Adam teetered at the cliff edge, looking down into the murky waters below. How ironic that something as silly as a fear of heights would mark his downfall. No, he wouldn’t let this be his Achille’s heel. Holding his breath and looking straight ahead just as he had practiced, he took off at a run and plunged off the edge of the cliff, instantly feeling the scream leave his mouth as his stomach plummeted with the apathetic force of gravity. Crashing on the waves below, he felt a mixture of relief along with the sting of his thighs hitting the surface but with only moments to spare, he shook off the shock and swam his way to the caves on the other side of the cliff face.

The cliff dive marked the 12th hour of the race - he had passed the mid way point. Apart from a few hiccups along the way, everything was going according to plan, so far. But Adam was careful not to let himself rejoice too much just yet - he still had a long way to go and the obstacles would only get more grueling as he progressed. He checked his smart watch and saw that he was making good time, although he had no idea how far his opponents had gotten. For this was no ordinary obstacle race. The Battle of Death was quite literally a test of human skill, both physical and mental. 24 grueling hours of obstacles that were not designed for the faint of heart. Not only did contestants have to be in prime physical condition but their mental and emotional limits would also be tested, in more ways than one. Adam had been preparing for the race for almost a whole year. For him, as for his opponents, winning was the only option. The alternative seemed worse than death. In the distance, he could almost make out the sound of the race being broadcast over the loudspeakers and his thought of Anna, no doubt watching him with frayed nerves.

******************************************************************** She watched the scene from the tiny television screen of their studio apartment with clasped hands, watching a tiny Adam battle his way into the sea cave. Anna was not religious or even remotely spiritual but for the past 12 hours, she found herself secretly praying to some higher being that Adam would make it to the other side, unscathed. Commercials came on and she rose to make herself her 10th cup of coffee. As she stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, the commercials promoting the Battle of Death came back on air. She had seen it at least a dozen times but she could not bring herself to mute the screen, so she let Dean Harper’s irritating voice fill the room with updates she already knew about.

“The Battle of Death has entered its 13th hour, folks! The mid way mark has been surpassed, and our contestants are alive and well! I repeat, alive and well! No deaths have been recorded so far, a record in the past three years. June, do you recall last year’s contest, when Bill Rowland fell to his untimely demise just 2 hours into the race? Phew, that got some heads turning!” “How can I forget, Dean. After failing to make it up Hover mountain, Bill lost his footing and crumbled on the rocks below, marking the earliest death to ever be recorded in the history of The Battle of Death. And the shitstorm the press stirred up with that one made it all the more memorable.” Dean’s co-reporter spoke of this man’s death with such gusto, it was as if she were sharing a particularly juicy tidbit of gossip with her friends over brunch.

Anna soon tuned out the reporters empty babbling and her thoughts drifted to Adam again. He was safe, for now. There was still a good 11 hours to go and anything could happen. He was ready for it, he had assured her, he had been made for it even. Winning the Battle of Death would sate his thirst for fame while solving all their financial troubles.

“But at what cost?” she remembered the countless arguments, her screaming at him to try and make him see reason.. “You could die losing and even if you do win, your injuries could be so serious, not even the best doctors would be able to fix them.” “Life is all about taking chances, baby. I could die or get injured just leaving the house for work.” He wasn’t wrong there. The air had gotten so bad in their district that they could not leave the house without masks on and when the chemicals weren’t trying to infect their lungs, there was the very real possibility that either of them could get hit by one of the Cold war missiles, which had gotten increasingly more common lately, or involved in a hover bus accident - how many of those were they up to per day, again? Either way, life in Commune 9 had become increasingly morbid and death sniffed at their ankles at every corner.

The shrill whistling of the tea kettle brought her back to herself and turning her attention to the screen again, she saw that the focus had turned to one of Adam’s biggest opponents - Chase Brown. She made for the remote to turn the volume up as the camera zoomed in on Chase, battling the infamous Dragon of the North, while fire surrounded him on all sides.

This meant that Adam was ahead of Chase, having already successfully lulled the beast to sleep some 40 minutes earlier. Anna felt her heart leap in spite of herself, clutching a freshly brewed mug to her chest.                ***************************************************************** The sea cave was damp and poorly lit; the dark and humidity weighed in on Adam from all sides as he waded his way deeper into its gaping mouth. The next obstacle was a mystery to the contestants but Adam had a pretty good hunch of what would be awaiting him at the end of the passage. Koi fish tickled his feet and he realised the salt water was making him thirsty again but there was still another hour to go until the next water station.

When he finally saw the faint glimmer of a lantern up ahead, Adam braced himself for the inevitable. Approaching the light source, he heard the ruckus in the cage before he saw it clearly. The creature whipped around abruptly as it sensed him getting closer, and all Adam could see were a pair of bright red eyes without irises staring blindly at him, like glowing rubies demanding attention.

Don’t look them in the eye! Adam remembered his training and the instructions his mentor had relayed to him but at that moment, his mind was taken over by a force stronger than he ever imagined. Flashbacks, painful memories from his childhood then his teenage years presented themselves, clear as day in the gloomy depths of the cave. His father dying, the numerous failures in his dwindling acting career, his failed romantic relationships and friends that had betrayed him along the way. The images hit him like a brick to the face, replaying over and over again like a faulty tape, and he found himself clutching his head in pain, moaning for it to stop.

Fight the bad with the good.

He knew what he had to do. It took all the energy he could muster, but he summoned the happy memories from the recesses of his consciousness: getting his degree, acting in his first play, Anna, especially Anna. Keeping his eyes shut, the searing pain in his head began to subside and he found himself clutching for the drawstring bag tied to his belt and poured its contents into his palm. Edging closer to the cage, he could hear the creature growling now, getting ready for its next meal. When he felt close enough, Adam threw the powdered substance at the cage and heard a squeal of pain. Opening his eyes, he saw with relief that the glow had gone out in the monster’s eyes and it thrashed about the cage, half-fish, half-rodent and every bit as terrifying as he had imagined it would be. He took aim with his blade and delivered a blow to its side, reducing its violent movements to mere, involuntary jolts as it lay on the floor of the cage. Then reaching in, he made for its eyes and carefully extracted them from their sockets, feeling slime ooze over his fingertips. *************************************************** It was the sound of the phone ringing that woke Anna with a start, and as she stared dismally down at her coffee-soaked t-shirt, she realised the TV screen had gone blank.

“Hello?” her voice was distracted as she frantically looked around for the remote.

“Anna, have you seen the latest BoD updates? He’s made it to the third obstacle before the final!”

Her brother’s voice was shrill with emotion and when Anna finally got the TV back on, she saw him, her Adam, making his way through the arid remains of the rain forest, looking exhausted and poorly, but not hurt in any visible way and still very much alive.

She turned up the volume and Dean Harper’s voice over came on: “And here we see one of our final 2 contestants making his way cautiously through what has become of the former Amazon Jungle. He’s looking pretty tired, worn out even but seems to be in good spirits. And that’s saying something, considering the last 2 grueling obstacles he had to face. That sea monster was no joke! What do you reckon, Hannah?” “Agreed, Dean! For me, it was the insects crawling all over him in that enclosed vent. I’m shuddering all over just thinking about that!” “Well, he’s still got 3 more obstacles to get through and Chase is ahead of him again. It’s always these crucial last few hours when anything could change in the Battle of Death.” Melissa knew what was coming next. Fingering the emerald pendant around her neck, she suddenly remembered her brother was still on the line. “He’s got this. This is where he’ll bring it home. I can feel it.” ********************************************************************************* Sweat beaded on his forehead as Adam threaded through the swamp, wondering ironically how it could still be referred to as such when all lifeforms, plant and animal, had long been wiped out centuries ago because of the change in temperature, leaving nothing but a bleached out version of its former self that was controlled by a laboratory. Three more to go. Just three more.

The next obstacle was by all accounts easy for Adam. All he had to do was find that tree. He whipped out his compass and watched the needle reset. Just a bit further East. The shrill cry piercing the air told him he was getting closer and sure enough, he reached his destination within less than 100 meters. Adam had always been a good climber and now as he skillfully made his way to the top of the tree, the rough bark scratched at his palms and edged him on. The bird was exactly where he expected to be, perched in its nest, ever vigilant. It was both blind and deaf, rendering its other senses stronger and it felt Adam approaching, sniffing the air through its foghorn beak, and started up a fresh series of squawks.

“It’s OK buddy, I’m a friend not a foe.” When Adan was within touching distance he gently blew in the bird’s direction. One puff, then two and on the fourth, the creature seemed to calm. He reached out to stroke its feathers and it gave into his touch. When its beak opened again, it was a tender melody, almost a song that emerged, and as the tune grew louder, the vortex appeared in thin air before them.

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

He gave the bird a last tender pet and leaped off the branch, jumping head first into the gaping hole in front of him.

Two more! He could almost taste victory.

