Forbidden Expedition – a Covert Exploration

The air is dense with silence. My energy is focussed on resisting the soothing draw of mesmerisation, a natural by-product of rhythmic breathing: breathe in, hold for three, pause, breathe out, repeat. When my focus fades and my thoughts slip into the pre-sleep relaxed unconscious state, I pinch the tender skin on my stomach, jolting me back to consciousness. Mindful of the night vision camers, I keep my eyes closed tight, ignoring the tiny electric green glint that flashes in the top corner, angled towards my pillow. The four walls that encase me are the blackest black, pure darkness, intentionally designed to make the lure of sleep irresistible. My eyelids are beckoned towards heavy relaxation, my body starts to succumb towards dreamland.

The Waiting

Sometimes I am no match for the instinctive need to sleep. The night time feels like grasping with bare hands at water flowing from a tap, my body desperately dehydrated, but unable to contain the liquid for longer than mere moments. Finally, and quite possibly in the nick of time, I hear the much-awaited swish-swish-swish telltale sign of the 2am bed-check. The owner of the sound is one of the watchdogs, wearing plastic rain pants to keep warm and dry. The rhythmic swish of nylon rubbing, back-and-forth, reminds me of the feel of ski pants, of snowflakes falling on my upturned nose and gracing my outstretched tongue; of sitting on a chairlift that invites a biting wind to frost my cheeks. Adrenaline jolts through my body, setting my nerves on edge. I envision my heart beating clean through the left pocket on my smooth cotton pajama shirt. Carefully, I regulate my breathing, adding a little extra intensity to the exhale, and wait for the glow of the flashlight to cease. And it does, which signals the beginning of counting, first in English, then French, followed by Russian and German. As I reach the last 100, I begin slithering, ever so slowly, to the ridge of the bed.

The Escape …

With the pillow nestled in the place of my head, I army crawl across the floor, carrying my full weight on forearms and toes. My notebook and pen, nestled into the crevice of my left pant pocket, gently bump up-and-down with each jerk forward from my left knee. Excitement wrestles fear to the ground, and I just know that the harshest of punishments is outweighed by the probative value of my late-night exploration. Darkness, something that used to be a catalyst for fear, brings comfort because it heightens my senses and aids in camouflage. The ring finger on my right-hand cruises over the tell-tale notch in the tile floor, signaling the end of the hallway and the beginning of my entry into the Realm. Carefully, I pluck out two tiles and ease my body into a tunnel of darkness. For the briefest of seconds, I experience an antonymic state - I enter the Realm exactly as I exit the Base.

Mindful of precious resources and the unstoppable clock of time, I greedily reach for my stash: metal blue flashlight, what remains of a snickers bar, and a fleece-lined vest. Like Pavlov’s dog, my body loosens and my mind lasers on the insurmountable task before me: satiate my insatiable curiosity to discover the gems and hidden truths. Only revealable in the Realm. A self-satisfied grin that rivals the one renoun by the Cheshire Cat overtakes my horse-like features; my shoulders square back in pride. By golly, it seems that 6-months of repetition and rigorous training are paying off! … A flash, quick like a streak of lightening, flicks between the mountainous crevices that form the circumference for my surroundings – a clue to wrap it up, pack it up, and scurry back to Base. The rising sun is my clue that what felt like mere seconds accounts for the passage of 180 minutes, and ergo, high time for me to get my tushy back to base, before … my body stiffens at the prospect of being found out. Leaving the Base, much less exploration, is forbidden. And violators are ixnayed from the pack, out of necessity and with good reason. Because conformity and compliance keep us safe, alive.

“Putting out a match with a fire hose” gnarls a disgruntled voice from deep within my unconscious – this one spouts my Id, the “Inner Sinner” that entices me to take risks and be dangerous. In reflexive response, my right foot juts up-and-down, like that of a petulant child building to a tantrum. A mental photo of my Inner Sinner, clad in black, clenches her fists with crossed arms and mutters “not fair”. In a sugary sweet retort, my alter ego, dubbed “Sweet Susie-Q” singsongs “life ain’t fair, sugar plum”. My equilibrium is mollified, maybe because I have lived too long to believe that one can exist in a panacea of happiness; satisfaction is the result of competing forces. The strangely pleasant sensation of sweat trickling from my suprasternal notch, straight down, through my breastbone and into my navel, an innie no doubt, draws me to the present. Daylight is winning the battle of darkness, and the crew will be rising straight away. As I trot back to the slot of entry, I emerge into the Base, simultaneous with my exit from the Realm. And I accept that my insatiable curiosity is my dark abyss.

Like a record player set to loop, my mind reels to the cause of reality, which I best understand by cataloguing time into the “then” and the “now”. Back then …Contrary to what is labeled within the name, the frightening impact of the COVID-19 Pandemic was felt most keenly during 2020, with the effects malingering clean through 2021, eventually fading away, like a fart in the wind, by the Fall of 2022. During the pandemic, humanity took cover indoors and watched as the virus reigned a war of uncertainty and terror. And, true to form, people developed an immunity to the scandalous effects of the pandemic. Most moved forward and recalled this era when casually recalling the path traveled to arrive at the present. This time serves as a reminder that time heals wounds - no matter the scandal or atrocity, life moves on.

By 2023 civilization had returned to the fast-paced living pre-pandemic, lingering effects were largely felt by those that suffered tangible loss and didn’t want to return to the 9-5 grind. It seemed that the pandemic came and went, nothing more than another accurate predication by the Simpsons, a prolific television series that is both idiot and savant. Fast forward five years, and women were failing to conceive, monogamy was a word known for its dice and rules (a.k.a. a boardgame), and individuality was a thing of the past. Women were the same height and weight and came in a variety of blonde, brunette and redhead, the same for men. Plagues, viruses, STI’s, and radiation took over towns, cities, countries, and then continents, leaving the lucky 100 – I was collected and tagged at number 99. We forged on berries and crafted an underground habitat – leaving the sanctuary is prohibited because rules are made to accommodate the lowest common denominator.

I slung my exhausted body into my single bed and prayed for a few moments of shut eye before my hallmates roused for morning breakfast and assignments.

As I drift between the sacred state of lucidity and sleep, Susie-Q tut-tuts about the risks associated with my selfish ways, reminding me that I might be responsible for the extinction of the human being. The last thing I remember, before I am taken over by sleep, is Inner Sinner, urging me forwards, promising awards and recognition for saving humanity – for becoming a true rival to Noah’s Ark.

Self-satisfaction creates a feeling of euphoria … I love it, and pretty much nothing is going to keep me from continuing my exploration and research. Contest 247:	Prompt - The Great Unknown Story:	A world where exploration is forbidden – a story about a character who defies this rule to satisfy her innate curiosity.

