Most men on board the HMS Defiance hadn’t seen their families in years now. When the war first began, men like Lieutenant Shecter were more than eager to serve under Captain Barbosa as Privateers in his majesty’s navy. But that was years ago. Now the weary crewmen hadn’t seen their families in years, their pay was constantly being delayed and there was seemingly no good outcome to the war. Lieutenant Shecter thought on all these things as he approached The Captain’s quarters and knocked hard on the door and was beckoned inside. “I hope I’m not interrupting you, Sir?” He asked as he closed the door behind him. Captain Barbosa set aside his pen and folded his arms neatly on his desk. “Not at all. I can always make time to speak with my right hand. Please have a seat won’t you?” Lieutenant Shecter smiled slightly and sat down. Shecter has served as Barbosa’s right hand for many years now and it was no use trying to hide his thoughts to him as he spoke. “Sir... I’ve come to speak about Fisher.” Barbosa took in a deep sigh and opened a bottle of Scotch and poured himself two glasses deciding he didn’t want to speak about the topic sober. “Yes it was a great tragedy.. unfortunately for our men accidents seem to be deadlier than bullets”. Barbosa then offered him a glass but Shecter refused “Not tonight Sir”. Barbosa drank the glass himself in one go before slamming it back on the table with a thud. “You mustn’t let it get to your head... Fisher was as fine as a sailor I’ve ever seen. But he should have been more careful handling powder like that.” Shecter then began to fidget with his fingernails as he spoke. “Yes. Well rumors have been circulating about his death Sir and I can’t ignore them any longer”. Barbosa then leaned back in his chair with the glass in his hand. “Rumors?” He asked with genuine curiosity. “Sailors love rumors and superstitions Lieutenant I thought you’d be above that.” Shecter however shook his head. “Not this one Sir... There’s a rumor going around that Fisher found out something remarkable. Something we have all been wondering about for some time.” Barbosa became more attentive and nodded “Well what was it?” Shecter then changed the subject at the last second and stood up and began pacing the room before speaking again. “We haven’t weighed anchor in a month now Sir. The last time we did so was back in that harbor town in the Hornish isles and we barely spent an afternoon there.” Barbosa nodded “Is that what this is about? Alright then the next time we spot dry land we’ll weigh anchor and the boys can stretch their legs”. Shecter shook his head. “They don’t want to walk around on some shrub-infested island Sir. They want to go home. They want it to be over”. Barbosa ran his fingers through his beard. “In case you haven’t forgotten our blue-coated enemies guard the coasts of our homeland day and night ensuring we cannot do so. No William not a single one of us will go home until this war has been won.” Shecter’s lip began to quiver before speaking. “What if it was over then? What if the war was over and we all could go home then? What would we do?” Barbosa then drank down the scotch and sighed “Then we’d all sail home as heroes wouldn’t we?” Shecter then raised his eyebrow “Wouldn’t we?” Barbosa then became angry “What are you getting at Shecter? Don’t be coy with me spit it out.” Shecter then reached into his coat and threw down a newspaper onto the desk. “Read it yourself”. Barbosa then took up the newspaper. He didn’t even need his reading glasses as the font on the front page was quite large. “THE WAR IS OVER, CEASEFIRE IN EFFECT IMMEDIATELY”. Barbosa then swiveled his jaw and growled “Where did you get this?” Shecter nodded “Fisher’s sea bag. How long have you known?“ Barbosa then set down the newspaper. “It’s a ruse. I’ve seen this before. The enemy is getting our own sources to print fake papers to dissuade our men still in the f-“ Shecter then exploded in anger “How long have you known Sir?!” Barbosa then stood up to face him man to man. “Watch your tone, Lieutenant. As long as you draw breath on MY ship you will address me with the rank to which I’ve earned.” Shecter began to tighten his fists “Earned? All we have done this entire dreaded conflict was rob and sink merchant ships. We are no better than pirates at this point”. Barbosa then changed the subject. “How many ships do you think we’ve sunk over the years William? 10? 20? Try 68.” He then sank back into his chair. “Don’t you think I’ve gone over this before? If we go back now you lot will spend the rest of your days in a jail cell.. meanwhile I’ll have my appointment with the hangman”. Shecter then nodded “Is that why you murdered Fisher? To save your own ass? What sort of Captain are you?” Barbosa then lunged at Shecter and the two men crashed to the deck with Barbosa’s paws firmly grasped around Shecter’s throat as he shouted. “I am the Captain who has kept you safe for all these years! And I will see my ship drown with all of us on it before I surrender to those bastards!” It was just then that several crewmen breached into the room and grabbed Barbosa and began beating him relentlessly until Shecter stopped them. “Enough! He’s had enough lads!” The men then ripped him from the floor and Shecter spoke with a scratchy voice. “Captain Arthur Barbosa as acting commander of the HMS Defiance and a Lieutenant of the Ticonderogan Empire. I hereby place you under arrest for murder, perjury, and other such war crimes. You will be placed under arrest until your trial.” Captain Barbosa then looked at his former crewmen and only began to chuckle. “You minus well lock yourself away then as well”. Shecter then cocked an eyebrow and asked “What?” Barbosa then flashed a grin. “9 months ago when the war ended. They sent out a letter to all privateers and smugglers still in service.. surrender or be branded as a pirate and face immediate execution.” “We’re all war criminals now William. No one is ever going to go home.


I was in the middle of my regular practice. I was so focused on my forms and positions and transitioning between them as flawlessly and fluidly as possible that I probably wasn't paying as much attention as I should have. My practice routine is one of the reasons why my coworkers think I am really weird. I was in the pose of a menacing standing knight, preparing to transition into a lurking chimera, when I noticed some suspicious noises coming from the hallway. A distant moaning and flapping sounds, a clear sign of zombies trying to run, with the occasional louder smacking as one of them lost its balance and slammed its rotting face into the floor. Quiet, but quick and sure footsteps approaching. A click of a trap being triggered, followed by a clang as the spikes crashed violently into a wall. I immediately went back to my place in a dark corner of the chamber and froze in my usual pose, stiff as a board. This might be interesting, I thought. And it was. She had a beautifully athletic body, clad only in thin leather, and man, she did know how to move. She noticed the traps at the entrance to the chamber and leapt gracefully over the pressure plates. I've tried to imprint that image in my mind: a graceful woman in leather jumping over the deadly traps. I decided to try that as my next painting project. I still suck at trying to draw figures in motion. She landed in a crouch and took a quick look around. The zombies were coming closer, though they were obviously slowing down, afraid of the traps. But there was a distant clatter, which meant that one of the armored skeletons had been awakened by the commotion and had joined the hunt for the thief. With her mind already made up, she took a quick step toward what she thought was safety. When she realized that the door on the other side of the chamber only led to a small alcove, she became visibly nervous. She turned back, looked around the half-empty chamber again, and then stared into the corner. She realized she was trapped in a dead end. She had a belt with two long daggers, but she looked like the kind of hero who prefers to avoid direct confrontation. She made a decision that I expected. She ran to a large, battered cupboard in the corner, opened it, peered cautiously inside, and then hid there. She crouched down and shut the door. I heard her trying to breathe slowly and deeply to calm herself. She was crouching, daggers at the ready, peering out through a narrow crack. She watched as the first zombie shambled into the chamber, stepping on a trigger plate at the entrance. A huge spike shot through the zombie and pinned it to the wall. The moans and grunts of the other zombies took on an amused tone, but they ignored their struggling friend and looked around carefully, trying to spot their prey. And trigger plates for more traps. Not all zombies are completely stupid, just the vast majority of them. When the loud clatter announced the arrival of the skeleton knight, the zombies stepped aside. The undead have a strict hierarchy, with fresh zombies being the lowest on the corporate ladder. The skeleton knight quickly checked the chamber and then looked in my direction, with a suspicious look in the magic fire that served as his eyes. But he shrugged and began to chase the zombies away, back to their posts. The thief breathed a sigh of relief and slowly sheathed her daggers. When the clatter of knights' armor and the smacking sounds of rotten feet from the corridor died down, I decided to give it a try. I whispered: "Do you know any good jokes?" She froze. Then she tried to break down my door. She tried to pull out her daggers. I sighed and squeezed her as hard as I could. I guess she didn't know any good ones. Too bad. If she had, maybe I would have risked it and let her go. Maybe. But it is hard to find a good job for an old mimic of my size, and I was quite happy with my current one, even though all my co-workers thought I was a weirdo and a creep.


