#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting.   ***   #This week's theme is Surprise! As we continue into the larger theme of “hidden” for February, we’re going to explore “surprise” this week. Surprises come in all shapes and sizes. They can be positive or negative things. What will these unexpected revelations mean for your characters and the world around them? The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * February 21- Surprise (this week) * February 28- Misunderstandings * March 7- Courage   ***   #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 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story.   ***   #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but we encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail!   ***   #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules).


She stood in front of the mirror, trying to focus on the words and not her reflection. She wanted to get it right. Ending a marriage is no small task, and it was important that he hear and understand what she was hoping to convey. During their 11 years together, she had rarely felt heard or understood by her husband, so it was unlikely that this would be an exception. She knew it. She needed, however, for him to receive her comments with empathy and compassion despite the hurt that they may impart. This, of course, was an exercise in futility, considering that he neither respected nor cared one iota about her feelings. That was the problem. Eleven years of hoping that he would change had not come to fruition and she had finally accepted that the relationship was no good for her, for him, or for their children. She knew that she was far from perfect, with scars and unhealthy habits of her own. She felt, however, that she had to change herself on her own terms, away from his influence. If she had only known then that the next 14 years would bring one heart ache after another, together with financial instability and the pressures of parenting and maintaining a household alone. Would she have stayed if she’d had the ability to predict this? Perhaps. It might have been easier in some ways, particularly given the realities of a single income household. She may have been able to travel more, as he has, to live a more comfortable lifestyle, to retire earlier and stress less. At the same time, she knew that she would not be the person she is today if she hadn’t initiated such a drastic change. Growth can be painful but so can staying in a situation that isn’t working. She would remind herself of this innumerable times over her lifetime, reflecting on the journey she had taken through the years. The opportunities and experiences that had presented themselves were completely different from what she would likely have encountered within the confines of her marriage. Some of these were good, some were bad, most were ordinary. She was grateful to have had so much joy and comfort, while grieving the many losses and regrets. She counted her blessings and tried not to focus on the negative thoughts that lurked in the darkness. At 48 years of age, Julie found herself in a midlife crisis. All but one of her children had left home to start lives of their own, although they still needed her support and guidance at times. They visited often and she appreciated how these relationships had become the most important in her life. She wished she had spent more time enjoying her children and less focus on relationships with men, however old patterns die hard. She had learned at a very young age that male attention felt invigorating and validating, which was unfortunate as she hadn’t realized that the intimate relationships were simply reflecting how she wanted to feel about herself. The doubts and the self-sabotage were strong. Years of unhelpful thoughts and beliefs about herself and others, along with habits that felt soothing but had harmful effects (overeating, binging, eating a lot of processed food and not a lot of healthful food, not exercising, picking at hair/skin, biting nails, using “substances”, engaging in risky behaviour, avoidance, etc.) had taken their toll on her being. From the day her marital status had changed to “single”, Julie had set about redefining herself and building a life she and her children could be proud of. Only she didn’t really know how to do this. She had learned many painful lessons along the way, and survival was often the only goal. She could now be proud that she and her loved ones had survived. She had worked hard, studied hard, and invested in their future. She had fought for what they deserved, arranged multitudes of adventures and learning experiences, and nurtured them to the best of her ability. She wished that she had been more present, gentle, patient, and mentally healthy in her younger years to now, however she knew that she didn’t know then what she knows now. She wonders if things would have been easier for her daughters if she had stayed. Her gratitude list, which falls in the “avoidance” category because writing it consistently lifts her mood and helps refocus her thoughts, building and strengthening new pathways in her brain, includes: Family, friends, home, pets, nature, beauty, love, knowledge, music, work, resources, comfort, kindness, health, and so on. She knows she is privileged in so many ways, born white, middle class, able, relatively intelligent and attractive. Her parents had worked hard and provided many opportunities to Julie and her sister, Karen. They had lived within an hour or two of each other since immigrating to Canada from England on February 12, 1982. When she received the call from the hospital advising her that her mother was in intensive care, she’d immediately made the 5 minute drive, parked beside the school that her daughter had attended, and maintained her composure as she navigated the visitation protocols. The sight of her mother, face pale and wrinkled, hair disheveled, eyes sunken into deep dark sockets, so frail and unwell, brought back all of the emotions she had ever felt. The tears overwhelmed her. She waited for Karen to arrive so they could sit with the woman who birthed them by caesarian section 46 and 48 years earlier, while she passed into whatever came next or simply “expired”, as they say in medicine. They held hands, the three women, as they had done when crossing the street at age 2, 4, and 31. They didn’t speak but cried their love from sad eyes, grateful for the ability to be present for and with one another. Julie, Karen, and Gillian, a story of adventure, drama, comedy, romance, and even horror. Their lives forever intertwined, another chapter now ending.


P.O.V. of Tyler (Mostly) Sandra stared across at Tyler through the small fire. Her eyes seemed to glow with a strange menacing essence. The fire roared and flickered in her small green eyes. The tension between the two was clear. However, Tyler couldn’t read Sandra. She was as clear as solid wood. Tyler felt tense. They were surrounded by miles of forest, in the cold night. No one could hear anything except for him and Sandra, and there’s not much to hear when you’re dead. Suddenly; Sandra opened her mouth slowly, as if to say something. She closed it and glanced over at the tent, grinning. Somehow, outside of the fire’s glare, her eyes seemed to grow with a more malevolent light. She turned back to Tyler, this time right in the eyes. “I have a surprise for you, Ty.” She said, with a cheerful nickname as if they were old friends. Really, they were both escapees, only together for matters of survival. She turned before Tyler could read her expression. She stood and walked to the tent. Tyler heard some clinks and other miscellaneous sounds. Then, when it appeared she had found what she was looking for, she came back, holding something behind her back. She handed him a small box. It wasn’t anything special, just a dirty old Thai food rice container. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, leaning to the fire. “Blow out the candles..” then, she blew with all her might on the fire, sending flames rolling Tyler’s way as they dissipated, the fire extinguishing. He reached out to feel a box-like shape sitting in the ash pit. He picked it up and folded it open, fumbling his hand inside. The only thing on the inside besides a few grains of old sticky rice was what felt like a folded piece of paper, but no light to read. He realized he was alone in the light, with Sandra. Of whom he knew nothing about. Crazy, mysterious Sandra. He gripped the paper, his heart beating wildly out of his chest. He felt something tap his shoulder and he shut his eyes. “I’m so sorry Ty.. But one of us has to eat.” He heard a soft, recognizable voice whisper. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his back and made no attempt to wail, knowing it was hopeless- who would hear, and why would they care? Blood gargled out of his mouth as everything he knew started to vanish. People say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but it doesn’t. It disappears, everything you know, to the point of insanity. You forget what’s happening and all that’s going through your head is; ‘I am about to die.’ Managing to struggle to words, he choked out through all the blood, “I’ll never forgive you for this.” Sandra smiles in the dark, and then something wet drips on Tyler’s head. Then he realized; she was crying. “You won’t have time to fret on the past in hell, Ty..” She whispered, as he closed his eyes, just to never open them again. Candy and Pepper strolled through the woods when a morbid smell wafted through Candy’s nose. “Gosh, what’s that awful smell?” Then, suddenly she realized as they approached it; a body, pieces of skin torn off, blood splattered everywhere, as if someone appeared to attempt to consume it. The person was obviously a man. Folded in his hand was a small piece of paper. Pepper leaned down and picked it up, unfolding it, softly reading it to himself. 'See you soon, I figure I can’t live off you forever. I’ll never forgive myself, either. In our short time together I grew attached, but my life came before you in my eyes, Ty. Love, S.


There was once a great statue of a powerful looking woman, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the calves to match. Her hooked nose was complimented by a strong jaw, and her gaze looked proudly upon whoever came by to pray. With crossed arms and a smirk set deep into the stone statue, it was said she brought courage and strength to those who showed respect to her. The village built and grew around this statue, the awe and amazement never dwindling. Legends were told from grandparents to grandchild, who eagerly wrote down stories of the Stone Temptress and the enemies she defeated in battle. As legends go, her truth was twisted year by year, generation by generation. Only the old texts, buried deep beneath her stone feet, told the true story of the Stone Temptress and the glory she held in the battlefield. It was said that whoever found these texts would be granted an eternal seat beside her soul, walking the lands after death and watching over the children of the families that had fought beside her all those years ago. As life tends to go, people started to forget just how important this Stone Temptress had been to them as they grew into adulthood. Sure, grandparents still told her stories to their young relatives with a faint gleam in their eye, a smile dancing at their lips as they retold the fights they had with wooden swords around her statue when they were small. The people of the village had built a mausoleum of sorts around her, which took many months, as she was as tall as she was wide. They had wanted to protect her from the world, or rather the world from her, as legends said the statue would start to move at apparent threat to the village. They wanted to pray to her in peace, without the outside world peering in and making its noise. Until, one day, an unholy earthquake shook the village, and the ground beneath the precious statue of their Stone Temptress collapsed. There was no hope of ever retrieving her. She was all alone, and the texts understand her strong stone boots now certainly destroyed. The Stone Temptress was all alone, and without their protector, the people could not stand to be in the village any longer. Their hope had been destroyed, as had their luck it seemed. She was all alone, until one day, a small buck fell and broke his leg in the hole that had been created all those years ago. Next to him lay the Stone Temptresses statue, and her texts revealing her true story. And the buck seemed at peace. His heartbeat slowed, and his head lowered in fatigue. He was not afraid anymore, and neither was the Stone Temptress. A faint glow had started to emit from the statue, and her soul reached out. With a fist grasped at her chest, the Stone Temptress laid a hand on the bucks antlers. He had succumbed to his fate, and they were not alone anymore. They had nothing to fear, the buck and the Stone Temptress. Not anymore.


