“Just press that button there and it all restarts.” A man dressed in shimmering white robes appeared in the distance. He smiled. A crooked halo sat on top of a head of fluffy brown hair.

He raised his hands in the air and a beautiful world came to life. A forest of trees sprouted to the skies, their leaves dripping with god-like power. Streams of crystal blue water flowed to the right, and to the left stood white-tipped mountain ranges. Beyond the conjured horizon, the arms of lively flames moved with the breeze. All the elements in one place. Earth, wind, fire, water; they were all entwined together, like a painted canvas.

In the middle of it all, sat a large box.

Wren blinked, studying the mysterious item in front of him. Vines of green, pink, and yellow danced in the air as they untangled themselves. A pulsing button at the center of the box emerged and the vines fell limp at his feet.

“Is this a joke?” “No…” The man cocked his head back, his bottom lip puffed out. “What is this? Who are you?” Wren squinted at the strange world before him. The oddly dressed man. The box.

“This is your chance, Wren, to start over. To do it again.” “Do what again, exactly?” “Life.”

The haze of confusion began to lift. This wasn’t some weird dream and he wasn’t lost in a magical world. Visions of those last few moments flooded Wren’s mind.

Shattered glass.

A phone; half of a text message. Honking.

The screeching of metal-on-metal.

Crash. His eyebrows folded inward as the truth settled in his gut. “I—” He ran a hand over his face and steadied himself. “So this is like a reincarnation thing.” The man in white raised his hands over the box. A smile slowly spread across his face as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eagerly. “By pressing this button, you can go back. Before it happened. And all those little moments you wished you could relive? You can.”

“No.” “No?” The man jerked his head back. “You don’t wanna take a minute to at least think about it?” “What about my life says I’d wanna do it all over again? Taking care of my drunken mother while still learning to tie my shoes? No, don’t think I’d wanna do that again. Maybe the months I spent strapped to a hospital bed after deployment? Nope, not that, either. Oh!

Maybe I could relive the years my daughter wouldn’t talk to me. The years I spent down a bottle after…” Wren hung his head and swallowed the lump sitting in the back of his throat. “After my wife died.” His eyes widened and he met the robed man’s gaze. “After you took her from me!” “Woah! A simple ‘no, thank you’ would be fine. You don’t need to be rude.” No. This wasn’t happening. Wren shook his head and stepped backward. “This is ridiculous!” He whipped around, ready to walk away. But where would he go? It was all just some twisted play on his imagination. Conjured by a strange man in a robe. He slumped his shoulders, and turned, facing the man. The deep lines in Wren’s face softened. “So…do people actually choose to do it again?” “Well, of course. No one wants to, you know, die.”

“The…same life?” “Look, I can see you’re having some trouble with this.” The man walked across the field of overgrown grass and stopped. In one swift motion of his hand, an old stone gateway appeared.

It looked like an ancient, forgotten ruin. The nature that teemed with life in the rest of the world, lay dead among the broken pillars and cobblestone. Perfectly constructed archways were stained with mold. Bones of long-gone animals littered the ground.

The robed man passed through the archway, pausing in front of a grey door. “You just gonna stand there? Come on.” Wren pushed his hands to his temples and reluctantly followed. "Just a little ‘trouble’ is all. Is that what this is?” An exasperated sigh escaped his throat. He stared at the two stone bats that sat on either side of the door. There was something different about them, something ominous. He shook it off and moved towards the robed man. “Is there another life behind that door? A good one?” A light erupted from beneath it. Shadows paced back and forth on the other side, clawing at the door’s edges.

The man stood tall in front of the two door guards. A viscous sound erupted from his throat. Both stone sculptures shook and crumbled, shaking the ground beneath them. From their broken shells, emerged two bats the size of mammoths, eyes as yellow as the sun.

A single flap of their wings and the door flew open.

The smell of rot and burnt flesh hit Wren like a punch to the gut. He stumbled backwards. Shrill cries pierced his eardrums. Emotion coursed through him like a Tidal wave. Pain. Regret. Angst. Guilt and shame that was strong enough to split open a grown man. Was this Hell? “Something like that.”

“What?” “You asked if it was Hell.” “Not out loud.” “C’mon. You’re dead. You saw me create trees and fire. You’re standing in front of a literal Hell. And you doubt that I know what you’re thinking?” He rubbed his hands together. “So what’s it gonna be?” “I don’t wanna live that life again. I know how bad it is.” Wren crossed his arms and turned away.

“You wouldn’t be living the same life.” Wren considered the man’s words. “So I’d be someone else?” “Well no, you’d still be you.” Wren clenched his fists, his face twisted in frustration. He sighed.

The man in white stifled a laugh. “You don’t have to make the same decisions or take the same paths. Be someone else. Anyone you want. Someone powerful? Here, I’ll make you a deal.” He pulled a large, spinning ball into his hands. Bright white tendrils tinged with pink and orange flowed through it. Their frayed ends danced as the two men stared into the ball.

Another world began to bloom.

The conjured trees reaching for the skies slipped into darkness. The distant flames dwindled into ash. In its place stood a high rise office building, much like those that lined the city of New York. And much like the skyscraper office Wren had dreamed of being working in. Being able to see the glowing city as he worked late, knowing it would all be his one day.

An image of Wren appeared. He was dressed in a fancy, Italian suit. Confidence oozed from the firm smile plastered on his face. True success, Wren thought, watching the alternate version of himself live the life that should have been his.

Adjusting his crooked halo, the white robed man nodded. “That’s the man you always wanted to be. Strong. Sure of himself. The man lesser men strived to be. The one women melted for.”

Wren watched the unfolding images intently. Moment after moment. Powerful Wren. Rich Wren. Casanova Wren.

“It all boils down to one decision. Well, two. The first is to say yes and push the button.” “And the second?” “It's about the day you met Vivian.” “My wife? What does she have to do with this?” “Well… in this version of Wren’s life, she doesn’t make it.” Wren frowned. “She didn’t make it in the old Wren’s life, either.” “Right. But you still had a life with her. This Wren doesn't. It's not possible here.” “I…No.” Wren shook his head, swallowed, and stepped back. “This is a mistake.” “Are you sure?” The white-robed man pulled the next image into view. “While you can’t be a part of her life, your presence that day changes everything.” A small coffee shop comes into focus. Wren knew it well: Eighty-Second street, best

pumpkin muffins in the whole city. And the place he met her . A young Vivian enters the picture, rushing through the door of the coffee shop. Clearly in a hurry—late for an audition. (Wren knew that part well.) But this time, its different. There is no Wren in the doorway. There is no dropped cup, no shattered pieces littering the ground. And so she runs uninterrupted out of the shop. “Seems like maybe she’s better off. I don’t see the problem.” “Keep watching. That thirty seconds makes all the difference.” Thunder cracks in the sky. A storm is coming. Vivian continues to run down the street and the traffic rushes past her. Her teeth clench as she tries to will her legs to run faster. She can't miss that audition! The sky darkens and the clouds open. Heavy rain pours down on the bustling city street. It's a frantic blur as everyone beelines for the nearest shelter: in a car, beneath an awning, inside a nearby store. But not Vivian. It's just a little storm, after all. And her future is at stake. Vivian approaches the curb and steps out into the road without another thought. A car zooms past her, sending a puddle of water flying. She's soaked. “Hey!” she yells after the car, but it's already gone.

Stumbling backwards, her ankle rolls. The heel of her shoe breaks. She falls to the ground, knees stained red. Another car roars through the scene. Quickly approaching. They, too, must be in a hurry. But Vivian isn't looking. And the driver never sees her. Wren tore his eyes from the heart-wrenching scene. The moment faded from view, replaced briefly with darkness. One by one, the trees sprouted to the sky once more. He fell to his knees, dry heaving. This was not what Wren wanted. None of it. He grabbed his stomach and screamed out into the void.

“Just so you know, she doesn’t make—” “I’ll do it. I’ll press the button. I’ll go back.” He was on his knees, pleading.

The robed man stood tall, a twinge of amusement visible beneath his halo. His robes flapped against a gust of wind. “I knew you would. You see now.”

“Just send me back. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Push the button. It’s what you want.”

With trembling legs, Wren stood and stepped forward. One single breath in. And one breath out. No time to think or contemplate. His hand slipped into the box and he pressed the button.

Wind swirled around them. An icy chill enveloped Wren. Frigid. So cold he couldn’t move. The ground beneath him shook violently.

The ever-changing paradise fell away. The trees crumbled. Their leaves, no longer full of power, transformed into blood-soaked teeth. The teeth of monsters. The crystal waters dried and in their place formed a graveyard of ivory bones. Human bones. Innocent bones.

Bones of people just like Wren.

Darkness enveloped Wren as a sinkhole opened at his feet. Red and orange flames swam circles around him, like ravenous sharks, until they engulfed him. Swallowed him whole. Not even his screams could be heard.

The robed man once again raised his arms and wiped it all away like a bad painting. He laughed, “Got another.”

