She hurts from the inside. Where others see beauty in her, she sees pain and sadness. Hers is a story only she can tell, but to do so would let people in. She can’t do that. They’d only hurt her more. No, she needs to keep her story untold. Besides, no one would understand anyway. She sees things so differently than others. She feels almost too deeply in all things. Would someone, anyone, ever be brave enough to love the darkness she’s become? Could anyone dare to every try to light a fire in her desolate soul? It was doubtful, time had long ago destroyed the beautiful fertile ground that used to be inside her. There’s a hollow emptiness inside her that scares even her. How could anyone ever lover her with the passion and acceptance she needs… that she deserves? When did things get so screwed up and how did she end up here she wonders. Life was not supposed to be this – it should have been the happy ever after, prince in a castle – hell, now she’d settle for a damn home to call her own. Maybe that was the problem, she was willing to settle. She’d done it all her life and was used to that. It was just easier. But she wasn’t one for being weak, and easy equaled weakness in her eyes. She battled these ferocious demons daily. She wears the weariness on her face and tries to hide it under all the make-up she can, but the lines show through. She played over and over again in her mind all the mistakes of past relationships. The way she allowed the men to manipulate her, her thoughts, her actions, even how she felt about herself. Years of therapy would never explain it. She knows that. It was time for her to be tougher than she ever was. She knew she was enough, well, most days she thought maybe she was. This last heartbreak destroyed her more deeply than the others. She loved him and trusted him with everything. She allowed that because she thought maybe this time, this one, was different. Oh, he was, not doubt, just not the way she had hoped. The entire relationship was a lie. Everything. She wasn’t loved, she was used. Never even given the chance to be his everything. He decided even before the first date that she’d never live up to his expectations. The more she tried, the more he found fault and blame. Even after the breakup he continued to lie to her and about her to others. She couldn’t even fight to clear her name. It tore her up inside, knowing that people she once knew and loved now hated what they thought she was. Lies. She was so very tired of all the lies that were told. Was anyone ever even slightly honest these days? Doubtful. She looks in the mirror every day and sees the stress of the life around her. She has nothing left to give anyone. Except for her kids. She’d do anything for them. Time to get out of this darkness and get on and into life. The sun was shining warm and bright into her room now. She loved Florida, loved living here with all the sand and heat and palm trees. Paradise to her.


The Pond: Chapter 1 People never use to talk about Atkins Falls, hell hardly anyone could have told you it existed save for the folks that lived there. That is until the summer of '72. Locals, well local, me, Sheriff Tom Lauderdeen, the only one left in these parts. I called it P-Day, our spineless leaders and the media called it "responsible action", as if nuking a small town on the outskirts of nowheresville, The Athabasca Sand Dunes, was responsible. "*What a sight eh Stew? Quite a show, who woulda thunk Canada, the friendly North, just up and spread the whole king's ransom on their own?*" Stew didn't respond, although Tom might start to actually worry if he did. Stewart P. Shodden or Stew as Tom called him, was an hemit crab. A reticent yet cantankerous little scoundrel that Tom found still alive inside his tank at the local pet store. Like most wildlife still in Atkins Falls, Stew had his own "foible". Tom remembered reading that word in a comic book so that's what he called them. An oddity of sorts, foibles were mutations that surviving insects, plants and wildlife had gained. Not Tom though, nope, but he had Gertrude, his 12G, so he thought the odds were fairly even. unlike some of the scarier things he'd seen, Stew only seemed to glow brighter and brighter the angrier he got. The little fella was quite tempered. "*Remember the time you pinched my ear so hard I fainted stew! All because I ate the last can of pickled asparagus hah!*" Stew didn't answer, he never answered but that was a good thing. Tom couldn't go crazy, not in Atkins Falls, not after P-Day. As far as Tom knew, none of the critters could talk. He only spoke with Stew so he could fill the silence. Tom had always felt uncomfortable with silence, even before P-Day. "*Silence is the absence of action, that's what I always say, eh Stew*?" At the third mention of his name the little hermit crab popped it's beady little eyes out of his shell, which had begun to faintly glow. "*Getting antsy are ya little buddy? Don't worry we're almost there*" The hermit crab glowed the slightest bit brighter but Tom paid it no heed. Stew had a short temper afterall, being woken up before lunch usually made him glow brighter than a hot iron. This was nothing to fret over. Besides they were maybe an hour from chopped mutton with a side of perfidy soup. He called it that because it was just boiled water and mushrooms he found growing around a mutated pig's pen. Usually they made him feel great but they had given him a few bad nights as well. He'd waited a whole month to do this batch, it was a full moon, Stew had just molted and there was a woolyback to be skinned and chopped. "*Oh yes Stew, tonight we eat and drink and let the fungus guide our dreams*" He looked at the slain animal over his shoulder thinking "this was one of those breeding ones I reckon." "They just fuck and eat, eh Stew? You ever seen a woolyback that just goes and goes until they die? Glad we bagged this one early, I've seen them destroy entire lives with their carelessness. Just destroy while farmers fields!" The hermit crab was now sitting on Tom's Head. He liked to perch up there and keep watch. Tim didn't mind, Stew usually picked the bugs out of his hair, foibles and lice...how can an entire race of creepy crawlies gain the same foible. Not just lice either. It seemed all insects had taken on the hive mind. Each controlled by a large King or Queen. Tom avoided their areas. Giant ants, bees, hornets, the million eyed spiders, mudcrabs...he needed none of them. He stuck to the hills around the falls, always avoiding the sand dunes directly. He feared scorpions, he didn't need to see them with foibles. He hunted woolybacks, kept goats, grew what he could and kept the pond clean. Not the water itself, though. Since P-Day all algae in the pond had formed together into a massive blob. It patrolled the ponds waters consuming everything that entered. Ol' Tom only snuck a bottle or 2 weekly. He checked his traps, nothing unusual, a few legs without bodies, gotta be quick in these parts. Tom wasn't too upset, he already had a whoolyback and he didn't fancy being there much longer. The pond was the only fresh water source left and his supply from the gas station cooler was out. He couldn't make perfidy soup without some fresh water. Plus all the animals seemed to come drink here, why shouldn't he? Tom carefully tied two glass bottles on the end of his walking stick, uncorked their tops, then proceeded to hesitantly but slowly creep up one of the large rocks near the edge of the pond. He could see what appeared to be the shambling mass of algae off on the far side, probably eating a deer too slow to escape while drinking. The water was crystal clear as always. Tom lowered his stick gently, ensuring to disturb the water's surface with the smallest of force. The mass could feel movements in the water, this was a quick in and out but a safe one. This was the only time Tom liked silence. The 23 seconds it took to fill his bottles felt like years for Tom. Each moment dragging it's heels before the next but finally as the smallest of bubbles escaped his bottles Tom sighed a breath of relief, raised them gently and crept back down the rock. Once back down Tom corked the bottles, turned on his toes and was face to face with his worst nightmare...a Mother Greentip Scorpion, 10 meters wide at least. Tom unskung Gurtrude from his back, muttered "*ah shit, here we go again Stew*" As 1000's of tiny little eyes opened across the scorpions back. The screech if the horde, this was a full brood.