Landing on his feet, Adam shielded his eyes from the gray sunlight as the vortex closed behind him. He could already feel the air prickling his skin and the chemical stench stinging his nostrils. He whipped out the hazmat suit from his rucksack and hurriedly dressed, putting the headpiece on first, knowing that all it took was a few extra minutes for the hazardous atmosphere to start wreaking havoc on his body.

The place was an arid desert, without an oasis in sight. The quick sand made it hard to step forward but up ahead, he could just about make out the burly figure of Chase, already busy digging, so he broke out into the closest thing to a run he could manage.

As he got closer, he saw Chase bent over, shovel abandoned to his side but something was off. He wasn’t wearing his hazmat suit. Boils had erupted all over the exposed parts of his skin and when he turned to look at Adam, he saw that his face was horribly inflamed almost to comic proportions. Upon registering who Adam was through the slits that remained of his eyes, Chase began to dig quicker, flinging piles of sand this way and that with his paw-like swollen hands. Adam could not bear to see him like that; he reminded him of his father on his deathbed after his stint in the Eco wars. Thinking quickly, he rummaged around in his backpack and produced a silvery blanket… it wasn’t as effective as a hazmat suit but it was better than nothing.

“Here, take this!” Chase looked first at the blanket in surprise then at Adam suspiciously. “It’s pure I swear. You’ll be dead within minutes if you don’t.” He took the blanket and wrapped it around himself making sure to give maximum coverage to his head and face.

“It’s somewhere around here. Signal picked it up. Help me dig. Can’t use the shovel anymore” Adam obeyed, reaching for the shovel and within minutes, he felt the clink of a hard metallic surface. As both men lifted the chest out of its sandy grave, the lid popped open of its own accord and a hologram of a man's elaborately bearded head appeared in front of them. "Congratulations, comrade! You have reached the final obstacle of the Battle of Death! Now, listen carefully, to- but what's this?" Magnified by the hologram, the large green eyes looked in bewilderment from Adam to Chase, then - "TWO finalists? This cannot be! Well, it's never happened before, but I suppose - yes it could work." Addressing the confused men in front of him again, the bearded man spoke with more authority this time: "Gentlemen, congratulations on getting this far, but know that there can only be ONE winner of the Battle of Death! So as you progress to the final stage, know this; this is NOT a team activity - every man for himself." Both men looked at each other then nodded in agreement. "So, without further ado - please make you way to the vortex. God speed and good luck!" Adam started towards the vortex, which had opened up again behind them, but before he had even reached it, a curtain of black surrounded him. The desert, the hologram, even Chase, all were gone and he suddenly stood quite alone in a dark and empty limbo. ****************************************************** Dean's voice was calm and reassuring as it echoed off the walls of the tiny apartment. "We seem to be having some slight transmission issues, folks, but nothing to worry about. The action will be back on before you know it. Let's cut to some of the most recent highlights in the meantime, while our technicians work on getting everything back to normal." But, as Anna felt the emerald suddenly burn into her skin like a hot iron, she knew something had gone very, very wrong.


Rachel!! Jeff!! Get your asses down here this instant. No pizza for a month if you are not down in 10....9….8….7….6….5…..4…..3…...2….. "We are here, Mommy. We are here." Two pairs of feet ran down the stairs and out the door to the car standing in the driveway. ‘Great! Let's go now. The vehicles will begin to traffic the roads in an hour. We must get out of the city before that.’ said Lisa, locking the door and keeping the keys in her pocket. ‘Wait, but we can order pizza next month now right?’ A chuckle made its way up Lisa’s throat and escaped from her lips. ‘Yes. Yes, you can. Let’s get moving for now, shall we?’ A collective hurray followed the proclamation and the car moved down onto the road, marking the beginning of a new adventure. Rachel and Jeff were going on their first-ever camping trip together with their parents. In the 7 years they had been on this planet earth, not once had they seen the jungles in their life. Sure, they’d been to Paris, Tokyo, New Delhi, New York, Sydney, and even Rome. Their parents loved traveling and saw to it that they traveled every 4 months. But never had they gone on an adventure into the woods. The kids were excited beyond belief. Rachel had even packed her binoculars. Jeff had taken his torchlight and rope with him. Their parents had told them that this trip would be different. They won’t go roam about the city, learn about its history and take nice pictures for the memory wall in their house. They would have to walk, run, get dirty in the mud, and even sleep without a proper bed. They knew they were bound to get tired but they didn’t know just how much. Nevertheless, the trip to the Chandertal Reservoir was going to be a memorable one, both for the kids and their parents. Why one may ask? One pair was coming here for the first time and the other after 20 long years.

The car ride to the Reservoir was filled with laughter, music, and fun. After a long drive of 5 hours, the family of four had finally got onto the road leading into the woods. By the time they reached their final destination, it was 2:00 p.m. and the sun shone brightly over their heads. The family found themselves in a clearing surrounded by trees in all directions. Any normal person would probably have said that they are in the middle of nowhere but Lisa and Ryan, they knew this place by heart. They had spent the best summer of their lives in this very forest at this very spot. Lisa and Ryan took out all the necessary equipment, set up the tents, and put up the barbeque station while the kids roamed about and inspected the place. Jeff seemed to be enchanted by the slow-moving bugs in the nearby bush and spent his entire evening sitting on his haunches admiring them. Rachel, however, was more energetic and ran around, climbed the broken trees, and annoyed Jeff.

The evening had them all tired and hungry. Lisa and Ryan sat in their chairs, looking out into the jungle. “They are having fun,” said Lisa, looking fondly over her children. “That they are. I told you they’d love this place. We did too.” “It's been so long huh? Who would have thought that you and I, of all the people, would end up together and bring our kids camping to this very particular spot.” “It's where it all began, love. Of course, we were bound to end up here.” The conversation was halted by two simultaneous shouts of “Mommy!!! We are hungry. What do we have?” Ryan laughed and carried the children into the van where the food was set up on the table. “Dig in, little monsters,” said Lisa as everyone took a seat at the table. The kids were quick to sleep after the tiring journey and dozed off directly after dinner. Taking a last look at the sleeping figures, Ryan made his way out of the tent, taking two bottles of beer on his way.

“Here,” said Ryan, handing one bottle to Lisa, who was sitting comfortably in front of the bonfire. Lisa smiled, took the open bottle, and clinked it with Ryan’s.

‘To old times.’ Clink. ‘Cheers.’

The stars in the night sky seemed like dancers running across an open room. Shining here at one second, and there at the next. The rustling of trees, chirping of the crickets, and the occasional sound of breaking of a branch rang out in the otherwise quiet forest. Ryan and Lisa sat in their folding chairs, taking occasional sips from their beer bottles.

“It was a night like this, wasn’t it? Clear sky, a forest eerily quiet, and a bonfire to keep us warm. Except there were 7 of us back then.”

A chuckle escaped Ryan’s lips as he murmured “We were all young. And so was the night.” Flashback “Get the food ready, boys. I and the girls will be done with the tents in a few. And you better cook it right, James. I don’t want to eat raw meat after doing physical labor.”, a shout was heard in the distance as the 4 boys danced around the campfire in their shorts.

“Yeah yeah. The food’s almost ready. And don’t blame us for having to do all the manual work. It was you who lost the bet, after all.” Laughter rang in the forest as the boys moved to high five each other and got the food ready for the girls.

30 minutes later saw the 7 teenagers sitting in a circle around the fire, plates of food in their hands while they laughed, sang, and played games. “Let’s play Dumb Charades”, suggested one and a murmur of agreement rang about. “James, you go first.” The 7 teenagers sat outside late into the night - talking and laughing. They were planning to go explore the lake nearby the next day. If looked hard enough, they may even find the Japanese Tombstone hidden somewhere in the jungle. Agreeing to meet at 7 a.m. sharp the next morning, they bid each other farewell and moved into their respective tents.

The next morning, all 7 of them were dressed in trekking clothes, bags packed with essential equipment, and ready to find the lake. They divided into three groups - of 2, 2, and 3 respectively and wandered into the forest. They were on a mission and they were going to complete it no matter what. The whole day, they searched the woods, looking for a tell-tale sign of water or the tombstone but to no avail. The group returned to the meeting point at 7 p.m. and proceeded to share their discoveries. Lisa’s group which consisted of her and James had found a bunker about three kilometers from their camp. Ryan, Maya, and Ollie hadn’t found anything interesting but they did come across a few pink ribbons hung on the tree branches. They’d followed them for two hours until they disappeared suddenly at a diverging path. Frank and Lorelai had only managed to go around in circles the entire day and only realized their mistake an hour before they were to gather back at the camp. This brought everyone to laughter. No matter how futile their efforts felt, they couldn’t deny the fact that they had fun.

