The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ The skeletal remains of the campfire taunted me. Now nothing more than a memorial to my failure. As daylight arrived I set about trying to retread where others had and work out how to make a fire. I tried simply rubbing them against each other as hard as I could. Then I decided that maybe the bark was preventing success, so I picked away at the outer layer to reveal the woody flesh beneath. I applied as much friction as I could, enough to produce heat. But no smoke. Never fire. I reasoned maybe I needed a different type of wood. Maybe the ones I was using were too porous or too dense. I returned to the forest and came back with a few different types of branch and tried again. Still, nothing. With each attempt, I kept up the short repetitive thrusts of my arm, pushing as much energy into the wood as I could until the burning in my muscles was too much, until I could grit my teeth against the pain no more, and I let go. As the day wore on, each attempt grew shorter and shorter till the pain was instantaneous, the first brush of the wood enough to cause my arms to spasm and falter. My back ached from being arched all day and my legs and chest stung from the cold chill that ran through them. Yet, despite all the exertion: no smoke, never fire. I had no more to give. I stopped for the evening, my muscles hot through effort yet my skin cold from exposure. I lay down and stared at the sea, trying to ignore the stones digging into my kidneys. Slow, peaceful waves rolled over the horizon, crawling towards me, till they brushed against the shore just a few metres away - so close, yet never touching - before they retreated and returned out to sea. I traced those waves back, back across the ocean, and back through time, to where this all began, back on Kadear. I remembered when I was a prisoner in the Citadel, tidying one of the council’s homes. A song had played from that artefact. The first miracle the Archipelago had shown me. The words from that song had stayed with me across the islands. *I had a good idea* *Let’s lay these bones to rest* *Build it all over and start again* *Cause I know, that if you dare to hope* *That if you dare to try* *To rebuild the pieces of your life* *Then you’ll find, the things you held so dear* *The things you held so close* *Were never really yours* *And what’s left* *That vacuous empty shell* *Is ready to be refilled* *With all the love you should have had* Here I was. My bones laid to rest, stuck on this island. But how well those words had mirrored my journey to here. I found out my dreams of the citadel were a lie, and I lost everything. A moment on Yotese Over Haven came back to me, a moment of regret. In a fit of anger I had told Alessia that everything since Kadear had been loss. “Everything?” she had said, the question heavy with an unmentioned hurt. I ignored it. I ignored it because I knew I was talking nonsense. Sometimes, when anger and hurt overtake you, you can’t admit that there can be any good. There can only be pain. In reality, since I left Kadear I had experienced so much grief. But, that vacuous empty shell was refilled, with so much love. Despite every bit of hardship, despite the death of friends, I had somehow never been more full. Love from Xander, Kurbani and her children. Love from all the people of Deer Drum. And love from Alessia. Love for Alessia. Here, alone, hope fading at the same rate as the light dimming on the horizon, I no longer had the energy to run from thoughts that had been circling round my mind for several islands now. The woman who had saved me so many times. The woman who had survived the hard seas through bravery, but also tenderness. The woman who put others first. The woman who believed in me and my stupid mission to explore the origins of The Archipelago. I thought of the way strands of hair blew across her face in the breeze. I pictured her wry smile when she teased, the tongue perched on her teeth. I remembered how serious she was about everything she did, and how much fun she had doing it. That love that had filled me, wasn’t common kinship. The ignored cognitions boiled over, no longer suppressible by the distractions of another island and another chase. I didn’t love Alessia. I was in love with Alessia. And she might be dead. I had feared losing her twice before. On Talin Barier when I heard of the attack on the island where she had been. On Granite Vowhorn when we parted ways and headed into the warzone. She would survive a third time… wouldn’t she? I had seen that mast hit her. I had seen her fall to the water. I hadn’t seen her resurface. A new pain formed in my chest. Not for my own peril but at the thought of what else might be in those oceans. Suddenly the waves in front of me weren’t calming, they were taunting. Gleefully celebrating that they held the wet, dark grave of the greatest person I knew. Was she dead? She couldn’t be. She wasn’t allowed to be. Because I loved her. And love could keep people alive. Couldn’t it? I closed my eyes, keeping the waves out and the tears in. I took deep breaths, feeling my chest heave through the strange concoctions. Perfectly still. Cold. Alone. Grieving and hoping. I tried to sleep. I had little success. ——————————————————————— The cold was beginning to make me weak. After three days without heat, my bones felt heavy, weighed down with a frost that had crystallised the marrow. I was struggling to maintain body temperature, my blood pumped fast and hard as the skin tingled from the cold outside and the heat beneath. I was also losing weight rapidly, what fat I had being burned off just staying warm. I needed to replace it. The leftover meat from the previous bird kill had run dry, and if I wanted to eat again, I would have to use what was left as bait. The kills had been a matter of learning the moves, understanding how and when to run for the prey. But as I lay still among the rocks again I wondered if I would be able to make the same steps. Just how quickly were my muscles weakening and my reactions slowing from the creeping frost. I would soon find out. A bird landed, I jabbed the stick, the gull rolled over, and I set off on my sprint. Each push of my legs felt like a snap, the same pain when you bend your knee slightly the wrong way, and you get a jarring thud through the limb. My lungs panted coarse air that stung against my trachea. I ignored the pain, outstretched my arms, and leaped for the bird. I grabbed a wing, a victorious yelp escaping my lips just in time for my torso to smack against the rocks. A stone rammed into my abdomen, and my body went limp, the fingers loosened, and the bird flew away. It took four attempts. With each one the pain subsided, but it didn’t feel easier. The aches and stings merely replaced by a numbness, my body unsure if my legs were even there. Still, I won. I would eat. Plucking the bird felt like a relief. After the many, many failed attempts at starting the fire, the routine of a task that I could do was a kindness. This time, I also tried to keep the feathers, lining them around the area where I slept. One bird’s worth wouldn’t provide much warmth, but it had to be something. I would take anything. However, as I finished preparing the meat, the problem I had been avoiding became an inevitability. There was no fire. I couldn’t cook. I stared at the plucked, but importantly, raw flesh in front of me. The pale skin was lined with bumps where the feathers had been ripped out, pale veins and patches of white fat could be seen below the surface. The skin felt rubbery and wet. The thought of eating the raw white meat already turned my stomach. The same stomach longed for me to cram down the meal as quickly as possible. My mind tried to process the two contradicting signals of don’t eat that, and eat that now. I turned it slowly in my hands trying to find the best place to start my meal, but that only made my eyes spot new things to be appalled by. Bloody sinew draped across bones, organs ready to spill out to the ground. There would be no way to ease myself in. I closed my eyes and bit down on the meat, tearing away at the soft, squishy flesh. Fresh blood dripped down my chin, watery and warm. It was refreshing yet the taste clung to my tongue like a fungus. It pooled and mixed with my saliva as my nose smelt the iron. Slippery bits of meat rolled in my mouth. It felt like they wriggled - though dead, not dead enough. I could feel the tendons and arteries snap between my teeth, the muscles rip and release their contents into my throat. I swallowed just as the nausea rose to meet the food. But I managed to hold it down. Hunger, the drive for energy at all costs, won out. I knew raw meat would go bad quicker, I couldn’t save any for later, and so I kept eating. I kept chewing away at the gamey, yet fishy meat until my stomach could hold no more. Till even my hunger ridden body begged me to stop. My head tilted back, triumphant and smug, my chin and neck red and sticky. I had over-delivered on the need. Satiated a drive so hard that every signal in my body pleaded for it to end. I exhaled with conquest, and I turned to look at the sea. My hands immediately dropped the remainder of the bird. A ship. I leaped to my feet. The ship was miles away, clinging to the edge of the horizon, yet its size meant it was still visible. It was a great metal beast, one of the warships sold by Tima Voreef. They had little chance of seeing me this far away, but maybe one would be looking out with a telescope. If I danced enough, jumped enough, screamed and shouted, just maybe they would see me. With the raw gull still folding in my stomach, I dug into my reserve energies, and waved my hands high in the air. I hollered, an inevitable futile shout. My screams fell into the oceans as I tried to muster the energy to jump even just a few inches. With each leap I could feel the still digesting meat bounce and slosh within me. Acid rose to the oesophagus, and my throat slowly burned. I reached down to the cold, dead fire - how much I wished it were alive now - and grabbed the two largest sticks I could find, waving them as extensions of my arms. The extra weight ached my biceps, and I could feel my elbows contract with each lift, my screams more now through resistance than excitement. The boat stuck to its path, hanging at the very edge of the earth, as I continued waving slow great arches with the sticks. Eventually the branches were too heavy and they dropped to the ground, clattering against the stones. My tired arms continued to wave, a small resurgence of life now free of the extra weight. I couldn’t jump anymore, and my screams had become a squeal, yet I made myself big, and made what noise I could, as that boat continued its slow, slow, painful journey. I watched night come and light fade - hope with it. I watched the lanterns on the boat flicker on one by one, evidence of human life, proof that rescuers were there. But they never turned, and eventually the ship disappeared off the edge of my world. I collapsed, my legs giving way as the last strands of muscle capitulated through strain and defeat. My head landed against the stones with a thud, and I could feel my vision shake with the impact. “Where are you, Alessia?” I cried, my voice stuttered. Above me the stars drifted in and out of focus. “You were supposed to be here by now.” She didn’t respond. She had three weeks to find safety, get the boat repaired and come find me. Now is when she should arrive. If she could arrive. I picked up a stone next to me, and with a grunt threw it at the sea. A pointless exertion borne of nothing but anger. More joules wasted in fits of emotion. “Please. I’m not strong enough to carry on here. I need you. I need a lifeline. Please.” My chest shuddered as beaten tears reached my eyes, phlegm bubbling in my mouth. I felt something shift in my stomach. My body froze with the moment. The mourning stopped, as a more physical urge took precedence. I rolled over, just as the contents of my stomach reached my mouth. Bits of lightly-digested raw gull spewed out over the rocky beach, the liquid running between the stones. My stomach spasmed in agony, as my mind felt dizzy with the smell. My head flopped back, too tired to shift away from the acidic smell drifting towards me. In the darkness, I could already hear happy flies gathering at the banquet. My demise, their feast. More wasted joules.