#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, a theme word, a 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 via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   ***   #Last Week Great stories this week, as always. I was absolutely delighted by the number of feedback comments exchanged on the thread and all the nominations made this week. Keep up the great work! ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/ravenight - - Submitted by u/1047inthemorning   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **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. - 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!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


It was Wednesday. Average and uneventful for most--but not for *her*. Never for *her*. She was a small girl--only about 65 inches in height; her arms seemed to long for her body, and her eyes seemed too deep for her face. Her hair hung a bit further down than her ears, curling and twisting in various directions as though trying to fit more comfortably on her head; or perhaps it was trying to escape from her head altogether--it was hard to tell, really. The girl's face was closed and frightened--she tried to make herself seem open and approachable, of course. It just didn't work. Especially that day. That Wednesday. She wore thick, square glasses with rims too large for her face and a smile too bright for her soul. The girl didn't know her own name. But then again, people usually didn't know their real names; the only difference between her and the others was that she knew about her *lack* of a name. Her lack of identity. Others seemed to take whatever identity they were given, because they simply didn't care--but this girl would rather live without a name than be forced to live with one that wasn't hers. She walked around the outside of the large, stone building--there was a thick railing to her right, overlooking a deceptively cheerful garden. To her left, there was a row of grimy doors leading to brightly lit classrooms, containing rows upon rows of unmotivated students. With a quiet, "excuse me," the girl hurried towards a door with a sign above it marked 'Restrooms.' She pushed it open, finding herself facing a line of grimy urinals packed into the tiny space. She grimaced at the poorly-done grafitti covering the walls. there was one stall at the very end--it reeked of urine, defecation, and...other bodily fluids. Wrinkling her nose, the girl walked into the stall, closing the graffiti-covered door behind her. She noticed that its lock had been torn off, and decided that it didn't matter. With a sigh, she hung her backpack gingerly from the half-intact hook behind the door, noting that there was no toilet paper next to the toilet, which hadn't been flushed in several hours. With another sigh, she flushed the toilet and flopped miserably down onto the seat like a discarded pile of rags. Observing the walls around her, she noted the peeling paint and the incoherent messages scrawled across the cracked plaster like the nightmares of a madman. Right next to the girl's head were the words, "God loves you," with a poorly drawn heart under them in bold sharpie. The girl stared at the words--stared at them until her eyes burned--and then she began laughing. She didn't know why; there was nothing to laugh at, after all--and yet she was shaking with mirth, bordering on hysteria, gasps escaping her parted lips, tears streaming from her closed eyes... Then suddenly, her gasps weren't of mirth anymore, but of suffering; she felt her tears turn to shards of ice, piercing her mind and shattering her smile into a thousand broken pieces. *God is dead,* she heard herself think. *God died the same day people forgot their names--God died because we don't know God's name anymore.* She stared blankly at her backpack, hanging limply from the bathroom door like a hanged corpse. *Perhaps we never knew God's name, not really--maybe God isn't dead; it's possible that God simply never lived.* The girl looked down at her reflection in the dirty toilet water, glaring at the broken face staring back at her with empty eyes. She flushed the toilet again, watching the face break into fragments like a torn photograph. It reformed a few seconds later, grinning triumphantly at her. It taunted her, winking with its watery eyes and grinning through its discolored mouth. She could hear its voice--mocking her, whispering to her. *You don't belong,* it whispered. *Not here, not anywhere--there's nowhere to run from me, nowhere to hide. I'll come with you no matter how far you try to go, because in the end--you're always in the same place. You're in here, you're with me; you're always mine.* It laughed, causing her tears to fall harder and her gasps to become more saturated with pain. Her tears were flames now, dripping down her cheeks and onto her shirt, into the toilet below, setting the grinning face on fire. It kept laughing, mocking--its voice was deafening now; filling her ears, her head, her stomach... The girl felt sick, frightened, and broken. She tried to rise, but her legs refused to obey her. *You're a freak,* hissed the voice from beneath her. Its eyes flamed in their watery sockets, its crooked grin widening. The girl felt its cold grip on her arm; she forced herself to stand, grabbing her backpack and hurrying out the door, past the line of urinals--she stopped in front of the sink, raising her eyes up to the mirror. The face was there again, laughing at her. She tried to look through it, to find herself hidden inside it, behind it, cowering in a corner of the reflected room--but she wasn't there. There was nothing there--nothing but the face with the crooked smile and the eyes like shattered glass, reaching through and grasping her arm. Slowly, the girl raised her left arm, rolling up her shirtsleeve. she looked down at it, glared at the white lines crisscrossing up and down her forearm--each one a lost battle, a flaming mark carved into eternity. She stared into the mirror, into those cold, shattered eyes the color of muddy quicksand, wishing that she never had to see them again. She looked behind the face, looked at the row of grimy urinals, looked at the sign reading "Men's" in front of the door. She saw the sneering masks appearing behind the crooked grin, chanting a name that wasn't hers, chanting words that carved out pieces of her soul like knives, words that poured like gasoline onto her skin, burrowing into her like needles into a vein. The bathroom was empty. Empty, except for the girl and her demons, standing there in front of a dirty sink and a trash can overflowing with paper towels. It was a Men's bathroom, lined with urinals and a single stall--empty. Empty, except for a broken girl standing alone against a horde of demons that nobody else could see--a girl trying to ignore the darkness grasping at her, the icy tendrils of suffering squeezing at her lungs and seeping into her mind--a girl who didn't belong anywhere, who had nowhere to go--a girl who wore darkness like a shawl to cover up her brokenness, trying to collect all the jagged fragments of herself and stick them back together from whatever memory of herself she had left...whatever memory she had of who she was, of the name she didn't know. There was blood on the girl's hands and she couldn't quite tell whose it was--it might have been hers, or it might have been the blood of a demon. It was black and cold--she didn't know where it had come from. She looked down at her hands, except they *weren't* her hands--they were too big and too aggressive. She looked down at her arm and saw a new line among the old ones; a fresh battle, a fresh loss, another reminder of her own worthlessness. It was bleeding endlessly, bleeding cold and black, breaking into her soul. The girl was crying, but her tears were frozen again, freezing her wounds shut and turning her heart to ice. She felt the grinning face next to hers, laughing through the mirror and asking her how it felt to be a demon--to bleed cold and dark, to have blood like frozen tar and tears like ice. Its crooked smile widened as the girl sobbed, looking down at the hands that weren't hers, the wounds frozen shut...she felt her tears freeze in her eyes until all she was was ice, and all she could feel was the cold. Her heartbeat was slowing. Slowing, slowing--almost stopped. Her shawl of darkness had become a noose now, dragging her upwards to the ceiling of the bathroom--the only part without graffiti, ironically. The girl didn't struggle. To struggle was to fight, and fighting was for those who had hope. Fighting was for people with names. The girl rose past the mirror, seeing the masks laughing and cheering on her empty noose--and then she saw something else. Something that wasn't a mask. It was a face--not the face of a demon. The face of a girl. A girl with a name. She stood near the back of the room in the mirror, with black square glasses and a green backpack, wrinkling her nose at the graffiti on the walls. The girl outside the mirror watched her, watched the girl with a name--their eyes locked through the mirror, and the masks began to whisper to each other nervously. The girl without a name felt her noose begin to loosen, felt the ice begin to recede. The girl in the mirror was walking now--walking towards the mirror, smiling at the masks around her and watching them disappear in frightened puffs of empty smoke as she laughed. Her hair was long and black, stylishly messy; her eyes were a warm, liquid brown, piercing the mirror and melting the ice in the other girl's eyes and untying her noose. Her arms were long and graceful, her smile like warm sunshine. The girl without a name stood dumbfounded, watching the girl in the mirror banish the masks and the face with the crooked grin, watching her walk into battle with nothing but her own smile, her laughter, and her eyes like fiery brown galaxies. *She's beautiful,* thought the girl without a name. And then she was gone. The mirror was gone, the demons were gone--the bathroom was empty once more, except for a frightened girl staring at a hollow mirror, looking for those beautiful eyes again. And then she saw them. Saw those eyes, that hair, that smile--saw the girl with a name, and she *knew.* She knew who it was, who *she* was. She looked into the mirror and felt a smile cross her face, watched the girl in the mirror giggle happily along with her, her eyes warm and comforting. The girl smiled at her reflection in the mirror, where the demons used to be. She smiled because she remembered now, because she knew her name again--because she'd found the girl with the stylishly messy hair and the big square glasses. She whispered to herself, to her reflection, to the girl with the warm brown eyes; she whispered four words, words that could untie nooses and melt ice--words that could glue together pieces of a broken girl's soul. Smiling at the mirror, the girl whispered: *My name is Hope.


