Never in my life had I experienced the sublime tranquillity of the Earth as I did then. Standing there felt like standing on the edge of the world; the precipice into which all things, dead and disintegrated, eventually drift. The fell was beneath me. I had climbed to the top of a rock to survey that untamed land. Stars stretched to the bounds of my vision; the night was not an unpleasant one. It was certainly cold and as desolate as the end of time, but the light was fair, and the winds were calm. The grasses danced at the wind’s breath, the shadows of trees reclined across the fell’s multitudinous undulations, the lake glistened with its pastiche starlight; like a looking glass to the heavens, and though my heart was heavy and bleak, the world before me embraced my approach. Within, I knew this search a vain exercise. She had been missing for two weeks, none of the search parties who had gone by day had found her body. The discovery of yellow boots was enough though; enough for them to decide that she was dead, and if she were not, she would be by the time they found her. Though I could not help but agree, I embarked upon one final search. My sister wept until sleep overcame her anguish, and in sleep she was plagued by those nightmares a mother should never suffer. It was for Helena that I was here, hoping to discover Alexandra’s body, though I knew it would be ravaged by nature, and a sight more saddening and terrible than I could endure. The children in the schoolhouse swear she heard him, out in the church above the bog. That Plutonian sound that emanates from a, once glorious, but now battered and rusted organ, was a staple in the spoken stories of the fell-folk. Generations of little boys and girls had heard the tale of The Organist of The Mire; the demon who played the repertoire of Rhadamanthus. A warped and wicked monster who, sat before the ancient instrument, upon an accursed stool, and bound by immortal curses, summoned forth Satan’s songs. Each note that gushed from those profane pipes was said to have a curious effect on the mortal soul. An inexplicable curiosity befell individuals who experienced the songs of the organist licking at their ears. And unless stopped by outside intervention, the listener would walk, unimpeded by sensibilities and fear, deep into the heart of the church’s surrounding mire, where they would be swallowed and lost — that is what was believed. I cannot say that I was here without fear. Indeed, those stories scared me as a girl. I can recall the countless nights I lay awake with my fingers shoved deep into my ears, fearing that I should be lured from my home towards subsequent death. But I am a woman now. At 35 years old it is not a demon that crawls in the darkest shadows of my imagination. There you will find worse things than pointy-eared gremlins, and fictious beasts — there you will find Man. It was for that reason that I had come armed. Fear of mad and desperate people, not for slaying creatures of the night. A sickle was the best weapon I could furnish myself with. I had hoped with every fibre that I would not have to use it, but its presence settled me. Descending from the rock I came at once into the expanse of uncultivated earth. The waxing gibbous, like a tired eye blinking into waking, provided me with ample light that I could see far across the sprawling fell when I had been upon the rock. But now I was off it, the eye suddenly fluttered shut. Those trees once tinged with silver, now took on the aspect of spidery voids, slowly extending towards the sky. And only once my eyes had adjusted and had drawn out all the light from all the stars, could I proceed further. ‘Alex!’ I called repeatedly into the night. My shouts drained me of all vitality. With every call, my determination and fortitude seemed sucked from me by an external force. An unwelcome visitor happened along. A dense fog lifted from the distant mire and came rushing on the wind’s back straight upon my path. The light from my gas lantern was sapped and thrown all about like some horrid, opaque, milky vapor. The nuisance to my vision was the lesser of the evils brought along with this haze. For, though it could have been the whistling of wind, I fancied there was an insidious note playing in the distance. The curious sound entrapped me. I hearkened to it with an intensity ill befitting the severity of my situation. Panic had begun to set in, and I had been rushing blindly onward. Any moment now I could have stepped into the mire and drowned with no lack of suffering, but the thought did not distract me from that single, mellifluous note. Was it the recollection of those infernal stories that subconsciously enlightened my superstitions and stole my senses? Or was it indeed demoniac sorcery? Regardless, the thought of Alex’s corpse stewing in this unhallowed soup tore me from this mesmerist’s spell. ‘ALEX!’ I called again. My voice did not penetrate the dense, uncanny fog, instead dropping like lead at my feet; heavy and inane. Sightlessly I continued, the firmness of the ground the only indicator of my imminent insecurity. I knew that if nature impeded me with such intent, I would lose what little chance of success I had in this grave mission. The ground softened suddenly. My right foot plunged into the viscous mire. The temperate beating of my heart surged into a fearsome tattoo, and I thought my life would soon be gone from me. With desperate hands, I groped at the earth, simultaneously screaming, and crying for aid, as I felt the mire’s foul grip tightening around my legs. I had dropped the sickle in my tumult, instinctively flinging it away as I felt myself dropping into the esurient sludge. With every twist and contortion of my body, with the flailing of my legs beneath the surface, I was swallowed further. Had it not been for a stick which lay close by, I would have joined the halls of the dead which the mire had claimed. The stick was long enough that I could use it to gain purchase on the sickle, pull it towards myself, take it in hand, and plunge it into the firmer ground. With strength I had never known, I wrenched myself up from the mire’s grasp. That moment of all engulfing terror had shaken me free of every ounce of courage hidden within. I sat, weeping against a rock. The dam, holding back the feelings I had trammelled inside, burst. I had lost both my boots to the earth, and I was saturated up to my waist. My grief and fear entwined in a rhapsodic lamentation; the tears that fell freely on the earth were the beatings of a rising drumbeat, the omen of a coming requiem. There was no doubt that now the sound coming to me on the wind was not of natural birth. I ceased my crying. Looking up through the fog, I saw nothing new. But fresh sounds were certainly discernible in the distance. Recalling all those stories of the Demon Organist did not dissuade me from listening intently to the oncoming song. In the arrogance and pedestrian nature of maturity, I listened, confident that I was in control of the moment. Confident that what I heard was a sound from a distant village, diffusing into the air in the serenity of this winter night. I soon found myself rising from the ground and walking confidently forward. Through the mire I experienced no obstruction; discovering, inexplicably, an invisible path of solid earth which led me directly through. All the while the music was growing. The first notes were mournful and prolonged; sublimely deep and filled with sorrow, and with every yard I progressed forward, so did the organist’s music. The following notes climbed, reaching higher pitches, and encapsulating more emotions. I was willingly entrapped. I knew that it was not by some mystic force that I had become ensnared, it was by beauty that I had become so irresistibly besotted. The church climbed up before me sooner than it should. I longed to be within the instrument, to feel its power and its energy pulsing through me, for it to cast its thunder upon my soul and wrench the extent of my emotions from the deepest pits of my being. Placing a tremulous hand on the heavy wooden door, it came open with infinite ease. When my foot stepped onto the stone floors of that unhallowed church, the music halted. I froze. Elevated high on the console, above the sullied alter, someone stood. I looked up at the figure, who looked down at me. I say they looked but, there were no eyes. And just as there were no eyes, there was no nose. And just as there was no nose, there was no mouth. No hair fell below the tall pipe hat the creature wore upon its pallid, blue-veined head, and a haggard and clawed hand tapped at the console’s rail. I beheld the musician, free of the terror you would expect me to have felt, for I knew nothing which could play such music should be feared. Here was a creature of pure unfettered sorrow. One of those long and bestial fingers was soon extended to point towards a pew in the middle of the church. I took up the unspoken command and sat. The organist nodded in thanks, brushed the cobwebs from his tailcoat, and once again took up his seat at the organ. I regarded the instrument. Torn and rusted; it should not have been able to produce the music it did; the music of heaven. But all doubts were washed away at the very instant The Organist produced the first note of its second song. Now within the bounds of the church, I experienced this music at its most magnificent. The ancient walls were flooded with the euphonious ambrosia of the organist’s music, it lapped at the windows and shuddered the pews with its devastating potency. As one note rose from the deepest depths of hell, the other rattled the firmament, calling up to the angels to sing entwine. This music was nothing like I had ever heard. It extended itself to me and plucked at every chord of rapturous elation, and spun yarns of the most abject grief. There were moments of playfulness, and moments of severity. Divine fire lit up within my breast as The Organist struck his notes, I could not believe him a demon, not for the pure and profound emotions he inspired in me. In the enjoyment of this music, I felt myself renewed, as if imbued with secret knowledge of the celestial forces that govern our world, I sensed that the masochistic onslaught of time lost its effect on me, I felt younger by taking in this aural magic. Here was the Balm of Gilead, more sublime and revivifying than ever thought. Following countless hours of selfish, impuissant listening, I eventually noticed that, beneath the plethora of emotions this organist sang through the vast and formidable instrument, something flowed quieter than the rest. A stream of desperation trickled as the river of sadness roared. Where joy swelled in waves, pleading rippled with serenity. This was not music that said: Fear me. Hate me. This was music