Author: Elysa


The metal bars slammed shut and the keys turned as Kalam stood from the corner he was just shoved into, he lunged at the bars with a seething rage, "You can't keep me here forever! You hear that! You're all gonna pay! You can't keep Kalam here forever!" In the cell opposite him emerged a face from the shadows chuckling, "Of course they can't keep you here forever, you're going to die someday" the man said He kicked the skull laying on the floor to the stone wall of his cell then paused, "Or maybe they could... My apologies Cassian" he said to the skull Kalam diverted his burning scowl to the old man, breathing heavily Bemused, the man stepped back startled, then he took a step forward and squinted as they held eye contact, "What was that?" "What?" Kalam snapped "That glint... in your eye... I've only seen it when... Ahhhh" “When what? What glint?” "I see you've met the Wizard...", he stepped forward, illuminating the wrinkles on his face "You met the one" He pressed his face against the bars "Ohhh but you didn't just meet him, you really really met him" he said, stroking his long grey beard Now worried, Kalam relaxed his scowl "What? What do you know?" "Don't waste my time young man, I know you met him, the one they call the Time Walker" he said now gripping the bars till his knuckles went white Kalam staggered backwards "How... How do you..." "He leaves an imprint on the souls of those he connects with, and you, you have his signature in bold" "That's... " "Conceited on his part, I know, but then again, I suppose we all have our quirks." he stepped back from the light, leaning his back to the wall He looked up at the ceiling with half a smile, shook his head, "So what prophecy did he tell you?" he scoffed "Wizards... Oh wizards and their prophecies, that's all they're good for anyway..." he smiled "They are the only ones with the power to single-handedly stop this madness, but all they do is push poor young saps like you to battle in the shadows." With folded arms, he stared into the darkness shaking his head, "So, spill it young fellow, What did he tell you?" Kalam dropped his head and began to speak *He said just a couple dozen particles drew the line* *Between the King's chains and mine* *But iron is more stable than gold* *That's why Kings surround themselves with walls of stone,* *Reinforced with steel columns, gates and doors* *And men with iron armour and steel swords* *Eventually, the weight of all of that takes its toll* *The weight of the screams of pain and hunger and sorrow* *And when those screams are sharpened by the pressure of souls,* *Then heads, oh heads will begin to roll* "Ominous..." "Ya..." Kalam sat, still staring blankly "Wait, he said iron is more stable than gold?" Kalam nodded slowly, "What does that mean?" The old man held a vapid stare like he was in a trance, rapidly tapping his right foot... Pensive... Then he stopped He turned his blank stare to Kalam "So?" Kalam shrugged, "What does it mean?" "It means we'd better get to work" he replied as he receded to the shadows at the back of his cell "What work? And who are you by the way?" The man knocked on a sequence of stone tiles on the floor, four knocks, then seven, then one and finally, two slow gentle knocks.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m here to talk about yet *another* author! Let’s give a big congratulations to… ... u/Xacktar! His serial, Captain’s Orders, came to an end just a few weeks ago, with 19 chapters. That’s quite a feat. I’m so happy to have gotten to know Xack over the last couple years. He’s been an active member of the rWP and rSS community for a long time, way before me. You can often find him on the Theme Thursday threads, making everyone laugh, as well as on our discord, where he’s encouraging writers and chatting about random things (. ) Again, congrats Xack! I hope you’ve taken some time to treat yourself to something nice.   ***   #Captain’s Orders - Written by u/Xacktar **A brief synopsis from Xack:** A socially-inept police cadet gets assigned to the enigmatic, and poorly named, '22th' Precinct. Assisted by a former classmate and an eccentric coroner's assistant, Joe attempts to solve a murder, uncover the truth of the 22th, and keep the public safe from the force of nature that is Captain Boss. *If you haven’t had the chance to read this yet, get ready for some belly laughs! I highly recommend kicking your feet up and making an afternoon of it.* | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/Xacktar about Serial Writing Let’s take a few minutes to see what Xacktar has to say about writing a serial! ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Cutting a story apart into sections made me throw out a lot of my usual habits and forced me to really get into the small bits of sentences and dialogue to keep the tone throughout the piece. Comedy alone is difficult, comedy in a serial was so much so. I'm not sure I succeeded in keeping the levity alive throughout the whole piece, but attempting to do so really pushed me to use new skills and techniques. A fellow redditor /r/Ryter had some great advice about slowly making things 1% more funny and I had to put that in practice a lot over the last few weeks. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Hearing everyone in Campfire lose their composure after the readings was definitely a highlight. Captain Boss is so much fun to write and twice as fun to read. I love, love, love making him abuse the English language. There is this fine line I have to keep between making his tirades completely off-base while also keeping them understood by the audience. Running in-between that line is always immensely fun, and incredibly satisfying when it plays perfectly to the audience. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Keeping the tone consistent and giving all the characters a moment to shine were my two biggest issues. I attempted to solve the tone issues with the advice from Ryter, which helped but not to the level I had hoped. The character issue was a bit trickier as I'd added a lot of 'third wheels' to a story that, at its core, is all about Joe and Captain Boss. I tried to fix it by spreading out the ending and tying up some of the loose ends with each character, but I think I failed a bit as it left Captain Boss out of the finale. It's something I need to go back and examine at some point in the future so that I can learn from it. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Having a strong, well-developed character idea helps a bunch with a serial. If you have a character who can cause a lot of change or emotion, it makes it easier to roll with the ever-changing themes and limitations of Serial Sunday. It's a great place to put those characters you never had a story for, you throw them out there into the Serial and the setting and plot and everything else just grows around them. Also, don't be afraid to fail. Things like this are perfect for trying new things and seeing how they fly. The weekly feedback gives you a good idea if your experiments fly or fall so go ahead and push yourself! This is a great place to jump out of your comfort zone and tackle something new!   ***   Xack, thank you so much for taking the time to talk and share with us. No two writers’ experience or advice is the same, and it’s why I love taking the time to do these. I very much enjoyed watching your writing and characters grow over the last several months, and all the laughs you gave me along the way. Fellow writers and readers, please take a moment to leave u/Xacktar some love in the comments below! You can even ask him questions! Even completely random and silly ones...   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It was just a normal day out on the boat - a salty sea breeze blew lazily across the water, the sun and the heat were high, the waves lapped gently against the bow, seagulls flew above and called out to each other. Yup, it was a perfectly normal, almost cliché, day. It was exactly what I’d hoped for when I set out this morning; a picture-perfect postcard day. I’d been here only 20mins but already my tensions and stresses had disappeared, just like the coastline beyond the horizon. I could barely see nor hear the busy port from which I’d set off. It was almost like I’d left my debt and unemployment in a neat little box on the jetty, and, with any luck, it would be gone before I got back. The thought did cross my mind to stay here forever. I could learn to fish. I could travel from country to country and take on little jobs for extra cash when I needed. I could make friends all over the world, never needing to face the darker side of life. I would be my own captain, a slave to none. It would be perfect! ‘If only,’ I sighed. I shook off the feeling. ‘No time for melancholy here. Just enjoy the sway of the sea under the boat. Let it ease your mind like a masseuse.’ It helped to talk to myself like one of those calming apps. Time passed and the sun began to travel West; it would be dark in a few hours. I suppose I’ll start on my last iced tea. Story-telling dictates that I should be drinking beer but I could never like the stuff. So iced tea. I stood up to get a bottle from the cooler and heard a splash. That’s nothing unusual; fish occasionally splash about or the gulls dive in when on the hunt, but for some reason this sound caught my attention. It sounded different somehow. Should I go check and see what it might be? Maybe it’s the answer to all my problems! You never know what lies in these waters, they’ve always said, so why not that? Looking over the side and I couldn’t see anything immediately. I searched hard for any indication of anything in the water. It could have been nothing. I leant in lower, my face was inches from the surface. Still nothing. What on Earth could have made that splash? Two eyes snap open at me. I screamed. I screamed so loud the birds started screaming back. I was still screaming when I pulled myself back into the middle of the boat. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL WAS THAT?! My mind raced from blind panic. I’m out here alone with that thing, whatever it is! I need to get back to shore NOW! I scrambled up and ran to the engine. I yanked frantically at the cord. Silence. Yanked again. Nothing. SHIT! This was not the time to be dead. I yanked again over and over and finally the engine sputtered to life. YES! Time to get the hell out of here! But I wasn’t moving. There was no jerk forward to get home. The engine was on and loudly chugging but I was not moving. What’s going on? Why am I not moving? There’s a thing in the water right there! I couldn’t understand what’s happening! Why am I not moving? ‘Come on, come on, come on.’ I slapped the engine, willing it to move the boat forward. Nothing. I started crying. I was so scared. So very fucking scared. I wouldn’t be able to get away. I didn’t have a weapon. I didn’t know what was coming next. I was just so petrified that all I could do was cry. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. I was going to die here. Alone. Everyone would be looking for me and they would never find me and I was about to be eaten by that monster and I couldn’t save myself! I just had to come out today. I just had to say no to company. I just had to take a day for myself. Fucking idiot. Now you’re going to die. I wiped my eyes. If this was the end, then I was going to try to go with some class. I actually laughed. What class? I’d almost pissed myself a moment ago and here I was talking about class! The nerve. I put on a brave face and waited. Just waited. For anything to happen, really. I waited and waited. The engine cut out. I wasn’t sure if I was out of fuel or it just died. I watched the sun setting. I sniffled but held back the tears that threatened to flow. Class, remember. The sun started to dip below the horizon and I knew my time was up. I knew all the luck in the world couldn’t save me and I was ok with that. I’d lived a decent life and if I was going to go, so be it. I tried not to cry. The orange hues in the sky started to turn purple and they, in turn, became a dark blue, beckoning in the night. Stars began to twinkle in the sky and it was so beautiful. A beautiful last thing to see. I smiled and tears started to roll down my face. I just hoped it wouldn’t be painful. It was dark now and I could only hear the birds cawing at each other as they returned to their nests. Waves broke gently against the hull and I was being rocked back and forth. How ironic that hours ago this is exactly what I’d wanted, so peaceful and serene; just me on the boat without a care in the world. I could hear my breaths and they were deceitfully calm. My heart was beating steadily and I could feel the tension rising in my shoulders. All around me was quiet and calm. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. And then I heard it rise out of the water behind me. Every bone in my body froze and willed me not to look but by God, I was going to look my death in the eyes. A noble end for a noble life. I rotated and, surprisingly, all I saw was a column of murky water in front of me. It moved like an endless water fall but flowed seamlessly into the vast ocean. What the-? Cold, salty brine crashed around me and I was drenched instantly. My eyes stung and it took me a moment to blink away the pain and restore my vision. My heart was pounding, maybe from the cold? I couldn’t tell. The impossible column was still in front of me and as I looked up, I realised it was a body. Vast wings attached themselves either side of it and above me was a head, as if carved from the water itself. I couldn’t feel my heart anymore and hot fear rushed into my ears. No. It couldn’t be. It’s impossible. This can’t be real. I must be hallucinating. Surely this can’t be real. Was that-? It looked like... A Dragon? I was struck with awe at the clouded beauty before me that filled up the night sky. A dragon. A BIG dragon. Reality came crashing down around me and I wanted to weep. Anger, fear, confusion and disbelief swirled in me like a whirlpool that overwhelmed any common sense I had left. Not that any common sense would help me now. IT WAS A FREAKING DRAGON MADE OF WATER! Holy fuck. It stood before me for an eternity. I just stared, speechless. Me and my world were impossibly small compared to this ethereal being. Its wings were spread, showing off the entirety of its monumental size. The mighty body flowed into a majestic neck, elegantly curved so that its head was facing me directly. It was beautiful. How could something so colossal be so graceful? I almost wanted to reach out and touch it. The head was truly magnificent. As if cut from marble, it had a long, narrow, angular snout with a strong jaw that could probably crush me without any resistance. The bottom of the lower jaw was lined with what looked like whiskers that flowed endlessly. It was hypnotic. But the eyes. The eyes were enrapturing. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the piercing blue jewels that peered down and spiralled into my very soul. There was an intensity in them that stirred reverence in me. They glistened knowingly, and as we locked gazes, I knew I was looking into the sights of a thousand years. I understood that there was so much I didn’t and would never know. Whatever this was, I was fortunate to have ever glimpsed it. I could hardly come to terms with what I’d learnt when the behemoth began to lower itself back in the ocean, as silent as the waves around it. Panic rose in me. I didn’t want this moment to end! ‘Please don’t go! Please! Stay!’ To my relief, it stopped when its head was level with mine. I almost wished it hadn’t. My breath stopped in my throat. Whatever I thought I’d experienced was dwarfed by this moment; this moment of pure euphoria that engulfed me completely. It was spectacular. Before me, looking into me, was the whole universe and I was nothing - just a speck. It took me to the edges of life and back. I ceased to exist. I was just a piece of the un-ending puzzle that was always growing. I couldn’t look away from the frightening realisation that everything was as it should and would always be what it was meant to be. I dropped to my knees, frozen, unblinking. Without a sound, the eyes that had started this slowly disappeared into the dark waters below. The last thing I remember was the feeling of nausea that swept over me and the world tilting.