The group then divided into two, based on who won rock-paper-scissors, one making supper and the other lighting the fire, and arranging the beds. They played truth and dare this time. When Maya was dared to kiss Ollie, Frank had seen red and stopped her from kissing Ollie by kissing her himself. That had certainly been entertaining. They’d called it a night after two more hours of drinking and sharing stories, for they still needed to wake up early tomorrow. The party once again began searching for the lake and the stone the next day. This time, they succeeded. Frank and Maya, when looking for a place to make out in private, away from the prying eyes, had accidentally tumbled into what they thought was simply a nook but had been the passage to the lake. They had gone and looked around the place and if one were to believe their words, it was simply mesmerizing. It seemed to have come to life from a fairy tale. That night, the group celebrated. Beer was replaced by champagne and the party danced to the light music which blared from the car speakers. The night had been filled with more than just music that time. Something in the air had shifted. They just didn’t know what.

The next day, the seven of them went to the lake together. Uncovering the passage hidden by the Ivy, Lisa questioned the truth behind Frank’s statement. It did not seem anything like a fairy tale to her. If anything, the tunnel smelled horrible and birds flew out towards them once in a while. “Just a bit more, keep moving. Go on, don’t stop.” After walking for about 100 meters, they came across another ivy covering, crossing which Lisa found the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Surrounded by the forest on three sides and a veil of flowers on the other, a lake of clear water stood simmering in the afternoon sun. The blue water was so clear that they could even see their reflections in it. The group jumped up in joy and quickly got rid of their clothes, jumping into the water as soon as possible. They’d splashed each other, thrown people into the lake, and even had a jumping competition. This was the kind of fun they’d hoped they would have. It was a dream come true.

After having fun in the lake, the group had gone back to their camping site, making dinner and having fun. They had found the lake and all that was left was the tombstone. They didn’t need to wake up early though now, since they were already done with the lake. The next few afternoons had them running around the jungle searching for the tombstone. In the evening, they all swam in the lake, taking recluse from the sun in the water. One afternoon, when Lisa and Ryan were going to the lake, they saw another ivy veil a few meters before the entrance to the lake. This time, instead of a tunnel, there was simply a cobblestone path. A path that led them to the place where they most wanted to go. The Japanese Tombstone. They ran back to the lake to inform the others about the same and everyone cheered upon seeing the tombstone. They had finally accomplished their mission. They had found the two things they were looking for and they had had more fun than they could have imagined. The trip was a total success. Upon reaching back to the site, everyone sat huddled around the fire, once again sipping on their beer bottles, playing games, and laughing their hearts out.

They were going to go back to the city tomorrow. But they will be taking back much more than just a few pretty pictures or fun stories to tell the others. They will be taking with them stronger friendships, new relationships, and numerous promises to never forget this trip. The trip where they found themselves while finding the lake and the tombstone. Morning came earlier than expected that night. They had barely slept when the morning sun penetrated through the tents and woke them up from their slumber. They’d proceeded to get out of the woods soon after, singing songs in the car on their way back home.

Five years later, Ryan had asked Lisa out and they had been going strong ever since. Maya and Frank had ended up together, and so had James and Lorelai. Ollie, however, had chosen to stay a bachelor for as long as possible, for he was too much in love with his adventurous life for him to want to be tied down and attain stability. As far as Lisa knew, he was still traveling around the world, his travel agency making more than enough money in a year.

End of Flashback Lisa stared fondly at the fire, reminiscing about the days she spent in this very place as a teenager with her friends. Friends who were now all too busy to meet regularly. They still met each other twice a year, but that was about it.

“You know, I had planned to propose to you near the lake.” Ryan’s soft words broke the comfortable silence, eliciting exactly the reaction Ryan wanted from Lisa. “You did? Why didn’t you, then? Oh right, we eloped.” Lisa chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it. Yes.”

“We had so much fun here, Ryan. The jokes, the confessions, the teasing, I miss it. I miss everything about them.”, said Lisa. “I know you do, Love. I do, too. But now we have another story to write. A story that won’t always revolve around us.” A sigh made its way up Lisa’s throat. “I know. We should go to bed. It’s late and the kids are alone in the tent.” “Sure, let’s go. Goodnight. I love you.” “I love you too.” Lisa and Ryan shared a quick kiss before making their way inside the tents. They needed to sleep on time, all right. They were going to begin a new chapter of their lives. A chapter whose heroes were now Rachel and Jeff, and not Lisa and Ryan. They were here to show their kids what the best summer of their life was. One day, Rachel and Jeff might do the same.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence: The signs had always been there.** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Use at least **3** of the following words in your story: - paint - inevitable - ordinary - grim - effervescent - neighbor This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense if necessary (i.e. “had” to “have”), but the original sentence should stay intact. **Stories without the above sentence will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Second:** - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/katherine_c - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 - **Crit Star** - u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Crit Star** - u/TrickOfLight113 *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Check out our brand new feature, on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The days grew short this time, like usual. A harsh, cold wind sleekly gliding down the cold concrete stairwell and into J's home. His first awareness was of freezing chill, then of dark sky's beyond his barred window. God it was cold, like a bucket of water in Winter, making him shiver in every stinging breath. "Fuck-" He said through chattering teeth, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Goodmorning." He spoke to himself, internally noting the irony. It was neither good, nor morning, it was around 5PM, the grey sun already on the horizon, kissing the sky dark with cloud and rain. Leaning his bare chest against the wall beneath the window, he could just about see the ground below, barren and lifeless for what seemed to be miles. Nothing's changed. With a euphoric stretch, J drudged out of the dark room and into the hall. A voice spoke from the opposite room. "Morning, Big J." It was a friend. Turning to look, J saw his face between the bars on his door. A strong jaw complimented by grey stubble and grassy eyes softened by a pair of round glasses, slightly crooked on his button-like nose. Despite having white hair, he was not evidently any older than J, maybe Twentyish, possibly Thirty. His name was Simon, though a family name eluded both of them. "Morning, Simon." The routine was simple, wake up, greet Simon, eat food, die of boredom, go to sleep. That's what made it so brain numbingly tedious. Simon was the only other person J had talked to in what seemed like years, and an exit always seemed so close. That door at the other end of the hallway leading to the stairs down, but forever remaining locked. J experienced what he referred to as a "Blue Demon", wherein he would be subject to cry-laughter and mania, screaming and bellowing and maddening throes. At once he fell to his knees, eyes beset by hot tears. He screamed like an unoiled gate until his voice grew hoarse. He punched the hard ground until his fists painted the floor, and he called to the sky as if to challenge all who listened. He cried out in pain and anguish, not quite knowing why. Eventually, the Blue Demon left him, and he clutched his sore hands to his naked chest in regret. "Fuck." Was all he knew to say. Following his episode, J entered to totally empty Kitchen, a room with high windows and open spaces, decorated by cracks in the concrete and stains of blood from previous Blue Demons. Easily dozens of them lined the wals and floors, along the counter where he prepared the food, on the tables where he ate it, in the sinks where he left his dishes, on the floors where he laid and cried. Just a single clay cup of cold water and a stick of lentils, which he consumed within the minute and returned to his room, just as barren as the kitchen, with just as much blood. "Remember anything yet?" Simon asked across the hall. "Still nothing, you?" "Fuck-all, it's like a blackbox in here." "Mmm." J leaned against the wall, the light from the setting sun just vanishing from his room. "How long has it been now?" J asked. "Since what?" "Since the Ice Box." Simon understood at once, and let out a cheek-flapping breath. "Like, four months? I dunno, man, it gets real foggy after a while." "Tell me about it, I'm half tempted to join him." Simon fell quiet for a moment, and J felt that those words were best for himself alone. "I'm sorry-" He said, letting his eyes shift to a corner. "You can't leave me, J." "I know, I'm sorry." The two settled into an uncomfortable silence. Until J was fairly certain Simon had passed asleep. Once again rising, J returned to the kitchen, where he ventured to the very back of the room, to a windowless door. Pressing one hand against it, J felt a rush of white chill bleed from the gap as it opened. With a final heave, J pushed the door fully open, but stood away from the threshold. At the end of the cold, bright room, the say the emaciated form of Dás, sitting with hairs clung together by ice, and features made heavy with thick frost. His pale blue skin had sunk to his bones, and his limp figure had slumped back against the wall. For whatever reason, J kept thinking about him, about the young boy laying in the Ice Box. The last he had seen him move was the aforementioned four months prior, when Dás had occupied the third room on the hall. Now that room stood remote, and the Ice Box stood hauntingly close. An escape, but an end. J wondered how alone they truly were in this building, if he and Simon were the last ones, or if this tower on the edge of nowhere housed more just like him, willing to fight for a while, not remembering why, until eventually... ...they would step into the Ice.


