There was a story about 2 strangers who started as friends. One afternoon Guada was walking down the streets where she used to be walking 20 years ago with someone very close to her heart. Every steps she makes leaves a huge smile in her heart as she walks down memory lane...... Young Guada was calling her friend Lambert, they were on their way to the cinema where the rest of their friends were waiting, when she looked up to the signage they were at 15th street, a few more walks and they will arrive to the cinema. Guada and Lambert grew up together, every summer they make the most if it to hang out since they study in different city so they only see each other during summer days. Guada was sharing to Lambert how college life is so tiring and she can't wait to graduate since they have this plans that when they graduate college they will travel the world. Lambert gave her a sweet smile. When they arrived at the cinema, their friends were so excited to meet them, they hugged each other tightly, it was a tough year wweeww so glad im home and with you guys, and they all agreed, when Guada noticed this new girl they were with, when she was about to ask, Lambert grabbed the hands of the girl and introduced her to the group, "Hey guys by the way, this is Voila my girlfriend" everyone was shocked, specially Guada, they never know that Lambert was seeing someone else then. While everyone was greeting the girl Guada was left at shocked, she don't understand why she feels hurt about Lambert introducing a girl as his girlfriend, it shouldn't matterbshe saud to herself and moved towards them and pretended to be okay. While inside the cinema she cannot focus on the movie, she kept asking herself why do i feel this way? It feels so weird everytime I look at them  so close together and why didn't Lambert told me about this girl, we were bestfriends. And tge questions keep coming into her mind. After the movie Guada decided to go home, the rest of her friends will be going to their favorite dinner in town, but Guada lost her appetite so she said goodbye to her friends and walked herself home. While walking sge can't stop thinking about this girl Lambert introduced as his girlfriend, it bothers her alot, and while she is walking she reminisced all the times they were on these streets of their hometown, how happy they were, sharing all their secrets with each other, having late night walks to the park, and so many more. But now it became so much different. And Lambert started to be distant to Guada, until sunmer was over she never heard about him. One afternoon when she was walking back to her dormitory she saw Lambert at the gate, he was holding a huge box, he greeted me with a cold hello, and he handed me the box without any words he walked away. And that was the last time she saw  him. She decided to not open the box, she never wanted to know whats inside of it, she was angry for awhile but now it was already 20 years ago, she is now a lawyer and been traveling the whole world, she decided to visit home and check on everybody, she throw a small party where closest family and friends were invited, everyone was so happy to see her, since Lambert ended their friendship she never visited home so often so she get to see most of her friend back home. The night was filled with laughter, good music and sumptuous food. When the party was over she sat on her bed took off her shoes and was relaxing a little bit when she noticed the box Lambert gave her years ago, she now decided to open it. She placed the box on her bed and slowly opened it, the box was filled with all the stuff of their memories together as friends, from tge first chips and soda they ate, to every cinema tickets they watched, to their favorite cassette tapes, their matching t-shirts, to the sneakers she bought him on his 11th birthday and all the cards she sent him and the letters too, it was all there no wonder the box was huge. As Guada was looking through all the stuff she can't help to ask why, many years of friendship and he decided to throw it all away. One afternoon, a day before she will be leaving her hometown, she went to their favorite cafeteria, and was surprised to see Lambert there. He seemed to never aged a bit, she pretended to not see him and go on eating when He approached her. Do you mind if i share table with you? Whe she looked around the place is full of customers so she said "yes of course" he does not seem to recognize her at all. She was wondering if he was with someone but no one approached the table Lambert started talking " how do you find the food here?" great, she answered with a smile and they started tobtalk about so many stuff, it was like the old times when they talk about so many things, sharing stories over dinner, Guada felt so comfortable and Lambert too, when they were done eating, Guada said goodbye first since she has to prepare for her early morning flight, Lambert accompanied her to the door, and Lambert said " it was great sharing table and stories with you, you remind me of someone so close to my heart before." Take care Guada replied with a smile and a teary eyes." While she was walking back home she was smiling but a little but teary eyed, remembered all the times they spent together before, how best of friends they were and how strangers they are now, maybe that is what life supposed to mean, come and go. The end-


Hello guys firstly I am sorry because I am not good at English and my grammar is cheap but I feel honored to share this story with you hugs and kisses to you all. It was almost midnight, everyone minded their own businesses as I was waiting for the right time to approach my crush Mike. Then so sudden the power goes out, oh!! Shit! They screamed on fear of the darkness we were left in. As for me this was the perfect time. ...........few hours earlier...... Hey, Jaz come on let's give it all, nope Rena I am not in a mood  sorry. Shit.. you girls like to play hard to get right!? He insisted, Rena stop being naughty boy, excuse me I responded and left in hurry. To see Mike as if we had an appointment, in a moment I found him, was so excited to spend time with him but guess what!? I found him fuck with Umbra. One of our cult members, she's nothing like me, she's cutest thing we had in our gang,hot, sexy and alot more exciting than I was. I should have hastily retrace my steps then right? But no I didn't I stood like statue, I was disappointed in them for no reason at all, I was not Mike's girlfriend but I felt jealous to see him with Umbra. You must be wandering.. who's this Mike!? He's sweetie charming prince, yeah he's a big catch I must say, pleasant looking,ample, the guy with a sexy lips I have ever met. How I wish to kiss those f*cking lips of him even once. I almost forgot to tell you that he's gymbo. I really love him ........ pause...... I couldn't turn back, I watched them cuddle, touching,, I've seen umbra draws his Straight big dick into her mouth with strong suck. I cried out of jealousy  wow I had vaginal stimulation and wanted to fuck with him too. I wished to make him feel like the most badass in the world. But then he didn't care, nobody was interested in me in whole cult except that good for nothing Rena. He pisses me off. And the cult calls him pissbutt of the gang. Umbra saw me then while they were in the middle of the shag. WTF freaky what are you doing here? I..i..i Wa..n..t Mi..ik I tried to answer but..I was doomed Leave us alone idiot. She screamed in rage. Mike swiftly stands up, go to pieces dunce, what a killer joy...he rushed me out theni was speechless. I got consumed by so much anger wanted to kill them all. Sometimes life puts us inyo wild situations I was humiliated and decided to get even. I felt wronged, embarrassed but most of all jealousy.the whole gang were celebrating insanity holidays I went out of the old abandoned house we were in. I became short-tempered in a moment, I wanted to be left a lone. Rena came right after me, and I hid because I had nothing to chat with. I hides behind the wildflowers in the garden, and then I decided to be that wild freaking asshole they always bragged about. I went back to party smiling as if nothing happened, but that was not my only intention. And then the powe goes out, hahahah...we all heard a very weird laugh. We were scared then.we thought that it was ghost as there was a saying..the basement was haunted house. Hhh!!you little scumbag kids your end is near.. Hhha we all laughed...stop it Rena it's not cool. And then we heard strange knock three times Knock.knock.knock Followed by smoke like mist in house. We became more scared and the situation was serious. I shouted, Rena..Rena..aaah where are you I am scared. I mustered hmmmm! The whole gang busted into laugh, I was offended and reminded of the humiliation I suffered since we became friends. I asked myself"why do they hates me so much! What have I done so wrong for them to treat me like garbage"? I heard a summons very weird ones... Jaz,,Jaz want my help to seek revenge on them? As I hesitated to respond I was already haunted. I said.guys did you hear that!?no one responded and the voice laughed at me.. don't be so naive nobody is going to hear you anyways. I am hungry, feed me and I grant you access to Mike. I agreed and went back to room I left umbra with Mike. Suddenly I grabbed umbra,sucked her heart, starred at it and then chewed it. I've never seen anyone with fear as how Mike looked like. He was so pathetic, owe I pitied him so much I wanted to spare him but it was not my decision then. WWe fucked hard and wild I was happy, after that the shit in my mind forced me to kill him too and feed it I refused and it got angry. It started...hahahha I knew that you were weak but not so weak to disappoint me. It was so much annoying than before. I said,,, I am not weak at all bitch. So prove it junkie it provoked me I went out for Chloe,Rin,and Taira I heard them screaming I approached Rin my eyes were red-blackish then Have mercy Jas please, I went dumb then and spared no one. My fingers grew tall and sharp like blade I pulled out Ron's intestine and swallows them all. Chloe and Taira shouted and they were noisy they died in fear. I was like wow!! I left the basement with my blooded clothes as I went out it was in the morning already and my nails scared me Too I fainted The next time I woke up I was behind the bars. My fellow inmates were gossiping behind my back that I was wild animal which killed the whole cult. I was not in right mind and remembered nothing at all. I screamed like crazy mt attorney shouted at me, to calm me. But no.. I didn't shut up I screamed that I killed no one . That's when someone's voice calmed me. Jasmine it's true you are not a murder, you killed no one Hhha see, I murdered no one bitches waited to see that person...... Fainted then and I didn't get to see him. The end! I love you guys


