One foot in front of the other. That is where he kept his focus as he made his way down the country road, alone. Had he not, he may have passed out right there. His feet were blistered and raw from running all through the previous night. The hakama he wore were spattered with mud at the fringes around his ankles. The edges of his kimono—tattered from running through thick brush—flowed freely around him. Mementos from his late night escape. He kept one hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. This is no way for a Samurai to dress, he thinks to himself. Then I suppose I am officially no longer a samurai… The wind whipped at his face as he limped his way along the dusty road. He began to contemplate the events that had brought him here. How his whole world had turned upside down. Late last evening, Lord Zankoku had called in his top samurai for a council of war. This is not out of the ordinary as the country is locked in civil war. The shogun had passed away two years prior without naming a successor. A power vacuum ensued. Lord Zankoku was one among four other Lords vying for control of the country. As the war continued, Lord Zankoku’s tactics had become more wicked; commanding for whole towns to be decimated—women and children included. The Samurai had conflicted feelings about these cruel methods. This, however, was irrelevant. His honor required unquestioning fealty to his Lord. Luckily, he had not been sent on one of these missions… Yet. Before the Samurai reported to the council of war, he stopped by his family shrine located behind his house on the edge of the woods. He lit incense and knelt before the placard with his late father’s name on it. Closing his eyes, he commences to pray. Father. I need your guidance… my feeling towards my duties are conflicted. Gently he drifts off into a reverie like a leaf on the wind. A distant memory from his youth. The sun was shining bright. He was training with his father in the courtyard of their home…. It was late spring and the scent of white peonies pervaded the air. The two of them stood face to face holding their wooden training swords—their bokken. They were wearing identical white kimonos and red hakama. Eyes locked, their bodies standing as still as statues; sweat building up above their brows. His father then raised the bokken with a swift fluid gesture, bringing it back down with the force of a meteorite strike. The young Samurai steps to the left by three inches. Bringing his blade handle up, pointing the tip down and aslant to the left, resulting in a perfect parry. Had he been any slower, he would have suffered serious injury, but he has been trained by his father ever since he was old enough to hold a stick. “Very good my son. You are shaping up to be quite the swordsman,” he steps closer and gingerly puts a hand on the young Samurai’s shoulder. “I’m ready to fight for our Lord, father. I am ready to bring honor to our family,” the Samurai proudly declares. His father’s brows arch up. “Oh, you think you’re ready? Being a samurai is about more than just flashy swordsmanship. Are you ready to follow orders?” He gazes deeply through his son’s eyes and into his soul. “Yes,” the Samurai says without skipping a beat. His father slowly looks away, drops his hand and begins to meander the courtyard at a steady pace with his hands clasped behind his back. “You will have to follow our Lord’s every command without question. You owe undying fealty to him once you’ve taken your oath. Do you understand my words?” He pauses and turns back to look at the young Samurai. The Samurai responds, “Of course, father. As I have already claimed. I will bring honor to this family,” He brings his right fist to his heart. His father slowly steps up in front of the Samurai. After taking a long hard look into his son’s eyes he asks, “What if he ordered you to kill your fellow samurai, your friends?” “I’m sure it would only be for valid reasons. Maybe they betrayed our lord and country. Yes, that’s it, there is no place for traitors.” His father then asks, “And what if he ordered you to kill me? Hm? Would you still follow his orders?” The Samurai hesitates, he lets his right hand fall back to his side, then says, “That would never happen. You would never do anything to deserve that.” “Are you sure? You would question an order from your lord?” The Samurai’s face tightens as he realizes the contradiction he made. “It’s not a question of whether or not I deserve it. It’s a matter of serving the will of your Lord in the name of honor and duty for your fief. You see? One must be ready to do their duty regardless of their own feelings in the matter. Your fealty to your lord is to be undying. Honor above all else.” The young Samurai stands there for a moment and contemplates the gravity of this lesson. A smile graces his father’s face, then he reassures the Samurai, “Do not worry, my son. I am sure that when the time comes you will honor our family and uphold your duties.” The Samurai’s eyes snapped open to the tolling of the castle bells. It is time for him to report to Lord Zankoku and the war council. He bowed before the shrine and clapped his hands once. Carefully he stood up. Then prepared himself mentally for the meeting ahead and takes his leave from the shrine. The Samurai entered the war room. He saw several other samurai have already seated themselves on the ground. Between them there is a short round table. The table is covered with a map and several crudely carved figures have been placed on top of it in various locations. The carvings of the figures reminded the Samurai of the grotesque creatures from the yokai stories kids used to tell each other on stormy nights. Stories about demons that come out at night and consume entire villages. The Samurai takes his seat and waited for the last few stragglers to shuffle in. Everyone waited quietly at attention. Then Lord Zankoku entered the room. He wore a suit of light armor composed of rectangular metal plates linked together with chain mail and painted black. A golden half-moon shaped metal plate adorns the front of his helmet. Everyone immediately bowed in his pressence. “Rise, my warriors. Tonight we shall deal a mortal blow to our enemies. For we have enemies everywhere as we trudge deeper into this war,” says Lord Zankoku as he scans the room. “Our spies have reported traitors within our borders. It is said that one of our own villages has been sharing food and supplies with the enemy!” One of the samurai seated speaks up, “Sir, I know the spies you’re speaking of. That information is unreliable. They may even be working with— “ “Who said you could speak?” roars Zankoku. His face contorts into a livid visage. “Get this insubordinate fool out of my sight! Lock him up, I will deal with him later.” Two guards shuffled in and yanked the man up by the shoulders. They griped tightly around his wrists and hurried him out of the room. “Now,” continued Zankoku. “We will deal with the traitors accordingly. Tonight we shall march into the village, slay every last traitor, and burn the village to the ground. This shall serve as a message to anyone else that might be contemplating defying my will.” All of the samurai cheered their agreement. All except one. The Samurai sits frozen to the ground. The order he dreaded had finally been delivered. What was he going to do? I know people that live in that village. They are not traitors. This is outrageous! He had to follow his orders, but at what cost. Where is the honor in murdering the innocent? This has gone too far. I will not partake in this for another minute... That’s it then. I must warn that village. With his mind focused on the present moment, he leaped into action. He was on his feet and before he even realized it, he had drawn his sword out into an arcing motion practiced thousands of times. With one move he severed Lord Zankoku’s right hand. Everyone in the room stared at the gushing bloody stump in awe. Lord Zankoku looked at the place where he used to have a hand, then looked at the hand on the floor. He began to shake violently, a guttural sound building up in the back of his throat. “Kill that bastard! I want his head! Bring it to me! Now!” The Samurai had already departed while everyone was still staring at Zankoku in shock, buying him a bit of a lead. The other samurai started pouring out of the war room, swords drawn. They charged out of the building and began to scour the woods outside the castle. The Samurai was running through the woods. He could hear the others; they were far behind him. It is unlikely they will find him; the woods are pitch dark. He ran through puddles from the recent rain and tumbled his way through thick brush that clawed at his kimono. I must make it to the village. Suddenly he heard a man shout out into the night, “Stop right there!” The Samurai turned to see his old friend and comrade, Haji, with his sword drawn and pointed at him. “Can’t you see this is wrong? Everyone knows those reports are a farce. Those people don’t deserve to be butchered,” proclaimed the Samurai in sharp hushed tones. “I will not have my family name besmirched. Our duty is absolute. You have shamed your family,” Haji said defiantly. The two of them locked eyes and settled into their stances. Their faces were drawn up with great great intensity, but within their minds there was only the calm focus of a warrior. A cool gentle breezed caressed them and as the chorus of nighttime insects chirped on into the night. Suddenly, Haji’s left foot started to slide in the mud ever so slightly. Taking advantage of this development, the Samurai leaped toward Haji and cut him across the midsection like a farmer scything wheat. Haji’s eyes went wide, his hands reached for his stomach in a futile effort to stop the blood. He fell to the ground, dead in matter of seconds. The Samurai realized what he had down. He murdered his own friend. A gyre of shame encompassed his heart. No time to mourn. He turned and continued running. Suddenly his feet dropped out from under him. He tripped over a deep ditch formed by a large wisteria tree that had fallen the previous summer. As he fell, he slammed his head against a rock—knocking him out cold. He woke to the sounds of birds cheerily chirping, making their way about their morning business. As he was coming too, he noticed the scent of smoke drifted upon air. His eyes burst wide open as he realized he is too late. He got to his feet and hurried to the edge of the woods. The village was in sight way off on the horizon. A pillar of smoke rose up from the village, trailing off into the sunrise. He failed. Was it really worth it, he thought to himself. The Samurai limped his way to the road. He no longer cares where he is going. He has nowhere to go. What life is there for him now? His family name will be stricken from the records. All that is left is for him is the shameful life of the wandering Ronin. Focusing with all his might, he walks. One foot in front of the other.