 -The Cutter’s Inn, 1844 Winter trees reach with long dark fingers into an unresponsive sky as the figure strikes the match, eagerly bringing the hungry flame to the paper’s edge. Clouds mask the moon as they did a year ago and no reflection from the inky waters mirrors the man’s face, shaggy brows knitted in fervid concentration. He is alone, only thoughts and fears for company. The canal carves its quiet way through the night, secrets flowing through each of the 105 locks, linking this backwater to the smog and skulduggery of London. The paper catches and the tongue of flame curls upwards, words scorched with a sigh from the page. Rain begins to fall, scoring the smooth water’s surface as if each drop is boring deep, searching the waters for something. Nothing to be found here, he thinks, tossing the burning paper, white ribboning to black, into the darkened waters below. Anything that can sink will, sucked down into the canal and that paper will drown in its drink quicker than one of the rotten-toothed revellers in the inn behind him. Every year he completes this odd convention, told to none, barely acknowledged by himself: the annual list of regrets, written, just to be consigned to ash in a watery grave. He turns his back; it is only rain upon his face as he passes the canal boats moored there. Hurrying to the welcoming light cast from the only building on the towpath: The Cutter Inn, a guard tower with windows for watchful eyes, he briefly acknowledges there’s an unusual number of barges for this time of year, trade normally ceases for the holidays. But there’s no time to stop and ponder the reason; the tavern’s door is flung open, a drunk staggers out and, as the man retches and curses, he can take the chance to slip in. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ All eyes in The Cutter’s Inn turn from their pints to look at the stranger, shaking himself like a wet dog on their threshold. With a determined tread, he paces to the roaring fire, hangs his dripping cloak on a peg as if he’s been there many a time before and this hook is his own. Standing, steaming slightly in the heat cast from the grate, he surveys the pub and its occupants. Years of spilt beer has stained the sawdust on the floor an unsavoury brown; oil lamps reeking of kerosene choke the air and, at the bar, the dark brows of the landlord knit above his surveying eyes, pulling a pint of ale, his large hands used to the slow rhythmic pull down and down again at the pump, his gaze never leaving the stranger’s face. This is a place that has seen better days. Haulage by waterway isn’t what it was: the new railway, like an uncoiled snake, rattles and hisses in its cloak of steam into the future, leaving the sauntering canal boats in its wake. And the Cutter Inn, serving the last of the canal traders- dogged souls bound to their canal, boats and horses with chains no upstart railway can sever- are the last to remain, raising a glass as the old year gasps its last.

“A pint of your best,” the young man says, wiping the rain up from his brow through his hair in a way that might have spelled trouble had any women been present, “and a jar for each man here,” he adds, placing a fat leather purse on the counter to signal the means with which he will extend this hand of bounty. Loosened by free drink, tongues which might have snapped with opprobrium, scorn at the stranger’s decision to grace them with his presence tonight of all nights, are softened. Talk turns to the year: offerings- gladly received; kicks- deflected or at worst endured. Bert, skipper of the Kingfisher of Avon, is the first to wheeze his reflections through yellow teeth jutting from angry red gums. “I remember the pies: thick crust and thicker gravy; big chunks of steak and kidney, generous to the last was old Fran. Many a night, when the horse stopped and I needed to give him a lick about the haunches to get him and me on our way, it was only the thought of old Fran and her pies that kept me going.” The others murmur their assent and the landlord, still delivering the free ale to each table, slams the pint down in front of old Bert. Beer sloshes over the sides, running in rivulets before dripping into the sawdust below. If Bert was about to ask if anyone knows whatever happened to the Inn’s cook, the hovering figure is enough to halt his tongue and he chooses to take a hearty drink of the ale instead. “To your good health Colin, may your year be a prosperous one!” Another man, ten years younger than Bert but with no more teeth in his mouth, wishes the landlord. The exclamation which shoots from the dark-browed publican’s mouth could be interpreted in many ways; none of them suggest polite agreement. He makes his way back to the bar, wiping his large hands on the apron tied about his waist before thrusting the last ale at the stranger, still standing at the bar, waiting. If the others dare not freely state their minds, even on a night of supposed reckless celebration, the stranger knows no such restraint. He takes a long pull at his pint, wiping the froth on the back of his hand in a somewhat rakish manner; Colin scowls his disapproval. “So, there is little to celebrate in these parts?” The stranger enquires, surveying the down-on-its-luck establishment, where poverty rather than prosperity seems the only thing on tap. Bert, obviously the resident blather mouth, starts up again, giddy with freedom now that Colin the publican is back behind his bar. “Well, we’re like the last men standing.” He lets out a misplaced laugh, indicating with a weathered hand the rest of the Cutter’s motley crew, who nod in agreement. “And every year the railway takes more and more; first it were our best, now it just takes any. Many a young man has left these parts to feed the coal-guzzling monster.” The stranger must look blank, for Bert explains: “That’s what the likes of us call that new-fangled train.” The stranger sips his beer thoughtfully. “And why are they so keen to leave do you think?” “Fed up with trawling the canals at an old nag’s pace, no doubt!” Bert exclaims, sloshing his drink this time himself. “In all types of weather, you’ll find us out on the canal; the only comfort’s a pint in a place like the Cutter at the end of a hard n’ cold day of haulage.” “There certainly seems to be little other comfort on offer, that is for sure,” says the man, eyeing the room appraisingly. “Where are all the womenfolk; do none of you have wives if mistresses are not permitted?” He laughs confidently and if one or two men join him, they quickly fall silent as Colin wheels a finished barrel of beer to a hatch, before sending it crashing into the darkness below. All jump although the noise must be hardly new to any of them. He turns, red-faced and sweating from the exertion back to face the unwanted guest, and his torso and shoulders thrust in a T shape that would spell terror to many a man; the stranger, however, only takes another long expectant pull on his beer. “You’re not from around these parts.” It is not a question and the visitor neither concurs or disagrees. “If you were, you’d have heard about the events of a year ago, that which sent our womenfolk scattering like lambs.” An expectant hush fills the silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a breaking log in the hearth or the hiss of damp air expiring. “We never found the perpetrator, but this time last year there was a wolf in our midst in the shape of a young handsome man; stole a lamb as surely as I’m standing here: my daughter, Beth.” The stranger shifts his weight in his heavy boots for the first time in what might be discomfort. If he is discomposed, the publican is not. “We searched for hours in the canal out yonder. Searched, till the feeling had gone. Bodies plunging in those freezing waters, looking and looking, every limb turning to ice; but not the heart. It would take more than the canal to cool that. It beats even now, hot and fast. Do you know what for? Justice.” “You never found her then, your daughter?” The stranger asks, failing to offer commiserations of any sort. “What does it look like?” Spits the publican, waving at the men staring fixedly into the narrow circles of the glasses they are cradling. “Do you see her? See any womenfolk about here? No, because there aren’t any. Her death scared them off as surely as if they’d seen a wolf rip her throat out.” Old Bert starts a strange keening sort of a sound and the other man with the gummy mouth helps him up from the table. “Night one and all. Night Colin.” He says, tipping his flat cap at the publican. “Think this is one New Year’s Day I’ll be seeing in from my bed. ‘Till the next jar at the end of another hard day’s haulage.” He says, picking up his coat and Bert’s; they both shuffle to the door and leave. Others quickly follow in their wake, perhaps genuinely exhausted, perhaps hopeful of seeing in the New Year in a place with a modicum more of frivolity rather than death about it. Soon, the publican is alone with his unwanted guest, fifteen minutes before he customarily rings the last order bell to see in the New Year. The publican moves from table to table, ignoring the visitor, tipping the dregs of the drink into the sawdust, stacking the empty glasses one inside the other. He makes his rounds from table to table, ignoring the man, never offering him another drink. “I think I’ll wash these tomorrow and turn in myself for the night. Little point staying up; I’ve seen in enough New Years to know this one is going to come bringing only flaming misfortune in her hands: more trains on more tracks, no doubt, luring my customers away.” He begins to collect the lamps from each table, lowering the wicks until the flames gutter and die. Shadows mass and the only light is cast by embers and the one remaining lamp in the publican’s hand. “Leave it,” the stranger says, turning away from the fire, unfolding something in his hand. “We’ll be needing the light to read this.” He shakes out a piece of paper which he has taken from his coat. The bottom third is charred, and it looks like it has only recently dried from quite a soaking, but even in the flickering half-light it is possible to make out words, etched like tombstone memorials on the paper’s blackened side. “Where did you get that from?" Colin rasps, staring with obvious recognition at the tattered sheet like it were a ghost rising ragged but indomitable from its grave. The stranger sits at the table closest to the hearth and takes the oil lamp from the publican’s quivering hand. “To answer that, I will have to tell you why I’m here. And when my tale is told, I think it will shed more than a little light on your own.” Colin slumps into the chair opposite him, his face fixed into a mask of dread by the dying light of the fire. “Go on then,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Earlier today I made my way back to this place, The Cutter’s Inn. I’d spent the last twelve months vowing never to come here again. But these last weeks, I’ve heard her voice just as clearly as you have.” Colin shifts, a man at sea, in his chair. “Up through the waters it’s come. The locks can’t stop it, can’t hold back her beautiful voice. At the Thames it’s the loudest, but even far from the river I hear it still. And to answer Beth’s voice, I came.” “Why?” The question sounds like it’s squeezed past hands which strangle. “To throw myself in after her, why else?” The stranger looks to the publican with a blaze in his eyes; a desperate fire more than enough to tip a handsome and healthy man in the prime of his life into premature death. “Surely you know who I am Colin?” He doesn’t wait for a response, his tale careering forward with a full head of steam. “You knew of me, don’t pretend you didn’t: the railway man, posted to this backwater to recruit young men to the company. You heard Beth speak of the life she wanted to live in London, a life of finery: balls and gowns, on the arm of her dashing young entrepreneur- me. For yes, I won her heart surely as I won the admiration of the menfolk hereabout.” “No more,” it is a gasp which the momentum of his story rips straight through. “We planned our escape in secret of course; she knew you, and your moribund antique ways, would never permit her to go. We were to meet, this very night a year ago: to embark together on our new life; to take the canal boat one last time which I chartered just for this purpose. Slowly, stealthily but surely, it was to bear her away, from you to me.” “No- “but the young man is relentless, his tale now at full steam. “But, when I went to the stable to tack the horse which was to tow the boat to this Inn and smuggle her away, I found it lame. I cursed my failure to foresee this possibility; the horse was useless to me and I set out, on foot.” The only response is a groan. “As I neared the spot for our arranged meeting, I realised immediately I was too late. I heard two voices raised, hers and one I know now to be yours. I won’t trouble you with the words; you know your response to her pleas. There was a more awful sound than her cries: a blow, then a splash; the roar of my heart stopping for a second.” The publican’s head has dropped onto his neck, but his chin is forced up with a jerk; eyes spark at his. “You talk of the icy plunge, searching the canal; I saw only your retreating back. It was me, tearing into the water to save her. And yes, there is a chill to that water; and yes, the passion in a wronged heart never cools.” “ You wronged me ,” the publican thumps his chest before making a grab for the suitor who rams the table top into his ribs, pinning him fast. The publican’s breath comes in heaving gasps. “If she met her end that night, the hand that killed her was more yours than mine; the hand that lured her away from where she belonged: here, with me!” “I knew that was the tale you’d tell. And yes, I overheard your sob story the next day: how your darling daughter had slipped in a fit of passion from the towpath, half-deranged with love, following a foolish fancy all the way to London, only to miss her footing on the icy path. I listened, always knowing it would be your word against mine, and I knew no one would dare dispute yours: the grieving father pitted against the wolfish young man. But now I have this to add weight to my words. Fortune has favoured me at last, casting this into the water right before the canal boat window where I was waiting." He brandishes the paper in one hand, the lamp in the other, angling its light to illume the words in the gathering dark. New Year’s Resolutions, Colin Dredge- 1844 As a year of regret passes, I commit to flame only the recollection of a moment’s sin and 12 months of purgatory thereafter. That moment: New Year’s Eve 1843. Beth: I wished to stop you, to stay your flight. I didn’t mean for yours to be a watery grave, my hand the one that sent you there. Read this child and be at peace. Desist from wailing at my door, shaking your wet skirts on my hearth, staining my heart with guilt and shame. Be at rest child; for without your hauntings, I will toss and turn: damned on earth till I be damned in the ground, joining you as this does, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. “Weight to your words- never!” Cries the publican, desperately flinging back the table and lunging for the paper, but the young man is too quick for him. In three long strides he is at the bar, reaching up, ringing the bell for last orders. Back and forth, hand grasping the thread-worn rope cord, beating the iron ringer against the old brass bell, summoning the waiting police to the Cutter’s Inn. As Colin Dredge is handcuffed and led away, the sweetest bells echo across the midnight sky. They are ringing in a New Year; one stepping in skirts, waterlogged and heavy, but with a head held high, for justice has been summoned and served at last.