The rocks below looked pretty small. Yeah they looked pretty small. But if I hit them they'd probably look real big before I died. Look how tiny that dead tree was next to them. I started thinking about this rock I used to keep in my pocket for good luck because it had been such a pretty, smooth rock, black and shiny with a slightly cool touch. I liked to imagine it was from some beach even though I don’t think this type of rock was ever found on beaches, it was just because I’d bought it near the beach at some antique shop in Monterey Bay that I associated it with the beach. And when I looked at it, I could hear the seagulls, smell the salt and fishy seaweed, with the flies buzzing around the clumps of mangled green giantess’s hair that was the seaweed washed up on the shore...I’d avoid them and run along the sand till my feet were numb. That rock was lost somewhere now. Christ, the pocket of that blue hoody I used to wear never kept anything for long. I was always running in that big field behind school playing tag, so things fell out pretty quickly. The saddest thing I lost was at the end of 6th grade, I got this Pikachu figurine from a cereal box, he was my best friend and stayed in the pocket for all of summer and fall, and I’d talk to him and swear I’d never lose him, and tell him that he'd made it the longest, and then I played a long thirty-minute game of freeze tag with my classmates in which I almost won until Jonathon freeze-tagged me and then the bell rang for class. When I felt for Pikachu he was gone. I looked for hours after school but never found him. I remember, it was the end of autumn and there were a lot of red and orange leaves, and I crunched through all of them but no luck. That field ate everything and never gave anything back. Looking back I wondered why I kept putting things in that pocket. Why I didn't put them in my backpack, or wear a jacket with pockets that zipped. Things kept going wrong and I kept doing the same thing. And now I was here, looking down on those tiny rocks way down below. I leaned over the railing and started counting down from ten. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0. I opened my eyes, expecting God to say “Hey, I erased your life back to before, Sarah's not dead go and live your life with your husband,” but there was nothing. Just the empty sound of the deserted bridge behind me and the water rushing softly down below. I thought of that day, I'd just wanted to send a cute panda gif back to Jason, I'd done it a million times and never had an accident, but then that drunken guy in the Honda had swerved from the left and then the next thing I saw when they took me out was my daughter in the back, her head jutting out the glass like a distorted doll-- Just then I heard a low “Hey” next to me. I turned and saw someone standing next to me on the rusted rails. She was wearing a jacket with the hood pulled down so I couldn't see her face, and her hands stuffed into her pockets. “Can you do something for me?” she asked me. I stared, wondering where the hell she'd come from. She sounded like a little girl, wasn't this an abandoned bridge--wasn't it like 7 o'clock already--the park was a bit far from here-- “Please,” she said, taking something out of her pocket and shoving it into mine. "Don't follow me." I froze at the touch of her hand. It felt small and familiar. I wanted to curl my hand around it and keep it safe forever but then it had slipped away and returned to its owner. She turned and ran back into the fog. "Sarah?" I croaked. "Sarah!" She was gone. My legs suddenly started working again, and I ran into the fog for a good long mile, feeling out of breath like when I was young and playing tag in that field again, but there was no one to tag. Finally I walked back to where the air was clearer at the edge of the water and took the thing out of my pocket. It was Pikachu, his red cheeks almost faded from the little yellow figurine. I stood at the bridge for a long time, looking down at the rocks being eroded by the river. Then I too, walked away, in the opposite direction. If that's what Sarah wanted. \ Follow my writing at .


“Can you keep a secret?” asked Mr. Macado Greere of his bulldog, Fairy. The dog stretched her back out and groaned. Her nails scratched on the kitchen floor. Mr. Greere pulled a crystal glass out of a kitchen cabinet above the counter and set it down. Fairy settled and put her nose on her paws. “The annual Bibury Garden Fair is coming up,” Mr. Greere continued. He put a slotted absinthe spoon over his glass and balanced three sugar cubes on top. “With Mrs. Estes dead, I aim to win first prize with my vegetable marrows. They are massive this year.” Fairy opened one golden brown eye incredulously. Mr. Greere pulled a tall green bottle toward him on the counter and uncorked it. The sweet smell of licorice and anise seed perfumed the small kitchen and gathered near the window above the sink as Mr. Greere poured the green liquid over the sugar cubes, dissolving them through the slotted spoon into the glass underneath. As ice cold water splashed into the glass next, the liquid turned pea green. “You may laugh now, Fairy,” Mr. Greere said, as he recorked the absinthe and tasted his mix with a pleased sigh. “But the secret is I bought a new fertilizer. See for yourself how marvelously big my marrows are. Amazing what the right stuff will do for a marrow.” He opened the kitchen door and walked out into a walled garden. Plentiful rose bushes and shrubs hid the raised marrow bed from any eyes that might peep over the brick wall, and the marrows were thriving. The long, green vegetables were fat and long and shiny in the afternoon sun. Mr. Greere regarded them proudly standing on the stone path. He leaned down to scratch Fairy’s wrinkled head. “They are beauties, old girl, and the biggest I have ever grown. Not a word about my new fertilizer! I am bound to win, bound to. It is about time a real man won the garden fair, not some old lady without any balls to go alongside her marrows!” He snorted. Fairy tilted her head at the marrows before she whined. Quite near, the train whistle went up, marking the arrival of the 1:15 and Mr. Greere agreed, “Time for our walk, old girl.” He left his empty glass in the kitchen and donned his hat and coat in the hall. He took up his cane as he went out the front door and locked it behind him. Out through the white front gate and he walked jauntily into the street. The walk to the woody park at the heart of the village was short, but Mr. Greere passed through the village on the main road. He tipped his hat to the few ladies left strolling the street near the Bibury Tea Parlor and soon approached the station. Mr. Greere almost stopped as he saw a lady standing alone on the platform with her white suitcase at her feet. She held a map upside-down and looked confused. “Madame,” Mr. Greere tipped his hat to her. “You look lost; may I assist you?” “Why!” cried the female with big blue eyes and massive golden curls under her tiny hat. “I am lost. Sadly lost. I am looking for the cottage of Mrs. Agnes Estes. I am her niece, you know, and I have just been told I inherited her place.” Mr. Greere tipped his head back and hid his satisfaction at the old lady’s passing. “Pray do allow me to accompany you safely to the cottage as I am passing that way. Allow me to take your case, Miss Estes.” The girl fluttered her hand as Mr. Greere took up her suitcase and tucked his cane under his arm. “I am indebted to you, Mr.. . ?” “Macado Greere,” said the gentleman. “Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?” “Pinkola Estes,” said the girl. She stepped down onto the street in her delicate blue hells, holding her purse with both gloved hands. “Mrs. Estes was a sad loss to our little village,” said Mr. Greere. “She was a dear lady and never failed to spice up the annual fair by winning first place with her vegetable marrows. The fair will not be the same without her.” Pinkola laughed. “They say we have green thumbs in my family. I am afraid I am the black sheep; cannot grow a thing without killing it.” “Indeed!” said Mr. Greere. “Tell me,” said Pinkola. “Who is this darling dog?” “This,” said Mr. Greere. “Is Fairy.” Pinkola paused to lean down and pet the doggie before she resumed walking. “Tell me about the garden fair. My aunt often wrote to me about it. I understand you gave her stiff competition with your marrows.” Mr. Greere smiled. “Why, yes, I always did try for that red ribbon. The fair is annual, you know, with plenty of flowers and pigs to go round, but I am rather proud of my marrows, if I do say so myself. Good seeds, that is the secret.” Pinkola laughed again. “I grew up in a village quite like this one, you know, before I went to London. I remember my brother raised a pig once and won first prize.” Mr. Greere dismissed the pigs. “We take pride in our roses and marrows here in Bibury.” “Huge, ugly things are marrows,” Pinkola remarked. She sighed. “Except for some. I have seen some marvelous marrows in my time.” “Here we are, my dear,” Mr. Greere said. He stopped at a gate in need of paint off the village road leading into the country. Pinkola stared at the overgrown garden that pushed and shoved at the surrounding picket fence and nearly hid the stone cottage from view. “My! It is quite overgrown.” “A solid piece of property all around, I assure you,” Mr. Greere said. “We are proud to house Evan, the best handyman for miles around, right here in Bibury. He will fix you up in no time.” Mr. Greere opened the front gate and used his cane to clear weeds off the path leading to the house so Pinkola might reach the door untroubled. She dug in her purse for a key and unlocked the front door. She sniffed as she entered the foyer. “My! It is dusty in here.” She turned to Mr. Greere. “I do thank you, Mr. Greere, for your kind assistance and company.” Mr. Greere set down her suitcase and tipped his hat. “A pleasure, Miss Estes. Good afternoon.” He went out through the front gate and walked briskly down the lane homeward. Fairy bounded beside him. “A nice girl, Pinkola,” Mr. Greere said. “How splendid her aunt is dead; I do look forward to hanging something other then refried dreams on my trophy wall.” He passed the Tea Parlor on his way home; the Ladies’ Society was gathered there so engrossed in counting sugar cubes into their day, they did not notice him tip his hat. The next day after a careful watering of his vegetable marrows and his daily dose of absinthe, Mr. Greere ventured forth into the village again, promising Fairy, “We did not make it to the park yesterday, girl, but we will today.” The Ladies’ Society was gathered early at the Tea Parlor, their white hats and veils fluttering and teacups clattering. He smelled scones and heard fragments of a debate as to who was to preside over the tea tent and who was to tell fortunes at the fair as he passed. A great white pavilion was set up in the park as he walked around it. People clustered, assembling booths and arranging benches. Mr. Greere looked onto the pavilion at the rows of tables and pig pens and anticipated a prime spot for his marrows on that big table near the entrance to the tent. As he neared Pinkola’s cottage, he passed Evan, the handyman, coming out the front gate. It was freshly painted, and Evan wore his painting smock. “Quite a mess the young miss has on her hands,” Evan remarked. “Back garden is as overgrown as the front, so I have got to make a dash home for the loppers. See you at the fair, Mr. Greere!” He smirked. Mr. Greere found Pinkola on her knees with a wide straw hat and gardening gloves in the front garden, planting asters. He took off his hat as he peered over the fence at her. “I do hope you can forgive me for calling at this hour, but I simply had to check in on you.” Pinkola put down her trowel and flung off her gloves before she opened the gate. “Not at all, not at all! Do come in. I have something to show you!” She led him around the house on a cleared path to the back garden, where hard work had been done to restore order around a single raised bed. Mr. Greere’s heart sank at the sight of it. “There!” said Pinkola proudly. “Just look at that. My aunt must have been growing them when she died, and they are simply huge now.” Mr. Greere stared at the huge vegetable marrows filling the garden bed and the memory of his seemed small now. “I wonder, Miss Estes, if you have a use for them?” “I thought not at first,” Pinkola admitted. “But then Evan suggested I enter them in the fair as a final remembrance of my aunt, you know, and I have decided I will.” Pinkola clapped her hands. “I have decided to move here, and the fair will be such a lovely place to meet everyone.” “Splendid!” said Mr. Greere faintly. “But you must come in for some tea!” Pinkola exclaimed. She flung open the back door into the kitchen. “Just sit right up while I put on the kettle.” After a cup of tea and scones, Mr. Greere walked home slowly. He passed the Ladies’ Society in the street, gorged on tea, and the women surrounded him like moths. “Well, hello, Mr. Greere! We hear you intend to enter your marrows into our charming little fair again. Maybe this time you will win!” The women tittered and fluttered their eyelashes. “Oo, you know we just love men with big marrows and yours are—ah—simply lovely.” “Ladies,” said Mr. Greere. Not married, not a single one of them. He escaped with a tip of his hat. Back at home, Mr. Greere hung up his hat and coat and put his cane in the stand in the hall. He clasped his hands behind his back as he walked through the parlor into his bedroom and stared at the wall beside the door. So many second-place ribbons. How had Agnes Estes stolen first prize from him so many times? The day before the fair, Mr. Greere picked his marrows and piled the dear things in a basket ready to take to fair after his drink. As he prepared the absinthe, pounding on his front door upset Mr. Greere and he spilled some of the green liquid on the counter. Before he could make it to the door, Pinkola burst into his kitchen and nearly trampled him. “Oh, Mr. Greere, it is simply dreadful, really dreadful, too dreadful for words!” She glanced about her and grabbed up the absinthe. Mr. Greere held up a hand, but she had already downed the drink. “My, that helps settle my nerves. But, oh, it is dreadful! I went to pick my marrows and deliver them to the fair and the whole plant came up and there were bones !” “Bones?” said Mr. Greere. “Bones!” Pinkola shrieked. “My aunt has been growing her marrows all this time out of a cat graveyard, and I even found her chopper! She killed the poor dears and buried them in the garden bed!” Mr. Greere guided her into the parlor. She sank into his easy chair while he went into the kitchen to pour her a little brandy. Fairy ran in circles and barked as the girl downed the brandy and wiped at her eyes with her damp handkerchief. “What shall I do?” Pinkola gasped. “I love cats, I do. I left mine in London.” Tears welled in her blue eyes again and Mr. Greere offered her his silk handkerchief. Pinkola took it. “I do not have any marrows to enter in the fair and I promised the Ladies’ Society my biggest,” Pinkola went on. “I chopped up my aunt’s horrid things the minute I saw the bones. What will I tell them?” “Intimidating, the ladies of the Society,” Mr. Greere said thoughtfully. Pinkola sniffed. “They like big marrows, though.” “I should be glad,” Mr. Greere said. “To give you my marrows to enter in the fair.” “I could not possibly!” Pinkola gasped, but she clutched her handkerchief tighter in her gloved hand. “I insist,” Mr. Greere said. “I should be glad to accompany you to the fair. Perhaps you will consider dining with me one night?” Pinkola stood and pressed her hand to her heart. “Why! You are the dearest man. And, if I do win first place, think how proud of me my fiancé will be! He is coming down on the train tomorrow, you know. Goodbye, Mr. Greere!” She caught up the basket of marrows in the kitchen and danced down the hall out the front door. “Fiancé?” Mr. Greere whispered. His smile faded as he sat down weakly in his easy chair and Fairy jumped into his lap. “Fiancé’! Talk about refried dreams, old girl.” When he rose, Mr. Greere discovered Pinkola’s handkerchief scrunched into a ball in the corner of the seat. He took it up and walked into his bedroom. He opened his dresser drawer; a pile of women’s handkerchief’s, neatly folded, occupied the top drawer. Mr. Greere looked at Fairy. “Keep a secret, old girl. Do not tell Pinkola where this is.” He put the handkerchief into the drawer and shut it. As he walked back into the kitchen to prepare himself a drink, he mused, “I dare say no one will be coming by to admire my marrows or ask for seeds this year.”