###Please take note of the new feedback rule! #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 (10 pts):** Story includes the words: bubble gum, dream, and perchance. This week’s challenge is to use the above image as inspiration for your story. You do not have to use the entire image and you may interpret it any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to leave feedback on at least one other story by the deadline (Mon @ 2pm EST), per the new rules!** **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. - **Authors are required to leave feedback on at least one other story each week that you write.** 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** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/poiyurt - - u/OneSidedDice - - u/Blu_Spirit *** ###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.


A wealthy and exceptionally intelligent man once hired a renowned artist to bring his ideas to life as masterpieces. The clever artist, being cunning himself, agreed only under the condition that the rich man would pay double the regular amount and provide double the usual time for each painting; this way, he believed he could truly turn them into masterpieces. The rich man accepted the proposal, with the stipulation that the artist remain anonymous, reject all other work, and exclusively paint for his grand gallery, available for purchase or auction. With the agreement in place, the artist and the mastermind exchanged ideas, and the artist dedicated time to giving them shape. After a lengthy wait, the rich man saw his grand concept manifested on the canvas. He arranged an exhibition, and the painting became an overnight sensation. Wealth and grandeur flocked to witness the creation of this masterpiece by an unknown artist, and its value soared to tens of thousands overnight. Unbeknownst to the wealthy man, the artist had secretly crafted a far more grandiose rendition of the same concept, executed with perfection. The painting displayed at the exhibition paled in comparison to this exquisitely created piece, hidden away in a concealed dungeon. Many years passed, and numerous paintings later, the artist approached the rich man, requesting retirement. The wealthy man agreed, rewarding the artist with a house, land, and a modest estate for his years of dedication. As the years rolled by, the allure of the rich man's gallery paintings waned. Rumors spread that these artworks were inferior to the superior art styles of similar ideas executed elsewhere. Intrigued, the wealthy man attempted to trace the origin of the new painter who had depicted similar ideas. To his astonishment, he discovered that this painter was none other than his own, selling his work under his own name. Amazed, the wealthy man visited the gallery and watched as the artist introduced him to the public. The artist revealed how the rich man had used him for his paintings, exploiting a poor painter for his own glorification. This confession resonated with the public, who turned against the rich man and supported the artist. The painter's superior artistry and style gained immense popularity, leading to paintings' prices soaring to hundreds of thousands. Time passed, and the frenzy gradually subsided. The once-famous painter faded into obscurity, and the prices of his paintings dwindled. Meanwhile, the rich man established a new gallery dedicated to classical art, which gained prominence. Curious, the painter visited this new gallery, only to find his original, lesser-quality art depicting the rich man’s novel ideas. Approaching the painter, the rich man smiled and gestured towards the paintings, declaring to the audience that the painter was the world's most famous artist, whose art was considered godly, flawless, and ethereal. He highlighted the "limited edition fault-only" paintings, showcasing imperfections, deformities, and the dark side within the divine. The word spread like wildfire, and people flocked to see this collection of greatest flaws. Suddenly, the price of these "defective" paintings surged to millions. The rich man concluded, proclaiming that as long as artists exist, a rich man will always be there.


A single tear drop slowly rolled down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away before Mattie could see, but his eyes were already on me. Mattie looked up at me with his wide brown eyes. They sparkled, ignited by everything he held in his mind. His lips were slightly turned up at the corners, smiling at whatever created that ever-present glint. I could tell he didn’t register that I was crying, so I let out a quick sigh of relief. “Okay, Mattie!” I swallowed the emotion threatening to clog my throat. “So, first; I’m going to put you in your safety seat, then buckle you in, and then we’re going to drive home.” Mattie simply stared. Ignoring the prickling sensation of my tears starting to well again, I started digging in my pocket for my keys. I felt my fingers wrap around the cool metal and pulled them out. Due to medical expenses, we could no longer afford both of our previous cars, so I downgraded to an old Kia Sephia I managed to get for $500. It’s a very plain, small gray car and it’s proving to be more trouble than its worth. Meanwhile, Jason decided it would make more sense for him to continue making payments on his 2019 Chevy Tahoe because it made everyone at work “take him seriously”. I put the key into the driver’s side door and twisted it clockwise, praying to God it wouldn’t jam again. “Chik!” I released my breath. I opened the door and stuck my hand behind the seat to reach for the rear door’s lock. I felt my finger brush against the raised edge and gently pushed. “Chik!” Picking Mattie up, I opened the rear door and slowly bent down to place him into the booster. The booster had been installed by firefighters, but they had placed the booster directly in the middle of the backseat. It had been fine two years ago when Mattie was 3 and still small, but he was much bigger and longer now which made it quite the challenge. I carefully placed my hand on the back of Mattie’s head and maneuvered him around the door frame making sure to angle him far away from it. A child hitting their head is serious in any situation, but with his recent seizures, it could prove to be fatal. Once Mattie was secured, I grabbed the black straps and clicked them into the red buckle, making a small fart noise with my mouth while doing so. “Phbt!” This got Mattie’s attention. His naturally wide eyes widened a bit more and the corners of his mouth stretched upwards just enough to expose his tiny white teeth. “Teenth skarl zeben thar mmm!” Mattie exclaimed and wiggled his fingers. “Oh, so now I have your attention?” I laughed. “Okay, so now I’m going to close the door, get into my seat, and start driving home.” I slowly backed out and straightened myself out. My arms were already feeling tired from briefly holding Mattie so I lightly stretched them before gently pushing the rear door closed. I peered through the window and noticed Mattie was still wiggling his fingers. It’d be a while before I managed to bring him back to my reality, but at least he’ll be able to keep himself entertained on the ride. Mattie typically doesn’t enjoy car rides because of all the sounds, lights, and colors. The drive from his doctor’s office to our home ranges from 30-35 minutes and he tends to scream the entire time. I’ve tried using headphones, an IPad, and even a sleep mask to distract him but nothing ever works. Only when his eyes start sparkling, his fingers start wiggling, and his face breaks into a smile is when he no longer fears the drive. I think it’s because he mentally removes himself from this plane and goes off to play in another. The doctor calls it stimming, but I consider it as more of an episode of sorts. Most times it’s your standard 30 minute runtime, but there are the occasional 45 minute specials. Those occur when he’s very excited or spontaneously set off by something. Normally he responds to his name being called, albeit it’s simply eye contact, but that’s a response in and of itself. However, during those episodes, I could be screaming at the top of my lungs just for his attention, but he doesn’t hear a thing. Hopefully, this car ride will be one of those times. I eased myself into my seat and buckled in. This car is old and only has a radio without an auxiliary port, so in order to use the gps I have to prop my phone onto a mount and put the volume at the loudest level. My phone usually overheats when I play music with my GPS going, so most of the time it’s just me, Australian Siri, and the vocal stylizations of Mattie. Just as I was about to click ‘Start Route’ for home, Jason’s face flashed across the screen. Seconds after, a low, tuneful jingle started playing. I don’t enjoy the small selection of ringtones iPhone has, so I immediately tapped on the green button. “Hey, Babe.” Jason’s voice played through the speaker. “Hey. I want you to know that I am about to drive home, you are on speakerphone and Mattie is here in the car.” I always let Jason know when Mattie is around just in case he wants to talk about sensitive information. It’s still a relatively new thing because before now, I never knew if Jason was calling because he wanted to simply talk to me and hear my voice, or if he wanted to discuss Mattie or something serious. Recently, if we do talk, it’s only ever about Mattie. And it’s always something serious. “Oh great. Hey bud! It’s daddy!” I glanced back at Mattie but he was still looking at his twiddling fingers. “Did he… react… or something?” Jason asked. “No. Sorry. He’s off in Mattie-land right now.” I smiled and chuckled a little. Jason sighed into the phone. There was a long pause. I felt my smile slowly fade away. “So, if he’s not paying attention, that means we can talk freely now.” Jason sighed again. “Yeah, I guess.” I said, glancing back at Mattie once more. “What did the doctor say? Why has he been having so many seizures recently?