As I closed the cover of my 47th book that day, a peculiar question crossed my mind: Why? It seemed like such an odd question. After all, as a librarian, devouring books was an integral part of my existence. The unquenchable thirst for knowledge, coupled with an unwavering determination to unearth the essence hidden within these age-old walls, where every answer resided—such was the path of a librarian. Lost in my thoughts, I felt a gentle tug on the back of my coat interrupting my musings. I turned to find a genuine curiosity, my sole companion amidst the vastness of this Library. It was my little pet lizard, an enigma in itself, as I remained unaware of its species. Despite delving into countless bestiaries, I could never uncover a conclusive answer. The desire to unravel its truth consumed me. I had been searching for what seemed like an eternity, yet in this very moment, everything felt devoid of purpose. Meaningless? No, that wasn't quite right. After all, wasn't it the pursuit of truth that infused it with the very meaning I sought? Oh dear, I'm beginning to sound like those eccentrics I left behind countless books ago. The entire notion is nothing more than absurdity. Although, perhaps the last 10 million books have influenced my perspective. Glancing to my left, I met the gaze of a fellow librarian. His hands clearly held at least a couple dozen books open—a clear indication of his seniority. I had a long journey ahead of me before I could match such impressive speed. “Say, what do you think we read for?” I posed the question to him, and his response mirrored that of a new parent staring at their newborn—a mixture of surprise and unamused indifference. In this library, there were no such paternal figures; you simply came into existence. I couldn't be certain of the accuracy of my analogy, but having read my fair share of fatherly figures, I had a theoretical understanding of what it should entail. "To find out," he replied, delivering a response as straightforward as the one I would have given. I already knew this answer, so why did I seek it from him? Was I hoping that his seniority would provide a clearer, more profound insight? "In the grand halls of this magnificent library, we embark on a quest to uncover meaning," he burst out, as if moved by my question. Did my inquiry elicit a sense of pity? After a brief pause, he continued, "Some argue that our endeavors are in vain, asserting that there are no predetermined meanings to be found. According to them, the universe holds no obligation to offer us easy answers or any answers at all." He returned a book to its rightful place on the shelf before selecting another. "Others contend that we must first exist, and then diligently seek out meaning. They believe that the responsibility of discovering meaning rests solely on our shoulders." He paused again, his hand hovering over a book as he pondered. "And then there are those who perceive the absurdity of it all. How can one hope to find meaning in an uncaring universe, one so detached from our desires? Yet, they refuse to accept the notion of meaninglessness. Even in the face of such laughable circumstances, their souls ignite with rebellious passion. If our reality resembles an indifferent parent, so be it. They proclaim that we shall raise ourselves." “What do you think?" I asked him, curious to hear his thoughts. "I am still finding out," he replied. "And so I read. Within each book resides an extension of my mind, waiting to assimilate and become an integral part of my being. Over time, I will devour the entire library and finally achieve a sense of wholeness. Does meaning truly exist? Perhaps not. Even after delving into the depths of my own existence, I may never unearth it. Nevertheless, let heaven exist, even if my own place lies in hell. Let me endure torment, suffering, and annihilation, as long as there exists one moment, one entity, in which this vast Library can find its validation." While listening to my fellow librarian, I noticed an irritation in my eyes. What was this? A stray beam of light, previously unnoticed, pierced through from a hidden corner of the room. Had it been present all along, evading my senses? Just as I contemplated investigating further, my loyal companion tugged at my shoulder with increased urgency, as if attempting to redirect my attention. What was the purpose of your actions, my faithful companion? As I pondered the significance behind his behavior, his serene gaze struck me with the weight of a collapsing bookshelf. There was no meaning—wait, perhaps there was meaning, but it remained obscured. Or did it? A contagion of thoughts spiraled within my mind, racing at an ever-increasing pace. In a matter of mere seconds, I found myself descending into a cacophony of the mind. “Is meaning reality?” I completely ignored the presence of the light. Actually, no, it would be more accurate to say that I was more aware of it’s existence than ever before. Yet my recognition of it held no power or sway over it. "Whatever do you mean?" He continued his adept handling of the books, swiftly transitioning between them. Truly, he was a masterful reader. "It's just as you mentioned. We comb through the vast expanse of this library in pursuit of meaning. But who determines that such a search is the correct path to follow? Perhaps we are merely misguided." "Are you suggesting that our endeavors are devoid of meaning?" "No, but what if we are asking the wrong question altogether? When a rock tumbles down a mountainside, does it ponder the 'why'? When I gaze into the eyes of my loyal companion, I see the same indifferent nature as that of a rock. Is it the answers that are flawed, or are we cursed with the burden of incessant questioning? My companion, devoid of inquiries, still lives! Do you not see? We have become worshippers of the moon! A false reality, a stolen light molded to fit its own image!" My speech grew fragmented, my pacing erratic. I felt my mind getting consumed by a sense of disarray as I continued, "Can't you see? The universe was never meant for us! Our pursuit of meaning is a hell of our own creation, and there is no heaven awaiting the enlightened! We must cast aside our symbols, our distorted reflections of reality that have transformed into works of fiction, and finally embrace the sun." Although my skin had grown scorched, and my sole listener had begun to flee, frightened by the intensity of the light, I pressed on. No other librarian was within reach, with the nearest one likely hundreds of thousands of books away. It was unlikely that my words would reach them, but perhaps the light would. No longer a mere irritant in the corner of my eye, it had transformed into a vast sea of radiance, seeking to dissolve all fiction. I gave voice to my thoughts for as long as I could. Even if there was the slimmest chance that a listener may be lurking around the corner, I had to hold on. At least, that was what I thought before my flesh started to crumble away into ashes. I realized; even if there was a listener, was I certain they could understand my language? My symbols which were so detached from reality? As my skull struck the ground I witnessed my loyal companion slowly slithering away into the depths of the library. Unscathed, untainted by the sun's searing beam. In my final moments, I beheld the sight of unimaginable beauty. An eternal library, bisected and slowly liquefying in a blaze of glory, akin to a slice of cheese yielding to the touch of a heated blade. No words, no canvas could ever capture the grace of this spectacle. It demanded shades and tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a magnificent rainbow. Oh, such a breathtaking sight it was. \--END İf you've read it till the end, I sincerely thank you. I would also love to hear any thoughts you may have.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: Set your story at a shopping mall.** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** An argument occurs during the story This week’s challenge is to set your story in a . You can use any part of the location as long as it is the story’s main setting. You could set it in a clothing store or nail salon, at a pretzel cart, an employee break room, or even on the roof! Maybe it’s a haunted mall, or in an underground city! Feel free to think outside the box and use the setting creatively. The bonus constraint is not required. **Next week, we’ll be doing a *fall constraint table*! If you have suggestions for words/objects, character actions, settings, or other fall-related constraints, *DM me*!