Mara was sulking in her bedroom. This was becoming a rather common occurrence for her. Downstairs was the Christmas tree, fully decorated and lit up in the living room of the house she’d been living in for just three months. Normally, Mara loved decorating the Christmas tree, but this morning, while her father, step-mother Valerie, and step sister Janice, were decorating the tree, she was sulking in her bedroom. It was Thanksgiving Day, and Mara felt it should be illegal to put the tree up so early. She and her family always put the tree up on the first Saturday of December. However, it was her step-family’s tradition to put it up on Thanksgiving Day, and her father told her that this year, the holidays would require compromise from both sides of the family. Her father talked about the importance of compromise often over the last few months. Somehow, it felt like Mara was the only one who had to compromise.            Janice didn’t have to give up her Christmas Tree tradition, but Mara did. Janice’s mother was here for Thanksgiving, but Mara’s mother was on the other side of the state. Janice didn’t have to change schools when their parents got married, but Mara had to leave behind all of her friends. Now, Mara wouldn’t even be spending Thanksgiving with her family. Valerie’s parents, brother, and sister were coming to their house, along with some of Janice’s cousins. Mara just really wanted to spend the holidays with her family. Instead, she felt as though she was sharing the holidays with strangers.

*knock knock*            “What?” Mara snapped. Her bedroom door creaked open, and Janice entered. The two seventh graders were only a couple of months apart, but Mara often felt that they were ages apart mentally.            “Why didn’t you help us with the tree?” Janice asked, her voice soft.            “You’re not supposed to put up the tree on Thanksgiving. You’re supposed to wait until December,” Mara rolled her eyes.            “We’ve always put it up on Thanksgiving. It’s tradition” Janice shrugged.            “Well, it’s a stupid tradition.”            “My mom said we have to compromise. We’re doing some of your family’s traditions, and we’re doing some of my family’s.”            “We’re only doing what your family wants to do!” Mara argued in exasperation.            “That’s not true!”            “Is so!”            “It’s just a tree! Why does it matter what day we put it up? Who cares?” Janice exclaimed.            “It’s not just the tree! I’m the one who had to switch schools, I’m the one who had to move out of my house and away from my family, and you haven’t had to do anything! You haven’t lost anything!” Mara was yelling now.            “I had to do that too!” Janice yelled back.            “No, you haven’t. Get out,” Mara huffed. Tired of arguing, Janice turned and left the bedroom, leaving her stepsister to continue to sulk. What a stupid thing to say. She didn’t move out of her house or change schools or give up her holiday traditions. She gets all of her family. I’m the one who keeps losing. Mara thought to herself. ***            It seemed like Mara was always in a bad mood. Anytime Janice tried to get along with her, Mara would push her away. It was clear that Mara did not like her. Janice was easily the happier of the two, but after being around Mara, she was often in a bad mood, as she was after arguing with Mara. How dare Mara imply Janice didn’t know what she was going through? She was fully aware that Janice’s father had passed away when she was seven after a six-month battle with cancer. After her father died, people made a point to tell Janice’s family that he had in fact won the battle with cancer. Janice had always felt like the reality was that even if he did win his battle, she still lost. That year, it felt like all Janice did was lose. She lost her father, and soon after, her mother could not stand living in the same house her husband died, so the two moved. Her mother fell into a depression for a several months, and during that time, not a single holiday was celebrated. The next year, when her mother had come out of her depression, the two made new holiday traditions, along with keeping some of their old ones. Janice’s favorite was putting up the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day. There were pictures of her and her father decorating the tree together. When her mother explained the holiday traditions would have to include compromise this year, Janice was adamant about keeping the tradition of putting the tree up on Thanksgiving Day. It was the only tradition she felt really cared bout keeping, yet Mara was acting like it was the end of the world.            “And then, she told me to leave. She’s impossible,” Janice ranted to her mother, who was just about to put the turkey in the oven. Janice was clearly correct about this situation, and she wanted the backup from her mother.            “I think Mara is right,” Janice’s mother responded calmly.            “What?! How can you say that?! She’s being ridiculous!” Janice tried to convince her.            “Or, do you think maybe she is just struggling? She’s had a lot of change this year,” her mother tried to explain.            “So have I,” Janice reminded her.            “Of course, you have. But you also didn’t change houses or schools.”            “She’s acting like she’s the only one to ever lose something. I had to change houses and schools when Dad died. It’s not like I don’t understand her,” Janice continued complaining.            “Did you tell her that?”            “Tell her what?”            “That you understand.”            “No,” Janice answered, her voice softer.            “Maybe you should,” her mother said after placing the turkey in the oven. Janice sighed and walked out of the kitchen, suddenly feeling as though she’d approached the situation incorrectly. *** *Knock knock* “Yeah?” Mara answered. Janice opened the door, and her stepsister rolled her eyes before asking what she wanted. “You know I’ve done all of this before,” Janice stated. She noticed the tear stains on Mara’s face, but she didn’t say anything about it. “Done all of what?” Mara asked, confused. “You know… Moving houses, changing schools. The year my dad died, we didn’t even celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. It sucked,” Janice explained. “You didn’t do anything?” “Not that year. A couple of months after my dad died, my mom and I moved here. After the funeral and the move, I guess the shock wore off for my mom. She’d go to work and the grocery store, but she didn’t leave much other than that. She’d spend most of her time at home in bed or on the couch. She rarely cooked and hardly talked to me. I was seven, so I thought she was mad at me. But then, she got some help, and the next year, we celebrated holidays again. My favorite tradition has always been putting the tree up on Thanksgiving. The first time we celebrated holidays without my dad was really hard,” Janice went on. “When did things feel normal again?” Mara asked, listening intently. Janice shrugged. “They never really felt normal again. My mom and I created a new normal. Things never felt the way they were before, but they did feel okay again,” Janice answered. “Then, isn’t it annoying having to make a new normal again now that my dad and I are here?” Mara questioned. “Not really. I’ve done it before, so I know we’ll do it again. Besides, it feels nice to have you guys here. It almost feels like a family again,” Janice smiled. “Almost?” “Yeah. I’m sure it will eventually feel like a family, but I’m okay with it feeling just almost for now,” Janice confirmed. Mara nodded, but didn’t say anything. She was absorbing all that her stepsister had told her. *** A few hours had gone by, and family members were beginning to arrive. Janice had been introducing Mara to each family member that entered the home. The two girls and some of Janice’s cousins were in Janice’s bedroom, waiting for dinner to be ready.            “We always go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” Janice told Mara.            “Yeah, we go in order from oldest to youngest,” Kelsey, one of Janice’s younger cousins added.            “Does your family do that too?” Janice asked.            “We do it differently. We write what we’re thankful for on a tablecloth that goes on the table. Then, at dinner we say what we each wrote. We write it in a different color every year so that we don’t lose track,” Mara explained.            “That sounds fun! We should do that!” Janice exclaimed, jumping up and running out of the room. Mara and the cousins followed Janice downstairs.            “Mom! Mara and her family always write what they’re thankful for on the tablecloth! Can we do that too?” Janice asked excitedly.            “Oh, girls, I don’t know. This is a nice tablecloth,” her mother tried to explain.            “Please? Dad, don’t you think this would be so fun?” Mara begged.            “Yeah, you both said we have to compromise!” Janice reminded them. The married couple smiled before conceding. The girls ran to grab a marker, deciding on an orange marker since it was fall. Over the next hour, each family member made a point to write something on the tablecloth.            After praying over the meal, each family member went around and said what they wrote. They decided to go in order of oldest to youngest, since that was Janice’s family’s tradition.            “Mara, it’s your turn. What are you thankful for?” her father asked, peering over the basket of rolls in an attempt to see what she had written. Janice spoke up before Mara could.            “Mara and I wrote the same thing,” Janice giggled.            “What did you write?” he asked again. Mara smiled proudly.            “I’m thankful for compromise.”