We will be delighted to see you at the Trafalgar Hotel for the Re-Opening before the Re-Opening . It had been done the old fashioned way, through the post, and with little cards bigger than a credit card but smaller than a postcard, that pointed to them being specially made. There were little blue and gold chevrons at the corner, and an artist’s impression of the Hotel. But there was also a little personal note, in Sally’s distinctive handwriting. Somehow you could never quite decide whether it looked untidy but was really neat, or the other way round. “ Hi, Dora, can’t believe it’s been over four years now! But Don and I have decided that our little family, the January family, will get together before we re-open to the public. All on the house, of course! And you will have your old bedroom. We can’t wait to see you again, but please let us know either was ASAP. Lots of Love, and hopefully see you soon! Sally and Don”. Dora still wasn’t quite sure how they’d found her, as she had used an old address and a false surname when she was at the Trafalgar. Well, an assumed surname. But there were ways of finding people, weren’t there? She was torn between being a little unsettled by the fact that she had been found, and touched that Sally and Don were asking her back to the Re-opening before the Re-Opening. With the rest of the January Family. She couldn’t remember who had first used that expression, but there was nothing outlandish about it. Or was there? They weren’t a family, after all. And it wasn’t even as if they’d stayed in touch. But she only needed to close her eyes to see them, with that strange logic of the mind’s eye. There they were, in the breakfast room of the Trafalgar Hotel. Peter, whom Sally called “Part of the furniture, but in a good way!” He was the kind of man who had probably been called “The elderly gentleman” since he was in his fifties, and whose old fashioned courtesy and innate shyness were sometimes pierced through by a dry, slightly wacky sense of humour. He was an utterly undemanding, self-effacing man, but Sally saw to it that he always had his own special tea , at breakfast. Dora never found out what was so special about it, nor what would happen if any of the others, herself included, had asked for it. He was the most long-standing resident, and apparently one of the stars of a local pub quiz team, though Dora had never heard about them taking part in any competitions. She had once, briefly, been in a pub quiz team herself, but had no particular wish to do so again, so didn’t mention it. Jules was a travelling salesman, but not just any travelling salesman. There was something vaguely exotic about Jules. He was from Switzerland. At times Dora did pause to wonder about this. She didn’t see much evidence of the little town on the English east coast having a significant trade relationship with Switzerland. Chiding herself for stereotyping she reflected that she had never so much as seen a cuckoo clock in one of the souvenir shops, nor fondue in offer in any of the cafes. It was true that a couple of times, on the little table in the lobby where the post was put, she had seen a couple of communications from Switzerland – either a letter, or a larger, A4 envelope that presumable contained some kind of forms or order sheets or whatever. And there was the odd phone call coming through at the breakfast table, though presumably he took most of his calls in the privacy of his own room. Dora spoke French and had told Jules so he would know that she understood what he was saying. He had nodded and thanked her, and it was never anything of any particular significance or that he wouldn’t have wanted people to hear. Dora made a point of being scrupulously honest about small things that didn’t matter. She had this notion, though she wasn’t quite sure she believed it, that behind her back folks would say things like, “You can trust Dora. She’s honest.” Olive was revisiting the scene of childhood holidays, though Sally and Don hadn’t owned the Trafalgar then. But they had known the previous owners, and still visited Mrs Cynthia Harper, who was the kind of woman people called indomitable in her nursing home. There was even a picture of her and her mild looking husband Clive in the reception area. Apparently Cynthia (with Clive in tow) had pulled the Trafalgar up by its bootstrings (that was the kind of phrase people used but Dora was never quite sure what they were) and transformed it from a Boarding House to a Private Hotel. Over the years, the word Private had been dropped. But Don and Sally had further transformed it. Sometimes Olive reminisced over her lightly boiled egg and muesli (perhaps there was a Swiss influence in the town after all!), “Back in the day,” (she was fond of the expression back in the day ) “you never heard of a hotel except the very posh ones having private bathrooms and TVs in the bedrooms. But don’t misunderstand me, I like it.” Olive valued her privacy and the others respected it, but she seemed to thoroughly enjoy these chats in the breakfast room. Dora wasn’t quite sure how long she was staying. But the fact was, all of them were staying longer than you normally would in a hotel. It was the kind of thing you didn’t discuss and just accepted. Dora was sometimes mildly curious, though she accepted the surface explanation of Peter being part of the furniture, and Jules being on long-term business and as for Olive – well, plenty of old ladies and gentleman spent the winter months in Spain, so why not in Lincolnshire? Anyway, the same respect for privacy applied to her, and that suited Dora very nicely. We knew each other better than a lot of families did, in some ways, thought Dora, and yet we didn’t know each other at all. Though it was in a seaside town, the Trafalgar was not on the promenade. It could not, and did not, promise sea views, though it was only a few minutes’ walk away. Dora’s own room, her own old room that Sally had said she could have again, was at the back of the building, and looked out over a street. It was the kind of street that looked very prosaic and even a little shabby in the daytime, but at night when the streetlights both illuminated and concealed, there was something picturesque about it, and you could almost imagine that the buildings were in some Dutch painting. She didn’t envy Olive her room that overlooked the garden. It might have been different if night didn’t fall so early. But it was, after all, January, and though the shortest day was past, on the East coast light faded while it was still afternoon, and the streetlamps smudged the wheelie bins and the cracked plaster and enhanced the contours of the buildings and the rain that had accumulated in little pools in the potholes. She wasn’t the kind of person who was concerned about internal décor, but she rather liked the fact that the colour scheme, inasmuch as there was one, was blue and grey, reminding her of the colours of a school uniform she has worn long ago, and there was something appealing about that, even though at the time she had liked neither the uniform nor the school. Dora still doubted she would have made any request for a different room. Dora was the ideal guest who was no trouble, but who tempered it with occasional sharp shafts of wit. Though she had never been the kind of person who was the class clown, she had a way with words and contrived to just avoid being bland. And the truth was that though the comparison to a Dutch painting held a certain appeal for her, that wasn’t the kind of thought she lingered on, even when she left the curtains open. She did a crossword, watched some wallpaper television, sometimes read a book, drank an amount of wine that most would have considered too much, and ate packet sandwiches or sometimes filled a noodle snack pot with water from the kettle. She managed to signal that she kept herself to herself without being remotely stand-offish. But she was glad the Trafalgar didn’t offer an evening meal. It once had. It had when Cynthia and Clive ran it, and as Olive reminisced, “It wasn’t actually compulsory, and I think you could come to some kind of an arrangement, but I never heard of anyone who did. To be honest, it wasn’t that great. Cynthia could do a lovely breakfast, but otherwise she was a cottage pie and boiled cod sort of cook, and I’ve never cared much for either.” Sally and Don had briefly carried on serving an evening meal, but then abandoned it. Dora was sensible enough to know that though nobody would press her on the matter (though sometimes she wasn’t quite sure about Sally, whose friendliness had not tipped over into nosiness, but at times had come too close for comfort) some explanation had to be offered, and she kept it simple and believable, though the truth was neither. She was having work done on her house . The others may have thought it was an odd time of year (and she wasn’t terribly pleased to discover that Don’s brother was a builder) but no-one made an issue of it. There was no work being done on Dora’s house. For all she knew there could be squatters in it, and it could have been burgled, and the drive would most certainly be overgrown. It was the kind of drive that got overgrown very easily. The damp patch in the ceiling may well have got worse, or even turned into a hole, letting water gush in, and more slates may have been dislodged. I should have gone further away , she sometimes thought, uneasily, and decided that the time was coming to move on from the Trafalgar. There was no real reason for her to stay. Not even the January family. But it was easier. And she had got used to it. She liked hearing Olive’s stories of bygone days at the Trafalgar – she was an interesting raconteur, and also knew when people had had enough. She liked swapping bits of trivia with Peter, and sometimes talking French to Joules, who was complimentary about her language skills. As for Don and Sally, they were sometimes positively parental, which she knew in her heart of hearts was ridiculous, as she was certainly older than they were. She could always find a reason to put off moving on. But she supposed she could, and would, cope with that one day. Going back was another. She didn’t know if she agreed with Sally when she said it didn’t seem like four years since the January family were together. More than four years, because now it was May. She had sometimes thought it was fanciful to say that time was relative, but it certainly seemed to play tricks. At times January in the Trafalgar seemed more like ten years ago, as if it had happened – well, before other things had happened, instead of after. At others it was as if she had left it only weeks ago. It was also both more real and solid than the life she was leading now, and like one of those contradictory dreams that are “realistic” and have nothing surreal or fantastical about them, yet, on waking, seem to have been stranger than any vivid surreal landscape of mythical beings and either the best or the worst that could happen. She couldn’t help the thought that Olive and Peter must still be alive. Don and Sally would surely have known that or had checked. Well, it wasn’t so surprising. They were old but not ancient, and while Olive had plainly been hale and hearty, Peter had been spindly and stooped, but that was not necessarily a manifestation of fragility. And would Jules really come back from Switzerland? From – where was it he had said he lived? – near Lausanne. Or perhaps he had never left. Oh, he would have left the Trafalgar, of course, but perhaps he had stayed in the area. Dora had stayed in other hotels and guest houses since, when she could afford it (or even when she couldn’t) and when they weren’t closed down in lockdown. But she had never really been on holiday. And she hadn’t been back to the Trafalgar. She had thought about it, and told herself there was no reason that she shouldn’t, but she hadn’t. It had been part of that hiatus between two realities. And that was something that you couldn’t recreate. Dora was the kind of person who rarely complained about repeats on TV, though she had to admit that the Yesterday channel took it to extremes. It reassured her to watch something that had no nasty shocks or no disappointments, where nobody would act out of character or reveal something unsettling, or question a fact she needed to be true. Like many people who are generally indecisive, Dora had spells when she made up her mind quickly and was relieved to have the making up over with. She replied that she would be delighted to be at the Re-Opening before the Re-Opening. But this time it would be different. She would not be seeking a refuge after she had let her home go to rack and ruin, and after she had discharged herself from hospital because she couldn’t stand to be there any longer. She need not be in fear of someone well-meaning reporting her as a missing person and expressing concerns for her welfare. I am not different any longer, thought Dora, and the thought both disappointed her and made her give what a certain type of book called a rueful smile as, of course, she was, but it was easier to hide it now, and nobody had ever known how hard it was to hide it then. So she made her way to the little town on the East Coast, to the little Lincolnshire town that was still shabby and down at heel, but still had an atmosphere about it that kept people coming back to the guest houses and holiday camps and mobile homes, and kept them shopping in the little souvenir shops. To the town with the tall clock tower on the Promenade and the old-fashioned pavilion in the sunken gardens. To the side street and to the Trafalgar Hotel. She didn’t have a key for her room yet, of course, but saw that the front door was open – that was typical of Sally and Don. And she knew that they wouldn’t mind in the least if she stepped into the hallway, or even into the lounge. They would give her a good telling-off for standing outside, especially Sally, who was decidedly stringent about being easy going. There was a familiar scent in the air – the lavender furniture polish that Sally favoured. Dora had never been able to make up her mind whether she really liked it or not, sometimes she found it too sickly and heady, and at other times, especially as it had been winter then, she was glad to breathe in the halfway convincing redolence of a synthetic summer. It would have been wrong, somehow disconcerting, if she had changed her furniture polish, and if there were a scent of vanilla or pine forest or whatever. She heard voices in the lounge, and they were voices they knew. “It’s so typical of Sally and Don to organise something like this,” Olive said, fondly, “though letting people have rooms for nothing might not be terribly sensible.” Dora smiled. Though she was a redoubtable old lady in many ways, and not someone you messed with, Olive was not one for castigation and condemnation. One of her most “vehement” criticisms was that someone had not been terribly sensible . She had a new hair style, Dora noted. Her hair wasn’t twisted up into a bun, but she’d had it cut short and put in soft waves. It suited her. “Especially as they have a little one now,” said Peter. “Young Elizabeth – Betsy they call her – three years old and as bright as a button. I never thought I’d be a godfather in my life, and I was so honoured when they asked me!” “You deserve it, Peter,” said Jules, fondly, and his slight accent was still there, but seemed less pronounced. Yes, it was wonderful news about Betsy, thought Dora. She had known that Sally and Don longed to have children, and hadn’t been finding it easy to conceive. I wonder who she looks like, mused Dora – round faced and with curly dark hair like Sally, or tall and fair like Don. “I’m glad they’ve given the rooms a makeover,” Olive said, “Not my place to comment, but I never cared much for that blue and grey.” That’s a pity , thought Dora, but as long as the view was the same, it didn’t matter. “Just one thing that’s such a terrible shame and so sad,” Jules said. “Indeed,” Olive said, with a sigh. “Poor Dora. I only found out later that she discharged herself from the hospital, but she still wasn’t at all well. It was no age. Such a tragedy, she was a nice girl, though I could never quite fathom her.” And Dora fled silently up the stairs to her room, and it was still furnished in blue and grey, and a January snow was falling as the light faded.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Holiday Challenge:** This week, your story should **include at least 2 items from each column.** The general theme or focus of the story is entirely up to you! - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Use at least 8 items from the table below. | **WORDS** | **ACTIONS** | |:--:|:--:| | reindeer | hanging lights/decorations | | celebrating | an argument occurs | | tree | attending a holiday party | | snow | riding in a sleigh | | Santa | sitting by a fire | | pine| searching for hidden presents | | gingerbread | preparing a meal | | jolly | singing a Christmas song | | pajamas | shoveling snow | | gathering | sliding down the chimney | | mitten(s) | a mystery is solved | | hoof | working overtime | | elf | a Christmas miracle occurs | This week’s challenge is to use **at least 2 items from each category** in the table above. The general theme or focus of your story is up to you, as long as you follow all sub and post rules. Feel free to interpret the items / actions any way you like! I hope everyone has a happy holiday and safe travels! **Note: There will be no Campfire or post next Monday. But don’t forget to still after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings There weren’t enough stories for a full ranking set this past week, so there was just one winner! - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


