I readied the rucksack on my back, and took the first few steps on my journey across the library. We walked down the aisle of empty shelves until we reached a large pile of collapsed roof. We clambered up the boulders of broken concrete and twisted metal bars sticking between the rocks. At the top, we could see the thin gap between destroyed masonry and exposed rock. I crouched down and crawled into the hole. Beneath me, loose rubble shifted with each step. Above me, unforgiving rock loomed; a whole island capable of ending me in an instant. I continued along the shaft for a hundred metres or so until the tunnel narrowed, becoming only around half a metre wide. I stared at the space, rocking side-to-side, trying to work out the best way through. Eventually, I decided to try a sort of sideways shuffle. I rotated my hips and slid into the thin space. As I squeezed through, I could feel my back scratch against the mass of debris and exposed metal. The further I travelled, the thicker and dryer the air got and with each panting breath, dust scratched the back of my throat. Every inch of my body was being scraped, itched, and probed by the crevice. I continued like this, my spine aching from the strange contorted angle for several metres, until the space widened out again, and I could stretch my back to a more comfortable position. We continued, passing through a couple more tight turns, until we emerged from the channel, finding ourselves on top of one of the large bookshelves. I held out my lantern, casting light into the uncharted space. I could only see so far, but every shelf in range was filled with books. Not a single one was missing. Wherever we were, we were the first. Kit reached down and grabbed a book from the shelf, checking its cover. “Eurgh, poetry.” She flung the book down onto the floor below. “We’re still in fiction?” “I did say this place was big.” “I guess I thought we’d at least be in another section by now.” “Look on the bright side. It’s a different subsection,” Kit shrugged, as she climbed down the shelves. I followed her down. We began walking along the aisles past the ancient books. Some looked damaged, ruined by moisture in the air, or eaten by dust, while others looked almost new as if placed there yesterday, and the Archipelago had never existed. We began scoping out the room for our next route forward. We followed the perimeter, looking for a path over the debris, but to no avail. Instead we would have to head through and under. I found a small crevice heading west. The remains of the library had poured down either side of the aisle, but it left a small space just wide enough to shimmy through. I walked down it some ten or so metres until the space became too thin to go any further. “I could try and peel some of this stuff off the wall, create a wider space?” I called back to Kit. She grimaced, staring at the loose stones around us. “If you do that, good chance you’re going to bury us down here.” She turned around. “We’ll find another way.” “And if not?” I replied. “Then we head back to where we started and try from there.” I bit my tongue, but I was determined not to have to retreat. I was certain there must be a way out of this room. I walked out ahead of Kit, tracing the southern wall. The lantern waved back and forth in my hand, glancing against the wreckage to my right, until suddenly it caught a hint of shadow at the bottom of the ruins. I crouched to get a closer look. Even kneeling, the gap only came to my shoulders. I got down further, lying prone on the floor, the lantern stretched out in front of me. The space continued to shrink, slowly lowering until the clearance was perhaps no more than forty centimeters. However, a small slit continued well beyond the lantern’s reach. “Are you really that desperate?” I looked up to see Kit standing beside me, hands on her hips. “It goes on for a long way. Maybe it comes out in another room.” “That’s a big maybe.” “Got to be worth a shot.” I sat up quickly so I could remove my rucksack. There was no possibility of it and me making it through the gap together. Kit lied down on the floor next to me, squinting at the route. “Fine,” Kit sighed. She sat up and took some rope off her back, tying one end of it around my ankle. I looked at her with a scrunched face. “If you reach a deadend in there you won’t be able to backtrack,” she said, fastening the knot. “If you get stuck, call, and I can try and pull you back.” “Okay,” I nodded. I felt a hint of renewed confidence, Kit’s small act feeling like a blessing. I pulled the rope to make sure it was tight, gave a final confirmatory nod, and began the crawl. The first twenty or so metres passed without difficulty, but soon the ceiling forced me down to my stomach. I inched forward; snaking myself along the floor. I rotated from hip-to-hip, pushing myself off with sprawled knees, as my sweaty palms clasped for purchase on the floor. With each wriggle I could feel my shoulder blades brush the mass above me. My pace was a fraction of even a crawl, but I was making progress. With each outstretch of an arm, with each push-off of my toes, I made another few centimetres. I began panting with exertion; the hot air of my breath bouncing back off the floor. I strained my eyes upwards. Ahead, slowly approaching, I could see a point where the ceiling widened out. I continued on with renewed determination. However, the last few inches were the tightest. I placed the lantern on its side to push it through. With the space so tight, I was unable to free my shoulders, and I had to rely on only my legs to wriggle forwards. Slowly but surely, I slithered through to the other side until my arms and head breached through the gap. With my hands now free, I reached out to the sides and used the leverage of the walls to haul my body through. I caught my breath before rolling over and inspecting my surroundings. I was in luck. The ceiling had fallen, but only as far as the top shelf. Two wedges of concrete slid from either side, but were held up by the other’s weight, leaving the aisle free. I was locked between the two racks, but I could stand, and the route looked clear. “Kit, we’ve got a way forward.” “What’s it like?” the echo shouted back. “Trapped in an aisle. But looks like a clear route west.” “Good work. The bags are too thick for the space. We’re going to have to empty them and do half a bag at a time, that sound good?” “Got it.” Kit set about getting the gear small enough to fit through the space. Once done, she tied the rope to one end of the bags, before securing a second rope to the other, so she could pull them back through to be refilled. I pulled on the rope, listening to the fabric slide along the floor, until they reappeared through the small crack on the ground. I sent the bags back and we repeated the process with the second half of the contents. Once more, I listened to the slow shuffle of the bags grinding their way along the tunnel. The sound drew closer, but then, the rope went taught. I tugged hard, as my greasy hands slid across the fibres. The bags were stuck. I pulled again. Still nothing. I pulled a third time, this time leaning back and using my full body weight. I felt it twitch forwards. One more pull and there was a crack, the sound of stone falling to the floor. The bags were free and I hastily reeled them in. “What the heck was that?” Kit called out. “The bag was stuck.” “And…” “I had to pull it free. Think it got caught on something.” “Yeah, the ceiling. The ceiling that you just ripped a piece out of..” The panic hit me. I immediately fell to the floor, staring back down the tunnel, trying to see if there was still a way through or if the collapse had separated us permanently. My eyes followed the rope as it trailed off into the darkness. My chest tightened, and I felt nausea seeping up from my stomach. I was uncertain if the blackness was a cave in or merely as far as the lantern’s illumination could reach. My breath grew shorter and sharper, as I pleaded for the gloom to relent. Then, I saw a small flicker of light, and straining my eyes, I could see Kit lying down on the other side. My head collapsed to the floor in relief. “Looks like there’s still a way through,” she said. “Thankfully,” I replied, trying to inspect the crawlspace. Somewhere, it had been disturbed. But beyond that brief sound of the stone cracking against the floor, we had no idea what damage had been done. “Pull me through,” Kit cried out, readying the rope in her hand. “What?” “Be quicker than crawling. More fun too.” I raised my eyebrows but complied. I stood back up and began pulling on the rope, dragging Kit towards me. My energy was weakening, and I groaned with each pull on the rope. I stared to the ceiling as I pulled; looking at the debris that was patiently waiting till one day gravity would take over, and the sky could collapse upon us. I listened closely, trying to decipher if each rustle was merely Kit sliding along the floor or rubble shifting, preparing to collapse. I could hear a rock roll gently, and small pebbles scurry. I pulled harder, desperate to end the unease. Slowly, more and more of the rope appeared, until eventually two hands emerged from the small hole. “That was much easier than crawling,” Kit smirked. I reached out a hand and pulled her to her feet. She looked down the aisle ahead of us. “Guess we see where that goes.” “Yes… but maybe a break first.” I wiped away the sweat from my forehead. “Yeah. Good idea.” Kit pulled up one of the half empty bags and laid down, using it as a pillow. “Take a nap,” she said, pointing to the other one. “What time is it?” “I don’t see the sun, do you? Ain’t no star to tell you when to sleep down here.” I chuckled and lied down beside her. We turned out the lanterns, and with the library reduced to complete black I fell asleep quickly. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* We had no idea how long we’d slept. When we woke, the island above us could have been a bustling market, or in the dead of night. For a brief moment, time ceased to be a real thing. As Kit and I set off again, we were in our own world. Weather, the turning of the Earth, the coming-and-goings of others, all were irrelevant to us. The next leg of our journey was much smoother. We were confined to our one aisle, but it seemed to continue without interruption. We met a few obstacles. On occasion a large beam had fallen through and we had to either clamber over, or crawl under to get through. However, compared to the previous attrition, things were becoming easier. Over the course of what I estimate were several hours we marched West, and then, when we found a break between two aisles, headed south. We left behind the humanities of literature and religion, and entered into the natural sciences. Eventually we reached another section of open library where the structure was perfectly intact. I climbed up a couple of shelves and looked out over the top; neat metal rows - filled to the brim - stretching off into the darkness. I hurried back down and lifted up one of the books. *Our Changing Earth.* “Do you know where we are?” I asked Kit. She leant down and read a series of numbers on one of the shelves. “Fifty-five,” she thought for a second. “Earth Sciences.” I raised my hands to the air. “Well, this is it then, right? There’s got to be something here.” Kit tilted her head with a half smile. “With a bit of luck.” She looked over my shoulder. “Also means we should be near fifty-seven and fifty-eight too.” I raised an eyebrow. “Biology and botany. Useless to you, but if you want Haddee to not drown you when you get back…” “Okay. So let’s set up here for a bit then? Stay however long we need.” “Sounds good,” Kit said. It’s hard to say how long we remained in that section of the library. Our work was intermittent. We would work a few hours, sleep briefly when tired, and then return. For much of the time I wouldn’t see Kit. She was in different sections, painstakingly choosing the best possible collection of books for Haddee, and cataloguing items to hit on future visits. But every few hours we would return to share anything interesting we’d found, or maybe talk about our lives outside of the library. The rest of the time was spent reading. Given that we are in an archipelago, I initially started with books about the sea, hoping there may be some clues. Momentarily I thought I found the solution. A book described the concern of rising sea levels caused by ice melting. However, my optimism quickly turned to disappointed frustration. The seas would’ve risen slowly, over decades. Given the turmoil we know happened when the Archipelago formed, its formation must have been a matter of weeks or months instead. Furthermore, a map of an “iceless globe” showed the sea levels wouldn’t rise high enough. It would be enough to reduce the continents, but not swallow them. After scouring countless books, I found no other possible clue of what could’ve caused the Archipelago. I had poured over every relevant title I could find, and yet had nothing to show for it. Despite all my hope, geography and geology held no answers. I shuffled back to our meeting spot and found Kit trying to ram an additional couple of books into her bag. “Here, eat this,” she said. Before I could even react, an apple landed against my chest. “Thanks.” “I’ve got a couple of pastries for you to eat afterwards too.” I looked at a number of provisions laid out beside her bag, as she desperately crammed in another thick, plastic-coated book. “What if I’m not hungry?” “You’re bigger than me, you need the energy.” I laughed and sat down next to her. I took a long sigh and lent my head on the shelf behind me. “No luck?” she asked. I shook my head. “Not convinced I’m going to get any answers here.” “Well, maybe it’s time to move on. The yearly periodicals were always the end goal right?” “Definitely.” “Then we head there.” “We won’t make it there if you keep ditching provisions for books.” I nodded to the pile on the floor. “We’ll have enough.” Kit rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I think I spotted a good route through botany.” “Yeah?” “Yep. Let’s eat, pack up, and I’ll show you the way.” After I had eaten the snacks forced upon me, and Kit had successfully managed to squeeze another three books into her bag, we decided to venture on further into the library. I followed Kit through the aisles until we reached a mound of scree sloping upwards. At the top, I could see a large, flat sheet of metal disappearing over the summit. “Those metal sheets run all over the place, suspended across the ceiling.” Kit pointed to one behind us. The silver grill stretched south across the room, hung on thick cables. “Looks like they used to run wires or something.” “You reckon it’ll go the whole way?” “Worth a shot. Besides, we got way more to carry this time.” Kit looked down at the box full of books by her feet. We couldn’t be certain we’d return the same route. The books were too precious to leave to chance. “Could do with an easier route.” We climbed up the slope of dirt and brash until we reached the thin metal gangway. It was no wider than I was, and the roof was low enough that it would be a slow crawl forwards. But the route seemed unencumbered. We developed a train. I pushed the box of books in front of us. My rucksack was tied to my legs and was dragged behind me. Behind that, Kit dragged her own. Between our crawl and the cargo, our pace was slow. But we made smooth steady gains. The metal pathway hovered above the library. Caveins, that from the floor would be impenetrable blockages, seemed to effortlessly part for the corridor. Every so often a collapse would cover our path. But at this height, the rubble was never thick or firm, and we were able to push aside any impediments, sending the concrete to the library floor below. When we weren’t plowing through blockages, we flew like birds, high above the floor below. Through the grills in the metal, I could see down to the untouched books. We passed over zoology, into psychology, then ethics, and then philosophy. In the space of a few hours we had managed to travel more of the library than we had in the entire time before. We passed over a section of collapsed roof and into another portion of open library. “I reckon we might be reaching the end of philosophy,” I called back to Kit. “Yeah, can’t imagine there’s much more.” I continued on eagerly, watching the books pass beneath me. As we passed the halfway point of the room, I pushed on harder, kicking forward with my toes on each crawl instead of dragging on my knees. The extra force was absorbed into the gangway, and the suspended bridge began to sway gently with each passing push, the cables creaking and tensing with our weight. The sound was a gentle rocking that reminded me of a ship at sea. Ahead, there was a tunnel where the gangway crept over the cave-ins. I kept my eyes focussed on that spot in front of me, watching it draw closer-and-closer. I took a last look down. We were hung four or five metres over one of the aisles. On either side, I could see the tall racks of books that had been left for centuries, and would be for probably many more. Then, with another pace, the drop below disappeared and was replaced by dark concrete that sat just beneath the metal grid. The gangway creaked once more. But this time the sound was different, louder, less like a lullaby and more like a scream. I froze on the spot, refusing to move. Another screech as the whole library groaned. Silence fell, before being broken by a brief popping noise. Kit mumbled, “Shit.” There was a snap. Metal bending and breaking, followed by a loud clattering that reverberated off the walls. My bag pulled back sharply. The rope around my leg slid down my calf, gripping onto my ankle. My leg shot back with the force, before the knot slipped over the end of my foot. A second later, I heard the dull thud of the bag. “Kit!”, I cried out. I tried turning around but the gap was too small. I strained my neck left-and-right, trying to get some kind of visual. “KIT!” No response again. I started edging backwards a few centimetres at a time. With each movement I called out to Kit. Each time, nothing. One more step and my foot landed on air. I hovered it for a moment in the empty space, reaching out for some kind of purchase. I moved back further till both my knees were on the edge of the platform. I reached out a leg: back, side-to-side, down, trying to find something solid. There was nothing. I positioned my hands on the edge of the metal plate, and gently pushed my body off. Tensing my arms, I slowly lowered, until I was dangling from my fingers. I looked down to check my landing, and let go. I dropped a good two metres before my feet landed on the ground and I tumbled backward, landing hard against my coccyx. I ignored the pain and shot back up to my feet. Kit was lying on her back, eyes shut, her head lying on its side, arms outstretched beside her. I called her name and ran towards her immobile frame. I reached her side and leant down, inspecting for signs of life. “Kit, Can you hear me?” My voice was broken, tears threatening at the corner of my eyes. She twitched; a momentary flicker of the eyes. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m here.” I grabbed her hand and held it close to my chest. Her face scrunched, and her eyes slowly opened. She let out a soft groan. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?” Her face grimaced with every heartbeat as she slowly pushed herself off the floor. “Yeah. One second.” I placed a hand on her back, helping her up to a sitting position. “What hurts?” “My head.” She held out her arms and examined her legs. “But I don’t think anything’s broken. Just… ow.” “Good.” “Yeah.” She looked to the ground in front of her. “I’m gonna need to rest a while if that’s okay. Sorry.” “As long as you’re okay. That’s all that matters.” I headed to my bag, took out one of the water canisters and passed it to her. She took a sip. “That was… not fun.” “What do you remember?” “Too much”. The browns of her eyes were thin, swallowed by wide, glassy pupils. “I… I thought I was dead.” I sat down beside her and reached out an arm to comfort her. “Like, I’ve done some stupid stuff in my time. But I never thought, never truly felt, I was dead before.” “It’s okay...” “I was scared, Ferdinand,” she interrupted. “I’m still scared. I just feel panic. Here…” She grabbed my arm and held it to her chest. I could feel her heart punching hard against her ribcage. “That.” “I know,” I said. “I was so worried. I was terrified about what had happened to you. I’m frightened too.” She leant forward and pulled me in tight, stretching her forearms across my back. I held her close, feeling her warmth against me, as I let out a long breath. She was safe. Kit needed to rest, so we decided to stay put untill she felt better. I climbed up the collapsed rubble just high enough to pull down the box of books still left on the metal shelf. After, we spoke for a little while longer before deciding to sleep. Neither of us could rest easy. The adrenalin and fright clung to our veins, refusing to relent. I could feel Kit moving restlessly. I was facing away, but sensed her slowly shift closer. She placed an arm on my waist, and leaning in closer, rested her head against my back. I rolled over, and placed my arm under her head, her face resting on my shoulder. I could feel the damp from wet cheeks through my shirt. She stared vacantly at the shelves next to us. I petted her back, unable to conjure any words. She didn’t have any either. After a couple of minutes of quiet embrace, she turned her gaze to me. She whispered a single “Thank you” before turning into my chest, and closing her eyes for the night, finally asleep.  \ Next chapter published 1st June.


