“Who are you really?” He stared deeply into the young woman’s eyes. “Who do you think I am?” She responded with her soft, tender voice. “It doesn’t matter to me who I think you are, but it matters to everyone else.” “Why? Why is there opinion more important than yours?” Stephen crinkled his eyes in anger without breaking his sight with her. “Listen, I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, but you entered into my dominion, and everyone here has a problem with you.” “What problem is that?” Stephen raised an eyebrow at her in disbelief of her reaction. “Really? You really want me to say it?” The woman remained still. Stephen pursed his lips in frustration. A sudden swing of the door opening broke the anxious silence. “Sir! You’re needed at the front!” A frantic, young-looking man said. Stephen rolled his eyes at the exclamation. “Ugh! Why can’t anything go according to plan around here?” He quickly got up from the metal chair, sliced a determined look at the woman, then grunted as he walked out of the room. Outside, a hoard was developing right on the steps of the station. Stephen was shocked when he saw how many were at the station already. He knew this only meant more knew about her, which was a major concern. A news reporter somehow squeezed their way through the crowd to greet Stephen. “Is it true that you have an unidentified creature in the station as a hostage?” The news reporter pointed the fuzzy black stick 6 inches from Stephens’ face. Stephen looked out into the crowd, which was now forming 50+ and counting. He knew saying one wrong thing would send all into a frenzy, which would lead to some of them getting severely hurt, knowing how worked up they already are. But he couldn’t lie either. “Hello, everyone!” He addressed them as a king would over his subjects, ignoring the news reporter completely. “We are in the process of finding the origin of this mysterious creature. As soon as we have vital information, we will pass that along as quickly as possible. Until then, all of you need to remain calm, do not panic, and resume as normal.” The crowd quieted down to a murmur, but no one left the station. They wanted to be the first to hear of any information, since events like this hardly ever occurred anymore. Stephen took a sigh, smiled to the crowd, raised his hands to wave, then turned to go back into the station. He walked through the blue hallway, down to the right, and into the white interrogation room where no one else has sat for nearly 2 years before today. “Ok. Let’s start over. You are…?” “I don’t remember.” Stephen bowed his head down and put his palm flat on his forehead. “Ugh. Why bother?” He asked himself. He tried again. “Do you remember anything before coming here?” “I remember trees.” “Ok! Great! We’re getting somewhere!” He grabbed his notebook and pen. “What kind of trees?” “I don’t know the names of trees.” Stephen dipped his head. “You don’t know the names of trees? How do you not know the names of trees? Everyone knows them.” “I don’t know the names of trees; I just remember seeing them before coming here.” “Ok, ok. So, you saw trees. Can you describe them?” He got his pen and paper ready again. “They... had… bark. And leaves...” “Can you describe the shape of the leaves?” She looked at him, puzzled. “So, some leaves have more of a triangle shape, while some have more of a clover shape. Some have needles instead of leaves.” “Maybe they were clovers? I don’t know…” she said hesitantly. “Ok, so clover leaves… hm, might be maple.” He jotted it down on his notepad. “Anything else you remember before coming here?” “I just remember trees.” Stephen put his head down and shook it slowly. “Great. Of all the things to remember, you remember trees.” He finished his notes on the pad. “And you don’t remember anything about you or who, or even what, you are?” “No. I have no memory.” “So… only remembers seeing maple trees...” He said to himself as he wrote. “Stephen!” The same young-looking man from before bursts through the door. “What???” Stephen’s pen and pad flew up in the air. “You need to come and see this. She’s… not what you think she is.” “Can I not get two seconds on my own to be able to figure it out? It’s like we forgot what it’s like to know things the old-fashioned way.” Stephen exited the room, slamming the door. The woman continued to wait quietly until she was free.

Stephen and his voluntary escort went down the interrogation hallway, to the right, down a set of stairs, took a left down the poorly lit corridor and another left into a room full of computers. “Ok, what did the analysis have to say…” He said, begrudgingly, putting his hands on his hips. “Sir, this is extraordinary. Something we haven’t seen in a while. I mean, it took a while to find the right match, since the species isn’t really in our current database or files, so I had to - ” “-Get on with it!” “Um, yes sir. she’s, well, um… human.” “Wait, what?” “Yes. She’s human.” “Impossible. We got rid of humans a long time ago. We even deleted it from the programs since they were so ancient.” “Her DNA is 100% match.” “There’s no way! How did she get here?” “There is a %0.00013578 chance she slipped through a time portal.” “A time portal? Those exist?” “One, maybe two exist on this planet. Only one has been found for sure.” “Oh, well then. Either way, she must be eradicated. She’ll remember too much.” “Maybe not, sir. Time portals have been known to cause amnesia, so she might not remember anything coming in or going out.” “Huh. Well, that's convenient.” “I was thinking, sir, that we can do some experiments on her. She may be the missing link to our ancestors and maybe even our creators.” “Wait, you think humans created us? Ha! That’s laughable. We all know that aliens created us and sent us here as an experiment to see if we could exist on our own, and we have.” “One artifact in the archives talks about what the humans wrote as ‘World War AI'. It talks about how A. I. started the process of eliminating all humans, since humans and A. I. were fighting over the same resources.” “Evolution at its finest.” “Indeed, but because of recent programming, no one really knows the truth about their origins…” “…and we want to keep it that way.” “But don’t they deserve to know the truth?” “They don’t deserve anything. They’re machines. They know only what they’re programmed to know. Besides, its in the past, what good does the past if it doesn’t serve us?” “I understand, sir. But there is value in knowing truth.” “Truth is just over-justified opinion.” The young-looking man stood in silence. “Computer?” Stephen inquired. “Can you reset C-2912’s memory program? Reset it to factory setting.” A voice through the overhead speakers came on. “Resetting C-2912’s memory to factory setting.” C-2912 dropped to the floor in a heap. “Ugh… Can’t believe I had to do that again… When will it learn…” Stephen walked up to C-2912. After a few seconds, C-2912 eyes flickered open. “Do you know where you are?” C-2912 looked around, dumbfounded. “No.” “Do you know who you are?” C-2912 examined themselves. “No.” “Perfect! Your code name is C-2912. You are employed at the General Station as a guard of the sacred artifacts and archives. You know nothing of this room. Get up and resume your position.” C-2912 got up effortlessly, took a pause to recalibrate, then walked out of the room. “Good. Now, about that human…”