“ Jason’s tone was urgent, but I understood why. I felt my throat start tightening as I remembered why I was crying. I swallowed in an attempt to get some moisture back into my suddenly dry mouth. “He-He said…” I took a deep breath. “He said that he’s not too sure about whether the autism diagnosis had been the correct one. They’re running some tests but they think it might be something else.” “What? So let me get this straight..” Jason’s tone got low and harsh. Although the anger wasn’t directed at me, it still stung to hear his voice in that way. “They’re telling us that the diagnosis we have been living with for the past two years, the one we have poured most of our resources into in order to get the best therapies, the best education, the best damn doctors for, was wrong?” “Yes.” I heard some crashing from the other end of the phone. Jason was still at work, so there was no mistaking that what I heard was him angrily throwing things off of his desk. He was never an angry man, but after Mattie’s diagnosis, our financial struggles, and the dilapidation of our family as it once was, the anger slowly took over. He tries not to show anything around Mattie or I, but I smell the alcohol on his breath when he goes in for a kiss. I smell the light floral notes mixed in with the sandalwood musk on his work shirts. I see the bruises on his knuckles when he returns from a “work trip”. I know and I see it all. “Well that’s fucking fantastic—“ Jason hissed. “Hey, hey! Language. I already told you that you’re on speaker.” I quickly lowered the volume a bit. Even if Mattie isn’t paying attention, I don’t want him to wake up one day with a bunch of curse words flying around in his brain. “Like it matters? He can’t even—” Jason paused. I could hear him taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He didn’t finish his sentence but he didn’t have to. I already finished it for him. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” Jason cleared his throat. “So what is it? If it’s not autism then what could it be?” “The doctor said that he’s currently suffering from something called… hold on.” I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and started rifling through it, in search of the pamphlet the doctor had handed me on our way out. He instructed me to read the pamphlet in order to grasp the complexities of this situation. This was in response to me insulting him and the nurses for screwing up Mattie’s diagnosis. “Okay, so I have a pamphlet.” I started reading off of it, but it was too dense, so I switched to paraphrasing. “Mattie is currently suffering from ‘Convulsive Status Epilepticus’. Which he has in conjunction with what they believe is not severe autism but Landau Kleffner syndrome. Apparently the similarities between Autism and LKS are so high, that many kids get misdiagnosed with autism first. LKS is also very rare but is more typical in boys. The issue with Mattie is that these seizures he is experiencing are very dangerous, potentially fatal, and usually occur with older kids 7 and up. At 5, Mattie is in need of dire help. We have to monitor him around the clock and especially when he’s sleeping which is when the seizures are most likely to occur without indication.” Jason stayed silent. I wondered if he had started searching it up while I was reading to him. That’s what he did when we received Mattie’s initial diagnosis. He wanted to know everything about the disorder to see if there was a way we could come out on top. He’s a businessman always trying to find solutions. That’s just how he is. “And how are we meant to monitor Mattie 24/7?” Jason’s voice was low again. Though this time, there was no anger. He just sounded tired. That made it sting even more. To hear the man who once forced himself to eat a 20 pound hamburger in thirty minutes because he was determined to win a novelty t-shirt. The same man who threw up for 5 minutes afterwards in the parking lot but still prided himself on not giving up. To hear that man sound hollow and defeated hurt more than I ever imagined. It forces me to face that he’s no longer Jason, just a hollow shell. “We have medicine that will be delivered in a few days and Doctor Straum is ordering a EEG headset that will help us temporarily monitor Mattie’s brain activity. We may have to take shifts at night where one of us sleeps and the other stays up to monitor until we get the medicine. I don’t think we can afford either of us taking any days off of work. There’s going to be a whole new wave of tests, therapies, treatments and we need to be able to afford it.” I started rubbing my temples, stressed out by the insurmountable debt we’ll most likely accumulate from this. “Okay, well thankfully tomorrow was already a scheduled day off for me, so when I get home tonight I’ll take the first shift and you can sleep.” Jason responded. “Really? Just like that?” I was surprised. Usually there’s some pushback on these things. “Yeah. You know, from the looks of it, most kids with LKS have some delayed cognition in speech but when paired with the proper medication, they can get to a place where they’re seemingly normal. If we manage our expectations but do our best, we might be able to hear Mattie say “Mom” or “Dad” again soon.” Jason laughed lightly. It sounded hopeful. Tears started welling in my eyes again, but for a different reason. Jason was still Jason after all. Could it really be possible that Mattie may once again be my Mattie? The Mattie I spent the last two years mourning? Unfortunately, I could already feel my hope scratching its way to the surface of my heart. Despite the intensity of all of the doubt, pain, fear, and distrust my heart harbored; my hope was holding its own. “Yeah. Maybe soon.” I smiled as the tears made their way down my face. A gentle sob escaped through my lips before I could stop it. The tears started flowing faster. Within seconds, I completely broke down. In this moment, everything that had been building up throughout the years was finally being released with hope as its catalyst. I’m aware that things may get worse or that this could be another misdiagnosis. Financially, Jason and I are near ruin and our romantic relationship is in tatters. But in this moment, all I can feel is relief. It’s rather dim, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. “I have to go, but I’ll see you at home.” Jason’s voice floated over to my ears. It was cracking with emotion. I know he can hear me crying, but it’s funny because it seems as though he may be crying as well. “O-okay.” I choked back a sob. “I’ll see you at home.” I waited to hear the familiar ‘beep beep’ of the call ending. But instead I heard a soft; “I love you.” And so I responded; “I love you too.” Beep, Beep.


The reek of urine and musk of earth assaulted the senses of Father MacIsaac and Father Antony as they entered the bedroom. A young boy lay sprawled across bed, the sheets soiled brown, his clothes torn, his hands and feet lashed to the frame. His yellow eyes flickered as they approached, a growl rumbled from him. They watched a large bulge swell at the base of his throat. Sitting up, he choked and gagged as his neck distended, each heave pushing the swelling upward. He lurched forward, impossibly distending his jaw to vomit out a dead hairless pup. The priests laid out leather-bound tomes of sacred literature and a crucifix. Father MacIsaac began reciting the exorcist liturgy. He approached the bed, holding rosaries out towards the boy. The boy’s eyes fixed on rosaries. Snapping forward, he bit the small crucifix off the dangling beads, crunching down on the metal cross and spitting out broken bits. Outside in the hallway Father MacIsaac rubbed the broken rosaries through his fingers deep in thought. Father Antony paced. “That can’t happen. Demons can’t willing touch consecrated objects”, said Father Antony. “Are you familiar with animalistic demons?” asked Father MacIsaac. “No.” “They’re their own class of spirit. They are to most demons what wild animals are to us.” Father MacIsaac turned away and quickly descended the stairs. “Where are you going? “St.Sebastian’s of Mercy, we need an expert.” “But that’s Father Watterson’s parish. He’s not an expert on the occult.” “Not him. We’re getting Father Mittens. Are you coming?” An hour later, Father Antony reopened the door to the boy’s room, stepping aside to let Father MacIsaac enter carrying Father Mittens, a tabby cat with white paws dressed in a cat-sized black robe and white collar. Placing Father Mittens on the floor, Father MacIsaac took out two books, handing one to Father Anthony. “Father Anthony read aloud with me, and don’t stop until I tell you.” Both men began reciting Latin verses and Father Mittens jumped onto the foot of the bed. The boy snapped forward to attack, pulling fiercely against his bonds, the bed frame creaked but the restrains held. Father Mitten’s ears pulled back as he hissed at the boy. The boy bared his teeth and let out the roar of a horrible beast. For a moment they stayed motionless, glaring at each other. With a savage yowl Father Mittens leapt forward digging his claws into the boy’s ripped pyjamas. The boy thrashed about, but couldn’t pull away. The boy roared as Father Mittens snarled and howled in his face. A swilling dark mist poured upwards from the boy’s mouth and nose. Father Mittens’ watched it until it dissipated and the boy slumped back onto the bed. When Father MacIsaac told Father Antony to stop reading aloud, Father Mitten lay on the boy’s chest loudly purring. Father MacIsaac walked over and scratched Father Mitten’s chin joined quickly by Father Antony.