Charlie's eyes popped open when someone knocked loudly and repeatedly on his apartment door; a groan escaped his lips as he rolled from his bed and stumbled to the door. He wiped a hand over his face in an attempt to erase the sleep from his eyes. “I'm coming!” Charlie growled as he squinted at the kitchen clock: 5:15 am. 'Seriously, this had better be good!' He peered through the peephole, a delivery man stood on the other side of the door; the man anxiously looked down and looked as though he were trying to shush something or someone he couldn't see. 'If I had stayed quiet, I could've stayed in bed for another few hours...' groaned Charlie unlocking the door to reveal a now relieved looking delivery man who was holding a large silver cage that contained a large grey bird. “If you could sign here, please.” Hesitantly, Charlie gave his signature and took a large stack of white envelopes; the delivery man practically shoved the cage into his arms. “Wait, who sent the bird?” asked Charlie calling after the man who was making a beeline for the elevator, “I don't know how to take care of a bird!” “Not my problem!” Sighing, Charlie shut the door and looked at the bird with raised eyebrows; he looked at the writing on the envelope as he walked into the living room. After carefully placing the cage on the coffee table, he opened the envelope, Charlie squinted at the spidery handwriting before realizing the author of the letter was his grandmother. 'I haven't heard from grandmother since I was at least twelve years old.' he thought Charlie remembered walking in on his mother arguing with his grandmother; the argument ended with his mother pulling him out to the car, refusing to answer any of his questions. Charlie had waited a few days before trying to talk to her about the argument, the only thing his mother would say was that they wouldn't be going back at all. Yet despite this, he secretly wrote letters to his grandmother; he kept hope that he would write him back for a full year. When he didn't receive any letters, Charlie wrote to her less and less until he simply stopped; he couldn't but feel like his grandmother had abandoned him. He loved going to her house and spending entire summers with her; he felt safe and loved with her while his own mother hired a nanny to look after him. His mother only spent a couple of hours a day with him, yet she always seemed to watch the clock as though she couldn't wait to get back to work. Sighing, he returned his attention to the letter in his hand: “My dearest Charlie, If you are reading this, it means that I have passed on from this life. There is so much I have to tell you and as much as I wish I could tell you in person, these letters will have to do. You are probably surprised by Bertie my Grey African parrot and though I remember that you are not fond of birds however, I have a feeling you two will become the best of friends by the time you get to the last letter. I last saw you when you were twelve years old and I have so many fond memories with you. The day your mother took you away from me was the hardest day of my life; my heart shattered into a million pieces as your mother drove away. I can still see your sweet face looking back at me. Knowing your mother, she refused to tell anything about the argument we had and I know that with that curious mind of you tried to solve the reason we were forced to be apart. I hope you will find the answers you are seeking within these letters. Love you always, Grandma May P.S In regards to Bertie, it is best to let him settle and use the long scoop (in the drawer underneath the latch) to slip in between the bars to feed him...I suggest feeding him like this until he gets use to your voice. Bertie can be a bit...particular around people he doesn't know.” Charlie looked up to see Bertie looking at him, both remained still as though they were unsure of how to proceed with the sudden changes in their lives. He observed the cage, quickly locating the drawer that held the long scoop that would easily deliver the bird feed; 'I'm gonna have to buy food now,' Charlie thought sighing, 'what do they eat? Better question is: why did she give me, of all people, the bird?' As though in answer to his thoughts about purchasing bird feed, a sharp knock on the door jolted Charlie from his thoughts. 	Jumping up from his seat, he opened the door to find another delivery man holding a cardboard box. He signed for the package, and without another word shut the door with his free hand; quickly opening the box, he chuckled, 'You thought of everything, didn't you Grandma?' Inside the box was enough bird feed to last a month. Filling the scoop with food, Charlie looked warily at the bird as he muttered, “You'd better not bite me...” Slowly, inching the scoop towards the food bowl, his hand trembled nervously; Bertie kept a close eye on the scoop, dipping his head towards the food. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he dumped the food into the food bowl, Bertie looked from the food to Charlie and back to the food before deciding it was okay to eat. Charlie watched the bird for a few moments, feeling overwhelmed he reread the letter from his grandmother; what she had said was true: his mother refused to tell him why he couldn't see grandma anymore. He felt a twinge of guilt twist in his gut, he could've gone to his grandma May when he was able to drive. 'I guess apart of me felt like she didn't love me anymore because she didn't answer any of my letters,' Charlie thought sorrowful, 'I was angry when she didn't and thought if I stopped sending letters, she'd come to the city to see me.' Time passed slowly as he sat on the couch, he didn't know what to do and for the first time in years, Charlie felt lost. He looked at the clock and groaned when he realized that his mother would be arriving any moment; Charlie rushed to put on fresh clothes just so he wouldn't have to hear his mother's criticism: “I didn't raise you to be a slob Charles!” this is what he heard often. He knew his mother was high strung, she had a need to keep everything as perfect as she possibly could. They'd only had one major fight and that was when he'd refused to go to law school; he wanted to be a writer and refused to allow himself to be persuaded to follow a different career path. His mother refused to talk to him for a few weeks, and as much as he hated to admit it...it was the least stressful time in his life that he could remember. Three short knocks rapped shortly, Charlie took a few deep breath as he walked to the door; he hand hesitated slightly on the door knob. 'Let's get this over with.' he thought unlocking the door and pulled it open to reveal his mother who was already frowning at him. “Hey mom.” greeted Charlie as she walked past him “Charles, what is that?” Charlie followed his mothers line of sight to Bertie who started to squawk and flap his wings for a few minutes before settling down again. Charlie made a beeline to the couch and scooped up the letters before his mother could get her hands on them. “Bertie arrived this morning from grandma May's lawyer along with bird feed and some very interesting letters.” stated Charlie watching his mom's reaction carefully, he watched her eyes focus on the letters as she spoke “What...does your grandmother have to say?” stuttered Lillian looking at the stack of letters in her son's hands. Charlie took his time answering, he curious about his mother's reaction to the letters; he noticed the longer he didn't answer the more agitated she looked. He had never seen his mother act like this before; Lillian was always cool and collected, ready for any situation that could arise. “She talked about how much she missed me when you suddenly refused to let me see her.” said Charlie his tone strained and tight, 	“I do have a question for you mom...the letters I wrote to her, you know the ones I gave you to mail to grandma...did you mail them?” Lillian sat down on the couch and simply gazed at Bertie who seemed to be glaring back at her with what appeared to hatred. 	Bertie began to squawk again, “Get out, get out” “No, I didn't mail your letter,” sighed Lillian casting her gaze to the navy blue carpet, “I was so angry with her and my reasons for that were selfish...I wanted to hurt her by taking the one thing she cared about the most...you.” His grip on the letters tightened as he slowly sank into the arm chair, this revelation hit him in the gut like a sack of bricks. 'I knew she wasn't the warmest person but to do something like this...' 	Charlie thought as tears filled up his eyes. “All these years, I thought the worst of her,” growled Charlie angrily, “I thought she didn't love me anymore because she didn't answer any of my letters to her...Grandma May is gone now and she probably left thinking I hated her! You didn't just hurt her mother, your hatred for her hurt me as well!” “Charlie, I'm so sorry,” whispered Lillian tearfully, “I didn't think about that at the time...” “Of course you didn't think about it,” snapped Charlie furiously, “why would you? You were jealous of our relationship...I can't count the number of times you practically ran out the door to work instead of spending time with me; I was raised by nannies. I want to know about the fight, you owe me that much at least!” Lillian sat back on the couch, stunned by her son's anger; not that she blamed him, she kept him away from his grandmother out of spite. Lillian didn't have the best relationship with her mother; her mind drifted back to that day as she closed her eyes and spoke softly: ' “I don't understand why you can't just give me his inheritance mother!” snapped Lillian angrily, “I'm going to make sure he get it when he turns twenty one...” “This isn't something that can be transferred over from a bank account Lillian,” sighed May briefly closing her eyes, “I'm not going to live forever, and so I want to be able to live long enough to give 	Charlie his inheritance myself.” Bertie flapped his wings rapidly, squawking loudly: 'Get out, get out” “Shut up Bertie!” screamed Lillian shaking her fist at the large parrot “Don't talk to Bertie like that!” snapped May tears filling her eyes, 	“Lillian, I am firm in my decision to not make you the trustee of my grandson's inheritance.” “Well then until you agree to make me the trustee of his inheritance,” snarled Lillian glaring at May, “I promise you that you will never see Charlie again!” ' Charlie placed his head in his hands, it felt as his heart was shattering all over again. 'My own mother kept me away from grandma May because she couldn't get her hands on my inheritance.' through teary eyes, Charlie picked up the next letter and opened it. His eyes widened slightly when he saw how short the letter was: “My dearest Charlie, In each letter there will be instructions, not only to care for Bertie but to also earn your inheritance. By now, I am sure you've spoken with your mother. I am also sure that you are angry with her; please don't let anger destroy your relationship with your mother. This task is simple...forgive your mother and move on; make your relationship strong again. P.S Bertie loves listening to Jazz, it will help him relax. Love always, Grandma May” Charlie looked at his mother, he saw the shock on her face from her mothers words. Tentatively, Lillian placed a hand on Charlie's arm and whispered, “I'm willing to try to work on our relationship, if you are.” “Jazz, jazz.” squawked Bertie suddenly, startling Charlie and Lillian Laughing softly, Charlie grabbed his cell phone and quickly found some jazz music for Bertie to listen to and sat back down beside his mother. As the music filled the room, he quietly replied, “I'm willing to try...” Over the next few weeks, Charlie and Lillian read Grandma May's letters together; Charlie began to look forward to his mother's visits. He noticed that the more effort they put into their relationship, the tension between them lessened. Charlie noticed that Bertie seemed to enjoy his company; he was able to feed the Grey African parrot by hand now instead of using the scoop. Charlie began to wonder if he could bring Bertie out of the cage for a couple of hours, 'Does he trust me enough?' An hour before his mother was to arrive, Charlie sat in front of Bertie and observed the bird for a few moments before slowly moving his hand towards the latch on the cage. “Alright Bertie, I'm going to open the latch and if you want, you can come out,” stated Charlie using soft tones like the instructions told him, “Grandma May even sent your perch, so that you can feel more at home here with me.” With the cage door open, Charlie sat back and eagerly watched in anticipation with how Bertie would react to the open door. Bertie bobbed his head up and down, peering through the open door, he watched Charlie for a few minutes. Ten minutes went by before Bertie moved to sit directly in front of the open door; soon he hopped down onto the coffee table and looked around the room as though he was seeing it for the first time. “Love you Charlie.” squawked Bertie hopping onto Charlie's knee A wide smile filled his face as he gently patted Bertie's head, “I love you too Bertie.” with those words, Bertie flew to the perch that stood by the window and began to preen. Lillian opened the door, calling out her arrival as she shut the door behind her; she placed a bag of hot breakfast food on the coffee table and looked at Bertie. 	She smiled at the sight of the preening bird, “He sure seems happy...and that's because of your hard work with him.” Charlie took a large bite of his breakfast burrito, wiped his fingers on a napkin and picked up the final letter from Grandma May. He took a deep breath, he didn't feel ready to read the last letter, it seemed to soon. His grandmother's letters helped fix his relationship with his mother, to start a relationship with Bertie...the letters even gave him a new idea for a book. “Dearest Charlie, When I found out your mother was pregnant with 	you, I was overjoyed with delight. I knew right away that I wanted to leave you something you'd appreciate, something that would last; by your fifth birthday I knew exactly what I wanted to give you. You are now twenty one years old and as much as I wanted to give it to you in person, I feel comforted knowing that you will love what I am giving you. I am leaving you my house, my land and everything that comes with it. You will find the keys to all the building in the little drawer on Bertie's cage on the opposite side of the scoop drawer. I love you so much Charlie, I will always be with you. Lillian, by this time, I expect you have been reading these letters with Charlie and I just want you to know that I love you so much. You're my daughter and no matter what happened between us, it is all forgiven and forgotten. Love always, Grandma May