** You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/AGuyLikeThat - u/rudexvirus - u/wileycourage ###Crit Stars - u/AGuyLikeThat - u/Peter_Palmer_ - u/rudexvirus - u/wileycourage *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I Live in an Apartment I’ve Only Had One Person at a Time Someday the hair on your head becomes gray and your face shows every memory you’ve made: the grin you couldn’t wipe on your wedding day, the despair of losing your mother, the overwhelming relief hearing the news that you’ve beaten cancer. Years fly by and your heart is filled with all of your life’s experiences. Some people grow old with their loved ones and pass before they are alone. Some people spend their last days with their children and grandchildren. Some remarry. Some go to old people's homes. Not me, though. I live in an apartment. After high school, I left my rural home in the mountains of Arizona. That was a hard day. My mother cried. I cried too. We had spent 18 years together in our trailer home. We used to go to the only ice cream parlor in town every Saturday and share a vanilla sundae. So that we did. We picked at it in silence, taking small bites to make our time together last a bit longer. I’d never seen her cry until then. The ice cream didn’t taste as good that day. A week after I left, my mother took her own life. It was lonely for the first few months in the big city. I still wasn’t used to the skyscrapers and sound of airplanes flying overhead. The night was filled with the wails of ambulances and cars blasting music on the radio. An older man, Mr. Manley, whom I had known from my small town, let me rent out one of his bedrooms. He lived in a duplex. That area of the city was a bit rough, but I didn’t know better. This was luxury to me. My savings didn’t last that long and it was time for a job. Mr. Manley was kind enough to let me do yard work for a month while I tried to pick something up. Eventually, I got a job as a barback at Free Spirits, a hippy pub nearby. The 70s loved that place. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this job would become my career. Over the years, I worked my way up the chain. I became the senior bartender by the time I was 22. Michael, the young bar manager, was my best friend. I’d never had a brother, but Michael was my brother. Mr. Manley started to show signs of dementia. He left the oven on one night, nearly burning down the entire duplex. Luckily, only the stove and cabinets around were devastated. He did this three more times, but I learned after the first time to check the oven every night or before leaving the house. Even though I was scared for him, I took care of Mr. Manley. I started cleaning up after him, made sure he got dressed every morning, and ate three meals a day, but dementia is a ruthless and unforgiving disease. Very soon after his diagnosis, he couldn’t remember my name. Then he forgot who I was altogether. I didn’t know much of Mr. Manley’s family, so reaching out to anyone was a dead end and he was a bachelor for the entire time I knew him. I consulted with Michael on what to do and we came to the decision to put him in a home. We didn’t have the money for a personal caretaker. We dropped of Mr. Manley and I visited him every Saturday with a vanilla sundae in hand. Now it was just Michael and I. Michael had a similar past to mine; an only child who left home for the big city. When we weren’t working at the bar, we were there as patrons. Free Spirits was our home aside from the apartment we were sharing together. This was the first apartment I lived in and we were living the dream. On one of our rendezvous nights at the bar, we met a pair of fine women. Cheryl, with flowing blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, and Mandy with curly autumn hair and hazel eyes. How lucky were we? Extremely lucky. I was married to Cheryl in three years time. Michael married Mandy just a few months after us. Michael and Mandy left the city a couple years later. **Cheryl** Cheryl was everything to me. Every Saturday she joined me in visiting Mr. Manley with his vanilla sundae. It felt like she knew him the same way I did. She would take his compliment of her eyes every time we went and she sounded as genuinely grateful for it just as the first time she came with me. Her beautiful eyes never changed, even with age. There came a day where we would have to say goodbye to Mr. Manley. Cheryl and I were the only two at the funeral. We attended in silence and I felt the way I had on the day I left my mother. Silent sadness sometimes sits heavier. She hugged me afterwards. We didn’t share words, but we knew each other’s grief. Cheryl knew how to comfort me. We bought our first house together in a nice little suburb of the city. I bought Free Spirits from the owner. Cheryl and I were as happy as could be. We would play with the idea of starting a family and so by our late twenties we started trying. We had little fortune. Cheryl had gotten pregnant three times, but miscarried each. We learned that we wouldn’t be able to have children. Cheryl didn’t cry when the doctor gave her the news, but she became very quiet. We drove home in silence. I held her hand. I knew how to comfort Cheryl. Her weak, midnight sobs tore my heart to pieces. This wouldn’t be the only obstacle we would have to overcome together. When I was forty-seven, I was diagnosed with stage 2 lung cancer. This came with only minimal surprise because smoking in bars in my days was very common. I smoked every time I was there. Cheryl was inconsolable at the doctor’s appointment. Seeing the sky in her eyes be clouded with a rainstorm of tears made me quit. I never touched a cigarette after that. Back then, aggressive chemotherapy was the only regimen for any form of cancer. I endured eight months of it and finally showed cancer-free on that last scan. We celebrated with a vanilla sundae. I think the actual medicine that cured me was Cheryl. Sure the chemo probably did something, but she was the only thing I needed to live for. My sweet Cheryl. All good things must come to an end. Cheryl was a good thing that came to an end. We were together for fifty years. Fate took my beloved in her sleep at seventy-five years old. **Pretty Boy** Here I am, six years later. I live in an apartment. The city has changed since I moved here. My place is in a fancy commercialized part of the city. My one-bedroom flat on the second floor faces inwardly to a pool area. The way the apartment is set up is that each residence has a balcony that faces the center pool area and each has a large window that shows into the living areas. It’s like a big rectangle with a pool in the middle. I’ve spent every evening enjoying a nice beer on my balcony. Most nights, I find myself focusing on the apartment across the way from me. Several people have lived there by now: a young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties who was very promiscuous having numerous men over every week, a young couple with a golden retriever who always kept their blinds down, an older gentleman like me who must’ve passed because he was replaced months after moving in by a young man. This young man stood out to me. He never put his blinds down. So every evening I poured my beer and set up shop on the balcony to observe him. His place was decorated smartly for someone his age. He had modernized furniture and kept everything very clean. The only time I ever saw it messy was after his nightly cooking/karaoke sessions or his sprawled out suitcase when coming back from a trip. He was very handsome and closely reminded me of myself when I was his age. I called him Pretty Boy. He didn’t leave his apartment often. I could tell by the way he spent hours on his computer and how he stood up with angry gestures on the phone that he must’ve been some kind of work-from-home businessman. He would occasionally have friends over, but never women. I began to recognize his friends. He had two that would frequent often. One with curly hair and the other with a thin, lanky stature. Those were the nicknames I gave them: Curly and Thin. Curly and Thin were there every weekend. The three of them would drunkenly stumble in every Friday night and head to the balcony for cigars. This pattern went on for around a year. No women, just Curly and Thin every weekend. However, things changed recently. Routinely, I was on the balcony on a Friday night waiting for Pretty Boy, Curly, and Thin to trip over themselves trying to get through the doorway. Pretty Boy headed in first and was oddly composed followed by Thin. To my surprise, Curly had been replaced with two young ladies both with long, blonde hair. One was a bit larger than the other. Nonetheless, I was stunned to behold what was happening. Pretty Boy had never had a woman over before, let alone two. I watched in amazement as the girls took a seat that the kitchen bar and the boys stood across. The larger girl was much more talkative than the smaller one, but everyone seemed to be getting along. They moved from the bar to the sofa and socialized for hours. I watched the two girls leave the apartment and Pretty Boy walked them down. Thin slumped over on the couch and dozed off. Minutes later, Pretty Boy reentered with the smaller blonde alongside him. He woke Thin from his slumber and gestured for him to leave. For the first time that night, I saw the small blonde light up with animation as she spoke with Pretty Boy. Pretty Boy was all smiles and was finding subtle ways to get closer to the girl. I couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle. He was doing the same things I did when I first met Cheryl. I would pretend I needed to grab something just so I could stand up and then sit a little closer to her the next time I sat down. I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I saw the girl. **Amber** As foretold, the small blonde made her way over to the apartment every day for a week after their first encounter. I sat on my balcony and witnessed their blossoming relationship. Pretty boy always had a new wine for her to try and a new song for her to listen to. They cooked together, played cards together, and ended their nights with a drink for her and a cigar for him on the balcony. She always spoke loudly. I loved it because I got to hear details instead of watching them. Pretty boy was obviously embarrassed by her loud talking and often shushed her, reminding her that there are neighbors, but this is how I learned their names: James and Amber. After Amber spent an entire