I was there when you drew your first breath. I was standing quietly in the corner dressed in my solemn attire, feeling incredibly joyous, and yet I knew that you would curse me. It's my destiny to be a villain, to be rejected and abhorred. It is my burden and I have to bear it. I have to be stoic in the face of hatred thrown at me. I am the tragic muse of the great painters. I am the gloomy inspiration of the hopelessly romantic poets. Compared to my grandiose, flamboyant, and effervescent counterparts, I am dull, small, and pitiful. I watched you grow, I was this omnipresent entity, an uninvited guest. I held your hand when you were crying in your room, suffering from a broken heart. I wiped your tears with the corner of my long, black veil. Although you couldn't see me, you could feel my presence. I manifested myself as a dull chest ache, tightness in the throat, and long, laboured breaths. I never missed one of your solitary night walks. I was always there, like a silent spectator and an undercover angel. When you lost your mother, you were inconsolable. I was sitting on your bed every night, gently caressing your hair and doing my best to help you move on. Throughout your existence, I never left your side and yet you hated me with every fiber of your being. I don't blame you. Everyone hates me. It is my burden and I have to bear it. You wished I would disappear forever. I stood there silently as you screamed at me to leave you alone. But I couldn't leave you, not until you move on from this earthly realm. You never understood my importance, for you I was a nuisance at best and atrocity at worst. My child, the time is coming. I am standing next to your hospital bed, draped in dark cloth, waiting to see you draw your last breath. Before I leave, I need to teach you something. You see, it is my fate to be detested almost until the very last moment. Most people only start to appreciate me when their hair goes gray and their vision slowly starts to fade. There is no light without darkness and there is no happiness without grief. Being human is incredibly difficult. You have to survive the deaths of your loved ones, sickness, and aging, you have to watch your own body fail you. Without me, you would never appreciate the beauty of life. Without me, you would always live in the shadow, forgetting that there is a source of light. You would be drowned in sadness, surrendering to the cruel and unforgiving world. You thought I made you feeble, and yet, I made you cherish the good moments and come out stronger. My sweet child, I will soon leave you. I have one last gift. People say that before you die your whole life flashes before your eyes. They don't know that it is my last gift to humanity. My final attempt to renounce the role of villain, to ease the burden which I have to bear. Sincerely, the unsung hero, Melancholy.


The infirmary was permeated with the disgusting odor of expiring flesh. The door was left open in a vain attempt at some ventilation, and groaning could be heard across the entire west wing of the Castle as a result. I desperately attempt to save who I can. My family's name is Lazarus, and it is my duty to protect the coven. I drape bandages over my hands which had been submerged in healing liquid for the past hour. It wraps around the young Vampire’s stomach — coaxing one of the silver bullets to the surface. “Uh… uh… ahh… AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” He screamed instinctively, causing the room to shake. “Calm down boy, I know it hurts.” I say with reassurance as I try to maintain my bedside manner. “This is the last one, then you will be *fine*.” His black blood oozed from the wound and congealed as it left his body. Our blood was not like human blood, and anyone unaware of our physiology would think I was extracting some kind of tar pudding from him. I assuaged the final bullet out, catching it in the cloth. I dropped it into a tin nearby, and it fell with a satisfying clink. “There, all better?” I said warmly to the poor suffering boy. “Yes, thank you madam.” He managed a smile through the pain. I appreciated his efforts, and rested a hand on his shoulder. I stood up, allowing one of my attendants to deal with his recuperation. I wiped some of the blood onto my apron and went to the washing station. All of my emotions came forth at once. A potent mixture of sadness, despair and confusion flooded my mind. I have been a nurse for almost two hundred years, and I have never seen an attack on my people from outsiders with this severity. From other Vampires? Of course. The constant struggle for supremacy in our hierarchal system was a given. The dead bodies from warring covens in the Tudor wars numbered in the tens of thousands. The silver bullets, religious incantations, and ceremonial burnings however? These were new. Never had human beings been very successful in murdering Vampires. There had been a few cases throughout history, but these were extraordinarily rare. Yet here lay three of our kind, on the brink of death — two were unlikely to survive. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Micah and I pushed our way through the many iron doors that lead from the King’s keep with a force that nearly removed them from their hinges. “Can you believe this?” I called behind me. “Nah.” Micah grunted. I wouldn’t believe it if they didn’t call this fancy meeting. “Such timing.” I whispered, attempting to cover my mouth with my hand. “We were on the brink of something great.” “Well. Maybe we can see this as an opportunity to get closer…” Micah looked around quickly “To the others. See where there loyalties lie.” Ever the optimist. I smiled inwardly as I pressed on. He was right, of course, we could turn this situation to our advantage, no matter how dire. I turned the next corner without looking forward and felt myself immediately propelled backwards. I caught myself before I fell, bracing with the crumbling sidewall. I looked up to see what caused it. “Wren scum.” A rotund laughter shook the already crumbling walls around us. Sam Tilian stood in front of me, flushed as ever. He was flanked by one of his companions from before, but this time their demeanor wasn’t so inviting. “Sam, I see you didn’t leave any food for the others.” The corners of my mouth turned upwards in a wicked smile. “Always were the funny one, ay, Rathiel?” This time he wasn’t laughing. I turned my head to my right — A claw caught the side of my face. “SIT. DOWN.” Came a blood curdling scream. His taller companion who was reserved in the dining hall showed no signs of pacifism now. He hit me like the hilt of a two handed blade, straight in the right side of my cheek. I fell to the ground in a daze, nothing escaping my mouth except a decompressing groan. In the next second, they were on me. I braced myself for impact, my forearms crossed above my eyes. Then, in an instant — he was on them. I saw the plume of smoke appear behind their shoulders, Micah must have noticed the commotion ahead and waited, drawing them in, using me as bait. I couldn’t help but be impressed. He let out a guttural roar as he placed one hand on each of their heads. Their eyes widened as their senses caught his presence, too late. He slammed them both to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, I rushed to my feet. I stood at his side, claws raised. There were no weapons permitted in the castle, save the Royal Guard. But our family was one of dirt and mud, proficient in brawling out of necessity. Our fangs protruded with our mouths agape, and we let out a simultaneous *hisssss* that signaled our combat readiness. They returned the stance, save their backs being slightly arched, resulting in a much lower center of gravity. Micah charged first. He locked arms with the taller one, grappling fiercely. I closed the gap and threw a right hook at Sam, glancing him on the side of his face. Before he could recover, I raised my boot and delivered a kick to his chest, submerging him in a column that decorated the hallway. I turned immediately and saw my brother pinned. In a swift step, I was behind him, arms locked under the taller man’s armpits, holding him up. Micah took the lead and delivered blow after blow on his chest, as he screamed out in pain. Micah’s muscles pumped with adrenaline, his veins bursting through his forearms. After a minute of punishment, the Tilian started to slump — I noticed the flash of Micah’s emerald encrusted brass knuckles on his hands. I smiled. Nothing needed to be said. Sam was still slumped on the pillar, and his companion was a crumpled mess on the ground. We wiped our hands of it, dragging their scotch imbued bodies to the side of the hallway where they wouldn’t disturb anyone. We make our way down the hall with renewed vigor. A scrap with some of the young bloods was always good for the confidence. “Tut. Tut.” A familiar voice confronted us. “Layla..” She held a gloved hand up to my lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t, boys.” She winked, her blue eyes sparkled beneath her crimson hood. She had the most wry, all-knowing smile. It was best to just drop the subject. “So…” She kept walking, beckoning us forward. “My birds told me you had a meeting with the King?” “You always have an inkling of everything, don’t you night owl.” I said in a tone that dripped with annoyance. “Yes, we met with the King. Yes it is confidential. No I won’t speak about it.” “Funny. My Birds also tell me about a wounded clan burdening the infirmary. Some might not make it, they say…” We were nearing the Wren quarters now. With one final look at Micah, I opened the door and beckoned them both inside.


