Raziel looked down at the knife in his hand. It looked worn. It looked plain, an old antler jammed onto the end of that blade, another way to squeeze out every drop of blood. It looked shabby, a tool near the end of its usefulness. It looked like damnation not salvation. Raziel had lead Shing, Eyla and their two daughters out the Wolves’ village in the dark of the night. They found the small boat hidden on the beach. Raziel and Shing paddled them out past the breakers and within twenty minutes they had hoisted the small sail. By the time the sun spread its sparkling rays across the sea, the refugees could no longer see Wolf Island. They caught a nice wind that sailed them across the channel in less than a day. When they reached the coast of Pacifica, Shing and Eyla took the girls up to the tree line while Raziel did his best to hide the boat. He had just finished taking down the mast when he noticed the blood red sail of the Wolves’ long boat on the horizon. His heart dropped to his stomach and exploded into a swarm of wasps. Their time was running out. They moved quickly through forest and found the old hunting cabin. Eyla burst into tears causing the girls to cry, causing Shing and Raziel to cry. They entered a sobbing motley crew clinging to one another. The cabin was the size of a barn, nestled between the folds of a large hill directly behind it. Next to a neatly made bed they found a basket of dried foods, warm clothing and that damned knife. A low whistle from the rafters snapped Raziel back to the now. The new plan was to take the knife, avoid the Wolves, find and bring back help. It was a lie. No help could make it back in time even if it was found. The unspoken reason for Raziel to run was to get rid of the knife. If any run-away thrall was found with a weapon it was a death sentence for all the adults. And for two little girls with no one to look out for them, it would not be good; it would be very far from good.

If Raziel could get far enough away, the others could be spared. He would still be killed horrifically but hopefully his friends would only be severely punished. That was the rosiest of options left. He hadn’t asked for any followers, but how do you say no to a young couple praying for their children to be free? He heard the whistle again. Raziel closed his fist around the knife and stepped out of the cabin. A white mist hung low to the ground, blurring the bottoms of the trees, limiting visibility. The beginnings of snowflakes drifted in the wind adding to the distractions. Maybe there was some hope after all. The first corner he turned killed that hope. One of the Wolves was already at the cabin, peering in through a crack in the wood. Raziel couldn’t see what the big, hairy man was seeing but he knew that Eyla and the girls had been discovered. Maybe if he could silence this man, keep him from alerting the pack it would buy them the time they so desperately needed. Raziel had never killed a man before but he was pretty sure talking his way out of this was out of the question. He switched the grip he had on the knife, like he knew what he was doing. Raziel swallowed (gulped) and began to creep toward the Wolf. Every footstep crashed like a boulder off a thousand foot cliff, every breath roared like the winds of a storm. The distance between himself and his target stretched for miles, so much time to be spotted, so many mistakes already made. He could turn around and run for it. They would probably be okay inside, probably? He swallowed hard again and began to look around for any other option. He was losing his cool, about to bolt when the Wolf turned. Without thinking Raziel clamped one hand over the man’s mouth. The man stopped struggling once he felt the knife tip dig into his belly. Raziel looked into his eyes, dark and wide under a heavy brow. He recognized this Wolf from his village. He was cruel to the thralls, despite or because of his own lowly status. A man looking to make a name for himself. Talking was definitely out of the question. The more Raziel hesitated the less his advantage became. The fear left the Wolf’s eyes, replaced with a smug confidence that this lowly coward could not kill him. The man reached for his own knife. Raziel shook his head vigorously NO, NO, NO he pleaded silently. The Wolf, true to his nature bit the hand over his mouth. Raziel pulled back. The Wolf opened his mouth to howl. Raziel plunged the knife into the Wolf’s gut. He felt something pop under the blade as it found vital organs. Instead of pulling it out Raziel pushed it down unzipping the belly like he was unzipping a jacket that was two sizes too small. He stepped back and stared. The Wolf also stared, his eyes disbelieving, his hands clutching to keep his insides inside. There are times in every person’s life where we stand outside of ourselves, seeing a traumatic event unfolding without emotion. This was one of those times for Raziel. Specifically when the Wolf’s internal temperature met the forest’s rapidly declining external temperature. Steam poured from the wound like a ghost, floating up toward the heavens. Raziel wasn’t particularly religious, but this would make even the most arrogant atheist run scared for church. This along with the blood and smell overwhelmed him. Raziel doubled over retching just as a blade sliced the space where his head had been. The blade thumped into the cabin, stalling the hatchet it was attached to. Raziel slid around and surged up, his mouth drooling bile, the knife stabbed in between the third and fourth rib of his assailant. This new Wolf was dead before he hit the ground. Raziel stood there, his mouth gasping like a fish, the stomach acid still burning the back of his throat, the blood freezing the knife in his fist and tears streaming down his face, not exactly the look of a brave warrior. “Raziel”, he heard his name from above. He looked up to see Shing staring down from the cabin’s overhang. “What have you done?” he whispered with urgency. “Run, please, run!” Raziel ran into the mist. His heart was racing; he could feel his pulse thumping in his temples as he fled blindly through the forest. The manacle on his wrist banged against bone causing him to lose focus and almost run head long into the gnarled trunk of a wicked looking tree. He stopped to try and regain some semblance of composure. That’s when the first howl rose through the trees behind him. Raziel’s blood turned to ice water, He bolted like the scared rabbit he was. Another howl floated in from left, followed by another from his right. The nail in the coffin came when he heard a howl coming from somewhere ahead of him. He cried out in frustrated fear as he ran for his life and the lives of his friends. Still yelling he burst through the trees into a large clearing. He shut his mouth abruptly, his bawling seeming sacrilege here. The clearing was a perfect circle; the trees all lined up without a single branch going over an unseen border, as if in respect or… fear. Even the mist held at the edge of the clearing, swirling like a shark amongst the trees. In the center of the clearing was a large half buried boulder. He moved forward, looking around. Floating menacingly just beyond the trees he saw pair of yellow eyes. Raziel stopped and stared and those eyes stared back. The eyes moved forward and a black nose appeared in the mist. Beneath the nose, a snarling snout with long fangs. Beneath the fangs another Wolf’s face appeared. It looked much like the two Raziel had left for dead at the cabin. Heavy brows and beard under the cowl of a real Sea Wolf’s head and hide. Raziel had often wondered why, if these people honored the Sea Wolves so much as to name themselves after them did they hunt them to extinction then parade around in their skins. He doubted he’d ever know as this one before him had not come to talk. There was movement from the corner of Raziel’s eye and he saw another pair of eyes to the right and another pair to the right of that and another to the right of that. They had surrounded him. Four men that played at being wolves stepped into the clearing. No attack came. They simply stood and stared, each at an equal distance from the other. Raziel had seen this before. He was no longer prey. They knew about the bodies, of course they did. Raziel had been elevated in status from a simple hunt to a man worthy of respect. They lined up to challenge this dangerous killer of their kin. Raziel’s death would mean status and they would not diminish that status by attacking him all at once. He was sick of the role they had forced him to play. Sick he had been forced into their bloody way of life but mostly, he just sick of being afraid all the time. If you want blood, you got it. He strode toward the first man on the left. Much violence ensued. After it was over, minutes or hours later time no longer mattered, Raziel stood close to where he had started. The Wolves lay in heaps connected by streaks of red across the trampled snow. Raziel stood gazing at the boulder but only seeing the flashes of what had just occurred. Muted screams, the knife slashing, stabbing and cutting his victims and with each cut a new furrow was carved into his own soul. He wondered how much was left. Then from deep in the forest ahead of him, Thump. Thump. Raziel’s head snapped up. He looked around. Thump. Thump. Raziel scrambled up the boulder for a better view. Thump. Thump. Raziel peered into the forest in front of him and saw a tiny red dot. It grew as it flew toward him. Escaping the mist the dot became a little red bird bouncing across the air. Raziel had to dodge left to avoid being struck between the eyes. The bird paid him no mind as it soared by, disappearing to the woods behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Nothing moved, not even the air. Thump. Thump.  All hell broke loose. The forest before Raziel exploded with a murder of crows following the little red bird. They screeched and cawed as they flew by. Raziel had to throw himself on the boulder to keep from being swept away in the flurry of beady eyes and black feathers. On the ground below him all manner of beast surged like flood waters around his island boulder. From field mice to elk, all ignored the man clinging to the boulder in their haste to flee. When it was over, feathers and tufts of fur floated through the air. Something bad was coming. Thump. Thump. Then the sound of trees limbs snapping, high tree limbs snapping and falling to the earth. Thump. Thump. Thump. A huge moccasin fell into the clearing like a thousand year oak crashing down followed by another earth rumbling shoe. Raziel looked up, past the pillar like legs, past massive torso and neck and looked into the face of a bear? Raziel shook the cob webs from his brain and looked again. I was a man, bearded and dark eyed wearing skins of a cave bear. The giant pulled a sword bigger then he was from behind his back. He raised this broad sword (perhaps the broadest sword ever) above his head, the tip aimed down to skewer the little man on the rock. All Raziel could do was gape up at his impending doom, too petrified to move. “RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The giant bellowed his easy victory and stabbed down. Part of Raziel was ready for it, for everything to be over, but the other part, the part that had won each part of this day dodged rolled Raziel off the rock just as the blade came crashing down. The boulder screamed when the blade impaled it. Sparks flew as the stone and iron became one. The mighty sword stopped halfway up its blade and stuck fast. The giant pulled back on the sword, but it did not budge. A flash of panic swept over his face, quickly replaced by rage. He heaved back again with the same result. The giant began to bellow and shriek as he tried to free the blade. “RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The roar became less intimidating and more pathetic. The beast of a man now had both hands wrapped around the hilt, straining with all his considerable power. His face had turned purple, his eyes bulged. The boulder actually began to lift from its half buried state. Dirt poured from sides that hadn’t been exposed to light in a thousand years, colorless insects scurried for cover. Raziel stood a safe distance away watching with awe. He stood staring at giant’s dismay. He could have easily swatted Raziel down like a fly, crushing him without the weapon, but the giant wanted his sword. Instead of running (which seemed pointless now) Raziel contemplated being a giant boy raised in the violent world of the Wolves. His only purpose would have been to fight, to become the Wolves’ battering ram. He would have been praised when he won, shunned and beaten when he lost. The giant would come to be dependent on the only constant in his life, his sword, his one friend. What would happen if he could no longer win every fight? He would be banished, sent out to face the world alone without his sword. “RRRRAAA…ughhhh” The giant’s roar ended in a gurgled whimper, his mighty hands fell from the sword’s hilt, his arms dropped like felled trees to hang limply at his sides. He went to his knees. Raziel uncurled his fingers from the knife; the top layers of frozen skin were ripped away. He felt nothing and dropped the knife to the snow. He walked toward the giant without looking back. He stopped just out of reach from the big man. Raziel tilted his head to study the giant’s face. Something had popped inside the man’s head. His right eye was the solid red of burst blood vessels, the right side of his face drooped, foamy drool drained from the corner of his mouth. Raziel stepped closer. The giant's left eye streamed tears. Raziel reached out and put a reassuring hand on his would be murderer’s shoulder. The giant let out a tiny whimper. Raziel cradled the giant’s head; he murmured an old prayer and tried to soothe. When the giant began to fall Raziel guided him down to the snowy ground. He laid the massive head in his lap. The giant’s breath became ragged, his left eye rolled back and his huge chest stopped moving. Raziel closed the dead man’s eyes and began to weep. He wept for the giant, murdered by fear disguised as rage. He wept for himself, a murderer by rage disguised as fear. He wept for his friends. He wept for the man he had hopped he was and wasn’t. He may have wept until spring if he hadn’t felt the giant’s head move from his lap. He looked up and saw the face of a Wolf. Raziel did not resist as the Wolf took the giant away from him. He looked over the huge body to see five more Wolves had also appeared from the forest. He looked each man in the eye, some stared back blankly, some in curiosity. One slightly nodded his head at Raziel. Then as one they lifted the giant’s body and disappeared back into the forest. Raziel sat there. His adrenaline was gone. He felt more beaten than ever before. He couldn’t take anymore but there is always more. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Raziel sighed, rose to his feet and turned to face whatever was next. This Wolf was the second biggest man Raziel had ever seen. His headdress’ eyes were ruby against a steely grey fur. The man’s eyes were dark and world-weary; his beard matched the color of his headdress. The Alpha. Without thinking (something he was becoming good at) Raziel stabbed at him with a now knifeless fist. The Alpha caught the fist and twisted it back to reveal the manacle clamped to Raziel’s wrist. The Alpha reached to his waist and produced a key. He stabbed the key into the lock, his eyes locked into Raziel’s. The manacle dropped to the snow much like the knife and like the knife it was left there to rust. The Alpha turned and walked away. Raziel finally began to lose consciousness. As the world faded away he could hear his friends rushing to his side. -Time, a need for heroes and people’s greed have all embellished Raziel’ s story into legend, the legend into lies and the lies into religion. One story had Raziel slaying scores of actual wolf-men with a magical sword pulled from a stone. Another left out the boat entirely and had Raziel walking across the seas carrying his followers upon his broad shoulders. Once a story is told it belongs to the people for better or worse. But you and I know what really happened on that snowy day so long ago…probably.