week with James, she disappeared for a bit. I became worried after not seeing her for two weeks. That was until James was on the balcony on a phone call. I heard him say things like, “Three hours isn't that long for a drive!” and “I’m already looking at cabins. I’ll see you tomorrow, Amber.” James was gone for the next three days, but when he came back, he sprawled out his suitcase and had two pinecones that he sat on his windowsill. Amber was there the next two weekends and brought a new pinecone each time. James now had a small collection of them and a big heart for Amber. Watching the love unfold filled a void in me. Amber returned full-time after her time in the mountains. She was at the apartment almost everyday. I’d watch them make breakfast together, or more accurately, I’d watch James make breakfast while Amber danced around him trying to get him to join in. He’d brush her off with a grin on his face, which only made her try harder. I could tell she was a kind soul. She would stay while he worked and fold his laundry or pick up around the place. He would swivel his chair around and gesture for her to sit on his lap. They walked through the door hand-in-hand, got dressed up for date nights, and had endless cinema nights. I saw Amber cook there only once. She made a sort of steamed roll. James took one bite out of it and gave a big thumbs up with a full mouth. Only I saw him take the bits out of his mouth and throw them away. He gave her a big kiss on the cheek afterwards to which she happily swung around and gave him an even bigger kiss, delighted that he liked her cooking. Months flew by and two were blatantly in love. But love sometimes doesn’t last. **All Good Things Must Come to an End** I started to see Amber less and less. When she would appear, she came with a backpack and several textbooks in her arms to which she would set on the counter and start taking notes. It was around the time the local college started back up, so I assumed she was enrolled. James would try to be near while she studied, but she shooed him off and buried her face in her hands. I only saw Amber about once a week at this time and each time she was flustered with schoolwork and often changed into a work uniform and left James’ apartment shortly after. James started smoking cigars on the balcony every night accompanied by several beers. He would gaze at the city-polluted sky with a solemn look on his face. This continued for a month. Then there was a week that I didn’t see Amber at all. That week I sat out every night hoping to see Amber walk in and return to being the happy couple they were, but that’s not how things go. That Friday, James drunkenly swung open his front door. Behind him followed a slim brunette who definitely was not Amber. My heart sank. The two wobbled to the couch and indulged in each other. I couldn’t bear to watch. For the first time since I moved into my apartment, I had my beer inside that night. When I finally did see Amber again, it was late in the evening on a weekday. This was out of the norm because the last few times I saw her it was only on weekends. Amber walked in with James and gestured to the balcony. She wasn’t loud that night. They had quiet conversation for quite some time. Then they sat in silence. Amber held her knees to her chest and James reached his hand over to hold hers. He knew how to comfort her. She could only hold his hand for a moment before she erupted in tears. Amber sobbed into her hands and then stood up saying she had to leave because she had assignments to get done. It was hard to hear what she was saying in between her weeps. James stood with and pulled her into a hug which made her cry even harder. Amber was still inconsolable as she walked through the door. James tried to accompany her on her way out, but she shook her head no. James stood at the door for what seemed like eons before making his way to the sofa. He crumbled into his palms and cried the way I did when I lost Cheryl. His sadness turned to anger and by the end of the night, every decor item, table, wall, and the pinecones that filled his windowsill were smashed to pieces. I think I was hoping to relive the love I had with Cheryl vicariously through Amber and James, but I’m only filled with sorrow. All good things must come to an end. Remember this. I have lost everything and everyone I’ve loved. You grow old and you ache to be returned to the ground that bore you. You may see ecstasy in life and do things you’ll never regret, but the daunting end is always waiting for you. Now, I live in an apartment, yearning for the other side of life.


The experiment was set for the 2nd of March. Group Captain Lionel Berkeley, RAF, watched as the subject, a USAF serviceman, finished clasping the helmet to his yellow pressure suit. Berkeley both admired and pitied the young American for participating in the experiment, and sincerely hoped that he had volunteered of his own accord, rather than being volunteered by his superior officers. The other occupants of the chamber, one British and two American scientists, scurried about as they completed the final preparations. “Airman Vance. The Project Zipgun test today involves a brief jaunt between the twins, Bentwaters to Woodbridge. Step over to the pad here, please.” Berkeley motioned the serviceman to a glowing white square in the bunker floor, with an identical glowing white square in the ceiling above. Intricate, angular machinery surrounded three sides of the pad, bundles of thick cables running up into the concrete ceiling and down into the floor. Reel-to-reel computers churned and hummed along the walls of the test chamber as they diligently recorded data from sensors arrayed throughout the room. “Sir, permission to ask a question?” Airman Vance inquired, a hint of southern twang to his accent. “Permission granted.” Berkeley replied, coolly. “Am…am I the first…man…to go through, sir?” “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” The young airman fidgeted, wiping his gloved palms against the yellow nylon of the pressure suit pants, looking increasingly nervous. Berkeley continued, “What I can tell you is this, when you make the jump, you will travel over 22 kilometers in the blink of an eye, and be making a significant contribution to the technological prowess of the free world.” Airman Vance noticeably brightened at that, and stepped onto the testing pad. Berkeley shared the subject’s apprehension, though he was careful not to let those feelings bleed through to the surface. The Joint Experimental Operation had jumped to human trials rather quickly, but then, the race was on, after all. Who knew if the Reds were already blipping soldiers from Moscow to Siberia and back in similar experiments behind the iron curtain. “RAF Woodbridge, this is Bentwaters. Prepared for transmission, over.” The British scientist reported into a radio handset. “Copy RAF Bentwaters. This is Woodbridge, prepared for reception, over.” The radio crackled back. “Airman Vance, please close your visor before the jump,” one of the American scientists called out, and moved a pair of thick, dark goggles over his own eyes. Berkeley did the same, the polarized lenses dimming the brightness of the test chamber down to an eerie twilight. Airman Vance pulled the black face-shield over the front of his helmet, looking like nothing so much as a spaceman about to set foot on another planet. “Are you ready, Airman Vance?” Berkeley asked. “Sir, yes sir!” The airman replied, muffled through the pressure suit’s helmet. “Activating now,” the other American scientist declared, and hit the switch. The room thrummed with power. The white squares and the delicate arms of the machinery between them shined impossibly bright, and then somehow grew brighter still. Airman Vance appeared as nothing more than a vaguely humanoid shadow in the glow. Despite himself, and the protective goggles, Berkeley raised a hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the light. With a final electrical snap like an entire thunderstorm in a single moment, the lights dimmed, and the humming wound down. Berkeley lowered his hand from his eyes. The airman was gone. \*\*\* Music. Haunting, impossible music. That was the first thing he noticed as the blinding light of the test chamber crushed down to a single point in the center of his vision, darkness surrounding him, only for it all to come rushing back, but different, in a tidal wave of unfamiliar sensation. The second thing to go through his head, a bizarre, at first non-sensical, instinctual response, was: act natural. Airman Taylor Vance, USAF, test subject for Project Zipgun, a project he knew dangerously little about, appeared to find himself in a crowded bar. The establishment was dimly lit, with rough cement walls, and a high and wide countertop jutting into the middle of the space. A man stood behind a counter, a tangle of metal like beer taps behind him. So far, so good. This, Vance’s brain could handle. A giant praying mantis stood next to the counter, on the opposite side from the man. This, not as much. Not good. Not good at all. As Vance slowly turned his head, towards the music, more horrific sights filled his vision. A group of bulbous-eyed molluscoid demon children were playing the eldritch melody on pipelike instruments like it was Thursday night in a Nashville honky tonk halfway down Broadway. A bestial wolfish figure with gleaming eyes and long fangs sat nearby in a corner booth. At the bar, a man with a face like a spider’s pushed a cup to another man with a nose that