Courtney Zucker's life events and circumstances are a terrific example of how our chances in life significantly impact the persons we become. It all started in Mr. Jenkins' Geometry class during her sophomore year of high school. Mr. Jenkins chose to seat his students alphabetically, beginning with the first row and finishing with the last. Only two students remained as Mr. Jenkins called the final row of the classroom. Jonathan Walters and her. Mr. Jenkins announced, "The next seat is Jonathan Walters," as Jonathan took his seat. She'd get to sit next to Jonathan Walters, who she'd had a crush on since middle school. He was now the star of the soccer team and one of the most desirable boys in school. Courtney began to make her way to the seat, assuming she would be the next one called. "Ashley Yance?" Mr. Jenkins said. Courtney remained still. "How about we leave a seat for Ashley and give you a seat in the next row, all the way to the right?" Mr. Jenkins said. Courtney would have been seated on the opposite side of the classroom from Jonathan in the new seat. Mr. Jenkins double-checked his roster. "Oh, Ms. Yance looks to have relocated to Anchorage. Let's make that change, shall we?" Mr. Jenkins said as he crossed Ashley's name off the list. "Courtney Zucker, Courtney, why don't you sit next to Jonathan?" Mr. Jenkins said, unintentionally impacting Courtney's life. Jonathan leaned in and whispered to Courtney as she sat next to him. "I'm terrible at math; this is going to be a difficult year," Jonathan admitted. "My aunt teaches this class; if you need help, I'm pretty good at it. Let me know if you want to study together," Courtney said. "That would be great, thank you!" Jonathan said. And there it was, a pivotal moment in Courtney's life, and she had no idea. Ashley Yance, you see, is a lovely girl who excels in math as well, and has a personality that would have immediately had Jonathan pining for her. Instead, Jonathan and Courtney began a relationship and dated throughout high school and college. In her senior year, Courtney had discovered that she had a knack for building robots and engineering solutions to complex problems. Over spring break, there was a well-known engineering conference that would look great on her college application. She did not, however, have the money to attend the conference. Jonathan's Uncle happened to be the owner of Lacroix, a very posh and exclusive restaurant downtown. Jonathan's Uncle offered her a job at the upscale restaurant. She was able to attend the engineering conference because she had a job. There, she attended a speech by billionaire entrepreneur Vladimir Savage, the owner, and CEO of OrangeSoft, a well-known software engineering firm. She'd never heard of him before, but his speech touched something deep inside Courtney. She knew she wanted to work at OrangeSoft from then on; it became her life's ambition. Courtney discovered an internship at OrangeSoft during her final year of college and assumed it was fate; she applied for the internship and was able to gain an interview using her qualifications. Vladimir Savage conducted the interview, himself, stating that he takes satisfaction in meeting everyone who might work at OrangeSoft. Unfortunately for Courtney, the interview was a flop. It was her first major interview, and her lack of experience shone through. "I have to admit, Courtney, I really like your portfolio, but we're looking for someone a little older. I'm sorry, I think we're going to go in another direction," Vladimir said as he started to get ready for the next applicant. Courtney was taken aback and tried to leave the room with anxiety. As she stands from her seat, she inadvertently drops her purse over Vladimir's desk, causing her contents to spill and become scattered around. Her punch-in computer card from Lacroix Restaurant landed right in front of Vladimir. Vladimir's gaze was drawn immediately to the card. "Lacroix restaurant? That's my wife's favorite place; she particularly enjoys the profiteroles," Vladimir said. "Yeah, I work there on weekends. I'm in college, and I'm working my way through it," Courtney explained. Vladimir pauses for a moment before sifting over the other applicants' applications. "You know what, I've got a good feeling about you; I think we'll offer you the internship after all," Vladimir said. "Thank you; you will not be sorry; I will work for you day and night," Courtney said. Courtney worked harder than she had ever worked in her life for nearly a month. Recognizing Courtney's dedication, Jonathan tried to keep out of her way, but he surprised her one evening when he asked her to marry him, and she said yes. The next day at OrangeSoft, Courtney told her supervisor, Sam Richards, about her engagement. His reaction was not what she had anticipated. He began to experience an existential crisis as a result of all the hours he was working and everything he had sacrificed for OrangeSoft. Including losing the love of his life. Because Courtney was younger than him, the engagement had touched a nerve with Sam. The next day, Courtney learned that Sam had resigned from his position as her supervisor and had proposed that she take over in his replacement. Her ambition of getting a paid position at OrangeSoft was coming true. Courtney worked hard and gradually rose through the ranks; unfortunately, promotions brought with them increased pressure and responsibility. A year later, Courtney was struggling to come up with a new software concept. She hadn't been feeling well, which exacerbated the situation. The clock was ticking, and she had to propose the concept the next day. "Do you think you're pregnant?" Jonathan asked. "Oh my god, do you think?" Courtney said. "There's only one way to find out?" Jonathan said. That night, Courtney took a pregnancy test, which came out positive. While Jonathan and Courtney were overjoyed with the news, it also stimulated Courtney's creativity, leading to the creation of software that functions as a companion during pregnancy. She presented the concept the next day, and the board of directors, including Vladimir Savage, loved it. Courtney was promoted to Head of Engineering after the software was a huge success. She was now collaborating on projects with Vladimir Savage, himself. Courtney's abilities as a project manager, software engineer, and strategic marketer impressed Vladimir. Vladimir began to coach her as a potential vice president. Courtney realized one day that she had left an important schematic at home. She asked Jonathan if he could bring it in for her. Jonathan, being the devoted husband, delivered the schematic within an hour. Courtney was in an important meeting when he arrived, so he had to wait in the waiting room. That's where he met Vladimir Savage. Jonathan and Vladimir hit it off right away since they were both lovers of European soccer. Courtney and her husband, Vladimir, as well as his wife, became fast friends. They vacationed together, ate dinner together, and visited each other's homes on a regular basis. Vladimir was diagnosed with cancer about eight years later. Courtney and Jonathan were there for him during his chemo treatments and surgeries. Vladimir, however, did not make it. Unbeknownst to Courtney, Vladimir had left her the OrangeSoft company in a hidden will. Courtney was now the owner and CEO of one of the world's largest software companies. Courtney became a billionaire and one of the world's most influential celebrities as a result of her hard work and engineering ability. Courtney was asked back to her high school several years later to speak to the students about engineering and opportunities in STEM industries. Mr. Jenkins' last day before retirement happened to be the day she went. After her speech, Courtney went to her car in the parking lot, where she noticed Mr. Jenkins sitting in his car, staring ahead. Mr. Jenkins opened the window after Courtney knocked. "I simply wanted to wish you well, Mr. Jenkins," Courtney said. "Ha, you caught me in an introspective moment, just thinking about all the students I've had over the years," Mr. Jenkins laughed. "Now that I think about it, your class is where I met my husband; I owe a lot to your seating arrangement," Courtney said. "You know I remember that. I had never sat the students alphabetically before and would never do so again in my career, except for that one time," Mr. Jenkins said. "I guess it was just dumb luck," Courtney said. "Sure, luck plays a role in life, but the probability of events occurring is nearly impossible to calculate. But it's not about these chance events happening; it's about what you do with them when they do," Mr. Jenkins said.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Please note this week's schedule change! This week's Campfire will be on Sunday, December 26 instead of Saturday. The deadline for submission will remain the same - Saturday at 6pm EST. I hope you all have a wonderful, festive holiday!** **Note for new authors: This feature has feedback requirements for participation. Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** *** #Announcing a Brand New Feature for Completed Serials on Serial Sunday! I can’t express how delighted and honored I am to watch each of you grow and meet the challenges every week. Let’s face it, it’s quite a feat to create a world from scratch and write a serial! And finishing a serial is an amazing accomplishment. Over the last year, we’ve had quite a few writers cross that finish line. It’s something that the writers should be incredibly proud of—those still working on them and those who have already completed them. I started thinking about those finished serials and all the ones to come; I realized that a congratulatory post just wasn’t enough. I want to give you the chance to show off your hard work! And so I present to you...SerialWorm! ###What is a SerialWorm? Writers who finish their serials (with at least 12 installments) will be allowed to read their *edited* serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s Voice Chat. This is to celebrate your accomplishments, see how it reads once it’s altogether, as well as provide some additional motivation to cross the finish line. After the final chapter is read, there will be a Q & A with the author. Questions can be submitted/asked at this time. ###Serial Worm Rules: **A minimum of 12 installments will be required to read.