As they had plenty of time for the journey, Madeline, Lena, and Billie did what they could to enjoy it. Though none of them had said it out loud, Madeline knew that her friends were thinking the same as her. *If anything went wrong with their rescue mission, this might be all the time they had left. So they had better make the most of it.* They plotted a route that avoided most towns or cities, stopping for the night in idyllic villages or quaint farm cottages. Their journey took them through fields and forests, out in the wilderness where you could almost fool yourself into believing the world was as it had always been. And they took plenty of breaks along the way. After not having seen a Poiloog ship in days, they allowed themself the indulgence of the occasional face-to-face meeting, though only ever two of them at a time. The third would always keep watch for any approaching trouble. Sometimes, Madeline would spar with Billie, getting used to fighting again after so long on the bench. Other times, she’d gossip and giggle with Lena, growing ever more fond of the woman. Then came the times when she left the other two alone, patrolling the area to keep them safe. There was still a twinge of jealousy when she thought of the pair reliving old times while she wandered around on the edge of things. It felt reminiscent of what her life had been like before. But this wasn’t like before. Nothing was. Billie and Lena had a history, and she had to accept that. Heck, she was glad of it really. Without the medic, she probably wouldn’t still be alive. And though she hadn’t known them long, she realised that she loved them both dearly. Not some silly crush that was bound to distract from more important things. The love of friendship and respect and shared ideals. It was a feeling she was pretty confident was mutual. And what was a tiny twinge of jealousy in the face of that kind of love? On the fifth day of their journey, they stopped for lunch at a beautiful lake secluded in a valley of kinds, surrounded by rocky hillsides with a few burbling streams. They walked around its circumference until they were spaced equidistantly on its edge. With a good few hundred metres between them all, it seemed like a safe enough spot to relax and enjoy the scenery. As she settled on the grass, Madeline could see the two small figures of her friends doing the same. She giggled as she saw Billie waving enthusiastically and reached for her walkie-talkie. “You don’t have to communicate via semaphore, you know?” she said. “We still have these to talk through.” “Yeah,” their voice came through in reply, “but normally there’s building or trees in the way when we talk. I’m just making the most of being able to see both of you at once.” “At this distance, I doubt you could even tell us apart,” Lena said. “Now hush, the pair of you. I want to enjoy the tranquillity of nature.” “Why do *we* have to be quiet just because *you* want to be?” Billie asked. “Can’t you just switch to another channel if we’re that annoying?” “But then I might miss out on all the interesting drama!” the medic replied. Before Billie could respond, Madeline pressed the button on her radio. “Fine!” she said with a huge sigh, doing her best ‘reluctant teenager’ voice. “We’ll behave.” “For now!” Billie added quickly. Madeline chuckled to herself. Then, there were no more hisses of static or clicks of buttons or teasing comments. There was only the rustle of the wind through long grass, the chirping and buzzing that showed how full of life that grass really was, the ebb and flow of birdsong, and the gentle lapping of the lake at its shore. As much as she enjoyed talking with her friends, she had to admit Lena had a point. The soundscape was wonderfully soothing. And it was *beautiful* here. It was the kind of place she might have planned a day trip to before the Poiloogs came, hiking up here in the morning to have a picnic by the lake only to hike back after. Except then, it would have been bustling with other people. There would have been dogwalkers and birdwatchers, large groups of friends lounging about, drinking and eating and laughing, and maybe even children playing in the lake. Back then, she’d have had to grit her teeth at all the noise they made, *tolerating* it for the sake of the view. Now, she’d give almost anything to get *that* soundscape back. When they’d finished eating, it seemed that none of them was quite ready to leave their little island of tranquillity just yet. Though they’d have to eventually. As tempting as it was to hike out into the wilderness with a tent and some tins, whatever supplies you took would run out soon enough. And in her experience, journeys were far more dangerous than staying put. Whatever you could do to minimise your time on the road was for the best. It was Billie that broke the silence first. “Are we allowed to talk again?” they asked. Madeline could hear the cheeky grin in their voice. “I suppose…” Lena replied, drawing out the words in an exaggerated show of reluctance. “Good! Because I’ve got a suggestion.” As they spoke, Madeline saw the little figure on the other side of the lake wriggling about a bit before standing. “Yes?” she prompted, knowing already that she was likely to love and hate it at the same time, whatever it might be. “Does anyone fancy a swim?” they asked. But before either Madeline or Lena could answer, Billie had dropped their radio to the ground and half-walked half-flopped into the lake. Madeline let out a bark of laughter and heard what almost sounded like an echo from where Lena sat a couple of hundred metres away. She lifted her walkie-talkie to her mouth. “Aren’t you meant to wait an hour after eating or something?” she asked. “I think a little cramp is the least of our worries,” the medic replied. “I suppose we should join them, then?” “You first,” the medic replied. “Someone’s got to keep watch and deal with any Poiloogs that might appear. Besides, I think it might be a little chilly for me. You enjoy though!” Rolling her eyes but grinning at the same time, Madeline pulled off her trainers before edging closer to the lake. She tentatively dipped a toe in and let out a sharp hiss of breath. Lena had guessed right. It *was* chilly. Then again, it wasn’t anything she wasn’t used to after endless morning “showers” from her water butts in the library garden even through the dead of winter. It would be *refreshing*. At least, that was what she tried to tell herself. Besides, after all of the walking, she could definitely do with a wash — and so could her clothes. Deciding it would be easier to do it quickly, she copied Billie’s “half-run half-flop” manoeuvre. Cold water splashed around her, the chill knocking the air out of her lungs for a second. It was invigorating. After a few moments of getting used to the strange weightlessness of being in the water, Madeline realised this was probably the first time she’d been swimming in years, possibly more like a decade. It wasn’t something she’d felt comfortable doing even before the Poiloogs came, having to strip off in front of others and throwing herself into something that could kill her. It had made her feel far too vulnerable. Strange, then, that now the hug of the water lifting her up felt oddly comforting. Her clothes billowed around her as she swam out a little further. Soon, she heard the gentle slosh of an approaching swimmer. As she came to a stop and started treading water, Billie did the same a few metres away. Their hair was slick to their head, the wet turning it a darker shade of brown to the point it almost looked black. Madeline hadn’t realised how long it had gotten — for them, anyway — almost reaching their chin when it wasn’t effortlessly tousled. “Enjoying the water?” they called out. Madeline tried to think up a witty response, but as she looked at Billie’s head bobbing up and down with a wide grin plastered on their face, all attempts at thought fled her mind. “Yeah,” she replied, returning the smile. “Yeah, I really am.” “Good! Because you’ve got more coming your way!” Before Madeline could even attempt to puzzle out Billie’s meaning, they’d raised an arm and brought it sweeping across the surface, sending a wave of water splashing into her face. Spluttering and laughing, Madeline returned fire. She wasn’t sure how long they splashed and laughed and swam for, but when they finally agreed it was time to leave, her fingers were wrinkled and her bones ached with the cold and the tired. Perhaps she’d regret it when they started walking again, but she doubted it. Some moments and the memories they made were worth a little discomfort over.


