“Mystery object is six thousand clicks out and closing.” “If long range scanners hadn’t picked this one up, it could have passed right through our solar system without us ever knowing.” “We don’t know if it’s anything yet, it could just be a rogue comet. An asteroid.” “Chemical analysis picked up organic compounds.” “We’ll know more soon.” “Whatever it is, the trajectory shows it came from deep, deep space. Nothing out there for millions of light years. It could have been floating out there longer than human beings have existed. Longer than earth has existed.” Starr floated at the front of the situation room, chewing her lower lip. Their ship, Mieville I, had been mapping and taking samples in the Kuiper Belt with an aim toward future mining when they’d been redirected to intercept the mystery object. Starr didn’t look excited to be in command for this potentially historic moment, she looked nervous as hell. Feldman and Gideon drifted around the outskirts of the room with the rest of the crew, chattering excitedly and grabbing for handholds so they didn’t float into one another in the zero gravity. Holograms and screen readouts at the head of the room gave updates on their progress and showed perceived images of the object itself. Around 2.2 kilometres in length, their target was roughly oblong in shape. Frozen, it reflected light like a comet but something other than dirt and rock lay beneath the surface. If the organic readings were correct then this could be humanity’s first proof of alien life, real alien life, larger than bacteria. Much, much larger. “Once we arrive, we’ll be taking much more detailed scans and measurements. If possible, a team will be going down to the object itself to take samples,” Starr continued. “Same as with any other asteroid, we need absolute professionalism on this job. Then we’ll be awaiting further company orders.” As they approached the object and matched trajectories, the crew crowded the observation deck. A dozen of them jostled elbow to elbow in defiance of company regulations. Even Starr, usually as by-the-book as they came, wasn’t going to deny anyone this monumental opportunity. Across the outside of the window, itself several inches of glassteel, an armoured curtain protected the interior from solar radiation and micrometeoroids. They manoeuvred into position and the shield peeled back. Feldman and Gideon bobbed next to one another. “Mother of God,” Gideon murmured. Religious awe seemed like an appropriate reaction. An astonished hush settled over the deck. Beyond the mystery object was nothing was a distant starfield, nothing to give it scale. Feldman struggled to make sense of the size of the object, disorientated. If they hadn’t been floating in zero gravity he would have had to sit down. What they were looking at was clearly a lifeform, or the corpse of one, but over two kilometres in length. Its basic body type was fishlike. Or like a squid, with a cylindrical body and tentacles on one end but with a number of other appendages as well. The cluster of tentacles to the trailing end of the creature made up only about a third of its total length, frozen in a series of coils and snarls. A series of other appendages, flippers and crablike legs, appeared to be tucked against what Feldman thought of as the alien’s underbelly. Its flesh was reddish-brown beneath a coating of ice, and they could see scales and ripples and all the imperfections of a once-living thing. Some other bits of matter, they almost looked like vegetable growth, were stuck in that ice. A haze of ice crystals and other chunks of darker matter travelled in a cloud surrounding the dead creature during its journey through space. “Look at that eye,” Feldman said. “Look at that mouth, those teeth,” Gideon said. At the other end of the creature’s body from its mass of tentacles was obviously a head. Feldman immediately felt drawn to its staring eye. There was only one eye on the side facing them. Feldman was astonished how, not human, but how earthlike it looked. Like a normal, earth-based fish’s eye, bright gold and with a perfectly round, black pupil. But if Feldman had the scale right, said eye was as wide as a city block. Somewhere in the region of 250 to 300 metres across. Just below it was a canyon of a mouth, revealing teeth that must have been at least as ten stories long. “This is incredible,” one of the other crew said. “Impossible.” “It’s real, it’s really, really real, this is the first proof of actual alien life.” “We don’t know that, yet,” Starr said. “Come on, now, commander! That’s an alien, a living creature! Or it was.” “We’ll need to take samples,” Starr said. “Are those some kind of wounds in its side?” Feldman said, pointing. The creature and ice surrounding it were pitted by dozens of craters, big and small. No doubt souvenirs of collisions with other random bodies during its unimaginably long journey through space. Roughly around the middle of the creature’s body were four roughly square holes, arranged diagonally in a strangely even row. They appeared to be under the ice, as if they’d been afflicted on the beast before it was frozen, maybe when it was still alive. “They could be some kind of missile strikes, or harpoon marks,” one of the science techs, Simpson, said. “Although they’re curiously straight.” “What could do that, to that?” Gideon said. xXx Once the crew were over their initial awe, they got to work according to the orders they’d been given. Mieville I observed the creature from all angles. Lasers mapped every inch of its gargantuan surface. Sonics probed beneath the ice and deep as they could into the creature’s flesh. Chemical analysis was made remotely and samples taken from the cloud surrounding it. “The company needs you to go down to the surface, to collect samples,” Starr said. “Really?” Feldman felt a mix of exhilaration and terror. “What if it isn’t really dead? What if it’s sleeping, in hibernation this whole time, and we wake it up?” Gideon asked. “Our dating methods put the object at something like four billion years old,” Starr said. “It’s shown no reaction to our presence and our scans have shown no signs of life.” “No sign of life as we know it,” Gideon said. “But maybe these things live in space. Maybe this is how they survive, by going into some kind of deathlike state until they come across something to eat, and then they wake up!” “If you’re refusing to follow orders that’s fine, I can find somebody else who’ll do it. I was giving you first crack because you’re our primary spacewalk team.” “Oh no, no no, no way!” Gideon shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t miss this for a year’s pay!” Spacesuits had come a long way from the early days of space travel. Feldman and Gideon clipped into theirs easily while in the launch bay. The baggy legs and sleeves around their limbs, and loose folds around their torsos, sealed themselves tighter. Both fit helmets over their heads and attached them to their collars. As was regulation though, Feldman and Gideon double and triple-checked all of one another’s seals and joins. They clipped jetpacks over their shoulders. “If you’re ready, we’ll open the hatch,” Starr’s voice came clear through their helmet comms. “Ready to go, Mieville,” Feldman said. “Hatch opening in three, two, one.” The launch bay’s hatch yawned open to the void. Several kilometres off the side of the Mieville drifted the enormous creature. The frozen alien was actually travelling at an extraordinary speed through the great nothingness. But given the Mieville I was matching its speed and trajectory, and given the lack of surroundings to give it context, it almost appeared to be standing still. Feldman and Gideon detached from the Mieville and used their jetpacks to guide them across the gap. Foaming trails of white propellant dissipated behind them. Between the two, they carried a sled loaded with equipment they needed for the mission. Apart from the Mieville and the creature, and its surrounding cloud, all around them was an unimaginable nothing. A nothing the human mind could not contain. Even after dozens of spacewalks, Feldman had to concentrate on the task at hand to avoid being overwhelmed by it. But then, the task at hand was itself overwhelming. As they got closer, the creature loomed, and loomed. Again, too big for the mind to contain. Not as a once-living thing. With nothing between them, it was astonishing. If it had been alive, moving, Feldman wasn’t sure his mind could have handled it. He could only take it in piece by piece as it was, the frozen tentacles, the appendages, the ripples of its flesh and scales the size of buildings. That tremendous eye. They were less than ants against it as they closed in. “Report in, away team,” Starr said. “Away team, everything in the green out here, Mieville,” Feldman said. “This is a historic moment, you think about what you’re going to say?” Gideon said over the comms. “What? What I’m going to say?” Feldman said. “It’s like the first men on the moon. The first man to set foot on proof of an alien lifeform.” “Why me, why have I got to say it?” “You’re the ranking officer.” They negotiated their way through the creature’s surrounding ice cloud, avoiding any larger chunks of ice or other matter. Tiny ice crystals clung to their suits. They couldn’t feel them of course. Outside the suit was the absolute zero of the void, the suits were shielded and heated. The surface of the creature rushed toward them. They used propellant to slow their approach. Feldman felt his boots hit the surface with a noiseless crunch. His knees accepted the landing. Behind him, Gideon slowed to a landing as well. “There are certain occasions,” Feldman started. “When a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, the wit of which he only dimly discerns. And he more than suspects the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own.” “Pats rule!” Gideon said. “Wait, what was yours?” “It’s from Moby Dick,” Feldman said, and when he sensed Gideon’s cluelessness he jerked his helmet back at their ship. “The Mieville? It seemed appropriate. I’m pretty sure I butchered it though.” The ice covering the creature formed a relatively thin skin only a few metres thick. While the creature technically had its own gravity, like any mass in space, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable to Feldman or Gideon. Their boots clung to the ice instead as they set up to take a sample. The equipment on their sled looked similar to the equipment used to take ice core samples on earth. A towering cylinder attached to a large tripod, winches, and boxy motor, which they all quickly and easily assembled. In the vacuum of space, Feldman of course couldn’t hear the drill as it did its work but if he placed his gloved hand on the cylinder he could feel the vibrations. The drill sank easily through the ice coating. As it met the creature’s flesh, and bit into it, Feldman and Gideon waited with nervous anticipation. In spite of assurances and Feldman’s own conviction that the space beast was long dead, if anything was going to happen then he felt strongly it would happen now. The creature’s vast flesh, rippling reddish-brown scales, spread all around them like an island in space. The drill would be less than a pinprick, less than a mosquito bite, but both of them still held their breath. Nothing happened. The fantastic corpse remained as unresponsive as ever. Eventually, the equipment returned with a