There is no 15 minutes of fame anymore. It had been shortened to 3 minutes, the average length of a viral video. The video was a wide angle shot. The caption was “Fat Funeral Fail!” It was a celebrity funeral of an 800 pound professional wrestler, so their was video. The oversized casket must have weighed a ton. The pallbearers carrying the casket down the aisle and up the platform built to accommodate the large crowd were all family members, 8 men, 7 of whom were in excess of 450 pounds, the runt of the litter looking diminutive at 200 pounds. They got to a certain point on the platform, and the platform failed under the weight. That was funny, but it was only the beginning. One by one the huge pallbearers fell through, but the casket stayed up.  Two men, one on each side, held all of that weight, the two smallest. It was clear. That the TV show superhero, McCool, had all of the weight, while the fat man was their to balance. They gently put the casket down and helped the authorities with the fallen men. It was a short fall, less than 8 feet, bumps and bruises, but several had chest pains and one had a heart attack, services scheduled for next week. Rafferty  wore a brand-new suit for his brother Aiden’s funeral. He had a closet full of expensive Armani suits, not a “Big and Tall” like this one. This one was a two for one, something you never see at the high end stores. He had “fatted out” of his other suits. He hung on to them in a vain hope that he would fit into them again, one day.  No matter what he did, he got fatter. He exercised more than most people. He ate less, but somehow, he gained weight. It was like he was that guy in the Stephen King novel “Thinner” only the opposite, where he got fatter until he died of something fat related. He had to take one of his heart pills and lie down. Rafferty was exhausted. Being a pallbearer had taken a lot out of him. It wasn’t the 452 pounds he carried, although his heart was racing to the peak zone when carrying the casket. His wristwatch tracker had warned him he was standing into danger with his heart rate. It wasn’t all him. Aiden’s casket was oversized, as he had Aiden beat in the weight loss department. Aiden weighed in at 836 pounds at the time of death. His whole family, all the MacHales died young. All of them died of heart attacks, related to their extreme weight, possibly due to some failure of their Irish gene pool. Aiden was only 55—old by MacHale standards. Part of Rafferty’s problem was emotional exhaustion. When the priest had asked him to come forward and make a few comments at the funeral, he had lost it. Aiden and he had been estranged for so many years. They were close in age, and their parents had always made them rivals and not friends. It seemed as if their parents sucked more than most parents. Not everyone’s mother died in a rare accident when their 900-pound father crushed her in his sleep. When Rafferty the younger won his first hotdog eating contest, it was on. They made Aiden change seats and put Rafferty at the head of the table. They had long since changed their lifestyles, from hotdog eating contests to more traditional obesity sports. They were still morbidly obese. They were both great athletes and gravitated to sports where their girth was not a disadvantage. Aiden made his living as a professional wrestler with the handle “Doctor Angry” where he would allow the fellow wrestler to hit him and try to move him, and of course he was too big to move. Then he would get angry. The crowd would chant “Bood-Duh!, Bood-Duh!” He had this patented move called the Durham Buddha, where he would allow the opponent to knock him down and use the momentum of his fat and the bounce off the floor to come back up and clock him with a head butt. There were fans of his beer yoga class, his red meat diet plan, his radio talk show where he played psychologist (even thought his doctorate was in canine veterinary psychology technology from Papa Doc University in the Caribbean.) Traditional Buddhists were incensed that he used Buddhism for violence. He had once been attacked and hospitalized by an angry mob of Buddhists, as he didn’t think it was fair to fight back, and it would send the wrong message. What did they think would happen? You had 800-pound Doctor Angry in a 1,000-pound gold plated casket with family members as pallbearers, all more than 450 pounds except for Liam. There was the ambulance as Cousin Finn had a widow-maker heart attack— which he should have survived with the immediate attention courtesy of the local media. Four other relatives had to be treated for chest pains at the funeral, either sympathetic or triggered by the stress of the funeral. The amazing thing was 180-pound Liam’s side of the casket stayed up when everyone else on that side fell, he was super strong.

He didn’t go by Liam anymore. It’s like he disowned the family. He had legally changed his name to  a stage name: McCool. Most didn’t know he was related to Doctor Angry until the funeral. He had taken it too far. He thought he really was a superhero because he played one on TV. They were supposed to have lunch. But wow, he did look good. What was his secret? Hollywood trainers? He said he was going to tell Rafferty the “origin story of McCool” and that he could be a superhero too. Yep, probably writing some stupid book, further monetizing his good luck from not getting the fat gene, while he was cursed. Life was not fair.

“Liam” McCool was such a showoff. He did this crazy parkour routine getting Cousin Mike to the paramedics, and then disappeared up a building. He had a TV show called McCool where he played a superhero. I guess he really did do his own stunts. Rafferty drove through McDonald’s and ordered two double quarter pounders with cheese and a large diet coke. The portions at the restaurant where he was meeting McCool were small, and he had to keep up his strength. He didn’t want to lose muscle mass.  They were Irish by heritage, but let’s face it—Irish food sucked at the Irish pub where they were eating, it was all potatoes all the time. He was going low carb, with meat like in the quarter pounders.Rafferty ate his pre-lunch snack in the parking lot of the restaurant, trying not to hyperventilate. He had anxiety with expressing his feelings. They were having lunch at the Embassy Suites Hotel near the airport in Philadelphia, featuring a beautiful atrium with a high end restaurant with all plants, water features, glass elevators, exotic birds, and twenty floors of rooms the overlooked the internal landscape.   Of course, McCool hadn’t arrived yet, fashionably late, that jerk. They had reservations so he was seated. Just then he got a text from McCool. Sorry I’m late. Then another text: About to drop in.  Look up. McCool dove off the rail of about the 19 floor did a somersault, and hit feet first on the balcony of about the 17 th  floor, and thrust his way off into space, somersaulted, repeat, ten or fifteen times until he landed in a gymnast stuck landing in the middle of the atrium. Everyone stood and clapped. Well, everyone except him. Show off. They must have been filming for the show. He can’t believe he didn’t notice until he heard a director yell “Cut! That’s a rap.” “Hey Rafferty—what’s up” said McCool. He wasn’t even sweating. Rafferty was still sweating from the exertion of walking into the hotel from the valet parking station. “I mean besides your cholesterol, your weight, I have you in the Mac-great white- Whale pool---your next.”  McCool snickered. “Nice. You jerk” said Rafferty.  They were brothers. They ragged on each other regularly. They exchanged some unpleasantries and laughed, just like old times, or so it seemed to McCool. Apparently, Rafferty was having a dramatic moment. McCool just let him rant wondering whether it was nature, nurture, or his mother’s hormone treatments that made him so dramatic.

“It’s not fair. You show off. You really do your own stunts. You are a TV superhero. Big whoop! I work out so hard and all I do is gain weight! You missed the fat gene and you are here taunting me! Its like you were born on third base and here you are bragging like you hit a triple!” McCool smiled. “Is that all? Come on, tell me how you really feel. It’s okay I checked; they have a defibrillator onsite—several in fact in case you need two shocks at once to penetrate the blubber.”

“Yeah! And another thing! If you really are super, why aren’t you out there really helping people? If you are super strong, can climb like spiderman, shouldn’t you be really doing something?” “Spiderman” said McCool. “With great power, comes great responsibility.” He paused, took a sip of some water. “Yeah!” said Rafferty. Just then the server came. Rafferty ordered an 18-ounce ribeye with all the trimmings, seemingly forgetting his quarter pounder rationale. McCool ordered a large potato soup. “Well Rafferty. I invited you here to listen to my origin story. Perhaps some of these questions you have will be answered if you will listen this time. But, like I said, I have you in the pool. I don’t think you will.” Rafferty called McCool a colloquialism for a man who doesn’t bathe and has carnal knowledge of mothers. “Sticks and stone, Bra, sticks and stones.” McCool laughed. “Do you even know why I chose McCool for my name?” asked McCool. “You think your cool, obviously,” said Rafferty.

“Nope. Everyone else thinks I’m cool. Also, we have the same genes. The superhero gene and the fat gene? One and the same.” Rafferty looked perplexed. “McCool is the Americanization Mac Cumhail, the legendary Irish demigod of myth and legend. Do you remember when I went to study with the Fionn Monks in Ireland?” asked McCool “That cult!” said Rafferty. “They aren’t even Catholic! The protestants don’t like them either.” “Remember that book I sent you, ‘How the Irish Saved Civilization?” asked McCool. “All of my technical reading is on cosmetics and their application. I only have time for novels.” Said Rafferty. “Well if you actually read, Rafferty, you would know that catchy title described how the monasteries in Ireland preserved knowledge during the dark ages. The Fionn Monks are part of our family tree and preserved the truth behind the myth of Fionn Mac Cumhail.” “Weren’t Mac Cumhail’s giants?” asked Rafferty. “Is that what google says? Why do you have to act like you know more than you do? Why can’t you listen, just listen, to anybody? I can see you googling it under the table, you have your phone in your lap. I think you have some quarter pounder on your tie...” Rafferty called him another name that implied his mother and father weren’t married when he was born, something that made no sense since they were brothers and McCool was the youngest.

“They were giants—like you, like good old Doctor Angry, may he rest in peace. Did you see the size of that crane they used to lower him into the hole?  The truth is that gene that makes you fat is a gift if you are responsible. With great power, comes great responsibility.” McCool took a bite of potato soup. Then, he pushed the bowl away as if he were finished. “Let me ask you. Do you still have digestive problems, I mean beyond what all fat men have?” asked McCool. “You are so freaking insensitive and politically incorrect!” shouted Rafferty. He seemed like he might cry.