Edward was by no means excited for his first day back in college, he had spent his entire winter break alone, happy in his room quietly reading his fantasy books and listening to the rain hit his window. He loved the crinkly noise it made as it tapped on the glass, it always gave him such a strange warm feeling he couldn’t quite describe. His family couldn’t afford many things, like the new ‘dreamcast’ that had just been released by Sega a few months prior. They always apologised to him, ‘We’re sorry Ed, we just can’t afford to get you one of those *Nintendo’s* this year’. Edward didn’t care though, he was always perfectly content reading, it was his favourite thing to do. He loved to lose himself in the magic of fantastical worlds. Even now as he got off the bus at dame street and slowly dragged himself to campus, he was away with the fairies, dreaming of the large arched doors at the front gates, he liked to imagine they could be some sort of gateway to another dimension, maybe another plane of existence? He couldn’t know for sure, but he hoped that one day he would walk through and find himself somewhere different. As he got closer to the campus, he noticed the students just passed the entrance, *pricks* he thought to himself, *all so posh and full of themselves like yeah we get it you got into college, who asked??*. He didn’t have much scholarly pride, and not many of these people were very nice to him. The one interaction he allowed himself to have ended with ‘Oh…so you’re from the northside? I couldn’t even tell!’. *What does that even mean, you can’t tell? Am I supposed to have a knife, or some tough accent?* He was letting it get to his head again, that conversation was nearly four months ago. Edward stood beneath the archway, he wasn’t particularly tall, but even to a tall person this entrance was big, like really big, like troll sized at least. He closed his eyes and took a step forward……He opened them again.. nope just the regular old campus on a freezing January morning and he probably looked like an idiot, then he continued onwards and into his first lecture, and then his second, and by six o clock he was done, Thank. God. Leaving college was his favourite part of the day, if you hadn’t guessed already, he really hated it there, but as he got to the bus stop and went to pull out his earphones and his dads old Walkman, he realised he had left them in one of the lecture halls *Fuck…That’s not good.* He ran back to the campus and searched through every hall until he found them, lying there on the professor’s desk in what was his first class of the day. He picked them up and put the headphones on, pressed play and closed his eyes once more, *what a shitty day* The tape started to play and he opened his eyes reluctantly. *That’s weird…* Now if you're still reading this story, you probably know what happens next and i truly wish i could tell you, you were right, Edward opens his eyes and realises he’s finally in that fantasy world he’s always wanted to find, maybe he see’s a painting on the wall that begins to move or beckon him towards it. Who knows maybe he goes on adventures and makes friends along the way, maybe even meets a nice girl who adventures alongside him? Or, maybe if you’re more ‘realistic’ you might think Edward just got sick of the life he was living and left his home, ran away. There was one man found all the way in Seattle who perfectly matched his description, and the weird thing is that guy was a fantasy author. Just a coincidence I suppose. But as I write this, I truly have no idea what happened to Edward, and I say this because when he entered that classroom it was the last time he was ever seen.