\*\*\* Wars. Throughout the thousands of years I've lived, it's wars that seem to bind mankind through the ages. It's where I'd first met Marcellus, after our army won the battle against Carthage. It's how I'd fatefully meet him again 2,000 years into the future. But first, let's go back to the beginning. During this fateful day in 241 BC, one of my commanders presented me a young man with a noose around his neck. This was Marcellus, a ranking officer of the Carthaginian army. Seeing that the war was already won, I ordered the general to stop tugging on the rope, and to set this man free. There was no need for more prisoners. "Thank you, lord," Marcellus said, in our mother tongue of Latin. "Please allow me to repay you in kind." He stepped forward and grasped at the sharp edge of my commander's gladius. Blood trickled down his fingers in crimson rivulets. "This is a blessing reserved only for the purest of hearts—" Before Marcellus could finish his sentence, my general had tightened his grip on the rope and wailed on the man before sending him face first into the dirt. Weirdly enough, the man did not seem to mind at all. I waved for my officer to stand down. Marcellus stood back up and took my hand, unperturbed by the swords drawn and thrust at his neck. "I am Marcellus," he said, "and today, I trade you the best gift in the world in exchange for sparing me imprisonment." My chest hummed the moment he spoke those words. I had no way of expressing it at the time, but by today's standards, it'd be like standing in front of a subwoofer. He then walked away without looking back. *Looking back*, now that's a term for the ages. Every time I look back to this day, I wish I had not shaken his hand. In fact, I wish I had locked him up and left him to rot. \*\*\* Maybe I should fast-forward a little, forgive my play on words. This is America, and it's the year 2020. I wasn't always a citizen of this country, as much as my name wasn't Eric until about 80 years ago. I was born Epictetus in 284 BC, a full 20 years before the Punic Wars. I know what you're thinking. *Is this guy for real?* And perhaps, after you're ready to humour me, you'd think, *I wonder what he thinks about modern plumbing or the iPhone.* Well, how do *you* feel about the iPhone? That's assuming you're old enough to have witnessed its before-and-after effects on mankind. Oh, don't get so uptight about my remark. Age is *very* relative when it comes to conversations with me. I'm guessing you've grown to take this piece of technology for granted. Well, so have I. Paper money, gunpowder, electricity—they've all came and went so slowly that they've lost their magic, even to someone like me. I'm just like you. Only I've lived longer. I came to America by chance, really. Once personal identification became a thing, it took considerably more effort to remain anonymous. I mean, it wasn't exactly the easiest thing to explain why my papers were always hundreds of years old. But I won't bore you with the details. I've stories that date back through the millennia, so pardon me if I occasionally digress. Now, where was I? Oh yes, America. \*\*\* Let's take one more step back to the 1940s. I had become a lone traveller by now, having known better than to make friends, with my condition and all. I'd loved and lost seven wives by then, all without children, due to my fear of passing down this disease. I was tempted to 'convert' my seventh wife, Lea, and I came clean to her on her deathbed. I'm immortal, I told her, and we could live together for as long as we can imagine. "Oh darling," Lea said, in German, "I have loved you my whole life, but give me eternity and I might well jump at your throat. Let me go. Let me remember you like this." I don't know if she had believed me, that she had really meant those words. But I knew I couldn't go through with it even if she wanted to. Everything changes when you have an eternity ahead of you—everything. Even the word 'meaning' becomes pointless after some time. I watched Lea die that night, and I vowed never to love anyone again.