*Dear Diary* Oh god… today has been one of the scariest days of my entire life, at first it seemed to be just a normal day, I got up out of bed and made myself a coffee, and sat down to read the newspaper, I saw an ad for this thing called the 'House of Mirrors', it seemed fun so I called a friend and asked if they wanted to come with me after work, which they said yes to. So after I finished work we both went to this place, it seemed like a pretty shady operation and the building was in a pretty bad state of disrepair, but the concept was super cool, basically it was a maze where the walls are made of mirrors that distort your body in weird ways, and the ceiling & floor were pitch black, it was a really cool idea, but when we got to the end we saw the final mirror. It was a mirror that supposedly could show you what you'll look like in the next 24 hours, me and my friend thought it was just a joke where they put a standard mirror Because not much will probably change in a day, but when we looked into the mirror, there was no reflection, both of us were confused and the staff seemed oddly concerned, but we assumed it was still just a joke and moved on with our day. That's when it started… On the way home, we almost got killed in a car crash, my friend pointed out that maybe the mirror was actually trying to tell us something, but I dismissed the idea. After we traded insurance details with the other person, we walked the rest of the way home. On the way home we went to get something to eat, and it went relatively well. We went to this Chinese restaurant and it was really good. I got chow mein and my friend had chicken fried rice. After this I was pretty sure all the fear was done for the day… oh how wrong I was. After we split up to go our separate ways, I went back to my house only to get a text from my friend that they had been robbed at gunpoint, and that the only reason they weren't shot is because a police car happened to pass by as this happened, which was odd. This is when I started to believe something might be up. A couple of hours later I was going downstairs to get something from the kitchen, when I slipped on one of the steps and almost fell, I managed to grab the rail but if I didn't then I would have been dead for sure. Now I was starting to realize that something was definitely going on and that mirror definitely wasn't a bluff. My chest is feeling tight now, it kind of hurts, but anyway, there's more to this, I tried calling my friend later and got no response, I tried texting them, no response either, I kept trying for a few hours but nothing happened, which leads us to where I am now, writing this diary entry. My chest is getting worse, it's getting harder to breath… oh god it's bad… I think… this is it, the mirror was right, to whoever finds this, that mirror is no lie, that mirror was right. ………………………………….…………………….. (This is a shorter one than my last one, but I had the idea for the story and I really like how it turned out despite the short length, and I hope you guys do as well. And my next story will be longer than this one.


