I strummed a single chord. “No,” I said to myself. I strummed another chord. “That’s more like it.” I began to play around that chord, strumming and picking various notes until a song started to evolve. But it was garbage. I put the lyre down with a thud. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” said Paris. My brother had apparently just come back from hunting. He smelled like dirt.

“You’re a prince of Troy,” he continued, “there’s no reason for you to be a musician, like some common vagabond.” “But I’m not going to inherit the throne unless you break your neck chariot racing or something. I want to be remembered for something,” I responded.

“You’re never going to be him,” said Cassandra. My sister always spoke the truth, but I didn’t believe her. A slight, cool breeze floated through the open window, ruffling her dress and hair. The sun was setting on Troy. “I can’t give up,” I said, “I have to keep trying.” “Good luck with that, brother,” said Paris as he left.

“He was taught by Apollo himself,” continued Cassandra, “You’ll never be that good.” I picked up an amphora and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash. I didn’t feel better, though. “Now you have a mess to clean up,” said Cassandra as she left the room. I sat in a corner to sulk. It was undignified, I know, but I didn’t really care. Cassandra was right, as usual; Orpheus was the best bard ever, and I’d never hold a candle to him. I sat there until something she said hit me like a lightning bolt from Zeus: “he was taught by Apollo himself.” I would get Apollo to teach me! How to get a god to teach me to play the lyre and sing would be more challenging, to say the least. It was hard enough to get the gods’ attention as it was, but to convince him to give you music lessons? I was determined to try anything.

I arose early, before sunrise, and left the confines of the city, lyre in hand. As the sun began to peek above the horizon, I started to play. I played a hymn to Apollo; one of Orpheus’ old standards. My fingers flew over the strings and I sang my lungs out, hoping he’d hear me. There was a brilliant flash of light. I covered my eyes to keep it from blinding me. A rushing wind blew over me, and I bowed my face to the ground. “Alright, who summoned me?” a rich voice said. I was afraid to look up. “Hey, I don’t have all day. Lighting the entire world is hard work!” he said. I finally worked up the courage to look up. There he was, big as life. He looked pretty much like all his statues; a handsome, youthful man with curly hair. He looked a little annoyed.

“My lord,” I started “y-your most holy awesomeness, I um...” “Get to the point! I already said I don’t have all day,” Apollo snapped, placing his hands on his hips. He glared at me; his eyes were like daggers. “I want to be a great musician!” I said finally, “Want to sing and play like Orpheus!” “Show me what you got, kid,” said the sun god. He sat down on a nearby stone and crossed his arms. I picked up my lyre and began to play another song.

“Hold it!” he said, holding up his hand. I hadn’t even gotten to the second verse. “What’s the matter, your holiness?” I asked, confused. “You’re not really playing,” he answered.

“What do you mean?” I inquired. “You’re... playing, but there’s something missing. You’re playing all the notes right, but you’re not feeling the music,” he said. “I’m not sure I understand.” “You said you want to play like Orpheus, right?” “Yes.”

“Well, you’re trying too hard to be Orpheus. You can’t be Orpheus. There’s only one Orpheus.” I was still confused. I furrowed my brow. Apollo stood up and looked me right in the eye. His gaze wasn’t angry anymore; that was a relief. “The only reason Orpheus was great was that he found his own voice. He didn’t try to be anyone else. He didn’t have to be; he was himself, and he was happy with himself.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Play what comes to your heart. Don’t try to copy someone else. You be yourself because you can do awesome things.” I picked up the lyre again and started to improvise. “That’s an improvement,” said the sun god, “But it’s still missing something.” I began playing harder, more passionately as Apollo listened. He rested his head on his hand and furrowed his brow. “Stop!” he said holding up his hand, “I’ve got it. I know what you’ve been missing.” “What is it?” I asked, eagerly. “Pain. That’s what you’re missing. It’s pain.” “Pain?!” I said in shock.

“Pain. The reason Orpheus was so great is that he experienced tragedy in his life,” said Apollo, “That tragedy gave his music an edge you’re missing.” “Then what do I do?!” I said in desperation. Obviously tragedy is something you can’t force; it just happens. I was doomed. “You have to be willing to suffer and sacrifice for your art,” he continued. I sat down on the ground and began to sulk. “Cassandra’s right again,” I said after a length of time, “I should just give up.” “You’re never going to make it with that attitude,” said Apollo “Here; I’ll do you a little favor.” Apollo began to glow, brighter and brighter, and then flashed with a brilliance I’d never experienced before. I fell backward. “That should do it,” he said. I was alone in silence and darkness.

It had been several weeks since my encounter with the sun god. I had stubbed my toes 1,000 different times, bumped my head, walked straight into a wall, fallen down three flights of stairs, but I was finally adjusting to being blind.

“Why did you do this?!” I shouted at the sky. Though I could only barely see it, I could feel the sun’s rays on my skin. “You asked for it,” came the answer, “You wanted to be great, and I told you you needed to submit to pain and loss. I gave you that pain. You’re welcome.” Pain was right. My head still throbbed. “Hey, Demo!” I heard a voice behind me say. “What do you want, Paris?” I asked. I sounded a bit exasperated.

“I want you to play at my wedding,” he responded. “I thought musicianship was only for ‘common vagabonds’.” “Well, your playing and singing have gotten better, since... you know. I want to impress Helen. You think you can come through for me?” “Well, I’ll do my best.” “Thanks, bro,” said Paris as he brushed past me. “Cassandra, where’d I put my lyre?” I felt her gently place the lyre in my hands. “You’re going to write the greatest epic ever, Demodocus,” she said. This was comforting, though I still didn’t believe her.