#Hello r/Shortstories! It’s time to and congratulate another writer here on r/Shortstories! u/OneSidedDice has completed their serial, *Looking Homeward*, on Serial Sunday with 12 chapters. What an accomplishment! They’ve been an active participant in and for quite some time, and their writing is always a pleasure to read. You can find more of their work on their personal subreddit, r/2Space! They’ve even begun a brand new serial. Congratulations, Dice! You should be proud of yourself! Now, let’s take a few minutes and see what they had to say about their serial-writing experience.   *** #Looking Homeward - Written by u/OneSidedDice **A brief synopsis from Dice:** Early in the next century, rising sea levels are devastating coastal cities and communities. The resulting refugee crisis has strained economies to the breaking point; homelessness, joblessness, and food shortages have become global crises. In the United States, pressure from financial institutions and insurance conglomerates has outlawed individual bankruptcy, turning insolvent debtors into a population of propertyless second-class citizens. Russ and Larry are two young Floridians living in a FEMA camp, working off their families' monumental debts. A walk into town in search of a way to call their loved ones turns into a journey into danger, conspiracy, and opportunity. | | | | | | | | | | |   *** #A Chat with OneSidedDice about Serial Writing ###**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I began this serial with the goal of bringing out a character’s development and growth over the course of an adventure that takes him far outside his comfort zone. One characteristic of the very short stories I’ve been working with lately is that you tend to get a one—or two—dimensional snapshot of a character; for this series, I wanted to draw out that process over time to try to create a realistic sense of the main character evolving into something more than he was at the beginning. I don’t think I pulled it off perfectly, but I did make progress with an aspect of storytelling that has been difficult for me to use effectively. ###**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** I really, really loved and appreciated all of the feedback I received. The criticisms were extremely helpful in pointing out areas where I had been sloppy or indecisive, and almost always included suggestions that seriously improved the quality of my writing. The many encouraging remarks inspired me to carry on when I wasn’t sure if I was going in the right direction, as well. Through both, I’ve also learned a lot about critiquing others’ work, and I hope I’ve given close to as good as I’ve received. I’m not sure I have a favorite scene, but I most enjoyed writing the point in the story where Russ is thrust into a dangerous situation he’s not prepared for, and has to dig deep into himself to find the courage to do it. I think that process actually deserved more space than I gave it now that I look back over the whole story line—it was a stretch goal for me, and I’ve learned some things that will help me handle it better in the future. ###**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it? I’ve been writing very short pieces for some time, trying to get a feel for what makes good dialog, relatable imagery, a decent pace, and so forth, and boiling that down to as few words as I could while keeping the story intact and, I hope, interesting. I think my biggest challenge in writing a serial was keeping that tight focus on word economy when the theoretical final length suddenly stretched beyond the horizon. The 850-word limit on each chapter helped quite a bit with that transition, and my instinct to keep the story moving so that something engaging happened in each of those chapters paid off as well, I think. ###**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Serial writing is a great way to transition into writing longer stories if you are used to writing short fiction. It’s also a great way to learn to discipline your writing if your longer stories tend to go off track or suffer from verbiage creep. I’ve experienced all of the above, and I think I have a better feel for what works and what doesn’t after completing just one. Before starting, I strongly suggest that you make at least a very basic outline of the plot, and make some notes about the main characters’ backgrounds. You don’t have to use any of it in the actual story, but it helps keep the characters consistent and the action moving. Lastly, if you’re new to critiquing/giving feedback on others’ writing, take some time to read through the responses from previous weeks’ stories. That’ll give you an idea of what to expect, and what’s expected of you. Don’t be intimidated; accepting and giving feedback is an integral part of the process, and it will help you develop your skills much faster than working through it all on your own.   *** ###Wrap-Up Thank you so much for your time, Dice. I’m glad you have been such an active presence on the sub and in Serial Sunday. I’ve enjoyed reading your words and watching you weave worlds together. I’m excited for your new serial; I wish you good luck and good words! Congrats again! Readers and writers, please don’t forget to leave u/OneSidedDice in the comments below. Feel free to ask additional questions or just say .   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your own hand at serial writing with - 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 - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Little Bobby walks into the library looking for a book on animals! Little Bobby loved to draw animals and he would put funny faces on them. Little Bobby could not find any animals book to look at, he said to himself they must be all checked out and what can I do? Little Bobby saw Mrs. Nancy the librarian and he goes up to her and asks Mrs. Nancy can you help me, and she replies yes little Bobby what can I help you with? Little Bobby says I'm looking for a book on animals so I can draw them! Nancy the librarian said no problem and goes to the computer and looks up all the animal books! Mrs. Nancy the librarian says oh dear little Bobby they are all signed out, but we will find you something! Little Bobby ask Mrs. Nancy, how will we find anything if they are all signed out? Mrs. Nancy replies, well little Bobby the big question is what kind of animals do you want to draw? Little Bobby says dogs and cats, I want to draw them with great big hats. Mrs. Nancy the librarian said well there are many ways to find a book that has those animals in it! Little Bobby said what do you mean I went to the letter A in the animal aisle. Mrs. Nancy said to little Bobby, well we could look in the fiction aisles. Have you ever heard the story of how the great Labrador named Zeke saved the family? Little Bobby said no, I have never heard of it, but I would like to. But how will that help me with my pictures? Mrs. Nancy the librarian says well they have pictures of him in the book! Little Bobby said that's great if the book is here? So, Mrs. Nancy goes back to her computer to see if it has been checked out. Mrs. Nancy comes back to little Bobby and said great news the book is here. Little Bobby said that's great, but I also need a book on cats! Mrs. Nancy the librarian said we can check in the nonfiction isles for a cat book and little Bobby was like what do you mean? Mrs. Nancy the librarian said have you ever heard of the mighty cat named super tom? Little Bobby said no I have never heard of that book what is that one about? The librarian said it’s about a strong cat that would help others move and lift heavy things. Mrs. Nancy said let’s go and find the book. Little Bobby said, Great and they went off to the fiction aisle first and looked all over the place. Little Bobby said, are you sure its here and the librarian said I am sure, it must have been moved. Finally, they found the book. It was two shelves away from where it was supposed to be. Little Bobby was so excited and asked can I see it please? Mrs. Nancy the librarian said, sure and Little Bobby opens it and sees this magnificent dog. I can wait to draw him he says. Mrs. Nancy asked Little Bobby what kind of hat are you going to put on him? Little Bobby said I am not sure, what kind do you think do you think Mrs. Nancy? So, the librarian said to Little Bobby if you would read the book maybe you will get a better understanding of what Zeke is and maybe find the perfect hat. Little Bobby said, “That sounds like a great idea, but can we go and find the other book I believe you called it Super Tom” he said. Mrs. Nancy, the librarian said of course to Little Bobby. Little Bobby said it’s in the nonfiction aisle, right he asked? Ms. Nancy said yes, we will head over to it. So, they get to the aisle and sure enough they find the book and it was right where it was supposed to be. Little Bobby opens it up and said Oh my look at Super Tom and all muscles and look strong. Mrs. Nancy the librarian said, He is strong but make sure you read it so you can figure out what kind of hat he should wear. Little Bobby said your right, and heads over to his table and opens the book about the great Labrador named Zeke. Zeke was the towns favorite dog; everyone knew wo Zeke was even all the kids. Zeke would sleigh ride with the kids in the wintertime and in the summer, he would play baseball. Zeke would not hit the ball, but he would always play the field. Zeke was very fast and could catch the ball like a professional baseball player could. So, one day it got really hot our and no one was outplaying, everyone was soaking up the air conditioner. So, Zeke was looking out of his window when he noticed smoke coming from the house across the street and knew he had to do something. So, Zeke ran over to the house and went to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. So, he ran around to all the windows he could reach and put his paws on them and tried to push them up. He finally got to the last window, and it opened, and he jumps inside Lilly’s room, and she was taking a nap. Zeke goes and wakes up Lilly and Lilly said, oh my I smell smoke! Lilly and Zeke run to Billy’s room where was playing a video game with is headphones on and his door was shut. Lilly and Zeke grab Billy and Billy asked what was going on, and Lilly said the house is on fire. So they all ran out of Billy’s room, Zeke barks and them goes to get the parents from the other room because Zeke has a plan so Lilly and Little Billy run to get their parents and Zeke jumps out of the window and goes to the outside faucet and turns it on and grabs the hose and jumps back through Lilly’s room and into the kitchen where the oven was left on and Zeke turned the hose on and put out the fire. At this time Lilly, Billy and their parents come in the kitchen and the fire department show up to see Zeke with the hose in his mouth spraying out the fire. They where all amazed by what Zeke did and they made him a member of the fire department. Little Bobby was excited, he knew what he was going to draw now, it was Zeke with a big old fire department hat. Not only because Zeke was a member, but Zeke saved the family. He was a hero in the town’s eyes. So, Mrs. Nancy the librarian asked Little Bobby what did you think of the book? Little Bobby replied it was a great book and thank you for your help. Now, I am getting ready to read about Super Tom. Mrs. Nancy says, Great and let me know what you think about Super Tom and Little Bobby said I will. So Little Bobby opens the book about Super Tom the Cat. Super Tom the cat was so strong he would always help everyone. If you needed something heavy moved or lifted everyone would call on Super Tom. Super Tom always had someone to help, just the other day a ball rolled under the car that one of the kids kicked and Super Tom saw it and went over and picked up the car with one hand an grabbed the ball with the other hand and set the car back don and gave the kids his ball back. The kid was grateful and said thank you to Suer Tom. All the kids wanted to be like Super Tom to but one day a construction company came in to take down a huge building. The building was so huge that if anything went wrong it would take out half the buildings in town. The construction workers started preparing to take down the building when an unexpected storm came up, the winds were very high, and the huge building started leaning towards the other smaller buildings. Super Tom sees the building that started falling the wrong way, Super Tom runs to the building and takes his claws and digs as fast as anyone ever and Super Tom gets under the huge building and before you know it Super Tom lifts the building and moves it from the town safely where it could be knocked down. Everyone as grateful for this cat names Super Tom that they have a parade very year for him because he saved the town from being destroyed. Little Bobby really liked the story, he said and sat there and decided t draw Super Tom that Cat a hat that looked like a trophy hat with him holding the building and it turned out great! So Little Bobby got both of his drawings together and walks over to Mrs. Nancy the librarian and says to her, Mrs. Nancy these pictures are for you. Not only you’re a great librarian, but your so smart and your taught me to read something to find out the whole story. Before I would just draw to draw with no meaning now. I understand and just wanted to thank the worlds greatest librarian. Sincerely Little Bobby.