folded upwards, like a vampire bat. Vance wondered if he was in hell. He swore that he saw the Devil, red skin, horned head, black robes, the works. And yet, far from ruling this dark and strange underworld, the fiendish being simply sat there, smiling and sipping a drink. In this strange place, even the Devil himself was just another customer. A man sat down next to Vance. He also wore a space suit, clear visor revealing an ordinary human face, and Vance wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying. Now, he considered that he might be hallucinating. Maybe the experiment had popped a blood vessel in his brain, and these were his dying moments. The man spoke a foreign language that Vance had never heard before, but the way the other spaceman slapped him on the chest and gestured to the bar was damn near universal. Okay. Act natural, he thought again, this time the instinct making more sense. And the good lord knew he could use a drink. Vance stepped through the crowd of surreal bar patrons, dizzied, worried each step could be his last. That either this hallucination would suddenly fade as the eternal darkness of death finally took over, or that one of the many monsters surrounding him would suddenly take notice of him, and the previously mundane activity of the hell-bar would cease as they all ripped him to shreds in a frenzy. He carefully watched the bartender pass a drink to a shaggy bear-like creature with a bandolier, but didn’t see any money being exchanged. His sanity felt suspended by the thinnest of threads over the unfathomable abyss of this entire experience as he raised two fingers to the bartender. A teenage boy, blond, and an older, bearded, white-haired man stepped down the stairs that Vance assumed was the entrance. He zeroed in on the two human figures. Felt his rapid panting for the first time, and began to take back control of his breath.These two, he could handle. Just a father and son. Maybe grandfather and son. Out for a drink. That calmed him. This was understandable. Just out for a drink. The other spaceman shouted impatiently, incomprehensibly, from the table Vance had come from. Looking down, the bartender had deposited two mugs of frothing, misting liquid in front of him. Act natural. Vance picked up the two cups, moseyed slowly back to the table. Two new patrons had joined the other spaceman, a woman with an enlarged head that Vance found distressing to comprehend, and an honest to God green martian with a suction cup for a mouth. Both started chattering away in different languages, and Vance’s new spaceman drinking buddy eagerly grabbed one of the cups. Vance felt the thread in his head fray further, and he searched desperately for the old man and the teenager at the bar to try and hold on for just a little while longer. He spotted the pair, though now the teenager was involved in a scuffle between the spider-faced being and the bat-nosed man. Vance began to shake his head violently. No no no don’t take away the only liferaft I’ve got right now, his mind babbled at him. Then, the grandfatherly figure that had been Vance’s last grasp on his sanity pulled a sword made of light from his dusty brown cloak, and cut the other two men to bloodied ribbons. The thread finally snapped. Inside the pressure suit helmet, Vance screamed. \*\*\* “RAF Woodbridge, did you receive? Over.” The static hiss of the radio felt like it lasted a lifetime to Group Captain Berkeley. The British scientist tried the handset again, now a hint of desperation entering his voice, “This is Bentwaters. RAF Woodbridge, did you receive?” A crackle. And then, with trepidation, “Negative, RAF Bentwaters. Woodbridge did not receive. I repeat, Woodbridge did not receive.” One of the American scientists pulled the protective goggles from his eyes, “My God, what happened to him?” Berkeley pursed his lips, staring at the now empty experiment pad. “It appears that you’ve…completely disintegrated the poor fellow.” The responding silence settled thickly over the room, broken only by the steady buzz of static from the radio receiver. Already in his mind’s eye, Berkeley could see some uncaring, aloof United States Air Force officer concocting an all too plausible tragic story to explain the young airman’s disappearance to his next of kin, and the needless, bullheaded stupidity of it all twisted like a knot in his chest. He sighed. “Shut it down, gentlemen. Shut it all down.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: It's time for another mashup! **Fall Constraint Mashup: Choose at least 1 thing from 3 different categories below.** You’re welcome to mix and match! These were all suggested by your fellow writers! | **No.** |**Object** | **Phrase** | **Setting** | **Misc. Constraints** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | 1 | apple cider| It’s never what you expect | pumpkin patch/corn maze | features a scarecrow | | 2 | jack-o-lantern | The wind rustled naked trees | a quarry or lake | a transformation occurs | | 3 | homemade stew | It was the right thing to do | Grandma’s kitchen | features an ‘animal familiar’ | 4 | costume | How easy it is to forget | a highschool event | a secret is revealed | **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Choose 1 of the numbered sets above. Sets are listed horizontally (that’s 1 thing from each of the 4 categories). *Note: You are welcome to interpret the constraints creatively as well as mix and match categories! You can add onto the phrases and words, change tenses, etc. And as always, be sure to follow all sub and post rules.* You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/Brknside - u/OldBayJ - u/MaxStickies *Note: Due to being an active participant myself, points and votes have also been verified by another mod.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


\[Trigger Warning: War, combat, death, attempted suicide - but it's not the main subject of the story\] This is fairly intense, so please use your best judgement.. Everything you're about to read is real and this is the best I can recall the events that took place. I will not share any real names, no real dates, this is my story and I don't want to expose anyone that doesn't want it, so all names will be fake if they need to be used. For those of you that have never seen a war from the frontlines, this what it looks like, I'll do my best to paint a picture. For those that have, my experience is nowhere near some of the stories I've heard. I consider myself fortunate to not have been deployed during the OIF campaign. \-- *\*takes a deep breath\** This mission lasted around 5 days if I remember correctly, we moved out at night on the first day. Easily 6 miles with a metric shit-ton of gear, but not nearly as heavy as I've carried before. The mission we packed the heaviest, my ruck (backpack essentially), weighed around 150lbs. The heaviest I have ever weighed was 145lbs, currently sitting around 130-135 for reference. Just standing up was a struggle, let alone walking miles with it at night. I fell often, in fact, my squad was so used to me tripping and falling, we got to the point where we'd just laugh about my clumsiness, they'd help me up if they were nearby, and we'd continue on. Back to the first night. Nothing exciting happened, we moved in at night and secured a perimeter around this building in the middle of nowhere, and waited for the sun to come up. We were securing an abandoned school so we could set up an observation post for some special forces unit. I wasn't special forces, let's get that straight right now. We set up around the school and as the sun came up, we started to move inside and secure it. Every day from then on, at about 5pm, we'd get shot at. It was nothing crazy, they were just harassing us, and they're smart- they wanted to see how we would react, what we do, and they studied us over the next couple days. The night before my "personal hell" my squad went out to see if we could find the places we were getting shot at from, looking for brass on the ground, dug in positions, anything that could be used against us. As we sat outside the school holding guard, each of us were in pairs and I was paired with a Sergeant, we'll call him Ky for the purpose of our story. Ky and I had gotten to know each other throughout our deployment, he was attached to my squad as a Spotter with his Sniper counter-part. When you are sitting in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, what do you talk about? Everything and anything that comes to mind. We talked about home, the crazy shit we had gotten into before the military, girls we'd dated, girls we loved, our favorite whiskey, our favorite music and artists. Everything that came to mind. At this point, we had been deployed for about three or four months, we'd been shot at multiple times, we were used to the conditions, and the people in our squad were brothers. I would die over and over again for each one of them without hesitation. I wish I contacted them more now that we've all separated, but I haven't in a long time. The same guys that were on the squad at the beginning of the deployment were the same that would be on the squad at the end, all we did was get to know each other's stories on missions. Ky was no different. I knew he was recently married to his high school sweetheart, I knew they were planning kids, I knew the things that close friends would know and my heart hurts for this every day. The next day, we were prepared. 