The center was quiet for a seasonal afternoon. Usually, the residents sat around playing bingo, cards, or dominos. The other residents plopped themselves in front of the television for entertainment. But today, everyone seemed to be in their rooms, patiently waiting for the day to end, so the cycle continued. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened; some staff remarked that every day was groundhog’s day. Nothing ever changed, just the visitors that came and went. Although the residents would never know if anything did happen, and when things did happen, the residents forgot everything by the following day. Except for one man, Mr. Charlie Ray Carlson, he remembered something no one else could recall. When he asked for his old nurse, Nurse Sandy, no one could tell him where she went or when she would be back. The other absentminded nurses promised him she would be back tomorrow, but she never was. That was fine; Mr. Carlson would continue to ask for her until she returned. Mr. Carlson may have forgotten what he ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But he never forgot about Nurse Sandy. Even if everyone else did, he couldn’t remember what year he saw her last, but Mr. Carlson could remember the day he’d last seen her. It was a holiday. All Hallow’s Eve, Nurse Sandy always brought him a small pumpkin full of candy. When Christmas came along, she baked him homemade gingerbread, and for his birthday, she baked him an Italian Creme cake. Mr. Carlson missed when Nurse Sandy stopped by; he liked when she was the one who wheeled him down to the cafeteria or when they visited the side gardens. She was his only caretaker that’s name stuck with him. “Good morning Mr. Carlson; how are you doing?” The nurse that walks in is Philippine, she is thin, short, and her hair is blacker than oil. She looks nothing like his usual nurse, and he frowns with a grunt. Nurse Sandy is a petite but tall woman, with blondish-brown curls down to her shoulders, a light spray of freckles across her cheeks, and she sports a tan all year long. His morning would be better if Nurse Sandy quit horsing around and got her tardy behind here. For a few moments, he does not say anything. Instead, Mr. Carlson stares at the woman with an expression that he hopes tells her to go to hell. He didn’t like when Sandy sent others. He only wanted Sandy’s assistance; everyone else could forget bothering. “Where is Nurse Sandy? I don’t want anyone else helping me unless Sandy told them too,” That was the only way the other nurses could help him. But, first, they had to convince him that Sandy had already set him up with a nurse she trusted. “Nurse Sandy took the day off; she told me you’d be asking for her,” The young nurse swiftly carries on with Mr. Carlson. She eases through their conversation without a single pause to think; she is used to dealing with their reluctance. “And who are you to, Nurse Sandy? I ain’t ever heard of you before,” He growls at the nurse; indeed, Sandy would have told him about her friends. “I am Nurse Tina; I will do my best to do half the job Nurse Sandy does to take care of you,” She smiles, reassuring him, grabbing his shoes from the end of his bed and gently placing them in front of his toes. “You have your work cut out for you,” He gripes again, breathing deeply. His hunched back bars his movement, and the nurse assists him with his house shoes. Nurse Tina knew that sometimes the patients she worked with here would have various perceptions of how the patients process their environment. Some patients remember people that never existed; others do not remember the last sentence spoken to them; each case was different. Nevertheless, Nurse Tina took personal fulfillment from helping these people, even if they never appreciated her. She did not mind their hatred. However, she didn’t shoulder their negativity; they had every right to be pissed off when they spent eighteen years growing into an adult, just to be dumped by their adult children after they reach seventy. Some of these people had family members who never missed a weekend; others were dropped off and never saw their family again. The spectrum varied, and each patient was different. They all had their individualistic backstories that cultivated the person they are today. Tina liked to bring the patients that tended to spend most of the time by themselves little gifts. She’d buy crosswords for the puzzlers, cards for the dealers, and books for the readers. Their reactions always justified the cost, but Tina never added up the receipts anyways. She enjoyed helping others feel better. Her heart was too big, but Tina herself went home to no one. She didn’t know her parents, she grew up in a shelter, and when she turned eighteen, the shelter threw her out. The world ate her alive for months until Tina eventually turned things around. Everything that Tina had today she had herself to thank for, and maybe she felt more empathy for these people because she would end up just like them one day. Cold, lonely, miserable, forgotten, and forgetful. “Let’s get some food in your system, Mr. Carlson,” The young nurse suggests, but Mr. Carlson belligerently shakes his head. Tina just smiles; her time is Mr. Carlson’s today. “Nurse Sandy always takes me on a walk first. She even brings her dogs sometimes.” She smiles at the older man’s sassy tone, and she ponders about this Sandy person. She’d never heard of any of the other nurses bringing their pets to work. “We can walk first; we can sit out in the garden; how does that sound?” Tina wondered if Sandy was a nurse here way before her time, but she knew she could not ask how long ago she’d been here. Mr. Carlson would not be able to tell her. “What is today?” Mr. Carlson asks with a long face. His bushy eyebrows are wiry and long. Thick hairs come off his face in all directions, and his face is wrinkled like an oatmeal cookie. He frowns, and it makes his ancient features all the harsher. His skin looks dry and feels like sandpaper. His hair is paper-thin and covers his scalp in patches. “It is Halloween today,” Tina replies, wheeling him out of his room. He shared the space with another man, Mr. Zane, but Mr. Zane passed away many years ago. Although the facility never filled the bed up with another person, Mr. Carlson did better when bunked by himself. “Nurse Sandy never misses Halloween. Where are you hiding her? Why are you keeping me from Nurse Sandy? SHE IS MY NURSE.” Mr. Carlson is indignant. He clutches the arms of his chair, and he tries to push himself off so he can stand. He loses his balance, but Tina helps him safely slip into his chair. Sometimes, her job is nerve-racking, at times too strenuous on the soul. She took a few deep breaths, keeping her face blank. “The day isn’t over; Nurse Sandy will come back, Mr. Carlson.” “I want my nurse back!” Mr. Carlson is hollering now, and the other orderlies are starting to send her weary glances. The last thing Tina wants is for one of the other contentious nurses to stick their noses in; she has to find a way to soothe him quickly. Or they will sedate him and stick him back in his room. “The garden isn’t too far now,” She’s at a loss for words. Mr. Carlson doesn’t reply, he grunts with frustration, and he impatiently taps his feet against the footrest of his chair. They turn down the last corridor, the wheels of his chair squeak and creak like a haunted house. The Assisted Living Center for Memory Impairment is outdated. The building needed renovations decades ago, so naturally, the building required some work. The walls were no longer cloud white but a rather off-butter yellow that made the place appear scuzzy. In addition, the warped wooden floors are ruined from water damage, and broken tiles litter the kitchen and bathrooms. Tina brought this up to management, but they never handled the issue with priority. “Tell Nurse Sandy when she gets here that I am firing her and that I will have a new nurse. One that shows up. One like- what’s your name again?” He gently requests a reminder, even though his tone is as spiteful as a crossed snake. “I am Tina,” She almost repeats his name, but she stops. “Tina! Pretty name. Yes, tell Nurse Sandy I found someone reliable,” He compliments her with a backhanded remark, but Tina laughs with a grateful smile. As long as he is not boisterously griping, Tina could handle it. So she brought him out to the garden and parked him on the terrace next to a white bench. The garden was lovely; that was one thing that management never let go of. Their bushes and hedges were all meticulously trimmed, not a leaf or stem out of place. The sprinkler system kept the plants and flowerbeds hydrated. “Nurse Sandy liked to read to me. Won’t you read to me?” His voice is soft; his expression is callous. “What would you like to read, Mr. Carlson?” Tina shelved hundreds of books in her office; if only he would have told her this before they’d made it all this way. Tina watches with careful eyes as her patient struggles to get a grip; he frowns. His angry eyebrows slant upwards, and his mouth makes half of a frown on the left side of his face. The gears are gradually turning, but his memory does not work as fast as it should. The frustration that scrawls across his face is heartbreaking, and Tina can’t stand to see him suffer. “I have a small copy of the newspaper; I clipped the poem for today. I will read that,” “Good,” His quick answer is abrupt. Tina fumbles through each pocket of her scrubs before she finally finds the short poem that touched her this morning. “In autumn, the leaves metaphor and the animals prepare, In winter, snow frosts the grass, and bears hibernate in caves, In spring, squirrels climb trees and birds sing, In summer, the sun shines, and the blue sky looms above, As the seasons change, So do people, As time passes, The world moves on, So remember to stop every once in a while, And listen to the breeze of the wind passing you by,” Tina finishes, not sure what she likes about the poem just that she likes it. Mr. Carlson’s beady eyes are focused on her face, he seems to disapprove of the poem, but the older gentleman doesn’t say anything. Tina listens to the engines of cars that pass by on the road in front of the facility. “That had nothing to do with Valentine’s day; Nurse Sandy would have read something that related to the holiday. So, Save that poem for spring Nurse-” He stops rambling, the octaves of his voice stretch, and he tries to fumble through his memory like he is searching his wife’s purse for a missing object. “I am Tina. And I thought the poem was fit for any occasion. Especially a nice afternoon outside, under the shade.” She’s finally starting to wear down. Her willpower to be excellent was strong, but after too many chinks in her armor. Tina’s bark could be just as powerful as her bite. “Well, read me something else,” Tina chuckles, feeling the stress nesting between her shoulder blades tingle. Mr. Carlson wasn’t the most challenging patient, and he never could compare to Mrs. Winston. That lady was about as pleasant as a thumbtack to the heel. “We will have to go back inside,” “That’s fine. It is hot out here anyways,” Tina knew for a fact that the weather was not hot; in fact, the temperature outside was cooler than the thermostat stuck at seventy-five degrees inside. “I’ll take you inside then,” Their walk was short if one could consider it a walk at all. “I’m hungry,” Mr. Carlson scratches his head with long fingernails; he doesn’t let anyone touch his nails. “They are serving steak and eggs for breakfast this morning; tonight’s dessert is pumpkin pie,” “Pumpkin pie is my favorite. Must be Thanksgiving,” “Do you take whip cream?” Nurse Tina navigates to the dining room, where most of the residents have already left. Breakfast was over an hour ago, so hopefully, there was food left for Mr. Carlson. If not, she would have to make him a snack. “I do; Sandy used to make the best turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches. My mouth waters just thinking about them.” “Let me go get you something to eat, Mr. Carlson,” “Maybe you’ll find Sandy in there,” He sends her the first smile he has in a very long time. His lips are just a few shades of pink darker than his white skin. His happy expression makes his face appear so fragile, as his skull may fracture at the slightest touch. He is weak and old. His body is tired, and his eyes are secretive. Tina walks into the kitchen, where there are cooks busy preparing lunch. Loaves of bread, stacks of tomatoes, lettuce, bacon, and cheese linger on the counter. “Do you know if there is any cranberry sauce?” She asks Debra, the older woman that runs the kitchen. Although, most people call her Deb; she’s been here longer than anyone else. “Haha, baby doll, you are in luck. I just made some fresh cranberry sauce this weekend. It’s in the fridge. Who do you need it for?” “Mr. Carlson,” “You mean to say, Charlie Ray?” The older woman pauses to glance at Tina; a perplexed scrunch of her nose makes her look like a pig. “The very one,” Tina replies with a soft tone. “Oh, Charlie Ray! He’ll love a turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich. Just like she used to make. For the sake of Halloween, I’ll make him his favorite.” “You know Mr. Carlson?” “Of course, not many people around her know about him or his wife anymore. Such a sweet woman, she came to see him every day,” Her voice is sticky with sweetness, and she’s already popping the roasted turkey back in the fridge. “That was nice of her,” “Has he asked you where she is? It breaks my heart every time someone complains about him. He can’t help his memory,” The older woman babbles and gossips. “Not that I know of,” Her reply is absentminded as she stares at the time on her watch. “I am sure he will; she was his favorite.” The woman slides the plate over to Tina; her lips stretch into a rueful smile. Tina thanks her for her time, still staring at her watch. She grabs the plate, paying little attention to the context of their conversation. She is just about to walk out the door when she pauses. Could Nurse Sandy be his wife? “Did you know her name by chance?” “Yes, Sandy Mable Carlson. She was a doctor.” Tina almost dropped the plate of food. Her heart tumbled into her stomach, and she swallowed the large lump in her throat. “Thanks a-again, Debra.” Tina stammers, swearing the temperature just dropped twenty degrees. As she left the kitchen, her eyes immediately sought out Mr. Carlson. He was sitting alone at a table with a pumpkin centerpiece, his frail hands are outstretched across the surface. His palms are faces the ceiling as if he were holding another person’s hand. She could tell that he was talking, his lips moved quickly, and his mouth opened and closed as he finished speaking. Pity flooded her stomach and muddled together with the breakfast she’d eaten this morning. She felt sorry for Mr. Carlson, he’d spent a lifetime knowing someone, and now his brain confused him and tricked him. His brain made it increasingly more difficult to comprehend her absence. She took her time, doing her best to exaggerate her steps so she did not startle him. Once she reached the table, Mr. Carlson beamed at her with such a joyous expression; Tina couldn’t help but wonder if somebody had ransacked him for his personality. “Oh, Nurse Tina, I found Sandy! She brought us some little cakes. Why don’t you pull up a chair and take a seat?” The chair across from Mr. Carlson is entirely empty, although he gestures for her to grab another chair. She does, without really comprehending what she is doing, too worried about the empty room, to care what chair she was grabbing. Tina glances around the room with chaotic eyes, but there is no one here but Mr. Carlson. Her heart hammers as she tries to play off her concern. There is no one here, but Mr. Carlson seems to be content. “Nurse Tina, we sure are glad you could join us,” Mr. Carlson places a hand over hers and smiles with watery eyes. Then he turns his head to the apparition only he can see and strikes up a full-blown conversation. Tina sits in silence, as she listens to Mr. Carlson chat up his dead wife.