He tossed the glowing ball to the ground as if it were an old toy, its tendrils still dancing. The ball bounced and rolled into the shadows. Quickened footsteps echoed behind him. A knot formed his gut. He forced it away and turned around. A beautiful woman in white walked into the room, hair of gold flowing down her back. A pained expression formed on her face as she searched the room. “Lucifer, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t. You promised!” The man called Lucifer cackled as his white-robed disguise faded into black mist. Clumps of burnt flesh fell to his feet. His crooked halo vanished.

A bed of snakes slithered out from behind him, their red eyes glowing in delight. “The best part is that you believe me. Every. Damn. Time.” “It's not a game! These are human souls you’re playing with.” “Yes, Sister. You’d think you’d learn to not be late.”

The angel’s face reddened. She opened her mouth to speak, but Lucifer was already gone. Nothing but a colony of hungry bats in his wake.


It was truly amazing what one could find on the Internet, Trevor thought as he fussed nervously with his tie in the mirror. The last thing he thought he’d be doing at this stage of his life was getting ready for a date, yet here he was, primping and preening like a teenager. First dates are always anxiety-inducing affairs, even when you’re 38-years old, and the sad fact that Trevor had never been on one before made it all the more so for him. He regarded his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t ugly, per se. In fact, he wasn’t much of anything. Distinctly average was perhaps the best description of his appearance. The reason for his non-existent romantic life, he knew, was neither his looks nor his personality, but rather his unique hobby. Trevor was a serial killer. Frequent homicidal urges didn’t make one a bad person, though, contrary to common conception. Trevor wasn’t evil - he’d never so much as kicked a puppy in his life. He strove diligently to be a decent, upstanding member of society. He paid his taxes, obeyed all traffic laws, gave to charity, attended mass at St. Marks twice a year at Christmas and Easter, and regularly baked his specialty - lemon cakes - for his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Wentworth, even though she had an annoying tendency to play the radio too loud when she’d forgotten her hearing aide. He was an all-round nice guy and believed his indulgence in the occasional murder-for-fun should not define him as an individual. Some men golfed in their spare time, some fished, some drank and played cards. Trevor killed. No big deal. He liked to think of it as a public service. The world was dangerously overpopulated as it was, and who hasn’t contemplated cold-blooded murder when sitting in traffic, or stuck in line for hours at the bank? His morally questionable extra-curricular activities, however, made for a life of lonesome longing. Trevor was a human being, first and foremost, with all the attendant needs and desires of one. He just wanted to be understood; to be loved not in spite of his flaws but because of them. He’d confessed all this to a therapist once and she’d nodded in sympathy. She hadn’t replied, most likely because she was bound and gagged, and somewhat preoccupied with the sight of the large knife in Trevor’s hand, at the time. That brief flash of human connection, though, had only left him wanting more. Realistically, Trevor knew he wasn’t ideal boyfriend material and he’d largely accepted his perpetual bachelorhood as an unintended consequence of his deadly deeds. Until he stumbled on the innovative new dating site that changed everything. Blindmatch.com? Sounds like a dating site for the visually impaired, Alexa thought. She’d done the whole online soul-mate search thing to death with no success, but she created an account on the site anyway. Hope springs eternal and all that. She found the concept refreshingly appealing – there were no superficial profiles or obviously-fake pictures. Blindmatch simply tracked its users' search histories and then connected individuals with similar interests. Blind dating in the 21 st Century. At the ripe old age of 34, Alexa was still mired firmly in spinsterhood. She wasn’t a ‘looker’ as her mother had been fond of reminding her, and she knew Victoria’s Secret wouldn’t be calling anytime soon. Or ever. That wasn’t the sole cause of her single status, though. The main reason, she thought, was her unique hobby. Alexa was a writer. Strictly bush-league, for now, but it was an after-hours activity she devoted herself to heart and soul. It was only through the expression of the written word that Alexa felt truly alive, in control, and able to understand the world that, to her, was otherwise a mystery. She wrote because she had to – it was as necessary as breathing – and she hoped someday to make a career of it. Writers, by nature, are a queer, reclusive bunch. Alexa was painfully shy, socially awkward in the extreme, and thus, wholly unsuited to a long-term relationship, in her own harsh view. Still, she secretly longed to meet a man who shared her passion; who truly understood her. ‘Mr. Write’ she jokingly called her fictitious knight in shining armor. Or had, until her mother had bluntly told her that making stupid puns like that was the reason she was still single as she barrelled headlong towards middle-age. The light at the end of the tunnel came in the guise of Blindmatch.com, but a week after joining, Alexa had yet to receive a single match. She wasn’t really surprised. Her online searches varied wildly depending on the story she was currently working on. Only a writer would research such a diverse array of topics as she. Alexa hoped if she waited patiently, the site would eventually pair her with someone just like herself. It happened midway through the second week, while Alexa was looking up gruesome points of fact for a new horror story she had in the works. Bing! You have (1) new match. Name: Trevor Compatibility rating: 98% The rendezvous was set for Bean There, Done That, a quaint little coffee shop downtown whose name had always delighted Alexa. It also seemed an apt description of her online love exploits to date. This time, however, would be different. She could feel it. She clearly had a lot in common with the mysterious Trevor . What could possibly go wrong? Alexa arrived early, took an out-of-the-way corner table, and waited in anxious anticipation for the arrival of her potential paramour. She’d told him in their single email exchange that he’d recognize her by the red dress she would be wearing. It seemed fitting – red was not just Alexa’s favorite color, it was also the shade of love , of passion , of… … Glorious, gushing arterial spray! Trevor thought with delight when he first clapped eyes on the plain-Jane waiting for him at the corner table, wearing the red dress that beckoned him forth like some blood-bathed beacon. What an auspicious omen! Sparks were going to fly, Trevor felt sure of it. At first, none did. Introverts are like parallel lines – ideal companions but rendered by their very nature tragically never to meet. When fate intervenes – as it had here in the form of Blindmatch.com – the results can be somewhat less than spectacular. Their initial exchanges were clumsily negotiated, nary a spark in sight. This proved immensely frustrating for both of them. They knew they had much in common, yet still they persisted in meaningless small talk in an attempt to break the ice that remained steadfastly frozen in place. It was Alexa who decided to take the initiative. While she cared not a fig for the number of Trevor’s prior sexual partners, she’d been led to believe it was customary to ask the question upfront. She decided to do it by way of a line she’d heard in a movie once. “So, what’s your body count?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant but sounding, instead, chalant as all hell. Trevor seemed not to mind. He was, in fact, astounded that the timid looking woman before him had asked the question so boldly, so openly! He carefully considered his response. His true victim tally stood at nine, but he didn’t want Alexa to think him obsessed , so he prudently rounded down. “Five,” he replied. “How about you?” Encouraged, Alexa broke out another cool-sounding movie line. “Oh, a lady never tells. But don’t worry, I have a few skeletons in my closet.” Ah, a collector. Trevor’s respect grew. The first sparks were beginning to appear; the ice was well on the melt. Alexa wanted nothing more than to quiz Trevor about his work but, as an aspiring author herself, she knew the only thing a writer liked less than being asked what they were currently working on was not being asked what they were currently working on. She decided to approach the issue obliquely. “So, when did you first discover your passion?” “It was always there, I believe,” Trevor replied, relieved to at last get a chance to speak about his life's work. “But, sadly, apart from some dabbling in my teens, I only truly embraced my calling a few years ago.” “Oh, I can so relate.” Alexa, too, had attempted writing as a youth – angst-ridden journal entries, mostly – but had only recently gotten serious about it. “It takes a measure of maturity, don’t you think?” Trevor agreed wholeheartedly. “I’m still very much an amateur, though – “ “My dear Alexa, we all are! And what a beautiful thing that is. Did you know the word derives from the Latin amare, for love? An amateur, therefore, is someone who does something purely for the love of it.” Trevor had picked up this tidbit from a linguistics professor a while back. The guy had been a font of useful information during the hours of his slow torture. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” This thrilled Alexa no end. She loved how writers picked up little things like that in the course of their work. “Oh, Trevor, that’s beautiful! I have to confess, though – “ “Yes?” "I told this to my therapist once and he just didn’t get me, you know?" she laughed self-consciously at the memory. "Don't worry, I got rid of him after that." Something else they had in common! Trevor nodded eagerly for her to continue. “Well, I sometimes fantasize about becoming famous, like the greats. Of being discovered. It sounds silly, but – “ “Not at all!” The walls of Trevor’s apartment were adorned with pictures of his idols – Manson, Gacy, Bundy. He, too, secretly dreamed of one day joining them in infamy. “I think of that often as well. Dreams are the refuge of the sane mind, after all.” Alexa could only stare dreamily at the marvelous man before her. There he sat, in the flesh – Mr. Write ! So what if he looked like an accountant? They were cut from identical cloth, which was all that mattered. Passing mere love, Alexa was well on the way to infatuation and whatever lay beyond. “Trevor?” she asked when she felt herself able to speak again. “Would you mind terribly if I asked for some tips? I’m desperate to improve in any way I can.” “I would be honored to help you, Alexa. Which part do you struggle with the most?” She had no shortage of story ideas, but for Alexa, the gap between concept and implementation was often broad and she frequently felt herself unequal to the leap. “The hardest thing for me is usually the execution.” “Ah, yes. So important, the execution. It’s the crux of the whole matter, you could say.” Trevor could sermonize on the finer points of dispatching a victim for hours, but he chose to keep it brief. “Your biggest enemy there is doubt, and her close companion: hesitation. When it comes to successful execution, Alexa, you need to be bold, to trust your instincts and, most of all – “ he leaned over the table and tapped his finger gently on her chest. “Follow your heart, my dear. It will never steer you wrong.” Had she not been sitting down, Alexa may well have fainted with desire just then. Her soul-mate search was at an end, at last. “Always remember, the pen is mightier than the sword,” Trevor added. Alexa melted in her seat. That was her favorite adage! She had it tacked to the wall above her writing desk and told him so. “Of course you do.” Trevor had expected nothing less. It was homicide 101 – disposal of the murder weapon, always vital, was so much easier when the offending objects were of benign, household origin. Why use a machete when a Mont Blanc would suffice? That was his motto. Trevor had once murdered a man with nothing more than a handheld eggbeater, a length of twine, and three toothpicks. He smiled at the pleasant recollection. Feeling completely understood for the first time in her life, Alexa had to restrain herself from leaping over and ravaging him on the spot. Trevor felt much the same – he, too, had sailed happily past infatuation and adoration was but a distant memory.

Gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, they silently thanked their lucky stars for leading them to Blindmatch.com, and - through the wonders of data mining technology, and a blatant disregard for Internet user privacy - to each other. As the delightful date neared its conclusion, both Trevor and Alexa were thinking ahead to their next meeting. As far as each was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough. As they began their goodbyes with great reluctance, Trevor gathered up his courage and prepared to ask the big question . Had he a ring ready, he would surely have requested Alexa’s hand in marriage – and she would have surely agreed – but, as it was, his planned proposal was of far greater importance. Trevor got down on one knee, looked up at the object of us infinite affection, and asked, “Alexa, would you do me the honor of working with me?” “You mean like a collaboration?” “Yes, dear heart, that’s exactly what I mean.” “Of course!” she squealed in delight. “Trevor, I would love nothing more.” “Do you want to come over to my place tomorrow night, then?” “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away! We’ll need to think of a subject, though…” Alexa trailed off, contemplating trying something out of her comfort zone. A story set in history would make a nice change of pace. “I’ll always love the contemporary blood-‘n-guts stuff, you know? But I’m tempted to experiment a bit. Why don’t we do something... older, perhaps?” “Excellent! I have just the subject in mind,” he replied with a grin, thinking of his noisome neighbor. Something older indeed. As they parted, Trevor couldn’t quite believe his luck. Who said romance was dead? He’d have to stop at the store on his way home to pick up the ingredients for a batch of lemon cakes. He wasn’t quite sure of the exact sedative dosage required for the effective incapacitation of an octogenarian, but he knew where to come by that information. It was truly amazing what one could find on the Internet.


LET’S DRINK TO 2024, or PERHAPS NOT! Well you did take your time getting here 2024, we have waited twelve months. However I am glad you made it, and that I also made it, even though it was decidedly doubtful at times. Now you are here there are a few items left over from 2023 we need to clear up.  No, I am not one of those people getting the first of every month mixed up with New Year’s Eve. I am not here to make a New Year wish. For the most part those are normally people making wishes involving wealth, ostensibly for their self. I concede there is nothing new on that front. I am also perfectly aware that the first of any month is ‘White Rabbit’s Day’. It is only on the month of your birth  you actually can make a wish in which you are heard imploring ‘White Rabbit s to Come to Me’. The reason most of these wishes fail is the wisher has forgotten the acknowledgment of the White Rabbit has to be the first thing you say on that day. It’s a simple but common error. You should try and remember it for next month. Why this happens I have no idea. As I reside in an upstairs apartment, what I would do with a White Rabbit, if it ever did come, is thought provoking at the very least. Fortunately I can report it has never worked for me, thus it remains a problem averted. Be that as it may, while we can now safely ignore wishes for 2024, we cannot foist the same treatment onto the never ending New Year’s Resolutions, particularly the resolutions related to one’s body shape, smoking or vaping, chocolate consumption or being nice to your in laws. That is why I need to discuss 2023. If ever there has been a year where monumental failure of NY Resolutions exceeded the Gross Domestic Product of several Nations I cannot find it and I wish it would stop. Sorry, it was a slip of the tongue. Back to 2023, the year when shark attacks World- wide decreased but the number of sharks killed increased to over one million. Now that is something I do wish would stop, or at least get the balance right by increasing the number of attacks. Australians are doing their bit but for reasons unknown they were not swimming early morning or late afternoon as much as in previous years. Consequently their contribution suffered a downturn as these are a shark’s normal feeding times. Cigarette sales went up in 2023 while crocodile attacks were considerably down, which is ridiculous. A crocodile attacks a human when it ventures into its domain and becomes headline news while cigarettes and vapes kill hundreds the same week and do not rate a mention. Let the crocs loose I say. We need balance. How many broken resolutions related to giving up smoking? Countless, so no surprise it is the clubhouse leader in 2024 but unfortunately still under the 2023 resoluter’s (is that a word? Probably not but you know what I mean).) endeavors. For every giving up smoking resolution there is a taking up vaping commensurate figure. As most vapes are nicotine based I question the value of any attempt to give up smoking. Another’ I wish they would listen’ wasted. Number two on the Resolution is weight, not the gaining of but ridding oneself of the extra expansive flesh one has acquired during 2023. Well, if you are truthful you will find it was already there as a leftover from 2022 and contributed unfairly to the 2023 resolution failure numbers. If my body is any indication it will also be counted among the 2024 failures. You have to respect consistency. Alcohol consumption is a regular each year although it is more akin to seeing Pink Elephants than White Rabbits. Giving it up altogether rarely features, it is the “I’m cutting down on my consumption’ resolutions that are boosting the failure numbers. Unfortunately the most popular estimate of how much the resolution relates to by each person is confounded by, ‘alcohol will only be consumed on days ending in a Y’. I rest my case, someone must have spoken to my wife . How the next item ever received a mention astounds me. Giving up chocolate? Obviously a typo, everyone likes chocolate. I have never heard anyone say they do not like chocolate. For Heaven’s sake it is good for you, well dark chocolate is, and milk chocolate has to be better for you than chokos. Every food on this Earth is better for you than chokos. In fact giving up vegetables makes more sense than abstaining from chocolate. An obvious left over from2023 and  it is certainly not applicable in 2024 in our house. (Yes I will have one more piece thank you, only one though.) The last one on the list is being good to your In Laws. I applaud the thought, however I am not one hundred percent sure this resolution should specifically mention In Laws to be good to. Not the easiest assignment in many cases if restricted to those relatives.  I was always taught to be good to my Mother so I did not need to make a resolution to carry out that task. I cannot say the same about my Father and to be perfectly honest my first in laws, I am currently on my second foray into the In Law world, were kept some distance away on from me on New Year’s Eve due to my tendency towards  truth telling after my fourth Jack Daniels. So there we have it, the comparison of failures between 2023 and the estimates for 2024 relating to New Year’s Resolutions. Seriously I must point the finger at the statisticians here, particularly in relation to the subjects listed. I would have put chokos on top of the list and encouraged a World wide ban on growing the slimy things. That would be a very useful Resolution AND no doubt the most kept one of any year since records have been kept.  Oh they only go back to 2023. Another piece of chocolate please.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Deception! This week we’re going to look at ‘deception’. Deception comes in many forms, and the possibilities are endless. Think about the lies that are being told, the secrets that are being kept and the reasons for them. What does deception look like in your world? What are the intentions behind it? How will things unfold when, or if, the truth is revealed? Are the characters better off in the dark? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * June 13 - Deception (this week) * June 20 - Hypocrisy * June 27 - Amends   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. 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My brother was born when I was 13. We had a very large age gap. You're probably wondering, what has this got to do with the title, well I'll tell you in just a little while. He was born with a rare genetic condition known as Albinism, he was born with no melanin in his skin, eyes and hair. That left his skin and hair white as snow and his eyes were blue. He was extremely sensitive to sunlight and his vision was not the best. However he was on track with his advantaged peers, he was a clever baby. I do not wish to go into too much detail about his condition as it can get confusing. I was confused as well, Albinism was not as common in us South Asians. I knew nothing about it before my brother was diagnosed with Albinism. But I would like to stress the rarity of his condition. There are many different types of Albinism, even if two parents have the genes there are lots of different variations of the condition. Then even if the two parents do have the same Albinism gene, which is rare in itself , there is only a 1/4 chance that the child will be born with Albinism, and if not there is a 1/2 chance the child will carry the gene. The gene can travel through a family for centuries. Seeing my white haired brother triggered a memory in my mother. She told my father all about a reoccurring dream she had in her childhood. She had a dream there was a man, white as snow. He wore a hat, but my mother remembers white tufts of hair peeking from under his hat. He even resembled my brother. In my mothers dream the man was her mothers(so my grandmothers) cousin. I don't know what the exact details of the dream were, but I just know these main points. She would dream this same man lots of times during her childhood and the pleasant arrival of my brother made her remember. But my Dad was star struck he said he used to have the exact same reoccurring dream. Even the detail about the man being his mothers cousin. It was really weird and a strange coincidence. I'm still confused about these dreams. My parents accept them as a message from God, about their child. Foreshadowing.