** Serials will need to be broken up into multiple sessions, as with any Discord Bookworm. **Only one bookworm event will be held at a time (including non-serial Bookworms).** You may still submit your finished serial to get on the list. **You need to be available to read your own serial.** Readers will not be provided. **Your serial must have gone through significant, final edits after its completion. All ‘SerialWorms’ must be approved.** SerialWorm is not for live feedback or edits, but to share your accomplishment with others and read your finished product aloud. **Completed and edited serials may have a maximum word count of 1150 per installment, with no more than 2 additional installments (not posted to Serial Sunday weekly threads).** **Serials must comply with r/ShortStories content rules. No exceptions.** **Authors must have met the rules of the weekly post.** This includes two feedback comments every week, as well as meeting the deadline. Those who miss more than 2 weeks of feedback in a 12-installment period will be ineligible for SerialWorm. This is a privilege, not a right. **SerialWorm authors must be Certified on the discord.** You must be given final approval by Bay. You can request the ‘SerialWorm’ role at any time on the Discord to be notified of upcoming SerialWorm events. ###SerialWorm Q & A To add a little something extra to make it different from the weekly campfire readings, there will be a discussion portion. *This is not for feedback on the writing*, but more an elaboration/extension on the basic questions I pose to every author in the Completed Serial Modpost, with a few extras. This is the time to ask about their writing journey, challenges they faced during their Serial, etc. The discussion portion of the SerialWorm will be after the final chapter is read. Questions can be submitted to Bay over the course of the SerialWorm or asked on the day-of. ***If you have any questions, feel free to send a modmail or DM me on our Discord!***   *** *** #This week's theme is Advice! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘advice’. We looked at speculations made about the future and its effects on the world. A perfect lead into this week. Now let's look at all those characters who made speculations, assumptions, and pondered about the truth. What will they do about it all? Who are your characters’ trustees? What type of advice will those cherished friends and confidants pass along to them? Is the direction given with good intentions, or do these people have less than honorable motives? Maybe they will take the advice, and maybe they won’t. But how will these choices shape the coming days? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * December 19 - Advice (this week) * December 26 - Judgement * January 2 - Nightmare   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - by u/OneSidedDice   - - by u/Sonic_Guy97   - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/GammaGames   *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - Our sister subreddit, r/WritingPrompts now has a ! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Jackson is driving through an affluent area of the suburbs. Someone had told them that his ex-girlfriend had moved in with an older man and had given him the address. He located the street and is now crawling along at less than five miles per hour while talking on the phone with his friend Connor. "I think I see it; it's the brick one on the right," Jackson says. "If she catches you stalking like this, she'll get a goddamn restraining order," Connor warns. As the car approaches the enormous brick house, which is valued at about a million dollars, Jackson slows down even further to see if he can peer through the window. "Bro, this place is huge; I can see someone watching TV through the first-floor window," Jackson says. "You've got to get out of there; they'll notice someone driving by their house peeking in their windows," Connor says. "Relax, her car isn't even there; she's probably still doing yoga on Thursday nights," Jackson says. "Still, you don't think that guy is going to notice you, take your plate or something, you're in a rich neighborhood, they got community watch and stuff," Connor says. "I want to see what this guy looks like; I'm thinking about knocking on his door and pretending to be from the gas company or something," Jackson says. "Last time I checked, gas company employees don't wear Panera polos," Connor says. "I'm not that stupid; I'll throw my hoodie over it," Jackson says. "Look, I don't want to put a damper on your Oceans 11 plan here, but people from the gas company don't generally show up in a Honda Civic, with no credentials and wearing a hoodie," Connor says. Jackson begins to make his way into the intersection, past the brick house. Jackson stretches his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who stole his ex-girlfriend. Suddenly, there's a crash! Jackson had run a stop sign and collided with another car. "Damn, I got into a car accident right in front of my ex-girlfriend's new house," Jackson says. "You've got to get out of there before she comes home, bro. She'll have you arrested if she sees you stalking on top of what occurred at the bar over the weekend," Connor says. "I know, I know, I was only driving a couple of miles per hour; how bad could it be? Let me handle this, and I'll call you back," Jackson says as he ends the call. Jackson notices Philomena, who is in her mid-to-late-sixties, inspecting her front grill. Philomena sobs, "Oh, my Lancer, my Lancer, my Mitsubishi Lancer." Jackson takes a deep breath as he prepares to get out; however, Philomena notices him and quickly walks to his car. "Hey, Lightning McQueen," Filomena says, "you went straight past the stop sign and hit my Lancer; the front end is completely smashed." Jackson exits his car and walks up to the front of her Mitsubishi Lancer. Jackson points to the grill and says, "First of all, I was only driving like three miles per hour, and second of all, there is no damage on the front of your car." "You see spider cracks, spider cracks, it may look like nothing now, but trust me, three months from now, and I'll have a grill that looks like a mosaic painting," Philomena says. "This is absurd; your car has no damage, lady. So, are we going to exchange information or what?" Jackson says, attempting to expedite the process. "I don't like the tone of your voice; you're the one who hit me. And you know what, I might have grazed my forearm on the steering wheel. I believe you fractured my ulna, ouch, paramedic, 911, please alert my loved ones that my ulna bone has been shattered!" Philomena yells, drawing the neighbors' attention. Jackson is becoming frustrated and keeps returning his gaze to the brick house. Because of the accident and Philomena's cries, neighbors have begun to congregate. "Why are you creeping down the road in this neighborhood? This is a cul-de-sac neighborhood, one way in, one way out," Philomena says. "I know someone who lives here; I was looking for their address," Jackson says. "A likely scenario is that you are checking out the place with the intention of returning later with your friends to do a GTA V. I know you're a type, I'm calling the police," Philomena says. Philomena pulls out her flip phone. "Hello there, police. My name is Philomena Jordan, and I'm calling from Bayview Estates, a wealthy cul-de-sac off Route 7. I have a young criminal here who is attempting to perform a GTA V," Philomena says. "You're going to get it now... what, oh okay, I'll hold. The police put me on hold, but when they come back, then you're in for it," Philomena says. A man emerges from the brick house. Jackson is completely engrossed because the man is much older than he expected. "Why do you keep staring towards the Smith house? Is that the house you want to vandalize?" Filomena asks. "Did you say the Smith house? Do they have a daughter?" Jackson asks. "Yeah, Cassandra, or Sandra, or Darlene, I can't remember. But I'm not going to sit back and let you rob that poor family," Filomena says. "No, I used to date Andrea, their daughter. We had a falling out, and all I wanted to do was catch a glimpse of her; I guess I miss her," Jackson says. "Do you mean you're here for love?" Philomena says. "I know I'm not supposed to be doing this; I actually saw her at a bar over the weekend. I didn't know she was going to be there with her friends, and when I went to go talk to her, they left," Jackson says. "That's a harmless mistake; what's the big deal?" Philomena asks. "I couldn't stop myself; I followed them out to the parking lot and chased her to her friend's car; they raced away afraid," Jackson says. Jackson's phone then beeps, indicating that he has received a text message. It comes from Connor. "Bro, I just noticed Andrea coming up Route 7; she's only about 5 minutes away; you need to get out of there!" "Andrea is almost home; if she sees me, it'll be over for good. She'll almost certainly file a restraining order against me," Jackson says. Philomena looks at her car before returning her attention to Jackson, who appears terrified. Philomena closes the phone. "You seem like a nice guy, but you need to give Andrea some space. You know what they say: if you love something, let it go; if it returns, it's yours; if it doesn't, it wasn't meant to be. Why don't you leave before she gets home?" Philomena says. "What about your spider cracks and ulna bone?" Jackson asks. "The police have never taken me seriously since I reported those seagulls for pooping in public. Anyway, it's not that bad; between you and me, my Michael Bublé CD went between the seats, and I may have been trying to get it out before the crash. But if they ask, I'll never admit that to the police!" Philomena says. Jackson smiles. "Thank you," Jackson says as he returns to his car. "Good luck," Philomena says. Jackson drives away from the brick house, waving. Philomena returns to her Mitsubishi Lancer as Andrea pulls into the driveway. Andrea glances around at all the bystanders and asks her father. "What's going on?" "Filomena hit something else with her car," he says. "Those Michael Bublé albums are more dangerous than they'll admit.