>*“…He opens the door of his house* > >*On flames. The scholar of one candle sees* > >*An arctic effulgence flaring on the frame* > >*Of everything he is. And he feels afraid.”* > >*– Wallace Stevens, “The Auroras of Autumn”*  *Whitney Siddall will feel a strong wind from the north while cleaning up his second tip-up. He used to have more, but they’ve all rotted from overuse. His second tip-up, in this spot, after what could’ve been hours, or days – who knew – will not catch anything. The flag will not raise. No flags have raised for Whitney in quite some time.* *Today, he will have taken the riskier route and gone out on the ice 8 inches thick. He used to teach his daughter a baseline of 12 inches. That was the thinnest one could safely drive the family truck across. Whitney will remember this, remember his daughter, the treks they took to the lake each winter.* *He’ll pick up the rig. He will recall his youth and regret the time wasted on the hole. What used to be easy was difficult, the auger he lifts will now be heavy. It will be difficult to dig another, and he’ll think himself dumb for leaving tools out on the ice, instead of picking up after* *himself once the hole’d been dug.* *“Making the bed” is what he used to tell Justine as he would place the tools back in the truck.* *…That flag would raise and they’d both get giddy at the thought of a large, delicious meal. That gold-yellow perch, mottled and striped like some kind of painting, would emerge squirming, and the fillet knife saddled at his side was all they’d need to actualize their hopes.* *He’ll recall that his excitement had been sparked by hers, at her seeing the color explode against the gray. He’ll recall, as he leans down to pick up the rig, that he’d chosen the color green for his truck sometime soon after his daughter turned four or five. He will remember he wanted it to appear to Justine that life could grow even in the harshest environments – as if the truck were some fragile flower.* *He’ll laugh at his younger, paternal stupidity…but the laugh will be silent, since he knows, deep down, that this recollection has occurred before. And he will have barely any time for amusement since he will be frustrated.* *The weather would have barely reached freezing the day before. But he will not think of his venture as a risk. Rather he’ll think in terms of time: all the times in which he’d ventured out on even thinner, even weaker ice.* *All he’ll want is one perch. And he’d sacrifice a million minnows just to give it to Justine. He’ll plan for the holiday season, for when she normally comes to visit, – though Whitney will wonder if she’ll even make it out this year.* *He will think of Justine’s new husband, of their marriage, of their indecision about* *having children, on their focus on travel and self-improvement, of their lives finally formed around each other. And Whitney will feel happy that she has found love. Then he will feel selfish for feeling anything but happy.* *Whitney will make the bed and feel alone.* *Whitney will enter the truck and turn the key, revving the engine – and he will see a small wolf cub hopping in his direction, aimless. Whitney will leave the truck, confused, and pick up the cub. He will be surprised at the wolf cub’s domesticity as it licks his face. Whitney will then see in the distance his first tip-up – he will see the flag raised…but it won’t be raised* up*, for it will be sideways, lying on the icy floor.* *Whitney will approach quickly, holding the cub who is panting heavily, and who, Whitney will realize, is very light, very thin. Whitney will see something in the distance, near the fallen flag. As Whitney will approach, he will slow, for he sees something that shakes him: he sees a young man (maybe in his mid-twenties), crouched, holding a yellow perch to his chest. The man will be shirtless, his skin will be navy and his posture animalistic. Certain parts of his body will be bruised, others scratched and maimed, frozen blood will paint his torso. And his eyes…his eyes will be indiscernible beneath the heavy scratch that will run across his face. And Whitney will realize this man’s wound has blinded him. Whitney will feel something he hasn’t in a while: pity. He will feel the need to help, and adrenaline will pulse within him. He will feel the need to help, but he will know, from age, to approach with caution…and he will ask, with caution and compassion, “You okay, buddy?”* \* \* \* He was a quiet man, the type to sit beside a fire for hours, puffing a rolled cigarette, silently enjoying the fruits of his labor. Though he was a quiet man, he was not altogether serious. He still found humor in vulgarity, and he’d laugh like a teenager. He had moments of outrage that expressed themselves in bombast and melodrama. He whined to himself about the capriciousness of life. And on the days he found himself particularly pleased, he sang loud against the crisp wind and playfully chased the lemmings and squirrels that crossed his path. –In mind and heart, A. Hugh Town was a child that never matured. Today he was tired and a little hungover. His walking stick had become an essential limb. Sleeping on cattails for months had taken its toll, and even the exhaustion after hours of sawing through the boughs of a lodgepole pine the night before hadn’t been enough to exhaust him to sleep. The nights had been short and the days long. When Town awoke, he wasn’t sure what time it was: the sun was hidden behind an overcast tapestry. The days of frolicking had been separated by an increasing number of lazy days, marked by a beige personality. But this wasn’t uncommon: Town had always been the silent type. \- - - - - His silence came from his inability to confront the shadows reaching through his past. And when those moments of silence overcame him, his face turned blank, and revealed neither torment nor depression. Instead he donned a Zen-like concentration, bent on purging his mind of all preoccupation by staring into the fire and drawing from a tight cigarette, as he’d done the night before, and the night before that. But – once life presented him with what he considered a long-deserving gift (such as a dumb easy-to-kill stag, or the soft wisp of clouds that meant the sun wouldn’t feel so bright) – the jump-for-joy child would bubble to the surface, and his only conscious thought would be to keep his giddiness from springing in his step too suddenly, as it might spook the wolfdogs that hung beside him. These most recent days, however, gave no gifts. The soft wisp of clouds had turned to a large smothering quilt that only hid the form of the sun. And even then, its shine still felt so bright and so reflective that Town would often walk with his eyes closed, hoping that he wouldn’t bump into any of the pine trees along the way. And, of course…he was starving. There hadn’t been any sign of food for a good month or so. Those lemmings and squirrels Town used to chase playfully were now chased predatorily. But these small bits of sustenance were not enough to keep his stomach at bay – and he could only imagine what it must be like for the four dogs…and that small cub… Because of all this, Town felt a void growing inside him, which he filled with whiskey. He took long sips from the large flask he kept in his inner jacket pocket. And this day was a day when the void had grown so large that his psyche had burst in excitement just to survive. As a consequence, it seeped through the stick he used to provoke one of those wolfdogs to a wrestle.