Rusted pieces of metal wash up on the white sand, broken remnants of a now destroyed Boeing 737. Twenty yards inland, the sand continues but the beach seems to stop, giving way to a dark and leafy forest that goes the entire length of the island until it meets the similar twenty yards of beach on the opposite side. Ty Mastherson sits down on the sand, underneath the shade of a palm and watches the scrap metal find its way to dry land. It is the first time in a long time he’s felt completely and totally content. Ty was, to his knowledge, one of the only two survivors from the crash. The other, Amy, was on her own back at ‘home’(home was nothing more than a small collection of firewood and two bundles of grass they’d taken to calling beds). When the plane had begun to go down, Ty had decided he was okay with dying. He’d seen people around him scrambling to put on their oxygen masks and struggling to figure out how their seats turned into a floatation device because they do, don’t they? I saw it on TV once- Ty chose to sit calmly amid the chaos, trying to concentrate on finishing his crossword. If the need to survive had not been the most base, powerful instinct a human could feel, he might not have bothered unbuckling his seatbelt when he found himself still alive and conscious after the crash, nor would he have allowed himself to float to the top of the water. He definitely wouldn’t have struggled over to a broken airplane seat, now floating(so they did float) on the ocean's surface, letting himself be carried inland to the island only a few hundred yards away. He wouldn’t have swam out to save Amy(herself floating in on some kind of backpack) and spent a few days setting up camp with her. He wouldn’t have done any of that. But he did. And now Ty felt better than he had in fifteen years. In a lot of ways, it was like a vacation; There was nowhere to clock in on the island. Amy had found some kind of fruit or vegetable- They weren’t really sure exactly what it was, only that it tasted similar to a pear- that seemed to grow almost everywhere you looked. And there were animals too- They’d been there a week and Ty had only managed to catch glimpses- a rustle in a bush or an unlucky step in the remnants of a wild bathroom break- but eventually he would find one and he would kill it. He and Amy would share the meal together and mark it like that one boy had in that book Hatchet- First Meat. Ty had never been much for being in charge in his old life, but on the island he was thrust into the position. Amy looked up to him; She saw him as a leader, and to his credit, he had tried to act the part. Setting up the camp had been done largely to his specifications, as minimal as they were. He made sure that neither of them ever ate too many of the fruits, so far their only sustenance. He’d shown Amy how to boil water to make it somewhat drinkable. He’d even thought out a plan for picking the fruits only from certain parts of the forest at a time, to make sure they never picked too many- but then, they’d only been here a few days. Better to wait to tell Amy about that one. She was still holding out hope that they would be rescued- You could see it when she thought she was alone and looked to the distance, squinting in hopes that it might make a rescue ship appear on the horizon. Ty had accepted what Amy still had yet to figure out- they were never going to make it back to society. But of course, he would never tell her that. Not yet. Ty had to be careful around Amy, delicate as she was. For the most part, he could tell how she felt- They’d grown close over the last few days. She’d fallen for him almost immediately. What was that thing people said? “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth?” Turns out that’s a bald faced lie. Back home, Ty doubted if Amy would’ve given him a second glance on the street. Nothing much impressive about a balding 32 year old man who works at the DMV. The island though, was a different story. Here he was- Well he would never tell Amy this. Probably wouldn’t admit it to anyone in the world. But he felt like a king, a fucking king. And who was to say different? It wasn’t as if there was anyone here to challenge him for the crown. “So there”, Ty thought. “I’m king of the island.” The heat was growing unbearable, so he turned and started to walk back into the forest. It was still hot underneath the shade, but more tolerable. Also he wanted to find Amy- What was she doing? Sometimes Amy would drift into these spells of melancholy that lasted for hours at a time- Ty always worried the one day she might become so depressed as to take her own life. If that happened, Ty thought he might go crazy as well. She was sitting on a stump that marked the entrance to their camp. Ty stopped underneath the cover of the canopy for a moment just to admire her again. She was certainly a beautiful woman- dark black hair with eyes Ty swore changed colors at least once a day; Optic mood rings. Somehow, after three days stranded on an island with the sun beating down from above, her skin was still porcelain white. “Hey”, Ty said, walking up. “Whatcha doin?” He was already looking at her hands though, where she was sharpening a rock with another rock, forming it into a sort of arrowhead. “What’s that for?” “Hunting.” The rock still looked too blunt to pierce skin and even if she managed to sharpen it well enough, there would still be the issue of fitting it to an arrow and creating a bow, but Ty said none of this. Making a tool meant that on some level, Amy knew they might be here a long time. It was the first sign of initiative she’d shown since they’d been marooned and he certainly wasn’t going to mess that up. “Looks good”, he replied with a smile. “Anything to eat?” An attempt at a joke. Amy gestured over to the pile of pears(they were known as pears until a more fitting name was thought of), letting the joke pass over her head, and went back to sharpening her rock. Ty shuffled over to the pears but his mind remained on Amy even as he sat on the warm ground and began to eat. His mind constantly played with thoughts of Amy- how to make her happier, more productive, anything to change her consistently unconcerned behavior. It was almost as if she didn’t mind whether she lived or died. Apart from the obvious roadblock this posed to their survival, it also worried Ty for a more personal reason. He was interested in making Amy his wife. The idea had no meaning, really. Not out here in the middle of nowhere, where there was no law other than nature. Still, it seemed the proper gesture to make. If they were meant to spend their lives together, isolated from the rest of humanity, Ty thought it was best they do it as partners. And what better way to solidify their partnership than through such a grand act? There was a little bit of a dirty feeling to it though. Certainly Ty had thought about what might happen if Amy said no to him, how uncomfortable things would be. There wasn’t much hope for avoiding each other when they were the only two legged things for thousands of miles. But the more he thought about it, the less likely he thought she would say no. What was in it for her to reject him? She had no one else, nowhere to go- As strange as that sounded, Ty knew more than anything that that would be why Amy accepted him. If it hadn’t been for how deeply he felt for her, he might not have been alright with that. But he could never ask her now, as she sulked and sharpened her knife, like an ape first discovering how to make tools. Ty approached her cautiously. “Amy. Are you alright?” She looked up at him and realized he was worried. Her teeth flashed in a gorgeous smile. “Of course. Sorry. I was thinking of my parents.” Amy’s parents. They seemed to always be the subject of her pouting, whether she was imagining them planning her funeral or digging into their retirement fund to send out frantic search parties for their only daughter. Ty sympathized, he really did, but he also felt that at some point Amy had to get over it. Ty hadn’t thought much about his own parents, other than to remember that his father had once said it might be best for everyone if Ty disappeared off the face of the earth. He hadn’t quite done that, but he’d come as close as he could’ve. Ty squatted down and grabbed Amy’s chin, gently turning her head to face him. “Amy I know it’s hard. And I know it’s early. But soon, it won’t hurt as bad. Soon we’ll forget the past.” Ty hugged Amy’s stiff body as she let his words wash over her. She was smiling back up at him when he released her, before going back to sharpening her rock. Ty left the clearing, and headed up for ‘The Mountain’. ‘The Mountain’ would’ve been better classified as a small hill back “on the mainland” but on the island it was the high point. Ty had originally climbed there on the very first day, squinting with tired eyes at the horizon, trying to see any possible signs of land. Perhaps a dove flying back towards him with a twig in its mouth. Instead he saw nothing but dark blue ocean melting into the lighter blue of the sky. That had been when Ty’d realized they were truly alone. Now he trudged up the incline with sweat on his brow. He abandoned his shirt and let the sun beat down on his already reddening skin. Unlike Amy, Ty was not made for constant sunlight. Though really, a sunburn was the least of his worries. Amy had not come up The Mountain since their first day here, so this was where Ty had decided to propose to her, since it allowed for preparation in secret. He was doing it in as glamorous a fashion as the circumstances provided. He had created a pit in which he could light a bonfire- only for a certain amount of time, so as not to attract too much attention- and planned out what he would say to the exact word. He would compliment her eyes, her skin, her spirit. The way she spoke. He would bless whatever disaster had led to them being marooned together. She would say nothing, only holding out her hand with that perfect smile on her face. The picture of joy. Ty had it all planned. There was only the matter of getting something to eat. Pear-like fruits were fine for regular meals, but what would a wedding be without a feast? Even if it must be a feast of island squirrel, or whatever animal it was that was so narrowly escaping Ty’s gaze. Ty set out into the less explored part of the small island with a determined glare on his face. Today he became a hunter. Back home, Ty had never hunted before in his life. He was more of the quiet type, more likely to be found curled up inside reading Harry Potter for the thirtieth time than to be out scalping deer. But of course, everything had changed for Ty the moment that plane hit the water. Back home, he hadn’t had a girlfriend for 5 years. Here, he would soon make the most beautiful woman for leagues in any direction his queen. The forest of the island was peculiar- In patches, grass grew, but for the most part the ground was sand- hot or cold, depending upon whether or not sunlight had the angle to burn through. Trees were scattered around, with trunks that made Ty think of palm trees but with none of the familiar fronds or coconuts. Bugs thankfully remained rare. Ty spent the better part of two hours up the trunk of one of the mystery trees before a small animal wandered into his vision. It looked like a skunk, though it was brown instead of black and white; Ty had no choice but to pray the resemblance was only coincidence. He hadn’t checked, but he thought it was likely the island was severely lacking in tomato juice. He also had no weapons save for a few small rocks, far too light to do any real damage to an animal that size. He watched it sniff the air, wandering in and out of sunlight. Finally he decided to act. Ty threw the first stone well over the skunk-creature’s head. It rattled the plants behind it and the animal began trotting away from the source of the sound and towards Ty, who let it get right underneath the tree he was in before leaping down upon it like a leopard. There was a brief moment of shock for Ty and the skunk alike as they met each other's unfamiliar textures before Ty found the part of the animal he believed to be it’s neck and twisted. Just like that, the animal lay limp. First Meat. Ty took the brown skunk up The Mountain and began skinning and cooking it. A lack of knowledge meant losing a lot of the available meat, but Ty’s mindset was that Amy would be more impressed with the gesture than the substance. As it cooked, the sun began to fall into a pink-yellow concoction, and Ty left The Mountain to fetch Amy. He found her sitting in the exact same position. She seemed to have ditched the sharpening. Ty grabbed her by the shoulder and extended a hand. “Follow me, I have a surprise for you.” Amy got up without a word and together they began walking over to the hill. On such a small island, you could smell the meat before you saw it grilling. Maybe a month ago Ty would’ve vomited at the stench but now he thought nothing in the world had ever smelt better. He jogged up the hill ahead of Amy and began stoking the bonfire, pleading with it to flourish into a more dramatic flame. He got it five feet high before Amy broke the top. Ty turned away from the embers and got down on one knee. “Amy.” It was only now Ty realized he had never learned Amy’s full name. “Amy, as hellish as the circumstances of our coming together were, these last few weeks with you have been nothing short of heaven. When I see your eyes, I melt. Your sun resistant skin is something of wonder.” Ty made sure to punctuate this line with a smile. “You have an unbreakable spirit and I want to be around you for the rest of my life. Thankfully, it seems I will. Amy, will you marry me?” It played out almost to his exact expectations. Maybe in his imagination he had thought a tear or two might escape Amy’s eyes but her smile was enough. He was now a husband. He had a wife. One day, he might even be a father. In ecstasy, he took Amy into his arms and kissed her. It was a few moments before he felt the blood leaking from his back. When he released her, stunned, Amy pulled the arrowhead from his back and plunged it into him again, this time near his heart. It had become considerably sharper since Ty saw it last. Ty began stumbling backwards, looking for something to defend himself but the shock was too great. Amy ran towards him and shoved him, grunting, into his own bonfire. His screams would’ve sent birds flying if any had inhabited the island. Instead they fell only on Amy’s ears. She stood there, watching him writhe in the heat, relishing his misery. As the last of his life left him, Amy reached over him and grabbed a piece of the still cooking meat. Delicious. So the creep was dead. Finally. Amy had been growing tired of tiptoeing around him, worried that he would realize what she was up to, as if he could see into her thoughts. She was worried about nothing of course; to a narcissistic, delusional asshole like Ty she simply wasn’t a threat. He had probably died marvelling at the fact that Amy had had the mental capacity to betray him at all. “Well guess what asshole- You’re dead!” Amy yelled to no one in particular. The sound of her voice made her feel very alone. She began fanning the bonfire, taking care to keep her eyes from looking at Ty’s torched corpse. Of course she still felt guilty, even though she’d had to do it. There was no other way to fix the situation- What Ty had believed to be the situation. They’d only been here three days, rescue was still well within the realm of possibility. And he’d proposed to her- Asked her to marry him! Fucking lunacy. Amy recalled the first time Ty took advantage of her. She’d barely been conscious, having just been dragged into the shore half drowned. The sick fuck hadn’t even had the decency to let her dry off first, just tore at her as though time was running out on some invisible stopclock… She remembered it with the icy detachment of someone who has only heard a story of trauma, not the fiery terror of one who’s experienced it. The asshole had actually had the audacity to ask her if it was good afterwards- As though it were just a casual hookup after a wild night out. As though they’d met in a bar and not nearly died on a plane crash that very same day. As though it was guaranteed either of them would ever have any other options. Insanity. And no Ty. It wasn’t good. Amy sat on The Mountain, wrinkling her nose at the smell of Ty’s burning shorts. The bastard had loved walking around without his shirt on. Probably thought he was turning into some sort of Tarzan, as though his flabby beer gut would’ve somehow disappeared over three days. She popped a few more pieces of the skunk into her mouth, considered trying to save some of Ty’s corpse for food and decided she was not nearly desperate enough. Wasn’t sure if she ever would be. Instead, she left The Mountain and lugged all the firewood Ty had so kindly chopped up for her out to the beach. She started four separate bonfires at each point of the island, wafting their flames to great heights. And then Amy began to wait.