###Attention: **The Nomination and Voting schedule has changed! The Nomination Phase has been extended until Monday, January 10th, at 11:59pm EST. See the Schedule section of this post for a link to the countdown and the dates for Voting. Be sure to get those nominations in by the new deadline!** #Hello r/ShortStories! : warm mugs of cocoa, holiday movies, and…Reddit’s Annual Best Of Awards! This year, we will also be participating in the lovely tradition. It’s been a long year, but we’ve had some amazing content to help us get through it. So let’s take some time to look back on some of the great stories that were posted to the subreddit. Winners will receive our new Community “Best Of” award, which will give the recipient **one month of Reddit Premium**! And of course, . *** #How Does This Work? There are several categories in which you can nominate your favorite stories from 2021, most of which will correspond with our subreddit tags. In the comments below, you will find a comment for each category, made by me. When you are ready to make nominations, reply to the corresponding comment with a link to your nomination. You can view on r/WritingPrompts, for an idea of what it should look like. Each user may nominate up to **three** stories for each category. When the nomination phase is finished, voting will begin on a separate thread, with all the nominations. **Note: This is not the voting thread!** Be sure to read the entire post for categories, rules, and deadlines. Should any changes be made to the schedule, they will be edited into the post, so stay updated! *** #The Following Categories Are Up for Nomination ###Weekly Feature Categories: - **Serial Sunday Submission** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **Micro Monday Submission** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / ###Tagged Story Submission Categories: - **[SF] Science Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[FN] Fantasy Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[HR] Horror Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[MS] Mystery & Suspense Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[RF] Realistic Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[HF] Historical Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[AA] Action & Adventure Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[HM] Humour Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[RO] Romance Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[SP] Speculative Fiction Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[TH] Thriller Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[UR] Urban Stories** - &restrict_sr=1&sr_nsfw=) / - **[MF] Misc Fiction Stories** - / *** #Schedule - **Announcement Post:** December 20th - **Nomination Phase:** December 20th - January 10th at - **Voting Phase:** January 17th until January 27th 11:59pm EST - After the Voting Phase ends, results will be recorded and awards will be handed out. Winners will be announced in a post. *** #Nomination & Voting Rules - Nominations must be made in the correct category, as a reply to that comment. Misplaced nominations will not be recorded. - No more than 3 nominations per user, per category. Users may not nominate themselves. - Ties in the voting process will be broken by an anonymous member of the mod team. - Nominated stories cannot be posted by banned or deleted accounts. - Nominated stories must be posted originally after January 1st, 2021 at 12:00am EST - Attempts to game the system for or against any nomination will result in appropriate punishment for those involved. - No off-topic conversation in the nomination areas. Use the off-topic stickied comment if you have questions or comments. Good luck, and have fun! If you do have any questions, feel free to ask in the provided Off Topic Comment or send us a modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Don’t forget to stop by and on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with or test your micro fiction skills with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Use one holiday-themed song as inspiration for your story.** **Additional Bonus Constraints:** *(These are just for fun and extra inspiration. All writers will receive the bonus points this week.)* Use at least one of the following constraints in your story: - a snowman - a ruined holiday dinner - a character unwrapping a present - an unexpected guest appears - sleigh bells are heard We’ve approached the holidays! For most it’s a warm, cozy time spent with family and friends, and a time full of memories. In celebration of these coming holidays, I am giving you a . I would like you to **use one holiday-themed song to write your story** this week. The provided songs are just ideas; if you have another that inspires you, use it! Just be sure to list the song title and artist at the end of your story. Remember, when using a song as inspiration, you may use any part of it, whether it’s the lyrics, a single word or image, or a theme. The interpretation is entirely up to you as long as you follow all subreddit and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words 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. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***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) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week I appreciate your patience last week. For anyone who missed last week’s rankings, you can view them . Now, onto this past week… - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/nazna   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Ilicarian   *** ###Subreddit News - Nominate your favorite content from this sub on our ! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I was born with an anchor in my chest. It was something that I didn’t really notice right away. It was just something that was a small annoyance always pulling me down. I thought it was something everyone had. As I grew older it became heavier. It became harder to carry. One week I was so tired, I couldn’t get out of bed. My mother took me to the doctor. “Yes, the problem is that you have an anchor,” he said and gave me some pills to help me carry it. The pills helped. Sometimes I even forgot that the anchor was there, but it also felt like I was forgetting a piece of me. I kept taking the pills, though. You see, carrying an anchor all the time was exhausting. Then I met a boy. I liked him. He was me and more. I found out early on that he had an anchor as well, but life had given him his. He took me out to sea. He was so strong. His anchor was much larger than mine. He didn’t need the pills to carry his. I felt guilt. Why was I taking pills when he carried his anchor so much easier without? He said I couldn’t fully be me unless I carried my anchor like a badge of honor. I threw my pills into the water. I felt the most like myself in years. It was exhilarating. He embraced it. Then I realized my anchor had grown over time. It was much heavier than I remembered. I struggled with it. Then he did with his. I tried to carry both our anchors, but it was impossible. It drug us down. Down. Down. Down. I had to let go. His anchor was too heavy. He slowly sank, then disappeared. What’s funny is that he was gone, but part of his anchor stayed with me. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get rid of it. Part of me didn’t want to. I deserved it. I became exhausted and started to sink. It became easier not to fight. Then I saw a boat. A net fell over the side and wrapped around me. I felt myself rising. Soon I was on the boat and there sat my mother, friends, and doctor. They began chipping away at my anchor. They gave me pills. I was so exhausted that I let them. Slowly my anchor became lighter. I felt relief. I was able to think of things other than all the weight I had been carrying. I realized I was more than just my anchor. I was grateful. My anchor is still there there. Some days it’s heavier than others, but I know that there are others who are willing to help me carry it. I have my own boat now and cast my net out, hoping to find others who are being weighed down. I chip away at their anchors and bring them to shore. I am who I am, because I was born with an anchor in my chest.


This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. My constraints were from /u/stickfist: Gnomes, a lost package, and a midnight deadline. The mailman shrugged as he stepped off the Wilkinson’s porch leaving six-year-old Charlotte pouting. “I’m sure the package will turn up,” Sarah Wilkinson said to her daughter. “And if it doesn’t, Gramma will send you another.” From the well-tended lawn, the trio of gnomes stood in silent vigil of the girl’s disappointment. Tears welled in her eyes, her pout became a frown, and a sigh drooped her shoulders lower than ever before. “Come in, Charlotte,” Sarah sighed. “We’ll call the post office in the morning.” All was still on the lawn until dusk arrived. It started with the wrinkle of a ruby-red nose, then a wiggle of their porcelain toes. With a sneeze, all three gnome brothers woke from their daytime slumber. “Lok, Log, hurry! We haven’t much time,” Ori announced as he straightened his tall red hat. “For snacks?” Log queried, his hollow gut rumbling beneath his belted potbelly. “For fun?” said Lok, Log’s twin in all ways but the length of his moustache, long ago chipped in a strangely fashionable way. “For mischief!” Ori reminded them. As they did every night, all three trotted about the Wilkinson’s property with mayhem on their minds. Ori took the lead for his hat was the tallest. “I have grand plans this night!” he promised, as they crawled in through the dog door. That the Wilkinson’s had no pet was forever a boon. “What’s first?” Log asked, picking at his teeth. “And next?” Lok wondered aloud as he tripped over nothing at all. “The blankets, my brothers. We start with the blankets.” And off to the living room Ori led them. “First, we collect each one misplaced and left unfolded. Then, we put them in the grand blanket chest.” “Where they should be?” Log frowned. “That sounds odd.” Lok scratched his nose. “It’s perfect! Mother Sarah always insists Father Glenn put them away but he doesn’t, so she’ll never find them there!” “It’s brilliant!” Log mused. “True genius!” Lok squealed. Both twins clapped and they set off to task. In minutes they’d collected and folded each blanket and tucked them into the chest by the fire. “Hurry brothers, find all the shoes and bring them to the front door,” Ori said and they scampered off in all directions. In minutes they’d found every shoe, sandal, slipper, and boot - both lost and not- and gathered them. “Now, put the lefts on the right and the rights on the left,” Ori said whilst wringing his hands. “Father Glenn will wake and come down to put on his shoes for work and what shall he find? Left on the right? How will he dress! He’ll be late and lose his job for sure!” “How devilish!” “What madness!” And off the brothers went to work. Once they’d finished with the very last slipper, tucked in neatly and arranged from smallest to largest, Ori motioned for his brothers to huddle. “I’ve saved the best for last, a true mischievous deed that struck me this afternoon at a quarter past three.” “Go on!” Log insisted. “Do tell!” Lok echoed. “The package. The one Daughter Charlotte is missing.” Ori grinned. “I know where it is.” The twins gasped in unison. “I propose a mountain of mischief, a truly daring task. We take the package that tumbled into the garden and…” Ori paused for effect. “Place it on Charlotte’s bed!” Log and Lok looked confused and exchanged quizzical frowns. “Isn’t that helpful?” Log asked. “We’re not helpful, are we?” Lok sounded most distressed. “Pish pish, not at all! She’ll be utterly confused. Can you imagine it? The thing that wasn’t there the night before is there the morning after? Discombobulating! Madness indeed!” “Huzzah!” The twins shouted together, but Ori quickly hushed them and they tackled their final task. They rolled the package from the garden and with each turn Log nibbled on the corners. Twice Lok tripped; over shoes, over carpet, or nothing but himself. Through the hardest work they’d ever done yet, the three brothers dragged the package up to Daughter Charlotte’s room. Then on to her bed they climbed and pulled and climbed some more. All three brothers huffed and leaned against the package just feet from the sleeping six-year-old girl. “Just imagine the squeal in the morning, brothers,” Ori said between breaths. “We’ll hear it all the way on the lawn!” “Of delight?” Log wondered. “Or relief?” Lok worried. “Of confusion!” Ori assured them triumphantly. But with a look out the window at the high moon, Ori gasped a quick breath. Clocks chimed about the house. Midnight was arriving. “Hurry, brothers!” Ori declared, straightening out his tall red hat. “To the lawn before midnight falls!” With a yelp, the gnome brothers scampered from the pastel sheets, a full night’s work of mischief done.