Why, thought Dora, clutching her glass of wine and giving polite smiles from the corner of the room, did people assume that because you were “good on the radio”, or even “a bit of a celebrity” then you were going to love a party. Dora didn’t. She hated them. Oh, she didn’t mind going round to a friend’s house, but this was another matter. It wasn’t even as if she was antisocial. She had spent most of her life working with the public, and could make conversation well enough. But right now, oh, how she longed to be back at her little cottage, with her books and her music and her cat Snowflake curled up imperiously beside her on the sofa, condescending to let her stroke him with a lazy blink of his sapphire blue eyes. Mike caught her eye and gave her what he probably thought was a reassuring look. She liked Mike. He was a nice boy. Okay, so she had reached the stage in life when she referred to men in their forties as nice boys. And he’d insisted she didn’t have to come if she didn’t want to, but she had always married her manners and she knew how much she owed him. Only a couple of minutes ago it looked as if she had forgotten her manners when she didn’t respond to someone who called her over, but it was because she’d had to think twice when they said, “Pandora.” But that was her name. She had never used it, not when she was old enough to have a say in the matter, and the people she would always have thought of as her parents supported her decision. She supposed they were rather relieved, and wished that the person who gave Coronation Day Baby her name hadn’t been quite so erudite or whimsical. But she had been found in a box and Pandora’s box had hope left in it…. still, couldn’t they have called her “Hope”? Not that she was that keen on virtue names. She’d had a schoolfriend called Faith and always thought it gave you too much to live up to. Decades later the name achieved a certain currency through Pandora Braithwaite in the Adrian Mole books, that Dora rather liked, though she supposed the first couple, at least, were aimed at a considerably younger readership. But that gave her no urge to re-adopt it. Still, it was as well someone had adopted HER! Yes, it had been midsummer, had been June, but it had also been a horribly rainy day. There had been something of a scandal about that as the Queen’s former governess wrote a magazine column and liked to make out she did it more or less live, but of course, she didn’t, and she’d made it a gloriously sunny day. As people swarmed the streets of London or gathered round the grainy black and white pictures on newly purchased television sets, in a small town on the East Coast, a baby girl was abandoned in a little shelter along the sea front. And that could have been the end of her life, even though she was wrapped in a blanket, and the shelter kept the driving rain off her head. That was where she had her first strike of amazing luck, the kind of thing the radio audience in Mike’s documentary adored. Whilst people were watching the Coronation on their grainy minuscule TV screens, a woman called Barbara Jenkins was coming home from her shift at work, and despite the weather, had decided to have a walk up the seafront to clear her mind because it had been a fraught day at work. And Barbara was a nurse. She knew what to do, and she did it, and it was confirmed at the hospital that the little girl appeared to be healthy and none the worse for her ordeal, though had it lasted much longer …. well, Barbara was the heroine of the hour. Dora often wondered why she hadn’t been called Barbara, but apparently (so various reports and reports of reports had said) she was a very self-effacing young woman and wouldn’t have thanked folk for it. Or why not Elizabeth given it was Coronation Day? But maybe that was considered just too obvious. So she was Pandora. Pandora soon to become Dora, who had now become Pandora again. She was adopted by a very nice couple in their late thirties called Janet and Bob Edmunds. Apparently there was an extremely careful vetting procedure to make sure that the prospective parents weren’t just interested in the story rather than the child. Bob was an electrician and Janet was a housewife who also did dressmaking work. From the start, Dora knew that she was adopted, or at least from as soon as she could understand. Though of course, this was decades before the Internet, information both travels quickly and embeds itself in a small town, and it was far better coming from her Mum and Dad than from anyone else. They did a grand job of it, she thought. They made sure she knew they were delighted to choose her because she was special, but her being special had nothing to do with her being abandoned in a shelter on the sea front on Coronation Day. She had a very happy childhood. She was adored and indulged, but not spoilt, and though she never quite forgot she was adopted, there were weeks and months on end when it didn’t have that much importance in her life. Yet it was the kind of thing, especially given the circumstances, that never really went away. By the time she was in her late thirties and early forties herself, it was becoming more and more acceptable for adopted children to trace their parents. Dora supposed it was good they had the right to, but some of the stories irritated her and made her feel her heckles rise on behalf of the adopted parents. She hated it when it almost seemed as if they were rejected, or at any rate downgraded, once the biological parents – or more likely, just the biological mother – were traced. Oh, she never condemned the birth parents or mother. Dora wasn’t a judgemental person, and could quite easily see, especially in less liberal times, how folk were driven to it and it didn’t make them cruel or reprehensible. But so far as she was concerned Janet was her mother, and Bob was her father. It wasn’t until both of them had passed away, and she had a chance conversation waiting in the queue at the pharmacy, that she began to wonder if perhaps it would be good to know something, after all. Someone had heard a radio programme about a baby – a boy this time – who had been abandoned on the Embankment in London, during the war, and who hadn’t begun to unearth the story of his life until he was an old man himself. It wasn’t a totally happy ending for him with all the loose ends tied up, but it was plain he hadn’t regretted it and it had enriched his life. Dora had never married. She had been engaged once but – well, best not to think about it. She knew that especially given the circumstances her parents would have liked grandchildren, but they never tried to exert any kind of pressure on her. She liked children, and was a popular and well-respected teacher, but had never had children of her own. Like her parents – like Bob and Janet – Dora had always been modest in her demands. Oh, she didn’t have a low opinion of herself or anything like that, but she didn’t like a fuss and preferred things to be low-profile. So although the programme about the Embankment Baby had been on the World Service, and had been heard all over the world, not just the UK, she made tentative enquiries at her local radio station, Radio Anglia. She was given an appointment to see a man called Mike Ellis, who apparently was responsible for “such things”. He also did the morning programme on the radio. Dora felt rather guilty as she realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had heard it (maybe for details about what was closed and open during the freak winter weather they called The Beast from the East a few years back). It wasn’t that she had anything against it, but the Today programme on Radio Four was part of her morning routine. She tried to salve her conscience by listening to a couple of episodes, and it was fine, but in her heart of hearts she still preferred Today . Still, Mike made a good impression. He wasn’t too smarmy or too sarcastic. She found a picture of him on the Internet (she wasn’t exactly a passionate “Silver Surfer” but it had its uses) and he was well – just a pleasant looking young man in his forties. Just a nice boy …..! One trait she had inherited from both Janet and Bob, but especially the former, was a belief in what a handshake told you, and she liked Mike’s handshake. It was firm but not too firm, cool and sincere. He ushered her into a room that apparently doubled up as his office and his studio and had posters all over the wall with local scenes and slogans like Your Local Voice and Radio Anglia, the Sound of the East Coast . “Tea or coffee, Miss Edmunds?” he asked, “Or may I call you Dora?” “Coffee please, and of course you may,” (Once an English teacher, always an English teacher, she thought wryly, awarding him Brownie Points for saying may and not can . “But if you don’t mind, I prefer just Dora.” He smiled. “I can’t honestly say I blame you!” He was both easy to talk to, and a good listener, and she was fairly sure it wasn’t just a radio persona coming through. Though perhaps it was a matter of chickens and eggs! “I’m going to take a great interest in your story, Dora,” he said, “And consider it my baby – if you’ll pardon the expression!” “I might, but don’t make a habit of it!” She was surprised she felt confident enough with him to share in a joke. “Fair enough. But I’m not the expert on the subject. I want to put you in touch with a lady called Christine Franks. She’s quite an expert in matters like this, and I believe her to be totally trustworthy. If she’s getting nowhere, she’ll tell you, and – well, I might as well say it, if anything you might prefer not to know turns up, then she won’t hide it from you.” “I prefer it that way,” said Dora, truthfully enough, though in fact she supposed there were things she might prefer not to know. Dora always believed in giving people a fair chance, but had to admit that when she first met Christine, she was reminded of a doctor’s receptionist. In fact, she did bear a slight resemblance to one of the receptionists at Dora’s doctors, but it wasn’t mainly that. She seemed very efficient, but more inclined to stop you getting forward and finding things out than the opposite. But before too long she realised that she had misjudged her, and it was a sign of her integrity. “There may not be any kind of fairy tale ending,” she said. “If I ever come across as obstructive, Dora, it’s not because I’m being rambunctious, it’s out of concern.” Generally Dora was lary of people who expressed an excess of concern, but she was also very fond of the word rambunctious, so she decided to “hit the reset button” and after that the two women got on famously. One of the first steps was a DNA test, though as Dora remembered, in the corner at the party, Christine warned her that they were by no means conclusive. It was interesting without being earth-shattering. There were indications of the East of England – so probably her mother was a local girl, but also of Ireland, the Netherlands, and, weirdly, a hint of Ukrainian. The first real lead, though, didn’t come from the genetic test, but from a local person. With Dora’s agreement, her story was covered on Mike’s show, though her privacy was respected, as far as was possible. But it came from far away – from Canada, and an ex-pat who was keeping up with home by listening to Radio Anglia on the Internet. Her name was Susan Bligh, and she was the great-niece of a man who had been a local policeman in the town. Uncle Billy, as she called him, had been on patrol on coronation day, and years later had told her, when she begged for “stories” about his time in the police, told her about a woman he had seen on Coronation Day, pacing up and down the seafront, seeming in distress. “He asked her if she needed any help, but she said no, and she wasn’t drunk or causing a disturbance or anything, so there wasn’t much he could do about it, but he did say there was something haunting about her. And one thing that did stick in his mind – she was wearing a bright purple coat!” “Oh, my goodness!” Dora exclaimed, and went on to tell Susan that her favourite colour had always been purple! If Janet and Bob had let her, she’d gone through stages where she’d have worn nothing but. So that was mentioned on the show, and a response came more or less immediately. It was from someone called Lily Watkins, who was a very old lady now, nearly a hundred, but still as sharp as a button, and had been the owner of a shop in a town not far up the coast at the time. She had employed a young woman called Thelma Bradshaw, and as she said, “She was a good worker and nice manners, but I could never quite bottom her, and oh my goodness, she loved purple! But I realised that big coat she wore was to hide the fact she was in the family way. And no Mr Bradshaw in the picture, nor even a boyfriend, so far as I could see. Well – some would have just flung her out on her ear, but I didn’t. I LIKED the girl, and we can all make mistakes. I was worried when one day she just didn’t turn up, but she did send me a note, through the post, not through the door, and it said she was sorry but she had to go away for a while and she wished me all the best.” Well, that counted as progress of sorts, thought Dora, and everyone at Radio Anglia was doing their best for her and it would have been bad manners to refuse the invitation to the annual “do”. She made herself not look at her watch, realising how unfortunate it would appear if anyone saw her, remembered there was a clock on the wall and discovered that only a quarter of an hour had passed until she last looked. I will NOT play the old lady card and say I am tired or feeling under the weather, she thought, determinedly. I will make an effort. After all, not everyone was the life and soul of the party, where they? She suspected even Mike saw it as a necessary ritual rather than a delight. In fact – she looked around – was he even in the room any more. She couldn’t see him. Maybe he was just attending a call of nature – but two people emerged from the gents’ restrooms, neither of them was Mike, and though she didn’t quite know HOW she knew she did know there were only two “necessary items” as her grandmother had termed toilets! Bob and Janet had humoured her but had no time for such pretentions, and had made sure that when Dora started school she knew perfectly well to just ask if she may go to the toilet and not say she needed to see a man about a dog or anything like that. Those were the kind of little things you remembered with gratitude. Anyway, Mike was coming back into the room through another door, and he was not alone. He was leading an old lady – a VERY old lady, who made Dora feel young in comparison and who looked even more ill at ease than she was. Her first thought was that they had brought along Lily Watkins, but Dora had seen a picture of her, admittedly taken several years ago, but – well, this was an entirely different woman. And she was wearing purple. “Dora, perhaps you ought to step into the side room,” Mike said gently. She nodded and complied. This was not the kind of thing to take place in public, and it spoke volumes for Mike that he realised this. He and the very old lady retreated back into the little office, and Dora followed them. And for the first time in nearly seventy years, Thelma Bradshaw and her daughter fell into each others’ arms. Neither of them said much. There was plenty to say. But it could wait.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning for round two, welcome! This is the perfect time for you to join in on the fun, as we re-launch Serial Saturday to better suit all of our readers and writers out there. We’ve heard your feedback, and our hope is to make this feature useful to writers of all genres, backgrounds, and skill levels. To our returning Serial Saturday participants, we hope you’ve had a wonderful break and are ready to dive back in. As we’ve made a few changes, please remember to read the entire post before submitting! *** #This week's theme is Discovery! Whether your characters are making interesting and unexpected discoveries in their world or discovering something within themselves, I'm excited to see where each story goes. Will the developments be welcome? Will their newest findings put a strain on their environment and the people around them? The interpretation is completely up to you. / *** #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take some bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. January 31- Emergence February 7- Secrets *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. *** #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. Pre-written content will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You must use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! *** #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the . Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule.