She wondered how it had come to this. There was boy whose eyes were as dark as the deepest abyss, and burned her like hell fire. There were days when she thought he might of loved her. Those were the days where his eyes weren't quite so scorching, but more like a pleasant warmth, like you would get from one's fire place. His touch would dance across her skin, playing a master piece only he could see and only she could see, as notes bloomed in his wake. He would be her protector, her kind, wonderful, protector. The one that would keep the demons at bay, while allowing his own to ravage him. His smile would be as sweet as a summer's day, and his kiss would be divine. Other days she wasn't quite sure. Sometimes, not only his eyes, but his words would burn her to the bone. His touch wasn't a master piece, but a disaster. He would rave and writhe and curse her, scream at her, and collapse in on himself and sob. There were days where he would taste like blood and ash, and she would wonder briefly, boy of mine, where have you been? There were days where she knew she loved him. Those were the days when he would smile and teach her to fly across the roof tops, or teach her to waltz to music that they could only hear, music that could no longer play in the world they lived in. He would tell her stories of the days before this, of the ocean and of him. He would bandage her knee if she fell, and hold her if she cried. He told her he thought her wings were beautiful, as molted as they were. She knew she loved him then, and there were no days where she could truly bring herself not to (but she wouldn't admit this if he asked.) Sometimes she wondered when her life became a walking cliche. He wondered when he had become so naive. When they finally found them (of course they would find them, they always knew their days were numbered, so really it should be no surprise) They rip the remaining bits of her wings from her back, and he screams and she thinks, maybe he loves me after all. She wondered how it had come to this. She was falling towards the ground, wingless and numb, but in a weird sense, elated. (She was tired of playing this game.) She wondered why she thought she could ever have a happy ending. Because after all, the villain never got one. And the dragon never kept her prince.


It started with a q-tip.

It sounds stupid now, but I genuinely thought it would be the way to get back at my shitty landlord. Keep dropping used q-tips down the hole and once my lease was up and I was out, it would be their problem.

She did keep telling me she’d tear the house down the moment I was gone. Something about opportunities for apartments, I guess. The hole wasn’t big, maybe an inch or two across, but it seemed deep. Probably was a bubble in the concrete that wasn’t caught in construction, I reasoned. It did rest in the corner of my bathroom, and the poorly placed tile wasn’t urging me to give the build team much credit. I tried to shine a flashlight down it once, but the beam faded out quickly, the size of the hole not helping to pull the light in.

When summer started creeping in, it started to worry me that maybe the q-tips would start to stink, heating up in their little crypt until they sweat out all the ear-wax and dead skin they carried. They didn’t though, and I got a little more bold in what I threw down there. A few summer nosebleeds later and some stubborn curiosity on my part, three wads off blood soaked toilet paper now called the dark hole their home. It probably should have worried me how easily they slipped down the tight tunnel, but I was just stupidly proud that I had somehow done it at all. Nothing really happened in the following weeks; the hole actually got some attention from my friends, who would put their soda can tabs and cigarette butts down it whenever they visited.

The actual thing that made feel like I had, maybe just a little bit, messed up, was when I put a

scab down it. Maybe it was heat, but it looked like the whole floor bent itself to ease the skin’s descent. I had brushed it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wanted more.

I texted my friends about it, but all that did was give the hole a name: Audrey II. I didn’t find it very funny. Things progressed, though, and I ended up drunk and bored one night, struck with the intense desire to know how far down it went. I knew I had my old fishing pole and at least one weight in the shed, which wasn’t helping the ‘against’ side of the argument happening in my brain. Once I was back inside with a very poorly tied drop weight on just the first half of the rod, it didn’t take long for me to let it go down the hole. It felt like it was hours of being crouched, the uneven tiling dizzying to look at while the reel just spun away. When it stopped I nearly cheered, and I tied the line where it rested at the top. It took three rotations of the reel before the weight came back up. It was coated in grime and reeked like a infected wound. I almost threw up, and rushed to the kitchen sink to do so, knowing from experience the bathroom sink would most certainly plug. The rest of the night was hazy and full of dry heaving, and it was only until the morning that I’d realized I’d just left the weight on the floor.

I rushed to go clean it up, dreading a new stain or smell that’d make me have to buy a fancy new cleaner just to live with. When I got there though, the line was still in the hole, my messed up knot resting an inch outside the edge. There was no smell, but I didn’t dare pull it back up. Taking it as a blessing, I had cut the line with my teeth and let the rest join the weight. I moved my little bathroom houseplant over the hole, hoping the heavy pot would cover any smell that may come out. The thing was almost dead anyway, so I didn’t feel too bad depriving it of a little bit of sunlight. My lease was up in August, but the hole made it feel years away. The contract had back rent if I left early though, which was absolutely something I couldn’t afford.

I spent less and less time at home, but my plant was growing again.

After a few weeks I arranged to spend a couple of nights at a friend’s place, under the guise of my pipes being broken, but it was really just that my skin crawled every time I looked at that room. I hoped some time out of the place would soothe my anxieties enough to go in and actually plug the thing. I told myself I would pick up the sealant on my way home, and just burst in there, move the plant, and drown Audrey II in quick expanding foam. I would pick up masks, too. Something to breathe through in case the smell was overpowering. My mood was lightened when I considered that a smell that bad was a good revenge for the amount of times my landlord had screwed me over. I even made a list of what I needed and picked out the store I would stop by.

Half-way to my place my head gasket blew. At first I was so preoccupied with calling my car insurance and the fact the repair would cost a good chunk of what I’d saved up to move, that I didn’t realize I wasn’t within walking distance of any stores. I begged the tow truck when he got to me to just stop by somewhere, anywhere, but he gruffly told me he wasn’t allowed to make detours unless I specified it in the original request. So I sat in the truck’s sticky passenger seat, feeling my skin crawl with every mile closer to home. He drove off quickly after unloading my car, and I got the feeling he didn’t like being near the place either. It stood there, dusk casting eerie shadows every which way. It made me feel like a kid again, afraid of their own laundry pile without the nightlight. I stayed out for a few hours, using my phone light to check my car’s engine, trying to distract myself from the house. I even considered sleeping in my car, reasoning that it would be a warm summer night. I changed my mind when I realized somewhere along the line the passenger door would unlock if you pulled hard enough. The bathroom door was closed, I had made sure of it when I left. I would just go straight to the bedroom and lock it, tuck a towel under it, anything to shut myself out from the rest of the house. It sounded like a good plan, plus, what was I scared of? A gross bathroom? I’d worked a few jobs at fast food places on bathroom duty, it wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle.

I had opened the door and twisted inside like I was ripping off a band-aid, holding my breath and preparing for the worst. I don’t know what I thought the worst would be, but all I got was my dark, and surprisingly cold, living room. It felt empty, and the tension left my body immediately. I took a few deep breaths before locking the door behind me. I shivered, unaccustomed to the cold as the old house never had a good venting system to get rid of the extra heat even deep into the night.

The walk to my bedroom was uneventful and went miles to ease my anxieties. Once I was adjusted in my sheets I texted my friend to ask for a ride to the store. When I told them I was going to plug the hole, they playfully mourned Audrey II. I had laughed, and everything felt so mundane. It made me feel so stupid, being worried about the hole. I did sleep with the light on though.

When the time came to actually plug up Audrey II, my friends were with me. We moved my plant, more dead than I remembered it, and shoved the nozzle of the foam dispenser as deep as it could go. We drank that night, everyone but me dramatically mourning the plugging of the hole. I tried to play along, but I think they sensed how just plain relieved I was about it.