I’ve heard from a mutual that you’d like to move out to the countryside. They told me you want some place quiet, away from the rat race, more affordable even. I’m the last person on earth to tell anyone what to do with their lives, really, but I have to give you my two cents for this. There is a lot of *Nothing* in between the cities. You might not have heard of it, it happened a semester before you joined. It was the Davies expedition. A group of about twenty-five researchers, mostly students, from our college that went out to collect some data. They all vanished, all but one. That one was me. If you didn’t already know, I’m not surprised. I don’t like talking about it, but if it can change your mind about the move I will. The Davies expedition was named after my friend, and its lead, Howard P. Davies. He was only a year older than me, but several years my academic senior. He was young for a department head, and had multiple fields of focus. I didn’t then, and still don’t entirely understand Davies’ research. We weren’t even relatively close in fields of study. So I was a little confused when he asked me to come along the expedition. He told me that he had enough researchers to do the work, but needed more bodies to carry the equipment. It was going to be a short trip, two days at most, and it would pay well. Of course I said yes. The canyon we were going to was in a heavily protected wilderness. So protected we arrived with a government escort. They picked us up in huge cars with wheels that were almost as tall as I was. The escort took us down a heavily wooded valley that ran between two monstrous mountains. It had a crystal clear river running through it too. It was like being inside a painting at the louvre. That all ended at the canyon. There was a clear line drawn between the rest of the valley, and the canyon. The tree line stopped, and the grass stopped growing. Only the river kept going, because it couldn’t be stopped. I picked up my share of the equipment and looked over the edge. The canyon itself was relatively narrow at the top, but widened at the bottom. It was really more like an underground cave, but there was more than enough sunlight coming through to light the entire area. So here comes the first oddity I noticed. I should have been able to see the whole breadth of the canyon, but looking too far down or up its length the light would disappear. I was sure that the sun should have been able to light up the whole of the bottom, but it just didn’t. It wasn’t a normal kind of dark either, it was almost blinding. Like there was *Nothing* there. It was hard on the eyes. I blinked a couple times and grouped up with the rest. I noticed that none of the people with the escort were getting off. “Isn’t anyone going to stick around?” I asked “No sir,” said the man. “What about animals? I thought you’d leave someone behind in case of animal attacks or something.” “There aren’t any animals around here.” No animals? This far from humanity and he was telling me there were no animals? I could hardly believe it. I wanted to ask him more, but the government men were on a timetable and they were sticking to it. My mind was buzzing, not quite alarm bells, but thinking hard. I watched the escort leave, thinking I should probably have left with them. I watched them until they were completely gone. My mind got snapped back to the here and now when the expedition let out yowls and cheers. Apparently Davies had given a speech and I had missed it because I was too busy wishing I’d left with the escort. The expedition started shuffling to the edge of the canyon and I followed. The walls of the canyon actually had some pretty nice natural stairs along its walls. They almost looked carved. The canyon was deeper than it looked too. It would take us most of the day to get down to the bottom. I took one step down and in the blink of a second I was at the bottom with Davies' hand on my shoulder. It was disorienting, one moment stepping down, the next second on flat ground. Even the shadows shifted, it must have been later in the day. “You weren’t listening earlier, were you?” said Davies. “What–” “Happened?” “Yeah.” “It’s basically highway hypnosis. Something about this place lets you really lose yourself. Have you noticed the air?” I hadn’t, no, but when prompted I realized that I couldn’t feel the air. Down here the air was skin temperature. It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank. “I can see you have now,” said Davies. “What about the quiet, awfully quiet right?” It wasn’t quiet. It was the absence of sound. Totally and utterly, I couldn’t believe it, and it shouldn’t have been possible. For one, sounds should have been echoing between the canyon walls, and second was my mild tinnitus. After attending one concert too many I was stuck with some mild ringing in my ears. If it got too quiet it was hard not to notice, but not here. I was put into a stupor. “It’s okay, you’re not losing. It’s hard to notice *Nothing*, right?” he smiled. I’m not sure how he could be so at ease. This place was unsettling. “Come on, it’s fine. I think it’s a little creepy too. Let’s just set up our gear, get our measurements, and we’ll be out of here in a couple days.” A couple days. I dreaded the thought. Davies put me at ease though. He was probably just putting on a brave face. If the expedition lead is panicking then how can you ever be at calm, right? Davies gave me the cliff notes on working around here. Basically I had to be mindful of the noise, and the people around me. Keep your mind focused on them and you won’t enter that trance-like autopilot. I did as instructed and before long I had managed to put off my mind from the unsettling aspects of the canyon. The sounds of everyone working to set up our camp was comforting. When the set up work was done, everyone gathered around the kitchen area. The kitchen had a fire going, and everyone welcomed the relative heat vs the *Nothing* of the air around the rest of the camp. You could be mindful of the smell of food too. Everyone was bunched up there, chatting with more volume than needed. We wanted to fill the area with sound, because the quiet was dreadful, haunting. Night time arrived soon after though, and with it, a deeper *Nothing* than before. While the area around the camp had been well lit by the sun, that void of light I had seen from above was still present. The camp was surrounded by Nothing on either side. It was somehow worse at night too, because you had real darkness to compare it too. Real darkness was dark, black, a lack of light. The void on either side was Nothing, an absence of reality on either side. One by one people dropped off to sleep, prepping for the next day. It happened slowly because we were all reluctant to leave the campfire and head for our tents. Little by little though, people did leave, and soon it was just me and one other student. A girl named Sasha. Neither of us wanted to get away from the fire. We were terrified, but also tired. We couldn’t keep the fire going forever either. We needed to save fuel for our last night tomorrow. She did the hard part for both of us, snapping to her feet and dowsing the fire then quickly retreating to sit beside me. We tried to make idle chatter, just to keep the quiet away, but to little use. “Don’t you think there’s something wrong with the sky?” she said. Internally I cursed her. Why would you say something like that, in this place, on a night like this. I looked up, just briefly, terrified of what I might see. It was just a regular night sky. “No?” I replied. “Good,” she said, a little relieved. “Good. I’m going to bed.” She didn’t get up though, she fluffed up her backpack and laid her head on it. I gave her a reluctant good night, and fluffed up my own backpack. Was there something wrong with the sky? I asked myself, cursing her again. Why would she even put that thought out there. I took one last look at the sky before I let sleep take me. No, I thought, the sky is fine. It looks just like it does back home. The next day was much smoother than the first. A quiet settled into the camp, but most of us, including myself didn’t mind. In no time at all we had grown accustomed to it, and had relaxed our active mindfulness. It helped to know that it was our last night there. I was tasked with setting up cumbersome equipment, building and tearing it down for the researchers. When I wasn’t needed, I passed the time hanging out with Davies, who had some free time himself since most of his job was just overseeing the work of others. “So…,” I started to ask Davies, “what is this place?” Like I said, I wasn’t in his department, had no clue what he was studying. I didn’t understand what we were doing here. “For starters, it’s not just this place,” said Davies.” There’s places like this all over the U.S.. We don’t have a name for them yet, I’m thinking something like ‘Null Zones’.” “So then these places are…?” “Right now they’re just holes in data. Nothing more, really. I noticed them while looking at a colleague's work. They had been collecting data on animal populations. They had notes on population locations and their spreads. Something seemed familiar so I pinned those populations on a map and noticed these empty pockets. Moreover I recognized these pockets too, from collections of meteorological data. I decided to find other data sets that I could map out and recognized similar empty pockets in all of them.” In other words. *Nothing*. Davies had recognized a whole lotta *Nothing*. I recalled what the government man had told me. No animals in this area. This place was a void. One of Davies’ empty pockets, a Null Zone. It was Nothing. Before I could ask more, a researcher interrupted us to tell Davies that Sasha had gone missing. The girl I had spent the last of the previous night with. When Davies and the other researcher had caused an uproar about Sasha, everyone else began to note that their respective partners had gone missing as well. All of us had been in a stupor, let our guard down just a little too much. Davies gathered the entire expedition together to count heads. In the course of the day, we had lost just over half the expedition. Everyone, minus the researcher who told Davies about Sasha, had the same story. They had been hard at work on their tasks since morning, and when Davies snapped them back to reality with his uproar, noticed that their fellow researchers had disappeared in the blink of an eye. One second there, the other second, gone. There was a panic in the remaining members of the expedition, but Davies kept a cool head. He knew, as well as I, that the first twenty-four hours that someone is missing, are the most important. Every hour they weren’t being searched for increased the likelihood they wouldn’t be found alive. I saw him dig into his backpack for a satellite phone. Myself and a few others had been entrusted with one in the case of emergencies. His face turned sour. I fished out my sat phone as well and knew why. Down here in the canyon, we