The most difficult things to imagine absent from life are those which have always been present. In 2027, when I was in second grade, Mani Inc. revealed their breakthrough “ManiWatch”: a rechargeable wrist device that, through tracking various physiological metrics such as heart rate, HRV, functional lactate threshold, and VO2max, could calculate a revolutionary new metric called a “Readiness Score.” This would conveniently notify the user which tasks they should and should not engage with given their score, as well as if working out was worthwhile that day, if a nap was a smart choice, and when exactly they should sip coffee for the largest benefit. It revolutionized productivity in ways that humankind could’ve only dreamed of before its emergence. Through letting objective analyzation dictate activity and monitor the most important metrics, society started to prioritize readiness scores over subjective measures of wellbeing, as the scores had proven themselves to be more accurate than someone trying to guess their subjective mental and physical potential. It wasn’t until seventh grade that I got my first “ManiBand”—a device which you’re supposed to wear around your head every night to enhance the “Readiness Score” accuracy from solely wrist-based metrics. It tracks the user’s sleep cycles and integrates the scores into a more accurate estimate of readiness. A breakthrough study by Harvard found that year, with just the fourth generation ManiWatch and first generation ManiBand, that by consistently wearing Mani Inc.’s “wearables,” one could boost their productivity by a whopping 110%. Parents started to encourage their kids to remember to charge and wear their wearables before bed in the same way they encouraged them to brush their teeth every night. Wearables were a significant advancement to the human condition, but through the Readiness Revolution humanity discovered something curious: the data that wearables provided over time indicated the existence of “rogue days.” These are days where, due to no identifiable precondition, the Readiness Score is incredibly low. Through early studies in the infancy of the Readiness Revolution on rogue days, it was determined that to do anything but rest and sleep would throw off the next several days of wearable tracking, Readiness Scores, and by consequence, a productive and happy life. These occurrences are extremely rare and decrease in frequency with each new Mani Inc. generation of wearables, yet it is still of upmost research to understand these seemingly random anomalies to develop techniques to counter them. Sensing a niche for a new product (the market share of Mani Inc. is the highest of any product in the world) the “M-pill” was introduced—the best antidote to a rogue day, which simultaneously eases the mind and tranquilizes the user, and is solely indicated for rogue days. As Mani Inc. has already eradicated the majority mental health challenges through their wearable’s contributions and M-pills, Mani Inc. is considered the most popular, reputable, and important business entity in the history of the world for all of humankind. I had rogue days often, but never more than twice in a year; nowadays most folks might have one in a decade. Nowadays, there are several iterations of the devices that Mani Inc. so infamously revealed since 2027. I personally use the ManiWatch 9, the ManiBand 6, and practice caloric tracking too, a new trend also affiliated with what people are starting to call “Metricism,” the preeminent philosophical movement of my time. Metricism posits that life—physical, emotional, mental, and even spiritual health—are emphatically improved by the meticulous tracking and analyzation through advanced algorithms of physiological metrics. Action follows the suggestion of these algorithms. Most everyone that begins to practice the values of Metricism becomes happier, healthier, and far more productive than those who do not engage in it. The more one commits to consistent and thorough Metricism practices, the more rewarding Metricism seems to be. I woke up Monday with a score of about 89/100, which meant I was in great condition, though all I felt was the urge to sleep another 5 minutes. I woke myself up, and groggily checked my ManiBand to try and understand why I felt so drained despite my high readiness score and discovered that I had only had 20 minutes of my REM cycle. When all the devices synced on the Mani companion app, my updated score dropped to a 67/100, which made more sense; it’s hard to achieve your dreams on days you didn’t dream, after all. The Mani companion app told me that today would be a day where a M-pill would be necessary in the evening, which gave me a sense of private relief, despite the rogue day designation. I ate precisely 450 calories as recommended by the app, as my ManiWatch had tracked exactly that amount had been burned by my base metabolic rate since my last meal input. I dutifully inputted the exact amounts of fats, proteins, carbohydrates, and fluids into the Mani companion app, hoping it would save the designation of the day from “rogue” to “poor.” My morning classes were stressful. The Mani companion app advised against putting any effort into studying, as the Readiness Score predicted that it would be futile compared to the potential of the next day’s score, given my weekly average, which was much higher. But I was already behind in my classes from the week prior, and it stressed me out knowing I’d be even more behind this week with the rogue day designation. The M-pill that night, I knew, would soothe my anxiety, but I still couldn’t help feeling restless through classes, and like I could do more. But like a sensible person, I obeyed the assessment. At lunch, my friend Sloan tried to help me feel better, but ended up just making me feel worse about my restlessness and agitation. “You know, we can just work out together tomorrow! My score today is barely enough to qualify for a run, so it’ll probably be a shitty run anyways,” he tried to reassure me, even though after an agitating day of low potential and tons of opportunities for productivity, all I wanted to do was burn the stress away with a run. My macros were looking great, but I was low on potassium, sodium, magnesium, and water, which factored into the activity contraindication I was given. Sloan never really had rogue days, and it felt difficult for him to identify with the stress of not being ready enough to complete already late work I had on my plate, plus not being able to run off the stress. The only thing to do was that which the companion app indicated—nothing of any importance. I got home and took my M-pill, and immediately the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I played videogames until the rogue day ceased to be a concern, and I drifted off peacefully into sleep. I dreamt. When Tuesday morning rolled around, it was a shock to see that it was yet another rogue day. Not just any rogue day, but a 26/100 Readiness Score! I was consistent with what the algorithm had told me to do the day prior yet had two rogue day designations in a row. I had received perfect sleep, and my diet the night prior hit all my macros and micros that were deficient that morning. It felt like a blow to the chest, knowing that there was nothing to be done despite so many assignments, studying, and obligations to be done. Thoughts raced through my head, trying to tackle how this could’ve happened, but I arrived without any rational reason why I had now had two rogue days in a row. The philosophy of Metricism asserts that if you are not at a certain threshold of readiness given an opportunity to do something meaningful, that it is better to rest that day and pursue it the next. Better to complete a three-hour task on a day you’re Readiness Score indicates it’d only take you two hours, after all. The protocol for rogue days is to simply balance your macros, take a M-pill, and sleep it off, which makes another rogue day highly improbable. Rogue days are typically infrequent, yet I had had four that month alone, and in the past two days, two in a row. I spent Tuesday in limbo. I felt wholly capable of doing things but restrained by that which was supposed to objectively tell me when exactly to do what and when not to. I weighed violating the companion apps’ recommendation but assumed it would be futile, because I had never been put in a spot to consider such a drastic move. I told my professors, and they accepted the predicament I was in graciously and patiently, but Jackson, my supervisor, did not. I had had too many rogue days in the past month to justify keeping me, and I was promptly removed from my internship opportunity. “You seem alright to me, you pitiful subjectivite,” he said grinning as I packed up my possessions from my desk, with the tone of someone who was confident they had discovered a personal lie. I didn’t believe his sincerity initially, as every single other rogue day hadn’t been an issue, but the animosity in the air following the comment, and his grin indicated a completed shift of my reputation, and so I bowed my head and left. To lie about a Readiness Score is an offence that is prosecutable by law. The Metrics Act of 2035 codified the legal use of the Readiness Score, lying about which is prosecutable as fraud. Many worldwide countries joined the “Readiness Revolution” alongside the United States, and many resisted; those who evaded the revolution were later forced to join it as all their economies tanked next to the Metricistic countries’ economies, bolstered by the surge in productivity of its citizens. To lie about having a rogue day to evade responsibilities was nonetheless common, and we called those types of people “subjectivites.” To not participate in the Readiness Revolution was a freedom of choice that only the foolish and the elderly opted for. I was not a subjectivite, but I sure felt as lowly as one. It was true—I had had more rogue days in a month than most people had in years. Usually, the wearables pick up on any health condition days before doctors would have back in the 2020s, but mine indicated nothing unusual. Moreover, I was hungry to run, hungry to complete homework and study, and devastated by the sudden removal of my position from a job I cared so much about. I took an M-pill and let the world drift away from importance yet again, and fell into a deep sleep. M-pill sleep is usually the best kind of sleep. On Wednesday, I woke up feeling absolutely burnt out from the stress of the day before, the effects of which were just hitting me. The tens of hours of outstanding work to catch up on in university only weighed my head more into the pillow before I checked my Readiness Score, which read 90/100. I puked in my toilet from the anxiety of what faced me that day, and got dressed, intent on utilizing all of the potential my Readiness Score had indicated. My professors were most pleased at how rapidly I caught up in everything, but all I felt was dissatisfaction and emptiness. I could barely remember my name, or what I even liked. A pretty woman at Starbucks spilled my drink on herself, and I yelled at her, which I apologized for profusely, but she just stared, blankly. I got the work done, and the Readiness Score was accurate to how capable I was of completing everything I had fallen behind in, but I felt like I was a robot programmed to feel devoid of emotion the entire time. I skipped my evening physics class, and came home early, without even caring about the lecture I had just missed. As soon as I arrived home, I cried without a distinguishable reason. My ManiWatch automatically enabled activity mode due to my heart rate soaring to 180bpm, indicative of physical activity, as I sunk into a desperate madness. Nothing could comfort me, and as my ManiWatch congratulated me for hitting a weekly heart rate peak with beeping and animated confetti, I ripped it off and screamed into my pillow, anxious for my thousands of thoughts to cease, and my breaths to slow. I fell asleep at 5pm in the afternoon, fully clothed, without addressing any more of the unproductive thoughts from the productive day I felt like I had just barely made it through. I awoke Thursday morning to my ManiWatch beeping at me for my alarm and felt something was very wrong momentarily before it came to me—I had forgotten to wear either wearable to bed. Shocked, I looked at my ManiBand, resting peacefully in its charging port, the charge LED light indicating that it was ready for a full night of logging, only it was 6:15am. My ManiWatch on the ground read in big red letters across the screen: “INSUFFICIENT DATA.” I couldn’t believe what had happened; I hadn’t forgotten to wear a wearable since middle school. The weight of the previous day resurfaced in my head as I breathed heavily. I decided that I couldn’t afford to fall behind through another panic attack. I got dressed for the day, and tried to forget about the predicament I was in. It was my only option. The first thing I noticed was my stomach grumbling, and I remembered: I hadn’t tracked my macros and micros to completion Wednesday. The sensation was unfamiliar. I quickly ate a meal that was more than the amount I was supposed to for breakfast, to make up for the night prior, and tracked my macros as if the frequency of my meals hadn’t been interrupted from my episode the night prior. I ate, drank, and then ran errands for the rest of the morning, completing everything that I had still not completed from my productivity hiatus. Dr. Stevens, my biology professor, jokingly asked if I was experiencing *another* rogue day as I entered the room. His expression indicated that he had perceived my chaotic mental state, and I replied that I was fine— I was unwilling to fall behind and risk the chaos of catching up again by admitting my legitimate situation. He was my favorite professor: always organized, genuine, and wickedly intelligent, and after being sacked from the most promising biology internship in the state, I had no intentions of swaying another person’s perception of myself. “Ah, well that’s great news to hear. You don’t look well though,” he replied with a tone of concern. “How’re your vitals?” he asked. I snapped back that they were normal, and hurriedly sat down before the confrontation could continue. To everyone’s mutual surprise, Dr. Stevens announced a pop quiz on the central dogma of biology. I answered the questions quickly, my stylus shiny with sweat, before anyone else finished. I sat down again relieved at how easy the pop quiz was and waited for everyone else to complete the quiz before Dr. Stevens interrupted my state of contentment by requesting that I go see him in his office after class. Reluctantly, I nodded. His office was the most colorful in the entire building, with diagrams of complex biochemical pathways stretching endlessly into the corners of the room. A photo of his family sat on the shelf behind his desk. The young Dr. Stevens in the photo stared back at me, his face unhappy, almost glaring back at me. “All of my kids are married and raising their own kids now. I think that it’s very peculiar to be a biology professor and a parent at the same time; I can’t help but to acknowledge that they are my contributions to the same theory of evolution we talk about endlessly in class!” He smiled, as if expecting a laugh from me, but I didn’t feel like responding. “You didn’t look at your ManiWatch when I asked you if your vitals were normal,” he said as he mixed a bag of green tea into his heated mug. I could feel his aged eyes scanning my face as the silence of the room met his question. “You look sickly. Is everything going alright, Seth?” My thoughts raced through a dozen excuses simultaneously, but I had so many running through my head that I failed to commit to any at all as his eyes remained analyzing mine. The smell of his tea rank in my nose; it had been years since I had smelled a beverage that wasn’t coffee. “Are you doing alright, Seth? You don’t seem yourself.” I didn’t move. “You’ve had two rogue days back-to-back with each other, yet somehow look worse today,” he said. I remained silent. “I’m concerned, not upset; your grades are among the highest of the class,” he reassured me, but I was in another planet, the last 72 hours racing behind my paralyzed eyes, locked looking through the floor as my hands trembled silently under the desk. “Seth? Do you hear me?” Children, the ill, and the elderly most often forget to wear their wearables. Sometimes, they break in the middle of the night, though extremely rare—Mani Inc.’s product quality is the best in the world. The protocol to attain a proper Readiness Score in the event of a null reading is to immediately consult with a representative from Mani Inc. It takes about an hour and a half, but the importance of attaining an accurate estimate of a score from a licensed expert is almost always of such importance that virtually nobody risks not getting assessed, despite the irritatingly long and tedious assessment process. Overwhelmed by the contents of my mind, I broke my silence. I told him everything, all at once. I told him about the two rogue days, and the M-pills, my job, and the panic of the night before. I told him that I hadn’t worn my wearables, and didn’t know my Readiness Score, and that I had lied to his face about it. I told him about how desperate I was to not fall behind again from my peers and plead with him to not judge me for daring to lie about such a serious topic in the face of his genuine concern. I finished venting to him before I knew I had started, and sat in a state of helpless exasperation, staring again into the space beyond the floor. He sat silent for a moment, staring at the same place my gaze continued to shoot through on the carpet. After the moment had passed, and the silence of the room grown loud, he sipped his tea, and sat down in his office chair. “Your scores came back from the quiz perfect, Seth.” I was surprised at his irrelevant response and looked at him from the prison of a chair I had been bound into. Sensing the shift in my attention, he continued, not moving his eyes from the preferred spot in the carpet as he spoke. I noticed his eyes eased as he spoke, and his expression changed from one of concern to total ease throughout his admission. When he was done talking to me, he calmly met my blank stare, and stood up. As he unstrapped his ManiWatch from his wrist he smiled and left me alone in his office, humming a tune into the hallway as he walked away. Big red letters continued to flash across the screen as I walked out of his office a few minutes later.