My life was about to change. It just missed me, but not my new freshly painted, 10-year-old 1950 Studebaker coupe. It was around 7 A.M and was my first day of junior college. I was nervous because I had no idea as to what to expect. I had just parked and got out of the car when a baseball bat came whirling over the car parked next to mine just barely missing me. Why would someone throw a baseball bat at me? Did I take a reserved parking spot? Was I in the teachers' parking lot? What did I do? Is this how new students were greeted? I picked it up looking for an attached note such as when a brick is thrown through a window as a warning for someone to get "out of town." No note. I didn't see anyone. Why me? I needed to get to class, but then the answer came out of nowhere! I first heard the voice, "Sorry!", it said. My life was about to change--for the better. A blond head peered around the corner of the next car. "Sorry" , it said with a quiver. Next came the rest of a tall skinny body. He was maybe six feet tall but I was only 5'7". The average height at that time was 5'10". His eyes, forehead, pursed lips, and overall demeanor showed that he was concerned and under some stress. "Is anyone hurt? Did the bat do any damage?," he asked. I told him that no one was hit, but my car let out a yip. He was a real car buff. He introduced himself to me, and the two of us proceeded to check out the side of my new $29.95 custom Earl Scheib paint job. He offered to pay any damages. We could only find a very small paint chip and less of a dent. The Studebaker was fine. He picked up the errant bat and said that he had to get to class. I remembered that I did too. We exchanged names and phone numbers. As he left, he turned and said, "I'll always be around, see you later." Always around, he was. For nearly 60 years, he was my best friend, my best buddy! Yes, my life was about to change--for the better. Al had been talking to a couple of friends in the parking lot. He was swinging a wooden bat which had no tape on the handle, and it accidentally slipped out of his hand and up and over two cars and into mine. How was it possible that it had done no damage? I ducked but heard it hit. In fact, it was just the opposite! A baseball bat had been our introduction. It was, as if by fate, meant to happen, that it was scripted, that GOD had a hand in it. Never-the-less, he was to become my BEST friend for life. Some people believe that the relationships you have in this life, you have also had some time in your previous lives. It was as if the universe had to find a way for us to meet again. And, a baseball bat seemed like a novel way to do it. At a school with thousands of students, it was .. his bat that sliced through the morning sky to say, "Hi, I want you to meet an old friend." Later that day, we found ourselves in the same physical education class, a tennis class. I had never played before but was very good at most sports. Al had come to the warm Californian climate from Chicago because of all the allergies that he had. He could not have dairy products or eat things with eggs in the mixture. I was fast, he was slow. Neither of us had had any tennis lessons and both developed unorthodox tennis strokes. We played for 50 years, and I seldom beat him, if ever. We were told we were going to partner up in the tennis class. The teacher randomly selected the partners. There were around 40 novice tennis players in the class. She would point to any two players and say "you are partners." Al and I were unaware we were both in this class, but, that's right, she pointed to me and then to Al. It was as if everything had, once again, been preordained just like the bat hitting my car. I wondered if he felt the same way. Neither of us ever mentioned it. As slow as Al was, he seemed to sense where the ball would be before it crossed the net. I relied on quickness whereas he relied on extra-sensory perception. He was lethal when he was at the net. We played in numerous tournaments and did reasonably well each time. I ended up coaching high school tennis, and he became one of the best tennis players at a very nice country club. In our 20's and 30's, we played in some full court and half court basketball leagues. I had played high school varsity basketball for two years. We had won many tournaments, had a 21-5 record one year, and had beaten many very good teams. Al had played no high school basketball mostly because he was sickly in his youth. But could he shoot! He had the "touch". He had no jump shot but an unbelievable set-shot. He could make a basket from almost anywhere. He had a running hook shot ala Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, only better..*.yes, better*! He could hit it15 feet out from the basket(imagine a 15-foot arc) while on the dead run, right or left handed!! His hook could never match the beauty of Kareem's sky hook since Al's was more of a line-drive. Kareem would carefully set up his move, but not Al. He would shoot on the dead run at any time from anywhere. Players on opposing teams would, at first, just let the skinny awkward looking guy shoot "at will" until they found out that he seldom missed this running 15-foot hook. They began to put their best defensive player on him only to find that Al needed to be "double-teamed". They would talk "dirt" to him. They needed to rough him up or triple-team him, but this would leave the rest of us wide open. Soon they stopped the rough stuff as they respected him throughout the various leagues. A new strategy was neededdon't let anyone throw the ball to him! I already knew that because when the ball was thrown to him, it would never come back. I don't think he knew what the word *pass* meant. He always shot the ball. We had a lot of fun playing in night basketball leagues in an old gym at a nearby college. I believe the baseball bat was never meant to hit me, rather it was an introduction to a life-long best friend. I have many stories about Al that I intend to write in the future, so don't be surprised to see the recurrence of his name. Al passed away quietly three years ago this December watching a football game at an inn at a local mountain resort while on vacation with his wife. I still miss him. He would call my wife Trish instead of Pat. He would add "*ish*" to many other words like "let's meet at eightish". *Gallivant* was his word for doing something. He was as nice of a person one could be lucky enough to know. He always had my back. Luckily, it hit my car...NOPE, not luckily, **it was MEANT to be**.


