Every time the elevator doors open to your floor, you think to yourself, "I really wish I didn't live all the way at the end of this hallway". The buzzing lights are just a little bit too dim, and you feel eyes behind peep-holes following you as you tread quickly and quietly over the stained carpet. It feels like an eternity, but when you finally get to your door, you realize you've forgotten to pull your keys out from your pocket. You try to look back towards the elevator using your peripheral vision as you jam your right hand into your pocket to grab your keys. You don't want them to get you by surprise, but you also don't want them to know you're looking for them. Shit. Your keys snag on your belt and drop to the ground. Their jangling is deafening in the hum of the hallway. You bend your knees slowly and wince as they give away your mistake with a small cracking sound. But you keep your back fully straight and maintain peripheral eye contact with the elevator - they won't catch you off guard. Your left hand brushes the dirty carpet below. Fuck. Where are the keys? You can't look down because you know the moment you stop paying attention, they'll be right behind you. You realize that your back is entirely wet with sweat. You steel yourself and quickly glance down - there they are. You snatch them from the ground and immediately straighten your legs, shooting upwards into a standing position. The feeling of doom in the pit of your stomach drives your eyes to dart right back towards the elevator. There's nothing there. But this doesn't help you feel any better. You still need to get the key in your lock. You've done this so many times that you know the feeling of your apartment key in your hands, and you identify the correct key without looking away from the elevator. You start the search for the keyhole - you know where the lock is, and you know the teeth of the key point up, but the keyhole is small. But you won't look away from the elevator again. With a slight tremble in your hands, you blindly scrape the key, teeth upright, against the lock. Two agonizing seconds pass. Where's the hole? All of a sudden the key slips in easily as you hear the comforting clicks of the tumblers. You realize you've been holding your breath. You turn your key clockwise, still with your eyes on the elevator. The humming feels louder - you can almost feel it buzzing behind your eyeballs. You need to make sure nothing follows you inside. The lock opens and you push down the handle. The weight of your body against the door pushes it open, but as soon as it's wide enough to let your body through, you dash inside and slam the door closed, never once taking your eyes off the gap between the door and the frame. You're home.


Go ahead, ask anyone about the life and lies of Squidward and I assure you, there will be an overwhelming amount of negativity to suffer through. This hate against the classic villain from SpongeBob has been fostered over years of careful production, through hours of screenwriting and voice acting. Squidward is portrayed as the evil of the show and naturally, that means he is. The off-blue octopus did not have an easy life, of course. Living next to a neon yellow, overly enthusiastic, and possibly mentally ill sponge with his cognitively impaired best friend takes a lot of energy that the character just didn’t possess. As introverted of a character as he was, it also seems cruel to put him on the front lines of a restaurant, dealing with navigating the ins and outs of society. On the other hand, the sea creature wasn’t necessarily the friendliest in return, even when one factors in the inner workings of the story, seemingly all set against him by default. Having lively neighbours isn’t necessarily a justification to be stuck up or rude, as Squidward has been described. People have even gone so far as to describe him as a “terrible person” who “doesn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy,” credit to u/\[deleted\]. Is this judgement too harsh? Could it be that Squidward is a being merely longing for love, but having his heart broken time and time again? Only time can tell, and it surely did. As one may or may not think, depending on their dedication to SpongeBob or simply their intelligence quotient, after the era of SpongeBob ends none of Squidward’s personality will have mattered anymore. Not one thing, good or bad, could be remembered by him or his peers, unless of course you consider the producers of the show to be peers. On that day, the entire era, the childhood of many, the show will be ended. That’s right, the flow of creative work came to an end and media began a new period in time. But this leaves the mind scattering to find peace – what happened to Squidward? Now, of course, the characters of the show could not have died, it is simply not feasible. The death of something that never truly existed – is that really possible? Well, in a sense yes. But think not of it as a physical death. The characters simply ceased to exist, leaving behind everything they called home but at the same time one most wonder… are they not still there, stuck for eternity in the closing scene, down in Bikini Bottom? In the famous words of Billie Eyelash, when Squidward falls asleep where does he go? When you think about it closely enough, it all really makes sense. He’s in a constant state of being somewhere between the living and the dead, a sort of Limbo, if you will. He can’t feel, see, hear, smell, or taste anything, as all his spirit is tethered to are fading memories, as soon as those memories die out, whatever is left of him now will just be forgotten by the sands of time, a place where many a soul will always end up. The rest of Bikini Bottom has suffered the same exact fate. Empty streets with buzzing streetlights, vacant homes alive with mildew and molds, not a whisper to be heard, just the material plane left untouched for eons. Not a soul present, yet not a soul removed. This, to the purest and innocent of souls, could seem overwhelming. It’s not anything to fear though, this fact of life. That is, for most people. But then, of course, a select few, the Chosen Ones if you will, have the desire, the pulling force that guides them to look deeper within themselves and discover the dark truth. That maybe, just maybe, death really does exist for those in the Bikini Bottom. And that possibly, in some alternate universe not fully discovered but slightly unsheathed to those most worthy, the characters of the show lay in wait. Their bodies decomposing into smithereens just as the houses crumble and the stove corrodes. Of course, they can no longer feel it. You may think. They are, of course, gone, dead or not. But then you realize that in some glitch in the metaverse, they feel everything around them. They are simply unable to react. Squidward can still feel the pain of his entire life, stemming from the pure hatred stacked upon him from his first day of existence. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, Squidward is able to reflect, feel, but not react. And then you realize, as you, now embodying the being and whole of Squidward, drift off into what may seem to be a fever dream at first. But you know it is real. Of course you do. Enter Squidward, a man who had no desire in life other than to make others happy, to keep them well. Life did not harbour the same plan for him. Flipping burgers wasn’t where Squidward wanted to be. His one true desire in life, the only thing that could truly make him happy was… nothing. And it wasn’t a matter of being picky, no, it truly rested in one’s realization that the squid would never be remembered in a good light. The Creators, the worshipped ones, had decided that an enemy of the plotline was needed and that decision, in and of itself, created both a victim and a monster. Squidward. His generous, giving personality did not match the attributes assigned to him, in fact they went against the biological capabilities of a being’s brain. And so eventually Squidward snapped and became what he was portrayed as. At first it was difficult to conform, but soon it became a part of him. At first his true being started to become merely ‘watered down’ by the mask he was wearing, but soon this mask became a part of him, whether forced or by some sort of… intrinsic evil nature. Squidward became the person he swore never to be, and while most of his brain had become in line with what he was his morals, his ability to simply know what was right, had not changed in the slightest. And so he was not happy, knowing that he would be remembered as the squid with no heart but with no ability to change this fate. The moody, depressed squid. The picky squid. And he was. The ending of Bikini Bottom was a bittersweet moment in time for the middle-aged squid. As he continued to grow old, he had grown more into this bewitched personality and completely lost his true identity, but his moral standings for what was right had grown stronger by the minute. And so as Bikini Bottom faded to a grey and white memory, Squidward did as well. SpongeBob lost all life in his eyes, Patrick lost his smile, Mr. Krabs’ blissful nature disappeared. But Squidward, besides the change of color, had no change in the lack of life behind his eyes, or his always annoyed facial expression. As Squidward’s entire city crumbled around him and his ever-conflicting biological alterations came to a standstill, he did not care. Even in Squidward’s last moments of life, of being, of existence, no life in his eyes was detected. It had never been. As long as the Squid had existed, he had been seen as a terrible person, one with no capability to love, to feel. Little did they know that he was capable of such things, but that they had been ripped away by the capitalism of the media once again. Bikini Bottom would never be his home, not after what they had done. And as the city lay still, one by one, everyone forgot about the emotional turmoil “Squidward’s character” had caused them. But Squidward, his conscience and his being, will never forget. He will remember. You come to, with either a new realization or a deeper one. Squidward is in the multiverse, thinking and feeling, with conscience but somehow, lacking consciousness. But of course, in a world with so many possibilities is it not foolish to assume that this is the correct one? What secrets are revealed in another, undiscovered territory of the verses that we have yet to experience? Well, of course, it is just as foolish to attempt to dwell on