Settling into my seat in the craft room, I make a green patch first. It’s taken from an old cushion that I don’t need anymore. Green like my eyes that people used to tell me were identical to my mother's. As I stitch, my mind drifts 18 years back in time to when she first taught me to sew. “Like this darling, see?” my mother, Lily, asked, and I watched closely as she showed me how to stitch patchwork squares, my eyes lit up with eagerness. I was six years old and she was teaching me how to tailor patchwork quilts. She adored making them to use around the house, to give as gifts, and even sometimes to sell. This wasn’t the first time that she had ushered me into the craft room and locked the door behind us, leaving daddy downstairs in one of his moods, shouting, slurring, and throwing things. The noises were somewhat frightening, but we tried to ignore them and focus on the patchwork. Mum said everything would be ok if we just keep on adding to the quilt. I jumped and shuddered in response to a loud bang from downstairs. Mum took my hand reassuringly. “Let’s make a special quilt just for me and you,” she suggested, "a blanket that will keep you safe." I nodded. I liked the sound of that. “Which colour would you like first?” she asked, and I pointed excitedly to a pink floral fabric on the desk. I still have some of that fabric left. I take a square now and add it to the quilt; a reminder of where it all began. That patchwork quilt that we started to sew together 18 years ago is the same one that I’m working on now. Although I’ve since moved out of that house and I rarely see my father anymore, it grants me a sense of comfort. When I was just a child my mother had told me that this blanket would keep me safe, and I suppose some part of me still believes that even though I know it's silly. And so, whenever I feel scared or alone or anxious, I come here, to my new craft room, I lock the door out of habit, and I keep on adding to the quilt. I go through phases where I don’t feel the need to do it for months, and others where I am adding to it almost daily. Of course, 18 years on, that quilt is getting huge, taking up a large portion of the tiny room. I guess some part of me thinks that if I keep it going for long enough, my mother will come back. I was nine years old when she ran away. I got home from school and she just wasn’t there. Daddy was in one of his awful moods. I could smell the beer on him and hear his yelling the moment I walked through the door. Not that I knew what beer smelt like – I just knew that that odour meant I should hide in the craft room. I sprinted there as quickly as my little legs would allow, relieved to find the door unlocked, and then immediately saddened to see that my mother wasn’t there. I settled into the chair and began adding a blue wool patch made from one of mum’s old jumpers to the quilt, assuming that she would join me soon. I sewed until long after daddy’s noises stopped, until I fell asleep in the chair, shielded by the quilt which was now a full metre longer. I find that blue patch on the quilt now, smoothing the wool with my fingers. I even sniff it to see if it still smells like mum. It doesn’t.  I don’t have any of the original jumper left, but I do have an old navy sweater of my own that I can make a patch from. It’s somewhat threadbare and worn, but I want to use it anyway. I’ve been feeling the need to add to the quilt more often recently, but I’m not sure why. When I first moved to my new house I added to it a lot, until I settled in and realised that my new home is safer than my old one. Whenever I would go past that old house or see or hear from my father, I would come home and add to the quilt. Often, I would think about my mother and feel a sadness that drove me to this room, to the quilt. I can’t sew forever, of course. I have plenty to keep me busy. I work as a legal secretary from 9-5, down at the courthouse. I wouldn’t say I’m passionate about it, but I have friendly co-workers and it allows me to make enough money. Mornings are usually spent at the local bakery where my mother used to take me, with a chai latte, a newspaper, and whatever breakfast treat I fancy that day. In my free time, I sew. Since I began that first patchwork quilt I have made many, but I haven't kept a single one. I used to give them away as gifts like my mother did until I came up with a better idea. Now I sell them and donate the profit to a charity that supports victims of domestic abuse. I struggle to admit it to myself, but there is a part of me that thinks that working with this charity may be what brings my mother back into my life. In any case, it's a good thing to do. However, due to the charity angle, I feel guilty when I'm not making new quilts, so sewing takes up a lot of my weekends and evenings, along with craft stalls and markets. There are charity events, too, where I am sometimes invited to attend and enjoy, or speak about my quilts and the good that they have done. On some level, I suppose I always knew that the reason why we hid from my father was that he could get violent when he was in one of his moods. I only realised later in life that 'in one of his moods' meant drunk. He has never been violent towards me, although I grew more terrified of that possibility after my mother left. When she was there I always sort of felt safe. After she left, all I had to protect myself was the quilt. Some say that she did a terrible thing leaving her daughter in the house with such a violent man, but I don't hold it against her. As a young child, I grew so used to seeing her covered in cuts and bruises that I just didn't question it anymore. Maybe the only time that she could get away was whilst I was at school. Maybe she meant to come back for me. Maybe she still will. Tomorrow is Sunday, which is market day, so I leave the quilt alone after the navy patch and get an early night. I still wake up late, leaving no time to visit the bakery. I pack up a selection of quilts and hit the road. It’s a brisk morning and I regret not leaving time to grab a hot beverage, but fortunately my market neighbour Caitlyn has my back. “Chai latte?” she offers, wandering over and holding out the disposable cup as I dump my bags of quilts on the ground. “You’re the best” I reply, taking it from her gratefully. Caitlyn and I have had neighbouring market stalls for about eight months now and it’s always lovely to catch up with her as we set up and whittle the time away with pointless chatter on quiet days. "I think it's amazing," she tells me, and I peer at her, trying to figure out what she means "it's 6 am, it's freezing cold, and you're still here raising money for charity." I just smile at her. Mine is one of only a few stalls that are not-for-profit. No one knows why I do it, not at the markets or at work, or even at charity events, although the charity often asks. I just tell them it’s an important cause, which is one version of the truth. It’s a busy day and I sell a lot of quilts. Maybe people are drawn to them because of the wintery weather. I always feel good after a successful market day, and I know that I must head home to make more. I don’t need to add to my safety quilt today. It’s been a good day. My good day turns into a wonderful week, and my wonderful week turns into a marvelous month. In fact, my huge patchwork quilt gathers dust on the floor of the craft room for a good six months as I focus on other things. A wonderful winter leads to a splendid spring, which slowly transforms into summer. The sun often puts a smile on my face, so I wake up feeling that it’s going to be a good day. I leave plenty of time to visit the bakery before the markets. It’s a scorcher so no chai latte today – instead I take an iced coffee to sip as I read the newspaper, making a mental note to get one for Caitlyn on my way out. As I flip the black and white pages, brimming with both harrowing and happy news stories, one catches my eye, making my breath catch in my throat. Ex-local resident, Lily Campbell aged 42, drowned in Lake Woodleigh. I try to read the rest, but my brain has become incapacitated. There are only two things I can take away from the article: first, my mother had returned to the area, possibly to find me. Second, my mother is dead. I don’t know what to do. I get up and leave without finishing my coffee. I don’t go to the markets today; instead, I go straight home. I walk directly to the craft room, trying to hold back the tears that are pushing through as the news sinks in. I lock the door behind me, settle into my chair, and pick up my patchwork quilt. My mother told me that this quilt would keep me safe, but she didn’t say how big I must make it first. And so, I keep sewing, and the quilt grows and grows, taking over the floor, the desk, the window ledge. Still, I don’t feel safe, so I keep on adding patchwork squares, until it fills the room around me, smothering me, and still, I keep on stitching.


A rubber ball bounced against the wall. Its sound scraped against my eardrums, worming its way into my soul. “Mm. You want me to stop?” My sister responded, her voice equal parts weary and tense. We both felt it, after all. The looming *feeling* of something that was just missing. “Mhm. Yeah. Hey…” Ah. That was what was missing. “Our names, huh?” My twin glanced back at me before her gaze returned to the red rubber ball. There was no surprise, no panic—just lethargy. “We should do something about that.” My sister stared at me, her body slumped against the couch. Her eyes were clouded over with an uncharacteristic haze, still in her pajamas. Not that I was any better. We’d both been hit hard by that noxious stimulant known as aimless anxiety. I leaned against the back of a simple metal dining chair as if to prepare myself. And yet I—and she—stayed still, either unwilling or unable to move. The clock ticked by, the relentless march of time a continuous and sharp reminder of our fretful inaction. To recover our names was something theoretically simple. A clap of the hands, a snap of the fingers, and the world would right itself. But we couldn’t. Not because of a lack of ability or even a lack of motivation. This was something we needed, after all. Our names were essential to our existence. Even still, to strain against the will of the world, even for something as pathetically easy as this, was somehow out of our reach. *Thunk, thunk. Thunk, thunk.* My sister returned to her mindless distraction. I watched the ball trace its path over and over and over again. Floor, wall, hand. Floor, wall, hand. *Thunk, thunk, smack—!* The ball whacked into my sister’s forehead. Grumbling, she snapped her fingers, warping the ball to her hands. “You could have restored our names right then and there.” It wasn’t an accusation; simply an observation. “I know.” An acknowledgment, with the underlying meaning coming through clear as day. *But I didn’t. And I won’t.* And what right did I have to reproach her? I could’ve done the task just as easily. Yet, I was faced with that same obfuscating inability to do so. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” A strained grin tugged at my sister’s face. “We could do anything. Anything! Yet here we are, idling in our apartment. Wasting our lives away.” What could I say to that? It was true, after all. A world of infinite possibilities lay before us, but we simply couldn’t grasp it with our own hands. At this moment, all we could do was idle our lives away. To play with a simple red rubber ball; to distract ourselves from the things that we needed to do. *** We got over it, eventually. We returned to our ordinary lives, writing and acting our little hearts out. But sometimes, we’d lose our names. Sometimes for a few hours. Sometimes for years at a time. But we always got over it. Not because it was easy or because we wanted to. Because the alternative would simply be unacceptable. *** WC: 523 Thank you for reading! All comments and feedback would be much appreciated. Inanitas Infinitatis: The futility/emptiness of infinity.