“You never see dwarven women,” Belton comments as he chops up the celery. The knife in his hand makes quick work of the current stalk and he grabs another after moving the cut pieces into a pile. “I’ve always wondered why. Do you think they are too ugly or too beautiful?” The kitchen is busy with a number of the half-folk scurrying around. When they are the only kind in sight it can be a bit hard to notice their differences from the other races. They don’t quite look like human children but they don’t quite look just like small versions of them either. And they aren’t just slim dwarves or tall, better groomed gnomes. It can be hard to pinpoint. Especially when they are in a kitchen designed to fit them. Some are checking the various pots of bubbling liquids which emit tantalizing aromas. Eddies of steam whirl behind others as they rush past on their way to check meat cooking over the fires or go take out something from an oven. It is the one peeling potatoes nearby that answers the celery chopper. “What if you have seen them, you just didn’t know?” Using a slightly curved blade the half-folk angles the peels into a bucket placed there to catch them. Upon finishing a potato he tosses it into a nearby basket with some other finished ones. “What do you mean, Ulrin?” “I think you have seen female dwarves, you just haven’t noticed. It’s all in the eyebrows I tell you. That’s how you can tell.” Ulrin nods sagely as he grabs another spud to start on. “That’s crazy. You’re saying they have the same build, including the beards, and the only difference is their \*eyebrows\*?” Belton starts on chopping some carrots after pushing the pile of chopped celery into a large wooden bowl. He harrumphs. “I still say they hide them away in their home caves. No one is allowed outside the visitor halls after all. The only question I have is if it is because they are too beautiful or too hideous to be seen.” A female of the folk carrying a tray of bread loaves pauses by the pair and leans in to add in her two coppers worth. “I heard each clan only has one Matron. She is massive and births everyone in the clan.” Ulrin utters a curse as the insanity of this theory causes him to slip and cut his thumb. He glares at the girl but it is Belton who says in a condescending manner, “You are saying dwarves are like bees or ants, with a queen, Isajen?” Isajen straightens up and looks down her nose at them. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.” She takes a step away, pauses and adds, “Makes more sense than \*eyebrows\*,” before heading on her way. Ulrin finishes patching up his thumb and returns to spud duty while Belton has moved onto radishes. One of the women, this one with fiery hair pulled back into a tail, stops by to start sorting the potatoes. Some are taken out and put into a pile for Belton to chop while the others are put in a basket to be taken away. “What do you know about Dwarven women, Diaphina?” Belton asks. She pauses a moment in her sorting to give Belton a side-eye. “I never really thought much about them I suppose.” “Have you ever seen them out in the common room?” pipes up Ulrin as he puts a potato in Diaphina’s basket. She glances at it and moves it to the pile nearby Belton as she answers.” Well of course I’ve… hmm. Actually, now that you mention it I don’t think I’ve ever seen one out there.” “Ha!” exclaims Belton. “That’s because they don’t let them leave their home caves I tell you. Do you think it is because they are too pretty or too gruesome?” Ulrin butts in before Diaphina can answer. “Sure you’ve seen them, they just look almost the same as the dwarven men I tell you.” Diaphina takes a moment to tuck a stray curl of hair back and looks between the two of them. “So this is your discussion of the night, eh? I guess it is better than some things you talk about.” Ulrin blushes at this but Belton just rolls his eyes. “I think Maester Goodbrook has been to one of their mountain homes if you want to ask them about it. Went to learn some of their dishes and teach them some of ours.” Ulrin puts his hands up, one holding a spud, the other his peeling knife. “I wouldn’t want to bother the Maester…” he says but Belton has a pondering look on his face. “I wouldn’t bother him during preparation time of course… but maybe later…” he trails off and moves the finished radishes into their own bowl and brings the pile of potatoes over to start on. Isajen returns without any tray this time and instructs Ulrin that he is needed to help clean up the common room before the day starts. “And don’t forget to take the peels out to the compost.” Ulrin grimaces and mutters that he only forgot that once as he gathers up the bucket and heads out for his next duty. Isajen watches him leave and comments to Belton, “I didn’t really mean they were like queen bees or anything. Just like they are sacred and sheltered because they are the only ones that can reproduce. It isn’t like dwarves are a overly flourishing race. There aren’t that many of them but they do live long. It could be there’s only one, or I guess a few, that give birth and are protected which is why no one gets to meet them.” Belton hmms softly as he cutes up the potatoes into chunks. “I suppose that could be true. It sure seems more plausible than they are out here and look the same as every other dwarf except for their eyebrows.” They share a chuckle and return to their work.


“You don’t get it Dad.” my daughter told me emphatically. * She and I were having breakfast at Jerry’s Cafe on Barkley Street in St Kilda, as we do on occasion. Today happened to be January 20th, 2018. A year to the day after some crazy bloke had run riot with his car in Melbourne. He drove down and killing half a dozen people and injuring maybe twenty more on the Bourke street Mall. Of course it had been on the news again today, as happens with the news services on any anniversary of any and all bad stories. I guess that I must have made some comment on the incident and the reactions to it. And being me, it would have been with some comment about perspective. What can I say? I am a creature of my generation. * She proceeded to tell me exactly what this girlfriend of her's partner had been through. “Sally’s Brian was a twenty two year old university student at the time. He was working part time as doorman come security guard at a cafe bar on Bourke street. He was there, working that day, when the terrorist drove those people down. Right out the front of where he was stationed.” “And he did not just stand there or run away! No. He thought quickly, locking the door to the cafe to keep the patrons and staff safe and then he ran to offer assistance to one of the injured victims. He stayed with him until the police ushered him away.” “He had a man die in his arms that day!” * “Yes, but all I said was…” I started to respond. * “Of course he can no longer face being on Bourke street. He had to give up his job because of the emotional and mental stress of it all. He needed that money to support him through his studies at university, so of course he needed government funding since then. ” she further explained to me. “He has suffered P.T.S.D.. He was a hero. He will be lucky indeed if the trauma of that experience ever leaves him. He will need assistance for years.” “You just can’t understand!” * “ Well, neither of us had been to war, although I only missed out being drafted by two years. I saw my birthdate come up on the selection. I doubt Sally's Brian even knows what the word means. If I had been two years older I would have been off to Vietnam.”

I thought, but did not say. I am not that silly.  It was a pleasant morning and there was on need to ruin it with a fight. A mistake that, I realised as it set off a stream of other memories. I remembered a time when I too was twenty two years old, a trainee Customs Officer as my main job, and a part time motorcycle license instructor with VicRoads for some extra cash on the week-ends. I had dropped in to visit mum and dad on the way to work at the airport. They live at the bottom of a steep hill in the quiet suburb of Pascoe Vale. Leaving their place I was driving up the hill when I saw an elderly man wandering across the road in front of me, from my left.” “Coming towards us from the opposite direction was a young man on a motorcycle. He had a brand new “L” plate on the front of his bike and was riding well within the 60 kilometre per hour speed limit. My week-end job skills told me that instantly.” “There was nothing I could do but watch as the old man walked directly into his path. The rider braked but could do nothing to avoid colliding with him. To watch it, it was an unspectacular crash, but the result, there in front of me ,was one old man, one young man and a motorcycle, splayed out across a suburban intersection.” “I stopped my car and jumped out. First I helped the rider up and calmed him down from his panic, then I knelt beside the old man. He was not conscious, but he was breathing, so I laid him in the ‘coma’ position as was the instruction those days, and then sent the rider off to knock on the nearest house door to call an ambulance. This was well before mobile phones of any description.” “I knelt with the old man, shouting instructions to the growing number of spectators. Some to assist the rider to move his bike from the road, others to warn any oncoming cars from the side streets. Just as the ambulance and police arrived, the old man coughed and stopped breathing. The ambulance officers immediately took over his management, but to no avail, and the police took over the management of the scene and obtaining witness statements.” “An hour later I drove on to work at the Melbourne airport terminal.” * “Several weeks later I was requested to attend the coroner’s court to give evidence. The old man being dead, the young ride’s life was now on the line. Fortunately my training with the Customs Service included note taking and giving evidence, so I got my first experience at it for real. I had taken notes in my issued work note book once the police had finished with me.” “At the end of the hearing the coroner found it to be an accident, no fault was attributed to the rider.” * “I continued to visit my parents, coming and going by that same road, it being the only option. I continued to work as a motorcycle instructor on the weekends and as a trainee customs officer. Again, both being to only options open. I was one year into a marriage and had a mortgage to pay on our grungy little one bedroom flat in Glenroy.” “Nobody had told me about post traumatic stress disorder, nobody at work said anything about counselling, so doing anything else did not cross my mind. I just did what was expected and got on with things.” * Turning my attention back to my coffee and pancakes, I responded in spoken words, “No, you are probably right. I do not understand.”