“Yes, I have to eat as I do because—” “Yes, was fine got it.” Interrupted McCool. “I don’t have all day. Spare me the violins.” “Did you ever notice that you can have a negative caloric balance for a long period of time yet gain weight?” asked McCool. “It seems that way but that’s impossible” said Rafferty. “No, it is not only possible, but a fact. I am living proof. It is the MacHale superpower. A mutation evolved during one of the many potato famines back in our homeland, a long time ago.  Our wonderful bodies harvest more energy from food than any other creature on earth. You can survive and grow on one small potato a day.” Said McCool. Rafferty looked incredulous. “Do you find you are more flatulent than most people?” McCool asked. Rafferty didn’t understand the long word. “That you fart a lot?” “Well, yeah,” said Rafferty. “How is this a superpower and not a curse?” “Simple” said McCool. “Most athletes are limited based on how quickly their muscles can be supplied nutrients. We aren’t. All we must do is eat less and push the limits, like the Fionn Monks taught me. That is how I achieved so much.” “Well, if you really are so super why aren’t you out there really helping people, like a real life spiderman?” asked Rafferty. “I did- for a while. Do you remember the vigilante they called Jabba the Nut? That was me!  Then the government wanted me to work for them. They made like they wanted to study me. I feigned incompetence and went into the movies. I can help more people this way anyway. I can do outreach. I want to focus my energy on my brains not brawn.”  He took a sip of water. “That couldn’t have been you. That guy wore a hood and was huge, like Jabba the Hut. Like me. He wore a hood and fought crime, worked with the navy seals-“ McCool interrupted, as the only way to get a word in with Rafferty, “ I was a giant, like the Fionn Monks of old. I started off with them like this, smaller. I did not want to focus my energy on maintaining the physical muscle. That means I must eat much less, and the hunger never goes away—but I am healthy.” McCool paused. There was a rare moment of silence. McCool hoped that meant Rafferty was thinking. “Do you find you sleep less than most people?” asked McCool. “You know I always have had insomnia” said Rafferty. “It’s not insomnia. You just don’t physically need the sleep. I sleep four hours a night. I study the scriptures. First Timothy says physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come.” “When I was fighting crime for real, I would spend four hours a day training my body. I now use my MacHale energy to become wiser, and more knowledgeable. I find this incredible stamina with which we are gifted can be for working one’s brain as well, and it is preferable.” McCool put an envelope on the table and slid it to Rafferty. “This is an all-expense paid trip to Ireland. You can stay with my friends in the Monastery, in the County Mayo, village of Westport. This is my gift to you. Go see for yourself. This superpower isn’t a free lunch. You have to work at it. ”

“You see Rafferty, every blessing is a curse, and every curse a blessing. It is what you do with it. I know a young man who had an illness that prevented him from pursuing his dream and his natural talent at basketball. Man could that kid shoot a basketball. I think maybe God took him off the basketball court on purpose so he could be a writer. Think of all the great writers you ever read. They all had something besides desire that put them into it. You could have been a great writer, but you made more money being the CEO of a cosmetics company. Who has time for writing?  To be a writer you need to be cursed.  I mean you make no money and have no clue if you will succeed or fail until that fateful day when people start reading your stuff. “ Let me think about it,” said Rafferty. Then Rafferty passed gas, loudly. “I need to check, make sure I won’t be excommunicated. I mean they are a cult.” McCool took three running steps, jumped, and did his leapfrog parkour thing along the balconies, going up this time, effortlessly gliding to the 19 th  floor, like a superhero, like McCool. “You do that!” he shouted behind him. He knew he wouldn’t. He knew that there would be an oversized Mac-whale casket in Philly within six months, but he hoped he was wrong.

This was the age of miracles and wonders, but not the kind Paul Simon meant in his song the Boy in the Bubble. Today’s miracle is blindness to wonders, and the ability to take offense at just about anything. They invented a miracle cigarette called vaping, where it doesn’t have the tar and smoke particles. One could smoke a little and not get cancer. Is it a miracle? No, because with our selfish evil desire’s children vape without limit of any kind but the destruction of their lungs.  They invented a cellphone camera to get awesome pictures, but folks kill themselves taking more and more crazy selfies falling off cliffs. We have food and complain we are fat.

The MacHales are gifted to survive all manners of famine and protect their people as leaders, but they die young and the size of whales. McCool wept.


I. From the Journal of Ambrose Sykes, Aspiring Writer & Poet The Curious Case of Storms in Graveyards – 1849 The graveyard blazes to life in a brief flash of white light, and all at once, the lightning seems to inhabit every space–each imperfection on the silent sentinels keeping watch over the dead. Angelic faces weep. Crosses burn in the heat of it. It is chaos in an instant and no more. When it dies, darkness returns. Layers of the blackest ink spilled–spread across the dotted cemetery, fleeing the long, annoyed groan of thunder as it mutters and curses to have been so inconvenienced by such brightness. Those who inhabit the graveyard, of course, are immune to all–such is their lot in death. Bones have no care for the rattle of thunder. Skulls with their hollowed out sockets are blind to the startling transformation of night to day and back to night again. What care does the dead have for storms? Seasons change, skin and organs decompose, and the burdens of those beloved lives lost grow lighter as the years gnaw away a life once lived. All regrets, joys, sorrows, fears, wants, and needs soak into the ground like rain during a storm.

But for the living, a storm in a graveyard has all the right makings for disaster. Not only does one find themselves out in the elements–dangerous to the lowliest pauper as to the richest king–but to be alone in such sacred, solemn space. To find oneself surrounded by so many and yet no one at all. In the daylight, even if during a storm, it would be no issue. The darkness, however–and a curious darkness, one black as pitch if pardon can be given for such a common phrase–creates illusions in the mind. Shadows of a resting oak turn to reaching, skeletal fingers. The hoot of an owl can be confused for the wailing of spirit. Oh!--the cliché of it all! When we find ourselves caught in cliches–is that not the most unfortunate disaster of them all?

And yet, here I am. Caught in a cliché. Faced with a storm, a graveyard, and the horrifying thought that one day, I will join the rotting corpses beneath my feet. I am crouched in the archway of an ancient mausoleum with only my journal and pen as protection. The rain beats down as if punishing the earth for some wrongdoing while lightning and thunder trade insults above me (lightning the more violent, obviously, and thunder, quite wordy). I am keenly aware that it is high time I take my leave but find all rational thoughts being ignored. My feet are incapable of movement. I am as the statues here in this cemetery. What can I do but write about it? My pen (and, daresay, my mind) is the only thing I have leave to use.

I shall wait it out. The storm will pass. For what is time to the dead or I, their reluctant guest? II. New Harbor Police Department Detective Bureau Time: 6:03 P.M. Date: AUGUST 8, 1849 Nature of Incident: BRAWL DURING FUNERAL Arrests: THREE MALES, TWO FEMALES

Injuries: ONE FEMALE SUSTAINED A BLACK EYE. THE OTHER HAD FINGERNAILS DUG INTO HER ARM. MALES ALL HAD BRUISING ON ARMS AND LEGS. During a funeral, a fight broke out between Mister Mark Dickson, male, 46 years of age, and Mrs. Sarah Nelson, female, 52 years of age. Mrs. Nelson assaulted Mr. Dickson by kicking him in the shin. Another female, Mrs. Janet Dickson, 38 years of age, hit Mrs. Nelson in the eye. Mister Amos Dickson and Mister Cecil Nelson attempted to break up the fight and received hits to their arms and legs as a result. All five persons were arrested and taken in for questioning. The three major offenders (S. Nelson, M. Dickson, and J. Dickson) claimed to be “possessed by something unknown” during the incident with very little memory of what started the brawl. Mr. Amos Dickson and Mr. Cecil Nelson provided positive character statements about the assailants. All made amends and were released shortly thereafter.

During the arrest, Miss Paula Sampson approached Officer Daniels with a journal. Journal was wet from last night’s storm, but still legible. Blood stains were found on the pages. Several pages have been removed. The journal appears to belong to a Mister Ambrose Sykes. Further investigation is required.