(Content Warning : Terminal Illness) The sky shows no emotion whatsoever. Like a canvas painted in black, what’s a night with no stars presented? Stating an unchanging solemn mood, it draws a stoic expression from anyone who has their head facing up. The bustling city becomes a new artificial light source, but it’s just different, different in so many unspeakable words. Longing minds anticipating the celestial glimmer decided to just succumb themselves inside the busy work life, feeling their euphoria buried under the bright buildings, replaced by traffic jams and people’s streams. “Why are you so heavy?” “Gravity, friction, ground elevation, additional weight, your sloppy stamina...” Carmen heaves a helpless sigh, continuing to push the wheelchair uphill while the person sitting on it lets out a mild chuckle. Her sweats trickling down her tee later reaches out towards the swaying flannel shirt. The rough rocky paths and wild grasses poking out everywhere aren’t helping at all. Reaching the top clearing, she topples down with her limbs stretch wide. “We’re here, Fens.” The called girl remains silent, mindlessly tugging in her sweater after feeling the cold night breeze. They exchange no more words. Carmen’s rapid breathing is the only thing keeping the air from dead silence. Up there, the whole town is in their view, as if it can be grasped in a scoop. Under the dark sky, they wordlessly enjoy this rare panorama. Feeling the need to break open a conversation, Fens weakly lifts her camera shoulder level with her thin arms and takes a quick shot of her buddy. “You look...stupid.” Upon hearing the shutter, Carmen switches her position into a sitting one. She manages to catch the thrown polaroid then jokingly snorts at it. “An unearthly scenery is waiting for you to capture it yet you wasted a film on a stinky dummy.” “I’m warming up for the highlight.” Fens cranes her back to adjust the camera settings until a ring from her pocket disturbs her. “Finally.” The line connected once she laid her phone on the ground.

“G’day girls, Marcus here reporting from behind the power station, all systems checked, we’re ready to roll.” Carmen hides the boiling urge to smack the boy from miles away, instead, she signals him to wait for the cue first. While Carmen and the opposite line keep their conversation going, Fens fiddles around her camera, sitting quietly on her lap. Her thoughts are swirling inside her head, suddenly all her buried emotions flushed out. She reminisces on her last days on Earth with a few weeks left. She thought she’s ready to face the inevitable calling of death but no, she isn’t. All the things she hasn’t accomplished, the minimum amount of photography subjects she possessed, tons of activities she wants to do when her sixties approached. No, all her wishes will eventually fade in her twenty-two years of living. Silent tears flow down her plump cheeks under the night sky. Carmen catches her head hanging low and cuts off Marcus immediately. “Fens, Fens, you okay? No, no, you shouldn’t be crying this soon. Deep breathes, deep breathes.” Her actions turn soft towards the sudden change. Pulling back Fens’ messy blonde hair, she gently wipes off the tear droplets with her slender fingers. Carmen crouches down her knees a little, helping the latter to lift herself up. “Am I allowed to leave the wheelchair?” Fens’ chimes in between her hitched breath. “Yes, yes, no problem. The grass is as warm as your seat with a touch of nature. Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Once Carmen succeeds in laying her butt down slowly on the ground, she makes sure to keep a close distance from her. With a soothing pat, Fens begins to calm down. “Hey, Carmen. Is everything okay? Did you ditch me to take a dump?”

“Dang, I forgot he’s still here.”

The three break into laughter. It was nothing as funny as a comedic theatre or comical skits but they just, laughed. Nearing another peaceful ambiance, an ear-piercing ‘boom’ erupts from the phone causing the connection to buzz a static disruption. Following the explosion, the city lights die down like a domino effect until the edges leaving everyone in darkness. “Marcus, what’s that bang? Why is it dark now?” Fens asks the other side with a tint of worries in her tone.

“Yes, I’m fine. The bomb was supposed to be a last escort in case the hacking didn’t work and I sort of accidentally blew it up, well at least it’s dark now- I gotta run, the guards are catching up soon. Don’t worry about me and enjoy your time and the stars of course.” “Will he be fine?” Carmen assures her Marcus will be doing just splendid, knowing he’s the ‘John Wick’ of the campus. “Will the people in the hospital be fine? Will there be fires caused by circuit error or something?” Fens’ rants won’t stop at this point which later will develop into her overthinking about all the dangerous possible outcomes because of their stupidity in order to appreciate the shining milky way. “Girl you need to chill. Hospitals have generators remember? See, see, the little light there?” For the nth time, Carmen lulls her from her demeaning thoughts. The natural lights start to show themselves from above. Minutes passed, their forms become visible to the naked eyes. It’s a heavenly sight, the galaxy shining as bright as ever. Another tear threatens to fall from Fens’ orbs but she ignores it and snaps a couple of shots. The glimmering dots merged with the dark purple shades bring a satisfied smile. Seeing the happiness radiating from her friend, Carmen grins widely. “You know what, Fens? You should stop overthinking about literally everything. Easier said than done, right? See the stars in the sky, there are a hundred thousand million of them in our galaxy with the Sun being one of them. The universe is such a powerful word that contains an endless possible amount of life out there, us merely being a speck of dust scattered, a tiny bit of atoms inside it.” “That seems like a nice way of saying not to make a big deal about my upcoming death. And, those stars are dead, we’re only seeing the light traveling into Earth.” “No, no, don’t be so pessimistic. I’m just saying that the world is a vast place. They’re too busy to care about you, about Marcus, about us so you shouldn’t waste time caring much about them. Does this make you feel better? C’mon, Fens. Don’t keep me waiting.” Fens scooted closer, accepting the warm embrace from Carmen. For the first time in her life, the sky lits up, an astounding view leaving her mouth agape emerged. Constellation and the milky way shone on her, finally. She felt this cozy sensation mixed with comfort as they hug together. She’s happy that Carmen is here, Marcus is here. She’s content with her tranquil life. She’s happy to be alive.