As they neared the meeting point with Billie, Madeline got her map out of her backpack. She’d marked the coordinates on with a small pencilled-in cross — a shopping mall on the edge of the city. She and Lena agreed to approach from opposite sides, each taking a separate entrance. As she walked through the empty parking lot, Madeline stared up at the towering structure looming over her. She hadn’t exactly liked malls at the best of times. Blaring lights and loud music, masses of people meandering around mindlessly… She preferred the quiet comfort of a library or a cafe. But somehow it was even worse now everything was silent and still. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there were too many rooms and too many entrances. Sure, that meant hiding places and escape routes for her, but it also meant places Poiloogs or people could spring out from. Still, Billie was waiting for her in there. She had to trust her friend knew what they were doing. The main advantage — and the reason she supposed Billie had chosen it — was that with a building this big, they could all be inside and still not be close enough to trigger whatever it was the Poiloogs detected when people gathered. Madeline paused when she reached the entrance, looking around before peering inside. Everything seemed calm. She stepped through the shattered automatic doorframe, wincing at the sound of glass crunching underfoot. When no one came to investigate the sound she relaxed slightly, edging further inside. There were a number of shops to choose from when it came to picking a location to settle in and wait with her walkie-talkie. There was a jewellery store to her left that had been pillaged of everything valuable before everyone realised that gold and gemstones weren’t as important as food and water. Multiple clothes shops caught her eye — she could probably do with a change of trousers, a T-shirt, and… well, everything. Then, of course, there was the bookstore. It was hard to ignore the beckoning of all those stories, worlds she could lose herself in and words weighty enough to knock out any foe. She wondered which Billie had chosen. Her friend was presumably already here. Madeline had given up trying to beat them to a meeting long ago. She chuckled to herself as she imagined them squirrelling themself away in some sporting goods store, getting excited about all the new ways to tire them both out. Figuring it was best to stay near the entrance, Madeline eventually chose one of the clothes stores. She wove her way through the display, carefully poking at the larger piles of items, until she reached the back of the room. Once there, she tucked herself away between the shirts hanging on metal rods protruding from the wall and took out her walkie-talkie. “Hello? Lena? Billie? It’s Madeline here.” “Mads?” Billie’s reply came almost instantly. “And did I hear Lena’s with you?” “Glad to know I still warrant some attention,” the medic’s voice came through, dripping with amusement. “Half of me thought that both of you would forget I existed as soon as you were back together.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “Like I could forget the woman who saved my life.”. “Well, it’s good to hear you’ve been looking out for each other,” Billie said. “I was worried we’d lost you for a minute there, Lena.” “You wish!” the woman replied. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Warmth swelled in Madeline’s chest as she cradled the radio in her hands. It felt good to be back together, all three of them. Though they might mask it with bravado and jokes, over the past few days, she’d worried first that she’d lost Billie for good, and then that she’d lost Lena. She hadn’t realised how used to them and their banter she’d grown. But as much as she wanted to revel in this moment, she knew there were more important things to discuss. “So, now that all that’s out of the way…” she said. “How did the meeting go?” There was a brief pause during which Madeline thought her heart might climb up out of her chest and into her mouth. “It went well,” Billie replied. “The plan is all ironed out. Now we’ve just got to enact it. After one final meeting, of course. You know how we love our meetings.” Madeline chuckled, grateful as ever for her friend’s ability to ease the tension with a little humour. “Where’s the meeting?” “Back where it all began. After all, if we want to make sure we’re finding where Liam and Joe — and everyone else folk in the group lost — were taken, we figured we should start from the same location.” Madeline nodded to herself. It made sense. It was what they’d agreed between them. She just hadn’t quite realised they were there yet. Everything had happened so fast while she’d been stuck on the sofa healing. “There’s just one more thing I wanted to… errr… clear with you, first.” Even through the static on the radio, Madeline could hear the nervous quiver in Billie’s voice. It squeezed at her chest and set her heart racing. “Yes?” she prompted. “So, you know that the plan requires someone to get captured for us to track them?” “Yes…” Madeline could feel the tension winding tighter and tighter inside her chest, tying her heart in knots. “We said that naturally one of us would be the one to do it.” *Of course, when we said that, I’d fully expected to be at all the planning meetings so that I could make sure it was me,* she added to herself. “Well, with you being injured and everything it just made sense…” There was a brief pause, but it didn’t matter, Madeline knew what was coming next. “I said I’d do it.” Madeline clenched her fists and pressed herself back even further against the wall, swiping at the shirts hanging around her in an attempt to hold back a scream of frustration. “And you didn’t think to check with me first?” she asked through gritted teeth. “You just made this decision for the both of us?” “Well, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms at that point. And it wasn’t like you were around to check with anyway…” “So it’s my fault?” Madeline was surprised at the fire in her own voice, the words burning a path from her chest and trembling in the otherwise still air of the abandoned store. “Of course not! You know I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I’m sorry, okay? But it’s done now so—” “I’m coming with you,” she said firmly. She knew Billie too well to try and persuade them out of it, but that didn’t mean she had to let her friend go in alone. Besides, if any part of tracking the captured volunteer failed, this way she didn’t have to lose someone else. And it was probably her best shot at finding Liam without having to rely on anyone else. A long silence followed. Madeline could imagine the cogs whirring away in Billie’s brain, tucked away in some other corner of some other abandoned store in the mall. They’d be trying to think of anything they could say at this point to persuade Madeline to stay safe and let them take on the risk. Then, if they were as smart as she knew they were, they’d be realising there was no point even trying. It would have made her laugh if she wasn’t still so full of rage. Eventually, the hiss of static came. “Fine,” they said. “Excellent!” Lena’s voice over the walkie-talkie made Madeline start. She’d allowed herself to get so distracted she’d almost forgotten the medic had been listening in the whole time. “We can all agree that you’re both reckless idiots with more bravery than sense… So, what now? I hope you’re not both expecting me to volunteer to join you too because I personally *like* being alive and free.” This time, Madeline did laugh. She was sure her friend would have plenty of choice words about everything she’d just heard the next time they were alone together. And probably for Billie too. Oh, how she wished she could be a fly on the wall for that conversation. “Now?” Billie’s voice came over the radio. “Now I suppose we set off back to where Liam and Joe got captured. That’s where we’ve arranged the final meeting to take place. And that’s where me — and Mads, apparently — will get ourselves caught.” A tingle of static ran over Madeline’s skin, her body filling with nervous excitement tinged with a healthy dose of fear.