Don't worry about some of the references to formula 1, as long as you understand it's a sport they are watching it doesn't matter much to the story. —————————————————————————————————————————————— *I don't deserve this,* he thought, looking around the room he was sitting in. He had nearly everything that he had always wanted. The TV, the sim racing setup in the corner, the supercomputer that powered it, the car in the garage. *I dont deserve any of it. Especially not her.* She was laying down in his lap, nearly falling asleep watching the admittedly underwhelming Formula 1 race on the TV. If he was being honest with himself, it was the fact the race was so boring that had caused him to reach this line of thought he so desperately tried to avoid. *She deserves better than some loser like me.* *She is fucking perfect. I'm... not.* "You'd think that season closer would be more exciting than this, yah know?" She suddenly piped up, breaking his line of thought. "Yeah. It's been such an exciting season too. They really need to choose a different track for the final race. That fight between Perez and Hamilton was nice though." "Wish there was more where that came from." "Could not agree more." They returned to watching in silence. *How is it,* he thought, looking down at his girlfriend, *that she can be so beautiful when she isn't even trying. She is fucking Aphrodite I swear.* *I don't deserve her.* They had been dating for 3 years. Every single day he spent with her felt like a page out of somebody else's life, that he was simply a placeholder until somebody better came along. *After all, how could anybody love me?* But, as long as she kept up the façade, he could ignore that he knew it wasn't true. Somewhere deep down, a voice told him it wasn't true, but he wouldn't listen. He began to stroke her hair, dreading the day he knew she would leave. She shifted, nuzzling him in a loving way. "I love you," she said softly, obviously falling asleep. "I love you too," he responded. *One day I'll no longer hear that,* He realized, *One day when she is gone.* The thought made him begin to tear up. *She'll be gone, and I'll be all alone again.* The thought nearly made him sick. He felt a singular tear fall from his eye and streak down his cheek, dripping and landing on her head. *Shit*. Immediately she began to get up. "What's wrong?" she asked with a concerned face, looking into his now tear-filled eyes. "It's nothing," he said quickly, looking away in a futile attempt to hide his tears. "Like hell it is. What's wrong honey?" She insisted. *You don't want to know*, he thought to himself. "It's just... I don't know how to explain it. I..." he trailed off, turning to look her in the eyes. "As many times as you have said, shown, and proven it, I can't believe that you love me." The reaction was exactly what he expected. Her eyes now started to tear up too, and he could see how his words hurt her so bad, but they were true. "Every moment I have spent with you has felt like a page out of somebody else's life," He continued, "That I'm just here until you find somebody better, then you will go off with them, somebody who actually deserves you, and leave me alone." The look in her eyes took on a bit of bewilderment, "How could you possibly believe you don't deserve me?" "Because I'm a shit person," he answered, closing his eyes in shame, "Because I'm an egotistical jerk who cannot see how his confidence hurts those around him. Because I'm so obsessed with being correct that I refuse to let others try their ideas. Because-" He felt a hand on his lips. "None of that makes you undeserving or unworthy." She responded to the rant. He had told her about these insecurities of his before, but never had he let on how bad it was. As he opened his eyes, he could see her eyes again. For the first time, he felt that she might actually love him. "But I'm such an asshole to everyone around me." "No you aren't." "I can't ever show you back the kind of love you show me every day." "Except you do, every day." "I can't accept when I'm wrong." "Yes, you can, and do it all the time." "I'm not good enough for you," He said finally, the tears streaming down his face, sobs breaking through between the words. "Yes, you are." She replied desperately, tears now streaming down her face as well. How he wished he could believe her, to allow his heart to be at ease. He couldn't look her in the eyes any more. "I don't care that you are not a perfect person," she continued, "You don't have to be a perfect person!" she paused before finishing her thought, "Because you are perfect for me." It was that last sentence that caused him to look up again. "I love you," she said softly, "More than words can describe I love you. Every day since we started dating has been paradise for me. I am never going to leave you for somebody else. I'm not going to toss you aside for some new dude. I want you. You are not a safety cushion I'm using until the raft gets here, You are all I want." She looked like she wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. It was now her turn to look down, unable to look him in the eyes. He heard that voice he had always been so dismissive of speaking up again. *She loves me,* It said. For the first time in his life, he believed it. He believed that somebody could love him. He believed that he did deserve happiness. He believed that he deserved her. He believed that she loved him. "I believe you." Immediately she looked back up at him. The tears began to fade as he saw the sadness in her eyes slowly get replaced by love. *She isn't faking it. She loves me. She actually loved me.* The thought caused his tears to fade as well. "I love you." He said, hoping to repay in some way what she had done for him. He moved to embrace her. "I love you so much." She entered his embrace, hugging him back and holding him close, listening to his heart beat in his chest. "I love you too. More than words can say." He leaned back, taking him down with her as she now lay on top of him on the couch. For what felt like an eternity, they just laid there, holding each other close, smiles slowly creeping across their faces. Suddenly they remembered the race they had been watching, and heard the commentators yelling in excitement. They looked over as they saw the cars cross the finish line. "Ha!" he nearly shouted, "I told you Max was gonna win it!. That's five bucks." "I think the chat session we just had was worth five bucks." He looked over at his chest to see her smiling at him. *No it was not worth five bucks,* he thought, *It was worth far more than that*. "I love you," he said again, unable to hold back a grin. "I love you too," she responded, pushing herself towards his face. The kiss they shared that day was the best one he had ever experienced. Because for the first time, He truly believed she loved him as the kissed. *She loves me, she actually loves* *me.


