far, so this’ll have to be a “better safe than sorry” distance.” “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it. Someone needs to tend to the garden. We may be able to get something more out of it.” Troy chewed on it for a while, and decided he’d asked too much of her. She kicked butt as an architect, but he’d never once been able to talk her into going hiking, hunting, or fishing with him. He left the next day traveling lighter than he’d like, but he had a compass and basic equipment to process deer and cook pemmican and jerky over a cooking fire. All he had for shelter was the waterproof tarp that had previously covered the Ford Mustang First-Gen in his garage that had been $250 in parts from perfection. He had sturdy, warm clothes and was very glad of that fact. His other gear was minimal. He kissed Amarie goodbye and walked into the woods. She looked in that direction for a while, although she couldn’t see him, listening to the sounds of his quiet steps vanishing into the distance fairly quickly. She worried about him, but it wasn’t until the second week had passed that she grew gravely concerned. He’d told her he’d be back, by now. She was beside herself for the next week, knowing that there was absolutely nothing she could do. Her imagination ran wild with thoughts that he might be lost or injured far from the woods she knew. She went to sleep one night thinking that she might take the truck to the city with the dim hope of getting someone in authority to organize a search party, although she wouldn’t have the gas to get back and didn’t know if she could find any. She woke up next to him the next morning. The reason he was late was that he had staggered back under the weight of enough food to get them through the colder months, walking the distance five times as he went back and forth between loads. They had a quiet winter while most of the world was in chaos, drinking acorn coffee and playing cards by the light of the fire at night. They turned on the government issued radio one bright spring morning to find that peace was being restored in leaps and bounds. Three months later, they had some real coffee, and never went back to the cabin as long as they lived. There was no way they ever would have sold it, though.


This is a repost of a small stand-alone excerpt that I submitted last night with some formatting issues. It was my first ever reddit post and thanks to a friendly comment I believe I have addressed the issues. Hopefully this version will be more legible, thanks again for reading! - side note - this is somewhat of a practice exercise for me as I haven't written anything in quite a while. I wanted to fiddle around with some duplicitous layering Just south of a small mountain range, a cool spring breeze passed through a stone monastery. The overgrown ivy covering the northern face of the building danced as the wind tickled its bountiful growth. From the top of the smooth cut stone structure the ivy had crept to meet the rocky cliff face upon which the monastery was perched. Green ivy, grey rock, and beige stone lay against a backdrop of deep, clear blue, as the sky was brimming with colour at the onset of the new season. The monastery was a large, square compound, with four stone parapets at each corner of the building, the northernmost being flush against the cliff face. At the centre was a circular courtyard, filled with beds of flowers and shrubs around the perimeter of the courtyard. Forming this perimeter were a series of stone pillars, the bases of which were buried beneath the lush green of the plants. Atop one of the pillars was a nest of sparrows, and the birds fluttered around the courtyard, singing cheerfully. That friendly mountain breeze made its way into the courtyard, towards a simple wooden bench that faced the mild warmth of the afternoon sun. It brushed aside the hem of a white robe, cooling the ankles of the monk sitting alone on the bench. He was an old man, whose ample belly was poorly disguised by his simple clothes, yet his face had retained its youthful glow, enhanced by his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight. His eyes squinted against the sun as he smiled contentedly, listening to the sparrows’ concert and taking in the fresh growth of greenery. His smile widened as he heard the faint clapping of sandaled feet on stone tiles. The dim sound grew in resonance as the footsteps approached, and from his seat on the bench the monk called out cheerfully, “Good afternoon, Brother,” The newcomer emerged from within the monastery, coming into view, similarly clothed in a white habit, yet a bit younger than his colleague. Unlike the seated monk, he was quite thin, and though he was not smiling, he had an honest, open face. “May I join you?” “Of course! Please sit.” The slender monk then held up the jug and two cups he had been holding, and smiled faintly, to which the older monk laughed and patted him on the shoulder as he lowered himself onto the bench. “I suppose it is never too early to celebrate such a fine day” he said. The second man carefully poured a cup of red wine, and passed it to his companion, after which he poured himself a cup. For several minutes they both sat in silence, sipping their wine and admiring the courtyard and its garden. Finally, the thinner monk placed his cup on the ground next to the jug of wine, and fixed his gaze on the heavyset monk. “The vote is tomorrow, the monastery is in a furor, it is quite a nuisance.” The older monk chuckled and returned the look, “I have been through many such votes, and this is by far the most tiresome of them all.” Not known for outbursts of laughter, the younger monk gave a hearty grin, flashing what teeth he had left before remarking, “We