Hey everyone , I am not native English speaker so please dont judge hard on grammar. P.S it is unedited People tend to go to the supermarket after 5 pm to shop after work. It is also the time when many damned, jobless alcoholics, drug addicts, homeless, poor and crippled people can be seen lurking around public areas, such as shops, begging for some money. Some of them are going to use this cash to enjoy another synthetic nirvana provided by another dose of heroine, others are going to drown themselves in a bottle of cheap liquor. But for some it is the only source of their survival. So it is for this crippled man who lost both of his legs many years ago. He can be seen coming around 5 pm next to the shop, taking out this already yellow plastic cup and standing on what is left of his knees while keeping his balance on cheap, already repaired many times, wooden crutches. Nobody knows his name. In fact, nobody ever asked. All they know is that he comes here every day and begs for money while silently looking into the void. And everything people ever have heard from him was silent ,,Thank you” after they dropped few coins into his cup. Most of them simply pass through him and never ever notice this man. Although, some people always pour into his cup few spare coins. He never looks into their eyes. At least it is good for this crippled man that it is May. During the winter it’s very tough for him. When snow is falling there is no distinction between him and a snowman. Although, no matter the weather, he still keeps coming. Rain in autumn, snow in winter. It does not matter. There was a vendor who had her own coffee and tea cart next to the shop that was giving him tea to warm himself up during low temperature. But due to disputes with the supermarket that has their own coffee machine she lost her spot near the shop. So, nobody provided tea for this man this winter. That time he coughed very hard and people were afraid that they may catch tuberculosis from him. But as the May came and sun started to shine more often, temperature was over 15 degrees Celsius, he regained what is left of his health and people were more likely to give him some money because he wasn’t frightening them anymore. He always liked May. The smell of spring, the blossom of flowers were one of the very few things that made him happy. As he was standing near the shop doing his regular activity he noticed a group of kids around 12-13 years old kicking a football ball while going to the shop. Most likely they are going to buy some soda and chips he thought of himself. Those kids always do. He remember his youth. Kicking the ball as good as you can to impress a that dark haired girl with grey eyes, laughing with friends, running from the neighbour’s dog after stealing apples. Those memories started to fade away long time ago. There was merely what is left of them. But they still managed to help him not kill himself every day he came to the place home. This home was a social housing provided to him. It was only 10 square meters bedroom. Bathroom, kitchen, laundering room and other necessary things he had to share with whores, drug addicts and different anti social people. Poor families were not housed with them due to possible bad impact on children. He tried to find a woman himself but he never succeeded. Most likely due his bad sense of humor. As he didn’t liked his place he spent most of his spare time lurking around and begging for money as his pension couldn’t cover his basic expenses for medicine. Yet the only joy in his apartment was a vinyl. He enjoyed classic rock music. Very often while he was begging he sang his favorite lyrics in his head. ,,*There’s feeling I get when I look to the west, and my spirit is crying for leaving, in my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking, that’s you”.* He remembered his youth and that girl. Yet he never smiled. He was just still looking into the void while hearing coins dropping and saying both mandatory and sincere ,,Thank you”. That Monday after he collected nearly a half of his cup he struggled to the shop to buy some bread, tea and cheapest vodka. Most people are going to judge him for buying booze but it was something that could help him loosen that tension from being a cripple. He knew that it wont help, but at least it was something that allowed him to forget in what miserable situation he lives in. He came home, put on a vinyl and stared to drink. Not that he felt himself a rockstar, but at least he was jamming. ,, *Why she had to go? I don’t know, she wouldn’t say, I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday”.* As he finished his bottle he passed out quite early. Not that he had to wake up early he tried to maintain regular schedule to keep himself sane. Tuesday wasn’t his favorite day. There wasn’t many people that went shopping on Tuesdays, which meant, that his ability to collect enough money for a day was very much limited. And yet he still came around 4 pm this time and patiently waited. Some people were passing by. Others came and gave him some money but didn’t forget to mention don’t drink (most likely they have smelled amber from yesterday). All he said in response was silent ,,Thank you”. It was already 7 o’clock and his cup wasn’t even half full. He was already hungry but hadn’t enough money to buy food. He was staring in front of him and was hating every moment he stood there. He hated himself, people that passed by and those who gave him money while not forgetting to say something about that he should not drink. It was already getting dark. He wasnt expecting much anymore. Just staring into the void. Thinking something. You couldnt guess whether his thoughts were happy or sad. But you could understand that he wasnt happy. And then this family passed by with this young girl. As they were passing by they stopped in front of him, gave something into a hand of this yound, innocent angel and while smiling encouraged her to do something. She started walking towards this crippled man. He didint lift his eyes up until he noticed very small feet when she was already next to him. As she was pouring coins, cup felt very heavy. He looked into his eyes and you could say that there was both joy and tears gathering. Shy girl ran away from this man. After she left his eyes were focued on a spot where she stood. But he wasnt looking there. It was a long time since he smiled. After few hours he went to the shop to buy some bread, jam and tea. This evening will be different he thought of himself. Week after this family went to the shop again with their daughter. They promised that they will allow her to give this poor man some money again. As they came they noticed that he wasnt there. A girl asked her father *Maybe he changed his spot?“. ,,Yes, most likely“* her father answered looking at his daughter with eyes full of tears but still smiling.


He may be dying, but the boy never felt more alive. Voices, loud and blaring, echoing through the brain late in the night are not the kind of thing you'd expect to enjoy, but the boy found an almost serene solace in listening to them. They berated him, making mountains of every small mistake from the hours prior, and yet the boy felt that no one else could even begin to understand him more. He felt powerless to stop the Voices, sure, but never really paid any mind to that. Misery was his home, and the Voices were the toads croaking him to sleep. The Voices, as it turned out, would eventually consume the boy. Night after night, they rang out like the dripping of a faucet, their words slowly chipping away at the boy. By the time he had an inkling of understanding as to their true intentions, it was already too late. The Voices had become the boy and the boy a single voice. While the Voices themselves rang out like an orchestra, the boy's Voice was quiet, a single wavering flame in a sea of darkness. The boy could do naught but watch in horror as the Voices took the control away. The Voices would harm the boy in numerous ways, whether it was neglecting to care for his health, refusing to communicate with his friends and family, or even slicing away at the boy's armor in the dark of the night. Yet, the boy held steadfast. He hadn't the strength to overcome the Voices, but he wasn't about to let himself fade away in the ether. It was his body, his life, after all, and if there was anything to be done, the boy was going to find it. There were days where the Voices seemingly relinquished control. The boy would awake midday, as was the Voice's usual schedule, but would find that instead of being trapped in his head, he was able to move his own body, to make his own decisions. Of course, the constant fear of the Voices' return paralyzed him. He knew they'd be back, they always came back, so the boy could do nothing but breathe and wait. The boy and the Voices performed this macabre dance for years, varying in complexity and severity. There were times where the boy felt as though he were close to fading away, like a candle in a hurricane. Even still, there were days where the Voices never made an appearance, days where the boy could feel the warmth of the sun and smell the aromas of the flowers around him. The boy yearned for those days, prayed loudly to any deity that would listen for just one more day like those. The Voices would always say that this was the last day, but the boy knew better. He knew that the Voices would work to keep those days away from him, so he needed to work even harder to keep the Voices away from those days. The boy devised a plan. He'd always been smart, almost to a fault, attempting to find the logic in even the most minutiae of details. He patiently waited for that next day of control, for the Voices to return to whatever Circle of Hell they came from, and got to work. He wrote a letter to his family, and the few remaining friends he still had, and placed them in the mailbox. He paid his bills and took a long, hot shower. He grabbed a large knife from the kitchen. Then, he locked the door, sat in his recliner and waited. Hours passed until the boy could feel the Voices bubbling up again. They begain to sneer at him, attempting to make light of the day's progress. He paid them no mind. He was about to discover whether or not the day he'd been planning forever would end as he wished it would. The boy stood from his chair, fighting an internal struggle for control, and walked towards the center of the room. There, inside a circle of candles, the boy began to chant, softly at first, then louder. And louder. And louder still. There was a loud flash, then nothing. When the boy awoke, he found himself staring at himself. This version of himself was a fraud, a compilation of all the things the Voices had tried to convince the boy were true. The plan had worked, but now was not the time for celebration. The boy rushes to pick up the blade he had dropped. The Voices, realizing the plan the boy had hatched, struggled to stop the boy by any means necessary. The Voices berated the boy, accusing him of awful, heinous things, screaming in the boy's voice to put the knife down, that he'll never accomplish anything, that he'll always be under their control. The boy had had enough. No more talking. He thrust the blade into his doppelganger's chest and twisted. The Voices howled in pain, screaming as the body fell to the floor, rapidly convulsed, and then...nothing. The boy had done it. The Voices were no more. The boy looks down at his chest, noticing his own large, wet spot developing, and smiles. He may be dying, but the boy never felt more alive.