III. POLICE SEEK HELP New Harbor , August 9 –Local resident Ambrose Sykes was reported missing by his sister three days prior. A journal of his was recently discovered by mourners in Holy Family Cemetery and handed to the police. Foul play is suspected. Any information the public may have on the whereabouts of Mister Sykes, please contact the police or the Sykes family. Time is of the essence. New Harbor Times, 1849 IV. BODY OF MISSING LOCAL MAN DISCOVERED Tragic Accident Takes a Life New Harbor, September 2– Twenty-seven year old Ambrose Sykes, son of prominent business owner Bram Sykes and his wife Beatrice as well as elder brother to Miss Rachel Sykes, is believed to have passed away on August 7, 1849, during one of the worst storms in New Harbor’s history. The time of death is not known, though he is believed to have passed during the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Mister Sykes was announced as missing on August 9, 1849, and his body was later discovered in Holy Family Cemetery on August 30. Mister Sykes’s decomposed body was found by Mrs. Margaret O’Donnell at approximately 11:15 A.M., near the rear plots of the cemetery. Police do not suspect foul play, but rather believe Mister Sykes passed after slipping on the wet ground and making contact with a headstone. An accidental blow to the back of the head was determined as the cause of death. The victim’s blood was found on both a nearby headstone and the journal police discovered weeks earlier. Arrangements for the funeral have not yet been made. New Harbor Times, 1849 V. August 7, 1850 Dear Anonymous,

Please allow me to convey my sincerest gratitude for the statue of my brother you placed in Holy Family Cemetery. As you knew my brother well, you know that he did not have many friends and preferred the company of his journal to that of people. He wrote many fantastical stories and poems and enjoyed visiting the very cemetery where he now rests to gather inspiration.

I do not know if my note will ever reach you. I will place it on this statue in hopes that you, like I, visit here to remember my brother. You must have known him very well to create such a likeness. When I touch the cheek of your statue, it is as if I am touching the skin of my brother’s cheek, though the coldness of the stone is nothing like the warmness of his laugh. A year without it has made me very cold indeed.

Perhaps you and I will one day meet, but I fear you, like Ambrose, prefer to make your way in the world without the comfort of others. I pray Ambrose has comfort now amongst the dead in this cemetery. I pray that these eternal friends of his give him rest and peace and show him the way to Heaven. I pray that though, even now as I scribble this message to you, I feel eyes upon my back, wishing me ill. Perhaps my brother's likeness will ease the malevolence of this place. Yours in gratitude, Rachel Sykes


If you are a woman who has attained the ripe age of marriage but still stuck in your father’s house, and living in a society where only married women are considered responsible, you will understand perfectly my exposition.

You will be so uncomfortable from the seeming isolation the society has left you in. Even your very own family will join the conspiracy. Your parents will call very often to remind you how old and close to their graves they are. They will compare you to your age mates who are already settled down. When the routine calls become incessant, you will enter into depression for a week or two. Then your gold digger boyfriend, a husband or lover of an old friend or a distant relative will gradually take you out of depression with a few inferior women stuffs as gifts, and a forbidden passion. You will decide to take a little break and think things over.

On your way to the grocery store one day, you will run into an old classmate who you had thought was not in your class. She is pregnant and is flaunting her pure gold wedding ring. You will exchange pleasantries and most importantly, phone numbers but jealousy and envy will occupy your thoughts for a couple of days, and will not let you ring her. You will try to brush it aside with the consolation that maybe she was pretending all is well. You will meet a lot more others like her. You will be tempted to empty their cards into the trashcan because they constantly remind you of your singleness, but on a second thought, you will reason that they may be necessary pointers to your quest. Your parents will send a summoning letter since you have refused to pick up their calls for some time now. You will attend the meeting comprising of your aged parents and relatives, both paternal and maternal, in your family house. They will bombard you with questions only heaven or hell have answers to. The meeting will end in chaos – accusations and counter accusations.

You will take another decision to be more religious, assuring yourself this may help a great deal. The counselors will counsel that you should look around your old friends, for your future “would be.” But you are already in the future; considering your age, you will say within their heart not wanting to doubt your counselors. You quickly remember that the only place you can look up old friends is Facebook. Sitting up late into the night until your back ache, you ransack the app for ex crushes and their likes. But all you see are photos of happy family men. You will put a little more effort, and you will come across one or two singles and you will message them with detailed intro of yourself. They will reply as though in conspiracy, asking you about your family – husband and kids. You will block them because they failed to understand your language. Three months later, you will run to your family house to have a private chat with your mother, and she comments on your gloomy countenance which worries her a lot. You will tell her you have finally seen someone to marry and she grins widely, out of excitement. You will give a little more details, that the man is a two-time divorcee and a father of three teenagers. Your mother will furrow her brows. You will add that he is very mean and bossy, constantly reminding you of his sole purpose in your life - to give you a place in the society and nothing more. Your mother will frown some more and then settles suddenly with a wry smile which will make you even more confounded.

On the eve of the wedding your mother will remind you about making your wedding hair and you will tell her you have a great hairdresser to take care of that but she will simply and slowly shake her head in disapproval and will say she has a better option. She will grip you by the wrist and virtually drag you to her bedroom which is beautifully arrayed with purple drapes and lilac backdrops. You will sit on the soft bed adorned with the classiest sheets you have ever seen. She will go into her closet and emerge with a small box. You recognize it as her treasure box; where she keeps all her valuables. She will remove an old complimentary card and press it on your palm. The card has an awkward name and an outdated phone number. You will confirm the oddness of the number again by counting the digits with nods. Your mother will tell you straight to call the number but you will want to air out your observation concerning the old number but she will cut you short with a gesture of quietness. You nod in fear like a robot whose maker is about to destroy to prove an inconsequential point. She will warn you against talking to anyone about it and remind you that most times friends are enemies in disguise.

You will go into your bedroom and lock the door behind you. You call the number with a mind divided into four emotions – fear, doubt , anxiety and curiosity. To your amazement, the phone will ring and a deep echoing baritone voice will sound from the other end which will make you shake. The man will say hello twice before you remember you have to respond. He will tell you where he will pick you up at about 2pm. That is the honor he gives his clients. At exactly 2pm, he emerges in an old model rickety peugeot car . He walks straight to you and introduces himself and you will be taken aback before realizing slowly that he is the one you have been expecting. He will say, shall we? Rolling his deep green eyes like an owl. You will jerk up from the chair with intense fear and follow hypnotically. Scared to look at his green pupils, insanely protruding cheek bones and a puppetry mouth; an alien of a sort, you will sit there like a vegetable. He will drive for about one and a half hour to an isolated house that looks more like a haunted one. He will open the old padlock with a rusted key that he fumbles out of a bunch of same fate. You will both enter a room that looks like a hair salon, with an old dressing table, a set of chairs and mirror frames without mirrors. He will beckon you to sit while he opens a dusty drawer to remove a large catalogue held together by tiny iron strings and twines. He will tell you to make a choice of your hairstyle and you will take a deep breath and exhale loudly, too afraid to ask the so many questions bothering your mind at the moment. Before he will start, he takes you on a tour as his tradition demands and draws your attention to a tattered wallpaper fastened on the far side of the wall to your left. As you move closer you will see pictures of your mother, grandmother who you only knew by pictures, all your aunties and many others you do not quite know. Yet again fear will not let you say a word. You will gulp down a lump that has been in your throat since arrival. He will tell you proudly but in a few minutes about the caliber of his clientele, and will add that you are next in line and will express his gladness by his squeaky laughter. On a serious note, he will tell you to study carefully the posture of others to avoid mistakes when it is your turn. Every one of them is holding a part of their hair up, revealing a portion of a chopped chunk and smiling remorsefully but looking radiant at the same time. The chair will creak as you sit. As more like mystery than reality, the hair will be done after he runs his pale, cold and shaky hands through your hair for a couple of minutes. All through the quick 30 minutes of the fabulous hairdo, your mind will be on the posture thing, learning and rehersing it quietly within the confines of your mind. He will say he is done and will ask you to take the pose for the snapshot that will seal the very essence of your patronage and the perfection of his profession. He will remind you of the smile as you take the pose. An old rusted camera will do the job.

He will drive you back to where he picked you up. Your mum will call the moment you get home to ask how it went but you will be too exhausted and frightened to talk. She will say, she understands. After the wedding, on the next day, your husband will delightfully serve you breakfast on bed, afterwards plants kisses upon kisses on your forehead while you savour the delicious meal. You will be too shocked to respond and he will be too in love to even notice let alone pick offense. When he has gone to the gym you will run to your mother to relate what you saw at the salon and your husband’s change of attitude. But she will motion you to hold your peace and instead say, welcome to the club . You will wonder what she is talking about. And she will continue and say, keep the card safe for your daughters if you will have, just for your daughters. It is our family long tradition, she will add, smiling mischievously.


