I’m surrounded by his things. That’s what he’s left behind, things. Well, things and me, I suppose. There weren’t a lot of people at the service. Some neighbors, a couple of old friends, a smattering of relatives. Small but respectable. At least that’s what I told myself when the last of the guests arrived.

It wasn’t at all like when Mom died, when the church was packed, standing room only. She had the advantage of dying young, young enough that the sheer tragedy of it compelled people, her people, to converge in their grief. I guess the funerals are always bigger for those who die young, their friends and family not yet aged and dispersed, not yet accustomed to the natural cadence of life. It’s a strange silver lining. Mom’s funeral was big, though, even by those standards. She collected people, always had. She had a knack for making everyone feel special, because that’s how she saw them.

Dad didn’t collect people. He collected things. A lot of things. Photos are among them, particularly photos of my parents together. They hang everywhere in my childhood home, they rest on every shelf and every end table. If there is anything discernible from the decades strewn across the walls, it’s that they loved each other. I suppose they did, even though it didn’t always feel that way in the moments between the clicks of the camera. Those images aren’t on the wall. I walk into his office, the chaotic nexus of his collections, the spring from which the stuff seemingly bubbles up and spews into the rest of the house. Even Mom couldn’t control this space, fighting as best she could to prevent the peculiar assortment of items that lay within from bursting beyond the room’s narrow confines. This space is all him, uniquely him. His spirit, his very essence, feels present in this crowded room, far more than it did in that musty funeral home. I look around, It seems to me that everything anyone has ever thought to collect is here, and likely things people never thought to collect at all. There’s the usual stuff: stamps, coins, books, figurines, trading cards, toys... And there are things more unusual: garden gnomes, decorative soaps, hotel match boxes... I open a drawer, only to find it full of zesters. There’s dust everywhere. The air is thick with it, my nostrils itch with each inhale; it swirls in dancing torrents, glowing in the shafts of evening light slanting in through the windows; it blankets everything, coating the myriad of strange surfaces my dad left behind.

I feel suffocated as I slam the zester drawer shut in frustration. Overwhelmed, I wander over to the printer where I see some pieces of paper still resting in the tray, I pick them up. A receipt for a button, a $75 button to be precise. It supposedly came from the uniform of a British soldier in the Revolutionary War. The other pages are directions to some antique store in Maine, a four hour drive, five with traffic , reads my dad’s tidy handwriting in a characteristic critique of Google Maps’ assessment. I roll my eyes in irritation, I can’t help it. It was so like him to buy a $75 button and then drive eight hours round trip for it, ten with traffic. By some miracle I find the button collection, sandwiched between a crammed bookcase and a shelf full of glittering geodes. It is surprisingly complete and well organized, the buttons resting neatly on a bed of felt, a small card beneath each denotes the war from which it came. A quick scan suggests It spans the whole of American conflict, no small history. The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, WWII, Korea, Vietnam… Even wars I have never heard of, or have long since forgotten, are represented by a meticulously assembled collection of buttons. I notice one is missing, presumably the one pictured on the receipt still clutched tightly in my hand.

I can’t be in the office anymore, it feels too strongly of him, the dust is making me dizzy. I try halfheartedly to sort through other rooms in the house, but as my hands busy themselves packing dinner plates and folding spare linens, my mind is stuck in his office, stuck on those buttons. The day has been punishingly long, I feel the exhaustion in my bones. I let it guide me to my childhood room, still unable to bring myself to sleep in my parents’. I lay down on the rickety twin bed, the old spring mattress digging into my back, though I barely notice. I close my eyes and let the weariness drag me into a dark, dreamless sleep.

I wake at some point well past mid-morning. My back is stiff. I wander down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I trip over a forgotten cardboard box I’d haphazardly packed the night before. I swear under my breath as I return to Dad’s office. It’s just as I left it, just as he left it, both of us apparently unable to sort through the mess. I’m staring, again, at the buttons, at the gap left by the one that’s missing. I’d tried to forget it, knowing it was better to let it go, to pack up as much as I could, as soon as I could, to return to my own house, my own life, my own things. But I couldn’t, I can’t. When I close my eyes I see him diligently placing each button in its place, imagining that smile that always snaked across his face when he procured some new worthless treasure.

I sigh in resignation to what I’ve known was inevitable since I found those cursed buttons. I grab the directions, I grab his keys, I grab him, or his ashes anyway, and head for the door. The car still smells like Dad, like aftershave and spearmint gum. What a strange thing to linger, to remember, the smell of a person, just invisible particles floating in the air. I pull out of the driveway and head north. I have my GPS running and can’t help but think of the exacerbated comments he would've made at each robotic direction. Oh don’t take that exit, there’s construction… traffic will be hell on the freeway at this hour. I brought the directions he printed out though, just in case. They’re sitting on the passenger seat, below the urn.

It’s summer and I have the windows down, the wind is whipping through my hair, the hair Dad always told me was too long, listening to music he would’ve hated. The scourge of the modern musician is the small revenge I exact for subjecting me to this long journey, all in pursuit of an overpriced button. We used to do drives like this all the time before Mom died, when I was young, crammed into the backseat next to camping gear or coolers or suitcases. I felt so safe then, watching the trees blur together as we sped toward some fresh adventure, my parents singing the melody to a song I wouldn’t remember, something from their time together before me. Those stopped when she died. Sometimes I wonder if she was the glue that held us together. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if he’d died first, not that I ever wished it, just wondered. He retreated into his collections, I ran from her ghost, full speed into adulthood, into my new life. He never said if he felt abandoned, he would've never said something like that, but sometimes I wonder... I pull off at a familiar exit, one I haven’t thought about for years, but recognized the second I saw it. I’m awash in memories of summers long passed as I pull off the main road and head down the winding gravel toward the woods. I turn off the music to listen to the trees which are rushing with excitement as I roll past. Perhaps they remember me too. The lake is just the way I’ve held it in my mind all these years, still and dark, more green than blue, reflecting the thick canopy that surrounds it. The air is buzzing with the cries of a million insects.

I grab Dad and sit with him at a picnic table overlooking the place he’d taken me a hundred times. We sit quietly together, enjoying the peace of it all, ruminating on the lazy days that passed here. They blur together in my memory, like the trees rushing past the window on those drives from before. I’m suddenly struck with the thought to scatter him here, but something doesn’t feel right. We have hours left to drive, and I can’t bring myself to let him off the hook so easily. We get back in the car. We’re making good time. That’s the sort of thing he would always say, as if time is a thing one can make. Looks like we’ll get there in closer to four hours than five, then again, we didn’t take the freeway. Even still, the drive is starting to feel long, my back aches and my stomach rumbles. I pull off at a drive through and eat something greasy and deeply satisfying. I’m watching a young family struggle with a car seat across the parking lot, a little girl watches as her parent’s gesture dramatically at each other in apparent frustration. Dad used to blow up over things like that. He’d boil over in a second, without warning, at the little everyday inconveniences that build one on top of another. I’d make myself small during those moments, trying not to inadvertently add to the pile. His outbursts would usually pass with a creative string of expletives and a sullen resignation to the way of things.

I pull up to the store at the edge of a sleepy coastal town. My GPS announces my arrival approvingly. Dad is silent. No one greets me when I walk in the store, just the faint ding of a bell which fades quickly away as if embarrassed to disturb the quiet of the place. For a moment, I’m transported back to Dad’s office as I wander through the store which is bursting with an endless selection of the most curious objects. The place is silent, reverent almost, as I walk through the labyrinthine paths left between seemingly random piles of stuff.

A ponderous little man greets me when I find my way to a desk. He barely looks up from the tome over which he’s hunched. I manage to catch his gaze, however, when I mention the button. He surveys me strangely as I pass the receipt across the counter. “I don’t know about this,” he says with suspicion as I explain my strange quest, as if anyone would go through the trouble to invent a dead father and forge a receipt to pick up a $75 dollar button from a junk pile at the edge of the world. Then again, what do I know of antique dealing? Perhaps this man’s days are filled with sufficiently duplicitous intrigue to warrant such skepticism. “Well feel free to talk to Dad about it if it makes you feel any better,” I say, plopping the urn down on the counter between us.

The man blinks at me through his glasses and then looks at the urn before him. “Very well,” he responds, apparently convinced, at last, of my legitimacy. “Wait here.” I do as I’m told. I’m not sure what compelled me to bring Dad’s ashes into this place. It just seemed like he would’ve wanted to come in. I’m glad he didn’t live to see it though. He would have taken the whole of the inventory if he could, willing it to fit in his small office back home. The man comes back with the button and hands it over after just a moment more of hesitation. “Enjoy,” he says, “it’s a good little piece of history, that.” I nod my thanks, stuffing the button into my pocket. That’s the type of thing Dad would’ve said, as if the history of an object lives forever within it. Maybe it does. I’m back in the car, driving south along the coast. I let my thoughts wander as the road winds along the jagged contours carved by the sea. I pull off at a scenic overlook and clamber down a short trail, suddenly compelled to stop and quietly watch time slip away someplace beautiful. I sit on a bench, watching the cliffs before me plunge into the sea, the waves crashing riotously against the steep unyielding stone. It does yield eventually, I suppose, over the course of centuries, millennia. That’s the type of history you can't find in a store. The sun is sinking lower and lower to my back, the sky above is painted orange and pink as an advancing darkness creeps over the horizon. It’s beautiful, the cliffs and sea so ancient and powerful, the sunset just a fleeting moment of gold. Suddenly compelled by something beyond myself, I pick up the urn and scatter the contents, this place and time as good as any. The sun is gone, the gold has surrendered to inky black, the cliffs and sea endure. I get back in the car and head for home.

The office is, of course, unchanged as I open the door and step in. It is still bursting with stuff and yet feels emptier than before, like Dad’s spirit has at last departed from it. Maybe I’m imagining things, tired from the drive. I take the button out of my pocket and run my thumb over its tarnished surface. I fasten it securely in its place amongst its peers. I feel the smile as it snakes inadvertently across my face. So this is what he felt then, when he procured some new piece of worthless treasure. I guess I see the appeal.