I awake. The red LEDs of my alarm clock next to me glow dimly in the dark. 2:30. I had gotten not but an hour of sleep, but still I know I will not be able to return to it. Ah, sleep, the mindless slumber that has eluded me for years. Ever since *you* left. I turn the dial on the knob next to my bed. The lamp glows, illuminating the room. I get out of my bed and walk to my front room. I consider putting on music, but decide that the rain outside is enough. Rain is my favorite weather. It rained when we lived in Seattle, do you remember that? On my table lies a folded note I once had written long ago to you. The paper, now soft from age and wear, seems out-of-place in this kind of world. I open it and read it for what seems like the thousandth time in the last few days. I walk outside. The rain softly lands on my clothes. I'm reminded of the old poem I wrote back in high school, sitting in my English class. Swish, sway, flux and flow Why this happened I don't know The man is dead this much is true His body hangs, his life is through A cotton rope would form a noose Not too tight, not too loose His life had flashed before his eyes Ending in a suicide Pitter-patter, says the rain Everybody feels the blame For a while, the grief is shared But in the end nobody cared I remembered about how I used to be angry all the time. Angry at my family for some dumb reason. Angry at the world for being the harsh reality that it is. Angry at myself for not quite fitting into the world, the way everyone else does, even the odd little boys and girls who spend their nights alone. As I walk down my street, a stoplight flickers on. I think I see your before realizing that it was just a fence post. I thought I saw you, but perhaps it was just wishful thinking. What would I do if we met again? If I could see you once more? *I* certainly don't know. I wouldn't like you to see the way I live my life nowadays, half-drunk and wearing last year's clothes, thinking last year's thoughts. I think about what I used to live for. I realize that my biggest reason to live was for people who needed me, people who were like you. I guess I let you down then. That's why you left. It turns out that no matter how much I wish I could, I couldn't take responsibility for your happiness. I think if I could do it over, I would have gone with you. Or maybe a few days later. There's no point now. No point to anything. We had grown around each other, and when you had left, I collapsed.


High up in the stands I gazed at her. She was swimming her usual twenty-seven laps warm up. I knew her training schedule by heart. She would emerge from the changing rooms at 08:27 exactly. She entered the water at 08:30 and, without wasting any minute, started her training. After the warmup, there was an eight minutes break. She would jump elegantly out of the water, take a sip from her water bottle and stretch. She was now on her twenty-fifth lap, with two more to go. Her body was slicing the water effortlessly, creating no wave. She was in a lane by herself. She was not the fastest in the pool, but she was the most beautiful to look at. She pulled her arm out of the water, rotating her shoulder and extending her arm to the front, her fingers brushing the water below. She reached out forward, as if pulling on a rope, her hand stretching out before disappearing under the water as the other arm came out. The choreography was perfect and mesmerising. She reached the end of the pool, dove, flipped underwater before powerfully pushing herself back in the other direction. I watched as she broke the water surface and took a breath, looking in my direction, but not seeing me. She didn't know I existed. She would never know I existed because I was in love with her. Usually, I swam in the lane next to her, catching a glimpse of her every time she overtook me in her lane. In the water, I was everything she was not. I was slow and clumsy. I had no endurance, having to stop every five laps. I was just another amateur swimming in the pool, in the slow lane. I was invisible. I had not mastered my breathing. I breathed at variable intervals whenever I ran out of breath. After a lap or two, I would generally be out of breath, breathing every opportunity I got. By then, my arms would start aching, and my speed would slow down further. Progress became inexistent as I looked at the unreachable pool wall in the distance. I watched her emerge from the water, taking a sip from her bottle once on solid ground. Her body as perfect as her planning, nothing out of place, everything was looking as it should. She went to sit a few meters behind the back of the pool, under the four-handed clock. She had looked at it as she sat. Everything was timed with her. Every stretching exercise lasted twenty seconds. It was the optimal time for her muscle to loosen up. I watched how she stretched her arms, then her legs. When she was done, she put back her goggles on. She placed herself at the tip of the pool, her lane empty of any amateurs. She would now go fifty laps freestyle without stopping, mixed with butterfly once every six laps. I tried that training regimen once. It was so exhausting I quit mid-way through the first butterfly lap. That has been on a day I was in a good mood, a day when I thought I could attract her attention, make her notice me. But she had not. "Hon, did you see?" I was abruptly brought back to reality. I blushed as my head spun to look at my husband. He was staring at me in the side pool, our son in his arms. "He just did his first lap without me helping," he commented. My son laughed as he jumped into the water. I forced a smile and nodded, waiting for him to focus back on our son, so I could focus back on her. She was all that mattered. As my gaze fell back upon her, I swore to myself that one day I would learn her name.


