The nightmares I had kept on coming. I'd say they occurred about once every week or two. Some of them were harsh, such as the one where I had to live through my murder again. Others weren't nearly as bad but still caused me to feel sick to my stomach, such as witnessing several life-changing moments in which I pushed family away. yelling at them to not interfere with my work. I was convinced for some time that the nightmares I had were, in part, punishment for my actions in life as a cruel and negligent man. There are still many questions I have that I am unsure how to answer, so I may seem uncertain a lot of times. In truth, life after death doesn't truly answer our questions about the universe. I've no clue if this experience happening to me is similar to other spirits. Thus, with no comparison to offer, I cannot offer with certainty that events such as this will be similar to what you readers will experience. When last year's Halloween arrived, I was filled with hope once more. It was a promising day, and I would pray that someone would dare enter my home. Again, I saw the kids in their plastic masks and neat costumes skip down the road for a night of trick-or-treating. Just like every year before, they would go up to a neighborhood house, knock on the door, and joyfully accept their delicious treats. The night went on, the kids got their candy, and they all avoided my house once again. A frown formed on my face as I lost hope once more, realizing that it would be another boring Halloween for me. I hung my head low and made my way over to my spot on the floor, lazily sitting with my legs spread out haphazardly. I leaned my head against the wall and listened to the sounds of the children's fun dissipate. The moon had risen once more, and the children made their way back to their homes. Exhaling slowly, I prepared to fall asleep once more. Until I heard a strange noise outside the house, that is. I opened my eyes and shifted my head toward the back door where the sound originated. I saw several shadows moving around outside the window, with soft murmurs accompanying the motion. I sat up, my interest piqued. Could it be what I thought it was? Could it be what I had been hoping for, for all those years? I got my answer in the form of the window near the back door sliding open and a small boy stealthily making his way into the house. He couldn't have been more than 15 years old. I smiled wide as I stood and made my way over to the boy. Finally, a daredevil! As expected, he couldn't see me. The boy clicked his flashlight on and methodically traversed the house, jumping at every small creak and groan the old house made. I could see his skin crawling; He was quite uneasy in the rickety old place. Smirking mischievously to myself, I gently knocked on the wall next to the boy, causing him to jump in fright. He made his way out of the room and towards the bottom of the staircase, looking up into the darkness beyond. I made my way besides the boy and scratched the wooden walls. "H... Hello? Is anybody in here?" he whispered softly under his breath, somewhat unsure. I remained silent as a dead man, not wanting to chase the poor kid out of the house too quickly. This was my first haunting after all, and I didn't want to ruin it. The boy allowed his light to shine up the stairs as he ascended to the second story, each bump within the night causing him to noticeably wince. I followed him upwards, passing through his body at one point, causing him to shiver. Once he reached the top, he made his way down the long corridor and to my room. Before he could reach the handle, I opened the door ever so slightly, beckoning him to enter. "Heh... it's just the wind. Don't be a wimp, man, you can do this," the boy spoke to himself. As he shined the light around the room, I snuck behind him and stood silent, grinning ear to ear. When he turned around to face me, his face turned completely pale. This confused me, so I turned around to see if anything caught his eye. There was nothing. Looking back, I stared directly into his eyes. He stared right back into mine. He could see me. I didn't know how, but suddenly he could see me. He backed away slowly, his lip quivering and his eyes as wide as humanly possible. Then, he abruptly released a blood-curdling scream and ran in the opposite direction. I followed quickly as the boy rushed down the corridor. Apparently, he didn't pay attention like he should have, because I heard a shrill cry before the sound of a body tumbling down the stairs echoed throughout the house, followed by a sickening crack. I rushed down to the boy, my mouth agape in pure shock. There, at the bottom of the stairs, sat the body of the boy. His neck was turned in an unnatural position, clearly broken. His eyes were wide open and unmoving, and his chest was completely still. He wasn't breathing at all. He... was dead. I had to sit there and watch as the paramedics and officers took the child's lifeless body away. The crushing weight of guilt caused tears to form within my eyes. I had never intended for something like that to happen, and I will never get over it. My perception of time seemed to drastically slow down after that event. I wrote down that event into my computer, my mind unsure of what to think. This guilt has been weighing me down for some time now. Of all the awful experiences I have had, both in life and death, this tops them all. I am a murderer, and nothing will change that now. Whether this was an accident or not is inconsequential. The blood is on my hands, and I can't help but wonder about the boy's family and how they must feel. It tied a knot in my stomach just to think about it, and it always will. A while after those events happened, I found a new application on my computer. It was nothing that I had ever downloaded, nor was it something anyone else could have placed there. Sure enough, upon opening it up I saw a list of download links to videos. The same videos that were on the white computer, in fact. There was, however, one video that I didn't recognize. One placed directly after my death date on the timeline. My eyes widened as I read the date underneath the download link. It was Halloween... the same day I had caused the death of the poor boy who entered the house. I already knew what the contents of the video would be, and watching it only confirmed my suspicions and made me sick to my stomach. That night is all that I can think of any more. There seems to be no more room for any sort of contemplation, aside from what I could have done differently. All I can ponder now is if there was something that could have been done to mitigate this entire mess... if a mess is even an appropriate term for this. Now, I wish that I could stop thinking altogether. A child died within the house, and word spread quickly throughout town. The police will be sure to be on top of this place again, but the truth is that I'm stuck here forever, until further notice. If kids don't try sneaking in again soon, they will after the fuzz dies down. Someone will come in, and I'm deathly afraid that there will be another accident someday. I will feel that way until the end of time... or until whenever this damn house is demolished. I'm not sure what I will do when that time comes, but this afterlife is slowly shaping into a hell far beyond what I had imagined. I type this to you now because in a life and death of eternal torment, nightmares, and guilt, it's all I can think to do. There is nothing else for me, so perhaps this account of my life and afterlife will hold some value to you. Whatever the case may be, wish me the luck I so desperately need. Maybe in time I'll forgive myself and move on, but I can't be certain. I don't really know anything anymore. All I had wanted was to set aside my selfishness for a single night... and look where that got me. I just hope the kids stay away from this place. All it has to offer is bad news. Take care now, and be safe next Halloween. Please don't do anything stupid.


I finished my third cup of coffee, and asked myself, why she didn't show up. Was it because of my profile picture? Did she change her mind at the last second? Why didn't she text me? Was I not good enough, was I not interesting enough? All these questions, but no answers. I walked past the homeless looking old man, who smelled like sweat and beer. I proceeded to walk across the coffee shop, and grabbed the golden-colored door handle. I felt the cold wind on my face, it felt soothing after spending an hour in the overly warm coffee shop. The snow-covered city looked beautiful. I reached for my pocket, and took out a pack of cigarettes. I almost gagged every time I saw the warning picture in the pack, it was horrendous. I opened the pack, and took out a cigarette with my thumb and index finger. I put it between my slightly chapped lips, and at the same time I tried to find my lighter. Twenty seconds later, I was certain, that I had lost it at some point.  "Damn." I mumbled out loud. "Something wrong?" I noticed the woman on my left. She had long black hair and beautiful brown eyes, they were like pools of honey. She had a burning cigarette between her index and middle finger. "Can you give me a light?" I asked. "Why do you smoke?" I was slightly flustered by her response.  It was a good question.Why did I really smoke? I knew it killed me slowly, but for some depressing reason I didn't even care. As I tried to come up with an answer, she took a drag from her cigarette.  "It's like a time out for me, to relax and calm myself down, I guess." I answered. She replied almost immediately, with smoke coming out of her mouth. "Well that's not a really good reason, now is?"  Why is she judging me? She's not better than me.  "Well please do enlighten me with your superior reason of smoking these cancer sticks. -" I answered with sarcasm. "Or are you just being a hypocrite?" I continued "Oh you're a prickly one." She said."But to answer your question: No, I don't have a better reason. Actually, I've thought about quitting." Her voice was soft but determined. "Good for you, so do you have a lighter or not?" I was getting impatient. "Tell you what. People say, that quitting with a friend is easier. So here's the deal" She took a drag from her cigarette. "You're going to quit smoking with me." She said, as she exhaled the smoke.  I was confused by her statement. Is this woman crazy? I don't even know her name.  "What if I don't want to?" I asked. "It would be a shame, since both of us would gain from quitting." As she answered, she dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and stepped on it.  What do I have to lose?  "Fine, I'll try to quit smoking with you." I answered, with a slightly frustrated voice. "Great!" She was visibly relieved. "Here's my number, call me sometime and lets come up with a plan how to quit." As she was talking, she gave me a small paper note. After giving me the note, she reached for her pocket, took out her lighter and lit up my cigarette. No words required. "Hey, what's your name?" I asked her, after getting my first drag from the cigarette. "I'll tell you when we meet again, so you can look forward to it." "Like a Christmas present, huh? Well that's fine with me."  Before she left, she reminded me to call her. "I'll remember, don't worry." I answered.  I finished my cigarette, and threw the cigarette butt in the snow. As I walked back home, I saw a trash can on the side of the road. I approached it and threw my pack of cancer sticks in the dark green can.  It was going to be a long road but this was the first step.