Many, many years ago, when tigers used to smoke, there lived an old man on a mountain. He lived in a secluded cabin far, far away from any other people. He was happy there alone with nothing but his own thoughts. Until he met her. Life became brighter. His beautiful wife, a lovely creature, all smiles and sunshine, pretty blonde curls, blue eyes the color of the clear running mountain stream that flowed past their cabin. Her voice as soft and sweet as the tufted titmouse, she would sing all day while she worked around the cabin. He could hear her songs when he was doing the outside chores and his heart would soar. Since the day they had first met, in a church in the valley, love had blossomed and grown as the years went by. They seldom saw other people, and seldom went into town. The two of them were happy just being alone together on the top of the mountain. After that first Sunday all they could think of was one another. The next Sunday, after the service ended, after all the congregants had greeted one another, after everyone had shaken the preacher’s hand, when the parking lot was empty, and no one remained but the two of them they stood, six feet apart. Neither had spoken to the other. There were no words that needed to be spoken. They knew. He turned and began to walk towards his old pick up truck. She just stood there staring at him. A sad smile on her face. He reached his truck, opened the squeaky passenger door, turned to her and said, “Well, are you coming or not?” A smile broke out on her face, so bright, so shiny, so wide he thought his eyes would burst out of his head. His heart soared as she took first one step and then another. The closer she came the lighter his heart became. He could feel the love radiating off her. She stepped up into the truck seat and settled back as if that truck seat had been made just for her. The cab of the truck was warm even though the sky was cloudy, and a cool mist fell. By the time they reached his cabin the desire between them had grown exponentially. On the ride, somehow, without words, their souls had joined into one. It was as if they were the other part of the other. They were one person from that moment on. He never knew her name. She never knew his. He called her, “woman”, almost reverently. She simply called him, “husband.” Years later they migrated to pet names such as, “baby”, “honey”, and other meaningless words that meant everything to them. They worked side-by-side for years. Their love never waned; they never spoke a cross word to one another. It was as if their union had been ordained by God, although neither one was particularly religious. All the salvation they needed was found in one another. Each day was a new adventure. Sometimes they didn’t speak for days. Each knew in their heart what the other was thinking and reacted accordingly. Their lovemaking was passionate and fiery, and they became one. Their love was the most perfect under the heavens. Had Adam and Eve, Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, and all the great couples thought history been on the mountain they all would have envied this couple. Years passed by slowly and at the same time way too fast. They treasured every minute they were together and not a moment was wasted. Over the years his beard grew white, along with his hair. Hers stayed bright and blonde and shiny. Their eyesight grew strained, but they only saw one another and that view never changed. His back became bowed from years of hard work, but he never complained. Her hands shook but she still massaged his tired, aching muscles at the end of the day. He picked wildflowers for her from the mountainside and she thought she’d rather have that flower arrangement than the most expensive gift he could buy from the most expensive store in the biggest city. Every meal she cooked for him would surpass any gourmet meal ordered from the finest restaurant anywhere in the world. He savored every bite and never failed to tell her how delicious the food was and never forgot to thank her for her hard work. The days passed ordered and serene but there was an excitement and a spark whenever they touched or heard one another’s voice. It had been years since they had made a trip into the valley. He often wondered if his old truck would even start after so long. But there was never a need to go down the mountain. Everything they needed was right there at the mountain top. As long as they had one another, life was perfect. The seasons passed, day by day, month upon month, year after year. They braved the weather whatever it brought. On cold days they would stay inside the cabin by the fire. They would hold hands as they read books. Time was their friend. And their enemy. Somewhere way back in their minds they knew that someday this bliss would end. They had talked about it. They had a plan. When it was time for one of them to go, they would lie side-by-side on their bed, hold hands and quietly, silently say goodbye, I love you and drift off. That was the plan, but plans don’t always work out the way you want them to. One day, like today, it was bitterly cold, snow piled high against the side of the cabin. The windows were frosted from the outside cold and the inside warmth. But the firewood was running low, so he dressed in layers of clothes and went outside to gather logs from the woodpile. For the first time in many, many years he had walked out of the door without saying, I love you, and giving her a kiss. That was a mistake. One that he would regret for the rest of his days. It was the first day in years that tears had run from his eyes. It wouldn’t be the last time. When her husband went through the door she said, “I love you!” out loud. He never heard those words as the wind and snow whipped past him. If only he had heard. If only she had called him back. But the moment was done, and they’d never get another chance. And while he fought the snowdrifts, she realized that the water pipes had frozen and they had no water for the house. So, she too bundled in many layers of clothes, covered her head, and put on her gloves. She grabbed two buckets and made her way to the stream to get water. She slogged through the snow at a snail’s pace until she finally reached what she thought was the edge of the stream. The snow had covered the banks though and the ice would not hold her weight. She fell through the thin ice and slipped under the water. The current caught her and with the weight of her layers of clothing she floated down the stream, under the ice, and drowned. Her body wasn’t found until the next Spring. Today is just like that day. Snow piled high, wind howling, tears flow down his cheeks as he dresses warmly. Layer upon layer of clothes. It feels like he is wearing a ton of clothes. He steps out of the door, leaving it open. He makes his way down to the stream battling the knee-high snow. He reaches the edge of the stream. It is bitterly cold. He shivers and he cries for his lost love. He continues to walk until he is at the middle of the stream. He stands there for a moment. He whispers, “Here I come, my love.” He stomps as hard as he can on the ice. Once, Twice, Three times and the ice shatters. He falls through into the freezing cold water and is caught in the current of the swift stream. His heavy clothes hold him down as he slips under the ice. He does not fight or struggle. His last thought was of his beautiful woman.