cylinder of tightly compacted and ancient flesh, frozen solid aeons ago. Feldman handled it for a moment with appropriate reverence then loaded it onto the sled. Orders were to take samples from several regions if possible. Collecting the equipment, they set off across the creature. Unwieldy as the equipment looked, It was easy to move in zero gravity and Feldman and Gideon had done this same routine many times under more difficult circumstances. Their boots gripped the ice with each step. “Advancing toward the head, Mieville.” They took two more samples, each time without incident. The creature’s antediluvian flesh was extremely dense and frozen to rock but their drill was equipped with both lasers and diamond teeth. They continued until they could see the creature’s blunt nose, its monstrous maw with teeth like skyscrapers, up ahead against the backdrop of space. Looking down, Feldman realised he and Gideon were trekking across the creature’s massive eye. Gold, with a pupil like a bottomless pit, staring eternally through the ice. Feldman had settled into the job like it was a normal task but almost became overcome with an emotion he couldn’t name, a mixture of terror and awe. Not terror of some physical threat but an almost religious terror. Like being in the presence of God, and realising just how tiny and unworthy one single human being was. He’d earlier remembered a video he’d seen once of a diver coming across a whale in one of earth’s oceans, before they went extinct. This enormous mouth suddenly rushing out of the stygian depths as if to consume the diver. Looking big enough to consume the whole world, the diver miniscule in comparison. Said whale would have been a thousandth the size of the creature they stood on. It would have gotten lost in the yawning black of the creature’s pupil. Feldman couldn’t help but think what he would do if the eye, staring up through the ice field, was to suddenly blink. And whatever he told himself, the answer was probably that he would go insane. “Feldman, are you alright? We’re getting increased readings from your suit, heart rate and respiration,” Starr’s voice came through Feldman’s comm. “Yeah, yes, alright thank you, Mieville.” Feldman felt very aware that every word he said might be recorded for historical posterity. “Just struck again, for a moment, by the immensity of it all.” Braver now, Feldman and Gideon set the core sampler over the creature’s enormous eye. They drilled down into the golden iris. If anything was likely to get a reaction it would have been that. But of course, nothing happened and the jelly of the tremendous eye was frozen just as solid as the rest of the creature’s flesh. Feldman and Gideon retrieved their sample and then disassembled the equipment, packing it back onto the sled. Firing streams of propellant, the two astronauts left the surface of the frozen creature and returned to the Mieville I. xXx Feldman and Gideon met with Starr and the head science tech, Simpson, in the situation room. A glowing hologram of the space creature revolved above the central console. Everything was captured in perfect detail, the long oval of a body, tangle of limbs, and its staring eyes. Even the sparkling cloud of ice and debris that hung around it. Starr had to deliver a report back to the company heads. Feldman and Gideon didn’t need to be there for Simpson’s update but Starr figured they had earned it. “What have we got?” Starr said. “The samples confirm that the object is organic. Carbon based, like you or I, or any life from earth, but there are chemical structures like we’re never seen. Of course it’s alien,” Simpson said. “Besides the samples from the animal itself we’ve studied the bits of darker matter floating around the creature. They appear to be vegetable in structure.” “What do we know about the creature?” “You’ve got to remember, my expertise is in chemistry and geology, not xenobiology. People are going to be studying this thing for years, decades-,” “Yeah, yeah, this is just to go in my initial report, doc. You’re not being graded.” “Well, based on the scans we have no reason to believe the creature naturally evolved to live in space. It appears to be some kind of aquatic creature, launched into space somehow. The limbs and body are designed for moving through water. There’s nothing that suggests adaptation for space travel.” “Any theories as to how it ended up floating in deep space then?” “Based on our analysis of the samples, its flesh was exposed to some kind of high heat that basically cooked its entire structure, sometime before it was frozen solid. Maybe some kind of explosion or contact with an atmosphere?” “What about those holes in its side?” Feldman pointed at the hologram. “Four, deep, squarish holes arranged in an almost perfect row? Any idea what could have caused that?” Simpson shrugged. “We analysed them, there’s no blast scorching and no signs of cauterisation that would suggest missiles or lasers. Maybe wherever the animal comes from they’re hunted by some kind of giant harpoons.” “What could do that?” “I have no idea, wherever this thing comes from it could be just as big and threatening to any intelligent race there as it is to us, they just developed the weapons necessary to deal with them.” “What are we going to do now?” Gideon asked. “Orders are to attach ourselves to it and move the object ourselves. We’ll establish it in orbit around Earth, where more scientists can study it,” Starr said. “We’ll be studying it for decades trying to figure out its mysteries,” Simpson said. “It's solved at least one great mystery though, we are not alone in the universe.” “But, how? If it’s from a planet like ours or whatever, how did it get into deep space in the first place?” Feldman said. “How did it find its way to us?” “That mystery we might never know.” xXx *Four billion years earlier…* Another spacecraft, shaped like a box saucer, spun slowly through the endless void. A long range research vessel, home to four Zorblaxion scientists and their families. While in some ways the ship would have perfectly matched human expectations of what an alien spacecraft should look like it was built to a scale almost inconceivable to human imagination. Astronomically more colossal than anything human hands could or would ever create. “Finish your dinner, please.” A Zorblaxion child sat at a table in the craft’s residential wing. With a fork wrapped in the finger-tentacles of their primary manipulator, they poked listlessly at the food left on their plate. “I don’t want any more,” the child whined. “Just two more bites,” the child’s primary parent said. Stabbing at the last sllavgov on his plate with his fork’s four prongs, the Zorblaxion child steered it around the plate. The fishlike creature, with its tangle of tentacles, gold eyes, and pin-like teeth, would be less than a mouthful to the child. It picked up flecks of leftover vegetables stewing on the plate. Several of the Zorblaxion parent’s eyestalks swivelled toward the child. Its primary and secondary manipulators remained occupied at the sink with their dishes. “Don’t play with it, eat it!” “I don’t want it! I’m full!” “Then there’ll be no dessert if you’re so full. Just finish your vegetables, and you’re done.” Half a dozen nostrils flaring, the Zorblaxion child finished the last of the vegetables. Their parent took the plate and utensils and turned back to the sink. They noticed the single remaining sllagov on the plate, four tiny holes stabbed across its midsection, but ignored it. Pick your battles. Instead the Zorblaxion parent fed it into the garbage disposal, washing it down with the scraps of vegetable matter. The spacecraft’s disposal system filtered the water from solid waste. The water syphoned away for recycling. Solid biological waste was ejected into space. As the craft travelled the void, a tiny hatch opened in its side. The waste from the child’s dinner fired into space. Freezing instantly, a coating of ice formed over its surface. Its tentacles and appendages solidified into twisting patterns. Already forgotten, the frozen creature began its journey into the emptiness of deep, deep space. ======  For 2022, I’ve been wanting to write more ‘creature features’ and generally improve my short story writing. My partner got me a Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual for my birthday so I came up with the idea of writing a story every week based on a different creature from that. This week’s inspiration was 'Kraken'. More in this series is on my website, accessible through my profile if you're interested.


It started as a gimmick, a quick fix for a depressed generation hooked on television, social media, low vitamin d levels and zero socialising skills. The gimmick was hopium, the viagra of a lost generation feeling blue. A drug that lifted you up and balanced your moods released the right amount of chemicals into the brain to alleviate the darkness. We had seen others before it, like Xanax. Still, hopium was marketed, it was FDA approved instantly, and it appeared at a time in life when despair, depression and the darkness were second nature in civilisation. A black swan of the drug world or a white swan, depending on how you look at it. Pop up ads with rainbows, bright colours and sunlight backdrops would appear on the news feeds if you scrolled social media, and everybody did back then; you would see oddly hypnotic, almost childlike ads of the so-called harmless pill that took away the fear, the lack of purpose you might be experiencing "don't worry hopiums got you". Overweight and binge eating, "don't worry, hopiums got you". Home alone with no job can't get laid. "Don't worry, hopiums got you!'" It was like a blink in time before it was everywhere and in everyone; none of us knew how malleable we were and how easy we had become. Sheep following the herd without question. Like dominoes confirming our bias with hit after hit continuing to take the elixir of fake happiness. We bent over; we never questioned who was behind it or what the hell it was? We just wanted out; we wanted something to believe in. There were rumours, of course, threads quickly being taken down, and authors demonised being called non-believers. Anyone anti hopium was considered ill or deranged to speak up against happiness itself. Hopium came into the world like a storm that you saw on the horizon, and before you knew it, you were swept up in a torrential downpour of hysteria. At first, the hysteria of happiness. The energy around those first few years was like a trance state of delusional psychosis. People were so happy, or were they hurtling toward complexity itself? I still felt despair; I still felt pain. I cried. I was sad at times; I never told anyone I couldn't, or I would be locked up and taken to hopium centres for the non-believers. I believe the gift I had was that the drug didn't get through to me; I was still human, and I wanted answers. Am I alone in this? Are there others like me? It's been years now, alone, the inner workings of my mind trying to concoct a plan to wake everyone up secretly. I had done some digging and found out the corporation behind the project was funded by a mysterious billionaire who shied away from the public eye. What was the end game here? It all sounds, so cliche to think that one bored billionaire could be behind a world changing event a once in a lifetime switch in human thought patterns in an entire civilisation's mood change.