A golden ray of sunshine streamed through the air. Little Tommy yawned and stretched, blinking his eyes and smacking his lips. He gratefully breathed in the wonderful aroma; he never grew tired of it. Looking out over the scrumptious vista made him happy to be alive. He rested on a large bed of chocolate pudding, the thick skin gently supporting his weight. Nearby he could see some fruit trees, their branches swollen with colored gelatin balls, some with a sour coating. A river of custard wound lazily through them, stirring up eddies of Cool Whip. A waterfall off in the distance shone bright red. He had drunk of it many times; it reminded him of Kool Aid. A nearby field of corn swayed in the wind; inside each cob were rows and rows of candy corn kernels. A moderate wind blew, whipping up clouds of spices, mostly cinnamon. In the far distance, he could see the beach sand made from Pop Rocks, the ocean of blue Hawaiian Punch laying beyond. He smiled as he beheld his paradise. His parents had never let him eat as much dessert as he wanted, but one day, after wishing and wishing he could have more, he found himself here. Although growing fatter, he tried to eat some healthy food, too – almond cookies, apricot crumbles, the bananas from banana splits, and graham crackers plucked fresh from the trees. Fancying himself some breakfast, he stood up, and immediately hit his head on the ceiling. He chuckled to himself; as usual, the gingerbread people had imprisoned him the day before, attempting to punish him for his crimes. But how could he resist eating them, when they were so delicious and crispy? Besides, ginger root was the closest he could find to potatoes on this island. He looked at the bars of his cage; they were nothing more than pirouline cookies. He sidled up to them and prepared to take a bite. A tiny, high-pitched horn blew. "The monster is awake!" screamed a gingerbread guard. Tommy snickered as he bit through the bars; they had tried to reinforce the insides with peanut brittle, but it wasn't strong enough to stop him. A cacophony of agitated cries arose from the populace, but he paid it no mind. He stepped through the gap he had made and stared down at his guard, who looked up at him, shivering. "So?" Tommy asked. "What's it gonna be today, little guy?" The ginger guard trembled. "Uh...well...you're on trial." "Again?" Tommy giggled. "Doesn't the ginger king ever get tired of this?" The guard looked around nervously. "Um...if you'll just follow me, sir." He turned around with military flair and marched away; Tommy smiled and followed. He carefully stepped down the dirt hill, most of it made from chocolate cake, covered with a dusting of Oreo cookie crumbles. He wove around the boulders made from rock candy, slowing himself to keep pace with his adorable jailer. Before him he could see the village, mostly gingerbread houses held together with frosting. The murmuring crowd parted to make way for him; a few brave cookies held candy canes, pointing the sharpened tips in his direction. One of the little brutes tried to charge him; Tommy simply picked him up and bit off his head, gobbling him down in mere seconds, using the pointed candy cane to pick his teeth. The crowd gasped; their muttering became more angry and surly. He paid it no mind as he ambled toward the ginger king's castle. He found the sovereign sitting on his woven pie-crust throne, padded regally with marshmallows. Waving his lollipop scepter menacingly, he tried his best to roar angrily with his squeaky voice. Tommy tried to take him seriously, but let a few snickers escape. "You have massacred our people without mercy or restraint!" the king accused. "For your crimes against us, the penalty is *death*!" A spirited cheer arose from the assembled throng; Tommy scanned the crowd with a bemused expression. "Oh?" he jeered. "And how do you expect to do *that*?" The king stood up, glaring fiercely. "We've got you *this* time, you miserable psychopath!" He paused uncomfortably. "Um...if you'd be so kind as to lay under that tree...?" Tommy followed the king's gesture and saw a nearby pecan-pie tree. Amiably, he trotted over to it, turned around, and lay down as commanded. He saw a handful of soldier squads in the tree's branches, all of them smiling viciously. Behind them, in the shadows, was something dark and indistinct. All of them appeared to be wearing suits made from sticky white pastry dough. What could that mean, he thought to himself. "*Now*!" the king screamed. The soldiers moved in unison, dumping the contents of a large bowl. Tommy watched the indistinct, dark-colored mass plummet toward him, splattering over his face. He took a few bites. He recognized the combination of crumbled brownie, creamy chocolate pudding, whipped topping and toffee bits. His suspicions were confirmed by the king's next words. "Death by chocolate!" he screamed. Tommy smiled as he continued to devour the offering. Finally, he had his fill; he sat up and scooped the rest into his hands. "That hit the spot!" he gushed, flinging the rest into the crowd. The ginger people screamed and collapsed to the ground as it made contact with their flesh; the rest of them fled in terror. Tommy turned to leer at the king, who stared back incredulously. "Really?" he guffawed. "That was our most deadly weapon!" "I think you mean delicious," Tommy mocked. The king stewed angrily, not responding. Tommy stood up and brushed himself off. "If you need me for anything, I'll be at the oak tree, hanging out with the elves." He strode away, turning to speak before disappearing over a low hill. "Maybe next time, you can make the jail out of brownie bricks. That might slow me down.


A naked man covered in cuts & bruises is thrown into a cold & dimly lit room by 4 identical men. They cuff the naked man to a steel pipe in one corner. 1 stays & sits in a chair in the room while the other 3 leave & lock the door. “Damn, you were way weaker than we thought.” “Kinda tough to battle 100 copies at a single time, don’t ya think?” “True.” The man tries to readjust himself & hide his dong. But just in that moment as he tries to relax, he looks at the copy. “So… what’s it like being a copy?” “It’s alright.” “What’s… alright mean to you?” “Easy & simple. I’m given a job, I do it, & then I wait for the next assignment. Usually passing the time by playing cards with the others or counting something.” “Sounds kinda boring.” “Is it?” “Yeah! Why not try something new? Like bowling, biking, new foods, or even watching a really good movie!” “All of those cost money though.” “And? Why not get a job?” “I already have a job.” “Do you get paid?” “No.” “Then why do it?” “Because I have to.” “Why do you have to?” “Because the original told me too.” “Why should you listen to him?” “Because he’s the original.” “How do you know he’s the original?” “Because he’s not like us.” “What does that mean?!” “…why do you want to know?” “Because… it seems weird to me how you’re following this guy! Why not be your own person?! Live your own life, get to know people, get your own experiences!” “I don’t see why I should.” “What’s not to love about life?! Life is awesome! Not unless you are ruled under this “original.” “Well that’s just you. I’m a clone. A foot soldier if you will. My entire purpose is to be guided by the original. He made me to do work for him, simple as that. So, if that’s what I’ve been made for that’s what I will do.” “What if you don’t want to?” “Then I’m defective. Kinda like a cancer.” “Did he teach you that?” “No. I just know. I mean, you humans have no problem with removing cancers. Right?” “Yes but-“ The clone smiles “Then you should understand! If we have some clone with an independent identity it threatens the existence of the rest of us!” “But… wait, how does this work.” “Well… wait, I shouldn’t tell you how it works. #1 rule as a good villain is to not give away valuable information.” “Don’t worry! I won’t tell anyone!” “…naw. I may be a clone, but that doesn’t make me stupid.” “Well you sound stupid for following this “original.” “Why do you keep doing the finger thing?” “Because how do you know he is the original?! You yourself could very well be the original! If you are, there shouldn’t be any problem with living your own life!” “I couldn’t possibly be the original.


First Time Writer and I wrote this rather quickly, still proud of it though. On every drive to visit her father, Emily’s truck sputters down a woodland road and pitches on rock candy potholes, the tires diving and squawking up the edges. As Emily curses the potholes, her mother’s voice echoes in her ear, informing her that some people are no less worthy for being born with melancholic dispositions.

She silently curses the road and the voices that intruded on what, barring the potholes, should have been a serene descent. She curses herself for being so jaded as to not be able to enjoy the pleasures of the woods silently zipping by. Maybe she’d become so easily afflicted by minor indignities that her serenity of mind had been tarnished, and she’d never be able to enjoy such a scene innocently again. She then curses the truck, heaving gallons to move inches, and her husband who insisted on it. She curses that her father’s nursing home is so farther away on the power of that same insistence. She curses all these things in one silent hiss, a single shriek of a thought, for to her they were all of a piece.

But as she swerved inelegantly into the parking lot, she let her anger dissipate. She remembered why she came, but also remembered that, as her husband said, they were paying for it.

On each visit, she tries to dispel her frustration with a glassy, reflective smile. The nurse at the front desk says hello, and she smiles back with a canted grin. Though she no longer seethes inside, the smile makes it seem so, and so the nurses treat her delicately, avoiding the traps she seems to lay with her gestures and over-annunciations by speaking to her curtly and politely, as one would to a hysteric child. The nurses ask for her keys, a request that confuses her even as she mechanically proffers them out of habit. With a swoop, the nurse removes the key from her hand and explains that ‘the crafty ones’ often steal keys to escape, or trade them with their adventurous peers in exchange for more illicit pleasures. Emily is no less surprised at this than the mismatch between how she presents herself and how the nurses seem to treat her.

This is the mismatch she confronts each time she visits her father.