I’m so sorry I haven’t written in so long. The last 2 weeks have been a blur to me. I’ve been building and reading a lot. Almost every night, I fall asleep with a book from the villager’s library in my hands. After all those logs I collected, I decided I needed a house that wasn’t in the village. I went scouting for a place to live. While scouting, I remembered that I had found a blueprint for some log cabin earlier while ransacking the villager’s library. I pulled the blueprint out and realized that I could use it to build my house. I started reading it. First, It said that I needed to dig out a basement. So, I did exactly that. I dug out a large l-shaped hole in the ground under where my house was going to be. After that, I built the walls and fireplace. Doing that used up all of the wood I had, so I went and chopped down some more birch trees. Using the new wood I had collected, I made some stairs and placed them so I could go down to the basement and I could go up to the second floor. The blueprint called for glass which I knew could be made from sand. I went to the nearest lake and started collecting sand with my bucket. I brought it back to my under-construction house and burned some coal in my furnace to warm it up. Once it was warm enough, I put the sand in and waited till it turned into glass. I took the glass pieces as the sand turned to glass and placed them in the window slots one by one. Once I was done, I started on the second floor. I placed down wood logs to make a stable floor. I then made the walls. I had to make them different from the first floor because the roof had to lay on top of the walls. I completed that and went to work on laying down the roof. I was terrified that I was going to fall. So, I was extra careful and the roofing took two days to complete. After all that, I did some landscaping, went around the house, and added a few things to make it look nice. I then went exploring for a bit. During this exploration, I found a wood that I liked a lot more than the birch wood. I replaced the birch wood with this wood. It took around 5 days to complete that task. Once my house was completely constructed, I made myself a bedroom and placed my bed down. I also kept my furnace on the first floor next to the fireplace and kept my chests in the basement. After all this, I had run out of food and was getting hungry. I decided that I would need to make a farm. I started with making a staircase from my back door to the area where the farm would be. I finished that and moved onto clearing out the area and flattening it. I flattened both the first farm area and the second. I then dug out places for water and organized signs to show what would go where. I first placed the seeds I had found while ransacking the village. Secondly, I placed the seeds I had first found while exploring the area. Once those were all planted and watered, I went on and placed the signs next to the plants to label them and make sure I didn’t get confused. I was finished. It looked way different from before and it made me more confident in my adventures. I knew now that I had a home, a place to come back to.


It was a lovely mid-summer evening, strobing my hair, dressing in aurora white, brightening my face as a sunburst tiara, “Might be a great day!” I smiled. Yeah! my first ever date with Jake. Streaming in my mind, “Might be for me, not him", I fastened my seat belt, got cracking right away. “You lucky, lucky girl, if you need to know what love is” recalling the lyrics, my thoughts flew away with me. I cherished the way I prepared myself on my way to Jake's home. ‘Few months back’

Dull days in sequence, virtual sessions were in queue, I felt bored as usual. The unusual change in screen at the sour of the moment, caught all our attention. My eyelids fluttered repeatedly. An eye-catching visual on the screen appeared out of the blue.

"I'm mad, who is this?” he made me crazy. Private chat box started popping up one after the other. “ Who is he?”, “Isn't he handsome!”, “Soo Hot!!!”, “OMG”, girls in the class passed their comments. Course coordinator Mrs. Laura delivered a welcome speech, I clicked his screen to zoom-in. Looking closer, I never got to widen my eyes to watch the screen like this, of course i didn't miss to switch off my web cam.

Jeez!!!, our new language professor, nothing else that could be grabbed in her speech. Oh! Man, there is something in his eyes, zoomed in to maximum already . I was waiting in the wings, “Come on man!”, searching his voice scales, set his frequency in my mind. When he started to speak, I was all ears. "Hi everybody, I am Jake”, his frequency was stunning more than i expected, as I watched his Adam's apple rising and falling. “Your new language professor and a research scholar.” He introduced himself. Yeah! His voice was gentle, warm and welcoming, everybody in mute were listening thoroughly. “Your in-depth language skills can take you to the heights” his words etched in my brain, he disappeared sooner in the blink of an eye.

 I used to be the last to join nevertheless, I joined early in his class (virtual class). “Hello!! How are you?” he waved at me. I smiled instantly. "He was such a mighty handsome, he was like a warmth of the sun in winter and a hopeful sign of joy”, I admired.

Zoomed in, Oh, jeez!!, those blue eyes... “Tanya, right?” He waved at me again. “Ye-y-Yes, you are right, you have a strong memory too” I delivered my prompt response. He shrugged and smiled; I acknowledged. "Something in his eyes” I swore. Multiple alerts popped up to join the class appeared in the screen simultaneously. He welcomed most of my friends by their names, everybody in mute were watching and waiting for him to start his speech. Oh! Gosh!! his words were cream of the crop, I envision something... Those were fresh and freezing. I entered the realm of fantasy, “just forty-five minutes session is not fulfilling” i said to myself. There was nothing I could do, I gazed at him.

He was such a energetic person, loved to deliver speech. He was unreserved and enjoyed interactions with us. His affable nature qualified him to be a gregarious man. I turned curious and more focused in attending all his lectures. I made multiple attempts just to collect all his personal information, I started to ask as many doubts as I could though I was struggling to frame my sentences many a time. I loved the way he responded; he replied in broad and detail. Often times I failed to logout even after his sessions ended. His absence could not be expressed and its influence could not be explained. I was attracted by his endeavoring manners; he could earn unconditional love and regards. I felt as if i had lost myself in his compassion and attitude. He stole my heart. “Are you not working today?” I sent him a text message with hesitation.

“Yes!” he gave me a swift response.

“Hope you are fine” I wanted to confirm.

“Doing great, no worries” he replied with a smiley. I was overwhelmed with his responses. I was fond of him undoubtedly. Being anxious during lock-down, started to count the days nearing college reopen. We could stay connected via virtual sessions, phone calls and whatsApp chats. My heart awaited to meet up with him in person.

Government started declaring lockdown relaxations in phases. Leaving the dozens of thoughts behind, I took out my phone and started to text. "I wish to meet you in person" I typed "sure" he replied without hesitation. "Where are we meeting? " I asked at the speed of the light. "I'm held up currently, shall we connect later?" he asked My crazy urges could not get settled, I started typing with all possible haste. “I would like to meet you. Where are you?”, thought for a moment and decided to click back space. All my brainwaves were surrounded by his thoughts, "how long will this continue? You are in my dreams irrespective of day and night. I bet your memory can gauge the depth of my love. I love you to the moon and back, I will be lost lying in your arms. Honestly, I forget myself almost....” I wandered in my thoughts while in my couch. ‘At Jake's home’

It was my big day, dreamt of it so long, rode my car to the shared location using google maps. His house covered with an extensive garden. Man of charm, dressed in crackling cuffs and collars, looked into my eyes. “Hey! Welcome Tanya, how do you do?” he smiled at me in a peaceful valley. I gazed at him with astonishment. “Go....Good!” i reacted. He was the tall man with blue eyes, sharp jaws, tight lipped smile, I was just admired him with no words.

 I surrendered myself in his large frame, the tall man waved his arm. “Hi!!” I smiled. He showed me the way to his drawing room, overflowed with plenty of paintings, fixed on the walls. Definitely he was a great admirer, I could witness from all his pieces of art. “Please come and have your seat” his orotund voice, made me turned suddenly. I had to lift my chin to see his face, “Yeah, com-co-coming” of course my voice turned tremulous.

“How may I help you?” he asked me while his fingers rushed to brush up his glossy hair that fell on his forehead. “How could I open my mouth, answer him?” as my mind was not streaming in line. All that I practiced in front of my mirror had gone wrong, nothing I could remember to persuade him now. All of a sudden, my pores opened widely, my hair stood on end as his eyes were glanced at me.

“Tea or Coffee, Tanya dear?” she was extremely soft spoken. I turned my face to her in surprise as she mentioned my name. “My mother Hazel, Tanya”. He introduced me. “Hello!” I greeted her, then I was in deep surprise. “Date at his home” nothing to wonder, could go with it, but “Date in front of his mother!!” so uncommon. “How could he have misunderstood me? how could I have expressed thoroughly on this day? Did he has really meant it for a date?”. Too many questions tagged in my brain. “How are you?” Mrs. Hazel asked. “Good” I whispered. She offered us a cup of coffee and left us alone. “Have to say something now without waste a single minute” I forced myself even more, I was aware that no one could come for a help. Shifted my silky hair on my cheeks behind my ears, my eyes were open widely, swayed my tongue over my lips, I was like a bird flapping against a wind.

“I-I want to spend rest of my life with you” I told him openly. His sudden gaze pierced in me; We were in deep silence for few seconds. “Oh! God, come on man, say something” My heart rushed to witness his next expression. “Tanyaaaa...hmm...” nothing I could hear from him except my name for a few more minutes, he left me with my deep thoughts about him,how was he going to react?

After a few seconds, I turned following his gaze, he offered a warm smile, he rolled up his cuffs, wiped his brow free of sweat and started. “Maybe You admired my strength and unnoticed my flaws, you are aware of things as a young adult furthermore i need not attempt to convince you. Honestly, I don’t expect this from you. Your views will change over time. What is love, meant to you is different from mine. Still, I take care of you as my student. I hope you can understand me in better ways” he spoke gently. He turned my thoughts down yet I admired him by this accomplishment. I learnt from him that he was a great observer who delivering limited words. I loved the way he divulged his opinion when I lost in contemplation. Though I missed him a lot, his words were accurate on life. One thing I could confirm that he was not a person roaming around, making relationships as he could make the world inside the walls. Definitely it's an art. I could observe, his passion for painting, love for gardening, he enjoyed his home more than anything; for the world outside, he was such a broad mentor. I could not compel him and I did not do that, but he stole my heart once again. He was a man of wise thoughts.