Detective Merry Giftsleigh puffed on his mistletoe pipe and watched the hidden compound at the base of the jungle volcano. Artificial Christmas trees littered the ground inside the fence, plastic melting under the Hawaiian sun. Mixed among them were tangles of Christmas lights higher than an elf’s head, next to heaps of discarded lawn reindeer and uninflated snowmen. It had been an hour and he hadn’t seen a single guardsman or guardself on patrol. Slapping away a mosquito, Merry decided that was long enough. He extinguished his pipe and crept up to the chain link fence. Some quick work with wire cutters and he was into the compound. Merry finally got a good look into the two largest buildings in the compound. Warehouses, doors open to reveal further Christmas paraphernalia. Bins of loose tinsel. Barrels of eggnog. Ugly sweaters draped over every surface. And most of all, thousands of unopened presents, nearly pouring out of the warehouses. This went far beyond the candy cane fraud that had put Merry on the case. “Well, I’m cocking my gun,” he said, drawing his mint shooter. He crept down the alley between the warehouses, heading for the helpfully-labelled “Administration”. Up on the rooftop, a faint *click, click, click* was his only warning. “Rudolph’s antlers!” Merry cursed. Why did he always forget to look up? Merry dashed for the end of the alley, a staccato chatter chasing him. He ducked around a corner just before the shots caught up with him. A glance at the ground confirmed his worst fears. The madman was firing black licorice. Santa only knew where they’d found it after the Gifteva Convention’s ban. There was a brief pause as the guard reloaded his astringent ammo. Merry ran for the administration building. He slammed the door shut just in time; the next volley rattled off it. He toppled a filing cabinet in front of the door to gain more time. The office was filled with Christmas cards, piled on every available surface. But Merry Giftsleigh’s attention was drawn to the dartboard behind the room’s only desk. A calendar was pinned to it, turned to the current month. December 25 was lined up over the bullseye. Merry jerked in shock as a dart struck Christmas. It came from the office chair behind the desk. Leveling his mint shooter, he barked, “Hands where I can see them! Turn around slowly.” “Oh my, Detective Giftsleigh. I didn’t expect to meet you here.” The chair swiveled around, and Merry froze. That familiar, cute button nose of evil. “Nutmeg Frosting,” he grated. “I never thought even a former elf would go so far. How could you? Christmas supplies ruined-” “Ho, ho, ho,” Nutmeg cackled. “You think that’s *all* I did? Stole some decorations? No, Giftsleigh. Did you not see the cards, and the presents?” Merry raised a Christmas card so he could read and keep an eye on the Arctic’s Most Wanted elf at the same time. “This- this is addressed to Santa. It calls him a… How could you?” “I’m afraid Hawaii isn’t sending cards to Santa this year.” Nutmeg grinned. “Or rather, the ones he’ll get will be *altered*.” “No!” “Yes!” Anti-jolly fervor burned in Nutmeg Frosting’s eyes. “Every child in Hawaii is sending a nasty letter to Santa this year. They’ll all end up on the naughty list. The few that wrote early, well, you saw their gifts on the way in.” Merry’s aim shook. “You won’t get away with this. “I already have. Hawaiian Christmas will be yet more ruined.” Someone began battering at the door. “Give it up, Giftsleigh. You’ve lost.” Merry grit his teeth, desperate for a plan. Then it came to him. Circling the desk, he slapped handcuffs on Nutmeg. The ex-elf was a master criminal, but the restraints would slow his escape long enough. Booting him out of his chair, Merry took the seat and lit up his mistletoe pipe. “What are you doing?” Nutmeg growled. Merry rolled his eyes when he saw Nutmeg already fiddling with a lockpick and put his feet up on the desk. “Having a smoke.” Cracks appeared in the door. “You’re mad.” Merry puffed to get a decent ember going and picked up a Christmas card. He held it over his pipe until the flame caught, then threw it onto the desk. Onto the pile of slanderous cards. “No!” Nutmeg, arms free, lunged for the flames. With a kick, Merry scattered the burning paper across the room. “Pity I can’t bring you in, Nutmeg, but I’ve foiled your schemes again. Most likely see you next December. And, you filthy traitor,” Merry tipped his cap, “Merry Christmas.” The door broke open as Merry hopped out the back window. Nutmeg’s cry, “Happy Holidays! Happy Holidays!” pursued him through the jungle. Carols to his ears.


Dear Santa, This is not how I expected to start my first letter to you as an adult. I had fully anticipated sitting down with my future pre-literate child and dictating out their wishes to some mysterious bearded stranger that actually turned out to be the USPS postmaster, or maybe just that weird town in Indiana. Instead, here I am, not just childless but quite single, effectively praying to a Yuletide deity that I don’t believe in to deliver me out of this Lifetime movie hell. And I mean that in the most literal sense. It genuinely feels like the last month came straight out of one of a dozen movie scripts. There I was, hanging garland and lights and ornaments in my shop when some scary Vanessa Hudgens-looking businesswoman walks in with an ominously large stack of papers and says that her company wants to buy the store and that they know I’m not earning enough to stay in business. Which is… true, but the world doesn’t need to know that. I mean, sure, it’s my fault for trying to open a haberdashery into the teeth of the online shopping boom, and sure, every single lender and businessman I spoke to asked why people wouldn’t just go to Amazon… but did it really have to be Amazon buying out my shop? I don’t know. Maybe I should just try to seduce her. Except she also seems to already be happily married. Maybe this isn’t a Lifetime movie after all. Anyway, here we go. What I want for Christmas is a Lego train. Also a couple hundred thousand dollars so I don’t go out of business. But I’ll settle for the train. Sincerely, James *** Dear Ms. Jónsdóttir First of all, I sincerely apologize for being so offensive with the previous letter. I was having an awful day and halfway through addressing my letter, gave up on remembering the term “North Pole” and instead settled for Ice Land. It was never my intention to contact the office of the Prime Minister of Iceland and beg for money and Legos. With that in mind, I would also like to thank you for your gift of Legos and licorice tea. Amazingly, both were absolutely instrumental in the temporary recovery of my shop. I placed the train set in my front window and multiple parents came in and purchased something simply because their children wanted a closer look at it. I also had three other customers make purchases because I just looked so lonely at the register drinking my tea with a slice of dry pumpernickel (apparently I had a pretty sour look on my face, despite adding more than one sugar cube to the tea). Although I confess that my shop is not yet out of dire straits, I am nevertheless incredibly grateful for your correspondence, both for the unintended benefit and for the kindness of your words. As a demonstration of my gratitude, this letter should have been securely taped to a clumsily wrapped package for you. Please accept my sincerest gift of two fine leather wallets and a banana-themed necktie set that has been selling particularly well. I realize these are not particularly good gifts, but it is my hope that they will be sufficient to entice you to continue our correspondence. Thank you, and happy holidays! James *** Dear Anna, When we first met, I owned a store. I thought that store was my whole life. And when that store started to close, I couldn’t breathe. I thought my dream was done. So I wrote some dumb letter and nearly threw it away ten times before I finally put it in the mail. And miracle of miracles, it somehow arrived at your desk, and you saved me. Now I know we technically only exchanged three or four real letters before switching to email, then texts and phone calls, then all-too-short and wildly expensive visits until I wised up and moved myself and my store out here, but I thought that a return to form might be appropriate for this, our two-year meetaversery. So here I am, painstakingly handwriting these words two days before you read them while you’re asleep about ten feet away. When we first met, that store was my life. Now, you are.


Outside snow fell softly to the ground. It almost floated as it covered the sandy dunes on the other side of the boardwalk. Winter at the shore was rather surreal as the town was practically deserted outside of summer. What kind of lives did these people, left behind to maintain it until it could come alive again, live? *** Kelpy looked down from their summit, the lithe strong frame posing triumphantly, “I told you, fortune favors the bold!” “I swear that arm of yours is cheating. It could prolly grab the bare wall and hold on. You know that wasn’t how the routesetter envisioned it right?” Her belayer yelled back up the wall at her. He slowly let the line out as she repelled back down. “Don’t be such a spoilsport. Just because I beat your dumb challenge in a way that didn’t fit your vision doesn’t take away from it.” “Yeah yeah yeah. I’m just hoping next month’s competitors don’t exploit it the way you do.” “Don’t worry Bads, your routes will be fine. I’m just a bit of an outlier. She knocked on the cybernetic arm. Besides you know The Federation doesn’t allow augs to compete.” “That may be true, but it’s still a blow to the ego.” He sticks out his tongue. “Besides, the aug circuit is rumored to get started in a few years in Khartoum. I’m sure you’ll tear through the challengers, Kel.” She laughs and undoes her harness and takes off the forcefully arched shoes. “Nice of you to say that, but at forty six I’m past my prime. Professional augs will have way more done, and I’m not looking to get more silicon, y’know. Only have this cause of the explosion.” “True. Just wish you could be a bit more known is all Kel, you deserve it. Anyhow, lunch and then open the place up?” “Sounds like a plan.” The two got out of their equipment and headed to the communal break room behind the counter area of Mainsail Park Quintessential Elevation Gym, or MPQEG for short. Bads had opened the gym years ago to train himself since there was nothing in the area and climbing actual rocks had become quite dangerous after they burned the sky. He discovered that contrary to popular belief, managing a place like this takes away from precious wall time even if he lived there. Kel had joined on a few months ago. Apparently no one wanted to hire a reformed convict. As she tells it, she accidentally threw a bit of dynamite out of a car she had stolen and ruined some classic Grecian concrete facade of a historic building. A count of grand theft auto and reckless endangerment later landed her behind bars for thirteen years. It was hard to believe that she had been behind bars for the entire run of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. She often said it was the worst of times, but she got through by being as clever as a jackdaw and as fierce as a wyvern. She had been upfront about the void on her resume and had great people skills too when he trialed her out. Her blithe demeanor made customers forget about the world outside while they were here. It was an easy hire. It took some time for her to get used to living at the gym since affording a private residence was nearly impossible for any but the elites. She’d often ask questions like Is there a chemist shop nearby? or Is the chimney supposed to be blocked? The answers which were no and yes, unless you want your lungs to corrode respectively. She had gotten used to the place quickly and even gotten to know the other people in the area. “What’s in the lunchbox today?” Bads asked, pulling out a ham sandwich. “Apfelstrudel, chocolate truffles, and sugar cookies with ginger frosting.” “You should probably eat something more than desserts, you know.” Mouth full, Kel muttered something unintelligible as sweet crumbs fell to the table. “Try that again as a civilized adult?” “They are too delicious not to. Plus we get plenty of nutrients from the shipments from Halex. Let me enjoy something I missed for a long time.” “Given the chance I am sure you’d enjoy these things until the inevitable heat death of the universe.” “Fuck yeah I would.” *** “Cody. Cody! CODY!” the voice cut through my concentration. I shook my head and put the snowglobe down. “What? Sorry. I got distracted.” “I noticed. You have to submit that story for the Secret Santa. Did you get any ideas?” “I think so. Post apocalyptic sci-fi action story about a small business and a blooming romance should be good?” “In 800 words? I don’t think you can do all of that It'll end-"     This was written for the Secret Santa Event. If you want slightly more coherent stories, maybe go check out r/FoxFictions.