...Any who found this. I know not why you are here. Perhaps it is chance, or perhaps you followed the same signal we did. If you are reading this... ***Illegible*** ...Our response was the same. When the signal reached us from across the stars, we went. This was not the first such message we had received, protocols were in place and we followed them. It was the year 4,257, by our standard, when this particular signal was detected. Like always it wasn't a communication to the cosmos. It was the species' first attempts at communicating among themselves. Even so it was an indication of intelligent life; our ships were launched. Each time we detected a civilization, we were hopeful. Optimistic that we were not alone in the void of space. Unfortunately, we have always been disappointed. The signals, electromagnetic waves, travel slowly through space. When such signals reach our sensors they are millions of years old, if not older. Still, we have respond to every signal thus far. The first ones we couldn't hunt down. Our receptor technology advanced faster than our spacefaring. History has told us we tried to respond, but received no answer. It wasn't until the year 2,874 that we had reliable space travel and not until 3,752 that we had faster than... ***Illegible. Tablet broken, proceeding to next section.*** ...We made no neighbors. All we found were broken worlds devoid of life. Some wracked by war, others famine, many pestilence. Desolate world after desolate world filled with the bones or carapaces of its former inhabitants. Only fading signs left of the once glorious civilizations that were built there. This led the signals we received to take on a rather morbid epithet. We called them Wails. Which leads to me. Who I am is not important. I am the captain of the ship that followed the Wail here. To a small world in a small galaxy. It is my responsibility to leave this memoriam. As we have left them on so many other worlds. A sign that life once flourished here, and that it still does in another part of the cosmos. Our scientists say this world was once green and blue. That life, carbon based, thrived here. The dominant species was a group of bipedal primates. They called themselves Humans. Their world, wracked by pollution, eventually gave out. It had almost happened to us. We were too late to save them. They were a noble species. Studies indicate strong familial bonds as well as robust communities. They were just beginning to leave their planet... ***Illegible*** ...So we leave this marker. Carved into element number 22, atomic weight 47.867, on this world it is called titanium. The most robust material we could mine from its geography. This record, written in our language, and as many of theirs as we can translate is left for others who might come here; as we have. You are not alone. This universe holds more than death. You are not alone. Coordinates to our... ***Illegible. Tablet broken.*** *Note: This tablet was recovered on an uninhabitable world orbiting a small yellow star in a spiral galaxy on the edge of Sector 215-648-329. The tablet was recovered in pieces. This was recreated with the pieces found. No other portions or whole tablets located. Location of the tablets creator not found. No other signs of life or civilization were found on this world. This remains the only sign of interstellar life outside of our own species.


###Deadline Changes! **Serial Sunday Campfire has moved to 1pm EST (Saturdays). That means that the deadline to submit your story is now Saturday at 12pm EST - this is for all submitters, not just Campfire attendees. The feedback and nomination deadline is now Saturday at 11:59pm EST.** #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Mask! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘mask’. And I have to say, this is one of my favorites. We all wear masks at one time or another, whether in the various roles we play in our lives or when hiding a piece of ourselves we don’t want others to see. We often use this as a way to protect ourselves from some perceived danger and to hide our vulnerabilities. What masks are your characters wearing? What happens when someone close to them attempts to remove this outer shell, pulling away the layers? Who—or what—is revealed? Are they hiding a secret, an event from their past, a flaw? Maybe they are pretending to be someone they are not, literally. What are their intentions for the other characters or the world? Hidden truths, personal struggles, and schemes; you can be anyone behind a mask. But how long can one person hide before it all boils over? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - April 24 - Mask (this week) - May 1 - Night - May 8 - Offering   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings In case you missed the announcement, please be aware that the Serial Sunday submission deadline is now on **Saturday at 12:00 pm EST**. The deadline for feedback and nominations is on **Saturday at 11:59pm EST**.   - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/MeganBessel   - - by u/mattswritingaccount   - - by u/Korra_Sato   Now usually I only award Crit Credits for those going above and beyond on the thread. But this week, there were so many of you that blew me away during Campfire with your many exceptional crits, I’m awarding those users as well. - **Crit Star**(thread & campfire) - u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Crit Star**(campfire) - u/MeganBessel - **Crit Star**(campfire) - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star**(campfire) -u/Zetakh - **Crit Star**(campfire) - u/katherine_c   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I have been assigned to; Earth. This news has still not completely sunk in. Earth. The most chaotic and frustrating of our observation planets. I was so sure I was going to receive one of my top three choices. Earth, by the way, was not on my list. It is never on anyone’s list, aside from the most divergent and eccentric of our number, and those, purely by our superior nature, are few and far between. It was one of their kind that found Earth in the first place, I mean really! Who thought sticking their nose into quadrant Tempo Gala 0.4 was a good idea? So new, so volatile, so underdeveloped. I have spent my training dedicated to the songs of the Haphstations, the light shows of the Nexlar, the stealthy games of Velith, all eons of journeys old, all established, all fascinating in their patterns, and steady rhythms in harmony with the universe, with order. Hundreds of journeys spent in the temples of our worlds, studying, seeking the patterns, seeking the comfort of repetition and harmony. “Steady and well-paced.” That is what I am known for, that is the epitome of our order. We watch, we catalog, we seek order and stability. Sure we vie with each other from time to time, especially those of us hoping to join the highest ranks of our temples and become an “Observation Curator”, overseeing worlds, highlighting the best of those simple beings striving to see the patterns. The most powerful Curators oversee the most magnificent planets, heralded for their careful deductions of the patterns within those civilizations. Seeing what will be, carefully aiding those who seek uniformity and harmony, to further raise their knowledge of the gift of clarity and knowing, for all on their world. It is our greatest honor. One that I will ascend to. Maybe that is why I have been relegated to Earth. Pah! I can barely even write the word without feeling anger! An emotion thought purged in my lower journeys. A chaotic emotion, out of step with the patterns and harmonies, an unbound emotion. I will not succumb to it. My fellow junior watchers, they are the reason I am here. All because I reported a divergent chaotic unbound learner, in our midst. Allarik, hmph. They did not deserve to move forward and become a Junior Watcher, not yet. Perhaps because of my faithful intervention, Allarik will one day ascend into the Watcher ranks, having learned to better control that chaos that appears to follow them everywhere they go. No, I was recognized for my actions in dealing with that one. The rest of my peers commended my actions as a necessary step. Too many Observers of Knowledge at the Temples ignored Allarik’s behavior. “Simply immature, not enough journeys, but a keen mind for observing the harmonies.” That was their defense. Ha! And yet, here I am, Earth. This chaotic, unbound, unbridled, violent, overpopulated planet. Of all the trillions of worlds we have chosen to observe, there are few so stuffed full of species, so much; variety, so little space. Why this speck was ever added to our chosen is beyond me. It must have something to do with the one who found it. *Reminder;* check the melodies for who found Earth and which Curators thought it wise to add it to our chosen. Though, when I’ll get back to even check for that information is beyond me. I am to “remain at my post until called back. Observe; reflect; seek the harmonies; seek the knowledge.” Here! The harmonies are not present on such a volatile speck. Well, complaining never did anyone any good. It is a waste of harmony. I am here, and here I am. All first postings last many journeys and I knew that when I chose this path. I will make the best of this; situation. It is still the same cycle, or day, they call it here, day, quaint. So this shall continue Log #1. I have visited the Observation Park, the Lower Curators have provided me with my first observation specimen. I have yet to review; the bracket sits before me, the pale gold fire of the dominant species on this planet, humans. Violent, small, things. My assigned Lower Curator thought my arrival here was amusing, in fact, my interaction with all the Notations on the Observation Deck was concerning. A certain level of disorder, individuality, flair even, was detectable. Most concerning. *Reminder;* send observations from Lower Deck arrival back to Observation Temple with report #1, when complete. Such deviance cannot be permitted. These Lower Curators are our mentors, our guides during our first steps into Observation, they cannot be allowed to wander from The Harmonies. Order above all things must be maintained. Perhaps, that is why I am here. To bring order, my Temple Teachers were most impressed with my steady intellect and adherence to the Passages of One Song. Yes, that must be it. Why else would I be wasted on such a noisy speck of a planet? Already the cacophony of noise gives me a constant headache. So many creatures. I do not know how they bare it. Well then, my specimen: Immediate notes: Name: 84 Journeys: 38 Mated No outputs Notable oddities; has what is called a dog. Seems to be the couple's main focus instead of creating any outputs of their own. Lives in a particularly northern part of this speck. Great. No major dwellings for miles. So, I have been shunted into chaos, to watch a specimen of a brutal stunted race, and I am not even near a large populated area. Wonderful. I must perform my meditations, this whole situation has caused me to lose my harmony, I am feeling very perplexed.