that said: Pity me… Kill me. And now I realised it — as if through some psychic connection — the music stopped. The organist rose from that accursed stool and turned to me. The hand which had bidden me to the right of the church now bade me look left. There, sat upon the parallel pew, was Alexandra. All around her were the bones of those who had sat before her. She had listened, as they had, until life departed her. I rushed over to my niece. Her aspect was not the tortured and fearful one I had expected to see. The song Alex had heard had been one solely composed of jollity and playful contentment, and that was clear upon her cherubim face. Had she heard what I had heard she would not have succumbed to the inescapable hand of Death, but that would never have been. Her childlike sensibilities had seen only happiness, had been innocent of the emotions of torment and pain which I had sensed, and I was glad of it, for she would never have been able to do what I was now to do. Turning from Alexandra, I looked up at the organist. It looked not at me, but at the pew I had departed. There, lay the sickle, looking keener and more redoubtable than ever it had been seen. I took it up in hands trembling with anger and contempt. And then, with it clasped like a warrior, I ascended the wooden staircase which led to the console. That once emotionless face was now filled with sentiment, not from physical expression, but transposed from the wraith's music. I saw the sadness I had heard; I saw the pleading; I saw the fatigue. These stories had been in this country for centuries, and so had this thing; this unageing, tortured revenant, cursed to play this music until it was understood. It bowed its wretched head in thanks once more. And, without further thought, I swung the sickle hard. As if empowered by divine forces, the tool cleaved the creature’s head from its shoulders. Its body crumpled and sprawled out across the console, sounding the final beautiful note that instrument would ever play. And that infernal, featureless head went rolling down the aisle, coming to a halt where Alexandra sat. Through the beautiful stained-glass windows, the dawn came flowing in, casting colour and light all about that dingy and forgotten place. I had waited for it, fearing to walk out into the mire without The Organist’s spell over me. But once day finally sprung up, and in the fullest brilliance I had ever seen, I took Alexandra’s body in my arms, and returned her home.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Hesitation! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘hesitation’. Uncertainty is present in all of us, especially in regards to the future or when making an important decision. Actions have consequences, whether big or small. When we are hesitant about the decisions we’re about to make, what does that say? Is it a sign that we know it’s the wrong choice? How does this translate to your characters? Is there one character who always acts on impulse, never taking the time to think things through? Is there one who insists on thinking *every* possibility through, maybe one who hesitates a little too much? Maybe this is where your characters finally step out of their shell. The moment before the climax. The events that will determine their fate. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * March 20 - Hesitation (this week) * March 27 - Identity * April 3 - Justice   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Main Voice Lounge.** Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules) Visit us on the Discord for more information. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** #Rankings - - by u/katherine_c   - - by u/mattswritingaccount   - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/MeganBessel   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence: “We were stepping into the unknown.”** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - A character learns a hard lesson.* This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense/pronoun if necessary (i.e. “we were” to “I was”), but the original sentence should stay intact. **Stories without one of the above sentences will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 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, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. You have until 2pm EST Monday to get your feedback in. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points (required) - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings Fantastic job this week. I loved seeing all the underdogs rise up above their oppressors. - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/mattswritingaccount *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


So, all of a sudden I’m 48. I started doing drugs with my older brother when I was 13. He had a good hookup for hash (I think he was doing a small time dealer/metal head who worked at the local gas station). I didn’t even smoke pot for a few months, only hash. By eighth grade, a few kids we hung with were smoking crack, including my weed dealer. He sold me dusted weed, said it was fun. I didn’t find it fun. We lived in a real city and were upper middle class or richer. Our parents sent us to good schools, but it was the eighties. When you went for a smoke outside the school, you crunched crack vials under you feet. I drank, smoked a lot of weed, stole money from my parents and got codeine pills and perks whenever I could. Malt liquor and Tylenol 3 was my twist. At recess we sniffed a liquid called rush they sold in a local record store. You learned to sit down before you sniffed it, because most of the time it would make you fall flat. So, around 16 I had a best friend. Call her Meg. We both liked to get messed up in the same way. And she slept with lots of my friends, but me and her were just cool. You know when you meet someone who uses like you do and you just click? Like you ride a tandem bicycle called drugs. That was me and her. Plus, her mom was in and out of jail for fraud so she wasn’t really concerned if we smelled like weed. Their dog peed on the carpet and nobody ever cleaned it up. You just stayed away from that side of the living room. Meg was dating my friend “Paul”. Paul was a wrestler, loved The Who and would generally take two pulls and say “I’m good!” His dad had him start wrestling at age five. His neck was wider than his head and he had a cauliflower ear. So Meg said that this other guy, “Phil” has a big score. Phil was a cool kid from the magnet art school. He had a beard when we were in 8th grade and talked like he owned a gallery in Chelsea. He managed a band. Anyway, we get to Phils house and he unwraps the stuff from tin foil. Looks like hash but lighter brown than the really dark hash I grew up on. He said it was opium. We smoked it from a bong if I remember correctly. Here is what I remember. Phil’s room was painted black and had a high ceiling. He had a table and chairs, upright, attached to the ceiling. So when you looked up it was like you were five feet underground. He was artsy like that. I smoked, and from the very back of my skull, slowly forward to my forehead, pain I never realized had always been there, disappeared. It was like, there had not been pain, but now in this total absence of pain, I realized what a searing crown of barbed wire I had worn all my life. I couldn’t believe I never got to do this before, this was how god intended me to feel always and forever. I laid on the floor, so did Phil and Meg. We all looked up at the table we were under. Paul hadn’t smoked, “I’m good”, and with a gennny cream ale in one hand, he lightly palmed Meg’s boob in the other. I made fun of Paul, but honestly, I was in love with Meg and her boobs. I don’t remember how long the high lasted, but not super long. I scraped the screen and resmoked the resin to little effect. Phil said the opium was a gift and he could not get more. I called every person I knew for a week looking for some but never found any. I wound up getting clean and sober at 17 and have been ever since. Honestly, looking back I can’t even say why, other than that I knew I would die from it all one day. Which is, in itself, ironic. Try going through college in aa. Not a lot of fun. I’m basically a business guy of decent success these days with treatment resistant depression. I realized I have been thinking about killing myself since age 8, hence, the irony. Heavy, old fashioned antidepressants from before anything you have heard of work best for me. Because of them I only sleep an hour a day and if I eat the wrong thing I could give myself a stroke. I’m still here, which is kind of a shock. I’m even happy now and then, and I have no idea what to do with that. Phil went to art college in la. He filmed porn for a few years until he had some shows and now is a tenured art professor at a big state school. I ran into Paul at age 30. He had disappeared and looked like he had been on a desert island. Gone bald, long beard, dirty clothes. We hung out twice and caught up. He told me some crazy stories that involved fights, hookers whispering through brick walls and calming himself down by smoking crack. Whenever he tried to stop smoking crack someone would blow crack smoke under his door until the smell of it filled his apartment and he had to smoke more. Turns out he was/is schizophrenic. Meg went off to college and never came home for another ten years. She was always smart, and wound up with a phd in history and a rotten heroin addiction. She went through rehab eight times. A friend bumped into her in front of a methadone clinic in our city when we were about 35. Finally, she poured gasoline on herself and her dog and that was that. That shit will always follow me like Paul’s crack smoke blowers, I can’t get away no matter how hard I try. Would I have been her? Should I have been her? I did feel that brain cleansing high one other time. My sophomore year in college, the depression (then untreated) was raging and I started making an honest, logical plan of exactly how to kill myself the next day. Steps and details. I jerked off so I could get to sleep and had a dream. It seemed inconsequential at first, I was in a warehouse next to the ocean and the sun was low in the sky. The wall between me and the ocean crumbled away and the light of the sun became incredible. Then the light lifted me off my feet, and as it pulled me towards it, that same pain rolled away, from the back of my head forward. Euphoria. In arms of goodness. I woke up and went to a 1am aa meeting. I shared about killing myself and the dream. A guy named Florida Bob took me to a diner where we stayed until morning. His name was Florida Bob because there was already a guy in the rooms named Bob when he started going and Florida Bob had been to Florida once.