had no signal. Davies had seen me fruitlessly try and make a call with the sat phone. We looked at each other and knew that someone would have to go up top to make the emergency call, to get a search party as soon as possible. To be clear, the horror of the situation hadn’t escaped us. People had gone missing in the middle of the day, in the middle of camp, without anyone noticing. The practical reality of the situation however, kept us grounded. Ultimately Davies made the executive decision as expedition lead, to go back up the canyon alone. Such a decision wouldn’t have been necessary except that the trip back up would take longer than the trip down, and it was already mid day. Whoever went up, would be climbing a steep canyon wall in the middle of the night. Davies got ready to leave, gathering the minimum to make the trip, just a lamp and some dry rations. A few others had decided to join him, citing that it would be safer to make the trip together, but in truth, I’m sure they just wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. So that was that. One part of the expedition would stay behind to make the safer climb at dawn tomorrow and the other would go up the canyon to get help as soon as possible. I said my goodbyes to Davies, and it was hard. It would be the last time I ever saw Davies again. When he left, I was too tired to cry, or do much of anything. So were the others. There were about ten of us left then, down from a team of about twenty-four. Night came, and with it more dread. We lit the campfire as soon as an inkling of dark came over the canyon. We all gathered around the campfire. I looked up the canyon wall, searching for Davies’ team. They should have been somewhat visible in the darkness of the canyon since they would be making the climb assisted by lamp light, but I saw nothing. Then again I had made the trip down in a trance, and did not know the path up. I held on to the thought that perhaps the way up curved around corners that you couldn’t see at night time. I patted my thoughts with the idea that Davies was just out of sight, somewhere up there, climbing back up the canyon walls. Time passed in laps of awareness. We all tried to maintain the mindfulness that Davies had instructed us in, but it was growing increasingly hard. There was also the issue of those of us that remained. No one wanted to acknowledge it, but we were all gathered around the fire and there were fewer and fewer of us than before. At that time I counted six left. All of them worried, and panicked in their silent isolated bubbles. We had been quietly losing people since Davies’ team had left. The fire started to die some time later. The fuel was dwindling, and soon we would be left alone with the darkness and the void on either side. We would be stuck down here with the Nothing that surrounded us.That’s when it hit me. Just as the fire died, it hit me. There was something wrong with the sky. We were far into a great protected wilderness. Far and away from civilization, there wasn’t any light pollution. SO WHERE WERE THE STARS. We should have been able to see the milky way out here, billions upon billions of stars should have been twinkling in the sky but there were hardly any. Just a few miserable twinkles. “Where are the stars!?” I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I looked to the others, frenzy clear on my face just as it was on theirs. They had made the same realization, the terror was clear on their faces. It was the last I saw of the others. The fire died out, and I only had the miserable few stars to keep company. There were so few I could count them, and they were blinking out of existence. The night sky was turning into a great blanket of *Nothing* right before my eyes. I must have willed myself to stand up and run. Despite the loss of all my senses I must have run. The air was indistinguishable from my skin, there was no noise, there was no sight. I had only my mind, and the faintest inkling of self left. Somehow I stood up and ran, I know it, and it saved me. The rescue party found me later the next day, babbling near a waterfall. At a guess, I must have run toward the booming sound of the river up top crashing into the canyon below. They found me screaming, spouting random gibberish, any noise to keep away the nothing. Later, much later, when suspicions of foul play had been cleared, I was allowed to read Davies’ journal, which had been swiftly recovered but kept for evidence. I tried to read through it, but as I said I wasn’t in his field and understood little. What little I could understand was most of what I had experienced myself. There was only one more horror waiting for me at the end of his notes. *The Null Zones were moving*. In his notes. I quote. “Conclusion: More in depth study needed, original hypothesis invalidated. Originally I thought the Null Zones spawned away from large population centers, but the readings here suggest that they migrated. Rather than large population centers being built away from the Null Zones as I hypothesized, it was the Null Zones that had been “chased away” by the life of large cities.” They move. Places like the canyon move. So I beg you to take me seriously friend, do not move out to the countryside. You may be fine for a while, but one day you might wake to the peace and serenity is just the absence of sound. You may even notice that the air seems strange, and wonder when the last time you saw any wildlife was. By then it would probably already be too late. Stay in the city friend, where it’s safe from the *Nothing*.


#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: - **Sentence: Everything was .** - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Story includes a baked good or dessert. This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence must stay intact. **The use of the sentence is required.** Please be sure to follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to leave feedback on at least one other story by the deadline (Mon @ 2pm EST), per the new rules!** **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. - **Authors are required to leave feedback on at least one other story each week that you write.** 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** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 - - u/MaxStickies - - u/poiyurt **Crit Star:** - u/poiyurt *** ###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.


Death rides a pale horse Ensio’s Place was crowded that night. He usually didn’t get a lot of business when the weather turned foul. Having his bar on the outskirts of town had some benefits but an abundance of customers on a stormy October night wasn’t one of them. Ensio stood behind the bar, three of his regulars sat nursing drinks and murmuring amongst themselves, and two couples were playing doubles on his old green top. Add in the three ranch hands eating their dinner and Coral Harper dropping quarters into the juke box and Ensio had a crowd. Now eleven people, twelve including himself, wasn’t exactly a rave but for Ensio’s Place it was a pretty good gathering. Especially on a night like tonight. Ensio had just finished cleaning the grill, he’d made last call for food and all those eating had been served. He glanced to the clock behind his right shoulder, 9:08 pm, and figured he’d give them another hour or so before closing down. After getting a head start on the nights cleaning Ensio glanced again at the clock. It still read 9:08 pm. “Huh?” Ensio remarked to no one, “The damn clocks busted.” One of the regulars snorted drunkenly “Bad omens.” He hiccuped. Coral Harper let out a deep sigh “Shut up Hank! All you do is talk of omens and drink. In the ten years I’ve known you, you have never once been right.” Hank looked down into his beer and shrugged refusing to rise to Corals bait. Funny thought Ensio, Hank was about the only man here who hadn’t risen for Coral once or twice. Coral was the closest thing this small town had to a hussy. She used the men here to fill the void left by an absent father and addict mother. Ensio’s PA would have said “She was rode hard and put away wet.” His dad had a way with words in Ensio’s mind. Coral had once been the jewel of the county but years of drinking and smoking her sorrows, not to mention screwing every thing that moved, had put a crust over the glow she use to have. Coral moved to the dance floor swaying her hips, narrowed by years of hard use, she tried to catch the eye of the only ranch hand she hadn’t ridden yet. Ensio rolled his eyes and moved to turn off the outside sign and saw the headlights of low slung, predatory muscle car pulling up to the bar. He sighed and left the signs lights on, as long as the newcomer didn’t want to eat, he didn’t mind padding his register. Ensio made his way back to the bar to await the customers arrival. The door swung open with a sodden bang and the stranger stepped inside. He was fairly tall, but extremely thin. He wore black cowboy style boots, black jeans and a black duster over a plain white t-shirt. His hair was long for a man in this part of the country and if it hadn’t been wet, Ensio was sure it would look unwashed. The stranger looked over every patron in the bar, gaze lingering on Coral, then made his over to sit on one of the well worn stools. Ensio struggled to find his voice, this strangers colorless eyes unnerved him. “Grills off but I can get you a drink friend.” He finally stammered. The stranger didn’t respond for almost a minute, just looked through Ensio, then finally he nodded. “That will be fine, mind if I smoke?” Ensio answered with a nod and spun to get the man a drink. The stranger drew a cigarette from his pack and placed it in his lips, Coral appeared beside him with her lighter already lit. “Hello stranger, you got a name?” She stared a little to intently and her desires were obvious but the man didn’t even seem to notice. He dipped his cigarette into the flame, took a long drag and spoke on the exhale “Thanatos.” Coral beamed, clearly ignoring the strangers disinterest, “Sounds exotic,” she twittered “Where’d you get a fancy name like that?” Thanatos ground his cigarette into the ashtray, immediately lit another and finally turned to look at Coral “I’ve always had it, it’s Greek.” With out looking he reached out and took the proffered beer front Ensio’s hand pressed it to his lips and drank it down quickly. “Afraid I’ve got to be going” he murmured. As he stood to leave Coral gripped his arm, “Leaving so quickly?” she asked batting her eyelashes at him. Thanatos hesitated for a brief moment, bent and softly kissed her cheek “Every body has a time to go.” He said softly as he turned to the door. Ensio followed him out and turned off the sign as he glanced out the window he saw the stranger climb into a Shelby Mustang and a shiver ran through him. The car was ash white and as Ensio heard Coral crash to the floor behind him he spoke aloud without thought “I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat upon it had the name Death.


