#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Balance! This week we’re going to take a look at the theme of ‘balance’. Everything in our lives, both good and bad, needs a balance. Too much of one thing can upset the natural order and flow of things. This is no different in fictional worlds. This could be something big, like a new planet or world, or even a new character. It can be a balance of justice, or maybe it’s about things we consume. It can even be something internal, like thoughts or beliefs. What happens when that balance is upset? How does it affect their surroundings? What are the consequences for the people involved? Is there a time where a lack of balance is preferred? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. This week, I am giving you the next 3! * August 1 - Balance (this week) * August 8 - Twist * August 15 - Silence * August 22 - Complications   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial, prior to beginning. Those links must be direct links to the previous installments (on a feature or personal subreddit).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 or reddit 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. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * 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 Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/throwthisoneintrash   - - u/Zetakh   - - u/Xacktar   - - u/OneSidedDice   - - u/OldBayJ   - - u/nobodysgeese   - - u/WorldOrphan   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


The mirror had grey specks that had settled after swirling in the morning sun. And a few smudges of fingers that imprinted nothing but their desperation; the same desperation that stared back at her. The morning light was now long gone and along with it any premise that today might be different. The day was a monochrome of virtual meetings and emails. Everything had been accomplished by the taps of fingers that elucidated sense as they ran across letters and numbers. They didn’t seem connected to any other part of her, the words not imprinting on her synapses as they appeared on the screen. She had moved twice: once to make herself a bowl of cereal and once to pee. She used to get up more often to make the twenty-yard journey to the kitchen to get water and decided to obviate the trip by springing for a water fountain- like the ones you had in clinic waiting rooms, where you press down on the blue nozzle to get cold water and the other nozzle stays untouched. Time for her last meeting of the day: click, open, mute - her fingers worked with the deftness of an expert flutist. Video on (unfortunately). She mumbled a few words to register her presence on the call before collapsing into her vacuous apartment. The space that shrieked silence at her. She had moved here after her roommate and best friend of seven years had decided to move in with her boyfriend. She had long wondered what it would be like to live alone and hadn’t expected to find out while the whole world was locked away in their apartments for over a year. A movement on the screen caught her attention and it took her a minute to realize it was her tile on the screen. She spent most meetings staring at herself in her virtual mirror, eyeing with dismay the puffiness on her cheeks and the skin sagging behind her chin. Her forehead resembled an un-ironed dress more and more everyday, or perhaps it was the optical illusion of her webcam that seemed to keep her wanting. She figured if she found herself looking acceptable, she’d spend a lot less time looking at herself. Back to the disturbance on the screen; somehow a moth had found itself into her apartment that no human had ventured into in some time. It fluttered neurotically as it perched on her life - first the bed, then the dresser, and then her yoga mat that laid unfurled from two weeks ago when she had last promised herself she would be on it everyday. She contemplated turning off her video to go fight the good fight against the moth but pictured getting asked something just when she went off camera. The best way to avoid attention was to be a bobblehead on camera and feign attention. After what seemed like eternity, the meeting ended with a wave from each screen tile like the Brady Bunch. As much as the meetings seemed endless, she was now faced with the possibility of time and impossibility of doing all that she wanted to with it. Faced with this enormity, lately, she had been choosing mundanity. The trite trifecta of Takeout, TV shows, and Twitter. Hang on; was the moth still around? She looked around for the winged intruder, scouring her chair strewn with unfolded laundry and the plant that looked worse for the wear of existing in her room. She finally spotted it on her mirror in the corner of her room. It had been a long time since she had made it to that corner; full-length mirrors were only useful when she was in danger of being seen full-length in public. Nothing below her waist had been displayed for public viewing in quite some time. The moth beckoned her to the corner, having colonized it as its own. The sauciness of the situation enthralled her; that a space she had so fully occupied without reprieve could be so casually under siege. She made her way over, clumsily tripping over a basket full of unfinished crochet yarns; yet another hobby she had failed to routinize. Just as she reached the mirror, the moth un-perched and glided effortlessly out of her slightly cracked window. She stood there astounded by the abandonment for a few seconds, before realizing she was staring back at herself. Her right arm lifted in front of her to flatten her hair. The ravage of her unfocused tendrils smirked at her. Gone were the days she would spend thirty minutes every evening ironing out her corkscrew hair. Three months ago, she had thrown out her straightening iron in a desperate coup so that she might learn to embrace her frizzy curls rather than erase their existence. It wasn’t going too well. And then without registering the intent or rationale, she dropped down her senescent sweatpants and shirked off her nubby t-shirt. She was mesmerized by what was gawking back at her. Tufts of black peaked out nestled between her bra strap and her arms, matching the lazy protrusions from her underwear resembling a tarantula's legs. She moved her gaze to her torso where the sight of her stomach distended with loneliness sprung hot tears that seeped down her globular cheeks. As unlovable as she felt, the evidence was staring back at her, unrelenting, all-knowing. It shamed her to think this way, to feel so sorry for herself. All over her instagram feed were women of all shapes screaming body positivity at her. “Love yourself as you are; it begins with self-love; if you don’t love yourself who will; you’re beautiful at any size”. But it wasn’t that simple. Even those posters showed women with luscious, glossy hair, cheekbones that seemed to angle up at the sun, eyes that sparkled atop petite noses. She had always felt her face was too round, her eyes too small and her nose too big. She never saw someone who looked like her that got what they wanted and accepted as they were. It felt like a trick. The world yelled to her that she didn’t belong. And now, in the cringing silence of her life, she couldn’t pretend not to hear it.


Now you may be asking how I got into this situation, well it all started when I went with my friend to an abandoned mental facility. It was a nice breezy normal January night, and I was at my friend's house. We were sitting on the couch watching TV when I had an idea, what if we were to go explore the old mental hospital that's not too far away? So I casually said “Hey, Johnny, why don't we go and do something interesting and go explore the old Wynner Mental Facility?” He had a questionable look on his face but he eventually responded back with “I don't see why not, we don't got anything going on” So we packed a few supplies like a flashlight and a spare jacket just in case and then we left a note on the kitchen table telling his mom that we went out for a bit and we’ll be back in a couple of hours, and then we were off. We grabbed our bikes and headed out to the mental facility and on our ride there we saw a small black car just sitting around the corner of Johnny’s block and we just shrugged it off and continued on our way. When we finally got there we put our bikes somewhere out of sight but easily accessible in case we needed to make a quick escape, then we grab a flashlight and head inside being careful as well as cautious. At first, there was just rubble and trash everywhere but when we went deeper inside we found some rooms that were locked and some areas that were not destroyed or graffitied. Then we found a basement and it had to have perfect timing because that's when we heard a loud bang from the entrance and without thinking we ran into the basement and hid behind a few big boxes and then we heard a heavy footfall. I was sitting on the cold hard floor of the basement behind some tall boxes, trying not to make a noise as I was listening for movement and auditory cues as to who the people were chasing us. We assumed it was the guy in the black car because it seemed to be the only rational thing. And so while we were sitting there Johnny accidentally kicked an old beer can and it seemed to bring the guys attention to the basement. We heard what sounded like a pipe drag across the ground as one of them walked from the stairs to the basement level. Neither of us dared to make a move or sound during those moments until we heard a voice say “I know your down here, come out now and no one will get hurt” Johnny looked over at me and I can see the terror in his eyes as the guy walked right past him and to the backroom. Johnny then despite me telling him not to, ran for the entrance of the basement. As you would expect the guy heard this and chased after him and I didn’t know what to do and so without thinking I just grabbed an old beer bottle and ran towards the staircase that leads out of the basement and saw Johnny pinned against a wall and the guy had a pocket knife pulled out and it looked like he was about to cut him and so I yelled out “Hey! Put him down!” Then I hit the back of the bottle against the wall and it shattered into a million pieces but it left enough for me to use as a weapon in case I needed to. He just looked at me and laughed, then dropped him and walked towards me. I didn’t expect it to work and so I just stood there scared and not knowing what to do until I heard a loud bang similar to the one we heard earlier and the guy fell to the floor unconscious. Then I heard a voice say “That was a close one, good thing I got here when I did” It was the guy from the black car, he followed us here and conveniently helped us out. He then told us how he has been watching us for a couple of days and said how he lives close to Johnny and happened to see us go towards this place and know how there are bad people who go here during these hours and so he knew that we might get in trouble. He was a good guy overall. He gave us a water bottle and some chocolate chip cookies his wife made just the other night which were delicious by the way, and he offered to drive us home and we accepted and when we got in the car we started to get uncontrollably drowsy and I could barely keep my eyes open but during the time that I could I saw that we passed Johnny's block and kept going and during those last seconds before I fell asleep I looked at the guy and he was smiling devilishly and simply said “Shhh” Then me and Johnny fell asleep and we knew we weren't going home anytime soon.