Writing a story doesn't take experience, or guts, and while those things do come into play much later in one's life, it isn't as important as just writing is. To make something, you have to take the steps to actually start it. Ashley Folder, is an upcoming writer in highschool. She writes novels as a hobby and often wins in small contests. Her ginger hair is long and wavy, and compliments her turquoise eyes. She usually wears a black hoodie and rouge colored sweatpants. As a writer, Ashley enjoys the comfort of a quiet and peaceful atmosphere, although she doesn't shy away from the background noises. Ashley enjoys writing, as it makes her feel she is in a space within her mind, secluded from the world around her, making her feel free to do whatever it is that has her mind focused on. Lately, in the recent months, Ashley's quality of work began to decrease, and before long, no one was reading her books anymore. She didn't know why or what changed, but the readers just stopped reading. Ashley searched for the answer within by re-reading her works, but being a critic of her books failed as she couldn't find anything that stuck out to her. So she pondered who she could ask for advice. Chestnut Graze, said to be a golden child, has golden short hair and pretty blue eyes. He dressed in a salmon sweater vest and tacky jeans. He was known in his school as idealistic, and would turn his ideas into fantasy stories. He competed in many contests, and though he only won a few it never lessened his ego. Chestnut is Ashley's rival in the field of writing, so she surprises him when she comes to him for advice on how to improve her work. He was hesitant to share any ideas, but thinking this was his chance to get ahead of her, he took advantage of the opportunity. In telling her how to improve her work, she needed to get closer to her characters and story. He advised her to try walking in their footsteps to see just how different her perspective would be. Taking this into account, Ashley felt grateful and got to work right away. The two didn't see each other anymore after that. Weeks turned to months, and months turned into years. Ashley had taken Chestnut's advice to heart, but it had cost her. Following that advice, her health began to deteriorate as a result of adopting the bad habits of her characters in order to feel closer to them, their failures and successes. She would drink alcohol to try and capture the essence of what the characters felt and suffered. She would smoke to find out the reason why it drew people in, even after learning how dangerous it is for your health. She also would often cut to find out if it really could relieve mental pain. Her parents worried about her and had several doctors talk to her, but none of them could convince her that the route she was taking could lead to much heartache and even death. While in college, Ashley felt very alone and had no one she felt she could consult with. She didn't have contacts with Chestnut so she couldn't get in touch even if she wanted to. She felt despair. As a writer, Ashley felt she had a job to give the readers something to read that was interesting, but if she couldn't do that.. if she couldn't write anything that the readers felt worth reading, she felt her life was over. She felt a void, and her purpose and enjoyment for writing was fleeting. One day, Ashley was told that if she couldn't give her editors anything to read, she should take a break from writing for a while. This broke her heart, as she had taken Chestnut's advice and put everything she felt she could into writing, but for it to still not change anything, she felt her dream was crushed. Ashley was preparing to say goodbye to her career, when she got an invitation to a party that was being held at the college she went to. Figuring this would be her last chance to live a normal life before the end, she accepted the invitation and went. At the party, there were plenty of drinks and a variety of food  for everyone. She stood to the side as she watched everyone dance and chat among themselves. As she was going to get some fruit punch from the bowl a hand stops hers. Looking up she noticed an adult Chestnut standing beside her. His perfect golden hair stretched to his shoulders and was now a dirty blonde, his pretty blue eyes paler from time, and he wore a suit that was gray. Ashely felt surprised and filled with uncertainty because of the mixed feelings she had towards him. "I wouldn't drink that, it's probably been tampered with," Chestnut warned. "Why do you care?" Ashley said in a whisper. "It's probably what you want, right? For me to be ruined." "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Chestnut looked at her with confusion. That's when Ashley realizes he didn't remember her. He was tall and a hint muscular too. Nothing about Chestnut now said he was arrogant or egotistical. He was a humble man simply trying to help her from drinking anything with potential dangers to it. His eyes had a look of remorse, as if he had offended someone. Ashley's tears spill out in disbelief. He was a different man from when he was in highschool, while she felt she hadn't changed much in the way of growing up. She felt bitter and resentful for wasted years, and she took out a pack of sleeping pills from her purse. She had originally planned to use them when she returned to her dorm, but now she only wanted for the end to come as quickly as possible. It was then that she felt a warm embrace as Chestnut brought her into a hug. He kept her close despite her demands to be let go. He kept holding her till the desire to sleep forever left her. Ashley cried in his arms until she relaxed. Chestnut took the sleeping pills from her and pocketed them as he took her outside to sit and to just rest. He didn't know what to say to her for her to feel better, and figured whatever she was going through she needed to get off her chest. Ashley rested against his shoulder feeling a tad relieved. She felt her heart had lightened and her mind was less confused and cloudy for the moment. She found a strange comfort in the one who set her on that path of misery. Ashley had no words to speak to him as well, but for them they needn't have any words to say. It was then that Ashley understood that words can only tell part of any story. She had to have actions to serve as a foundation. She needed structure for a world made of words. Taking into consideration all she had undergone, she knew just what she needed to do. With Chestnut's help, Ashley started to get her life back in order. She took into account her health, she stopped trying to experience life through her characters, and she found that the characters should feel freer to flow more fluently, and not be forced. Ashley and Chestnut started seeing each other as well and began an unexpected relationship that blossomed into something more down the road. As bitter as things were in the beginning, that bitterness became something sweeter with time. The End.


"Are you coming tonight?" Sarah asks. The voice message plays in my mind. Should I go tonight? Probably not. I really don't want to go to Sarah's Christmas party. Everyone will be there. Family, friends, neighbours, random people she met on the street- they'll all be there tonight. "Which is why you should go!" Sadie groans, cutting my rant off. "No, it's why I shouldn't go." I'm right, of course. "Wrong, it's why you should. It's a great way for you to come out." "Come out??" I say incredulous, "Sadie, are you out of your mind?" "You've been avoiding Sarah for years! Don't you think it's time to tell her?" Right. Tell her that I'm a girl. Telling my sister that her brother is dead. "And what on earth am I going to say to her? 'Hey Sarah! I know you don't think you know me, but I'm your sister! Brandon no longer exists!' It sounds stupid just saying it out loud to you!" "That's because I'm not Sarah," Sadie says, rolling her eyes. "And it's not only her, you and your parents haven't spoken in three years!" My heart sinks. They kicked me out at seventeen when they caught me in bed with a boy. I told them we weren't even doing anything wrong, we were just chilling. Sarah was there for the occurrence too. She was home for summer break, and after that, she gave me a room in her apartment. She believed me. "For a reason , Sadie." Sadie sighs. "What else can I say to make you go?" "Nothing," I mutter, "my mind's made up." I feel horrible for skipping the Christmas party again. For the fourth time this year. "Not even when I say that they've got three years worth of presents for you?" Sadie says desperately. I scoff. My parents wouldn't get a present for their daughter they kicked out three years ago. "Why can't I just meet Sarah some other time?" "Because that's what you always say." That's true. I always make plans and cancel them last minute. "But it's different this time, I'm trans!" Sadie looks ready to slap me. "For the love of God!" "God didn't help me when I was on the streets!" "I'll go with you then," Sadie says, putting on a fake smile. It looks painful. "If it doesn't work out, we'll come home." "Fine," I say, only because Sadie is terrifying when she's mad and I can't have her ripping up my closet. "Great!" Sadie says, hopping out of the covers. "Get ready, we leave in five." --- "This is the worst idea you've ever had." I glare at the house I used to call home. The fairy lights hang around the porch and I can see the silhouettes of the people inside. They clump together like weeds, drinking and laughing. "C'mon, it's not the worst idea I've ever had. Remember when I put three thousand wasps in that bastard's locker?" "It wasn't her locker," I remind Sadie. " It was mine. " "Yes, yes. See, my point is, everything will be fine compared to when three thousand bees chased you down the hallway." "Where'd you even manage to get so many?" "I found a beehive growing in the walls of my room. Thought it'd be a good idea to get back at that bastard." "Lucky it went according to plan." "Sarcasm isn't your tone- look out, Sarah's coming." "Okay, great!" I hiss. "I'm leaving." "Not so fa- hey! Sarah! How are you?" Sadie beams and hugs my sister. "Shall I take the present up?" "No, I will," Sarah says, smiling. "Oh! You brought a guest!" I smile weakly. She doesn't even recognize me. "Hi," I say awkwardly. "I should go. Have fun Sadie!" Behind Sarah, Sadie points the middle finger at me. "No, stay, please. You can't be alone at Christmas!" Deaf to my protests, Sarah drags me inside. Sadie follows suit, and gives me a little smirk. "Look!" I exclaim, pointing both my middle fingers up. "I have two!" "You're such an asshole," Sadie says, before marching off towards the kitchen. "So," Sarah says, turning to me. "What's your name?" She really doesn't recognize me then. It stings a little, but maybe it's for the better. "Grace," I say, returning Sarah's smile. The doorbell rings, and I see my mother heading towards the door. "No, I'll get it," Sarah says, rushing to the entrance. "Sarah, honey, you've been getting all the guests. Maybe you should rest a little bit." "I insist," she says, hand on the doorknob. I see my childhood friends standing in the doorway, all smiling and wishing Sarah a happy Christmas. Maybe it's my imagination, but for a second I saw Sarah's smile falter and fade. As the guests settle in, Sarah turns back to me. "So, where are you from?" "Here, actually," I say. "Born and raised." Sarah raises her eyebrows. "You look a little familiar." My heart races. I don't know what to say to her, so I just shake my head. "Maybe you've seen me here and there, it's a pretty small town." "True, I must've seen you at the coffeehouse at times," she says, and I sigh in relief. "You know, I expected my brother to turn up," Sarah says, her eyes watering up. "I'm really sorry," I say, not knowing how to tell her that her brother is here, but isn't really a boy anymore. "It's alright. I mean, I do get it. My parents judged him way to quickly. They don't want Brandon here, but I still do." "They don't want him here?" I say, a little too quickly. "No, I don't think they do. Three years doesn't really change much about how they think. Although I wish it did." "Brandon will never be welcome here," my father says, appearing out of nowhere. "Sarah, I thought we talked about this," my mother says, frowning. "He's filth, he'll always be filth." "How could you?" Sarah cries, tears spilling down her face. "To your own child? At Christmas no less?" "He's no a child of mine," my mother says, my father nodding. Sarah bursts into tears and runs out. My mother makes an action to follow her, but my father puts a hand on her shoulder and says, "she'll have to learn that fags will not be allowed in this household." I turn myself away from the conversation, sickened. I rush out to the back to find Sarah. "Sarah!" I call out. I look around for another five minutes before I realize where she is. We had a treehouse. We used to play in it all the time. It was concealed with leaves, and we used it as our hideout. Not even our parents knew it was there, let alone guests and strangers. "Sarah?" "Who's there?" The lightbulb flickers on and Sarah looks at me in shock. "How did you find me?" I feel my eyes start to sting and wetness on my cheeks. I watch as she comes to the realization that I've been dreading. "Brandon?"