I liked Allan Trapper. His son was a good egg, and good eggs don’t just raise themselves. Takes a good egg to raise a good egg. So I was worried when he paid his fee that we didn’t see another wagon join the train. Turns out I was right to be worried, because him and his boy were hoofing it on the muddy trail. The littler Trapper got his boots stuck in the mud and nearly fell over. “Trapper,” I yelled, “Pick up your boy and get on my wagon, pronto.” “Thank you sir!” he said, scooping the boy up. “You’re welcome, but you can thank me better by handling these reins so I can have a smoke.” “Those’ll kill you y’know.” “I’ve seen the other side, Trapper, and I ain’t not too worried about how soon I’ll get there.” I finished rolling up my cigarette, and lit it. “So who’re you traveling to see? Y’know if you don’t mind me asking.” “We’re going to see mom,” said the boy. I could have guessed. The father choked on his surprise, and threw himself into a coughing fit. The boy was probably more amiable to the subject that he was. “Oh? Excited to see your mom again, boy?” “Sorta,” he said, scrunching up his tiny face. “I’m excited to meet her, I guess. She died before I was born.” “Hmm.” I hummed, taking a long drag of my cigarette. It was more than the father would have been willing to say, that much was clear. The discomfort on the senior Trapper was plain. “I just realized, sir” he said, clearing his throat, “we never got your name.” “Don’t really got one, but you can call me O’s. Like ‘Oh dear’, and ‘Oh no’.” I chuckled. “It’s a much more boring story than it sounds, but I was raised in a foreign military. The military themselves had bought me from a struggling orphanage.” “That sounds awful.” “Three square meals, and rifle training. It could have been worse. They didn’t give me a name though, just a number. But that history makes me uniquely suited to be a wagon master on the ghost road. The wandering spirits have nothing to call me by, and there’s no one I’d want to see on the other side.” “Why’s it so important to not want to see anyone?” “Because, and don’t get me wrong, the ghost road is plenty dangerous, but the journey is the easy part. The hardest part is letting go. You’ll see when we get to the wagon graveyard.” I finished my cigarette, and took the reins back from Trapper. We had a long journey ahead of us. We would make a brief stop at Spirit Home, the ghost road's deepest human settlement, but thereafter the wagon train didn’t have a concrete itinerary. The ghost road defied all hopes of mapping it. I could attest to the former completely. No trip was ever the same, but many journeys had built a feel for the correct path. If we were lucky, we would only encounter the wandering spirits, who gawked in envy of the living. We arrived in Spirit Home shortly. The small town was not in fact named for its place on the ghost road, but instead for its many distilled liquors. One in particular that we would need for the journey. Trapper and his boy stayed near the wagon train, while most of my other charges went into town to buy extra provisions and souvenir bottles of the town’s famous ghost liquor. More bottles for me, I thought grimly. We were back on the road next day, which thankfully passed uneventfully. It looked like it would be an easy trip. There was only the matter of the wandering spirits that we needed to worry about. I stayed vigilant for the heavy fog that signaled their arrival. The fog didn’t come that night, or next, but on the third we woke up to the fog’s creeping tendrils. I signaled my men to go up and down the wagon train to pass out thimbles of ghost liquor, and the saucers to offer them on. Even in the early morning, those most attentive in the wagon train could start to spot the pale decrepit faces of the wandering spirits starting to trail the wagon train. “We’re stopping early for tonight Trapper, get up and join me by one of the fires. We’ve a ritual to perform.” At this time the wandering spirits were unignorable. At the edges of all the campfires, just at the end of visibility, you could see that the wagon train was surrounded by a horde of gawking corpses. “Your boy is handling it better than some of the adults. Downright unbothered,” I said, pouring a thimble of ghost liquor into the saucer. “Salud! To the dead and gone!” I placed the saucer and its thimble of liquor on a flat stone that happened to be nearby. I also poured a healthy volume of the liquor into cups for me and Trapper. The boy stared at the gawking dead, with interest, rather than terror. “Why are they like that?” asked the boy. “Only the almighty knows. Some say they’re the wandering spirits of those that got lost while traveling the ghost road. Others say they’re just the envious dead that want another chance at life. I’ve recognized a few faces from people I’ve lost on the trail. So I can confirm that at least some of them did die while traveling here.” “Why the liquor?” asked the father. “I don’t entirely know myself,” I admitted. “The people in Spirit Home say that their liquor is infused with the life energy that the wandering dead crave. By offering some in the saucers we appease them. It seems to work well enough, so as wagon master I’ve made it a tradition to offer ghost liquor to the wandering spirits.” “The drink in the saucer is disappearing!” said the boy. The saucer emptied itself, and the gawking dead disappeared from our end of camp. “Suppose we didn’t do any of this, what then?” asked the father. “They’d start talking to you, making offers and promises. They try to get you to trade places with them, and that’s if they’re nice. If they aren’t then they’ll try to take your life by force. It’s happened on occasion. It can’t really be helped. Likely tomorrow morning we’ll see that suddenly, even though we’re nearly at the end, that some of the wagons will want to turn back home. If they do, then it's known they’ve been taken by the spirits, and the spirit is eager to return to the land of the living.” Me and Trapper kept drinking for a while, getting deep into our cups. His boy long gone to sleep. “What will it be like, when we get there, when the boy meets his mom?” he asked. “Past the wagon grave, and up the hill, there’s the stream of souls. Old books used to describe it like a river, but it's more like a great big lazer firing into the sky. You go up the hill, and think of who you want to see. Then, from out of the stream, your loved one returns.” “Do they look different? She isn’t going to come out looking like the spirits from earlier right?” “Not at all. She’ll come out healthy and whole, I promise.” “Good, that’s good,” he said, polishing off the last of his drink, and asking for more. “I was worried when we saw the spirits earlier, and I got so worried. She died before she could give birth to him, they had to c-section immediately to save his life. I didn’t want him to have to see her like that.” “I’m sorry, it must have been horrible.” “She carried him for nine months, but never got to hold him once.” Trapper started to cry. I let him. “I just,” he started again, “I just want him to know how much she loved him. I tell him all the time, but he never knew her, so how could he know for sure?” “So you journey up the ghost road. I see.” “Yeah.” “Well let’s drink to your wife’s memory, and your fast approaching reunion.” We drank merrily and then sadly, and then merrily again. Come morning, me and Trapper were still sleeping off the drink, and I barely managed to get him back on the wagon. He fell right back to sleep immediately. As wagon master, I didn’t have such a luxury, and had to stay awake to lead the train. As expected, some wagons turned back. It couldn’t be helped. Trapper’s boy was up to keep me company in place of his father for the last leg of the trip. He mostly asked me about the peculiarities of the ghost road, but I could tell that he was working his way toward something specific. So I asked him outright. “What is it boy? I can tell you’ve been thinking about how to bring something up for a while now.” “It’s nothing. Well sorta something.” “Out with it, it’s fine.” “You said letting go is the hard part. I don’t think my dad will be good at letting go.” “Your father’s a good egg. I’m sure he’ll be able to when the time comes.” The boy didn’t seem so convinced. “He always talks about mom. I think almost every day.” “It’s natural to miss a loved one when they pass, and that goes double for the ones you thought you go into your twilight years with.” “Okay.” he said solemnly. We made it to the wagon graveyard the next day. There, at the foot of the hill, were wagons left abandoned by those that had decided they would not be making the journey home, choosing instead to enter the stream and join their loved ones. There was a nervous energy going up and down the wagon train. The promised beam of the lifestream hadn’t appeared yet. Then, BANG. People started making their way up. I sent the Trappers up with my best wishes. “I’ll be waiting for you two down here. Don’t worry about the time, my team and I will ring a large bell to let you know when it's time to come back.” They waved me goodbye, and I watched them ascend the hill, and toward the bright beam shooting up into the sky. The first wave of people to make it to the top summoned a matching wave of ephemeral figures. I went to sit at the back of my wagon, facing away from the hill. Such moments were private, and I did not want to intrude. Not even from afar. A little while later, I took the last drag from a cigarette I had lit while waiting, and checked the time. That was it. Time to go. I signaled my men to start ringing the bell and get everyone to come back home. People started saying goodbye to their dearly departed again, and made their way back down. Naturally, not everyone was returning. There were always more than a few that chose to stay and enter the stream. I searched for Trapper and his kid among the returning crowd, but failed to find them. I didn’t want to believe it, and refused to look at the top of the hill to search for them. I kept scanning the returning crowd, but nothing. Eventually I did admit that they might not be coming back down. I looked up in time to see the ephemeral visage of a woman lean down and give Trapper’s boy a loving hug, a hug of parting. With a kiss on his forehead, and a wave goodbye, I was relieved. I was right, he was a good egg, the both of em. But no, I had assumed too much. The senior Trapper made to give his wife a hug and a kiss goodbye, but when it looked like he was about to let go of her hand, he held on. The visage of his wife rose into the sky, and Trapper along with her, and they both entered the lifestream. They disappeared together, just as the stream did. Leaving the boy alone at the top. I ran up to get him, but I couldn't get two words out of him, let alone get him to move. I had to pick him up to get him back to the wagon train. He remained unresponsive the rest of the night. When he broke his silence, he also breached the awkward subject of what would happen to him. Not wanting to leave the boy to the mercy of chance, I told him that if he wanted he could stay with me. He wouldn’t be the first lone survivor of his wagon. Many of my current employees had been in similar situations before, though none had ever been as young as him. He was still devastated by the loss, but that wasn’t something we would be able to breach for a good long time.