this, and to figure out every possibility in a sea of them. But there are some things that simply need to be touched on, spiritually and physically. The slide guitar being one of them. And of course, you and Squidward, your souls now morphed into one in a way from your past experiences, feel yourself drift into what seems to be another experience. But this time, it is not out of body. You can feel yourself, your tentacles, your bald head. The clarinet you enjoy so dearly to play seems to harmonize with another instrument off in the distance. You guessed it, of course you did as a long-time member of Bikini Bottom – it’s the slide guitar. And unbeknownst to most, but to you and to Squidward; a sad slide guitar plays somewhere in the distance just out of earshot. A weeping soul, broadcasting it’s last hoorah on our soul wavelength; you then realize, it’s not sound your hearing, the guitar is communicating with you directly. It’s but a messenger for feelings previously unfelt, experiences most unknown, warnings and omens of the coming trials of tomorrow. We have yet to face them, but they will surely bring us to that same dingy lake one day. It reverberates through the trenches of the abyssal zone in the deep ocean, snippets of information being lost in the dense mass of water. The surrounding pressure feels, strange. Void of life, you may not realize it now, but this world you believe to view is devoid of any life, including you, a cob which has left behind it’s husk. A wandering spirit. These pitch black navy waters crushing you down but only in a silent and determined way. Millennium pass during your trek of these deep sea trenches. As you exit this mind-altering state of being, you do not feel fulfilled as with the last flash of vision. You are filled with envy and with dread – almost as if you are beginning to experience an existential crisis, if you will. But different than you have felt before. This leaves you feeling, feeling more than you believed to be humanly possible. You may not want to hear more of this dreadful, eye-opening material but curiosity and a passion to know what is beneath keep you from turning to the exit. And so you move forward through the dark halls, taking turns in directions never before travelled. You open doors that are pathways to memories, new experiences never showcased in the seemingly happy show. You are in the backrooms, of what you do not know. Each door you pass is a possibility, and each you do not open is one you will never gain knowledge from. You stop at the passageway featuring a cascading blackness, a level of unlight you did not know to be physically possible. And it isn’t. But you are no longer in the physical world, no. You have entered the limbo. You are the limbo. Opening the door provides a wave of dark, sinister feelings but with that you bear more knowledge. And the further you walk through this, the more you realize, and the more you fear. You come to a great fork in the road that is existence, you choose the one that calls to you most. And you are faced with yourself, and with the turmoil of life itself. He still lingers in the salty depths of the underwater world, deep below, farther down than any human was ever meant to survive. But we, we feel this thing that Squidward is experiencing, some lost in translation, but a burst of passion, if anything. This abyss leads places that intelligent life may never know about, these deep winding tunnels only mocking us, coaxing us deeper into the depths of the unknowns. There is no fear, no sadness, no happiness, nothing. We have only ever experienced, and only ever will, but only so much. Squidward knows of this as well, he refused it his entire waking life, even during sleep at times. A miserable life led to nothing other than a foggy cavern of mystery for our beloved Squidward. What an unfortunate series of events, from the canned milk to the clarinet, he was a mortal soul, calling out into the void, praying for an answer. None was given. Now he is left alone in this moisture to contemplate what he once was, a mind without a matter, a life, without death, and a death, containing nothing other than his true essence. Fear. Running out, back, up out of the dark state of mind you are in seems to take forever. And of course it does. The state of mind cannot be changed once it has been altered like this. You become one with this darkness and you are permitted to leave the abyss. But if you do not, you will stay in the depths and eventually become one with it, but not by choice. You accept the depression, the terrible realization that what once was will never be. And of course you are let out of the abyss, but there is nothing else to life other than the abyss now. Everything has lost its color; you are fading just as Squidward has. All that is left are the possibilities, and they envelop you. One stands out. In it, you are back to a realization that you have almost had before, but with a much deeper understanding of what is and what is not. In this alternative way of existence, you do not see Squidward but you know of his presence. Unbeknownst to the sea creature, he was born into a world where abstract constructs are all the eyes will ever see. This deep longing he dealt with his entire life, compacted only into a thought, occurring within a split second; ceasing continuation within an infinity of time, going by in a spark. This bursting decadence he once felt, then stifled by his own machinations. Soon not to be, and to be, he never was, he lives on in one way or another. His fleeting light, trapped in a limbo, a one dimensional plane, with four dimensional pieces. His whole life, though passed and experienced, he knows nothing about. Memories begin to fade, what once was his life, his love, his hatred, and his pride are all burning embers of an extinguished flame. Though he knows not now, he is subject to what many might consider a personal hell, what mortal minds see as bad, he merely just sees it. Without a body, he is left to only receive. No sight, no sound, no taste and no feeling. Merely his fading memories there to guide him, confused and dazed as a life form, he is now a supernova, a black hole, a universe. But once more, he knows not of what he witnesses. Staring into the deep blue and pitch navy-black trenches of the abyssal sea, he wanders, searching. Though a lost spirit, he is curious; a feeling once again felt after decades of empty existence. On, off, on, off, he lived only once in binary. Flowing now, he is able to see what he once missed out on, fearful of what lies past the horizon of this cruel pressure. Non-physical, he may be, but every immeasurable amount of pressure he still bears. Eons pass as he wanders the boundless stretches of lonesomeness, stuck in a timeless zone of constant fluctuation. The feeling has been present since the end, an instant realization that these waters, as large and infinite as they may be, they are lifeless. Devoid of any and all other conscious beings. Numbness may be the only description of this silent cavern of salt water. What lies above the surface he has never tried to explore, in dreams he may venture to god Neptune, nay here, he lay quiet. This deafening hollow landscape, fading exponentially, some may want to reflect. This soul we watch after does not. Distant steel guitar plays, just out of earshot, it weeps for us all, though of course, it’s only sitting in with his own reality. Playing notes never once before heard, it carries a message hidden between each memory, faded but available, it is found once more. His soulful coil ever changing in a non-Euclidean sort of way. His last moments of activity consist of more wandering, the same wandering he refused to give up in his physical being. Gone. Inactive. Wiped away, he ceases to exist, you may believe he was once here, but as a mortal being, we may never know the truth of our own inner workings, and those who have already left us in more ways than one. Sands of time have consumed his every part and trigger, everything that was once around him growing mildew and mold. Wallpaper slowly ripping itself off of his once habited abode. At the point in which you are, coming back from such darkness no longer seems to be a possibility. You long for the bliss that SpongeBob and his friends possess, and that is when you realize that Squidward is more a part of you than ever before. Squidward was a being entered into the Limbo before any other, existing in a world he was not meant to be in. Would you be happy in such a way of life? Of course not, and this has been proven to you today. It seems that the only thing you could really find comfort in at this point is the satisfaction of knowing that someone relates. Squidward. But of course, who is to say what is and what is not, as previously stated? How can we be sure that Squidward is what we think he is? The only real proof of Squidward's existence is from the creator's mind, so at the end of the day he could be completely different, and the animator could just have a bias against him. Is it possible that a very similar, yet different biologically of course, Squidward-like-human exists somewhere. Technically Squidward could be anyone, since no one has proof of how he looks or what he's really like, beyond the mind of the media. You could be Squidward, but you wouldn't know it since your brain doesn't have the capacity to understand that it is. No one is Squidward, he does not exist. But everyone embodies him, in every way, shape, and form. You exit the journey, no longer the same, no sense of joy within your soul. Every aspect of ignorance and bliss has been stripped from you, and you are left in the desolate and dingy lake. It is too far below the surface for anyone to see you and help you out, but too close for you to lose your last sense of hope and stop treading the waters. Oh what a realization it will be when it becomes known that you are tethered to the bottom of this bottomless abyss. There is nowhere to go but down, and there is no end to life or to death in this Limbo either. You hear the guitar somewhere beneath you, and you hear the sounds of boats atop the lake. Squidward is everywhere around you, but no where in sight and not reachable by any force known to man or to any living matter on the known universe. His weeping may be heard another day, from another sky than ours, he will call you, he will call I, limbo may be around the corner, but that will never stop you and I from living what he may have never been brave enough to live.