“Hey lady! Your truck is on fire!” “I’m a man, asshole!” The two drivers exchanged the finger most prominently associated with *fuck you* before John’s eyes started to well up from the smoke. “Cindy, for Satan’s sake, can’t you put that shit out?” “I’m trying, John! Don’t yell at me!” “Hard not to when I’m going seventy and can’t see the shoulder to pull over!” John hit his steering wheel in frustration and grunted when they hit *something*. He just prayed whatever it was it had already been dead. The smoke seemed to clear for a moment and John looked over to see his passenger blowing on the small blue flame between them. This, as his mentor would say, was a teachable moment. The rules to arcane magick were simple: don’t practice distracted, and always keep a counterspell on lockdown in case of shit hitting the fan. Or spontaneous fires in truck cabs. “Blowing on it ain’t gonna help. That’s fucking *hellfire*.” “I know what it is, John. I’m the one who summoned it, yeah?” Another car passed them honking. John eased over to the right praying this road was laid with those rivets that woke you up when you fell asleep. His right two tires came off the shoulder and hit grass. He rode the car to a stop and looked over. Cindy had her coffee held up over her head, fucking priorities. John wrenched the cup from her hand and poured it over the fire. This somehow made things worse. “Saints alive! Was that vodka?!” Cindy only managed a sheepish smile before going back to blowing on the fire. Her full lips fluttered outward on the exhale and she made a soft raspberry noise. John rolled his eyes heavenward and started mumbling the first spell he could think of that might be appropriate. Cindy sucked in a startled breath and on her next exhale she spit out white flecks of snow. “John! It *hurts*.” “Keep blowing!” He continued the mantra both in his head and on his lips. In a couple of minutes, the flame had shrunk, but now his copilot was turning blue. John reached to the back cab and grabbed an empty can. He cut the top off with his pocket knife and shoved it over the last flame. “There… that’ll seal it for now.” Cindy didn’t respond. John looked up to see her eyes starting to freeze over. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Five minutes later Cindy sat outside the truck in the July sun with blankets and a temper hotter than the pavement. “You *coulda* killed me, John!” “You about killed both of us!” Cindy’s shoulders sagged. John could see the beads of sweat on the back of her neck, but her arms still wrapped around her core trying to warm herself up. He kicked a rock off the shoulder and watched it fly down the embankment. *Shit.* Sitting next to her, John threw his arms around her middle. “I’m sorry, babe. I was—I was just scared. That’s no excuse.” “I’m only leaning on you ‘cause you’re warm.” “I know.” The sun started to drop in the sky. They’d have to get moving soon. Take that thing back to John’s mentor and figure out what the hell to do with it. “What were you tryin’ to conjure anyway?” John asked. He felt Cindy’s body go rigid. “Well…” Her saucer sized brown eyes looked so innocent among the constellations of freckles on her face. “I sort of got a new pet. A, uh, hellhound.” John’s free hand clenched hard into the pavement and he tried hard not to let the anger rise back up in his voice. “You know, I hear those are pretty fu—pretty big, babe.” “This one’s just a pup,” Cindy said. She smiled to herself and cast her eyes down at the road. “He’s tiny. Maybe the size of my fist. You shoulda seen him when I first summoned him, John. He’s great.” “I’m sure he is.” By Lucifer, he needed to have a sit down with her. If she was going to be summoning demons, she couldn’t just be a dabbler throwing around magick all willy-nilly. If there was one thing in this whole damn universe he could count on, it was Cindy keeping him on his toes. “Hey, John?” “Mmhmm?” “That man who called you a ‘lady’ was a dick. You’re the handsomest, manliest man I know.” *Damn, how does she do that?* “Sometimes I don’t know,” John admitted, though to what end he wasn’t sure. “Well, *I* do. And I’m gonna remind you of it until the day I die.” The sun was going down fast, and the sky turned ruddy. John wondered just how long she would go on reminding him, and he prayed that the devil took him first. He got up and shook off the road dust, then helped his girl to her feet. He thought about magick—about how nothing comes from nothing—and when he looked at Cindy, he wondered how the hell he got something so beautiful when he wasn’t even complete himself. Back in the cab, Cindy used the blanket as an impromptu mitt to handle the can. They rode on without talking, hands occasionally reaching out to touch the other person. Just as the moon began to smile down and the stars peaked out, a muffled howl broke the silence.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: Welcome to Week 1 of my absolute favorite month, **Spooktober!** Each week, your prompt will be **inspired by the horror genre**. There will be **2 Bonus Constraints** each week; one will be a subgenre and the other something to include. I encourage you to lean into the genre and try new things! But you are not required to write horror or Halloween-themed stories. These are just starting points. - **Image Prompt:** *Image originally titled ‘Halloween’.* - **Bonus Constraint 1: Genre is comedy horror.** - **Bonus Constraint 2: A talking pet appears or is mentioned.** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e., the title, theme, subject, setting, etc.). **The bonus constraints are not required.** You can check out my ever growing if you’d like some fun, spooky music! **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - **Third:** - Submitted by u/Pancakes-and-Waffles - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Crit Star:** - u/katpoker666 - **Crit Star:** - u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Emma, Rachel, Megan, Brianna, Nsimba (yes that was his real name), Ricky, Jen, and Jordan. Those are the names that I remember of the nurses who took care of me for six weeks and three days at CMMC. The women and one man who took out my catheter (Megan), argued on my behalf for better pain meds (Ricky the fucking Rockstar), wiped my ass after going to the bathroom (Emma), emptied my bed pan (Nsimba), and told me to cough to bring down my fever so I could avoid going back to the ICU (Jen). And of course, the nurse who not only helped me survived but also helped me live has chosen to have her name changed. Only the brightest ones don’t want to be seen. But she will be seen in this piece because although every nurse that took care of me deserves credit, Nurse “Jordan” fucking saved me. I’m sure Jordan was taking care of me long before I was aware of it (thanks to being heavily drugged and in a catatonic state for at least two of my six week stay). And sometimes I don’t remember our days together so much as I remember moments in our days together. The first memory I have of Jordan was the day she came into my room and told me we needed to go for a walk. It was maybe halfway into my hospital stint and up until that moment I had been laying on my back for weeks on end watching True Crime tv. There were no days or nights. I forgot what the date was. I barely knew what month it was. The only way I knew it was nighttime was seeing the new nurses come in for their 7 pm shift. Jordan was always on days. By the time she wanted me to walk with her, I had three drainage tubes coming out of my stomach. I didn’t know it yet, but in another week, I would have my sixth and final surgery to take out my staples and have a feeding sack placed in the fourth and final quadrant of my abdomen. At the time of Jordan’s request of relearning how to walk, I also had a skinny feeding tube snaked down my nose (it had already fallen out once, and the way to correct that is to simultaneously swallow air as a nurse pushes it back down your nose. How graceful) and I was on oxygen. I had no fucking idea why this nurse was asking me to do the impossible— and with a smile on her face. Jordan was a petite nurse. She was shortish with almost black hair that she always had tied back in a bun. She was in her late thirties—I think she said she was almost 40—but she definitely looked and acted younger. At first, I thought she was immature because of how positive she always was. I mean we were in a fucking hospital during Covid, where was the hope in that ? But I have come to realize that I was just a miserable and dying patient (which, who could blame me?) and Jordan’s happy go lucky attitude healed me better than any of those marvelous drugs that nurse Ricky raged for me to have. Back to relearning how to walk. It took me half an hour, half an hour , to get out of bed. I couldn’t just sit up in bed, swing my legs over the edge, step onto the ground and push myself up into a standing position. No, I had to take both arms, grip the side of the bed I wanted to turn towards, pull with all my might to get from my back onto my side, push myself up into a sitting position with both hands still gripping the plastic hospital bed, take a three minute break as I caught my breath, hold back tears, grab Jordan’s hands and have her pull me upright off the bed, fight the urge to just collapse back onto the bed and give up, and as I stood there gripping Jordan’s hands and her saying “You did it! You did it!” I couldn’t help but smile through the pain. The celebration didn’t last long though. We were just getting started. Jordan then recruited another nurse to hold my hands and make sure I didn’t drop dead (which was a legit concern at that point) as Jordan herself grabbed my walker, readjusted the tube in my nose (as I quietly muttered “It’s fine, just fucking leave it alone ”), grabbed the oxygen tank, and reassessed the three tubes coming out of my stomach. I was ready to walk. It wasn’t necessarily hard for my brain to remember place one foot in front of the other …but it was hard to do just that with the amount of pain it brought. Instead of easily taking one step at a time, it felt like there was this straight iron rod in my body and someone was trying to fold and break me in half. I stooped rather than stood. I hobbled rather than took steps. After leaving my hospital room’s door, I was exhausted . Jordan and the other nurse were on either side of my walker with Jordan was pushing along the oxygen tank. Both nurses kept saying shit like “You’re doing great .” “How are you feeling ?” “It’ll get better .” With each new step I was gaining more confidence. The doctors had told me weeks ago I probably would never be able to walk again. And although I took it in stride and accepted it as my new normal, I was beyond ecstatic to be walking again. I’ll never forget the advice that Jordan gave me for that first walk. We were halfway down the hallway in the hospital, and I wanted to finish. I was determined. I could do it. As if Jordan sensed my willpower, she said, “Now, we could keep going and finish the hallway, but remember you have to go back. In other words, if you feel like you can finish the hallway, could you do it again to get back to the room?” My steps then stopped. I could finish the hallway, but I knew I couldn’t turn around and do it all over again. They would have to carry me back to my room. A third nurse was on standby with a wheelchair in case that happened, but I wouldn’t let it come to that. “I wanna turn around,” I said shamefully. “No, you’re ready to turn around,” Jordan chirped with the ever-present smile on her face that was starting to grow on me. There was this thing that Jordan always pulled every morning she entered my room, and I know she’s sporting a shit eating grin right now while she reads this, knowing what’s coming. I used to always keep my blinds down in my room. Again, day and nighttime were not relative terms to me so I slept when I could. When my room wasn’t being plagued by doctors and specialists, when I wasn’t being shipped down to cat scans, emergency surgeries, and the ICU, I slept when I could . And sometimes that was during the day. And in those cases, I didn’t like the sun screaming in my face. So, I would always have the blinds drawn. The first day Jordan came waltzing in my room and drew up my shade I winced/smiled. “There! It’s a lovely day and the sun is shining! Much better.” This is the first nurse I’m going to hate , I thought to myself. To Jordan I said, “I don’t like the blinds up. Please put them back down.” “Oh, ok,” she said as she did as I asked. But the next day she came into my room and opened them again. And I told her to close them again. She laughed and said “oh, ok” again. And that’s how it went every morning. Then when she realized she couldn’t convert me to being a sunshine, positivity loving patient, she would open the blinds as a joke and let me grumble that she was crazy and was trying to kill me. Our friendship blossomed into a relationship where she would try to combat my bad moods with pokes and jokes. Usually, she won. And she appreciated my banter and shit talking because at the end of the day, I always gave her my 110% effort. Of course, I let her know how fucking crazy she was to expect me to double my laps, or sit in a chair for an hour straight (hardest and most painful thing ever at the time), or to start doing stairs but I still did it all for her. There were times where if I didn’t feel like doing anything, and told another nurse who was asking “not today.” Jordan would then hear about it, come into my room, and plead at my bedside. “Do it for me,” she’d say as she was kneeling at my bed and holding my hands. Fucking a that’s all that wonderful woman had to say. “Do it for me ,” and all of a sudden, I found the strength to do it. To survive. And to live . Here’s the point in the story where a disclaimer is needed: I’m not trying to toot my own horn, but I was fucking funny in the hospital. My dark sense of humor that I always had growing up came in handy while I was plastered to a hospital bed for six long weeks. I could make any nurse laugh, and even made a few doctors chuckle. Jordan was my favorite to crack up, and my wit surprised her. I would always get a bewildered look followed by her genuine laughter. Every day was a new day to try to make Jordan laugh. Sometimes that meant more to me than any health improvement I may have made. One day Jordan came into my room and as she yanked up my window shade (as I rolled my eyes) she said she had something fun for us to do. “I need to stick this pill up your butt.” “Oh, goody,” I cried with sarcasm. Jordan and another nurse helped push me onto my side so that I was facing the wall. Jordan undid my Johnny and said, “Now, try to think of something pleasant.” I did not skip a damn beat. “Ok, Bryan .” Jordan did skip a beat. I could picture her finger and thumb pinching the horse pill that was about to be inserted into my anus, and her stopping midway. “Why did you call me ‘Bryan’?” Her curiosity got the best of her. “Because he was the last person who put something up my ass that was pleasant .” It was true, Bryan was the guy I had an affair with and during our drunken hotel hookups we would have anal sex. And it felt good. Credit to a guy with a small dick for once. I felt the hospital bed shake. At first, I thought we were experiencing an earthquake—which with my luck I wouldn’t be surprised. But Jordan was shaking the bed with her laughter. She was starting to suck in air she was laughing so hard. Then just as quick, I felt the pill go up my ass and my own laughter almost made me shit it right back out. Those were the days I’ll always cherish in the hospital. Jordan and her laughter. One day when Jordan started her shift at 7 am I was having a rare bad day. There were days I cried, days I wanted it to end, and days I said fuck it. But those were simply fleeting moments that were always remedied by Jordan or another compassionate nurse. But this day was different. On this day, for once my hope was completely on E. I woke up and just decided I didn’t care. I didn’t want to improve. I told myself I was barely improving at all and that my life was pointless. I would never truly live again. That was the saddest day of my life. So, when Jordan came in and pulled up my shade like usual, I didn’t give her shit for once. I just stared at the wall as Forensic Files played on the little tv in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jordan do a double take at my silence. She didn’t say anything but checked my vitals and asked if we were walking today, as if it were a choice. But I did treat it like a choice and my silence was my answer. She then tried to make a joke, but I still stayed silent. I knew I was being rude, but I was just so over it. I had been in the hospital 5 weeks with no end in sight. I had died twice. The pain meds were barely touching my pain. My cell phone had shit the bed in the middle of all this. I couldn’t have visitors. I died during my first surgery and had five more after that. Each time I was scared I would die and wouldn’t be so lucky as to be revived again . Sorry Jordan, but life wasn’t looking so positive for me at that point. Jordan knelt by my bedside again and took my hands into hers. With tears in her eyes she said, “I am so sorry .” And that was all. And she closed my blinds and left the room. The rest of the day I felt heart broken and guilty as fuck for breaking her spirit. But the next day she again waltzed into my room and opened my blinds. And I told her to get the hell out of my room as we laughed. The last day of my journey Jordan unfortunately wasn’t working. I was discharged on a Saturday and the day before she was running around my room double checking everything and reminding me all the OT tips and tricks I learned and how to administer my own drugs through the PICC line I would be discharged with. She told me she was so proud of me and that she loved me. She never brought up my drinking or said she was worried—true to herself, she stayed positive . It was almost as if I didn’t need her my last day in the hospital because she had already taught me everything I needed to know. It’s been nine months since I’ve been discharged. And Jordan was my nurse again when I had hernia surgery back in February. She was still the same old Jordan. Coming into my room, drawing the blinds, but now she was head nurse! I am so proud of Jordan and owe her my life. I had many nurses who I will always owe credit to, but Jordan was a superhero. She not only took care of me, but she laughed, cried, triumphed, and lost alongside me. She wasn’t just a bystander who administered drugs and did her job. She went above and beyond . I have many reasons to stay sober and make sure I never relapse, and I proudly say that Nurse Jordan (whose real name I leave out, out of respect, which she asked me to do last time I saw her but hope that one day the world will know her fully—I told you readers she was a superhero!) is one of the top reasons I stay sober. I look forward to the day that you literally spill sunshine into my room, and I can make and hear you laugh again.