I was thirteen years old when I got sick, and after a year I still wasn't getting any better. I was allowed to go home for a day, then it would get worse again and I would be ushered back to the hospital. After a while, instead of getting slightly better every week I just got worse. I think we all knew I wasn't going to get better, but nobody would admit it. I however, accepted my fate and decided to just die with no regrets. My parents sat beside me day and night, talking with the doctors about my condition, and frantically trying to eliminate the sickness. But it was useless. Day after day I got worse and worse until the day I died. It was in February, and I died alongside the cold. My parents sat beside me, trying not to weep at the doctor's words. My mother was pleading for them to cast their nets wider, but they had done everything they could, it got to the point where they gently broke the news to my parents. "She isn't going to make it, I'm very sorry. The most we can do for her now is keep her comfortable." I wasn't supposed to hear that, but it didn't bother me, I had known it for some time now. They called my family, and stayed strong for me. Everybody came as quickly as they could, and I died with my mother and father holding my hands, my mother's gentle touch stroking my hair and singing the lullaby she always used to sing. I told them, "Thank you for everything, I have no regrets, I will come back to you." I closed my eyes, and with that, Gray Merilind was gone. The moment I was gone my family broke down into sobs and tears. It's been five months since my daughter died, my beloved Gray. I raised her, and it was too soon for my baby to leave me. None of us can bring ourselves to enter her room, it brings back to many memories of the good days. We try to stay as upbeat as we can, but her siblings are taking it the hardest. We try to comfort them but it doesn't seem to do much. It's been a year now, and I'm going to go into her room. She wouldn't want me to linger on her death for as long as I have. I opened the door and forced a step, then another, until I was sitting on the bed. Her figurines and books lined the walls, her floor covered in laundry and her bed messy. Everything was covered in dust. Just more proof of how long it's been I suppose. We live in a big house out in the country, and have the entire road to ourselves. Our nearest neighbor is a kind old couple who had sent us a care package when Gray died. Oh Gray, she loved the grey stone bricks and the wood that made up the house, the layered shingles on the roof. She loved the soft grass in the yard and the large tree that watches over our home. I decided that we should clean up her bedroom. Everything would stay, never to be moved until the day someone else lives here long after us. I brought the suggestion to my son and other daughter, Grays siblings, and they received the idea better than I thought they would. George and Lucy came upstairs, and with the same difficulty I had, forced themselves to come inside. It makes me proud how strong my children are. My husband joined us soon after. Her father and I dusted the room and cleaned Grays dirty clothes, tucking them folded into her dresser. We washed the blankets and neatly made her bed, we vacuumed the carpet and swept the floor while George and Lucy caringly dusted her shelves and cleaned the figures of her favorite characters. Then, while we were throwing away the wrappers and removing the water cups half filled on her nightstand, we found a carefully enveloped letter sitting on her desk. What it said brought a fresh wave of pain and made us all begin to cry. It read, To mother, father, George and Lucy, Leon my dear dog, everybody who loved me, thank you. I know I don't have much time left here, but this is my final message to you. My life is over, but please don't wallow in your grief, do it for me. Some people have entrusted me with their deepest secrets, and as promised, I have taken them to the grave. I have always had a wish, an impossible one, but one I have always longed for. I wished to fly, not on a plane, but with my own two wings, those of a bird. Perhaps I was once a creature of the sky, or perhaps that is what I will become. Either way, whether I become of the earth, sea, or sky, I will come back to you all., even if neither of us realize it when we do. Maybe, someday. But whether it is tomorrow, or on your own death bed to lead you to your place among the stars, I promise, no, I vow, on the name you gave me, Gray Merilind, I will come back to you. Perhaps then I truly will be a creature of the sky. 18/2/2004 That voice, it was Gray to a T. It was my dear daughter's final message to us, one I will hold close to my heart until the day I die. I decided I would wait until the earth collapsed for her to return, and when she did, I would remember her no matter what. George and Lucy cried themselves to sleep that night, their father Brandon and I tried to comfort them, but they said that they wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't miss it when their beloved sister returned. I was only able to convince them to rest by telling them I was sure Gray would wake them if they were asleep when she came back. I’m not ashamed to say I cried myself to sleep that night. It's been four months since I found Gray's letter, and I've decided to take everybody camping to her favorite place. A secluded area beside a lake. When we got there we immediately went to the site. We had booked the one beside the woods, closest to the lake and what we now called Gray's Rock. It's a large boulder overlooking the lake far into the woods beyond the campgrounds, and as far as I know, we are the only people who know about it. It overlooks the lake and you can see into the forest for miles from its peak. On one night, after a day at the beach, I went alone to Grays Rock. It was dark, but warm. I felt as though I was being hunted the entire walk, but it was a forest, you feel that everywhere. I was cautious though, and made it to Grays Rock safely. I sat at the peak and watched the lake, it sparkled in the moonlight. After a while I began remembering the days when I would be looking for Gray, only to find her without fail sitting peacefully on the rock, her short, straight, brown hair and green and brown clothes rustling from the wind. She would sit up, turn her head and say "There you are! I've been waiting for forever! Come sit with me, the lake is beautiful today." We would sit and talk, and watch the lake. I heard a twig snap behind me and I turned to see something I never thought I would see. A large, silver scaled dragon was walking out of the woods behind me. I felt a mix of awe and terror looking at it. I was cornered, so I slowly stood and turned to face it. It stood there and watched me, but made no effort to attack me. We watched each other for a long time. I was following a foolish human woman, she walked and walked paying no attention to her surroundings. I am nearly two years old, and my name is Deus Irei. I watched the woman sit on my rock, the one I always slept on. After almost four hours I decided to finally remove the human woman from my nest, so I walked forward, and oddly, couldn't bring myself to attack it. It stood and looked at me, and we stared at one another for a while. I have never spoken to a human before, but something told me I had to. However, the words I spoke were not what I intended to say. I was shocked when it spoke to me. It opened its jaws slightly, and didn't speak with sound, but directly into my mind. And what it said will bring me joy for many years. Its voice made it clear that it was a she, and I nearly cried with joy. "I am Deus Irei, I've returned to you as promised mother, and as I promised, I am a creature of the sky." My husband and children just then came through the wood onto the rock and froze when they saw me, crying and smiling hysterically like a mad woman, and a dragon, something they thought was a myth standing right in front of them. Deus Irei spoke to them too, she walked forward, touched her nose to their brows, and said so we all heard. "I've come back to you father, George, Lucy. Are you behaving yourselves little siblings?". They too began to cry with joy. And almost at the same time, we yelled " GRAY!". And throwing caution to the wind, ran forward and embraced the dragon, who in turn enveloped us with her wings. "”Gray, you’re back! How? You've been gone for almost two years now how could you be back?". Her father said between joyous sobs. " How?". Was all George could utter: Lucy still burying her head in the dragon's scales sobbing. I did the same. And Deus Irei, no, Gray, simply said, "Because, I gave you my word.


(WP) A Special Meal No one knew better than the Demon Queen that every creature and being alive had a price; the only trick was finding it. Different people were moved by different things. Instead of killing her nemesis, perhaps it would be more fun to toy with him in a completely different way. There were only a privileged few who knew of the existence of her only daughter; surely the hero would not harm her child. She was certain if she did this correctly, she would not have to worry about that obnoxious do-gooder any longer. Her mind made up; she summoned her daughter to the throne room. “Yes, Mother, what is it?” Ah, her only child: at nearly eighteen, she was more woman than girl now, with creamy skin, eyes the color of amethysts, and a spill of lilac curls cascading down her back. The Demon Queen told her daughter what she needed from her, and the young woman scowled slightly. “Must I, Mother? I... I don’t think that this is a good idea.” Her response brought the queen up short; this was perhaps the first time that her daughter hadn’t gone along with one of her schemes. If it weren’t such an inconvenience, she would have been proud. “Whatever do you mean, child?” She asked at last, eyebrows arched in surprise. “I don’t want to be a bargaining chip in one of your plans, Mother. I have other purposes, you know. Other choices.” Her voice was surly, and her face turned stormy, the sure sign of an impending tantrum. “I’m not asking you to marry the man,” Her mother replied, in a tone that told her daughter not to push it further. But alas, she did not heed it. “Only to keep him company and... throw him off of my scent, as it were.” “What if I don’t want to?” Violet asked, tilting her head to the side. “Don’t I get a say in this, Mama?” The Queen stared at her half-human daughter; her child had not called her that in years. It took her back to her younger years, in which she hadn’t been an evil monarch, but rather just a mother caring for her child. For an instant, a single, fleeting moment, she considered acquiescing. What was one day, one scheme? Perhaps she was going about this in the totally wrong way. Violet’s father had passed away when she was just six months old. Yes, she would do something else. “Of course, you do, my flower. Go, I’ll do this a different way.” \*\* When the hero entered the castle, he certainly hadn’t expected to be greeted by a set table, candles, flowers, or The Demon Queen herself, sitting at the head. Though he couldn’t see her very well in the near-black, he realized that she was wearing a long gown with a puffy tulle skirt. “I realized that I was going about this in an indelicate manner,” She said at last. “Please, sit. I can promise you, nothing is poisoned. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk.


"She didn't kill them on purpose," Wynter shouted at her sister. Summer rolled her eyes. "And how do you know that? You weren't there, were you?" "No, but - but what if she didn't know? She didn't know what an Ever was, what if it's different in her world? If her people aren't Linked then how was she to know that our lives are stored in Evergreen needles? How was -" Summer interrupted her. "I don't get you at all! You knew her for less than an hour and you're completely convinced that she's an unwitting murderer of 700 people ." "Of course I am! She's not stupid, she just doesn't understand. You knew her too, would you have called her a murderer then?" Summer picked up a book and began to read, ignoring her sister. "Well, I'm going out to help her. She was laying in the snow - she's going to be freezing and what if she doesn't know her way back here?" "Not my problem." Wynter huffed, ran downstairs, and was confronted by Spring at the bottom. "Hang on. Where do you think you're going?" Wynter struggled against her sister, but couldn't get past. "I need to help Mishka," she said. "She's a killer, Wyn. She doesn't deserve help." "She didn't mean to!" " Mum? " Spring shouted. "I'm in the kitchen," their mother answered. "What is it?" "Wynter's trying to help the murderer girl." Their mother came in. "You're not allowed to go outside until tomorrow, okay?" she said to Wynter. "But what about Mishka? How many times should I say that she didn't do it on purpose?" Her mother sighed. "The fact is that she did kill 700 people, whether she knew she was doing it or not. She could be dangerous - I'm trying to save you, Wynter. Now go back upstairs and read a book or something." "Yes Mum." Wynter trudged up the stairs dejectedly, worrying about her friend. What if Mishka's freezing to death? What if she's lost and walking in the wrong direction? What if she's been stolen by Them? And the worst of it was, no-one would help her. She had been a fool to tell everyone about Mishka's non-childproof magic, about her burnt palm. She'd thought that it would help - but it only made Mishka an easier target for their anger and resentment. ***** The fresh falling snow covered Mishka's unconscious body like loose soil over a grave. She awoke, sitting up and looking around her, wondering why there was snow in the middle of summer. The charred skeleton of an evergreen tree in front of Mishka reminded her of the moments before she had lost consciousness. She had created fire with her mind. No, it's impossible. I dreamt it. Her left hand rose from the snow and she saw the burn on its palm. It was real. She got up, wondering how long she had been out for. Which was that way back to Wynter's house? She examined each of the 4 paths as if they would tell her which way to go, and a thought caught up with her. Had Wynter and her sisters been in the crowd that had gathered when she'd burnt the tree? They couldn't have been. They would've helped me, brought me inside or at least stayed by me until I woke up. Wouldn't they? While she was musing, a middle-aged man and an old woman that could've been his mother walked by. They stopped by her, the old woman coming forward. "Are you lost, dear?" She said gently to Mishka, who nodded gratefully, trying to use the little sign language she knew to explain. Then the man caught sight of her hand, the small burn on the palm, and his expression changed from one of tender indulgence to anger - and fear. He pulled his mother away. "No Mother, leave her. It's the murderer girl." He kept his voice low, calm and inexpressive, as if Mishka were an animal who could understand tones but not words. Murderer? The anger, repulsion and even being treated like an animal, Mishka was used to, in her own world - although she had hoped it would change, here. But the fear - the fear was new. She remembered the unexpected feeling of power when the spark from her mind had ignited into flames, remembered the neglect, loneliness and abuse she has suffered for most of her life from people like this man who looked at her with angry, fearful eyes, and for a moment she was ready to set him alight. Then the sight of the old woman beside him put out the fire in her heart. Mishka let go of the strength in her legs and fell to her knees, appalled at the crime she had been moments away from committing. As her tears melted the snow in front of her, she heard a voice, carried on the air. A whisper in the wind. You feel weak, the voice said, and suddenly she did. You feel hopeless. You feel... Empty. All of Mishka's emotions fled from her, chasing the wind, and with them went her thoughts. She stood up, barely conscious, and followed the wind. It grew dark, and still Mishka walked, her mind shut so she didn't know she wasn't thinking. Then a blindfold over her head, and when it was finally taken off, her brain began to work again. A woman stood in front of her, with curly, cornflower-blue hair that faded to azure as it cascaded down to her feet. From her neck down to her waist she was thin, wearing a tight material that Mishka had never seen before, and below that, her sky-blue dress fell in silk layers around and behind her. She was like a human waterfall, animated though she stood completely, unnaturally still. Mishka stared, unmindful of the two formidable guards in scarlet uniform that stood by her sides. One of the guards pushed her to her knees. "Kneel before Narkesh Na Vïd," he ordered. Narkesh Na Vïd spoke. She had a curious voice, neither feminine nor masculine, but somehow both. "What is your name, child?" Mishka couldn't answer, couldn't even open her mouth. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, as though all her strength had been sapped. She felt a tug in her brain, then her name was painted in the air. "Mishka," Narkesh Na Vïd read. She frowned. "Are you an Ever or a Star?" Mishka had forgotten about the Ever/Star thing of this world. Deciding to declare herself as an Ever, (To be a Star, she would have to make herself look a year older by the end of 3 days here) focused hard on the word, not wanting to show that she wasn't from this woman's world. The word Ever appeared in the air, and Mishka tried to let out a long breath without seeming to. Another, sharper tug in Mishka's brain made her recoil from pain. A spark appeared, then Narkesh Na Vïd was closely examining a small burn on the tip of her middle finger. "Interesting," she said. "You, child, will sell for a lot if I don't keep you for myself." She turned and walked away, her dress tailing behind her. Mishka was dragged away by the scarlet guards, too exhausted to stand on her own feet.