###Deadline Changes! **Serial Sunday Campfire has moved to 1pm EST (Saturdays). That means that the deadline to submit your story is now Saturday at 12pm EST - this is for all submitters, not just Campfire attendees. The feedback and nomination deadline is now Saturday at 11:59pm EST.** #Welcome to Serial Sunday! 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. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Night! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘night’. Night is often seen as a time to do things one wouldn’t in the light of day. Darkness provides cover for many things: the taboo, the illegal, the otherworldly. In some worlds, the darkness may be dangerous. In others, it could be the only safe time to travel, work, or socialize. What does a night in your world look like? What kind of things come alive when the sun goes down? Are there forces hiding in the shadows, stalking the streets? What type of trouble will your characters get into? Maybe they are searching for something only found in the darkest of places. Maybe your characters are dabbling in evil forces they don’t really understand, like summoning the creatures of the night set on destroying them. Or just taking one night to let loose and have some fun. 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. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - May 1 - Night (this week) - May 8 - Offering - May 15 - Perspective   *** **Recent 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 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **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 catalog. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **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 or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **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 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **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 each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based 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), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *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” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/MeganBessel   - - by u/katherine_c   - - by u/Gailquoter   Crit Cred this week will be awarded to thread & Campfire stars. There were a few individuals that went *way* above & beyond expectations with their critiques in Campfire. You guys rock; keep up the great work! - **Campfire Crit Star**(& thread) - u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Campfire Crit Star**(& thread) - u/katherine_c - **Campfire Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Campfire Crit Star** -u/Gailquoter - **Crit Star** - u/MeganBessel   *** ###Subreddit News - 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 using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Story includes a bicycle of some sort (unicycle would be accepted.) This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you **follow all sub and post rules**. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.). And just for fun, . The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **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 & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/Tommygunn504   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/merbaum   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - **Crit Star**: u/merbaum - **Crit Star**: u/katherine_c - **Crit Star**: u/katpoker666 *Please note: To receive your Crit Cred for r/WPCritique, you have to have made at least one post on the subreddit **or** link your accounts on our Discord.* Feel free to DM if you have questions. *** ###Subreddit News - Check out our brand new feature, on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


At the height of the pandemic, I quit my job, packed up my life, and moved back in with my parents. Moving back into my childhood home came with many conflicting emotions—while it was something nostalgic and familiar, I also felt like a stranger in my own home. Luckily, my parents welcomed me and my puppy Brownie with open arms; after the death of our beloved family dog 2 years ago, it was clear that they enjoyed having some companionship around the house again. It was a good change for Brownie as well—I could tell he preferred living in an actual house versus our cramped studio apartment in the big city. He loved having so much more space around him and enjoyed exploring all the new smells in the neighborhood. On our walks, I would usually take Brownie to a small park near our home as most dogwalkers in our neighborhood frequented that area. I had also befriended some of the regulars there, so it was a good opportunity for both the dog and I to socialize within our new community as well. There was a larger park located outside our neighborhood that was more quiet and serene that I had never taken Brownie. Our late dog Samson had loved this park but we hardly ever took him there because it was farther away (~20 minute walk each way). So for Brownie’s first birthday, I decided to take the long trek to this park to kickstart his big day with a new adventure. As a former street dog, Brownie had very strong instincts; sometimes it seemed like he had a built-in GPS. He had never even been to this park but as we got closer to it, the harder he started pulling towards it. He knew all the turns and paths to turn to get there—even I had to navigate our way there with Google Maps. Without a beat, he dashed past the playground, swing set, and benches to a fenced off area that I had never noticed before. It was the size of a dog park enclosure, although it didn’t seem like it was one as the grass looked pristine and unused. There wasn’t any signage that indicated what this area was either. Right in the center of the garden was a patch of beautiful flowers, arranged in a rainbow-like gradient. Brownie sat in front of the open gate begging to go in. I was hesitant because I didn’t want him to mess up the garden as it looked like private property. He absolutely refused to move so I relented, “Fine, just five minutes.” I looked around to make sure no one was watching us and went in, closing the gate behind us and taking off his leash. As usual, Brownie sniffed and galloped all over the garden. I was worried that he would make a mess but thankfully, it didn’t seem like he had left any marks. This place seemed like a paradise for him and he didn’t want to leave, but I stuck to my guns and enforced the five-minute rule. After some whining on his end, I had to carry him out and walk him home. The rest of Brownie’s birthday went well. We got him a doggy cake and invited some friends and their dogs over for a party. He got all his favorite treats and all the love from his favorite people (and me). As I was getting ready for bed at 11pm, I noticed Brownie sitting by his leash. Once he saw me looking at him, he started to whine, indicating that he wanted to go for a walk. It was strange because we never walked him this late at night so he had never asked to go out at night. “Sorry boy but it’s late, I promise you’ll get a longer walk tomorrow morning,” I said. He didn’t seem happy with my response and started crying loudly, borderline howling. Not wanting him to wake up the entire family, I gave in and started putting on his harness and leash. The second we were out of the door, he started running in the direction of the large park. “Brownie, slow down boy,” I wheezed. “I can’t keep up at this speed for 20 minutes.” He stopped and sat, looking around as if to re-evaluate his surroundings. He spent the next couple of minutes sniffing the ground and after that, he took a different direction, leading me through a series of unfamiliar alleys. As we were still new-ish to the neighborhood, I had absolutely no idea where we were going and honestly, I was a little afraid of what we were getting into. However, no more than 5 minutes later, we arrived the large park. Somehow, Brownie had found a shortcut to this park—which was very impressive. Thankfully, the park was brightly lit by streetlamps so I felt more at ease, although there wasn’t a soul in sight. Once again, Brownie begged to enter the fenced garden. “Five minutes,” I said, and we went inside. As I closed the gate and bent down to unhook the leash, I heard something footsteps and panting coming towards us from a distance. I looked up to see a white schnauzer running towards us, its tongue sticking out and looking overjoyed to have found us. The dog completely ignored Brownie and came right up to me, rubbing his face all over my leg and licking me all over. This poor baby had probably been lost in here without its owner and was dying to be let out. He looked just like Samson and reminded me of him as well, because he would also nuzzle & lick me every time I came home for the holidays. “Aww hi baby,” I cooed as I squatted down to pet him. “Are you here all by yourself? Where is your family?” He looked at me with longing eyes and licked my face. “Aww you’re so adorable, you look just like my Samson,” I said as I looked into his beautiful brown eyes. His ears perked up as he got even more excited and started running around me in circles. Meanwhile, Brownie seemed elated to have found a new friend; he followed the dog trying to sniff his butt. Upon noticing Brownie, he stopped, sat, and stared at me with sad eyes. “Oh I forgot to introduce you two! This is Brownie, today is his first birthday so go easy on him,” I joked. “He may look scary but he’s a sweet boy just like you so you will get along great!” Brownie tried to nuzzle up to him, licking him all over his face but the dog looked devastated for some reason. After a few moments of petting him and trying to get them acquainted, the dog started to perk up and reciprocated Brownie’s licks and butt sniffs. They got along great, chasing each other around the garden and rolling around in the flowers. After about 10 minutes of playtime, both dogs came back exhausted and laid down on either side of me. I took this opportunity to search the lost dog for any ID tags but he didn’t have a collar or anything on him at all. I reached for my phone to take a picture of him but realized that I left it at home as I thought we were just taking a quick walk around the neighborhood for Brownie to potty before bedtime. The dog crawled into my lap and looked up at me with his big sad puppy eyes. He was such a sweet, adorable dog and I felt bad for how sad he must have felt being all alone here. I was glad he was having a good time with us. As I got Brownie ready to leave, I realized I couldn’t just leave this dog alone in the middle of the night. I didn’t have an extra leash with me so I tried scooping him up into my arms. He happily obliged, but once we walked towards the exit, he jumped out of my arms, ran towards the flower patch, and laid down there. “No it’s okay sweetie, I just want to give you a nice warm bed to sleep in tonight. We’ll find your family