Part 1 I don’t remember what her face looked like. Father doesn’t allow her picture to be hung on the walls, he hasn’t for an awfully long time. I don’t even remember what her voice sounded like, it’s a gurgle of a mess in my mind these days. No matter how hard I try, it's not even a distant memory anymore. I want to remember; I want to pretend she can touch me again. I want to see her face, but Father says I mustn’t. So instead, the halls that she used to walk are all I must remind myself. The roses have since wilted and father has yet to replant, they won’t bloom again. Not without her touch and I don’t have that special magic she used to sprinkle over them. So, their brown leaves curls upon steams spiked with thorns. They litter the ground around them, fluttering in breezes that come and go. The shadows grow longer, day by day. I don’t go into the garden anymore. I haven’t in such a long time. That was her special place, where she belonged. If I dare to step through, I just know I’ll ruin it. I’ll trample over the lilies that bloom annually and disrupt the bees that swoop in to harness their pollen. But from my window right above the garden, I can see patches of grass inside of turning brown, footprints left behind if I dare to assume. I let myself think that, to believe that they belong to the one person who loved the garden so much. As if her simple footsteps have created death within those stone walls. Father says they are just simply patches of dried up earth. The earth is dying in the garden with someone to attend to it. I refuse to. That’s her place. I don’t want to mess it up. If I did, I would have nothing left of her. For the halls do no good in keeping the memories I crave alive. I don’t remember what her face looked like, no matter how hard I try. Pictures used to line up the staircase, single portraits of each family member and family photos in between. There are squares of faded wallpaper where her portrait and our family photos once hung. Gaps in the memory line, like missing bits and pieces of your life from when you’d been a child. Eventually, you’d no longer remember what was supposed to have once been there. One day, there would be no questions asked about the missing pieces. It would be a fit puzzle, the jagged ends no longer sharp and easy to slip into place. I still tried though. I tried to keep grasp of those fading memories, even if everything was gone from view. The halls were so cold. The place she had once walked were never filled with heat these days. A fireplace sat in the living area of the west wing and had once been full of the flame of life. She’d attend it at night, urging the flames to lick up towards the bricks smoldered in black. It had warmed the hallway outside of the area too, filling the house with a gentle warmth that only a blanket could give. The blanket was gone now, forbidden in her absence. But even if it were allowed, I wasn’t sure that it would do good to keep the cold away. Nothing ever kept the cold away. Not these days. The absence of her arms made me feel empty. It didn’t help that Father never held me anymore. If he did, if he would’ve just once, maybe I wouldn’t feel so cold these days. But Father locks himself in his study in order to pretend that the loss of Mother didn’t happen. Even though the trees outside have begun to droop, weeping in desperation for the revival of what had been lost. Her smile had once lit up the place. It was the sunshine that rose every morning and the moon that took its place at night. I couldn’t remember the last time I had woken in peace, to where I felt the desire to jump out of bed. For the air no longer smelt of burning flat cakes or frying bacon that was sizzling in its. Bacon was all she could really cook, everything else usually got scorched to a crisp. Father was the cook otherwise, even if Mother did try her best. But Father didn’t cook anymore. We sit in silence now. The books on the shelves collect dust, the stories printed upon the pages within no longer read or even looked upon. We don’t dare touch them. It was an unspoken rule to not touch them. Mother never really liked reading, hardly ever took a book out of the shelves if it wasn’t done for our schooling. Father kept us in line and not running amok the way it would’ve happened had mother been in complete charge of our upbringing. That was probably a good thing. Because I was fairly sure if Father hadn’t stepped in, my brother at least would’ve ended up running naked through the forest that lay behind our home, on the other side of the garden. Perhaps that’s why the shadows were growing longer every day and a breeze cooled the air, brushing against my skin when I stepped out the door. The forest was thick. Father said to never go in there. The forest was forbidden, off limits. He said it was because other people owned it and we could get into serious trouble for going inside it. But I suspected otherwise. Father was a man of many secrets and kept to himself quite often. It was a piece of him that had rubbed off on my brother and had become adamant before he’d left to explore the world. To find his place in this world, as he had told me once before. The world was an open canvas and he had wanted to make his mark upon it. My sister was different. She was the quiet type and so very much unlike Mother. She wasn’t like Father either. Sometimes, I teased her that she wasn’t even part of the family. She acted like a young lady should, the way our grandmother had once taught her. That woman had always looked down at Mother for the way she flitted around, her erratic behavior and desperate need of constant approval. It wasn’t ladylike, she always said. I wasn’t like my sister, I wasn’t desperate to hold my head high and only be seen, not heard. But I wasn’t erratic like mother, I didn’t find pleasure in spinning around and finding things to fret about. I had no interests in keeping up the garden. For I tended to kill plants when I touched them and forgot they even existed when I somehow managed to keep them alive. She was married now and never visited. Her husband didn’t like us, said our home was creepy and gave him bad feelings, whatever that was supposed to mean. Our home was big and old. It came with creaks and groans, but old always came with those in hand. I suppose he would have preferred it when it had been new, but the manor had been in our family for generations. Father’s great-great grandfather had built it from scratch on a much smaller plot of land. Each new generation to pop up expanded the land, made it wider. Our family has never exactly left. We’ve always lived in it and one child has always stayed behind in it. I suppose this time it was me. My sister wasn’t going to come back, and neither was my brother. They’d made that quite clear before both had left. It was just me now, it had only been me for such a long time. The corridors of my home have felt so cold for such a long time. Heat doesn’t fizzle through like it had once before. Mother had always kept the fires brewing in the night when the fall chill would hit and all day everyday when winter would raise its weary head. Those were the times when Father had been beckoned out of his study and would make chili and cinnamon rolls. That was the best part of winter, sitting in the west wing’s living area to enjoy the warmth of chili, the gooey=sticky rolls, and hot chocolate that Mother overheated in fear of not making right without doing so. We aren’t allowed in the West Wing anymore. Part 2 The bricks are lined with black soot, fire having licked at their surface but had yet to break them entirely down. Not yet, maybe not for a while. They were sturdy bricks, determined to not let go of the foundation anytime soon. The scent drifts from the west wing, forever lingering. I stop right before it, right before I can truly step into the area of the west wing. I don’t like the smell. Its tart and makes my stomach churn. But Father has said plenty of times to not go in it. To not approach the west wing. I don’t want to anyways. The West Wing is also where Mother and Father’s room lies. I don’t think he’s changed it. Father never goes in there anyways. He stays in his study and pretends that she’s still here, that the woman he so loved was still here. He likes to pretend that nothing has changed. We don’t leave anymore. We haven’t gone to town in a long time. I lost count of how long it’s been. The grocer stopped dropping food off a while ago. That, too, has been far too long to remember. I don’t know why he stopped. Maybe it was the food piling up on the front stoop that we just didn’t take in. Or maybe it was because he was no longer being paid. Father’s money had begun to dwindle after we lost Mother. It quickly vanished, no longer was it inside of existence. Nobody came for us though. The manor was ours, our name printed on the paper. Nobody could take it away; Father had made that clear for as long as I could remember. It was ingrained into my brain. I couldn’t even remember being told it once. It was just what I knew. The manor was ours; it always had been, and always would be. Father always said we had to do whatever it took to protect our home. Even with it now bare of the life it had once sustained. The halls echo when you walk down them, but the air is stuffy with the windows locked tight. Father doesn’t want a draft to flutter in, so I don’t catch a cold. But he doesn’t know I still slip outside in the early morning hours and take in the fresh air. When Father’s awake, I’m not allowed to open the door without him. The house is stuffy, I feel suffocated sometimes. I hate being locked up, but Father insists it’s for my own protection. So, I can’t be taken away. Though, no one ever comes around. Not anymore. So, who would take me away? I don’t dare ask Father. He doesn’t like a lot of questions and I don’t think he realizes that nobody has come in ages. Father doesn’t like coming out of his study, not at all if he can help it. Sometimes, I think he forgets that I exist. He says we mustn’t live in the past. The present is where we are supposed to be. Father doesn’t realize he’s living in the past though. No matter how much he wants to proclaim that we mustn’t slip, he does it every time. He does it all the time. He lives in a world where we didn’t lose anyone. All the while, forgetting me, the last of what was left. The halls echo when I walk through them. I can still smell the fire that once upon burned in the fireplace in the west wing living area. We don’t go in there anymore. That was Mother’s special place. Her pictures no longer hang on the wall. Only faded squares where they had once been places were a reminder of what once was. Family photos don’t exist, and the books collect dust upon the shelves. I can remember her reading to us at night, but her voice is only a garbled mess inside my mind. The words are distorted and whatever they had been before were now incomprehensible. Mornings were cold anymore. I woke with the chill that drew a foggy breath from between my lips. Blankets no longer did any good, not even if it was three topped over me. Nights were the worst. The cold came when the sun descended behind the horizon to wake upon the other side of the world. It made the world around me turn frosty, even without the snow. Some days were crummy, gloomy skies that clung and hung low towards the ground, threatening for the white crystals to fall in flakes upon the ground. Her voice no longer fills the corridors of the manor. Father’s footsteps have long since disappeared upon the ground that is now littered with dust. The housekeeper that had once arrived at the crack of dawn only to stay until the brisk of dusk no longer comes. She hasn’t in such a long time. I wasn’t sure why; I wasn’t sure what happened. Just one day, she had stopped arriving. She’d been my friend, always told me stories of what the world was like for her when she’d been a young girl growing up. She wasn’t educated with reading, but she knew how to keep a home clean and tidy. Dust now floats in the air and dirty dishes are coated with white fuzz in the sink. The air smells rancid, the thick scent of leftover smoke lingers in the air. But no fire is allowed even in the downstairs fireplace. This manor is cold, I can see my breath. But Father doesn’t like fires in the fireplaces. I think it reminds him of mother. The pictures that line up the staircase tell of a fractured story. I no longer remember what she had once looked like. Father won’t allow that. He stays in his study. Sometimes, I think I hear him crying. I don’t dare approach him though. I know better. We aren’t supposed to bother him in his study. I’m not supposed to bother him in his study. I don’t touch the books and I only go out in the early morning when dawn arrives and the crisp, fresh air is sweet and tender to take a breath in. The time that Father is slumbering and doesn’t know. I don’t go to the garden though. The roses have wilted, and the grass has begun to die in splotches like footsteps of someone walking over them. I say they’re footsteps, Father insists I stop letting my imagination run wild. But there are no kids my age for miles on end and I’m not allowed to leave the manor. When I do, I only ever go as far as the end of the driveway, but by then the yellow sun that tries to break the cold has appeared. It doesn’t do well in its attempts, but it’s still enough for me to retreat inside my home. Father says we mustn’t leave. I don’t know why. He has never told me and always pretends to not hear me when I ask him during his rare appearances at the dinner table. I miss having someone to talk to, but that comes with the territory of protecting our home. Father says if we leave, we’ll get it taken away from us. The bricks are scorched black from the flames that had licked them. The air is stagnant from the fire and always smells so rancid. I have gotten used to it by this point. I must. I can’t leave beyond the driveway. Trees line behind the garden that I do not dare touch. I will kill the lilies that remain in bloom every year, which have begun to lessen in their numbers. I don’t want to ruin what’s left of them. The garden used to be a place of solitude, a place to go and think. I could just lie in the grass and stare up at the sky for hours, listening to my mother sing a gentle melody that no longer haunts my mind. I cannot remember the lyrics and the piano lies silent these days. Its papers of song are gone, vanished with the pictures that had once lined the walls. Her name isn’t even allowed upon lips. She’s fuzzy in my memories, a once upon time story that has been told so many times on repeat that words no longer make any sense. Shh. Do you hear that? The door creaks when it's opened, but joyous voices fill the halls. No one has come in such a long time. The moss has climbed in vines up the sides of the manor, hiding its windows and scorched bricks behind green canopies. The windows are covered in grime, the housekeeper not having come in such a long time. I’m so cold, it’s been so long since a fire has burned in the fireplace of the west wing. We aren’t allowed to go in the West Wing, Father forbids it. I don’t know if he’s changed his and Mother’s bedroom yet. Shh. They are coming. Sun filters through a gentle breeze whisk through the door. A fractured story lines up the wall on the side of the staircase, telling bits and pieces of a long-forgotten story. I’m so cold, but the little girl is wearing a dress. It's been so long since I’ve had someone to play with. It’s been so long since the fire took mine and Father’s lives. I’m so cold.