(WP) Retribution She’d spent her entire life in pursuit of revenge, to get even with those who had wronged her. The palace was burning around her, and she couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the chaos she had wrought. Smoke clogged the air, thick and black, and the screams of the wounded and dying were like music in her ears. “How could you do this?!” Before she could so much and turn around and look at the speaker, she was tackled from behind, and they both hit the floor; she only just avoided cracking her head on the white marble. It was her younger sister, and tears were running down her face. “You’ve destroyed everything!” “You destroyed me first!” The words roared their way out of Viola’s chest, as raw and sharp as broken glass. How many days had she spent in this very room, wishing she was somewhere, someone, else? Her hands met her sister’s chest, and she tried to push her off, even as her sister’s hands went to her throat and squeezed. For the first time since the fire started, Viola was afraid she was going to die. And at her sister’s hands. She gripped her sister’s wrists and squeezed, fighting against the darkness that threatened to pull her under. She’d worked too hard for too long to not see her revenge realized. “You made me do this, all of you,” She whispered, and her sister let go. She shoved her off, growling. They’d never understood her, never tried. She’d always been the odd one out. “Nobody ever wanted you anyway!” The world narrowed to her sister, sprawled on the floor, and as if she was watching herself from outside, she saw herself pull out a dagger. “Take that back, or I will make you pay.” “You couldn’t just take your exile with grace, as usual, you had to throw a tantrum!” “SHUT UP!” Viola shrieked, rounding on her sister. She brought the knife down, but her sister dodged the blow, their training kicking in, and Viola screamed her fury to the ceiling. Even the roar and pop of the fire couldn’t completely muffle the sound of her rage. “You were supposed to die, anyway. Father wanted you left on a mountain. Mother didn’t let him; she only saved you out of pity, and fear of the gods.” A film of red descended over Viola’s eyes; the knife in her hand trembled violently. Everything she’d ever suspected and feared to be true was confirmed in her sister’s statement. She had a knife in her hand, their home was burning around them, yet she felt like a mouse before a cat: helpless. “I’m not sorry,” Viola said, pleased that her voice did not tremble. “You drove me to this, all of you, when you sent me away.” “Father never should have shown you mercy, sister mine. He should’ve just had you executed.” Her sister laughed again, and Viola decided that if she died in pursuit of retribution, it didn’t matter. She approached her sister, spinning the knife in her hand. “Get up, and let’s finish this, sister.