That’s the thing about this city, there's more to it than meets the eye. I was born into one of the richest families in Manhattan. I come from a long line of people who worked boring office jobs to make their way to the top of Corporate America with not a single creative bone in their body. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life; I’ve been to every museum it has to offer, gone to every charity ball or unnecessary banquet with my family, seen more than 10 Broadway shows, have visited the statue of liberty, and been to the twin towers. I’ve gotten everything I have ever wanted and more but at the end of the day it all feels meaningless. I live in my own little bubble, I don’t even feel like a real New Yorker, I’ve never even stepped foot on a subway. My whole life everything has been done for me and I have been sheltered from everything. I’ve only ever attended private school with other rich kids who have made being wealthy their entire personalities, I was never allowed to join sports or any other fun activities that I wanted to because my parents thought all my energy should go toward my education and following in my dad's footsteps, go to the same college he did, study the same thing he did and then eventually take over his company. Which is something I am not interested in, but no one seems to care. The only thing they allow me to do is ballet but that’s only because all the daughters of the rich snotty families are also ballet dancers, they think being in ballet with them will mean I finally make nice with them. That’s not going to happen, I don’t want to be friends with them, or always have everything done for me and have no independence. I want to be my own person and not have my last name or how much money is in my bank account be my identity. I am more than that, I want to be more than that.

I have a passion for dancing, but not ballet dancing. I love hip-hop dancing, which is something my parents would freak out about if they knew. I always watch videos on YouTube of the newest hip hop moves and try to teach them to myself as best I can, but as long as I live in this house, under the Valenzuela roof I will never be able to pursue my passion. I can’t have my family attached to my hip because they are only weighing me down. But once I graduate high school, I won’t let them hold me back anymore. Ever since I found the school of my dreams, The Elite Artists Academy, where the best dancers, singers, and other artists of the country go, I’ve had a plan mapped out. Graduate high school, move out and get my own apartment go to school and graduate from the Elite Artists Academy, become a professional hip hop dancer, maybe do some music videos, dance on tour with a famous singer, and eventually settle down and start a family, hopefully with a fellow dancer. But of course, my family doesn’t know that, they would only try to hold me back.

Today’s my 18th birthday and rather than letting my parents ruin my day with activities that I don’t want to do, I am making sure to leave before sunrise. I'm going to explore all the parts of New York that I’ve always wanted to see. Right now, I am getting ready to leave and am trying not to wake up my parents.

I’m going to take the subway for the first time today, get a map, and find a way to visit all the places I want to go only using the subway. Hopefully, I don’t get lost.

I bought my subway pass and got a directory of all the trains and where they take me, my parents must be waking up right about now, it sure feels good not to be there to smell my dad’s morning breath. I have to catch the J train to get to this coffee shop I’ve heard amazing things about in Brooklyn, they’re supposed to have the best bagels. I’m not used to waking up this early but it's worth it if I get to spend my birthday how I want to and now how my parents want to. Maybe I can take a nap while the train gets to my stop.

Train rides sure are long. I took a nap, and the train is still going. Oh no! Of course, this happened, apparently, this train makes multiple stops not just the one in Brooklyn, I slept through mine and now it's taking me to Rochester which is the last stop. I have no idea what to do, Rochester wasn’t on my itinerary and I don’t know anyone from around there. I’m kind of freaking out.

I’m crying with frustration when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Wow. Oh wow. It was the most attractive boy I had ever seen in my life. He asked me what was wrong, and I explained my situation, maybe with too many details. He asked me why I was crying, and I proceeded to tell him my life story including my plans to become a hip-hop dancer. To my surprise, we shared the same passion for dancing. It was a breath of fresh air meeting someone whose dreams didn't involve working in an office building. I had never met anyone like Evan, he was funny, kind, didn’t dress like he was going to a company board meeting, and unlike most people, I knew he had a personality.

I was never the type to be bold when it came to boys but at this moment, I decided to take the risk. I asked him to spend the day with me, kind of be my tour guide and take me to all the must-see places in New York. And he gave me the best birthday present ever and said yes.

We got off at the last stop and the first thing we did was go to the donut shop he knew about and I tried some of the best donuts I have ever tried in my life, the gourmet donut shop in my neighborhood has nothing on this place. From there we went to many different amazing places that I had never seen before, but my favorite we visited was the Dancer’s Fight Club.

The Dancer’s Fight Club was a secret dance club where hip-hop dance crews and solo dancers went to compete in practice, compete in dance battles or just dance for fun and have a good time. The minute I walked in there it was love at first sight. All those talented people being able to express themselves freely and doing what they love without judgment, being part of a supportive community, it’s everything I've ever wanted. But my parents would never let me come to a place like this, especially considering how far it is from my house and from everything they value. I would love a place like this near my house, so I decided that to provide the manager with the funds to open another location in my neighborhood, as a secret of course.

So, Lily and Harper, the managers of the Dancer’s Fight Club are going to open their new location, and when I can I’m going to help them open more and more new locations so that every dancer in this city who needs a place to express themselves feel safe and supported has one. And every day after school when my parents think I’m at my school’s math club I’ll be at the fight club, practicing and becoming the best dancer I can be to get into the Elite Dancer’s Academy.

No matter how extravagant my birthday parties have been or how many expensive presents I've gotten, this has been the best birthday ever.


On her way to work under light breeze autumn morning of Swan Park in Ankara, it was getting more and more difficult every year for Emine to walk with a sleepy body in this city.. In this season, the inner Anatolia was herding the arrival of winter with its cold breeze, even swans were not happy, they had no intention of leaving their nests made of painted boards until the sun reached doors of their nests. Emine suddenly stopped while she was moving fast with her steps in harmony with melody of music in her ears. The man was there again, this year. He also came this year, with a bouquet of flowers at the crack of morning, and a red mask drawn on his face by the cold. She should ask this time, and after a few seconds, she decided to wander around the swan pond to talk to that man this time. It was the same guy, again. Like the last year.. He was waiting at the same day, in the same season, in the same park, in the early morning, with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. The bad thing was that, last year, when Emine was back from work, she found the previous bouquet left alone sadly near a trash next to bench. But not this time, she would ask the man about the bouquets, because she had never seen such a coherent anniversary anywhere. During this time, while the city had changed from top to bottom, while the park was completely redesigned, she should know about this guy who waited at the same bench and in the same day of the same season. She approached the stranger in a shy way. She could only say “Good morning," calmly. The man, who looked at her with a swift enthusiasm, lifted his face down on the ground, he instantly said another name “Leyla?” but subsequently made a sour face. Emine, after noticing the situation, had to interrupt him in amazement, saying “No, you misunderstand, I am Emine,” and explained, “in recent years, I saw you here, waiting in the same place in every season. I wondered why, because last year, I find the flowers you left and put them into vase”. That guy quickly reacted, said, “I think it’s going to be your last bouquet, have a good day,” and he left a bouquet of flowers next to the bench and quickly walked away. Emine, who remained in an abandoned manner, without knowing what to do, started to walk away in a puzzled state. But after a few steps, she returned and took the bouquet, thinking she should take the bouquet again. This time, unlike previous bouquets, a letter was attached to it. Although she was hesitating, she took the bouquet and sat in a cafeteria in the corner of the Swan Park, and she ordered a tea. She took the letter in her hands wonderingly, nothing was written on it. Also, it was not closed properly. A little paper came out of it. Emine began to read, while sipping her tea, she sighed as well, the letter had a small paragraph: “For years, I have waited for you, Leyla, on the day when you are supposed to visit the place where we have promised to meet. But this time it’s the last. I have to go, from this land, from this city, from this realm of evil. I have to fight. I can’t come to your grave, I regret that. I came only in the hope that God could take you from heaven and bring you to me, anywhere that we should meet. To the school exit, to the graduation ceremony you never had, to your friend’s birthday.. You weren’t in any of them. Just as life took you away from me in that traitorous ambush two years ago while you were coming to me, I had to go and avenge you, I had to enroll for the army, since I have fed up with waiting you in tears until we will meet. I hope you are OK where you went. I love you...” While reading these words, noticing the statement “traitorous ambush”, Emine grabbed her phone and visited a few sites, then she found news about a bomb that exploded on October 9 and among the name of people who lost their lives in a terrorist attack was the name written on that letter, waited by that man. Tears run down from her eyes, but she was also late for work. Then, she wrapped her last bouquet tightly in her arms and went to work..