Hello, first time posting here. I found this writing prompt and decided to attempt it while setting myself a 30 minute time limit. The prompt: You are a teenager with the ability to measure how "Dangerous" people are on a scale from 1 to 10 by looking at them. A normal child would be a 1 while a trained man with an assault rifle might be a 7. Today, you notice the unassuming new kid at school measures a 10. *Jesus what the hell is that?* I thought the second I spotted him. Steven was the new kid, only about 5’2” tall, a real shrimp with a bowl cut and scrawny arms. He didn’t seem dangerous, but I knew that he was a walking disaster. He sat down in the science room by himself looking at the desk as the teacher began to speak. “Okay students, today is your lucky day because we are dissecting frogs today.” The teacher had sets of trays all with a frog and dissecting tools for each student. “Everyone come up and get a tray and sit down until we are all ready to start.” As the kid grabbed his tray along with the others I couldn’t help by shudder seeing the scalpel by his hands as he sat down with his frog muttering to himself. He almost looked ready to cry. *Maybe I’m wrong for once*, *how could this be right?* “Okay, now using the diagram on the projector, everyone make your first incision. Let me know if you need any help.” After cutting into my frog, I turned to look at the new kid. **11**. The number above his head went up as he sliced through the frog, still muttering under his breath. I dropped my pencil to bend closer to him. “*Ha ha ha and hee hee hee, happy knife and happy me. The knife goes in the knife comes out, it makes me smile, it makes me shout.”* A cold sweat broke out across my face as I picked up my pencil and went back to my frog. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder that made me jump. “Jason.” The teacher said. “You sure are jumpy, does the dissection make you nervous? Maybe you can ask Steven for help, he did a terrific job.” Turning to look at Jason, he gave me a friendly grin that froze my veins like ice. On his table the frog was neatly sliced open, the skin separated from the fat and muscle as if by a master surgeon. Turning to the teacher I managed to stutter out a denial for help. “I-I’m okay, just the smell is all.” I forced myself to cut into the frog without screaming, but every time I looked over at Steven, I could see my own death looming over me. My teeth began to chatter as I watched him cut out every organ and lay it on the table like a collection of knick-knacks. Whenever the class got quiet enough, I could hear snippets of his mutterings. “*So small, so delicate, not meaty enough. Need something bigger to satisfy.”* He was humming to himself, his fingers drumming on the table as soon as he ran out of frog to dissect. His pale face began to turn red as he looked around at all the other students still working. **12.** The finger drumming became frantic as he twirled the scalpel in his hand with unnerving ease. He raised his hand and left to use the restroom. When he came back the number above his head was back to ten. As he walked by me he smiled and slipped me a piece of paper. Scrawled on the note was a phone number and a message. “You know it’s been a while since I’ve met another ten. We should keep in contact.


The sheer darkness of the early November morning should have been enough to send shivers down my spine, but it did not. Paired with the crisp, cold air and lingering snow I should have been freezing, but I did not feel it. As we lumbered up a ravine left icy from sunny days and cold nights, I should have been nervous, even scared, but I felt nothing except contentment. Though I could not see him, the soft sound of his even breathing and the snow crunching lightly beneath his boots soothed me. We had been climbing upward for more than an hour and he was still not winded. Hiking up mountains is in his blood and it shown outwardly as I huffed and struggled to keep up with his pace. Being born and raised at sea-level, the high altitude and tedious climbing left my lungs and muscles on the brink of surrendering. I relished every second of it. Each time I thought about giving up on the difficult trek I caught a second wind and I had never felt more alive. Even the smallest of steps forward felt as if I had accomplished the biggest mountain in the world. It was empowering. Twilight began to cast shadows around 7 a.m. and physically I felt the two hours we had been at it, though mentally I did not. I had already asked to stop three times for water or to shove more peanut M & Ms into my camo pockets to fulfill my incessant need to snack. If my inability to keep up with him annoyed him, he didn’t show it. Instead he smiled at me and joked every time I slowed to a stop to catch my breath. When I asked how much further he would say “about 15 minutes” with a laugh because the dim light prevented him from knowing where the summit was. As the sun peeked over the mountaintops, I could see we were close to reaching our destination. The sky was clear and the variations of orange and yellow haphazardly strewn across the snow by Mother Nature was breathtaking. Until that moment, I did not know such colors existed and I was certain the reflection of the white powder was the only reason they existed at that point. I tightened my pack and shifted my rifle from one shoulder to the other as I prepared for us to make our ascent. It seemed the closer we were to the top, the longer it took to get there and my body ached. When we finally reached the summit he took the time to point out various mountains from his childhood and tell stories pertinent to each one. Stories such as “and on that mountain over there I shot a six by six bull elk. He rolled down a rocky hillside and it took three of us an entire day to pack him out” or “I lost my favorite hat to some high wind while looking over a cliff when I was in my early twenties”. I stood in amazement and marveled over how grand his childhood must have been. I was envious. We walked to the other side of the mountain to peer over the edge and search for elk. We saw only a small doe. Although it was an upgrade from the birds and squirrels we had seen earlier in our journey, she was not what we were after. She peered at us briefly and seemed to sense our thoughts through whatever natural channels animals use to recognize imminent danger. Satisfied that we were not going to harm her, she bent and nipped the tips off some tall grass that remained above the snow before trudging down the hillside. As we continued to follow the telltale signs of elk, I could not help but periodically stopping to stare at my surroundings. The green trees that lay in swaths on the mountainside created a stark contrast against the snow and kept my attention most of the time. A blizzard hammering a mountain to the Northeast stole my admiration of the landscape before me. Slightly concerned, I turned to ask him if he thought we would be caught in the same storm, but the words were lost when I saw him standing against the majestic backdrop that Montana provided. He looked like he belonged right there in the snow. Everything about him fit perfectly. His stance, his features, the way he tilted his head when a branch creaked or there was a random crunch in the snow. The well-worn hunting attire he donned along with his beard, gun, and pack made him look nothing short of a lumberjack. After a moment of me staring at him and him gazing back at me with an expression that said “what the hell are you looking at” , I finally asked if we should be worried about the storm. He was quick to reply “no”, mostly to quell my fears I imagine, but also made a point to remind me that you really never know where blizzards may hit. A half hour later we were hit by that very storm. The thought of the storm made me a bit anxious. Being from Mississippi I had never really dealt with much snow and had definitely never been in a blizzard. Although I had already lived in Montana for three years at this time, I still had managed to avoid it. Despite my initial fears I changed when we were encapsulated by the sideways snow. It stung any exposed skin like little angry frozen hornets furious that we were in their realm, but I remained calm. Fortunately, my only exposed skin was my face and, as long as I kept my head down, I could keep myself from the worst of it. I could hardly see my hands when I held them out in front of me much less where we were going so I followed his deep bootprints as we made our way to the distant treeline. While this made me feel somewhat childlike, and I’m sure looked childlike, it also left me with a zen sense of security. If I had felt powerful before, I now felt like a superstar. Something as strong as this storm we weather couldn’t stop me, so what could? Reaching the tree line only furthered my confidence. He sighed at what lay before us: a twisted maze of thick, unrelenting deadfall. I smiled at the obstacle course ahead of us. This was my element. I had grown up hunting in a thicket, always having to maneuver my way through vines, trees, and brush. With each fallen log we climbed over and every set of bushes we squeezed through, he apologized for taking me down the mountainside that way. We really didn’t have a choice considering the storm around us and I was enjoying every moment, but I appreciated the thought he put into my wellbeing. I was also reluctant to admit I was much more confident walking through the forest than I would have been shuffling down the icy, treacherous ravine. Being inside the forest was like being in an inverted snow globe, as if we were encased in glass while a mightier power than we shook the world around us. When the globe was tilted one way the snow flew east and when it shifted the other direction it flew west. The rounded bubble we were in shielded us well and the only sign of the storm was actually witnessing the large white flakes flurry outside our haven. Inside the globe the only noise we could hear was our own feet hitting the forest floor littered with branches and packed with evergreen needles. It was surreal. I have never felt more at one with Nature and I now crave that closeness. When we reached the service road, he leaned his pack against a snow bank, sat down, and rested against it. I followed suit and my knees thanked me for the release from the long, arduous trek. He smiled at the relief on my face and twisted around to dig something out of his pack: two Coldsmoke beers, my favorite. While we drank our well-earned beers and waited for his father to pick us up in his side by side, I came to a realization: I did not find an elk, but I did find a home. We can love our hometowns and culture, but that does not mean it is where we are meant to be. Sometimes we wander a seemingly endless journey searching for that place. The place our heart calls home. The place that naturally feels right and warm regardless of the actual temperature. A place where you exist effortlessly. In that moment I realized for me, it is a place with endless wilderness, looming peaks, and adventure. It is Montana.


This was inspired by a Star Trek episode called “remember me”  A short story by Oliver Rich-Jackson Dr. Plato Capti began his day the same as any other. As he got dressed in his usual white coat, slacks, and button-up, he took note of his form. Capti was a slender man, standing at around six feet. His shoulders were slumped, and he had sunken eyes, weary from the hours of research he conducted day after day. He began walking through the narrow hallways to the lab. The small station was orbiting Earth's moon and there were only ten or so researchers onboard at any given time, unlike the immense citadels in the asteroid belt. Those stations housed hundreds of people, and still had plenty of room left over for recreational facilities, food courts, and more; but, those were for intergalactic launches, and his station was for deep space observation. Dr. Capti was snapped out of his musings when he entered the lab. “Mornin,” said Capti’s colleague Baxter “I saw you working late last night. You missed the get-together for Susan's birthday.” 	“I had work to do. I’m nearly done mapping the edge of the observable universe,” responded Capti. 	“Why don’t you take some time off? The universe will still be there when you get back, and you know the government doesn’t care when you finish.” 	“That may be so, but the scientific community cares. They’ve hung on my every word since I identified dark energy, and besides, I prefer not to associate with others.”	 “Suit yourself.” The following day Capti woke up to find a pair of shoes missing, which he found particularly odd since no one else was authorized to enter his room. He thought nothing of it and moved on. As he made his way to the lab, he noticed other things were missing, such as fire alarms and wall fixtures. When Capti eventually made it to his lab, he found Baxter and another researcher named Henleigh. “Have you noticed the missing objects in the halls?” He asked. 	“What do you mean?” 	replied Henleigh. 	“There are missing pipes, monitors, PA systems, and more missing.” 	“That’s not possible,” retorted Baxter	“The station is pre-assembled. You couldn’t take anything like that down without dismantling the whole place.” 	“I know that! But I also know what I saw. I’ve been on this station longer than anyone else, and something’s not right.”	That’s when he noticed that the computer had finished mapping the outer boundaries of the observable universe.	 “This was supposed to take another nineteen days. Computer, what is the reason for the accelerated progress?” 	“ Mapping was completed within the expected time frame. ”