I sort and pack the house in the days that follow, a hard and mournful task, though therapeutic in its way. I discover some strange new piece of him with every object I uncover. I found a small historical society to take the button collection, it’s hanging up in a place of prominence beneath a small plaque that reads, “donated by a generous collector.” It was harder than I expected to hand them over, but they should be somewhere with people who appreciate their legacy, who appreciate his legacy of bringing them all together, mine too now, I guess. I’m holding one of Dad’s old sweaters, the blue one Mom bought him so many Christmases ago. He wore it all the time, the fabric is worn and stained. I take a pair of scissors and cut off a button, a fragment of his life to carry with me as I return to mine. A good little piece of history, I think to myself as I slip it into my pocket, at least it is to me.


“Please welcome our sixth performer, Eric!” The show was on. There was applause. Anderson, the MC, stepped offstage. Eric stepped up to the microphone. He wasn’t holding a guitar or sitting at the piano, and the folks in the audience seemed a tad confused. “I haven’t told you what I’m going to do yet,” Eric said into the mic, marveling at the amplification of his voice. The audience was silent. They’d quietly chattered through the other performances-- lousy emo folk singers and one choir girl who'd sat at the piano and banged out an obscure Ruth B cover. Now they’d gone quiet to the point of discomfort. It was like they were actually expecting something. “Calm down,” said Eric. “Everyone just calm down.” A few dry laughs came from the back. Air forced out of throats in polite puffs. *Heh heh heh* The coffee shop was called Bomber’s, a strip mall joint, about 400 square feet of drywall and scuffed floor tile. The open mic was held on Tuesdays at 8. People signed up on a little list snapped to Anderson’s clipboard. Up to ten performers were allowed, each doing three songs or about five to eight minutes of material. Mike, the owner, served coffee and other beverages from behind the counter. There were tables and chairs set haphazardly about the place. Seated were older folks and younger folks, college kids and high school students, grampas and aunts. Eric cleared his throat. “Everybody just calm down,” he said again. This time he got only one dry laugh. It was time to start his act. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s weird when you’re doing stand up at an open mic,” Eric said. “No one seems to understand you.” Complete silence engulfed the space like a giant inflatable pillow. Everyone stared. A few people smiled without knowing why. Suddenly anxious, Eric clutched the mic with both hands. “I met a guy on a plane the other day,” he said. “Good thing he didn’t know about my schizophrenia.” A few people chortled at that, but Eric had a feeling it was for the wrong reasons. “I like to talk to pants,” he said, shifting gears into another joke, perhaps too quickly. “All they want to talk about is their waist size, though.” This got no reaction at all. “Hello, my good man,” Eric said, turning to address an invisible companion. He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, acting out the invisible companion’s reaction. “Size 30… 28 length…” The PA gave a quick whistle of feedback that shot over everyone’s heads like a runaway bird. All of Bomber’s was either looking at Eric with abject pity or looking at their phones or looking out the window or the wall or the floor. A few were trying to stifle laughter. Eric thought of the giant mural behind him on the wall — a war plane dropping bombs on unseen targets. *Subtle.* His father was the reason he'd tried out this cockamamie idea. Earlier that day, Eric had offhandedly mentioned an interest in trying stand up comedy. His father had suggested the open mic night. “That’s how they start,” he’d said. “Who?” “The pros. Bill Burr. Patrice O'Neal. Dave Chappelle. They started at open mic nights.” “But I’ve never done it. What if I suck?” “You never know until you try,” his father had said, attention focused on his business laptop. The stage was raised a few inches, a dusty old rug thrown on it. Eric stared at the rug as he told his jokes. “Everyone just calm down,” he said again. No response. Sweat erupted from his forehead pores, beading his brow. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” There was a soft reply, people murmuring things like, “Fine,” and “All right,” and “Okay.” It was like talking to a dentist’s waiting room. “Everyone say HEY!” Eric barked, noting several patrons gave startled jerks at his sudden change in volume. “Hey,” said about twenty percent of the audience. “More people than that say, ‘HEY.’” “Hey,” said about thirty-five percent. Eric cleared his throat. “That’s what a horse eats,” he said. “That and oats.” Nothing. Eric exhaled loudly into the mic, trying to fill time. He decided he liked how his exhalations sounded through the PA, how they gave him a second to clear his head. He did it again. And again. And again. The PA started squealing feedback. Eric huffed lungful after lungful of air directly into the mic. Anderson dashed over to the PA board and started turning knobs. Eric looked up through the sweat in his eyebrows and cleared his throat again. He wasn’t sure about this next joke. “I… love you people,” he said. “You’re such a nice room.” One person in the back gave a little, “Whoo!” “Will you… fuck me tonight?” This brought a burst of startled guffaws and snorts of laughter. “I’m serious,” said Eric. He looked at the floor. “I want you to… fuck me.” More guffaws and snorts, barely suppressed. Eric squeezed his eyes shut. When he’d practiced it in his room earlier, he’d imagined everyone falling over themselves laughing and getting out their phones to film him so he could go viral. It was too late now. He had to finish it. “…I’d fuck me.” Almost everyone was laughing now, but not how Eric wanted. They laughed in short, fat little bursts quickly cut off or coughed into palms. Snorts and glottal expulsions. Incredulous glances covertly exchanged. *Can you believe this shit?* Most of the older woman were looking at Eric like they would a three-legged kitten. Eric felt a hand on his shoulder. Anderson leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Eric, this is a Christian establishment," he said, the mic picking everything up. "You know that.” “I’m sorry,” said Eric. “I didn’t mean to offend Jesus.” “You’re at six minutes,” said Anderson, patting Eric on the shoulder. “You're doing great." “Praise God,” said Eric. He cleared his throat for what felt like the twentieth time. “Let me tell you about the car accident I caused the other day. I walked out in the freeway cause I thought I saw a dime. Then there was a pile up.” No response. Eric could hear all the freezers and fridges humming on the back wall. Mike watched from behind the counter, brow knitted in either intense concentration or severe concern. “I’m glad you didn’t laugh,” Eric told the room. “Twenty-eight people died in that joke.” No laughs. No reaction. The room seemed to be getting even quieter, somehow. Eric paused. He exhaled into the mic one more time. “K, that’s it,” he said. “Number six, number six…” His stiff fingers released the mic as Eric scurried out of the spotlight back to his table. He sat his fat ass down in his seat and slouched. The embarrassment was so total it felt as if Eric wasn’t even physically present. He couldn’t even leave yet because getting to the front door would require walking in front of everyone, something Eric did not want to do. He’d have to wait until the next person was on and everyone’s attention was focused away. *You never know until you try,* Eric thought of his Dad saying. *Well, I know now.* Bomber’s Cafe remained completely silent as Anderson took the stage to introduce the next performer. “Give it up for Eric,” he said, clapping. “That was really fun, although the language was a bit much.” There was a scatter of applause. Eric sipped his can of root beer. No one looked at him and he was thankful for that.


Hi! Here's a short little thing I wrote a moment ago. Please take in mind I am a complete ametur and have little writing experience given my young age of only fourteen. I hope this does not sway your opinion of my writing, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Also, please tell me what you think in the comments. I would throughly enjoy reading them and taking your critique. Constructive criticism only please. Ego is a rather fragile thing and I would prefer to keep mine in tact for the time being. With that being said, enjoy my story. She knew from the moment she had turned the doorknob something was wrong. There was a feeling--a sudden dread if you will--that enveloped her. As she walked through the threshold, she found her passage difficult. She felt as if she were passing through a viscous wall of heed. Like her body, her soul, her mind--was preventing her from entering the room. It's funny, actually, how our minds will do such things to us. The situation is not dissimilar to that of a mother pressing her child against her hip when she feels uneasy, as if someone--or something-- would harm the child, a child she had conceived a child she had given up her freedom to, as if she had signed an allegorical contract upon giving birth. Locked in for life, as one would say, to take care of this thing that is now hers. This thing that is now a part of her, soon to grow into a shadow of herself. The human mind can make us feel the same sensation as the child. Something's wrong because my Mother is protecting me. Something is wrong because she believes there is. I must stay away from what she deemes to be unsafe. But, similarly to a child--something she once was--she rebelled against the feeling her mind had eluded her to feel. She couldn't help herself from rebelling. To see why this is something to be protected from. Anyone could assume she wished she had listened to herself. As she entered the room, the smell of death was prominent. She had not noticed it before, although it was clearly strong enough to be smelled from far away. I wonder, she thought, why I couldn't smell this before. She fought with her own sense of smell until she finally convinced herself that it wasn't as bad as she had made it out to be. Of course, it was worse. But she had convinced herself enough to hardly smell it anymore. Her eyes were in the spotlight now, her nose seemingly dulled to leave room for her eyes to be the key sense. Because what she saw could not be unseen. A cliché, of course, but it was true. The sight she had witnessed at that moment would scar her. It would make her wish she was in the place of what she was seeing. Not mangled and brutally beaten, blood obscuring any features, any human identification vaguely recognizable--if not completely erased. No. She wished she had been released like the person in front of her. She wished she didn't have to see the unsightly scene. She wished she was dead.