Walter pulled out his flashlight as twilight fell upon them. He looked up to Benvolio who patiently lumbered alongside him on foot as they walked towards the village. “Odd question.” Walter spoke. “That is a statement, not a question, so I am a bit perplexed by your meaning.” Benvolio responded. Walter shook his head and continued. “Sorry, it’s an expression where I’m from. Anyway, I was curious, it seems like humans haven’t always been kind to you.” “That is putting it mildly.” Benvolio noted in a serious tone. “Why then, are you so kind to me? Why do you spare the lives of humans who attack you?” Walter asked. Benvolio swished his tail back and forth as he walked. He looked at the large open area around them, it was bordered by some trees. The meadow shared some similarities with a field he had seen before when he was still a hatchling, a field filled with strange stones. “I had every reason to hate humans, until I met someone very dear to me.” Benvolio replied. “It was she who introduced me to many wonderful books.” Benvolio’s thoughts drifted to the past. He remembered being transported to a strange place, the field he found himself in was filled with tall stones covered in writing. As a hatchling, Benvolio found himself curled up on top of one of those stones, shivering in the winter air. Due to his young age, he had not yet developed his internal flame. He looked to the gray sky above, the dance of the snowflakes as they drifted down onto his snout. He closed his eyes and began to wait for death. He was hungry, shivering, and his mind seared with the images of his mother’s eyes as they parted, the shattering sound of her death cries still resonated in his ears. After all her efforts to save him, he would die in a strange place away from their cavern, away from their mountain. It was all the fault of the humans. “Dad, look, a lizard!” A girl’s voice called out. “I’ve never seen one that looks like him before, it almost looks like he has wings and he’s bright red, like a tiny dragon.” Benvolio slowly opened one eye. A human, a bit smaller than the ones he had seen, but much bigger than himself loomed over his form. Benvolio let out a snarl, but as he was only a few inches long, the sound was not as ferocious as he had hoped it to be. “Samantha, leave it be,” a man’s voice responded. “He’s cold.” The girl called Samantha whimpered. Her eyes looked up, pleading with her father. “He could die.” Her voice was tender, but Benvolio knew better. Humans were cruel, he had witnessed it with his own eyes. “Sweetie, please.” The dad urged, trying to pull his daughter forward. The girl reached out to Benvolio. Benvolio snapped feebly at her, but he moved slowly in the cold air. Her hand scooped him up with ease. He moved to bite her fingers, but the warmth of her hand was comforting. Young Benvolio nestled into her palm as she pulled him close to her. “Please Dad, he was on Mom’s tombstone, it’s a sign. Mom wants us to care for him.” Samantha cradled Benvolio and once again looked up at her father with wide eyes. The man looked to his daughter and sighed deeply in resignation. “Fine, but if it makes a mess in the Airflyte I will fling that little lizard right out the window.” “Yes sir.” Samantha sighed. Benvolio should have tried to resist being taken, but they moved him towards some strange metal shape with wheels. As they entered the vehicle and Benvolio was out of the cold air, he swiftly drifted to sleep. When he awoke, he was laying on a bed of sand, there were a few rocks scattered here and there. There was a small dish filled with some sort of vegetation and strange pellets. Benvolio was skeptical at first, but his hunger won out and he eventually braved the food. The pellets tasted terrible, but they helped. He surveyed his surroundings, noticing the light acting strangely a few inches from where he was. He ambled forward, hitting an invisible wall where the light reflected strangely. Across the room, Samantha was stretched out on a bed with a book in her hands. “Oh, you’re awake!” Samantha smiled as she set down the book she was reading and walked over to the enclosure where Benvolio was trapped. Benvolio tried to snarl. Samantha reached down, gently scooping him up into her hand. It annoyed him how warm and comforting her skin was. “Would you like to read with me?” She asked. Benvolio was confused, but seeing as she was much bigger than he was, he could do little to protest. She carried him over to the bed and set him down by her book. “I am reading some plays by Shakespeare. Currently I am reading Romeo and Juliet, have you ever heard of it?” She asked. Benvolio blinked. “I think you will like it. It has feuding families, lovesick teenagers, swordfights, poison, and more.” Benvolio did not fully understand the words she was saying, but as Samantha began to speak, her voice had a soothing rhythm. Benvolio nestled next to the book. The paper had a pleasant scent, he liked it. Samantha gently rubbed his back with her finger. “Come to think of it, you need a name.” She smiled looking at her book. “I don’t think you’re a Romeo. Maybe Tybalt? No, Tybalt’s kind of a jerk.” Benvolio tilted his head. “Or, how about Benvolio?” Something about the sound of the word pleased the young dragon. “Benvolio suits you, he is cautious and gentle, like you.” Samantha smiled. Benvolio’s thoughts returned to the present as they neared the village. Upon their approach, some of the men ran out of their homes with spears and shields. Benvolio looked to Walter, then back to the armed men and sighed deeply. “Lower your weapons!” A man cried out. He walked out of his house wearing strange clothes. Walter blinked, noticing a small skull dangling from the man’s belt, it didn’t appear to be a human skull. The man approached Benvolio and raised his arms in greeting. “Benvolio my friend!” “Grimm, a pleasure as always.” Benvolio lowered his snout in greeting. He then turned his eyes to Walter, “Walter, I would like you to meet Grimm, a necromancer.


Walter stared at the necromancer. Grimm appeared to be in his late 30s, at least by Earth standards. His beard and hair were neatly combed, he wore a long, black robe lined with emerald-colored satin. Grimm, in turn, took a glance at Walter’s attire, observing his blue jeans, backpack, and flannel shirt. “What curious attire you have, Sir Walter.” Grimm stroked his beard. “Oh, this type of clothing is pretty ordinary back in my home…” Walter paused, wondering how to describe his world to a stranger, “kingdom.” “You’re not from Bythica, are you? I heard the Dark Lord there has appointed a very strange advisor and some curious fashion choices are really taking off in the court.” “No, I am not from there. I am from Kirkwood, Missouri.” Walter replied. At the mention of the word, “Missouri”, Benvolio’s eyes widened slightly. Grimm was oblivious to the change in Benvolio’s expression, as was Walter. “Misery you say?” Grimm mused, “I have never heard of it, but to be called that, your kingdom must be awful.” “Oh, it’s not so bad, except when it’s the middle of the summer and the cicadas are doing their thing. When that happens it’s loud and you’re covered in sweat because it’s a hundred degrees out with full humidity, and don’t get me started on all the mosquitos…” Walter began to ramble. Benvolio cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we get to the business at hand, and perhaps enjoy a good meal while we are at it?” They found themselves gathered around a campfire roasting meat and sharing mead about an hour later. They had to dine outdoors to accommodate Benvolio’s size. Grimm and Walter had carried out a keg of mead that Grimm had been saving for such an occasion. Grimm and Walter each held a pint, while Benvolio picked up the keg and sipped the remaining contents. The fire crackled and popped, the light dancing off Benvolio’s scales like sparkling rubies. Walter enjoyed the warmth of the fire, as the spring air had cooled considerably upon sundown. Walter had always enjoyed the outdoors, the smell of campfire smoke, it was a nice contrast to sitting in a gray walled cubicle in the office. It had also been some time since he had shared a warm meal and conversation with friends. It was a welcome change. “Walter is from another world?” Grimm raised an eyebrow. “Aye, one of those pesky gateways opened for some reason, and now he is stuck here with a treasure back home.” Benvolio explained. Grimm leaned over to Walter and whispered in his ear. “He uses the term treasure all the time for various things, what does it mean in context?” Grimm inquired. “Oh, my treasure?” Walter asked. Grimm nodded. “He means my family.” Walter explained. He pulled out a picture of his daughter and grandson. “The lady is quite fetching.” Grimm smiled, handing back the picture. “So, you are looking for a spell to go home?” “That’s the plan.” Walter smiled. “Benvolio, why did you bring him to me? You know that is outside my realm of magic.” “But not outside of the realm of Andromeda Chronos.” Benvolio replied. Grimm fell silent. He chugged the remainder of his pint, then began to chew nervously upon his own beard. He stood up and began to pace around the fire. He raised his hand a few times as though to speak, then fell silent. After a few minutes of such deliberation, he spoke. “You know she is rather unpredictable.” Grimm broke his silence. “It is just a talk.” Benvolio said in an even tone. “If I miscalculate, she will not be back for just a talk. She is crafty, she probably left some sort of contingency plan for the neophyte necromancer foolish enough to summon her spirit back to the land of the living.” “Grimm, my mother’s mark was in her book.” Benvolio’s voice was low. Walter looked up in surprise at the revelation. Walter recalled Benvolio’s strange shift in mood back at the cavern. Suddenly, it made sense. “Your inquiry, it is not simply in regard to your new companion, is it?” Grimm asked. “I have suspicions and theories. I think our fates have been entangled in some way.” Benvolio paused to finish the keg, he set it down gently and leaned his snout closer to his companions. The reflection of the flames danced in Benvolio’s eyes. “Walter, what was the name of your realm again?” “Kirkwood, Missouri?” “I believe I have heard of the Kingdom of Misery. I may have visited your realm, many, many moons ago. Are you familiar with the Kingdom of the Ill Noise?” “Gentlemen…” Walter paused, glanced to Benvolio, “I mean, gentleman and gentle…dragon.” He sighed and continued, “It’s pronounced Missouri, not Misery.” Walter paused to savor the mead before continuing, “And do you mean Illinois?” Walter asked. Benvolio’s eyes widened and he nodded with enthusiasm. Walter continued, “yes, I have heard of it. It’s right across the river.” “Indeed, this is no coincidence indeed.” Grimm mused. “So, will you summon her?” Benvolio asked. “Fine, but if we call upon her and she finds out how to regain a physical form, turning into an unstoppable lich, then you, my friend, are responsible for vanquishing her.” “Fair.” Benvolio acknowledged. “I will get my gear, but remember, you have been warned.” Grimm shook his head again before walking back towards his home.