The note is done. Written, edited, signed, done. The noose is cinched and hung. All that's left is for me to decorate the door. I stood staring at it for what felt like an eternity. Today, every second had felt like eternity. I had writhed in agony watching each minute tick by, as if a lifetime had passed. I had tried everything I knew and I'd been told: dunked my face in cold water, but my forehead had felt red hot; meditated and focused on my breathing, but I'd retreat back into my head between each breath and be left gasping for air; took a scalding bath, for a moment I was in my skin again but then the water and I felt as one; I tried to nap, a reset was always in store, but I woke up still at death's door. I hadn't done it yet, though. I'd never been closer, but I still hadn't done it. Before I hit send, before I decorated the door, I told myself I'd go for one last run to get out of my head. I've been treading water the last week, just barely keeping my head up. I tried mushrooms a few days ago and for the first time in what felt like months could accept myself. In fact, I discovered I was stuck in time, two months earlier when I'd been dumped. My heart hadn't moved on, but the universe relentlessly had. And for 24 hours the mushrooms gave me clarity that I needed to move on, and even had. There was a moment when time seemed to stop and suddenly I was vaulted forward to the present. Over and around the intervening months. I was present again. But just as sudden as the revelation had fallen upon me it was stripped away and the black dog weighed down my chest once more. Shakily, I put on my running clothes. I considered my route, an old standard. Roughly 3.5 miles. It'd buy me a calculated 24-27 more minutes to think about this decision. I cinched my laces, I hate these shoes. I struck out the door. When my feet hit the pavement I realized this wasn't a regular jog. I wasn't running to run. I was running to kill myself. Or not. I'd find out along the way. Suddenly the route and distance didn't matter. I knew I'd be going further than I'd thought. I started out at a normal pace and began upping my tempo. I knew I was out of shape. I knew a single 7 minute mile would be my limit, as it had been on several of the past days. But today wasn't those days. I couldn't feel the exhaustion, the pain of my body. Moments earlier, all I could feel was my body exhausted. I was trapped in my head. I could push my body well past it's limits today, because I wasn't leaving my heart or my head until my body hurt more. Around the first mile I started muttering to myself: you've never outrun yourself before, but today is the day you beat yourself. And I kept running. I came upon a long flat stretch, a narrow catwalk along the water's edge, and I broke into a sprint. I was going to break myself now. I pushed until I could feel the burn in my legs, my throat and my lungs. I hadn't pushed myself like this in days, weeks, months or maybe even years. I'd forgotten what it felt like. I started feeling light-headed. This was to be alive? But it couldn't last. I ground to a halt and walked. Finally outside my head again, but still thinking. Finally not drowning in my thoughts. I'd realized earlier what it is in those last moments. It is quite literally drowning in your thoughts. My brain takes over, dwelling on my past failures, rejections, losses. And it's as if every iota of my brain power is diverted to these fruitless forays in my hippocampus. Every drip of processing is diverted. Suddenly my breathing reflex kicks in. I haven't been breathing. I've been drowning in my thoughts. And with it a sense of fear and dread; adrenaline courses through my aorta, spreading across my chest and dilating my bronchi. Fight or flight, from my own past? Pushing myself achieves this same end. But what am I running for? What am I running toward? I don't know, and I feel so lost and unbound. Adrift and asea. I thought again "if this is your last run, you're going out strong" and started sprinting again. I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I ran through throngs of people amidst cherry blossoms who didn't know I was probably running to my death. But suddenly I didn't want to die anymore, at least not yet. Not now. And I started a new mantra "this run saved my life." And I realized I could say that every time I ran. Or biked. Or hiked. Or sat with friends. Or worked on a project. Or spoke to my mom. But to do so I'd have to get through those long, dark minutes of pure and intense pain. I'd have to learn to hurt myself, again, running, hiking, biking. But I kept running, as fast and as hard as I could. I circled back around on my path, it was a lollipop route and I was completing the candy. And I pushed myself until I was back on the inner leg of it, the stem. I pushed myself so hard I started vomiting. In a homeless camp of all places. I'd had nothing to eat today, and little yesterday. I was subsisting on coffee. The bile came up black, sour, bitter. Much as the coffee had been going down. It seemed a funny parallel. And I decided then that I wanted to write about this. I wanted to share my story, because today: I didn't kill myself. I might have, some part of me wanted to. But I ran away. And I'll keep running. It's tough. But I think I found something to run for again. I'd mostly stopped running ages ago, but I think this was the motivation I needed to start again. The rest of my life is in shambles and I don't know what I'm doing. But I can keep running. I'll start running with a group, I think. And each time I'll let them know at the end "this run saved my life." I'll let them decide what that means to me, and them.


Hello! This one's not really fantasy, I don't think. Maybe it's more "speculative fiction", I don't know my genres very well here, I'm afraid :( It's shorter and pretty different from what I usually write. Undoubtedly rough in places. Let me know of any sentences that could be reworked. I know they're there, but it's hard for me to notice sometimes. I do know the very first sentence needs to be changed, but no matter how much I shift it around, I can't seem to get it to flow better. Enjoy!   Monster of the Lake By Thomas Bradford In a forest of tall trees there is a clearing, and in this clearing is a lake, and on the surface of this lake you float. The forest is quiet, the lake still. Your body gently lifts and falls on the water’s surface, divided between the black depths and the cold air. This division is not equal, with your body’s greater half belonging to the depths. Your ears are submerged, the sounds of the world muffled and distant, beyond reach. The sky is gray, dark, with the threat of a storm that never comes, a promise of rain that is never fulfilled. Everything is perpetual dampness, leaving your bones cold, your soul left with the longing for fire, and warmth. There is no one besides you. You are floating alone. Yet that is not entirely the truth, because there is something else. Something down below, at the end of the darkness. Something that lives in the depths of the lake, with its eyes eternally poised, searching for you. There’s something in the lake. It wants you down there with it. At times such as now, when the waters are still and nothing disturbs the mirror of their surface, when your thoughts are content, there appears an object rising beneath you. A coil, unfurling from the black void beneath the surface. A coil of metal. A hook, rusted and dull, rising at the end of a serpentine chain cast by a corpulent hand. All is quiet, peaceful, and you never suspect the chain’s presence. Taken unawares, like the prey of a stalking animal, you are hooked by this chain. With no chance to cry out, you are pulled beneath the surface without a sound. The waters are undisturbed by your departure. Gently they ebb and flow, their reflection of the sky unbroken in your absence. More perfect. Spiraling, descending, you watch the daylight recede. First it is at arm’s length, and you can still reach for it, then the moment has passed and it is beyond your grasp. With each tug of the chain, it drifts further and further away, as you sink with the hook that has caught you. Darkness covers you, the Stygian world closing in, smothering your sight, severing your hope. You cannot breathe. The darkness is not empty. Certain things dwell there – misshapen things, not living, but neither dead. Aspects of yourself, the dark reflections that exist in