“Where were you last night?” Max peered over my Economics textbook. He had a look of anticipation, as if he was waiting for some pain relieving gossip. “I was home,” I responded innocently before he rolled his eyes at me. “Now, don’t bother me, I’m trying to focus.” Although normally I would use anything to distract me from school, I wasn’t about to involve Max in last night’s mess. “Are you expecting me to believe you weren’t at Nina’s party?” He raised his eyebrows at me. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Frankly, no expectation in the world would have prepared me well enough. But I wanted to be there for Nina like she had for me. Perhaps I couldn’t fix her parent’s divorce, but I could at least attend her house party. Especially after her break up with Todd, the leather jacket douche that called her “babe” so much I would wonder if he knew her real name. “I promise you’ll have a great time,” Nina had told me. And at first, I really did. There is something comforting about the stagnant smell of beer penetrating every fiber of clothing and hair follicle. Something nostalgic about repetitive rap songs preaching about the wonders of big asses. Everything seemed normal at first. The music was pounding loudly and the dim lights carried shadows across the cramped living room. I could feel the air thickening. Minutes before terror, I was standing unnoticed next to a group of girls I recognized. “Someone told me her dad was abusive,” I heard one say with wide eyes. “Yeah, apparently the neighbors called the cops on them,” another responded. “Well, I wouldn’t point fingers just yet. Nina’s mom’s a bitch. Maybe she deserved it,” a brunette shrugged and took a sip of her drink right before our eyes met. Her face flared red as she realized her words had been overhead. I clenched my fists in rage. “How about you all mind your own–”. My response was cut short by a piercing scream. I quickly stood up in alert. The room became still. The music stopped and those still standing looked at one another with puzzled looks. The source was nowhere to be seen. It came again, this time along with a cry. I recognized Nina immediately. I pushed my way across the living room and ran up the stairs before barging into Nina’s bedroom. I noticed him first. His leather jacket shimmered in the moonlight as he stood tall and angry. A millisecond later, I spotted Nina on the floor. Hands covering her face in defense. The lack of light in the room didn’t stop the fierceness of her blood as it dripped down her temple and into her hair. I stood still. My brain called in fear but my body made no response. Not even when Todd walked passed me, into the hallway and shut the door behind him. Nina remained on the floor. She held herself and rocked back and forth, letting silent cries out into the thick air. “Don’t tell anyone.” She whispered.   “Hello?” Max snapped at me. “Are you going to tell me or not?” I stared at him blankly as the vivid flashbacks flew through my head. My heart stung in bitterness as I recognized that all I wanted to do was say it. To write it out in sharpie on all student lockers. Nina’s bloody face burned in my head. “There’s nothing to tell.


Don’t you remember? I was young, and the sun was yellow on the grass. We were chaotic children, traipsing with scraped knees and bulging pockets, in the meadow between the library and the brick museum with the two-headed lamb. I don’t remember the other tents on the edge, but I remember the cool of the shadow as I sat crisscrossed, slowly peeling leaves from the grass, as I listened. I don’t remember her face or her voice, but I remember the softness of her sheep and the warm wood of her wheel. And she gave us a clump of her wool to keep. But I forget until I touch it again. For you, it is tangled lint that I should have thrown away years ago. You’re just trying to make me organized, make me into a neat child. And I don’t need it, there’s nothing I can use it for. But for me, it is sunshine, warmth, softness, the curiosity of childhood, and the old ways surviving. All in a fuzzy pocket clump. Do you remember this bracelet? I’ve almost thrown it away a thousand times. It’s broken, and even if I tried to fix it, it wouldn’t fit any more. The shiny is peeling off the beads and it couldn’t have been more than 50 pesos. Only a dollar. But it is Rhealyn, Rosalyn, and Charmaine and when I thought they loved me. It is dangling our feet over the church balcony, over the red abandoned house next door, watching the wind swirl through the rice paddies. It is popcorn and movie nights every Saturday. When I thought maybe I wasn’t weird anymore. Maybe people could actually want me. People who weren’t my family. People who like me and who didn’t have to love me. Maybe, I could be someone beyond Alexie’s sister or Tom and Lisa’s daughter, “another one of those A girls.” It is my birthday, laughter, and playing Twister, and knowing exactly who to invite, and their present to me. But it is also unexplained silence after, its thinking maybe they moved away but seeing them around town, it’s inviting and them not coming. It’s wondering what I did wrong, how I messed up, if any of it was even real. Or was it nice to watch movies and have free food and I was just the price they had to pay? Six months of sitting shoulder to shoulder and then nothing. Was I just an amusing oddity? A status symbol? Did they just want to brag that they had an American friend? If my skin was a different color, would they have even bothered? It is a shadow spread over all the relationships afterwards. It is my sisters shutting everyone off as insincere. But I was too desperate, too lonely. I knew that people talked to me because I was foreign, because of my skin and my height. But if they were talking to me, maybe eventually it would be more. People didn’t talk to me in the U.S. They talked to my sisters because they were pretty, active, exciting, and knew social signals. At least, here, I had a chance. I didn’t know about the loan. About their brother asking you to pay 200 pesos for his school fee the next day. And how you said, “no”, because he waited until the last minute so you couldn’t give him a small job to pay for it and you wanted to be friends not wallets. I don’t know what I wanted you to do. Whether it would have been better to pay and keep it going but then it would have still been insincere. Either way, my friendship was only worth $4. But I wish I would have known it wasn’t just me. This bracelet is hope, heartbreak, and loneliness, and I can’t throw it away. This? This is only a scrap of ridged cardboard, probably used to carry coffee before being tossed aside on a playground. But Yoyo wrote “Tree loves Miss Maxwell” on it and now it is her squinched up smile and Olivia’s giggles. It is walking back in the dark, sky pink with streetlights, lonely in a foreign city. I’m in over my head but still trying, and it’s worth it because I will see “my kids” again tomorrow. It’s Jessie teaching me Chinese. It’s Steve and Jack Chen’s hamster comics. It’s Sky diving through the layers of the earth for months after my geography classes. It’s love and childhood imagination. It’s thinking “Maybe one day, I do want to be a mom.” It’s teaching and it’s not easy work but it’s good. And it’s sobbing together in the parking lot after seeing pandas because, of course, I can’t stay and everything has to end. But, sometimes, when my heart is brave, I pull it out and remind myself that it happened.

And I wish I could have done better. I could do better now. But that was my best back then and I gave them all of it.

And I hope they carry the same excitement they did when they rushed me at recess about the “earthquake” crack in the playground when the news said nothing happened. We all grabbed our rulers and our geology notebooks, observing and hypothesizing until we realized it was probably from the hole for the new hotel next door. Or when they saw me writing in cursive and begged me to write them cursive alphabets to take home and teach their parents. But they know I love them. And that is the most important thing. And they loved me, too. Even if sometimes, they had a tree say it. I’m scared because time keeps slipping and I can’t catch it in my head. Sometimes, it seems like yesterday, sometimes it feels like a story you read to me long ago in the red couch with the white coil phone. You keep your time in order, trap it in tight calendar boxes. I tuck my memories into objects.

Keep them safe, I plead, don’t let me forget. Remind me. Because I don’t know what I’ll remember. I still get irritated when people say butterflies come out of a cocoon, because I learned that cocoons are for moths, butterflies come from a chrysalis when I was 5 years old. But the teacher I worked with for two years, it was weeks trying to remember her name. I remembered her smile, remembered that she was nice, that her grandfather loved cardinals. I knew I knew it, but I couldn’t find it. I am haunted by faces without names and names without faces. I know they were important, but I had nothing to hold them. You like things clean and neat. “Spring cleaning” refreshes you, removing clutter, making a clear path. But it hollows me out. I’m the one afraid and fighting “Over”, continuing the chapters in my head after the last page is read. I remember the dress. I was new-18, coming back to the U.S., terrified of a nightmare of cardboard in a grocery store covering blood puddles, worried about my scholarship competition and being in college half the world away. I wanted to be a grown-up, to go past the awkward little girl, always sure I was doing something wrong.