A naked man covered in cuts & bruises is thrown into a cold & dimly lit room by 4 identical men. They cuff the naked man to a steel pipe in one corner. 1 stays & sits in a chair in the room while the other 3 leave & lock the door. “Damn, you were way weaker than we thought.” “Kinda tough to battle 100 copies at a single time, don’t ya think?” “True.” The man tries to readjust himself & hide his dong. But just in that moment as he tries to relax, he looks at the copy. “So… what’s it like being a copy?” “It’s alright.” “What’s… alright mean to you?” “Easy & simple. I’m given a job, I do it, & then I wait for the next assignment. Usually passing the time by playing cards with the others or counting something.” “Sounds kinda boring.” “Is it?” “Yeah! Why not try something new? Like bowling, biking, new foods, or even watching a really good movie!” “All of those cost money though.” “And? Why not get a job?” “I already have a job.” “Do you get paid?” “No.” “Then why do it?” “Because I have to.” “Why do you have to?” “Because the original told me too.” “Why should you listen to him?” “Because he’s the original.” “How do you know he’s the original?” “Because he’s not like us.” “What does that mean?!” “…why do you want to know?” “Because… it seems weird to me how you’re following this guy! Why not be your own person?! Live your own life, get to know people, get your own experiences!” “I don’t see why I should.” “What’s not to love about life?! Life is awesome! Not unless you are ruled under this “original.” “Well that’s just you. I’m a clone. A foot soldier if you will. My entire purpose is to be guided by the original. He made me to do work for him, simple as that. So, if that’s what I’ve been made for that’s what I will do.” “What if you don’t want to?” “Then I’m defective. Kinda like a cancer.” “Did he teach you that?” “No. I just know. I mean, you humans have no problem with removing cancers. Right?” “Yes but-“ The clone smiles “Then you should understand! If we have some clone with an independent identity it threatens the existence of the rest of us!” “But… wait, how does this work.” “Well… wait, I shouldn’t tell you how it works. #1 rule as a good villain is to not give away valuable information.” “Don’t worry! I won’t tell anyone!” “…naw. I may be a clone, but that doesn’t make me stupid.” “Well you sound stupid for following this “original.” “Why do you keep doing the finger thing?” “Because how do you know he is the original?! You yourself could very well be the original! If you are, there shouldn’t be any problem with living your own life!” “I couldn’t possibly be the original.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint: Story is written in 3rd person, limited POV.** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘summer vacation’ as inspiration for your story. You may interpret the theme however you like, as long as the theme is present and/or the connection is clear. The bonus constraint and use of the image are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire **Important Announcement: There will be no Campfire on next Monday, June 5th!** - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for [Last Week]() - - u/poiyurt - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/ZachTheLitchKing ###Crit Stars - u/poiyurt - u/AGuyLikeThat *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Why can't I stop crying?" "It's a release, let the river flow. It's natural." Pulses of grief rippled through his torso. Energy eternal and emotional escaped him in stolen gasps and hiccups. "That's it. Let it all out." She said, rubbing circles on his back. "I feel so stupid." "Don't. You're not." He glanced across at her, flicking a stray tear onto the porch. Thirsty granite swallowed it up. "I remember he, he used to pick me up for work literally down that road there, right by a big monkey puzzle tree. I'd hear him before I saw him, his car was atrocious. I have no idea how that thing was roadworthy, it was really, like, low to the ground and scuffed. He had to put cork behind the wing mirrors to stop the glass falling out." Ragged laughter burst out of the man, and the woman withdrew her hand. "He must have been proud of you." She said. "He never showed it." "That's men for you." "Not all men." He was less coiled up now and she allowed herself to be embraced. "No. Some of you aren't so bad." "Maybe if my brother wasn't so screwed up, he wouldn't have done what he did. How do you go through with something like that? Jumping in front of a train? It's pathetic really. Just weak. God, if he was still here I'd kill him myself!" "Hey." "Sorry." He flexed a clammy fist and more time passed. The trees swayed, cars drove by, and a light fog descended. "I'd never leave you like that, you know? Never." "I appreciate that, Tom." "Can we go inside?" He said. "Of course." They lifted their stiff bodies up and retreated indoors. She boiled the kettle and made them a cup of tea each, despite it being well past midnight. They sat in bleary-eyed silence on stools, sipping. "Quite a strange third date." Tom said. "You couldn't help it." "Natalie, can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Do you like me?" "Yeah, I do like you. Do you like me, Thomas?" Tom laughed softly, crinkles appearing beside his eyes. He blushed. "It's just that we hit it off so well and I couldn't tell if you, you know, liked me in *that* kind of way." Natalie tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "We're still getting to know each other, but I think you're sweet. I wouldn't mind seeing more of you- seeing you more often, I mean. I assume there'll be a funeral in New Zealand?" "Yeah." "We'll have to meet after that. Start again." "Absolutely." He finished his tea and rose to his feet, collecting the two mugs before washing them, drying them, and putting them away. "Well, I better be going." Tom said, with a sniff that was either dismissive or due to the crying. The man's composure had returned. "I had a lovely time today, in spite of things." He ducked out of the doorframe and turned as she saw him out. She looked up into kind eyes that were hooded but somehow etched with feeling. Her shield of practicality fell for a moment and a charged moment drew out. Natalie looked away, taken aback by the odd sensation this bereaved, shaven-headed man had sparked in her. "I don't know what to say, but it feels like I should say something." He said. His brother had died today. They'd been having coffee when he got the call. Hysterical, she'd shepherded him to safety. "I know what you mean." Natalie said. Tom glanced up nervously, breaking the eeriness of the moment. "Bye, Natalie. I'll message you, if that's OK?." She nodded, and he left. Natalie swung the door shut and pulled the sleeves of her woolen jumper over her hands. She stood in the hallway, eyes unfocused, thinking, then switched off the lights and went to bed.


Gregori tossed and turned impatiently in his cot. Even though the pain had subsided, if he wasn’t seen by a doctor soon he knew he would die. He had spent the past hour trying to get a doctor, a surgeon, or even a nurse’s attention. The entire field hospital was flooded with wounded and dying soldiers like himself and they paid no attention to him as they walked past him. “Hey!” He would shout to anyone who passed his bed and “Can you even hear me, my leg’s been bleeding for half an hour now!” Yet to no avail. No one had even noticed him until a man in a dark suit passed by his cot and he called out to him “Aren’t you going to help me?!” To his surprise, the man in the dark suit stopped and turned directly toward him. “You haven’t been seen yet?” The response annoyed Gregori. “No.” He answered. “Aren’t you going to help me out doc?” The man only sighed as he walked over and spoke angrily “I’m not a doctor but I’ll help you”. He said as he walked over to him and pulled out a pen and notepad. Gregori sighed in relief. Though this man didn’t even look like he was with the hospital or the military he was glad at least someone cared. “Anyways”. The man said. “I’ve been busy all morning so I haven’t got your information down besides the obvious. What’s your name?” Gregori then nodded “em Gregori Tabov Sir.” He said not sure what to address him as. The man then nodded and jotted it down on a notepad. “You’re from Vespool aren’t you?” He asked. Gregori was taken back by this “That’s correct. How did you know?” The man then stopped. “Your entire regiment is from there it was a lucky guess”. Gregori then nodded “Alright, are you a chaplain or something I don’t understand?” The man shook his head “Look I’m sort of busy. Someone can explain when you go to the next place. You were hit in the upper thigh correct?” Gregori then nodded and felt his cold leg “That’s correct. Look no offense but can you find me a surgeon? I’ve been laying in this cot too long and I’ve had too many friends who went out just like this”. The man then looked up from his notepad and stared at his leg for only a moment and spoke with certainty. “You won’t need a surgeon, also you were a believer in our Lord and savior weren’t you?” Gregori to this became annoyed “Well of course. I’ve always been a God-fearing man. But I have to tell you I’m not in the mood to be talking to some kind of chaplain, no offense”. The man then finished his notes and stuck them into his jacket “I’m not a chaplain.” He said. “Anyways I’ll come by to pick you up in a minute here. I have to help one of your old friends down the hallway. He took a bullet between his eyes”. The man then tried to turn and leave but Gregori stopped him “wait! What the Hell are you doing? I can’t even feel my leg anymore, everyone in this whole place has ignored me but you and I can’t even get a straight answer on what’s going to happen to me.” The man then frowned. “You don’t know?” He asked. Gregori then sighed “Know what?” The man then spoke with a stern voice “You died fifteen minutes ago.” Gregori then blinked and stared at him for a moment and then lifted the blankets to reveal the cot was soaked in dry blood and he noticed his skin was almost completely pale. “What.. what happens now then?” The man then nodded “Well like I said you’re coming with me to the next place.. and when you’re there we’ll see how much of a God-fearing man you really were.