4pm rolled around and we were setting people up on the roof, we knew we'd get shot at, just like every day, and this time we weren't just going to let them harass us. A platoon from 1st ID came out to help us with our mission, they brought trucks with the bigger guns, the .50 cals, the mk18s, and they positioned them in a half circle around the school, waiting for the first round to come in. Some fucking help that unit was. The school was shaped like a U but more like this I\_\_I , I would've been on the bottom right corner with a mk48 machine gun by myself. Somewhat next to me was my roommate and probably my closest friend, he had another machine gun, m240 bravo. The guns aren't relevant, well.. mine might be. 5pm nears and everyone gets in position behind their weapons, the smoking and joking subsides, it is so quiet I could hear my heart in my ears. When you are about to take contact, several things happen: it becomes eerily silent, all the kids that were out playing disappear, no one can be found, you always feel it before you hear it. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, the pit in your stomach, and the feeling that something just isn't right. This led to the firefight, but it wasn't the most important part. A sandstorm had been moving in all day, it wasn't going to be anything crazy, but it was enough to take our air support offline. All our birds went away, and they fucking knew it too. Cracks and snaps start to mix in with the dirt being blown all over. When you're getting shot at, you know it. But what you don't know is where it's coming from. In this scenario? Fucking everywhere. About 800meters in front of my position and in nearly a half circle in front of the school, muzzle flashes started appearing. The only light thing we could see through the sandstorm. Everyone started returning fire. Time passes incredibly fast when your adrenaline is flowing, this firefight would go on for 4 hours, and I only remember a few things happening. My gun jammed. I go through the proper motions to clear the jam, fire, it jams again. Repeat the process 5 or 6 times at least, before something interrupted me. I heard someone call out an RPG and when I looked up, I shit you not, this thing was coming right at me. I'd only seen them in video games, and that was no comparison.. I didn't know what it was at first, but it felt like everything was in slow motion. I reached up for just a second to see how close it was. I felt like I could've touched it. Maybe a foot, foot and a half above my right shoulder. The slow motion ended as it passed me, and it hit the center of the building behind me. Later we would come to find out that my gun would be considered blacklined. Unusable. The best time for it break, and sure as fuck, it did. We would also learn later that that RPG landed where the ladder to roof was (about 10 feet behind me), and there was definitely a guy standing on top of the ladder. How he survived, I don't know, it had to of blown up in his face and he easily took a 15 foot fall backwards into the school courtyard, only to put the ladder back up and go back up to the roof. My squad leader must've recognized something was wrong, he surprised the shit out of me when I felt him dive next to me and take cover. Running across this roof right now is insane, he must've been 6'2, the dude is one of biggest targets out there, what a fucking badass. He comes over and starts figuring stuff out with me, leaves me ammo, his m4 until we can figure my gun out, and then moves on to the next soldier. My eyes diverted to where he went, off to my right where he laid next to my roommate. I looked past them. On the opposite corner of the building to me, I saw Ky, kneeling on one knee firing 40mm grenades out of his launcher. *\*another deep breath, and here come the tears\** Ky fell backwards onto his back and scooted back, he had turned around and saw that I was looking at him. We made eye contact and he was waving his arm over his head at me, the whole thing, trying to give me a signal. I didn't get it.. until his body went limp. Everything hit me at the same time, but the first word out of my mouth was "medic." I whispered it at first, not realizing how loud everything was around me.. and then everything really hit me. I screamed it and pointed at Ky. People started scrambling, his sniper hadn't even noticed yet. It was me. It was only me. I watched the whole thing unfold before my eyes, I couldn't look away. My medic stripped him down, I could see the blood from where I was, I was in a trance.. Until someone slapped the back of my helmet. My squad leader was somehow on the other side of me, I must've looked shell shocked as fuck, but he brought me back. "Don't look at it, we'll find out what happened later, but right now you need to keep your head in the right place. What happened to your gun?" "It keeps jamming, I can't fix it." My squad leader starts messing with it only to realize what I said was true. He gave it back to me and said "It follows you. Bring it in case we can fix it, but we need a gun over there." "In Ky's position?" "That's the one, get ready to move, stay low and right on my ass." "MOVE!" I grabbed my gun and sprinted with him across the roof, bullets were flying everywhere around us. Everything felt like a blur at that point, my mind was a mess. I don't even remember getting to where I was.. but I remember.. Standing straight up when I got to the other side of the roof. All of a sudden the bullets coming at me didn't matter. People were yelling at me, telling me to get down. And I just stood there, staring at the ground in front of me. There was so much blood. Caked in the dirt, it was dark, but it was everywhere and there was no mistaking what it was. I looked at my squad leader, who was already laying down next to it, I just looked at him. He must've known I was asking him "do I have to?" Subconsciously of course, but he nodded his head and grabbed my wrist. I only let him pull me to my knees, and then I laid completely down in Ky's blood. From my chest to my knees I could feel it. I didn't cry, I didn't do anything besides shoot back, I kept my head in the game until it was time for me to come off the roof. The gunfire didn't subside until sometime after dusk.. We finally started getting air support after I came off the roof, it had easily been four hours and they were dropping bombs so close to us, the windows of the school were shattering from the shockwaves. It didn't matter. Everything that mattered had already happened. \-- I was sick to my stomach. I took that list to the room my platoon slept in and started packing the rucksacks of the names on the list. I knew what it meant. Those were the people that were injured today, and Ky was in critical condition. Silently, I got their stuff together. I was quiet, I couldn't stop thinking about everything, but I couldn't show emotion. Not in front of everyone. If I cry, I'm weak, and I can't let my brothers know I'm weak. I packed their rucks and staged them outside the room and then went to sit in the courtyard with my squad. Solemn faces, no words. Everyone was either dipping or smoking, the guys that didn't smoke started. I was doing both, my entire body was shaking from the amount of nicotine, but I couldn't stop. I needed something, anything to take my mind off of it. I couldn't let my thoughts catch up to me, not until I could be alone. Trucks pulled up. I had no idea they were coming, but I was so happy to see them when I started recognizing faces from my unit.. They were there to pick us up, and they took up to the nearest shitty little base they could. Everyone unloaded and just sat and waited inside our tent for the news. Solemn faces all around, no emotions, the calm before the storm. I knew. I already knew, and I just wanted my suspicions confirmed. Everything in my body was tired, but I was wide awake. I needed to know. Our platoon sergeant called everyone together, he explained that Ky had taken a bullet in through the right side of his torso and what they assumed was that it ricocheted off the opposite side rib or his side plates, but it had ricocheted into his heart. He wasn't dead instantly, but close to it. I only remember seeing emotion from my medic, he was having a rough time, and it was messing with me. Most machine gunners are given a secondary weapon, the reason we assumed was that if our gun ever stopped working, the m9 was there to defend ourselves. At least until the last bullet, that one was made for my head unless I wanted to be captured. Fortunately I was never in that position, but I wanted to mention it because it's about to become relevant. Shortly after my platoon sergeant announced the news, our base started taking rocket fire. The alarms went off and we started hearing explosions once again. "For fuck's sake" was the general mood as we all filed outside to the bunker. It was completely silent, except for the alarm and explosions. No one wanted to say anything, no one knew what to say. When the alarms stopped, people filed out of the bunker, I was sitting on some sandbags and didn't move. My friends asked me if I was alright and I nearly lost it in front of them. "Just give me a minute yeah? I'll catch up with you guys." Everyone left the bunker, and finally I was alone. I lost it. I was the same kid I was in school again, bawling my eyes out, drooling on myself, the ugly cry. I couldn't handle everything that had happened, I played through the events in my head. I watched Ky wave at me over and over again, I held my knees close to me chest and just let everything out. And then, the real dark thoughts hit me. He was