you. Thoughts, memories, once forgotten but now remembered in terrible flashes. Like ghoulish specters they rise from the deep, one by one to greet you like old friends, each with a smile on its face. Smiles which bare many teeth. There is no air to scream, no chance to free yourself. Your only recourse is to cry, the tears flowing into the water around you, joining with the lake, making it stronger as you are pulled down. Down. Your only company are the phantoms of time, the things you never wanted to remember, but will never fully forget. The daylight has disappeared, the surface gone from you so completely that you are uncertain it was ever real. The world below becomes your reality, the dark water and grinning faces your nightmare, and your mind is filled with the terrible certainty that you will never get out again. Everything is distorted, all clarity lost. You become convinced that if there ever was a world above, somewhere free of this dark place, that that world is not for you. That you belong out of sight, in the darkness. As you think of giving in, of stopping your struggle to let the chain pulling you take its course, one last flicker of clarity does emerge, and you wonder how many times this has happened, and for what reason it continues to happen. What is the purpose of this lake, and why are you there? The chain pulls and pulls. You’re close to the bottom. With no air to breathe, surely you should be dead by now. And yet you live, trapped in this state of suffocation, desperate and denied the salvation of a single breath. Revolving slowly, your eyes catch a glimpse below of the thing that has ensnared you. Just a glimpse, a vague outline of the monstrous creature. Something that looks human. Eyes searing with hatred, a loathing that can never be undone. It grasps the chain, a murderous intensity in its eyes, in that grip, in every movement of it. This creature wants you dead. It wants nothing more than for you to end. This thing exists because you exist. Its life is tied undeniably to yours, and yet it wants you to die. It does not care, for its sole purpose in being is for you to suffer, and ultimately cease to be. To meet this creature, to descend to the bottom of this lake and stare into its pale face, is to mean your death. Until then, all your efforts will be distorted, reshaped into ridiculous failures unworthy of note. All your dreams will be taken from you, smothered in their cribs while you watch in silence. Perhaps you will fall to the lake’s bottom one day. Perhaps the monster will win in the end. But today the hook’s hold on you isn’t strong enough, and you slip free. Terror takes hold as you flail, scrambling back to the surface, to pull yourself out of this nightmare. The monster remains where it is, for it is patient and sure that one day it will have you. Your ascent from the terrible deep seems never-ending, and you are afraid the surface might have been something you dreamed a long time ago. Or that perhaps the darkness has irreversibly changed you in some way, spoiled you, and now you can never return. You don’t see the surface appear before you. There is no long and ardent journey towards some far-off light. One moment you’re still mired beneath, with the voices and whispers from the past pressing around your head, each getting its final say in before you pass from their domain. Each phantom grinning and chuckling at your pathetic motions. And then you are out, once again floating at the surface, without a splash or a loud gasp for air. You’re just back, like nothing had happened. The chill air drying your face is the only indication you ever left. No relief at your escape, no thankfulness to still be alive – your mind runs with one terrible certainty: It will happen again. Sooner or later there will be another hook, another chain, and you will be pulled under again. True escape will never be possible. You are trapped in this place, trapped in this cycle without end. No. A cycle with one end. The quiet is broken by your screams, the peaceful air filled with your wretched cries. There are people standing at the edge of the lake. You didn’t notice them before, but you see them now. How can they not see you? How does your screams, your thrashing, not get their attention? But they do see. They are not blind. All around the lake’s perimeter the people stand in silence, watching as you struggle, listening as you wail and cry, unable to save yourself. Some of the people have never swam these dark waters; others know the dangers. None can help. They’re all preoccupied, they have their own problems, and dreams. They don’t have time for yours. Some of the people leave, disappearing into the fog and the trees, perhaps to wander into lakes of their own one day. The others look away, and hope that your cries will end soon.


Alone, she watches the water flow over her cave dwelling. This cave has been her home her entire life and the small forests and cliff that surround her are the only world she’s ever known. She gets up and begins to walk alongside the flowing river as she has done 1000 times before. She’s lined the river with different edible plants that she was able to find foraging. Outside of the occasional bird or fish this has been her main sustenance. As she walks she picks a few different fruits for breakfast. She follows the river all the way down the 2 mile path she knows by heart and arrives at the falls. She looks over and sees no bottom, nothin but mist and fog. She looks around, the landscape etched in her memory. Cliffs surround her, and for all but the falls it is a harrowing and impossible fall, no where to climb and no way to jump. She thinks to herself that she could be happy with life above the falls. That she has everything she needs and lives a life of peace, she doesn’t need more. For the first time in a long time a stabbing thought, a jaded memory comes to the front of her mind, her as a young child laughing with her parents sitting on a soft bed. She can’t remember her parents or anyone else well. She can’t remember a time where she was not by herself and not responsible for herself. She still questions how reliable this thought is, it’s the only memory that ever comes to mind, how does she know these people are her parents? How does she know they were with her here? There was no trace of them, has she always been alone on this island? Do other people exist? She has nothing more than a feeling, a yearning, to go on, but lately the fire inside her seems to be growing and pushing her to find out if there is more out there. She takes another look out on the horizon and turns around to walk back towards her cave. With each step she begins to feel more sick and upset. By the time she is back she breaks down crying. She looks at the cave wall by where she sleeps and sees the picture she has drawn using berries, a crude drawing but none the less effective, her present day sitting with the two people from her memory. In that moment she realizes that she needs that as much as food or water. She can’t live another day without anyone to share it with. At this moment she decides she’s going over the falls. She spends the entire night foraging for anything she can find that may be useful -food, sticks leaves, anything. She builds what she can of a bucket and raft over the next few days testing it in her small, calm part of the river. Once one was able to hold her afloat she loaded it up with everything she had and walked with it alongside the river holding it upright with a long stick. When she made it to the falls she looked once more out and looked for resolve within herself. A reason to not do what she was about to, a doubt, but any semblance of one was gone. She jumped into her make-shift raft and floated toward the falls. The river rages and almost immediately flips her over, but she holds on and gains a balance squating on the raft. She tied everything down best she could with leaves and branches and she held them as secure as she could. She used a large trunk to steer her way away from rocks and towards the center of the falls, she figured this would be the place with potentially the deepest and most clear bottom when, if, she lands in water below. She moves closer to the edge, her heart now racing. She closes her eyes and dreams one more time about a life with people she loves. She opens her eyes, she is inches away from the falls. She looks out to the horizon and sees what looks to be artificial lights in the distance.