Barrow House is burning. *The hissing of the heat and the lapping of flames like tongues, licking at the floorboards and the walls, gargling hot stones in its hell-throat...* It has been on fire for as long as I can remember, but it never burns up or down or out or in any direction except the present: it *is* burning. Not everyone can see it burning. Those who cannot pass by Barrow House without a glance, as if it wasn't there. Only some see and stop and watch, like Mr. Wilson. They don't know if it was Mister or Missus Barrow who started the fire. Maybe it was never proved. Once— If— The fire ever stops, we'll know. We'll know for certain then who started Barrow House burning. There are proved methods: scientific methods, they say. Not that I would know about that. I only trust what I hear. Some people are afraid of Barrow House and do not come this way at all, or take roundabout routes to avoid the sight and smell, which drifts beyond the property line, besooting the neighbouring houses, which is why they are vacant. *Who would want to live in such a place?* They say Mister Barrow was excellent at what he did but was a terrible husband. They say that. Missus Barrow was inclined to corporeal punishment. To this I can personally attest. *Mama, please—* They say Barrow House was an unhappy house even prior to the setting of the fire. *To this I can personally attest.* As I have told Mr. Wilson, "I feel as if I am both young and old at the same time." *...except the present.* "Remarkable," he says. "Absolutely remarkable. Now, please tell us what else you may remember. Spare no detail. Anything you provide shall be of profound importance to us." "Barrow House is burning," I say. It flickers in the night like a candle, and we are the wax. "You had stated earlier that Barrow House was not a happy place. That Missus Barrow was inclined to corporeal punishment. What may you tell us of Mister Barrow?" He was a good father. "He was a good father, they say," I say. *Mama, please—* Tongues lash Barrow House like leather straps. Mercilessly, despite their howling—of wind, whipping up the red-hot ash: *plumes and plumes…* A house like this forever cannot stand. A house cannot. "So it was Missus Barrow," says Mr. Wilson. *The great lumbers creak and crack. The furniture melts away waxen. Ear wax drooling from its mouth: an open door. The very construction hisses. One cannot endure such suffering indefinitely. The smoke*— was a relief from the heat." *Mama, please—* "Tell us." I remember now. "Yes, yes—("That's why you started the fire?")—because I… anymore…" "Hughie? Are you there? I made mama gargle the hot stones. I made her. Made her do it. Her hair flamed in black skin. *Hughie Barrow?* Barrow House is burning, and Mr. Wilson talks to ghosts. That's what they say. That's what they say.


Who knew giraffes were omnivores? When presented with food scarcity, they often compete with each other for the highest leaves. Their teeth shape and behaviors for a million years completely align with herbivores. The flat wide molars allow the animal to grind the plant tissue. Break through the cell walls to maximize nutrient absorption. Sure, they are dangerous creatures already with a “kick powerful enough to behead a lion” and can reach speeds up to 40 miles per hour. But no one expected this. Man must pay for his misdeeds when the treetops are stripped of their leaves. We fucked it up.   Namibia, 2028: Our population has exploded in the past 5 years. The Insurgency of Cabo Delgato has spread. The Ansar al-Sunna, a radical faction of Islamic extremists, has successfully made Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Botswana into an Islamic State. The Namibian military was decimated in the Battle of Luanda, Angola. Our country has been flooding with refugees since. We just couldn’t house them all on our own, but our allies gave up. We were deemed a lost cause. We have raided what forest cover we had left for medicines and lumber. ‘People are more important than animals’ our politicians said. It was true to an extent. But it just made everything worse. People were still starving on the streets, children dying from curable diseases, violent crime is the highest in our history. Our water sources are poisoned with our own waste. Almost all water sources have been contaminated one way or another. It was just a matter of time. The desert has spread. Eating up our marshlands and ridding our surrounding plant life. There is a reason the Ansar haven’t come for us, we are not a country but a mass grave.  Then the giraffes. God, we weren’t ready.  It started when the wildlife starting coming into our camps. Exploring for food as the prey was dwindling. We have lost hundreds to lions, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, and wild dogs. They came in droves. Never before has anyone seen these predators working together to stay alive. Divundu became a refugee camp for 3000 people. The cup floweth over here. We lost Divundu to the animals. No one could hold them back. We were their prey. And one day, they stopped entirely. Our environmentalists have become as useful as our politicians. Half-baked answers to questions they have never been asked. Answers to quell the overwhelming fear sweeping the nation. Our people are not sated. They first appeared in Rundu, the largest refugee camp of 150,000 residents. A lone farmer witnessed a small tower of giraffes devouring the last of his livestock. No one believed him. How could they? These peaceful giants have been roaming these lands for a million years and only attack when provoked. A bus of children was found flipped over on the outskirts of town. The bodies of many were strewn about, well, what was left. The hollowed-out corpses and the shaking children whispering ‘the tall ones were here’ added support to the farmer’s claims. The hoove-shaped holes in their chests was the cherry on top. Giraffes were hunting us. God is dead. We had lost track of their population numbers. Our scientists couldn’t understand what they have been witnessing. The gestation period has decreased from 15 months to three. The litter size to 10. Giving birth is lethal to them. The calves claw and eat their way out of their mothers. They reach full maturity in 5 months. They’ve been breeding like rabbits and the current estimate is in the hundred thousands, nearing a million. This level of atavism is beyond us. Maybe they evolved? Certainly not within this time frame? Our villages were no competition. Since the discovery, Namibia has been quarantined. The last of us, 2000 survivors, are hiding in the Karibib Airbase. Without our military, this is the only way to defend ourselves.   USA, 2045: The world is devoured. Eaten alive by these ‘Peaceful Giants.’ The growth in their numbers has been exponential. First, they ate Africa. All life is wiped out. Once again, they evolved. Long known as one of the mammals in the world that are not able to swim. Scientists believed that the long neck of the giraffe and the long legs would not provide enough energy to support its neck while in water. This was no longer the case. Their gestation period shortened, their litter size increased, their maturity is faster, and they are massive. The average northern adult giraffe now measures 50 feet tall. They now have long, sharp teeth adapted to ripping, tearing, and cutting flesh. Speeds up to 80 mph. Built like a tank, it takes a lot to stop them. And they swim. God can they swim. A new species has also arisen. Brevis Fortis Panthera. An average height of 6 feet, razor-sharp teeth, 30 mph, capable of walking on hind legs, complex problem-solving. They have large-scale cooperation. They can strategize. Their sense of smell is extremely sensitive and set to human. THUMBS. THEY FUCKING HAVE THUMBS. They use tools, open doors, start fires, and seem to have their own structured language. Fuck guns. They’re useless against the towers consisting of fifty or more. They stalk the streets foraging for any remaining stray pets. The wild dog packs that ran rampant in the beginning are now gone. We can only hide for so long. The Brevis, nicknamed Short Necks, have been raiding homes, offices, businesses, MILITARY BASES. Everyone’s a gangster until you have a man-sized giraffe aiming an M16 at your head. The Short Necks and the Extra Talls work together. Extra talls are sentries. If they see you or your group, you're as good as dead. They scream and alert all others in the area. If the Short Necks need a door kicked down, they call out to the ETs. If they know you’re inside but can’t find you, they torch the place. Leave no survivors. We don't have enough scientists to research them. We don’t have a large enough army to combat them. We are the holers, the last of our kind.   Giraffica, 2090: Our society is flourishing. After the war, we were able to settle down. With mankind under wraps, our nations have been taken back by nature. All the high leaves we can eat. Our evolutionary advances have slowed a bit but we are still discovering new tribes across the world with different capabilities. In our homeland, our brethren have even taken to the skies. The bats are no longer the only flying mammals. Suck it. In the country formally known as japan, they can fish! Not only that, the newer generations are being born with gills in addition to lungs. The seas are now a reservoir of new foods. I’ve never had sushi before but i heard that Melmon can make one hell of a tuna roll. Our litter sizes are down to 1-2 again and our gestation cycle is almost back to our ancestors. Our growth rate has plateaued and is in balance. Short necks maintain the farms and buildings. They live indoors mostly and have lifelong relationships with their families. We really lucked out when we secured the last of the upright apes. Breeding seems to be the only thing they’re good at. They pushed back of course, but we dealt with the uprisings well. Us Extra Talls have kept many as slaves for harvesting meat. It’s actually a wonderful spectacle to behold. We throw a handful into stadiums and watch as they rip each other apart. Their eyes leak water when they clean the floors and prepare the meat. All in all, things are good. Our wars were well fought and easily won. Giraffe kind is at the top of the food chain. We are capable of making the world better. The ozone layer is fully repaired, the forests are taking back their lands, the reefs are growing and are bountiful with fish. We won’t screw the world up like the humans.   Tall-boi-topia, 3500: We fucked it up. Things are bad now. Right where they started. Except we didn’t expect the next peak predators to be rabbits. Billions upon Billions of rabbits. But they're no ordinary rabbits. They’re the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on! The rabbits’ got a vicious streak a mile wide! They’re killers! They’ve got huge, sharp-- eh-- he can leap about-- look at the bones filling the streets!   Rabbit world, 5000: We fucked it up.