“I respect and value your opinion. My love and regards are always there for you, thank you Jake, definitely you made my day special, I love the way you are” I greeted him with a warm smile. "I miss you" I said in mute and walked away since his words meant a lot to me. -from the diary of Tanya The End


Her screams, her earth shattering screams tore through the building, jolting Violet wide awake. It took her only a moment to realise the source of those screams. It was happening again. It had been six months since the last time it had happened. Wrapping her chiffon nightgown around herself, Violet sprinted down the dimly lit hallway until she reached her daughters bedroom and flung open the door with a bang.

Mia’s eyes were firmly shut. She was still fast asleep in the large four poster ‘princess’ bed that made her look every bit of the five year old she was. She was so tiny, even the shrill cries that came out from her mouth seemed way too big for her. Hearing those cries, seeing her thrashing in that bed and crumpling her bed sheets, absolutely terrified the life out of Violet. A picture ingrained into her mind but a picture that no parent wanted to see. Most parents hated seeing their child in distress and would do almost anything to alleviate their child's pain. There was nothing that Violet wouldn’t do but standing there in the doorway, she felt completely useless, a failure. She had mistakenly believed that after all the therapy sessions, psychologist appointments and assessments, Mia had gotten better. She had made great progress after all, not a single nightmare in the last six months. But maybe that was just a fool's hope as it appeared that they were back exactly where they had started. Violet struggled to see where they could go from here after exhausting all the options the professionals had previously listed. What more could the professionals do that they haven’t done already? All she knew in that very moment was that she needed to be Mia’s mother. She needed to comfort her, protect her and banish whatever evil was currently infiltrating her sweet dreams. Violet walked over to Mia’s bed, the blush carpet soft under the balls of her bare feet and sat on the edge of it. Mia continued to toss and turn, totally sucked in by the terrors that haunted her unconsciousness, the darkness totally suffocating her. Violet shuffled over on the bed towards her, the bed whining in protest as she did, and placed Mia’s head on her lap. Although her face was flushed and her golden curls were plastered to her forehead with sweat, she was so cold. Violet tucked Mia in closer and wrapped the blanket even tighter around her. Staring down at her angelic face, she began to sing her favourite lullaby. A fitting lullaby about a boat sailing worries away.

After a few minutes, Mia’s shallow breaths evened. She had finally returned to a peaceful sleep, dreaming of unicorns and fairies, Violet assumed like any other normal five year old girl. Yet, she was aware that Mia was not normal. She felt it with every fibre of her being that there was something not quite right with her little baby. She had been having these recurring nightmares since she was two. It could have been longer than that but that was the age she first uttered “same mommy” after being asked what her nightmare was about again. As she grew older and her speech became better, Mia was able to give more information about her nightmare but she refused to divulge in the details. The only details she did provide was that it was indeed the same nightmare every night and her mother featured in it.

The next morning, Violet stood by the stove making waffles for breakfast and heard Mia before she could see her. Unlike last night, the sound of her voice was sweet, full of joy and happiness. Upon hearing her entrance, Violet turned to face her. She skipped into the kitchen, her curls bouncing with the movement. She wore a smile so bright that it could obliterate even the darkest shadows from existence.

“Morning pumpkin, want some waffles for breakfast?” Violet asked, already knowing what her daughter's reply would be. Mia jumped up and down and rubbed her stomach “Yes, please mommy. I sure do love waffles.” Mia was still wearing the pink and white unicorn pyjamas that she wore last night. Pyjamas that Violet could no longer look at without thinking about how terrified and dainty she looked as she violently thrashed in her bed the evening before. The dark circles set around her eyes was also yet another reminder of it. It was a Sunday and there was nothing she could really do until tomorrow. Violet would have to make all the necessary calls then, including a courtesy call to update Mia’s father. Even after a turbulent and abusive marriage, a messy divorce and a strenuous custody battle, Violet tried to keep it somewhat civilised with Simon for Mia’s sake. Violet did not believe that Simon deserved one ounce of her kindness. He did such terrible things during their marriage and most likely continued to do them now but he was still Mia’s father after all. For that reason and that reason alone was why Violet provided Simon with updates about Mia and allowed him supervised visits to see her. Violet had met Simon fresh out of school whilst working at a garage on the outskirts of town. She fell head over heels for him. It was love at first sight, a dream come true. He was charming, witty and his icy blues would make even sapphires appear dull in colour. It wasn’t until a couple years into their marriage when things started to take a turn for the worst. Simon’s addiction problem spun out of control. With that came the lies, the deceit, the abuse and the debt. Violet was miserable most of the time but there were moments, those few moments, that the old Simon would make an appearance. The caring, kind and thoughtful Simon. The Simon that she fell in love with. The Simon that she married. Violet held on to those moments and for that reason she stayed.

Violet made the decision to finally leave Simon a week after discovering she was pregnant with Mia. It was a day that she would never be able to forget, a day her world almost fell completely apart. Violet was doing the dishes, listening to Gotye’s ‘somebody I used to know’ on the radio when Simon stormed into the house. She could tell by the sound of his clunky black boots stomping across the hallway that it was going to be one of those days. Simon entered the room, the reek of weed and God knows what else clinging to his clothes, and switched off the radio. In the absence of the music all Violet could hear was the raggedness of his breath. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes had almost turned entirely black. After seeing those eyes, eyes that flashed with a wildness that you would only expect to see in a viscous caged animal, she returned to her task blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. With her back turned to Simon, Violet furiously scrubbed each dish as she listened to his steps come closer behind her inch by inch. She could feel the warmth of his breath tingling the back of her neck. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, almost tasting it. Violet glanced up to the window overlooking the garden and caught sight of him in its reflection. She watched nervously as his fist rose up and came down on her head. The beating had lasted three torturous hours, leaving her in a coma for three months. She spent those months dreaming of cool mountain breezes and boats of various shapes and sizes that waited at the dock, waiting to take worries away. She was lucky to be alive and it was a miracle that Mia survived. The day she was discharged from hospital, Violet decided that not only for her own sake but for her child's, she was going to file for a divorce. From across the table, Violet sat as she watched her miracle baby devour the stack of waffles covered in golden syrup. A choice Violet had instantly regretted once she saw her sticky, mucky hands. Ignoring the looming mess that she would need to clear up, she picked up the Sunday newspaper and sipped the freshly squeezed orange juice which tasted just as divine as it smelt. While in the midst of reading about an acquisition made by some tech giant, Mia’s utensils clattered on the table. Violet peered over the newspaper to give a look that only a mother could master. However, Mia’s eyes were affixed on the front page of the newspaper, her face turning a couple of shades paler than it had been two seconds ago. Mia froze, her sticky empty hand still hanging mid air. Violet folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. “What’s wrong pumpkin, you ok?” “Mommy, when the door -” Mia was cut off by the loud rapping sound on the door. With a screech of her chair, Violet rose to her feet and made her way to answer it, wondering who on earth would be calling this early in the day. “Mommy don’t ...” Mia screamed as Violet pulled the door wide open. Mia’s screams were a fraction too late. The gun shot fired with a reverberating bang. All Mia could now do was watch as her nightmare, her greatest fear played out in front of her conscious eyes. Violet sank down to her knees, her hands falling to the wound on her abdomen. She tried to conceal the puncture but it didn’t matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to stop the river of red from flowing. The warm, sticky liquid covered her delicate hands, seeping into the cream tunic she wore and staining it crimson.

Violet was so tired. Her vision distorted and blurred as she attempted to keep her eyes open. She wasn’t sure if the male wearing a balaclava before her, gripping a pistol firmly in his right hand, was a figment of her imagination or not. The masked man side-stepped Violet like she was nothing but a beggar on the street. Violet shouted at the man to leave her daughter alone, but no words came out. Violet tried to kick, scream and bite the intruder but instead slumped onto the ground where she lay on the cold, hard, marble floor.

As she sprawled in a pool of her own blood, it finally occurred to her. Mia had known. All this time Mia had known she was going to die. Violet had always tried to be brave for her daughter, never did she think that her daughter was doing the very same. Her little girl had carried the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders, never revealing the true horrors that haunted her at night. Now, even more weight has been added to her already heavy shoulders. With one final look before slipping into a permanent sleep, Violet observed Mia’s bottom lip tremble as the intruder snatched her up from the ground and held her in his arms. The intruder with his face concealed except for his eyes, his icy blue eyes.