The Palace of Luna was, in a word, enormous. However, if one were to assign a second descriptor to it, they might choose eclectic. For it borrowed from a seemingly endless array of architectural schools that seemed to result in pure chaos, but that was only when you looked upon it from afar. Upon closer inspection, the various styles and schools created a sort of interlocking pattern that morphed and changed even as you examined it. The strangely beautiful result of this seemingly random mixing of architectural styles had ended up being widely hailed as the pinnacle of human aestheticism. Its interior was no different, the wildly varying styles bled into each other, and one could become lost in the rapturous beauty of the maze-like corridors of the castle. In fact, more than one individual had done just that, though regular patrols from the devout guardsmen of the Palace kept anyone from becoming permanently lost. In the throne room of the Palace, the Queen was currently receiving petitioners. The dizzyingly high columns supported a ceiling that arched far above the court. Dozens of humans milled on the sidelines, some required to attend, bound by their duties. Others merely sought to entertain themselves and viewed the petitioning as a distraction from the daily grind of their various obligations. They tittered amongst themselves from behind their stone and metal masks as the next petitioner kneeled and began to speak. “Your majesty, I greet you oh most luminous Queen of Luna. I come before you today to prey upon your generosity. My people, the Cathrundi are currently suffering at the hand of the Letraxin, they have invaded our worlds. I fear that we will not be able to repel them with our own meager power and so I have been sent to beseech your aid. That you have deigned to hear my request at all honors not only myself, but my kin as well.” The man who spoke wasn’t really a man, at least not a human man. His species shared humanity’s sexual dimorphism, and it even manifested similarly. However, beyond that they weren’t terribly similar. His species was far larger than humans and bore their children in a way more similar to marsupials than humans. They also found the extremely high oxygen levels that humanity preferred somewhat toxic. They could survive for a few days in such an environment, but after that they would begin to suffer severe side effects. This aversion to human atmosphere excused the exo-suit he wore as he presented himself to the Queen. Though for his speech, he had removed his helmet in a show of respect for the Queen as he bowed deeply on the first four of his six legs. His head, like the rest of his body, was scaly, lending him a reptilian look, though the shape of his head, as well as the unmistakable beak, was more birdlike than anything. He remained in that pose for long seconds after he delivered his request for aid. He knew he was lucky to even receive an audience with the Queen of Luna. She was extremely busy, and the sheer quantity of sapient beings seeking to petition her far outweighed the amount she could ever possibly receive. He’d had no choice but to try his luck as all other official attempts to gather allies to aid in his people’s fight against the Letraxin had failed miserably. This was his people’s last hope for salvation. If the Queen did not grant them succor, then they would be trampled by the endless legions of the Letraxin, and those who survived the invasion would be taken as slaves to serve their new masters. “You have been heard, Decqual, descendant of Norperien and representative of the Cathrundi. You may rise.” The Queen of Luna spoke in a clear, measured tone. Her voice was like the sound of distant church bells echoing across a dewy meadow. Just hearing her voice was pure delight for the vast majority of sapient species, and Decqual was no exception. He was just barely able to maintain a somber facial expression as he rose to face the Queen, though it was an immense struggle as his heart lit with joy upon hearing her speak. He faced her, she was small, even for a human. Her skin was slightly transparent, proudly displaying her slight musculature and the gently pulsing veins that ran along her arms. Her face was hidden by a heavily stylized silver mask that covered even her eyes, though he knew that she could quite clearly see him in spite of it. Her pale blue dress nearly rose to meet the mask, leaving on the barest amount of her neck exposed as it flowed like water to pool at her feet, the silvery-white accents serving to make it seem as if she was actually garbed in water. Decal stood and faced her, maintaining eye contact with the mask as was traditional in the Queen’s Court when she asked that you rise. “Your people are new to the galaxy I believe. I remember when we first heard of your kind establishing a colony some four centuries ago. We foresaw then that you might become easy targets and warned you to prepare for the coming storm, and yet that was not enough. Why have you failed to prepare to protect yourselves? Why are you so *weak*?” The Queen’s words were scathing, and Decqual could not help but flinch as she questioned his people’s inadequacies. “Your majesty,” he began selecting his words carefully. “Your words did not go unheeded, and we did prepare for others to encroach upon what we claimed. However our people are not so long-lived as yours and as generations passed so did our vigilance. Our philosophers called for a more peaceful reign claiming that by clinging to violence we only lowered ourselves and that true enlightenment could only be achieved through pacifism. The shifting tides of culture through the flow of time has weakened us and now we pay the price for it most dearly. I can provide no good excuse for our failures as a species only this explanation of our folly and shortsightedness. I humbly beg your forgiveness in spite of that.” Decqual’s answer drew chuckles from the surrounding courtiers. Their faces were hidden behind a variety of masks that varied not only in style but material composition. However, very few were of silver, for only those of royal blood were allowed to wear silver masks, and successors to the throne rarely lived very long. He noted that not a single laugh left the throat of those with silver masks that he was able to notice. He wondered at that and its potential significance, but his thoughts were interrupted when the Queen delicately cleared her throat, silencing the laughter echoing in the courtroom. “Such failures are difficult for me to overlook. However, I can understand why a species so young and short-lived might be equally short-sighted. These were traits that even we humans once held in ages long past. Though we have grown beyond our original constraints, it is wise to remember we were not always gods striding above the mortals with whom we share this galaxy.” Her speech seemed to be an admonishment to those who had laughed at Decqual, and he felt a mote of relief. If nothing else, she was understanding, though it was unclear if that would translate to her bequeathing aid to his cause. The Queen paused for several long moments, and the courtroom and its occupants waited silently for her next words. “That being said, to cast aside your ability and will to commit violence is akin to casting aside your right to live. Tell me, why should I assist a species that has willingly thrown itself off a cliff? Why should I help those who seek to help themselves to their deaths?” Decal considered her question. She was right of course, that they had brought this upon themselves. By casting aside violence, they had brought death upon themselves. He could not and would not deny anything she had stated. How to answer her then? What reason could he possibly give to the Queen of Luna that would satisfy her? He himself had called for the re-establishment of his people’s military in these past years, and yet he and others like him had gone ignored up until now when it was already too late. It was truly hard to see how his species deserved redemption when cast under the judging light of Luna. But perhaps he could use that light to his advantage, for that light was currently cast upon him, and it was *his* words and actions that bore weight here in this courtroom. And he was one of the few Cathrundi who was proud to carry on the ancient ways of war, if only in mimicry. He straightened his back and placed his helmet upon his head, the seal clicking shut. “I have no words that might prove that my people deserve to be saved. I shall instead show you through action that we yet deserve to live.” The guards by the throne tensed as his words, but he had already begun to move by the time they realized his intent. The Queen gazed upon him unmoving even as he lunged towards her, her mask as impassive as ever as blades unfolded from the arms of his exo-suit. He had surrendered his pulse cannon upon entering the Palace. It was a relic passed down through his family line but still a good weapon. He missed it sorely now as the blades of his exo-suit came down upon the shield of one of the guards. The other guard used the opportunity to lunge forward with his spear, but Decqual was too quick and jumped backward, just barely avoiding the blow. His suit was armored, but human material sciences were millennia beyond anything his people knew, and he did not trust his suit’s armor to hold up against human weaponry. He was glad that the guards had yet to reach for the pistols upon their hips, for if they did, the fight would be over in no time at all. He lunged forward again, both of the guards held up their shields, spears poking forth from behind them. He bounced to the side as he edged towards the spears using the light gravity to launch himself into a spiral. The guard closest to him must have realized what he was doing and, in a quick motion swung his shield, throwing it into Decquals path. A quick burst of his suit’s thrusters corrected his course away from both the shield and the Queen. At this point, many of the courtiers had fled to the corners of the room farthest from her majesty, which suited Decqual just fine as it gave him more room to maneuver. He decided that to truly prove his point, he would have to stop dancing about, and as he landed, he launched himself forward straight at the guards. One of them launched just as he did and was caught by surprise. Decquals left blade struck him squarely in his chest and sent him flying upwards. Decal slowed on the impact, unfortunately allowing the other guard to score a blow on him tearing through his armor just as easily as Decqual had previously feared. The Queen’s voice rang out as the guard’s spear withdrew and prepared for a second blow, “Enough, you have proven your point representative of the Cathrundi.” With that proclamation Decqual’s blades retreated and the guards resumed their postings at either side of the throne, though their expressions betrayed a continued wariness of Decqual. “I beg your forgiveness your majesty. I could think of no other way to prove that we Cathrundi are not beyond redemption. The desire to fight, to live, it still burns bright in us. I do not come here to beg that we be saved, only that we be given the chance to fight back.” Decal hoped that this last impassioned plea would work. He was rewarded with laughter from the Queen as she bent over in her throne, clutching her stomach. Her normally gentle and restrained voice had been overcome by a raucous belly laugh that disconcerted everyone in the room. The Queen regained her composure after a few moments and stood up from her throne, “Your answer is filled with vigor and passion, I find your desire to rail against the cultural constraints of your people, and the universe that seeks to destroy you…amusing. I shall grant you your desire. You shall be granted weaponry commesnsurate with your people’s technological prowess. It will, however, be up to your people to use those weapons to save themselves. Do not waste this gift, for if you do I will ensure your extinction in return for wasting my goodwill.” “Your generosity knows no bounds Queen of Luna, with this proclamation I shall leave your presence and return to my people with the material you have so graciously bequeathed unto us. We will not forget this kindness in the long years to come.” Decqual gave a final bow to The Queen and was escorted from the hall. From there, everything became a blur as he was presented with a veritable river of documentation to sign. He signed it all without bothering to read the documents. It didn’t matter either way if any of the legalese in the documents was not in his people’s favor. Without this aid they would die regardless. So he signed everything that was put in front of him, eventually plowing through it all. After that particular ordeal, he was guided back to his ship. The captain of his ship had already docked inside the hangar of a truly massive human cargo vessel. The ship was still being loaded when he approached. Crates upon crates of weapons and armor for infantry were being loaded alongside long-range fighter craft and other vehicles of war. The vessel was larger than even his people’s largest space stations, and it was being filled to the brim with weaponry. His heart flowed over with joy at the sight. Many would fight and die so that they might survive, but for the first time since the invasion had started, there was hope that they might survive the coming days.