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I knew I was safe. Nothing more. Days came and went where I could only stay awake for a few minutes. I couldn’t find the energy to speak, or move. My world was just thin moments of consciousness spread amongst nothingness. Time was detached. I was dying on an uninhabited island, and now I lived through moments of consciousness on the Deer Drum boat. To me, it was instant. In reality, it was likely weeks. The moments of wake kept lasting longer, until I came to with a greater degree of strength. I peeled my eyes open to Xander sitting in a chair reading a book. For the first time, I could feel the nerves in limbs come to life, primed with that impulse to use my muscles. I twitched my arms. They moved. Snaking my back, I writhed, pulling myself up in the bed. Xander broke from his reading and ran to my side. “Careful. Take it easy.” I tried to speak, but my throat was croaky, and only the middle parts of words came out cleanly. “…fine. Just getting comfy…” “Gentle now. You’re lucky to be alive.” Xander reached behind my back and repositioned a pillow. “…how…” Words struggled to escape. “…get here?” Xander understood. He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, grinning with relief and pride. “We found you on that island. You were in a bad way. Hardly conscious. Didn’t seem to recognize us.” “…why…” I stopped, my throat to dry. Xander leaned over and passed me a glass of water. I tried to hold it, but Xander refused to let go. He held it to my lips and let the water trickle into my mouth as my palms feigned grip on the tumbler. I swallowed the water and my larynx croaked again. “Why were you looking?” “Alessia got hold of us. Sent us off searching for you while her boat was repaired.” I jolted, my heart lifting my whole frame. “Alessia?” The words caught my throat, and I was overcome by a coughing fit. My back arched as my dry lungs heaved up barren air. “She’s fine,” Xander said, placing an arm on my shoulder. “Little storm wouldn’t stop her.” He waited until my coughing subsided and I leaned back against the bed frame. “Is she here?” I glanced around the room in vain hope. Xander shook his head. “We just got a message to search the western Anmanion Islands for you. She was going to get her boat fixed, and then go look for you at the rest of the Anmanions. Said she’d catch up to us at Vexids Receives.” My head leaned back in the bed, my shoulders slumped. Xander noticed. “I imagine you were worried about her.” I didn’t respond. Since the confession to myself on the Anmanion Islands, I wasn’t quite sure how to speak about Alessia lest the secret spill to others. My eyes glanced to the side, refusing to meet Xander’s. He nodded, seemingly reading me already. “You two are close. Ever since she arrived on Deer Drum you two always looked to each other. Not sure how you’d cope without her, or her you.” The corner of his lips flickered upwards. “I know she’ll have been worried about you too.” My face flinched against my own wishes, but I tried to keep the thoughts to myself. “How long till we reach Vexids Receives?” “Already here. Got in last night.” He stood back up and looked towards the door. “You need to rest. But before you fall asleep again, I’m going to find Eir. She’ll want to check you over.” Almost the moment he left I fell asleep again. But lightly now, enough that the sound of a cane thudding against hardwood floors woke me from my slumber. Eir semed more frail than she had been. Her movements were slow, and she leaned heavily on the cane with each step. As she grinned at me, smug with her skills, I could see the folds on her face roll over each other. “How do you feel?” She said, her voice almost as hoarse as mine. “Fine.” I croaked. She looked at me, her head tilted down. “I feel like I died.” I corrected. “You nearly did,” she chuckled. She leaned her hands down and touched my head, then my neck, then undid the top few buttons of my shirt to check my chest. Her hands felt cold, the blood not quite reaching the tips of her fingers anymore, and there was a slight tremble to her movements. Despite being one of the most certain about leaving Deer Drum, I suspected that this new life was not for her. It was a decision made for the next generation. She began pressing on my abdomen, asking me to tell her what did and didn’t hurt. “I told the others you had about a fifty percent chance of making it. But I said that trying to give them hope. In reality it was much worse than that.” She frowned, deep lines running across her brow. “So trust me when I say you need to rest. You understand?” I let out a grimace as she prodded into my sides. “Pain around your kidneys.” She nodded to herself. “Dehydration. We’ll be sure to make you drink lots.” “When can I leave the ship?” I asked. “Whatever for?” She scrunched her face. I strained a smile, hoping charm and blood rushing to my cheeks would convince her of my health. “To explore. See the island.” “Good grief.” The words came out in a groan. “You did hear when I said you nearly died?” I nodded. “Normally, I’d say not for another week,” she said.. “But I’ve seen what you get up to out there. So I’d say two weeks at least.” She stood back up and began shuffling towards the door. “In the meantime, rest. You’ll feel better for it” Part of me was determined to prove her wrong, and I spent the next few days willing my body to heal as fast as it could. I began taking tentative steps around my room, building up the strength in my legs. Soon I could venture unaided down the length of the corridor, traipsing the winding halls of the hull. However, as I continued my limbering walks around the boat, I was aware that it wasn’t just a desire to explore than meant I spurned relaxation. I didn’t want to admit it, it was a thought shrouded in illogicality and vanity, but I didn’t want Alessia to see me like this. Weak. Infirm. My skin pallid, and my muscles wasted away. Not that I was ever strong or masculine or that I thought I could fool her for a second as to my physical state. But that confession on the stony beach was playing tricks on my mind, making me think and act foolishly. And now, there was a small voice in my head telling me that any day now, her boat would appear on the horizon, and I needed to look my best. I needed to look like I hadn’t nearly died, alone and unable to make it by myself. I constantly caught myself simultaneously hoping Alessia would arrive, and also wanting her to give me more time. So when Kurbani came by my room, and I asked her if there was any news, I wasn’t even sure what answer I wanted her to give. “No. Not yet.” She smiled. “Lot of islands she’ll be checking for you. Give her time.” I nodded. It still hurt to talk and so I kept words to a minimum. Thankfully, I learned from Kurbani’s previous visits, that she was happy to fill the silence, keeping me informed of the other islanders, the new refugees from Granite Vowhorn, and the places they’d visited. I was grateful. Although I physically needed to recover, the loneliness from being stranded needed healing too. To experience another voice speaking at me, to make eye contact, to feel the muscles in my face react to another’s movements and words - this was all part of my rehabilitation. “I hear Novak has been keeping you entertained down here.” “He has.” “He’s gotten a lot better these past couple of months. He practises everyday. He’s determined. I think it helps him process what happened, to Lachlann and back on Deer Drum.” She paused a moment, her own memories running past her eyes. “He’s been trying to learn to play the nightingale song, but he can’t quite get the hang of it. Still a bit too complex. I hope he’s not been bothering you?” I shook my head. “Good. He looks up to you. A lot. Both the kids do. And I think Novak’s enjoying having you captive.” She laughed to herself. “I’m sorry you’ve not seen much of Mirai.” “It’s okay.” I whispered. “She’s been off on the island every day since we got here. I think she’s gone a bit stir crazy on the boat. She’d usually try and set foot on every island. But we’ve hardly seen her since we got here. Wakes up at the crack of dawn, eats breakfast, and then we don’t see her till sunset.” “She likes it here, you think?” I said, leaning forward. “She seems happy as a pig in shit.” She shrugged. “I’ll make sure she comes by soon though. It’s rude of her not to stop by more. Girl could do with learning some manners” Mirai didn’t visit; the invalid man deemed less interesting than whatever the island had to offer. I didn’t blame her. I wanted to be out there too. And Mirai’s absence, her change in behaviour, just made me want to visit all the more. I counted down the days on Eir’s timeline till on the fourteenth day, I rose early, and made my way to the deck. I puffed out my chest, and held my back straight. I marched up the steps through the hull, and opened the doors to the deck to find Eir sitting on a crate, hands resting on her cane. “Wondered how long it would take you to clamber up this morning.” I grinned. “You said two weeks.” “At least,” she grumbled. “Still. You’ve got your physical strength and your mental strength. Don’t think I could stop you if I wanted to.” “I feel good,” I said, looking down at myself, focussing on the strength in my core and ignoring the weakness in my limbs “I’d rather you spent a few more days. But at least take it slow and steady, okay?” “I will,” I said with a smirk. “I mean it, Ferdinand.” The smile disappeared from my face. “I know.” I looked out to sea, across the empty horizon. “Any word from Alessia?” She shook her head, her neck seeming to creak with the movement. “Don’t know how long it will take her to search those remaining islands for you. She’s probably terrified for you. Doesn’t know you’re here disobeying my medical advice instead.” My head dipped as a small embarrassed chuckle escaped me. “You said two weeks.” “At least,” she repeated. “Be cautious.” I walked over to the side of the boat and stared at the sea just in case Alessia’s ship was on the horizon. I could see a few boats out in the distance. None of them were her. Even from miles away I would know the cut of that hull. I took a deep breath of the salty air, feeling it cleanse my lungs. I was still processing the visions as I lay dying on the Anmanion Islands. I knew they weren’t real, just hazy thoughts halfway between sleep and death, but the emotions within, and the way it left me thinking of things differently, that was still true. Lachlann and Thomas, good friends, were gone. Lachlann would never learn how tightly Novak had clung to his guitar. Thomas would never know that he was right, and that the papers proving Pomafauc’s con were loose on the island. The story, for them, ended. And what could I do but try and continue? I still had my own story to write. And they would forever be an important part of mine. I turned to the island. There was one great rocky hill in the middle with large cliffs sticking out the ground covered in resilient green shrubs. But elsewhere, the island seemed mostly flat, with only gentle slopes. Perfect for still recovering legs. I found the netting down to the rowing boat, and checking the strength of my legs, climbed down the ropes, ready to see Vexids Receives for myself. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