You may have heard by now that there’s an ocean under the earth’s crust. It’s not just an ocean, but an amount of water comparable to every ocean on Earth combined. Cool, right? Kind of like one thousand leagues under the sea of Journey to the center of the earth, right? It’s so much more than that. The last seven years I’ve been trying to come to terms with my reality. I’ve filled notebooks writing the same thing hundreds of times, trying to get it right, trying to make sure you understand. In 2014, a brown diamond rose to the surface of the earth from what was estimated to be 320 miles deep in the Earth. It contained ringwoodite, which itself had a 1.3 percent water content. It may seem like nothing, but it indicated something amazing - water under the earth’s crust! That same year, a group of hand-picked scientists including myself were tasked to dig as deep as possible into the earth by the government. We began slowly, making sure the latest technology could support a dig that would reach blazing temperatures. With our state of the art drill and a spot on the Earth’s sea floor cool enough to drill into, we hoped to reach into at least ten percent of the Earth’s crust. We were eager to begin what would surely be an incredible discovery! How young and naïve we were. What we found, it is beyond comprehension. They wanted to make sure nothing got out, so that in the event something went wrong they could protect the citizens of the world from mass panic, and protect the valuable resource we found from greedy corporations. I signed endless forms, pacts punishable by prison, swore my mind to secrecy, but this is something the world deserves to know. After all, we live on the same Earth, and what lies beneath me lies beneath you too. You were lied to. I’m so sorry. We found evidence of water, and proudly presented it to our superiors. They paraded it to the highest-ups, shared it with everyone they could, and immediately closed the project down despite our insistence that we should continue and see if there was anything else down there. We told the world that we found water underground, lots of it. We were expecting perhaps microscopic, dead bacteria from eons ago. The superiors ordered us to stop, but greedy as we were we pushed farther in the name of science. I wish every day that we had left it alone. Instead, we pooled our money and appealed to whoever we could, and eventually found an eager sponsor. Have you ever wished you’d never learned the truth about something? That your hunch that your husband having an affair was false? That Santa was actually real? On day forty seven our seismographs went off the wire. The readings were something akin to a deep sea creature’s call from the bottom of the ocean. Except, as we came to find out, it was the movement of the things making our scans go crazy. We assumed it was crust movement from a tectonic plate, like a natural disaster close to us. The readings were erratic and lasted for hours. Our sponsor helped us get our hands on a new model of a machine that could show shapes based on the readings, technology unheard of at the time. We were hoping for tectonic movement, and how I wish that was what it was. We expected a breakthrough, just not the kind we got. We realized one day the erratic readings were actually patterns that lasted for Hours or days at a time. We checked in about any natural disasters close to us, and only heard of a small earthquake in California. We called in two more people, experts in tectonic plate movement and deep sea readings respectively. They were as baffled as we were. It was something solid. And then another solid thing. And then another. Huge, and moving as if they were alive. That night after a few drinks we laughed at the sarcastic suggestion that they were sea monsters. In the following days, we held multiple meetings that lasted anywhere from sixteen to twenty hours with little. breaks, trying to find out what kind of rock or mineral could move like that and after scanning hundreds of research papers and both classified and de-classified documents, nothing came about. There was a promising lead in boiling water and debris creating the movement, but it hit a dead end. Theory by theory, the possibilities slowly fell away until we had to face the idea that what moved in the water was indeed, in some ways alive. Horrifyingly, the size of the underwater ocean stayed the same, but the volume of water was diminished to accommodate what we are still trying to classify. Sharks? Snakes? Eels? Megoladons? Nothing sticks. They have no oxygen, no food source, no reason to even exist. What is their purpose? I am beginning to truly believe they are titans, something more than any tiny stupid human brain can understand. I’ve sat with this secret for so long that some days I wonder if I’m still the same man, still a sane man. I swear I can feel them now, moving, swirling under my feet, and if they moved too much surely the crust would crumble and I would fall into the gaping, slithering darkness. One of the scientists couldn’t handle what we found and hanged herself the year of our discovery. Two died in mysterious freak accidents in as many years after coming close to sharing the truth. Another disappeared from the face of the Earth just weeks ago. Now seven years from our discovery date, I don’t know how many are left - I don’t dare try and find out. I’m afraid that I might be the only one. I went into hiding when I realized what they were doing to us, but running away from reality has only diminished my psyche. I live a hermit’s life - my desk covered with books I don’t read in an attempt to cover the obsessive drawings and possible answers. The titans appear in my nightmare black as night, slippery and beastly. Long and thick like snakes, but beyond anything we have in our oceans. Every time I fall asleep, I wake up floating in the horrible underground ocean. Through the inky blackness I can see them - they surround me; I feel them sliding by my skin as they close around me and smother me with their horrible bodies. I live near a pond to which I’ve rigged a lighting system. Every day I go out and compulsively check to make sure I can see the bottom. I can’t get close to it without my knees giving out and panic taking hold of me, but I still need to check. Life lost meaning with no one to hear or believe me. I am afraid of the dark, but perhaps death is not darkness. I tried to take my life. It didn’t work, and bitter as I was at the time that my attempt to escape my constant and all-encompassing depression failed, I believe it may have been a sign to finally do something. The moment you see this, I’m a dead man, but knowing someone will see this has lifted an immense weight off my chest. I may have lost parts of myself, even parts of my mind, but finally alleviating years of guilt and obsession may make the last of my days more peaceful. When they come for me, I won’t fight, and I won’t die afraid. I have done what I can, and I can rest peacefully knowing I finished what my colleagues set out to do. Unlike my little pond there is no air in that magnificent cave below us, no light, no green. There is only the huge creatures that haunt the dark water. How they have survived for millions of years I am sure we will never know. But still they live, two hundred times larger than a blue whale. I am losing my mind. I hope that if I go to hell it is truly at the center of the Earth so I don’t have to be near what dwells just beneath our feet. Nothing I do can distract me from them. Every time I lay down, every time I wake up, they will always be there. They exist beyond this delicate crust we call home, beyond your science, your cities, your gods.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence: “I’m not sure I belong here.”** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - The term “mad world” is used. This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense/pronoun if necessary (i.e. “I’m not” to “I wasn’t” or “she wasn’t”), but the original sentence should stay intact. **Stories without the above sentence will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** 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 a comment on the thread with some feedback.** 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.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/Tommygunn504   - - Submitted by u/Hedgeknight   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   *** ###Subreddit News - Check out our brand new feature, on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I was jerked from my thoughts as a rocks glass slid into view with ice jostling in a double-shot of bourbon, sloshing dangerously close to the rim... Had the damn bartender spilled a drop of my Maker’s Mark, I would have demanded a complementary shot, which he wouldn’t deny me once I batted my eyelashes. I would have given him a piece of my mind if he refused, and he would have to continue to serve me with a smile. Under that dim light, I surveyed the bar as my eyes were drawn to the distressed wooden door, which was ushering in a circle of girlfriends, strutting in their high heels. There were five flaunting women, all laughing obnoxiously as if they had already had a few rounds of drinks. They were dressed in an array of colors, patterns, and styles, yet a sense of uniformity hung among them. Different hair-do’s, lipstick, and accessories were on parade; yet, as a checkered black and white pattern dims to grey with distance, so did this display of womanhood blend to a dull gray. Maybe I was just seeking some interior moral high ground—criticizing in order to deny the envy that choked in my throat at the sight of females enjoying each other’s company as I sat alone. Before I could further investigate my motives, I realized I had inadvertently stared a little too long, or perhaps too intensely, because the redhead glanced my way while the hostess attended to her brood. As our eyes met, my eyes burned with embers of embarrassment as if she had heard my unflattering thoughts. Grimacing, I looked to the left, pretending I was never examining the women in the first place. My eyes unwittingly took hold of a clean-shaven, well-dressed young man alone at the bar, about five empty stools down from my lonely ass. My seat may as well have been empty. It took a moment for me to realize we were indeed making eye contact, but my mind still lingering on the redhead. I then hurried into full retreat and looked ahead at the TV, only to realize I would have to feign interest in Nascar... This is just great, what woman watches Nascar at a bar on a weekday? After a moment, I realized the man at the bar had already been gazing at me when I caught his eye. Was he watching me the whole time I was analyzing those women? I shifted in my seat uncomfortably and my hand slid into the wet trail my glass had blazed . . . Oh right, my drink. I haven’t even touched it, and it’s already dripping with condensation. My bourbon is probably all watered down now. I wonder if it would be a bother to ask for a new one . . . No, I can’t. Too embarrassing. I’ll just have to remember to ask for it neat next time. I always forget that’s how I like it . . . Why did I even bother coming here for a drink in the first place, when it’s so much cheaper to buy the bottle next door? After all, Mom always taught me the virtue of “buying in bulk,” but I guess she wouldn’t look kindly on my hoarding of vices. I suppose I know the reason I find myself here instead… that bottle of bourbon wouldn’t last the night. This is my way of attempting to temper the never-satiated thirst of the bottle-burdened breast. I finally take my first sip, wondering at how the chilled bourbon’s warmth floods my chest like flames in an empty furnace. With my heart momentarily warmed, I keep at bay the loneliness that always crowds my mind in these crowded places. As a second wave of bourbon washes over my parched tongue, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the redhead was walking into the ladies room. Perhaps it’s the bourbon playing with my imagination, but I swear I sensed something ineffable in that fleeting gaze we shared earlier. I don’t know what, but her eyes betrayed some lingering pain that lie beneath her glamorous attire. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel a sort of deja vu. At first, I rationalize thinking I am only desperate to make some real connection with another human being, tiring from the males smothering me with the sexual glint in their eyes. Then, it occurs to me: amidst her carefully crafted outfit, there was one element she forgot to coordinate with the rest of her ensemble—her emerald eyes. Hers were the gems that stood out in that sea of gray. I gulp the rest of my bourbon and quickly make my way to the bathroom, hoping I might somehow piece together this perplexing puzzle. Playing detective on a reconnaissance mission is far less frightening an undertaking than actually confronting another adult female in an attempt to befriend her. Walking to the restroom, I am praying it is furnished with stalls so I have a chance at interaction, or at least eaves-dropping. I pause just before entering. Noticing it was unlocked, I slowly begin pushing the door open until doubt wells up in my gut... This is so obvious! No one enters a bathroom creeping like this! So, I change course and hurriedly trot through to a stall. No one else is in the bathroom, but one stall is occupied. It doesn’t take master detective skills to figure out it’s the redhead. I sit on the pot and hope to get a few tinkles out to really sell my story, all the while using my brainwaves to communicate to the redhead... come on redhead, what’s your story? Give me something here... I just want something to make this night worthwhile, some real-life intrigue. It doesn’t take long for me to realize how ridiculously I am acting. I figure I manufactured everything within my imagination. Then, I hear it... sniffles... She is crying! I gleefully applaud my own intuition. However, my glee quickly fades into sympathy. Now I feel really idiotic. I am making this poor woman’s inexplicable sadness a part of my little game. Guilt ensues, emptying any warmth garnered by the bourbon and the intrigue. I leave the stall and wash my hands, debating whether I should leave her alone or try and offer a shoulder. She doesn’t need my sympathy. After all, she is here with her exuberant friend group. Then again, how good of friends could they be if they don’t realize she’s in here bawling her eyes out. Well, if I were crying in a stall, I would definitely want to be left alone. It’s far too embarrassing to be found out. Although, there was that one time in that empty church when I let loose my wailful, ugly tears. The elderly woman who discovered me there just hugged me without saying a word. It was powerful. I even considered for a moment that she may have been an angel. This is different though… she was an old lady, and that was a church. This is a bar. . . in a bathroom, and... well... me. Plus, I’m just not a “go-hug-a-stranger” type of gal. Although, maybe I could be . . . right now, this moment could be a new beginning for me. I can cast off this heavy cloak of social anxiety and throw open my arms to the true Christian Charity I’ve always longed to be capable of! What if all Redhead needs is some demonstration of Christ’s love to lift her up? What if she doesn't know Christ? What if God put me in this very bathroom at this very moment with this very woman for some cosmic purpose in His grand scheme?! I finish washing my hands, and Redhead seems to be waiting for me to leave so she can exit the stall, having gained her composure. I begin to worry whether I am now being an asshole because of my selfish desire to make some grandiose, self-aggrandizing, charitable gesture. At this point, I am pretty much holding her hostage in a bathroom stall. I figure I’ll give it just one more minute and powder my nose while I consider my next move. First, I picture myself hugging her like the old woman did me, not saying a word, only speaking if spoken to. That seems a bit much for a bathroom encounter, so I ponder gently placing my hand on the small of her back and asking if she needs anything. I know human touch is powerful. Jesus worked a miracle just by a woman pushing through a crowd to touch His cloak! God could surely work through a small gesture on my part. Still, this is far outside my comfort zone. My brain waves once again begin to plead with Redhead... Come on, let’s not end this night in a stalemate. Don’t you realize, God placed me here because of you! I wasn’t even going to come out tonight, but then my ex felt like reminding me again of why we are no longer together. What are you hiding? Her heels sharply click on the tile floor as she exits the stall with her head down, seemingly unaware of my existence as I stare with anticipation at her reflection. She looks up when she reaches the counter, and she begins touching up her eye makeup to hide that she had been crying. She doesn’t even look over at me, but I can’t have this night end like this. Not again. Every other time I’d been faced with some kind of ordained moment from above to make a connection with another woman, I cowered in fear and let the moment pass me by. Not this time, no, my begging hand reaches over and finds the small of her back, and I look at her as if she were the one who needs reassurance. She smiles, and at last she casts her eyes in my direction. I am lured into her enchanting, tear-stained eyes, whose color is as deep as the evergreen forests I played in as a child. Was that the deja vu I felt? I search that deep wood for what seems like an eternity as their branches wrap around me to share their secrets. Then, I realize it wasn’t branches pulling me in, but her milky hands, which she has tenderly placed on my face. I find myself racing into that dark wood as she brings her plum lips and presses against mine with strange vigor. I don’t understand, but for once, I don’t feel I have to. I do more than accept her lips’ embrace as I respond with equal vigor. I am shaken from my imagination’s grip when I hear a cough and a sniffle from the stall. She has a cold, and I suppose that’s how my story ends for tonight, unrealized promise.


Boiled peanuts are the best. The best way to get good quality boiled peanuts is to go and drive down the highway in the armpit of Alabama and find a place that looks like it sells meth and has a plywood sign with the words "\[southern name (Buck, Rog, etc)\]'s Boiled Peanut". The sort of place that reeks with a cacophony of the harsh scent of pine trees, goat dung(and just dung in general), sulphur, chickens, gunpowder, and maybe just a smidge of meth and weed. The sort of place that is about 50 miles from nowhere and is just a barn with three walls, a rusty, beaten up 1950's camper with about half a coat of paint, yellow-brown curtians with flowers on them, and a small oak tree growing through the hood, A shopping cart with a lawnmower engine lashed onto the side with bungee cords for some godforsaken reason, and a old man about of about 50-60 years with a beard wearing stained overalls and no shirt sitting next to a potbellied rusty stove in the three-walled barn. That, my friend is where you will find some of the best boiled peanuts in the whole wide world and if the police show up with a K9 units and non-stanard bullet-proof vests, that is when you no you really got the good stuff. (Yes this happened to me and it was pretty funny). Me and my church youth group were heading to Florida (we are from Georgia so it was quite a bit of a ride) and after we had been on the road for about half an hour we hear a pop followed by a rythmic thud. we pulled over and found that a piece of a chain-link fence had cut through the rear tire of Fr. Roberts car. The Father didn't have a jack so we walked up the road trying to wave someone down. After about 15 minutes a white camper pulled over and the driver offered his assistance. After getting the tire off and putting on the donut tire we were back on the road. After about an hour of driving I had begun to think that you weren't supposed to drive on a donut tire for more than a few minutes, but I decided that I was just an 18 year old knuckle-head and Fr. Robert surely knew how they worked better than me and it was probably a higher quality donut or something. At this point, the donut managed to work itself halfway off the rim and go flat. At the time, we were driving through Alabama when we got the second flat tire. Fr. Tony pulled over at Buck-Peanut Roasted or Boil. (It wasn't an upclass establisment). After being stuck for about half an hour we learned that the tow truck wouldn't arrive for 2 hours. There were just three of us Me, Fred, and Liz in the car plus Fr. Robert. (Names changed of course) So we started calling churches in the area and the second church we called said that they were sending one of their deacons over right now. We were all very happy at the good news and once he arrived we took the wheel off of Fr. Robert's car and drove into town, got lunch and then came back. We pulled in right behind a police SUV with the words "K9 Unit" written on it and one of the police officers was holding what looked like a warrant. Father Robert explained that our car broke down and we were just about to leave. Father Robert was wearing his collar so they knew he was a minister (I am an Anglican) They said that they were just here to talk to Buck and waited for us to leave until they approached him. That is the tale of how I met my church crush (The girl named Liz). She seems pretty cool, and I plan to ask her out in about a month when we go on the same youth group trip again this summer.