[ WARNING - This is a murder mystery. It contains sensitive content. ] Detective Michelle “Mickey” Mantle looked at the autopsy report–Accidental Carbon Monoxide Poisoning. An open and shut case; the batteries in the carbon monoxide detector were dead; except they shouldn’t be. The expiry date wasn’t for ten years; they were nearly new. The manufacturer confirmed that batteries with that expiry date had only been on sale for two months. Taking the batteries and a printout of the manufacturer's information, she went to do battle with the coroner. Jim “JJ” Johnson had been Vancouver’s chief coroner for twenty years. In that time, he had seen everything from drug overdoses to decapitation. His decisions on cause of death were final and rarely challenged. As soon as he saw Michelle, he knew what she was going to say. “Go away.” He growled. “Chris Peterson was murdered.” “Piss off. . . . I know carbon monoxide poisoning. God knows I have seen enough of them.” “Did you check the batteries?” she said, slamming the batteries on his desk. “They were dead.” “They shouldn’t be. . . . Check the expiry date. They are less than two months old.” Johnson glared at her. Christ, how did I miss that. He goes to his filing cabinet and pulls the folder with his notes on the Peterson case. It is remarkably thin. He quickly finds what he was looking for, a one paragraph statement on the carbon monoxide detector.

He reads aloud. ‘The batteries in the carbon monoxide detector were dead. Replacing them with fresh batteries shows the detector is functioning normally. A label on the detector says the batteries were replaced by his son in January.’ He takes the folder back to his desk and sits down hard. He sits there stroking his chin. “Well, what are you going to do?” she demands. “Could be a mistake on the label.” he muttered. “Change the cause of death to Indeterminate and get the batteries tested.” Johnson scowled. This slip of a girl telling him how to do his job didn’t sit well. That she is right made it worse. Trying to appease him she says, “I’ll buy lunch if I’m wrong.” Going into his computer, he changed the official designation. “Happy? . . . Now piss off.” Two days later, Johnson was at Mantle’s desk. “Get your coat.” She smiled. “The lab said the batteries were probably dead before being put on the detector. We’ll go look at the crime scene, then I’ll buy you lunch.” It was one of those Edwardian homes that pepper the Shaughnessy Heights area of Vancouver. Screened from the road by a row of laurels, Mickey placed it as original and not one of the faux Edwardians that were in fashion. The exterior had recently been restored, although the grounds were in need of some TLC. Walking to the house, Mickey looked at the two chimneys. Only one had a metal cap, the telltale sign the fireplace had been converted to gas. Johnson rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman, well on her way to what would euphemistically be called matronly, answered the door. “Mr. Johnson, what brings you here? I thought you had all you needed.” “Just a few loose ends to wrap up Sandra. . . . May we come in.” JJ doesn’t introduce Mickey. He had worked with her before. He would introduce her when she was ready. As she put it, “People are more likely to speak freely when I act like a secretary following her boss around.” They go into the bedroom, a large room on the ground floor. Mrs. Peterson asks, “Would you like a cup of tea?” JJ hated tea, but wanted her to leave them alone. “Yes, that would be very nice.” The gas insert in the fireplace caught Mickey’s attention. It is an older, ventless model. “I didn’t think that type of gas fireplace was allowed in a bedroom.” “They're not. . . . This was originally Peterson’s den. He turned it into a bedroom after he tripped and fell down the stairs last spring, breaking his hip. . . . Prior to that, he had his own bedroom upstairs.” “Tripped?” “That’s what the incident report said.” “Anything else I should know that didn’t get into the file?” “His doctor had prescribed Xanax, he took one before going to sleep. . . . And the bed showed signs that someone else had been in bed with him. . . . I didn’t ask.” “Who says chivalry is dead? . . . I think we need to talk to Mrs. Peterson.” They go to the living room where Mrs. Peterson has laid out tea. Mickey took in the room; the furniture is period, but reproductions and not very good ones; the tea set had mismatched cups; Mrs. Peterson’s cup has a small chip in the base; the fireplace has a new, vented, gas insert. JJ takes the lead. “I am sorry to have to inform you that we are now considering your husband’s death as suspicious. This is Detective Michelle Mantle, she is heading the investigation.” Taking over, Mickey asks “How long has Mr. Peterson used the den as a bedroom?” “Since last spring.” “Does he usually have the gas fireplace lit?” “No, just since the cold weather started.” “In the last two months, who would have had access to your husband’s bedroom?” Mrs. Peterson looks puzzled and doesn’t answer right away. “Just my son and me.” “You have your own bedroom?” “Yes, upstairs.” “How long have you and your husband had separate bedrooms?” Mrs. Peterson is getting angry. “For just over three years. . . . How is that any of your business?” Mickey ignores the question. Pausing for a few seconds, “Someone else was in the bed the night your husband died.” Peterson explodes. “Did he have his trollop of a secretary come over when I was out? In my house.” She was screaming, “In my house. . . . If you want to find someone with a motive to kill him, you should talk to her.” Calmly, “Why would she want him dead?” “He was going to sell the apartment he bought for her and her bastard son.” “Her three year old son?” Mickey ventured. Peterson jumps up screaming, “Get out. Get out now.” Mickey turns to JJ, “A little late, but we should seal that room.” Then to Mrs. Peterson, “Thank you. I may have more questions later.” “Get out.” As they walk back to their car, Mickey observes, “That went rather well.” Sarcastically, “Yeah . . . You hit it out of the park.” Pausing, “You can be a real asshole at times. These people have feelings. She just lost her husband, and her son blames himself for the defective batteries.”

Mickey seems to ignore him. “Lunch?” “White Spot?” “Sounds good.” On the way to the White Spot, Mickey calls Constable Carson. “Hi Brian. Looks like we have a murder investigation. Clear it with Staff. I need you to do a financial check on the Chris Peterson file, wife, son, the works. Look at credit card receipts. I am looking for batteries purchased in the last two months. And check if there is any insurance. . . . Thanks” JJ looks at her. “You don’t really think they would use a credit card, do you?” “Do you carry much cash?” JJ shakes his head. “Me neither.” After lunch, Mickey drops JJ back at his office and goes to interview the secretary, Carolyn Brooks. Not what most people envision as the other woman, she is a short, mousy, thirty something brunette. She leads Mickey into Peterson’s office for some privacy. Mickey sits down, Carolyn starts pacing, starts talking. She was self-deprecating, “I am not what you expected, am I?” Actually, she was. The Hollywood stereotype of the busty young blonde were the exception, women like Carolyn were the usual. “Sandra called. Called me a murderer, a whore, said our son wouldn’t get any of Chis’ money.” She laughed. “What money. They are broke. Even the house is mortgaged to the hilt.” Mickey knows all she has to do is let her talk. “It started just over three years ago. The business was in trouble even then. He just needed someone to talk to. Sandra just kept telling him he had to work harder. He turned to me. . . . I know it is a cliché, but we didn’t really mean it to happen. . . . Then I got pregnant. He was a good father under the circumstances. . . . I don’t know where he got the money, but he pulled together the down payment for my apartment; I pay the mortgage. She thinks she will sell it, but it is joint ownership. It’s all mine now. . . . Did she mention the insurance?” “No, she didn’t.” “There is mortgage insurance on their house, and this apartment, a million dollar policy for our son and Chris Jr., and I think she has a ten million dollar policy.” “Do you think she could have killed him for the money?” Carolyn shrugged. “Possibly. He said he was having trouble making the premiums. He was going to cancel everything except the mortgage insurance at the end of the year.” “How about her son?” “Chris Junior, no–not unless his mother talked him into it.” Mickey closed her notebook. “I am sorry, but I have to ask, were you with Mr. Peterson on the day he died.” Carolyn blushed. “Had you been there before?” “No, that was the only time. . . . He called and said he needed to see me. . . . We just lay there holding each other for over an hour. His wife almost caught us.” The next morning, Constable Carson is waiting for Mickey to come in. “Got the information on the batteries you wanted. It is strange . . .” She cut him off. “Chris Peterson Senior bought them?” “Yes, but that is not the only strange part. There were two purchases. First he bought an AA battery holder, the type they use for building electronic projects, and some wire. Then, a week later, a six volt lamp and a pack of AA batteries. . . . How did you know it was the father?” “Just a hunch.” “Did you look at the life insurance?” “Yeah, he got them three years ago.” “So the suicide clause has expired.” Constable Carson nodded. Damn. No one likes to investigate suicides. There isn’t any closure for the family, just a lifetime of self recrimination. Mickey calls the lab, then goes to see JJ. She goes into his office and slumps into the chair next to his desk. JJ watches her for a minute then snarls, “Shouldn’t you be out catching bad guys?” Mickey doesn’t answer right away. “You said he took a Xanax.” JJ nods. “Sleeping in a room filling up with carbon monoxide–painless?” His expression changes, he whispers, “Yes.” She tells him about purchases. “Why did he buy new batteries?” “I checked with the lab. If he tried shorting out the batteries, they could explode. I think that is what happened. . . . Using the lamp would run down the batteries slowly, without any obvious damage.” JJ looks troubled. “I’m not going to change the report to suicide based on two credit card receipts and a theory.” “Indeterminate?” “I can live with that. . . . We need to tell the family. His son needs to know he didn’t kill his father.” “You go–I don’t think they would want to see me.” She starts to leave. “Mickey," he barks, "You did good.” “Why doesn’t it feel that way?”