This is the first time I've tried to write a sort of story, I feel it'd be embarrassing to ask anyone to read it so I wanted to see if anyone on here would enjoy or criticize it. I opened the door, things seemed almost unfamiliar. I stepped in the house I called my own and it hit me. “This house,” I whispered, “It’s not mine, is it?” Although the key worked, it still didn’t feel right. The smell, the taste of the air, and even the creaking sounds of the floorboards were different. But the house looked the same, all the flower pots and pictures of my wife and I are still here. Before my wife died she was diagnosed with severe OCD. Her parents never took her to get a diagnosis. They thought if she was diagnosed with a disorder the people in this small town would look at her differently. She would label everything on its bottom. All of the flower pots had a number that matched their spot on the table. One went with one, two went with two, and so on. The plants themselves matched their spot, but as I lifted them up the number ‘one’ on the table didn’t correspond with the ‘9’ on the pot. “Jacob” I heard a voice similar to my wife’s wearily say, “is that you love?” It was followed by a small laughter. She always did find it extremely cliché to call each other ‘love.’ It was the laughter that caught me off guard though, I could almost feel it. Even as the hot sun rays came in through the open door the chills I got were incomparable to any winter cold I’ve ever felt. I was distracted, how I had gotten so off track was almost bewildering to me at that moment. I continued to walk around the house. Why was it so unfamiliarly familiar? As I entered the kitchen this sort of ravenous stench entered my nose. The smell was neither good or bad, but I felt as though it was consuming me. It drew me to the basement so I followed it. Even then I knew I shouldn’t have followed my curiosity, but I couldn’t help myself. My hand slowly got closer and closer to the knob almost like it was magnetic and my hand was made of iron. My hand finally reached the knob after what felt like a lifetime of going towards it. I couldn’t feel that endlessness again so I turned the knob and opened the door as hastily as I possibly could. I thought something greater would have happened but it was like any other door to any other room in the house. I flipped the switch but no light came on. I tried flipping it a few more times but all I got was a small zap. With no light in the basement I went to go find a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. She labeled these sorts of things too. I began to remember the number I used to see on the flashlight. “46,” I told myself “I really hope it does say 46.” I opened the drawer with the label ‘21’ and lifted up the light but it was numbered ‘64.’ But I could have just forgotten, maybe switched the numbers up in my head. To this day I still don’t have an answer for that. Regardless, I went back to the basement and turned on the flashlight. What I saw was horrifying, something that my brain could have never switched up like a number. There was a mirror, with a reflection of me next to my wife, the both of us were hanging from the tree out front. If my mind was playing tricks on me, I will never forgive it. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck, with tears rolling down my cheeks and into my mouth. The salty taste of my tears must have brought me back to reality as I almost immediately threw up into the kitchen trash can labeled ‘53.’ While the dim kitchen light only barely lit the trash can, I could still see the red, I was puking blood. I screamed for my life when I saw it. I wasn’t scared, because that was nothing compared to what I had just seen. “Joseph, come back.” The same voice whispered. Instinctively I ran for the front door. It closed slightly with every step I took. “Could have just been a breeze.” I told myself, even though deep down I knew it was a lie. “It’s fine my love, just come back to me and everything will be fine.” “Who are you?” I answered reluctantly. “How could you forget me,” I heard which was followed by a slight sob, “we’ve been married all this time and you forget me just like that?” But there was no way it was her, it couldn’t have been. She died more than two years before then, but I tried my best to believe the voice with the ounce of hope I had left. But the hope was overpowered, what could I possibly be hoping for, she was gone and I had to leave. So I did, running for the door all I could think of was the reflection I had seen in that basement. A part of me was saying that if I did leave now, I could never come back. That was fine though, in the moment at least, because no matter what happened next I would always have the memory of my wife. I got to the door, pulled it back open because it had nearly closed, and took a step back outside. The door slammed behind me, which startled me slightly but I was already terrified so that couldn’t compare. Going outside and seeing the tree from that reflection, it almost made me throw up again, but I didn’t. I turned around, locked the door and left, never to return. It’s two years later now, I’ve seen hundreds of therapists, almost using every paycheck on each of them. But nothing helped, no matter how hard I tried there was never a difference. What I saw was real, if it wasn’t then why was it just that once that it happened, in that old creaky house. The only real therapy was visiting the hospital bed where the doctors tried to save her. She had killed herself. Slit her wrists and drowned in our bathtub. I begged the doctors to save her but no matter how hard they tried, there was no hope. That hospital bed is my last memory of her. To this day I’ve never taken off my wedding ring. I couldn’t go through that pain of losing again. So I make it clear to everyone that I’m still married. Women say constantly that I look good, or any other compliment they can think of, but I never listen. The past three years I haven’t spoken a word to a woman. It was almost a trigger to me, all the memories seem to come back and hit me like a train. My boss sees I'm struggling, he knows the story of what happened in that house. He never believed it but tries to comfort me as much as possible. His name is Jerimiah, a nice, clean, and business-like man. He tries, and for that I will forever be in debt. I could never help him if I tried, how would I be able to if I can’t even help myself. I work in a police department, most of what I do is paperwork. I used to go to the crime scenes a lot for more insight, but I lost motivation for doing so. Especially since the last time I went to one, it was hers. There are men in my department that believe it wasn’t suicide, they say there's evidence it was a murder. It was never conclusive but it was ruled a suicide. But still the cruel men and women blame me. It was unbearable listening to them go on and on the week after she died about how it could have been me. But it wasn’t me, it couldn’t have been, I was at work the whole day. So from my point of view, it came down to suicide, or whatever was in that basement. I’ve been keeping up to date with our old house since I sold it, which was the day after I last went in. There have been 10 or more people who've bought the house and left within a month. All of them said that something was off, or that they didn’t feel safe there. I understood their emotions, more than they ever could. The part that scared me the most was the most recent owner had told me that the basement door is bolted shut. Nobody else has said this so it must have been recent. I contemplated returning there to see if it was true, but evidently, I was horrified to do so. “I guess I’ll wait until the next owner buys and leaves to see what they say” I told myself. So I did, and two months later the next owner died. The station made me look over the evidence, and as I read the autopsy report and saw the pictures, I burst out into tears. He had died the same way my wife did, the exact same. The slits were in precisely the same spot on his wrist as hers. He laid the same and even the blood, for some reason, looked so similar. I decided to go with them to the crime scene. It was the only way I would be able to go there again and come out alive. Jerimiah and I entered the house, nothing was the same. Now there was a reason to speculate if it was my old house or not. Every single thing had been changed, from the carpet to the ceiling type. It was so strange to see, a house so familiar yet so different. Rather than go upstairs to see the actual crime scene, I went to where I witnessed the worst thing I ever would. The previous owner was telling the truth. The basement door had been bolted shut. “Jerimiah!” I called out. “Yeah what is it?” He asked while hastily walking over to me. “Something happened in this house after what I saw, somebody else saw something, that must be why the door is like this.” I said almost excitedly. This was the first bit of proof I had towards me not being crazy. “Ehhh Jacob I don’t know man, this could be from anything.” He had a disappointed look on his face. It was like he got scared I would never be well again. I walked away slowly, looking at the dreadful expression on his face. “Wait did you hear that??” He asked suddenly. “No,” I said with a confused tone, “what was it?” “There was a voice, it screamed for help, and then there was a scraping on the wall close to the door.” I was shocked, he was describing it like it was written on paper and he’d been reading it every day over and over. It was hard to tell if he was making a joke or not, but as he turned around to look at me it was like he had died of fear. His face, which usually is a bright and pretty one, was so shockingly pale I almost jumped back. “Jerimiah are you alright?” I asked worriedly. “I don’t think so, call over some more people,” he said in a tone like that of death, “we’re getting this damn door open.” So I did, we grabbed some crow bars from the cars out front and began working at the door. After five minutes or so the door had opened. Following it was a darkness like no other, we all were knocked over and left with slits in our arms exactly the same as my wife and the most recent victim. That terrible darkness that scarred us all had gone straight for the front door. I couldn’t make out a figure but it was there, and somehow person-like. I could see the door locking itself almost like it was being forced to. The shadowy figure slowly merged with the door and it became a pure black. Slowly, the windows and the walls were all consumed as well. That same ravenous smell came back as I sat on the floor surrounded by darkness and the other frightened officers. The basement door was the only other visible thing. I was drawn towards it again, and I think the others were as well. One of them got up and started walking to it. “GET AWAY!” I yelled in complete frustration with her. It seemed so stupid of somebody to be in a situation like this and still think to follow that great darkness. But with me yelling the shadow ran back to the basement as fast as it had come. We were back in the house again, the bright sun shining through the kitchen window. The girl began to cry, it was like she realized that she almost killed us all. Leaving the house was the worst part, blood dripping down are arms in similar streams with the same cuts on all of us. It looked like we were some sort of satanic cult. How could anyone believe what we had just seen? We would look like lunatics, then again we already did. The second I felt the outside air hit my arm the cuts and blood all cleared up. Slowly the blood on all of our arms had vanished, and we were left with nothing but the memory. Even with that memory trigger of talking to women, the girl that stood up had something about her that drew me close, wanting to learn more I went with that feeling. I pulled her aside asking her what she was thinking. I needed to understand what she heard and saw. I felt as though if I couldn’t understand, I would never be whole. “I heard my husband, telling me to come closer, and there was this frightening smell, it was in some terrible way consuming me.” I gave her a hug, the most comforting way I possibly could, and went straight to my apartment. As I entered my small rundown apartment I felt as if I needed to take a bath. I went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I sat on the couch for a few minutes waiting for the tub to fill and when it did I got undressed and got in. As my foot touched the water my arm started to burn, but by the time I looked at it I was fully in the tub. The cuts had reappeared and with it the darkness filled the room, I was bleeding heavily as I felt a strong hand drag me into the tub. I looked down and the tub became an endless ocean. I went to pull the hand off of me and as I did I saw the shiny ring that was on its finger. It was my wife's ring, I knew because the diamond had her name in big blue letters. ‘Delilah,’ it read. Reading her name on her ring made me give up. I stopped struggling and trying to swim away. I let myself be taken away and eaten by the darkness. And with my final breath of air I whispered to myself, or to her even, “I’m coming, my love.” As I slowly drowned in the endless waters, I laughed for the first time in years. Thinking about how my last words were the ones she loathed the most.