married, they were going to have kids, a family. He had his whole life in front of him, with such promise.. so much life. Why wasn't it me? It could've just as easily been me. Why wasn't it? I'm a single soldier, my family loves me to death, but I had nothing going for me. If I would've been killed, I would've been missed by few people.. But not like him. His support system was huge, he was much closer to his family, and he got mail all the time. His life was so much brighter than mine, and that's all I could see right then. I don't remember how we got to the next part.. it's still a blur. But I remember clearly pushing my m9 to my temple, finger on the trigger, ready to join my friend. I didn't deserve to be alive, it should've been me. "Please, why couldn't it have been me?" The tears wouldn't stop, I tried to get the strength to just end it, I didn't want to live with this. These thoughts, these memories, it was too much... then I heard someone coming and panicked, immediately pulling the gun away from my head just in time for one of my squad mates to walk into the bunker. "There you are. Come on, platoon meeting, we're waiting on you." He saw the gun in my hand. "You doing alright?" I tried to be as natural as I could. "Yeah, just give me a second." He waited outside until I could compose myself and then followed him into the tent, I get caught every time I try to do something wrong. I was always the one that got caught, and here it was, true again. But without him walking in that night, at that time, I don't know what would've happened, but I was pretty committed to that action. In the following weeks, we were required to meet with a combat counselor. As a platoon, as a squad, as individuals. We were told to tell her what we felt and to be honest, but we were also warned that if the notes she took appear that we aren't "fit for combat" they would most likely send us home. One person was moved platoons and sent home early, the poor kid was shell shocked for the majority of the deployment, combat isn't for everyone and you never know how you're going to react until the first bullet goes off. Some people freeze up, others take charge, some of us just want to make sure we do everything possible to protect the people we care about. I didn't say much to her, I said that I was the last one to see Ky alive. I cried in front of my platoon, but I didn't say anything more. I wanted to stay with them and I wouldn't risk getting sent home on my own selfishness. Damn I was stupid. When you don't take care of your mental health, it will continue to decline, these things you hold in will weigh on you eventually and break you down. It took years before I finally went to therapy, and even then, I'll tell you the only reason I went was to get my dog certified as an Emotional Support Animal so I could bring her to school with me. In the end, she didn't get certified, but I did get help. Thank you for reading and letting me share this memory of mine with you.. I hope it made you feel something.


Dear Ma, Loved hearing from you, thanks so much for writing! I’m glad Dad was able to set up your new email address--we’ve had our hands pretty full and it’s been hard to sit down and write anything handwritten, for once, but our family therapist tells me journaling is a healthy processing technique so I guess you’ll get an earful. Sorry in advance! I love that you still keep up with Peter and Susie Chin! I remember their kids--we used to spend hours playing with them down at the creek when we were younger, just like you said their kids do as well. I miss that place. Sometimes I wonder if we had stayed in Oregon if Johnny would grow up with an appreciation for the outdoors rather than holing up in the shed and building his rocket. Maybe he’d be out there with the Chin’s grandkids, splashing around and getting into neighborhood shenanigans like we used to. Oh right, I suppose I should tell you about the rocket. I suppose we’re to blame with his recent obsession--I think he got turned on to space after we gave him a stack of Ted’s old Superman comics, with Kal-El being from another planet and all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to visit Krypton! I normally leave him alone while he’s welding in the shed but my parenting podcast told me I should participate in my child’s interests, so the other day I walked in to see what he might be working on. He wasn’t around but he’s really a gifted artist! As I suspected, he’s obsessed with Superman. Well, the Superman universe, at least--one wall was covered with drawings of Lex Luthor. They were a little manic, scribbled in one of those avant-garde dark-red smear styles but think with a few private lessons we could have a regular little Francisco Goya! The other walls were plastered in diagrams of this rocket, and grid maps of major cities--Los Angeles, Toronto, New York, even the Distrito Federal. What struck me was the precision with which he drew everything. Notes on the side included things like population density, intercontinental flight times, fuel charts, and even notations on the city's anti-air systems. It was really riveting stuff. I also found the rocket he’s been working on--it’s smaller than I expected, but expertly welded. I told Ted about it afterwards and now we’re looking into architecture and engineering private schools to put him in once he reaches high school! I think a private trade school might be good for him. The other kids in his class don’t really get along with someone as bright as Johnny. They call him awful things, like “weird,” “creepy,” and “hell-bent on world domination.” Poor Johnny’s handling it well, though. I asked him how he felt about it one day after school, and he told me that “they’ll see. They’ll all see.” and then disappeared into the shed. You show them, Johnny! Tonight at dinner I asked him if he planned to make his rocket any bigger, because I didn’t think it could hold a person. He kind of stared at me for a long while--we call those his Johnny stares! It’s a fun game he plays. And then he said, “no, mom, I don’t need it to hold a person, I just need it to hold a payload.” That’s also part of Johnny’s game. He always responds to questions with something cryptic. It’s like a mystery we get to solve as parents. Anyway, I’ll wrap this up. Johnny’s school psychologist left me a message asking if I was available to talk ASAP, and I think I have to tell him we’re moving Johnny to a different school next year. Say hi to Dad and the Chins for me. Hope to hear from you soon.


**THE START** As I sit here in Dayroom discussing this new project, I start reflecting on how this journey all began and what led me to where I am today. I was born and raised in Los Angeles and come from a very large family. I had many positive people in my life, but negative as well. My mother and father never married, and I'm their oldest son. Although my father had a history with gangs, drugs had more of an influence on his life. Regardless, he was a very hardworking man and always put a roof over our head and food on the table. He never once influenced me to be in a gang or do drugs, actually it's quite the opposite - he tried to steer me away from that lifestyle, but seeing that him and everyone else in my surroundings were involved with those things, it was hard to stay away from it. It was kind of hypocritical of my father to tell me what to do, when he was directly doing them himself. As for my mother, I have very few positive memories of her. Unfortunately, her life was harder and worse than my fathers. She did not have custody of her children, and I stopped living with her when I was about 5 or 6 years old. One of my earliest memories was saving her life when I was 5. I had to use the bathroom and pried the door open to her laying naked in the tub, overdosing on heroin. Fortunately, my aunt was living upstairs and we were able to call the paramedics. She was in a coma for months and when she woke up she had to relearn how to function as an adult - she was never the same after that incident. My mother was in and out of prison for most of her life and turned to prostitution to support her bad drug habit. In 1998, she was murdered in downtown Los Angeles and in 1995 my father also ended up dead behind drugs. So this is the base of what my life has been like for most of my life. There were many obstacles growing up, but I don't blame anyone for the choices that I have made which have led me to where I am at today, and now I sit here in a level 4 maximum security prison in the state of California. I've been incarcerated going on 23 years; serving 80 years to life for a first degree murder. I fought my case in Los Angeles County jail and ended up in Pelican Bay State Prison in 2002 until 2009. I then transferred to Corcoran for 9 months until I got caught up and ended up in the hole. I was validated as an associate to a prison gang, which meant during that time you get put into solitary confinement indefinitely. At the end of 2009 I went from the hole in Corcoran to the SHU in Pelican Bay State Prison where I was in solitary confinement for 7 years. I was finally able to have the indefinite solitary confinement overturned and released to the mainline; general population. From Pelican Bay I went to Salinas Valley State Prison for exactly 367 days, but I ended up getting caught up again and was put in the hole for close to a year before being sent to Kern Valley State Prison in 2017 where I currently stay. During these 23 years I have seen so many changes. Good and bad, as within myself.