I was promised a teenage know-it-all phase and the bliss of ignorance, but I still haven’t received it. But in my fear, at least, I would be there for my grandparent’s 50 th wedding anniversary. Because those are important. And 51 isn’t the same, the numbers do matter. We can celebrate any day we want, and we still have holidays. Because when you set a day aside, it matters. My Grammie gave me an emerald dress to wear to it. It was wool and long sleeves for the winter with lace around the collar and shoulder pads. It was pretty but it wasn’t new. That’s what made it important. She had gotten it for a date with my Papa before they were even married and now, they were almost at their 50 th , too. It was my emerald princess dress, made me feel a little taller, a little steadier.

I was carrying on a legacy. But you said it was too old. That I kept dressing like a grandma. That I needed to dress more modern, $20 t-shirts that don’t look their price, shave my legs, and start using make-up. That you’re just trying to help. You don’t want me to be lonely. This is America. I need to fit in. But it made me feel pretty. And you threw it away. We don’t always remember the same. You don’t remember waking me up to put the soap away. It was on the bathroom sink, no dip or dish to put it in. You said it wasn’t that hard and moved it two inches. I still don’t understand the difference. You said it never happened. I remember it happened at least twice. It’s in the heaviness of my blankets and cracked ivory soap. But I don’t remember growing alone in a house, making supper and changing my older brother’s sheets while he was out with his friends. I don’t know holding the whole house on my shoulders, having money, but a mom too busy to be at home, and a dad who never said, “I love you.” But I once was in that tiptoe house, cold with air conditioning, dimmed by heavy curtains, no lines in the carpet and no room for my shoes. I can imagine, where affection required perfection, bleaching yourself into acceptance, still tiptoeing around “no’s”, and waiting for nods, where the house had to be clean because you were good . It’s different. And I'm sorry. Why would you carry rocks in your pockets? They’ll just tear up the washing machine.

You don’t need it.

It’s just a clump of lint. But I tie myself to memories with things, so I don’t blow away and lose myself. And I’ll keep gathering my wool.


Cocoa Beach 1981 On January 14, 1981, I had twins, a boy named Mark and a daughter named Amanda. They were prom babies, nine months to the day of the prom. They were born in a military hospital in Jacksonville. When I graduated from high school in June of 1980 no one except my boyfriend Johnnie knew that I was pregnant. There was a reason for this as I went to a private Christian School. It was an Episcopal Church school which was more progressive than other Christian private schools but a pregnancy would have been grounds to be expelled. Johnnie came to my prom at my school and hated it. We were watched like a hawk, but when I went to the Cocoa High School Prom, two weeks later, we skipped the prom and spent the evening in the wealthier section of town at my parent's condo. They were away for the weekend. Johnnie had always wanted to be a professional surfer. He hated school and barely graduated from high school in 1979. My parents thought he was a beach bum. The more they disliked him and the surfing culture, the more I liked him. We got married two weeks after graduation and the whole town knew about it. My parents were very upset about it but grateful that at least when the babies were born, we would be married. In their generation, this was important on the birth certificate to have married parents. We lived in a cottage house that my parents let us live in. It was old and dated but at least we didn't live under their roof. After the babies were born, Mark decided he wanted to join the military to everyone's surprise. He was doing pretty good as a surfer which was why people were surprised. He joined the navy and we headed to Mayport which is near Jacksonville. I waved as the ship pulled out of port. The twins was a couple of months old. He would be gone for three months but I didn't know that this would be the last time that I saw him alive. Right before the ship returned to Mayport, Johnnie was found dead in his bed on the ship. The findings were that he had taken his own life but no one knew exactly how he did this. It couldn't be proven that he had taken his own life, so cause of death of undetermined. I was heartbroken and couldn't believe that Johnnie had taken his own life. At the viewing, he looked like he was asleep. My parents as much as they didn't like Johnnie, made sure that he had a proper funeral and burial. He had no family as his father had died in the surf when he was 5 years old, trying to save Johnnie's life and when he was 16 years old, his mom had died on cancer. His parents had grown up in the Florida Methodist Home in Melbourne and both had been abandoned by their parents. So here I am at nearly 19 years old, a widow with two infants under six months old. I went to Cocoa Episcopal College and graduated with a business degree. My son Mark looked like a clone of Johnnie and shared his talent for surfing. Mark though was much better than Johnnie ever was. Tears came to my eyes when Mark won the Eastern Conference championship. Happy for him and sad that Johnnie wasn't here to see this. With his long blonde hair and green eyes and thin body, Mark looked like Johnnie did at age 19. I had remarried a surfer who got along well with my kids. Actually my husband Keith trained my son. I knew him from Johnnie. We had two more children. Shortly after Johnnie died, I got a phone call from an unknown woman telling me that Johnnie's death was no accident. Then I got a letter telling me the same thing with no details. I ignored it and didn't tell anyone about it. I had suspected that something wasn't right especially when it was reported that Johnnie was depressed. Johnnie had no gunshot wounds, nor did he have drugs in his system. The autopsy stated that Johnnie didn't have any wounds on his body indicating a fight or indicating that he'd been stabbed. He had no known medical problems. 2021 Nearly 40 years after Johnnie died, someone came forward and admitting to killing Johnnie by poking him with something that caused the heart to stop. This person admitted to doing this to several other people while he was in the Navy. The Navy suspected something was up but dealt with the problem by moving him around. He worked at Naval base hospitals. He also admitted to killing others as well when he retired from the Navy and worked in a hospital. . This person was on their death bed (it was a death bed confession) so nothing could be done. Amanda and Mark never got to know their father personally. All they knew him from were pictures, footage of surfing competition, a few family movies. I gave an impact statement to military police. Since I really didn't know Johnnie's medical history, I know Amanda was concerned that he might have had heart issues, which thankfully he didn't have. I know my husband Keith was always suspicious that something had happened to Johnnie. He told me a scary story about his uncle who was in the navy who witnessed a murder while hiding in a closet. Never knew what happened except that the person who did it got away with it.


I’d love some criticism, not even necessarily constructive lol. TW: Schizophrenia, blood, depression The voices are back. Telling me to do things, say things. I can’t live like this. I want to tear my fucking walls down and find the source of their incessant whispers. It’s worse when I can’t understand them. What are they saying about me? Plotting, waiting for the moment when they can take me down. I can’t do this. I throw open my door and sprint for the woods. The voices are gone, but I know they’ll find me soon enough. A perverted game of hide and seek. As I run, the sky darkens and whispers start to drift from the tree line. Calling me things. Calling me stupid. Calling me lost. I’ve fallen for the trap. I’m lost, wandering with my head in my hands and my eyes pinched shut. The voices call, offering a way out. My eyes open on a fairy ring, something so sweet and innocent twisted by the demons. Death caps form a circle around the small carcass of a baby deer. The voices mutter to themselves louder as the fawn rises, leaving a small pool of red atop the crumpled grass. I watch in horror as the fawn seems to implode, folding in on itself until it’s gone. The mutters grow louder, pushing me towards the ring. Better to wander forever, or resign to my true purpose? The chorus in the trees grows louder, impatient. I need to decide, I need to be faster. The voices almost sound frantic. They’re louder than ever, a deafening chorus of hate. I step into the ring, laying upon the crumpled red grass. I reach for a mushroom, a large one with a thick stem. How do you eat these? Does it even matter? There’s probably no wrong way to eat a poison. The voices are screaming, drowning each other out. They want me to get on with it, give them a show. I take a few bites, and before I know it my vision starts to swim. In the distance, I hear twigs snapping and tall grass being pushed. Everything fades to black. There’s a young boy. Can’t be older than 17, stumbling through the woods with his head in his hands. “Hey” I call to him. I step forward, but I’m stopped by something I can’t see before I can reach the path. I see others, people with sad eyes and desperate voices. They call to the boy, pleading with him. Their voices are turned to whispers by the trees. He grips his ears, like he’s trying to rip them away. We call to him, trying to throw our voices through the barrier. It seems the barrier only grows stronger the more we struggle. I know that yelling louder will just lead to us drowning each other out, but I can’t help it. He’s getting closer to the end. I plead with him, beg him to just hold on a while longer. I yell and scream until my throat bleeds. He reaches the sick imitation fairy ring, a young doe lying in the center. I should be there. I just died, didn’t I? The boy takes a step closer, his face illuminated by a rare patch of light from the setting sun. A face that I know all too well from endless nights in front of the mirror, trying so hard to see who I am. I scream to him, “You don’t have to do this! You don’t have to wander!”. But I falter. What other choice did I have? These voices sounded so hostile from the other side, my path seemed so messy. What else can I possibly do? But how can I know what lies farther on the path? Surely it’s better than surrendering, letting the voices lead me on. Perhaps I’ll learn to hear correctly a mile down the path, I’ll learn to speak a mile after that. Isn’t struggle the only way to learn? He lies in the blood, and a fury overwhelms me. He’s throwing it all away, can’t he fucking understand? He’s letting himself go for no goddamn reason. I scream, I shout, but I know how his story will end. There’s nothing I can do from here. I’m utterly helpless. I let myself go.