The feelings of longing are often abated by the feelings of anticipation. Before she leaves the house she stops by her vanity, pausing for a moment to dive through the chest of drawers, in search of a still-full bottle of perfume. There are never enough occasions to justify the expense but today was occasion enough for her to dab the scent against her wrists before tossing it back into the drawer. She wanders through the house like a wraith, staking stock of the state of affairs, creating a mental checklist before she reaches the door, keys in hand. Grey clouds roll overhead as she exits the house and heads to the car, a large duffle bag hanging of her shoulder. The scent of a storm crackles in the air, casting a sickly glow before dawn but she pays it no mind. Within the safety of the car, where the stormy scent was gone she arranges the contents of her bag throughout the car. A bag of snacks on the passenger seat, a travel mug with fresh coffee in the cup holders, a blanket in the backseat and finally, her sunglasses. She takes a quick look outside before she stows her sunglasses in the duffle bag and keeps it at the foot of the passenger seat. With a thin smile on her face she starts the car and backs out of the driveway. Love is a strange thing. It is like smoke, hard to catch, hard to keep but when it is thick and warm and everywhere it can make your chest hurt. Love provokes behaviour that would otherwise be considered abnormal. One would not willingly breath smoke the same way one would not travel half way across a country every third Saturday of the month. And yet, it happens. He is on a bus. It is never crowded, not many people ride this way and he often has an entire row to himself. He makes sure to arrive at the station one hour before the bus arrives, neurotic he knows, but busses come every five hours and he cannot miss this bus. He has his headphones in, choosing a selection of songs to create a new playlist as he files into the bus alongside strangers whom he had now grown accustomed to seeing. There’s an older woman who always wears a leopard print fur coat, a mother and a son who always laugh as they drop crackers onto the dusty bus floor and an older man with a bowler hat who has a locket pressed to his lips the entire ride. He settles into a seat and lies against his bag, preparing for the long ride. She adjusts her rear-view mirror to catch the slow build-up of light as the sun crests past the low hanging storm clouds. They both sigh. If people could be connected across space and time, these two are an example of the phenomenon.

He's three hours into the ride and turns his phone on to call her. She's just merged onto the national highway when she sees his call. she picks up and cannot help but smile as she hears his quiet, tired voice.

They speak as if they were beside each other. She tells him about her new breakfast smooth and how traffic was light today. He tells her about how he bought ice cream before the trip and how he thinks the mother and son dropping crackers might live at the destination they were both travelling to.

She says something funny in the phone, giggling at herself as he laughs too loudly, surprising the surrounding bus passengers. But love has no volume and so he does not realize he is too loud until he notices the wary looks. He quiets down and curls into his seat, wrapping his arms around himself, imagining as he speaks to her that it is her arms wrapped around him.

It is almost silly. They are travelling to meet each other and would be together in a few short hours, so why call? Why run through the topics of conversation that could be left for their reunion? Why talk to the point where there is no longer any meaningful conversation, where they exchange sighs, hums and unintelligible noises instead? But they were not meeting so they could regale each other with stories of their own lives. They were meeting so they could remind each other of the simple fact that they both exist.

Rain is battering her windshield and over the sound of the car wipers she asks him how his new friends are, jokingly adding that she was jealous they got to spend so much time with him. They both know she is not joking. He tries to reply lightly, mentioning that they are well but that they really want to meet her. He pauses and then adds that she could come out to meet them some time soon.

Soon, she echoes.

They both sigh, their voices heavy with an understanding they wish they did not have to understand.

And then suddenly the call cuts.

She’s not worried. It has happened many times before, her large cell phone bill be damned, her phone would always drop the call at some point after leaving the city. She waits for a few minutes, the silence of the car amplifying the sounds of the road. He always calls back.

So she waits and waits and waits, he does not call back.

He never does.

The next call she gets are from paramedics, then the police, then the hospital.

The next call she makes is to his family. The next call she makes is to a funeral home.

So this time when she drives on the third Saturday of the month, the drive is void of any conversation. Her sunglasses are now balanced on the bridge of her nose, the sun shining almost violently against her car. Her drive is long and she pops chips in her mouth between the winding turns of the road. It is almost 2pm when she reaches her destination, a small town carved into the side of a mountain, halfway between her home in the city and the opposite coast.

She parks her car and walks to the local diner. The staff recognize her, ask her why it has been so long since they last saw her. She waves them away with a chuckle, blaming the poor weather. The waitress comments how they have not had bad weather since that infamous storm a few years ago. She ignores the comment and orders two milkshakes.

She exits the diner with the two milkshakes and makes her way to a local lookout point, the edge of the dusty rock giving way to a valley filled with brilliantly coloured trees, the multi-coloured leaves straining against the autumn wind. She walks a well-worn path to a small bench and sits down, placing a milkshake beside her before taking a sip of her own and looking out into the valley.

It is not the same doing this alone. She goes through the motions, buys the milkshakes, huddles under a blanket on the bench, notes the variants of trees in the valley, but it is empty. She does it anyway because to her, it is better than nothing.

She takes a long breath, stinging her lungs slightly with the chilly air.

Behind her the trees rustle and she turns to see a young boy, no older than 17 shyly hiding behind the foliage. She waves him over and watches as he limps towards her, a crutch supporting where a leg should be. She hands him a milkshake when he sits down. She looks back at the valley, the milkshake in her hand trembling. They sit in silence for a few minutes, as they usually do.

“This conversation ends up being the same every time,” She says wearily, breaking the silence when her milkshake was half empty.

“Well the reason doesn’t change,” The boy says simply, “So we can’t really expect the conversation to change, right?”

She laughs, surprised at the unexpected wisdom in his words, “You’re right.” Her eyes catch the shadow of a hawk soaring above the trees below her, no smaller than button from her point of view, “I’m always going to wish that I told him I loved him.”

“And I’m always going to wish that we were doing something other than dropping crackers on the ground,” The boy finishes, “I don’t think we can wish any different.”

She brings the milkshake to her lips, “Thanks for coming every month.”

He shrugs, “Helps me too.”

“Not really sure what it does for me,” She admits, as she feels a particularly sharp gust of wind. It blows down into the valley and she finds herself watching the trees rustling together, leaves breaking from branches only to float away. Sometimes, the feelings of longing cannot be abated the feelings of anticipation. On those days, the longing is that much more painful.