tomorrow, okay?” I told him. He still refused to budge. I tried carrying him out of the gates a few more times but each time, he would leap out of my arm and lay in the flower patch. Even if I didn’t carry him, he would refuse to follow me out of the gate. For a dog that looked at me with so much love in his big eyes, he sure did not want to go home with me. I checked my watch and it was close to midnight. Brownie seemed exhausted and I had to let him go home to take care of him. “Fine, you can stay here tonight,” I told him. “But we will be back here first thing in the morning to help you find your family, okay?” He just stared right back at me. I felt my heart crumple with guilt as I turned around and left the park with Brownie. I had only known this dog for less than an hour but it felt like I had abandoned him. Brownie looked sad to leave as well, but I couldn’t keep him out there all night either. The next morning, I recapped the events of our night-time adventure to my mom over breakfast. “I’ve never seen a fenced-up area at that park, it must be some kind of construction work,” she said, sounding quite surprised. “Maybe, but it didn’t look like there was any kind of work going on there at all,” I responded. “The garden seemed quite tranquil and well-maintained as if it were someone’s lawn.” “Who even leaves a dog at the park in the middle of the night?” “No idea, I know I felt awful leaving him behind but I had no other choice, he completely refused to come with me. He was a white schnauzer that looked like Samson and he seemed to like me while I was there.” Mom gave me a hard time, saying I should have tried to take the dog home with us and that there was no excuse to leave him behind to fend for himself. I know it was wrong of me to do so, but I had genuinely tried all that I could to lure him out. Annoyed with my bad decision, she decided to come with us to the park to help check on the dog. “Come on boy, take us through the shortcut again,” I told Brownie. Again, he sniffed around to find his bearings, but he looked back at me with confusion in his eyes. I sighed. “Fine, I guess we’ll have to take the long route.” 20 minutes of walking, sweating, and panting later, we finally made it back to the large park. My eyes searched all over for the fenced garden, but it was nowhere to be found. We walked around the park whistling, trying to catch the attention of the dog that was there the night before. A couple of passersby gave us judgmental stares, but we ignored them and focused on our search. I walked my mom over to the spot where the garden had been. The fencing was gone but the rainbow flower patch was still there. Mom walked towards the flowers and gently ran over them with her fingers. “Pretty, aren’t they?” she remarked. I nodded my head in agreement while Brownie started sniffing and licking the flowers. “When we buried Samson here, we planted these flowers to add a nice touch to his grave. I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long considering they were planted 2 years ago,” she said. My jaw dropped. “Th-this was where Samson was buried?” I stammered in shock. She nodded her head in sadness. “Yeah, we wanted him to have somewhere to run about and play in the afterlife… if it exists, of course.” I stood there in silence. “So where was the garden where you found the dog last night?” Mom asked, looking around the park. I slowly lifted my finger and pointed to the flower patch, “Right here.” Mom’s face went pale as we stared at each other in disbelief. I had always felt guilty over not being a good owner to Samson. I had moved across the country for college when he was only 4 years old; even though I’d come back to visit over breaks, I still felt like I had missed out on most of his life. Despite this, he was never angry with me and he was always ecstatic to see me every time I came home to visit. When he was diagnosed with cancer at just 8 years old, I immediately traveled home to see him. Even while he was ill and could barely walk, he was still upbeat, energetic, and over the moon to spend time with me. When I left a few days later, I held him for hours, crying because I knew that it would be the last time that I ever got to see him. Weeks later, my parents texted me that Samson had passed away peacefully in his sleep. The guilt of leaving him behind pained me every time I left, but it weighed heavily on me especially hard that last time. Even when I adopted Brownie over a year later, I still felt guilty about loving another dog. Somehow, maybe Samson’s spirit had held onto our world just to see me again one last time. If that were true, I finally understood why he was happy to see me but sad when he saw Brownie. I felt a tap on my shoulder breaking me out of my thoughts. “Look over there,” my mom pointed to the left. I turned my head to see a rainbow lighting up the sky and smiled. I’ve never really cared for rainbows, but this one filled my heart with warmth and love.


I open my eyes and I see an all too familiar sight. My white padded room with one light bulb hanging above. My legs are broken and cast while they hang above me. I have been sick in my mind for a very long time, but today is a new day. To my left are monitors that read my vitals and currently indicate that I am physically stable. To my right is a plastic cup of water and two pieces of bread on a padded table. I’m too dazed to eat, I feel as if I have awoken from an eternal sleep as the things around me feel like the things in my head. I have been in this room for what feels like several lifetimes, but I know the real prison is my own self, containing the evils that have plagued me like all illness all the time. I have a feeling however that forever ends today. The doctor entered my room and informed me that my casts are ready to be removed on my legs, the reason for them being there still remains a mystery to me. I take my meal and eat while several male nurses in protective gear come to remove the casts, those who weren't cutting had tranquilizers at the ready. While confused, I continued to eat and soon enough the casts were off and the nurses were gone. I stare at my bare legs and see whole patches of yellow skin that was once blue and swollen now healed from whatever destroyed them. The doctor comes in again with an armored assistant and asks if I am interested in a new experimental medication that has the possibility of curing the hell in my head. He says we can start today, and hands me the bottle and leaves. I take two with no water. Five minutes. Nothing. Two more. Ten minutes. Nothing. \*two more\* I am alone in the room and yet I hear many voices. \*take two more\*. I hear it again telling me, begging me. Maybe just two more. I do as it tells me. The walls around are melting, yes they're melting to the floor. What reality is this? \*take it all\*. What will become of me? \*you will become what man was, is, and always will be…an animal. true terror that no god has ever seen, for you will become the god that all vulgar creatures will bow. we are the serpent, this pill is your apple, and you are getting hungry.\* My hand moves not by my doing, but by whatever thing foul or fair above me. I do as I am told. My vision turns a shade bloody red, and my eyes are truly open! There it is, I see it! Never has evil been shivered so much in fear at what I see in front of me. \*you are the black goat, the one sent by worldly powers to tear this world in two by your claws. all flesh will fall at the sight of you and no kingdom of this world will overcome the rage you unleash upon it. with your mighty horns may you rip the world apart until they are reduced to bare nubs, may you consume until you are left to gum what is left, may your screams be heard until you are reduced to aching whispers, and may you march in darkness until you are left to slither on the world that remains.\* I shall. I take the single light bulb that hangs above and shatter it on the ground. In darkness I screamed until a curious nurse came to inspect. He enters slowly and calls my name. I ambush him from behind the door and slash his throat with the glass. So brutal and so swift was my hand that his last words were left to mere sounds of wind. I close the door to mask the unholy preparations I make for my rampage. The guards notice the trail of blood leading to my room and prepare to breach. They enter and are left in a nauseous confusion as my once white room now a maroon confinement stands shockingly before them. \*now\* I pounce from above and sink my claws into the chest of the strongest man there who fell to my feet…heartless. I take the two on my left by their legs and use them to smash the four on my right. I pummel them all until there is no solid left as I crush the heads of the weaklings fallen at my feet in violent strength. One remains and he stands at the end of the room. I stand stronger, a beast no longer man, covered in fur once black now a deep crimson and I move toward him. The man takes his weapon aimed at me as he shakes at the sight of otherworldly fear. Whatever torture I would have brought upon him will remain unknown as the man turned the weapon on himself while I was only three steps close. \*now eat, for I have provided\* I shall. I exit the room and lay waste to all the poor souls who remained in my godless sight. Floor number one, floor number two, three, four, five, six. Six, six was the medication warehouse. I fill a bag with as many bottles as it can hold. I retreated to my room as advised by the morning star. He instructed me to commit evil so heinous that no one man could destroy it, and to be the bridge between evil of this world and the next. I climb to the top of the asylum and already I see the waves of soldiers entering the gates and at the mere sight of me some begin to cry. The thought of God was unthinkable in a time like this. They assume position below me as I stand mighty above them. I go to take my final bites of the life giving bits of the darkness below, but on the bottle I notice it peeling. I remove the false label and read “sugar pills”. I have been in a constant battle with my inner and outer self, and this was the excuse it needed to escape. I knew that my time was up and the voices in my head became muffled as my mind raced toward the end. I decided that no hand will take me other than my own. So I look over the edge of the roof and see my inevitable doom. I close my eyes and take a step. \*your doing is now undone, but darkness remains forever. rest now for your time is over, in my cold arms may you suffer for all time. wake again as i cast you back to earth just as i was, and may you continue this pain for as long as pain can be felt\* I shall. Evil was the cold hand that gave me the strength to escape my own self, but it cannot save me from this. I open my eyes and I see an all too familiar sight. My white padded room with one light bulb hanging above. My legs are broken and cast while they hang above me. I have been sick in my mind for a very long time, but today is a new day.