The soft clicking of computer keys blends in with the sound of rain pattering against the window. My glasses are perched precariously on the end of my nose, and a cup of lukewarm chocolate rests atop some papers on my desk. I am content. A knock at the door distracts me from my writing. I smile. “Come in.” Within seconds Tobias is by my side, hands clutching the edge of my desk as he lifts himself up to peer at the book I’m writing. “Ah-ah-ah, no spoilers,” I tease, covering Tobias’s eyes with one hand. “But Mama, it’s after school!” he whines. “You said I could see it after school!” “Did I?” Looking up at the ceiling, I pretend to be deep in thought. I shake my head and smirk. “Nope, can’t remember saying that.” In a blur of defiance, Tobias jumps up and licks my hand, still blocking his view. I pull back with an exaggerated gasp of horror. “No! You’ve poisoned me! How could you do that?” Tobias bursts into a fit of giggles. “I didn’t poison you!” I strike a dramatic pose in my chair, one hand pressed to my stomach while the other rests on my forehead. “Everything…going…dark…” And with that, I close my eyes and let my tongue loll out of my mouth. Tobias cheers to himself. It’s good to know he cares so much about his mama’s well-being. After a prolonged period of silence, I crack one eye open, only to find Tobias absorbed in the story I’ve begun to write on my computer. “What do you think?” I ask him. He replies without moving his eyes from the screen. “I think there’s supposed to be a comma right here.” Tobias points to a sentence. He’s right. I quickly correct my mistake, puffing up with pride for my smart little boy. “Thanks, buddy.” I pause. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I press a kiss to the top of his head. Tobias turns and gestures for me to lean down, giving me a kiss on the cheek in return before becoming refocused on the story. For some odd reason, I feel like crying. And then I realize. Instantly, the world around me freezes. I stare at my computer screen, noticing my story has become a blank sheet of virtual paper. I decide to take a risk. “This isn’t real, is it?” I blink, and words have appeared on the screen. **It’s real in a way.** Anger burns in my chest as my suspicions are confirmed. “No, it’s not real. This is just a fantasy.” Another blink, more words. **I’m sorry. This is the best I can do for you — for us — right now.** “I know,” I whisper. The eerie silence around me is suffocating, and my eyes fill with tears. **Please don’t cry. You mean everything to me.** I laugh bitterly. “As much as a character can mean, anyway.” **You’re not just a character.** “Then what am I?” My author hesitates. This time, I catch the cursor moving, and I read her confession just before she closes the document. **You’re my epilogue.