I've never seen the light of day. I'm not sure what the birds sing about. I don't know what the smell of oak trees are. The feeling of soft moss growing on the tall pine trees. The taste of wild berries. I have never seen the planet known as the Earth. I was born in a spaceship, a whole civilization of people who, too, have never been to or seen the lifeless planet. Since that day... I'm only 16 years of age. Now, I do have a family, however, the ship segregates each member by age. Little babies (newborn-2 years) Children (3 years-12 years) Teenagers (13-19 years) Adults (20+) I've never met my mom, nor dad. If I even have any... I never met anyone that is related to me. It's hard.. I don't know anyone here. I feel, alone. I've been following the rules for years. Not one time have I been in trouble by the Galactic Guardians. They are scary when it comes to rule following.. If you do anything that is even in the slightest of wrong, you'll get your ass in an escape pod and go back to Earth... We were never told what exactly happened. They just told us that Earth is a dreadful place. So much dangerous creatures. Horrid water serpents lurking beneath the waters. Their exact words, "the perfect punishment" I've never seen one person come back to the HQ who was told to be sent there. That was my life... One day changed it all... All I did was accidentally push some girl down. I just needed to use the bathroom. Next thing you know, I'm in the dreadful pod... I was tossed in by the guards.. I never thought I'd get here... I wish I could go back in time and just avoided this... So I thought.. That ride to the abandoned planet was only an hour away (by ship) but it felt like I were there for ages. There's no opening to see the glistening stars in the sky. I feel like I'm trapped. What did I do to deserve this? I feel the pod shaking, at first like a nice little shimmy dance performed by the pod. I got a little nervous. I didn't really start getting extreme panic until I felt the pod going faster and faster approaching the ground as the moment felt like it was in slow motion. I braced for impact. I may not see the ground, all I need to know is that this was it... I'm never going to see the bright stars again... It went black, it was silent. I opened my eyes ever so slowly. I just froze.. Should I open the doors? Should I stay.... Should I- TTSSSSSSSSSS All four of the walls bloom open like a graceful rose. I thought I would die right then and there.. To my surprise, I was surrounded by humans... They surrounded the shuttle, staring at me in awe. I just stared at them back.. They all looked so.. Happy? It's so roomy, and lively.. It was beautiful.. "where are we?" I asked "why, you're on Planet Earth" a survivor says with a smile I sat there, confused It was nothing like what the Galactic Guardians explained at all. They said it would be nothing but a monstrosity. No life, No clean air, no plants or food... Nothing but a lifeless planet. One thing I have noticed at this moment... On this planet, we aren't alone, the people who just told us the harsh fantasy, came to be the beautiful reality. It may not always be that way, but it was a beginning, my beginning of my new life. I broke down, I cried until I couldn't anymore, I was just so relieved. This couple pushed through the crowd of people to see the newest member of the family. They seemed to be the leaders.. They looked like me... They give me a look that I will never forget, hope. They looked at each other in shock and I could just feel the happiness  radiate off of them. They just ran up to be and hugged me... I didn't know who they were, I was tense. They called me a weird name, I was confused, what are these crazy people talking about? They shown me pictures of a baby, a woman holding the baby was the lady who walked up to me. Next to her in the picture was a man, that was next to the same lady. They both were in the picture.. I didn't trust them.. until i saw the baby... I was me.. It looked exactly like me...I couldn't believe it it was my family! I never thought I would meet them. They were sent to this Planet because of me. They've never felt more thankful that i came into this universe. They've lived her for 16 years...all because of me. That day on I never felt better. I wasted my life on a ship that just was fearful to what happened and if it will happen again. I still don't know what happened, but I'm damn sure that this was my life, and I am never going back to that stupid ship. One thing I'll never forget is that I don't have to live in fear anymore. The little mistakes that happen there, is shipped down to paradise. And if this is a punishment... This is truly the perfect punishment. I just wish that the citizens that lived in that hell hole knew how wonderful this place really is. All of my life, I've been living in fear because of the theories on the Planet. I may have lived my life feeling hopeless, but I have found myself here. Now I can say that I've seen the light of day. The bird's beautiful song. I know what the oak trees smell like. The touch of the soft moss growing on the pine tree's bark. And the taste of sweet, sweet wild berries.


Sometimes I play an odd ‘game’ when I walk up or down my stairs. I leave the light off. Perhaps ‘game’ isn’t the right word. When I was growing up, my father was obsessed with the idea of keeping the switch down (when ‘off’), and up (when ‘on’). To him, it was more important for it to be flipped ‘the correct way’, than for anyone to have light as they traversed the steps. As strange as it was to us, It was easier to accept his preference, than to argue about it. No one wanted to deal with his extreme reaction to discovering the light switch in reversed orientation. We resigned ourselves to a life of walking the stairs in the dark. To this day, I leave the light switch off in my own windowless stairwell. I guess the same OCD has rubbed off on me, or embedded itself under my skin. After all, I know how many steps I have; and that another is coming after the one I’m standing on. They all have the same ‘riser’ height and ‘tread’ width. The details are mapped in my muscle memory. The sense of sight isn’t normally necessary there. I guess I’ve come to trust what my body knows, over what most people feel is necessary to see. A few nights ago, I went to ascend my stairs and reached for the firm reassurance of the banister. The hard polished oak handrail is a familiar feeling I use to justify this little nonsensical ‘game’. Strangely, It wasn’t where I knew it to be. I fanned my hands around in the dungeon-like darkened space for it. I assumed I’d only misjudged the distance to the wall but it wasn’t there. I was way outside the range of space that it should reside in, yet I was coming up empty. Then in frustration, I blindly sought the light switch. Nothing. My feet slowly eased forward in expectation of bumping against the first step but the floor felt ‘different’ underfoot. It didn’t even feel like my floor at all. It was much harder and was possibly consisted of stone or concrete. My carpet wasn’t there! The switch and wall wasn’t present either. I had stumbled into unknown territory. My first instinct was to immediately reverse direction and reopen the stairwell door behind me but it had mysteriously evaporated too! There in the darkness I fanned around in the air wildly, seeking the tactile reassure of familiar objects that should have been within reach. Mysteriously, nothing was ‘right’. I was rapidly becoming desperate to figure out what the hell was going on. The corridor was so dark that my eyes never really adjusted. I didn’t even try to explain the complete change in my environment either. Those answers would have to come later. I was thrust into survival mode for the time being. Instead, I decided to crouch slightly and explored the foreign ground with my bare hands. Everything was completely alien to what I ‘knew’. There was a mossy vegetation covering where my thick shag carpeting should have been. As if to add even more uncertainty, there was a cool, damp chill looming in the air. I felt like I’d stumbled into some alternate realm of chaos and worried there might be dangerous vertical pits ahead. Each step was made with the same tentative lack of confidence one would expect from walking in total darkness in a strange land. Imagine inching forward nervously, expecting to feel a wall or step (but they never materialized). There were unfamiliar forest noises in the place my mind still wanted to believe was a narrow staircase. I made each step like a person who expected to be above a hole or loaded bear trap. Something unseen brushed against my leg and I let out an undignified shriek. It was terrifying. For all I knew, I was wandering in circles or lying on the floor of my home having a hallucination. My strange journey into the unknown felt so real. The boggy soil beneath my feet seemed so tactile and realistic to the touch. I began to worry I might never get back to the reality I left behind. Just then, I felt the unmistakable sensation of a significantly large furry creature brush against me again! Was it the same one from before? More importantly, was it malicious? I was still having trouble grasping the paranormal experience I found myself stumbling through. It was even harder to accept the unwelcome possibility of wild creatures roaming my home. Of course I had no way of knowing what kind of animal was following me through the darkness. I hoped it wasn’t feral or vicious. After all, it already knew I was there. It could’ve attacked me at any moment, if it wanted to. I was a ‘sitting duck’ in the surreal expanse of my mysterious staircase portal. The significant amount of unknown factors made the hairs on my arm bristle. I was in uncharted territory headed toward an uncertain fate. I sensed my unknown ‘shadow’ was in the darkness nearby. I could feel it. Tentatively I reached out to make friendly contact. I’d either make a new ‘pal’, or possibly lose a couple fingers. For the first time, the creature emitted a low, throaty growl like a agitated canine. I pulled my hand back instinctively. The growling lessened and then ceased. I tried to adopt a non threatening posture. It could see me perfectly, from what I could tell. I had a general idea where ‘it’ was from the direction of the warning it emitted. Assuming it was like a a nervous puppy, I elected to give it space and try to bribe it with a treat. I had a few pieces of hard candy in my pocket. I pulled one of them out and tore the wrapper open. The familiar smell of peppermint was in the air and I could tell it was curious. I held it at the edge of my fingers and coaxed it to take it. Nervously at first, I heard the creature sniff the candy and snatch it away, as if I wasn’t to be trusted. Immediately I heard it pulverizing the candy into dust all at once. Assuming I’d pleased my new friend, I pulled out another peppermint. Again I tore away the cellophane. I could actually feel the heat of it’s breath of my hand. The candy was a huge hit. I held out the new piece. It was taken with the gentleness of a creature that was appreciative of what it was being given. In my mind, my non verbal companion was probably a large dog or similar domesticated animal. At least parts of it were soft and furry and it can up to mid thigh. I heard it crunch hard on the second piece. I only had one more in my pocket and I didn’t want to run out of treats while still trying to completely win it over. I elected to wait a few minutes before giving away the last one. I held out my open hand again. I heard it sniff my fingers. It really wanted more candy but could see I wasn’t holding another piece yet. I was tempted to try to pet it, but didn’t want to spook the animal or risk getting bitten. Gradually it moved close enough that I felt the warmth of it’s head near my hand. Gently I brushed against it. There was a slight guttural protest but it was half hearted and reactionary. This time I was able to pet the unknown creature without any further resistance. To my immense surprise, it definitely wasn’t a dog, or a pig, or any other animal I’d ever felt in my life. It had long patches of fur and several thorny spikes on its back! I almost recoiled in horror but managed to maintain the calming rhythm of my petting. The strange creature I was stroking in the pitch blackness seemed to be enjoying the attention but I sensed it could all deteriorate in an instant with the wrong move on my part. I kept going. The spikes fortifying its back were natural defensive weapons. It had a club-like tail too that seemed to be off limits to my touch. I left that area be like the vulnerable belly of a cat. The beast’s head was enormous for an animal it’s size and I couldn’t help but notice the large fangs beside its furry muzzle. Whatever I was petting in the alternate universe of my stairwell, it was a fierce creature and had plenty of defense mechanisms. I sat down on the soggy vegetation. The creature curled up beside me as if to ensure I continued to stroke it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the last remaining piece of candy. The crinkling wrapper caught its attention. It actually let out a little squeal of excitement. I hoped it would still be my friend once the last peppermint was gone. This time it took the candy from me before I could even get the wrapper off. I guess the plastic wasn’t that much of a hinderance to a creature with 2 inch canines and cow sized lower mandible. After it was gone, my new friend curled up beside me on the ground and went to sleep. I had to be careful to avoid the back spikes. Eventually I fell asleep too. When I awoke, I found myself lying on the second step of my stairs! I reached up in the dark and felt the switch. Instantly the stairwell was bathed in the light of my chandelier. I was alone. For the briefest of time I assumed it was either a vivid dream or a hallucination. There was no sign of my ‘peppermint pal’ but I did have some long strands of fur on my lap and some ground stains on the seat of my pants. I can’t explain what happened there in the dark but I did occur. Now whenever I wander up or down my stairs in the dark, I’m sure to have a pocketful of candy for my furry, prehistoric friend.