The ship went down on the 30th of July, 1945. Most of the men weren’t fully awake, but I was already aboard a lifeboat. The captain should go down with his ship, but these were strange circumstances. I knew what was in the water, and I knew there weren’t enough lifeboats for everyone. There weren’t enough life jackets either. “Captain?” an officer said, their identity was hidden in the dark, and their voice was overwhelmed by the screaming. The sky was as black as the inside of a squid's belly. “Down,” I said. We dropped to the sea, cutting a wave in half. It drenched us to the bone. Sharp intakes of breath from everyone aboard, but we held back cries of shock. The tang of salt water was on my lips, and was all I could smell. “Stroke,” called Dobson. My officer had passed out oars to six men sitting along the lifeboat’s perimeter. “We’ve got to clear the undertow.” The Indianapolis was three quarters underwater. How long since she was ripped apart? Ten minutes? The beast struck portside, bit right through the hull, then starboard. It gutted the Indianapolis, spilling her innards into the sea. An officer rowing beside me was shivering violently. I politely but firmly took command of his oar. It was slick with ocean spray, and the cold bit my hands. I grit my teeth and rowed. My oar hit something hard on the surface of the water, and I hollered; not quite a yelp, but a sound no man should hear from his captain. The company looked, then turned quickly away, as if cowardice was catching. *They don’t know*, I realized. *They have no idea what’s below us. They think it was two torpedoes, or they don’t know what to think.* I glanced into the black water. My oar had brushed against a scrap of the ship’s hull. Seeing the viciousness with which the metal had been ripped apart did not assuage my fears. *Some monster’s teeth did that*. Meanwhile, the men who hadn’t found lifeboats were hurling themselves from the Indianapolis. Most wore lifejackets but I saw plenty without. All screaming. One overfilled lifeboat had tarried on deck too long before dropping. It disappeared into a sucking whirlpool when it couldn’t escape the undertow and reemerged shortly, upside down. Some of the men who had been tossed overboard appeared on the sides, shouting, but some remained underwater. “What happened?” one officer asked in a half-whisper to another. “Japs, I reckon,” came the reply. This second man spit into the water. Official blame would be laid on a Japanese crew if word of the Indianapolis ever reached shore, and they might even take credit, but our enemy wasn’t responsible for the wreck. We had been capsized by something larger and hungrier than an axis submarine. I wouldn’t tell the lifeboat what I had seen unless I had to. My breath came in rasps from the effort of rowing. I began to cough. One of the officers took the oar from me. “Thank you, sir,” I said. The man was soaking wet, glimmering in the pale moonlight. He did not spare me a word or glance. I could understand his actions well enough. I would be court martialed for negligence if we ever got back to America. This worry was distant in my mind. Our mission was top-secret; therefore, it was unlikely anyone would come looking for the crew of the U.S.S. Indianapolis before we were dead. *We delivered the parts. The monster was too late.* The ship disappeared into the depths. I judged thirteen minutes had passed since the first strike. The beast had sunk the ship, and our meat served for the spoils of victory. I saw we were a safe distance from the undertow. “At ease men. Save your strength.” We were also far from the hordes of swimmers, and needn’t fear them clamouring aboard and capsizing the lifeboat. “What say you officer?” I asked Dobson. “I was looking over the deck when we were struck but I did not see what hit us. The Japs?” Dobson started to shake his head, then caught my eye. “Aye captain. Without a doubt, the goddamned Japs if you’ll pardon my language.” *There’s another who saw*. “Nothing else it could be?” I asked, measuring the officers. Most were still determinedly looking away from me and in flash of rage I found myself hoping they saw the creature in the waters they were so fixed upon, but the feeling passed. “Nothing else,” Dobson echoed quietly. He had to repeat himself to be heard over the screaming. Such noises should have stopped, the men who were going to make it off of the Indianapolis were swimming or aboard a lifeboat by now. A pair of men exchanged wary glances, but held their silence. A man’s memory is not so concrete a thing as we like to think, and affirmation from both myself and Dobson would convince these two—who had seen something perhaps, but could not say exactly what—that they had spied a submarine after all. “Holy mother of god!” shouted Peters, a Private, aged twenty. Peters pointed towards the wreckage. Ten-foot-high waves tossed the moonlight back and forth, making men and debris difficult to distinguish, but I spotted him. Fifty feet from our lifeboat, a huddle of men in lifejackets had broken, propelled by terror, away from one of their number. The fellow left behind was bobbing comically, buoyed by his orange life vest. It appeared he was in shallow water, not the Philippine sea, bouncing his toes off of the bottom. A wave caught the strange man and flipped him over, exposing his fate. Everything below his navel was gone, torn off by a beast in the water, and he continued bobbing upside down. Thankfully, we were a distance away, and could not get a close look at the circle of gore. “Shark! Sh—” an officer began to shout, but I lunged across the lifeboat to clamp a damp hand over his mouth. “Nothing we can do,” I muttered. “Easy there. Don’t want to panic the others.” We drifted all night. I wish I had the shame to say it was impossible to find sleep behind the screams of my crew, which went off with haunting regularity throughout the night, but I did. It was not fitful or long sleep, and I opened sore salted eyes to a pink sun. The water was thick with navy blood. It was as if the ship itself had been a living thing, and the sea monster had torn away flesh and bone instead of metal. Shredded life jackets floated among the wreck. There were dozens of men huddled together, bobbing in the water. Some were asleep, all were pale as milk. I turned away when I saw one man, life vest and all, jerked beneath the waves. He cried out in shock—he had been sleeping—before the water cut his cry out of the air. Another man drifted forward to fill his space. “Morning captain,” said Dobson. “Did you sleep?” I asked. He shook his head. Peters, seeing I was awake, said, “Permission to ask the captain a question?” “Granted” “Was our mission top-secret?” “Yes.” I admitted, against protocol. “When can we expect rescue? Did a distress call go out? “There was no time,” Dobson interjected. “Not a quarter hour between the first torpedo and the Indianapolis going under. Goddamned Japs.” Peters nodded, but he was still looking at me for an answer, so I gave one. Our vessel sloshed on the waves. “The U.S. navy will come though Peters. You’re going to get thirsty before they do. Hungry and wet and cold enough for a lifetime I expect, but you’re going to make it out of this fine.” “Captain’s right,” Dobson interrupted. “just fine.” “I saw it,” Peters whispered. He was beside me, only I could hear him. “The beast sank us because of the mission. It was the bomb captain.” The same thought had crossed my mind. “Best keep that to yourself,” I said, not unkindly. “Best not to disturb the men. His eyes were ghost’s eyes. Peters was beyond hearing me. “I thought it was a shark,” he stammered, “but when it got closer… tentacles, and a thousand eyes.” I nodded, hoping he would stop. Some of the officers were listening. “It was the bomb,” he whispered. The sun climbed from the horizon three more times before rescue came. Of my 1,195 crew, only 316 survived. The rest were pulled below, some by sharks, most by another. I was found guilty of negligence. I am writing from prison. I hope Peters was right: that the beast was sent to punish us for our part in the atom bomb, because the alternative—that the monster is lurking in the water—is unbearable.


"Roy... Wake up... Roy wake up!" A soft woman's voice filled the room for a moment. "Boy! Wake up boy!!!" A shadow spluttered as the boy opened his eyes. A small room housed them both, one door was all that separated them from freedom and nothing but a dying candle kept them from the dark. Each curled into their own corners waiting for nothing. "What do you want..?" Replied the boy as his tired eyes struggled to see through the darkness covering the voice. "Whats your name boy?" The shadow beckoned. "I haven't got a name, none of us have you know that." There was a moment silence before the shadow broke it with a snigger. "Then were are you from boy?" The shadow grew smaller. "Nowhere" He replied. "I was born here". "Was you now? Well who's ya father then?" The shadow shrunk and the man was nearly visible. "I don't know." "And your mother?" The boy hesitated. "I don't remember her." His voice broke. "And who are you?" The voiced asked his last question after a pause. "I'm nobody" Answered the boy. Outside the door screams of dying men could be heard calling for their mothers. "Its a bad idea to sleep boy, bad things can happen when people like us dream." The shadow was now replaced with a very feint glow from the candle. A man hurled in the corner chained to the wall with no eyes stared into the darkness. "How did you know I was sleeping? How did you know I was here?" The boy asked. "I could see you" Answered the man with no eyes. "How can you see me you have no eyes?" The boy asked bewildered. "You don't need eyes to see you little shit. I've seen things beyond the needs of eyes. I have loved a hundred lives, bed a bed a hundred wives and died a hundred deaths! And now my journey ends here with the likes of you." The boy understood but didn't respond. "So whats your number, boy?" The boy didn't reply. "I said whats your number, you motherless bastard!" He raised his voice to try and get a rise out of his cellmate. "101..." The boy whispered. "101?... You must be special then." The room stood deadly silent for a long time while the two men lay in the dark. "They'll be here soon, for me, for you. For all of us" The stranger broke the silence. "I know, that's why id rather sleep through it" Replied 101. The eyeless man let out a hearty laugh as he tried to stand. "Can you hear them? Climbing the walls? How high do you think we are? Ten feet? A hundr-" "I don't care." The boy interrupted. "I don't care how high we are, how long it will take them to get here, or how loud you'll scream while they skin you alive. I just want to sleep. So fuck off and shut it." Footsteps could be heard climbing a thousand steps below. "Its only a matter of time now" The eyeless man mumbled. "This is bad time and place for people like us. They say the men of the east can shoot fire from their hands because of their scientists. The west is riddled with disease and death. And the north and south wage war over the right of the cornerstone. " The boys ears pricked up. "You know about the cornerstone?" Asked the eyeless man. "Whoever holds the cornerstone holds the world in their mercy, and the one hundred are sworn to protect it." The boy looked down in disappointment. "At least I'll die with another of my kind." The man said quietly. "Don't pretend you don't know who I am boy, I know who you are." The footsteps outside the door grew louder as the boy turned to face the eyeless stranger. "I am the first of my hundred, and you are the first of yours. Born and die to protect the stone." The boy stared in silence and looked towards the ground again. "Born and die to protect the stone." He whispered to himself. The eyeless man was standing now, standing much taller than he looked. Candlelight shined onto his rotted skin and wherever the light touched grew younger in what seemed like decades. "Born and die to protect the stone. Remember those words boy, or you may forget yourself." Said the first. "What does it matter anyway the reavers will kill is any moment now!" The boy exclaimed. "Aye, they will." Confessed the first. "We will both be eaten alive and theres nothing we can do, so lie down, close your eyes and until we meet again. Born and die to protect the stone." The boy lay still and closed his eyes as the door crashed open, he didn't dare open his eyes as he heard the eyeless man scream in agony. "BORN... AND DIE... BY THE STONE!!" The room stood still as the words left the dead mans lips, the boy felt the world moving around him and heard sounds of steel hitting steel, explosions and automatons. Before the noise could deafen him forever, a soft woman's voice spoke out. "Roy.. Wake up Roy..". This is just a short story/prologue I had a go at today.