I’ve never felt a coldness more piercing than the wind at the remote research site in Antarctica. Five days by myself conducting my first solo research expedition. It was my chance to prove that I have what it takes to endure the cold and gather samples of existing, or possibly new, organisms from a frozen lake nearly four-thousand meters under the ice. In fact, there were several worksites currently active alongside me, all with new researchers eager to produce some sort of rare find and be given a permanent position. We were positioned a few miles from one another, extracting samples from the same underground frozen lake. I had 2 days to collect samples, as we expected a white-out blizzard on the third, of which I would then hunker down and analyze my findings thus far. After that, a couple more days of sample gathering and then we’d be evacuated. Excited, doesn’t quite embrace the absolute joy I had for this opportunity. My first day went by smooth enough. I maintained the worksite, only losing a couple tarps when the winds picked up, and I inspected the excavation hole that was drilled by the research center when they deployed me. The hole was drilled by a mechanical boring drill, plunging deep into the glacier crust. Hot water and steel broke past the frozen layers and took quite some time. The greasy contraption that did the hard work lied a few meters away from my worksite. It wreaked a powerful gag inducing stench. The hole in the ground was large enough to fit my whole arm down, luckily there’s no need for that as they provided me with a pulley and sample collector to lower down. All that remained of my worksite was some wire fence to keep the wildlife out, a tent that’s seen its fair share of expeditions, and me. A shivering, kind of know what I’m doing, fake it ‘till I make it; me. The first day was a success. Not successful as in I retrieved any usable samples or anything. I *did* stare far too long at an elephant seal, who was snooping outside the northern perimeter, but I mean a success as in I’m still alive and didn’t lose anymore tarp *and* I had a better idea of how to use the equipment, at least. Once I covered the pulley system, extraction site, and remaining gear I ducked into my tent for the night and began preparing dinner. The first night I had imitation potatoes and, in quotes, “salisbury steak consumable dinner tray”. In fact, every night I was blessed with that meal. If not just the potatoes after the first night. That night I was woken by howling winds. The entire tent was shaking, and the sounds of loose rope were flogging the sides. There wasn’t supposed to be a storm until two nights from now. It was hard to sleep to say the least. The sound conjured all sorts of nightmares from my restless mind. The thoughts of unimaginable things lurking outside my tent. I imagined that elephant seal coming through the wire fence and greeting me through the opening of my tent. Seals are fine and all, until one just, flops into your room. I held my sleeping bag tight and closed my eyes. The next morning, I inspected the perimeter and fastened any loose tarps and rope. It wasn’t until I looked at the worksite that I noticed the tracks in the snow. They had been lightly covered after the wind and were very faint. They were probably mine from yesterday. I shook any doubts- I had work to do and samples to catch up on. I can’t be empty handed when they return to retrieve me and the supplies. I yanked the covering off the hole and pulley system and was immediately taken aback from the smell. The smell that I noticed on the drill had come from the hole. A stench, like decaying flesh. A sweet smell followed by bitter iron and rot. I pulled me scarf tighter around my nose and began to work. I pulled out a few ounces of dirt, water, and small fragments of rock. The pulley’s small engine block struggled a few times, so I was sure to let it warm up once I started it and let it cool after each use. Light flakes swam around the water sample like a snow globe. The dirt was clumpy and black, and the rocks were small and fragmented. Sharp and dense, though few rocks were the size of marbles and granulated on touch. I kept the remainder of the samples contamination free and set them aside for tomorrow, when I would look at each sample under a microscope and record my findings. My hopes were low, and so were my test samples. I needed more. I dropped the pulley a few more times that day but was only able to pull up more water and ice, all the same. My second night of sleep, or lack thereof, will always resonate with me. I was awoken yet again by violent winds. The sides of my tent flailed wildly, and the sounds outside mimicked that of rubbing metal and screeching animals. The sound was unbearable even after hiding under my pillow. I heard a crackling, low pitched splintering growl from the direction of the worksite. I sprung out of bed assuming the worst, that my worksite had been destroyed or something fell onto what samples I did have. But I when I flung open the tent entrance, nothing. Literally nothing. No storm, no wind, only the stars in the sky and a single light from behind the tarp covering the worksite. The silence of the arctic wrapped itself around me. And the horrific stench pierced the freezing air. I secured the flap to my tent and laid back in bed. I grabbed a book to read but only held it closely as I stared at the entrance of the tent, inevitably fell asleep. When I awoke the next day the air was still, and snow fell silently. The storm should have arrived, and perhaps it did, but the high winds were absent. I made my way to the worksite, bumping into the drill now covered in snow. Peeling back the tarp to worksite I started the engine block to the pulley and let it warm up. I wrapped another scarf around my head attempting to block the stench from reaching my frozen nostrils. I should’ve been in my tent looking over what samples I did have, but I needed more. I dropped a clamp and swab down the hole into the ice. It takes roughly 15 minutes for it safely reach the bottom. I paced around for a while trying to keep warm and I noticed the area around the hole. The ice had cracked in three different spots. Little fractures were visible, crackling off the cylindric hole two inches in width. I averted my attention to the pulley which was still dropping. It had been twenty-two minutes. I stared at the remaining line on the spool and there seemed to be plenty to spare, but how far down could this possibly go? I decided to let it run. I thought this was the break I had been waiting for. Maybe I would pull up a new microorganism, a fossil from some long-forgotten ocean dwelling species or- *new* species. When the line ran out, I pulled the joint to snap the collection tray on the other end shut and pushed a button, opening the swab. After a few moments I switched the motor in reverse and began pulling the samples back up, refilling the empty spool with line once again. I began prepping what samples I had collected for transfer back to my tent when the line from the pulley snapped tightly, halting completely. The motor made a god-awful screeching noise as white smoke erupted from the top, then suddenly began pulling normally again. The line must’ve gotten caught on something. I checked the temperature of the motor and placed some snow on top of the block to cool it down. The weather outside had been slowly picking up after my couple hours in the extraction site, and it was zero visibility outside. I placed my hand into the snow outside the opening of the tarp and felt around for the safety line attached to my tent, so I could find my way back. I yanked it above the snow, and it hung fastened in my hand, the other end disappeared into the wind and snow. I turned my head back to the pulley as the motor shut off. The sample had been retrieved and dangled above the open hole. I placed the swab into a sealant and opened the collection tray. From it fell, what seemed like, black straw. Thick strands of black, still wet from water, but bristly and stick-like. I felt like I had something worth investigating and began to get excited; imagining myself being appraised for discovering a new species of seaweed. But Christ, the smell must be from whatever this is. I closed the extraction site and made my way to the tent. Holding the safety line I walked what seemed like hours in the blinding snowstorm. Sure that I grabbed the wrong rope, the tent finally unveiled itself through the white haze. Once I made myself comfortable, I began setting up for sample inspection. I was so excited I nearly dropped it on the ground. I opened the sample container and instantly filled the tent with the smell of decay. If this wasn’t a plant, it might be from a carcass on the ocean floor. The winds from outside began to grow violent again. I placed the sample on the microscope tray, then turned to warm water for a cup of tea. I could hear the noises from outside like the night before. Howling and screeching noises from all around but my excitement for this new find distracted me plenty from worrying about the wind. I peeked into the microscope and saw- movement. Lots of movement. And not one shape of cell, but many. I grasped for air suddenly when the entirety of my tent was lit up from outside and the sides began to unravel slightly. The wind became so violent that I hadn’t even noticed the sound of a helicopter. A member of the response team burst through the opening of the tent and was startled I was even in here. “Hey, are you okay” “Y-yeah, I’m fine but, extraction isn’t for another 2 days what are you-“ “Were leaving. Now! In the chopper-“ He pointed out of the tent with his assault rifle and shouted again. “Now!” I grabbed the remaining sample from off the collection tray and slipped into my snow suit. We ran out of the tent and into bursting spotlights. I was helped into the helicopter and we began lifting off the ground before I could even put on a seat belt. As we lifted, the chopper blew snow off the worksite, and the tarp for the worksite as well. The cracks I seen earlier had grew so big that the machine used to drill the hole had slightly fallen in. I was informed that something had gone wrong. I was the only person alive from the five teams dispatched. One site had broken completely open, swallowing the worksite and scientist entirely. Another had sent a distress signal and when the response team arrived, they couldn’t find her. Instead what they found was a ten-foot trail of blood leading into the excavation hole, the entire inside coated with frozen blood as if she was dragged down. The response team quickly noticed the smell from the sample I had grabbed. It was confiscated immediately and I was told I’d be given credit for the find but would not be informed about any further research on the sample. When asked if I wanted to do another expedition, I declined. I took a cozy desk job instead. And though it’s been years since the incident, I still have dreams about the violent winds and I’m woken to the smell of decay.  Written By C.T.