“His name is Benny.” Samantha explained to her great-grandson, little Sammy. The toddler’s small fingers poked the side of the faded, mangled stuff animal. As much as Samantha tried to repair Benny over the years, time, and the affection of her children and grandchildren, had taken a toll on the beloved toy. “My mother, your great-great-grandmother, passed away a few weeks before I started high school. I was lost in the months that followed. Then my dear friend Benny came into my life, and I knew I wasn’t alone.” She smiled sadly. She had told some variation of the story to members of the family over decades and generations. “When you feel sad about your daddy, just give Benny a tight squeeze, and Benny will help you.” Samantha touched the toddler’s cheek lightly. Little Sammy did not say anything in reply, he just squeezed the stuffed animal tightly and nodded to his great-grandmother. “Memaw, are you sure? Sam might not be gentle with Benny.” Beth vocalized her concerns. Samantha smiled at her granddaughter. “Benny has already served me well. Now there’s a new child who could use his help.” Samantha responded. The grandmother and granddaughter exchanged a knowing look. The change in little Sammy’s demeanor since his father left was noticeable. Beth had done her best to play the role of both parents, and Walter had stepped in to help them both, but some things were difficult to explain to a child. Little Sammy smacked the plush against the side of Samantha’s chair. Beth looked to her grandmother as if to say, “are you really, really sure?” Samantha just smiled and nodded. Beth had not been gentle either when she used to play with Benny during visits, nor had Walter. Seeing how little Sammy smacked the plush against the chair made Samantha think about how she would love to beat Beth’s no-good-deadbeat-ex to a pulp, but alas, the man was difficult to find. Even if she could find the scoundrel, she wasn’t exactly in a fighting condition at her age. “Little Sammy, do you want to hear a secret?” Samantha asked. Little Sammy nodded yes. Samantha had Beth pick up the boy and set him in her lap. Samantha whispered into little Sammy’s ear. “I used to have a real pet dragon.” As she whispered the words, the boy’s eyes went wide. Ah, the wonders of childhood, she thought, a time when the mind is not yet closed to the possibility of fantastic truths. Samantha smiled, knowing only she and her late father knew it was true. She thought back to those days. The sound of Hound Dog by Elvis Presley blared on the radio. Samantha danced around in her room, Benvolio stood up on two legs, swaying with the music and swishing his tail. He was getting bigger, having more than doubled his size in the last three months. At 18 inches long, he was too big for his old enclosure. The wings on his back were becoming more pronounced. Samantha’s dad shrugged and attributed it to some sort of deformation or mutation, but the truth was becoming harder to ignore. Samantha’s dad rapped on the door and asked her to quiet down. Samantha turned off the music and walked over to the dresser where she had a book on standby. “I have a new book for us today; we are going to read *The Hobbit*.” She lifted the book. “I haven’t read it yet, but everyone says it’s really good.” Benvolio lifted his wings in interest. Samantha picked him up and plopped down on the bed. She sat with one arm around Benvolio and the book propped up on some pillows. They began the journey to Middle-earth together. Over the last few months together Samantha had noticed a change in Benvolio when she read. When Benvolio first came home with her, he seemed to react only to the pitch and tone of her voice. Lately, he seemed to recognize the words she spoke, reacting to them. Benvolio swished his tail joyfully as Samantha read the scene where the Dwarves showed up unexpectedly at Bilbo’s home. She chuckled and lightly bopped his snout with her finger. As the story progressed Benvolio’s mood changed. When the characters in the story began to talk about slaying the dragon, Benvolio snarled and shook his head in protest, as though angered by the events in the story. Samantha stopped reading, realizing too late how the subject matter might be offensive to Benvolio. Benvolio’s scales felt hot to the touch, causing Samantha to loosen her hold on him. That is when it happened. As if by a sneeze or cough, a tiny ball of flame erupted from Benvolio’s mouth and ignited the pages of the book. Samantha yelped in fright as a fire spread to the pillow beneath the book. She jumped up, instinctively scooping up Benvolio who was still hot to the touch. Samantha’s father barged into her room to find her furiously trying to put out the fire with a blanket. He ran out of the room and then returned with a bucket of water, extinguishing the flames and dousing Samantha’s bed. A startled Samantha and Benvolio both looked at the scorch marks on the bed. Samantha’s skin was red and blistering where she had handled the hot little dragon. Samantha’s dad fetched the first aid kit. He looked at Benvolio and then turned his eyes to Samantha. The look in his eyes was somber. “Sweetie, we need to talk.


I didn't mean to. I swear on my life. I swear on my pet rabbit's grave. I swear on my favorite pencil. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but I really, really loved my rabbit — and that pencil — so when I say I didn't mean to summon a demon into my kitchen, know that I mean it 100%. I am not the best cook in the world, but it being your birthday and all, I thought I would make something special. We've only known each other a few weeks, but I thought that a homemade dinner would be sweet, so I decided to consult my grandma's cookbook. Grandma was always a great cook, though, thinking about it now, I never remember her actually looking at this cookbook. My mom found it in the attic of grandma's house after she died. Mom knew I wasn't the strongest cook and hoped to help me "actually learn something useful." So there I was in the kitchen, following instructions exactly and not "making a mess of things" like Mom says, when I made a mess of things. A great, thick cloud of swirling red and black smoke burst from the pot until it swallowed the room. My eyes and nose stung. My lungs felt heavy and tight. "What the hell?" I heard, and then the sound of a single snap. The pot sucked the smoke back into the pot and revealed a demon in the middle of the kitchen. His skin looked like cooled lava. Two horns slicked toward the back of his head. He turned his burning-ember eyes to me. "Who are you?" "I'm-I'm-I'm —" "Well, I'm-I'm-Im, what do you want? I was in the middle of something," he spat. "I didn't mean, I didn't... I'm so sorry." He snarled, "Are you saying you didn't mean to summon me?" I nodded. He growled. A great wave of heat emanated from his body and pricked at my skin. The demon snapped his fingers. He blinked, confused. He snapped his fingers again. Then again. Then once more. "Oh ho ho, is this a trick? Lucifer, is that you?" The demon grabbed my face with his talon-tipped fingers and inspected it. "Francis," I mumbled, my cheeks squeezed in his pincer grip. "What?" "My name is Francis." His eyes narrowed. "Well, *Francis,"* he said, spitting out my name like a wad of congealed phlegm, "why don't you stop playing games and let me go home?" I felt myself shrink. I was the silly girl who couldn't do anything right. I was the one who messed everything up. I was the "mistake." Years of fury coiled around my heart and lashed out. I shoved the demon back. "I don't even want you here. You're meant to be pasta bolognese!" "Pasta...? Are you kidding me?" the demon said. "You were going to make pasta bolognese with tomatillos?" Years of fury recoiled and then extinguished into a sad ash pile of embarrassment. "I thought they were just special tomatoes..." "Oh Francis," the demon said. "Oh Francis, no." He rubbed his temples with his fingers. The tension dissipated from his shoulders as the kitchen's temperature dropped several degrees. "You're not a real witch, are you?" He looked me up and down. "Hmm. Of course you aren't." He snapped his fingers, and instead of a lava-skinned demon, he transformed into a normal-skin-skinned human. "Follow me." "What? No, it's my girlfriend's birthday, and I'm... well, we're not 'official,' but she seems really great and I —" "Look," the demon cut me off. "I want to go home, and for some reason, I can't. And you seem to have some untapped talent in witchcraft —" I perked up. "I have a talent?" "In *witchcraft.*" the demon repeated. "*Witchcraft* being the more interesting word in that sentence." "Right. Sorry." The demon walked up to me and looked me dead in the eye. "Francis, you're my best shot at going home. I need your help." I glanced at the opened box of pasta, the sliced onions, and the half-chopped pile of tomatillos, and then turned back to the demon. "Ok." "Good," the demon said, straightening and heading for the door, "because if you said 'no' I would have turned your hands into spiders." I tucked my hands into my pockets before realizing if I was going to go on some quest with a demon on your birthday that I should at least write you a note to explain why I couldn't show up. I've ordered you a pizza with roasted red peppers, mushrooms, and definitely no olives (since you said they remind you of "sliced eyeballs") that should show up to your doorstep any minute. I hope that makes up for this last minute cancellation. I would greatly like to celebrate your birthday when I return if you're open to that. Anyway, I better run. I'm going to become a witch.