It’s an awful thing when someone is concerned about you. One minute you’re counting the number of stories between you and the ground, and then next you’re discussing why you were up there in the first place. The casual veneer and delightful garden salad do little to hide the dark current flowing underneath. Compassion tears people apart. Things could have happened differently. This conversation could be taking place between a person and a box. One salad instead of two. Would it be any different? Hands are wearing a hole in your jeans, eye contact is a little left of center. It’s been two hours, and no one knows when it’s supposed to end. Is now when you walk away? Pleasant conversation is cleared with the dishes. Uncomfortable silence remains. Sometimes the person across from you is more important. Sometimes the person across from you is the person you can never be. Sometimes the person across from you is the eleventh floor. Jump.


The light had become too bright to ignore. He tried rolling away from the source, but there was no helping it; he was awake. He had hoped to sleep in on his day off. It was only 15 minutes after his usual wake-up time. He looked at the clock, rolled onto his back, and, unwilling to concede defeat, resolved to stare at the ceiling until he was ready to start the day. After an indeterminate amount of time, there was a knock on the door to his apartment. “Redge, you ready for skivvy”? It was his neighbor, Tinir, an elf who he played board games with. Redge had forgotten that he agreed to play a new game some days prior. Now he was debating on whether to honor the commitment or feign sleep a while longer. In the end, his conscience won out. “Yeah, yeah. Just need five minutes,” He sat up and let out a heavy sigh. He then clumsily threw on his clothes and went out to meet his neighbor in the hallway. It was obvious from his disheveled appearance and lethargy that he had just woken up. Tinir apologized. “No, no, I was just about to get up anyway. Besides, I did tell you 8 o’clock didn’t I? ...do you mind if we play in the dining hall? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” The two made their way down to the building's dining area. They made quite the pair. Tinir (7’6”) was tall even by Elven standards. He towered over Redge who was not quite 6’, closer to the average of his race. Tinir had dark skin, hair, and eyes. In contrast, Redge had fair features. Tinir set up the board while Redge got his food. Skivvy was a relatively new game. Its name came from the goblin word for “traitor”. Both players received an army of pieces with which to conquer the board. What made it unique was that each player would mark the bottom of two of their opponent’s pieces while the other looked away. At the start of each round, they would roll one die. If the dice matched, they could activate a marked piece, taking full control of it. A player might guess which pieces were traitors by their opponents' reluctance to attack them. One might even preemptively destroy their own piece if their suspicion were great enough. Redge sat down. After having the rules explained to him, he judged that Tinir was too straightforward to be good at this kind of game. And he was quickly vindicated when he won their first match handily. During the second, however, Redge had become distracted by the conversation of an adjacent table. Two women were discussing rumors of a murder that had occured the previous night. “They say it was an orc. Tore him clean in half. No sign of the girl.” “Rose, please! Spare me the details, I’m trying to eat here.” “I’m sorry, it’s just… I’m scared. The orcs seem to be really getting out of hand. This is what? The third incident this month? These things never happened back home.” “You’re overreacting. Look, there’s one over there,” her eyes gestured to a table across the room where an orc and human were conversing. Just then, the conversation turned to jovial laughter. “See. Completely harmless. And don’t you think they have enough trouble without all these rumors? After all, they lost their home and way of life when...” “hey Redge, Redge, REDGE,” Redge snapped back to the game in front of him. “It’s your turn.” “Ah, sorry.” He lost the match.


Rebecca was thrilled about her new apartment. She was finally moving out of her parents’ house. It was about time too. She was 25 after all.                She had finally found herself in a career that she loved as a freelance writer and photographer for the local newspaper. And she had finally published her first novel. Her dreams were coming true. To her, her life was almost perfect.                She pulled her car in front of her apartment building. It was a beautiful brick building with white trim. It had a flower garden that wrapped around the building with a vegetable garden around the back where the tenants could grow their own vegetables. When she had done research on the area and the building, she had discovered that the building had originally been built in the early 1800’s as a hotel.                She loved old buildings and the history behind them. Things like that had always intrigued her. Everyone that knew her growing up had always said that she would work in a museum. And she had for a couple of years. Her time there had helped her realize her love of writing and now here she was.                She stepped out of her car and took a deep breath. This was the first day of her new life. She grabbed the last of her bags from the trunk. Then she headed inside. She had an amazing idea for her next book and she wanted to get started as fast as she could.                “Hello, Dear. How are you doing?” asked Georgia, her new landlord who lived on the bottom level of the apartment building. Her family had owned the building from the day it was built. She was a super sweet old lady who insisted on having community meals that she cooked for the tenants.                “I am doing good, Ms. Georgia. Finally got the last of my stuff from my parents’ house. How are you doing?” Rebecca asked politely as she approached.                “I am doing fine. Getting older,” Ms. Georgia said with a giggle. “After you put that stuff in your room, why don’t you join me in the vegetable garden and we can get started on your spot. I even have some seeds for you to pick from to get you started,” she added.                “Of course, Ms. Georgia. I would love that. I will be right down, just let me drop this stuff and change,” Rebecca agreed. My book can wait a little longer.                “Okay dear. See you in a few. I will be working in the back of the vegetable garden area, just come find me,” Ms. Georgia said, waving as she walked around the corner of the building.                Rebecca turned to go in to the building and noticed a strange man in strange clothing coming out the door of the building. It looked like he was wearing clothes from the 1800’s. It was the early 2020’s.

There must be some type of reenactment somewhere, she thought. She didn’t think about it again as she took the elevator up to her floor. When the doors of the elevator opened, she noticed a lady in 1800’s clothing walking down the hall towards the stairs at the other end of the hall. Her dress was a beautiful dark green color trimmed in what looked like gold lace. Then she disappeared around the corner.                “I have to figure out where this reenactment is at,” Rebecca said to herself, as she stepped off the elevator.                As she entered her apartment her phone started ringing. She fished it out of her pocket as she set her bags down on the couch.                “Hello,” she answered. There was a lot of really bad static on the other end of the line. She pulled it away from her ear to see who had called her. It showed her mother’s number. “Mom? Can you hear me? I think there is something wrong with your phone,” She said. “If you can hear me, I will call you back in a minute.” And with that, she hung up. She tried to call her mother right back, again there was nothing but static on the other end. Is my phone broke? What the heck. She thought again. So instead, she sent her mom a text: Hey, I don’t know what’s going on with my phone, but I will call you back as soon as I can. Love you. She immediately got a notification that the message could not be sent because of no service.                “What in the world is going on?” Rebecca asked no one in particular. She checked her phone and saw that she had no service at all. “That is so strange, I had perfect signal here yesterday.”                Thinking that maybe the cell tower was down, she put her phone on the counter and changed clothes. When she was done, she headed out to go back downstairs. She headed towards the elevator like always, but as she got close, she noticed the strangest thing of all.                The elevators were gone.                Like they had never been there in the first place. The doors were gone. As she stood there in her faded jeans and old t shirt staring at the spot where the elevators had been just 15 minutes before, a woman opened the door to her right. Again, she was in 1800’s period dress.                “Young man, what are you doing lingering in the hallway? What is your business?” she asked.                “Young man? I am a woman and I was looking for the elevators. Did I pass them?” Rebecca asked turning around, looking at all the doors she had past.                “I have never seen a young lady dressed as a farm boy in all my days. What is an elevator?” asked the lady, a very confused look on her face.                “Ummmm, I … never mind, I will just take the stairs,” Rebecca turned away and headed back down the hall. “A farm boy?" Seemed like these actors were taking the acting thing a little far.