The myth of Dragons have been greatly misrepresented over the years. The first falsehood being that they were in fact a myth, the second being that they were large and terrifying reptiles set on destroying mankind. A dragon's size was directly proportionate to the size of it's gold hoard, but no dragon has ever gotten more than one or two coins. There are rumors that Mr. Chinue at the top of the hill has a large dragon, protecting his large pile of gold, but personally I just think they're rumors. Shop keepers especially, are good about keeping the dragon coins away from the non-dragon coins. That was another falsehood, Dragons don't care who owns the coin, as long as they travel with it. Most people when they go shopping, take their little coin purse complete with a dragon. The tricky part is making sure to trade the entirety of the Dragon's hoard, as not to upset the dragon. Some people have to pay for a tiny loaf of bread with a whole gold coin just to keep the dragon happy. You can't split it up, which is why most dragons only have small hoards. It really is a pain when you're looking to buy and the shop keeper doesn't have a dragon hoard the correct size to give you proper change. Sometimes you get lucky and get a little more back, but more often than not you get shorted change. This is just an expectation now when you go shopping. Taking a dragon from it's hoard can be dangerous, it's not going to burn down a village but you might lose a finger, and the dragon will ALWAYS find it's way back to its hoard. Which is actually my current problem right now. See, I just learned all of this about dragons today. Like 5 minutes ago in fact. Dragons aren't common in the western province where I am from, but here in the eastern province? They're everywhere! So when I spent my gold coin earlier, I got 3 silver coins and a tiny dragon back in change. Then when I saw a jacket, I spent 2 of my silver coins. Unfortunately unaware of the consequences that would follow this action. You see, my dragon was sleeping when I had spent his coins. It wasn't until later, when I was on my way back to the Western province, that I heard the high pitched wail from inside my coin purse. Confused by the sound of distress, I peaked in and immediately got a tiny green dragon attached to my nose. With a startled yelp, I swiped at my face sending the dragon tumbling towards the ground. With a high pitched battle cry, the small reptile flung itself back at me and attached itself to my shoulder. One second it was fine, sure it's claws dug a little deep into my brand new coat, but it had seemed to calm down. The next second a high pitched cry was released from it's mouth, directly into my ear. This cry went on for 10 minutes before I tried to bribe the creature. "Here dragon," I tsk'd lightly, holding up a gold coin. "I'm sorry I gave away your silver coins but you can have this one!" The high pitched squeal didn't stop. Eventually on the road I met a couple travelers who were all too happy to trade me 3 silver coins for my gold coin. A complete rip off if you asked me, but I was desperate. Holding the coins out to the dragon as a peace offering, the cry stopped for a moment. The dragon sniffed the coins, turned his nose up at them and went back to his crying. By the time evening had fallen and I had set up camp, the cry had become ingrained in my head as the most irritating noise ever, and my new jacket was completely destroyed on the right shoulder. Pulling the jacket over my head, I finally fell asleep with the screaming still continuing. -_-_-_- Waking up the next morning was peaceful… and surprising. The desperate cries of the dragon had finally stopped and I could finally think again. Looking around, I couldn't see the dragon anywhere. Everything else was the same, I still had all my possessions, I still had a hole in my new jacket. I was just down a dragon. Good riddance. I thought as I gathered up my stuff. Finally picking up my coin purse, I was surprised by the odd lump that occupied it.


Deer Drum was meant to be a prosperous island with a reputation for culture and the arts. Yet here all that remained were less than two dozen residents huddled together in a few canvas canopies. Their faces looked drained. The trauma and hunger had sucked the tone from their cheeks. Loose, pallid skin hung from their jaws. Bloodshot eyes stared longingly at the world, hoping to wake from their nightmare, and unable to sleep in case worse ones returned. Xander and Sarid took me to an older lady called Eir. She was the island’s only doctor, and it was nothing short of miraculous she had survived. She had a burn on her right arm that was slow to heal with thick scarring at the elbow that made it difficult to bend. Her skin was pearl white and, although she was officially in her mid-fifties, the events had aged her to the point of seeming frail. She laid me down on a table and began asking me about my symptoms. She slowly ran her hands across my body, prodding different spots to see where the pain was most acute. It didn’t take long for her to make her diagnosis. “Two broken ribs and a concussion.” “How do I get it to heal?” I asked. “Don’t do much. Rest. It needs time,” Eir said. “The worst of it will pass in a few days. Then you can move about a bit. But it’ll take a few weeks for the rib to properly set in place again.” I sat up on the table, holding my right side for support. “And long-term?” “Long term, you’ll be fine.” I looked at Xander and Sarid. “Where do I stay?” “We can house you,” Xander nodded. I had assumed Xander meant ‘we’ as in the island, but it quickly became apparent he meant him and his family. It was his boot and arm that had caused my injuries, and now I was a guest in his home. There were four of them in the tent. Xander, his wife, and two children. His wife, Kurbani, was a quiet, petite woman a few years younger than Xander. She didn’t speak to me regularly. When she did it was usually pragmatic - asking me if I needed help with something, or offering me a drink. Throughout the day various other islanders would come by the tent. A few came to speak to me; the innate desire to learn about and from others hadn’t left the people of Deer Drum. But most came to spend time with the two children. Those left had come together and rallied round the younger generation, perhaps in part sensing the children needed the support. Though I suspect it also gave them some purpose. Xander’s son, Novak, seemed to need the distraction. When people came to visit he could laugh and regain himself, but alone he seemed withdrawn and docile. His sister, Mirai, was three or four years older, and perhaps that extra maturity, being nearly an adult, gave her some extra strength - that or it forced her to hide the pain. A few days of staying with Xander and his family and the pain in my head passed and my chest was beginning to heal. Quick movements still hurt, but the constant background stinging had subsided, and I could walk around without any hindrance. Now capable of it, I tried to help out as much as I could, mmall missions like fetching wood for fires or helping out with meals. However, I seemed to become a treasure as soon as they discovered I could fish - even rudimentarily. Anyone else who knew their way around a rod and line had been killed in the attack, and with no livestock on the island, the survivors' diets were lacking protein. I managed to fashion a rod from an old piece of metal, some string and a pole; and spent much of the day down by the edge of the sea, seeing what I could catch. It was odd to think it was less than two