Somewhere, there is a forest. This is true. Somewhere, inside that forest, there is a sword. It is old and rusted; stuck straight up and down into the hard brown dirt. It has stood there for a long time, longer than you or I have been alive, a symbol of *something*, even if no one quite knows what that thing is. This, too, is true. Once upon a time, there was an adventurer. You can call him such, but a plethora of other names will do just as well: a writer, a storyteller, a bard, a musician. He traveled across the world gathering stories, recording them with his pen and voice and a variety of other means. He spoke of dragons in the clouds and fire smoldering under the earth, of people together and people apart. Another truth. However, as stories are told and retold and spread, their edges warp and become unlike the original. Their meaning distorts, perhaps even until you can no longer recognize it as what it once was. They change with each telling according to the whims of the teller, and every person carries a separate version within their heart. This is true as well - or do you disagree? No matter. This is my story, full of my truths. If you should write your own where the above statement is a lie, I shall not stop you. Fill it with the words that ring true to your heart, and cast aside mine as lies. But this is not your story, not yet, and to me, these words shine true, and so too they will in this story. This is fair, I believe. But once, although no one - not even I - knows where or when, he stumbled across this sword. He saw its rusted edges and imagined that it was not always so; that it had been grand and gilded and wielded by kings. And, as a storyteller must, he went forth and spoke of this sword and the legend. This is... questionable. He might have done what I have described above, or he might not have; simply writing or speaking of the sword as an odd occurrence, a coincidence of fate. But he told the story to at least one person, and they told it to at least one more, and it spread. Perhaps it was him who originally shaped the truth into a legend, perhaps it was not. There is no way to know for sure, so let us move on. Regardless of how it happened, or who had made it come about, the story changed. No longer was the sword simply a sword; it became so much more. It was a monument to a fallen kingdom, they said, the last legacy of a dying king. Whoever could wield it was worthy, no, whoever *found* it was worthy. It meant the coming of better times, the coming of a savior! It meant a destiny grand in its expanse, a story that would awe the entire world. It became hope. This, at least, is true, even if the legends surrounding it are not. Perhaps the sword truly is magic, awaiting a savior to herald a golden age. Perhaps it was simply the marker of a grave for a fallen friend. Perhaps it held no true significance at all, lost or abandoned by one who did not want it. It is impossible, I think, for anyone to ever know for certain. When you tell this story, you may decide what it is, or perhaps what it isn't, or if it even exists at all. Perhaps the stories the people tell about the sword are false. Perhaps they are true. Perhaps it doesn't matter at all. Perhaps what truly matters about this sword is not what it was, but what it became.


People, it turned out, had gotten God backwards. You learn this when you’re out walking your dog one evening. Your dog is an awesome dog. He’s been your buddy since you were a little kid, seeing you through good times and bad. You love him very much. You watch him sniff at a clump of leaves floating in a puddle for a while as you think of this. Then, you hear something high up in the air, like a plane but louder. A lot louder. You realize that it’s trumpets. Before you can even wonder why you’re hearing trumpets all of the sudden, a bright light fills the sky, turning night to day. Finally, the clouds part, revealing a giant dog in the sky with a brilliant halo between its floppy years. You drop your dog’s leash, but he doesn’t go anywhere. He’s just as stunned as you. The giant dog, accompanied by a chorus of winged dogs singing the most beautiful notes you’ve ever heard, gives a single bark. It echoes through the entire Earth, and you feel it practically in your bones. And then your own dog is singing along with the celestial pack, actually and genuinely singing! The most you’ve ever gotten your dog to do is stay for a few seconds, but there he is now, singing in a language you don’t understand but seems to be mostly howls and whines in a gorgeous arrangement. The song ends and your dog bows to the sky dog. And now he starts flowing in the air. You try to catch him and bring him back down, but he keeps slipping from your grasp, getting ever and ever higher. You grab onto his leash and feel yourself being pulled up. but then the collar gently loosens and slips from your dog’s neck. You fall roughly to the ground as he floats up and up and up into the sky, which you now realize is full of other dogs. There have to be thousands–no, millions–making their way to the giant sky dog. The sky is alive with yips, yaps, woofs, barks and howls. All you can do is look up and watch the dogs pass, one by one, through a shining gate and dissolve into golden light. You spend several hours doing this, never once getting used to the sight. When the final dog passes through, the trumpets give one last report and fade. The giant dog withdraws back into the clouds. Just as suddenly as it began, it’s over. The following day it was reported that all dogs everywhere in the world have disappeared, floating up into what one can only presume is doggy heaven. Meanwhile, all the humans stayed, well, right where they were. Absolutely nothing happened to them at all. Everyone in the world was left to ponder questions that will never have any answers, at least not for them. Time passes. Humans, while sad, get used to a life without dogs. And then, one evening, the sky opens up once more, and a great white cat appears in the sky.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Different perspectives are what make the world go round in real life and also in stories. Depending on what you are trying to achieve, your choice of point of view, can change how a story is perceived. Do you like the intimacy of first person or the broader world view of third? Are you into second person, where you can bring the reader in, in a unique way? - **What is your preferred POV?** - **How does it fit into your narrative goals?** - **If you use a lot of different ones, what influences your choices?** - **Any advice to others on using different POV?** - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.