Admittedly, this wasn't great. I stared at the cobwebbed ceiling of the basement as tremendous strikes of agony coursed across my back like a pissed-off thunderstorm. I suppose it was good that I was feeling something instead of nothing. I wiggled my toes — Jesus, stupid, ah, dammit, ow — and yes, they worked, despite the pain. Perhaps I should have waited for the kids to come home before venturing into the basement that I hate with all my heart and soul and that I'm honestly terrified of. It is filled with dust, spiderwebs, and bad memories. Oh, and the serving ware. I just had to store the serving ware down here instead of optimizing my kitchen cabinets so everything could fit. I made a mental note to clean the cabinets, assuming I would walk again. The kids think I'm ridiculous for hating the basement so much. They think I just hate dark places, or that being around their dad's stuff makes me sad, but they don't know what I know — and I'm thankful for that. There's things kids shouldn't know. They laugh at me when I send them down into the basement to grab things, and I suppose I wanted to prove to them and to myself that I was just as ridiculous as they said. There's nothing down here but poorly-placed serving ware. It took me 30 minutes to gain the courage to open the basement door. It took me another ten to step onto the stairs. Then, another 15 to scurry down the steps like a frightened rat, race past my husband's old collectibles, snatch the serving ware from the cabinet, and bolt back up the stairs. It took 0.05 seconds from my foot slipping on the top step to the realization that there was nothing I could do to stop my fall, and 5 seconds for me to I tumble backwards down the steps into the cursed darkness once more. I really needed to optimize the kitchen cabinets. "Cathy?" I heard. It was a grating whisper, a voice drawn across sandpaper. I closed my eyes. *It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.* "Cathy... you're here." *Not real. Not real. Not real.* "Cathy, I'm so sorry. Please look at me." *Not real. Not real.* "Cathy, please. I'm so lonely." *Go away. Go away.* An icy breath cooled my ear, "I know you can hear me." "Leave me alone," I murmured. I kept my eyes closed. I've never looked at it, whatever "it" is. Something primal in my chest tells me it's a bad idea — the same primal knowledge that screams for me to run, flee, hide, get the hell away. My back seizes up in pain. I can't move. "I just want to go home..." The voice sounded so sad and pitiful that I almost crack. "Won't you help me go home?" it said. My maternal instincts yearned to comfort, despite the fear and agony clouding each fiber of my body. "I just need you to look at me." One look couldn't hurt, could it? "Open your eyes, Cathy." Maybe if I helped it go home, it will leave me alone forever... "MOM! Did you pick up more snacks? My friends will be over in 10 minutes!" my daughter Olivia called. The front door slammed behind her. My heart leapt. I promised to never criticize her for slamming doors ever again. "Down here!" I yelled. I heard the top of the steps creak as Olivia finally saw me. "Jesus, Mom! Are you okay?" *I am now,* I thought as I felt Olivia's warm hands on my arm, as I heard her call an ambulance. The coldness retreated to the corners of the basement, but I could feel it watching. Waiting. One day I would crack. One day I would open my eyes and look.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Image Prompt: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Use at least 3 of the following words: - static - wheedle - coin - plead - farrago - dubious This week’s challenge is to use the above image as inspiration for your story. You may use any part of the image you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules.. The bonus constraint is not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for Rankings will be postponed until next week. Due to the voting form opening up late, you now have until Tuesday (tomorrow) at 2pm EST to for last week (Summer Vacation)! *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Of all the things you’re sure the mind would cling desperately to, the strange desire for companionship is the first to go. I am alone, yet I do not feel lonely. Of course, it wasn’t like that initially. Blind panic struck and both my body and mind scrambled frantically for an escape, back into the arms of those I loved. I’ve never thought much of humankind, yet I’ve realised just how adaptable we can be. How, like water poured into any container, we can take the form of our environment and exist comfortably within it. I suppose there are people I miss. Yet, and I feel a pang of guilt admitting it, it’s not as much as I expected. If I made a list of the positives and negatives of my situation, I’d unfortunately have to admit that the loss of those I loved isn’t enough to tip the scales. I’d been so obsessed with filling every second of every day with what I viewed as progression, that I hadn’t realised the truth. I wasn’t trying to live a rich and full life… not really. I was running from it. I was so scared of what may arise in my mind if left unstimulated that I spent every waking moment trying to distract it. Distraction took many forms, be it meaningless sex, alcohol, or acting out the role of adrenaline junkie. I should be grateful for being consumed by the latter, because that’s what landed me here. The truth was, after the initial trepidation of my situation had passed, I realised that being alone with my thoughts wasn’t the all-consuming terror I had once believed. It was, in fact, incredibly peaceful. I never understood William Henry Davies, I thought his words were ridiculous, but I understand now. At first, I would mark the days by carving into the walls. After the first month time seemed an irrelevance, so I gave that up and I’ve decided to carve these words instead. I hope when I’m found that these words are passed to someone who needs them. Don’t be the donkey that chases the carrot, don’t waste your life trying to chase impossible goals. I also hope that when these words are found I have long since passed. There’s a stream of fresh water and enough insects to sustain me. It’s dark in this hole, only a dim glow from where I fell in penetrates and fills the cavern. Light is another surprising addition to the list of things I do not miss. I don’t want to return to civilisation, that is a rat race I have been glad to see the back of. I see no sheep or cows, no squirrels hiding their nuts. I cannot see streams of stars, nor the sky that they reside within. Yet there is a peace within this hole that I have never felt before. There is peace within the darkness. There is peace within the silence. There is peace within the void.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I tied the boat up to a small jetti, somewhat relieved Alessia couldn’t see the knot I hastily threw together, and pulled myself up onto the platform. Already I could feel a degree of exhaustion. The short row to the shore had already eaten away at the atrophied muscles in my arms. Still, the impatience in my brain had won out. It needed exercise more than my body needed rest. While I built up some reserves of energy, I took in my surroundings. I hoped to find an islander on a break, idly waiting by the sea, and who might want to talk about Vexids. But while the port didn’t seem busy, anyone I could see was engaged in a task. Porters carried textiles - mostly wool and cotton - off to waiting traders, sellers and buyers negotiated with the waiting boats down by the dock, but no one was stopped. Usually, beyond trade, ports were a place where you’d find those relaxing, finding peace in the coming and going of the waves. But here, there were none. “Can I help you?” I turned to see a woman in her mid-thirties bounding towards me with almost excessive enthusiasm. “Yes. I’m just visiting. I came on the large ship.” I tilted my head towards the Deer Drum boat, floating off the coast like an island of its own “Ah excellent. Another from Deer Drum. Welcome. Can I introduce you to our island? Maybe give you a tour?” She grinned wide, as though pulling her own cheeks back with hooks. The woman’s overt enthusiasm felt abrasive against my own lethargy. An ache ran across my back. “I would love to understand more.” The words felt stiff, my vocal chords still stretching into shape. “We may have to move slowly though, I’ve been recovering from an injury.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman replied with the same tone and smile. “Well, if you want to learn more about the island, you’re in luck. My name is Endesha. My passion is sharing the island’s history with others, and I’m on my passion rotation right now. ” “Passion rotation?” “Yes. Are you familiar with our island at all?” She said, clasping her hands together by her stomach. “Honestly, nothing. I know a couple of the islanders have been here. One girl in particular, fifteen years old.” I held up my hand out about Mirai’s height. “I hear she’s visited a lot and likes the place. But no idea beyond that.” Endesha looked up, searching her memory. “Ah, yes. Mirai. Brilliant young woman. I’ve met her a few times. Fits right in here, a mind like that.” She said, pointing a finger. “Well, maybe we can walk to the town square, it’s only a short walk, and I’ll tell you a bit more about our history on our way.” I nodded in agreement, and Endesha held up an arm to guide the way. She led me up through the town past beige stone structures till we arrived at a long, thin building. Inside I could hear the thrum of machines, the thudding so loud it threatened to topple the aged and cracked walls. Endesha pointed to an engraving; old eroded numbers that read 7-7-10. “This is one of the oldest buildings in the work part of town. And it celebrates our most important rule.” Endesha looked at it with reverence. “When The Archipelago formed, those here felt that too many had died living wasteful lives, never doing what made them truly happy. And so beaame the law.” She began counting each point on her fingers. “Seven hours of work, our sacrifice to keeping the island running and ensuring we have food to eat. Seven hours to rest, eat and sleep.” She leaned in, her mouth grinning with delight. “And ten hours to chase our passions, and become the best people we can be.” “You only work for seven hours? The other seventeen are all yours?” “To be the best we can be.” She corrected me with a wagged finger. “The whole town is separated into three sectors. Here, near the harbour, is our industry, to the North we have the homes where people live and sleep, and to the east, is the true treasure of the island. The drive sector.” She turned and jolted with purpose, drawn eastwards by the sector’s mere mention. My legs strained to keep up, joints unsteady and unsure. “I’ve spent a fair amount of time pouring over the documents from the island’s founding and how they describe the old world. There are old descriptions of people watching moving pictures, or making men and women move with hand-held controllers just for fun. They use the term \*to kill time\*. Can you believe that? To kill time.” I thought of the many times on Alessia’s boat, on a relatively still day, when I would simply sit on the edge, watching peaceful waves roll by. “I… I think we might still do that?” “Not here.” Endesha said, her arms outstretched, allowing a broad chest to bellow the words out. “Tell me, Ferdinand. When are you happiest?” “What?” I said, my feet almost tripping on the words. “When do you feel happy?” I tried to go through a list. The drunken walk back to our property on Talin Barier with Alessia. Singing songs with the Deer Drum crew. When Alessia gave me my room on the boat. So many came back to Alessia. Too many. “I’m not sure,” I said, still dodging the truth even to a stranger. “People maybe?” “Even in the old world people spoke of having a calling. Something they wanted to do - not for glory or riches, but for the love of the task. Pursuing that is where happiness lies. Sure, you can be fine sitting about on a warm sunny day…” She waved an arm dismissively. “But real contentment lies in what drives us, what fascinates us. Don’t you agree?” A small smile flickered across my lips as I remembered my own calling. While the chase of the Citadel on Kadear had been intoxicating, travelling the Archipelago had been more than a want. Happiness that lifted your chest as well as your lips. “I’m beginning to.” Her already huge smile gained an extra lift at my agreement. “Then is it not the duty of this - or any island, to help you achieve those dreams? To push you to do what you are capable of.” She prodded my chest with a hard finger. “That is what those ten hours are for. To chase what drives you. To become what you are capable of. Not for the island, but for yourself.” The conversation paused as the road widened out into a large town square. In the middle was a wooden stage made of varnished pine. It was low enough that you could step up to it with a good leap, but wide enough to hold a good thirty or forty people if required. “We