months since I had caught my first fish with Alessia. My first attempts had been met with ridicule, and now here I was, helping keep an island alive. The process of catching fish on a moving boat didn’t perfectly translate, but I was able to make do, catching enough for everyone to have a small portion most evenings. I couldn’t help but wonder how funny Alessia would find the idea of me being heralded as a great saviour for my fishing skills. After several days I was approaching full fitness and it would soon be time to decide when and where I would go from Deer Drum. It was nearing the end of the day, and I was silently contemplating my next journey by the ocean’s edge, when Xander came to find me. I smiled and nodded as he approached, but both of us remained quiet. There was still a degree of silence between us; part distrust, part solemness, part the bruises on my ribs caused by his boot. The gentle evening breeze rustling in nearby trees, the waves slipping over nearby rocks, continued to talk, but we did not. We both just stared out to sea, watching the sun bob on the horizon. “Looks like you’ve got another good haul,” Xander eventually said, looking down at the basket of fish by my feet, their dead tails reflexively twitching. “It’s been a good day,” I replied. “How’s everyone at the camp?” “Good, well… as good as they’ve been.” I gave a shy, uncertain smile. Silence, the status quo, temporarily restored. “I’m sorry for what happened,” Xander said. “I’m not sorry that we attacked you. I have a family to protect. But... I’m sorry we were wrong.” “Thanks,” I replied. I was unsure of what more to say. He was certainly trying to make amends. But the truth was my chest still hurt, and my torso was still covered in blue and black. “We can’t take the risk that one of those bastards might still be here,” he added. “It would help if you knew why,” I said. “They said it was for the books…” Xander said, his eyes fixed on the waves. “What?” I replied. “The one thing they took. The periodicals. The same books you came for.” My eyes widened. The same books that had brought me to Deer Drum - the same ones I was chasing - were what led to the island’s downfall. A whole culture was all but erased over books that a few weeks ago I believed were useless to everyone in the Archipelago but me. Xander continued. “They demanded we hand them over or they would start shooting. We did. But then they went through with the killing anyway.” “What did they want with the books?” I asked. Xander twitched his nose. “No idea.” “If they killed people afterwards…” I paused, thinking through the facts. “They may have come for the books, but they also came to murder.” I saw Xander reflexively turn his head away from me, his eyes fixed on a point out to sea, his entire mind focussed on that one wave. “Sorry,” I said. “I just wish we knew why.” “You’re not the only one,” Xander replied. “But that’s not what matters right now. Surviving is.” I hummed in sympathetic agreement. “Sun’s getting low. We may want to head back to the camp before it gets dark.” I pulled the fishless rod out of the sea. As I did, something caught my eye, a cylinder gently floating among the waves. “What’s that do you think?” I said, signalling. Xander lifted his hands up to his face, blocking out the evening glare. “Looks like a mast. It probably came from the wreck those fuckers left up the coast.” “Wreck?” “They arrived at night One of their boats ran into the rocks and they had to swim the last bit. The one blessing we got. Couldn’t bring all their weapons ashore.” Xander turned to head back to camp. I took one last look at the mast, then followed Xander. “Is the wreck still there?” “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s all waterlogged. We made sure no one was getting anything off that ship.” “But the wreck’s still there? And some of the cargo?” I walked a couple of paces ahead, so I could turn and see Xander’s face. “Yeah. It’s sunk, but it’s there.” “There might be information on that boat. Seals on equipment, signs, something that might tell us who these people are, or at least where they came from.” “That boat’s fifty metres out to sea surrounded by rocks. You wanna go play explorer, you can do it alone,” Xander said, his jaw tensed. “I would love to find out who did this. I’d love to have my revenge. But we have to survive first.” “Can you at least show me where it is?” Xander ignored my question, his eyes narrowing on something up the hill. He hushed for me to be quiet and then crouched. Turning around, I could see a row of trees and an old brick wall at the edge of a field. Crouched down behind the wall was one of the woman from the camp. We crept up the hill and squatted down by the wall next to the woman. She peered over the top, staring out across the open space. “What’s up?” Xander asked. The woman squinted. “There’s someone there. Moving between the trees on the other side of the field.” The gap of open farmland was around fifty metres across. I scanned the opposing woods looking for the attacker. “They’re stealthy,” the woman said. “They stay down for a long time not moving. But they’re there. I’m certain of it.” We both stared, waiting to join in the shared knowledge. We paused, frozen to the spot, for a few minutes until we saw it: a brief flash of a silhouette moving from trunk to trunk. They appeared, darted a few metres, and then disappeared behind the next timber thick enough. “Stay here, keep an eye on them. I’ll get some others. We’ll get the shit.” Xander said. I shook my head “If you go back to camp now, and they follow you, things could get worse.” “So what do you suggest?” Xander whispered. I thought for a moment, the ideas tossing and turning in my head. “I’ll go the other way. Off to the left. Either they follow me, in which case you wait five minutes and leave. Or, they stay put and I can sneak up on them.” Xander thought for a few seconds, then nodded.. “Go.” I looked to my left. The old wall turned to rubble quickly, leaving me exposed. I wanted the person to see me. But they were also likely armed, ready to take a shot if any person stood out long enough. I had to find cover. A short distance away I could see a thick beech. I stood and ran towards it. As soon as I made the sudden movement, I could feel my ribs twist and twinge in my chest. I panted and limped my way to cover. I let my back fall against the bark of the tree, taking quick shallow breaths as my lungs grated against the broken rib with each inhale. Hesitantly, I peaked around from my shield and peered across the field. At first I saw nothing, but then the figure moved between the foliage, heading parallel. They were following me. The plan was working. The next tree big enough to hide behind was some twenty metres or so. Taking one, large, painful breath in, I ran for the next spot. I didn’t make it half way before my lungs gave way. Instead of a crouched sprint, the last several metres were little better than a staggered, upright walk. My spine slumped against the uncomfortable trunk of an old oak tree. I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the pain, but my thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling out across the meadow. “Ferdinand!?” I recognized the tone immediately. I couldn’t help but feel a warmth come over me at the sound of that bemused, angry, condescending tone. I scrunched my face, my panged breathing suddenly calmed. I stood up, and walked round the tree, marching straight into the open field in front. The target appeared from the forest opposite, walking out to greet me. “It is you,” she called out.