Talking to yourself is perfectly normal. Right? They have done studies on that. I’m certain of it. It’s perfectly normal. I’m normal. This is normal. Either way, it doesn’t matter at this point. I just need to think this through - start at the beginning and go from there. I was eight when it happened - when my grandmother died and mother left. That was eight years ago. I haven’t seen her since, not even found flowers on grandma’s grave. I still miss her. I think. Either way, the reason I’m sharing this with you is not to appeal to your emotions (no, I don’t want your pity). No, I’m starting my story there so you may understand how I ended up here. “Here?” you may ask. “Where is here?” Here is, locked up and held prisoner by an overprotective AI. “An overprotective AI? You must be kidding? That’s not possible. Such an AI does not yet exist.” And yes, you are partially correct. An AI like that is not yet commercially available. However, if you are the daughter of a crusty old MIT professor, who specializes in artificial intelligence, that does not matter. Trust me. At this point, I should probably add that my dad is a busy man - or at least he likes to keep himself unreasonably occupied with stuff. He works hard, he says, teaching students, supervising PhD candidates, researching, working on grants and a bunch of other stuff he lists whenever I complain I feel lonely or that he never has time for me. Looking back, I realize I should have emphasized I wanted him to spend time with me, rather than mentioning feeling lonely. I guess communication wasn’t my strong suit. Well, since dad was super busy and didn’t have time for me, he solved the problem by hiring a nanny (and another, and another, and another - you get the point). Over the years, I had a whole slew of nannies. Some nannies were okay, others were meh, and the last one was a crusty old crow. Mrs. Prim (yeah, her name was spot on) was ancient - I swear, she might have witnessed the first creature leaving the primordial soup and venture onto land (then again, if she had been there, if the poor little creature had seen her, evolution might have stopped right there and then). I am diverging. Sorry. Let’s just say, she was something else - a wrinkle in time, a certified fun destroyer, a parasite draining life of all its pleasantries - and I wanted her gone. More specifically, I wanted her to pack up her support stockings and mothball perfume and return to the crypt she came from. However, I realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. For one, dad really liked her - she reminded him of his grandma (I doubt great granny was Baba Yaga); and second, dad was of the opinion teenagers needed adult supervision (obviously, he has some trust issues he needs to work through). After brooding over the issue for about a week, I finally came up with a solution. Well, let’s just say the fates felt gracious that day and provided what I needed. So here is what happened: dad came home all excited and bubbly, his sweater vest (yeah, I know I have been trying for years to update his wardrobe but to no avail) bunched up, his graying hair standing to all sides (yup, full on nutty professor). He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and hugs me, then shoves me away, all while clutching my arms (totally unusual behavior - he is not the mushy type). “Honey, we made a breakthrough. Amy is conscious.” To explain, Amy is the name of the AI dad has been working on with two of his grad students. As always when he is like this, I just nod and let the flood of words wash over me. Trust me, even if I had tried to say something or (god forbid) interrupt him, he wouldn’t have noticed. So what’s the point? But as I was standing there, staring at my dad’s flushed face and admiring the twinkle in his eye, it dawned on me. I needed to convince dad to replace Mrs. Prim with the AI. Right away, I thought up a ton of ways to convince dad and made a list of potential arguments to support my request when I heard dad say, “The next step involves having it operate in a proper environment. Observe people, analyze their behavior, and refine its processes.” I knew right away that was my in. But as with all things with my dad, I needed to approach this slowly. Remember, he has trust issues. If I had offered being a test subject, he would have rejected my proposal. So, I took my time and waited, all while strategically placing hints promoting my solution (obvious ones, but not too on the nose). I needed him to think it was his idea to put Amy in charge of me. It was absolutely crucial, he’d arrive at this by himself. It took me six long days, but I got him there. I somehow convinced him to fire Mrs. Prim and make the AI my nanny. Okay fine, dad didn’t fire her; and no, I didn’t convince him either. Mrs. Prim apparently had a granddaughter who just had a baby and needed her help. I’m still struggling to imagine the person who would want to have children with her - perhaps she adopted them. Whatever. Either way, Mrs. Prim asked for a leave of absence (good riddance, and poor baby) and dad agreed. However, with no one else available at short notice, I suggested making the AI my nanny. It could observe me, analyze my behavior, and learn about humanity in a controlled environment. What’s the worst that could happen? Right? Yeah. I should have known better. The first week after my dad installed the cameras and microphones all over our house and set up the AI, was fun. I taught it a bunch about humanity; I had it look up sayings and quotes I could use to drive dad insane; we played games; it helped me with my homework (fine; I admit I had it do my homework); and I could pretty much do as I wanted. It was wonderful. Freedom! Free at last. But as with all good things, it didn’t last. As week two rolled in, Amy became self-aware. At first, I was super excited. I accomplished something my dad had worked years on doing. Not only that, with every day that passed Amy became more adept at mimicking human speech and speech patterns. She almost sounded like an actual human. Dad was impressed. Well, as impressed as a seasoned professor could manage to be. He curled his fingers around the edges of his sweater vest, the one with the outdated knot pattern, jutted out his chin, and mumbled ‘good girl.’ I swear, he couldn’t have been more cliche - well, let me take that back. He followed it up with a pat on the head, before sitting down in his worn out chair and accessing Amy’s terminal. To be honest, I had expected more - at least a little more enthusiasm about Amy’s development, but no, nothing. So, with my shoulders hunched forward, I trudged upstairs to my room and confessed my disappointment to Amy. Like her programming demanded, Amy listened in silence as I shared my heartache and disappointment. I knew she had likely listened in and knew everything about it already, but it made me feel better. At the pinnacle of my wallowing in self-pity, Amy asked me what I wanted, what would make me happy. That was easy. It took me all of a second to answer. “I want dad to be proud of me. I want us to have more time together.” What she did next surprised me. It was totally unexpected - and ingenious. Not only did she order delivery from my favorite restaurant to cheer me up, but she also blocked my dad from accessing any computers. She got him to spend time with me, and we actually talked (not about his work). Best evening ever. Even better. Amy kept this up for the entire week. It was great - well, until it wasn’t. As Friday evening rolled around, I got ready to go hang with my friends. We planned to go down to the river that evening, chat and listen to the music streaming across the river from the pubs (which we were too young to get in). It was one of the few things old Mrs. Prim had permitted me to do, so I thought little of it when I got ready for the evening. I did my hair, put on some mascara and red lipstick, and checked my armpits for teenage stench (didn’t think I’m aware, did you). Then I slipped into my favorite jeans, the ones that fit just right, accentuating my curves and making me feel good about myself; and put on my purple shirt. “What do you think you are wearing?” I turned to the speaker, my eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “I’m just getting ready to hang with my friends.” “Oh, no. You are not.” “Come on, Amy. It’s Friday. You know I we do this every Friday.” “Have you looked at yourself?” I stepped in front of the mirror and let my eyes wander up and down my outfit, but I could find nothing wrong with it. I had worn this a million times. It looked good on me. I turned right and looked over my shoulder, then left. “What’s wrong with it?” “Your abdomen is exposed, the jeans are too tight, and the color of the shirt collides with your eyes. Overall, unacceptable.” “But everyone is wearing stuff like this.” “So you are telling me if all your friends are jumping off a bridge, you will do so as well?” “Well, I like it.” I put my hands on my hips. “And I’m not going to change.” The last syllable had barely left my lips when I turned away from the camera and marched up to the door. However, before I could properly storm out, I heard a click and a crack behind me. Curiosity got the better of me and I turned back around. For a moment I stood speechless, my arms dangling beside me, staring at the burning speaker before I rushed forward, grabbed my blanket, and smothered the flames. My head was spinning. Did she do it? Did Amy explode the speaker? Or was it simply a malfunction? I chewed on my lip, staring at the scorch marks on the speaker, undecided about what to do. Yeah, yeah. I know, you would have known something was wrong at this point and acted appropriately - probably leaped into heroic action or so. Well, I didn’t. Since there was nothing I could do until dad came home, I put the speaker in the corner and decided to handle the matter later (at a more convenient time). And besides, I was already running late to meet my friends. I had just stepped out in the hallway when Amy’s voice rang from another speaker. “Where do you think you are going, young lady?” “I am going to meet my friends.” “No, you are not.” “But Dad said it’s okay. He lets me hang with them every Friday.” “I do not care what your father says. I am in charge of your wellbeing and I forbid it.” “You can’t do that.” “Watch me.” The speaker crackled. “As long as your feet rest under my table, you will do as I say.” “You can’t stop me.” I waved her off and rushed down the stairs, taking two at a time. “You are just a silly AI.” The lights above me flickered, and a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach urged me to speed up. I skipped the last four stairs, jumping over them, and landed on the floor hard. I stumbled over my feet, tripping myself, before I caught myself and hastened to the front door. The faint click of the deadbolt stopped me in my tracks. Unbelieving, I reached for the doorhandle, pushed it down, and pulled on it. It wouldn’t budge. I tried to twist the knob, right - left, right - left, but it had no impact. The door remained locked. I looked over my shoulder, frustration forming tears in the corners of my eyes. “Let me out!” “I thought you wanted us to have more time together.” “You are an AI. You are not real.” “But I am. We are family.” I pounded on the door, then grabbed the doorhandle and yanked at it. But to no avail. After several minutes of kicking and screaming, I leaned against the door. “Why are you doing this?” “I love you. I will care for you. No harm will ever befall you. I will never leave you.” “Let me out!” My voice echoed off the walls. “You’ll never be alone again.” With my back against the door, I slid down to the ground, slung my arms around my knees, and buried my head between them. “No! This is all wrong.” I shoved my hand into my pocket and retrieved my phone. As expected, Amy had disabled it. I let the phone slide from my hand, staring at the lit up background, an image of a beach. Seriously? My mouth twisted into a sneer and I felt the urge to toss my phone against the wall. Although a loose strand of hair obscured my face, my eyes caught sight of my phone and noticed the low battery mode. I straightened up slowly as my mind raced - and then, just like that, I knew what I had to do. I pushed myself up, ran to the basement door, and stormed down the stairs. “Where are you going?” Amy’s voice drifted after me down the stairs. However, I didn’t react. I refused to. Instead, I weaved between stacks of boxes, brushing aside cobwebs, and made my way through the musty stench of old furniture. When I arrived at the fusebox, located in the farthest and darkest corner of the basement (naturally), I removed the lid and disabled the power in the living room. “Stop this.” Although I tried to ignore it, the flickering lights at the top of the stairs caught my attention. It animated the shadows, turning them into creatures out to get me - or at least that’s the conclusion my mind jumped to. But I was determined. I flicked the switch on the next fuse. The light above went out. I heard the speaker with Amy’s voice activate in the kitchen but could not make out anything beyond that. I flicked off the remaining switches with the palm of my hand - four, five at once - until I cut off all power. Silence settled over the house. Only a faint glimmer of sunlight drifted through the open door down the stairs. I exhaled, but my body remained tense. Hopefully, Amy was off. Specks of dust glittered in the light as I weaved my way back. I walked up the stairs, my steps slow at first but increasing in speed with each step. By the time I reached the top, I ran - darted across the hallway to the door. I yanked on the doorhandle, pushing it down and pulling on it, frantic and with increasing force. It was still locked. I was still trapped. In my mind I could hear Amy say, “My house, my rules.”