The Tree Cat by Gabriel Beury-Moore Commonly being mistaken as other trees when it is spoken of, the tree cat is exactly what its name describes. Some say the tree cat was once a house cat. He lived with a young man who worked hard during the day and would come home to his best friend waiting for him, and everyday the cat would greet him with excitement and joy. He waited for his owner to come home. He waited for days: pacing around outside, running inside at the slightest noise indoors, and running around the whole house just to make sure his owner was not hiding. Eventually, the cat just stopped. He sat patiently outside in the rain, in the snow, at night, and all day. Before his transformation, he did not know of the magic that lived inside him, for he thought he was just a cat. But as a tree grows its root into the ground, the cat’s fur grew into the soil, absorbing his nutrients through the water he drank. His skin became hard with rigor, to become the bark of a tree. His body grew straight up to the sky; he reached for the sweet rays of the sun to drink in the warmth and energy it gave him. Like the leaves of a tree, his fur changed with the seasons. It was bright and full of luster in the summer, colorful and vibrant in fall, cold and dark in the harsh snows of winter, and in the spring his fur would slowly fade its color until it became bright again in the summer as the air became warmer. Unlike the leaves of a tree, his fur never fell. Slowly, over many years, his fur became broader and wider to soak in the sun. Finally, the once small house cat became tall and filled with beautiful leaves, his face hidden perfectly by them. He listened to the messages the wind brought him, and the stories the tall grass told him, but he would only open his eyes once a day to wish the sun a good morning and bid the moon a good night. The rain, when it came, brought news of what was happening around the world. Sometimes the rain told sad tales of war and famine; sometimes the rain told tales of peace. However, when the rain asked what the tree cat would like to know, he asked the same question, “Have you seen my owner?” And every time he asked, the rain was deeply saddened. The rain told him, “I have not seen your owner, but I know he is safe.” With that news, the tree cat shut his eyes and smiled. While it was sad that no one had seen his old friend, he took solace in knowing that his best friend was okay. Why am I telling you this story? I am an old friend of the tree cat. I knew him when he was just a small kitten. I knew him as the cheerful boy who faithfully followed his owner wherever he went. I was there when he could not find him. He asked me, “Have you seen my owner?” And I responded, “I’m sorry, but I have not.” I told him that if he waited, he could drink from me as much as he wanted, that he could bask in the suns that warm the Earth, that he could eat the food that grows by my banks, that he could play in the sand that builds with my ebb and flow. For years, I took care and watched over the once young cat while he sat patiently. I watched him grow into the majestic tree that he is today. He continues to thrive and to smile at me when I say hello. And every day he asks all he sees if they have seen his owner, and every day we lie to him. We keep him company and we keep him happy by telling stories of time and stories of the world. We do not tell him of the day his owner passed. We keep from him that his owner visited him every day, but he could not see him. We fail to mention that he built a home to stay with him forever. We forget that his son would sit in the shade of the tree cat. We remember that every day his owner would tell him that he loves him. We keep from him that his owner’s children buried him just behind the tree cat and he could know that he was always with him if he could just look down. Most importantly, we have not told him that his owner buried him in the exact spot he grows. The owner was special; he spoke to all of us knowing that we were listening. He knew that he would outlive his small friend and he prepared for his passing every day. Every day he told us stories to then tell his friend. On the day of the tree cat’s passing, he asked us one thing. He asked the grass, the suns, the moon, the wind, the rain, and myself just one thing. He asked us not to tell his friend that he has passed. He prepared us and coached us to tell the tree cat the stories he told us for years. Before he placed his small friend into the ground we asked him, “But what do we tell him when we run out of stories?” He told us that by the time we run out of stories, he would be back to relieve us of our responsibility. With that, he ever so carefully placed his small friend into the ground and placed the earth over him. He said a quick goodbye and went on with his life, making sure to see the tree cat everyday. He made sure to thank each of us for our help. He did this every day until the day he died. Soon, the house that he started a family in became covered in vines. With no one to care for it, the house became disheveled and fell apart. As years turned to decades and decades to centuries, the stories we had began to dwindle to smaller and smaller numbers. On the last day, I told my final story to the tree cat. As I ended the story, the tree cat opened his eyes; he smiled and told me what a wonderful story it was. As he told me this, he got a peculiar look on his face. A new wind had arrived, one he had not felt before. It greeted him with a voice as old as he could remember. The tree cat asked, “Where have you been all these years? Why did you leave me?” “I never left you, old friend. I have been with you your whole life and past-life. I was in the stories your friends would tell you and in the air you breathe, the sun that wakes you, and the water you drink.” With that said, the tree cat and his owner looked at each other with the same look they gave each other when they lived, each carrying a slight smile. What I saw then I had never seen since before I flowed into this land. As the two friends stared at each other, not saying a word, a single leaf fell from the tree cat’s face. As the leaf fell, his smile disappeared slowly with each leaf making it smaller and smaller until his face had disappeared. As the leaves fell, the wind began to take form. The shape of a young man appeared next to a small kitten playing in a pile of leaves. As the last leaf fell, the tree cat jumped into the welcome arms of his owner and when the leaf finally fluttered to the ground, the cat and his owner faded away to spend the rest of time together.