Hey guys, this is the first time posting here and on Reddit. I’m hoping for some Criticism and and Critique of my work and I’m here to learn. Been working on this for a bit, so I hope you enjoy! Edit 1: Did some basic editing based on flow. I’m going to have some more peers proofread it (casually) and edit more with anything that may make the story flow and sound better. Although this story has gained no traction, these edits will be for me and whoever else may appreciate some better reading experiences :)) The Man With the Newspaper Yawning slightly, I emerged from my brief sojourn to the back with a spray bottle filled with cleaning solution and some towels. I didn’t know the kind of cleaning liquid, the label had peeled off a while ago and this was just the bottle I always used. Checking my watch, I glanced at the time: 12:50. I looked out over the almost empty bar with a sigh. The bar was in an older building on the older side of town. The walls had dark, oak planks jutting neatly up the wall about three feet before cutting off and merging with the dark green and musty wallpaper. The tables were an old brown made of polished wood, slightly lighter than the wood along the wall, but still a dark shade. The bar was always dim and darkened, fitting the image of a dramatic mafia film. This was especially true when it rained. I had worked here for the extra cash and the lack of unruly college kids, the night time bar atmosphere wasn’t exactly the most appealing to younger patrons. Usually, the bar was occupied by older, gruff looking men who had paid their toll to this life and were looking for an outlet. During the day, the bar would mostly be empty except for the occasional couple, usually younger, going out for lunch at a place that wasn’t fast food. To say the job was easy work was an understatement. I walked behind the bar and raised my pointer finger up motioning it in a circle, calling for a wrap up of whoever was left. “Last call,” I called out to the almost empty bar, in a cartoon my words probably would have echoed back. The bar was more empty than I remembered from when I had gone to the back. At first, I had thought it was empty, but at a closer glance, I noticed a man with a newspaper. The newspaper was held between his two hands and resting on the bar counter, obstructing the view of his face. I walked past the sink behind the bar up to the man with the newspaper so I was standing across from him on the opposite side of the counter. After a few moments of me standing across from the man, he slowly lowered the newspaper to the counter and gazed up. His glare was icy and eyes cold, complementing the sharp features of his face. The man with the newspaper was younger than I had expected, early twenties I’d assume. I wasn’t really used to seeing people younger than myself in the bar, especially at night. He was wearing an old fedora shaped hat and had on a dark grey blazer over a white collared shirt. His hair was brownish black and the curls seemed to bounce with every turn of his head or movement of his body. The man slid the newspaper to the side of him on the counter and grabbed the drink next to him, swirling it about. The newspaper, headlined with the year 1952, was strange to be reading in the twenty-first century. “Last call, sir,” I said motioning for his drink. The man with the newspaper stopped swirling the drink and set it on the counter. “Be my guest, I don’t drink,” He said, lifting his hands up in the air as if to surrender. His voice wasn’t gruff or stubbly like most avid drinkers that visited this bar, it had class and clear spoken purpose. The man with the newspaper leaned his head onto his hand and looked up at me as if bored, the slight smirk from his lips curling up a bit. Not drinking truly made me wonder his purpose in a bar, this bar, of all places. “Ok then,” I said offhandedly and in a somewhat mocking tone, holding my hands up as if to surrender back, “This place closes in another ten minutes, dude, so uh… wrap up whatever you’re doing.” “Fine by me,” The man with the newspaper responded, “Danny.” I froze in my steps, he knew my name, not just my name, my nickname. Not even my manager called me Danny. I turned on my heel, I wasn’t about to let this little pipsqueak hustle me. I was staring daggers back at him, he continued to smirk with his head resting on his hand, his icy eyes staring back. “Who are you?” I asked, brows furrowing further. “Not important,” He said back, gaining more confidence, “What’s important is who you are,” He emphasised with a point of his forefinger. He smirked and cleared his throat, “Daniel Delgatto, or “Danny,” born just outside Austin Texas to a single mother. Moved to Chicago with your mother and three siblings when you were young, seven I believe, and lived here since. Went to college on a scholarship and got an English major, useless in hindsight for your line of profession, so you work here. Alexander- Mr. Acolyte has treated you well, offering you a well paying position here. Really values you, he does.” He shrugged a bit and spun around in the bar chair, “But that’s not actually important, at least not anymore, I’m not here for you. You’ve got plenty of time,” He said with his hands in the air, an excited smile spreading across his face. “Do you happen to know where Alexander- oh I’m sorry, pardon me again, Mr. Acolyte is? I have a date to keep with him,” The man with the newspaper said, leaning forward on the counter and looking up. His smile had a missing front tooth and sharper than usual canines. He had eyes that poked out a bit from darkened sockets underneath and a smile that never seemed to fade. He licked his lips, waiting for my response. “Do you, like, know Mr. Acolyte or…? Old friends? Friend of a friend?” I asked, my daggers going to a look of confusion, the man with the newspaper had a funny way of talking. For whatever reason, the guy didn’t seem threatening like I assumed before when he listed off my personal information, just a bit socially inept, if that makes sense? He spoke as if he were stating well known facts, never stuttering. He seemed soft, young and naive, yet presentable and forthcoming. He felt like a radio announcer almost, speaking fast and putting emphasis on certain words. He looked up again lightly scratching his hands back and forth on his neck, fast like a dog. “Old friends, old friends…” He thought for a second, “no, no. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of acquainting myself with Mr. Acolyte as of yet, at least not formerly,” He responded, looking up to the ceiling as if thinking, “but that is of no concern to me, you can always get to know someone.” His responses puzzled me, instead of being mad, I was further intrigued by the man with the newspaper, this mysterious and eccentric man. “So, uh… why do you want to see him. You got a vendetta or something?” I added with a small nervous laugh at the end. “No, not a vendetta, just a date I need to keep,” He said, taking his focus away from the ceiling, “Do you know where he is?” He added looking me in the eyes yet again with his icy stare. “Well... he’s gone, been gone actually. Got diagnosed with terminal cancer a while ago, he didn’t tell me what kind,” I nervously laughed, “He’s been at his home in Southern California for a couple months now,” I added. The man with the newspaper furrowed his brow and a look of confusion crossed his face. “It appears I have come to the wrong place, my dates and times mixed up no doubt,” He laughed, smile returning. “So long for now,” He said, smiling wider than ever as he picked up the newspaper, rolling it into a tube as he went. The man strutted and spun as he grabbed his trenchcoat from the hook by the door and put it over his arm. In the time I had spoken to him, he managed to answer none of my questions, in fact, I think I was more confused than before, still am to be honest, even looking back. As he opened the door, the dinging bell knocked me out of my confused trance. “Hold on, dude, who the hell are you?” I called at the man with the newspaper. The man with the newspaper stopped in his tracks mid door open, like a cartoon character, and turned around, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Where are my manners, second time tonight. You can call me Death, and I’m sure we’ll meet again, as old friends no doubt. Don’t worry, won’t be for a while,” He answered, tipping his hat at me then strutting out the door, trenchcoat in hand. “What the hell,” I muttered. I ran around the bar counter, out the door, and stood on the stoop, the little bell dinging behind me. I looked out onto the street; he was gone, the man with the newspaper was gone. I stood in the middle of the road for a good couple minutes, puzzled and confused, I mean, what kind of a name is “Death.” The streetlight above me flickered as it always had, the street was silent and deserted apart from the tumbleweed-like trash floating down the street in the wind. One raindrop, then two, then ten pattered down around me in the street, the rain scheduled for tonight seeping in through wet clouds. I let out a sigh as I walked back into the bar. The eccentric man with the newspaper haunted my thoughts through closing and the bus ride home, his image burned into my memory. I wouldn’t have thought much of that man, the man with the newspaper, or at least not as much if it wasn’t for the phone call I received the following morning from Mrs. Acolyte. Mr. Acolyte had passed away from terminal cancer the previous night.