The police arrived at the apartment of Jacob Jones. Jacob was a twenty-eight year old, healthy young man, and though it wasn’t unusual for the police to find a body of a young person who had died of natural causes, there was one glaring reason to suspect something foul. Jacob’s face was contorted into a face locked in an expression of extreme horror. His eyes were wide, the mouth was open in a silent scream, and his arms were frozen above him as if defending himself from an attacker. The investigators took pictures and as many notes as possible. They hoped the toxicology report would give some indication as to what had happened to him. Unfortunately, over time, nothing other than the state of his body was discovered that led them to anything other than natural causes as the reason for his death, and it seemed to be an isolated event. The police never came across another case like Jacob Jones and quickly closed his case so that his family could bury his body. Stephanie was normally a careful person, but since she had broken up with her boyfriend, his constant texts were distracting her. That day alone, her phone interrupted a meeting, she had bumped into a boy at the super market, knocking him down, almost rear ended a car, when her phone went off, and had trouble sleeping because of his constant texts. She wanted to turn off her phone, but since it was a work phone, and she was always on call, all she could do was turn it on vibrate, and hope over time he would stop texting. That night she had a terrible nightmare that woke her up. She couldn’t remember what had happened in the dream, but she knew she was glad to not have kept the memory of it. By the end of the day, she was tired from the restless sleep, but not as tired as she might have been if her ex hadn’t finally stopped texting. She was both relieved, and surprisingly saddened by not having received a text from him. She had become accustomed to the constant interruptions. Now that she went a day without them, it felt less for some reason. She wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth though, and she took the drop in text messages as a win. The couch felt more comfortable than usual as she slumped down, letting out a deep, relaxing breath. She needed to close her eyes for just a moment. She knew she would be ready for bed soon. Her eyes slowly opened when she heard a sound coming from outside her house. Sluggishly, she walked to the window to look outside. She didn’t see anything near where her trashcans were sitting, but when she started to look around, she saw a kid in a hoodie standing across the street. He seemed to be staring at her and that made her uncomfortable. She closed the curtains and stepped away from the window. She heard the sound again, and curious, she walked back to the window. She stayed on one side, and just opened them enough to peek through. Across the street stood the same boy. He seemed to know she was peeking out the window and was staring right at her. This time when she took a closer look, she saw that he was holding a metal baseball bat. Periodically, he would flick his wrist and strike the metal trash can next to him, which she thought was equally strange, since everyone in the neighborhood used plastic trash cans. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a metal can. Suddenly, he lifted the metal bat and pointed it at her, smiling. Then, just as suddenly, his smile vanished, he lowered the bat, turned, and walked away into the darkness. Once he was out of sight, she called the police to make a report. The lady on the other end said she had taken note of her accounts, and would file it, in case the boy showed up again. After some time, she was able to get back to sleep, and she groaned when her alarm went off way too early. She almost called off work, but decided to push through, though she felt she hadn’t slept in days. As she walked out to her car to leave for work, she took a quick glance across the street, expecting to see the boy again. She didn’t see him, but something else made her do a double take. Across the street, she noticed that the trash cans were all plastic. She looked around to see if the metal one had been moved. She was too tired to care. She figured it was more than likely that someone took it back inside. Half way through the day, she found herself having trouble staying awake. Her eyelids slowly closed and then almost immediately snapped open. ‘Okay,’ she thought. ‘Maybe I should go home after all.’ She began to tidy up her office desk to leave, when she heard the same clinking sound she had heard the night before coming from outside her office. She followed it to where she thought it was coming from. As she turned a corner, her eyes widened as she saw at the end of the hallway the same boy she had seen the night before. He stood there, still wearing the same hoodie, and still holding the same metal bat. Next to him also stood another metal trash can, and she quickly looked around to see if there was anyone else there to confirm what she was seeing. Though she could see people in the office going about their day, none seemed to be hearing the sound, and none looked her way. “Who are you?” she asked, suddenly feeling her legs get weak. The boy, seeing her lean against the wall to hold herself up, charged her, holding the pipe with both hands in front of him. She defensively held her hands up, grabbing the pipe when he was within range. The force of his momentum knocked her backward and she fell to the ground, with the boy on top of her, and the pipe between them. She struggled against him as he tried to push the pipe into her throat. Desperate, she began crying out for help. When no one came to her aid and her arms began to weaken, she closed her eyes, expecting the worst. All of a sudden, the pipe disappeared from her hands, and she could feel someone’s hands gripping her wrists. She soon realized that the hands weren’t trying to pin her down, but only keep them in place. She risked a glance by slowly opening her eyes. One of her coworkers was on top of her, holding her wrist and saying, “Stephanie! Calm down! It’s just me! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” Seeing that it wasn’t the boy on top of her, and knowing that she was no longer in danger, she relaxed, still breathing heavily. “My God, Stephanie,” the man said, releasing her. “Are you alright?” She blinked away the fogginess and looked around, seeing many of her co-workers watching. The man helped her up, and half-carried her to her office. He could tell she was exhausted, so he said, “I think you should get home and get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.” She agreed and collected her things. On the drive home, she tried to remember the nightmares she was having, but couldn’t remember details. She could only remember there was a boy in it them, and he seemed familiar, though she didn’t know from where. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open while she was driving. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was close to home, she would have pulled over to take a small nap. All of a sudden, she saw a person standing in the middle of the highway, and she slid off the road to avoid him. The car stopped so quickly that she hit her head on the steering wheel. When she looked up, she saw the same teenage boy she had been seeing in her nightmares standing in front of the car staring at her. He started to move towards her, and she tried to climb out of the car and escape, but he was on top of her as soon as she was out of the car. “What do you want?” she screamed at him. “I want you to die,” he replied. “Why?” she asked, trying to push him off. “Because I enjoy watching people die,” he said with an evil smile. “Now,” he continued. “I’m going to take this rock and crush your head in.” He held up a big rock for her to see. She screamed as he lowered the rock, snapping her awake. She found herself in the front seat of her car, still parked at the top level of the parking garage at work. Still shaken, she tried to regain her composer. She felt so tired, all she wanted to do was go back to sleep, though she knew the boy would be waiting for her. She let out a scream when all of a sudden, something hit her windshield hard, shattering the glass. She quickly realized it was the boy. He had swung the baseball bat, crashing it against the windshield. Panicking, she switched the car into reverse and slammed on the gas pedal. She knew her reflexes were affected because she was so tired, and when she saw the small wall in her sideview mirror, she didn’t have enough time to slam on the brakes before she crashed through the barrier, and began falling backwards towards the ground. She was still screaming when the car hit the pavement. She snapped her eyes open, and found herself lying down on her couch at home. Her heart was racing, and she felt like she was going to have a heart attack. She slowly sat up, when suddenly her front door was kicked in, and the teenage boy entered carrying the baseball bat. She stood up and tried to run the opposite way, stopping in front of the front window where she had first seen the boy. When she turned to see if he was chasing her, she saw that he was holding the baseball bat with both hands like he had with before and using his momentum, shoved her through the window, glass spraying everywhere. She was still screaming as she opened her eyes, and found herself at the grocery store bumping into the teenage boy, knocking him down. It was at that moment she remembered where she had seen that boy before. He was the stranger she bumped into earlier at the grocery store. “I’m sorry,” she said, noticing that he was holding a baseball bat. He stood up and spat, “You will be!” Her heart was racing as she walked backwards, crying and panting, trying to catch her breath. His eyes seemed to be glowing as she moved away from him. She barely caught a glimpse the truck before it hit her, silencing her for good. The police found her body a day later when a coworker stated she hadn’t been to work in a few days and were becoming worried. They found her body on the couch. She appeared to have suffered from a severe heart attack, and that would have been the end of the report, if it wasn’t for the way her face was contorted in a frozen look of fear, and her arms being up in a frozen state of defense. News broke out about the deaths that were beginning to mount. No one was able to determine what the causes were, except from acute heart attacks. It was a year later before the deaths suddenly ended. There was never an explanation as to what had happened, or why it had stopped. Jake was upset that he had to move to yet another city, but his mother always had trouble keeping a job. It wasn’t long before someone annoyed him, and he began the short wait for her to fall asleep. To his pleasant surprise, he didn’t have to wait long. He followed her in her dream as she walked down a city block. When she turned into an alley, he decided it was his chance. She stopped in her tracks when he followed her into the alley, dragging his metal baseball bat. “Well, hello there,” he said, anticipating her fear. “Well, hello there, Jake,” she replied, turning around with a smile, instead of fear in her eyes. “What? Who are you?” Jake said, unsure what to do next. “I’m Emma,” she replied. “You’ve been a very naughty boy.” Jake let out a scream as Emma flew towards him. “I’m not sure what happened Mrs. Anders,” the doctor informed Jake’s mother. “It would appear he had a brain aneurysm, and though it didn’t kill him, he appears to be brain dead.” Emma woke in her dorm room. She shook off the fogginess of sleep and walked to the wall where she had mapped out Jake’s crimes. He wasn’t the first Dream Stalker she had encountered, and he probably wouldn’t be her last. “One more down,” she said to herself as she used a marker to check off his name. Her list had grown, but she knew one day, her work would be done.