are priests, not politicians, my friend. I should say this is ill befitting our station. Such ambition is better left to the less morally inclined.” In response his companion simply smiled, looked down at his cup, and took a sip, his light grey eyes surveying the wine like a hawk watched a rabbit. The younger man likewise took a sip, his eyes watching his friend as he swallowed the warm red liquid. “Brother,” he said, smiling, “I’m afraid you’ve besmirched your habit.” The larger monk stared at him, watching his eyes and his smug expression as he slowly reached his arm towards his friend’s throat, only to gently place his slender finger upon a red stain at the collar of the robe. The culprit was not hidden, as a line of red was visible on the large monk’s cup from where the wine had spilled. Breaking eye contact and looking down at his lap, the bald man laughed, tut-tutting to himself, “That won’t do at all,” he said. “Yes,” his friend said slowly, looking at the patch of red, “that stain must be removed.” “Or perhaps, I could simply find a way to hide it,” he said as he watched the thin man, “with so many habits and so many monks, I’m sure there are more than a few concealed stains amongst our ranks.” The skinny monk’s face bore an expression of sincere contemplation as his eyes bored into the large monk’s robe, “Perhaps,” he said. He reached down to collect the jug and his own cup, rising from the bench. His robe had gone into disarray, and he quietly adjusted it before turning back towards the older monk. They shared a warm smile as each stared at the other, with the hefty monk raising his cup in front of his sharp grey eyes as he said through grinning teeth, “My thanks, for the drink, Brother.” The thin man nodded to him, and headed for the interior of the monastery, his sandals playing the same song against the stone that they had when he approached, only this time in reverse. As the song faded to nothing, the solitary monk once more perked his eyes and ears toward the chattering sparrows. The sun was still out, the sky was still blue, the garden was still radiant, and the birds still sang. As he finished his wine, the monk contemplated the one thing he knew with certainty on that beautiful day. For himself, or the man who just left, there would be no sun, no sky, no garden, no birds, no wine, waiting for them tomorrow. Only death. He decided then that he had not yet had his fill of such marvelous spring days. “Now then,” he said, laboriously rising from the bench, “I suppose I should see about removing this stain.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Hey all, sorry for the delay in getting last week's results up, I'm a bit under the weather but I hope that some extra news at the bottom of this writeup can make all well. =) # This week it’s all about: Victors Well, we’ve done it, people. We made it to the penultimate beat for our stories. It’s been a wild ride, and not without costs. Victory can be subjective. Now is the time to think about those goals/wants/needs that we established in Act One. Protagonists don’t always get to “win”-- sometimes it really is all about characters getting what they need, or something more valuable. As we wrap up these beats, consider the setup and promise of the premise we spent time on earlier in this series. This week’s beat is one I know we’re all familiar with so I won’t belabor the point \*too\* much. What does it mean to have victory? Does this change of the winds affect your character’s outlook, or facets of their personality? Do they come out of this smelling like roses, or with a couple battlescars? I hear chicks dig battle scars and roses. Tough call. Just a couple things to think about for this installment: Did your protagonists reach their goals? Did their goals change? Same question goes for their wants and needs. Are all those things still important? At the end of this installment is there ? What’s the most important feeling your character is experiencing at this moment? What do they smell, that they’ll never forget that scent again? What does victory taste like? , or the sweet taste of homemade apple pie, or a and a glass? What are the flavors they may or may not be savoring? The sound of a gunbattle still ringing in their ears, , or the ? Bring us into this moment. The time is nigh. Show us what victory looks like. **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **With the ranks whittling down as we close in on our final chapters, a boon has been granted from the writing gods on high! I give you:** ***FIFTY! FIFTY MORE WORDS PER INSTALLMENT!*** *(insert The Count chuckling here.)* **That’s right, folks. For the last four chapters you now may write \*up to 800\* words for the rest of the beats. I hope that helps wrap some precious words up, make ‘em count!** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 11/7, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Second Wind: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ATIWTK\*\*, with a beautifully crafted ending that complimented the writing style down to the final lines. Well done, Oeri!\*\* This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Kammerice, who continues to keep us endeared to the story of the marshal and a case that's now personal. And two honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing, with a story that just upped the stakes and showed us what kind of people his protagonists are up against. And /u/Mazinjaz, for continuing to heat up Act 3 with a character digging down to find the grit for a second wind. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 800** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **The Second Wind** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.