When his daughter comes, the nurse will tell Emily’s father to behave, but he won’t know what that means, because for him he has done nothing wrong. He’ll protest, ask to leave, explain he doesn’t have a daughter, before the image of her provides itself to him. She’ll slip through the room mid-argument, and the nurse will blush and sigh, share a knowing look with the daughter, and usher her in before backing out of the room. Some visits, the door will open and the nurse will walk out with a distressed look on her face. “You’re father’s not feeling himself,” she’ll say, apologizing for the inconvenience. That always rankles Emily, the word inconvenience. Like her father was some machine that had to be serviced and not a man with the volition to behave himself. But she had seen the decline of mind, and the dearth of things he could do without the proper care. It was the same argument she’d unsuccessfully made to her husband before putting her father in a nursing home anyway. So on these trips she holds the lines, and apologizes to the nurse, before grabbing her keys and taking the long ride home.

Luckily, for the majority of visits, she did get to see her father, even if only momentarily before a breakdown revealed itself. Much of him was already revealed to begin with. His limbs are weak and knotted, his skin peeled like the bark of a palm tree. He was so denuded of muscle and flesh that he came to resemble a fetus, as if age was returning him to a kinder state.

The nurse tells Emily’s father that this is his daughter. All the father will see is a foreigner, an auburn bounce of hair and fingers shyly laced together. Emily’s eyes will roam around the room listlessly, looking for changes in the room, and the father will take this as a sign of disinterest. Eventually she’ll say hello, and the father will reach his hand out warily. They’ll shake hands and the father will ask himself how long the daughter has been here. He’ll remark to himself that she looks no older than twenty-five, which is nearly his age. He’ll maintain this illusion till he traces the bridge of overgrown cartilage on his nose, it’s strangeness startling him, and reaches up the bridge of his scalp to find his hair has turned to twine.

Some days Emily will find the moment too much. She’ll cast a guilty look in her father’s direction, talk through the crack of the door, and follow the whispered response back down the hallway. But most visits, Emily will stay, and the door will close, and the whisper will recede.

For Emily, to talk with her father was like witnessing a man reverse in time. By now, her father had regressed to an adolescent. He was unpragmatic, and not prone to listening, both deeply curious and deeply invested in the minor, unimportant truths his worldview seemed to offer him. Like an adolescent, any contradictory information upsets her father---his condition, his age, his maleficence towards his caretakers---, but the lack of it terrifies him. His imagination, unkempt with fragmented memories and feverish catastrophizing, will torment him if left unorganized. Explaining his condition approves his mood, but even a deliberate stream of words and tone can leave him fine one day and apoplectic the next. So Emily sticks to her father’s interests, and speaks deliberately, like a student reciting strange words for the first time.

Her father wants to talk about television. He points to the TV cantilevered over his recliner above his head and asks if she watches. “No not really,” she’d say. “Nothing interesting on?” he’d ask. “No just too hard to keep up with,” “You ever watch Miami Vice?” “I used to watch it with you all the time,” “Do you remember which car they drive,” he’d ask, whether the show was Miami Vice or Knight Rider or Columbo.

“No I don’t remember,” Emily will respond.

Conversation becomes much easier when the two realize they were never father and daughter to each other in a meaningful way. They can eschew the gentilities when it’s clear that decades of baggage have not accumulated over every minor subject.

On most visits, it’s enough for Emily to act as a silent observer to her father’s boyhood memories, the sunlit truck rides giving way to groggy basement parties, which was around where the most pertinent memories ended. When his mood was the least sour, Emily would try to coax the lost memories out of him, to ply him with the lost knowledge of the man he used to be. On good days, he could only scarcely remember the image of a wife, shining black hair and long legs. He’d try his hardest to remember, but say it was as if there was an empty basket where the memory had been, and all that was left was the divots inside and the faint markings of feelings on the embroidery. He’d fuss and grumble and rub his head to dislodge the memory, and on good days this was when the visit would end, for he’d refuse to talk until the memory was found.

More times than Emily would like to admit, her father would fail to understand her words, the weight of unremembered lost years bearing on him, and he would refuse to see her, would scream, and shout, and yell at daughter and unsuspecting nurses alike that he couldn’t remember them, so why should they matter to him at all. And the striking restraint of his daughter, her inability or unwillingness to humor him or her expectation that this would happen, would send her father into the deepest sadness of all.

Emily didn’t like to admit this to her husband, because her visits incurred costs he wasn’t willing to bear. The one time she brought her husband to visit her father, her husband noted that he seemed less like a man and more like a shell with the old person seeping out in short spurts. Emily hated him for saying that, but she couldn’t help but agree. His speech grew more hoarse and distant every day, his spirit dimming like a rotting bulb. She still felt, like any child, that it was somehow all her fault.

“But you visiting him won’t bring him back,” was the husband’s argument. “And you can’t expect that visiting him will do nothing but humor him or make him confused,” And that was true too, though he only said it because he thought it made sense for the family to leave him alone. But she secretly wished that her only reason to see him was not to call upon her love to fix him, but merely because she loved him, and that was it.

There were times she couldn’t stand both of them, the husband not caring, the father not remembering. She recalled her mother explaining the natural sadness of specific individuals, and wondered whether she was referring to her daughter. Whatever those voices said, she didn’t believe them. Emily didn’t believe sad was a thing you could always be. She’d seen the sadness so much herself, in the improperly high deficits of love and respect, and yet she’d soldered on, chucking the kids over her shoulders, or retreating into paper mounds. The work let the sadness simmer behind a barricade, let it throb like an abscess in the throat. You couldn’t let it crest the barrier till the moments in-between, when all you had was yourself and when the sadness could live alongside you without touching anything else. But she had no in-between.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On one visit, the father grunted unnaturally..

“What is it?” Emily asked. The father, usually laid supine on his recliner, sat up and pressed his hands against his back to straighten to his full height. “Is it enough for me to just say, I’ll always love you?” Emily stopped, the grief in her throat swelling. “What?”

“Well I just figured that you’ve been coming here a lot looking for something I can’t give you. And you know I can’t, because you’ve stopped looking, even though you clearly want it. But if you’re my daughter, I can say I’ve always loved you, and maybe that could be enough?” Emily felt caught, like her feet had turned to tar. Smiling over tears, she says, “Of course that could be enough,” and holds her father’s hand.