Part 2. But fate has fickle plans for all men. Even though it had not been eight years since i had last spoken to my father. Four years in service, two at war, and two on the road. Still, his words rang in my wars one morning as I lay in the gutter by the market. "Son, men are not worthy of merit, honor, or respect, by birth. All men must be worthy by deed, or nothing else matters. " I do not know why that morning of all mornings I would hear those words for the first time in two years. But as i lifted my head and looked out at the city starting its day. I could not shake the feeling that something was building in the air. I never thought to be worthy of anything again. Never thought to be useful to anyone, not as a cripple. But as the noon day sun bore down on the stalls and tables of the hawkers and merchant, I came to realize that a man must do what a man must. These past two years had seen the end of the war and the flooding of cities with hollow eyed veterans from countless battles. Unrest and crime filled the streets. Orphans and veterans alike stole and robbed. Neither have enough to live by after losing all to the war. I had long since ignored their deeds, so long as they left me alone. Then, a group of richly dressed young men, fresh from their military service. Began to harass the common folk who tried to earn a meager living. A tall, thin man with rusty red hair shoved an old farmer to the ground roughly. "A copper Filla for a handful of withered vegetables?! I should take them for free! You should be giving them to us for our service in defense of our nation!" He rudely barked. The old man cowered and whimpered in pain as the tall man stepped on his hands. "Disgusting commoners, you aren't worthy of my coin!" If he had thought to say more, I would never know. In that moment, as he lifted his foot to step down again, I was between him and the farmer. "Neither your birth nor your required service make you worthy of respect or honor." My voice was low and gravely from lack of use and lack of water. The two beside the tall man started as if stunned to see someone before them. I was not the man I once was, but I knew how to move. The tall man flushed, then reddened. He growled low in his chest and forced out, "Out of my way, you filthy beggar!" I cocked my head at his words and smiled lightly. From a pocket I'd sown into my waistband, I drew out the only piece of my past I had kept with me. "I am no mere beggar," I held up the small medallion, stamped with the coat of arms of my noble house. "I too an a nobles son." There was an immediate hush across the crowd. The red-haired man scoffed and began to laugh in derision. "Even if you were once, you are a beggar now. Go away filth." He made as if to step around me, but my hand caught him on his upper arm. His face went redder still. Before he could protest, I stated simply. "You've insulted me, sir. I demand satisfaction. Will you acquiesce, or does your family have no honor?" My hand was flung away, and he stepped back from me. Someone had pulled the old father to safety, and we now found ourselves surrounded by merchants and commoners alike. "Have at you then! Someone give him a sword!" There was no move from anyone, no sound. The red man laughed and said, "It seems like Noone thinks you are worthy of a sword, street filth!" A strong, firm, and resolute voice spoke from behind me. "Men are Worthy by Deeds Alone. He may have my sword." I stood straight and still. Time seemed nearly frozen as I turned to look into the deep Steele gray eyes of the only man I had ever feared. My father.


Part 3. His hand was held out to me steady and strong. A sword, his sword, rested across his palm. My eyes went from his to the sword and back again. It was then I noticed how thin he had become, how grey his hair was now. His face, once smooth and strong, was now spotted and wrinkled with age and worry. But worry for what? For who? For me? But why, I was to be believed as dead these past two years. I opened my mouth to ask why, but he shook his head and nodded at the sword. I took it and belted it to my hip. Turning, I faced my opponent, unnamed, and unknown to me but as an abuser of innocent men. I drew the sword slowly, cherishing its weight and the slow nearly silent hiss as it left the waxed sheath. Its blade was thin, light in my hands, and perfectly balanced. Exactly as I remembered my father's blade from so many years ago. The tall man had had enough and yelled, "At you then!" And rushed me with his outstretched sword point. My training flooded back to me after years of neglect, and I barely slapped the blade aside with the flat of my own. He cut across my abdomen, and I wasn't fast enough to deflect it all. A thin cut opened on my shirt, and a bead of blood appeared on my bare chest. He grinned at me then, surely thinking the fight would be a quick one. He was correct in thinking so. I had stumbled as I had tried to move back from his cut, my legs not working as I knew I needed them to. But in that moment, I felt more strength in them than i had thought i ever would again. Again and again, he struck at me. Cut, thrust, cut, slash, thrust, thrust again. Each time, he nicked me in some small way. But each time, I equally found my footing more sure. I was certain I would never be what I once was, though certain also that I would always be better than this fool of a man. Only a scant few moments had passed, and I found my body warming to the thrill of the fight. I stepped left, dripping the tip of my blade. He followed to the right, lashing out at my neck. My tip came up under his strike and cut his wrist lightly. My feint was a success, and now he was fearful of me. I pushed him then, striking low, then high. Forcing his guard out wide, I took my opening and thrust my father's sword through his belly and out through his spine. He went down like a sack and died groaning and whimpering in his own blood. I stood over him, gasping for air. My legs trembled and burned from the effort. A feeble hand grasped my arm, and a weather worn and tanned face of the farmed loomed up at me with tears flowing. "Thank you, young master! Thank you! Thank you!" I smiled down at him, "Think not of it at all good, sir. We are all men. If we don't stand for each other, we will fall together." I turned from him then and stepped to my father again. "Son," he said, his voice low and somber. "Your mother was worried for you." I felt tears well in my eyes and could scant force them away. "Mother," I asked with a broken voice, "Is she?" He nodded gravely, "Aye, and your sister and younger brother too. We've been looking for you for a long time, boy." I shook my head in disbelief. "How?" Is all I could utter. For the first time i could remember, my father laughed. He laughed long and hard. When he had settled some, he brushed an uncharacteristic tear from his eye and spoke. "Boy, you need to work on your forgery. A blind man could've seen that your handwriting was multitudes worse than the general's adjutant." I couldn't help but laugh myself. For all the years I'd been running from my past and my shame. My family had never once been ashamed, only concerned, and they had found me when I needed them most. "Well, I will have to work on that then." I said as my father looped an arm around my shoulder, and I sheathed his sword. Together, we walked away to find my family. One day, maybe, I could teach my son to be Worthy by Deed Alone.