TW slight gore In the history of the world, only one person ever wished to know their fate. It was such a simple command, one that seemed too easy for the consequence. But destiny was not simple. The effortless questions always led to the most precarious answers. Fate did not always mean death. Some people were destined for more, and some for far less. Fate did not reveal how you were going to meet your end, rather if you were going to lead a life worth living before that. There was a reason humans did not have that foresight. The brain was too fragile, it would weigh too heavy with all of the choices it was being presented, every option now riddled with this road or that one. Everyone liked to believe that they were smart, but that only applied to things they had control of. Now, before that day, nobody had ever wanted to know their fate, they were too afraid of being able to manipulate chance. After that day, nobody had ever wanted to know their fate, they were too afraid of trying to outrun it, only to fail, as they were always bound to. They say that the wise man is one who knows what he doesn’t know. A foolish man is one who believes they can change that. On that day, the man was tired. He had read every book and every page he could. His fingertips were tinged gray where the ink had smudged on his skin, papercuts littering the area around them. He had no companions, as he thought of everyone to be thick headed and dense. How could he discuss the intricacies of astrophysics and ancient philosophy with those who did not know what true knowledge was? His research had led him to this place. A place of wonder and wish, a small crack in a big canyon just large enough for a man to crawl through it. It wrote of the deep red rock and desolate plains marked with a tall cairn at the top of the chasm. The earth tried to warn him. It blasted terrible winds and torrential rains, but nothing could move a man with a set mind. After he squeezed through the rock wall, he was in an empty cave. There were sconces on the wall, the flames dancing above the wick. It felt like all of the air was sucked out of the cavern, his breathing coming out in low, shallow breaths. He called back to the text he had read just the day before, but there were no further instructions after this point. But he did not feel defeated. Only a stupid man would do such a thing. He sat down on the rough ground, crossing his legs. He placed his hands on each knee, touching his index and thumb tips together. He cleared his mind of thoughts and took as deep of a breath that the walls would allow. Meditation was the fastest way to a blank state, to unlock answers one might not think of with the ideas of the world plaguing their thoughts. He didn’t know how long it had been before he saw it. He felt like he had been suspended in time, his mind floating across the universe, his body an empty shell of a man who could not be contained in this realm. The best way to describe what he saw would be everything and nothing all at once. It felt like an overload of his synapses firing while shutting down. A feeling so immense there were no words for it, and that made him believe if he could not describe it, was he feeling anything at all? It was at that moment he knew why there were no more instructions in the book. Nobody ever made it past this point. What did a man who knew everything want? He did not need money, as it could not buy him things he did not already have. He did not need love, as he thought that emotion was a distraction. Those were the two things that seemed to make the world go round, he thought. And if he did not desire either, was he even human? Did his knowledge propel him above them so far that he did not need to wish for something that would be everything to them? He wanted something he could not learn in books, could not find outside his door. He wanted to know his fate, and if he did not like it, he wanted to change it. “What is it that you seek?” the man heard in his mind. “I want to know my destiny.” He felt the ground rumble underneath him. “An intelligent man such as yourself should understand the risk with this decision, yes?” It sounded like his voice layered thousands of times, an echo reverberating in his head. “There is no risk in seeking to know everything. There is only risk in having the opportunity and turning your back,” he replied. There was a long moment of silence. “Very well.” He saw his birth, as if he was his own mother, watching his eyes open for the first time. He could feel what it was like to be seconds old and bombarded with lights and people and sound. He could see himself cry, and he could feel the tears running down his cheeks in the cave. He flashed through every memory he had, some he recognized and some he didn’t. He saw the day he became truly alone, turning to books so that no one could leave him again. And he saw himself sitting in the middle of the cave, his dried tears marking a clean path of skin. And he braced himself for what came after. Would he live a quiet, fruitful life as he had been for the past years? Would he conquer far away worlds? Would he go and spread his gospel as the man who saw the closest thing to a god? He could feel his heart start to race, the knowledge feeling so forbidden yet wishing to be absorbed by him. His back was on the ground, his eyes staring up at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Did he black out when he saw his future? That wasn’t possible. He was ready. He had seen everything before this moment with such clarity he felt like he had lived his life all over again. He sat up and looked around, the flames on the wall burning brighter than before. But he couldn’t see the crack in the rocks. He walked over to where he entered, smooth stone staring back at him. He ran his fingers over it, trying to find anything to grab onto. It was as if it was never there. He circled the whole room, convincing himself that he got turned around when he made his wish. But he went around three times, and still, there was nothing. It must be a test, he thought. He sat back down in the middle of the floor, meditating once more. “Yes?” he heard. “What is the reason for this test?” he asked. “What test?” “There is no exit from this place anymore. I understand it is to test my skills, but how does that benefit us?” He heard a small laugh. “You cannot see past your own desires, can you? Here you are, seemingly stuck in a cave, and you believe it is because you are being tested.” This confused the man. “Well, yes. I don’t know what other reason there could be.” “Do you want to know why that little book of yours was never completed?” His own voice started to terrify him. It was not layered with different octaves of his own tenor, but with the screeching of something that did not belong to this world. “Because there has never been a man as smart as me.” He could feel the change in the air, feel the rage and hate that now filled the small cavern. “You like to believe you are above mankind. You think you have mastered all there is to know, that it was time to know something unknowable. Do you want to know why nobody has ever wished to know their own fate?” He could feel his lungs grow tight. “Yes.” No. “Because it is not something you have the right of knowing. You are so greedy, taking anything you want, anything you deem as yours. Even the universe, it seems, is not out of your reach. But I will not let you believe that you are one of us. I will not let you glimpse this power that has never, and will never, be yours.” Was he going to die? He was not scared of death, but that was before, when he thought he would know what it would be. “What are you going to do, then?” he asked, his voice wavering. “Well, I can share it with you now, I suppose.” The air dropped to a chill. “The fate of a man who wishes for more, will never be one to explore. He is a true monster in the making, believing the world is his for the taking. Fate is not a thing to change, but something that will stay the same. This has always been your end, for this is what you are destined. From the day you were born, to this moment forlorn. We were always meant to meet, and this is where you accept defeat.” The words rang in his head louder than anything he had ever heard. He could feel blood start to drip down his neck, his ear drums rupturing. He was still sitting with his legs crossed, but he was floating high, high, higher. He could feel his blood start to boil, and his bones start to break. He could feel himself screaming, his throat becoming raw from the harshness of it. He now knew why he saw his whole life just moments ago. His small eyes, so curious about the world even just as a baby, was the last thing he saw before his limbs were ripped from his body, a dismembered star hanging in the air. They say that the wise man is one who knows what he doesn’t know. A foolish man is one who tries to change that.


#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:** Story uses *(please include how you used it at the end of your story.)* This week’s challenge is to write a story based on the image prompt linked above. You may use any part of the image you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/wileycourage - **Crit Star:** u/ZachTheLitchKing *** ###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.


Amalia looked across the cafeteria. Everywhere, her people were running about, cramming their faces with food. While she herself was starving, the remnants of a pastry dangling from her lips, she had to take a moment to take it all in. For months, they hadn't eaten much more than a single meal each day, forced to work in the fields and factory. They made ammunition, picked potatoes, and did whatever their captors wanted. That last one was a rule as well as a task. She was only fifteen years old, which meant she was a potato harvester. And it seemed her days of picking potatoes were over. Her mother and father were gone; only her older brother remaining. When she first came here, she simply accepted her reality. It was the new world, a world where the powers that be did what they wanted. They told you what to do and how to do it, and if you so much as showed an ounce of defiance, you were shot. It occurred to Amalia that everyone here would have been shot, including her brother, as she watched him crack open cans of corned beef. He scooped the meat out with his bare hands, shoving it into his mouth by the canful. He stopped and looked at her, smiling a big, cheesy grin. She smiled back. Surveying her surroundings, she looked at others enjoying themselves. There was Bartek, devouring a small chicken while dipping slices of bread in its grease. Over by the coffee machine were Julian and a couple older women, dumping milk and sugar into large mixing bowls and drinking the sweet concoction with gusto. Not a single coffee mug was in sight. Little children lined up as Sister Maria passed out apples and other pieces of fruit. The children were laughing, the innocence of their faces reflecting in her tears. Amalia was suddenly overcome with emotion. She collapsed behind the table that she was standing at, sobbing and holding a croissant. She was at a loss. She was inconsolable. Before long, a group had surrounded her. Julian commenced stooping down with her brother, the pair gently placing her on a stool at the table. Looking to her friends and the last of her family, she shouted, the words and emotions breaking forth like a waterfall. "What do we do now?! This has been our life for so many years! What on earth are we to do now?" She wailed. The other Jews looked at each other, for many did not know the answer. But Bartek, in his wisdom, smiled. He ripped off the Star of David armband and threw it behind him. The band somersaulted through the air as the group of Jewish children cheered. He grabbed Amalia by the shoulders from across the table, placing his head against hers, before saying the sentence that would stay with her for the rest of her life. "We will do the best that we can, child. One day at a time.