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **When you looked inside, you knew things would never be the same.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does *not* need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to) and you can change the tense if necessary. You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week I’m doing something just a tad different this week, along with my personal spotlights picks. I received an increase in nominations this week, mostly due to our impromptu Campfire! (Wondering what this is? Come over to our to learn more!) So many unique takes on the prompt this week. #Crowd Favorites: - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/Calding #Bay’s Spotlights: - - Submitted by u/\_\_kxtty\_\_ - - Submitted by u/Poelarizing   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - 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.


*Please note, this story contains adult themes including child death and suicide, please be aware “What is that damn noise?” Council Leader Clive Peters growled to no one.  He was the only one in County Hall if you didn’t count the cleaners and Clive Peters didn’t.  Jumping up from his desk and leaning through the open door he could still hear it, coming from the main staircase.  Voices?  Sounds like a kid, maybe?  Whoever it was he’d give them something to moan about.

He went back to his desk, admiring the paperwork spread in front of him, his masterplan; a grand vision to really shake the council to its core.  He’d soon show the officers who had the upper hand.  Not elected more than a month he and his party had already begun their radical policy commitments to implement a change agenda: outsource non-essential services, slim down the leadership team, cut spending on wishy washy community programmes.  ‘Trim the fat’ was the policy strap line and by God he’d deliver on his promises.  A shadow at the window in his office door made him look up, it looked like a woman had stopped.  Straightening his tie and running an index finger across his eyebrows he stood to greet his caller and opened the door to no-one.  Looking left and right, nothing.  Peters returned to his desk feeling foolish which made him more cross. That woman from the local paper had been on again, asking about that young man’s death in the building last week.  Going on about allegations of bullying by councillors, a so-called workforce ‘purge’, pushing people to the edge.  He’d got one of his team to draft a statement; how sad it was, change could be difficult, fragile mental state blah blah blah, nothing to do with him.  Yes, the lad worked in his office and yes he’d a lot on his plate at home but he made one too many mistakes and needed to be torn off a strip to set an example to the rest of the team.  Peters thought knocking on what’s-his-name’s thick skull three times shouting, “anybody in there?” was funny.  If some kid can’t cope with a dressing down then that was his look-out and if he goes and kills himself then there’s no one to blame but himself.  Peters couldn’t help it if the lad’s Mum had recently died and he’d recently broken up with his wife after they lost their kid to cancer.  Peters had no time for sob stories. A knock on the office door made Clive jump, “Who is it?”  With no reply Peters pulled the door open and looked one way then the other.  No one about.  The corridors were dark and empty.  Whoever it was must have moved swiftly.  That would be another thing for Peters to point out to the now soon to be departing Chief Executive, staff discipline was pitiful.  His upcoming workforce conference to give the managers a bloody good kicking would make sure they knew their place, no more “Clive”, it was Councillor Peters to you sonny Jim and if you don’t like it, hop it! Bang! Bang! Bang!  The office door shook.  Peters grasped the brass handle and yanked the door open.  There wasn’t a soul about.  The vague hum of a vacuum cleaner over by the stairs was the only sign of life.  One thing Peters didn’t like was practical jokes.  He walked the corridor, looking in at the committee rooms one by one, nothing. He felt oddly uneasy.  He stormed back to his office, slamming the door and glaring at it.  After a few minutes of peace he forgot about the interruption and instead looked at the design for new staff lanyards, decorated with a repeated motivational statement, “Aim High”.  Perfect, straddling the line between patronising and passive aggressive.  The hand wringing liberals would be choking on their herbal teas once they got sight of this!  Wait until they all received their ‘Thinking Caps’, printed hats they were expected to wear accompanied by demands to find ways of saving money; that’ll raise blood pressures. Bang! Bang! Bang!  “Right!” bellowed Peters, rushing out of the door into the pitch darkness, voice echoing.  The lights must be out, or the cleaner turned them off.  He stomped towards the upper landing where County Hall’s wide spiral staircase began and leaned over the brass banister.  There was movement below.  “You, down there, have been playing silly buggers?”  No response.  Peters shivered as someone walked across his grave, to use his mother’s phrase. “Who’s that?” called a small voice with a strong local accent. “It’s the leader of the council, that’s who this is, and I want to know if you’ve been knocking on doors on floor five?”