I was so happy. I had been waiting for what felt like so long. But it was here. The weekend was finally here, and that meant that I got to go on another hunting trip. I woke up extra early and had a light breakfast that day. After that, I immediately flew my private jet straight to Africa. Everything was going according to plan so far, and my excitement was growing by the minute. I had rented a Jeep, and was busy packing equipment in the back. But then, something happened. I didn’t have time to react when something hard hit the back of my head, and I was knocked out. *** *Crazy dream.* I thought. Then I realized it wasn’t a dream, because I don’t sleep on the ground, I definitely don’t sleep inside a cave, and I was 100% sure that my house didn’t smell like shit. I tried to figure out where I was, but it was dark. I wasn’t even certain that this was a cave in the first place. Then I noticed there was something— or someone, hiding in the shadowy depths of the cavern’s walls. I pulled out the flashlight that I had packed in my backpack, my eyes taking time to adjust to the bright light. The stranger crept out of his hiding place. The first thing I noticed about him was his nose. He had a really big nose. Big as fuck. It was long too. “Yo What’s wrong with your nose?” I blurted out. The stranger stood there in silence. I repeated my question, trying to hide the frustration in my voice. *Oh.* I thought to myself. “Oh”. I then said out loud. This wasn’t a man. It was an elephant. “Are you an elephant?” I asked, just to be sure. The animal blinked. “What do you think?” He was an elephant. I knew it! This was probably only the sixth time I had ever seen an elephant in my entire life. I was obviously very excited. The creature took a seat, not letting go of the gun he held in his hands. “Unbelievable. Bruh you still can’t recognize me?” The elephant had asked. He seemed to believe that we’ve met before, but he didn’t really look familiar. I noticed something wet run down his cheeks. Then I pointed out how cool it was that his eyes can shoot water. I never knew elephants could do that. The animal didn’t reply. We stared at each other for a couple more minutes, the elephant‘s eyes dispensing even more water now. I wondered how an elephant could possibly die of thirst. Taking a deep, fragile breath, my new friend finally decided to speak. “Those— those are tears.” His voice was shaky. I had a feeling he was sad. “How do you not remember?” The elephants voice was starting to sound more angry and less hurt. “You murdered my wife!” I had no clue what this guy was talking about. I’m not the best at dealing with people’s emotions. “It really do be like that sometimes” I exclaimed in an attempt to soothe the aching creature. Before I could say so much as another word, the elephant cocked his gun,and pulled the trigger. After that, I died.


The day had started before the sun was up, being out of bed, showering, then grabbing a granola bar on top of the kitchen counter for breakfast and arriving for her 7 am-7 pm shift.

This was the beginning of a typical 12 hour shift for Elizabeth, starting off her morning at the V.A. hospital.

At the first of her nursing career she had dreaded her first 12 hour shift, but got used to it after having a few years under her belt, just turning 30 that day.

Elizabeth did her work, having a smile on her face all day because she knew she had a three day weekend coming up.

Her fellow nurses congratulated off and on during the week.

This made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, seeing how much they all cared about her.

She ended her work week feeling exhausted while entering the locker room, following her routine of removing the scrubs, showering off and into her normal clothes which consisted of the jeans and the floral sweater that she received from her boyfriend, Brian earlier that week.

As she left the hospital, she got a call on her cellphone and noticed it was from her older sister, Sarah.

So, naturally she took the call saying “Hey Sis,what's up?” “Well, you’re coming to my house Saturday evening?” asked Sarah. “Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” replied Elizabeth. “Okay, that’s great, but won't ruin the surprise.

Well, I’ll let you get home.

See ya later, love you, bye.”  She got into her cherry red Mini-Cooper, then started driving away.

Now finally reaching the apartment building, opens the door, walking into the kitchen and getting out the green tea from the cabinet above the stove.

Waiting for the water to heat up, Elizabeth thought about the call from Sarah.

Wondering if she was going to have a surprise party or something different.