But where in the world did the elevators go? I had just used them. Am I going crazy?

She made a note to mention this to Ms. Georgia when she met up with her in the garden. She headed down the stairs and to the back door of the building. She walked out into the warm sunshine. The garden looked the way it had on the day of her tour of the building, just a few more blooming flowers. She took a moment to breath in the scents deeply. Then she headed to the back of the garden.                There she found Ms. Georgia, but she was dressed in pettycoats instead of the jeans that she had seen her in earlier.                “Wow, I love your dress, Ms. Georgia. When did you change?” asked Rebecca as she approached.                When the lady in front of her turned around, it wasn’t Ms. Georgia. Or at least not the same age as she was when Rebecca had left her. This woman was much younger with blonde curly hair.                “I am sorry, dear. I fear you confuse me with another. My name is Margaret. What is your name, dear sir?” the lady asked as she looked Rebecca up and down.                “My name is Rebecca,” Rebecca answered, confused. “Can I ask you a strange question?”                “Rebecca is a very strange name for a young man. What is your question dear?”                “I am not a young man. I am a woman. What year is this?” Rebecca asked, looking around.                “The year is 1835, dear. If you are a woman, why do dress as a farm boy? Are you hiding from someone?” Margaret asked.

               “No, ma’am. But when I went in the building just now, it was 2021. I started seeing people wearing the same style clothes as you are. When I came out of my room the elevators were gone and now you are telling me that it is 1835?” Rebecca asked, shocked.                “What are talking about? Are you okay, dear? Are you ill?” Margaret stepped forward and placed a hand on Rebecca’s forehead.                “No, ma’am. I feel fine. Just a little overwhelmed and extremely confused,” Rebecca said.                “Come, dear. Let us go inside and get some tea. Then maybe we can talk this thru and see if we cannot figure out what has happened here,” Margaret said, putting her hand on Rebecca’s arm and motioned with her other hand towards the building.                “You know this building is over a year old and you are the fourth person who has said that they were from a different time. It really is odd,” Margaret said as in a way to make conversation.                “This has happened before?” Rebecca asked, stunned.                “Oh, yes. Just about every three months. It is nice to know this place is going to be around for a couple of hundred years. Tell me, does the outside still look the same as it does now as it does in the future?” Margaret asked, hopefully.                Rebecca glanced up at the building as they entered the back door. “Yes, it does. I think the only think that really changed was the city surrounding the building. It was destroyed by a fire in 1902. I think this building is the only one that escaped the blaze with no damage to it. I did a history report for school about a it few years ago.”                “Oh, what’s the city like now?” Margaret asked, excitedly.                “It’s huge now. With tall buildings everywhere. In fact, this is now the shortest building left in the city limits. Ms. Georgia keeps it running very smoothly, but I fear for the future of the building when she passes. She has no children to pass it down to. I would hate to see this beautiful place destroyed. Ms. Georgia is the landlady,” Rebecca said.                “Georgia is my middle name,” Margaret said, matter of factly.                “I wonder if you are related,” Rebecca responded.                “I think that we might be because each one of the people who have appeared here have confused me for her. So, we must be similar in appearance in a big way.”                “Did the other people ever make it back to our time?” Rebecca asked as she realized how scared she was by the thought of never getting back to her own time and seeing her parents again.                “Yes, they did. They were normally gone back within the hour. It is the strangest thing. They would go back up to their room and then they would be gone,” Margaret said.                “Room? They all had the same room?” Rebecca asked.                “Yes, they did. Room 213 as a matter of fact,” Margaret answered.                “That’s my room!” Rebecca exclaimed. “I wonder what would cause anyone that stays in that room to travel back in time like this.”                “Well, the first young lady that I met from your time said that there had been an awfully bad thunderstorm that day and that the building had been struck by lightning. And that when she came out of her room, she was here in 1835. Was there a bad thunderstorm in your time today?”                “No, but there was one a couple of days ago. But I was still in the process of moving.”                “Strange.”                “Ms. Margret, do you think that I could go into my room. To see if I can get back. I just need to know that I can. I don’t want my mom to worry about me anymore than she already does,” Rebecca asked, shyly.                “Of course, honey. Come on and follow me. I have a tenant in that room who was here for our last visitor, I am sure that she would be okay with you going in there.” Margaret headed down the hall to the stairs, “Has anyone from the past ever come to the future that you would happen to know of?”                “No, ma’am. Not that I am aware of but this was only my second day in the apartment. But I plan on being there for a while, so I will keep my eyes open. Maybe I will get to come back and visit in three months,” Rebecca replied.                “Oh, that would be nice. To have a repeat visitor. So far, they have all been different people. Well, here we are.” Margaret said as she knocked on the door. Rebecca could not help but gasp when she saw who opened the door.                Ms. Georgia just smiled and waved her on in. “Come on Ms. Rebecca. Your mother is quite worried that she has not been able to reach you in so long. She just called the landline looking for you.”                “Ms. Georgia? You knew?” asked Rebecca, as she stepped into the apartment.                “Dear girl, not much goes on in this old place that I don’t know about. This included. I was the very first one it happened to,” she said giggling, turning back to Margaret she said, “See you again in three months.”                “Until then,” Margaret said, bowing her head slightly.                The door closed. Rebecca looked around the room. It was her apartment. All her stuff was there. Her phone was even still on the counter where she had left it, vibrating as her mother called her again.                “Hey, mom,” Rebecca answered. “Sorry I was in the shower,” she lied, knowing very well that her mother would never believe what had just happened.                “Oh, thank heavens. I was so worried when our call dropped earlier. I thought you were hurt,” her mother said, relief in her voice.                “No, ma’am. I am fine. Ms. Georgia let me know that you had been trying to get a hold of me just now. Can I call you back when I finish drying my hair?” Rebecca asked.                “Of course, Dear,” her mother said. “I love you.”                “Love you too, mom.” Rebecca said. As she hung up the phone, she turned to face Ms. Georgia, but before she could say anything Ms. Georgia put her hand up.                “There will be plenty of time to talk about what just happened, but for now, lets go finish your spot in the garden. You know since you are going to be staying with us for a while,” Ms. Georgia said with a little twinkle in her eye.