“Alexander, I need you to make me an oath.” My brother, Edmund, said. His eyes never left the fresh graves of his wife and son. “Of course, what is it that you had in mind?” I replied. “If I was to ever turn, I want you to put me down.” A stiff breeze blew through our family’s estate as I stood there dumbstruck and confounded. How would one respond to such a mad request? Edmund turned to me; his eyes glazed with tears as he struggled to keep his composure. “Please, I beg of you.” As I attempted to respond, he collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his hands. The emotional dam burst, and he began to bawl. He cried with a ghastly symphony of howls and sniffles as he lamented the loss of his true love as well as his flesh and blood. I crouched down to his level and held him like a father holds a pained child. I rubbed his back in a bid to calm him down. “Listen, Edmund.” He did not stop but quieted down to let me know that he would listen. I let out a deep sigh, “I do not think that it will ever come to that point.” I stopped for a second and thought it over. The sheer thought of my little brother turning into one of those things sent a chill down my spine. I shook away the thought and continued, “But if it did, I would be the one to put you out of your suffering. You have my word.” That was years ago, 1891 to be exact. We both went our separate ways after that. The corruption was difficult for all people no matter who they were or where they were. No one is quite sure how it started. Some believed it to be a plague brought in through the east. Others believed it is a worldwide hex created by a witch resurgence in the United States. There are even those who would believe that it is divine punishment. The hows, whats, and whys don’t matter right now. Whatever it is, it has the horrific effect of transforming people into horrific, deadly, and unstable monsters. Before they are turned, people described someone, or something, had called out to them with the offer of great power to help them. It makes sense because those that are turned are always those in need or in pain, whether it be physical or emotional. Normally, their call is easily disregarded, but fear and desperation can take anyone to the brink. No two Turned are the same, the corruption relied on the person’s own personality as well as their wants and needs. In my time, I have witnessed horrid mutations like a young lady who suffered from a phobia of fire turn into a hideous witch with the gift of pyromancy, or an old man terrified of growing old and frail become a volatile mountain of muscle. These people known as the *Turned* are hazardous and are to be exterminated at once. Now, Edmund was a gifted doctor and used our families wealth to put himself through medical school. He even started his own office at the manor, so that he could help more people. After the corruption, his skills were in high demand as many had either fallen to the corruption or became victims of the Turned. The English military even hired him to exclusively use his services. As for me, I wasn’t that smart. Being the first born son, my parents had left almost everything to me, but I rejected it. I instead opted to give it to Edmund, I knew he would make better use of it. I always knew I would join the English Navy. I joined up as early as I could and made a name for myself as a skilled enforcer and rifleman. That eventually led to me in my current job of eradicating the Turned for the English military. The last thing I wanted was to receive notice that my family’s manor was labeled by the military as lost to the Turned. Unfortunately, that is exactly what I received. I immediately gathered my supplies and set off for the manor, I knew what I had to do, and I dreaded it. The estate was a good couple of hours outside of London on horseback. I couldn’t use those new motorized vehicles, they were too loud and unreliable for my job, so a couple of horses and a wagon worked fine. I had left after midnight; it was safer to travel that way. The cover of darkness masked my approach, and the rain dampened my noise. The wind howled like a wolf, and the rain poured like a waterfall, blanketed in darkness and water these were less than optimal conditions, but I had to make do. I saw it from miles out, the beacon of light that was the manor sliced through the darkness. I followed the road, a splash of water echoed with each step of my horses. As I approached the front gate, I noticed that it was already open. Hardly a surprise since others like me had already been dispatched to the manor, but they never returned. With the chill of the night having set in on me and my horses, I directed them to a nearby stable that we had in the entrance. I had hopped off the wagon and splashed mud on my boots and trousers. I sighed at the discomfort and untied my horses from the wagon and left them in the stable so they can rest in an area not drenched in rain. The patter of rain filled my ears as I stepped back to my wagon and pulled out my weapons. First was an old family heirloom, a bastard sword that I had refurbished for combat. Its shiny steel surface sullied by scratches and notches in the blade, each one represented a Turned that had been ended by the sword’s cold metal. Second, an experimental lever action shotgun that I had commissioned from the John Moses and Matthew Sandefur Browning Company in the United States. Lastly, a simple knife that I acquired in my time in the Navy. These Turned were supernatural in nature, but they required no special process to put them down. No holy water, no garlic, and no silver. If it could kill your fellow man, then it could kill them. I slung the gun over my shoulder then holstered the sword on my waist and approached the entrance. I took care to not to slip on the smooth stone steps as I came upon the front door. Mere inches from the door, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what had to be done. I grasped the cold iron handle of the door and pushed. The heavy wooden entrance gave way and creaked as it exposed the inside of my old home. I then stepped in and forced the door shut behind me as the wind tried to keep it open. I pressed my back against the door and surveyed my surroundings. The wall sconces were lit up and the chandeliers glowed. Beyond the smell of wet leather that emanated from me, I made out the smoky scent of lit fireplaces as their flames danced against the darkness. Their radiant heat warmed the manor but failed to cut through my damp clothes and chilled armor. It was quiet, but the drum-like sound of rain against the window and the persistent howl of wind was all that reached my ears. I unslung my gun and clutched it in the leather wrapped underbelly of my hands. I cautiously walked forward being careful to produce as little noise as possible. The further I moved in, the more the dreadful sickly sweet scent of decay reached my nose. The scent of death was so fierce that I could taste it. A bitter and sour flavor that made my face scrunch up. As I rounded a corner, I froze in my tracks. There down the hall were several bodies mangled and twisted. With my gun leveled I approached, my heart like a steam engine in my chest. As I got closer, I could see that they were well in the stages of decay with dark and bloated skin with a horrific stench that emanated from them. Their uniforms informed me that they were some of the soldiers sent in before me. I attempt to investigate further, but from behind me I hear him talk. “Alexander?” I slowly turn around and that is when I see what my brother has become. “What are you doing here? You shake as if in fear.” His voice broken into two separate vocalizations that spoke in unison. He was horribly altered. His unkempt light brown hair and light green eyes remained, but his body was not the same. He was two full heads taller and wider than me. Long gaunt arms the length of a man hung at his sides each with deformed fingers that ended in large keratin daggers. The sour stench of death came from his now dark purple skin. But his most prominent feature was the massive cavity in his chest. One could fit a whole child in there. “E-Edmund.” I barely get out as I shook like a dog in the rain. I take a deep breath, “Edmund, I’ve come to fulfill my oath to you.” Edmund’s eyes move around slightly as he tries to remember. His eyes widen quickly. “No, I’m so close, you cannot. My actions would be for naught.” He said. Confused I lowered my gun and asked, “What are you talking about?”. He replied, “My brave son and beautiful wife. I have to bring them back to life.” I snapped back, “All you are doing is killing innocent people.” I quickly readied my gun at his head as I could feel the tears as they took shape in my eyes. “You made me take an oath, years ago.” I lowered my finger onto the trigger, “If you were to turn, I would put you out of your misery, brother.” I paused a moment, “I’m here to make good on my oath, I’m sorry, Edmund.” I pulled the trigger, but it went awry as the tip of my gun was forced up and redirected the shotgun blast away from Edmund as he furiously scurried away as dust and debris fell from the newly minted hole in the ceiling. The thing holding my gun was one of the bodies from before, but now reanimated. “What in God’s—” before I could finish, the newly risen corpse repeatedly thrusted a broken saber at me. It managed to pierce my coat several times, but not the metal cuirass I had underneath. I kicked it as hard as I could in its ribs with a loud crack as it tumbled backwards. A dent in his dark blue coat appeared where my foot connected. While it struggled to get up as its limbs lagged behind its torso, I pulled the lever back on my gun. The spent brass casing crashed on the floor with a heavy clang. With a new round in the chamber, I put my foot down on the body to keep it steady as I aimed and fired at its head. A disgusting spray of dark half-rotten grey matter and clotted blood drenched the wall in front of me as the loud thump of the shotgun blast echoed through the manor. “Please, Alexander, leave me. Get out of here now and flee.” Edmund’s voice echoed through the hall. There was still part of him inside that creature, but that only strengthened my resolve. I needed to keep my oath to him. I exited the now soiled hallway I made my way to the room where Edmund did all his work, his study. The trek to his study was a quiet one, save for the rain outside and the distant sound of footsteps. There were more of those creatures in the manor; he had killed many and resurrected them all as part of a horrific experiment, a desperate bid to get his wife and son back. But nothing worked, so he kept at it until the military caught wind and sent soldiers out. As I was within sight of his study, I could hear a commotion behind me. It got louder and louder until a large group of those same resurrected creatures charged at me. I panicked and fired off my remaining five shells at them where a few fell to the buckshot lead wall. I decided to make a mad dash for the study, I had to end this now. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and sprinted down the hall. The door nearly splintered when I slammed it open and I closed it tight, locked it, and threw a heavy oak cabinet over it. With my left side now in pain from tackling the door, I saw Edmund who stood in the corner, motionless as he looked my way. Sadness and anger welled up in me as I unsheathed my sword. “No more running, Edmund. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m putting you out of your misery!” I yelled out to him. “Leave now-.” I didn’t care what he tried to say, I charged at him and swung down as hard as I could. He attempted to block with his arms, but the blade cleaved through one arm and damaged the other. Viscous dark blood screamed from his wounds as it filled the room with its vile metallic scent. He roared out at me like an enraged bear. He used his remaining good hand and struck me back. I flew backwards into his bookshelf with a large thud. I gasped for air as I struggled to get on my hands and knees with my newly dented chest plate. Books tumbled down around me while I reached for my sword, but Edmund grabbed me. He dug his claws into my shoulders around the armor and one claw rested on my face. He slowly squeezed with each claw driving itself further into me like a hot knife through butter. As blood trickled down my face, I reached into my coat and pulled out my spare knife. With all the strength I could muster, I brought the knife to the underside of his arm and sawed my way to bone. With his tendons cut, his grip vanished, and I worked my way free. After a yelp of pain then a quick stumble, I reacquired my sword and brought it down on his neck. The blade stuck halfway in, but I placed my foot on his shoulder and yanked. Blood sputtered from his neck as he reached up at me with limp fingers. I readied my sword and swung once more. The blade cleaved through the remainder of his neck. His head was severed and dropped to the ground with a thud. I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked down at my bloodstained sword when I heard several other thuds beyond the door. I peeked out to find the reanimated dead once again, their source of power gone. I looked over at the corpse at what was my brother and collapsed, both from exhaustion and grief. I never thought that he would be one to turn, but it seems that it could happen to anyone. I took his body out of his study. Turned or not, he deserved a proper burial. I buried his corpse right next to the wife and child he cared so much for. He wanted them back so badly that he let himself become corrupted. As I stood there over the same graves where my oath was made, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could be next to turn. I could hear the dreaded call of the corruption as I stood there with tears in my eyes at his grave.