**Warning: Possible Triggers! Explicit Language, Mental Health, and Some Violence** “I HOPE WHEN YOU GET HOME, YOU GET DRUNK AS FUCK AND YOU BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF WITH A SHOTGUN, FUCKING BITCH! ”

The voice; screaming , spittle flying, from the backseat through plumes of thick cigarette smoke belongs to my fourteen year old son. I am eighty-four days sober and am about to drive without a valid license to take him, for all practical purposes, to a ‘ mental institution ’ roughly seventy miles away. Smoke continues to roll toward the front of the car while outside, the Texas sky fills with dark, ominous clouds and a growl of thunder reverberates off the surrounding hills. As I look out my window, a fork of lightning flashes intensely across the sky and then a hard and unexpected volley of kicks are delivered to the back of the passenger seat, violently jostling it in the chassis accompanied by an animalistic shriek of hatred. I startle. My hands shake and my heart takes off at a gallop. I fight back my own fury and try to remember what all of the therapists and the literature has told me; a negative response would be " completely counterproductive and only further inflame the situation… " I take several slow calming breaths but I am pissed that my son thinks that in any realm of reality, I would feel okay with him brutalizing my vehicle. Thunder cracks loudly then rumbles lowly, making the windows rattle. My hands go from shaking to absolutely vibrating. I suddenly feel as if there is something constricting my flow of oxygen. I break into a clammy, sick sweat. Furtively, I grab my purse and find the orange bottle. I hope, for once, that Kevin is too ensconced in his state of self-righteousness to notice or care about what I am doing. My left hand shakes as it pops the top off the bottle and I shake one of the tiny green pills onto my right palm. I tip my palm toward my mouth, and take a sip from my bottle of water. Kevin’s screech of accusation lifts me about a foot out of my seat: " OH, GREAT ! MY PILL HEAD, BITCH MOTHER IS GOING TO KIDNAP ME FROM MY OWN HOME , DRIVE ME TO ANOTHER CITY ALL STONED OUT OF HER MIND ON DRUGS, TO CHECK ME  INTO A LOONEY BIN??! WHO'S THE FUCKING HYPOCRITE NOW, BITCH? I BET YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOUR FUCKING DRUG HABIT! IT'S JUST GOING TO BE ABOUT ME AND WHAT A HORRIBLE, FUCKED UP, DISAPPOINTMENT I AM! ?” Something warm, wet, and unwelcome smacks my right jaw and falls unceremoniously onto my blouse, where it remains. " Well, it could be worse , " I think, as I try to dry the spit from my face. “ FINE, DON’T ANSWER ME YOU FUCKING WHORE! I WISH YOU’D HAVE DIED INSTEAD OF DAD !” If he were anyone else, he might have received a stinging backhand across his face. However, this is my son, kind of... once we reach this point - Kevin kind of... checks out for a while, he is not at the helm, no one is steering the ship... I put the car in reverse to back up and face our street, I longingly glance toward the house with its warm, amber light pouring from the windows. The sun, once a fierce blaze in the sky, slides behind the clouds and is quickly obscured by the ever gathering mountain of thunderheads. I watch the clouds, pregnant with the rain, seem to sag under the weight, threatening to let go at any moment. I flip on the headlights, turn on the defrost, and put the car in drive. I try to keep Kevin in my periphery as I pull onto our road. I then turn left onto a two-lane highway. Once, as a passenger in the front seat, while I was doing about eighty down I-10, he attempted to grab the steering wheel. Another time, he slapped me in the face as he was screaming , windows down, that I was kidnapping him and to please call the police! “ Yes, someone call them !” I thought momentarily. Since those attempts, Kevin has been relegated to the backseat and only with the child locks engaged. " Please, please let this go as smoothly as it can ." I just have to make it down one other relatively brief stretch of highway and I'm headed to an onramp to the interstate. To be honest, I probably should have pulled over and called 911 and let 'Crisis Management' handle his transport, but I just... couldn't. I couldn't call 911 on my son and unfortunately, he knows it. He knows it and he exploits it. I approach the onramp flip on my left blinker and merge into traffic. In my experience, police that really understand someone in the throes of a mental health crisis are few and far between. I also did not want him to wind up in the custody of the State, in their hospital, or in jail facing charges for actions he may not even remember. So, he rides in the back seat and listens to his music- LOUDLY, chain-smoking, and occasionally puffing on a joint. "Yeah, I know , shame on me . So long as we can make it safely, and without incident, I no longer care ." If I did call EMS and he were to flip the fuck out, the paramedics would forcibly hold him down and administer what is known as, " The Booty Juice ," which is either a hefty dose of Haldol or a cocktail of antipsychotics that renders the person almost catatonic. My son was given this cocktail. He said that one moment, he was being pinned on the floor by burly orderlies and the next; he was in his bed, covered in Cheeto dust, roughly twenty-four hours later... I prefer the pot. I set the cruise control and remember. My husband washed his hands of it awhile ago, having been the verbal punching bag one time too many. Kevin’s biological father currently resides in the local cemetery and has since the Boy turned two, so, no help there. Being the mother of a mentally ill child is one of the loneliest things. I-10 is the primary reason the child locks are engaged … Well, I-10 and Kevin himself. He has threatened to jump before to, “just fucking end it all.” In a blind rage... I believe he actually could do it, which gives me nightmares. In these, his body leaves the car doing eighty down the freeway, then he flips, toes over nose, cartwheels, finally striking the pavement in such a way, I can hear skin rip and burst, and bones snap and shatter. Once his mangled body finally comes to a rest, a semi barrels toward him and crushes him. It’s essentially how his Daddy died and so far, his feet have beaten the same path as his Dad's, which scares me to death. If I dream of, or even imagine this, all I can think about are those mesmerizing moments, so long ago, so fleeting, where I counted his tiny fingers and toes as an infant while staring into eyes of the deepest of blue, or how I blew raspberries on his tummy as a toddler and he shrieked with peals of laughter... You see, a mother's error is that she often doesn't see things how they are. In my mind, my son is not a mentally disturbed adolescent in serious need of medical and behavioral healthcare intervention. He is a little boy, naked except for a pull-up and somewhat over-sized rain boots, sloshing his way around the backyard. A frog wanders into his purview. He stoops, his tiny butt peeking out of the back of his pullup, and picks up the frog. While looking it in the eyes, he inquires in his saccharine 3-year-old voice, " Where your Mommy, Frog ?" When it didn't reply, he held it up to his ear and proceeded to shake it a time or two in an attempt to get it to work. He is forever my tousle-haired sweet boy asking for cereal while wearing his Spiderman pajamas, and shooting 'webs' about the kitchen. Motherhood really is a force of nature. It transcends time and space. It holds the deepest empathy and unwavering forgiveness one will ever know. I was just on the brink of a panic attack, so scared it affected my physical self, and facing a potentially serious thunderstorm... I'd rather not but of course , I will... for him . It's for my Frog Whisperer in those Spiderman pajamas. I was and am more concerned with his immediate needs than my potential ones.