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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: - **Spring Mashup: Include at least one thing from each category below in your story.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Include two additional things from the table (5 total). **Object/Word** | **Setting** | **Character Action** | |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | hackles | amusement park/festival | stargazing | | bone | greenhouse/garden | stepping in mud| | kaleidoscope | cemetery | picking/slicing veggies | | taxi | spaceship | riding a motorcycle | | lackadaisical | rainstorm | lighting a fire| This week we’re doing a ! Your challenge is to include **at least one thing from each category** (one object/word, one setting, and one character action). Note: The setting must be the *main setting* of the story, and the character action must *actively happen* within the story to receive credit. The bonus and use of the above image are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #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 host 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 We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/notobamaseviltwin *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The message was strange by any definition of the word. RUN! A text that sent Mary Smithson out of her 469 Pellan Cul- de-sac home to check on her closest friend, who also happened to be her childhood neighbour. She matched across the small street and knocked on the silver door. She waited a little bit longer than usual before she heard footsteps hurrying to the door. She had mentally prepared a reprimand for Dylon Mathers for trying his usual attempts at Halloween pranks, but she was a little worried with the urgency of the text. She had already opened her mouth as the door opened slowly when she stopped herself. A stranger with ebony hair and brown eyes was looking curiously at her. He was well built, and had tiny specks of greying hair within his head. "Sorry, Nell. I was busy trying to make sure dinner didn't burn, what can I help you with today?" He seemed polite and calm about his words and he had a welcoming smile that nearly disarmed her, but he had called her Nell , why? She took a step back to ensure she had the right house (directly across from her), then walked back to the man. "Excuse me, have we ever met?" She asked trying to make sense the familiarity to which this stranger responded. "Very funny, Nell. We have known each other for a long time." His answer was short and matter-of-factly, like it was cemented in history, his probably. She was starting to get annoyed with this elaborate prank. She took a deep breathe and retrieved another figurative coat of patience to be worn for the moment. "Can I speak to Dylon, please." The man just kept staring at her as if trying to place the name, he was clearly a paid actor- one of the competent ones judging by how he stuck with his story. "I don't know any Dylon I'm afraid. Maybe Jenny knows. Please come in," he invited her in the house that seemed filled with a blaring Television and a shrieking sound from upstairs. "I have to make sure nothing burns this time round, excuse me." He left her standing there in the living room, walking away smiling as if the burning of food was some joke between them. She stared at his receding back and started walking around the living room as soon as the stranger left. There were framed photographs of the man with a blonde haired beauty with an athletic frame, a Roman nose and tiny freckles on her cheek. There were similar photographs with a young girl with flaxen hair and brown eyes, the explainable resemblance of a daughter to the woman. "The name Mathers does sound familiar but I can't seem to place it, Nell." The man in kitchen shouted at her while trying to cook. Everything felt foreign and out of place, it was not the house she had been entering for eleven years. This house was a family home with toys thrown around the living room, crayons and papers on a small table meant for a child, and the noise of a happy child somewhere above her. She had the pattern of little feet coming down the stairs as fast as possible and waited to see what was actually going on. The text had been sent ten minutes ago and this seemed a little too well planned for Dylon Mathers. The flaxen haired girl from the photographs stopped upon seeing her. She had an impressive outfit consisting of a ankled-length dress with an elegant maroon cape and a tiara on her head - a princess then. She only took a moment for her eyebrows to rise before she came running at Mary and jumped on her leg in an elaborate hug. "Aunt Nell, your here," she shouted in a pant trying to get her words across. "Mom says I'm almost ready, but your here now. Does that mean Abby is ready?" She seemed crestfallen at the prospect of this Abby being ready before her, and Mary didn't know how to answer this question. She said the first thing that came to her mind. "Not yet," she dropped to one knee in order to look the girl in the eye. "...but Dylon might help her get ready." She had hoped for some reaction, some tell tale sign that all this was some elaborate hoax, but the girl looked confused at the name. No child could fake deception like this, if it was indeed a hoax. "Who is Dee-lon?" she asked Mary hopefully. The entire scene was beyond strange. She needed to collect names, that way she could find out their history and apparently, hers too. "What's your name, little princess?" She tried to make it sound as playful as possible. "Princess Ellen Richmond...the first. Now bow!" The little tyrant demanded with forced airs. Mary played along dropping her head in a mock bow and thinking about any "Richmond" she may know from her past. With no apparent culprit in mind, she returned to standing by the princess who was apparently being chased by her mother who came running down the stairs after her. The woman stopped on seeing her. "Hi, Nell. Tell me you're not already set for the evening of trick-or-treating?" She looked impressed and shocked at the same time. Mary should have probably lied or made something up, but a glaring revelation had come upon her. The girl- Ellen- had asked if some Abby was ready, and her mother implied she would go trick-or-treating. The only reason she would ever need to do that was... The revelation made her apologise as she left in a hurry. The neighbourhood still looked the same. She could name every family she saw along with their children, at least that much was unchanged. She didn't bother knocking on her door and walked in to a cruel shock. There were framed photographs on the wall next to the door, and she looked at them as she walked into the living room.

In all the photographs there was a chestnut-haired man next to her. He was good looking but had a scar on his temple. His eyes were a teal shade that drew her attention and he looked happy-so did this Mary by his side. There was one photograph with a young girl with ebony hair and... She stopped dead in her tracks by this one. The girl had ebony hair...just like her, and despite the blue eyes, her facial features like her upturned nose, her eyebrows, and the shape of her mouth...they were too familiar to her. It was like looking at a slightly altered version of herself as a child. This was becoming too strange. The new neighbours she now had could be explained away as actors (convincing ones and probably well-paid) but this little girl was an impossibility. She had no children, not yet anyway. She had planned to maybe have one in the future, but the man in the photographs with the beautiful eyes was clearly a stranger. She wanted to find out where Dylon was but he wasn't picking up his phone. She walked into the living room to find the man in the photographs. He was watching a basketball match on a 42 inch flat-screen television which was clearly not hers. She looked around the room and could see certain things that were clearly foreign. "Honey?" He asked as he turned around. "Did you get a timeline for Jenny and Ellen?" These be the names of the woman and her child in Dylon's house, the ones she was supposed to go trick-or-treating with...along with Abby, her daughter. "Hmm, they said there almost ready. Probably ten more minutes." She was trying to stay afloat in a sea of new information and what seemed to be a different world than her own. She wanted to interrogate the man for some answers without seeming oblivious if this was still a hoax. She had to see the little girl, the one who was supposed to be her daughter . Seeing her would solve her conclusion to whether it was a hoax or not. No one could fake such a child, at least not that she knew of. "Where is Abby?" She asked hopefully as she tested out the name on her tongue. She found that she rather liked the feel of the name and saying it. "She's waiting for you in her room," answered the man who was still watching the television. With all her hopes hanging on the existence of a little girl, Mary climbed the stairs in a rush. She knew this house and knew only one other room would house a child. She rushed to the room next to her...well their bedroom.

From the door she could see it was painted pink with coloured paper butterflies on the walls. On the bed, wearing what must be a blue outfit with wings on the back, was the girl Abby. Mary was stunned by her presence despite preparing herself mentally for it. The girl seemed to be fidgeting in her dress making Mary smile despite her shock. She walked up to the little girl and knelt in front of her. She ran her hands through the frilly ebony hair and was about to touch her face when the girl backed up. "Stop you'll ruin my fairy face," she protested in a nervous voice. Mary smiled at the reaction, smiled at the choice of outfit, and also on the entire situation.

"Why are you crying, mommy?" She traced the wetness around her eyes and laughed lightly as she wiped it on her dress. "I just think you look beautiful, Abby." She wanted to say more but an idea came to her. "Abby, could you tell me your full name?" The girl looked at her curiously. "Abigail Kent." "...and your parents' names?" "Mommy and daddy." She realized the girl might not know her name, but she had given the name Kent .