Hi there. This is a 1.5k short story mainly focused on romance and philosophycal stuff. The setting is supposed to be a Victorian England. I'd be thankful if you take a bit of time to read it and give me your opinion on it and critisice it. Also, it is my first time posting in this sub so if you have any indications or recommendations I shall be thankful to hear them. Story: It was a dream. He knew it. He was painfully aware of it. He knew it was a dream as he looked at the mirror and found himself smiling. He knew it was a dream when he saw her sweet smile. He knew it was a dream as their laughters echoed under the ever-blue sky; as her eyes looked at him, flickered and sparkled and smiled at him; as he felt the tremulous warmth of her hand against his; as her lips grazed his; as he felt her scent on his arms, the tenderness of her skin, the softness of her hair, the playfulness in her smile, the light behind her eyes. Yes, it certainly was a dream. Of course it was. There was no way it was true. He desperately held on to that dream for he didn’t want to let go of her. He desperately held on to that dream, on to the sound of her laughter, on to the image of her eyes, on to her voice, on to everything that she was. He held on to that ephemeral dream, on to that midsummer fantasy that showed him what he desired. Perhaps that was why he loved and laughed and smiled and talked and was loved with every single piece of him inside that illusion; perhaps that was why he lived and felt alive inside that fantasy, inside that desire, inside that midsummer dream. Perhaps that was why he... He woke up alone, to the sound of passing carriages and to the gentle touch of daybreak rays. He woke up to the rooster’s song and to the white sheets. He woke up to the heartache of realizing that what he had dreamt was a dream after all. He woke up to the loneliness of his bedroom, to the unyielding pass of cruel time, to the tears that fell down his cheeks, to the sound of his sobbing. He woke up, yet his eyes did not see the ever-blue sky. There were no lips to graze his, nor echoing laughter, nor sparkling eyes, nor healing smiles, nor tremulous warmth. There was nothing. Just him, his arms empty, his heart aching, his eyes crying, his smile gone. When the rooster’s song was over, he stood up and slowly got dressed. He sighed. The house felt awfully empty and big, yet strangely suffocating. He would normally have a coffee every morning, but that day he just wanted to get out, to run away from those oppressive walls. Outside, it was a beautiful day. It was warm and the sun was bright, painfully bright, and the chicks were chirping and the cicadas buzzing. It felt like that midsummer weather wasn’t on tune with him. He sighed again and started walking. The streets were dirty as per usual and crowded despite being early in the morning. Thus, he walked away from the crowds and went to the outskirts of the town, and eventually, the cobbles were substituted by dirt and grass and the buildings by trees. He got to a small stream that flowed lazily under the shadows of willows and birch trees. The stream’s murmur and the brushing of the trees with the wind muffled his heartache, and the cool breeze felt light on his skin. He sat with his back against a willow and closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind and ease his pain. Some time passed, he heard footsteps closing in to him. He opened his eyes indolently, and met with a woman that sat under another willow in front of him. Her skin was softly tanned, contrasting with her white dress. The sunlight stole golden reflections from her nut-brown hair and her eyes looked at his. They were the color of verdant meadows under the summer sunlight. They looked at each other silently. “... Are you not planning to introduce yourself?” She finally spoke, her lips curved into a smile. “Are you?” “Not if you don’t.” “Then so be it.” He answered. ”The promise of a name for a name seems fair enough, yet, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and therefore names are but a way of referring to something. I can just think of you as a forest nymph.” “Do I seem like a forest nymph to you?” She asked incredulously and laughed. He smiled back. “Fair enough, it doesn’t seem accurate.” He stretched out his hand and bent forward. “My name is Arthur.” “Elaine.” She shook his hand and then he looked at his pocket watch and stood up. “I have got to go for today. May we meet again.” “So long.” She waved her hand and then sat back and closed her eyes as he had been doing moments ago. The ghost of a smile haunted her lips. He started his walk back town. His boots were slightly muddy and his pants had some grass stains. However, the weather didn’t feel as unpleasant as it had before. The warmth of the sun felt soothing, and he even found a certain melody to the cicadas’ and birds’ song. He felt like the song spoke of longing, of finding, and of new starts. He felt like it spoke of hope. He felt like it spoke of love and joy and smiles and warmth. He felt like it spoke of midsummer times. The next day, he set off early for the woods. His pace was firm and steady, and it mixed with the midsummer’s song. The lazy blowing of the wind was irregular and lonely, and gave dissonance to the song. The dissonance spoke of the despair of the knowing, of the gray clouds in the clear sky, of the shallowness of hearts, of the trifling sweat spilt, of the unsteadiness of justice, of the tears fallen to the earth, of the heartache that flesh is heir to, of the cold of loneliness, and of the relentless pass of time: it spoke of the futile fight against the heavens. When he got to the clearing, she was already there. As the previous day, she was sitting under a willow and had her eyes closed. An open book laid on her lap, its pages slightly withered. The wind, the dissonance of the song, blew again, making her hair disarrayed under the changing sun light. His chest strongly ached. Then, the wind stopped and for a moment everything became silent, dormant even, pausing the song. Her eyelids slowly opened and she looked at him and smiled. “What are you doing there, standing still? Come and sit. The breeze is specially good today.” And then, then the dormant forest seemed to come alive. The birds sang, the cicadas buzzed, the trees brushed, the stream flowed, and the wind blew too. Even the sun seemed to sing with its rays, even the earth seemed to sing with its softness, even the chirps sang with the awkwardness of the young, even the trees sang as they reached for the sky with their leaves with the wisdom of the old. Even the book seemed to scream the mysteries and the tears and the smiles that had been written into it. That, that was indeed the real midsummer song. It spoke of calm and stir, it spoke of old and young, it spoke of patience and rush, it spoke of friendship and hatred, it spoke of pain and love, it spoke of loneliness and belonging, of dreams and reality... It spoke of nothing and it spoke of everything. “You are right. The weather sure is nice today, Elaine.” The days passed, and the midsummer song was still everywhere for Arthur to listen to it. And he did. He listened to it under the midsummer sun. He listened to it between laughters and kisses, between chatters and silent caresses, while looking at those verdant eyes. Between smiles and sunshine, between summer forest and streams and bed sheets. But, somehow, he knew it. Yes, he was painfully aware of it. He knew it when he saw her sweet smile; when he heard her laughter; when he felt her skin and her lips; when he looked at her green, vibrant eyes, at her brimming with life green eyes; when he looked at her loving smile... Yes, it certainly was. Of course it was. There was no way it was true. It was indeed a dream. And he, foolishly, inanely, desperately, held on to that dream, on to her, on to his desire, on to that ephemeral dream, on to that midsummer fantasy. Perhaps that was why he loved and laughed and smiled and talked and was loved with every single piece of him inside that illusion; perhaps that was why he lived and felt alive inside that fantasy; perhaps that was why he had listened to the midsummer song inside that desire, inside that midsummer dream. Perhaps that was why he... He woke up alone, woke up to the heartache of realizing that what he had dreamt was a dream after all. He woke up to the loneliness of his bedroom, to the unyielding pass of cruel time, to the tears that fell down his cheeks, to the sound of his sobbing. He woke up, yet she wasn’t there, and neither was the song, and neither was his desire. There was nothing there. Nothing but tears and the lingering of a midsummer song and of a midsummer dream.