It was the winter of 2000; I was in my hometown of Anchorage. On this evening, I was relaxing on the couch. Planning on watching another re-run of Seinfeld before turning in for the night. It is worth mentioning that my girlfriend, at the time, happened to be an Alaskan native. She had recently put the kids to bed and was taking a shower. My girlfriend's sister was visiting our home. She was staying in the downstairs spare bedroom. She was in town due to having some medical checkups scheduled for the following week at ANMC. We lived in a subdivision off Arctic Blvd that bordered Chester creek. This area called Midtown; it's not too far from downtown Anchorage. I suppose the time was around 10 or 11 PM; the moon was full that January night. I remember looking out the front room window. Seeing the rooftops of the neighboring houses sharply silhouetted in the glow. My dog lazily snoozed on the floor next to the couch. Eventually, my eyes also started to get heavy. This was due to the background noise of the television. Mixing with the quiet white noise of the shower had a calming effect. The baseboard heater quietly clicked and popped. Wrapping me in relaxing warmth; I soon dozed off. Suddenly I was awoken by a sharp, jolting burst of sound. My eyes immediately snapped open in shock. This tone ripped thru the tranquility of the peaceful night with gravelly croaking. There was no mistaking that sound, especially during the winter months in Alaska. This was the sound of the Raven. I remember thinking, why the hell is a raven making a racket at this time of the night!? I barely had time to finish that thought. When I heard the bedroom door fly open and then the sound of hurrying footsteps. I look up in time to see my girlfriend. Quickly putting on her robe as she runs to each kid's bedroom, anxiously checking on them. I sat up on the couch, still dazed from my interrupted sleep. Trying to get my head around what exactly I was seeing and hearing and why all the commotion. I glanced over to the TV and saw static across the screen; the time on the DVD player displayed 3:00 AM in green light. The dog was up and alert; the hackles stood tall down its back. Suddenly, the sister quickly comes up the stairs. She had a genuine look of wide-eyed concern and alarm deeply etched on her face. Once my girlfriend made sure the kids were safe and asleep, she worriedly looked out each window. For what I had no idea until she stopped dead in her tracks at the window in front of me. What's wrong??... What's wrong?? The sister kept fearfully whispering to herself. Slowly wringing her nightshirt in her hands. Timidly shuffling across the floor towards the living room window next to her sister. I couldn't understand why both the sisters and the dog were having such an intense reaction. The scene was surreal; I found myself in a confused daze as I stood up and approached the window myself. There was the culprit perched on the handrail of our deck. I have always known Ravens to be large birds; yet, this bird seemed utterly massive this close. The bird was so black that its feathers took on a deep purplish hue in the moonlight glow. Its large round inky black eyes assessed each of us individually. It intelligently, eyeing us up and down as it sharply cut its head from side to side. It yet seemed to take a greater interest in the sisters. This bird carried an intense, still, and heavy presence. It showed absolutely no fear of the humans that stood before it. It methodically stretched out its neck and opened its beak wide. A few seconds of silence passed until it made a sound I had never heard from a Raven before or after this bizarre night. The mournful cry it made reminded me of the wail of a small infant. The raven slowly weaved its head in a low figure-eight pattern as it made this continuous cry. The moment that sound filled the night air, a cold chill prickled down my neck and across my back. I was filled with a sense of loneliness I had never felt before. I quickly glanced over at the sisters. They were tightly clinging to each other. Knuckles white, with teary eyes keenly locked on the bird's bizarre display. I immediately thought that I was witnessing something I was not meant to see. I was very much an interloper in a personal exchange. Once the bird finished this almost ritual-like behavior. It quietly eyed both the women for a few more moments before leaping off into the night. An item lay where the bird once perched on the railing. Curiosity getting the best of me. Mixed with the desperate need to escape the strange and awkward atmosphere that overcame the room. I heaved open the half-frozen sliding door to enter the deck to retrieve the item. The weather outside being bitterly cold. I instantly regretted my decision as my body went into an immediate shiver. The skin on my face was tightening while my ears and nose burned painfully. The snow squeaked loudly beneath my bare feet as I gingerly approached the item. The mystery gift left behind soon became clear. A small bundle of needles from a spruce tree lay on the barren rail. Clearly, the women were both shaken to their core that night. A quiet melancholy soon followed and lingered heavily on the sisters. Continuing thru the following days after the bird's departure. The reason why was unknown to each of us. Yet, I had a strong gut feeling that it was not my place to talk about what we each saw. A few days passed. Once I got off work, the three of us decided to take the dog for a walk on a community trail not far behind our subdivision. Heavy cloud cover filled the sky over Anchorage that evening. Large snowflakes slowly fell. The walk was mainly dark. Except for the occasional light pole that sparsely dotted the trail. Washing the path in a fluorescent glow. The sounds of 6 PM city traffic droned in the background. We talked among ourselves when we heard a man's low weak cry for help in the darkness ahead. We immediately stopped and listed. The dog's ears snapped forward, head pointing slightly off the trail. A long whimper-like growl emitted from the animal's core, followed by a concerned huff. Once more, we hear a weak, agonized voice call out, pleading for God’s intervention. The cry drifted thru the snow-laden spruce trees that lined the trail. I glance down and notice a footpath in the snow leading thru the woodland in the directions of the cries. I hand the dog’s leash to the sisters and tell them to stay put. Both women sharply plead for me not to go as I continue into the murk to investigate. As I weave my way thru the tiny trail, my feet bust thru the upper crust of snow, and I sink to thigh depth. I continue to slog my way forward; before long, I come to a clearing in the trail. In the darkness, I can make out the silhouette of a lone tent. I call out as I approach the tent, only to be met with silence. When I am closer, I notice a battered tarp draped over the tent shell haphazardly. An inch of snow lay on the tarp, and the cheap tent bows under the weight. The unzipped tent entrance gave the appearance of a gaping black mouth in the gloom. I strain to look inside and call out a sharp hello?! Not a sound or any movement came from the tent. My concentration was suddenly broken. Irritated and worried calls from the sisters rang out demanding for me comeback. Before making my way back to the main trail, I investigated the campsite. Piles of trash littered the area in dark mounds. I made out some of what appeared to be scattered empty food containers. White trash bags ripped open full of miscellaneous used clothing. Broken children's toys lay beside empty beer and alcohol containers. Piles of empty aerosols labeled canned air peaked thru the snow. Frozen clothing remained hanging from the hacked-up trees that surrounded the site. A deep low sobbing drifted from behind me down the trail from where I came. The women again loudly shouted for my return with urgency. I quickly as possible made my way back to the sisters. They both pointed to the direction from where the cry came from. The focus was down the wide main trail that eventually opened into an empty city park named the valley of the moon. We called out as we cautiously searched the entire park. The only response was the muffled noise of a city in the winter. We made our way to a metal-roofed pavilion. Underneath the structure sat a few graffitied weather-beaten wooden picnic tables. This area was the only spot in the park not covered in snow. We decided at this point that it would be best to call APD and inform them of everything. We did precisely that, APD arrived, performed a search, and found nothing. Being late, we now started for home. We were making our way thru the playground. Passing a tall rocket-shaped jungle gym, when the sister gave a sharp, loud gasp. We glanced over to see she was looking upwards. The city lights reflected a deep red hue on the heavy snow-laden clouds. Revealing a large black silhouette of a raven who sat silently perched. We all felt the familiar heaviness of its gaze. My stomach tightened as we continued forward. Lowering our faces from the pelting snow while picking up our pace in our walk home, Two days later, the morning came for the sister to leave. We were getting ready to drop her off at the airport when my home phone rang. My girlfriend answers the phone. I was loading the sister's bags into the truck when I heard loud shouting and screams coming from the house. I soon found both women crying hysterically for their nephew. Alfred was a quiet boy who grew into an even quieter young man. He was raised in a village in southeast Alaska by his grandparents and aunties. Alfred became heavily addicted to alcohol. So much so his family sent him to Anchorage in hopes of treatment. Unfortunately, the treatment never took hold after many attempts. Eventually, he found himself homeless on the streets of Anchorage. He was ashamed of his situation and refused to return home, ignoring his family's pleas to return. He steadily continued to sink deeper into his addiction. Alfred became a living ghost in the urban landscape. He survived living hand to mouth by panhandling and stealing. Being afraid to sleep at the local homeless shelters at night. Alfred preferred to sleep where he could. One cold night he closed his eyes and never opened them again. The Spenard community patrol found his frozen body early the following day. The police report stated Alfreds' body was found in a fetal position. The man was lying on top of a picnic table underneath the pavilion at the valley of the moon park. When found, it was also mentioned that his body was covered in spruce boughs in a desperate attempt to stay warm. The night Alfred died was the very night we received our visit and gift from the mysterious Raven. Unbeknown to us, three days after Alfred’s death, we heard the sad cries for help in the park. The same park where he died. I had often wondered, looking back. If the Raven kept silent watch over him that bitterly cold night when he passed away. Maybe Alfred was able to catch a glimpse of its dark silhouette in the yellow moonlight, high on up its perch. Perhaps he also felt the heavy gaze upon him during his final moments. We will never know. I like to tell myself the bird was there, and Alfred found comfort in the gaze, knowing he was not alone. He would have a companion during his final walk thru the dark wilderness, to his eternal journey home… The sisters and their family never once referred to this mysterious bird as Raven. They called it by its original ancient name. The name given to it by their people in myths and legends centuries ago. The sacred name of Y'eil.