CAUSALITY Henry N. Silva Mars, 2157 Dr. Evelyn looks upon the wasteland… Mars wasn’t meant to still be like this. It’s been a century since colonization began. And yet, nothing much has changed. Still a red desert planet, still too cold, still too hostile… The young scientist keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon. Another dust storm is coming, the size of a mountain, thick enough to prevent her from seeing the strong lights of the other colony towers… With a sigh, she turns around, making her way out of her chrome apartment and into an elevator, descending to one of the community floors below. Soon enough, she finds herself sitting at dark bar, it’s walls drizzled with strands of neon. She orders her usual, synthbeer and a 3D-printed burger, and sits quietly, tuning out the hustle and bustle of other colonists all around her, as she waits for her order… And then, a voice appears from behind her, “Dr. Evelyn?” The young woman swings herself around, only to find standing there an aging military general, his uniform covered with flair. He speaks again, “I need you to come with me.” \*\*\* General Victor leads Evelyn across the wasteland… She does her best to keep up, unused to wearing her bulky breathing suit for such a long period of time. “Couldn’t we have taken a travel rover?” She asks, pantingly. Victor briefly turns around, his face completely hidden by reflection, and then faces forward once more, resuming to lead the way. Eventually, the pair reach a small, manhole-sized cave entrance. Victor steps aside, motioning for Evelyn to jump in, “After you.” She follows his orders, finding herself leaping straight into a large, underground chamber of some kind, her fall broken by the planet’s weak gravity. She then proceeds to examine her surroundings. Plenty of other suited colonists have already set up camp there, all of them government officials and military personnel, no doubt. Evelyn takes immediate notice of all the equipment scattered about, before refocusing her attention on the towering walls around her, illuminated by UV light-stands. Her jaw drops as she realizes that the walls are covered in hieroglyphs… Ancient hieroglyphs… Victor lands on his feet behind Evelyn. She immediately turns to face him, “I don’t understand! What is this place?” “This place,” the general begins, “needs to stay off-record. You’re here for a very important assignment, Doctor. One that must be kept secret, at all costs.” She points to the markings on the wall to her left, “Who put those there?” “Who do you think?” The general’s tone suddenly deepens, becoming more serious than even before, “You don’t believe this planet has always been dead, do you Doctor?” Evelyn doesn’t respond. Instead, she proceeds to make her way slowly to one of the walls, taking a much closer looks at the glyphs. Quickly, she is able to make out depictions of Martians, or whatever she’s supposed to call them, “They look much more humanoid than I would’ve expected.” She walks a little further, stumbling upon a much larger glyph depicting two faceless figures, wearing armor of some kind. “Doctor,” the general calls to her. She turns back around, unable to find him in the sea of suited officials, until he waves his arm to get her attention. Evelyn heads back towards Victor, who then leads her into one of several dark, narrow catacombs there in the underground. Soon enough, they find themselves in another illuminated area, much smaller than the main chamber. Only one other colonist is there, a man. “This is Dr. Alan,” the general announces. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Evelyn,” Alan says with a wave. “I’ve heard great things about your work.” “What work, exactly?” Evelyn asks, still processing everything. “Those fancy seeds of yours, I mean.” “Oh, the genesis seeds.” She pulls out a handful of small, rather normal-looking seeds from her travel sack, strapped around the left shoulder of her suit, “Yes, just a handful of these seeds can generate an entire forest, but it takes centuries. I’m still trying to find a way to speed up the process.” “Which is exactly why you’re here,” Victor explains. “We think we can help you, Dr. Evelyn, and that you can help us. Dr. Alan here has been trying to better understand what the ancient Martians were like, and we imagine that you yourself would like to learn the causality of Mars’s long lost ecosystem, would you not?” “It would certainly help with my research, yes. But how exactly can we do either of those things?” Alan takes a deep breath, before answering her question, “We can… We can go there, Dr. Evelyn.” “Go where? What do you… Oh!” Evelyn nearly faints, as she begins to understand, “But isn’t that… Dangerous?” “Not at all,” Victor chimes in. “Our research and previous experiments confirm that time is, in fact, a closed loop. Everything that is meant to have happened has happened, and everything that is meant to still happen will indeed still happen.” Evelyn breathes in heavily, doing her best to calm her own nerves, “Well, if you say so… But how do we even… How do we get there?” Without saying a word, Alan picks up a strange, metallic device off a nearby table, wrapping it around his forearm. A touchpad plate on the device suddenly springs to life, which Alan proceeds to click away at. He then reaches out his other arm to Evelyn, “Grab on.” She wraps her arm around his. General Victor takes a few steps backwards, saluting them both, “Best of luck.” With a deep inhale, Alan presses the touchpad once more. Instantly, Evelyn’s vision is consumed by white, electric light, which then vanishes as quickly as it came… She and Alan find themselves above ground, surrounded by lush, green forestry. “Wow,” Evelyn looks around, in awe at the sight of it all. “How far back did we go?” “Far,” Alan nods. “Very far… You think this air is safe to breathe?” “We might as well keep our helmets on,” Evelyn answers. “Just to be on the safe side.” Suddenly, the pair hear a cluster of footsteps, not too far away. “Come on!” Alan motions for Evelyn to follow. They make their way through a series of trees, before arriving at a handful of bushes. Carefully, they crouch down, peering their way through. On the other side, they find a dozen or so primitive humanoids, dressed in furry animal skins. The Martians, no doubt. “Amazing,” Alan whispers. “If I didn’t know any better, I would almost say they were human.” His curiosity getting the best of him, he slowly begins to stand back up, “I’m gonna try to get a closer look.” “No!” Evelyn rises with him, trying to pull him back down, but it’s no use. For in that very moment, the natives suddenly look over, noticing them both. “Ah!” One of the Martians screams. He and all of his companions there proceed to run away, howling in fear. Evelyn scoffs, “Nice going!” “Sorry,” Alan lowers his head, sighing with shame. “Should we head back home?” “No, not yet. I still need to get a better understanding of how all this green got here in the first place. We need to go back even further.” Alan lets out another heavy sigh, “If you say so.” They lock arms again, as Alan clicks away at the touchpad on his arm. A familiar white light overtakes their vision, vanishing within seconds… The two scientists-turned-explorers now find themselves in a familiar red desert, still above ground. “I said to go further back!” “This is further back,” Alan clarifies. “You don’t see any settlement towers around, do you?” “Ah, right,” Evelyn acknowledges. Suddenly, they both notice a familiar, mountain-sized dust storm, closing in on them. Alan turns to his travel companion, “We gotta go home, now!” She nods in return, “Okay!!” He begins to set the return controls on his touchpad, as the winds pick up exponentially. In the mist of all the chaos, Evelyn’s travel sack blows open. Before she has time to react, several dozen genesis seeds are blown out of the bag, taken away by the wind… “No!” She tries to go after them, but then Alan wraps his arm around hers, slamming down on the touchpad. The same white light from before overtakes their vision, for another second or two, and then, the pair find themselves back in their underground base. The roaring winds of the storm replaced by sheer silence… General Victor clears his throat, “So… Did you find the answers you were looking for?” Evelyn lowers her head and sighs, “Yeah… I think we did.


"They say one drop of water is enough to burn away all civility in a person. As if it had never existed." "You old fool," grinned one of the men. His filthy face contorted and he coughed noisily. "What do you want to know about civility, huh?" The men around him grunted in agreement. The old man was silent. Nohim had once been his name, but what mattered a name if no one used it. And as the sandstorm abraded the plaster of the walls, so the years abraded his being. His memories faded, his mind became dull. Only his principles remained as clear and pure as polished quartz. The old man bent over the table and whispered, "Listen." The dozen men in front of him fell silent. There was something in his words that cast a spell over them. "Take someone and throw him in a hole. The first day, give him a bowl of water. On the second, half a bowl. On the third, a quarter. Then you let him thirst for two days. And then, on the third day, you drop a drop of water into the hole every hour." Something flashed in the eyes of the libertines. Cruelty was something they smelled from a hundred miles away like an animal smells a water hole. "Now it is yours. For that hourly drop of water he will give you anything, betray anything, do anything. He can't help it. No matter how strong his will; his drive, more deeply rooted than anything else, will betray him." The old man's knotty hands trembled. The spell broke. "Nice story," sneered one of the bandits. His defiant words could not hide the fact that his grip on the knife was tense. No doubt the old man's words had not left a mark on any of them. "Yes," said another. He licked his tongue over his parted lips. "Let's see if he'll still talk so nicely when we cut out his tongue." The old man slowly stood up. No one stopped him. "And, what if you contain something else to the people; something that is no less important than water?" He could almost feel the bandits' incomprehension at his back. Nothing was more important than water. "Love. Tenderness. Humanity. What do you think happens to people's desires if they are never satisfied? What kind of morbid, inhuman being do they produce then?" The libertines were so busy laughing and grumbling that none of them noticed the ancient revolver in the old man's right hand. Slowly he climbed over the corpses of the men. Their blood was already absorbed by the sand of the ground. No doubt it would soon cover their corpses as well; drying them out and preserving them for the millennia. But the old man was not interested in such things. He went outside to his horse. It whinnied softly and sniffed at the old man's hands. It wouldn't last much longer, he knew. But this was just the way of things. Thoughtfully, he mounted the back of his nag and turned toward the sun. "The water will meet the needs the people, animals and soil. The sand needs the blood.