# The Old North Wind Captain Frost was glad to have something warm that night as she raised the rum to her lips. A bitter wind had filled the sails of *Scorched Juniper*, pushing her southward. But the crafty captain had dug in her heels, tacking east and west looking for prey near the Portuguese colony of Brazil. A shout rained from the crow’s nest. “Ship off the port bow!” She pitched the rum and opened her spyglass: two masts, just over the horizon. “Christmas came early, boys!” she yelled. As *Juniper* closed in, her prey suddenly came to life. Had they been spotted? Looking through the spyglass, Frost was dumbfounded by the red, green, and blue lanterns hung from stem to stern. It was no signal code she’d seen before—and the captain knew “Help, pirates!” in fourteen languages. No matter. She spoke the universal language of cannon fire. Flames and thunder boomed from *Juniper’s* broadside for a moment, casting a volley into the night. Silence. Then, on the other ship, timber exploded. Their main mast splintered and fell into the sea. “Prepare for boarding!” she shouted and the crew returned a throaty cheer. Nothing looked right. No crew, no defenses. The bow had been festooned with long strands of holly. Instead of the usual odor of blood and smoke, the air smelled like nutmeg and cloves. And it might have been the excitement or the rum, but to Frost, the racks of cannonballs looked like glass. One teetered out of its broken hold and rolled to her boot. “Snow globes?” Her first mate shook another and stared at the glittery tableau inside with his one good eye. "Perchance they be rare? Made of gold and such?" She looked closer. Inside the sphere was the figure of a girl in a dinghy full of banana bunches. A tiny sign read, *All Hands on Deck*. Worthless wordplay. Behind her, something small and jingly jingled, just beyond the splintered mast and wrecked rigging. “Follow the bells,” she commanded. When they reached the aft deck they discovered the mizzen mast had been decorated like a Christmas tree. Festive baubles and ribbons hung from odd bits of green palm fronds and twigs, lashed high into a conic shape. The only things missing were the presents. That and the crew. “Come on out,” she yelled into the air. “Surrender and we’ll let you live.” A hatch cracked open and tiny hands pushed it aside. One, two, then ten short wiry figures emerged. Frost gritted her teeth. Nothing angered her more than child labor. “Where is your captain?” she asked softly. A little one pointed to the top of the mizzen mast. What had initially looked like a red ornament began to shake. “Yo ho ho!” a voice bellowed. A shadow slid down the rigging and a bearded man bedecked in red rose to face the children. “No sugar cookies for you until New Years!” He could have been Saint Nicholas, if one believed in such nonsense; Captain Frost did not. She held her sword to his side and gave him a sharp stick. “Give me one reason not to gut you right this second.” “I have to deliver these presents to the little boys and girls. Me and my little helpers,” he pleaded. “Haven’t you ever heard of Santa’s workship?” Seeing how she was unmoved, the man gestured for a little sailor to step forward. “Peppermint? Can you lift your hat? Show the nice pirates your ears.” A pixie-like girl with a green-striped cap pulled it off and the raiders gasped. Her ears were pointed. Frost could not understand such cruelty. “You… you docked her ears?” “She was born that way! She’s an elf! This one’s been making dolls for over a century. Isn’t that right? Tell her who I am.” Hat in hand, the little one looked at her little compatriots, back to him, and them again. She hugged Frost’s legs. “He’s been naughty.” Frost stared daggers at Santa. “Get the plank.” Tiny cheers erupted from the elves. “You’ll never get away with this!” he roared as his little shipmates prodded him further down the plank. “People keep telling me that,” Frost said before cutting the rope lashes. “One day I’ll listen.” The children were remarkably adept at repairs and carpentry, fixing the mast almost as if by magic. Perhaps the man really was Santa, if one believed in such things; Frost did not. Of course the privateer took all the loot she could carry. *Fair is fair*, she thought. Before leaving, Peppermint gave her a tiny treasure chest with two words engraved on the lid. Inside, a cupcake. She didn’t understand. “How did you know my name? My *real* name?” Peppermint grinned with a twinkle in her eye. “Merry Christmas, Sweet Frosting.” *** This story was written for the WP Hub's Secret Santa Story Exchange, organized by u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ. They are awesome! The constraints given to me were: - Items: twinkle lights, ornaments, snowglobes, christmas tree, presents. - Location: somewhere tropical.


The sun beat down on the Farne Islands, bringing a welcome heat for grey seals basking on the beach. Others sought to escape it: rabbits retreating into the shade of their warrens, Arctic terns diving in the beautifully cool ocean. Then there were the puffins, the most aristocratic of birds with their suit-like plumage and colourful crown of a beak; parents fished while pufflings sheltered in their burrows. One such puffling poked his head out of one such burrow. Pip stretched his wings as he stared up, watching the adults swoop and soar across the sky. His feathers brushed against the walls so he shuffled out a little further and, when no danger presented itself, a little further still. As the tip of his tail passed the threshold Pip clambered to his feet, revelling in the feeling of the sun on his back and the wind ruffling his feathers. His head swivelled as he hopped around, struggling to process all the new sensations. Just as he was becoming used to the world around him, a cacophony of cawing erupted around him. There was a momentary blip in the sun's warmth as a shadow passed overhead before looping back around, growing steadily larger. Pip made a frantic dash back to his burrow and dived inside just in time to escape the inquisitive beak that poked in after him. But something wasn't right. The tunnel was the wrong shape and was missing the grass lining. Pip considered the conundrum. Could he risk going back outside? He suppressed a shudder as an image of a long, sharp beak flashed through his mind, and started shuffling further in. "What are you doing here?" demanded a rabbit in the corner, harried by the many children that covered her. "Sorry, I think I came in the wrong burrow. "Is there another way out?" Her expression softened as she registered the quiver in his voice. "You can try that way," she said, shifting under the mass of young rabbits to point. "But it's a bit of a warren down here." "I'll show him," one of the young rabbits squeaked. "No Kit, you're not ready to go out alone." "But Muuuumm, I won't be alone. And he needs help." "Fine," she sighed. "But show him to the entrance and come right back. No going outside." Kit leapt up. "Okay Mum," he said, before turning towards Pip. "Come on, it's this way." They made their way through the maze of tunnels until they reached an opening. Pip paused to say thank you, but the words caught in their beak as Kit continued on. "I thought you were meant to stop here," he called after the young rabbit. "Pfft, if I always did what she said I'd never have any fun. Besides, I want to make sure you get home safely." "Well, thanks," Pip said, hopping after him. "I suppose --" A screech cut him off, accompanied by an approaching shadow. He was almost back at the burrow entrance when he noticed Kit wasn't with him - his new friend was cowering in the grass, a large gull circling overhead. Without stopping to think, Pip charged across the ground beating his wings as hard as he could and soon found himself climbing into the air. But there was no time to enjoy his first flight; he had to help Kit. He dived towards the gull, pulling away at the last second. On the next attempt his feet brushed the wings of the monstrous bird but still it ignored him. Despair was starting to creep in when two other puffins joined the fray. One of them flung their beakful of sandeels over the gull while the other flew underneath to block the view of the young rabbit. The rain of food proved enough of a distraction as the gull chased the falling fish, allowing the three puffins to glide down to the ground in relative safety. Pip landed next to Kit and gently nudged him with his beak. "It's safe. You should probably hurry home." Kit's eyes darted around as he nodded at Pip before racing away. Pip allowed himself a small chuckle, it would be a while before Kit ignored his mother again. As he turned his attention to his saviours, joy filled his heart. "Mama! Papa!" "You gave us quite a fright young man!" his father scolded, eyes boring into Pip. His mother hopped towards him, pushing her head gently into his. "Yes, but did you see that stupendous first flight?" "Yes, yes, very good. Even if it did lose us our dinner. Now what do you say we go home? I've had enough excitement for one day." "Me too," Pip agreed, feeling the truth of the words in his chest as they made their way to the *correct* burrow entrance. \*\*\* This story was written for the WP Hub's Secret Santa Story Exchange. The constraints were given to me by and were: \- Includes: A bird features in some way or another \- Words: 'inquisitive', 'harried', 'stupendous', 'aristocratic' or 'conundrum' are included \- Action: Someone gets a tad (or fairly, or extremely) lost.