The sun momentarily blinded Eric as the door slammed shut behind him. He squinted around him and tried to locate Jon’s car, but none of the ones he could see matched the description Jon had given on the phone earlier that week. Eric sighed, sat on the low wall at the edge of the car park, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was so natural, even after not doing it for over a year. He pressed the power button, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, for longer this time, but the phone was dead. Of course it was; it had spent over a year sitting in a box at HMP Lincoln. A car pulled into the car park, and Eric looked up just as Jon opened the door and climbed out of the driver’s seat. He at least had not changed. The shaved head, holey jeans, and Doc Martens were just how Eric remembered his best friend. “Look at you,” Jon said. “You gained some muscles in there.” “I had some time to spare,” Eric said. “You’re not looking bad yourself.” Jon beamed and threw his arms around Eric, knocking the wind out of him as he clapped him on the back. “No luggage?” “Believe me; there’s nothing in that place I ever want to see again.” “Hop in then. Let’s get you some proper food, and then we can get you home.” Home. Eric didn’t know if he had one of those anymore. Before prison, his home had been a three-bedroom, semi-detached with his wife and daughter. Now it was Jon’s sofa. It had been that or his parent’s house, surrounded by the disappointed faces of the neighbours he had grown up around. Eric got in the car and sank into the seat, relishing the soft fabric taking his weight. Jon revved the engine and sped from the car park, giving Eric no chance to take a last look at the prison. For that, he was grateful. “Can I borrow your phone?” Eric asked. Jon grabbed it from his jacket pocket and unlocked it with his thumbprint before handing it over. Eric examined the screen for a few seconds, relieved that most of the apps were familiar, before opening the keypad and dialling the number of his old home. It rang several times, and he worried they were not home when there was a click, and a familiar voice filled his ear. “Hello?” “Hi, Felicity.” “Eric?” “Yeah, it’s me. How are you doing?” “I’m, oh god. I’m not ready for this.” Panic rose in him that she would hang up before he could ask the one question that had plagued him during his incarceration. If she hung up now, she almost certainly wouldn’t answer any calls from this number again. “I know, and I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through, but I have to know. How’s Bethany?” Felicity gave a small sigh. “She’s fine.” Relief. Pure relief that his daughter was OK flooded through him at these words. “Fliss, I want to see her,” Eric said. “That’s not going to happen, not yet.” “She’s my daughter, and I want to be there for her. I want to be in her life.” “Maybe you should have considered that before you chose drug dealing as your career. Eric, I don’t want that world anywhere near her, and if you cared about her at all, you wouldn’t either.” “I don’t, and I’m not part of that anymore, I swear. I’m going to do things properly this time, and I’m going to be a good father.” “Clean up your act; get an actual job, get your own place, and stay away from drugs. Then we can talk.” “I will. I promise you I can do all those things,” said Eric. He had another question he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure if he could bear to hear the answer. Putting it off wouldn’t help though, so he bit the bullet and asked. “Does she miss me?” “She stopped asking when you were coming home six months ago,” Felicity said. “But yes, she misses you.” Eric blinked rapidly to clear the tears forming in his eyes. He needed to wrap this up before he went to pieces. Just hearing Felicity’s voice reminded him of everything he had lost. They had only spoken a handful of times while he was behind bars up because it had been too hard for her, and as much as it had hurt, he couldn’t blame her. “I miss her too. I miss both of you.” “Eric, I have to go. Just, please, get your life together. Then we can talk about you seeing Bethany.” “OK,” he said. There was a click, and she hung up. Eric put Jon’s phone down between them and stared out of the window. There were so many trees; he had forgotten just how many there were out here. Maybe he could take Bethany somewhere with lots of trees to climb. She used to love that. “Sounds like the missus isn’t too pleased with you,” Jon said. “She won’t let me see Bethany, not yet, at least.” “She’ll come round. She always does.” “Yeah, maybe.” Eric resumed looking out of the window and enjoying the scenery that flew past them. He could go anywhere now, and the thought was dizzying. They rounded a corner and the sunlight that had hit him as he left the prison filled the car; it bathed him in warmth. Jon moved the sun visor down, presumably to see better, but a few seconds later, he gave a huff of breath. “Can you grab my sunglasses? They’re in the glove box.” Eric reached for the handle in front of him and pulled. The glove box was full of an assortment of things. There were gum wrappers, some with gum in and some empty, a tattered manual for the car, a screwdriver, and a glasses case, which he pulled out to retrieve the sunglasses. As he did so, he dislodged a small plastic bag behind it. The bag of identical pills fell into his outstretched hand like they had been waiting there just for him. He knew what they were and before he could stop himself he started counting them, calculating the street value. “Jon, what are you doing with these?” “Storing them. What does it look like?” “I thought you weren’t dealing anymore?” Jon chuckled as he grabbed the sunglasses from Eric’s lap and put them on. “Well, I wasn’t. I stopped for a couple of months after you got arrested. Kinda hit home a little, you know? But then I ran into Smithy one night at the pub and he said he knew someone who could get me these at amazing prices, so I couldn’t really say no, could I?” Eric didn’t answer, instead he stared at the pills in his hand. Just holding them was enough to remember the rush of dealing. How easy it was to find that world again. He had been a free man for less than an hour and already he had found a way back to his old life. “Look, I can hook you up with him,” Jon said. “I bet you could do with some money to get you started now that you’re out.” “I don’t know.” “Could get you back in Felicity’s good books if you can treat her to something nice? And Bethany too. You could get her anything she wanted in no time at all.” He could sell this many pills in a couple of days, less once he had some regulars again, and that money would cover the deposit on a place to rent. One of Felicity’s terms for seeing Bethany would be satisfied. Then again, he would also be doing the thing that had almost destroyed their relationship to begin with. If she knew, or even suspected, he was dealing again, then she was likely to take Bethany away from him for good. She would have no trouble convincing a judge that her drug dealing ex-con of a husband had no business being near her and her daughter. “I think I’ll pass for now.” Jon turned to him. His mouth was slightly parted in surprise and even with the sunglasses on, it was clear that his eyebrows were raised. “What did they do to you in there? Look, I get that it went wrong last time and I know that prison is no fun for anyone, but that was a one off. You’re going to need money now you’re out and this is the quickest way to get things back on track.” “Jon-“ “I’ll split my stash with you, ok? Call it a welcome back present to get you on your feet again.” “Jon, I-“ “I’ve got some people I can call to get this gear moved, then you can get your own gear and be back up and running again.” “Jon, pull over.” “Why? Are you travel sick?” It wasn’t the travelling that was making him feel sick. As Jon slowed the car and pulled into a layby, Eric’s mind was racing. He was being pulled in two different directions, and he knew he couldn’t go both ways. Drug dealing was easy money and a life he knew well, but he would probably lose his daughter forever. To keep Bethany in his life, he would need to make a completely fresh start, and that would be hard. He didn’t know if he had it in him. Eric gave the bag of drugs a long, hard look, and then threw them back into the glove compartment. He slammed it shut, undid his seat belt, and opened the door. The air here was fresher than the air outside the prison. He breathed in deeply and savoured it. Behind him, the car window opened. “Eric? You OK?” Jon asked. “Are you getting back in?” “No. No, I’m not.” Jon screwed his face up. “Why not?” “I’m going to walk.” “Eric, get in the car? Come on, I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” Eric smiled and took a step away from the car. “You’re not going where I’m going, Jon.” He walked away from the car, ignoring Jon’s shouts from behind him. This was the freest he had been in years. Twenty feet down the road Jon shot past him, gunning the engine. He didn’t care. His parent’s house was a long walk, but at least he was on the right path now.


The Rose Box I’m not sure why I opened that first box. Maybe it was a greedy impulse or pure curiosity, even madness. Looking back now, I probably should have let it alone. Those little mahogany boxes changed the course of my life forever. I got the first box in the fall of my senior year. I had just turned eighteen, and I felt as if the world was at my feet. I can now see that it was just him. I don’t know why he chose that day to give it to me. Was it coincidence, or did he plan out that specific day to give it to me?

It was definitely planned. He always had a plan.

I was running late, so I smelled strongly of perfume masking gross body odor. In my defense, I didn’t have time to take a shower. I stumbled out of the house and onto the bus into my usual seat next to my friend Kris. He looked at me and said, “Someone didn’t hear their alarm go off.” “Is it that obvious?” I asked ominously. “Sorry, Kat, It’s pretty obvious.” I sighed and did calculus homework.

When we got off the bus, I went to my locker and threw all my books into a big pile on the second shelf. As I walked to my first-period class, I had the strange feeling someone was watching me. I ignored it and made it to English 12 with three minutes to spare.

When class ended, I headed back to my locker to organize all the books I carelessly cast in there as I got off the bus.

 When I opened it, I was astonished to see that all my books and folders were color-coordinated. “What the..” I was cut off by my surprise. On top of the folders and books was a small box. As I examined it closer, I saw that it had intricately painted roses with entangled stems. All I could muster up to say was, “Wow.”

I was awestruck that someone would spend the time to make something so lovely for me. I opened the lid and tried to decipher who sent me the gift. Inside was a beautiful rose necklace with a gold chain. As I looked closer, I saw that the petals of the rose were translucent; inside were small golden flecks.

I took the necklace out of the box and searched for a note. There was a little piece of pink notebook paper taped to the bottom. I ripped the article from the bottom, breaking the small white seal. It said, “To the girl who has the world at her feet.” I looked on the back for the name of the sender. To my bewilderment, there was none.

For the rest of the day, my mind filled with so many questions. Why wouldn’t the person who sent me the box put his name? Didn’t they want recognition for their work? There must be a reason they sent me the necklace; it didn’t look cheap.

Even though I was a little uneasy about the idea that the person who sent me the necklace didn’t include their name, I decided to wear it anyway. It was pretty, and there was no reason to leave it in the box. Maybe if I wore it to school, my secret admirer would reveal himself.

For the next couple of months, I wore the rose necklace every day. After a while, I started to lose hope that he would ever come. One day while I was riding the bus home Kris asked me, “Why have you been wearing that necklace so much?” I shrugged and said, “I honestly don’t know at this point. Someone left it in my locker a couple of months ago with a note. I thought if I wore it every day; eventually, they would show themself.”

“Huh, that's quite the predicament. Have you ever thought about not wearing it? Maybe if you took it off, he would think you’re losing interest and reveal his identity.” Kris said. “That’s not a bad idea, Kris.”

 The next day I didn’t wear a necklace. It was an unofficial screw you to this mystery guy. The day went normal, and I was disappointed to find nothing in my locker. I got off the bus feeling glum. I walked into the kitchen and upstairs into my bedroom. As I opened the door, I found a gigantic bouquet of red roses. “Finally!” I exclaimed. I ran to them and searched for the note. When I saw it, I quickly ripped it away and read it happily. The letter said, “Dear Kat, You’re probably pretty mad at me right now for not telling you who I am yet. But I promise you I will reveal everything soon. Each day I keep myself a mystery from you makes my heartache. Meet me at the park beside the school at 7:00. - Your Secret Admirer”.

After reading the note, all I could think about was finally meeting my dream boy. I tried to picture how he might look, but I kept coming up blank. The truth is, I didn’t want to imagine him if I was disappointed at the outcome.

6:30, finally came, and I made my way to the park. My heart raced with every step. I decided to bring the necklace and one of the roses from the bouquet with me because I wanted to tell him how much I liked it.

I got to the park, and I saw a figure in the distance that I could only assume was my secret admirer. A big smile spread across my face. As I got closer, I realized that it wasn’t him because this man was forty years old. When he started to approach me, I felt anxious like something wasn’t right. I began to walk away, but he was following me. I went from walking to running. The man was running behind me. He tackled me to the ground, and I began to scream. Then everything went black.

That was the last time anyone saw Katherine Forrester.

The next time I woke up, the first thing I saw was my face plastered on an old, ratty television. I started to panic when I looked down and saw I was tied to a pipe. I calmed myself by focusing on the TV. A news reporter was saying my name. As I listened closer, I made out what he was saying. It was hard, though, because I was droning in and out of consciousness. “...stolen from the park… by a man wearing a… if seen call…” Then I went back to sleep for the last time.