Seven seconds mean different thing for different people at different times. The seven seconds where you decide to close your eyes after your alarm goes off pass differently than the seven seconds before you give birth. Time is relative, seven seconds can turn into seven hours or it can pass in the blink of an eye. Seven seconds is all it took for the police officer to decide to look the other way when he pulled up next to me on the curb. In one second, he saw a dirty homeless man. In two seconds, he was positive I was an addict. In three seconds, he saw the blanket laying flat where there should have been a bump. In four seconds, he deduced my leg was missing. In five seconds, he saw my military tattoo. In six seconds, he contemplated his choices. And in seven seconds, he had made up his mind to leave me alone, all before before he had even talked to me. "Hello Sir," his southern accent was thick, though not quite as thick as his stomach. "Anything I can do to help ya there?" "Do you have to power to regrow limbs?" I huff at him, my misplaced leg aching at the mention of it. "Are ya a lizard, my man? What's they called? Salamanders aren'ts they? They can regrow they limbs?" The seven seconds replayed through the officers eyes again as he contemplated whether his first assumptions about me where correct, but I could see it in his eyes when he reached the same conclusion as before. I smile at him, my tongue pushing through the gap in my teeth. I know what he sees, and I know he won't do anything. He decided that seven seconds ago. He ignores my rambling and knocks on the window of his patrol car. The window rolls down slowly, the other officer hesitantly eying me. He wasn't so convinced of my innocence. After a brief seven second conversation, a water bottle is passed through the window. The fat man walks back over to me and tosses the water bottle onto the ground. It lands where my leg should have been. "Thank you for your service." I want to throw the water bottle at his head. It takes me seven seconds to decide that the cons outweigh the pros. It takes another seven seconds for him to walk back to his car. Seven seconds to get in. Seven more seconds to get settled. And seven seconds before he drives away. Once the patrol car was out of site, I use my good leg to kick the water bottle back into the street. Bracing myself against the wall, I hop back into the alley. It's dark back here. I almost don't see the body until I'm right on top of it. It took me seven seconds. Sighing I run my finger along it's throat. "It only took you seven seconds to bleed out." I sighed loudly. "I could have killed 8 of you in the time that pointless interaction took.


Walter swallowed hard and lifted his flashlight, as though the light would reveal some trick his mind played on him or some other visual illusion. The flashlight only amplified his confusion a thousand-fold. The light shimmered off ruby colored scales. A set of large, amber eyes glowed observing him keenly. Wings, a tail, it most definitely was a dragon staring at him. Walter reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. No signal. “Your communications relic will not work here.” The creature’s voice was deep, powerful. The cavern shook slightly at the sound. The creature moved its tail, the sound of scales scraping against stone echoed off the walls. Walter’s mouth was dry, his heart gripped by the vice of terror, and his armpits suddenly quite damp. The creature lowered its head. “You may call me Benvolio.” “W-w-wa-walter.” He could barely say his own name. “A pleasure to meet you, W-w-wa-walter, what a rather unique name.” “Just Walter.” Walter clarified, gathering what courage he could stitch together. Benvolio moved his snout up and down, as if nodding. Walter craned his head to try to see the space around Benvolio. “I seem to have stumbled on your, um, dwelling in error, Benvolio. Forgive my intrusion, I would like to get out of your hair now.” At the comment regarding hair, Benvolio lifted a few claws to his head, scratching his scales in slight confusion. “Oh, it’s an expression. It means, um, I don’t want to bother you.” “Ah, you are no bother. I see you are unarmed, always a nice change of pace. But, yes, carry on about your day.” Benvolio lifted his frame out of the way. Walter gave a polite nod of gratitude and then walked by. As he kept his head turned to keep an eye on Benvolio as he walked past, though there wasn’t much he could do if the dragon decided to attack him. As he walked through the entrance to the cave to the open air, his heart sank. First, it was the wrong time of day based on the position of the sun. Second, and more importantly, this was not where he had been before. Walter had been hiking through the Missouri woods on a fall day. The view outside the cave he had walked into was that of rolling hills covered in trees. The sky back in Missouri had been gray that day, a contrast to the vibrant tapestry of crimson and ochre leaves in the trees. Now, there were snowcapped mountains in the distance, the sky blue with large fluffy white clouds, and the trees were covered with the white and pink blossoms of spring. Most importantly, he could not see a highway in the distance, instead he saw the distinct outline of a castle. “It is not your realm, is it, Walter?” Benvolio’s voice sounded behind him. “H-how did this happen?” Walter asked in confusion. “Legends have said that some portals to other worlds lurk in the nooks and crannies of these mountains, likely tied to similar gateways found in other worlds.” “So, I can just go back through the gateway, wherever it was in the cave?” Walter asked. “Well, in theory but…” Before Benvolio could finish his sentence, Walter turned back around and ran back into the cave. Walter sprinted through the cavern, looking for the gateway. He spent about two or three hours running through every turn he could find, checking the cavern walls. He walked through a room filled with what appeared to be gold and jewels. He ignored these items, along with large shelves filled with books. As tempting as the riches might be, he needed to find a way back. After hours of searching, he walked back outside to the entrance of the cave where Benvolio was waiting, and sat down on the ground, exhausted and defeated. Walter felt a surge of emotions run through him. Wonderment, fear, and then, grief. What if he couldn’t go home? Would he have to live in this strange place? On one hand, he probably wouldn’t have a mortgage anymore. He wouldn’t have his tiresome accounting job. No more morning commutes and traffic jams. Dragons (or at least one dragon), castles, that sort of thing, it was the sort of fantasy people in the modern world craved. Perhaps there would be adventure, excitement, wonderment, instead of suburbs and stale coffee. He pulled out his wallet and looked at the pictures within. While, yes, a part of him was relieved to no longer be in his own world and a perilous new world could be appealing, there was something precious to him back home. He looked at the picture of his daughter holding his three-year-old grandson. He needed to get home, he needed to be able to see them again. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “How do I go back?” He asked Benvolio, his voice barely above a whisper.


Benvolio tilted his head, lowering his snout next to Walter. His amber eyes fixed on the photograph of Walter’s family. “Is that your treasure?” He inquired, his eyes studying the photo intently. Walter nodded in return. “My daughter, Beth and my grandson, Sam.” Walter looked at the photo. In the photo they were all smiles, surrounded by a field of pumpkins. He remembered that day. When Beth first moved back home, she was somber, defeated. Sam’s father had left them both. Beth wasn’t sure how she could pick up the pieces. She had been so strong in the face of it all. Then, the day at the pumpkin patch was the first day in several months that he saw Beth smile again. It hadn’t always been easy opening his home after years of being an empty nester, but they managed, and in time Walter couldn’t remember what it was like to live alone. “I see, from what I have learned the gateways are tricky, wavering in and out of existence. Let us consult my treasure to see what we can learn.” Benvolio proceeded back into the cavern. Walter followed. They walked through the chambers, back to the large cavern room where Walter had seen the gold and gems. Benvolio’s eyes darted back to Walter, carefully examining Walter’s face as they passed the sparkling pile of riches. Yes, Walter took a glance, as he did before, but the moment of temptation was fleeting. “I am a bit confused,” Walter admitted, recalling Benvolio’s comment, “How is the treasure helpful for my situation?” Walter wondered if it was simply one of the idiosyncrasies of dragons. He had always heard the tale of dragons hoarding gold. “Oh, that’s not my treasure.” Benvolio chuckled. Benvolio stretched forth his wing, gesturing to several yards beyond the piles of gold. His wing pointed in the direction of rows and rows of tall, sturdy wooden bookshelves overflowing with books and scrolls. “Ah,” Walter smiled, “I am a bit of an avid reader myself.” He thought back to his own collection. King, Grisham, Christie, Tolkien, and more. Lately that collection had expanded to Suess, Sendak, and Carle. “I believe I have just the tome, authored by my favorite mage. I found a lovely spell in there once to jettison a pesky, misguided Knight out of my realm. Though, admittedly, I haven’t mastered controlling the destination and I don’t want to simply maroon you in some strange place.” Benvolio carefully navigated alongside the bookshelves, Walter walking beside him. “Yes, I would like to avoid winding up in another random location.” Walter acknowledged. He glanced up at the shelves, his eyes drifting between Benvolio’s massive form and the comparatively small books. “This might be rude, but how do you manage handling the books and scrolls?” “Alas, my size is a dreadful inconvenience most days. And, I do have to be extra cautious about sneezing while reading, as accidentally igniting the rather flammable material is never fun. I developed my reading habit when I was just a hatchling and have been hooked ever since. I am always happy on the rare occasion in which I have a visitor with hands such as yours that are more suited for handling my treasure. Would it be an imposition to ask you to fetch the blue, leather-bound volume on that shelf there, titled, ‘Incantations of Time and Space, Volume I by Andromeda Chronos’?” Walter walked over to the shelf and began reaching for the book when Benvolio’s head suddenly shot in another direction. Walter paused and listened, hearing the echo of footsteps coming down the passageways of the cavern. “Up ahead!” A man’s voice could be heard in the distance. “Oh bother,” Benvolio groaned, “this again. Walter, take the book and hide. I will handle this. Do not be afraid.” Walter was confused but did as he was instructed. He picked up the book and slid it into the backpack he kept his hiking gear in. Benvolio moved out from the area of the bookshelves, towards the front of the room. “Hark, the monster!” The man’s voice could be heard, louder. Four people wearing armor and carrying weapons entered the main cavern area. Benvolio rolled his eyes and swished his tail, missing them by a yard or two. “Begone adventurers! Give up your folly and I shall spare your lives.” Benvolio rose, stretching to his full height, which practically touched the ceiling of the cavern. He extended his wings out, giving them a single flap, creating a gale that pushed the adventurers back a few feet. “Nay terrible beast. Your reign of terror is over!” The leader of the group proclaimed. The other three adventurers nodded in unison. Walter watched the exchange from the shadows. Walter pondered, what had Benvolio done? The dragon had been nothing but cordial with him. Benvolio sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. He snorted, two small jets of flames shot out of his nostrils, resulting in two plumes of smoke rising to the cavern roof. “As you wish, then.” Benvolio bowed and then let out a roar that shook the stone walls, some of the books rattled off the shelves. The quartet of adventurers lunged toward him with spears and swords, save one adventurer who was armed only with a lute which they strummed furiously. Benvolio batted them away effortlessly. One of the adventurers chanted something, summoning flame from their hands. They shot a fireball at Benvolio. The attack of flame merely glanced off Benvolio’s scales ineffectively. Benvolio chuckled, but then they threw another fireball, which landed a few yards from the bookshelves. Benvolio’s eyes darted to the books, then back to the adventurers.