He leans forward to grab the cord to charge his phone. Immediately, I flinch and shield my face with my forearm. For an instant, our eyes meet and in his, I see indescribable sadness and guilt. The moment passes, my eyes, back on the road as the ear-splitting sound of explicit rap erupts from the speakers. I crack my window an inch or two to help the smoke disperse, then I light up my own cigarette. With hands that remain unsteady, I take a deep drag and continue quiet contemplation. Kevin has always been a handful. Before he was ten years old, we had been through three broken arms, several rounds of stitches, and more bumps, and bruises than I could count. As a child, he had trouble in Elementary School; learning disabilities and behavioral issues. He was also dyslexic. He was in Speech therapy and was pulled out of class regularly for all of these programs that were to help him. Medication had been mentioned in a couple of Parent-Teacher Conferences’ but I just wanted to be as certain and as educated on it as I could be before giving my then eight year old, pharmaceutical grade speed. With the blindfold of A doration removed and the glasses of education on, it was plain as day, and we moved forward with the ADHD diagnosis and unfortunately, the meds. Now he was being called out of class once again everyday around lunchtime. All of this set him up to be fodder for bullies. They shoved him into the wall or door and called him, “ retard ,” or, “ faggot, regularly” They mocked him because his father was dead. While the medication did help, it felt like he was a lab rat as he was switched from pill to pill to multiple or different pills and dosages. With that, came side-effects: weight-loss, weight-gain, insomnia, hypersomnia, random and involuntary tics. Then - puberty struck. With it came his intense desire to not attend school, and his dramatically increased aggressive behavior that seemed to manifest from thin air. This affected the entirety of our daily lives: our marriage, my relationships with my daughters, my livelihood, and it put severe strain on my friendships where well-intended people thought that Kevin "just needed a good, old-fashioned ass-whipping", or "a healthy place that could be a positive outlet for all that excess energy!" These people really just didn’t understand. Then possible legal action against me arrived in the form of a certified letter from The State of Texas, hand-delivered to me by the Constable regarding Kevin's truancy. Years ago, when Kevin would refuse to get dressed, I would just carry him and his clothes and tell him it was his decision on how he wanted to arrive at school, in his undies, crying, or dressed for the day and put together. I was at a breaking point; I was a powder keg. I had been written up at work for my tardiness, as had his sister’s. Rain began to spatter the windshield in quick, fat drops that quickly became a deluge. I turned the wipers on high. We made it another ten miles before visibility forced us to a crawl. I risked a few glances at the rearview. The Wrath of Kevin was receding as fast as it came on. As we continue down I-10, I start to feel the same way I always do at this point: Uncertain, full of doubt. Why am I looking to have him admitted? He’s all but docile now, is it really necessary? “ Okay, yes ,” he threatened to strike a female classmate but he didn’t . She is his Constant Tormentor. Isn’t this just Kid Shit that should be sorted out at school? Is it really worthy of all this ? The rain begins to let up as we approach a town on the outskirts of the San Antonio city limit. It's just a steady drizzle now. I think of the stack of referrals from school that I brought along (to aid in my ‘ transgression) that are tucked away with my anxiety medication that began as an, “ as needed ,” basis but had now become a, “ two times daily ,” prescription. I let up on the gas pedal and let the car coast down to the speed limit of the fast approaching town. Beneath the booming music and the noise of the storm, I hear the sad and helpless, crying coming from the backseat. I use the master audio control on my steering wheel to turn the volume off. “ Please talk to me, Son ,” I implore, feeling hot tears well up in my eyes and I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat. “ I wasn’t going to hit her! Dammit! I don't want to be locked up in there, Mom! Mommy?" My heart feels as if it might implode as I listen to his terrified appeal. Internally, I scold myself and remind myself of the referrals. I tell myself I am doing the right thing and not to be manipulated by this abrupt change in demeanor. The thing is, his apology or explanation might very well be steeped in truth but... We reach San Antonio and pass Fiesta Texas. The roller coasters rising steeply up in the dark grey day, waver, dreamlike outside the rain soaked windows. “ Please, Mom? Please don’t send me away again ?” A tear betrays my false bravado by sliding miserably down my cheek. I sniffle audibly. Not too far ahead of us is the off ramp that will take us to the side street where the hospital is... whose doors only lock from the outside. The silence between us after the music, the intense but brief thunderstorm, and the noise of the tires eating up the road is excruciating. I slow to a stop and turn on my blinker to pull into the parking lot. His soft crying becomes sobs of stark fear. He is begging, incoherent now. He's drooling and rocking back and forth, curled into a tight ball. I find a parking spot, slide into it, and press the button to kill the engine. I look at Kevin, desperately searching his face as if it holds the key to release me from the ambiguity I feel trapped in. “… Kevin screamed in the face of an elderly cafeteria employee after throwing his tray across the room…” whispers a snippet of a referral. I begin taking out my earrings and then release the catch to remove my necklace. I drop them into my coin purse. I intentionally wore shoes without laces. I remove my rings; and add these things to my coin bag. "... Kevin punched hole in hallway wall after being removed from class for throwing his desk and calling Mrs. Jiminez a ‘f***ing c***’… ” While surreptitiously peeking at my son in the rearview mirror, a war rages between my heart and my mind. I undo my watch, grab my cell, and shove everything deep into my purse. I grab my wallet, extricate my ID, and his insurance card, along with the stack of damning referrals. I take a shuddering breath and with palms pouring sweat, I cram my purse into the glove box and lock it. The noises from the backseat have quieted, there’s an occasional moan or whimper of possible contrition and acquiescence. “ Good ,” I presume, “ maybe getting him from the car to the hospital won’t be that bad. The hospital where he loses his identity and becomes a patient number ..." I place both hands on the steering wheel and take several centering breaths, then I open my door, and slide the ID cards into my back pocket while stepping out of the car. The rain has all but stopped. Timidly, I open his door and prepare myself for ease of transition or a chase through the sprawling urban jungle. I am on edge, fucking fried, and so exhausted. Sometimes I wonder if the relief I feel when I leave this place has more to do with him getting help or with me having a moment to breathe. "Who is this really for?" I reach my hand out to him in a show of solidarity. His hand reaches out, quick as a snake, and smacks my hand away. He steps out of the car, towering over me. Looming over me... For a moment, I am truly afraid of my son, my Frog Whisperer.. “Stupid bitch , ” is his snarling response as he stomps off. My hand falls slack at my side, I swallow all of my feelings, then square my shoulders and follow in his brisk wake toward the entrance.


The door opened and behind it a short young lady peered through the darkness, and beckoned him inside. Pointing towards a room off the hallway he walked through with the short young lady in tow. Few words were exchanged before clothes were taken off, he with confidence undressed and she shyly took off her t shirt and jeans and exposed her naked body. 5 notes were placed on the bed and she picked and counted them as he lay on the bed, the ordeal was over with in minutes, he left but she stayed. In the dark 4 by 4 room. She came from a small village in Taiwan and had been in London for just a few months, at first trying to get a job as a nurse, before turning to prostitution for quick cash. The man who had helped her get into it had made it now so she couldn’t leave. She had been sold a dream which instead was being given as a nightmare to her. For every 5 notes she received she kept one, the rest going to the cost of the room and the pimps customer base. Confined to a room. In the centre of one of the worlds most wealthy cities but only staying in a small room. A dark room, with a red curtain. A suitcase on the floor, sleeping on the bed where she services the men she sees. Outside the apartment door next to the elevator going down is a dead mouse. she sees it as a grim reminder of the dirty world she now is living in. once life was more simple for her, she went to school and did well. She was reasonably popular and remembers nights by the river in her hometown having fun. She remembers innocence. But now she is trying to forget. She is trying to forget where she came from, what she is doing now, and really who she is. The drugs are affecting her looks, her arm is scabbed up from missing veins, her face is gaunt and grey. She is trapped in a scenario she couldn’t have ever imagined. Now just another prostitute in Soho. But in reality she is more than that. She is so much more, every working girl in the city is. But whether she ever realises it or not is the question, if she will be able to break free. Break free from her captor. The capture of drugs, the control of her pimp, the allure of money. The river still flows in her hometown, her old friends still laugh and think about her. Her family is still there, but she isn’t. She has left this world, and is escaping into her own filled with dopamine induced dreams and sleeps. The man didn’t see her again, nor did she see the man, but she saw others. And now the sun has gone down and the needle is filled again, she can escape to a different place.