One day, a dragon walks into a bar. My bar. Dragons are a bit like superheroes, you know, if superheroes were dicks. Oh, and if they didn’t really give a damn helping anyone but themselves. This dragon is no different, he comes in, chest puffed out in his humanoid form. He doesn’t need the scales or the serpentine tongue or the giant fucking wings to let you know what he is. As a human, this particular dragon has a physique similar to an olympic swimmer, lean but powerful. His clothing accentuates it, a button up that’s a little too snug and slacks that hug in all the right places. Today he looks slightly haggard, for him at any rate, he’s got a bit of scruff instead of his normally clean shaven pretty boy face. He keeps his blonde hair parted showing off what really gives away his true form: his eyes. Dragon eyes still weird me out and I’ve been around them all my life, the pupils and iris match that of your everyday human but also look like they’re on fire. I have to focus every time I look into his hazel irises with that yellow green glow around them. Compare that me, a dwarf reaching the astonishing tall height of five foot three inches. I’m a little bit skinnier that your average dwarf, closer to $170 pounds instead of the typical 190, only because I grew up with humans who don’t always eat the heartiest of meals. I’ve got the obligatory bushy beard, mine’s fiery orange. I tend to keep my beard in two braids to keep it out of the way when I’m cooking or tending bar. My eyes are green, not dissimilar to a traffic light. What really sets me apart from other dwarves though is that I will talk to just about anyone. Most of my kin fall into the known version of what it means to be a dwarf and are terse and quiet. Fuck that shit, I’ll talk to whomever and whenever. My dad jokes that I was actually switched at birth and I’m actually a halfling. “Afternoon Jotiet,” I acknowledge in my watered down Scottish brogue, taking extra care to pronounce his name correctly; Joe-tea-et. Last thing I want is to piss off a guy who could literally speak a word and burn my bar down. When you pronounce things differently than most people are used to, like ‘ye’ instead of ‘you’ and ‘me’ instead of ‘my’, it’s obscenely easy to enunciate incorrectly. “Good afternoon Draven,” Jotiet replied. Jotiet, arrogant as he might be, is at least polite to those he interacts with. I’m still not convinced his manners aren’t some twisted personality trait to feed some superiority complex. It could also be that as a dwarf, he took pity on me for the same reason. In either case, my bar is the best bar in the greater Sacramento area. The Vulgar Unicorn isn’t terribly big, it only seats about 30 people on a busy night. If I had to guess, the Unicorn is known because of its charm. It doesn’t have the intentionally worn down vibe like so many of the hip places in Sacramento nor is it ultra fancy. At the risk of being honest with myself, my bar is kind of a dive, a tidy dive, but a dive nonetheless. It took me the better part of a year to put it together, from the oak chairs I hand crafted and stained in a deep purple that looks brown in the dim light to the hand sculpted bar area. Hand chiseling that granite was a huge pain in the ass, but the gold flakes sparkling in the pitch black countertop was completely worth it. The kitchen was easy enough, I pretty much bought the whole thing online and just installed it myself. I’ve had patrons from around the world show up to the Vulgar Unicorn just because of recommendations from the locals. So it’s never really struck me as odd that a dragon would drink the swill I serve. “It’s not quite dinner time, so it’ll be a bit before I can get you your normal.” “That’s fine, my good dwarf, I came in for a drink anyway.” The nice thing about dragons is they tend to be creatures of habit. I’ve known Jotiet about a year now, I can tell time by when he arrives, orders, and leaves. It’s at the point where ordering his reuben with extra sauerkraut and lightly charred corned beef is a pure formality. He only orders a drink when he’s brought a woman with him and then it’s a wine I keep special for him. So the fact that he’s in alone ordering a drink is a little more than surprising to me. “Some of the zin and two glasses?” I ask hoping his companion was simply late and Jotiet was just warming up. Still out of character, but a dwarf can hope. “No, hand me a bottle of whiskey and a glass.” Shit. Would it be poor form to politely ask my other patrons to leave, lest an inferno is about to begin? I’d truly hate if the legacy the Unicorn left was the cremation of innocent people simply because a dragon decided to act out of character. On the other hand, his ego might get bruised if he caught me evacuating the room. Fucking rocks and hard places. “Not like you to have a rough day, want to talk about it?” Another nice thing about dragons: they prefer the finer things and this one, at least, is willing to pay premium prices. So there was no hesitation in pulling out the 37 year old bottle of McGidden. It hasn’t seen much use, after all, what moron would pay for a glass of this stuff? Hell, if Jotiet drank a quarter of the bottle, I could close up shop for the rest of the week and still break even. Speaking of rocks, “Want it neat?” “Yes please Draven, I don’t want to water down whatever delightful amber liquid you’re serving. Today, has been exciting to say the least. I’d almost forgotten the feeling of having events not being comfortably in my control. Today, I lost it.” Jotiet sighs as he pours his drink. Three fingers on the first drink! Must have been one fucked up day. “What did you lose?” “I lost my company to some smooth talking, fast acting piece of elven trash. The company I founded, invested my heart and soul into, and worked into a multi-billion dollar cash register. Durlan Daren waltzes in there and talks to the board and convinces them that I’m taking the company in the wrong direction. My vision for Cerberus is ‘unsustainable.’” I appreciate that he emphasizes that last comment with sarcastic air quotes. Wait, Jotiet just said ‘Cerberus.’ It seems unlikely he’s talking about the three headed dog that sits in Hades, so he’s talking about Cerberus International Biomechanical. This dragon is one of the top three richest people in the world and he comes into MY bar? What in the actual fuck? Jotiet acknowledges my very obvious surprise, “Yes, I am Roland Jotiet Beldrenth, founder of Cerberus. Now it would seem I should probably introduce myself as ‘former owner’. Your surprise is why I come to this bar; everyone only knows what I am, not who I am. I get the respect I’m due without the trouble of having to maintain any social expectations. Using my middle name naturally makes it harder for the rank and file to put two and two together and gives me that modicum of privacy. If I may speak frankly, Draven, that makes you one of a handful of people that know me best. You’ve managed to do that without ever knowing my real name.” Complimenting me by confirming his own importance? Like I said, he’s an arrogant fuck. “I just like to have a place people can come and have a drink worry free. If the president were to walk in here, even he should get a moment of peace.” “For that, you have my eternal gratitude. Not so many dwarves have the social awareness you do. Most of them seem to be,” Jotiet pauses to ponder, “rather uncouth is probably the politest word for it.” “Fucking rude is probably the most accurate way to say it. I’m special. I grew up mostly around plain old humans. My dad lost his job when I was a wee baby, so we had to move around a lot so that he could find work. Eventually he found a job up in Lebanon. The pay and hours were shit, but it was a job.” I’m actually not sure why I’m spilling my figurative guts to him right now. Maybe it’s just because this is the first conversation he and I have ever had of substance, maybe I’m being charmed, but that seems unlikely. Not that I would do anything about it, he’s a dragon after all. I continue, “Back then, Lebanon was mostly human. Dwarves don’t handle that kind of climate too well. Mom didn’t adjust at all and we lost her to the first winter there. Let me tell you Jotiet, a dwarf with pneumonia is a terrible thing to see. Anyway, with only humans around, I grew up with more of their mannerisms. Don’t get me wrong, I still love a good solid ale and friendly brawling. I’m pretty sure us dwarves are genetically engineered that way.” Jotiet grins ever so slightly as I play into a few overused stereotypes, but sometimes they’re stereotypes for a reason. I do love a good ale and I’ve been known to get into scraps with my “brothers”. My brothers also taught me some manners. I’ve only disrespected a new acquaintance once. I got into a fight with my brothers later because of it and I’ve not forgotten to show respect since. “How old are you, Draven? I get the impression you’re younger than your beard would suggest since it’s only been about ten years since the Reclamation.” Stroking my bushy bright orange beard, I answer, “Just had my 25th birthday a couple of weeks ago. I don’t usually celebrate since it’s a big hassle.” Raising his glass, Jotiet cheers me, “Prost!” and finishes his drink. The glass is barely back on the bar as he’s pouring the glass full with more McGidden. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your other customers. I’ll take my meal at the normal time. Thank you Draven.” Far be it for me to keep a man from a drunken stupor, lord knows I’ve had my fair share of those nights. I’ll keep an eye on him, though, I’ve never seen an intoxicated dragon before, so I kind of want to see one now. I mill about the Unicorn for most of the rest of the evening, I bring Jotiet his food right on time, chat with a couple of the other regulars. After pulling away from a conversation about six armed lizard men around closing time, I go to check on Jotiet, but all I see is a thick envelope under the now dry glass. My name is on the envelope, but I still cautiously open it. Inside is the single largest amount of cash I’ve ever seen. At a quick glance, there’s got to be ten grand in there! I look over at the bottle of McGidden and, sure enough, it’s empty. Not sure what’s more surprising, how much he drank, how much he paid, or how he left without everyone knowing. On one hand, it’s pretty fucking spectacular knowing that I have ten thousand dollars to deposit, even taking into account that I’ll have to buy another bottle of the McGidden. On the other hand, I am now obscenely paranoid that I have to carry cash between now and the ATM. There’s not a bright fluorescent sign over my head blinking or anything, but there’s nothing like having a small fortune in your pocket to make you question the movements every living creature around you. Did that person turn there because they are heading the same direction as me or because they can smell the stack of bills? Is that cat really a cat? Why don’t I have a safe at the Unicorn? No, seriously, why do I not have a safe? I make a mental note to start shopping for a safe. I’m focusing on the wrong details apparently, since I fail see the shadow move up in front of my very face. Between blinks, my legs are kicked out from under me and my nose fills with blood from the quick introduction it makes to the concrete. The only communication I can come up with is a loud grunt. “Give me your wallet and you get to hobble away from here, beardie,” rasps an oddly familiar feminine voice. Silly woman, I think as I roll away and jump up, narrowly dodging a reaction kick from her stiletto. Focusing for a second, my favored weapon materialises in my hand. A great axe forged from iron, the handle grip stitched in gold. Up where the double-sided blade spans is a gold etching of Dirog, the dwarven deity of honor. The wings of his helmet form into the blades themselves. The lining of the curves underneath the blades is iron contrasting starkly with the gold in the low light of the street. The Diplomat is probably the single best piece of metal work on the planet. “Listen lady, I don’t know what you want, but I assure you, I don’t have it!” “You mean to tell me that bulge in your pocket means you’re happy to see me then and isn’t a wad of money? Perhaps around ten large?” If I weren’t preparing myself for a fight, I’d probably make a dirty comment here. Two daggers form in the black gloves of the figure who almost looks like pure shadow. In the dark, it takes twice as much focus to observe the womanly curves. What sticks out though wasn’t the absence of light across her body, but the reflection of light in her eyes behind the ornate mask. Apparently that’s all the time I get to try and figure out who or what she is as she tumbles behind me and slices at me with both of the daggers. Fucking hell she’s fast. The night air feels cool against my upper left thigh where the bitch struck me, cutting open my shirt and pants. It might be the adrenaline or it might be a lack of wound, but there isn’t any pain, so that’s good. Focusing my efforts, I swing the broad side of the Diplomat at my attacker. I don’t have any interest in the proceedings that come with killing someone, so I’m just trying to knock her out so I can get the hell out of here. Then I fully intend on running home with my axe out like a mad man. No one is going to fuck with a running dwarf carrying a weapon taller than he is. My follow through hits her left arm, knocking her back. Damnit, she’s quick. She’s already adjusting her agile form in mid-air and using the momentum to do a backflip. For a brief second, I see a glint of white hair and elf ears under the hood. The spark of realization flashes in my head as she changes from three point landing to tumbling slash. I feel cool air on my right side after she somersaults past. “God fucking damnit Soviel! This is one of my favorite shirts!” “Oh hush you big baby, use some of that money Jotiet paid you to get it fixed.” Soviel pulls down her hood and takes off the now silvery mask that is suddenly reflecting light. Her white hair falls over her shoulders and her tall, elven ears frame her shit eating grin. I guess she’d be considered a typical elf, tall like a freak and skinny as the twigs humans think they eat. “You’re allowed to say hi in the bar, you know that, right? Don’t have to fake a mugging on me in the middle of the fucking street just to ask how I’m doing.” I reply, not even pretending to hide the irritation in my tone. I take a breath and the Diplomat disappears; Soviel’s daggers are also gone. “Maybe, but it’s no fun just walking up to a bar and saying ‘Heya Draven, how ya doing?’ I prefer something with a little more flair.” She accentuates the last word with twirl of her daggers. The raspiness of her voice now gone, that must be the mask. “That said, how are you doing?” “Well, I was better until...” The full extent of Soviel’s ambush reveals itself as my pants fall off. “Until a few seconds ago. Did you really have to cut my belt too? Wait, where is my belt?” “Please, you think I’d embarrass you so fully without making sure to have a way to fix it?” Soviel throws my belt back at me. “Be nice to me, it’s not very often I could perform such a magnificent feat. Most of the time we’re involved in a scuffle, you’re wearing your armor, like last time.” I pull my pants backup and chuckle a little as I recall that particular fight. Soviel had found herself a little too deep into enemy territory and instead of employing her preferred brand of subterfuge, I opted to go charging in to save her ass. Not my smartest move but we got out mostly okay. She then thanked me by trying to kill me, not realizing I was an ally. “How are you, Soviel? It’s been almost six months since I last saw you.” “Oh, I’ve been great, I spent a few weeks in Europe liberating some particularly valuable tokens from various counts, dukes, and royalty.” She waves the mask. “I also spent some time working with others who practice the art. Learned a few new tricks.” Others who practice the art. She still just won’t come out and say it, she’s a damned thief. A fucking phenomenal one, but still a thief. I once saw her steal a piece of art off of a museum wall and manage to get the curator blamed. Fortunately for her, by the time the authorities got everything straightened out, the surveillance footage mysteriously vanished and no one could seem to recall what she looked like. Soviel’s even been back into that museum and talked to the curator and she didn’t get locked up. “Yeah, were you that shadow, did I imagine that?” “Draven, you must have hit your head a little too hard when I kicked you over. How could I possibly be a shadow? Do I look like some sort of mage to you?” Okay, so she’s full of shit and doesn’t want to tell me. Not the first time she’s lied to me and it probably won’t be the last. Whatever, I can play along. “Kick me over, Soviel? You can barely open a bottle of water without crying for help let alone knock me over. I just wasn’t paying attention and tripped on my own two feet.” See, I can make stuff up too. “I guess so, though that seems far more embarrassing than having someone get the drop on you and then you consequently getting the drop on the ground. But if that’s the excuse you want to go with, I’ll let you have that victory.” Damnit, this chick knows me too well. If I had a sister, Soviel would be her. Back when we were younger, Soviel showed up on our doorstep, on the run from something. I still don’t know what she was running from or even if she’s still running. If you ask me, she’s just running for the sake of running at this point. Soviel spent a couple of months with us and my family. My brothers took a liking to her but she had eyes for someone else. Not to mention, I don’t think Soviel really ever had a thing for humans. In any case, after she left, I didn’t see her again for a couple of years. Then fate decided we needed to meet by way of a mobile dating app. She won’t let me forget it either, all while claiming she was only on there to get more information on a human mark. Or was it a man named Mark? Eh, who cares. “Yeah, well, fuck you too Soviel. You now get the amazing privilege of walking me home to make sure any would be muggers don’t catch me with my pants down. Which is now a more likely prospect, thanks to you.” I’m already walking as I finish clasping my belt. “What are you doing here?” “Are you telling me I’m not allowed to drop in on my very best friend uninvited and try to steal a small sum from him just because I missed him?” “I guess that’s okay, now get over here!” I can’t imagine seeing an elf tackle hug a dwarf is anything short of hilarious, but it’s what we do. Soviel dives at me and I catch her, somehow becoming tall enough to lift her off the ground. Okay, so it’s really just me leaning back, sue me. Setting her back down, “It’s good to see you, I’ve missed you!” “I’ve missed you as well, Draven, how are things?” “Same shit, different day. Keeping a low profile can be difficult sometimes, and I don’t want any short jokes.” Sometimes I have to cut that off at the head, which is good since Soviel gets a dumbass smirk every time she comments on my height. I look both ways before jaywalking across the street. “Any new leads on where he might have taken her?” “Negative, but at this point, it’s more about hiding than finding her. You know that asshole is way too connected for me to try and step up to him right now. I have to wait until I can pay for a mage to help.” Patting the wad of cash in my pocket, “another small amount of cash to help with the deposit.