This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. I took it upon myself to be be the secret santa for u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ who was helping administration of the event. These constraints came from Bay: Genre: Mystery or Horror / Character: A detective or other character named Bay / Theme: Christmas / First sentence: "It was Christmastime, and that meant murder." / Includes: a plot twist, a candycane, another WP Character, snow / Words: bumfuzzle, bamboozled, crab, kerfuffle It was Christmastime, and that meant murder. I got a cold shudder as I felt the color disappear from the room. The whole place felt desaturated, like it was being shown in black and white, which was never a good sign of what was about to come into my office. The door swung open wildly, carried, no doubt, by the wind on the snowy Chicago streets outside. Before me stood the most beautiful dame I’d ever laid my eyes upon. Her face was sullen, and puffy, red eyes that had recently been crying hid behind a thin widow’s veil. She looked like she had walked right out of a really sad 1920’s Jazz club. Her modest flapper dress, adorned with intricate art-deco inspired embroidery, hung around her like mourning to a mood. Short auburn hair twisted into a tight bun on the left side of her head, poking out just below the rim of her cloche hat. An intricate twist of intertwining silver strands clung closely to her neck. “Well hello, madam.” I said with a smile, straightening my coat as I rose to meet her. “Are you Dickey McVeigh?” She asked curtly. “Indeed I am. Private eye, at your service.” I offered her my hand, but she simply walked around me and took a seat in front of my desk. “My husband has been murdered.” She said. “That sounds like a problem for the police. Why come to me?” I asked, taking a seat again behind my desk. “Because he was murdered by the police.” She said. My eyebrows raised in curiosity. “And what makes you say that?” I asked, jotting down notes as she spoke. “I watched it happen.” She said, pausing, waiting for me to prod further. “Let’s start with some basics. Your name?” “Bay.” “Husband’s name?” “Hannibal.” “Who killed him?” “Geese.” I hesitated. “Geese? I thought you said the police killed him.” I asked. “Yes. The officer’s name is Geese.” “What a strange name.” I mused. “Okay, next. What happened?” “Geese killed my husband.” “O,” I hesitated again, “kay. When did this happen?” “About thirty minutes ago.” “How are you already in funeral attire?” I asked, bumfuzzled. “That answers the next question you were going to ask. Where, right? We were at a funeral.” “And lastly, do you know of any sort of motive Geese may have had to kill your husband?” I asked. “Hannibal was just defending my honor. We overheard Geese saying that crab was inferior to lobster, and my husband, knowing I own a crab fishing business on the East coast, stepped in to correct him. A kerfuffle ensued.” “And this,” I recollected, “kerfuffle evolved, I’m assuming?” “Yes. A real donnybrook broke out.” Bay said. “A donnybrook,” I said, jotting the word down, “and Geese punched your husband? Shot him? Told him a secret so shocking his heart stopped?” “He was stabbed.” She said. “Who was stabbed?” I asked. “My husband, try to keep up.” “Apologies. Husband stabbed. Did you see the murder weapon? Do you know where it is?” I asked. She hesitated, her eyes darting around my tiny office in its constant state of disarray. “What is it, Bay? What was your husband stabbed with?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She said after a few moments of silence. “A candy cane?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She confirmed. “Where is the candy cane now?” “In my purse.” She said. I paused. “The murder weapon is in your purse?” I asked. “Yes. I wanted you to see it. You wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” She said. She was right. I would not have believed that her husband was murdered by Geese using a candy cane to stab him. “I absolutely would not have, you were right to bring it here.” “Say, Dicky, do you like crabs?” She asked. “Not particularly. In fact I’m a bit fearful of them.” I said. “You’re right to be afraid of them.” Bay said. She stabbed me with the candy cane. As I lay dying on the rug in the middle of my office, I looked to Bay and asked, “Why?” She simply laughed, and then her form, dress, hat, skin, everything slowly scuttled apart into hundreds of crustaceans. I had been bamboozled by 600 crabs dressed as a widow, and all I could say was: “Not again.


The channel was a mess. Scattered snippets of conversation lay in heaps of gibberish, mixed with shattered emotes and glitching gifs. The place reeked of smoke and ozone. *Another Chat Kill*, had been the word from Nobody’s informant among the Chan Ops - the squirrely fellow had neglected to mention it was damn near a Chat Massacre. The place looked like someone had set off a bomb in the middle of a sentence. After a cursory examination for anything obvious the Moderators might have missed, Nobody retreated to a secluded corner, out of sight from the street. He crouched low and eased his trench-coat open, carefully withdrawing the tool he’d *borrowed* from the Word God’s vault. He brushed a few pinions over the object’s smooth, light pinkish glass surface, the touch answered with a soft flicker of light deep within. He shook the glass orb gently. “Come on, wake up. We’ve got work to do.” The dim light grew brighter, revealing the curled form of a tiny, transparent dragon. It wore a sleeping mask that said *‘Do Not Disturb’*, and showed no sign of wakefulness. Nobody raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I know you’re awake, Ghost. Come out, I need you to have a sniff around the scene. Check for tracks, tropes, and talking-points. Anything that could point us in the right direction.” Ghost huffed and ripped off his sleeping mask. “Ugh, *fine*. Come on then, pour me out so we can get this over with.” Nobody nodded, and tipped the orb on its side. The little dragon slithered out as though flowing through an unstoppered bottle, phasing straight through the polished glass and landing on the floor with a small puff of dust. In a city of Words, the *intent* behind your verbs meant more than the verbs themselves. Ghost trotted in a circle, his glowing, transparent body brightening and lighting the devastated room. He grimaced, nose twitching, and began to carefully pick his way through the debris. “Oh, wow, this place *reeks*. This isn’t your average Chat Kill, this is a Conversation Slaughter.” “So I’d guessed,” Nobody answered. “What do you think? Out of control Campfire? Insane Iron Chef? Loose Serial Worm?” “Oh no, boss, this was done by hand. Knives or swords, would be my guess.” “What? How do you figure, with all the scorch marks and soot?” “Simple,” Ghost answered, holding up an irregularly triangular piece of debris. “These edges, while burnt, are far too smooth and straight to be anything but cuts.” He ran a claw over one straight edge for emphasis. “Sliced so fast the friction cauterised the cuts. That’s why we’re not standing waist-deep in ink, too.” Nobody’s eyes widened, and he felt his feathers stand on end as a chill ran down his long neck and along his spine. Ghost blinked at him. “What?” “I only know one writer who can chop like that - and I put that monster Six Feet Down Unda’ ten years ago.” “Well, they must’ve been the Antagonist to your Protagonist then, boss. Judging by this mess… They didn’t stay Down Unda’.” He paused. “Now what?” Nobody knelt down and held out the orb to let Ghost slither back inside. “His story ended a decade ago. This time, I’ll make it stick - and write him out.” He put Ghost’s orb back inside his coat pocket, turned to leave- And nearly lost his head as a massive claw swept at his face, taking a chunk out of his beak. He honked with pain and alarm and staggered backwards, narrowly dodging another strike that tore his coat open and sent Ghost’s orb tumbling over the floor, the little dragon shrieking with shock. “Leaving so soon, Detective Goose? After all the trouble I had, making my case?” “Not Much,” Nobody hissed, through his blooded beak. “Back to your chopping ways, I see.” The crazed cassowary leered at him. “Only briefly, Detective - long enough to chop *you!*” Nobody was driven back by the lethal barrage of chopping claws, feathers flying with every nick and scrape. “Boss!” Ghost cried, “Say something! Something good!” Another claw nearly clipped a wing. “Like what!?” Nobody gasped. “Like what dragons do, dammit!” A ducked kick punched clean through a wall. “Burn!?” Nobody heard a deep breath and saw the orb glow white-hot out of the corner of his eye. He leapt back with a honk of alarm and hit the deck as a torrent of flame passed overhead, the heat curling his feathers and engulfing Not Much where he stood. The cassowary shrieked and cackled as he was consumed in an instant - leaving only a smoking pile of blackened bones. “Well,” Ghost piped up. “I guess his goose got-” “Don’t you dare, Ghost!” “-Cooked.” *** This was my story for 's delightful Secret Santa story exchange! I wrote for u/gurgilewis, who provided the following constraints: >**Location:** Takes place in the seedy underbelly of a city that is the real-life version of the WP discord server. > >**Plot/Action:** Investigating a chat kill. > >**Uses:** Some of the server roles.