It's a cool Saturday night, I sit on my chair watching the tele as the last of the Doritos crumbs cascade off of my enlarged stomach. I'm a rather large man, light short hair with the inability to grow a beard without patches. I'm wearing nothing but sweats and a grin across my face from the last corny joke that was said. This is how I spend most of my nights. Some call it pathetic while I call it home. There is a knock at the door, somewhat startling but not uncommon on a Saturday night. Probably the college kids messing around again. I lived not far from campus and it was not unusual for them to wander into the neighborhood. Thinking about answering the door fades from my mind as I decide nothing will disturb me on one of my beloved days off. After a few knocks I can see the figures pass by the front window and back onto the sidewalk. Maybe it was the Mormons looking to "save" another soul. I decided I was not going to be "saved" during one of my favorite sitcoms, Besides I'm perfectly content. I continue watching my show until my memory fades. A few hours pass as I lay sleeping in my lazy boy recliner that I splurged for last month. My mouth wide open pointed towards the sky as I make Roaring snores, the last of which is Loud enough to startle me awake. I noticed the TV was still on, not odd for one of my days off. In Fact it's hard for me to think of a time the TV was ever off, I'm either in the room watching it, or working, but either way it stays constantly streaming. Suddenly without warning an ad break starts on the TV, not unusual for this network, ever since the ratings have gone down they have needed a way to keep funding up. The commercial is nothing unusual, a rush of colors and sounds made to gather the attention of the average Joe. As I watch waiting for the show to start something catches my eye. I suddenly spring into action, doing my best to grab my wallet and keys carefully laid across my Side table, often where I put them after getting home from work. I run to the front door throwing on my jacket and slippers nearly breaking my neck as I somehow manage to close the front door and sprint to my truck (refreshed after that tuneup I got last weekend). I get to the drivers side and nearly drop my keys as I slide into the velvety interior of my truck. too occupied to put my seat belt on, I slam the keys into the ignition, turn the key and my pride and joy comes roaring to life. I throw it into reverse, then shift to drive and head recklessly down the road. No one was going to stop me from trying the new Doritos locos taco….


His eyes slowly fluttered. They flinched, closed shut again, but fought to remain open. The eyelids were heavy as sleep overweighed on them, like little bricks forcing them shut. It was dark and cold, the night’s void of any warmth. He didn’t shiver, but he couldn’t move. Lukewarm liquid, like damp grass, grazed his numb fingers, and the night’s breeze, right under the full moon, playfully slapped his face. Usually, these nights, despite of their coldness, pumps warmth in his heart. When he was young, he gathered around the fire with his parents, grandparents, neighbors, and friends for a weenie roast. He longed for that night under the starry night when his grandfather starts the camping party with, “Once upon a time…” He groaned, his breath hitched. He’s in pain, and he wants to cry. Usually, such a pain would force a scream, but his voice was dry. He recalled once falling down the stairs after running off from the school. And because of his rush, he fell down, broke a leg. He’d never felt such a pain before, so he cried and was carried to the hospital where he hugged his mom. He allowed himself, his younger self such a treat, to be spoiled by his mom’s warmth. Unfortunately, that warmth dissipated today. Only the coldness of the night wrapped him like a burrito. His vocal cords were frozen, and his veins flinched in pain. “You’re always clumsy,” his mom once said, “You never look over the bridge of your nose!” He looked down at his shoes, a huge pout masked his face. Whenever his mom yells at him, whenever he does something bad, he feels all the negative emotions overflowing in his eyes, forming embarrassing rivers that barely holds back in the sockets of his eyes. Slime drools from his nose, so he sniffles because it’s embarrassing. And in the end, he gets a cheek pinch from his mom, who won’t seem to be mad anymore every time that happens. But that doesn’t mean he’s not clumsy if his mom forgave him every single time. He always tripped by everything, even his shadow. He exhaustedly smiled; it was bitter. His smile explained the lifeless situation he’s been in because of his clumsiness, only lulled by the bright memories of his younger self. Although he’s an adult who has children, he’s still as clumsy as before. He moaned when he shifted… What happened to his children? To his wife? Where are they? He forced his pupils to tour around the vacuum to find his childhood friend who had turned to be his wife, the one who held his children. He couldn’t spot that smooth blond hair he always sifted through, the one he threw a bucket of water at when they were in elementary school. He couldn’t spot those glassy blue eyes, the ones he once goofily said, “They look like magical orbs,” making his younger self wife blush. He couldn’t find her, only strolling in his memories, in his dreams. He closed his eyes and touched the gash where his lukewarm liquid, he knew as blood, seeped. Something like a film rolled all his lifetime events before his mind’s eye. They were mostly the ones where he was extremely happy… He recalled himself when he first discovered his love for art. He cried too much to get his first easel for kids. He did chores, became a good kid, and washed his dad’s car every morning until he got it. He bickered with his parents for stopping that day, however, it was such a good memory to reminisce. Back then, he went to his best friend, his wife, to tell her about his parents’ gift. She was flabbergasted to know about his interests; it turned out, she likes crafts. It was one step closer to her heart before he could camp in there forever. They crafted art, lots of art. From their fashion clothes, to their dream home. She wanted that big house with a pool and a gym, but he wanted a blonde wife, specifically with magical blue orbs, and two children in a small and cozy apartment. When she laughed at him, he laughed with her, but he said, “I’m serious. A home sweet home is hardly a big Villa.” She slowly stopped giggling, looked at him, probably thinking. “A home sweet home is being happy with family,” she replied, and he nodded.

Happiness to them was to be engulfed by warmth. Now, that warmth of his mom, of his family and wife, dissipated. It left him alone in a dark pool of blood because of such a clumsy mistake that led to a car accident. He wondered if his wife’s cold too; he wondered if her body’s lying far or just closely enough to his. His children had their seat belts on, so they might be stuck in the car. He wondered if he’s going to be born again, if will he have the same life as this. Was he good enough to be lucky twice? He wondered if he’ll be able to ever fly the red kite with his brother, or to eat barbeque with his family. He wondered if he’ll go back to the same school, meet his wife again and softly bully her into loving him, or not? He wondered if he’ll face the same pain of breaking his leg, or he’ll get a good omen of “Break a leg in there,” when his gallery finally sees the light of life, like he always dreamt. Life doesn’t have enough answers to a lot of questions, but humans live in the hopes of finding the answers of what confuses them the most. They keep fighting like he is now to make sure he’s the only one dying, not his memories with his family and friend. He didn’t want to leave. However, when his younger self showed up inside his dreams, a red kite in hand, he couldn’t miss the fun, so he went with him…