Dear Corey, I am a long time listener of your show, but this is my first time writing in. My name is LTC Eugene Buckley, USA, Ret. but everyone calls me “Buck”. I’m 67 years old, retired about 7 years now, with over 40 years of honorable service to my country. I’ve been to war, been blown up, taken lives, saved lives, negotiated with the enemy, but I’m not writing today to talk about all that. I’m writing in to talk about the, hands down, most difficult situation I have ever been faced with in my life: learning to communicate with my far-left, almost Socialist, Democratic wife. I was 28 and she was 18 when we got married back in 1981. Our political leanings didn’t really come up the first few decades of our marriage, and it wasn’t until Trump did she finally decide that she was all-in full bore liberal; going to “protests,” wearing rainbows, refusing to buy one-use plastics, and other nonsense. I was raised in a traditional christian conservative household and my daddy brought me up on strong American values. I’m not going to lie to you Corey, it was really tense in our marriage for awhile there. But then I read your book about claiming my rightful spot as the alpha male in my family, and you hit that nail on the head! Following your advice, I got my sweet housewife back, and she is just purring like a little kitten, so full of joy and playfulness. This alpha male is feeling like the top dog again, and I’ve got you to thank. If you care to share my story with your listeners, I have a few main points that other misplaced alpha males might benefit from. — 6 months earlier: Betty had been confused by the Amazon package at her front door. She had stopped ordering from Amazon over a year ago as the atrocities of working for Bezos became impossible to ignore as the pandemic ravaged the country. She hadn’t looked at the label before opening it, and was confused by the artless paperback that slid out of the (non-recyclable) bubble-pack. Betty read the title out loud to the empty room “Reclaiming your God-Given Right as the Alpha Male — A guide for strong, conservative, Christian men.” Betty groaned as she muttered, “What the fuck, Buck?” A phase that had become a mantra over the last four years. She intended to slip the book back into its packaging and leave it on the counter for Buck to find when he returned from his weekly golf game, but then she hesitated. She realized that she held Buck’s new playbook in her hands and this might be her one chance to study up before the game started. Already feeling disgusted and bone-weary, she sat down and read the first line, “Why alpha males rule their worlds, their lives, and their women, even if their political views differ.” Betty’s eyes rolled so hard she thought her contacts might pop out. She scanned the first few pages about how the author went from feeling like a loser with women, to studying all the things women want and learning to mimic those things and then reach his ultimate goal of dating supermodels. Something about being a 3% man. He never explained the percentage, but really none of the ideas made any sense. Well, knowing Buck and his die-hard commitment to marriage above all else, he wasn’t looking to date women so she felt confident skipping ahead. As she read through the book a plan started to take shape in her mind. She felt simultaneously sad and exhilarated. Sad knowing they had passed a point of no return, but also exhilarated to finally pass this point, a very long time in the making. Betty pulled out a legal pad and started making notes, pausing to call out, “Alexa, play Rosemary Clooney’s cover of ’50 ways to leave your lover’.”

— So Corey, I kind of boiled down your main points into three easy steps that I’ve outlined below and then provided an example from my life on how to “get ‘er done!”

1.“Acting like the dominant male, laying down the law, it’s my way or the high-way, will bring any commie-loving wife to her knees when she witnesses your dominant resolve.”