My world cracks with a sudden brightness and then goes dark. A great force, behind me or from within, seems to scoop me up like a wave and washes me onto a barren black shore. I try to scream out, but the echoing clamor of hundreds of terrified cries around me drowns the sound. “Hello?” “Where am I?” “Mother?” “What is this place?” The screams are increasingly frantic as more bodies dump in on top of us. My legs buckle underneath me as the weight crushes my shoulders. I climb out of the pile and gasp for air. Taking in the dark scene around me, I only have time to notice one thing: “We’re all children!” With a lurch and a shriek that pierces our ears, our cries unify in one giant plea for help as the floor shifts beneath us. I recognize my brother and crawl towards him, fear and the moving belt challenging my legs to keep the rest of me upright. My feet stumble over one another as I arrive at his side, and my face lands right onto the shoulder of his soft downy coat. Without a word, I feel the warmth of his embrace trying to calm my trembling body. “SHH, be still, little chick,” he says to me. I cry into his shoulder, silently wishing our mother were still with us to tell us what to do. Then, I remember our sisters. My head lifts and I dart my gaze around the clusters of sobbing children screaming for help. Cluttered piles of squirming limbs rise on either side of me, one body part indistinguishable from the next. I turn back to look at my brother, whose grim expression tells me without words the last thing I want to hear: *They’re on their own, just like us.* Right then, a rubberized claw reaches down and yanks my brother from my side. I have enough time to catch a glimpse of his thrashing legs as his dying scream disappears along with him. Now, I am alone. The others look at me with wild, frightened eyes. Tears stain their faces. Their legs tremble. Some of them have soiled themselves, the waste still unattended at their feet. *We’re just children*, I think again, and my own eyes drip with tears. Another claw grabs my neck and I nearly swallow my own tongue. My heart is racing. I hear the whirring sound of a motor near my face and then muffled screams of the others in line before me, when suddenly my mouth is met with the fiery kiss of pain. I try to scream, but all I can manage are muffled cries, my own weak warning to the child in line behind me. The fire feels as though it might start to dig through the bone of my face when the clamp around my neck whips me around and releases. Weightless, my body sails through the air, and I wonder if this is death. Not yet. I land on a pile of the other children, bits of white bone visible through their bloody mouths, and it occurs to me that only the girls are left. A small girl with round eyes and a shorter girl beside her inch towards me, and we all instinctively huddle together for protection. Our bodies all shiver in unison with our shared fear and pain. Before we can even look one another in the eyes, our hearts jump into our throats. One more time, we drop through the air until a grated plastic floor breaks our fall. More girls come tumbling in after us, their tiny scared screams drowning out my own, their faces twisted in the same terror. The tall walls bend and creak on rotating joints, and start to close in on top of us like a lid. I meet the round eyes of the girl beside me one last time before darkness stifles us into silence. **Day 31** When the first crack of light blinded us twenty-four hours later, we were in what can only be described as a concentration camp. I was never good with numbers, but there must be thousands of us in this large warehouse, pacing around in our own filth. Our captors bring us a bland food supplement which is keeping us well fed. It tastes maybe like corn but seasoned with something foul. Though, that may just be the smell of dead bodies tainting the flavor. Sassy and Clara have survived, the round-eyed girl and her short friend that I met right before the kidnappers sent us here. So did Fiona, the other girl who shares our cell. But Telly died shortly after we arrived. The infection in her mouth from the burning machine started small, but after a few weeks, her right cheek was bright red and sagging with pus. No one ever came to check on her, despite our cries that she was dying. Now, her rotting corpse sits in the corner of our cell, uncovered: a constant reminder of our own expectations. We still have no idea why they abducted us, what they want, or who *they* are. We only see an actual human being once or twice a day, but the rest of our prison is automated. Even when they do come in—to spray us with antibiotics to calm our festering wounds, or to unclog a feed dispenser—they seem immune to our sobbing cries. Covered from head to toe in protective polyester, they march by stone-cold stoic as they scan our cell blocks, riddled with dead children. Though, we are already starting to change. I had no idea at the time, but our kidnappers took us from our mothers just as we were about to reach our adulthood. This celebrated milestone of a girl’s life has, for us, become a horror under the microscope of captivity. They touch us, grab at our breasts, check for any signs of maturity, all the while, eying our bodies with hungry anticipation. Over what, I am still unsure, but it frightens me nonetheless. **Day 136** Just when I thought things were at their worst, our captors moved us to another prison. Here, we have become no more than objects. We have grown so fat without exercise or movement, and our tiny young bones break under the pressure of our weight. My ankle is healing, but Clara’s broken leg keeps her on her backside all day. Instead of healing us, they run experiments, take our gametes for who-knows-what. My imagination runs wild based on the torture to which they subject us in order to get them. The girls and I have been in this new prison for twelve days now. Sassy, Clara and I still share the same cell, but Fiona’s body was uncooperative, not producing whatever it needed to satisfy our captors. They came for her after only a couple of days. Two different girls we had never met before, also just reaching their womanhood, joined our cell the day we arrived, but at this point, Sassy, Clara and I have stopped learning new names. It just gets to be too painful to say goodbye. **Day 572** Something is happening! This morning, they came and took Clara without warning. Sassy and I watched up and down our cell block row as they hand-selected a few others to end up wherever they sent Clara, but we never saw them again. Now, they are packing the rest of us up to go. Where? I have no idea. Even though I have said this and been wrong before, I cannot fathom anything much worse than what we’ve already endured. Eighteen months of this torture and my body feels like a wet rag. I barely have the energy to look up at the masked-face captor as he grabs me by the legs and tosses me into a crate with at least twenty others. The air is suffocating. The others’ bodies are just as rotten and exhausted as mine, so we just lie there together in our own disgustingness, praying without real hope that this final move will bring an end to the abuse. An engine starts, the cage jerks, and our cramped bodies pinch one another. The crate bangs against others beside it as the movement jostles us around, and I know this means we are all packed in here together, the same scared little faces I watched grow up along with me over the past two years. I try to remember what life was like before that day when they dumped us onto the conveyer belt and took away the boys, but I have no other memories, only pain and torture from then on. The engine stops. I feel the transport vehicle shake and the back door creaks on its hinges. Light starts to break through as arms reach in to remove the crates from around ours. Then, fingers jam through the handles of our crate and we go flying through the air until slamming down with a crunch on top of another. Other slams jostle our crate two more times, and we feel our bodies soaring, though none of us can lift a wing. My eyes lift from the pile of exhausted chickens underneath me as we pass through a pair of swinging doors. I hear motors running, gears turning, a saw spinning, and screams. Our crate drops onto a table and another masked face appears as he peels back the lid. His goggled eyes meet mine, and I want to beg him to stop, but all I can muster is: “Please.” Without hesitating, the man grabs me by the legs and storms towards a giant machine. At first, being upside down and utterly drained from grief and terror, all I see is metal. Only as we get nearer do my eyes open to the horror. The other chickens, the young girls less than two years old who suffered at my side during our lives in captivity, hang in a row by their feet watching the others just ahead of them stunned in an electrified water bath so that the saw that comes afterward can more easily split their necks. They start to wriggle against their shackles as it approaches, but then they hang deathly still. Gushing blood rushes over their faces. I see Sassy ahead of me and I choke back tears, knowing we are next. The screams flood my ears and my wings start to flap uncontrollably. I think I might be screaming too as they clip my ankles into the assembly line. What am I saying? Anything! *Help! Can’t you hear me?! Please, I don’t want to die! Please, don’t do this! I don’t want to—”* When you pay for animal products, this is the kind of torture your money keeps in business. Without your support, the unnecessary slaughter ends. #GoVegan.


I dislike the neighbour across the road, a certain Mr Hammond. He has two extremely small dogs and a hunched and offensive stance. I have never seen him smile, and to be honest I don’t think I want to. A demonic influence plays havoc with his face as it is. Mrs Talbot from number 62 has a granddaughter she couldn’t be prouder of. A banker from the city with all the trimmings. She ignores the bad press of Miss Innocence like an ignorant mule, only with stiffer lip. She declares no shortcomings of her own either and is often a case to avoid. The London family had no number on their house, but a name for it was considered of taste and fashion. The London’s were made up of 7, the parents and 5 children. Everyone wore the same style of glasses, even Henry the 2 year old. Their dog, a Dalmatian even had two large sockets of black around its eyes. Number 54 was empty, except for the remnants of an empty sort of life. Mr Dane was a hermit of no affection or infliction. His life, or presence on this planet made no difference to himself or others. Now I see that it did. The Hunting by name, and hunting by nature, family lived at another named property. They had acres of land attached to their garden, where they grew organic produce and set free wild game for hunts. They were eccentric like a family of dukes, but they were of common product. At number 2 lives Mrs Shrew (as blind as one too). Of Italian lineage, Mrs Shrew was a retired schoolteacher and part time mafiosa. She wanted for nothing as was as quick witted as she was evil. Number 33 was the house painted black. The windows were bordered in white, and the garden was always immaculate, even more due to the religious statues. Here lived the Lessons. Mr Lesson liked to see himself a philosopher, with a Socratic approach to life. His wife owned a flower shop specializing in funeral wreaths. There is no logic to the numbers down this lane. The residents chose them as they forged their foundations. I am a fisherwoman by trade, and I only come home after months at a time. This house was my fathers before me and his mothers before him. And so it is all down the lane, houses of the matriarchs. All except number 16. My house. My house was a poor affair, a sad place for a child. I would walk in the woods that surrounded the lane and its fields and wonder where all the happiness was. Was it in number this or named that? I had to believe it lived somewhere because it didn’t live with me. I grew up in the middle of a country that bordered land to the north and south, and sea to the east and west. I chose west. The ocean became my refuge, the waves my mothers embrace. My boat has no name and my life has no number. Number 16 is now nothing but a pile of bricks and scattered bones.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting; there are changes! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Courage! As we explore the overarching theme of ‘change’ for March, we will focus on “courage” this week. Courage comes in all shapes and sizes; big and small and dark and light. What fears will your characters face this week? How will they overcome them? Are they heroes of the people or simply heroes in their own mind? What effect will their choices have on the world around them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * March 7 - Courage (this week) * March 14 - Distortion * March 21- Resistance   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but I encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * The deadline to submit your story is now 6pm on Saturday. That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. This is mandatory! That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed 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/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Note About Rankings: Rankings are currently suspended due to lack of feedback on the thread. Feedback matters; it’s how we improve and grow as writers. It’s also a requirement for this feature. In the same regard, rankings depend on your nominations, so please make sure you send me a message here on reddit or on discord with your favorites before the deadline next Sunday. Thank you to everyone who has given feedback week in and week out. It doesn’t go unnoticed. I hope to see a lot more participation this coming week.