"Can I carry my wand now?" "Where did we put it?" She asked playfully trying to mask her ignorance. "It's on your bed, mommy." Abby seemed delighted at knowing this-meaning she probably wasn't supposed to know where the wand was. That thought drew another smile from Mary...or whatever her name was now. She promised to get the wand as she left the room, and hurried into her room. She ransacked her purse on the bedside table and removed her driving licence along with another phone. Nelly Reed! The name was foreign to her, but the picture on the licence was definitely her. She scrolled the contacts on the phone and found her husband's number. The name on the information was Aaron kent, and she could not find Dylon's name or number on this other phone. She quickly picked the "wand" that was on her bed and was about to leave when the book on the table caught her eye. She walked to the bedside table and picked it up. She couldn't tell why the book had drawn her or whose it was. She flipped through the pages and stopped on a page with a marker highlighted word. Mary Smithson!

She nearly dropped the book, but decided to jump to the synopsis on the back cover. She read it carefully and gasped at her findings. Mary Smithson, her entire life, was a character in a book- a tragic drama. There was a perfect description of the protagonist's neighbour, who was named Dylon Mathers. A character who'd died in 2009, ten years ago. She looked up the name Dylon Mathers on her phone's internet and confirmed that there was a Dylon Mathers who lived at 472 Pellan, across from her. Just like in the book, Dylon Mathers had died ten years ago in a car accident with his mother, when he was fifteen years-old. She sat on the bed trembling with equal amounts fear and uncertainty. She was certain of her life. She new her name and that of her parents, but this entire situation was testing...no, breaking her foundation and beliefs. She would have stayed on the bed like that indefinitely if not for the sweet voice of Abigail Kent calling for her wand. This "Nelly Reed" seemed to have a good life, but it was a foreign one to hers. She would have to play along and hope she can get back to her world. It sounded even more promising that it meant getting to know Abby. Nelly Reed-Kent stood up, put on her best smile and went to help her new daughter get ready for trick-or-treating.


A yellow and black Mustang, colored like Bumblebee from the Transformers, made a radical, obtuse-angle turn, in order to catch the exit ramp. It sped down the ramp, as a pair of police cruisers sped past, unable to make the turn in time to exit. The Mustang followed a series of alternating left and right turns, evading what appeared to be a non-existent pursuit. Then it raced down Olive, a residential street. Tires squealed and smoke billowed as Ryan cornered aggressively into his driveway. He had already pressed the remote to open the garage door, so he continued to look behind the car. No pursuit, no flashing lights, no reason to panic. Great! “Ryan,” George squeaked, one white-knuckled grip on an overhead ceiling, the other hand choking his shoulder harness. “Relax, George. I have sensors installed that send a signal to my brakes when the car is in the right position in the garage. We won’t crash.” “But Ryan,” Cate added, pointing forward. Her other hand, not free, held her door handle in a death grip. The sensors worked, and the getaway car screeched to a halt, leaving black marks on the garage floor. Now Ryan was looking backward to smile at Cate. And to drool over the bags of cash stolen from First Union Bank that filled the back seat of the Mustang. The garage door, also communicating with the sensors inside, began rolling closed. “I told you we could pull it off, Cate.” Ryan turned to look at George. “And I told you I could outrun the police and get us safely home.” “But Ryan . . .” A loud, metallic voice interrupted George. Ryan turned to stare at a squad of five robocops standing in his garage.

A wide-shouldered, large robot stood in the center, flanked by a pair of smaller robocops on each side. It was the one in the middle that spoke. “Please exit the vehicle, with your hands in the air. Resistance is futile.” The Blue Collar Gang, which Ryan called the trio of Cate, George, and himself,

knew what would happen if they resisted, so they climbed out of the car, hands in the air, as they were told. “You got us,” Ryan admitted with a smile. Somebody on the force had a sense of humor. R2D42 blazoned across the chest of the large robot in the center of the robocop squad. “I guess the predictor algorithm works, R2. Even though you are nowhere near as cute as the original R2D2.” “Of course it works,” R2D42 responded, ignoring the slight. “It was programmed by Watson II, checked by a Hall V, installed by B-9, and rechecked by Robby. Then I pored over the code, as I have been programmed to do, ensuring that I would be capable of predicting all human behavior. I knew that you and your friends would rob the First Union Bank today, and return here, believing you would outrun our police force. So I brought my team here and waited.” “So the cruisers chasing us were a feint? They knew you were here, so they sped past the exit ramp and let us think we were getting away?” “I knew you would realize that, too. You cannot surprise me. Unless you are not actually a human. And my sensors tell me you are a human, not an android.” “I’ll bet you didn’t know George was coming with me this morning.” “We don’t bet. If we did, you would lose. We knew that.” “How about Cate? You couldn’t possibly have known about her.” “You sought out an attractive woman with martial arts training and no criminal record. Your business meeting turned into a date, followed by two more dates. Of course you invited her along.” “To join my Perfect Posse?” “Knowing why you named the group the Blue Collar Gang, I predicted correctly that you would not be wearing blue collars.”

“I’m hungry. Can we eat now?” Cate looked to Ryan for an answer. “Did you see that coming, R2?” Ryan sneered. “Of course. We have a healthy snack prepared for you at the station. Now George would like to say something.” “Me, too,” George added. “And Ryan.” “Come to think of it, I could use something to eat myself,” Ryan agreed with his fellow gang members. He headed towards a large toolbox sitting on a chest-high shelf on the side of the garage. “Stop,” R2 ordered.“What’s in that toolbox?” Ryan stopped. “Food,” he answered. “With your terribly invasive, ridiculous predictive algorithm, you predicted that we would all be hungry. Stress induces hunger, and we’ve had a very tense and stressful morning. Come to think of it, you’re not helping with that.” “Protect and serve, our mandate, does not include allowing criminals to open large containers during an arrest.” R2’s equivalent of eyes, a pair of adaptable multi-focal length lenses, clicked open and closed. “I’ve consulted my database. You will not be denied food. That doesn’t mean I can allow you to open the toolbox.” “What? You think there are guns inside? What good would guns do, against you guys? Pardon me, against you and your Terminator squad.” “Robocops, not Terminators,” R2 corrected Ryan. R2’s lenses clicked. “Terminator is a fictional type of robot, from a series of movies.” “Whatever. Go ahead and scan the toolbox for weapons. All you’ll find is protein bars. We really need to eat.” “Yeah, we need to eat,” George echoed Ryan’s sentiment. Bright cyan light flashed from R2’s lenses and washed over the toolbox. “Warning. I see dense rectangles inside. Those could be grenades.” R2 was staring right at Ryan. At least his lenses were pointed in Ryan's direction. “Are you serious? Grenades are shaped like eggs with lumps. Not rectangles. Those are protein bars.” “Or like cylinders,” R2 added. “Dah. German grenades.” T135, the robot to R2’s left added. “Do you see any bumpy egg shapes, or cylinders, in my toolbox?” Cyan light fanned out from R2’s lenses, washing over the toolbox. T137, the robocop to R2’s far left, and T138, to R2’s far right, rolled out of formation. They positioned themselves where they could each scan the toolbox, getting a different perspective than R2 had. Yellow light fanned out from T137’s lenses and moved across the toolbox. Magenta light from T138 spilled across the toolbox after the yellow light went out. “Only rectangles,” T137 announced. “Only rectangles,” echoed T138. “That’s all I saw, as well,” R2 concurred. “Can we eat now?” whined Cate. “OK, let’s chow down,” Ryan called out, stepping towards the toolbox again. “Can’t wait,” George muttered, going around the Mustang. “What do we have in there?” Cate asked, coming up beside Ryan. “Halt,” R2 commanded. “Only one of you may open the toolbox.” “What do you mean?” Ryan complained. “I have many different flavored protein bars in there. We should each be able to choose our flavor.” “You’re not choosing for me,” George complained, smacking Ryan on the shoulder. “You’d probably give me bubble gum, if there is such a flavor.” “And just like the jelly beans in Harry Potter, you’d probably give me snot, or poop.” Cate made a face. “Harry Potter, and Bertie Botts’s every-flavored jelly beans are fictional,” argued R2. “Go ahead. You may each reach into the toolbox, one at a time, after Ryan opens it.” Ryan opened the toolbox and pulled out a pair of large protein bars. The wrappers declared them to be beef. George removed two more, labeled Chicken. Cate took out a pair of Vegan bars. The members of the Blue Collar Gang nodded at each other. As one, they turned and tossed their ‘protein bars’ at the robocops. Each brick-sized bar smacked up against one of the robocops. Both of Ryan’s slammed into R2, one on his chest, the other on his head. Flashes of light, similar to miniature lightning flashes, flared across each robocop body and head, accompanied by a series of snap-crackle-pop sounds. All five robocops slumped and went quiet, the lights representing eyes winking out. “Magnets,” Ryan made a brushing motion with his hands. “Sort of like a taser against robocops. Didn’t see that coming, did you?”