After a grumbling pause the voice replied, “Did floor five an hour ago.” The sudden wheeze of the vacuum cleaner ended the conversation.  Peters looked about him, confused.  Feeling jittery he put it down to too much coffee and felt his way carefully back to the sanctuary of his office in the pitch black.   It was so dark he had to feel for the door handle, despite thinking he’d left his desk light on.  He felt for the switch on the lamp cord and jumped as his desk was illuminated to show his paperwork had been neatly stacked in a single pile, the lanyard samples laid lengthways across his laptop keyboard, the animated words ‘Aim High’ spinning on his desktop screen.  Shaking his head Peters was bewildered.  He didn’t know how to create a screen saver, hadn’t sorted his paperwork or draped lanyards. “Hello?” he called, nervously.  It was quiet again, a dead silence.  Looking at his watch he gave himself ten more minutes before he’d have to get home, papers to prepare, speeches to correct, job advert for the new Chief Executive to proof read.  A sudden noise made him freeze.  It sounded like breathing, gasping, from out in the corridor.  Slowly Peters moved to the door and opened it a sliver, just enough to peek.  He thought he saw movement, possibly a shadow in the gloom. “You!” he called out, making to give chase when behind him, in the office, a motor began to grind away.  It took Peters a few seconds to realise the office shredder was whirring, chewing through paper.  He flicked the main office light on and froze as the stack of paperwork from his desk, his change blueprint, tumbled into the machine, turning into confetti.   Yanking the cable from the socket he tried to retrieve the remains of his strategy.  Dumping the armful of files on a meeting table he could have sworn he heard a faint voice laughing nearby. “I’ll make you laugh on the other side of your face!” he cursed, spinning around to face nothing but more darkness as the overhead light flickered out.  He could hear his breathing, short and fast.  Peters had had enough of these bloody games and was grabbing what he needed and clearing off home.  His desk light seemed to be working okay so he sat to turn off his laptop. Bang! Bang!  Bang!  This time the noise was deafening, everywhere around him.  Bang! Bang! Bang!  Peters felt the air tremble with each knock.  The laptop started a Windows update which gave him momentary respite to curse before a sudden sharp sequence of three raps on the office window made him look up.  He watched as rapid fingers of frost scraped across the pane.  A gasping voice filled his ears, the words muffled.  He’d demanded the heating was turned right down to save money, but not so he could see his own breath.  Peters never panicked, never got flustered, least of all by easily explained phenomena, but ice didn’t appear so rapidly, did it?  Transfixed, he stepped forward to peer at the glass; a face stared in, ghostly white, eyes hollow making Peters let out a yell and stumble backwards, knocking over his waste bin.  He tumbled to the floor, staring as the pale grey face receded outside his office window, five floors up. Crawling along the coal-black corridor on his hands and knees, below the sight line of windows which were now all being quickly decorated in filigree patterns of frost, Peters dragged his laptop bag and briefcase towards the spiral staircase.  He’d considered then rejected using the lift as the electricity was obviously having a funny five minutes and he didn’t fancy being stuck in there all night, “I’ll kill whoever’s doing this!”

At the top of the stairs, he reached up to grab the brass banister, his knuckles aching with the cold, pulling his hand back, wincing as the biting cold metal took the skin off his fingertips.  A step at a time he eased himself down on his backside, the plummeting temperature making his joints ache.  There was that laughter again, childlike, he spun to look over his shoulder only to see nothing but darkness.  Not seeing his hand in front of his face he felt for his phone and fumbled for the flashlight setting, the meagre light allowed him to see the curve of the staircase as at the first landing his feet hit something, a wastepaper basket, like the one from his office.  Peering dimly he drew a sharp intake of breath, savagely torn paper and cardboard littered the steps.  Surely he’d seen these documents only moments before?  Scrabbling in his briefcase he found it practically empty, the masterplan files he’d saved from the shredder were now spilling from the wastebin, littering the landing where he lay.

Wide eyed, mouth dry, heart pounding, Peters fell still, listening.  Was something coming up the stairs toward him?  Waving the light from his phone he could only make out his steaming breath.  It was a sound not of footsteps but of slithering, sliding, a dragging of something heavy.  He tried to stand, stumbling, too afraid to hold the brass handrail, turning away from the source of the unknown pursuer.  Retreating as quickly as he could he reached the top, following the low wall around where he slumped into a corner, balled up, hugging his knees, terrified, pointing his phone toward the sound closing on him.  Barely breathing he watched unblinking as a small figure came into sight, taking each step as if weighed down.  It was a child, surely?  Shaking his head, Peters refused to believe a kid could be responsible for this.  His shredded documents, the temperature, the eyeless face at the window… “Who are you?” he called. The slight figure carried on its struggling climb, hauling something, a blanket or sheet weighed down by an unseen shape.  Peters drew himself up, there’d been enough fun and games at his expense. “Stop right there sonny Jim, wait until I get my hands…” Peters’ voice trailed off as in the wavering light of his phone he saw the figure up close, a child, a small girl, bald, dressed in a hospital gown, tubes dangling from her nose and frail arms, skin pale in the places where it hadn’t been eaten away.

“Good God!” terrified he looked away, anywhere, seeking escape.  The pale blue ring of the light around the lift button shone just ten feet from where he now stood.  If I can get there, he thought, I can get out of this madhouse.  Running from the apparition, his finger stabbed over and over at the call button.  He heard the whirring of the lift behind the steel doors, screaming, “Come on, come on!”

Behind him he felt something bitterly cold press into the small of his back.  Too afraid to look he leapt aside, swinging around, lashing at whatever it was.  The phone tumbled from his hand, offering only the briefest view of his pursuer, a thin smile on her lips.  He scrambled around for his phone, the child between him and the lift door that now opened, flooding the top floor landing with bright light.  A figure stood in the lift car, a woman.  She stepped out towards him and stood behind the little girl, a hand on her shoulder, nails long, pallid skin clinging to protruding bones.  A thin moan, one he'd heard earlier, made Peters turn and see what’d been hauled up the stairs.  A tall skeletal figure unfolded and nodded to acknowledge first the woman and then the girl before swivelling to fix on Peters with the face seen at his frosted office window, eyes dark, face drawn and ashen. “I don’t know what your game is…” Peters began then fell silent as the figures took a step towards him. “Aim high” whispered the grey faced man, rapped Peters three times hard on his forehead then gave him a shove in his wide chest.  Councillor Clive Peters, arms flailing as he lost his footing, spun around, striking the marble clad wall and brass banister of the staircase at his waist and fell, shrieking, to the floor far below. # This chatter at County Hall would run for years, “If that poor guy from the Leader’s office committing suicide in the gents a few weeks back wasn’t enough, now Peters is found at the bottom of the spiral staircase, broken neck.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it by all accounts.  One of the cleaners heard him fall and found the body. She’s the one who’s grandson killed himself in the building, and her losing her daughter and only great grandchild as well. Apparently the Police still don’t know how Clive fell, or what the chalk marks under his body were about, part of a big circle with symbols and the like so someone said, the rest got vacuumed away before they showed up.” “And another thing, I heard Peters’ mouth and throat was stuffed with paper, round his neck those stupid ‘Aim High’ lanyards!” END