Her hair, the color of wounds and roses, blew in the wind like a banner of war. She stood upon the bow of her ship and thrust her face into the spray that was thrown up as the waves crashed against the hull. The taste on her lips was that of a home a life away and half forgotten. There had been a bargain, but that was nothing special – life is made of bargains; we sell what we can for a chance at what we need. And what price could be too much for a world out of a dream, for perfection? And so what if there had been blood? A knife in the dark of a temple, a bride-to-be helped into the abyss of the sea – to be missed, and mourned, and, ultimately, forgotten. One princess had taken the place of another, and the world spun as it always would have, and always would. She loved him, of course: her blacked-eyed prince. She loved him more than life – more than anything. And in the heart of the romantic love absolves all sins. And he loved her. First because she reminded him of a girl he thought had saved him, and later because he knew she really had. They were happy as only true lovers could be. But it was not to last. Summer followed summer and patient contentment gave way slowly to worry and apprehension. The womb of the queen had yet to quicken with the child she, and especially her husband, so longed to dote upon. Learned men of medicine were summoned first from the corners of the kingdom, and then the corners of the world. They could do nothing, for the king and queen each seemed the image of health. Magicians and sorcerers were then called upon. This one working with abacus and charts by the motion of the stars, that one with chants and herbs, this one with blood. They were no charlatans and time and again demonstrated their power to the court. The queen took to learning from them, and even her tongue was healed by cunning craft. For a while the castle was joyous again; the king had never heard her speak, nor heard her sing. And in this latter thing she had no equal in all the world. She delighted him, and she was delighted to see it. But songs can only do so much, and still the royal nursery sat empty. And so it was that the gloom of dying dreams and breaking hearts settled again upon the kingdom like a damp, choking dust. It was then that an old woman came. Having heard of her lord and lady’s plight she had journeyed from afar to offer what aid she could. Gifted she was in midwifery, and privy she was to many secrets long forgotten to the world; she had, she said, been apprenticed to the queen of the fairies in her youth and was wise in witchery. It was through her efforts that the queen came to be with child, and for months there was an unending festival to prepare the world for the coming of the new prince or princess. But when the babe finally arrived news spread through the castle that it was not well, and, if God be merciful, would not be long in the world. The old woman came to the queen afterward, once the mess of the birth had been cleaned away and the mother had had a chance to rest. She sat close in a chair as Her Majesty wept in her bed. The queen confessed then what she had before only told the king, once he had taught her how to write in the manner of men. The old woman listened, and by the end of the tale she held the queen in her arms and rocked her as she whimpered. The old woman knew of the witch the queen spoke of. Ancient she was, a cold and spiteful thing, her life preserved through wards writ when stone was new. There was little her magic could not achieve or undo, save death itself, and there was nothing made through her magic that any save her or God could challenge. And so the old woman told the queen what she should do to make things as right as they could be. For of all the temptations in the world there is but one that a witch of black heart cannot fail to be blinded by. Only one thing which would ensure her promise to undo her curse and heal the child without malice or trickery. A week later, once all the necessary ceremonies had been observed, the queen had set sail. It was near dusk when the ship finally arrived at its destination. It looked to the sailors much the same as everywhere else on the sea, but the queen was intimate with these waters, and she knew what was to be found deep below the rocking of the waves the ship rested upon. She gave her instructions to the crew, and the ice in her voice was such that they dared not defy her, though they were pained by her words. She clutched her satchel to her breast and, for a moment, looked out towards the horizon and the sun setting in a sky she had once so impotently longed to see. Then she quaffed a vial of something sticky and bubbly and smelling of salt – a potion which she had months ago learned the making of, though this was not the visit it had been intended for. She began to cough and choke, unable to take in the air. Over the side she dove and plunged down, down into the dark of the deep. The waters of the sea flowed into her, and sustained her, and again she could breath. It did not feel quite the same as it had – nothing ever does after a time away – but it was close enough for nostalgia's sake. For a while she tarried within sight of the belly of the ship as it floated above the black abyss wherein dwelt the Sea Witch. For a while she tarried upon the edge of a world she had sold so much for. She sank then, and the darkness closed in around her like the embrace of a mother who does not mean well. An incantation later and she could see in the inkiness. Far below her grew the witch's forest of hideous polyps, always hungry and grasping, filled with bones of men, and fish, and merfolk. With hope burning in her heart as only hope can burn, and only when it is come to at the end of all alternatives, she descended to the edge of that hideous wood. The slithering branches of the grove grabbed at her, but she nimbly avoided them as she had once before, and made her way to the clearing far within. She came upon it ere too long and, sat in the place it had since a time beyond all memory, was the stone hut of the Sea Witch. Taking a deep breath of seawater the queen gathered her courage and knocked. For too many moments there was no answer, but just as the queen raised her hand to rap again the door slowly swung inwards. “Hello, are you at home, grandmother?” The queen used this form of address out of old habit as much as caution; it was how they had all been instructed to speak if ever they were so foolish or unfortunate as to cross her path. The blackness of the hut, which the queen's spell of seeing could not pierce, offered no reply. And she was not so stupid as to walk in uninvited. “I have brought gifts, grandmother.” The queen reached into her satchel and pulled out a handful of sapphires from the kingdom's store of treasures; she laid them on the threshold. “There is more-”. “I'm sure there is,” slithered a voice from the darkness, dripping with ichor and sugar-glazed hate. A tentacle, blue and bloated, glided out of the blackness and pulled the pile of gems inside. The queen watched this with quiet revulsion, and when she looked up there floated the witch, her jowled face and flabby arms bobbing through the tide atop a sprout of worm-like limbs. “You might as well come in, I suppose,” cooed the witch. “I expect we have things to discuss.” As the words were spoken the darkness inside yielded to the queen's eyes. There was no more light than before, but she could now make out the sparse furniture and eels writhing on the floor. The witch swam to the far side of her stone table and piled her jewels on top of it; she fiddled with them as she spoke. “Such pretty things you bring me, princess.” The witch lifted a gem to the slit of her eye, “one wonders what favors they are meant to buy. Are you not happy in the life you've bartered for? You seemed so eager for it when last we spoke.” “It was perfect,” muttered the queen as she approached, “everything I dreamed or could have dreamed, and more, but-” “And, of course, there is the matter of how you're speaking,” interrupted the witch. “You're a cheat, princess. You squirm your way out of one bargain and them come to beg another?” “I did not cheat!” screamed the queen, indignation and hate overcoming sense. The cool gaze of the witch tempered the her tone and more softly she continued. “You never said I couldn't undo it, you didn't make it that way. You could have...” At this the hands of the queen clutched her stomach and she lapsed into silence. The ocean ate the tears from her eyes as they were born. “Ah,” said the witch, a smile blooming on her fanged maw “so that's it is it? Not happy with just the prince, but a baby as well?” “It was important to the king; I hadn't even thought of it before he began to talk about how happy it was going to make us.” “Tut tut,” the witch's finger wagged lazily from side to side, “foolish not to think ahead, foolish. And now you find it not so easy to give the man what he wants?” The witch leered at the queen from toe to crown. “You find, perhaps, that your pretty body, your dancing, *your* *singing*, just isn't quite enough, so you come back to me for more favors? To help get you with a vile man-baby? You are a tiresome, greedy girl, princess.” “We had a baby,” said the queen, nearly breathless and with eyes downcast, “that's why I've come.” The witch paused for a moment and then began to laugh. “Congratulations, princess!” The sapphires fell from her hands as she pounded upon her table in jubilation. “It could not have been easy! There must have been much trying – that much I'm sure you enjoyed, and you're welcome for it – and much waiting, many false starts, much disappointment. And then, at last, it sticks! And the baby comes!” And here her laughter stopped, but her grin widened. “How is the dear thing?” “You know, I think.” The words tumbled from lips nearly still. The witch leaned forward over her table. “Tell me anyway,” she whispered, her eyes wrinkled in glee. The queen fell to her knees and clutched her bag. “Please, grandmother,” said the queen through her sobs, “please help my baby, please make everything alright, please, please, please, please-”. “Enough,” barked the witch, all mirth gone from her voice, all glee vanished from her face. “As I said, princess, you are *greedy*.” She paused and licked her lips, a hint of a smile returning to them. “All the same, were it not for greed I'd do a fair bit less business.” The witch turned toward a shelf and removed a vile. “This, poured down the gob of the tyke, will, in a day or so – and not without pain – make things right, as you'd have it.” She held the potion up, she let the eyes of the queen rest upon it. Moment after moment of silence filled the hut. “What is the price?” And who could say if the witch heard the question, so soft it was, but she knew what was asked all the same. “Indeed, we do come now to that, princess.” The witch sauntered her girth back and forth as she floated here and there, lips pursed, hand to her chin. “It wasn't easy to make, you know.” “I'm sure.” “Consequently, it should be very expensive.” “That would only be fair.” “Tell me,” the witch stopped in front of the queen and looked down upon her, “if you had to pick – if you could have only *one –* which would it be? The prince, or the baby?” The queen's gaze fell from the vial and her head sank slowly until it rested in the muck of the floor. Of course that was the price, that was not unexpected; nevertheless, it was hard to hear: a choice she could not make. Time passed by in slow currents, but, finally, the queen spoke. “The king would not trade his baby's life for his own. I would betray him to allow that to happen, and I can't do that.” “But, for your part,” the witch leaned down so that her lips almost brushed the ear of the queen, “you'd rather have the prince? Not the baby?” “...yes,” breathed the queen into the slime of the floor. “Good, then it's a good price.” The witch's smile returned as she stood,, and through it could be seen row upon row of needle teeth. “Shall we call it a bargain?” The queen sat up, her face smeared with filth; the eels writhed around her as she stared at the vial, her mouth agape. “I, I have, more gifts...” The queen fumbled in her bag with clumsy, distracted hands. “No gifts, princess. No haggling. The price is the price.” The words were chill, and behind them the threat of danger. The queen's shoulder's slumped and necklaces and bracelets and other fine things fell from her soft grip. “Is there no other way?” “None.” The eyes of the queen went far away as she thought of her husband, and how she had seen him first, on his birthday. She remembered how she had loved him at once, and how she had saved him, and all she had done to win him. She thought of how happy they had been; she thought of their baby, so innocent and caught in a battle that was not its own. She loved it too, of course she did. She thought at last of the witch's choice, crafted to force her to break her own heart. And then her thoughts ran out, and there was nothing but to answer. “I can't,” whispered the queen, as though to herself. The smile on the witch's face faded into indifference and she shrugged her bulbous shoulders. “Then the baby dies.” She turned and replaced the vial on the shelf, “but don't worry, I shouldn't imagine it will take long.” “We'd had such hopes, you know.” The queen remained on the floor but looked up now at her enemy. “Our business is concluded,” she turned away and made a show of busying herself with organizing her things. “Don't let me keep you.” “If it was a girl,” continued the queen, “I'd teach her to sing, and if it was a boy he'd teach him how to hunt.” There was no emotion in her voice now, all sorrow drained away as though into the wide, wide sea. The witch did not turn around and spoke as though to someone not there. “I don't especially care. Now leave, before we have trouble.” As though they understood, which, of course, they must have, the eels began to circle the queen, their jaws snapping. “I didn't see why it shouldn't be both in any case.” The queen rose and turned toward the door, “but my husband had funny ideas about the whole thing, and I could never refuse him.” “Send him my regards.” The queen gingerly stepped her way to the threshold. She stood there for a moment, her hand upon the cold, rough stone of it, and then she turned back. “I did get him to agree about you, though, grandmother.” “Hmm? What's that?” The witch did turn then, for she was a curious sort, as the old woman said she must be: all black witches are, when it comes to the subject of themselves. “You brought us together, and you know so much,” the queen stepped back inside, and the eels made way for her, a little. “It made sense, and was, I think, to be a fair show of gratitude. I even dared think it would make up for the tongue.” An embarrassed smile played across the queen's face and she looked to the side. “What was?” asked the witch as she floated nearer. “Boy or girl – to make them strong and safe – the king and I thought its godmother might teach it some small magics; small for you, of course, but even that would have been enough to make the child mighty, I'm sure. That's what convinced him, really, not me: anything to make his baby safe.” The witch gasped, and bits of alchemical bric-a-brac, expensive or not, tumbled to floor as her tentacles flew out and knocked against the shelves. In a single swift motion she swam the rest of the way to the queen and pulled her close so that they were face to face. “You'd have me godmother your firstborn?” The witch's eyes were wide, her tone disbelieving. None but white witches had ever done such a thing, and so few really knew why, but the old woman had. It was a secret curse, from Titania herself, on the whole lot of them. To punish them for a slight which happened long, long ago. They were never to have it, though always – always – to lust for it. “Of course,” said the queen, “as I said, it seemed only fair. But it doesn't matter now, and I don't want to keep you.” She tried to turn, but the witch's cold and scaly hands on her shoulders would not allow it. Though they did not grip so tightly as to hurt. “Wait, this changes things.” And now it was the witch's eyes which looked far away and into a world she never thought could be. “But you said the price was the price, grandmother.” The queen tilted her head and raised her brow quizzically. “You said there could be no haggling.” “This is a thing that cannot be asked,” the witch was breathless, beside herself with shock and budding glee, “it must be given, freely, of your own accord. Those are old laws, Your Majesty – older even than I.” Her voice grew more and more rapid as true happiness bloomed in a heart which had long forgotten even the memory of its memory. “And you offer it to me? To be godmother to your precious little one?” “I would, grandmother, gladly, if only my child could live to enjoy it.” The face of the queen beamed at a victory, such as it was, so near at hand. “It shall! I swear it! A gift given with nothing asked except that you keep your word.” “Oh, grandmother,” exclaimed the queen as she embraced the witch and choked down her revulsion, “by your life and magic you swear it?” For a promise from a witch is strong, strong as any magic which flows within her. “I do, of course I do. But we must be quick!” she turned from the queen and shot back to her shelves. “The potion, and this one too – for the pain – you must administer them as soon as you can!” “Nothing simpler, grandmother,” laughed the queen and blessing the old midwife in her thoughts, “my baby is here.” The brow of the witch furrowed as she turned, potions in hand, “What?” “It is here! I brought it, knowing there might not be time to come and go back.” The queen held her satchel up in front of her and, opening it, emptied the contents onto the floor. And there it lay in a little heap amidst what few trinkets of gold and silver had remained in the bag. It was twisted, and gray: a half-scaled torso with an eyeless face and a body that ended in a broken mockery of a fish's tail. “It lived only an hour or so.” The voice of the queen lilted, an edge of hysteria behind the facade of mirth. “It screamed the whole time. The king took it very hard, I'm afraid.” The queen stepped over the corpse and approached the Sea Witch. “But it's alright now, right grandmother? You'll make it well, you swore so – on *your life* and by *your magic*, yes?” The witch dropped her potions and drew herself up. When she spoke the words sounded far away in her ears. “You tricked me.” “Oh, no, I don't think so,” said the queen, sweetly. “And, in any case, why should that matter? When the shoe was on the other foot – ha – you didn't seem to mind.” Still she continued to approach, slowly. “Are you saying you renege?” The queen frowned and her voice sank into sullenness. “That would be unseemly, grandmother. That wouldn't do at all.” At a small gesture from the witch the eels in droves came at the queen. They bit into her legs and feet, and her blood flowed into the room. It hurt, but that was nothing. The queen's feet always hurt. Each step was a knife thrust into her flesh, and bone, and marrow. It had always been thus, for as long as she had had feet to walk upon. She had long since learned to ignore pain. And, even if she hadn't, pain was nothing in the face of this; pain was nothing at all when it bought her revenge. She leapt at the witch. The hag turned and shot to the right, but her tentacles trailed behind her and the queen was quick, agile as ever. She snatched one and squeezed. The magics that had so long protected the witch failed in the wake of her broken promise. The slimy flesh popped and a black jelly of blood and puss squirted out. The touch of it burned the queen but she did not loose her grip on the broken appendage. The scream that burst from the witch was, to the queen's ears, more beautiful than any song she herself could have ever sung. Together they rushed out the door: the witch trying to flee but pulling the queen in tow. Into the horrid forest they went. The eels followed in a swarm and bit the queen on her arms and back and face; they tore flesh and scratched to the bone underneath until her skin was all ribbons and blood. But the grasping branches grabbed one after another until all were caught. At the last it was only the witch and the queen locked in struggle; the forest would not dare snatch at its master, and the magic that animated it could not prevent the queen from forcing the hag to make good on her deal. The witch jerked from side to side, trying to throw off the queen, but again and again Her Majesty grabbed on to a new tentacle and squeezed until there were hardly any left unbroken. Together they sank into the muck, the water think with their mingled blood. “Stop,” gasped the witch, “please, stop. I can still make things right, and I will, I swear.” “You can raise the dead?” The queen reached for a rock as the question fell from what was left of her lips. “No, but I can make it so you'll have new children, and they will be beautiful and strong! They will live long – longer than any man, and I will teach them all I know! Only cry off!” The queen found a suitable instrument: one side rounded, the other a jagged edge. She held it tight in her hand and paused. A breath escaped her and she spoke a truth which betrayed her motherhood, and she didn't care: “If the king will forgive you, and accept your terms, then I will cry off.” “Yes! Thank you, Your Majesty! I will come to you in your castle and beg mercy, I swear it!” The queen raised the rock above her head, “The king is not in the castle, grandmother. In his grief he jumped from the high tower – not an hour after our child sat cold in its crib.” The witch snarled and lunged up; her fangs were bared and sought purchase in the white flesh of the royal throat. But the queen was quicker, and the pointed edge of the rock was thrust deep into the open mouth. Down and forward it was pressed, forcing the detestable head to the ground. There was a small struggle, but the witch was tired and, stripped of her old protections, weak. She fought for the life she had and hated, but the queen fought for the life she might have had and always loved. The snap at the back of the witch's throat was the final word on the matter. The queen looked down on the limp carcass, as much jelly as flesh and bone, and turned away. She staggered as she went. She was dizzy with fatigue and blood loss, and the fire of the witch's blood had worked its way into her through her wounds. She sat, finally, and then lied down and looked up toward the sky a world away. And though it wasn't there, for it was night now, and though she wouldn't have been able to see it if it were, because she was so deep in the sea, she glimpsed again the sun. The queen closed her eyes and slept with a smile on her face. And in time the sea did what it does, just as the world spins; and bit by bit, by way of one stomach or another, the little mermaid returned to the sea.