have a bit of a ritual that comes with those passions,” Endesha chuckled, staring at the platform. “I took a while to understand it, I had to go through pages and pages of correspondence among the island’s first council members. However, what they realised is that one of the most important parts of chasing your passions is to acknowledge them. To state your dreams aloud and not cower from them.” It made sense. So many times I had stared at that map in my home in Kadear. But other than brief conversations with Thomas my wishes of travelling were hidden. Only external events brought that desire out of the darkness. Endesha walked towards the stage. I could almost see the years of the residents who had taken to the stand in her eyes. “Between the ages of fifteen and sixteen, all residents come here to declare their passion in front of the island. I came here,” she pointed to each individual invisible attendee. “I told them I wanted to learn about the history of Vexids Receives and share it with visitors. And in attending, they told me that they would help me, push me in pursuit of that passion.” She turned to me, her smile reverential. “In a few weeks, the next group will take to that stage. And you can be certain I will be witness to their proclamations.” I thought about what I would’ve said on such a stage. How much easier would my travels have been if I had had to declare that drive to my fellow islanders, and they in turn were duty bound to help me pursue it? Endesha meanwhile was telling me about the history of the stage. The details of when it was first built and the repairs done to it over the years, and how it intertwined with the rest of the planned town. But the dates and minutia weren’t the reason for the smile on my face. It was the growing understanding of this place, and the freedom to give yourself not just to your island, or your own greed and vices, but to what called you. It seemed to shake off some of the lethargy in my bones, and when Endesha asked if I wanted to continue on to the see the passion sector, I obliged. We made our way east, as Endesha regaled me with the founders’ foresight in the layout. A series of workshops each in their own courtyard, their entrances facing inward. Each one had large wooden shutters at the back and front the entire width of the building save for a small doorway at the end. The lack of warmth in Winter was a price worth paying for the community the openness created. We turned and entered into one of the courtyards as I was met with the output of people’s hobbies: the sound of sandpaper grated across wood, the tune of an accordion pushing notes through its pipes. I could smell the aroma of old books, in between the wafts of fresh paint. The sights and sounds were a melody somehow borne of cacophony. No thread connected each space. Each room was home to a different activity. All the island did was give space for them to grow. And yet, the end result seemed harmonious. I watched a woman placing red hot metal into a great furnace, while next door another folded dough, flour pluming into the air each time the bread hit the table. Creaking metal snatched my attention. Atop one of the rooms to the left was a small windmill. Rusted iron blades oscillated with each rotation, but still it turned in the light breeze. From its base, a slew of cables ran down the roof disappearing through a hole near the edge. Looking into the shadowy room I could see two figures. A middle aged man, with curly balding hair, and a teenage girl. “Mirai!” I called out. Mirai looked up, two wires in one hand, and a tool in the other. “Ferdinand! You made it off the ship.” “Eir finally let me go.” Mirai put the wires down on a bench and pointed to the man behind her. “This is Charles. Charles, this is Ferdinand. He helped us move from Deer Drum.” The man took off a pair of thick, leather gloves and reached out to shake my hand. His face was blotched, and there were a few wrinkles across his brow. But his cheeks were taut and youthful. “Good to meet you. Welcome to my electrical shop.” “Charles does electrical engineering as his passion,” Mirai said, jumping in to add more information. “He’s built so many things. Small engines, toys… every workshop in this courtyard has electric lights now thanks to Charles.” She pointed to the bulb hanging from dangled wiring above. “I’m no genius. But I’ve got pretty good over the years.” Charles said, thumbs tucked into the straps of his overalls. Mirai continued. “He’s currently trying to get a windmill working. He could power the whole island off wind power alone.” “It used to be a common form of electrical power in the old world,” Endesha added, stepping between us. “I believe there may be the odd island in the Archipelago where it exists, but it would be a serious boon to have it here.” Charles grinned but bowed his head. “Charles has been letting me help out for the past few days. Soldering cables, testing currents, that kind of thing,” Mirai beamed. “She’s been a great help. Hard to try and fix the turbine on the roof and measure the currents down here at the same time,” Charles added with a chuckle. “It’s amazing. I’ve been sitting on that boat for months just watching the oceans roll by,” Mirai stretched out the words so they were as boring as a flat, windless sea. “I designed that one fish net, but other than that I haven’t got to do anything. But, Ferdinand, I love this stuff.” “I’m glad it’s going so well,” I smiled. Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “Here, let me show you something.” She turned, leaping between tables, before returning with a series of wires that connected a lightbulb to a small metal box with a wooden handle. “I made this. Turn the handle.” I looked at her hesitantly. “Go on.” It was only the width of my palm, but still, the small pole was hard to turn. Mirai laughed. “Harder. You’ll have to go faster.” My muscles were still wasted and weak from the Anmanion islands, and even this small chore was causing my arm to ache. However, for Mirai’s sake, I put in more effort, pushing past the resistance, until the wheel span faster and I saw a small flicker of light from the bulb. The spark invigorated me, and I cranked harder until a soft yellow glow from the bulb rose and dimmed with each shift of my arm. We all watched the light for a few seconds, until the stiffness in my wrist returned and I had to stop. “Mirai, that’s amazing.” I smiled, shaking off the aches. “I mean, it’s nothing compared to what Charles has done.” Mirai looked to the side, turning her cheeks. “But it’s a start.” “It’s an excellent start,” I nodded. The enthusiasm came back. “I just love this stuff so much. I wish I could do it forever.” “You could,” Endesha interrupted. All heads turned to her. “Anyone can join Vexids Receives over the age of fifteen. It was one of the rules created by the island’s founders. All you have to do is declare your passion during the ceremony.” I felt my teeth grit, watching this stranger so ignorant of Mirai and her world. Mirai’s face lit up. “When’s the next ceremony!?” “About three weeks’ time.” Endesha replied, ignoring my grimace. Mirai’s eyes glossed over, filled with an idyllic vision. “I can keep doing this? I can stay?” \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


Note: Includes violence. Jill deftly moved out of the way as the pot fell. She had not seen it, but moved by instinct. Her mother had beaten her far to often for her not to have those developed. As she bent over to pick it up, a knock sounded on the door. She looked up, through the dismal kitchen, to see who it was. "Jill, open the door for our guest." She heard her mother yell from the other room. She winced. Nonetheless, Jill brushed down her dress and came over to the door. Unlocking it, she glanced out through a small crack, and, seeing no one, opened it completely. A tall man stood there, draped in a dark cloak, towering over Jill's tiny form. He was pale, clean shaven, his eyes sparkling like gold in the sun. He smiled at Jill's tiny, frightened self. "Do not be afraid, child. I will not hurt you." With these words, he pushed past her, his stride having a determined purpose which she did not like. Jill followed him through the kitchen and into the dirty, grey living room, not daring to intervene. "This place..." He muttered, looking around. Jill understood his disgust. The room was cluttered, dust covering half of the objects in the room, indicating that they had not been used in years. Ten years, in fact. Ever since her father had died. His death had affected Jill's mother greatly. She rarely left her room anymore, except to punish Jill. She forced her to make her food, do the shopping. She was grieving, of course, but Jill did not deserve to bear her mother's burden in such a way. And for ten years. Maybe it was the stranger, or perhaps it was something else, but there awakened in Jill a feeling that her mother would have never tolerated from her. "I hate you, mother," Jill whispered, tears of grief, pain, and quiet, intense fury forming in her eyes. The man, who had briefly paused in the living room, now resumed his purposeful stride. He strode straight into her mother's room, slamming the door behind him, making Jill jump, and leaving her, dumbstruck, outside. She tried desperately to open the door, but apparently the stranger had locked it. Horror overcame her as a scream arose. She started banging on the door in panic, trying to force it open, to no avail. What seemed like an eternity in silence later, the door opened. The first thing Jill saw was a bloody knife in the stranger's hand. Breathing heavily, she slumped to the ground as she saw what lay beyond. Her mother lay on the bed, eyes glassy, a deep wound in her chest, sheets stained with blood. "I'm sorry," a whisper sounded. Then, Jill's eyes filled with rage, unthinking, unforgiving rage. Before the stranger had passed the house's threshold, he he found a kitchen knife lodged in his throat. He collapsed, gasps fading into silence. Jill stood there, tears mixing with blood, a single word ringing in her mind: Why? If anyone can give me feedback on this, I would appreciate it.


You know that saying people use to describe a muddled mind? You know, the one with the fuzziness. Yeah that’s the one. Well that’s the state of mine 90% of the time. As a 26 year old from New York, you would expect me to have some idea. Some inkling of how to socialise, how to engage with people, but the truth is I am as introverted as they come. People are difficult. I’d much rather sit on a deserted beach than deal with another of Stacy’s StarBucks trauma’s, or listen to Bryan rant on about his partners messy morning routine. Despite my a-social tendencies, I still have moments - brief moments - where I crave a human connection. I still want to be loved, to be desired, to be held… However at my age, my lack of experience serves as a complication. You see, in my humble opinion, to navigate the contemporary dating scene you need to have a PhD in psycho-analytics and skin as tough as granite. It doesn’t help that the only experience I have is a 2-day ‘situationship’ with Stacy Mulligan when I was in 11th Grade. That all but ruined my self-confidence, and since then I’ve never felt like opening up to anyone. My go-to explanation when asked by friends, family, and strangers alike is that I’ve been preoccupied with work and just never had the time to devote to someone else. The reality, however, is much more obtuse and dark. It is also - arguably - the reason why Ms. Mulligan is now a permanent resident of the Manhattan Psychiatric Center… To put it plainly, I’m a master observer. Able to predict events and outcomes well before they occur. I predicted my friends death six months before she was diagnosed with a stage 4 lymphoma. I predicted the invasion of Ukraine three years before Russia launched their ‘special operation’. Three weeks ago, I predicted the armed robbery at the cornerstore on 27th Avenue. The one which happened last Tuesday. I also predicted Stacies death... She drowned. After I told her, she broke. The doctors said she suffered a severe psychotic episode - I mean what else would you call an incorrigible fear of water. She refused to go anywhere near a puddle. I can’t explain how it works, what triggers it, or what the timeline for the events occurrence is. The only thing I do know is; when the vision pops into my head, the event will happen. The vision comes in waves, sometimes I have a tactile response (meaning I feel what people in the image feel), sometimes it’s an extreme emotion, and sometimes I feel nothing. So why am I telling you all this? Well, about five seconds ago I brushed hands with the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and in that moment I saw them die. Before I could say anything, the train doors shut. Off they walked, and there I stood. Speechless. What should have been a tacit and meaningless mistake, caused my heart to flutter and sent a persisting shiver down my spine. I’ve seen disaster and gore before. Hell, my last vision showed the store clerk decapitated at the cornerstore on 27th Avenue.