*If you ever made it to the mountains' base, you would find the many entrances to the cave. At first, all you would see is three gaping mouths that lead somewhere, and if you were careful, you wouldn't end up as a meal to creatures lurking within. Of course, this wasn't a problem for Salitour, seeing as he's lived in these mountains...nearly his whole life. He knew his way around.* *With a long dark cloak made of wool and silk, and a hood covering his head, he walked on through to the second cave opening. His pointed black shoes made small stuffing sounds as he walked on through, holding an orb of light above the palm of his hand to see better. Living in such a place never bothered him, save for his mentality and the thoughts of what lurked far and beyond his reach.* *The walls had stalactites and stalagmites lining against the ceilings and floors, to which Salitour avoided. With the long corridor he went through, he descended a long stairway, and pulled down a crystal lever that looked out of place. It was an old mine shaft that worked like a dumbwaiter, that he used to go up and down his home. Once he was free to roam around in the large space below, he took off the cloak and hung it out to dry.* *His place looked like any others, according to his mind. There were a few tables sitting against the walls, all lined with metal for carving and weaponry. There was also a long red rug on the floor that kept the room warm. It looked similar to a royal throne room, hence the very large space full of pillars and tapestry lining the walls. With his cloak now off, the clothes he was wearing had the style of a rock star; the shoulders of his shirt holding jagged layers of leather, while the rest was more of a black suit with golden buttons aligning the bodice of his shirt.* *His hair was long, and tarnished with a harsh silver, though felt very soft to the touch. His skin could have matched his hair, if not for the cracks along his face and hands that made him look as though he were stone. He was well built, physically, and his eyes were always shadowed by a frown. He never liked having to go to the villages far from his home, but it was for a good cause.* *Taking out the basket he had brought with him, he placed it on one of the tables. It was time to get to work. Grabbing an unfinished sword that sat on the table, he took out an item from the basket. It looked like red sand. Walking over to his work space, he moved some objects out of the way, and held the sword at a 45° angle. With a few whispered words, the red sand turned to liquid blood and fell against the metal of the sword, making it glow and burn until it welded into place.* *Salitour watched as the blood ran along the blade, making it sharper, if not stronger and lighter than most swords he created. The hilt of the sword held the symbols of a dragon, though curbed endlessly until it hit the ball the dragon was holding underneath its claw. This was a sword that was created for sharpness and speed. No longer a heavy weight, anyone would be a fool to think of it as a toy. It could quickly slice through anything it touches, destroying what was once there.* *He had candles lit around the place, and also used his form of magic to put the sword in a glowing rest so it could be cooled down. Floating for 15 minutes, the sword fell into Salitour's grip, to which he gently pressed his fingers against the blade. Immediately his skin was cut, and his hand bled. He gives a nod of approval, his skin reforming once he takes his hand away. The cracks on his skin reformed, making him flex his fingers with another nod. It was ready to be given to the King's most trusted Knight. He will deliver it later in the evening.* *With a long journey ahead of him, he would tend to cleaning up his area, before taking leave, and going through another hidden door that showed off a long corridor of doors that went to many parts of the whole establishment. There even was a kitchen in it that he would sometimes make himself and the monster below meals. Being a wizard blacksmith was hard work, and though his customers were proud of his weaponry, no one dared to ask how he made them. It was his secret, and his secret alone; and that's how he liked it.* *Walking out of the caverns’ mouth, Salitour traveled on through the hard and cold snow, knowing what lay ahead for him. The Kingdom’s first town, Salthorn would take a couple of days to get to. With no horse or carriage; to make the trip on foot is the way Salitour could use, unless he gets some help. As the wind bit into his sharp silver skin, his golden eyes glared straight ahead as he continued his slow pace through the slush and wet snow.* *15 minutes out into his walk, he stood still, his ears picking up a sound. Tilting his head towards the sky, a being seemed to be falling from the sky. Their short screams flew by him, as they fell into the snow face first. It happened so fast, he wasn’t sure if the being was a creature or a person. Turning his whole body around now, he watched the being stumble onto their feet, and noticed that it was someone who wore something close to a wizard outfit. The colors are outlandish, with bright green and yellow, some blue and purple, and a bit of red.* *“Whoo! What a landing!” the person spoke, picking up a pointed hat that was covered in snow, only for it to be quickly dried up. Pulling their hat back onto their head, they now noticed the blacksmith standing with a nonchalant expression. “Good day, my good sir!” they spoke enthusiastically, their skin, he saw, was a peachy pink, and their eyes multi-colored: one being red, the other gold. They also had pointy ears that flickered within the wind. “I’m sorry if I stumbled upon you so suddenly. The name’s Maxwell. I’m a traveler like you, but it seems you need to be somewhere in a hurry. Can I interest you in a new way of traveling?”* *Salitour just continued to stare, allowing the person to go on. “Well then, what if I told you that I have a little snack that can help you along your journey?” Patting his pockets gently, and beginning to look about, Maxwell mumbled to himself, “Ah, where did I put those blasted things?” Taking off his hat, showing off a head of dark brown shaggy hair, he stuck his hand inside, and pulled out a small red tin box that had the symbol of a blue rose on it.* *Opening the box, there was a set of three cookies, all with different symbols upon them. Salitour looked on, not letting the man out of his sight for the moment. “These, my friend, are very special cookies that allow you to be granted any wish. But, for a price. You would be able to keep the wish going for as long as you wish, but if it starts going too far, well...that’s when you take this.” Maxwell pulls out a small vial that was filled with a red liquid that looked crystalized. “Drink this at the stroke of midnight, and your wishes will fade. No one will remember anything, only you will know what happened. You shall tell no one, for it’s only your secret, and yours alone.”* *Both men gave glances to the other, before Maxwell broke out in a loud laugh, “Shall we start by getting you where you need to go? It takes you 2 days to get to the town of Salthorn, right?”* *“How did-”* *“Ah, this I will tell in time, but I can see you’ll be late in your arrival. So please, take it. This is a once in a lifetime offer.”* *“And...you’re not charging?”* *“No charge needed, sir. Just your happiness is all I prefer. Mm? Are you interested?”* *Maxwell held out the cookies with a smile as bright as a sunny day. Salitour stared at the cookies, and then back at the salesman. Placing his hand upon the box, he held it in a tight grip; and no sooner had Salitour touched the box’ Maxwell quickly vanished. The vial hung around Salitour’s neck, and with a blink of his eyes, he couldn’t remember what he was doing standing. He needed to get to the King’s Palace in a couple days. Staring down at the box in his grasp, he frowns and opens it to see 3 cookies. All of them had writing on it, “Make A Wish,” he read slowly with his eyes.* *Taking out one cookie, he took one bite; tasted the sweetness of it, and quickly finished it. His mind soon flooded with images of things he could do with the power he held. He could wish for anything, but being the smart man he was; he only had one task. “I wish I had wings, so that I could fly.”* *Just as he spoke the wish, he fell to the ground, dropping the prized sword as his body began to writhe in pain. Gasping for air, his hands fell to the snow, gripping it tightly as his heart thumped slowly in his chest. A sharp pain ran through his back, causing him to groan as the structure of bones pushed their way out from his skin, forming the shape of wings. They ripped his cloak, soaking it in blood as a mass of veins, tissue, and muscle formed along the bones, before dark grey skin formed over it; tightening into place. As he sat up, panting heavily as tears ran down his face from the pain it caused him, he stood up on shaking legs, feeling the tips of his wings grow in, and the rest form against the bones of his spine. His hand grasped the sword, and anything else he brought with him. The box was placed into his pockets, while the vial still sat underneath his shirt.* *Now that he was standing, he could feel the wind pass against the new pair of wings that stretched far, the colors of a dark grey and navy blue blended together. They were like dragon wings, powerful and steady. His mind sent messages to the pair, silently making them flap gently within the wind. They had feelings, and now he could go on his way. Sending more messages, he pursed his lips, his golden eyes glaring as he spoke one word, “Fly.”* *His wings flapped heavily against the wind, and his body soon shot into the sky. He was nearly 20 feet off the ground, and could see the landscape getting smaller and smaller, until he began the journey towards Salthorn.


#Hello r/Shortstories! Guess who we’re celebrating today? u/GammaGames, congrats on your completed serial!!!! His serial, *That Unholy Ghost*, came to a conclusion with 13 chapters. It’s a wonderful read. Gamma has been part of the r/WritingPrompts family (including here at SS) for about a year and a half. I have enjoyed his energy and presence in the community, writing for all the features, always encouraging new writers and then zipping off to write more words. He’s such a delight to have around. If you haven’t read any of his work, you are missing out! It’s . You can read it all on . He’s even begun a brand new serial already. Such a champ.   ***   #That Unholy Ghost - Written by u/GammaGames **A brief synopsis from Gamma:** The story of Reverend Gregory Canmore after he is unwillingly relocated to a small town in the midwest. There, he discovers a purpose, and a corrupting being with no regard to the people of Faircreek. - - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/Gamma about Serial Writing Let’s take a moment and hear what Gamma’s serial experience was like. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** This was my longest story I’ve ever written, and I learned that I actually kinda like outlines! Not too detailed though. A few hundred words of major beats, some character descriptions and motivations, and (*checks outline file*) at least a thousand words of random scribblings for dialogue and plot ideas that I have while trying to fall asleep help a lot with keeping ideas going. Writing serials has also boosted my word count. Before, I was doing a SEUS every week and coming up with a different idea for each story took a lot of time. Having one story that I don’t have to create from scratch every week has been great for keeping motivated. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Since I knew where it was going, trying to tell the story nonlinearly was a lot of fun. Some of the earlier chapters could’ve been lengthened a little to allow more breathing room, but overall I enjoyed trying to plan it out. Also, the themes fit the outlined notes very often! That was mostly luck, but it did make it so I had to work harder to not skip a week when time was tighter. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Trying to find time to write it! I tried to get a draft and edit done by Thursday so I could try to get some feedback before posting, but half the time I ended up sprinting at 2am on Friday night to get a draft finished that could be edited Saturday morning. I haven’t overcome it! I continue to be a late-night writer, but I’m trying to be better so I can write more in the mornings instead. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Do it! I think a vague outline helps with thinking of ideas for the upcoming themes, but don’t sweat it if the story starts to diverge from your notes. Being able to write a story in little chunks at a time is a nice leisurely way to write, so give it a try!   ***   Thank you so much, Gamma, for sharing some of your thoughts with us! I love reading your words around the subreddits. And I’m already so intrigued by your new project! Writers like you make doing this such a pleasure. Be sure to leave Gamma some love in the comments below. Feel free to throw a congrats his way or ask him great writing questions!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It was midnight. The moon was full and the breeze, silent and chilly, blew through the innocent walking down the streets below. Lawrence stood by his bedroom window, big enough for him to fit, and high enough for him to meet an ungodly demise. Apparently, it has all come down to this. Him in a dark bedroom waiting to be found, his associates have left and gone, and the only person that still seems to care is the one that is after him. He never thought that it would end with such violence and with so much pain. He never thought that life would make him suffer so much with the choices that he made. He thought he was actually doing the right thing. It was evident though, that he had to make some decisions that did not consider the welfare of others. But these choices, they weren’t easy. Lawrence sighed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to let go of the guilt that he buried deep in his consciousness, to a place where not even he can reach. Maybe this is his punishment. The voices of the hurt kept ringing in his ears and they shout: We curse your soul into the depths of the underworld! Never to resurface or see the light of day ever again! It was torture. He only needs to close his eyes to remember the visible agony on their faces. He hasn’t slept properly for days now and his body seemed to not have any plans to do so. He couldn’t eat either, not even a cracker. He has grown thin and his face became sunken. It was the consequences, he guessed. But he was doing the right thing! He knows deep down that he was fighting for the greater good. There was more than just glory and the satisfaction of being recognized as someone who’s willing to do what is necessary to succeed. It wasn’t greed. It wasn’t just self-righteousness. It was mercy. It was a sacrifice for the betterment of many. From down below, Lawrence noticed a particular red sedan that he recognizes a little too much.  He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. It was only a matter of minutes now. The blonde woman would be at his doorstep and there would be nowhere to run. No chance of escape. Moments passed and his bedroom door opened loudly with a bang. A young woman with short disheveled blonde hair barged into the room. She flashed a blinding light to his face, he winced through blinded eyes. “I got you now,” she whispered “no more running.” “It’s not like I was running from you, you just couldn’t catch up.” Lawrence said. The young woman stepped forward. “Don’t. I’ll jump.” She glanced over to the window behind Lawrence. The busy street ignorant of the encounter happening to that significant apartment building. She snickered. “I swear, I’ll jump,” Lawrence repeated. “You shouldn’t have done what you did. I told you we were in this together.” she lowered her flashlight and aimed something at his head “How could you do this to me, Lawrence? To your family?” “You wouldn’t listen to me,” Lawrence said calmly. “Because you were wrong, Lawrence!” “Do you think I’m happy with what I did? Do you think I get to sleep comfortably under my sheets?” Lawrence raised his voice. He was angry now. They were once partners but she couldn’t understand what he wanted to achieve. They shared a dream, a vision. Until she decided to trek a different path and Lawrence was set to venture alone. “Why did you do it then?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “Because it was the right thing to do and we both know it.” He replied. Silence. There was only silence. The blonde woman clenched her weapon as she held back a tear. He was right. She didn’t want to agree with him but deep down, she kind of does. She just couldn’t agree with how Lawrence would go to extremes and couldn’t care less about the people he could cause pain. That wasn’t what she signed up for. “Undo it. I’m giving you the count of three.” She warned him. Lawrence remained silent and unmoving. “One.” “I can’t” he whispered. “Two.” She stiffened her stance, ready to take him. “I won’t!” Lawrence shouted. “Three!” “I’m sorry I had to do it, sister. It’s do or die.” “What are you talking about?” her determined face turned into confusion. It was such an intense moment. Everything happened so fast. She was ready to take him down and he was ready to counter but then time seemed to have stopped when Lawrence’s apartment door’s lock chimed. Someone has unlocked the door. The two were stunned. No one is supposed to enter through that door at this hour. The door swung open and a middle-aged woman appeared. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, a pizza box in her hand and a handbag in the other. She walked on to the kitchen and laid down everything she was holding onto the dining table. The two looked at each other in panic. Then they hear a deafening scream. “Lawrence! Lilian! Get your asses over here!” It was their mother. Lawrence’s throat ran dry and Lilian became wide-eyed with the ringing voice of their mother. They have been found out. The two slowly crept to the kitchen with their heads hung low. Their mother was fuming and they would probably never hear the end of her scolding. “What is this?” she said, pissed off and fuming, and pointed at the wall opposite their kitchen. It was painted red, while the rest of the room was painted a beautiful olive-green. “I thought I told you to change-“ “Change the color of the wall. Exactly, that is what we did!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Yeah, and this idiot decided to do it on his own while I was out to get another brush.” Lilian explained “Then he went all dramatic about punishments and not sleeping and victims calling out for his name.” she continued. “Change the color of the wallpaper on my computer.” Their mother facepalmed herself. “Oh,” Lilian whispered to herself. “What’s even worse is that red doesn’t match the color of the room and where did you guys even get the paint?” “I asked some from the neighbor and he gave it to me,” Lawrence answered. “You bothered Mrs. Johnson for paint?” their mother couldn’t believe it. Coming home from a busy day at work, this is not what she expected. “I told him not to and he wouldn’t listen to me!” Lilian shouted, “I said that we should find a color that matches the room!” “Again, I did not ask you to change the wall’s color.” Their mother massaged her temples in an attempt to calm down “At least, you didn’t bother any more walls.” “Umm.” Lilian looked down, embarrassed. “We actually started in your room.” Lawrence blurted out. And at that moment, jumping off his bedroom window didn’t seem so bad.