He kept his head down, eyes fixated on his phone, he had no one to text but it gave him something to do. His headphones played the same few songs he had heard a thousand times, it was something familiar to keep his mind from wandering. The entire summer he had not spoken a word , a lump had formed in his throat, he had no one to speak to, he had forgotten what it was like it to speak, convincing himself no one would want to, he never put the effort in to open his mouth. The days went on and on in this cycle, he became increasingly more isolated, despite being in a city of millions, “ I wonder” he thought to himself, he did that a lot, “Does anyone even notice me?”, That’s all he wanted, his family didn’t seem to notice his isolation, but then again that could have been all in his head. On the last day, he woke up before the sun had risen to be on his way to the airport, he hadn’t slept much. On the way, he found himself in a small rustic coffee shop, it was full of personality, and not that manufactured personality he had grown so tired of, it was a place of passion, he noticed the small things like that. It was a happy place and that’s exactly what he needed. “What’ll be buddy?” asked the man on the till with a warm smile, “uh”, shakingly , “just a latte I guess” , eyes glued to the floor, avoiding any kind of eye contact. On his way to the table he noticed all the cups of coffee had little drawings in the foam, leaves, coffeebeans, an overused cliche but he liked the effort. He sat down threw his head into his crossed arms and waited for his drink to arrive. What felt like minutes to him passed, he was getting restless but obviously he didn’t have the gile to complain, so he sat there, scrolling through his messages, not talking to anyone, just scrolling enough to seem like everyone else. “Hey man sorry for the delay I worked extra hard on this one” , the barista placed the cup down on the table. He looked at it and saw a drawing of himself on the foam, his heart dropped and his stomach turned. He was shocked, he was distressed, someone had finally noticed him. He got up. raced to the bathroom. locked himself in a stall and when he made sure he was completely alone, he burst into tears, anyone else would have passed it off as something interesting and nothing more but to him it was an act of kindness he had never felt before, a complete stranger. He sat there in the stall, tears running down his cheeks, and let out a laugh of purest ecstasy. He left the bathroom , didn’t touch his drink and left the store with a smile, he hadn’t had one of those in a while.