#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: - **Simple Prompt: No one ends up on the by accident.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Use at least 3 of the following words: asphalt | sizzle | officious | reflect | imposter | judgement This week’s challenge is to use the above prompt as inspiration for your story. You may interpret it however you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint and use of the image are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for [Last Week]() - - u/reddeetin - - u/pathetic_optimist - - u/AGuyLikeThat ###Crit Stars - u/reddeetin - u/AGuyLikeThat *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


| “Now!” screamed the lute-playing assailant, who changed the song’s key. The adventurer with the spear thrust a lucky strike into Benvolio’s belly. Blood splattered on the cavern floor. Walter covered his mouth, suppressing a gasp. Benvolio swaggered back and forth for a few minutes, smoke spilling forth from his nostrils. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and then, with a mighty crash, he collapsed onto the ground. “Huzzah!” the adventurers cheered. Walter’s eyes widened. Did they just kill Benvolio? Walter debated jumping out from hiding, doing something to avenge the friendly dragon. But what could he do? They were armed and the best “weapon” he had available was an industrial-grade flashlight. The spear and sword would both do him in before he could land a single hit. He sank to the ground feeling helpless. Benvolio’s body was limp, unmoving on the ground. “Friends, let us commence grabbing the loot!” The leader pointed to the large piles of gold. They grabbed handfuls of gold and gems, filling their sacks to the brim. The group laughed and made jokes, singing their praises for defeating such a wicked foe. Walter clenched his fists and his jaw as he watched them, tears of rage filling his eyes. After the party had taken all the riches they could carry, they dragged their heavy sacks of treasure out of the cave. After a few minutes of silence, Walter emerged from hiding and approached Benvolio’s unmoving form. Walter knelt beside Benvolio’s snout, patting it lightly. He could taste the bile that had risen from his throat. Tears rolled down his cheek and his body heaved with sobs. Perhaps he didn’t know Benvolio well, but he had just witnessed a senseless murder. There was also the matter of how he would get home. Sure, he had the book, but he didn’t have magic. He was just an accountant from the Midwest. His greatest skills were itemizing deductions and singing Aerosmith songs karaoke. No matter how passionately he sang “Dream On” it wasn’t likely to conjure a portal back to Earth. Did he just lose his only chance to get home? How would Beth pay the mortgage, how would his grandson feel about having another family member walk out of his life? “Oh no, I am so sorry.” Benvolio’s voice spoke softly. Walter jumped back with a shriek of surprise. “I should have been clearer earlier,” Benvolio admitted, “that I might need to fake my death.” The tip of his wing gently tapped Walter’s shoulder. “There, there, my friend, there, there.” “What the hell just happened?!” Walter screeched. “Oh, that.” Benvolio stretched his wings a bit, then turned his neck from side to side. There is an ancient rumor that all red dragons are evil, and that we hoard gold. It is a most vexing falsehood. As a result, it seems at least once a fortnight I am confronted by some foolish knight or adventurer wishing to end my so-called reign of terror.” “That’s awful,” Walter replied. “Indeed, I try to dissuade them, but usually it results in me having to pretend I am attacking them without causing harm until they give up. Sometimes if there is anyone nearby who could get hurt, or a potentially unreasonable amount of collateral damage, sometimes its easiest to fake my death.” Benvolio looked back at the shelves, “They could have set this entire place ablaze, and I would be the only one able to survive the fire. I thought it best to hasten my ‘demise’ before they got someone killed and destroyed my collection in the process.” “They stole your gold.” Walter noted, his head tilting toward the piles of gold and gems. Benvolio only laughed in reply, then rapped his claws rhythmically against the cavern floor. There was a shimmer of light, and where the gold and gems had been there was only a pile of ordinary rocks. “The illusion for them will wear off in about two hours. By the time they make it back to town they will realize they have been bamboozled. The townsfolk get a good laugh at it, explaining to the latest group of adventurers that the alleged treasure is a fake. I hope word will eventually get around enough that I can finally end these tiresome charades.” Walter looked back to the pile of rocks, suddenly relieved he had ignored temptation. As an accountant, he dealt with far too many clients caught up in the latest get-quick-rich scam. He was glad to have narrowly avoided this realm’s version of that. “Now then, shall we get back to the matter at hand?” Benvolio asked. Walter nodded, pulling out the book.


Walter squinted at the book for a moment, then blinked rapidly. “Did the text on the book just change?” “When I first saw you, I surmised you weren’t of this world. I quietly cast a translation spell. You will be fluent in the common languages of this Kingdom for the next fortnight. Sometimes the spell has a tiny delay.” “I thought slow internet connections were a thing of my world,” Walter sighed. “I guess my over-the-hill-brain is connected via dial up.” “That is strange, the spell is translating, but the words you just spoke are nonsensical to me.” Benvolio confessed. He then added, “I must apologize for enchanting you without your permission, but I thought it the most practical course of action. It is much easier to put someone at ease when you can have a dialogue with them.” “You are fine, but next time please ask before casting spells on me.” Walter requested. Benvolio bobbed his head in acknowledgement. They flipped through the pages of the book, the gateways and portals between worlds, though seemingly random, were most likely to occur in moments of harmony between two places. One example the book gave was, if through improbable coincidence, two hallways in different galaxies were identical, it could cause a connection in which a person could easily walk from the hallway in their galaxy into the identical hallway in another galaxy. Cosmic echoes, the book called it. Likewise, two beings sharing a moment of great psychological or emotional resonance could cause a bridge between their realities. “Fascinating,” Benvolio pondered. He was beginning to form a theory of what brought Walter to his world. He asked Walter to turn the page. They came upon Benvolio’s bookmark, noting the spell he had cast on the knight. Once again, they agreed not to tempt that spell, since it seemed random in nature. Walter turned the page and Benvolio’s eyes studied it intently. There was a symbol on the page, one he had not seen since he was a hatchling. Her symbol. “Locus Cordis” Walter read out loud. Walter paused and looked up to Benvolio who was taken aback. Benvolio looked contemplative, then bowed his head down to Walter. “This may be the one, if I may, I must take a few minutes to reflect on something.” “Reflect away. Do you mind if I go find a bush or somewhere where I can go pee? I don’t suppose you have indoor plumbing here.” Walter asked. Benvolio shook his head “nay” to the indoor plumbing. Walter wandered off. Benvolio sat and focused on his memories. Benvolio remembered those earliest days. He remembered hatching; the great golden eyes of his mother, Bellissima, gazed down at him affectionately. Her scarlet scales shimmered in the firelight, her tail wrapped around Benvolio and his siblings. Bellissima sang to them in a smooth alto voice, bringing them food to eat. They nuzzled her, her scarlet scales emitting a low heat. In those days, the hatchlings had not yet matured enough to have their own flames, so they basked in hers to remain warm. She would take them outside, showing them the stars, explaining the constellations. One day they came; there was always a “they”. They used words like “monster” and “beast” to describe his mother. Benvolio would later notice that the same terms were always thrown around when they came for Benvolio’s kind. Knights and adventurers had a rather limited vocabulary. Bellissima tried to deescalate, but the knights would not listen. Bellissima swatted them with her tail, protecting Benvolio and his siblings. A single arrow, that was all it took, and Benvolio’s brother was no more. The halls of the cave shook with Bellissima’s roars of agony. She looked to the surviving hatchlings, sorrow in her golden eyes. Then one of the adventurers grabbed a sack, young Benvolio felt a hand squeezing him, making it hard to breathe. “Locus Cordis!” Bellissima cried. In that moment the knight’s blade found its target in the weak spot in Bellissima’s scales, piercing her heart. Benvolio tried to cry out, but his vision faded to white, and everything felt cold. When he awoke, the cave was gone, he was in a strange place filled with tall, cold stones. It was snowing. Benvolio closed his eyes, and gently closed the book shut with his claws. The mark on the page was his mother’s mark. The spell was his mother’s spell. Now, it was Walter’s best chance to get home.