I feel a massive wave of pain on my left side, just below the ribs. Instinctively I place my hand on it. I lift it moments later and see a warm scarlet liquid coming out of my body. Instantly I feel dizzy, the sight of blood causes me that nausea feeling I hate so much. I try to look around for Jack, but my sight becomes blur. My feet feel like jelly, and I expect to crumble on the ground any second now. It all started about two weeks ago. It was a simple mission for such an experienced agent as Jack and everything were going smooth so far. Until that day came, when everything went wrong, and I felt like a modern version of the plagues of Egypt is coming upon us. Jack’s mission was Lord Alistair Wood. That esteemed man apart from an enormous fortune, he fancies drugs and weapons trade. There’s nothing wrong with making some extra money. And this is where Jack comes in. We planted various information on the internet as bait about Jack being a wealthy businessman already into the illegal weapons trade, to make him eligible for the lord’s stock. All these days the things were moving slow but steady, it takes time to gain the trust of such a man. Jack’s last transmission was that he finally persuaded lord’s intermediary to arrange a meeting with his boss where he can get a closer look at the stuff and sign the contract. During that meeting Jack would be equipped with hidden cameras and microphones that will give us all the evidence we need to get that high-class bastard behind bars. The day had come, and Jack was on his way to the lord’s estate, when we faced with an excessive amount of interference during our communication. Of course, I immediately informed my superiors but not much could be done. I tried my best to repair the communication, although the time was passing by, and I didn’t make much progress. But I didn’t back down. I tried again, this time focusing on gaining access in one of the cameras attached to his suit. The image was a bit blur, but the sound seemed to be working. A gunshot echoed through the speakers making me jump on my seat like I was hit by a thunder. There was big commotion shortly after the gunshot and I couldn’t spot Jack’s voice or what they were saying. I tried, tapping furiously on my keyboard, to fix the image transmission and I freeze in place as I see Lord Alistair’s face on the camera that was supposed to be planted on Jack’s lapel. Then he places a hood on Jack’s head, and everything goes dark though I still get some sound, mostly containing incomprehensible shouting. I press the emergency button on the phone on the side of my desk and head towards the crisis room. I open the doors and find three of my superiors sitting on chairs in front of a large table. “Jack is compromised.” I say almost out of breath. “He’s taken captive.” “How?” One of them addressed me. “They placed a hood to cover the camera on his lapel. They found out. We need to send a tactical team immediately.” Silence fell on the room, and I felt that time is passing very slowly. The three superiors were skeptical, some rubbing their chins, considering what are our options. Something inside me was telling me they won’t help him. “Please sirs, we have to rescue him. Jack is one of our top agents, if not the best. He is always efficient with a very good record behind. We don’t have to lose such a valuable asset.” I didn’t know what else to do, Jack should not be perished in that way. When I first came to this station, I was assigned to be Jack’s ears and eyes on his missions and we were a pretty good team. He was one of the top field agents and I was the greatest brain in the ‘warehouse’ a name that the rest of the staff was using for our department. When we get well acquainted, we made a promise to each other that we’ll always get one another’s back if something goes wrong and I remember the look in his eyes, that was a genuine promise and not the drinks talking. So now he was in danger, they would not send any help and I had made a promise. “I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do. Jack was a valuable member of our organization, and his absence is already evident. But we cannot waste men power for anyone. He knew the consequences of his job and by performing the missions he had accepted these terms.” I felt moisture gathering under my eyes, but I try my best to hide it from them. I just nod and exit the room heading to my desk. I will not sit back and watch my partner let down like this while his superiors already were addressing him like he’s already dead. He’s not yet and if they won’t do something I will take the matter in my hands. “I have to go. Please cover me.” I say to Jim as I walk back in and grab a folder from my desk along with my coat. “What happened?” he asked confused. “They’re not going to help him.” I replied and stormed out of the building. I know it is forbidden to take any documents outside the building and the consequences that wait for me when they find out are huge, but I don’t care. I spend all night studying anything we’ve got, every word from the intercepted discussions we got, anything that might give me the slightest clue of where they have him. And after of two long days and nights, I finally found it. I went through hell to find his centre of operations, hidden in an abandon laboratory in Japan, in the outskirts of Tokyo. I had erased all my records from the internet so they couldn’t find anything for the real me. I had everything, fake passport and various documentation making my new identity legitimate to convince them to let me in. I took even a gun, although I was never fun of them. I did the basic training, but I always hoped there will not be any occasion to use it. It took me some time until I find the exact location of the facility and from the reconnaissance I did it appeared that is understaffed and not so heavy guarded. When I finally snuck in, I grabbed a white robe from the staff uniforms room and having prepared an access card with my picture on it I was free to wander around the place. It appeared that the laboratory was further from abandoned and was fully operational, producing nuclear weapons. I spend some time wandering around the facility and finally after quite some time, I could trace his bug inside the building. I follow the signal and my steps stop in front of a huge metal door. My heart was racing fast, he’s still alive. That bug was planted within his body and would not transmit if Jack was dead. It was not easy to open a metal door without making some noise and at first, I was glad that no one came towards my place. I was ready to cry when I saw him bound with ropes in a far corner of a room full of glass testers with liquids in various colours. I run to him and kneel. I removed the hood covering his face, truth to be told I was shocked at first when I saw his once bright blue eyes now swollen with big circles under them. His shirt was open and purple bruises were spreading in various parts of his torso. “Elena how-” “Shh, don’t talk.” I cut him off. “Once we are out of here, I’ll tell you everything.” I go behind him and untie the ropes around his hands. Once I finished untying the ropes from his ankles as well, I grab him gently under his arms and help him get up. A soft sigh of pain leaves his lips as he stands up. “I’m sorry.” I whisper. We walked slowly until his feet get used to walking and then I let him walk by himself. We were outside the main lab area heading towards the point I had entered the facility. I could see the opening through the fence, a few metres more and we will be out of here. Thankfully, the forest that surrounded this place was more than what I could have asked for cover. I start running and I was glad to see that he followed considering his state. We were a few steps away when I froze in place at the sound of gunshots. We turn and see about half a dozen men with guns firing towards us. I took the gun that was attached at the back of the waistband of my trousers and fire back. “Go! Now!” I scream to Jack, and he followed my order without second thought. We were finally out of the facility and began our way through the forest. I was happy that they didn’t follow us but something in me was sure that they will soon. And so, they did. We were trying to find something to hide when we heard trampling and shouts from afar.