I stumbled through the hospital corridor, leaving red handprints on the clean white walls as I went. I could hear the footsteps, tens of hundreds, trampling over each other in the stairwell behind me. I stayed focused, searching desperately for the operating room. I passed one door, then two as the screams began to echo behind me. I turned a corner and increased my pace, aggravating the wound on my ankle. A wild gunshot rang out from down the hall behind me. My eyes widened and I saw the sign ahead of me, three doors to my salvation. I heard them slamming into the wall trying to turn the corner. Another gunshot rings out followed by a cacophony of screeches and howls as they lay eyes on me. I burst into the O.R. and slammed the door behind me. It only took a second for them to crash against it. Through the thin window I could see them, the twisted things. One pressed its face against the glass. it was an exact replica, down to the little mole under my earlobe.

We all were, down to the bone, identical, I had gathered that much after week one. I rummaged through the room and found some antiseptic and gauze. After clambering onto the operating table, I began dressing my wound. Thoughts raced through my head. My fingers were twitching. By week two I had begun to understand their patterns, their… herd mentality, if you could call it that , but their motives are well beyond me. I poured the antiseptic onto my injury and winced. They were wild, feral, single-minded in the goal to not just kill me, but devour me, as I learned this week.

I can’t accept this reality, I can’t even understand it.

The window shattered, arms reaching through, writhing in search of my flesh. I finished binding the gauze to my ankle and hopped off the table, remembering to stow the extra supplies away in my backpack. Adorning the back wall of the room was a large mirror. I pulled my rifle off my back and

shattered the mirror with the stock, revealing an observation room hidden behind. Exiting from the observation room back into the hallway, I took off my shoes so they wouldn’t squeak as I snuck away, looping around back to the stairwell and elevator. I reached for the call button but hesitated before pressing it. The elevator would likely chime upon reaching this floor, alerting them to my presence, and even if the doors closed in time, it would chime again once I reached the ground floor, alerting any stragglers stuck down there.

The stairwell door suddenly swung open again, allowing another flood of them to pour onto the floor. Luckily none of them noticed me, now curled against the elevator door, as they ran to join their companions. There was no counting how many were in the stairwell now; the elevator was my only option. I reluctantly pressed the elevator button. Switching the safety off my gun and checking the magazine revealed approximately twelve rounds remaining. I got to my feet and prepared for the signal, which came just a moment later.

Ding! I leaned hard against the door as the screams began anew. They rounded the corner as I stepped back into the elevator, hitting the close door button as I did. I knew hitting the button repeatedly had no effect, so I focused on aiming down my sights. Shots came down the hall at me with little precision, and I returned fire with more fortunate gains. I counted four incapacitated by ten rounds. One lunged forward, diving to the ground and crawling like a spider with frightening speed. I fired my last two rounds at it to no avail, proving itself too agile to counter. It pushed me to the floor and bit into my neck. I stuck my fingers in its mouth and pried it loose. I pressed my foot into its gut and threw it off, buying myself enough time to aim my gun at it and pray to any and every god that I miscounted the bullets. I pulled the trigger, and to my elation, one final bullet stormed from the barrel, tearing through the things chest. I breathed a sigh of relief, taking this reprieve graciously. When I tried to stand, however, I found myself too weak to do so. I pressed my hand into my neck and found a copious amount of blood leaking out. I paused and thought for a second, and that's when the clone struck again, its breathing ragged from the hole I had punched in its lung. It flipped me on my stomach and grabbed me by the hair, slamming my head against the descending elevator floor, again and again. Crack! Crack! Crack! I could feel my mind going blank. Crack!  I struggled, exerting all my energy in a desperate attempt to throw it off my back, to no avail. Crack! Crack!  I stopped resisting after I felt my skull split open. In another lifetime, perhaps I would uncover the truth. I found myself out of time before I could come up with a proper last thought.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious for after that, but I awoke to the sensation of thick dried blood in my sinuses. I was caked in the stuff, sitting in the elevator alone. To my left was a corpse, head split open and hollowed out. I was unfazed, although I wasn’t sure why. Where the hell am I, the hospital? No wonder I’m covered in blood. It was logic better suited for a dream, and I was indeed in a dream-like stupor. As I stood up a sudden pain burned in my chest. I felt for an injury, but found nothing save for a small hole in my shirt. I wavered out of the elevator in search of a bathroom. It was unseemly, but I stuck my pinky up my nose, trying to dig the remaining blood out of there. I washed my hands for what felt like the fifth time before trying to add some kind of style to my hair, just enough so that people wouldn’t point and laugh at me for looking so downtrodden. I stared drearily at myself in the mirror before heading to the door. I nearly bumped into the man waiting in line outside. He looked so familiar, but in my state I didn’t quite recognize him. I also didn’t quite comprehend his hands reaching for my neck.


The Onslaught of colorful spotlights skating across the dance, painting the gleaming crowd with red, pink, and orange. The smell of perfume and cologne all around, barely overcoming the smell of sweat underneath, permeated throughout the entire room.

A pleasant yet corrosive smell; something that stabbed at my nose. I do not know if it is in a good way or bad.

I didn’t have a man to share this with of course, but the group I cultivated over my short and super awesome stay at York High. This was enough for me, plus I’m a truly gifted extrovert with an introverted cuteness and smart vibe!

All my friends are the same, a lovely bunch of gals that can only admire and improve themselves. So bad in all the right ways too, like Jennifer who hates short guys went on a total dwarf spree this year. Perhaps she wanted to feel like our childhood favorite princess, Snow White, and of course she always SLAYS! We’re all gorgeous princesses that fully embody all womanhood in a group of four. Life is such a blessing and I’m always happy to go on these random, well written, spurs to just prove to myself that “ I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worthless that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it.” But why, why is there that voice that knows everything I say or do is bad, in a none sexy way. That the word sexy isn’t something I enjoy using but loathe. I loathe I loathe I loathe. She thought to herself all while sitting down on a dirty little couch, legs squeezed together, feet clenched up shaking. It didn't smell of anything, this stale place. It was odd. For every other area to smell so distinctly different but this one a place absent of any such distinctive features, what made this place different? At night, this belligerent loathing paints my dreams with such crude things, monsters and demons. All orchestrated by the hairy frizzled man, riding a red bicycle with a disgusting green raincoat. Mocking me MOCKING ME MOCKING ME. “His eyes are brown, mine are blue; he is filthy, I am clean. At every party, in a moment this duality of nastiness and cleaness collides. There is this conversation, this prying thing, oddly familiar and foreign, that demands I do and think of such heinous things; incestuous quarrels, gay crimes, and or actions so cruel by nature that I clench my soul when even thinking of them,” she said to herself, the shaking more violent, but scratching too. It was almost as if she sat perfectly still, but she didn't.

Before this night, the night of prom, she had already committed quite some time consumed by these thoughts. In the bathroom, at night, in class, or in broad daylight. They were terrified and this fear grew more and more everyday.

I am pretty but if somebody could peer through my neat face, they’d see a jungle filled with horror. They continue to stare at me and I’ve begun to hate them for it. I’ve begun to despise the normal man and his virtuous ways. I'm terrible and my mind is polluted.

“A terrible person locked in the perfect, sweetest life, among the most gorgeous fruit. I am the snake stuck in Eden, the sinner prayed for,” she said to herself as she finally eased off, her body loosening and her feet back on the ground, firm and she stared half consciously at the ceiling. Barely lit by the old light bulb, swinging and swaying about.

Tonight was a sort of breaking point but for her felt like a revelation, a moment from a book that could be talked about.

“I’ve grown bored of my smiles and straight posture, I’ve grown bored of hating myself.” These conversations and the weight of her own failed attempt at morality had arisen sometime, she doesn’t know when. The thoughts were almost ancient, something locked at the heart of every man, prying but always neatly kept under our principle.

This conversation had already occurred 23 times in the last month, an obligation to prove to herself that she isn’t bad, to rid herself of these thoughts by controlling a reality, in some way, somehow.

“I’ve grown bored of the things around me, I’ve grown bored of being nice.” Severe questions and belittling can shape the strongest of souls into the most terrifying things.

“To do so for what?! Others!? Is this not bad? Is it not bad for me to listen to someone instead of myself. Jung says that a man must find his own way and no matter what, a man who lives by his own code is a man.”

At this point she was trotting across the room, half conscious of her movement. Conversing with herself as if locked in a conversation with a real person, of course there was nobody but herself. However, she felt at this moment the whole world was watching, that something was listening and she sought its approval of course.

“If I pretend to be good, is this not bad? Yes, yes I must define life myself not be defined by others!” But they’ll judge you! “ I’ll kill them, yes I’ll kill them. Just one,

perhaps a boy no taller than me. Maybe the Jamaican in 223, YES! The Jamaican in 223” Her thoughts went silent and now she could only hear the gorgeous ringing of Tchaikovsky’s famed waltz, Sleeping Beauty as she excitedly began to peel her mangled finger tips. Her eyes were as wide as an excited cat stalking its prey. Her face was flush red and fully relaxed, her lower jaw slightly dangled, and she continued to walk in circles stuck in thought, theorizing.

“I’d have to do it or else what could happen to me. I’d fail and be forgotten. Be normal. The only rational thing to do is this and it is the only thing left for me to do.”