I never planned on becoming a thief. Skulking around in the dark was never really my forté and, other than a few misguided instances of childhood shoplifting, I never stole a thing in my life. That being said, I never thought I’d be living in a quarantined city while the world burns away into chaos and hatred like charcoal and ash. The whole thing felt like something out of a bad dystopian horror movie. Scavenging had become the only way of finding resources, murder the only means of survival. If you hoped to see the sun the next day, you had two options; smash and grab from a commercial business or sneak into an occupied home. (I personally believe that the lesser of the two evils is making my way into a house.) Looting a store out in the open forced you to face other desperate scum, hoping to find anything of value, only to leave empty-handed more often than not. If it looked abandoned, you can bet that it’d already been picked clean by those vultures... or worse. A house, on the other hand, was still occupied which meant they were not only secure but even filled to the brim with valuables and whatever else people wanted for themselves. I know you must be thinking me some kind of creep or predator, sneaking into someone’s house while they’re still home in order to pilfer their property. I’m not a bad guy, though making that choice grew rarer the longer the quarantine went on. When I burgled a residence, I made sure to enter and leave without almost anyone becoming aware of my trespassing until I was far and away, never a soul harmed nor an item lifted that couldn’t be replaced. Things did not always go so smoothly though; it took more time, mistakes, and blood on my knife than I’d like to admit before I could call myself a “Propper Theif”. It wasn’t with years of practice, persistence, or any sort of talent that I had perfected my new skills. Some say its a blessing, though they know nothing of the curse it truly is, for no soul since 1599 AD had made a Hand of Glory. All it took was one botched job, one bad day to haunt my dreams and force me to seek out a new way about my “business”. I could not abide by another pool of red, another little girl lifeless on the floor, her blood dripping from my knife and her parents wailing like banshees into the night. Looking back, I’d have happily starved to death that night rather than endure that horrifying grief and unrelenting guilt. The archaic system of survival demanded we become beasts again, however, no other child would ever know or need fear the monster I had to become. Creating the Hand was not my first option, honestly I never even considered it until I fount The Book. A hodge-podge of parchment and calfskin vellum pages, bound in some strange scaley leather, the tome was filled with recipes and “spells” that seemed more appropriate at a renaissance fair than a safe in the back of some large manor. The information found in the book was bizarre, “Command animals to do your absolute bidding (Ha!), Build a man out of clay to protect your community (too Jewish), Create a skull that tells the future (doubtful), The pro’s v. con’s of wish-granting ape fists (baloney) ...” It all seemed like superstitious mumbo jumbo when I first flipped through the pages, after carefully liberating it from the previous owner. After my initial look through nothing seemed to be of any use, other than maybe the age of the book, it didn’t have really any value. Hell, I threw the book across the room and remember thinking a drink seemed more important at the time. Something stopped me from walking out the door to my kitchen, some deep-seated urge kept ringing in my mind, “Go pick up the book”. Unable to clear my head, I turned back, walked over, picked up the mysterious codex and saw my wretched future drawn out in that faded iron ink. “La Maine de Gloire. The Hand of Glory: A gift for thieves and those who wish to remain unseen.” Though never a religious or superstitious man, this was the first time I felt...blessed. Clutching tight to the book, a single tear streamed down my cheek, the first tear I had shed since that terrible night. After hours of translating a rediculous mixture of Latin, French, and very old English scribbled around the page, I had my recipe for creating the Hand. The recipe was not a simple one: requiring pickling, saltpeter, hot peppers, hair, fat, and of course a human hand. Even the means of procuring some of the ingredients were incredibly detailed and complex. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find the fresh human hand, fat, and hair of a recently executed murderer, during the new moon... at MIDNIGHT?! Luckily, there was no shortage of scum and villainy out on the streets, so I had my “pick of the litter” when it came to materials. Finding some poor devil strung up on a street lamp by some angry mob was where I claimed the left hand, the hair, and fat to make the candle. All the other ingredients could be found in your local grocers or chemists. The process was long and overly complex; first draining and arranging the hand, then salting and pickling, air drying and inscribing with mystic symbols, before finally repeatedly dipping the hand in a tub of melted beeswax. After months of work and preparation, my Glory was finally ready. After sticking the candle made of human hair and fat to the palm, I attempted to light my macabre creation. I held the flame of my lighter to the “wick” for minutes waiting for it to catch, but as moment after moment passes I feared I had made a mistake, or worse, the Hand of Glory was just another old-world folktale. I checked the book and realized that I somehow missed that the Hand required the phrase “Vox Vorbis Lux” to be chanted continuously for the hand to ignite. Once lit it could only extinguishable by the barer or by a splash of sterilized milk. I tried again, fearing failure meant no other options, many wasted nights, and my eventual death via starvation. This was it. It HAD to work...and it did. The candle ignited in a tiny explosion covering me in a bright, almost blinding, light emanating from a white, blue, and violet flame. It was wonderous, I could barely pull my eyes away from the miraculous flame. As I looked around the room, a thick inky void surrounded me, all-encompassing and inescapable. I pointed the light towards my dresser on the far side of the room and was astounded when the entire wall began to illuminate as though being basked in the light of the sun. I could see everything in perfect detail, nothing could escape my gaze. After that stealing became the easiest thing I could wish to accomplish. On my first job, I learned just what the Hand was capable of. When I entered a house through the basement, my usual means of entry, and ignited the Hand and the void blanketed everything in sight. Not only was the candle aflame, but so were the thumb and the first three fingers that I later learned indicated that the four members of the house were still awake. Cautiously, I started walking around the house and, to my complete surprise, slipped by every member of the house as if I wasn’t even there. I didn’t even try and hide, the young family just continued on their activities. As the children fell asleep, two of the flames slowly fade before snuffing themselves out. Without a single worry or care, I was able to make my way through and out of the house pilfering cash, jewelry, food, trading material, and other valuable resources. As I continued my thieving spree, I gained enough treasures and provisions to easily live out the rest of the quarantine in comfort and luxury. Through thick and thin I never forgot why I created the Hand of Glory, often leaving gifts or provisions to the house of the grief-stricken family whose lives I crippled. They never knew from where all the gifts came from, I never left a name with any of the gifts. The last thing I wanted or deserved was recognition. Before long I felt something was wrong with the Hand of Glory, with every use I could feel as though something was affecting me. I went back to the mysterious book, scanning the pages about the Hand vigorously, hoping to find any clue or list of side effects using the Hand may have caused. Nothing. What else could there be, I’ve read over each of those pages thousands of times... but I never bothered to read the back of the page. There, not only did I learn the properties of the Hand of Glory but also the eventual fate of whoever used the Hand, as well as whoever dares craft one. According to my translations (which I had confirmed by educated professionals), those who use a Hand of Glory for a prolonged period of time( or multiple times) are susceptible to horrific nightmares, visions, spontaneous parasites, all manner of illnesses, bleeding from the eyes, and leprosy. Though my use of the Hand had finished by this time, I made sure to seek out proper medical treatment to counteract any lingering side effects. It didn’t matter though, I was damned but just didn’t know it yet. The “sins” of using the Hand were microscopic compared to that of the creation of a Hand itself. According to my translations, consultation from the catholic arch-diocese, and advice from so-called paranormal investigators, “...those who use the Hand are already prepared to break a number of the Lord’s commandments. The creation of the Hand of Glory is not only a macabre and physically vile act but also spiritually binding to those that were deemed ‘suitable materials’. The Hand of Glory must be constructed with the left hand of a murderer, thief, or otherwise heinous villain. Their soul, already damned to hell, becomes warped and twisted by the procedure and incantations needed to construct the Hand, and their soul itself is used to light the Hand and acts as the source of its power. Those who actively seek to create the must understand the severity of this action; the sins one commits in order to create a Hand are numerous and horrendous, setting them on an unwavering path to the depths of damnation. Upon their passing, amongst the flames of the inferno, sits a malevolent beast waiting simply to torture and torment its victim. This demon is all that remains of the soul of whoever was mutilated post-mortem to gather the aforementioned materials from their corpse, seeking retribution for their eternity of suffering and deformity. There is no means of reversing this bond, for God himself contends those selfish enough to dare create a Hand of Glory.” There you have it, it’s all there. I am damned. Not only damned but awaiting a reserved torture chair and personal tormenter at the moment of my passing. I know I deserve to go to hell, for what I did to that girl, to her family. What I didn’t know, nor expect, was that I was horrendously tormenting the eternal existence of the poor man I found hanging from that street lamp. Now he, or what I can only imagine is left of him, sharpens his tools of torment and pain in anticipation. Can’t say I blame him, really. He deserves his vengeance, especially after the number of times I used the damned artifact to further my own agenda. I made the Hand of Glory 45 years ago. The years are catching up to me, there is nothing I can do about it and that frightens me terribly. Wallowing in my fortune, my breath grows shallower and shallower, there is nothing left I can do but wait for deaths cold embrace. All I can do anymore is glare at the key of my eternal punishment, and ponder that poor girl from all those years ago. What would she have made of herself? Would she have been happy with life? What good would she have accomplished? What was her name? My god, have I really lived my entire life without ever knowing the name of the little girl who died on my knife? I’ve spent all these years trying to avoid reliving that terrible mistake, but was it for their benefit or my own? The shadows are creeping in now, little time remains. If you are reading this, then my soul has already been claimed. I implore you to head this warning; there is no glory to be found with the Hands use. It shall rot you from the inside out, festering gluttony and incurable greed, it is a curse I would not wish upon my worst enemy. If you are smart you might cast it into the sea, or lock the thing away submerged in a bath of blue milk and holy water. There is nothing left for me to say, my time has arrived.