On a moonlit evening In a land beyond the horizon, There once was a forest. Within this forest there grew a tree who wanted nothing more than to hold the Sun. To grab it, so that it’s lifegiving rays could shine down on their forest forever, and the forest would never want for its warmth in the cold nights. And so, the tree decided that it must grow. It must grow tall enough to grasp the heavens. The tree’s roots stretched and reached; it would need much food and much water so it could grow tall enough to reach the sky, after all. As time passed, the tree grew tall and it’s height became remarkable as it now towered over it’s neighbors. But it could not yet reach the Sun. Even still, the tree did not relent. The tree spent years growing; it’s roots stretching further and further as the tree searched for more food and water. It had not yet grown enough to grasp the heavens. But far beneath the swaying peak, the other trees in the forest were withering away. The trees nearest the tall one had long since fallen as there was no food nor water left to be had. Those trees had fallen and become food for the tall one, as it continued to stretch towards the sky. Over many years, the area around the tall one became empty. The food and water having been taken by the tall one. The only life that lived near the tree now was the creatures that lived within it’s branches. But the tall one had yet to take it’s prize. Then the tree bore fruit. The sort that no woodland creature could resist. But the fruit was not given as a gift by the tree. The fruit was poison and was grown to kill the woodland creatures so that the tree could feast upon them. All so the tree could capture the sun. The forest had now grown small. There was only the tree and what few creatures that could stomach it’s poison fruit. There was no longer any food or water except for that which was had by the tree. Yet it still stretched out it’s roots further and further. It took all the food and all the water that lay before it as it continued it’s quest to snatch the Sun. Then, one day, the tall one found nothing at the ends of it’s roots. There was no food and no water; there was only sand. The tree had reached for miles and now found nothing but desert all around it. The tall one was now quite tall indeed, but still had not captured the Sun. There was now nothing left to sustain it. The water had been drunk long ago and there was nothing left to eat as far as the eye could see. And so the tree stood. Watching the heavens pass by day after day. Slowly drying out as the Sun beat down upon it. Until one day the tall one fell. It crumbled into dust there, at the heart of a barren desert of it’s own creation.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: .** *) created by Trevor Henderson. For extra spook, check out some of the many * - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Story is or contains elements of cosmic/Lovecraftian horror - **Bonus Constraint (5 pts):** Include the word *miasma* in your story Happy Spooktober! We’re really diving into the creepy and strange this week. Your challenge is to use the image and/or legend of Siren Head as inspiration for your story. Get creative and put a unique spin on it! Tell a story that chills me to the bone. Just be sure to follow all post and subreddit rules. I’ve included bonus constraints for additional inspiration, but they are not required (though they are worth points). Also, for the rest of October, you can write up to 333 words! You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-333 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/rudexvirus - u/AdiposeRacoon - u/MaxStickies ###Crit Stars - u/Pakonab *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


(Name of the story and of name of the story chapter are inspired by Three Days Grace and their album Human) In the distant space, among stars, floated trough space one gigantic space ship. Those inside it evacuated their former planet of origin. Why they left you might ask yourself. They asked themselves the same question, but the truth only remained hidden, generation after generation, none knew the reason. These beings on this ship lived up to around 100-150 earth years. And only the first generation of them knew why they evacuated. After many thousands of years, these beings, they lived in a "cage". Leaders and commanders of this ship were in cryonics chambers, but, their thoughts, their whole brains were recorded. This way if they want to tell something, they could. One day, at year 862 by the calendar of "The new rebirth", a boy was born. The part of the ship he was born at was where every poor families would come. His family was no exception, they were poor too, but when the boy was born, they were full of happiness. Boy's name, was Yiro. Yiro enjoyed playing with broken robots that were thrown away, also he lived pretty much close to the main junkyard where he could find some crazy robots. He loved to play with them in a way that few of them started working again, one of those robots that started working had some type of AI inside of it. When he found that out, Yiro immediately looked at robot's left foot. "The date, where is the date" -He said in panic as he was trying to clean of some rust and dust from robot's foot. When he found the date, it said 295. He was shocked, he never thought that he would find something this old. But there was also one strange rule here, everything found that was made before 600 NR needed to be reported to the main sheriff of the town. He could not do it, so he hid the robot and he named it Furui. Yiro and Furui played every day, together. Until one day, they wandered away from their parents' property. They accidentally entered land owned by the head sheriff. That sheriff was impatient man, he was very angry person. When he was Yiro and Furui enter his property, he grabbed them both. He threw Furui to the ground and he saw the label on Furui's foot. Sheriff put both of them to his car and he drove them to the station, he planned to put Yiro to the children's care center and his parents inside the prison. But to everyone's suprise, Furui, a small robot with old AI installed in it corrupted the main communication network. Sheriff tried to destroy it, but it was too late. Furui already installed a virus inside other robots that were used like police officers. Robots attacked the sheriff and other human officers. Pure chaos at the station. Yiro and Furui escaped, they ran and ran to their parents house. But when they came, they saw many officers there, they shot his parents already. Somehow, they knew about this even tough Furui corrupted the network. It was too late, they could do nothing now. When police saw them, they started chasing them, the duo (Furui and Yiro for short) lured the police away from their house. They waited till the night at nearby farm. Police later put their guard down and the duo went in trough the window, they packed most essentials, food, water, and other robots Yiro found. After the sneak in, they went inside the secret passage hidden inside Yiro's room. Passage went underground to the junkyard. After arriving at the junkyard, they had to make something for transportation. Furui had a great idea, they would collect parts of other broken robots, and they would make a "car". They got tires, seats, motors, electronics, everything they needed. Yiro was in charge of screwing things in and Furui was the designer. After hours of work, they made something. A "car" you could call it. They sat inside and they went to a secret place very far away, 50 miles atleast. That place was his dad's small junkyard, a workplace, where he made tons of things but never revealed them. Only Yiro knew where that place was. Duo drove there, they made a camp there. Yiro put some oxygen motors that could convert oxygen into energy. His dad made that device, but he knew that making something like that would put him into jail so he kept it secret. On the outside, that junkyard looked normal, but it had underground basement which was much bigger than the outside. Yiro and Furui spent few days there making devices and planning for the future. End of chapter 1. Please point out some mistakes, or suggest me what could I do to make this better. IMO I think I could have made this a lot better, but it is what it is. I am open to ideas, suggestions and critics! Thank you for reading.