“That’s not possible,” exclaimed Capti. Henleigh chimed in, “What are you talking about? The map was expected today. Are you alright?”	 “I’m fine; though, perhaps I should lie down.” 		“If you're leaving, go by the med bay. Just to be sure, I’ll tell Dr. Naomi to expect you.”  “What happened to Dr. Abiit?”	 “No one by that name has ever served on this station.” 	“Nonsense, Computer, pull up the file for Dr. Janis Abiit.” 	“ There are no records of a Dr. Janis Abiit. ”	“Search Earths database.”	 “ No records exist for a Dr. Janis Abiit. ” 	“ …I suppose I’ll meet with Dr. Naomi,” said Capti quietly. It had been several days since the strange conversation in the lab, and things had gotten worse. After visiting the med bay he was confined to quarters and tended to by the med staff. He was assumed temporarily insane after more ramblings about the missing objects. When several hours had passed since Capti had seen anyone he began wandering the station looking for others. 	“Hello? Is anyone there?

You can’t keep me in bed if you won’t help me.”	After searching for nearly half an hour, he shouted, 	“Computer, locate Dr. Baxter!” 	“ There is no one under the name Dr. Baxter on board the station. ” 	“Locate Dr. Henleigh then!”	“ There is no one under the name Dr. Henleigh on board the station. ”	“Locate the nearest human being to my location!” 	“ Information not available. ” 	“My god.” Capti started towards the lab to use the interplanetary communicator. 	“Computer, calibrate communicator to speak to earth!” 	“ Please state a valid target ”	“Earth! Contact Earth!” 	“ There is no such place listed in my database. ” He then noticed the map of the observable universe and it displayed a bubble-like shape immediately surrounding the station. 	“Computer, describe the universe.”	“ The universe is a two thousand by two thousand kilometer sphere.” In a barely audible voice, he spoke. “no… That can’t be rig-...” 	He heard a large crash and the sound of air whooshing, followed by a bulkhead door slamming into the foundation. “Computer, what was that?!”	“ A vacuum was created because the station’s interior was exposed to space .” 	“Why was it exposed to space?” 	“ A fatal flaw in the design of the station. ” 	“Computer, describe the universe,” he exclaimed frantically.	 “ The universe is a five hundred by five hundred kilometer sphere. ”	“Is there any way to escape the universe?” 	“ There is no known method of esca-...” The computer was destroyed by the universe collapsing in on itself, which annihilated Dr. Capti and the station with him.”

There were two figures in the space.

“It destabilized again . ”

… “It appears so.” … “Reset it.”

… “Ok.” Dr. Plato Capti began his day the same as any other. As he got dressed in his usual white coat, slacks, and button-up, he took note of his form. Capti was a slender man, standing at around six feet. His shoulders were slumped, and he had sunken eyes, weary from the hours of research he conducted day after day. He began walking through the narrow hallways to the lab. The small station was orbiting Earth's moon and there were only ten or so researchers onboard at any given time, unlike the immense citadels in the asteroid belt. These housed hundreds of people, and still had plenty of room left over for recreational facilities, food courts, and more; but, those stations were for intergalactic launches, and his station was for deep space observation. Dr. Capti was snapped out of his musings when he entered the lab. “Mornin,” said Capti’s colleague Baxter “I saw you working late last night. You missed the get-together for Susan's birthday.” 	“I had work to do. I’m nearly done mapping the edge of the observable universe,” responded Capti. 	“Why don’t you take some time off? The universe will still be there when you get back, and you know the government doesn’t care when you finish.”

	“Perhaps you're right. Are you available for lunch?” The End


“We dreamed of the stars.” The old man sat, slumped slightly, on an uneven bench, hair strewn unneatly about his face. The transient light from the fire played over the hollows and crevices of his frame, giving him the illusion of great depth and impossible topography. He coughed once more, a deep, rich hacking from the bottom of his lungs, and began again. “We dreamed of the stars. Long ago, before the world got small again. “There were men among us who spent their lives on such dreaming. “Now the lights have gone out, it's hard to imagine a sky without a million million pinpricks set into it every night. But at the time, there was so much light in Boston that you were lucky to see any stars at night. Even in spite of that, we knew they were there, and in our minds there was a depth to the sky which replaced the hard impermeability we could see. We knew we only had to walk off into the night to find the stars, and we knew, in our hearts, that if we flew high enough and fast enough, we could eventually reach them.” The pages of the books around us moved, stirred by some imperceptible breeze coming in the third floor window of the library. We would have to block the draft when winter came. “Space was the word we used. The vast, empty space in which the earth hangs like a jewel. Black as night, empty of even the wind. “We visited it, long ago. Men flew out, and put their indelible mark on the disk...sphere...of the moon. Their task seemed almost impossible, and yet, when they accomplished it, we still dreamed of the stars. “They were far away. Impossibly far away. We knew that. We could travel as fast as we could, and still spend lifetimes reaching them. Whole generations, long-lived though they were, could ride through that emptiness, living and dying without seeing their origin or destination. It was foolish, really, but we couldn't help but dream. “We can't really see the stars from here. They look like pinpricks, or motes of dust. So we built machines to see for us. Huge, massive machines spaced out across the desert, all working together to see. You could fill this city with such machines, and still not imagine the scope of our work.” He straightened a little, swaying with rhetorical passion. As he stood, the firelight spun across the underside of his face. “And one day, even before I was born, a man said, 'Why not go there? Why not see the stars?' We had made rockets, and ridden aloft on plumes of fire like men and angels. Why should we not see the stars? “There was great excitement among those of us who dreamed. It was as if this man, in speaking, had opened up our secret desires to ourselves. Eagerly, we followed in his footsteps. We tried again and again to see space, and succeeded, but still we dreamed of the stars. It still seemed impossible, but the hope that had awoken in us would not be easily quelled. “Then, one day, a project was proposed. Project Orion, it was called. Terse and fanciful – the style of the time. Orion was a story, a legend of a man who died in a great and terrible hunt, and was placed by gods in the stars forever. Even the name held the ecstasy of our dream. And at long last, it seemed like that dream might be fulfilled. “You see, the rockets, those fiery arrows we had ridden into space before, couldn't get us to the stars. They wouldn't burn for long enough, not for the fifty or hundred years the shortest trip would take. But the answer came in an unlikely form: Nuclear weapons.” A motion. “Nuclear weapons. In those days everyone wanted to be rid of them, but no one knew how to begin. They were more powerful than anything else we had known. “Project Orion was an insane idea. The powerful blasts that destroyed anything within miles would push us to the stars. We would build a huge ship, a tower of metal larger than the building we're sitting in now. On the bottom of the tower, there would be a huge disk of metal. “Rockets would carry us up to space, and then, in the safety of emptiness, we would be free to fly. Behind the ship, we would detonate nuclear weapons, slowly, one at a time, for years. They would explode into balls of fire and force, and we would ride these behind the safety of our plate. It would take fifty years to reach the nearest star, and once there we could never come home. We would die at those foreign stars, our dream realized. “A great man once said that this would be the ideal use for our nuclear weapons. He was right, of course, but that mattered very little. “The project was never begun. It was planned, and thought through, and then abandoned. And not long after that, a war began. But...” He stopped. Shook his head. Sat down. “We dreamed of the stars. He choked, his voice broken with tears, “I dreamed of the stars. But things have happened. Maybe I'm the only one who still dreams. And I know now that I will never see them.” And he began to cry.


Click. Click. Click.

The ancient grandfather clock on the wall stirs you from your thoughts. It makes every minute loom over your head; feeling as though you are stuck in the clock yourself—trapped amongst the Roman numerals. Minutes go by in a flash. Hours tick by. You ball up your fists in anticipation.

In a moment of frustration, you look around you and time nearly stands still as you take in your surroundings. The smell of antique

books fills the air; your love of literature has colored your

childhood. You take a deep breath in. A whiff of the fresh apple pie in the oven hits your nose. Fragrant. Just the way you like it. People may mock you for your ‘old soul’ tendencies. But it’s your life. Books, baked goods, and a simple approach to life has kept drama and toxicity away from you.

Click. Click. Click.

The ticks from the clock distract you from your thoughts and you’re shaken back into reality.

Of course she’s not coming. Why would she? She has been absent for most of the 25 years of your life.

The “she” is your mom. You sigh and pick up your calendar lying across from you. June 26th, 2013. It’s only your birthday. No big deal. Only your 25th birthday. She had called to say she’d visit. You had cried and said you were going to show her your new apartment. And your fiance. He was new, too. He was going to be a surprise for your mother and you were going to talk about engagement plans all giddy like schoolgirls.