There they sat; the three of them. The feeling began at the ends of their toes and slowly crept like electricity up their bones and through their skinny legs. The drops of the healing waters remained on their skin and immediately they felt the magic of the place pulsate through them. “Do you feel anything?” Beatrice was always the more headstrong of the trio. “It’s gonna take more than a few minutes! Be patient!” Margot retorted at her friend as she looked over at the third member of the group, Jessica, and rolled her eyes. The three friends sat waiting on the banks of the Spring. That’s what they called it, the Spring. Any other body of water on the whole of the Island needed its proper name, but not this place. It all started a few years ago when it seemed like everyone everyone knew was coming down with polio. The sufferers would dip their legs in the cool water, play with the ripples, toss in stones, hope and wish, and inevitably be healed within moments, though some weak in faith required a few more treatments. Father Walsh reluctantly raised funds to bring the ill of the Village to the Spring, douse them in the water, see them heal, and praise the Divine and thank Him for giving the people of the Village these miraculous waters. New and would-be mothers spent hours at the Spring, then, would move on to the local parish to praise the Divine and give thanks for the healing waters they had been given. Father Walsh had a telescope that he would let the children of the Village look through after Mass every Sunday. First, the Sacrament, then the Heavens. He kept papers by his bedside and would scribble notes on them as he was inspired by the majesty of the universe and the wondrous majesty of the Divine he witnessed when gazing through the lens most nights. His flock knew him and his eccentricities well and in the Sanctuary, they would laugh and giggle at the homilies he would deliver about the wonders of the world the Creator had provided. It was a revolutionary time, and the doctors and professors on the Mainland were steadily making intellectual progress. Father Walsh desired to see the fusion of higher thought with that of the pondering of the Highest of them all. Father Walsh would begin his recent homilies in a similar fashion: “We are all here this Blessed Sabbath to come and partake of the Sacrifice of Our Creator. We also know that there are many temptations amongst us: false idols, natural wonders that draw us further from the Divine… waters that claim to heal without the Touch of the Almighty. I must surrender the fact that many have claimed to be healed by the Spring and its appealing waters. However, we as men and women of the Faith must guard against the denial of the Divine’s Touch on these waters. In fact, there are learned men, scientists and naturalists that reliably claim that the Spring is in fact just that: a spring. A naturally occurring spring of naturally occurring water rising from the earth. While I fault no one for dipping their extremities in the waters, be aware of the fact the Divine above is the cause of these supposed ‘healings,’ not the Spring itself. ” The congregants scoffed. How could this backcountry priest know anything about polio? About the toll it took on the families. Their children - their next-in-line - knew that there would be no more if not for these waters. It truly *was* as if the Divine had dipped His own toes in the Spring and blessed it Himself. One could feel the pulsations up the back, through the neck, and around the skull. Headaches were no more; pain did not exist. Afternoons-out became commonplace in the Village and nearly everyone went to the Spring after Sunday Mass. Father Walsh would become reluctant, but bless the Spring nonetheless each Sabbath, hoping to indirectly demonstrate to the villagers that the Divine had touched these waters and that that is why they were miraculous; the Spring was not simply a supernatural phenomenon, but proof of Heaven’s Grace. He noticed that many began drinking the liquid and claimed the healing of fevers, melancholy, and dipsomania. Wives would dry-out their husbands on Saturday night, see them fit to attend Mass on Sunday morning, catch them drinking Sunday afternoon, then promptly bring them to the Spring before dusk that evening. “Divine above. What am I to do? My parishioners, my congregants, my flock, they are turning their eyes toward the less-than-sacred. Toward waters that I do not feel in my deepest of soul are holy - not sent from You above. Great Creator, Grand Architect of All, what am I to do?” Father Walsh prayed, asked, and pleaded with the Divine more each evening than he had the one before. “Let us look at your wonders, shall we, and reinvigorate in me the faith that has sustained this Island for ages.” Peering at the sky above, the priest saw the familiar constellations, planets, and the Majesty he was accustomed to. “Well, that *is* odd, is it not, Father above?” The Moon had seemingly shrunk *again*, not drastically, but noticeably once more. It should never have been this diminished in the Heavens this time of year. “What, oh Divine, is becoming of this Heavenly body? Why does it seem to continue to diminish?” Father Walsh was perplexed. \ “It *does* appear small.” Bishop O’Malley knew little of astronomy but gazed at the Moon often as he pondered the Mysteries. “What, Reverend Walsh, makes *you* feel as though the Moon is getting smaller?” “I have been watching the Heavens nightly for several years now - since coming to serve the congregants of this Island - and I know well these bodies in the sky. There is something amiss; something quite off about all of this.” Father Walsh peered once more through his diminutive telescope. “I can see that the Moon above has diminished. There is no manner in which it should be *this small*. Something is just not right, Brother. I’ve noticed, in fact, that something has been ‘different’ about the skies in the recent weeks, but I can now place it: the Moon itself is small; smaller than it should be.” “This all seems like guff to me, Brother. I’m sorry to say, but this all does not seem possible. While the Moon does seem out of place and small, who are we to judge the Divine? What would make the whole of the Moon succumb to the mass of the Heavens above? There is just no manner in which this could happen.” “I know, I know. But, you must believe me, Bishop O’Malley: something *is* amiss.” Father Walsh tried to convince the wary bishop of his theory: that the Moon itself had begun to shrink progressively since the discovery of the healing powers of the Spring: “Brother, I tell you, I tell you, I do: the Heavens above have not been the same since my flock have been dipping their toes in and drinking the waters of the Spring. Stars have ever so slightly shifted, entire constellations are being altered! Orion’s Belt doesn’t even fit anymore! But, most tragically of all, the Moon is shrinking, day by day.” “Why is this so troubling to you, Reverend Walsh? What are you getting at?” “Bishop, you must understand, the Moon, as odd as it seems, controls the waters of the earth! The Moon dictates to our earth how and when the tides shall rise and fall. Without this heavenly body, fish will no longer know where to swim. Fishermen will not know where to fish! Villages near the sea, like ours, will perish! Even the Spring, as inland as it might be compared to our small Village, will be overpowered by the sea! These methods, these tides, these *reliable* methods keep all life in check.” Father Walsh could hardly compose himself and he was blushing in the presence of the Bishop. “Bah!” “No, my lord. I do tell you: this is troublesome.” “Well, what are we to do?” The Bishop knew the consequences of Father Walsh’s theory. \ “Before we depart, I do have a message to give all of the Village. The Spring is hereby off limits to all.” An audible gasp lifted to the vaulted ceiling of the old cathedral. “I know many of you rely on these waters, but they are not Holy! They are in fact destroying your fellow man. You must have faith in what I say: these waters will destroy us all.” The parishioners had heard this nonsense before - that all use of the Spring was unholy and that they must give the Divine their thanks before, during, after, and always. “I mean this! It will be folly to continue to use these waters!” The congregation began to leave the cathedral and directed themselves to the Spring. Children were hobbling on crutches; elders were barely walking down the stairs leading away from the Sanctuary. The Spring was their only hope and their last resort. Father Walsh and the Divine had failed them habitually. \ “Please, I beg of you! Stop! This Spring is not the answer!” Father Walsh implored his congregants. “Then what in the Hell is the answer, Father? Don’t tell us anymore of that nonsense you preach in your rambling homilies.” A bold member of his Flock spoke up and the rest followed suit. They shouted and threw stones and branches at him. Some spat. “Alright, alright. But… you must listen! All of you!” Father Walsh was able to still the crowd. “The Moon! The Moon is diminishing. It’s becoming smaller due to the use of these Waters… due to the use of this Spring! We cannot use it anymore! You, Beatrice! You, Margot! You, Jessica! It might save your legs… it might have already! It might! But, it will inevitably destroy us all!” The crowd scoffed. “To Hell with him!” “No! No! I beg of you to *not* use these waters ever again! The Moon controls the tides. It dictates to the waters around our Island as to what they shall do. I swear it. Oh, please, I swear it!” “Run him out of the Village!” Some shouted. “Send him back to the Mainland!” Shouted others. “Kill him; hang him!” Shouted some. \ All were eventually healed. There was no pain, no headaches, no trembling, no weakness, no polio. When the waters rose they deconstructed the Cathedral and brought its remnants inland for firewood. As the sea encroached and even more livestock died and crops failed, the Spring became their only respite. Eventually, the waters of the sea overtook the Spring and the parishioners waited for finality on the rocks above. They all surely perished, and the Spring let out a hollow creak as its waters succumbed to those of the cold, dark Sea.