My feet stick out awkwardly from underneath the small blanket, trying desperately to get warm in the cold night. Frustrated, I get up and toss the blanket on the floor, comforting my feet with wool socks. It is useless to try and stop tomorrow from coming; it is the Star Child’s destiny or whatever. Anger bubbles up inside of me but immediately disappears to give room for the empty. The windows are drawn tight like they always have been, hiding me away from the people I am supposed to guide. But tonight, nobody will see me pull the curtains back and watch the city lights gleam in the distance. Nobody will see me watch cars speeding through highways, and tall buildings glistening in the night sky of my city.

There is no escaping the palace either. Often times I try, one of the guards always pulls me by the arm, looks me in the eye, and locks me away again, as was done today three times. Each time, there would be tut-tutting, and the humming of tunes behind the door, Henrietta, one of the guards, murmuring to herself.

“There is no escaping the palace. There is no escaping at all Stargirl.” So there is no way to stop tomorrow from happening, only time on my hands to wait and watch the city lights, all the way down the hill.

“Stargirl, it's time.” I sit up abruptly, addressing Henrietta with a cold stare. “My name is Alma.” Without waiting for her response, I begin the walk to Main hall, not trying to slow my steps or run away. There is no escaping the palace, or a visit to the queen; my mother.

Henrietta quickly catches up with me, using my shoulders as pretend steering.

“Woah there young lady; remember, you need to remember to leave room for the empty-” I quicken my pace, and almost burst through the doors of Main Hall. Inside, I forget why I am here and focus on the Star people, each and every one of them waiting and watching for me to get my burden of a thousand lifetimes. Some kind of people I’m supposed to guide, huh. They eye me with curiosity and start chanting my birthright. “Stargirl. Stargirl. Stargirl.” I shake my head and see my mother, chanting alongside them on her throne. I remember, and shake my head again, not wanting to do this. But it was my destiny-or whatever.

Suddenly, all the lights go out. I am alone, and the empty is with me. It wants me to choose, takes my hand and squeezes. It feels cold to the touch and is slimy up my spine. So, this is the new successor of Minnie the Third. I don’t bother to correct it and frown instead, waiting for it to end. A jolt of energy fuses into my hand and I squeeze my eyes shut as the empty takes refuge in my hand. If we are lucky, we won’t see each other again. All my life, I have been hidden away from people, learned to conceal myself and my inner self, all for a whirlpool of stars and purple swirls etched on my right hand. My people smile and clap their hands wildly, but I feel numb and weary. All my life I have been preparing for this moment, and now it is over. Now I’ll be locked in my room forever. That’s it. No.

I can’t help it, despite years of training I let the tears come, and run. I can hear the groans in the Main Hall, and though I should feel bad, it is relieving. I want to compose myself and lock the empty inside, but it feels so good. I don’t want to tell anyone I’m afraid, so I run. Running is what I’m good at, and if I could run forever I would. My destiny doesn’t matter when I run, even when I’m hiding in the courtyard where nobody will find me.

Purple threw up on my hand and spread like butter all over my right arm. It snakes up and up until the purple smear reaches my shoulder. It is peaceful among the birds and trees, even when the crickets start chirping their woeful song among the grass. I observe the swirls and shapes and stars forming on my arm, gingerly touching them like they will fall out of balance if I move it ever so slightly.

“So, you’re the new successor, Alma.” The voice takes me by surprise, so I jump, scooching farther behind a tree. A boy my age with a deep voice shines a flashlight on the tree, smiling.

“I knew I’d find you here; it's where I come to relax sometimes.” “Who are you?” I squeak, hating how my voice sounds. This boy has no right to confront me, the queen’s daughter.

“That’s not important.” He comes closer and sits beside me, so I can see his messy curls hanging above his face, covering a small birthmark. In his hand is a note from my mother, addressed to me.

“How did you get that?”

“Well, d’ya want it or not? I was sent to give it to you, m’kay.” I snatch the letter from him and, without reading it, start to rip the letter into neat halves. I catch the boy staring, not at me but at my purple arm, in fascination.

“So, how does it feel, you know.” He gestures to my long robes and purple arm, making me blush.

“I hate it, actually.” “So why not run away?” His eyes find mine and I feel the familiar rush of excitement tingle all over my body, not silencing it for the empty. From underneath his tattered clothes, he pulls out a black hoodie and some bread.

“Come with me.” I forget about the doubts churning in my stomach and follow this strange boy into the woods, not knowing what else I could do. Destiny and the empty could get life together; I didn’t care. We were heading for a new beginning. A wheelbarrow is parked by the entrance of the palace, holding a few sacks. We climb inside and hold our breaths as a woman whistles and pulls it down the road to the city down the hill. I look at the castle for a second, then turn away solemnly. There is no escaping the palace. Henrietta’s words come flying back at me, but I am here, not stuck inside my room.

“So, Alma. You like, hold a universe on your arms, like literally.” “Yeah, I happen to.” “What are you going to name it?” He whispers to me from inside the wheelbarrow. I ignore him and stare out of the flap in the sack at the gleaming city down the hillside. There is no escaping the palace, except when you hold the universe in the palm of your hand. I told you to keep me in, but now you will pay the consequences.


A large oak tree stood in the middle of a large, ever growing field. Branches were long and thick as if they could shade out the whole valley. Leaves reflected the light like mirrors in the broad daylight. Small wildflowers were

spread randomly around the valley. Its roots came up out of the ground, and fell down deep under the soft soil.

It was just a normal oak tree, but it was also so much more. A place to escape, relax, explore, find inspiration, but most importantly to find love. Deep connections under the warmth and comfort of the tree. That is where Autumn and Tristan met two years ago, and where they continue to meet every single day.

           Autumn sat against the bark of the tree. Her auburn hair and hazel eyes matched with the subtle scenery of the area. Light brown freckles covered her cheeks. Life wasn’t a struggle for her. Instead it was merely a gift with every new day. “I want to grow old and connected like the roots of this oak tree.” Her soft smile gleamed like the beaming rays of sun.

         “Am I included in this dream of yours?” Tristan smirked and shook his head. His fluffy brown hair was bouncing from the gust of wind.

       Her gray cottage style dress unfolded as she stood. “Well of course you are!” She rushed past the tree out into the light. Bowing her head down to watch her step. He couldn’t quite see what she was grabbing from his angle, but from the way she started to run back he assumed it was another one of her games. “Now make a wish,” she handed him a white fluffy dandelion with a long stem.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe in that cliche wishing stuff. Blowing on a dandelion won’t make anything come true.” He held the plant in his hand. The wind seemed to have died down a little. Tiny spores on the ball of the dandelion stopped straining to stay on.

“Oh come on. There is no harm in having a little bit of hope.” Her pupils dilated as she knelt closer to him. Almost like a puppy dog would beg to its owner. “ Please?”

“Alright, fine.” The dandelion in his hand formed a new meaning. It now represented faith, but not just any faith, her faith. If she believed then maybe he should too.

“Good. Close your eyes.” Autumn demanded.

            She stared at him with intent until he finally caved in. Everything closed around him. Sucked into an endless void. He thought hard about his wish. Out of everything in the world that he could have wished for. She was the only thing that actually meant anything. Tristan was sure that Autumn would’ve had some poetic way to say it. Although he didn’t feel that it needed much complication. He cared for her and only ever wished that she would be ok.

Tristan blew hard before opening his eyes. Light slowly entered back into his pupils. All of the fuzz on his dandelion was gone. He glanced over to Autumn who had a droopy look on her face. “What's the matter?”