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I threw up again twice that night. By the third time, I was dry heaving, my body trying to squeeze every last piece of food out of my system, wrapping my guts up in knots like a wrung cloth. Nothing would be left. My throat burned, my mouth tasted of bile and with every inhale, my sinuses filled with the stench of my own insides. The dropped carcass and the spew were only a metre from me, but I couldn’t move. Moving hurt. I just closed my eyes, faced away from it, and tried to ignore the revulsion. Flies landed on me, sucking on my sweat for a light snack as they looked down at the offering like kings from a cliff. What a waste that kill was. I had murdered a gull only for it to end up as hurled-up chunks and discarded sinew on the stones. The next day, as the knives in my stomach began to dissolve, I found the energy to move, albeit slow and ragged. The gagging had cleared me of fluids and I was aware of the risk of dehydration. With the waters from the last storm dried up, I’d have to resort to blood for my liquid. I looked down at the flies swarming around yesterday’s meal. I couldn’t eat that. One hand clutching to my stomach, the other dragging the bird along the floor, I walked over to my usual spot. I tried to think of some other choice than to try this madness again, to keep eating raw, gamey gull - hoping I held it down - until by some miracle someone arrived to rescue me. But I was out of options. This was it. This was my last hope, my last stand. I placed the bird down and hobbled back to my spot, nestling down into my position one knee at a time. Lying down again, it was difficult to stay conscious. I could feel the blood pool in the bottom of my body, weighing me down, my back feeling cold and numb. My breath still tasted of the retching from last night, and each inhalation made me dizzy. Luckily the gulls seemed more attracted by day-old raw meat than any other bait, and soon the first one descended to the ground, and inched closer to the enticing meal. I waited, going through the motions, letting them pick once or twice at the meat before swinging the club as hard as I could. But my arms were tired, my timing off. The great lever merely prodded the bird. It was enough to push it over, but not stun it. I rose to my feet, seething as my stomach found a stray knife still remaining, and limped forward. The gull looked at me confused, then turned, and flew away. It wasn’t even close. It wasn’t till the fourth attempt that I even got a good hit. I pushed myself up to my feet, but the lethargy in my legs remained, the muscles were empty, and I languidly faltered to the bird as it flew away, barely sensing the danger. Again, and again, and again I tried. But with each attempt, as each bird stretched its wings and took flight, I could feel my body growing wearier. It was futile. And by the end of the day, I began to wonder if the birds even saw me as a threat. They would look at me, seemingly weighing up which of us was the predator and which of us was the prey. Maybe it wasn’t just the bait that drew them down, but my own decay. They were waiting. The next day I was too weak to even try and hunt. I shuffled through the forest, my spine hunched, lacking the strength to overcome gravity. I picked what berries I could find, before eating them with more fury, gulping the insipid beads down in handfuls. Who even knew if they were toxic? It didn’t matter. The island was tiny, I had to squeeze every gram of life out of it that I could. And I was running out. ——————————————————— I had lost track of how long I had been stranded. About four weeks was my estimate. Slowly, I could feel the malnutrition and the dehydration taking effect. My skin felt dry, and dead, like it was no longer a part of me, as though I was a skeleton wrapped in cloth for dignity. Even at the height of the afternoon, when the bright sun could bring warmth to the stones beneath me, I shivered. My heart beat slowed, awaiting a hibernation it would never wake from. When I walked, the world spun, and I struggled to decipher between the trees and the sky and the land and the sea. Everything was a blur, indistinct shapes that took time to settle in categorization. My stomach didn’t ache anymore. Aching cost energy. I just felt dry. My mouth empty of saliva, my eyes crusted with dirt, and the inside of my nose scratched with every breath. As I stumbled along the coastline, hoping desperately for food or water, I found myself looking at the sea. I knew I couldn’t drink. It was the kind of fact drilled into you as a kid, and never forgotten. Yet the lapping waters, the small flickers of droplets teased me like a siren. My mind was slowly slipping. I was on the beach, thinking of the water, imagining its taste on my lips, and before I even realised, I was stepping into the ocean. The water washed around my ankles. It was cold. Icy cold. Yet it felt wet. Gloriously wet. I sucked, guzzling air. No. That didn’t work. There was no hydration there. But my shins. They felt the relief. Maybe I didn’t need to drink, I could simply hydrate through the skin. I sat down, the ocean pooling over my thighs and hips, as I began shovelling handfuls of water over my arms and my face. I could feel the liquid soak into me. The hairs on my arms prickled with life like a germinating plant. A desert fresh with life again. It took a few minutes for the reality, the stupidity, the suicide to catch up to me. I stumbled back to the shore, already knowing it was too late. Soon the sun set, and a frosty autumn breeze blew up cold sea air onto the beach, turning the salt water in my pores to frost. My shivers were more like convulsions. My jaw spasmed rather than my teeth chattered. I wanted to sleep, but maybe the urge to close my eyes was more than tiredness. Maybe this was something else. Now, I battled against the instinct I had spent most nights on this island craving. I had to stay awake. Or else I may not get another chance. I began reciting stories from my past, talking myself through good times. I told old jokes, and forced myself to laugh, hoping the grinning muscles and chuckling would force vitality. My mind rolled through happy memories. The song of Deer Drum. Lachlann and his guitar as the whole ship sang with him; sometimes out of tune, often out of time, always full of spirit. My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song? The sweet notes where the nightingale flows? For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale, I sang the words to myself until I could see myself back on that boat. I floated over the seas, over time, and sat with my friends singing the refrain. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. I continued to float as the music continued. I was still singing, but the voice was outside of myself. As though I was singing to me, rather than from me. A disembodied vocalist serenading my body through the skies. My trav’lers don’t fail, for I’ll carry your pail, Safe home to a harbour we’ll go. You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale I find myself looking at Kadear. Back before it became Pomafauc, before I left. The Citadel was fully pristine again, how I had known it growing up, before the truth had collapsed it as fraud. I saw the residents, those who had worked hardest, enjoying the fruits of their labours. Two children in white shirts chased each other on clipped grass, as parents watched on, her arm wrapped around his. Elsewhere, a man painted. A swirl of greens and browns representative of a nearby tree slowly filled the blank white canvas. He looked free. There was no pressure to each dab of the brush, just expression. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. Then, among them, I saw Thomas. I was on the ground now. He saw me and walked towards me. “How’s the Archipelago?” He asked. “Found out what caused it yet?” I ignored the question. It didn’t matter. “I’m sorry.” “What for?” he asked. As his brow narrowed in confusion, there was the flash of red lines across his neck, deep purple bruises from the rope. They disappeared as he smiled again. “So tell me, what’s the best thing you’ve seen?” “I wish… I wish I could’ve saved you. I’m so sorry.” Those purple bruises returned again. “Don’t be. I made the decisions I made. I could’ve apologised and recanted and survived.” “Yet you didn’t.” “Like I said. Faint faith is better than a strong heresy. Better to win with your heart, than survive but lose in here.” He pointed to his chest. “You never knew you were right.” The words were hard to say, and they choked at the back of my throat. “We all end in ignorance. All of us. We will all never know what comes after we’re gone. We can only try to give those left behind the best chance.” “You did that,” I smiled. The bruises faded again. “So tell me, what was the best thing in the Archipelago?” “You want to tell him?” I heard the voice behind me. Soft, gentle and feminine. I could sense the wet dripping of her hair. But I didn’t turn around. Instead I thought back to Deer Drum. Alessia insisted we save the islanders. So we bought them a boat, and taught them to sail. I remembered when we first left. My feet were planted on the deck. It was a calm day, and I could feel a light breeze from the west push my hair forwards. Eir was there, steering the ship. Alessia stood calmly beside her, teaching her how to get a feel for the wheel in her hands, how to sense what the wind and the tides were saying. Ahead, I could see Xander playing with Novak and Mirai. Kurbani stood to the, her arms resting on her thighs, bent over in laughter.. “This is how I remember them all too.” Lachlann appeared next to me. “My friends, happy with an ocean breeze.” He held the guitar in his arms. They didn’t move, but the melody played anyway. \*That\* melody. I, that other me, that disembodied me, sang along. The present me spoke. “We never heard your last verse.” “Some things don’t get resolved.” He replied. “Sometimes, things end prematurely.” I still think of my home, where I’d lands of my own. The spirit of Deer Drum’s hard as stone, We will hear the fond tale, of the sweet nightingale “It deserved a better end… a longer end. It never should have finished when it did.” He chuckled. “It’s almost like you’re not talking about the song.” In a moment the sky turned black, and the seas swelled as the left side of his face became a gaping wound. His skull was crushed in, and his eye hung loose from his socket. My throat tightened, and my stomach sank. “Too many stories ended too soon.” On the ship behind Lachlann I could see the boy from Outer Fastanet, the pirates from the beach, Marshall on Aila Flagstones, Rory on Granite Vorhorn. “If they