On a stark Thursday night, I stared out of the window of the precinct. Then, looked at my watch to check the time. It was 10:30PM and the skies looked like it was about to rain. I couldn’t wait to get out of this humid police station and my sweaty uniform. My thoughts are interrupted by my colleague Chirag. Apparently, he has gotten into the weekend mood a little early and he is forcing me to grab a beer with him at a nearby bar & restaurant. “Come on, Mary gold bar will be empty tonight and it’s owner hasn’t paid his due for this week… it will be a free beer for you. What’s the harm?” While Chirag was trying to convince me, there is tall lanky guy with frameless spectacle coming in all worried and sweaty. It felt like he had lost his car or something. He was in office formal attire and he directly looked at me & said” I had like to press charges for an intruder in my house… my wife is with him… but… but …” His voice breaks down a little “she is ok with it” Chirag’s tough voice breaks in “Look mister, we are not here to record your petty cheating cases of your wife” The victim looks up in rage “You don’t get it, it was all planned!!! First my friends then my money and now my family… this is not fair “ I try to reassure him by saying, “please sit down and let’s take your report formally” Chirag’s get a phone call and he walks out to attend the call. The victim & I walk into the side and sit on the table. He is a bit worried now but he starts narrating his case and his weird experiences from past few days… “… I am Raunak Sharma, working in the ITS, an IT firm. I had client holidays on Tuesday and Wednesday. So I had planned for an evening out with my best friend. When I left my house and drove my car towards the hotel… there was this strange person who was standing in the middle of street. When I honked at him he came to the side and asked politely for helping him to drop him off at a nearby. He informed me how his cab got cancelled and how got late for his seminar. He looked decent with a round face and a white shirt coupled with blue trousers was worn by him. His stop was quite near for me to ask any questions or strike a conversation with him…” “Can you please get to the details of when and where the crime was committed? This feels more like your personal experience… It’s quite late and I don’t think this is relevant to the crime at all…” I interrupted him as I wanted to get done with this as soon as possible. “… officer this person is the one who took my life, my money and my everything…” “Look sir, if you really want, I can arrange a sketch artist to whom you can describe the details of this person and we will try to find him. It would be a robbery case and you can just get to the point about what all he stole please?” He gave a heavy sigh and continued “… I am getting to it, officer please let me complete.” Raunak continued “When I dropped him near the junction, he got down and before he got down he told me something really weird … he told me that friends are like a real gem and often a set of different gems form a wonderful collection of jewellery, it would be a shame to lose any one of gem isn’t it? At first I ignored and rushed to the hotel. To my surprise, my best friend was already there. He is often late but this time he was there. He was looking for someone. When I went and greeted him, he didn’t recognize me and acted like I was a complete stranger and he started asking questions like do I know you? … ” I interrupt him again this time in anger “Sir, if this isn’t even a robbery but a stupid prank. Why are you even reporting this? Please call your friend and get consolidated” “…Exactly my thoughts a prank, a joke. He walked away and so did I. When I returned home and told my wife about this strange event she thought I was also trying to spoof her and prank her as well. I tried calling my best friend’s cell but he didn’t pick up. Next day I had to rush to Office for an important document and use it to fill a form. When I was driving my car to office at the same place I found that creepy guy with the same outfit as last night… He looked at me and emptied his pockets and ran away …” “I wanted to chase him but he ran into nearby lanes or shop’s. It was strange but this task of office was much more critical and I had to get it done within the time frame. So without much though I rush to office. Again to my surprise, when I reach office … I find my pockets missing my wallet… I had my keys, phone and wallet but now it wasn’t there….” Now, I am convinced that this guy is either some creepy lunatic who is out of his mind. I would not interrupt him and ask him how he lost things or how he is able see this other guy he keeps speaking about. “…I was convinced this guy was either some creepy lunatic who was completely out of his mind …” Raunak said in a reassuring manner When he said this I was completely taken aback. How could my exact thoughts be felt by him? I am scared to my bones. Raunak studies the change in my body language and now for the first time he smiles and says “You know what’s crazy? Today when I returned from work I met this guy again but not in middle of street in some strange way. He booked a ride for carpool from my office till my home. When he comes to my car from the office pick up spot. He seems changed, he has spectacles now, formal clothes, he is no more trying to talk to me or trying to take things for me or being mysterious at all. In fact, the whole way back, I keep asking him questions, trying to get thing’s out of him. He even calls me crazy at a point of time. He says he has never met me…” Raunak chuckles for a bit then he continues… “When we reach my building, I am going to basement to park my vehicle but to my surprise there is already some other car in my parking spot. While I park at some other spot and go to my apartment via the elevator thinking about all these strange experiences… I try to unlock the door with my keys but it didn’t work for some strange reason… When the door unlocks from the inside I see the same creepy person yelling at me stalker go away, I’ll call police go away… I could see my wife looking at me like a complete stranger, like someone else…” “I was broken, my head started hurting, I thought about calling the police but I see the notification of the carpool app with my own name giving me 1-star rating but the photo on the profile was that of the creepy guy.” “I couldn’t believe what had transpired, how my life was taken away from me … “ Raunak stops speaking now, I am feeling depressed. What if he is actually speaking the truth, how will he ever get his life back with no alibi’s or no one recognizing him. How is this even possible? Chirag who was once my colleague comes in and questions me “Do I know you?” I have no answers but one hundred more questions on what the hell had just happened.I couldn’t believe what was transpiring, how my life is being taken away from me … He later drags me by my collar and I fall off my chair in complete shock. He says “We shouldn’t entertain these fuckers, these bastards wearing our uniform’s … come on Rajesh lets fucking leave, it was your holiday and yet you came in and tried to help this piece of shit…” My mind hurts, I couldn’t process what had happened to raunak was in fact him doing the same to me… I look at my shirt’s side pocket, I am still in police’s uniform and the name tag reads “RAUNAK”.


#Hello r/Shortstories! Today we’re going to give a to /u/chunksisthedog! He’s been around the subreddit for quite awhile and has been a participant in both features here. His serial, *The Stone Wielder*, written on has recently concluded with 21 chapters! And wouldn’t you know it, they’ve already begun a new one. So let’s take a few minutes to chat with them and read a bit about their experience.   ***   #The Stone Wielder - Written by u/chunksisthedog **A brief synopsis from Chunks:** A group of people called Wielders use Stones to channel energy. They call them techniques. Different techniques produce different elemental results. All Wielders are trained at The Academy in the capital city. Jeson is a just graduated Wielder that finds a fugitive Wielder. His ideas are challenged about what The Academy is and does. He journeys to a far away place and meets others that share his ideas and some violently disagree with them. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |   ***   #A Chat with u/Chunksisthedog about Serial Writing ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I learned that I need a sort of outline. This is the first time I have ever attempted a serial and really the first time I put anything out on reddit. The first couple of posts I did not read the story before I posted it. The ones that I read to my wife before posting allowed me to hear the mistakes. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** What I enjoyed the most was the feedback. I do not fancy myself a writer, so hearing what I did well along with things that I needed to improve on was awesome. That really kept me writing. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** The biggest challenge I faced was starting it. I have read stories on here and everyone seemed so much better than me. The wondering if I was going to get laughed out of the sub. My wife pushed me to post, so finally I did. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** My advice would be to lay your serial out first. I decided to not outline and "just stay with my vision." I got sidetracked somewhere that I didn't want to go and felt like I wrote myself into a corner. I kept digging my way out of it but felt like I lost some control of my story towards the end.   ***   Thank you so much for your time. It’s been such a pleasure to read your words and watch your writing grow over the last several months. I’m already enjoying your new project and I wish you the best of luck on your writing journey. Be sure to leave Chunks a comment and some love below! Feel free to ask him questions about his serial and/or his experience.   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I asked the researcher I was interviewing what specifically he was trying to learn about domestic cat behavior. His reply was both clear and concise. It is always good when an interview subject offers natural responses on camera. Otherwise it becomes an editor’s difficult job to salvage the footage. They have to cut it in such a way that it doesn’t come across as awkward. Luckily my assignment was comfortable and engaging on film. “As an animal behaviorist who specializes in studying our feline house companions, I seek to better understand what makes the little balls of fur tick. They are complex creatures. By studying their body language and various postures, we can learn a great deal about how to interpret their moods and future behavior. I also hope to decipher their complex range of vocalization. What are they ‘saying’ when they come up to our feet and purr or meow? What do they want us to know? I’d love to find out exactly what they are trying to tell us.” “Very interesting.”; I agreed off camera. “I think many cat owners have wondered that. Sure, we assume it’s coos of love and acceptance but it could be more complex and detailed than that. Finding out what they are trying to communicate with us would be very compelling! I hope you crack the feline code, sir. Do you have some scientific methods of deciphering what it might mean?”; I asked. It was always good to prod the subject with follow up questions to keep them talking. “Thank you. We hope to have some very definitive answers soon.”; He replied. “We are mapping their brain activity with an MRI and monitoring which sections are the most active for different circumstances. From the specific activity we recognize like hunger, anger, lust, and fear; we will chart out a baseline. I expect that strong behavior patterns will materialize almost immediately. When they are stalking prey or courting a suitor for mating, we will see strong, uniform activity in the same areas of our different test subjects. Once this activity chart is fully mapped out, we can test them to see how they respond to new situations. From the proximity of the unknown brain activity to the known, we can associate them and get a rough ‘translation’ of emotions. It will be the closest we’ll ever come to having a ‘cat-to-human’ translator.” “So ‘fear’ might reside in the same general brain area as ‘anger’; and thus you can infer they are very close in the mind of the domestic cat?”; I concluded. “Exactly! It’s not a perfect science but we can loosely associate the known with the unknown. I hope my research gives humanity a better understanding of how cats feel about certain things. We wouldn’t extract this data from a single individual test subject. We will correlate our findings between all our subjects and then overlay them for a stronger picture. It’s the only way to form a scientific picture of felis domesticus as a species.” “Do you expect any surprises?”; I asked him point blank. “I’d think any open-minded research study would have to come with a few revelations that didn’t fit in with the initial hypothesis.” He smiled. “There may be a few. As you implied, good science is open minded. If we go in looking to only confirm what we expect, that’s all we will find. Real science wants to discover the truth; not validate what we already believe. I’ve already spent two years conducting the same brain mapping research on the big cat species of lions, tigers, and leopards. Once I’ve finished collecting this data on their smaller cousins, we can compare it to my earlier research. I can’t tell you how professionally exciting it will be for me to compare the results!” I thanked the man and wished him well. We promised to check back with him in a few months to see where the research led. As a medium-sized town mobile news reporter, I never really knew where my assignments would take me. I wasn’t even sure my line producer would let me follow up on the story but a few months later I got the assignment. Frankly I’d forgotten all about it. This time the research scientist leading the project seemed very different. He was almost withdrawn and ‘down’. He’d been so animated and enthusiastic the first time that I almost dreaded conducting the follow up story. Subjects in that state of mind are among the most difficult to interview. I couldn’t help but assume the research had failed to go where he wanted it to. With that in mind, I jotted down a few questions to ask with a more sympathetic tone. When my camera man was ready, I began the interview. “A few months ago, I sat down with you as you were just starting to map the domestic cat’s brain with an MRI. If memory serves, you were going to compare and overlay your data with earlier compiled data on the brain activity of big African cats. How did that turn out?” He started out a little slowly and I feared we might have to stop. His reluctance to delve into his findings was obvious. His response and body language implied all his research was a wasted effort. I was tempted to remind him of his earlier words about true science being the search for truth and not validation; but I knew that would bring the interview to a screeching halt. Instead, I decided to give him some space to tell us about his findings, no matter how professionally disappointing they might be. Eventually he opened up and confessed the reason for his somber mood. “Yes, that is correct. We collected MRI activity data from the domestic cats in our study. By comparing the brain reactions of circumstances we already knew, to those we did not; our understanding grew immensely of how the test subjects felt about other things. It was very successful research and we learned amazing things about the thought processes of cats in general. Especially those of smaller domestic cats.” I was perplexed at his morose tone in light of what he explained. It sounded like his research went very well but I had to express that in a more discreet tone for the interview. “Great!”; I tried to infuse enthusiasm into the proceedings. “I can’t help but detect a slight level of hesitancy in your voice though. Were some of your research findings not what you expected?” He looked up at me and pursed a slight smile of reluctance. “Mumm, well yes. My team and I did make some discoveries that we didn’t expect. Some of our data results are going to be highly controversial. I’m still not prepared for the backlash it will be met with. We checked and rechecked our data a dozen times. It’s absolutely correct but once this interview becomes public, there will be a huge furor among pet owners everywhere. The public isn’t ready for the truth.” I was taken aback by his statement. I never expected him to suggest the research was itself successful but the results would cause controversy. That possibility never even occurred to me. Of course he peaked my curiosity about what the big secret was going to be. His research was about house cats, for heaven’s sake. Just how ‘controversial’ could it be? I guess he saw the heavy skepticism telegraphed on my face. Surely he understood my doubt considering the circumstances. It sounded like an exaggerated level of build up. I adopted a more contrite expression as he went on to explain but it was I who was in for a shock. If anything he understated how controversial his research would be. “We did a complete MRI work up of reactions to different situations the domestic cats were exposed to. As we expected, their brain activity was focused in the same areas, for the same situations. From the known areas of brain activity, we could extrapolate data about the unknown reactions and how close they are. I’m proud to say that we now have an unprecedented understanding of their emotional responses.” I was confused. None of that was even remotely controversial but I could tell he was holding back ‘the big one’. Whatever it was. I motioned for him to continue. It looked like he needed another push. “As we expected, there was very little difference between the brain activity of the massive cats of Africa and our diminutive pets around the house. After all, they share 99% of the same DNA, right? The same things that intrigue a huge jungle tiger, intrigues our cute house pets. The same goes for fear, anger, lust and the full gamut of emotions they experience. What really took us by surprise was the similarity in their motivations. The smaller Asian leopard often ‘talks’ to its prey. We have witnessed them ‘chattering’ in a soothing manner to disarm and relax their prey before they pounce.” I nodded politely at his informative story. I still didn’t see what any of it had to do with all his heightened level of secrecy and apprehension. I still couldn’t understand his pained hesitancy. Then he finally lowered the hammer. “I wanted to explain about the Asian leopard’s hunting method because it’s important for you to understand my next point. Those cute purrs and meows from our feline companions that we always assumed were just gentle cries of love, are actually predatory taunts. They are focused in the same part of the brain that is hyper active when the big cats are about to strike and kill. Even our beloved house cats see us as food! They just recognize the futility of attacking such a larger animal and play ‘nice’ while they bide their time. Make no mistake, they would kill us all if they could. Every single cat owner in the world would be stunned if they aware of how much their pets were thinking about killing them. The cat’s meow is about eating us.