**I dedicate this story to my boy Guilou, a dog that only knows love.** Frank was special, unique and unnoticed. And Spork was it, the only one who witnessed the magic. But all Spork wanted was a scratch he always wanted a scratch. He waited; waited for Frank’s eyes to match his then he’d roll over. Frank hated this, especially when he was onto something and he was on to something tonight. “Well you know how it is, when you smell roses, you love the smell but it’s never permanent. People always dream of being permanent, I just got lucky.. lucky to smell like the roses only I’m much longer lasting. And I guess you could say that maybe winning this medal, it could possibly make me permanent.” Frank said. Frank was pacing erratically back and forth. Spork would watch from the floor, as Frank neared, he’d roll over and move his paws in a downward fashion. Frank usually would pass right by and head the other direction, but every once in a while Spork got lucky. Frank this time was near the kitchen getting ready to sit in a chair for five seconds. And then he was off to the bathroom, to stand in front of the mirror. He was talking to himself. “Being a man who worked his whole life I was lucky I got to bloom. I took an interest in skiing when I was young, very young and dedicated my life to it. It’s humbling to know that my work paid off.” He said while watering his hands and pushing his dirty hair off his forehead. It was unusual that Frank discovered his magic before eating especially on Friday, he usually was worn out. His days were long today no different, but he knew it was a mindset, and a possibility. And today that possibility was a reality. He was in the bathroom for a while, mumbling and when he finally did exit; he did so with the biggest smile. After all he was a successful Olympian gold medalist and right now he was giving his interview. It was a methodical interview, one he considered to be of fine taste, being that it was Valentine’s Day. And of course he was talking to none other than Amy Pogger, a sports reporter. She was blushing and sexually aroused. Spork was now by the front door lying in front of the glass that was on the side. He was on his back moving his paws towards his belly. He had his eyes on the kid outside, and was hoping for a scratch. The kid just so happened to be delivering food, Chinese, but hadn’t made his presence known yet. He was watching Spork, though with great amusement, until of course, he noticed Frank. “Hey honey will you be mine? How about if I win another Gold?” Frank said while pacing at an ever increasing speed. He laughed, made faces and moved about in an unpredictable fashion. He was like a Turkey walking through the forest. The man outside tried to remain discreet, and continue to observe the magic that unfolded. Frank didn’t know it but this was his first spectator. He began dancing, lifting his legs and moving them side to side, swinging his hips. He was spinning in circles and came to a sudden stop; his head was facing the door. He looked at Spork and just like that… the magic was gone. His face was now blank and he was staring right at Spork, then out the window. He couldn’t see well from where he was standing. It was dark outside. After a few seconds he turned and ran into his room. “ Awww Fuck Fuck fuck fuck god damn it, stupid fucking Olympics!” He said while stomping his feet into the ground. Frank was upset and panicked; he knew there was a possibility someone was watching him especially since he ordered food. Frank didn’t have his money ready and was weeping in the corner of his room. He couldn’t remember what he ordered pizza or Chinese. He very rarely remembered anything that was routine, it was more habit necessary for his survival. Frank’s life revolved around routine, routine was his crutch without it Frank was a loss. He was easily distracted. And today he deviated from this routine. His Fridays always started the same way he got up, ate shit, and went to work. It was physical work, work that needed little attention to detail. Then he drove home and ordered pizza or Chinese, depending which he was in the mood for. After that he'd turn on the T.V., smoke a cigar and wait to pay for his food. He always had his cash, in hand straight to the dollar which was one of two numbers $14.50 or $23.47. Once he ate he showered, fantasized about women and would go to sleep. Spork was oblivious to Frank, and hoping a hand would come through the glass and hit his underbelly. He braced himself with excitement as a hand neared the glass above him. “Ding Dong Ding dong” Frank heard the noise and slowly excited his room, and casually walked to the door and answered it. “Hey Boris you're late, you usually get here 10 min earlier.” He was looking at Boris with suspicion. Boris was half grinning trying to keep the whole grin from surfacing. “Hey man nah I was just running late you know how it is, sometimes we're busy.” “Oh” Frank said doubtingly and gave Boris the money, $23.47 to be exact. “Wow thanks man why so much this time, I guess I’ll be late more often.” Boris was smiling; he almost thought and pictured this as Frank maybe bribing him. “Just get outta here alright.” Frank said, grabbing his food. “Don’t worry man I getcha your secret’s safe with me daugg.” Boris said walking away, the door slams. \ That night was long but Frank slept well, Spork slept well too, he had a belly full of rice and toilet water. It wasn’t uncommon for Frank to forget to feed him, but when he did Spork would take matters into his own hands. The next morning Frank woke to his practically empty house. It had one chair, a bed , a dresser a table a T.V. , all the standard appliances and a tipped over trash can. He saw the trash can, looked at it and went to his recliner. Grabbed his computer, lit a cigar and started his day. Spork followed and would lie on the floor next to him. After Frank and Spork were done inhaling the smoke from Frank’s cigar. Frank got to business. He started with the internet and would read the reviews. Any review about anything would work as long as it was considered great. Today he was reading about one of the greatest books of all time. When he was younger he read some supposedly great books, and was disappointed. They were no longer great books. He learned fast however and noted that if the book was to remain great he must not read it, so that is what he did. He did this with anything and everything great. He was a man who loved the mere possibility of something being great. He loved to imagine it, he loved the hype and used these reviews to prepare himself. He was a magician or an artist waiting for inspiration to strike. The book he was reading about happened to be a book about spirituality or enlightenment. And that’s when Frank became the next prophet. He quickly put his computer on the floor and slammed his recliner shut and jumped to his feet. “You fucking aren’t good at anything you’re a gay piece of shit with a flabby ass.” Linda said to Frank. Frank really did have a flabby ass. Linda just so happened to be one of Frank’s characters, part of his imagination, she was fat and nervous. But in this instance she was saying everything to Frank that she was too afraid to say. Frank was open and unintimidating. “That is ok my dear I can be whatever you like me to be.” Frank said composed and calm while turning his left butt cheek. He was smiling and pacing again and almost laughing. “How clever, how clever.” He said to himself. “You think that’ll stop me and everybody else who hates you. You act like your better than us.” There wasn’t an “us” a minute ago, but now there was, a whole army of people. They were all displeased with Frank. “Why cant you see the truth, look to the light my friends, and you too will not be afraid.” Frank said, trying to calm this crowd down. The crowd didn’t care, they tied him up with ropes. And drug him around a campfire. “I love you all, each and every one of you and I too am not displeased.” “If you loved me why am I fat perform a miracle, perform a miracle come on perform a fucking Miracle!!” Linda yelled. Frank loved curse words; he loved them so much, he felt it added something to his thoughts, a flavor maybe, a style. Linda and her posse were furious. They continued to drag Frank around the dirt till he looked like fudge-sickle. Then Linda had the crowd pick Frank up and drop him into the fire pit. Frank was burning and cringing and all dirty. He was covered with soy sauce as he rolled around the trash in the kitchen. He looked up and saw Spork lying next to him on his back and… the magic was gone. “Nope, Spork you sick son of a bitch. Look what you did you made a fucking mess.” Frank had yet to punish Spork for his trash digging and actually hadn’t said a word about it till now. Spork though was carefree as always and got off easy. Frank was looking at Spork and on closer inspection noticed a dried Lo mein noodle stuck to his chest. He reached for it. Spork’s body oozed excitement, he was expecting a scratch. Frank grasped the noodle with the tips of his fingers and peeled it off. Spork's attention shifted to Frank's hand then the noodle, he smelled and tried to eat it. That Saturday was a good Saturday, it was a productive Saturday even if Frank didn’t clean the trash in the kitchen or feed the dog. If it wasn’t a part of his routine it didn’t happen and on Saturdays he didn’t have a routine, except for feeding Spork which usually Spork took into his own hands. However Frank slept with four girls all beautiful, was enlightened, became the president and fixed our government, only caught 2 diseases they were terrible