Any feedback is appreciated! let me know any criticisms you have! Don't hold back. I just got into writing but I am constantly trying to improve. Blue. Blue like the vast expanse of the ocean or the ever-mysterious sky. A light blue, a happy blue. There are sad blues, like the melancholy feeling on a Sunday afternoon. There are violent blues, as a spot of blue appears after a blow to the body. There are scary blues, like the blue reflection of the lights on a cop car on a rear-view mirror. But this blue. Her blue. This was the best blue I had ever seen. I was so taken aback by her blue that I stared silently for a moment. A moment too long. My throat tightened and my stomach dropped and my brain was telling me to say something. Anything. My mouth opened and my lungs pushed air around my vocal chords but I coulddn’t get my tongue to move. The resulting grunt made her blue confused. Her eyebrows scrunched in concern and she smiled slightly. The awkwardness required a smile. Those blue sapphires never broke their hold on my eyes though. She just wouldn’t look away. I was reminded of a story I had heard my dad tell me, about how when angels used to visit earth men would be forced to look away because their glory and their beauty were too much for the eyes of mere mortals. This is how I felt now. As my heart rate rose, my eyes dropped and this is when she finally spoke. As the sound waves cut through the air and met my ears, pushing through my ear canal and vibrating my ear drums, my brain registered that this was perhaps the most beautiful voice I had ever heard. I consider myself a dedicated fan to music. Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, Elvis, Sam Cooke, I listened to and loved them all. But as her words registered in my brain I realized I had never heard a more beautiful sound. “Are you okay?” She asked, still concerned. Water falls at 32 feet per second over the Niagara Falls. It hits the base of the falls with upwards of 2,500 pounds of force. Still, with no hyperbolism, I can say with complete confidence that when the blood rushed to my face it was even more forceful. The warm flow came up my chest and throat and pooled in my cheeks. I thought my cheeks may double in size. Of course, that morning, like every other, I had completely shaved my face. There was not a piece of stubble on my face to obscure my embarrassment. My eyes met hers again, and I jerked backwards as if struck. I had never been more scared in my life. I was not a small man, nor one easily intimidated. I stood tall and strong, with a straight spine and my soldiers back. I had pride and confidence, and I was well respected by most everyone I knew. But here, now, I was terrified. I stood almost a foot taller than her, and I had a muscle-bound body from year of manual labor. She was slim. Yet, she was the scariest thing I had ever seen. In some people’s lives, there is a moment or two where they possess a superhuman ability. In 2006, a Canadian woman fought off a polar bear with her bare hands to save several children. In 2013, two sisters lifted a tractor off of their father in Oregon. The girls were 14 and 16 years old. The tractor weighed three tons. These superhuman abilities come from insane pressure and the feeling of imminent death to one’s self or their loved ones in the event that they do not act. In this moment, I too, developed a superhuman ability. I spoke. “Yes,” I said. She smiled at me, and then the world slowed down. Her blonde curly hair began to twist counterclockwise, and her chin moved in the same direction. Her shoulders moved in opposite directions as her beautiful blue eyes finally broke their grasp on mine. She was turning away. The awestruck wonder and love-at-first-sight feeling I had was replaced with panic. The blood in my face flowed down back into my heart and out into the rest of my body. My adrenal gland was working in overdrive. I felt the same fear that man feels standing on the edge of a cliff, looking at death and misery beneath. Fight or flight. That’s what that’s called. There’s a third F. Freeze. I couldn’t move. I was watching an angel walk away from me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. For the second time that day, I was superman. “Hey!” I called after her. Nice. Hey? Are you kidding me? That’s what I came up with? She turned again, and the sun shined down on me once more. Well, you all know the rest of the story. I just thought I would share with you what it was like when we met. I want to thank you all so much for coming out tonight. Please, drink our booze, and eat our food. I want to thank my parents, and Allie’s parents. I also appreciate you all indulging me as I rant and rave about how much I love this woman. She truly is an angel. I didn’t know it that day, but I would soon figure out that she was as beautiful on the outside as within. In wedding tradition, the bride wears something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I told Allie that she already has her something blue. She told me that’s cheesy, which it undoubtedly is. But if you saw her something blue the way I do, I think you would understand. Thanks, everybody.


April 30, 2023 “What brings you here today? It’s been quite a while since the last time we met.” “I miss my mom,” I blurted out, cutting right to the chase while sitting down tentatively.

“Oh, Ruth…” a rustle of papers as Dr. Jordan flipped back through her notes. “I didn’t realize…” “No,” I quickly clarified. “She’s okay. I mean, she’s not okay, but she’s still here.” She’s still here, I thought to myself. But was she really? The image of her being brought home from rehab via ambulette flashed before my eyes. The men carried the stretcher into the house while I stood in the background fighting a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. The woman strapped on looked more like my grandmother than my mother, her hair brushed back in a style not hers. I felt sick. What had happened to her? “Tell me about that, Ruth.”  My therapist flipped to a fresh page and poised her pen over it. Tell her about it? Which part? The part where I hadn’t visited her for months on end? Was I too frightened to see the deterioration? Too selfish to miss work during our busiest time of year?  Covid had spread like wildfire through her wing of the hospital. Was that a valid reason for not visiting or a convenient excuse? Dr. Jordan would tell me everything was going to be just fine and that my mother was going to regain her strength.  She would reassure me that I was not the world’s worst daughter.

I looked at my therapist who looked back at me over her glasses. The questions and scenarios ran all over each other competing for attention negating each other into silence. I simply had no words. *** May 20, 2023 “I had to lock myself in the bathroom to cry my eyes out. She called me out on that when I went back into the bedroom.” “What did she say to you, Ruth?” Dr. Jordan asked me as she crossed her legs at the ankle. “Why are you crying, little girl?” I did my best to imitate my mother’s voice, the emotion of the memory threatening the dam to burst yet again. I laughed a shaky laugh to chase away the sadness. “Why were you crying?” Dr. Jordan pursued my mother’s question, putting me on the spot to pinpoint a range of emotion. Why?

“Go away, I don’t like you,” rang in my ears as if I were in her bedroom at that very moment.

I didn’t blame her, didn’t take it personally. It wasn’t me she disliked but rather her situation. Who wanted to helplessly allow others to take care of their basic needs? Where was the dignity in being washed and changed into a clean diaper? It was more than I could bear for myself or for her. I sat on that chair, that old familiar but yet uncomfortable beige chair, lost in thought. *** June 4, 2023 “Yesterday was one of the scariest days of my life.” “Tell me about it.” For once I was ready to speak, ready to spill my guts to my therapist. I needed to unload. “I tried to force my mother out of bed. I told her repeatedly you can do this, rah, rah, rah.  I was her cheerleader. She begged me to leave her alone, but I refused to give up. She didn’t want to disappoint me, so she slowly sat up on the edge of the bed with my encouragement.” “That’s wonderful, Ruth.” “I thought so at first, but she was so weak she fainted. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she went limp, falling backwards on the bed while I screamed in panic. I begged her no, no, no, wake up, wake up, wake up while she slid off the bed and onto the floor in a heap.” “What did you do?” “I screamed for my stepfather to come in, and he called 911. I sat on the floor with her holding her upright until the paramedics got there.” “Thank goodness she was alright. That must have been very scary for you, Ruth.” “It was all my fault. I’ll never push her like that again.” “It wasn’t your fault. You had the best of intentions.” “I thought it was the end happening right in front of me. It was terrifying. All I could think of was no, not now, not here, not on my watch.” I was sure I had lost her. Again I wondered why I had restarted my visits with Dr. Jordan. What was it that I was seeking? My mother wasn’t getting her strength back as I had hoped. Perhaps I needed the coping skills to get through the unimaginable yet inevitable next chapter. *** July 16, 2023 “We finally got her the lift. I despise it beyond words.” “Why is that, Ruth?” “It helps us get her out of the bed and into the wheelchair so at least she’s not bedbound all day. But there’s this moment where she’s swinging in midair with her arms and legs dangling all over the place until she’s lowered into her chair. It’s heartbreaking.” “It’s a means to an end, Ruth. It’s helpful.” “Yeah, but to see her screaming like…” I wanted to say like a wild animal, but I couldn’t bring myself to make that comparison. She deserved more respect than that.

We sat quietly.  Dr. Jordan allowed me to process my thoughts and share what I was able to. The silence was comforting. The tears had started to dry up, the constant nausea had lessened over time.

My mother wasn’t coming back. *** August 18, 2023 “We celebrated my mom’s birthday the other day,” I reported to my therapist. “How nice! Did you enjoy it?” “I did. She seemed to have a wonderful day.” I thought back to the afternoon spent on her sunny deck, the lively conversation reminiscent of earlier days. “Ruth, I’m so happy to hear that.” “I mean she was completely confused with her facts slip sliding all over the place. She knew me then didn’t know me. Was I her mother, her daughter?” “How did that make you feel?” “I’ve gotten used to it. I suppose you can get used to anything as it becomes the new normal. She smiled a lot during lunch and enjoyed her birthday cake. We had a few laughs while she blew out the candles.” “So why do you look so sad?” “I’m not. Not really. It was a good day filled with special moments.” I thought back to kissing her on the cheek when I said goodbye. She told me to call her when I got home, which was exactly what my mother had always said before the nightmare started. It was a while since I had that anchor and felt secure. I was cared for. I mattered. I wasn’t floating in the abyss all alone. As I had opened the front door feeling like a daughter again, I heard in the background, “Who was that lady?”

Stepping through the door I had let out a small sigh, but surprisingly I didn’t cry.