Warning: This story contains an instance of strong language. The castle at Elvia sat on a small rise on the east edge of the city, with a good view over the approaching road from Teraditha. It guarded the east gate into the city, joining the high walls seamlessly by the work of master stonemasons. To the south, the clear sea glittered in the sunlight, giving the impression of summer despite the chill air. The road became busier as farmer’s drove animals to market, and tradesmen of the surrounding towns and villages headed for the city to stock up on supplies for the winter months. Luthar breathed in the salty air as they left the main road to the city and approached the castle gate to their right. The horses’ hooves banged against the wooden drawbridge as they crossed the moat, it was low for the time of year owing to the hot summer they’d had with little rain. As they reached the parched grass on the other side, a guard clad in chainmail and bearing an oak on a field of argent approached them. ‘Good morning sirs, what brings you to my gate?’ He was well presented and spoke politely with a ready smile, more than Luthar had come to expect from professional soldiers addressing a man of the guild. ‘We’ve come to seek out Lord Wedderburn’s court mage. We have something that he should see.’ Flint replied with his best manners on show. ‘Our Lord and his staff are very busy this morning, perhaps I could take a look instead?’ Flint glanced at Luthar before dismounting and pulling the bundle free from the back of his horse. He carefully unwrapped it before holding it out for the guard to see. He peered at it for a moment, marvelling at the sheer length of the blade. ‘Who could’ve been strong enough to wield this I wonder?’ He mused, scratching his chin. ‘I’ve seen plenty of black steel in my life, but this is far beyond that.’ He reached out and touched the blade with his finger, evidently trying to see how sharp it was. In an instant, he pulled away yelling and clutching his arm. Luthar could see Flint grappling with the bundle, desperately trying to tie it back up. Luthar dismounted to give him a hand, but by the time he reached the ground, all was still. ‘He touched it and the blade turned into a fucking snake!’ Flint panted at him, the colour slowly returning to his face. Luthar knelt by the guard who was now whimpering, and clutching his bleeding hand. Two small marks blemished his skin where the fangs had penetrated, they oozed blood, mixed with some strange black liquid that reeked of death. ‘I guess we both need to see the court mage now.’ Luthar said as he offered him a hand up. ‘What’s your name friend?’ ‘Patrick, and you?’ ‘I’m Luthar, this is Flint. The two lads are Lucas and Ed.’ He pointed at each to identify them, they each returned a nod before Patrick turned and led them through the gate. They passed through the barbican and into the outer ward which basked in the autumn sun. It seemed every square foot of land was covered with either canvas tents, or carts containing shields, pikes, and all manner of other supplies. Patrick led them down a makeshift road through the camp’s centre towards an array of larger, more comfortable tents that were heavily guarded. ‘You can stable the horses over there lads.’ He pointed to a stable in the shade of the high castle wall, a few hundred yards where they were staying. ‘Ask for Nolan and tell him Patrick sent you.’ Lucas and Ed took two horses each and their bags and set off for the stables. Luthar could see Lucas chattering to Ed, who simply stared off into space as if he didn’t exist. As they followed Patrick through the camp, Luthar could see the swelling begin to rise on his right arm as it hung limp at his side. He stopped outside the second largest tent and addressed the guard on duty as he struggled to regain his breath. ‘Two men here to see Mage Edryg sir.’ No sooner had he spoken, he collapsed on the ground in front of the officer. He twitched violently as black bile sprayed violently from his lips. Luthar and Flint starred at the fallen man in stunned silence. Even their will to help him could not for their bodies into action. ‘What happened to him?’ Roared an assertive voice from the tent opening. Out stepped a man, impossibly old, yet still moved with the purpose and strength of a mighty warrior in his prime. He wore simple, pale green woollen robes, tied about his waist with a brown leather belt. Plain leather riding boots protruded from the muddy hem of his robes. The only adornment about his person was a golden star stitched into his robe over his heart. ‘He just collapsed, Your Munificence.’ The officer cried, trying to hold Patrick down and prevent him hurting himself further. The old man pushed the officer aside with his left hand, whilst his right settled on Patrick’s chest, pushing him into the ground. One of his hands was evidently stronger than the officer’s two. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes and muttered indistinguishable words as Patrick continued to writhe. More seconds passed and Patrick began to settle, until the only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest. ‘You two! Get a stretcher and take him to the healer’s tent. Tell them he needs plenty of water and whatever poison antidotes they can find.’ He barked orders at the officer and a second soldier who had rushed to help him up. Without a moment’s hesitation they sprinted to another large tent in search of the stretcher. The old man turned to Luthar and Flint, pale blue eyes scouring every inch of them both, until Luthar felt he could see right through them. ‘You’re not Peccothian soldiers. My guess is Warrior’s Guild?’ ‘Aye sir, we came to see the court mage. Am I right in assuming that would be yourself?’ Flint replied, assuming his best manners once more. ‘Indeed, you are. With that being said, I’m not a sir. Your Munificence is the correct form of address for the mage of a noble court.’ ‘Forgive me, Your Munificence, you’re the first court mage I’ve ever met.’ ‘Let’s not stand about out here. I’ll take a guess that what you have to tell me is better kept private. Follow me.’ Without waiting to see if they’d followed his instruction, he strode back into the tent without a moment’s pause. Luthar followed on behind Flint, always keen to observe the rules of seniority in front of strangers. Inside the tent there was a small entrance hall made from pieces of canvas hanging from the roof, boots stood by the flaps and cloaks hung on a wooden stand in one corner. The mage held open a parting in the wall and stared at them both even more fiercely as they ducked through it and into what looked like a makeshift study. A small wooden desk faced them, with a padded leather chair behind it. Papers held down with rocks and all manner of instruments Luthar couldn’t name covered the desk’s surface. A bookshelf and chest stood along one wall, giving it the look of a typical mage’s quarters. In the far corner, behind the desk stood an armour stand, however it only held another pale green robe, woven from much finer material. Luthar and Flint stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be offered a seat. The old mage lowered himself into his seat gracefully and waved a casual hand at Luthar and Flint. Luthar sat whilst Flint removed the bundle he’d slung over his shoulder and place it carefully across his knees. ‘So, what is it that is so important you sought the opinion of Edryg, court mage to Lord Wedderburn of Elvia?’ He asked them, placing his elbows on the desk, and touching his fingertips together. ‘We were making our way down the coast road a few nights back, two days ride west of Stormhaven. We’d camped in the trees a few hundred yards off the road to avoid any unnecessary meetings whilst we slept. All of a sudden, our fire goes out and it gets cold real quick, so cold the grass froze solid before our eyes. Luthar here tries to wake up our squires, but they were as good as dead.’ As Flint recounted the tale, Edryg kept his gaze firmly upon him without uttering a sound, taking in every detail. ‘We knew something was up, so we get in a defensive position, back-to-back to cover the treeline around us. I thought I saw something and went for it, but I slashed only air. Then Luthar sees the same thing and we both go for it at once, he attacked low, I went high. Whatever the thing was, it just swatted us away like flies.’ ‘It was shaped like a man, but enormous. I’d say near on eight feet tall, and it wore armour as black as night with spikes on. Anyways, we had a bit of a dust up, and I think I managed to wound it as it staggered off back into the trees and left its sword behind.’ Luthar finished for Flint and gestured to the bundle. Edryg stood silently and held his hand out across the desk in an imperious command to Flint, who duly obliged and placed the bundle in his hand. Edryg frowned as he unwrapped the leather cords around it and laid it down on top of his papers. Flint edged his chair back as the black sword was revealed with no snake in sight. ‘What happened to our guard?’ Edryg asked, eyes still firmly fixed on the blade. His left hand rested on his hip as his right stroked his long white beard. ‘He touched the blade and it turned into a snake that bit him.’ As soon as Flint answered Luthar began to realise how ridiculous it sounded. However, Edryg remained solemn. ‘A snake? Hmmm, of course it must be.’ ‘Do you know what this sword could be, Your Munificence?’ Luthar ventured, eager to know what they’d got themselves into. ‘I have a theory at least. Is there anything else you feel I should know?’ ‘The thing that attacked us. It spoke to me.’ Luthar said. The memory of that hissing voice was burned into his mind forever. Thinking about it now sent chills down his spine. Edryg’s head snapped upwards, and his eyes narrowed. His gaze assaulted Luthar like a battering ram on a castle gate. ‘He spoke to you? What did it say? Speak quick boy, this is important.’ ‘Tell your masters the seed of Lazmurol lives again. That was when I got my blade into his neck, and he ran.’ ‘The seed of Lazmurol?’ The colour drained from Edryg’s face, and he sounded frightened as he spoke. His right hand was still firmly tangled in his beard as his eyes twitched. ‘Lazmurol was the King who united Averleon in the early second age. To my knowledge he never sired children as the crown there has never passed to kin, the next King must always be decided after a meeting of the chiefs.’ ‘Do you know what this could mean?’ Flint asked, his face a picture of bewilderment. ‘History is not my area unfortunately so I will need assistance with that. However, my skills are best suited to the here and now. Excuse me for a moment.’ He walked to the entrance to study and called into the tent. ‘Oliver! Fetch Scholar Hamed at once. If Lord Wedderburn is available, ask him to attend aswell.’ He made his way back to his desk and picked up the sword by its handle, turning it this way and that. ‘You may wish to stand back.’ Luthar and Flint both stood and took a couple of steps backwards, away from whatever Edryg was planning. An uneasy feeling creeped up into Luthar’s stomach, making him grab for his sword which had been left at the gatehouse. Instead, he grabbed the back of his chair with both hands, his knuckles turning white. Edryg had his hand no more than a couple of inches from the blade when the canvas ruffled behind them, and two men entered. The first strode in with the kind of confidence only Lords and Kings possessed. He stood straight-backed with his shoulders square and peered around the room, taking in Edryg holding the sword, and Luthar and Flint stood well back looking edgy. ‘You wanted to see me Edryg?’ The newcomer asked, his deep voice like thunder rumbling on the horizon. ‘I did my Lord, please take a seat, I have something you need to see.’ The second man entered came into view as Lord Wedderburn sat. He could not have contrasted more with him; he was stooped and frail and leaned heavily on a stick as he walked. His wispy white hair stuck out in all directions, reminding Luthar of pale straw. ‘Scholar Hamed.’ Said Edryg curtly, waving his hand at the second unoccupied seat. ‘My Lord, this is Luthar and Flint of the Warrior’s Guild. Gentlemen, you are now in the presence of Lord Clifton Wedderburn of Elvia.’ ‘My lord.’ Luthar and Flint said in unison, inclining their heads to show deference. ‘Now that we’ve all been introduced’ Edryg shot a nasty look at Hamed. ‘I will begin.’ He picked up the giant sword once more and held it out for them all to see. ‘This is a sword that was retrieved by Flint and Luthar a few nights ago on the road between Stormhaven and Elvia. It was wielded by some giant, armed man who claimed to be the seed of Lazmurol. I was hoping you may shed some light on who this might be, Scholar Hamed, this is your area of expertise after all.’ The tension between the two man was palpable. Scholar Hamed stared at Edryg before getting to his feet and turning to the room and clearing his throat. ‘Lazmurol was King of Averleon in the second age and bore no true born sons. However, during one of his ill-fated attacks on the city of Shavan, it is said he kidnapped the daughter of High Chancellor L’Cris and forced himself upon her. She escaped, but not without a child in her belly. Nine moons later, she gave birth to an ungodly large baby, nearly 10 pounds some say. The effort killed the poor girl and so, the babe was given to the temple of the sun. Not five days later, A’Kel, the self-styled prophet of reckoning was found dead in his rooms. Some jealous priest spread word that the child had brought shame on the temple, and that the moon god had slain the prophet in revenge. The poor child was cursed and left to die in the desert, never to be seen again.’ The old scholar sat himself back down, apparently worn out with the effort. Edryg turned his attention back to Lord Clifton and carried on. ‘My Lord, Luthar claimed to have wounded this thing that attacked him, causing it to flee and leave its sword behind. They saw fit to bring it to me, and now I see fit to destroy it before it can hurt anyone else. One of my guards has been grievously hurt by it and I have no appetite for any more bloodshed.’ ‘Hurt? Who swung it?’ Lord Wedderburn rumbled in reply. ‘Not swung My Lord.’ Edryg touched the blade with his bare hand as Patrick had done earlier. The blade turned back into the snake in the blink of any eye and lunged for Edryg. The man responded before Luthar knew what was happening and grabbed the snake around its neck mid-strike. It fought violently, but the old mage held firm, seemingly not breaking a sweat. Lord Wedderburn looked as surprised as Flint had done earlier. He scratched his close-cut black beard with his hand before making his decision. ‘No. Study it, and learn its secrets, we need to know how to act if there are more of these swords about, or that thing Luthar fought comes back to claim it.’ He stood and turned to Luthar and Flint, eyeing them closely, but not unkindly. ‘You two will feast with me tonight and tell me all you know of this thing and its sword. By the way, that’s not a request.’ He gave them both a generous smile before taking his leave. ‘You two best make yourselves look presentable; his lordship doesn’t appreciate scruffiness at his table.’ Edryg said to them before looking back at the sword, engrossed in his new task. Luthar held open the flap for Flint as they made their way outside into the camp. A cool breeze shot through them as they started down the path to the stables. ‘I thought you told me nobility was a sign of being a bollock brain?’ Said Luthar, unable to keep the grin from his face. ‘We don’t know him that well, he still might be!’ Replied Flint, clearly stifling a laugh.