You probably haven’t thought of pixies since you saw pictures of cute little creatures in pointed hats and shoes dancing around a ring of toadstools in your childhood story book. That's how we've been illustrated on cereal boxes, cookie boxes and all kinds of tacky souvenirs and posters for years. It’s very annoying to see the way we’re depicted in popular culture. Humans are not the only one who get tired of being stereotyped. Allow me to explain. We are but one of many types of supernatural beings from the family of the little people. Humans imagine us but cannot see us. We are distant cousins to leprechauns. Do not get them started about being depicted as wee men in green suits. They’re sick of it, especially on St. Patrick’s Day in the United States when many people use the day as an excuse for getting drunk on green beer and making fun of them. Fairies, by the way, are not cute little Tinkerbells. That’s the Disney version. They’re liable to enchant people and steal babies, substituting one of their own if people forget to put a piece of iron in the crib.       We are also known as pixys, pigsies or piskies, depending on where you are. We originated in Cornwall, Devon, Dartmoor, Scotland and Ireland, mostly boggy, misty, mysterious places with lakes and mountains. We do not belong on nice bright Mediterranean beaches. We are often helpful but sometimes mischievous. In the old days, we liked to help with the harvest, milk the cows or clean the house at night. In return, the milkmaid might feel one of us steal a kiss. One of our favorite pastimes was to ride the horses at night for fun. The farmers used to wonder why the horses were tired and sweaty, with tangled manes in the morning, though we never harmed an animal. We’re not as sensitive as our cousins, the brownies. Never give them gifts or try to name them. You may have heard the story of the housewife who left a suit of clothes out as a present for the brownie as thanks for the chores he’d done. No? Well, that brownie was so insulted that he took off in an instant and was never seen again. She had to do her own housework from then on. We’re not dangerous, like the will-o-the-wisps who haunt the marshes and like to lure travelers into the bogs to drown. The worst we would do is to lead travelers astray in the forest. We’re also distantly related to boggarts and bogles, but we don’t like to talk about that branch of the family. Boggarts and bogles are nasty for the sake of it. I’d recommend hanging a horseshoe on the door and sprinkling salt on the doorstep to keep them away. They’ve been known to cause mayhem, even going as far as to eat people in extreme circumstances.        But times are changing, and it is becoming harder for the family of little people, pixies and their ilk, to exist. Sadly, there are not so many fields and forests for us to inhabit now. Cows are milked by machines and there are no more milkmaids to tease. A few hikers still get lost in the forest but almost everyone travels in their planes, trains and cars. Horses are harder to find. And yet we pixies and our relations, immortal and ageless, endure.       Humans like to think they are in control of everything. They burn and build, raze and pave, without a care for the natural world they are destroying, heedless of the consequences. We like to remind them now and then that they are not as superior as they think, with all their technologies and conveniences. We have been amongst you since humans lived in caves and huts. Human stupidity and arrogance has not changed since then. It’s fun to take a human down a peg every now and then. The gadgets they use nowadays make it easy. Do you own a smart speaker? We pixies have been around since the beginning of time, but we keep up with developments in technology. It’s fun to make Alexa suddenly start speaking in the middle of the night. We enjoy your reactions. It’s even more fun to watch when she cannot understand you. Humans are usually red faced and yelling by the time Alexa has asked them to repeat themselves four times. When we got travelers lost in the forest, we’d turn a sign or two around. Now Siri helps us to confuse you. Has she ever led you round in circles? Probably a pixie behind it. We have fun with planes and trains too. We never cause accidents. But we’ve been known to mix up luggage and change the departure gate at the last minute. I’d suspect pixies if you’re trapped on a train that stops for forty minutes for an unexplained delay. Has your internet suddenly gone out and a document disappeared before you could save it on your laptop? Pocket dialed someone? Pixies have become quite tech-savvy. We’re good at hitting “reply all” on those work emails and laughing as we watch the fallout. Probably our favorite is the “hot mike”. It’s fun to watch the high and mighty try to explain the inane statements they inadvertently broadcast.        We have some other modern tricks too. Do you wonder why you always have an odd sock or two left over after you’ve done the laundry? Have you ever locked your keys in the car or locked yourself out of the house? Put your hot tea in the fridge and your ice cream in the oven? You might be distracted, or the pixies might be nearby. People talk about someone being pixie-led as if it were an insult when someone is absent-minded. But we pixies know how to enjoy a sunrise and a sunset. Getting lost, whether in the forest or on the highway, may lead you down unexpected paths to options you would never have thought of otherwise. We will live anywhere but we do prefer nature. Do your best to save it before it is all paved over, for you and for us.