When I was little, my father told a story. It was a story of ancient times, before him, before his father. Before man. A story of gods and monsters. A story of Titans. Long ago, when the world was cooling, the first beings rose from the primordial ooze that covered the planet. Beings of immense and immeasurable power. These beings, who called themselves the Elysians, thought themselves to be the Earth Mother’s will. They could shape her form with only a swing of their mighty limbs. She trembled beneath their every step. Their breathes would cause storms that raged for days. The Elysians were the firstborn children of the Maiden Earth, and thus were made to stand above all that would come after. Born to be gods. Not all the Elysians were content to simply rule over their sibling races, however. A powerful warrior called Havi felt that he should stand above the others. He felt that even among the Elysians, he was superior. He called upon his brothers and sisters, told them of his thoughts. Some called him mad, said that installing a monarch among them would only cause strife. Others of his kind agreed, though not all thought that it should be Havi who would rule. Slowly, over many millennia, a rift formed among the Elysians, the mighty gods. Where once they were equal and proud, this schism tore them apart. A bloody, gruesome war scarred the flesh of poor Mother Earth as the first of her children split apart. Three factions were formed, and three factions fought. The first of these groups were the Asrithi, rallied behind Havi in a bid to conquer and rule over all others. The Asrithi, in preparation for war, had studied magic in its purest forms. They could call storms with ease and would use powerful weapons to beat their opponents into subjugation. To oppose their tyrannical siblings, the Aurra’Maaz rose. Benevolent and wise, they sought only to reunify as equals, to maintain the status quo. Gifted with the magic of Creation, the Aurra’Maaz erected stalwart walls and hardy lesser beings to fight for them. They claimed to rule as a democracy, but the wise Elohyym served as their voice and the most respected among them. Finally, from within the ranks of the Asrithi came the Olymparate. Those Elysians who disagreed with the selection of Havii as the Monarch of Elysia instead allied themselves with a sky-king called Dyauss. Under his leadership they formed an oligarchy of kings and queens, with each choosing to specialize in a unique aspect of magic. Dyauss, the strongest among them, was said to be unbeatable in combat. The war raged for eons. With each clash of her children, the Earth wept. She would heave and tremble and shake and split. Great chasms scarred her flesh, so deep and wide even the Elysians dared not risk falling into them. Soon, only twenty-six Elysians remained of the thousands that had once lived. Nine were Asrithi. Sixteen were Olymparate. Only one of Aurra’Maaz remained. Unlucky Elohyym. He had watched his brothers and sisters die around him, cut down by yet more of his family while he only grew stronger. Where once his greatest strength had laid with the powers of creation, eons of loss had warped his mind. His infinite creativity turned toward more sinister powers, and slowly, ever so slowly, he lost himself to madness. Abandoning the name that the Earth Mother had bestowed upon him on his creation, he bade all that saw his terrifying Hex Magic call him by his chosen title, Luxilishan. Seeing what this feud had done to their eldest brother, Dyauss and Havii called a truce and attempted to reason with the mad Luxilishan. This, however, only ended in the loss of Havii’s right eye while Dyauss was beaten within an inch of his life. Luxilishan had proven stronger than both powerful brothers combined, capable of conjuring hordes of nightmarish creatures with a wave of his twisted and deformed hand. It was only through Havii’s quick thinking that nothing more than an eye and their pride was lost, as he was able to distract Luxilishan long enough for Dyauss to harness the power of the Rainbow Bridge to spirit the pair away. Even with his remaining siblings in hiding, the terror of Luxilishan did not cease. He instead turned his sights on the fledgling races that had managed to avoid extinction. He tormented these beings with his nightmare army, forcing upon them acts of malice and depravity. Havii and Dyauss, though not rejoining, knew that Luxilishan could not be beaten by either one of them alone and thus the Asrithi and Olymparate formed an alliance that against their wicked brother. The two factions conspired together to create a plan to split the power of the Mad God in half and combined their magic to create a weapon capable of doing just such a thing. Hephairon, the Olymparate forge master, created Gungnir and Astrapes for Havii and Dyauss. The two legendary spears would be able to cleave Elohyym from Luxilishan if used together. Simply splitting these two aspects, they knew, would not be enough. One would need to be sealed away from the other, to keep them from ever rejoining and resurrecting the Mad God. After a few centuries of preparation, the time finally came for the allied pantheons to face their twisted brother. The battle between the was brutal, twenty-five Elysians finding themselves losing ground against their eldest sibling. Havii and Dyauss were given no opportunities to strike as Luxilishan released wave after wave of monsters. In a desperate bid to turn the tide, Tywazz, the loyal lieutenant of Havii, sacrificed his right arm to bind Luxilishan long enough for Havii to drive Gungnir through the Mad God’s chest. Dyauss wasted no time using Astrapes to strike Gungnir with the sky’s fury, forcing the madness of Luxilishan from Elohyym’s form. The diminished Luxilishan wildly rushed towards his other half, only to be bound by Sheolus. The eldest Olymparate sacrificed himself to bind Mad Luxilishan, flinging the pair into the deepest of the Earth Mother’s pits and using his corporeal form to create chains that would hold the Mad God for as long as his own will held strong. On the surface, Havii, Dyauss, and the remaining Elysians stood over the weakened form of Wise Elohyym. He was emaciated and frail, though he also appeared at peace for the first time in eons. He pleaded that his brothers remain allied and leave him be. He wanted no more bloodshed between family. Ultimately, the other two agreed to go their separate ways and divide the dominions of the Earth Mother between the three. Elohyym was given the Southern Realms, a peaceful kingdom where he could rest easy and guide his people with a gentle hand. The Olymparate decided upon the Western Realms, a fertile kingdom of farmland and seas. They passed down the importance of strategy and philosophy to their people, instilling in them profound ideals of free thought. Finally, the Asrithi took the Northern realms as their own and created a hardy people, powerful and skilled warriors who held honor and glory above all else. The three kingdoms prospered and grew as the scars of the Elysian War slowly healed. Elohyym never really recovered fully, and eventually withdrew from his people entirely, only intervening when necessary while the story of his Mad half slowly found its way into their minds, giving birth to the legend of Elohim and Lucifer. The Asrithi eventually became known as the Aesir Gods, the Rulers of the Wild Norsemen. The Olymparate, after creating a stronghold atop their realms’ tallest mountain were renamed the Olympians by the people they protected. As time grew long and guilt ate away at the hearts of the Asrithi and Olymparate, they too withdrew from their people. They came to deem themselves unworthy to lead after the parts they each played in the torment of their own brother. Instead, they came together one final time to create a bloodline of champions, born of both factions, to protect the world from the same terrible fate they had set upon it. Once this task was done the powerful Elysians withdrew into their lofty homes amongst the skies, hoping that their final gift to the world would be enough. This was the story my father told me and it will be the story you pass on to your children when I am gone, for this is the story of our family. It reminds us of the terrible power we wield, of the destruction caused by unnecessary violence. We as the scions of Elysia of a duty to be protectors, a safeguard against those that would misuse power in any form so that the mistakes of our forefathers are never repeated. We are the last of those mighty guardians and when I die, you will be all that is left of us. My son, take heed of this tale. Engrain its lesson deep within your being. Once, there were Gods, powerful but fallible. Now only we remain, a final gift to a healing world. A safety measure to ensure the circumstances that allowed a being like Luxilishan to rise never happen again.