Today was biggest day of my life. I should have been excited, but I wasn't.. I was dreading what was to come. But today I learned a lesson: Never let anyone live your life for you. Let me tell you what happened: My grandfather, Old Squirrel Johnny, told me that dancing was the cure for sadness--but dancing was in his blood. He was the lead dancer of the Flying Squirrels, twisting and hopping and standing on his front legs. He didn't care about anything else except for his dancing--and me, of course. Although now I'm not so sure about that. Grandpa loved me, there was no question about it. But he didn't care about my dreams and hopes. He didn't care that all I wanted to do was join the nut-farm, harvesting hazelnuts and acorns for the winter stash. Instead he wanted me to become a dancer. Grandpa trained me, nine hours a day and two hours a night. My free time was either used for sleeping, cleaning or eating. I wasn't good enough to be a lead dancer, like Grandpa wanted me to, and so he put me as a backup dancer inside his dancing group. He let me in just the day before he got eaten up by a panther. And so I was stuck. The Flying Squirrels wasn't very popular--true, we danced at inns and hotels, cafes and BBQ parties. But it wasn't until a whole band of hummingbirds wanted us to perform at their giant annual Christmas party that we got our big break. And that day is today. Hooray... The squirrels and I danced away into the night, practicing harder than we ever had before. The hummingbirds that lived in the West side of the meadow were very large in number, and their party was a huge honor to attend, let alone perform. And me? All I wanted to do was have some time to relax. I just wanted to take a break from all this dancing, not go on tour to some big fancy hummingbird field. Our new lead dancer, which had been replaced after Grandpa died, said that we would stay in Hummingbird Meadows for a few weeks after the party, just to see if they had any more gigs for us. My fellow dancers were counting on me. I had to be there for the performance, no matter how much I needed some time to relax. If I didn't show up, our whole routine could be ruined. "Hup! Get in a single V formation! Circle, circle, circle!" We were practicing right before the party, and our choreographer was on his wit's end. He shouted random instructions and chattered his teeth angrily when we didn't get something right. "Rowan! Get. In. FORMATION!!!" He shouted at me. I bowed my head and tried to keep up with the line, but my mind was on other things. "IS THIS WHAT YOU CALL GETTING IN FORMATION?" The choreographer stamped his foot. Startled and angry, I scampered away from the little clearing in which we were practicing. Yes, I was running away from my big break. But if I didn't get out of there and calm myself down... I could hear the hummingbird party in the distance. Crickets in groups sung as loud as they could, and various birds squawked excitedly. As I ran away, deeper into the wood, the sound faded. I climbed the first tree I saw easily, hoping to find a cozy branch to settle on and watch the party. Surely the group wouldn't miss me. I was only a mere backup dancer. Who cared about those? "Why, hello," I heard a deep, comforting grandmotherly voice come from inside the tree. I jumped slightly but didn't lose my seat. Turning around, I saw that there was a hollow in the tree I had climbed on. And inside was an old hummingbird. "Won't you come in?" The bird asked. "It is quite lonely in here. As long as you don't make a racket, that is." I slowly walked inside the hollow. It was large and circular, with a comfortable carpet of dried leaves on the ground. The hummingbird nestled in a corner, smiling. "What is this place?" I asked her. The hummingbird smiled. "This is The Hummingbird's Hollow. I made it myself. Isn't it cozy?" "But..." I turned my head in the direction of where the other hummingbirds were having their party. "Shouldn't you be at the celebrations?" "Shouldn't you ?" The hummingbird pointed out. "I daresay we're both not made for loud Christmas traditions, are we?" "No, ma'am," I said politely. "Why aren't you at the party, anyway?" The bird asked. "Come sit down and explain all about it, my dear." I sat down beside the bird. Her feathers were soft and she felt like the mother I had lost when I was so young, due to a hunter that stalked us through the forest. "Well," I began, "I've just spent my whole life doing so much work. I never have any free time, you know? I just want a moment of special time, just for myself. Nobody ever lets me do what I want. I didn't even get to pick my career!" The hummingbird looked at me with kind eyes. "My dear," she said softly. "You can't let other people choose your life for you. You do what you want, you got it? Don't let anyone stand in your way." "Right," I said. "I should have a choice. I will have a choice." "You can make a choice right now," the hummingbird said, laughing softly. "You can sit here with me for Christmas Eve and enjoy a hot cup of acorn tea, or you can go dance." I didn't question how she knew I was supposed to dance. I just had a feeling that it was best left alone. "That tea sounds good," I said with a smile. The hummingbird laughed. "Put the kettle on, then," she said merrily. "And I'll tell you a story."


She felt their eyes on her. The aspens that lined the street to his apartment. She hated how each of them stood, quivering and pale. But most of all she hated the dark swirls in their bark, like so many eyes. They watched as she rang the buzzer. They watched as she slipped into the grey building from the grey street. His door was unlocked. The apartment consisted of a single room, with a bare mattress and a tiny kitchen. The only other furniture was a giant easel, at which he was standing with his back to her, rocking back and forth and staring in great concentration at the painting it supported. It was a masterpiece. A pale figure covered in pale cloth, face turned away and obscured by pale hair. The warmth of the model’s skin radiated through the folds of the fabric and heated the otherwise frigid room. She reached out to him, and he turned abruptly, splattering her with flecks of paint from his palette knife. One landed in her eye, and for a moment his body blurred to match the one she remembered, then resolved back to the man as he was. “I wasn’t sure you would come” he started. His beard looked like he hadn’t cut it since she had seen him last. “You contacted me” she said. “Well, you contacted me first” he retorted. She glanced around the room, at the pantry filled with cheap boxes of macaroni, anything to avoid looking directly at him. “This is your best work yet. Are you going to put it in an exhibition?” she offered. He looked back at the canvas. “If I ever finish it. I keep coming back and making small changes, but it never feels right.” There was a moment of silence between them before she said in a timid voice “Remember when you wanted to paint me?” He broke their eye contact, as he had broken that promise. The cloud of memory melded with the cloud of smoke from the car accident on her way to see him for the first time. How she had gingerly slipped into the slip she hoped to surprise him with, scarlet silk to match the gash on her chest where the seatbelt had spared her greater disaster. A badge of devotion she wore as proudly as her lingerie when she displayed herself to him. How he hadn’t seen either, just rambled about Rembrandt as if she weren’t standing there bare. “After you sent me that letter, I started writing again. Started painting more. Started wanting to be a better man.” “Why?” “Because, I hoped, after all this time that we might…” She looked away, back at the macaroni boxes. “Is that still the only thing you eat?” she asked. He smiled a half smile. “I’ve tried a few new things, but yes. That’s it.” There was another silence. She broke this one too. “I am in a relationship” she said, the message she had carried with her this whole way finally delivered. “So am I” he said “but I am not happy. I don’t feel it in my chest like I do with you.” He reached out to catch a strand of her pale hair between pale fingers. He held the dead part of her a moment, then released, turning the living parts to ice water. “If you wanted, I could finish up teaching in a semester or two, then move down to Arizona with you. I feel like we never really got a chance. I was too wrapped up in the divorce, and you with your career.” She looked at him, ice water boiling over now. “You made your choice a long time ago, and so did I. How could you be my savior if you won’t do your time in the desert?” He smirked “I never figured you for the type that needed saving.” She couldn’t think of a response to that, and stared at the painting again. The model’s areolas bled through the cloth. “Is that your girlfriend?” she asked, hating herself. “No. I’ve only ever had one muse.” He trapped her in his gaze. “I hope you don’t mean me. Can you really be someone’s muse when they never make any art when they’re with you?” His knuckles whitened around the palette knife. “I’ll always hold a candle for you” she whispered. He exploded “Then blow it out or light a fire. Just don’t leave me flickering like this!” She retreated from his outburst toward the door. “Some light is better than no light at all, and if I remember right, too much of it causes you pain. Maybe that’s why our relationship always stayed in the dark. Why it couldn’t handle the Arizona sun. Why you let me go without a word of goodbye. So I’ll just say it. Goodbye.” He lunged forward, grabbing for her wrist. She felt his white hot touch, wet from his sweaty palms. She slipped from his grasp and went for the door handle. Her fingers passed over it, leaving red streaks. She whirled and the world whirled with her. When it steadied she saw the palette knife in his hand, covered in her blood. Blunt as it was, it must have nicked an artery. The red liquid frothed and bubbled out of her, evaporating into the air. The room filled with a scarlet haze. Through the clouds of blood she saw him look down at his tool and turn to the painting behind him, raising the knife to the canvas and spreading the pigment that only moments ago had passed through her heart. “This is it” he muttered, tracing the curves of his woman. Somehow she found purchase on the knob and fled. Out into the street, all color left back in the room. The bleeding had stopped now, though she still felt dizzy. The eyes of the aspens closed in around her. Quivering and pale, but never moving. She hated them, but its always easiest to hate in others what you hate most about yourself.


I firmly believe in the existence of Santa Claus. Mock me if you will, most non-believers do. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that He is real and that He visits all the good children of the world and gives them toys on Christmas Eve while they sleep. And try as I might to be a good person, I know that He does not consider me to be one. I know this because He hasn't given me a single present since I was eight years old. My parents supplemented the absence of Santa's gifts with ones that they bought themselves, and they did their best to try and convince me that there really is no Santa Claus and that there never was. They did this to spare my feelings but I know the truth. That He lives on the North Pole with his helper elves and magical flying reindeer. That He sees us when we're sleeping and knows when we're awake. That He knows when we've been bad or good. And that He finds me lacking despite my best efforts. I'm naughty in his eyes. I don't know what I did between the ages of seven and eight that was so heinous as to deserve such a fate. I search my soul everyday for answers yet it is always for naught. But I have faith that one day He will let me know what my transgressions were so that I may make amends. Until then I will just keep praying that maybe this year my tree won't be empty on Christmas morning.