On a bright summer day, deep in the woods, Mila the Fairy glided down a path. The sun was warm. The forest was green with moss. Wild flowers were scattered along the well beaten path. The day was shaping up to be wonderfully magical. Mila was giddy with all the possibilities as she floated along the path. As she went she happened upon Fearghus the Frog. He was completely focused upon a stone that looked like a mysterious misty morning had been trapped inside a rock. “Good day, Fearghas!” Mila rang out in a sing-song tone. “Isn’t it a wonderful summer morning?” “Yes, yes, dear… hello and all that,” Fearghus replied distractedly. He didn’t look up from the foggy stone. “What do you have?” Mila asked curiously. With frustration Fearghus pulled his attention away from the swirling rock to address the fairy. “The old witch from the mountains passed through our woods yesterday. She sold me this seer’s stone. When a choice is before you the stone will show you what future will come of making either decision. “How interesting!” Mila marveled, finding herself so intrigued that she took a seek next to the frog. “I was eager to put the stone to the test. I set out for my morning stroll when I came upon these two paths on the road before us. As you know, the left path leads to the pond and the right into the village. I looked deep into the seer stone to ask which path to take. The cloudiness dissipated into dream-like images. If I take the path to the left I will meet one of the nieces of the old Frog Faolan. We will fall in love, have children, and live a long happy life together.” “Oh! How wonderful!” Mila sighed with dreamy love struck eyes. “But if I take the path to the right I will meet the nephew of the old Frog Ferdinand. He will have a business proposition that will allow us to travel to far off lands and bring us great wealth. We will be able to provide for our families here in the woods and live long lives filled with adventure.” “How marvelous!” Mila exclaimed. “Both paths lead to great futures. You are truly a lucky frog dear Fearghus.” “But which path is the correct path?!” Fearghus whined in dismay. “They both are very nice, but I do not know which one to choose.” Mila shrugged, “It seems to me that whichever you choose will lead to a long happy life. I don’t know that one is more correct than the other.” “But there must be a correct path! I just have to think through the options,” Fearghus sounded both determined and defeated at the same time. Mila perched upon a boulder near the path to assist the frog with his dilemma. “If you take the path to the left you will find true love, and what could be more wonderful in the world?” Mila offered. “But then will I be doomed to the stagnation of these woods never to see the world because of my duties?” Fearghus retorted. “If you take the path to the right you will have adventure to fill books and the imaginations of all who hear!” exclaimed Mila. “But then will I be doomed to loneliness chasing adventure but never knowing love?” Fearghus whimpered. For every positive aspect she provided for a path Fearghus dismissed it with a negative. And for every negative point Mila proposed Fearghus countered with a positive. The situation was becoming more and more hopeless. The beautiful sunny day was fading into a comfortably cool evening. Fireflies began to awaken in the trees. Mila realized she had spent the entire summer day on the side of the path with Fearghus the Frog staring into his cloudy seer stone. She could still salvage the day if she made it home in time for a warm supper. Perhaps she could play the flute for her neighbors in the cool evening. Or have a nice long chat with the Ambroz the Wise Owl over tea. Mila tried to tell Fearghus she was sorry she could not help, and that she wished him the best in his decision, but the frog was hopelessly consumed by his visions in the foggy stone. He continued muttering to himself about love and adventure, wealth and poverty. He did not notice as Mila slipped away down the forest path back home. Instead Fearghus sat paralyzed with indecision, staring into his cloudy seer stone on the side of the forest path as the evening passed into a starry night.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Prompt: Three survivors. Two days. One chance.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentences do not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make adjustments where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week Keep up all the hard work! I loved the variety of stories this week, making nominations was *hard*! Well done, all around. I have loved the uptick in feedback the last few weeks. <3 - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/Lynx_Elia   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/merbaum   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“How far is that?” He quietly mused to himself. “Twelve, maybe fourteen feet?” It was always more difficult to gauge distances in the dead of night. It was a formidable distance from rooftop to balcony, at least for most people. This, however, was no ordinary man. Dressed all in a dark navy, he flew across the night sky landing quietly on soft padded shoes and moved quickly into a roll to avoid injury. He tested the door to find it was locked. All as expected so far. Fortunately, his pick had yet to find a lock it couldn’t seduce into obeying his commands. The man slipped through without leaving a trace and made his way down the hall. “Third room on the right,” was where his contract said his quarry would be waiting. He made his way to the door and carefully pushed it open, his hand dropping to his dagger almost on its own. In a room dully lit by a single oil lamp was a single occupant, sat upright in a wooden chair, his back exposed and facing the door. The assassin closed the door behind himself and tiptoed to the point immediately behind the man he was here to kill. In one swift motion his empty hand covered and yanked backward the other man’s mouth and his knife plunged straight through back, rib, and heart. With no time to scream, only a muffled gurgle escaped his throat. A clean kill. As the knife was removed, a small stream of blood poured from the wound, soaking cloth dripping to the floor. Now to leave before anybody notices. As quietly as he had entered, the assassin made his way back to the door and started to leave. “Locked?” He whispered to himself. It wasn’t locked when he entered. By the dim light he scoured the door’s surface to find there was no lock. What was keeping it shut? After four or five attempts he decided it would be no good if he had to break down the door, that much noise would surely alert the entire building. So, he looked for another way out. There were no windows in the room, no ducts, no chimneys. The walls were solid and it seemed the door was the only way in or out. He went back to the door completely unaware of the circle of blood continuing to inch outward from the body in the middle of the room. He tried everything he could think of to get the door open. He tried prying his knife between the jamb and the door, but there was no gap large enough. He thought to remove hinge pins, but found none. As he was looking for a screw to remove with his knife he finally noticed the blood. The entire floor was now completely hidden underneath the liquid appearing black and shiny in the darkness. It was more blood than he had ever seen. More blood than he knew any human could ever have. That slow trickle had become a pouring fountain of blood from where his knife had probed. It was only seconds before his ankles were covered. He needed to get out now. As the panic rose in his throat he didn’t care about being quiet anymore. He slammed his body against the door and screamed for help. The blood rose, unyielding to his fear-stricken pleas. It wasn’t long before he began to swim, and only minutes later, the room filled to the brim.


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Rose. Rose was extremely beautiful and kind. She was known for her sparkly blue eyes and gorgeous smile. Many people called her Persephone, the goddess of spring because of her natural beauty and spring-like features. As beautiful as Rose was, she was never interested in boys, until she met a man named Caspian.

Caspian was a merchant who was betrothed to another woman named Violet. Violet was the opposite of Rose. She was also known for her beauty but she had the heart of the devil. She had been betrothed to many men. However, they always broke their engagement. Violet had known heartbreak more than any other. Caspian also hated Violet and always snuck away to the country, where he drank with men and gambled. There he met Rose. They met in a funny way I might add, Caspian was drunk you see, so when he ran into Rose, his mouth started spilling out weird things, earning him a slap in the face. The minute they met, in Caspian’s eyes, Rose was an angel from the heavens.

Since Caspian was a merchant, he had to sail around the world, trading and selling wine and silk, and could barely see Rose. Every third day of each month, Caspian ran off to the country with the finest gifts to give to Rose. He gave her white pearls, silk gowns, and jewelry of all shapes and sizes. Rose waited patiently all month, just to see Caspian. For her, a month felt like an eternity, but when he came, the wait didn’t matter. All that had mattered to her, was that Caspian was alive and in her arms.

Now we mustn't forget Violet, Caspian’s soon-to-be wife. Violet was growing suspicious of her fiance, who ran off to the country every month on a certain day, with gifts fit for a woman. Violet grew increasingly jealous when Caspian came home after running off to the country, with a dreamy look on his face. He even called Violet, “Rose” accidentally many, many times. Violet wondered who this “Rose” was, but Caspian always said, “You're just as pretty as a Rose, that’s all.” As much as Violet loved flattery, to her, this wasn’t like a compliment, more like a lie. So, the next month, on the third day, Violet snuck after Caspian and followed him to Rose’s house. She was aghast when she saw her beloved Caspian, in the arms of another woman, kissing her as if she was the only person on the earth.

Now, Violet had a secret, an evil secret. One that she had used for terrible reasons. She was a witch who had used her magic to curse maidens and haunt men. Violet had used her magic every time her beloved cheated on her, and Rose wouldn’t be the last. Violet barged into Rose’s house and tore Caspian and Rose apart. “Violet?” Caspian gasped as he looked at Violet with wide eyes, “This isn’t what it looks like!”

Violet cackled, “Isn’t what it looks like Caspian? I’m not dumb. I had husbands who cheated before,” Violet looked at Rose who was clutching to Caspian with her eyes full of fear. The sight made Violet’s face burn, how dare she cling to her lover? Then, an idea sprung from Violet’s head. Violet smiled. She quickly stabbed Caspian in the chest. His eyes, once full of life, became dark in a second. Rose screamed. She looked up at Violet.

“Why?” She choked, eyes full of tears. Violet smiled.

“Look at me” Violet shouted. Rose looked up instantly, shocked by the commands in Violet’s voice.