When Julie was born, she was born an original. For awhile, before she knew better, she was content. But then came Jon and Jane and soon, she was made to be part of a trio. Her parents were once in love but that time had passed and it made her sad that they stayed together. So she promised never to do that to herself. To stay restless and never to drop anchors tethering her to one little place. She grew tall in a small small world. She surmised that problems in a small world must be to scale, and thus solvable. And her name was a problem, so she went away to the field of imagination. And there she saw a dream - a swirl of ash and leaves twisting and turning together, agitated. They reminded her of herself, spinning and spinning and not going anywhere at all. So she decided to leave and to rename herself Ashely. She flew from one town to the next and she never fell in love so she never had to stay. Each and every decade she started anew. Fresh spring, fresh fall, the leaves turned green to brown and fell to the ground. She picked up a drink because it helped her think and it slowed down the seasons. One glass led to the next, she set in her ways. Jon and Jane called out her name, but she was too busy spinning to come up for air. So she spun without a care for any one specific thing. Gone went the years and her red hair, too. Just another small small problem, so she donned a wig and tried not to care about that either. She sat and listened to strangers and put their fragmented minds together. Their lives and dreams and fears were far far away, and thus safe to contemplate. But before the last piece was complete, she was gone again. After all, who had the patience for 10,000 puzzle pieces and she’d helped enough already, hadn’t she? Ashely liked to play the game of pretend. But she never married because a man is big and real, and she preferred things palmable though not palpable. Jon and Jane settled down and had kids of their own and she sent them movies and toys and taught them the magic of make believe. But all that imagination takes a toll, and it’s hard to live in a world where nothing’s tangible and it’s all just small small problems stacking up and becoming bigger ones. And speaking of problems... the drink got drunker, so she put down the glass and picked up the pill bottle. For she’d given to others, so why not take for herself? That crackle of pills shook like a maraca, music to her ears and she twirled to the beat. But with each pill she popped, the earth beneath her feet fell further and further away and no matter how fast she flew, she knew she was spinning in the opposite direction of the world’s orbit around the sun. And she missed her hair though she’d never admit it and she missed her mom and stories that had happy endings. But her sardonic sensibilities set a precedent and she couldn’t want for those things now. What was the point of wanting what could not be got? So she spun a web of withering words and tore out of town again. And she spent all her money and she drank again and stopped again and she tried new jobs but they were all on a different frequency. Like they were on FM but she could only play on a tape. Try as she might to wind and unwind, she was obsolete and she felt it. The ash and the leaves fell at her feet and her shoulders hunched but she pushed them back violently. She had to stand, for she was too proud to sit down. Ashely slept in her car with only her dog for company. Gryffindor she called that Great Great Dane, and she barked at Ashely’s frequency, even if it was only music with no lyrics. A tune was better than none at all to twirl to. Now it was winter and there were no leaves, only ash. And yes, the fires burnt out as soon as she set them. She went to the doctor because she was cold, but he was colder. And yes, she needed money but she had her pride if not little green papers. Who decided upon wealth and worth, anyways? Jon and Jane were worried, but their wrinkled foreheads stressed Ashely out and she hated to see them. So she called when she knew they wouldn’t pick up for a few times, mentally preparing herself for another lecture on responsibility and being a productive member of society. But Gryffindor was braver than she, and the barks gave her solace. They were going to be okay. Until the puppy got dogged on old and her fur wrinkled and all Ashely’s money was gone to pills and pours. And she had no more for her little companion. And she cried and cried but Gryffindor still died and her heart was in life no more. She finally agreed to sit down and feed with family, though they were more interested in telling than listening. Laughs came out like coughs, and smiles were smothered with responsible nods and she’d seen too many raised eyebrows in her day. It was enough to close her eyes and never open them again. But she loved Jon and Jane so she tried, at least a little. But she never tried quite hard enough. And her chest started to hurt and she thought it was a problem, but the doctor said it wasn’t. So she figured it was just the pain of life until she had a heart attack and was found a day later. The people cried for enough time, but not for too long. And Heaven was full of dogs and long locks of hair and the people who cared on earth forgot to up there. And she was happier.


Hi, This is my first attempt at writing a short story. Before I write any more, I wanted to share the first 500 words to see if I'm on the right lines or if I'm making some kind of cardinal sins I'm unaware of? What do you think? Feedback appreciated. Albert Pearson kept a gun, fully loaded, in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. The top drawer was for his socks - each one bunched together with its counterpart, a system designed to ensure no sock could exist without a partner and all but eliminating the possibility of any garment going rogue and hiding at the back, unused for years. The middle drawer were for boxer shorts, each folded neatly, each a carbon copy of the last, dark navy with an elasticated waist. The bottom drawer was for his gun. His wife, to the surprise of many, was very much in favour of the gun. Other folk had their own particular opinions on storing a loaded firearm in an easily accessible place, but upon hearing their concerns she would move to quash them with a well versed speech about “keeping the family safe” and how there’s “plenty of weirdos and nutters about”, before closing with a “you can’t be too careful” for good measure. “What sort of gun is it?” someone might ask her, for the politeness of continuing conversation more than any real curiosity. “One that fires bullets” was her all too well-rehearsed riposte. There was no malice in this reply, her ignorance was not feigned for the pretence of wit. Rather, she genuinely didn’t know. What did it matter if it was a Smith and Wesson, or a Glock and Spiel, or an AK47, or whatever, it didn’t make any difference. It fired bullets that shot people, that was the only thing she needed it to be able to do, and so long as it did that, the rest really didn’t matter. Mr Pearson forbade his wife from talking about the gun. “This right here” he said, the handle of the gun clenched tightly around his bony fingers, “this is between you and me. Ain’t nobody else what needs to know about it. Cause if other people knows we got this, they’ll be thinking we’re trouble. But we’re not trouble, we’re just preparing in case there’s trouble. And the more people what think there might be trouble, the more chance of there being trouble in the first place, you understand?” She nodded her head, to disguise the fact that she quite plainly did not understand. Rather than heed her husband’s advice, convoluted as it may have presented itself, she decided instead to do entirely the opposite, regaling near strangers with levels of braggadocio usually reserved for when parents talk about the pseudo-accomplishments of their kin. “Well Martin’s doing great, he’s got a big job at one of those financial institutions, and we’re so proud of Lauren for getting into university, and did I tell you about the gun scaring off that suspicious looking man lurking around our bins the other night?” Neither Mr Pearson nor his wife knew exactly how long they’d had the gun. It was years, that much is certain, if not the exact number. Long enough that you can’t immediately recall its purchase. If time allowed, of course, one would be able to sit down and through a process of pairing significant dates and anniversaries to the timeline of purchase, be able to deduce roughly when the gun came into their possession. But it seemed of little importance; the various particulars of who did what and when seemed to have little bearing on the outcome, that Albert Pearson and his wife owned a gun.