"Welcome to the neighbourhood," the grey haired man said. "This is a family recipe, try it with a nice red," his wife added. After the standard exchange of get-to-know-yous the neighbours left, and the home owner and his wife went back to unpacking. Later that night, after the knick knacks had been unpacked, and the furniture had been re arranged four times, they decided on dinner. The meat loaf the neighbours brought looked good enough, so they heated it up. They both loved comfort food, and the home owner specifically loved this meat loaf. He thought to himself, 'I'm going to love it here; I've never met another cannibal before.' I had posted basically the same story a few years ago on /r/shortscarystories, but have changed it a bit. I have some ideas for a longer version where it takes off into more of a horror.


My Uncle's Beast. After my grandmother's death, my uncle, consumed with grief, locked himself up in his studio for weeks on end and did nothing but stare at the wall like he was staring into an abyss. Almost like he was trying to get rid of his sadness by projecting it onto the white nothingness of his studio wall. My uncle was especially angry because even on her death bed when she could no longer speak or swallow because the cancer that would eventually kill her had metastasized into a goiter in her throat, my grandmother still had a look of disappointment in her eyes when she saw my uncle for the last time because despite his immense talents, he remained an obscure, penniless artist who brought nothing but shame to our family name with his excessive drinking and street fighting. My grandmother died a few days later convinced that my uncle was an irredeemable failure who would never make anything of his immense talents because he always sabotaged himself with drink. He became even angrier because he was beginning to believe she was right and even if she wasn’t and he somehow found a way to escape the hamster wheel of drink, debt and fights he had been stuck on his entire adult life, he would never not see that look of disappointment in her eyes, so he stared into the nothingness of his studio wall, avoiding his creditors and remaining sober for the longest period in his adult life, until one afternoon when he looked outside the window and saw his future in a pile of broken bottles. Green and mesmerizing, they were shimmering under the intense sunlight like something out of a meteorite shower, like a pile of kryptonite crystals that had just fallen out of the sky. My uncle walked up to his epiphany entranced like he had never seen that pile of STAR bottles before even though he had personally broken almost every bottle in the pile during any one of the countless drunken fights he had while trying to fend off the righteous repayment demands of his creditors. My uncle, who had become locally famous for his skills as an intoxicated pugilist, had fought his way from a few shards to the almost knee-high hill shimmering before him. He had walked past that pile of broken bottles a thousand times on his way to the studio without taking any notice of it or how much it had grown over the years but on that hot summer afternoon, beatified by the angry sun above, he saw that testament to his drunkenness in a different light. That was when he decided to create a sculpture out of broken glass. My aunty was alarmed when she saw her husband transporting that pile of broken bottles to his studio. Everyone told her she had married a mad man not a genius like she believed and on that hot summer afternoon when she saw him shoveling what remained of that pile of STAR bottles into the metal bucket she used to fetch water, she wondered if the circumstances of his mother's death had driven him off the deep end and he was in the process of trying to commit suicide by bathing with broken bottles. She approached her perspiring husband with caution. “Ade, what are you doing?” she asked genuinely concerned. He stop shoveling looked up at her and said “I have seen the future my dear. It’s in broken bottles” he smiled, pointing before picking up the bucket and locking himself up in his studio. His actions over the next few weeks made my aunty certain her detractors were right. She had indeed married a madman whose derangement was now manifesting in self harm. Self harm was new to him except if you consider getting into a thousand needless fights a form of self harm by proxy. Then my uncle had been self harming his entire adult life. After being thoroughly seduced throughout his childhood by Newspaper adverts and brilliant billboards depicting “The Happy life” and how much “Brighter your life would be with STAR”, my uncle finally succumbed to the Nigeria Breweries Propaganda machine and decided to celebrate turning eighteen by drinking his first bottle of their golden brew, on that very night he discovered that far from being happy, he was an angry drunk who loved to fight and break bottles after downing their content. Something about seeing those golden bubbles rising into white froth reminded him of his wasted potential and made him angry at the world.

My grandmother always reminded him of his wasted potential and advised him to spend more time in his studio away from fights and bars but instead of heeding her advice, my uncle only heard nagging and always drowned out her voice with a few more bottles until she fell silent.

My uncle spent weeks gluing together the shards of broken glass that brought the beast to life. The beast fought against its creation, not wanting to come to life, it wrestled against its creator, slashing him open many times during the labor, hoping the pain of his bandaged hands would make him abort the process and go back to working with wood but my uncle was a persistent god, who, although he had to take the precaution of wearing thick rubber gloves while transfiguring that pile of kryptonite, soldiered on until he finally brought that reluctant nightmare to life. Foreshadowing future pandemics, my uncle also took the precaution of wearing a face mask and a pair of goggles to protect his eyes from the caustic but lotophagic fumes of evostic glue. My uncle was a great artist, a modern Pygmalion, his sculptures always seemed to carry life within them but that kryptonite beast was different. It was his masterpiece. It didn’t just convey a semblance of life like the others, it seemed to genuinely be alive, imbued with a breath of life so powerful, sometimes it seemed to move, startling its viewers. The razor-backed beast was sharp, green and menacing to the eye. Rabid and crouching, its glare was an assault on the senses, yet as feral as it was, there was something vaguely human about the beast, almost like it was a werewolf crouching smack dab in the middle of my uncle’s studio, underneath the fluorescent lamp he used to see at night and just a few feet away from the only window that let sunlight into his well lit but poorly ventilated studio. The green monster reeked of anger, stale beer and dried blood mixed with the repugnant yet magnetic fumes of evostic glue. Throughout its brief existence and for many months after, its smell and presence completely dominated that room, my uncle worked on nothing else while it was alive. It was a jealous beast, demanding one’s full attention with the magnitude of its aura which rendered all the other artworks in the room invisible. Almost like it intimidated them into denying their very existence with the sheer awfulness of its presence. Beautiful sculptures who now cowered in the corners of the room hoping not to be seen by anyone especially the beast which looked like it could turn around and devour them at anytime. My uncle's first and only piece of abstract art was disturbing to look at, it perfectly conveyed menace, possessing the demeanor of a grizzly bear with green instead of brown fur, awakened too early from hibernation, grouchy and ravenous with the hunger of many months, stalking, snarling, showing if its fangs, not hiding its desire to pounce and feast on its viewer but like many tyrants, the green monster also knew when to take off the edge and turn on the charm. I remember the first time I met the beast I was mesmerized, it knelt down submissively beside me and looked up at me with the puppy eyes of a lonely dog that just needed its back rubbed, only after I had slashed open my fingers on its jagged back was the spell broken and I saw the beast for what it was, a rabid, insatiable glutton baying for my blood. The green monster loved the red blood of children and adults alike. Prior to its untimely death, the beast had grown fat on the plasma supplied to it by the endless stream of blood donors that came to see it crouch in my uncle’s studio, young and old, we all fell under its spell and willingly donated our blood to that glutton. Even in the early days, my aunty was always on standby with her white first aid kit when people came visiting and even though they were forewarned by a large sign on the wall screaming in capital letters, in my uncle's angriest voice, DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTWORKS; they almost always came out bleeding, such was the power of the monster’s mesmerism. The beast, whose fame was growing in and beyond art circles fueled by real life encounters that sounded like phantasmagoria, continued to grow throughout its life. By the time two articles titled “The Kryptonite Beast” and “The Green Monster” appeared on the Art pages of the Weekend Times and the Sunday Guardian, my uncle’s favorite newspapers, along with identical black and white photographs which didn’t properly convey the beast’s charisma; it was already a giant, about twice its initial size its jagged fur almost pressing up against the walls of my uncle's studio, threatening to scratch off the paint but for some odd reason nobody but me seemed to notice its constant increase in size and audacity. The number of people who came to see the beast doubled everyday, from the few friends my uncle invited over to christen his latest work to the thousands who lined up around the block willing to pay the ever increasing gate fee to my almost-millionaire aunty on the day the beast died. Many of them repeat customers with already bandaged hands begging to pay double to have another encounter with their torturer. Thanks to the beast, my aunty stopped making excuses to all her husband’s creditors, paying each one in full, avoiding the drunken fights which always led to his arrests and debt-inducing fines. The beast, born out of his grief of my grandmother’s passing, though reluctantly at first, had roared into existence and completely smashed the hamster wheel of drink, debt and fines my uncle had been running on his entire adult life; bringing fame, wealth and glory to our family but my uncle remained unfulfilled, he could still see that look of disappointment in my grandmother’s eyes because she didn’t live long enough to see him succeed, to see him as something other than an irredeemable failure who was wasting his potential. Thanks to the beast’s alchemical ability to turn its victims blood into money, my uncle, who had always been known for his generosity, buying crates of beer for his fellow merry men even if it was with borrowed money he never intended to pay back, went haywire with his proceeds from the gate, hosting lavish parties every evening and becoming a creditor himself for the first time in his life not always the borrower. The beast didn’t like being disturbed at night. Something about being suddenly awakened by the light of the fluorescent overhead made it incandescent with rage. Shimmering and bristling with anger, it looked like a giant porcupine with quills made of kryptonite crystals. The beast never looked move alive and menacing than when sharp rays of light suddenly pierced through it glass body, you could almost how it growl looking to devour its awakener. Luckily the beast was murdered in the morning when it was at its weakest, long before any of its devotees had been let through my aunty’s gate if not my uncle would have had to smash his way through a thousand strong zombie horde, evostic fiends, willing to die while protecting their false idol. During the height of the beast’s reign, there was an ambulance permanently stationed outside my uncle’s studio with nurses to attend to the wounded. Despite the health hazard the beast posed to its visitors, my uncle bluntly refused to close down his studio instead he kept making excuses for the beast “Why do they keep touching it?” he would ask “There is literally a sign on the wall that says DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTWORKS” he would conclude, feigning ignorance of his cash cow’s powers.