“ I banish you to the Willow Woods, to live forever in isolation until you cannot live anymore. You will become a figure of sadness, drowned by grief until even the wind can defeat you. You will crumble into nothing! ” Violet chanted the haunting curse, loud and clear. Violet smiled at Rose, her pupils growing bigger every minute.

“ Have fun my darling, ” Violet whispered before Rose disappeared before her eyes to fulfill her fate.

***************** Rose woke up with a start. She quickly got off the grassy ground and dusted the leaves and little grass bits off her dress. She then looked around, amazed at the willow trees drooping around her. Rose wondered what she was doing here, she could see nobody in the distance.

“My dear,” Rose heard a voice call. Rose's eyes lit up, and she knew that voice, the memory was so distant. “My dear, it’s me,” the man walked towards her. Rose was captivated by his gorgeous eyes, his wavy blonde falling over his forehead. As he got closer, the memory of him slowly came back. It was him. “Do you remember me dear?” the man stopped right in front of her and looked at Rose, straight into her eyes. Her knees wobbled.

“Caspian,” her voice gasped, he was perfect and he was her’s. Before she knew it, her mouth was covered by his, his hands tangled in her hair, and her hands in his. The kiss soon turned vicious, his teeth were digging into her lip, his tongue in her mouth, and a sigh escaped Rose’s throat. Rose didn’t know how, but they ended up against the bark of a willow tree. Rose's head spun at the feeling of his muscular body against hers.

“I missed you dear,” Caspian said pulling Rose away from him.

“I missed you too,” Rose gasped, and threw herself at Caspian, only to find him a few feet away from her.

“Caspian?” Rose asked, “Come back,” Caspian smiled.

“Come to me Rose” Caspian said, holding his arms out for Rose to reach. Rose smiled and tried to grab his arm, but he faded away before she could grab his hand.

“I’m here dear, right in front of you,” Rose looked up to see Caspian right in front of her. Rose chuckled at herself, she must have missed his hand.

“You little,” Rose tried grabbing his hand again but he disappeared and then appeared a moment later, this time ten feet away from her.

“Caspian stop running away!” Rose yelled, laughing, though she didn’t feel like laughing. It was getting annoying.

“I’m not running away dear, I’m right here!” Caspian called out. Rose growled in frustration. “Come back here!” Rose yelled as she ran after him. Caspian laughed and held his arms out again. Rose ran after him, but every time she tried to grab his arm, he disappeared and kept getting farther and farther away from her. Rose's heart pounded, her legs tired from running. “Wait…Up!” Rose panted as she stopped to rest.

“Hurry darling! I know you can run faster!” Rose heard a voice in the distance saying.

“I’m coming!” Rose yelled as she started running again. What Rose didn’t know, was that she had been running for twenty years, trying to catch up to Caspian. Every year, her body grew weaker and sore.

100 years later, Rose was still running calling Caspian’s name as if no time had passed. Rose had bones and muscles had turned old, but her outer appearance was still the same.

Rose started crying, “Caspian!” She called.

“Why do you run? Why do you break my heart? Why can’t you come to me?” Rose yelled, sobbing. She sobbed and sobbed until her mind had broken and her heart stopped pumping, and yet, she was still alive. “Come on darling! You're so close!” Rose heard Caspian’s voice, closer than before.

“Caspian?” Rose called, wiping her tears away and running until she was at the edge of a cliff.

“I’m down here Rose!” Caspian called, his voice coming from the bottom of the cliff.

“I’ll catch you! Just jump!” Caspian yelled. Rose closed her eyes and breathed slowly before opening her eyes and jumping off the cliff. She could see Caspian getting closer and closer as she fell.

“Caspian!” Rose called before she crumbled into the wind and disappeared forever. ************* Violet smiled as she saw Rose jump off the cliff and disappear into the wind forever. Rose’s fate was complete and Violet’s plan was almost done. Now all she had to do was- “Rose!” Violet rolled her eyes as she turned to the man who had been watching Rose for the entire 100 years she was alive. “Caspian, she’s dead,” Violet whispered as she sat down next to him on the grassy forest ground. He turned and glared at her, Violet shuddered. His eyes, his gorgeous eyes.

“You killed her!” He growled, “It’s all your fault.”

Violet chuckled, “It’s your fault darling, if you hadn’t cheated on me like many men before, she would still be alive, away from you and your selfish ways.” “What do you mean?” Caspian said. Violet was surprised how his mood had changed from mad to concerned so quickly. “You brought her to her doom. If you hadn’t met her, she would still be alive, happy, and free.” Violet whispered into his ear.

“She wasn’t happy before she met me,” Caspian yelled, his fists balled up.

“How do you know that dear?” Caspian went still. Violet then snuggled on his shoulder and breathed him in.

“You were meant for me, not for her,” Violet whispered as she kissed him tenderly on the lips. Caspian pushed her away.

“If she can’t have me, no one can,” Caspian snarled. Before Violet could stop him, he ran to the cliff Rose had jumped off, and jumped off too.

“No!” Violet screamed as she ran towards the cliff responsible for two people's deaths. She fell to the ground and started slamming the ground, hard.

“That’s what you get Violet,” Violet heard a whispering voice in the wind.

“That’s what you get for cursing me,” Violet felt a prickle around her body as the wind blew.

“Rose?” Violet stammered, “You're dead,” Violet heard a chuckle.

“Oh sweetie, the wind never dies, but the wind does kill,” Violet felt the wind around her tightening her until she couldn’t breathe.

“I am the Rose Wind, Fate of the Heartbroken, and Ruler of the Willow Woods. You will die by the hands of the dead.”

“No!” Violet screamed as she gasped for air.

“Oh sweetie, it would be much faster if you didn’t struggle,” Rose cackled.

“No wonder nobody would marry you,” Violet’s eyes widened. Caspian.

“You were mine,” Violet growled to the open air, still choking painfully. “And now I’m her’s” Caspian whispered. And with that, the Fates of the Willow’s Wind were forever tied together in death.


I saw my first khat chewer in Kenya. I was attending an international conference on physical cosmology, and while strolling back to my hotel after an edifying day of lectures—Copernicus, quantum mechanics and CMBR sloshing about my head—he appeared: Or appeared his eyes, reflecting the streetlights. I stopped. His face remained dark. He stared at me and I at him, and all the while he chewed. Slowly; dumbly, like a human cow. Not saying a word. Eventually my companion, a hired local named Kirui, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away. “Don’t mind him,” Kirui said. “He’s harmless, just a khat chewer.” *Khat*: a flowering plant native to east Africa chewed for its alkaloid, cathinone, an amphetamine-like compound causing excitement and euphoria. Except the khat chewer had looked anything but euphoric. Even in my hotel room, alone and in the dark, did his eyes remain: staring at me from a face of memory melting into nightmare— I awoke, cold, wet, but remembering nothing from my fever dream save for a peculiar sensation of reality somehow condensing into me. In the late morning, I went to a lecture on cosmic expansion but could not focus. My thoughts were scattered, limp. During the lunch break, I drank three cups of coffee but they didn’t help. Several colleagues tried to speak with me; I ignored them. Until bumping into— “Here is the leaf that begins all life worth having!” *What?* The man staring back at me, with slight bewilderment, was Dr. Mukherjee, under whom I had earned my doctorate at MIT. “Gilgamesh,” he said. “The name of—” I felt a sudden tightening in my chest. Gilgamesh had been the name of my first (and most famous) contribution to the field of cosmology: a software model of the beginnings of the universe. “Are you alright?” “Yes,” I said, pushing past him, but now changing direction and heading for the doors leading outside— Through which I pushed into the blinding noonday sun. My hand firm against my chest. *Palpitations.* People staring at me— Evading— “Kirui!” I yelled out. “Kirui, are you here?” He materialized obediently as if out of the local ether. “Yes, sir.” “Take me to the place we passed last night. To where we saw the khat chewer,” I said in syncopation. When we arrived, he was there. His jaws masticating. “Leave us,” I told Kirui. When he had gone, the khat chewer stood and in his eyes I felt an understanding. I followed him into a building, down a ladder, deeper and deeper into a hole, until time meant nothing: until my feet touched ground: An underground chamber of impossible proportions. The inward pressure was immense. Through the permanent gloam I gazed rows and rows of khat chewers. I sat among them. I willingly received my leaf. *The expansion of the universe is slowing. There is too much matter. And the only thing preventing collapse—pushing against it with each grinding motion—is us:* the khat chewers, *dutifully delaying the inevitable.