You wipe fresh tears away and cross the date off on the calendar with a bright, red marker. The red slashes through the date like a knife. Well, happy birthday to you. You head to bed.

    									 * * *

Bring! Bring!

Your phone rings with a sense of urgency. You roll out of bed and pick it up. You answer with a groggy “..hello?”

It’s her. Your mother. The one and only.

She had been MIA most of your life. She had left you and your father when you were only 5 years old, claiming that she had to “find herself,” and she wasn’t really “cut out” to be a mother. She disappeared—just like that. Then, last month, she left a long voice message about how sorry she was and how she’d try to make it up to you by visiting you. But she hadn’t remembered how old you were. Nor when your birthday was. She said she’d check into a hotel nearby and you could catch up. Pitiful that you believed her.

“How are you? I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

“I’m alright.”

“Good.”

“So when?”

“When…?”

“When will you come? Or are you even going to?”

“About that…”

“Bye.”

You slam the phone down. The tears come again, but you push them back. 25 years of forgiving her and just accepting whatever excuse she threw. But not this time. Your anger nearly smokes out of your ears as you call her number back.

“Hello?”

“I’m DONE with it!”

“What’s going on?” “I’m SICK of this, did you FIND YOURSELF or whatever?? I’m 25 years old and I’m NOT going to just TAKE whatever LOUSY excuses you throw at me. You’re my MOTHER. WHY CAN’T YOU ACT LIKE IT?”

“...”

“No comment huh?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I really don’t know. Just know, I WILL figure out WHAT you’re up to.”

You slam the phone and take your face in your hands. Tears trickle down. In a mix of anger and sadness, you slam your face into your pillow.

Shortly after your mom had disappeared, your father was left alone to raise you. It was a tough journey. Then, you had gone off to college and gotten a job. You’d gotten older. You’d “moved out of the nest.”

But then, a sudden heart attack took him from your life, too. You had been left all alone. That hadn’t stopped you from gaining success with your career and saving up to secure your own apartment.

You quickly snap out of the backstory. You get dressed and throw your wallet, phone, and some snacks into a tote bag. It was time for a little road trip.

She sent out a letter when you were 14 years old. She made the mistake of including a return address. She had wanted to disappear, but that address was your key into discovering just what was going on.

You throw on a jacket and head to the car. She lived a few states down, in South Carolina. Since you lived in Delaware, it would take nearly 10 hours. But you are ready. Since she decided to call at 4 in the morning, you had time to book a train.

You put the pedal to the metal.

 							 * * *

You park the car and step out of it. Since it’d take almost the entire day to reach her, you were prepared to park your car overnight. Bag in hand, you arrive at the station.

You step onto the train. Out of your window, the first streaks of daylight bring light to the sky. You pull a book out of your bag and read as the train chugs along. Eventually, you fall into a deep sleep that lasts the duration of the quest. Truly, you had no idea what to expect. Besides the one letter you received from her 11 years ago, and the phone calls you’d exchanged with her starting from last month, you had no contact with her. She just didn’t want it. And you wanted nothing to do with her.

SSSh.

The train comes to a halt. It appears you’ve arrived. Bag in hand, you head to the station. You call a cab and hold your breath. It’s finally time to find out the truth. “Wait!”

The taxi remains glued to the road. A mother and daughter appear to be in dire need of a ride. You groan at first, but then you take another look at them. They are almost identical. The girl of about 6 years has her mother’s eyes, nose, and smile. It was like looking into two sides of a mirror. You move aside and let them sit next to you, and smile tiredly over the mother’s several thank-you’s.

The taxi departs the station. The mother and daughter got off an hour ago, their stop was to a beautiful brick house where a man welcomed them with happy arms. A family. Sounded foreign to you.

But now, you were at the address. Her address.

You squint at the house. It is run-down. It is almost abandoned. It is small, beat up-looking.

You thank the taxi driver and tip him, then you brace yourself.

You pound at the door.

It opens to reveal a tiny hallway. Scattered around it are bottles of every color and brand imaginable. Shards of glass are at your feet. Carefully, you step over them.

Ashtrays are gingerly placed on the windowsills. There are a few plants. But they are all dead and withered.

Then, a woman steps up to you. You look at her. She has your hair, but it is dirty and thinning. She has your eyes, but life is sucked out of them. She has your facial structure, but hers looks worn out and much older. She starts to cry.

You are startled. You realize, you are looking into a mirror.

But the mirror is cracked.


“New case, Noëlla.” Thump. A stack of files in a manilla folder lands on the desk in front of me, sending my papers flying. Great. Now my spotless office has papers everywhere. I huff and look up to glare at my boss’ departing back. “No case summary?” He turns back, talking a few strides into the office and closing the door behind him. That’s the good thing about being one of the top-ranking detectives in our firm, I get an office to myself, unlike others such as Otto and Schorlek who have to share one. It gives the privacy and thinking space one needs when uncovering confidential cases. “Young woman, aged in mid-twenties. Her name is Ennia Brown,” Ennia Brown? The Ennia Brown I rescued from a dark alley a year ago? I turn back to him, nodding in acknowledgement. “She’s reported claims of stalking and attempted murder.” Interesting. “Any reason why I was given the case instead of the others?” I might be a Detective Chief Superintendent in our firm, but there should be plenty of others qualified to take this case, especially those in his ‘Inner Circle’ who don’t have other things such as helping to run the faculty to do. “Celine’s in Egypt, Henrich’s in Germany, Jericho’s sick and Manuel, Maxim and Molino are... busy . I don’t want anybody else but the best detectives for this case, it’s pretty serious and there’s little evidence at this stage. Only the best could pull it off.” He pauses, “Oh, and the client specifically asked for you. Make the Anary Faralis Detective Agency proud Nöella.” Then he departs, leaving me to ponder the case. That still leaves Jane and Danni unaccounted for and I have no doubt he knew that. But what’s happened to Ennia since that night in the alley? I told her to contact me if anything was amiss and I’ve talked to her since then, but it’s been precisely thirteen months, two weeks and sixteen hours since I rescued her from the alley and the incidents date back at least two years. Why now? ～～～ It was eight-thirty in the evening and I’d stayed back at work a bit longer to finish up writing a case report. The weather was miserable, having rained just minutes before and the cobblestones were slick with water. A yellowed glow came from the rustic street lamps along the pavement, limning the edges of my briefcase with gold. Then I heard the scuffles, the thud and the scream. Alarmed, I raced towards the sound, approaching silently as to not raise any alarm. It came from the far reaches of an alleyway, that from experience I knew to be a dead end. The scream sounded female, the grunt that followed was male.

I peered into the alleyway, to see an auburn-haired female struggling against a bulky, dark-haired male’s solid grip. She was pinned to the wall and the brute was touching her in awful places, pulling at her clothing and drawing a dagger as she fought back. She stilled at the sight of the knife and knowing her chances were slim I slipped silently down the alleyway. Within moments I had my arms around the brute’s neck and a foot hooked behind his ankle. He slashed with the knife and without a second thought, I’d kicked it from his grasp. With the brute pinned on the ground and his neck held in submission, I choked the air out of his lungs, enough to render him unconscious but no further. Quickly, I picked up my briefcase, glancing up to the young woman before me. She still hadn’t run. “Are you alright?” “I’m o-okay I suppose. Thank you.” She looked away down the alley. “Will he be okay?” “He’s just unconscious. He’ll wake up in a few minutes so we should head off. Do you need somewhere to stay?” She shook her head, but her eyes were distant. I shouldered off my coat, wrapping it around her shivering form. “C’mon girl, let’s get you somewhere safe. We’ll get you nice and warm.” Within five minutes I’d directed her to a nearby hotel, had her swaddled in blankets and a cup of hot cocoa before her. She was too shaken to ask her any questions, but I could only assume what had happened. I remained with her for as long as I could, heading off home before my flatmate would worry about me. As I stood to leave, I retrieved a business card from my briefcase. “If you need anything, hun, just give me a call. I’m happy to help any time you need it.” I slipped it onto the table in front of her and quietly let myself out. The card on the table before her read: DCS. Miss Noëlla Anderson ～Anary Feralis Detective Agency～ Ph: 0427 738 813 Email: noellaa@afda.org ～～～ Peeking my head into Schorlek Kühn and Otto Schuster’s office, it comes as no surprise that Otto is playing video games and Schorlek is sitting on the windowsill reading a book. “New case, fellas. Briefing in my office in ten.” An acknowledging grunt from Schorlek. “But I’m in the middle of the boss level Noëllaaa. If you make me go now I’ll lose ALL my progress.” Otto whines. “Suck it up, Otto. I’ve given you ten minutes, that’s enough. You shouldn’t be playing video games anyway, you know that.” He whines again and I leave them to their activities, returning to my office. Ten minutes later, Schorlek enters my office, dragging a sullen Otto behind him by the wrist. We discuss the case, examining the details given and the evidence provided both photographed and in hardcopy. Schorlek and I figure out a plan forward while Otto sulks; he’ll confirm the DNA sample while I trace emails and calls to Ennia, then we’ll interview neighbours and retrieve security footage, then assemble the evidence and incriminate the offender. ～～～ “What did you find?” I ask my coworkers. “DNA specimen confirmed,” Schorlek says curtly. “Insights, Mr Kühn?” “There were a few sets of DNA on the letter, including Ennia’s own, but I narrowed down the suspect list to two brothers; Avery and Scott Lancaster, and another man called Jeremiah Hayes, they’re the ones that fit Miss Brown’s description. Mr Hayes is suspected to be a friend of the two brothers, he could be involved with the case.” Schorlek Kühn sites back at his chair and glances at Otto Schuster, the other detective on my team for this case.