Coming back to DC was something I never thought I’d do. I grew up hearing the stories: how it used to be the capital, about the surprise attack, and the remnants that remained. In fact, even being this far up the coast was unnerving. After eighty years, nothing seemed like it’d gotten back to normal or that it ever would. It was as if the whole eastern seaboard retreated inland when DC was lit up. The only people who lived here now were the ones who were changed. The van slowed to a stop. The driver, a muscular man sporting jet black aviators, an earpiece, and a pistol turned to me and my chief of staff, Aaron, in the back. “We’re here. Make sure your suits are fastened tight.” I turned to Aaron. “You ever worn one of these things before?” “Yeah, once,” Aaron said, “Make sure it’s snug.” Aaron pulled the zipper of his nanotryte suit up to the top of his neck and then clasped the four buttons at the top to keep the zipper in place. He then placed the reflective helmet on top of his head. I followed suit. We hopped out of the van and made our way up to the driver who was about a hundred feet ahead of us. “This is as far as we can go. Any closer and not even these suits would protect you,” the driver said, staring straight ahead at the ruins. “What’s your name?” I asked, eyeing him awkwardly. “A-549d3k” “That’s not—don’t you have a human name?” I said. The driver didn’t answer. He looked down at his feet as if contemplating whether he remembered his name at all. “Fred. My name is Fred,” he said finally. I nodded turning away from Fred and out towards the ruins of the White House. Smoke rose from the rubble as if the building still smoldered some eighty years later. My mind ventured to church as it often did. There was always talk growing up of judgment day and how the sinners would be the ones left behind. The Pastor would yell and scream and wail and raise his fists. I used to marvel at it. It was a special kind of theater. Now, I thought what if judgment day had already passed. “This whole place is a wasteland,” Aaron said, surveying withered husks of apartment complexes that dotted the edges of what was left of the National Mall. The stump of the Washington Monument poked out like a nub, the rest of it either obliterated in the blast or lost in the piles of rock that surrounded it. Aaron turned and put a hand on my shoulder pulling me in close, “I’m gonna go back to the car and make some calls. We should head out in fifteen to make it to the ANCF event on time.” As I took one last look at the remains of the nation’s former capital, I debated whether or not to blow the ANCF thing off. The Association of Non-Denominational Churches in Friendship’s annual gala was being held tomorrow and I was invited. In reality, it was just some podunk association of mega-churches that wanted to interview me and give me an award. I was the one who had convinced Aaron to leave a bit earlier so we could make this detour into the heart of DC. I turned to Fred and asked, ‘You have family around here?” I looked straight at him, his face motionless betraying nothing. He shifted slightly and said, “Uhhh, yeah, down by Georgetown.” “How are they?” “Fine.” “Good,” I said. \-- *“Welcome back, everyone! I believe we are now going live to Olivia Fields, who’s on the ground in Charleston where the protests are raging. How many Scarred would say are out protesting tod—”* The signal cut out as the TV screen turned to noise. I wasn’t surprised. It’s a miracle these small towns got any connectivity at all with how thick the cloud cover had gotten these days. I surveyed the green room in which I was now situated. A bank of TVs to my left showed a three-camera live feed to the auditorium where Jake Hannible was giving his monologue dutifully reminding the attendees about the offering plate that would make its rounds later. A lanky man in a button-down shirt that was two sizes too big monitored the feed, flicking a button every once in a while, but mostly just dozing in and out of sleep. “Jim? Jim Pennywalker?” A petite woman with a small clipboard and an ear mic stood at the door to the green room. I raised my hand in a brief acknowledgment of my presence and then walked over to her. “Am I up?” I asked. “Yep, you’ll be on in three minutes. Follow me backstage. You’ll be coming on stage right. Shake Jake’s hand. Pause for a few shots. Take the award and then sit on the couch. Jake will ask you a few questions and then you’ll leave. Got it?” I nodded, eminently sure that I’d forgotten every word she’d said. I had been to a few of these things over the years, though, so I wasn’t too worried. I walked onstage and spotted Jake, offering a handshake. His palm felt clammy to the touch. I looked at him. He had the expression one has when they are physically in the moment but mentally had checked out hours ago. As the audience cheered and several photographers snapped away, we meandered over to a pair of chairs situated behind us. “Welcome Jim, thank you for coming all this way. I know West Virginia is a bit of a trek for someone from Florida. How was the trip up here?” “Thanks,” I said, “I am so glad to be here and accept this honor. The trip up was fine. One I’ve made a few times over the years.” “Take any stops along the way?” Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly. I felt like a monkey in a cage being leered at by knowing scientists. “Yeah, we made a few.” “Did you stop in DC?” “Uhh, yeah we did a brief detour there. I’ve always wanted to see the remains of the White House. My mother used to talk about it all the time. “ “Ah yes, again we all were sorry to hear about Mildred’s passing. We were praying for you,” Jake said. “Thank you.” Jake paused, his eyes shifting off into the distance as if mulling in his mind the phrasing of his next question. “Jim, it does seem odd to me that a member of the Risen Savior Alliance would venture so far into Scarred territory.” “All I did was visit a monument. Nothing more,” I shot back. Jake’s narrowed again, but then in a flash that look was replaced with a smile. “Well Jim, as I said, it’s been an honor. Thanks again for coming and stay safe out there,” Jake said putting out his hand again. I took it and then made my way off stage, mumbling an incoherent thank you as I went. I rode back to the hotel in silence, turning my conversation with Jake over and over in my mind. Aaron was on his phone next to me organizing the schedule for the rest of the trip and Fred was upfront driving the van. “Tomorrow morning, we’re scheduled to have lunch with Bobby at 12:30 so we got to make sure we’re up early,” Aaron said, not looking up from his phone, “Fred, could you make sure to have the car running by 9:30?” “You got it,” he said. “How many more stops we got?” I asked, leaning over to Aaron. “Well, we’re meeting with Bobby tomorrow and then the Secretary’s dinner in Columbus the following day,” Aaron responded still not looking up from his phone. “How important is it that I go to that?” Aaron looked at me with a thinly veiled smile that was some sort of mixture between shock and horror. “You told me yourself this whole trip wasn’t just to accept some tacky award, right? It was to feel it out. Take the temperature. This is how we do that?” He whispered. I looked at Aaron for a while and then leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, you’re right, you’re right. Sounds good.” I turned my head and stared out the window, my mind fluttering longly towards the wet rolling marsh grass of Summitville and how I couldn’t remember what possessed me to take this trip in the first place. \-- Bobby was thirty minutes late to the meeting. As the West Virginia Head of the Patriots Party, he was a busy man. I heard a loud bang and turned my head to the entrance of the restaurant near the hostess stand. There he was in all his slovenly entitlement. I never liked Bobby. He waved to me. I nodded and turned back towards the table taking a sip of lukewarm coffee and nibbling on a bit of egg. Bobby waddled over. I was afraid he might tip over if he went too fast. As he passed by me to sit in the chair opposite me, he laid one of those hands on my shoulder that said I’m sorry to hear your mother passed, but I only learned that fact today and not two months ago at the funeral. I smiled, not willing to get pulled in. Bobby still had some crumbs from a previous meal taking up residence in his beard. Couple that with the rancid alcohol that was on his breath, and it took everything in me to not get up and leave. “Jimmm.” Bobby hung onto the “m” as if his mouth was permanently stuck in that position. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Jim,” he finished. “Thanks,” I said tersely. Bobby shuffled into his seat and flagged down the waitress, barking his order of scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy as she made her way over. It had been a while since I’d been up north but Bobby was a blatant reminder of why I had stayed away for so long. His was a legacy of failing upward into vital positions of power. “So Bobby, I’m sure you know why—“ “You’re looking to run, no?” Bobby grunted in between bites of egg and bacon. “Yes.” “Not gonna happen,” he said. “Wait, what do you mean? I’m running,” I responded. “You’re too moderate Jim. People are worried you’re too soft.” “Bobby, I head one of the largest parishes in Florida. What do you mean?” One of Bobby’s eyes twitched slightly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead from a heart attack in two years. “Ever since Mildred started to go downhill, people got worried. She said some things. And then the incident with Cato? Jim, it’s just not your time yet. Wait a couple more years. We’ll take you off the bench then.” My face felt hot. I would be lying if I didn’t say there was a small part of me that wanted to reach across the table and strangle Bobby in the chair where he sat. “Is this coming from you, or—?” “Straight from Chicago. We’ve already chosen our guy,” Bobby shot back. “Who?” “Vince Bakersfie— “Vince?” “Jim, lower your voice. It’s done. Now we expect you to throw your support behind him,” Bobby said with a thin toothy grin, “For the good of the party.” I didn’t say anything. I got out my wallet, laid a couple of bills on the table, and left. \-- “You’re the guy who wrote that op-ed?” I looked around the bar to see who recognized me. A few washed-up bikers talked amicably at the far end of the bar and a middle-aged woman chain-smoked cigs at a table in the back. Besides them, the place was dead. I turned back in my chair only to come face to face with a brown-haired, bespeckled young man sitting next to me, too close for comfort. I nearly fell out of my chair in surprise. “Jesus Christ, what do you want? And back up a bit would ya?” I said, doing my best to keep my balance and not make a fool of myself. “Apologies, it’s just not every day we get someone of your caliber in our town’s bar. I thought preachers weren’t allowed to touch the stuff,” the man said, speaking quickly and gesticulating wildly with his arms as if he was a character in a sitcom. “If you could please, just leave me alone. Let me be. Thanks!” I responded, motioning