Even as a young child, I was always an observer. My parents used to tell me that I had a knack for noticing things that others might overlook. This unique trait of mine led to an unforgettable experience when I was around 4 or 5 years old, during a family drive down the interstate. Sitting comfortably in the backseat of our car, I peered out the window, my gaze darting from one passing sight to another. My parents flanked me in the front, their voices muffled by the hum of the engine and the road's white noise. The interstate is dotted with radio towers, and these towering giants captured my imagination like nothing else. I was particularly fixated on them, their structures and the mysteries they held. They stood tall and proud like sentinels of communication, transmitting signals across the expanse. On this particular day, a radio tower emerged on the horizon, and my attention immediately locked onto it. But it wasn't the tower itself that drew me in—it was the figure standing atop it. A lone man, perched high above, seemed to be watching over the world from his precarious vantage point. I couldn't tear my eyes away, captivated by this unexpected sight. The man stood motionless, a solitary silhouette against the canvas of the sky. His clothes rustled in the wind, but he remained steadfast. Then, in a moment that defied both logic and reality, he stretched out his arms, forming a perfect "T" shape, as if he were embracing the very universe itself. Time seemed to slow down as I watched in awe and confusion. And then, as our car approached the tower, the man performed an inexplicable act—he leaned forward, as though gravity had no power over him. For a brief, suspended second, he seemed to hover in the air, an ethereal figure against the backdrop of the world. In a blink, he succumbed to gravity's pull, hurtling downward in a swift descent. As the ground rushed up to meet him, a cloud of dust erupted upon impact, a silent testament to the tragedy that had just unfolded before my eyes. My heart raced, and a mixture of shock and fear coursed through my young veins. I knew I had to share what I had witnessed with my parents. "Mom, Dad," I stammered, my voice barely audible, "I saw… I saw a man up there. He was on the tower, and then he…" My words trailed off, unable to fully convey the weight of what I had experienced. My parents exchanged puzzled glances, their attention focused on the road ahead. "Oliver, that's not a funny story to make up," my father replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. My heart sank. They didn't understand, couldn't fathom the gravity of the situation. I slumped back in my seat, my gaze fixed on the road as the tower slipped out of view. The memory of that moment remained etched in my mind as if a lava flow had just cut a path through a small town, a somber reminder of the fragility of life and the impact of witnessing a fleeting yet profound moment. Now, as an adult in my thirties, I often find myself revisiting that memory. I wonder about the man on the tower—his identity, his story. I've searched countless times on the internet for any mention of the incident, hoping to find closure or understanding, but to no avail. That day remains a part of me, a poignant reminder that even in the briefest moments, life can leave an indelible mark on a young heart, shaping the way we perceive the world and the enigmatic events that unfold within it.


I sat my mug gently on the desk, watching the steam rise from my freshly made cup of tea. Marcus was so sweet to have made me a whole pot of my favorite tea before work. As I settled into my chair and began proofreading the latest novel to come across my desk, Willow hopped into my lap. Scratching her behind the ears I quickly became absorbed in my work. As I absentmindedly went to take a sip of my tea, the cat suddenly jumped up and knocked the mug out of my hand. “Willow!” I exclaimed as I nudged her to the floor. I sighed deeply, picked up the mug and went to the kitchen to fetch some more tea. As I approached the counter where the teapot had been resting, I could see it had spilled all over the counter and kitchen floor. “I guess I wasn’t meant to have tea today” I lament to the likely culprit of tea destruction. I opt instead to make myself a pot of coffee. As I wait for it to brew, I begin to clean up the spilled tea, all the while Willow winds around my feet. I carefully try to pick my way around the kitchen without stepping on her paws or her tail. A sudden ringing in my left ear tells me it’s time to take my migraine medicine. I set the pills on the counter as I fill up a glass from the tap. Willow hops on the counter to inspect the contents of the bottle. “Aww are you my little pharmacist?” I cooed at her. When I turned my head back to the sink I heard the unmistakable skittering of pills as they were knocked down the garbage disposal. “CAT!! You’re starting to get on my nerves today!” I scolded her. As I inspected the drain for any salvageable pills I heaved a sigh of exasperation. I had accepted my fate of spending today in bed with the inevitable migraine that was on its way. I downed the water and some Excedrin, set my computer status to busy and trudged up the stairs to my room. Sleep came quickly but fitfully. I tossed and turned with dreams I couldn’t quite remember but that left me breathless when I woke confused and in total darkness. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. Willow yowled and hissed at something in the dark, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. When I flipped on the bedside lamp, we were alone in the room. Willow was staring at the pillow on the end of my bed like it offended all of her ancestors. She pawed it lightly then knocked it onto the floor. “You’re so weird” I muttered to myself as I swung my legs to the side of the bed preparing to get up. Just then the door banged open and my dear sweet husband walked in with a tray laden with soup, grilled cheese, and a fresh steaming cup of tea. “I suspected you were feeling under the weather, so I thought you could use a pick me up!” Marcus said as he laid the tray on my lap. I kissed his cheek as a thank you and happily began to spoon some soup. Just as it reached my lips Willow pawed the spoon, making it spill down the front of my shirt. “Bad kitty! What has gotten into you today?” I exclaimed as I tried to dab away the hot soup. Marcus lifted her off the bed, which earned him a swat and hiss from Willow, and placed her outside the bedroom shutting the door on her. The look on my face must have betrayed my sadness, as he said “Just while you eat darling. Then I’ll let her back in.” Marcus watched as I ate every last bite, kissed my forehead then took the tray away. I settled back into bed as Willow hopped onto my chest. She started nudging my hand so I scratched her in the spot behind her ears she likes so much. “Ouch” I yelped as she suddenly bit my hand. “What is wrong with you?!” She looked at me intently then nudged my hand again, mewling with displeasure. Something was seriously wrong with her but I couldn’t figure out what. But I didn’t have time to ponder anymore as I doubled over in pain. There was a sharp pain in my stomach that wouldn’t subside. I rolled out of bed as I tried to crawl to the bathroom. I couldn’t make it. I collapsed on the floor, rolling in pain. I began to heave, trying to vomit whatever had offended my stomach. But I couldn’t make my stomach give back what it had taken. I lay there as the pain grew worse and my body grew weaker. I could feel Willow’s distress as she nudged me and mewled loudly. When Marcus came in he approached me slowly. Was it my foggy brain, or was he really approaching me with a lazy calmness that did not match my current situation. As I faded out of consciousness, I heard him say “Finally, it’s done.” And then it was black.


In the heart of Calcutta's bustling streets, amidst the symphony of trams and vendors, Eamon's antiquated bookstore stood. Dusty volumes lined its shelves, murmuring forgotten tales to anyone who cared to listen. Eamon, a man of quiet contemplation, found solace among the pages of his beloved books. One morning, as the sun's first rays painted the sky, a delicate letter arrived at his door. Its fragrance stirred long-buried memories, a fragrance that carried whispers of a love thought lost in the labyrinth of time. Kavya, the name that held the key to his past, had resurfaced through the strokes of ink on the aged paper. The letter spoke of a reunion, an invitation to the Royal Opera House—a place where memories seemed to gather like shadows. Eamon's heart quickened at the thought of seeing Kavya again. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, he made his way to the Opera House, where echoes of their shared history seemed to resonate. Guided by the melody of nostalgia, Eamon walked through the ornate corridors until he reached the grand hall. The chandeliers gleamed like stars, and the stage stood adorned with memories. And there, beneath the shimmering lights, he saw her—Kavya, the enchantress of his past. Time had etched delicate lines upon her face, but her eyes still held the same gleam that had captivated him years ago. As their eyes met, a silent recognition passed between them—a connection that transcended time's boundaries. The world around them faded as if only their hearts remained. Kavya's dance began, a graceful expression of emotions that transcended mere words. Each step was a brushstroke on the canvas of their shared history. Eamon watched, transported by the beauty of the moment, as if their souls were entwined in a dance of their own. As the performance reached its crescendo, Eamon approached the stage. With every step, memories flooded back—days spent under the Jacaranda tree, whispered promises that lingered in the air. And then, in that poignant moment, he was by her side, his hand reaching out to hers. Their fingers brushed, igniting a spark that had never truly faded. As they stood together, the weight of years melted away, leaving only the essence of their love. Their dance, a tapestry woven with threads of laughter and tears, unfurled beneath the moonlit sky. In the hushed embrace of the night, Eamon and Kavya danced—a waltz that defied the constraints of time. It was a dance that spoke of forgiveness, of the magic of second chances, and the profound power of a love that had endured even in the face of life's twists. As the last notes of the melody echoed, Eamon looked into Kavya's eyes. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, honoring their reunion. And in that gaze, they found a universe of unspoken words—a promise that they would never let go again. The symphony of their shared journey played on, a melody that whispered of timeless love amid the tapestry of their intertwined lives.