"I have no fear, except that which i wield on behalf of the master" -The nameless Pain, or perhaps a feeling of tension. This was my first memory of being born. I was not an infant, but rather, a thought. A conjuration, brought forth by anxiety, fear, and distress. This fear, pulled out and shaped by curiosity and imagination, became my body. my mind was fresh, open to the moderated tweaks of darkness and faceless nightmares. I opened my eyes to see my first sights, a blackness that i could not blink away. My tense body became relaxed in the empty space and the numbness gave way to the feeling of icy coldness and a sort of thick semi-liquid, enveloping my body, restricting any movement to only slow gestures. My eyes finally took to the dark, adjusting and widening, they saw a crystalline window before me, shielding me inside a casket sized cell. I pushed a curious hand through the icy gel and touched the window, it became as ash and drifted outward off of my hand as the climate of my cold shelter shifted to a wet heat. The gel peeled off the back wall and nearly pulled me out of my cell as gravity ripped it into the darkness. I braced my hands on either side and looked outward into the endless dark. I saw tens, hundreds, even thousands of similar crystal cells hanging in a web of deep purple sap. Finally, I glanced downward and saw, far below, a black watery floor, lighted only by luminescent bodies which moved like massive eels, building waves as they glided about the otherwise calm sea. I began to think of where to go next, what i might find, and what i was there for. The curiosity built to a squall, then suddenly, my cell began to tremor as the sap-like gel it hung upton began to tense. My eyes caught movement above me and a new creature came into vision. It Was bigger than myself many times over, it's comparatively small, metallic black body was suspended over eight legs which all became as triple pronged hooks from the knee joint. It had a V shaped head with a dozen eyes set between two horizontal mouths encircled with fangs of varying sizes. It was obviously coming toward me yet i felt no fear. It exhaled a fine mist which paralyzed my muscles bringing a second wave of the displeasing tense feeling. I spoke no words and it briefly paused to look me over, perhaps for injury, then it pulled me onto it's back with more of the familiar webbing. There, I came to rest between a few other individuals in the same situation. The others looked dazed, bored even. But I imagine I looked different, wide eyed, very interested in what might come next. After all, this creature could move much more intuitively than myself, or so I thought. A sudden burst of light, like I had never imagined possible, flashed under the creature from behind us. The creature jolted and somehow lost footing. we were now, one and all, falling toward the sea. The paralysis would make this situation tricky, even though i felt no fear i knew for some reason I couldn't survive well in the depths for long. I fought for control, struggled mentally, screamed within for my body to move, but nothing happened. Whatever the light did to put me in this situation also untethered us from the creature, so i was in free fall along with the other people who were silently falling to their inevitable demise. I fell with my eyes wide open, I would miss nothing in my last moments, perhaps on contact my limbs will begin to move again. But they didn't. I hit feet first and speared into the waters. only a few feet away, the large creature slammed into the sea resulting in an ebbing tide which stirred me to the surface where i drew another breath. My arms felt a sting, a tension fading and being replaced with a burn. Good, I thought, throwing out my arms to shove liquid under me as though climbing out. This did not work, this hot, stinging, liquid was not like my serene icy gel back in the cell above. I tried a new method but only found myself going under again, so i stopped. I reached out with my senses trying to spot something that wasn't sinking into the endless depths and I saw a massive stream of lights coming toward me from beneath. It seemed to be falling up, the only way i could describe it's speed at the time. I felt the water well up as it was nearing the surface, It's mouth began to open showing to me a darkness even deeper than pitch black. I sat still, unsure as to what action to take. Suddenly it shifted upward at an angle and breached, engorging itself with the multi legged creature which I had identified as my determined tour guide. I felt alone again, even if the empty eyed people had escaped. But it was hardly the time to worry, This new guide had broke surface and fell right on me. I may have lost some of the remaining air in my chest but it made my grip all the more desperate. The eel-like creature rose again almost immediately and seemed to slow to a halt, beaching itself. What fortune would have me survive such a trip. I eagerly ran up the belly of the beast to try and see land or whatever it was resting on. I finally came to the mouth and could smell what i would later identify as the inner parts of the multi legged creature. Almost being overcome with a dizziness from the scent, I managed to hop to what I was hoping to be solid ground. Landing, I quickly found that it was merely solid in appearance. I sank to my knees before I could react but I hit a second layer that seemed quite stable. I found it to be adequate for catching my breath, so I awkwardly sat down the rest of the way to the muddy surface. It smelled like the thing before, everywhere. This was easily the first smell I could recognize strongly enough to call my first. This was unfortunate but not as much as the reason for the smell. My vision had to resharpen as the beached thing had been so brightly colored until finally coming to a stop here. As my perception began to focus I spotted mounds of dissected Multi legged creatures, all apparently spat up from these monstrous eel beings. I decided at that point to affectionately refer to the multi legged things as "Line guides" as they traveled on the webs of sap and guided me toward a destination I never got to previously. I felt something new, anger. I felt for the line guide, perhaps because it was the first other living thing i had seen, or perhaps out of pity for their apparent role as a consistent victim of the now vilified water monsters. They were an easy villain in my young mind, they were bright and hurt my eyes, they kill things that I hardly got to know, and nearly drowned and crushed me. On top of all this, they slobbishly park their overindulged, comatose carcass on the banks of the old victims of their overeating. This thought, coupled with my own easily distracted curiosity, replayed the fall. What was that light? Where did it come from? Instantly, I found myself blaming the wicked eels, assuming they had some sort of maniacal weapon to capsize unknowing line guides so they could slurp them up. I was absorbed in this random quandary for some time. But I digress, since my search for answers has only begun.