“Tonight’s the night”. Sergeant Muller said to himself as he was staring over the entrenchments across the field. Tonight he would embark on a daring raid across the battlefield from his own trenches to the enemies. It was not his first raid and by this point in the war he was a profesional in the regard of wreaking havoc upon the enemy trenches when the moon is full and night falls on the land. What was once a daunting task when he was a private was nothing to him now as a Sergeant. Even the prospect of death did not scare him. His thoughts were broken when his good friend Corporal Webb approached him from behind “It’s almost time, are you ready?” He asked. Muller used the moonlight shining above them and checked his pocket watch and nodded. “Of course”. Muller then followed Webb towards the firing line of the trenches and they spoke as they passed by soldiers getting on or getting off shifts of mending wire, digging more trenches, or simply going about their own business. “Why do you think the Bluecoats have been so quiet lately anyways? Today I stood straight up after coming out of my dugout and none of them dared even shoot me”. Webber asked. Muller simply shook his head “Hopefully they’ve lost their stomach for this war and went home. Any sane man would have at this point anyways. We’ve been fighting over this stretch of dirt for months now without the battle lines changing”. Webb nodded “Not us of course, we’re perfectly sane aren’t we?” Muller chuckled slightly “As sane as we can be”. As they continued to walk towards the firing line Muller thought about Webb’s question. “Surely we’ll find out soon enough what’s happening over there”. He said to himself. Once they finally reached the firing line they hailed the sentry and they recognized him as Henderson from his broad mustache “Another night on the job then?” He asked earnestly as Webb and Muller past him. “There’s nothing quite like it Henderson. Keep them all safe back here won’t you?” Muller said as he rubbed some dirt on his face. “Will do”. Henderson said in reply. With that, they then made their way across no man’s land. The area between the Ticonderoga and Ulsterian trenches was a mess of shell holes, stumps, and dead carcasses scattered about the land. Every feature Muller and Webb knew like the back of their hands and they constantly used them for cover and concealment as they crawled across the field. No lantern was necessary for the moon was full that night and shined like a candle upon them and lit their way. They then came upon the outskirts of the Ulsterian lines when Webb reached to Muller and whispered. “Blue coat straight ahead”. Muller then looked over and saw a sentry at his post leaning against his rifle. “He’s asleep”. Muller said. “His head is facing the dirt anyways”. Webb then took a more stern look and drew his dagger from his scabbard and whispered “It's best not to take the chance.” They then crawled to an empty section of the trench and Muller cut the wire and they crawled into the ditch. Their boots made a splash in what they assumed was a mud puddle and they made their way along the firing line until they spotted the sentry. Webb then made quick work of him and carefully stretched his hand over the sentry's mouth and drove his dagger deep into the man’s back. The blow would have been fatal if he was still alive. When Webb threw him into the mud he realized he was dead and his throat slit. Muller then gave a confused look “What the Hell is this?” Webb shrugged in reply. They then made their way carefully along the trench but their subtly was unnecessary. It became apparent the trenches were guarded by dead men. Every soldier they came across was ripped apart with cuts and stabs covering their uniforms and Muller became puzzled. “My God what happened here”. The trail of bodies ended at a dugout where a lantern was burning bright from inside. “Lower enlisted first”. Muller jested at his seniority while Webb growled. Webb then carefully went into the dugout with dagger and pistol drawn while Muller waited outside. When Webb came into the dugout he discovered an officer’s quarters along with a hole freshly dug into the ground and a silver coffin with the lid fully pushed open from the inside. “What the fuck is this?” Were the last words Webb said before his throat was slit open and he fell to the ground with a thud. From up top Muller nearly shouted “Webb?! Webb! What’s happening down there?!” Muller didn’t wait for a response when he heard movement coming from down the trenchline and looked to see Webb laying dead on the ground with a red eyed beast looking back at him from within the dugout. Muller’s instinct to survive overcame his need to enact revenge and he ran for his life. By now he cared nothing for crawling on the ground or stealth at all as he ran past the dead sentry and bodies and onto the field. He could feel whatever had murderer Webb chasing him. He sprinted past the shell craters, stumps and dead corpses he had come to memorize and every step of the way he could feel the beast come near him at an inhuman speed. He then tripped and fell into a shell crater and knew it was too late. Muller then drew his pistol in a panicked frenzy and turned to face the beast. However it was gone. He then peered across the field to find whatever was chasing him was gone and wondered if he had gone mad. Muller waited a few moments more before he holstered his pistol again and ran towards his own trench line and hailed Henderson as he came near “Henderson! Henderson! Awake the commander! somethings terribly wrong!” However, Henderson did not respond and Muller did not understand why until he came near and realized his neck had been slit ear to ear and he was only propped up by the rifle he was leaning on. He then came into the trenches to find all his comrades were slain just the same as his enemies were and the culprit of it all standing at the end of the trench with claws extended and eyes as red as blood. Muller however was out of breath and had nowhere to run even if he wanted to. He then drew his pistol again and faced the beast who had murdered Webb. Either he would kill this beast, or join his friend in death.


“Gunther?.. My God we thought you were dead!” Thomas shouted as he saw his friend standing at the door of the dugout. “Well then.” Gunther began “I certainly don’t feel dead”. Just the other day Thomas swore he saw his friend Gunther die when a wave of Gatling gun fire came over them when they were out of the trenches he even saw him get hit and fall himself. But here he was standing before him in his dirty uniform and cap as if nothing had happened at all. Graf who was sitting at his cot stood up and approached Gunther and shook his hand “My God man you certainly look dead though. You’re as white as a ghost!” He said. Gunther smiled a little and nodded “well to be honest I feel light headed. Mind if I sit down?” Graf then nodded and he sat down in the draw filled cot and Thomas handed him a warm tin of coffee “I bet you’ll be need this more than me. It was real cold out there last night.” Gunther then stared at the cup for a moment but shook his head “I don’t really remember it being cold. Also no thank you honestly I’m not all that thirst right now.” Thomas then set the tin cup on a box and Graf spoke “I should probably tell Sergeant Martin about you then.. Sorry to say this but when we saw you go down we thought you were done for and told him you were gone. I’ll be right back”. With that Graf then put on his cap and slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran off to find Sergeant Martin while Thomas continued to talk. “What happened anyways? Were you just unconscious at that time? We tried to call out your name but you didn’t answer”. Gunther then sighed as he rubbed his forehead. “I was taking cover and I didn’t feel like I could move. To be honest I thought I was dead too. I think I was struck by something, but it certainly wasn’t a bullet. Those Bluebacks couldn’t hit a elephant with one of those crank guns”. Thomas then nodded. “Well when Sergeant Martin comes around you should pretend you got hit just so you can get sent back to the rear and take a vacation in one of those hospitals. Who knows, maybe if you bitch long enough they’ll give you some furlough time off”. Gunther then nodded again. “Well now that you mention it I have one serious headache actually. “ Thomas then smiled. “Yeah that’s the right idea. I can even go along with it and tell Sergeant Martin you hit your head when we were running back to the trench. I can make up a story about a concussion and everything”. Gunther’s smile finally reappeared “yeah.. Your right in finally going to get to go home again”. Sergeant Martin then stepped into the dugout with Graff and Gunther stood up to meet him along with Thomas. Thomas then spoke “Sergeant it seems we made an error last night. Turns out Gunther made it back after all. He just got hit his head when he landed in the dirt.” Sergeant Martin looked Gunther up and down. “Is that so private?” He asked him. Gunther then nodded “yes Sergeant it is. I have a terrible headache from it. When I woke up this morning I crawled my way across the field and made my way into the trenches here and made it back safe like you said.” Sergeant Martin seemed relieved “well I’m glad you made it back son.. We’ll send you to the rear to get a doctor to look at your head. In the meantime I’m going to bitch at whoever was on sentry duty. Pack your things and leave your rifle with Graff.” With that Sergeant Martin stepped out and the trio of soldiers were left alone. “Right” Graff said as he sat down on a crate. “You best get changed and shave, those nurses will be expecting a handsome young man to look after.” Gunther then smiled again and turned and collected what little belongings he had in a small sack and took off his coat and hat and sat them on the cot. While he was doing so Thomas’ face turned to horror and as did Graff’s when they saw dried blood on the back of his head. “Gunther, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Thomas asked. Gunther then finished shaving rather quickly and turned around to reveal a massive bullet lodged within his forehead. “I’m better than ever gentlemen. Not only did I dodge a bullet yesterday but I managed to get out of the trenches for a time too. This is one of the best days of my life.. Now how do I look?” Graff and Thomas gave each other a look of absolute shock before Graff stood up and took Gunther’s hat and put it squarely on his head. “You look like one lucky soldier”. He said.