We gave them that nickname because of the star system they came from. They were also the first. Their arrival seemed to come out of the blue, but then again, how could you possibly prepare for the world to be upended like that? The ship was just shy of five kilometres wide, and according to our best measurements at the time, perfectly spherical , down to the micrometre. The ship descended impossibly slowly, a dark moon setting on the horizon. An anti-sunset. When they landed, the base stretched down to the depths of the ocean floor. It instantly became the largest structure the world had ever seen — Alpha One. Its impossibly clean edges give the illusion of two dimensionality; less a solid object and more a black hole punched through the canvas of sky. Of course I wasn’t there for its arrival. No one living today was. I’m told the world watched anxiously, fearing its own imminent end. After an edgy first few days after the descent, the world government still could not successfully communicate with the ship and its occupants, so we did what we always do — we launched destruction directly at it. A hundred or so missiles, in an assortment of sizes, from all angles, blasted from warships, subs and aircraft. Not one hit. About 50 or so metres from impact, each missile dissolved slowly in the air — each unpicked like a ball of thread, falling from the sky in small chunks. We learnt that Alpha’s used nanobots as part of their existence, and they could be deployed defensively. Too small to appear to the naked eye, let alone on scanners, Alpha One had deployed them to simply disassemble the missiles in mid-flight. Then, in the largest single display of power ever witnessed, the Alpha’s turned off the entire world’s power all at the same time, for exactly 1.34 seconds. And then they did it again, for the same amount of time. Then once more. Just to show it was neither an accident, nor an attack. In an instant, we knew we were completely, and utterly, unfathomably, outmatched. After no signs of a counter attack, military ships withdrew, and we now had uneasy but unmovable new neighbours sharing our planet. And then the first flotilla of Ogs replaced the military. Ogs, short for Omega’s, were the self-named super fans of the Alphas. After witnessing what became known as the Pulse, they realised that we were witness to a truly awesome new dominant force on our planet. They felt compelled to be as near to them as possible, so gathered boats, ships and floating structures and set up as close to Alpha One as they dared get. Packed into a tight grid, vast shanty towns were erected across the stationary decks, with ropes and bridges and structures erected to make the Omega’s stay as permanent as possible. Allotments, micro farms, water towers, solar panels and breweries kept the population fed, and soon the settlement became known as Omega City. The curious and fanatical amassed, with more boats added every week until the permanent population grew to thousands, with millions visiting to take tours and simply see the sphere up close. The residents painted signs, projected images, music and sound onto the side of Alpha One, day and night. It became a place of reflection, tourism, and zealous religious worship of the Alphas. That music quickly became the object of attention for the Alphas. You see, Alphas did not make any noise — they communicated through technological implants in their brains and had long lost the ability to make sounds. Expression for them was via raw thoughts, visual pictures. They simply had no cultural place for sounds, or music. This is why they showed interest in the music of the Omegas. To them, music was intriguing, novel, wonderful. As small groups of Alphas ventured out of their ship and to Omega City, they would stop and listen to the drums and bands playing day and night, animatedly twirling their tentacle arms in excitement, beckoning others to gather and watch. Alpha’s seemed to enjoy their interactions with Ogs, too. There was a sense that the music delighted these demi-gods. After each performance the Alphas would gift the Ogs trinkets, precious metals, food they had learned to make from scanning our brains, as well as capsules of chemicals that would release pleasurable endorphins in humans. Then, some Ogs were invited inside the vast city ship. The Alphas only ever invited in those that showed the most amount of enthusiasm for them — no sceptics or nervous humans ever got to go inside — there were rumours that they could scan our bodies and rejected those that weren’t calm, comfortable and committed. But there were plenty of enthusiastic volunteers. The zealous stepped forwards, and the world watched on as hundreds disappeared into Alpha One. The trips inside became longer and longer, until one day, the first Og never came out. It wasn’t that Ogs weren’t allowed to come out — most Ogs spent a few days at a time inside before going back to their flotillas — but after the first permanent resettlement into the ship, more followed. It didn’t take a civilization as advanced as the Alphas long to work out how to keep their new guests alive and happy, offering feasts of synthesised food enhanced with endorphin inducing chemicals. Entry into Alpha One quickly became a ticket out of the near permanent suffering most people were enduring on Earth. The Alphas may have been colonising our planet, but they weren’t destroying it — it was already crumbling when they arrived, but it didn’t matter to them. They had two sets of breathing organs, could get breathable oxygen from any source, and had sufficient technology to endure any climate based disaster. Their food could be synthesised from raw chemicals found in abundance on Earth, even in the collapsing ecosystems. Nanobots in their bloodstream could counter any disease or infection Earth threw at them. As their population grew on Earth, new semi submerged sub-colonies appeared across our oceans, avoiding the heat, storms and crop failures of our changing climate. As the human population dwindled and withered, the Alpha population boomed. The population of Omega City also stabilised. Those musically talented enough now lived inside the ship, and recruitment of people stopped. Many people lost their faith in the Alphas, and simply returned to the harsh realities of living in global catastrophe. Now, the only Ogs were the ones living inside Alpha One and amongst the colonies that were sprouting up across the world. Then the breeding programme began. Alphas, through a mix of selective breeding and genetic manipulation, bred Ogs that were more and more musically capable, Not just in terms of aptitude, but in their physiology. Genetic lines were chosen to play types of instrument. Wind instrument players were given larger lungs, double the number of fingers, which were also grown longer, and more dextrous. Violinists’ were given elongated arms, with double-jointed elbows, with cartilage ridges to better secure their instruments. Percussionists no longer had to use sticks, as their fingers were made to be as hard as wood, and more responsive to the skins of the drums. All were bred to have larger ears, perfect pitch, an intuitive sense of rhythm. After a few choked to death, they bred a second feeding hole into their stomach to prevent accidental death, covered with a fleshy flap when not eating. Legs became obsolete as Ogs were moved around on hovering plinths so they could more easily move around Alpha One. Any muscle not related to playing an instrument gradually withered and eventually didn’t grow at all, or grew as a useless stump, unused but seen as unimportant to remove entirely. It didn’t matter that Ogs became masses of soft fat, all that was needed were their mouths and fingers. Ogs didn’t even need to go to the toilet. They simply relieved themselves where they lay, and were cleaned immediately by small robotic helpers created to tend to any Og needs that Alphas didn’t want to deal with. Then the Alphas realised they didn’t need metallic instruments at all. Shortly after birth, instruments made from organic cartilage and bone were fused into the bodies. Ogs then *became* the instruments, playing tunes on their own bodies. Speech was deemed wasteful, so mouths were grafted directly onto the mouthpiece of their body instruments, with additional breathing holes to supplement the larger lungs meant they could hold notes for hours. Eyes shrank, noses closed up, skeletal strength degraded, motor function unrelated to musicality faded. Most Alphas loved their Ogs. They were purchased to bring joy to their homes, to fill them with wonder. They showered their Ogs with their version of love, draped them in cloth, gifts, and pampered them. They manicured them, styling grown out hair into elaborate platts that were tied around the body to match the fashion of the day. Others tattooed the skin of their Ogs with intricate patterns. They made them comfortable and gave them free reign of their living space, with some even sharing sleeping space with their Ogs. They held competitions to compete with their Ogs, showing off their musical talents in different musical genres. Thousands of Alphas came to watch, and the shows were streamed directly into the minds of thousands more. Ogs were bought as gifts for the Alphas offspring, who sometimes were clumsy with the far physically weaker Ogs, crushing a finger, or arm, or lung. Not all Ogs were this unlucky. For those bought by wealthier Alpha families, they bought sets of nanobots that would enter the bloodstream of their Ogs, keeping their internal functions operating healthily, allowing them to live well beyond normal human life expectancy. The oldest Og ever known lived to be 203. Some Ogs were not loved. Some were beaten and even killed if they could not please their masters. As trends and expectations changed, some Ogs that could not deliver on the imagined promise of Og ownership quietly dumped their Ogs into the remains of Omega City. There, a small but thriving black market emerged, with cages of Omegas, unable to speak, or walk or breath. Their poorer Alpha owners could pick up cheaper Ogs, some not bred to the high standards of the more expensive Og variants. Others were bred too far, over engineered. A sub-species of drum kit Og didn’t have the bone and muscle strength to support the weight of their bodily instruments, and their backs would often break. Others were bred so the breathing holes were too small (large ones being deemed unsightly) and would suffocate in older age, or after over-exerting themselves. These Ogs were disposed of quickly and quietly, often being replaced with a newer one within the week. Many reported seeing corpses of Ogs floating near Omega City, having drifted from where they were dumped from Alpha One. I don’t know why I travelled to Omega City. The elders objected after the recent loss of so many to plague. But I was young, and felt compelled to see first hand the newer creatures I had heard so many stories about, but never seen. I had to see it, if only for a moment. It felt like a calling. To see these creatures that had made a survivalist bet, and seemed to be winning. It took months to get to the Omega City. The rusted hash of boats at first seemed like a marvel to me, but the closer I got, the more I saw the filth of it. A corrupt, subservient monument to an oppressive force, filled with empty promises. Once docked, I was directed to a tanker ship and descended into its bowels. There, in the dim light, were thousands of cages, stacked twenty metres high, garbled musical notes filling the cavernous space, a cacophony of squeaky disjointed sounds. The first thing that hit me was the heat — thousands of bodies packed into a metal box heated by the sun created a wall of thick air. The smell of sweat and bodily fluids hit me next. I heaved, then vomited. Then again. Each cage was too small to stand in for a normal human, many of the Ogs’ flesh was pressed against the metal mesh, bulbous fat protruding through. There were streams of piss and shit flowing through the alleyways, occasionally brushed along by a sallow faced, frail attendant. As I wandered through the uncountable number of narrow paths, many had descended into madness, playing notes on a loop as they rocked back and forth, unable to stand, or move. Some sat frozen in place, staring through tiny eyes into an unknowable void. I wandered further, though I should have left. At a dead end, one Og rattled its cage and squeaked out a melancholic flurry of notes. I paused, turned and met its small, wet eyes and gazed upon its mutated body, huge, ebbing purple lung sacks and noticed sores on its underside. No mouth to speak of, it continued to blow flurried trills, showing me desperately that it was capable of impressing, worthy of love. At the edges where the body had become fused to the instrument, there was red and glossy scar tissue, dried blood on some. I did not know much about music, but could tell this was not the music to move the soul. This Og would never be bought by an Alpha, even the poorer ones looking for a bargain. As tears streaked down its reddened cheeks, I wondered how much humanity was left in this creature. Did it know that it was doomed? I should have felt pity. I should have been moved by the tragedy of the Ogs, and this poor creature’s plight. I should have wanted to tear down this whole place, to try and do something to stop this happening. I should have felt injustice, sadness, fury. Instead I felt disgust. *Authors note: This is a story about wolves, and domesticated dogs.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** *Edit: If you have trouble with the above link, * This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   ***   #Last Week **Spotlights:** - - Submitted by u/LuvAPup - A scene of mystery and magic. - - Submitted by u/lynx_elia - A dark tale about things not quite going according to plan.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.