Tim leaves city hall taking his frustration out on the ground with every step. A few people reach out to introduce themselves and comfort him, but he ignores them and pushes forward. He throws open the door outside and sits on the steps. Between tears, he looks at Bass Creek, the town that is alive. People are walking are laughing. A father is carrying his child on his shoulders. A car passes by with a young couple laughing in the front street. "Why can't you just accept this place, Stephen," Tim says. "Tim?" he hears Velma's voice. He rolls his eyes. She always likes being the peacekeeper. "Velma, please don't try to persuade me to go back inside. I cannot handle Stephen's pretentious bullshit anymore," Tim says. Velma sits next to him. "No, I actually agree with you," she smiles. "You do," Tim narrows his eyes at her. "Yes, this town is amazing, and Stephen is way too far up his ass to realize it," she says. "Oh, great," Tim stumbles over his words. He was prepared to be mad at her, and he is left confused. "Come on, let's explore this place further," Velma takes his hand and start to run through the town. People wave at them as they run. Tim is quick to wave back at every person they see. They pass by a diner, a general store, and a gas station, and at every spot, they stop and stare. After running for several moments, Velma stops in front of a library. "Wait," she steps closer to the doors. "Really, you choose a library?" Tim looks around for alternative locations, and Velma enters behind him. Tim shrugs and enters. No one else is in the library, and Velma has already made her way to the middle of the shelves. Tim goes to the aisle that has a sign on the edge with a random set of numbers. Velma is looking at a collection of books on historical events. "How much do you know about the world before the war?" Velma asks. "Uh, I don't know. I have picked up things from other travelers and random scraps, but outside of that, I guess little." "Humanity did so much that I bet that this shelf doesn't even cover a fraction of a percent, and it could all easily be forgotten in a few generations." "Not if I can help it," Tim and Velma strike defensive poses to a middle-aged woman with glasses who jumps back in shock, "Sorry, you two must be new. I should know better than to sneak up on people." "No, we are sorry," Tim relaxes. "Do you get new people a lot around here?" Velma asks. "Not really, but they tend to have similar behavior," she holds out her hand, "I am Barbara, and I run this library. I understand your fear of humanity losing its knowledge, but if I have my way, this library will not go the way of Alexandria," she brings her hand up to her face, "I am sorry you two probably haven't heard of Alexandria. It is a library that got burned." "Uh, you are correct. I have never heard of this library," Tim rubs his neck, "I am Tim." "I'm Velma. What other books do you have here?" Velma asks. "Oh so many, follow me," Barbara guides them through the shelves, "We have biographies, cook books, fantasy, romance, mystery, comic books, science books," she turns to them, "We do have some science fiction books, but we tend to keep those restricted because people tend to have averse reactions to the stories." "I am going to be honest. I understood little of what you said," Tim replies. Barbara laughs. "Don't worry. If you decide to stay, you can immerse yourself in the literary world," Barbara replies. "I would like that," Velma says. "Same," Tim says. A beeping noise comes from the front of the library. "Don't panic. It is just my coffee. Have either of you ever had coffee?" both shake their heads, "I will bring you a cup." After she walks away, a book falls on the ground. Tim walks over and picks up the book. "What is a yearbook?" he asks. "It is usually something that a school makes to show who attended that year," Velma stands next to him, "I have never seen one." Barbara slaps the book out of Tim's hands with a panicked look on her face, "Don't open that book." "What?!" Tim holds his hands in the air as if accused of a crime. "That is how it starts," Barbara scratches her face, "Find your friend and leave now." Barbara slams her head against the shelves. Tim and Velma take that as a sign to run out of the library. When they reach the street, they see the entire town is slamming into buildings. Two cars get into an accident before them. "What the hell is going on?" Velma asks. "I don't know, but we have to find Stephen," Tim says.


In the year 2042, the world was annihilated in a storm of nuclear fire. Humanity, the dominant species of a dying planet, chose its own destruction over cooperation. My great-great-grandparents were two of the lucky thousand chosen at random to survive extinction. When the bombs fell, they and their peers were taken to The Bunker, a massive underground city built to sustain human life indefinitely in the event of nuclear war. The holocaust came and went and all communications from the surface world ceased. That was it. The end of the human race save for a small pocket living deep, deep below the ground. The first Governor of The Bunker kept tabs on the surface, periodically checking radiation levels, air quality, and so on, but the equipment on the surface quickly fell into disrepair with no one willing to brave the wasteland to maintain it. The population growth quickly began to overwhelm the available resources of The Bunker. By the time I was born, the governor had instituted a strict, One Child policy. Second children were routinely executed by the governor's security forces along with their law-breaking parents. The orphaned first children inevitably became street rats, rebels, and criminals. Just after my seventeenth birthday, the war began. A group of radicalized Orphaned stormed a security outpost en masse. Eighty seven people, including the entirety of the security garrison at the outpost, twenty officers, were killed. That was the first of many battles between the Orphaned, and the governor and his police force. With access to weapons, the Orphaned swelled in numbers until they included nearly a third of the Bunker's nine thousand residents. That's when the war found me... "Quick, get inside, hurry!" Mom was sweating as she helped me crawl into the ventilation shaft in my bedroom. It was barely wide enough for me to squeeze inside and the cold air trying to push me out made goosebumps form up and down my body. "Mom, please!" I cried quietly as she gently replaced the vent cover in front of my face, "You need to hide too! You and dad!" "Shh…" she pressed a finger to her lips and peered into the vent, looking into my eyes past the louvers, "We'll be OK sweetie. You just stay quiet, alright. We'll be OK, I promise," I could hear gunfire and shouting outside the apartment. "I love you," Then she was gone. I waited in the vent, trying not to make a sound for what felt like an eternity. The gunfire grew and grew in intensity. The lights went out, replaced by dim, red emergency lighting. I heard shouting. Dad's voice? Then my brother Nathan's. Then my mom screamed a shrill, painful, scream that ended as abruptly as it started. More gunfire. Louder now. I heard glass breaking and loud crashes. Then the apartment went silent. Gunfire continued outside in the halls, more distant now. I could hear footsteps, heavy, walking around the living room. Two? No, three sets of boots. I swallowed hard and tried not to breathe. I felt like my heart, pounding against the steel vent, would give me away. The door into the bedroom opened. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. My heart raced. My mouth went dry. It felt like the vent was going to squeeze me to death. Someone walked in. I heard three more steps. They ripped the sheets off the bed, flung the mattress across the room. I could hear furniture sliding across the floor and things breaking. Then a curse, more footsteps, going away from my hiding place this time. Then, quiet. I could still hear the fighting outside the apartment but it was growing more and more distant. I waited until the only sound I could hear was the ringing in my ears. It may have been an hour, or a day. I wasn't sure. Eventually, when no one came, I carefully pushed the vent cover out, and shimmied my way out of the ventilation shaft. My room was absolutely trashed. Debris and broken furniture lay everywhere. My clothing had all been ripped from the closet, scattered on the floor and trampled. There were bloody boot prints all over the place too. I swallowed, and crept out into the living room. I saw my dad there first. He lay on his back near the front door. His head lay in a pool of blood. There was a large bullet wound in the center of his forehead. His eyes were rolled back and bloodshot. My brother sat slumped against the wall, three gunshot wounds in the center of his chest and his face covered in black and purple bruises. My mom was the worst though. She lay sprawled out on top of the kitchen table, her clothes were tattered and torn nearly off and her chest was a bloody mess of stab wounds. I stood there in the doorway, staring. I didn't want to, but I couldn't look away. Tears welled in my eyes and still I just stood there and stared. I was one of them now. One of the Orphaned. One day, we'll all go, I remembered Dad's voice, We'll just pack up what