So the way I did this with my wife is I refused to fight with her, I would just tell her in a very calm, yet firm voice what was going to happen. When we voted last month, she told me that if I voted for that “bigot” Trump again, she would leave me. Now I used to get all angry and we would end up yelling at each other, saying hateful things we didn’t mean. But this time I channeled my inner alpha male and said, “Well honey, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I like what Trump has to say and I support him. If that’s a problem for you, there’s the door.” No fight, no yelling, and did she leave? Of course not. Bless her heart, this woman has cared for this family, cooking and cleaning, but she’s never had a real job. This little darling couldn’t make it a day on her own, she likes the comfort of her home way too much. I knew there was no way she would walk out on all this that I have built for our family. — Betty knew that Buck would start in on the book’s advice as soon as he could. She wasn’t exactly sure how he planned to “act dominant” but she paid close attention to changes in his behavior. She didn’t have to wait long. A week later as Betty sat at the table working on her mail in ballot, Buck struck up a conversation about voting, usually a taboo topic in their house. She had voted mail-in for years, while Buck continued to insist on going to the polls on election day. He made a stupid comment about being glad he could cast his ballot in person so the commie mail carrier didn’t throw it out. Betty took the bait, just like she knew he wanted her to. In a moment of inspiration she threatened to leave him if he voted for Trump again. Instead of yelling, like he usually would have, she saw him stop and stare at her for a solid ten seconds, then in the most patronizing voice she had ever heard him use, he restated his intention of voting for Trump and then gestured toward the door like he was a game show host offering her a prize. “Interesting” she thought to herself.

— 2. Influence her circle. Make sure she’s mostly associating with the “right” kind of people (pun intended, haha)

Now Corey, this second step must be handled delicately. It’s important that you don’t outright forbid her to spend time with her commie friends and family, but if you can find ways to decrease the time she spends with them and increase the time she spends with the right kind of people, then you’ll be good to go. So here’s how I’ve handled that with my wife. Several months ago, during our church’s social hour, I mentioned to the pastor and several of the active church ladies that my wife was feeling down in the dumps due to all the Covid restrictions and that since the church had decided to stay open, maybe some opportunities to get involved would help lift her spirits. I made sure to tell them that it was important that they make it seem that she is really needed since she would never want to feel like a burden. I also made sure that I talked to each person individually so that as many people as possible reached out to my wife. I knew that if someone called her personally asking her to volunteer, she would have a very hard time saying no. Man oh man, it worked like a charm! She was surprised to get so many people calling and asking for help, but the more she said yes, the happier she became, and the more she ended up volunteering, even past my original intentions! I was so relieved to know that she was spending so much time (finally!) among people that would lead her down the right path.

— Betty’s blood ran cold as she read the chapter about influencing your wife’s social circles, with the end goal being to isolate her from her support network, and supplant it with his “approved” network. This three-day-old shit stain was literally training men on how to become an abuser. Betty had been around long enough to know that as soon as someone starts to “manage” an adult’s social circle, and isolate them from a network that has shown nothing but love and support, well any semblance of care they had for you is gone. So when the calls from the various church members mysteriously started, begging her for help, she knew just what to do. She politely declined when Marjory asked her to help protest at the local Planned Parenthood clinic, and instead called up the clinic and asked how she could help. She ended up becoming an escort, helping young women walk into the clinic, shielding them as best she could from the hate filled screams of protestors. When Sarah called her up and asked her to join them at the next school board meeting to protest the teaching of critical race theory, she politely informed Sarah that critical race theory is a college level course, but even if it wasn’t, she would welcome the lessons into the public school curriculum. Betty then found the contact information for the local Black Lives Matter chapter and signed up for protest support, to include aid booths and sign making. When Candace called her asking if she could possibly join their letter writing campaign asking the mayor to ban trans children from youth sports leagues, Betty resisted the urge to tell Candace to go Fuck herself and instead politely told her that she supported all of God’s children. PERIOD. FULL STOP. Betty then went online to find a letter writing campaign urging the mayor to protect members of the LGBTQ+ community. Betty then started to recruit friends and family to join her in her activism, strengthening her already strong social network. She also started researching churches in her area, because it was becoming painfully clear that she would need a new one. Betty let Buck know that the church had really been a great motivator to get her involved and she is so thankful to have received those calls. Buck smiled smugly. Betty smiled knowingly.

— 3. Make sure your wife knows that you are a “no compromise” guy. That you expect her to either agree with you, or to shut her damn mouth. She needs to remember that no one out there will love her like you do, will take care of her like you do, or will protect her like you do. But if she does decide to leave, then the failure of the marriage is all on her and her inability to see the truth.

I admit, this one sounds harsh, but as an alpha male, you can’t show any weakness. This circles back to Rule #1: Act dominant. This is more than just refusing to engage with her about issues you don’t agree with. You have to man up, step up, and actually do what you say you’re going to do. If you’re going to support your family, earn the bread, bring home the bacon, well DO that. If you say you’re all about protecting your family, then DO that. Even though this silly cold should not have shut down the economy, it was obvious that the limp-wristed Democrat leaders were going to do everything in their power to grind this country to a halt. When I heard about the likely disruption to the supply chain, you bet your ass that I was out there grabbing my share of toilet paper, bottled water, paper towels, and all the meat I could fit in the deep freeze! I then went to every gun shop in a 50 mile radius (and there are A LOT!) And not only bought up all the ammo they would let me buy, but also beefed up my arsenal, because if it gets as bad as they are predicting, as the alpha male, I have to be ready to hold off anyone that dares to threaten my family. Meanwhile I found that Betty was very receptive to my suggestions that would help her reach her potential, as long as I was light and playful in my delivery. For example, she was upset when the mayor decided not to require masks. I said, “Aw, honey, your face isn’t that bad to look at!” Or when she whined about the cops doing their job by stopping BLM rioters from burning down the city, I told her, “You are so lucky to have found someone as tolerant of your ideas as I am. I am a saint for sticking with you through these crazy ideas of yours!” She got mad at that one, but I think that the idea of being alone forever if she can’t see reason has started to finally sink in. Finally, I even got her to start seeing the pastor for mental health counseling. If anyone can cure this liberal mental illness, then Pastor Carlson can. I mean, his conversion therapy has had a 100% success rate! Overall Corey, your advice has changed my life and turned my marriage around. I urge anyone who is in a similar situation to get your book and follow the rules. It will change your life! Yours in alpha male brotherhood, LTC (Ret.) Eugene Buckley “Buck” — Betty felt disgusted, but not surprised that gaslighting was the final piece to this shit sandwich. She thought if every time the phrase “alpha male” was exchanged for “abuser,” then the book would at least be truthful. She also felt horrified that this message resonated with her husband, a man for whom she had once felt so much pride and respect. Had she changed? Probably. Had Buck? Sadly, probably not. Betty found it difficult to not feel responsible for the inevitable destruction of their marriage, but the thought that this man felt satisfied with a life void of self reflection and growth was exponentially more depressing. Over the next several months, Betty would grit her teeth through the nasty comments wrapped up like jokes. She learned that writing down every comment Buck made that was intended to make her question her own sanity and then recording what she knew the truth to be, served two purposes: 1. To help keep her mind right. 2. To fuel her rage at this man’s obvious attempt of manipulation. When Buck signed her up for therapy with pastor Carlson, she almost went ballistic. However, during their first meeting, Betty mentioned that she might feel more comfortable with a woman therapist because she had some “female issues” she would like guidance on. The pastor instantly turned red and shoved a list of therapists within the community into her hand. It was just a printout someone had made of all the local therapists and Betty was able to find a woman who’s values and priorities aligned with her own. She never mentioned the switch to Buck, and he never bothered to ask. The therapist ended up being a wealth of knowledge and resources, instantly recognizing the progressively abusive situation Betty was in. She helped Betty connect to a divorce lawyer that helped her set up her own bank accounts and lines of credit, to prepare for her exodus. She helped Betty explain to a few close friends what was going on, and her plan to leave. Through her various connections within the community, Betty secured paid work that allowed her to put down a deposit on her own studio apartment. The only thing she had left to do was walk herself out the door. Five friends pulled up to the house minutes after Buck left for his weekly golf game. She had managed to pre-pack most of the belongings she wanted to take under the guise of “summer cleaning.” The last thing left that Betty had to do was leave a note for Buck. She pulled out the same legal pad that had started her on this journey and wrote: Dear Buck, It looks like our priorities, morals and principles are no longer compatible. I know it took me 6 months to act on my promise to leave you if you voted for Trump. Well, I am finally keeping that promise. I just had to get a few things in order before I could leave. Good luck with your quest to become the dominant alpha male. Turns out, that just isn’t my type. Keep an eye on the mail, divorce papers will arrive shortly. Do better, Betty Buck felt rage course through his veins. How could Betty do this to him? He felt completely blindsided and violated. He then channeled his inner alpha male and forced himself to think logically: Betty would be back. She had no way to take care of herself...unless...the realization stole his breath. He flipped open his laptop. It took him several minutes to log into his bank account because he had to look up the login names and passwords since Betty usually took care of all the banking. Instantly he noticed that all of the accounts were about half of what they should have been. All he could do now was throw back his head and howl, not like the dominant alpha male he thought he was, but like the petulant wolf who has been ejected from the pack for their intolerable behavior.