“Follow me.” Jack said calmly and run to our left. We kept running but that wasn’t easy. The whole place was covered by thick roots of the trees that were above the ground leaving a very small free space between them so, jumping would be more accurate. The trail ended in a river, and I was so focused to moving forwards that I bumped into Jack, I didn’t notice he stopped. “We must jump.” He said with such a calm tone in his voice that I wondered how he can be so cool at times like this. But of course, this is everyday life for him, for me this is nightmare. A loud gunshot broke the temporary silence, and you know what happened next. I feel my body losing its ground and falling in the river. I want to scream but no sound gets out of my mouth. I surrender to the wet abyss and the only thing before I lose my senses, is a pair of strong hands around my waist. When I open my eyes, I see an unfamiliar ceiling and the sound of different machines around give me the idea of where I am. I try to bring myself to a sitting position and I feel the same pair of hands holding me firmly. I turn to see Jack next to me, holding me from the back to assist me. “Thanks.” I whisper. Jack was looking much better from the last time I saw him, and a thought strikes my mind immediately. “How many days I’m knocked out?” “Five days.” He replied looking at me with concern in his eyes. “The doctor will be here any minute now.” “What happened? I remember being shot and the rest I’m not sure If they’re true.” “Yes, you fell into the river, and I jumped to get you before you lose your senses and drawn yourself. I cannot say it was easy, but I managed. The river stopped them from following us and the stream led us to a nearby village. From there, I called for an ambulance and here we are. Thankfully, your wound was not critical, only the excessive bleeding freaked me out a bit.” I raised an eyebrow. “Wow, you? Freak out? I hardly believe it. You are used to staff like that.” “Sometimes even I can lose my shit.” He said quietly and sat back on a chair next to my bed. “I know that they will not send someone to get me after all that happened. I was furious at first but then I accepted my faith. Lord Wood decided that the best way to end me was to be tortured slowly until I beg them to end me, that's why you found me alive. I don’t know for how long I would be though.” “I couldn’t just let you go Jack, we’re a hell of a team. Their decision was not fair. I had to do something, even if it got me killed.” Jack leaned forward and took my hand in both of his. Those blue eyes hanged on me and I felt like they’re looking through my soul. Moments pass and we remain like this, like the time has stopped for us. Out of the blue, he stands up and comes closer. Bending down to my face, he is almost a breath away before our lips touch, when the door opens and we jump back to our positions, looking almost breathless at the doctor.


Lisa stared at the screen, the image of the camera staring back at her. She always enjoyed photography and always wanted to do more. Her friends always told her she had a good eye, and her Instagram posts of landscapes and waterways always garnered lots of likes. But those were taken with her five-year-old iPhone, and she knew she could do much better if she only had a real camera, which is why she found herself staring at the online camera store’s website. She had lost her job recently which was a blessing in disguise, for sure. She hated her boss, and she was going nowhere there anyway. Pigeon-holing is what she thought they called it. Stuck in a job because she was good at it and there was no one else readily available to do it. Unemployment and the small severance package she received were helping her hold her own, but she was at a crossroads in her life. She didn’t want to go back to what she was doing, but it paid the bills, handsomely. On the one hand, she debated in her head, she liked the steady stream of income a regular job paid, as well as the benefits like the 401(k) and health insurance. On the other, she hated being tied down, working for someone who didn’t respect her and always asked her to do menial tasks, like ordering office supplies when he knew full well there was a whole department set aside to do just that.

Lisa needed to branch out, to let her creative side blossom, to stop doing the same thing repeatedly. She knew that and yet she held back. Before surfing to the camera shop website, she had been posting her resume on various job sites and applying to jobs that looked interesting. She had been doing this for months, to no avail. She had interviews, sure, and sometimes even second ones. She was encouraged and discouraged so often that it became a running joke in her head that it was not a matter of if, but when, they would turn her down. She had the skills, she had the experience, but she also had her age to contend with. Ageism is against the law, but it still exists.

We received many applicants for this role and although we were impressed with your credentials, we have decided to move forward with candidates who better meet the requirements of this position. Or some other bullshit like that. And that’s even if they bothered to let you know. Ghosting interviewees was becoming more and more common, and she found it irksome, to say the least. Her attention turned back to the camera. It was a high-end, brand-name one, one which she had been eyeing for a long time. She had added it to her cart and the orange “1” on the edge of her in the upper right-hand corner of the screen taunted her. BUY ME it screamed at her. She had read countless reviews on this website, none of which she believed, the cynicism she embraced in things such as customer reviews evident. Probably the seller’s uncle or daughter or friend. She read countless reviews on other websites, from photography magazines to consumer publications to blogs and vlogs. They all said pretty much the same thing. This was an excellent camera and while not top of the line, it would be sufficient for all but the most demanding photographers. Lisa closed the cover of her laptop, got up, and paced around the room. She went down to the kitchen and made herself a coffee and a snack. She called her friend Ruth, her always dependable friend. She knew her since middle school and Ruth was Lisa’s biggest cheerleader. Although she moved halfway across the country after getting married, she was always just a text or a phone call away.