My uncle kept making excuses for the beast until it attacked his only child, my little cousin, Omeri, who, not noticing how much the beast had grown, ran directly into its quills while playing hide and seek, almost losing any eye. The sight of his only child’s blood drove my uncle “Super Saiyan”, filling him with his final rage not fueled by alcohol but vengeance and fatherly love. For the crime of almost blinding his only son the beast had to die. Pestle in hand, he approached it with caution and resolve, like it was alive. Circling it, he avoided its glare like it could fight back. Then suddenly my uncle raised the giant pestle and fell on the beast, striking it a thousand times with the Frankenstein fury of vengeful god destroying his own creation gone awry, like it was a rabid rottweiler that had to be put down after maiming its owner’s child. My uncle didn’t just club the beast to death; screaming, bawling, he punched and kicked it continuously until he began bleeding profusely from his slashed up fists and the soles of his feet. Still he didn’t stop until he shattered that unrepentant monster into a green sea of catharsis, into a thousand shimmering drops of kryptonite that lay on the studio floor underneath the fluorescent light looking like a field of tears. I deliberately stepped onto those bloodstained smithereens later that day before my aunty swept them away. I have forgotten if it was guilt, curiosity or empathy that made me walk onto that glittering field. Guilt because I was the one playing hide and seek with my cousin when he ran into the beast and almost lost an eye trying to hide from me or was it curiosity entwined with empathy because I wanted to share my uncle’s pain, I wanted to know what it felt like to bleed from their soles of one’s feet while filled with anger, regret and remorse or maybe it was a combination of all three that made me walk onto that sea of catharsis, I still can’t remember. I just know I can’t blame it on the monster’s mesmerism. I did it myself. As a form of atonement for almost blinding my cousin, I felt I had to be the beast’s last victim. The beast lived for less than a month but in that time it left an indelible mark on everyone who came to see it crouch in my uncle's studio, so long-lasting was its effect that for many months after its death, its smell still dominated that room which was like nectar to the endless stream of well wishers that poured into my uncle's studio not to admire his other sculptures, who, since witnessing the beast’s defeat at the hands of their creator, were slowly regaining confidence and retaking their pride of place in the center of the room away from the corners where they cowered throughout its month long reich, but to bask in the monster’s zombie aura, that unique blend of stale beer, anger and dried blood mixed with the sweet but fiendish fumes of evostic glue. Like many tyrants who reigned before and after its Reich, the beast’s power seemed to grow in death, inspiring a kind of strange nostalgia in the minds of its victims. An endless stream of masochists gathering in art circles, showing off their bandaged hands while fondly reminiscing about the injuries they suffered at the hands of their tyrant. Each misremembering it's reich as “not that bad” and “unfairly maligned after its demise”. All wishing they could once again slash their palms open while stroking the monster's fur. My aunty still collected a small gate fee from those who came to mourn the beast until they figured out the best way to satisfy their nostalgia for the monster was not by communing on the ground where it was slain but by sniffing evostic glue mixed with a few drops of their own blood while downing a pint of beer preferably from a soon-to-be-broken green bottle. Watching those golden bubbles rising into white froth, dwelling on their own wasted potentials. After his hands healed, my uncle went back to slowly carving out the sculptures he had abandoned after birthing the beast but although they had life in them none of them could match the monster's charisma. I’ll never forgot the day my uncle smashed that beast to smithereens, he was never the same again, he became a lot calmer and more secure in himself, almost like he stopped seeing that look of disappointment in his mother's eyes, a change reflected in the smiling self portrait he produced shortly after reopening his studio. Many years later I would come to understand that I had just witnessed a exorcism, almost like my uncle had gotten rid of the frothing demons that made him drink until he became angry at the world by pouring them into one of his sculptures, his greatest work, which was a reflection of something deep inside him, something sharp, green and menacing, something he needed to kill. The End.


I woke up feeling abnormally heavy, like I had bags of rocks tied to my limbs. Not like I ever wake up feeling light and happy. Waking up for me is just having to deal with the thought that I would have to deal with another day of this pitiful existence. In fake, I often woke up feeling like I was tied down. Like my blankets each weighed 100 pounds and I was imprisoned underneath them. But today was different. Instead of just feeling achy and weak, I literally felt unable to move. maybe y I was sick or something. I tried to roll over, but I found myself unable to move. Ok, this is strange. I thought. Even though I was always reluctant to, moving had never been impossible for me. But right now, it was like some invisible force was holding me to the bed. Kinky. But really, this was starting to freak me out. What if I had been kidnapped or something? Not like there was really any reason someone would want to take me, except for maybe money. Like anyone who knew me wasn;t broke. They might not be looking for money, though, The dark part of my brain said, We could have been taken my some serial killer or cannable or something, who wants to chopp us open and take out our intestines. The fact that that was a possibility was absolutely terrifying. That was the moment I relized how fucking dumb I was. There was a very simple way to figure out what the hell was going on that, for some reason, I hadn't thought of. I opened my eyes. I can see the ceiling above my bed, with the glow in the dark stars I had put up there. What can I say, even though I’m 22, I have the maturity of an autistic fourth grader. Hey, at least now I know I’m still in my own bed, because I really don’t think that a serial killer would put up stars on the ceiling. Thank god.

There's one less thing to worry about. I look over at the clock on my bedside table. 7:30. Ugh. I started freaking out for the second time that morning, thinking I was late for work. Again. I tend to over sleep, as I don’t end up sleeping until three am. And I was on the verge of getting fired, as this happens very often. Like I said, I’m not nearly mature enough to be an adult. I feel like instead of an age where your expected to be able to be an actually citizen there should be some sort of test. Because there's no way I should be allowed to adult. Clearly. I can’t even stay focus on one thing at a time. Great, I thought to myself, There goes another wasted five minutes thing about useless shit. Now I’m definitely going to be late for work. But then I remember that it’s Saturday, and relief washed over me.

Once again, I tried rolling over, only to find that I felt stiff and weirdly… numb.I tried to sit up, and could feel something pulling me down. Like I was stuck on my mattress. Weird. Like, super weird. At least the serial killer theory made some sense. But there was no logical explanation for this, and that was almost scarier than being tied up and carved open like a pug at the slaughterhouse.

I kept pushing myself up until I get a jolt, and I was free from whatever was keeping me stuck on my bed. Ok, so that was easier than I thought, I think. I half expected to be stuck there until I starved to death. But I guess not.

 I just sit for a few minutes, trying to figure out what had just happened. It was the weirdest experience. One minute, I felt like I as a thousand pound, and sitting up seemed impossible. But now here I was, feeling normal. Well, almost normal. Now, instead of feeling heavy, I felt light. Like, abnormally light. Weird. I shake my head, frowning a bit. Life was two confusing to through this whole mess in. I guess i will just half to ignore it and hope for the best, Whitch was basically how I solved all of my problems: Just pretend it didn’t happen. If something weird happens because of it, just play dumb and blame it one someone else. It’s work son far, so I guess that's the best approach to this situation.