we can make a life on the surface. He had been on the Bunker's science staff. I remembered him trying to convince the governor that the surface would be livable again. I remembered him losing his job because of it. They had called him crazy. I remembered his stash of supplies then, hidden. I darted across the kitchen, trying not to look at my family anymore, and found the loose floor panel. I pried it open and tossed it aside with a clang. There it was. A big gray duffle bag, covered in dust. I yanked it from its hiding place and opened it. There were weapons inside, a security submachine gun and handgun, and an old hunting rifle with wooden grips from before the great war. I took them out and made sure they were loaded, then checked the bag again. It was full of canned food, freeze-dried ration packs, purified water, medical supplies, ammunition, and even a few toiletries like toothpaste and soap. I ran back to my room and grabbed what clothing I could find that wasn't covered in blood and tossed it into the bag then threw the strap over my shoulder, and steeled myself. The tears had dried now, leaving a salty film on my face. I washed them away quickly in the bathroom, and left the apartment. The halls were dark, just like home, with red emergency lights bathing the Bunker in an eerie glow. I knew I needed to get to the governor's office. The Bunker entrance was close by, according to maps I had seen. The way I figured, the battle would distract everyone and, with any luck, I wouldn't see anyone along the way. Even so, I crept along quietly, my head on a swivel and my gun at the ready. Dad had taught me to use it. How to aim, and how to squeeze a trigger if I ever had to. How to clean and maintain a weapon. He had been preparing me for this my whole life, I realized. I reached a corner and heard voices. I peeked around carefully and saw two security troopers in full gear searching the lifeless body of a young man wearing ragged clothes. An SMG just like mine lay in the blood next to him. I swallowed the lump in my throat, checked that my safety was off, whirled around the corner and squeezed the trigger. I didn't let go until the gun stopped bucking with recoil. My ears rang as the deafening gunshots stopped. The two men in the hall had been reduced to a bloody pulp by the hail of bullets. I lost control and wretched at the sight of them. Sweating, and shaking, I quickly searched the bodies for ammunition, reloaded my weapon and darted further down the hall. My stomach was still in knots and my breath was coming ragged and shallow. I had to go, I had to get out of this hell. As I approached the large open doorway to one of the main community areas, I could hear more fighting below. It was a large, three-story space with a ceiling that had once simulated the sky on a sunny day. It was dark now, bathed in the same faint red light as the rest of the Bunker. I was on the upper level and I crept around the periphery, staying low and close to the walls. I watched the battle unfolding below, on the ground floor. A squad of security officers in the middle of the long chamber were being beaten and bludgeoned and torn to pieces by rebels armed with kitchen knives, hammers and a random assortment of other tools. Another squad was engaged in a heated firefight with a group of rebels three times their number. A third squad burst into the chamber from a doorway on the second level and mercilessly mowed down the rebels that were beating their comrades on the ground floor. The entire chamber was filled with acrid smoke and the stench of fear, and sweat, and blood, and death. I hurried along to the opposite end of the chamber and left as quietly as I had come. I had to be a ghost, or I would doubtless be caught. I found an exit and darted through into a completely black corridor that ended in a T-intersection up ahead. I crept along, hugging the wall as best I could. I heard voices, footsteps. I looked back and forth and heard a second set of footsteps behind me. There was nowhere to go. Panicking, I dropped to the floor, pressing myself as tightly into the corner against the wall as I could and trying to protect my head. The two sets of footsteps entered the corridor at the same time. There was a brief pause, a wordless roar and then a deluge of gunfire opened up just over my head. Several sets of boots sprinted past me in the dark. I heard bodies drop to the floor. I felt their blood spattering over me and tears running down my face. Bullets whizzed past and ricochets bounced off the walls and floor. I felt a round bite into the back of my shoulder and I stifled a scream, though I probably would not have been heard over the din anyway. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed myself tighter, tighter into the wall, trying not to move, or make a sound. Then someone fell on top of me. A man. I could feel the stumble of his beard against the back of my neck. He did not move, or breathe. I could feel his hot blood seeping through the back of my shirt. More boots sprinted past, more gunshots, around the corner this time. Shouting. Cursing. Then, silence. I allowed myself a long, shaky exhale. My back and shoulder throbbed. I pushed the body off of my back and got unsteadily to my feet. I reached back to where the bullet had struck and my hand came away red, though I didn't even know if it was my blood or not. I continued to the corridor intersection. The fighting had moved in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Relieved, I ran, as fast as I could, toward the Bunker's main entrance. It had not been opened in over a hundred years, but I hoped against hope that it would work. I reached a long staircase going straight up and climbed, still clutching my weapon in one hand, the other hanging limp at my side. At the top of the stairs, a massive steel door blocked the way into the entrance chamber. To the right, a smaller door stood open with a sign that said, 'Administration' flickering above it. I went inside. I was sure this was the governor's office. The place was ransacked and picked clean of anything of value that was not bolted down. At the center of the room, stood a large round desk with a computer console built into it. I went over to it and breathed a relieved sigh when I saw it was still functional. I set my bag down on the desk and began searching the terminal for a way to open the door. A file caught my eye as I dug into the system. It was labeled, 'surface analysis records'. I opened it, expecting to see a log of files sixty or more years old. The file at the top of the list, however, was labeled with yesterday's date. I opened it and my eyes began to scan across the data. Normal. It was all normal. Oxygen levels, radiation, temperature, everything. Normal. Livable. "What are you doing!?" I heard a gruff voice growl from the door. I gasped and grabbed for the handgun in my duffle bag, pointing it at the door with my one good arm. I cringed at the pain the sudden move sent through my other shoulder. An older man in a tattered suit stood there, unarmed, studying me with cold eyes. The governor. I was sure. "You," I said, my voice coming out weaker, and smaller than I expected. "Get away from there," he barked, stepping toward me. "YOU DID THIS!" I shouted, "YOU KNEW!" Before I knew what I was doing, I had crossed the room and squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched through the governor's chest and sent him sprawling to the floor. Before he had a chance to say anything, to do anything, I had emptied the magazine into his face, leaving nothing but a red smear across the floor. I was hyperventilating. My hands shook violently and tears streamed, unhindered, down my face. He had known all along that we could leave. Why? What was the point of all this? I screamed and began kicking the body as hard as I could. He had killed them all. Everyone that had died in this stupid war. All that blood was on his hands. I began sobbing uncontrollably. I felt ribs crack. I started stomping down on his lifeless chest, letting all my anger and frustration out. I felt it cave in beneath the blows. I wished that he was still alive to feel it all, to experience hell with the rest of us. Finally exhausted and sobbing I turned away from the bloody mess that had been a man, and returned to the computer terminal. I found the door release, and activated the protocol. I heard an alarm blare outside the office and stepped out to see the massive steel door sliding slowly open. I walked out into the entrance chamber and it slid closed again behind me. Another alarm and a hiss of air filled the room as the atmosphere equalized with the outside. A second giant door groaned and screeched, and finally slid apart, revealing a dark, rocky space beyond. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, tossed my weapon inside and proceeded to climb the cavernous tunnel up, up, up. After climbing for what felt like forever, I reached an old rusted overhead door meant for vehicles, with a pedestrian door next to it. I turned the handle on the smaller door and pushed. After the rust on the hinges cracked, it swung open and a blinding light washed over me. I took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and let it fill me up. I stepped out into the sun and for the first time in my life, I was free.