to the bartender for another drink in the hopes of registering clearly my dismissiveness of this conversation. The man didn’t take a hint. “Who writes an op-ed denouncing anti-abortion laws and still manages to keep his job as a preacher?” the man asked. I shrugged in response. I couldn’t help but feel like I was under interrogation. “Look, I don’t even know who you are. Please stop harassing me or else I’m going to call the cop—“ I said. The man raised his hands in surrender, pausing for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not I was worth further conversation. “Forgive me,” he said, “my name is Stevie Marriot. I’m a consultant for DMA.” I nearly spit out half my drink. “DMA? What brings you guys here? To West Virginia” “We want you to run,” Stevie responded, far less animated and energetic, making me think his earlier schtick was an act. “Me? Run for president? Are you nuts?” I said, waving the bartender over again in the hopes of getting rid of this looney toon for good. “Here’s my card. If you decide to run give me a call,” Stevie said in a low voice, placing a card on the table in front of me. It said “S. Marriot, DMA.” I flipped it over and all that was on it was a phone number. “Is there a problem here, sir?” I looked up and the bartender, a burly man with thin eyes and a large forehead, was staring at me. “Umm, no sir,” I said, “My friend—“ I turned to the chair next to me only to find Stevie gone. I turned back to the bartender. “Uhh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. All good here, man. Thanks!” I mumbled. The bartender frowned and lumbered away. I just sat there staring at the card. It was gold on one side and black on the other. \-- “The Democratic Martyrs of America want to draft you as president?” Aaron said, pacing around our hotel room. The question hung in the air, each word inviting the dissent and dissection. Aaron struggled to hide his adverse opinion of the idea. Next to him was Fred, my driver, and Rebekah, my communications director. I looked at everyone individually trying to get the best read I could or at least any read at all. I knew the DMA was problematic. They’d been practically non-operational for almost eighty years and for me to happen upon a supposed member in a random bar in West Virginia felt strange. “Well there’s no harm in calling the number,” Rebekah chimed in. She sat gracefully, cross-legged on the floor next to Fred who was leaning comfortably against a wall. A framed pastel painting of a beach house hung beside him. Stevie’s business card sat on the bedside table next to me. I grabbed it, turning it over and over in my hand. It had some heft to it and the phone number was indented, contrasting nicely with the solid gold textured background of the card. “It would certainly grab Bobby’s attention,” I said to no one in particular. The room was quiet in response. Fred looked deep in thought. Rebekah was fiddling with one of her shoelaces and Aaron was deep in his phone. “Thanks, everyone! Can I have the room?” Aaron said, still not looking up from his phone. Rebekah gave Aaron an annoyed side-eye glance and then sauntered out. Fred followed. Aaron moved to a chair directly across from me and breathed in deep as if mentally preparing himself for what he was about to say. “You can’t do this. It would ruin your credibility if it went sideways, and it’s likely to go sideways because all we have to go on is a business card from a creep in a bar. This could easily be a plant from one of the lesser parties — maybe, Climate or Freedom? — Point is this is too much of a risk? You do this and your career is over. I know the meeting with Bobby didn’t go as planned, but you wait for just two, maybe four years, and you could easily run for a major—“ “Aaron, relax. I was just curious. That’s all. I’m not gonna do it,” I said. Aaron let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said, kneeling down next to me, “And look like I said, a few more years you’ll get approval to run for a serious office, I’ll make sure of it.” I nodded. Aaron got up, grabbed his phone, and left. A moment later he poked his head back in and said, “Oh, and Mildred would be proud of you.” I nodded again, unsure of how to respond, still turning the business card in my hand. Aaron took one last look and then darted out. I set the business card back on the table. Looking at my watch, it read midnight so I quickly changed into more comfortable pajamas and brushed my teeth. Turning out the lights, I laid face up on the bed with my legs hanging off the end. I felt unsatisfied. This trip hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped and there wasn’t much to be done. The political winds had spoken.


When I was a kid I had a monster at the end of my bed. It wasn’t like everyone else's monster, all teeth and scary eyes. Mine was different. Every night, when the lights went out, there would be nothing at the end of my bed. A horrible, ominous mass of nothing, looming in the dark. Some nights the nothing would touch me. Those nights were the worst. I would be engulfed by a feeling like coldness. It wasn’t cold though, wasn’t anything really, but it was like cold, like the idea of cold. I know that doesn’t quite make sense, but that’s what it felt like. When the nothing got too near it was overwhelming. I could feel it pressing down on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. The nothing would loom over me, an inch away from my face, too close. It didn’t have any recognisable features, wasn’t anything close to human. It was just a mass of nothing at all. A big, gaping absence. I can still remember that exact feeling, being a small child paralysed by fear. An indescribable terror, of nothing. Nothing physical, nothing real, nothing I could explain. But, like all kids and their monsters, I grew out of it. The nothing stopped appearing at the end of my bed, and eventually I thought about it so little I almost forgot about it entirely. Now I had proper adult things to worry about like taxes and climate change. I was about 24 when I noticed it again. It wasn’t the same as before, but still, i recognised it. My nothing. It came back so gradually I didn’t even realise it was there for so long. I was at work, sat at my desk, trying to focus and refocus and focus again on something deeply meaningless. I felt something like coldness. Not cold, but something close. Time shifted, I couldn’t tell if it had sped up or slowed almost to a halt, but it had changed. The wave of nothing slowly abated, but I don’t know if it ever went away entirely. It came back again the next week. I had been walking to the station. The wind hit my cheek, but I didn’t feel it. Or I did? But not as much somehow. It was as if I knew the wind was on my face, but I knew it in a different time, or a different place. My walking became somebody else's. Somebody I was watching. Like playing a game, I was controlling a character, I knew it was mine, but somehow it wasn’t me. Over time the nothing engulfed me. It filled my body, compressing me into the centre of myself. I no longer touched the edges. Everything I saw, felt or did was through a thick membrane of nothing. It began replacing parts of me, displacing them with absence. Like a parasite. It ate parts of my memory, I would lose names, whole people and moments of my own history. It took my joy, and my sadness too. It was totally indiscriminate. I was small, inside myself, and everything was so hard. I fought so hard to even exist. I was fighting nothing, there was nothing there. Nothing oppressive, nothing parasitic. Just me. I’m not a little kid anymore. There are no monsters under my bed. I am scared of nothing.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion **This week I want to talk about Focus. For me, it’s one of the most important parts about writing but also one of the most difficult. What I need to help me stay focused on writing is quiet and comfort but you might need something different. So this week’s question is:** **What helps you focus on your writing?** #Introduce Yourself: - **We’d like to know more about you! How long have you been writing? What’s your favorite genre to play in? Your favorite book? Anything! Let us know in the comments!** *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


I slid my clothes off and cranked the shower knob, holding an orange in my palm, toes and fingertips heating up red. Brushing dirtspace from my wet knees. Crouching in the clatter, sinking my chin lower into my chest. Silverfish climb the curtains up to the cracked ceiling. Citrus smell joins the hot steam between careful bites, and I watch little hairs suck down the drain in a dark whirlpool. Glowing red capsules churn inside me. Ten, maybe twelve. Swallowing them pill-like makes me less nauseous than the syrupy version, but sometimes that’s all the store has. Tonight is a mix of both (and the fruit hides the taste of glue). Cut the water shivering. I lay out my towel and just sit until dry. Seeing double now, two towels. I put on loose boxers and a long shirt. Limbs lag through the holes at ten frames per second. Opening the bathroom door now. A dim night light blinks in the hallway, plugged low by The Old Woman. She’s in Hawaii this week (and I must remember to pay her when she gets back). There’s two doors in my room, but it’s really true, I’m not just seeing it that way. One to the hallway and one to the backyard. I squint at the clock by my bed and think. Lover Boy should be here soon. I hear taps at the backyard door. It’s the cat. She slinks between my legs and camps in the cubby of my nightstand (only it’s not a nightstand, it’s an apple crate turned upright to look like a nightstand). I look outside for a sign of Lover Boy. I see grapefruit trees, plastic flamingos and tarped furniture. A wheelbarrow, too. No Lover Boy. The dark sky is bright, shaded misty gray by the distant stadium lights. I hear the hush of leaves and skin. It’s him. He emerges from the gap in the fence like I told him to because The Old Woman has a camera at the front door. He calls me beautiful. He asks if my name is really Mango. Of course it is. Lover Boy jumps up onto my bed. I try to do the same but I can’t feel my legs, and I fall. You’re bleeding, he says. I tell my tongue to say something but no words come out. My head wobbles down, connected to my neck like a Slinky. He’s right. A red drop made it to the surface. I wipe the blood with my thumb and lick it clean, smiling at Lover Boy. Lover Boy studies the way my boxerfabric clings to my crotch. A coin flip for him, one outcome luckier than the other, wondering if I’m more boy or girl. His hand glides under my waistband. My eyes would be shut but I notice a dead bee caught in his hair. Lover Boy seems happy. I can’t feel what he’s doing, the red slush of cough medicine in my stomach turning me ghost. He’s like a mime then. The cat watched from the floor and I wished she would leave but then she jumped on Lover Boy’s head and ate the dead bee. I tried to laugh, paralyzed below Lover Boy and the cat. The noise part of the laugh came a few seconds late, brain and body lagging still. Don’t go, Lover Boy.