“I have one seed that didn’t blow off my dandelion. My wish was never complete'’” she took a deep breath and sighed. Looking forlornly at her plant. “Well. I think that just means you haven’t used your wish yet, and when you blow that one seed off then your wish will be finished.” He was desperately trying to cheer her up. Technically he didn’t really believe in the wishing in the first place. He just liked that it made her happy.

“You think so?” Autumn perked her head up in response to what he had said.

“Of course,” He remarked, taking her left hand with his right.

Autumn nodded and held his hand with a gentle grasp. “I will save my wish then” She clipped her dandelion onto the small top pocket of her dress. The pocket was so small she had to fold the stem in a zigzag pattern to make it fit. The one fluffed weed peeked out of her shirt.

“Shall we head off to town now?” He inquired, grabbing his navy colored jacket and standing up while still holding her hand.

“Oh yes. We need to get the relic to the pawn shop in town to sell.” Autumn stood up. Coming a few inches shorter than he was.

Tristan ruffled her curly hair before leading her off through the valley in the direction of the main road that led to town. When they made the small hike through the wooded base to the main road it was mostly empty. Except for a white, two story house with polished wooden trim and a fence pattern on the bottom half of the first floor walls around the whole house. There were four windows in the front of the house and a glass sliding door in the back. Along with a thin window on either side of the front door. Vines crawled up the outer walls, blooming with pink trumpet shaped flowers. The front yard seemed as if it used to be a garden, but the ground and plants were ill maintained by now. Almost covering the small red for sale sign that was speared into the ground.

He had his eyes set on this house long before meeting Autumn. There was so much potential to the house despite it being worn down. What he loved the most about it was the fact that it was more isolated. Farther away from the harsh judgment of society. Although he never actually had a desire to buy it because of how big the house was. Certainly he didn’t need all that space, but now he had someone to fill it with.

They both continued to walk the main road. That's when a rustling came from behind them. A wooden cart hauling various bags carried by horse. The man driving the cart looked old. Wrinkles covered his whole face except for around his eyes. He had dirty blonde hair that was waving in his periphery, and a dirty blonde mustache that was so thick and furry it practically covered the bottom of his nose.

The two young adults looked at each other for a moment. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Autumn asked with a cocky, yet upbeat tone. Furrowing her eyebrows. Tristan just nodded and gripped autumns hand tighter. Once the cart passed them he started to run, getting faster and faster until his legs could hardly keep up with each other anymore. When he managed to get only a few feet away from the cart he launched Autumn up into the air at full force. She grabbed the wooden edge and stabilized herself on the tiny ledged platform. Tristan continued to run. Autumn held her hand out for him to grab on to. Reaching out as far as she possibly could without falling off. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He just wanted to make it to her, but she kept fading farther away. One leg after another, dirt made small clouds of dust off of his shoes. Finally he got a hold on Autumn's hand. She helped him up onto the cart. He couldn’t help but gasp for air. The fresh gusts of wind from the movement helped a bit.

Autumn smiled and hung from the back of the moving cart, whooping and cheering as its wheels turned.

“Autumn. Be quiet. The old man is going to hear us,” He ducked down and pulled her close to him. Wrapping his arms around her in an attempt to not be seen.

“I’m not deaf you know. I can hear what you're saying, and I'm not that old. Only thirty” The old man exclaimed in a raspy voice.

“Thirty!?!” The two of them both yelled at the same time. They didn’t mean to be rude, but his age caught them both off guard. The man didn’t look anywhere close to thirty. Fifty at least.

The man scoffed at their comment. “Yeah yeah whatever.”

Autumn giggled and continued to hang from the cart. Tristan didn’t try to stop her now, knowing that there wasn’t much chance he would try to throw the both of them off. Tristan however didn’t necessarily want to be seen. He stayed in a crouched position with his hand hanging onto the cart. That was where he stayed the whole entire time until they made it to town.

The town was a large place with stone buildings that pillared towards the sky. Most of the buildings were shops that had apartments above them. Vague signs were placed strategically so one couldn’t exactly see what shop was where, mostly to trick travelers into staying longer and buying more things. The pawn shop was the hardest to find out of everything because it had no label or sign to convey what building it was in. Shady deals went on in there. It was better to stay inconspicuous.

“Do you want to split up and look for it?” Autumn inquired, “We could probably find the shop faster that way.”

“Yeah that seems like a smart idea.” He nodded and pointed to the lane behind him. “I’m going to look this way.”

Autumn agreed and they both went their parting ways. The town was like a maze this time of year. Roads were vastly decorated with different eventful concessions and games. People were rallied around everywhere. So crowded that those on horseback could hardly get by. He held his hood close over his head. Paying attention to even the smallest cheap gum wrapper that was dropped on the ground. His shoes crunched against the crumbs on the cement pathways with every step he took. A stand with a red sheet held up by wooden poles wasn’t that far ahead. Little crafting trinkets were set up on its shelves. Spanning from painting supplies, to wood making tools. I should get something for Autumn. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three coins. It wasn’t much, but enough to get her something small. Approaching closer to the stand he came to a halt. Taking notice of the paper on the wall nearby. A wanted poster, his wanted poster. For stealing the relic a week ago. He had to be faster about what he was doing. “Hey! What are you doing!” someone yelled from the crowd. Trisan grabbed the paper from the pole and folded it into his pocket.

“It’s the criminal!” A lady screamed at the top of her lungs pointing at him.

He grabbed an item from the stand without paying and dashed around the corner before anyone could yell any more or do anything about it. His heart felt as if it was pounding outside of his chest.. All he could think of was finding Autumn before he was reported to the authorities. The midway circle was his target. It connected all the roads in the middle of town. If he could make it there before authorities then he could get out with Autumn. He just needed to find her.

Tristan got pulled back by his collar. He almost screamed. This was it he thought. Until the dress flowed around his ankles. He felt as if a heavy boulder was pushed off of his chest. “Autumn?” He whispered.

“I’m here, but the authorities have already blocked off the gates out of town.”

“What do we do then?” He slipped deeper into Autumn's comforting arms. Her words drifting into his head yet he couldn’t seem to listen.

“I know a secret way out” She led him over to a large fence that went up the second story of two buildings. Pointing to a thin gap between the wire. “I can’t fit through, but you can. They aren’t looking for me so I can make it through the main gates”

Tristan furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head. “Are you sure?” His voice was shaking just like the leaves shook in the wind when they were back at the valley.

“I’m sure” Autumn gave him a kiss on the cheek, then rushed him to leave quickly before it was too late.

Tristan crouched down. Dirt covered his hoodie and pants. He pried the cut of wire open, beginning to slide himself through. His hands clawed at the earth. Continuing to pull over and over. Soil started to build up under his fingernails. Almost there. He was almost out when his jacket got caught on the fencing. Loud noise started to creep closer to their location.

“I will meet you at the oak tree,” She unhooked his unzipped jacket and unraveled it from his arms. Taking it and leaving with haste after making sure he had gotten through.

He had to walk down the main road on the way back. It was around around ten minutes that had gone by when Tristan got to the valley. He hoped that Autumn would be back soon. Walking was becoming a bore. The wind’s howling made him want to shield his ears and bury himself deep under the ground. Eventually he gave in and sat down on the grass.

A single dandelion seed landed on his shoulder.

Something inside of him shattered. The relic was still inside of the coat. It wasn’t any normal dandelion seed, it was her dandelion seed. He just knew that it was. Warm water streamed from his eyes. Everything went blank, he was trapped in a void, yet his eyes were wide open. The wind wasn’t grating anymore, just as the tree he had returned to didn’t feel the same without her. In the end it was just a tree. One that held her vow, her gaze, her touch. One that shared her joy, her peace. Tristan had made a promise to stay at the tree and wait for her, even if that meant he would die waiting.


I was once a normal person, 6’ tall, brown hair and blue eyes, I was as plain as could be. I went to school, fell in love, got rejected, the whole nine yards. But then I went on vacation, and found a magic ring, it spoke to me, offered me a wish. I’d always been scared of death, and the endless void that I imagined followed, so I wished to be immortal, to never die until the end of time... I should have wished for the knowledge of what happens after death instead. “On this day, we set out into the great beyond, and leave our planet to its natural course! With the help of our greatest minds, we set out on a NEW-“ I shut off the TV, there was no point in listening, I was shocked they were even broadcasting the event, everyone was getting on the giant spacecraft, all 12 billion humans, no exceptions. There was no price to get on, the Earth was dying anyways, either you got on the ship or you would die... though of course, I couldn’t die. I had witnessed hundreds of wars, dozens of plagues, and over 3,000 years of human history on this planet. I was staying, part of it was stubbornness, part of it was stupidity, part of it... Was the desire to be left alone, for once, there would be no one to call me a freak. Lush grass kissed my feet, the wind whistled past me, but there were no birds. I had walked for years now, and still I had found nothing but more forest. The weather changes and the sudden vanishing of humanity caused the ecosystems change drastically, it didn’t help that the planets crust cracked, causing an earthquake that leveled mountains across the globe. And yet I continued walking, I was searching for any sign that those memories I held were real. That humanity was real, they said they’d return when the planet was ready, and I held onto that hope. It was getting quite lonely now, I’d even take an insult by now. I searched for 5,000 years, and yet I found nothing, nature had swallowed every sign of civilization whole. I’m sitting on a rock, looking to the stars. I know they are real, but I wonder if they’ll ever come back. The planet is ready for them, although it is very different now. I hear it again, the voices. I don’t remember who they belong too, but I know I loved them. I feel more tears coming, because despite my insistence that they were real, I can’t remember anything but my wanderings of this barren planet. The voices beg me to join them, but I can’t. I tried. It doesn’t work. I beg them to wait. If anything will kill me... It’s the moon, crashing down from the sky, like a falling star. I wait patiently for it to collide with me, surely there’s a limit to my immortality. Surely I won’t live till the end of Time. (For feedback or suggestions feel free to message me, I want to improve.