“Anything new, Mr Schuster?” “Quit the formalities, please. Nothing new, but I have a question. Schorlek, were both brothers’ DNA on the letter?” “Indeterminate.” “Why?” “Unconfirmed.” “Well, I personally think the brothers are twins. Just saying.” “Any evidence Otto?” “No. Search the database though, I get the feeling they are.” I search the database, and sure enough, they’re twins, paternal twins at that. “Huh, look at that. Otto was right. They’re identical twins. Which explains why it’s determinate; they have the same DNA.” Schorlek nods and Otto grins smugly. “Well, fellas. Guess we have our list of suspects. I traced the anonymous threat emails and calls to Miss Brown to Avery Lancaster’s house and areas that he’s reportedly visited. Oh and it’s not listed in the case, but after she was cornered in the lane, the ID card was found on the unconscious man and it said ‘Avery P. Lancaster’, precisely the person all our other evidence has pointed to.” Other evidence such as him being one of Ennia’s ex-boyfriends and being one of Ennia’s suggestions of the suspect. “That Avery guy must be some sorta creep, considering the things on that file,” Otto commented. “I wonder what his middle name is. Peter?” “More like ‘p’ for ‘psychopath’,” I mumble under my breath. “Psychopath starts with ‘s’ idiot!” Otto says, turning to Schorlek. He puts his hands up, trying to tell Otto it wasn’t him but Otto gives him a sceptical look. “Dumbass, it starts with ‘p’.” Schorlek mumbles, glancing back at me. “Meeting over.” I get up to leave as they start to squabble. “Psychopath starts with ‘p’, Otto. You should’ve learnt that in high school,” I say, leaving Schorlek’s relieved face and Otto’s infuriated expression behind me. ～～～ Walking door to door in Avery Lancaster’s neighbourhood, Schorlek, Otto and I have found very little. The young family that lives across the road said that he’s a nice guy that tends to keep to himself but they’d only moved in recently so could not provide much detail. The lesbian couple and the old man living either side didn’t know anything of interest. Overall, there wasn’t too much evidence that they could provide, but they agreed to let us view their security feeds that had a view of his house. That only leaves interviewing Avery himself. Knock knock. The hollow sound reverberates through my fist as I knock on Avery Lacaster’s front door. “Good morning, is there anything I can do for you?” Avery’s puzzled face steps out from behind the door. “Yes sir. I am Detective Chief Superintendent Noëlla Anderson, and these are my colleagues Otto Schuster and Schorlek Kühn. We would like to talk to you for a minute if that’s okay with you?” “Uh, of course. Is anything wrong, Miss?” He looks genuinely oblivious and concerned, and I’m nearly convinced. He could be a great actor. “We’ll speak inside please.” “Was it my brother? I told him that rock adventure was a bad idea.” I raise a brow.

“Your brother is fine. If we may?” He lets us in, leading us through impeccably neat rooms and into the dining room. It’s business time. “Do you know why we’re here Mr Lancaster?” “If it’s not my brother being a doofus, then no, I don’t. Should I know?” “Perhaps. We are here to ask you a few questions about Ennia Brown.” Brief pain flickers through his expression. “Is Ennia okay?” He says, barely a whisper. “Considering what’s been happening in her life lately, she is doing rather well. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about her recent activity, would you?” “No, I don’t. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up and I haven’t seen her since.” “Hm, interesting. Did you know that she’s filed a case for stalking and attempted murder with the AFDA?” “She.. what?” “You are the prime suspect, and all the evidence leads to you, so if you could tell us the truth that would be greatly appreciated.” He nods. “Now tell me again, when did you last see her.” “About two years ago, we went out with a few friends but I didn’t really talk to her. It was still awkward from the breakup.” “Right. Was anything of notice said?” “Scott said she was hot. Ennia ignored me most of the evening, but no, nothing of notice.” “Now why did you and Ennia break up?” “She was going to study overseas and my grandmother had just died, so the timing wasn’t great for either of us. It pained us both greatly, but we knew it was the best for both of us. Neither of us have been in a relationship since, at least as far as I’m aware.” “Would you be jealous if another guy showed interest in her?” “No, I would respect Ennia’s decision to move on. She deserves to enjoy her life.” “Oh come on ,” Otto bursts out, “Quit the sappiness. If you haven’t seen her in two years then explain why one year ago, she was attacked in a dark alley by a man fitting your description wielding a knife. A man, I might add, that had an ID card with the name ‘Avery Lancaster’ on it.”

“Or why your name was encoded into a death threat letter to Ennia?” Schorlek adds. “And why the threatening calls and emails were traced back to your very house?” Avery gets paler and paler with every question as if realising that he has no way out, realising that he didn’t hide his tracks well enough and he was caught. “I- I don’t understand what you mean.” “You hear what we said, Mr Lancaster. Your DNA was found on the letter, and there are all these other cases of evidence. Do you mind if we have a look around?” We show him our search warrant and he nods solemnly. Avery leads us around the house showing us through the different rooms of his house. There’s nothing much of notice in any of the places we search, this guy is pretty good at hiding his evidence.

“And this is the guest bedroom. My brother keeps some of his stuff here sometimes.” We nod and have a poke around. We’re just about to finish up when I spot a discarded plastic bag in the wardrobe. “What’s that Mr Lancaster?” “I don’t know. Some of my brother’s stuff. He visits sometimes and keeps some stuff here. I don’t monitor his stuff, this room is the only place I allow him to put his stuff wherever he wants and I won’t clean it up.” “May we look inside?” “Of course.” We open the bag curiously, with our latex gloves on as not to disturb the possible specimens. The bag opens to reveal a pair of worn woollen fingerless gloves, a roll of sticky tape, an ID card bearing Avery’s details and a few folded pieces of paper. Schorlek pulls out one of the pieces of paper and reads it aloud “For my dearest Ennia. Really, I thought you’d have noticed by now. Our connection is true and I love you dearly. Must you always hide from me? Show me what you can do in bed. Can you do that? Otherwise, I will finish what I started that night in the alley, if I can’t have you, no one can. Terror upon you, shall you not oblige. Take what you want from me, but I will always prevail, do not fail me. Love from your dearest, I miss you.” “Dark much? But that sounds an awful lot like a jealous lover’s letter. Did you write this Mr Lancaster?” Avery shakes his head, and his face is deathly pale from fear. Fear for Ennia or fear for himself? “Well you have a lot of evidence against you sir, I would recommend you start telling the truth or you’ll be imprisoned for lying to authoritative figures. Understood?” “I only wish to tell you the truth, Ma’am. I did not know that letter was here, nor do I know who wrote it.” “May we take it for evidence?” “Of course Ma’am,” And with that, Otto, Schorlek and I take our leave, sealing the evidence in decontaminated specimen bags and leaving Avery’s ashen face behind. ～～～ “So. What do you think of our adventure today? Avery’s house sure was suspicious.” “Yeah, I think we have enough evidence now,” Otto adds. “I think Avery is innocent,” Schorlek murmurs under his breath. I cut my glare across the table to him. “ What? Did I hear that correctly?” Otto shrugs. “You do understand, Schorlek, that EVERY SINGLE piece of evidence we have points to Avery Lancaster.” “But maybe that’s what the criminal wants us to think. Everything points to Avery, but if he truly did it, there would be some degree of a cover-up. This is all in the open. It’s too easy. Mr Lancaster’s DNA is on every specimen, his ‘pining’ for a lost love threaded through threat letters, class and emails all traced to his house, a house his brother visits often. Think, Noëlla, think .” “Are you saying it was Avery’s brother, Scott, that is doing this? What would be his motive though? It makes no sense Schorlek. It’s obvious it was Avery.” “Check the cams for the night of the alley attack.” I pull up the feeds from various residents’ security cameras and go back to the date of the attack. We watch as a car pulls up in front of Avery’s house and Avery gets out, knocking on the front door- Must be Scott, I conclude, and sure enough, a second Avery greets him at the door. They go inside, and about an hour later, one of the Lancaster twins comes out holding a plastic bag and there’s a lump under his hoodie near his hip. The knife he pulled on Ennia. Turning up the audio we hear a voice yell from inside the house. “Can you get me milk while you’re at the supermarket? Thanks! See ya, Scott.” Scott comes outside and gets into one of the cars that’d been parked outside before he’d arrived, presumably Avery’s and drives off. Why didn’t he take his own? We skip ahead to the dates of the emails and calls from Avery’s house and Scott had visited on every single one of them. “Didn’t Avery mention something about Scott having the hots for Ennia? And he seemed pretty concerned for her,” Otto suggests but Schorlek and I’s attention is elsewhere. The letter. The realisation dawns on both of us and as I peer over his shoulder I notice something I hadn’t when he’d read it out. Each sentence is on a new line and the first letter of every sentence forms another message: FROM SCOTT L. My face slackens with the realisation. “Do you see it Schorlek?” He nods solemnly. It all makes sense. Their DNA is the same, being twins, Scott tried to avert the attention from him, turning it on his identical twin, but ultimately his diversions failed. He’s been found out. “Otto. It was Scott. The letters and the ID card prove it. It was Scott.” I murmur. “So it was actually Scott C Lancaster, the evil side to his angelic brother Avery,” Otto says in an exaggerated scheming voice. “Seems to me like his initial was a foretelling; ‘C’ for cri-mi-nal, ” He smirks, and we all burst out laughing, the relief enveloping me that Ennia would finally be safe and that we’d done it.