Tobias and Ines, twin siblings, discovered their parents, the King and Queen, had been murdered while they slept. The coronation was to take place the next day, and Ines, who was 15 minutes older, was to become Queen. Tobias thought this was unfair and threatened to make Ines' life a living hell if she didn't make a deal. She did, and they would become separate but equal King and Queen. They would each have a say in decisions, but if they disagreed, they would defer to the military's top commander, Zanzibar, who Ines knew was in love with her. Tobias had been duped, and the coronation was held with a tie-breaker that would never go in his favor. Despite their efforts to ensure equality in appearance, wealth, and decision-making, the residents of their Kingdom preferred Ines and recognized her as the true Queen of the Kingdom. The military also gave Ines greater respect than Tobias, believing that Ines made better decisions than her brother. Finally, Tobias became bitter and earned a reputation as useless, lazy, and just symbolic figurehead. Tobias was consumed by jealousy. He stole half of the Kingdom's wealth and departed one day after being overruled for the hundredth time. Tobias spent ten years traveling the world in search of the most powerful mystics, psychics, and alchemists. If he ever came home, he would do so as the most powerful person in history. Tobias eventually found a witch who wielded the darkest magic. He had nearly spent the entire Kingdom's wealth in order to find this witch. Since he was out of money, he offered his soul to the witch in return for immortality, uncountable wealth, and supreme power. "How will I collect your soul if you are immortal?" The witch asked. Tobias sensed he was getting close, and as he gazed around the witch's cave, he noticed a ladybug climbing up a rock. "Fine, the only element on Earth capable of killing me will be a ladybug." The witch thought about it for a minute before agreeing. "Alright, when you are killed because of a ladybug, I will collect your soul." She cast a spell, and Tobias became all-powerful. He returned directly from the witch's cave to his home Kingdom, marched right into the Palace, and killed Queen Ines with lightning from his hands in a demonstration of supreme might. The Kingdom cowered in fear and lamented the loss of their beloved Queen. Tobias ascended to the throne as the lone and invincible King. He had finally seized control of the Kingdom's money, military, and citizens. Tobias' first act as King was to assign Zanzibar and some of his higher-ranking military operatives the mission of gathering and destroying all ladybugs throughout the Kingdom and beyond. Tobias took up residence within the Palace while his orders were being carried out, refusing to leave or even address his subjects. It took years, but Zanzibar and the Kingdom's troops were eventually able to destroy every ladybug in the Kingdom and beyond. When Zanzibar returned to the Palace to inform the King that they had completed their job successfully, Tobias killed them as well because they were aware of his weakness. However, the King was unaware that Zanzibar carried a grudge against him because he had murdered the love of his life. He wasn't sure why the King was scared of ladybugs, so he trapped one remaining in a metal sphere and buried it beneath the Palace. Before his untimely death, the only person he told about the sealed ladybug was his daughter, whom he told in a bedtime story. The plot revolved around an all-powerful King who was terrified of ladybugs. And how the King murdered all of the ladybugs except one, which an enemy placed under his throne. His daughter, on the other hand, saw it as nothing more than a ridiculous story and never believed it to be true. King Tobias emerged from the Palace, knowing that all of his weaknesses had been eliminated, and ruled his Kingdom with an iron fist. The King was not content with simply dominating over his subjects; he also invaded other Kingdoms, establishing an Empire of terror that stretched beyond the horizon. The King was the most despised man in the Empire, yet he was immortal, all-powerful, and had amassed a tremendous military force to enforce his reign. Despite multiple assassination attempts, his adversaries quickly discovered that no one could kill him. After years of fighting an uphill battle against an insurmountable opponent, a covert resistance had developed, but their numbers began to wane. Zanzibar's daughter would carry on the legacy of the buried ladybug by telling her children, who would then tell their children, and so on for decades. The amusing story of the buried ladybug became widely known. People liked to relate the story of King Tobias, who was scared of ladybugs, because he was so despised in the Kingdom. It was the only way the common man could get even with the merciless King. Years and years later, the resistance had devolved into a grave situation. Only a few resistance fighters remained as King Tobias closed in. Even though they knew it was merely an old wives' story, they wondered if the ladybug sealed beneath the King's throne represented a hidden weakness or a unique allergy. While the King was out tormenting the people of another kingdom, they began to dig beneath the throne using basically their last remaining resources. They dug and dug till they came across a metal sphere. Four of the remaining five resistance fighters were killed getting this metal sphere out of the Palace. The last resistance fighter tried for months to crack open the metal sphere until it finally cracked open like an egg. Inside was a tiny shriveled-up ladybug. He looked back in awe; the story was true. But what would he do with a dead ladybug? In a last-ditch attempt to oust the terrible King, the resistance fighter broke into the Palace and planned to place the ladybug inside the King's food. The resistance fighter, on the other hand, was apprehended and imprisoned with the ladybug in his pocket. Because this was the last resistance fighter in his kingdom, the King personally went down to murder him. As the King entered the cell, the resistance fighter backed up against a wall. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to finally eliminate the resistance?" The King gently raised his hands to shoot lightning from his palms at the fighter. The desperate resistance fighter grabbed the ladybug from his pocket and flung it on the ground in front of the King. As the wind blew, the ladybug looked to move on its own. The King was taken aback! He became terrified and began to back away from the ladybug, as if a ghost had materialized out of thin air. As he began to go backward, the King stumbled over a raised stone and fell against the wall, breaking his neck. Despite the fact that the ladybug was dead and did not touch him, the King died as a result of a ladybug. The King's weakness was ultimately realized. The witch had now taken possession of the King's soul. The King was confronted by all the victims he had killed, including Ines, Zanzibar, several resistance fighters, and his parents, whom he had murdered in the middle of the night in order to seize power. "When you rule with an iron fist, the smallest things are the most difficult to control.