“Get it, Lisa,” Ruth said almost immediately after being posed the question of whether Lisa should make this purchase. “You’ve always wanted to do photography!” she said encouragingly. “Ruth, it is so expensive,” Lisa protested, weakly.

“Honey, you are unemployed, and hate what you do when you are working,” Ruth continued, taking a breath. “What better chance than now to pursue your lifelong dream?” Lisa hesitated before protesting some more. “I shouldn’t spend this much money.” “Oh, Lisa, when have you ever really spent on yourself other than necessities,” Ruth continued. “And alcohol doesn’t count!” Ruth laughed when she said this, thinking of the many drinking nights they had down at the pubs when they were in their twenties. “I know, but…” “No buts, Lisa. You never had kids, you married that guy with serious mental health issues…You are so lucky you got out of that one, babe,” Ruth continued. “He was a bum and you lucked out. You got to keep most of what you earned. Lord knows, he didn’t earn much while you were together.” “He had so much potential…”

“Potential doesn’t put bread on the table or a roof over your heads, Lisa.” Ruth admonished. “I know, I know. You’re right,” Lisa agreed weakly. “Bite the bullet, pull the trigger, press the button! I can keep going with all these silly phrases if you’d like.” “No, no need. You really think I should?” “YES!” *** She obsessively checked the tracking status every day since she clicked the BUY NOW button.

SHIPPING LABEL CREATED It stayed on that status for a week since she ordered the darned thing. What was taking so long, she wondered. ORDER SHIPPED She tracked the cities her camera visited, most of which she had never seen.

DES MOINES, IA MEMPHIS, TN PITTSBURGH, PA KEARNY, NJ Where the heck was Kearny, NJ anyway, she thought to herself. And then finally, those words she had been waiting to see since she ordered it: OUT FOR DELIVERY She had butterflies in her stomach when she saw that after she logged on in the morning. She turned on the radio to listen to the news to pass the time. The nor’easter is in full force, with a total accumulation of 6 to 10 inches expected. Drifts could be up to two feet with the wind this storm is bringing. Power outages are expected. Her heart sank as she peeked out the window. How could she have not known about this? She refreshed her screen again. A bright yellow bar appeared at the top of the browser window.

DUE TO EXTREME WEATHER CONDITIONS FROM STORM WENDY, DELIVERIES CAN NOT BE GUARANTEED IN THE FOLLOWING STATES… Of course, her state was listed. She glanced out the window again and saw big, white snowflakes falling fast. She got up from her chair and looked down at the ground. There must have been about two inches of the white stuff accumulated already. Lisa decided a nap was in order. *** It had taken Lisa months of trial and error to learn what an F-Stop was, or aperture, or ISO. After taking some courses at the local art school, and reading a lot online, she had gotten the hang of it. Photoshop was another story, however. But she learned enough to edit her own photographs so that they were at least presentable, in her mind, anyway. She had taken hundreds, if not thousands, of photos, many of which were not very good. The composition was off, or they were blurry, or the bird standing on the rock took off just as soon as she snapped. She tried, but sometimes she wondered why she had spent so much money on what was turning out to be a toy. Her friends were much more supportive than her ego could ever be. Ruth, ever-faithful Ruth, praised her but was not reluctant to offer blunt but honest critiques when appropriate. Lisa, despite her fragile ego, found herself getting better as time progressed. Lisa finally got up the courage to enter a photography show at the local art school where she had taken classes. There was one photo of a copper fountain that was spraying water during an unexpectedly early autumn snowstorm. The image of the water spouting, the mums in full bloom at the fountain’s base, with the flakes coming down around them created a beautiful juxtaposition. Lisa attended the opening, her first one ever. She walked around the gallery, searching for her work. She strolled past ceramic sculptures of twisted bodies, huge paintings of abstract landscapes, bent metal evoking images of horror and fright. She turned a corner and found herself in a somewhat dark alcove, her photo hung in a corner, with little light, next to the bathroom. She frowned. With Ruth’s encouragement and additional training, Lisa’s talent flourished. She became the unofficial photographer at gatherings of friends and family. Bar mitzvahs, children’s sporting events, and anywhere hired photographers were not present. She did not want to be an events photographer, that wasn’t her thing. She preferred to take pictures in the moment, the serendipity of life unplanned is where she got her pleasure. More photographs, more contests, more shows. The email she received one summer afternoon intrigued her. It was a notice of the 46th Annual National Photography Show, sponsored by the Women’s Photography Society. This show was one of the most prestigious in the country. It had launched careers. The deadline for entry was in a month. She thought about her peers who probably had dozens of photos at the ready. She had none. She had to take one, and soon. Driving home from the supermarket one evening along a road that paralleled a small river, her groceries packed in the back seat, she found a potential opportunity. The sun was setting, and she glanced to her left. She saw a car parked in the lot of the small park, a man standing outside his car, trying to capture the perfect sunset. Why not? She thought. She pulled in and parked next to the man taking photos. He nodded and smiled at her, acknowledging the camaraderie of a fellow shutterbug. She got her equipment out and made the adjustments as quickly as she could. Sunsets are fickle things, she knew, and the perfect shot is gone before you know it. Still, she took shot after shot, her disappointment growing with each one. As expected, the sunset was gone. She got back in her car and drove home before her frozen foods melted. It took Lisa several days before she looked through her set of photos from that evening. She wasn’t completely happy with them but found there was one that might be good enough to submit to the show. The jurors probably wouldn’t accept it, but she was going to give it her best effort. Opening Photoshop to tweak it a little, she adjusted the brightness here, the contrast there, making color modifications as necessary. Not many changes, nothing so overly processed that it stopped looking like a photo and more like an abstract painting. Finally, after a couple of hours of work, she deemed the work done and submitted it to the show. Several weeks later, she received an email from the Women’s Photography Society. Her eyes scanned it for the inevitable rejection. Much to her surprise, they accepted her one and only entry. Ruth screamed on the phone when Lisa phoned her a few minutes later. Lisa so wished Ruth was with her in that moment, as she had wished Ruth was with her during so many other important events in her life. The show was to be held a few hundred miles from where Lisa lived. She had the photograph matted and framed and held the finished product in her hands, pride beaming on her face. The sunset was not your typical golden one, but one bursting with pink, orange, and coral, and was reflected in the water below it. It was beautiful, she finally admitted to herself. The day of the show opening arrived, and she had driven up a day earlier and stayed in a cute little bed-and-breakfast a few miles from the gallery. They were going to announce the winners at the show, and she was anxious. She didn’t think she was going to win, of course, but there was always that chance… The gallery was packed with people, and wine and cheese platters were placed strategically away from the artwork. Folks milled about, whispering here and there, surreptitiously criticizing works they didn’t like, sometimes a little too loudly.

In the main gallery, she found her work, displayed proudly next to works she thought were much, much better than hers. And bigger. She knew she should have printed the larger size. “That’s a really beautiful piece,” Lisa heard someone behind her say.

Blushing, she turned. “Ruth!” she exclaimed, shocked and surprised to see her friend standing next to her. Ruth pulled her into her arms and hugged her.

“What are you doing here?” Lisa asked Ruth sidestepped the question and said, “I love you, Lisa, and I am so proud of you!” Lisa was overwhelmed with emotion. She couldn’t believe that her only piece, which she hadn’t even taken until recently, was hanging in this gallery in a very prestigious show and that her best friend, whom she hadn’t seen in decades, had traveled thousands of miles just to be with her in her proudest moment.

A glass tinkled and she saw a middle-aged woman standing at a podium that Lisa would have sworn was not there a minute ago. “We’d like to announce our winners,” the woman said. “Although we have received many beautiful pieces of art, these truly stand above the rest…” Ruth pulled Lisa aside after the announcements were made. It was then that Lisa noticed a little green dot on the side of the frame of her photo, indicating the piece was sold. Lisa looked at Ruth. “Did you…” the unasked question trailed off. “Wasn’t me, sweetie, but I personally think Salmon Park Sunset was the best one here!” © 2022 Stephen A. Massa