I gotta write this shit down man. Never been into journaling before but the worlds gone mad. Its been raining for over a week now, non stop. The weather channels can’t make anything of it, and they say that it’s raining EVERYWHERE. The fuck is this, God’s great flood? They’re telling us to stay off the roads, people are crashing all over the place. Can’t see 5 feet in front of you. Boss shut the office down until the weather clears. On the bright side, it’s paid, so I won’t have to worry about Lander being up my ass about rent. The Police said to keep your doors locked. Apparently people are losing their minds, looting houses and markets, breaking into homes and attacking people. This whole thing is like a mushroom trip gone terribly, terribly wrong. Mom says the same shit is happening in Pennsylvania, so the news is right. I can’t believe how easily some people give in to panic. Societies fucked man! Alex got a gun from his brother just in case, but I think we’ll be fine. The deadbolt on the front door is pretty serious. We’d hear anyone before they got in. The News said the military is on its way. The riots have gotten out of control. Dozens dead already here, and it’s happening everywhere. Some people broke into the News station and beat the shit out of the News Caster on live television. They cut the program and haven’t come back. I can’t believe this, am I dreaming? The phones don’t seem to be working properly. Alex said it’s probably the military messing with the systems to try and redirect power to essential infrastructure. It makes sense - I couldn’t call my Mom but I could call the number for the local safety broadcasts. The military is still telling everyone to stay inside and don’t go outside for ANYTHING. It’s weird though, I haven’t seen a single soldier or vehicle in days. But we can hear gunfire coming from downtown. We can’t know what’s going on anymore because the News still hasn’t started broadcasting again, all the television channels are down. I hate to say it, but I’m starting to get scared. Alex thought he saw someone outside our window earlier, like a silhouette. He swears by it. I didn’t hear anything or anyone, so I’m not sure what he’s talking about. I haven’t seen or heard anyone besides him for almost a week now. We barricaded the windows by ripping apart the firewood pallets just in case. Alex is usually right, so I’m going to trust him. We left just enough space so we can see out of it, but it’ll be damn hard to get in, that’s for sure. Alex is freaked the fuck out. I don’t know what he thinks he saw but it scared the piss out of him whatever it was. Some fucking lunatic broke into the house today. He was on bath salts or something, I don’t know. He didn’t even have a weapon, just busted the fucking door down and ran in screaming and started grabbing me. Alex had to shoot him. We called the police to report but the phone line was busy, and I thought I heard someone talking on the other end, but no one answered. Couldn’t drive over there to report it either. Nobody came over or said anything, they had to have heard the shot, the fuck is going on? I don’t think Alex is okay… I tried thanking him but he seems like he’s in shock. We don’t know what to do with the body. I’ll put it in the basement and try the cops again later. Phone lines won’t call anywhere, they’re all down. We heard voices coming through. At first I thought I was hearing things, but Alex heard them too. They spoke to us. Not sure what they were saying, but I know they were speaking to us. I felt it. Can’t really describe it. Not touching the phone again. We gotta try the radio. Police have to have the radios still up. That body is starting to smell. Power went out today. Thankfully we have a backup generator, but it doesn’t cover the whole house - have to conserve the power. Just the living room and the kitchen, Alex and I will sleep on the floor and the couch. I gave Alex the couch. Dudes been through enough. No way he’s sleeping on the floor after what he did for me. Everything is down. Radio won’t connect, tele broadcasts have stopped, phones won’t work. It’s just static. Went into the basement to bury the body. Couldn’t stand the smell anymore. It’s fucking GONE. I’m freaking out man. Where the fuck did it go? Did Alex move it? Maybe outside? Maybe he couldn’t stand the smell anymore… I’m afraid to ask him. I don’t want to bring it up, he still hasn’t gotten over it. He’ll barely speak to me, he’s always staring at the walls and listening to the radio, trying to get a signal out. He hasn’t been the same. Shadows. Shadows in the black. Doesn’t make sense but they’re there. Our flashlights can see them, you shine at the wall and the light can’t go through something. Something’s there. I can see them. Can they see me? Alex lost it. He’s just been staring at the radio, listening to static. He won’t move or respond. When I talk to him he just looks at me, but he doesn’t speak. I’m not even sure it’s him. He’s talking to the radio when he thinks I’m out of the room. I think I can hear someone speaking back. I Have to get out of here, but where? I can hear them. Everywhere, always. They’re in the noise. Can’t use the radio, that’s what they use. Same with the phones. They’re in it. They’re inside. The rain. The rain is hiding them. Out the window, I saw shapes where the water wasn’t hitting the ground. They weren’t human. They weren’t me - I’m me, they can’t be me. Alex locked himself in his room. Won’t let me in, won’t come out. He took the radio with him, all I can hear is static coming from under his door. I’m leaving tomorrow. Gotta tell him, get him to come with me. Something took Alex. All I heard was screaming, static, silence. Busted the door down. Blood everywhere, black everywhere, no sign of Alex. The radio is still on but there’s no power to it. I can hear them. They can hear me. They know I’m here, they want me here. They want all of us here, all of us in the darkness. Not me. Getting out of here. I can’t listen to them anymore. Won’t become like the others. Alex, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save you like you did me.


I walked out the back door of the diner I was working at. I take out the earplugs that I wear for my hearing sensitivity. I sluggishly walked to my car as I checked my notifications and my favorite apps. I zone out in this short walk, and I'm not paying attention to anything around me. After I get to my car and come to reality, I look up and see this huge wolf-like creature is snarling at me. I'm horrified; too scared to move. This thing raises its arm. The massive claw comes down at me and I couldn't move fast enough. The claw slashes my torso deeply. Blood flies towards my car along with its claw digging into my door. I fall back to the ground, barely able to keep my head up. I try and mostly fail to scramble backwards. From above a similar monster flies at my attacker and they begin to fight. My mind phases in and out, but when I come back to my senses, the woman is kneeling above and I feel her hands on my torso. I don't hear any fighting. She speaks to me, "You're going to be ok. Can you hear me?" I don't seem to be able to respond, as much as I want to. My body starts to feel weird, and she then yells over her shoulder, "I need the Lycan serum!" A moment later she catches a syringe and removes the safety cover. She stabs me with it in my chest. My mind fades away. I wake up feeling incredibly groggy. I take a moment laying there gathering my senses; remembering what happened after I got off work. I start to look around and find myself in a cage, laying on a cot. The room that my cage was in was very plain, save some boxes. I remembered the attack and quickly check my chest. My clothes are what I was wearing, though they were incredibly torn. Looking at my mostly healed chest and stomach, I become confused and amazed at the same time. *Was all that real? That giant monster? My wounds. Why am I in this cage?* I hear footsteps come downstairs and from around some boxes appears an androgynous person in a casual suit. They carry a small object and folder in their hands. They look at me, "How are you feeling James?" "Wait, how do you know my name? Where am I? Who are you?" "My name is Dr Riley Schuster. I am the leader of this Lycan pack and this house." "Lycan? As in werewolf?" "Yes, now please listen. You are a Lycan and fall under my jurisdiction to keep under control. You must undergo your first transformation or risk going on a rampage." "What? I feel fine now. I'm a werewolf?" "Please don't interrupt. You have the choice to undergo the ritual and then you will be set free or we can kill you." "How do I know this is real?" They look annoyed and begins to strip naked. I cover my eyes and plead with them to stop stripping. When I hear grunting and a sound similar to what TV has portrayed as bones breaking I look at Riley again. They were in mid-transformation and I was shocked. When they reached what seems to be fully formed, they growled, then reverted to human form. Riley began to dress again, leaving me speechless. They leave after saying, "I'll leave you for an hour to think this over." I thought about it carefully and concluded that living is better than dying. I could at least ask questions and learn more about this later. I waited for Riley to return. I hear the stairs again and they return from behind the boxes. I tell them I consent to the transformation, they nod. As they reach into the cage to touch me with a small object they say, "this may hurt." The item glows and I start to feel pain throughout my entire body. My body twists and turns on its own. My mind rushes with images of blood and gore and the urge to kill. For a moment the pain subsides and I feel physically powerful like I could fight anyone. The pain returns full force with each feeling happening again, but in reverse. It doesn't take long before I feel fine again. I look at my clothes and are torn completely. The glow of the object dulls. They open the cage and point to some clothes on a box, "Welcome to the world of myth.