and he was pitied, wrote six award winning books, created the new tastiest restaurant, beat up a few guys he knew for pissing him off, had more money than the pope, killed a rapist, survived in the wilderness for 30 days in the harshest of winters, fought in a war won the medal of honor, taught kids the meaning of life and parented them to be successful, and sat in his chair and enjoyed 3 cigars. He never once scratched Spork. \ Now it was Sunday Frank's worst day of the week. He woke up with a frown knowing that Saturday which had a possibility of being the greatest day ever wasn’t and therefore it was disappointing. And of course work was around the corner. He would refuse to get outta bed, in retaliation but always after an hour or two he’d get up. Spork would too. Frank would begin his day with Routine, which already made this day not the greatest day ever. He’d start by cleaning the trash. Then not forgetting the humiliation he faced on Friday. He grabbed a blanket and created a crude blind for the glass on the side of the front door. He did so by taping the blanket to the wall with some duct tape. “I hate you Spork your fucking worthless.” Frank said. When Frank talked Spork would get excited and roll over. It was still early so Frank had yet to concentrate on his upcoming work, but when he did it was not unexpected that he’d have a meltdown. His Sundays sometimes were like that, especially when he couldn’t accurately predict what would happen on Monday. Once he finished the two chores Frank sat down in his recliner, lit a cigar and turned on the T.V. He saw an ad that showed a man in poor health all due to cigarettes, so he thought to as why he smoked in the first place. And came to the conclusion it was because of peer pressure and not being in control. He saw guys at work do it, they said it was good for stress. And that’s when it hit his magic. He quickly stood once again this time uneasy. “Hey Frank, how was your weekend man?” “Well Joey my weekend was fabulous I… I …… I god dammit no no no fuck you fuck you Joey go touch yourself!” Frank yelled. Frank was upset. He was combining his magic with his routine or rather the routine he’d face in the future. He did this from time to time and he knew it was taboo and yet still a possibility. Frank was a control freak. His magic was special and worked because he controlled the outcome but today he mixed it with an unpredictable outcome, a mere possibility. “So you mean again you’ve done nothing you’re a loser boy.” Joey said. Joey was the new guy at work who always asked Frank if he had a good weekend. They worked the assembly lines together bolting wheels onto cars. Frank hated Joey but Frank hated a lot of things. And Joey would always ask Frank these questions in front of everyone else. “Joey you’re a fucking variable a fucking variable but today im ma… gonna come up with something great I did this weekend youll see.” He thought for a second and for another, hours passed. He was angry and wanted to say he did things around the house. But he said that last week. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?” He was crying, and on the floor in the fetal position. He’d been there for a while trying to sleep the day away. He rolled over and felt a lick on his nose. Spork was lying there on his back with his face next to Franks. Frank opened his eyes and just like that…. the magic was gone.


Ben Johnson had recently graduated from college and worked as an intern at Bloom Trust, a financial services firm. He was in charge of the coffee runs, the copying, and the crucial launch order. He was late for his first day, and all of the good spots had been claimed by other interns. The lone remaining office was a filthy closet containing an old computer from 2008. However, when he arrived at his desk, there was only a single sheet of paper with one sentence: "Please begin the launch." Ben looked around for someone to advise him what to do, but everyone was too busy to bother. He didn't want to appear dumb, so he started it himself. When he turned on his computer, he noticed a file called the launch, and Ben shrugged and began the program. Ben's computer began to perform erratically as soon as he double-clicked the file, cycling through various files, strange numbers, and images. A massive, black screen appeared before him, displaying the message "INITIATING LAUNCH sequence." Ben's heart raced as he realized that whatever this file was, he should not have clicked on it. When he tried to close the file, he found that his computer had locked him out. He could only stand there helpless as the countdown proceeded. Ben had an idea with 10 seconds remaining. If he could simply unplug his computer from the wall, he might be able to stop the countdown to whatever was about to occur. Ben attempted to unplug the computer, but it began to beep, causing him to pause. The screen sprung to life, revealing an image of a smiling skull. "Hello, Ben!" exclaimed the skull cheerfully. "I'm your new computer's operating system! I'm here to assist you with all of your computing needs!" The skull continued to speak. "Don't worry, Ben," it reassured him. "I won't replace your old operating system; rather, I'll work with her to ensure your computer runs smoothly." Ben was browsing his new operating system when he spotted something odd. It featured a slew of weird suggestions for him, such as "bring an umbrella tomorrow, it's going to rain," and "tell Shelly you like her new haircut." But it also featured some unusual ones, such as "become a work genius" and "earn millions." Ben initially thought the OS was weird, but he saw that the ideas were genuinely helpful. His company was performing better than ever, he'd been making profitable stock market predictions, and his coworkers were suddenly taking notice of him. He was the office's golden boy, all due to an old computer that no one else wanted. After months of unparalleled achievement and attention to his coworkers' needs, his boss called him into her office. She informed Ben that she had seen his work and was impressed by what she saw. Ben was overjoyed when his boss informed him that he had been promoted to vice president of financial services. He was only twenty-three, but how could he say no to a six-figure salary and a corner office? His dreams were being fulfilled. As he packed his belongings to relocate to his new corner office, he realized he wouldn't be able to get anywhere without the assistance of the outdated computer he had been given. Ben stayed late at work that night, waiting until everyone had left before sneaking into his old office and unplugging the old computer. He moved it to a basement storage closet and plugged it in, ensuring no one saw him. He figured it would be there for him whenever he needed it. At first, the computer's suggestions were personal but helpful and benign. The computer would offer helpful suggestions like "You should delete your ex-girlfriend's number from your phone" or "It might be time to change your password." But then it made darker recommendations, such as "Why don't you choke her the next time you see her?" or "Perhaps it would be fun to stab him in the stomach." Ben was becoming concerned. He wasn't sure if the computer had been hacked or if it was simply becoming too clever for its own good. In any case, he was no longer at ease with the computer, and he made the decision to erase its memory and start over. Ben was a skeptic who refused to believe in anything he couldn't see or touch, including the supernatural. So when his computer started suggesting that he hurt others, Ben dismissed it as foolishness. But then Ben's computer suggested he hurt his boss, and he began to wonder if the computer on which he had come to rely was evil. He considered unplugging the computer but remembered how successful he'd been due to its advice. Maybe there was a reason for the computer's suggestions after all? Ben decided to give it another shot and see where it led him. Ben began a covert investigation of his boss based on the advice of his computer. He eventually found out that his boss attempted to frame him for massive fraud. According to the computer, she was a threat to him, and she needed to be confronted. Ben had been feeling unsettled all day. So, when everyone else had left for the day, Ben decided it was time to confront her about it. Things didn't take long to get heated. They began arguing, and before long, they were shouting at each other. Ben grew so upset that he snatched a paperweight from her desk and smacked her in the head with it, instantly killing her. Realization began to dawn on him as he stood over her body. He'd just killed his boss, and there was no way he could cover it up. Ben walked down to the storage area, anxious. He'd never killed someone before. When he reached the storage room, the computer greeted him and instructed him on how to cover up the murder. Ben followed them step by step, and by 6 a.m., the task was completed, just as the morning crew arrived for the day's work. He exhaled a sigh of relief and returned home, knowing he had just committed the perfect crime. Ben's trust in the operating system became stronger after that; they had killed together and had reached the point of no return. Ben continued to follow the suggestions of the operating system. The next time the computer urged Ben to commit murder, he didn't hesitate; he knew what he had to do. And thus, it went on for years until Ben and the operating system were promoted to President of the Bank. A promotion obtained via hard work and, of course, the murder of anyone who stood in their way.