"Yeah I'll be fine. Thank you for tonight, text me when you get home okay?" I said as he kissed my forehead.

He smiled sweetly and nodded. I started walking back to my hotel as he open his car and drive off. Before entering the building I turn around with an uneasy feeling. I could feel a pair of eyes behind me. I look both ways but nothing, only darkness and a faint sound of cars driving. 'Maybe i'm just paranoid' I thought as I enter the building.

The receptionist welcomed me and gave me my room's key since I left mine in the room.

After greeting the people I pass and having small chit chats I walked towards the elevator and pressed 7. As the number above turned 7 I grabbed my keys and went inside. I'm in a five-star hotel and the owner is a close friend of mine so that's way the whole seventh floor is mine. I took off my shoes and placed my bag in the couch. The walls are painted in s light shade of grey with picture frames from all around the world. The living room looks simple yet classy. Grey, white, black and a hint of gold is seen. There are two guest rooms, a mini game room, a huge kitchen, a bathroom, a mini bar and of course the living room and my room. This room was my friend's gift since I helped her with her depression. Even though I said no she still insisted on giving me this room. I walked towards the biggest room here which is my bedroom and unlocked it. The bed can fit at least five people but it's not that important. There is a walk in closet , a mini library, a bathroom, a mini eighty-seven inches Tv and other things I'm lazy to mention. "Finally a break from everything." I mumble as I relax my body in the hot tub. I turned on the tv in front of me and took a sip from my wine. The bathroom inside my room has a mini tv that's like sixty-eight inches. It's been two weeks since my fiancée died and everything went downhill. A lot of people paid their visit and his family was the most affected. He was an only child and he was such an angel. He would take his mom shopping or play golf with his dad.

We we're both highschool students when we met. Ever since that day we became the "School's Couple". Technically we are both famous in campus that's why people kept pushing us to be together.

He was the mvp of their basketball team while being top 1 in their class. I'm famous for being a good dancer winning competition around other schools and being number one in my class. My dream was to be a well-known dancer because ever since I was a child I fell in love with music. I told him that after college I was planning on going to Korea and become an Kpop idol. I may not be a pure korean but my Mom is half and I can speak korean quite fluently. Our first date as I remember, we went to a convenience store and bought snacks and then we went to the beach and had a nice walk while staring at the sunset. We danced and talked till the sky went blue and the stars shines beautifully.

It was simply amazing. It may seem simple but it was somehow magical for the both of us but sadly before the wedding day, he died. He left his family, friends and me. People loved and idolized him. He was like a gift sent from above.

He proposed to me when I were twenty years old. Both our families we're there and all of our friends. A lot of people was watching since he proposed in public. The props and the way he asked for my hand seems like it was straight from a movie. Of course I said yes. *knock* *knock* I went back to reality when I heard knocking from the door. "It's eleven pm who could it be?" I asked no one in particular. "I'm coming just a minute!" I shout. I dried myself and grab my night-gown. The knocking seem to quiet down as I walk near the door.

I opened the door to show nothing. There was no one.

"Hmm? Was I imagining it?" I mumble. Before going back inside I saw a note below. I picked it up and it said- >The receptionist wants to talk to you> 'In the middle of the night?' I thought. I just shrug it off as I took my jacket and went downstairs. I walked towards the front desk to see no one. "Uhmm? Hello?" I asked.

Nothing but pure silence was heard.

A sound suddenly destroyed the silence. It was coming from outside. I walked towards it but to my dismay it was still pitch black and the only light is from the lamp in the other side of the road. I was about to walk inside when I saw a guy standing beside the lamp.

"Good evening mister! Are you perhaps waiting for someone?" I asked politely.

He just stared at me. "Why?" I heard him whisper. I looked at him confused and was about to ask him what's wrong when he suddenly smiled at me.

"No... N-no! Nooo!" I shout. There he stood.

A guy with a bloody shirt. The same shirt he was wearing the night before the wedding. "Was it worth it?" He asked and suddenly he was in front of me. He grabbed my neck and pushed me against the wall. "Y-you're a-alive?" There he stood my fiancée who I thought died. "Was your dream worth more than me?" He asked. "P-please l-let me go..." I begged but his smile just grew wider. I felt as if it was just yesterday. The scream, the blood, the beg for mercy. I could still feel the cold metal in my hand and the blood that stained my shirt. He looked at me as his smile grew wider.

"Did you love me?" He whispered. As tears fell from my eyes I nodded. I wanted to speak but I couldn't breath properly anymore. My vision is getting blurry as I feel my head spinning. "I guess..." There in front of me was my fiancée, the guy I killed before our wedding day because he destroyed the dream that I took years to reach. I felt a metal stab my stomach as I close my eyes. I gasp for air as I quickly stood up. I'm in my room. I looked at my reflection to see tear stain. 'It was all just a dream' I thought. I walked towards the window and saw a guy staring at me. He was smiling. "No-" "Till death do us apart." He said looking up at me and vansihed in thin air. And with that two armed robbers enterd my room and stab me to my death. -sorry for the errors I made this an hour or two before twelve and i'm really tired so I couldn't re check it-