Sipping her tea was relaxing her, then she started to doze off in her chair, so she peels herself out and goes to get ready for bed.

Later that night, Elizabeth begins dreaming.

It has Brian standing in a room next to a nice, warm fireplace with bright flames coming from it.

He locked eyes with her, while raising his hand which held something in it that she couldn’t see clearly.

He spoke with a slow, calming voice saying “I've been thinking...” Elizabeth didn’t want to wake from the dream, but the alarm clock told her otherwise.

It went off with the loud, annoying “Beep! Beep! Beep!”

She finally rolled over and hit the snooze button.

Sitting in silence for a while, remembering her dream and it made her smile, also realizing that she could do whatever she wanted on her extended weekend, so she decided to turn off the alarm clock and go back to bed. Brian wanted everything to be perfect for this weekend.

He had been planning a week earlier, so he made a call to Sarah on Monday, asking her if he could come over to discuss something with her and her husband, Mark.

He arrived that evening, having a sense of anticipation about what would come next.

He came inside after Sarah answered the door and he heard Mark saying “Come on in! Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” replied Brian as he sat down in the chair by the fireplace. After they had sat down on the couch facing him, he began to explain why he was there.

“I am here tonight asking your approval of me marrying Elizabeth?

I know that you’re all the family she has got, so I wanted to know your opinion of me and anything I can do to make her happy.” “I think you would be a fantastic couple. I appreciate you asking us. We can see that your relationship has blossomed with the time you’ve spent together.” said Sarah. “Well, I agree and you’ve got a steady job with your online business, so you can provide for her.” replied Mark. “Oh, I did have another thing I wanted to discuss with you.” Brian told them. “I was wondering if you guys could let me surprise her by you inviting her over to your house on Saturday, making her think it was going to be just for her birthday, but I would have a special dinner for me and her set up?” “I’m sure we can work something out.” Mark said as Sarah nodded her head.

“All you want from us is to get Elizabeth to come over on Saturday night and to use our house for your romantic dinner?” “That’s right. Your house has much more style than my boring apartment and I think that it would be a much more memorable moment for her with me surprising her.

I’ll pick up the food on the way over and give you my AMC gift card, so you guys can see a movie while I set everything up for Elizabeth.” “It sounds great, I guess we’ll see you on Saturday at 6:30 pm and I will tell Elizabeth to come at 7:00 pm.” said Sarah.

Saturday evening came for both Brian and Elizabeth.

Brian started at 5:45 pm by calling Elizabeth’s favorite Italian restaurant ‘Gabriella’s Italian Bistro’ and ordered two of their chicken alfredo meals.

He picked up his order and headed over to Sarah and Mark’s.

Brian arrived on time, the sacks in-hand along with a bottle of red wine that he bought for the occasion.

As he walked through the door, he found Mark had lit the fireplace for the evening and also handed Brian two red candles and a lighter.

Elizabeth started by thinking about what she wanted to wear for the evening.

She thought about her options for a few minutes and then decided to go with her green & white striped turtleneck with white pants and her brown shoes.

Everything was set up perfectly, just awaiting Elizabeth’s arrival.

Then he heard the doorbell ring and the door being pushed open.

She entered the house, finding it to be dark inside and she walked a little further, seeing the glow from the fireplace with the dim light of the candles.

Not knowing what else to do, she said “Hello?” Brian walked into the light saying “Your table is ready, madam.” She asked him “What is all this for?” when she sat down. “Well, let’s just say for now that I’ve been doing some thinking.” Brian told her. The dinner went on as planned and when they finished the meal, Brian said “Now it’s time for your surprise.”

Elizabeth could tell why she was really here, but didn’t want to ruin the moment for Brian.

Brian left the table, getting the dessert plates out and when he sat the plate down in front of Elizabeth, there was a ring on it and then knelt beside her saying “Will you marry me?” She replied instantly “Yes, I will.” Then they went into the den and sat on the couch.

Brian was looking at a picture on the mantle above the fireplace.

Elizabeth had seen it many times throughout her life and said to him “That was my parent’s wedding picture.”


"What do you think?" He hands me the painting he had been working on for weeks. I look at it. I tilt my head as I rub my chin. I hmm, lower the frame and look him in the eye. That damn twinkle of his, so childish. I. Am. Impressed. "The lady," I start and halt myself immediately. I could say the same thing I always say. ' It's a great piece man.' 'wow, you're so talented.' 'you did this? you're selling it right?' 'wow, no words.' I ponder for a second. Yes, I could say those things, but then I would make myself fall in a bed of thorny disappointments just like I've had in the past whenever he started woodworking. I look at the chair out of the corner of my eye. Sturdy, aesthetically compelling, and impressive overall. I tilt my head the other way and spot the vase he made for me. Its contours and dull colors capture the senses of those looking at it. It's like looking at the Fibonacci frequency in a physical object. Just awe evoking. I look down at my jeans. He drew that Pikachu on it. It looks so badass and so like the manga. In that split second of decision, I realize that he has never made two of the same. He has never made another porcelain related thing. He has never made another woodworking related object. He has never painted on my clothes again. Why? I ask myself this simple yet powerful question. He's bought all the tools to keep working on each and every single one of these hobbies. Why doesn't he stick to them? People throw money at him for him to do one of his pieces. He refuses to take money or even make another piece. Is this guy some type of mad genius? is he trying to add value to his name? Is he trying to simply turn people's souls on fire with his art and let them smoke into nothingness? I can say that the lady, God, the lady looks so real. That I love the way he made the dress look transparent, and her breast so delicate. I want to remark how great her caramel skin looks. It looks moistened. And the flowing hair as she floats on the lake. Wow. I want to tell him how he made the water look so ultra-realistic that it makes me want to tilt it over a cup just to see if it would fill it up. Yet, I also find myself seen his eyes dimming just like they have had a dozen times before. This painting, God, it's so amazing. I bite my lip and stall by humming. I smack my teeth then catch the tension in the atmosphere. I lower the painting to look at him in the eye. He's expectant. He's not being nonchalant. His big brown eyes, perfect color match to his curly hair, twinkle even more wildly. What is happening? I hadn't seen him like this for any of his hobbies... I gasp! Realization. Aha moment. Epiphany. Blind to the fact. Why hadn't I see this before? He's a dude!!! He's a man!!! And not that this is a rule, but yes! He's not motivated by compliments and affirming words! He's lead by challenge. He has never stuck to a hobby because he has been so good at them as to give a damn. He wants, even in his hobby, to grow! "Ahem," I clear my throat, "the lady looks fake." I gulp as I lie. Luckily, he doesn't see it. I take a peek over the painting again. Oh my God, it's working. Look at those arched eyebrows. Those parted lips. is that a smile I see? "The lake can look ten times more realistic." I bullshit, "it could really use more highlights and a little less surrealism." I say as I smack my teeth. I clear my throat again as my subconscious betrays what my mouth is saying. I decide, at this moment, to halt my experiment and hand him the painting. He grabs it and looks at it from afar. "Mmmm," He looks at it. I step to the side to see his expression. I bite the inside of my lip. Is it going to work? The moment becomes eternal. Is he going to get mad? Is he going to stop painting on canvases? Is he going to try another hobby next week? "Wow, you're right, bae." He nods vigorously. "It does need a little work. I don't know how long it's going to take, but I can improve my technique." He nods, turns around, places the canvas back on the stand, sits down, and starts adding more details to it. He takes one, two, three strokes and if I thought it was amazing, this time... He left me breathless. I cover my mouth to avoid him hearing me gasp. To my misfortune, he can feel it in the air. He looks at it, tilts his head, puts the brushes and pallet away. "This is boring." He says, gets up, and stretches his arms. He walks towards me, steals a kiss, squeezes my right boob, and strolls away. "Imma try photoshop. I heard it can be challenging." He walks out of the room and I'm left wide-eyed and mystified by this guy's prowess. I drop my shoulders in defeat, thinking that I've failed to make him feel inspired about something. "Hey," He stretches his neck out of the door frame. "Imma paint something else tomorrow. It's boring but I kinda like it. Thank you, bae, you're the best." He winks. I clench my fists and celebrate. I spin on my heels and dance for reasons I don't understand. I feel alive. I feel empowered. I feel like I helped my man find a passion. Where is he going to go with his newfound passion? Where are we going to go? Is he going to quit his job and support us with his art? Will I marry a successful artist? Could this be my new hobby...? Nah, it's too easy.