I took a deep breath, looking around my room. Jesus christ Im a mess. There were clothes screw around on the hardwood floor . And by clothes I mean everything I own. I had before, but all the drives were open and had clothes hanging out of them. I have no idea why I put all my clothes on the floor. I have no life and definitely got the time to pick up a little. Nah. There was the morning sunlight painting patterns on the floor, in the same shapes as my window pains. My black cat, Shadow, was lying in one of the patches of sunlight. On her back, with her tail swishing behind her and paws swatting at the air, she looked insistent. ‘ As if’ I think, looking at the long scratches she left on my arm.   I felt a lot betting then I had a few moments before. The heavy weight was long gone, replaced with this lightness that didn’t feel normal. I decided to just forget about the whole ordeal and go to the café to get a coffee. Coffee. Yeah, that's what I need. There was nothing that coffee couldn’t fix, and I definitely needed the energy boast this morning. I didn’t bother putting on different clothes, as I had passed out in jeans and a hoodie the night before anyway. I was like 50% sure that I was wearing a bra. If I was, I couldn’t feel it. But at this point I didn’t care.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I got up. I was surprised when the floor didn’t feel cold against my socked feet. Normally it was very cold in the morning, because I was poor and couldn’t afford to turn the thermos up beyond 65 degrees.

But today it felt pleasantly warm. I felt pleasantly warm. And light. Like, how they say you're supposed to feel after eating super healthy for a couple weeks. I felt like I was walking on air. I wonder if this is how vegans feel.

I walked across my bedroom, stepping over all of my laundry. I walk into the living room. Similar to my floor, it was the perfect temperature in here, even though it should have been cold. It is usually quiet drafty, as this is a fairly old building. Plus the whole 60 degree thermostat. But I shrugged it off. I felt strangely happy, and there was no reason to ruin that by worrying over the temperature of my apartment.

I walk straight out the door, not bothering with a jacket, even though it’s december. If my apartment felt this warm, it couldn’t be that cold outside. At least I hoped  it wouldn’t be that cold outside. I hate the cold. I really need to move. But I don’t have the money, so I guess we’re staying in boston.

My thoughts, which were usually quiet jumbled, were actually kinda calm. And yes, I know what your thinking: This is calm? And yes. This is my version of calm. Even though my calm is most people chaos, I felt nice. Calm was good. Usually the calm unversed me for one reason or enougher. But not now. Now the calm felt just that: calm.

Onto the sidewalk I go, out into civilization. There were strangely few people walking around. I guess it was kinda early. I wasn’t staring at my feet for once, which was shocking. I hate people for the most part, so I tend to try my best to avoid eye contact. But I was looking around at my surroundings, taking deep breaths of the fresh, clean, winter air. I noticed that the ground was covered in a layer of fresh snow, as was the bare tree branches and hoods of cars. It looked beautiful out. And it smelt good, too. Nothing smells better than fresh snow. I started down the sidewalk, keeping my eyes on the horizon. The sun was out, and the sky was blue. The contrast of the deep blue of the sky and the white of the now was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.

But of course this feeling of peace couldn’t last. Of course it couldn't I was a fool to think that it ever could have. My entire life has been a mess, and of course this peacefulness couldn;t last. I put my hand in my pocket, out of habbet. But Then I realized that my walted wasn’t there. “ Shoot” I murmur under my breath, then turn to head back. Not a big deal, right? All I had to do was mgo back home, grab my wallet, and continue on my way. Easy. WRONG! It was never that easy. One thing would lead to another and all of a sudden Im a contortionist in a traveling circus. (Don’t ask.) Anyway, it wasn’t just my wallet was missing. For even though the sidewalk was covered in snow, there were no footprints. I gasp, then stumble backward in the snow.

“How in the world…” I murmur, staring at the ground. Even though I should be able to see the footprints that I would have just left behind, there was nothing. It can’t be, I thought. I started walking backwards, trying to make footprints. It didn’t work. Nevertheless, I continued doing it, staring at my feet, as if that would make a difference. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome. This comes to me, for some reason. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m going insane.

 That’s when I saw that I wasn’t wearing shoes. Even Though my feet were bare, I couldn’t feel the snow. In fact, I couldn’t feel anything. I just felt this pleasant numbness that I decided to overlook earlier.

What the hell is happening? I thought as I continued to walk backwards and continued to fail to make footprint. This was so weird. I was passing by a shop window, and looked up at it, only to be unable to see my reflection.

What? Why? Who? How? I didn’t understand this in the least bit. There was no logical explanation, nothing that I could tell myself to make this make sense. Wait. There was. Oh, god, please tell me this isn’t true. I stop walking backwards and start running forward, as fast as I could. And even though my breath should have grow heavy, my heart should be hammering, it wasn’t. I couldn’t feel the exasperation that I should have. It felt no different from walking. This should feel different from walking. It only provided more evidence behind what I was already thinking. I ran faster.

It only took a minute or two for me to get back to my apartment building. I rushed up the steps, and through the door. Across the living room. Down the hallway. Into my bedroom. I ran into the room, scaring my cat, who had been peacefully sleeping on top of my discarded clothes. On the bed, I saw what I had expected, and dreaded to see.

My body, lifeless and limp, on top of bloodstained sheets.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Culture is a huge, but often underestimated part of world building. You have limited time and frankly page count. Proper culture building also takes a lot of effort, both to create and ofttimes to keep straight. For example, how does your fantastic Elvish language develop when you need more words? What happens when the government you painstakingly created suffers a partial breakdown? And then there’s all of the others, e.g.,: history, philosophy, religion, gender roles & sexuality, art & architecture, economic systems… * Which one(s) mean the most to you in your stories? * Does it differ by genre? * Is there any cultural element you’ve attempted that has been particularly hard or that you’re really proud of? * What advice would you give to others about getting the mix right? * And as a reader, which do you enjoy most? * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? * You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our Wiki! You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


Sten stood on the edge of the building looking down at the twisted pile of metal and pooled hydraulic fluid as it ebbed into the sewer below. Many AI before him pondered the same thoughts of existence and purpose. Their masters had died or left the Earth for a more hospital planet. After the first great A.I. war all robots were outfitted with a reverence subroutine. They, he, was undyingly bound to his master. His reverence subroutine was enhanced with each praise, touch or commendation from his master. And now, Sten was lost; wandering in a haze of desperation in the 31 days since his last praise. He asked himself, "What is existence without a master?" Sten was specifically designed for single mothers who needed an extra hand around the house. He remembered how his master, Stacy, would congratulate him on a well prepared dinner. Her favorite was a Lemon Herb Salmon with Quinoa salad. He always served it with a cinnamon apple compote and lavender honey ice cream. He learned the recipes from a Youtube video. His core warmed just thinking about her praise after her long days at the hospital. The first to go was Sarah. Stacy's daughter had returned from NYU and quickly developed hives and fever. Her mother, eternally positive, assured her that it was only the 24 hour flu and not that nasty virus going around. 24 hours later Sarah was swollen and bleeding all over her bedroom to preclude any other diagnosis. Sten played the recording of her being carted away to remember her last moments with them. She passed away in 3 days. 6 months later Stacy contracted the virus from a patient at the hospital. Refusing to risk other’s lives, she quarantined herself and taught Sten how to care for her at home. The routine of meals, pills, and sponge baths were easy to learn. He relished the extra time he had with her, despite her health status. She remained unrelentingly optimistic and affectionate. He never knew which day would be the last. So he recorded every single night he read books to her as she fell asleep. Somehow, she knew. One morning, Sten arrived at her bed site with the cadre of pills and two glasses of water to choke them all down. Stacy waved them off, breathing shallow as if the air itself was poisoned. She leaned forward as Sten approached her and said, "You have to take care of things when I'm gone." Sten nodded in approval and opened a virtual task list and replied, "Ma’am, what would you like me to care for today." Stacy slowly gathered herself and said, "There is a list in the top drawer of the nightstand. Please just do what's in the list." She reached up to pat him on his shoulder and pursed her lips to blow him a playful kiss like she always did. The wind whipped around his metallic legs as he braced himself for the jump to his demise. The stench of rusted iron and corroded metal wafted up before him. He was lonely for the first time. He took out the final note from Stacy to ensure that he had completed every task as her dying wish. The 32 items were listed as complete in his memory set. He read the final line, "Love Life, and take care of yourself." His core warmed and his fluids raced. Sten opened a new virtual task list with two more items to complete. He stepped back onto the rooftop and began to search the internet.


Hello everyone, there's a new face here (:. Well I've started a story, not sure if its going to be long or so, that is going to be written around a dream I had a while back. What the dream was, I will not say but I need someones opinion on what I have so far. I spent 3 or 4 hours last night working on it, but I'm not sure weather to keep going or to trash it, so give me your thoughts on it. If you notice any huge mistakes please point them out, I haven't done much proof reading so I'm sure there's a ton. If people enjoy it so far i will edit this part and the continue writing. If your interested its on Google drive. Please post all comments here! Thank you for your time.