were too soon, when were they meant to end?” Lachlann asked, the broken face contorting as he spoke. “Longer. Just longer. Can’t I keep yours going?” “Only in your mind.” He smiled, loose tendons hanging from the jawbone “I’m not there for it.” My eyes looked down, avoiding the sight. “What point does that serve?” “Because if you keep that love alive, then maybe you can pass it onto the next person. If we take our love for the dead, and pass it onto the living, maybe we can build a better Archipelago.” I looked back up. A blue sky was restored along with his face. The old ghosts, too, had gone with the storm. “Why am I here? What do you need?” “Oh, I don’t need anything. I can’t. I’m not around to need.” As he spoke, his face briefly transformed to a concave bloody mess, before it flashed to skin again. “This is for you, not for me. You are. I am not.” “Then what do I need?” It was Thomas, in Lachlann’s place, that replied. “To know that even if the final thoughts were horror, my mind held more good memories than bad. Good memories given by you.” I blinked. Lachlann returned. “To know that life is for the living. That there is nothing you can do for me now. You have to do what is best for you and those still around to experience what you have to give.” As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. “Goodbye then.” I said, a bittersweet smile crossing my lips. His face turned sour. “Just be sure to say goodbye to everyone.” I could feel a sensation behind me. Cold, cold water. I could hear the sea trickle off long damp hair. “I’m not saying goodbye to her.” I planted my feet and tensed my shoulders. The guitar vanished as Lachlann began marching towards me. “You have to.” “No I don’t. Because that hasn’t happened.” “You saw it, Ferdinand.” He placed his arms on my shoulder and began trying to usher me round. Wet footprints slapped against the deck. The wind grew to a gale, and the sky blackened again. “I’m not turning.” “You have to face things, Ferdinand. Your own fears. Your own loss.” Lachlann bared his teeth as he tightened his grip. “Turn to face it. Face your own thoughts.” He wrestled me as my arms flinched to keep him off. “These are your conclusions, Ferdinand. You came to this thought. I’m not here to turn you. You are. Face your failure.” He jolted me hard, and my feet gave way. I wheeled around, falling, and screamed. “NO!” I was on the beach again. Lying down. The sea was slowly cascading onto the shore in dull, delayed tones. The splash of the waves morphed with the drag of the sand back out to sea. My breathing was slow. Too slow. My eyes were struggling to focus, and as the evening light glanced off the sea, it became a white slate, stretching off to the horizon. “I’m dying. I’m dying, and I don’t want to.” “It’s okay,” came the voice. The stones beneath my head became a lap. Black denim jeans, clogged with water. Soft and cool. “I’m here.” “You’re not here. You can’t be here.” I shook my head. “Why not?” I looked up at Alessia’s face above me. Droplets from her hair fell down and landed on my skin. “Because you’re alive.” “The living don’t tend to have ghosts.” I felt like a dagger had been driven through my chest. Alessia saw my face squirm, and placed a hand on my head, running her fingers through my hair. “Are you…” I stopped. I didn’t want to finish the sentence. “Are you dead? Did you die?” “What do you want to believe?” “That you’re okay. That even as I die here, you’re out there, sailing.” A breeze blew her hair back, revealing the same calm face she had when she was at the helm of her ship. “Then let’s choose to believe that.” “But what’s the truth?” My voice was thin and raspy, struggling to contain the bitter confusion it held. “You know neither of us know that. Let’s focus on you for now.” I could feel my heart rate slow a little more. “I don’t want to be alone. Not now.” “You’re not. I’m here.” “I tried. I tried to survive here. I wasn’t strong enough.” My limbs felt numb with the cold. Her fingers played with tussle of my hair. “We’re all only as strong as those around us.” “I needed you.” My tear ducts squeezed a tear from the corner of my eye, and it tracked down my cheek. “I know.” I turned to face the ocean again. “I love you.” “Its okay. Close your eyes.” I blinked, the eyelids staying shut for a couple of seconds before I found the strength to open them. “I wish I could’ve told you. I wish I could tell you I loved you. How you made me feel.” “I’m sorry you can’t.” I felt her hand running across my head in soft pets until I no longer felt those either. “I don’t want to die not telling you.” My eyes blinked again, more time passed before they opened. “It’s okay. I’m here now.” My eyes closed. In the darkness, the music began again. At first it was my own voice, accompanying Lachlann’s guitar. But as the verses transitioned the guitar stopped, and my own voice faded to silence. Then, in the emptiness, I could hear other voices. Ones I recognized, but couldn’t place. \*Pray sit yourself down, with me on the ground,\* \*On this bank where sweet primroses grow,\* \*You shall hear the fond tale,of the sweet nightingale.\* I felt myself being lifted up from the ground, carried into the sky. \*As she sings in the valley below,\* \*As she sings in the valley below.\* Then everything faded. For time, there was nothing. Then my eyes flicked open. I blinked, the pupils shocked by light. I cracked them open again. I fluttered. Between each flick of my eyelids, I could see a bit more detail of my hazy surroundings. Old nerve endings returned to life. There was something beneath me. Not stone. But fabric. A bed. Slowly, focus came. There were walls, wooden panelling on all four sides. Footsteps scurried away followed by a young woman’s voice. One I recognized. “Mum! Dad! He’s awake!” I closed my eyes and squinted hard, clearing the mist from my vision. When I opened them, I saw three faces at the foot of my bed. Mirai to my right. And to the left, Xander and Kurbani, smiling down at me. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


Walter returned to the cavern, back into the main room. Benvolio stretched out on the cavern floor, head down. “Everything ok Buddy?” Walter looked at Benvolio’s posture and face, there was something very familiar in the expression, though he hadn’t seen in on a dragon before. Benvolio bobbed his snout up and down. “I have a theory, but I must consult the author of the book.” Benvolio explained. “Would you be agreeable to a bit of a flight?” “Um, flight?” Walter asked. Walter realized that in this place, with this company, a flight didn’t mean some cramped airline seats and half a can of soda. “We need to travel a dozen leagues.” “That makes sense.” Walter replied. Benvolio nudged the book with his tail. Walter nodded and put the book in his backpack. They walked towards the entrance of the cave. Benvolio crouched down. Walter looked apprehensively at him, then braved the conversation. “So, you want me to ride you? Would it be uncomfortable to you?” Walter rubbed the back of his head. Benvolio snorted a laugh, smoke spilling out of his nostrils. “Oh, of course not. You will be no burden at all for me to carry on my back, though we will need to find a way to secure you to prevent you from falling off.” Benvolio explained. Walter rummaged through his sack, finding some rope. “That will do.” Benvolio replied. Walter was thankful that his love of hiking and the outdoors had left him nimbler than most men his age. He had some light arthritis, but nothing unbearable. He managed his way up onto Benvolio’s back, then the two of them worked together to fashion the rope around Benvolio and Walter so that Walter was secured up there. Walter, like any self-respecting suburban dad, had mastered the art of tying Christmas trees to the roof of his car, so he hoped the skills would translate. Plummeting to his death in a strange world seemed like an unpleasant way to die. “Are you ready?” Benvolio asked. Walter looked down, truly taking in how steep a drop it was from the side of the mountain where they were. He closed his eyes and thought about Sam begging him for piggyback rides. Walter felt a bit embarrassed, but then resolved that instead of him being a grown man getting a piggyback ride, he was a mighty dragon rider. “Onward!” he called out, as if trying to convince himself. Benvolio backed up a few paces, then began charging towards the edge. Walter let out a high-pitched scream as Benvolio leapt off the side of the mountain. For the span of a breath, they were falling. Walter clung to the rope, still wailing like a banshee. Then Benvolio’s wings unfurled, the force of the wind catching them, and they were aloft. Walter’s scream of terror transformed into a triumphant cry. The only Earthly thing Walter could even remotely compare it to was riding a roller coaster. Benvolio glided on the air, he swooped lower for a moment, just a few yards above the tops of the trees. The gust of the wind kicked up thousands of tiny pink flowers. Walter craned his neck to see the jet stream of flower petals trailing behind them. Walter closed his eyes, feeling the rush of air in his hair and on his cheeks. He smiled, basking in the moment. After a few hours, the sun dipped down towards the horizon. Benvolio began his descent, spotting a nearby clearing where they could land. Walter held on tightly, and Benvolio gracefully landed in a large meadow. Walter untied himself and stretched his legs. He took a drink from his canteen, and then pulled out a stick of jerky. “Want some?” Walter outstretched his hand, as he made the gesture it occurred to him that the tiny stick of jerky was probably not very enticing to such a massive creature. Benvolio carefully pinched the offering between his claws, thanking Walter before taking a bite. “Most tasty indeed. Though let us make haste. The village is about a quarter of a league up ahead.” “Will we meet the author there?” Walter asked. “In a way,” Benvolio paused. “Andromeda Chronos is deceased, so first we must visit someone with the ability to talk to the dead.” Benvolio explained.