With my eyes open I clung to the tiny speck of freedom I felt, even if for just a moment. I was not yet a prisoner within these walls. A part of me was hoping not to be greeted by the same, weakly lit ceiling that I have grown to hate over the last few weeks every time I wake up, but to my dismay, it was there, greeting me. I did not return the gesture. It would take more than fourteen days of complete isolation to get me to talk to inanimate things. I rubbed my eyes with my left hand and pet Sam, who lay beside me, with the other. His fur was soft, his breathing quiet and shallow. The hydraulics-system in his torso gave him an almost lifelike appearance. I wondered if he grew as hungry as I did. Tiny cubes, made out of some sort of solidified gas, used to roll down a hatch in the wall directly into his silver bowl. This was all he ate for the past two decades. He didn’t need to eat, but I guessed they wanted him to appear more real. And it helped, we had eaten together, almost every day. Everything felt so normal in his presence, as if nothing had happened. Sam was also the reason why I hadn’t lost my sanity in this time. He listened to me and offered me company. He had suffered through my outbursts when the sense of doom became too much and did not judge me for the manic laughter that had always followed after. When I had been well, I talked to him about Esma. How I missed her and that I did not intend to return to my cabin. Sam was alright with this. There was nothing I could do for him anyways. With no power and the emergency generators not powering his little bed in the corner of the room (which acted as a charging station), it was only a matter of time until he was gone. Did he know? Would I want to know, if my end closed in? I tried not to think about it. I was still young and had enough rations with me. Ever since the great migration I had always carried them in my backpack, which never left my side. Sam’s movement was imperceptible. His battery ran on its last legs. Poor thing. I took comfort in being able to lie next to him in his last minutes. I dozed off. There wasn't much to do here besides sleep anyway. When I awoke, my head was turned to the left and I looked outside the window. An endless panorama of black whizzed by at a speed of hundreds of thousand meters per second. Though something ele got me thinking. Almost infinitely many white points painted the dark background and gave it life. Every single one of these stars was home to who knew how many different kinds of celestial bodies, some of which could even house sentient beings. I liked to imagine what their day-to-day life looked like. Unlike us, they had no desire to conquer the universe. They felt no need to leave their bloody footprints on any other planet, that they called their own. If they could see us, they would be shaking their heads. To them, our mission of settling on a planet that no one even knew if it really existed, was as arrogant as it was folly. Intergalactic imperialists, that is what they would call us, and they would be right. In creating a generation starship, we had proven to ourselves that we had no shame to reduce us, the passengers, to the absolute minimum of our humanity. Progress through sex. I agreed with them. They had no idea how right they were about us. Just a few centuries after we had left Earth, roughly a thousand years ago, another ship had already been built. There had always been rumors that a faster, modernized spacecraft would catch up to us. Nobody really knew where these rumors came from, though some had their suspicions. Oftentimes I wondered if the Penultimo had stumbled upon us through mere coincidence or if it had hunted us like prey from the very beginning. The more I thought about it, the sure I was that it was the latter. Technology, energy and populace. With the promise of an easy life, almost the entirety of our people had boarded the newer ship without hesitation, when it docked onto us. Once the people had started migrating, we had hidden in various wings and sectors of our ship. In places that we had known the others would not care to check. Agonizing were the days we had spent in literal garbage, not making any sound. Luckily for us, our appetite wa suppressed by the olfactory torture we had endured. The thirst, however, had became unbearable, even for the toughest of us. All we could have done was hoping that whoever had been next would die as silently as everybody before them. Fourteen of us had found their demise there. I turned to my right. With each passing minute the solitude solidified itself again. Sam was there and I felt even lonelier now. A mechanical companion was of no help to me in this situation. Nor were the thoughts of an alien that hardly knew me, if at all. My eyes wandered the length of the room that I could see while lying in my bed. Chaos had taken over, I was just a guest and an unwelcome one, at that. It was even colder now but there was nothing else I could use as a blanket. If there even was anything left of use in here, I couldn’t see it in this darkness. The universe outside was unkind, it did not care to illuminate my chamber enough to see properly. Most of the light came from above. A thin red line, powered by what I could only assume to be an emergency generator. It ran from the middle of the ceiling to the door, one and a half meters or so away. Outside was the corridor that led to the various wings and, most importantly, the dining hall. This was where we all had met after we had felt the ground shaking. The Penultimo had taken off. We felt safe. Esma had been there as well, happier to see me than I her, it seemed, despite my foul fragrance. I enjoyed thinking about the time we spent together before the migration. The hours we had spent in this bed, uncaring about the rules or curfew or anything. Times like these reminded me of how much of humanity we had lost. We didn’t mind visiting each other, even if it meant walking for hours to reach the other one's sector. She gave me strength. Was she well? I hoped she was, and that had been able to convince the others to wait for me. Two days, that was the plan. In two days' time we should have met again in the dining hall, after every single one of us had scavenged as much as we could carry, before we would set out and map out more distant parts of the ship. “I have enough provisions for three days in my room. Might last longer if we eat a bit less,” I had said to them. With a promise like that, how could they not wait for me? I wish I had told the others where I went. Esma might have known, though I couldn’t blame her for not trying her luck when some sectors of the ship were completely dark. What would they even do if they found me? There was no opening this door. A safety mechanism made sure of that. How could I have known that forcibly opening the fridge would lock the door and keep me prisoner in here? With no power there was no other way of getting the food out. The absurdity of my circumstance made me laugh again. Sam purred weakly. That was two weeks ago. The rations that were meant for the five of us were already half gone. I wasn’t sure if I had eaten more than usual, though it felt like it helped. With every meal I hoped to replenish some brain power and come up with an idea to get me out of this mad situation. To no avail. The door was shut tight. My fingers rested on Sam’s head. I couldn’t feel him breathing anymore, nor any other movement. There it was. The end. I stood up and looked at him. He was alone there. And now I was as well. I picked him up and put him in his little bed. My fingertips were cold. My breathing became faster. I was standing in the middle of the room and felt like a giant, there was no space above me. I needed to get out of this old and sad air. When I looked at Sam, all I could think of were the last twenty years that he had spent inside. Why? Real cats longed for freedom, for adventure. But Sam wasn’t real. My love for him was more real than he was. His lifeless body filled me with anger. This anger was real as well. I was thankful that his eyes were closed. I wouldn’t want him to see me like that. It was funny. I tried not to laugh but I couldn’t stop myself. It was the most honest reaction I had since I got stuck. Laughter turned into desperation. My backpack flew across the air and slumped to the ground. I picked it up to throw it at the window again. Again. No stopping. Again. And again. With all my might I continued hurling the heavy thing at the glass. Again. The aliens must have enjoyed the one man show. A sight to remember, surely something that they would tell future generations. Again. Oh how they loved it. My ears hurt. I could not stop screeching. After my nineteenth throw something happened. The sound of a backpack hitting a glass was missing. Replaced by a dull noise, produced by the metallic curtain that had come down crashing to protect the window from breaking. It was shut, and the room was... brighter? Everything had changed. I fell to my knees. It took a while until I realised what had happened. With the window now shut and the illuminating stars gone, lighting had changed. My only source of light was the emergency sign on the ceiling. And a new one on the ground... I rubbed the sweat from my eyes and slowly followed the white line to a gap in the door. New light. Like an animal I rushed to it, crawling on the ground as fast as I could and, to my surprise, was able to open the door completely, without issue. I put my foot outside. Freedom. I had served my sentence and I was now free. Back on my bed, I started stuffing my backpack with everything I deemed even slightly useful. With the fridge in the doorway to prevent the gate from suddenly closing, I sat there for a moment. What now? Back to the dining hall? That would be a start. I doubted that the others were still there, I couldn’t blame them for thinking me dead. Surely they had left a message somewhere, considering the amount of food I had promised to bring. Or what was left of it. I took a last look around. It had been a long time since it was so bright in here. Sam was still in his bed, it looked like he was sleeping. It was thanks to him that I did not succumb to despair in the last two weeks. What would have happened if his charge had run out sooner? There was no reason to think about that now. I petted my friend’s head one last time and said my goodbyes. It was time to leave, there was someone else who was waiting for me. It was time to find Esma.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: *“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” - Dr. Seuss* - **Theme: Memories** / - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** A photograph and/or photographer plays a *key role* in the story. With the holidays around the corner, it’s got me thinking about memories and the role they play in our lives. This week, I want you to write a story inspired by the theme of memories. I’ve provided a quote and two images for additional inspiration (you are not obligated to use them). You may use the theme as creatively as you wish as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (it is worth points). Note: We have returned to the standard 300-word max for stories. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: As of Oct 16, there has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for Just one winner this week! - u/wileycourage *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.