After dozens of swipes, multiple conversations that just evaporate, someone has said yes. The uphill battle to align schedules and convince yourself that you actually want to leave the house and spend money will be worth it. You think to yourself, maybe this will be the one, she seems cool. At the very least it’s always good practice to put yourself out there. You settle on drinks at a nearby bar that you’re familiar with. You’ve already talked about what she does for work and know she’s big into hiking just by looking at her photos. You might be a bit worried because it took 2 photos to scroll through to decipher which one she is. Luckily she filled out her profile thoroughly and you are aligned on politics, religion, and both went to big schools. Knowing this is nice, but always feel like it’s jumping the gun and you just have less to find out about the person later. However, you’re not complaining because you rather know now then $35 dollars of drinks later that she’s a religious conservative. Waking up knowing you have something to do after work always makes the day go by slower. You make sure to send a confirmation text in the morning to make sure you aren’t looking forward to something the whole day only to be let down later. She says she’s still on and “looking forward to it”. You hope she is being sincere. You decide to work from home, this will make you avoid any potential obstacles for when it gets closer. In-between meetings you’re still scrolling through the app and swiping on people. It makes you feel dirty, if your parents had a date scheduled they weren’t actively at the bar trying to pick up someone different before the date that night. You close the app and get back to work, or the appearance of work. Lunch finally comes around and you decide to start looking in your closet to feel out what you will wear. You check the weather to see what type of outfit you should wear. You get sweaty for a date when you get nervous, plus it's going to be really humid. Probably going to wear something dark, it will make you look thinner anyways. At least that's what you’ve been told. You don’t want to be too casual, but it is just drinks. You end up picking a navy blue collared shirt that you know hides your pit stains and some 7 in gray shorts to show off those legs. You know you’re going to wear your Allbirds and will have some sort of patterned socks that you can figure out later. Having your clothes laid out feels like one less thing you have to worry about. Your friend texts you asking to hang out after work. Sometimes you feel like telling friends about a future date, sometimes it’s easier to just lie so if there is no second date you don’t have to explain it to someone else. This time you tell them, this girl seems cool and your hopes have slowly been getting higher as the day goes on and gets closer to the date. It’s 6:15 and there's 45 minutes until the date starts. Even though the drive is only 5 minutes away you are already dressed and are now staring at yourself in the mirror. Wet your hair to make it so it doesn’t look so poofy, brush your teeth, and spray on some cologne. You’re feeling ready. You feel confident and psych yourself up thinking who wouldn’t want to go out with you. You say bye to your roommate and leave your apartment 20 minutes early. You want to make sure you find parking and get a good table. You don’t want to let her know you got there that early though, so you sit in your car and only get out 10 minutes before the date starts. The host asks for how many, you proudly say two. You sit so you can face the door to see them walk in. You hope that they look like their pictures and don’t have a weird voice. It’s 6:58 and you’re scrolling Twitter after checking her profile again. You see the door open and she walks in. You wave her over.


And yet another day. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. There’s this deep and uneasy feeling in the deepest depth of my chest, nothingness. Same as everyday I suppose. Shower today? Mmmm, nah I don’t feel like it. That’s totally okay, there's nothing wrong with skipping a few days worth of showers. The picture of Mom and Dad on the nightstand looks particularly sad today– miss them. Stepping out of bed was just as hard as it is any other day. Breakfast today? Mmmm, no I’m okay. You sure? It’s been a while since we’ve eaten anything. Yeah, I’m sure. Not really hungry anyways. What day is it today? Oh! Right, it’s Sunday. Or The Lord’s day as mom would call it– miss her a lot. Wonder what’s on TV today. 10:30 AM. We’ve been watching TV for a while, it’s a nice day outside. Maybe we should go for a nice drive to the cliff for a nice view of the ocean. You know what? I actually like that idea a lot. Let's do it! Hmmm what to wear? Let’s go with this nice light blue button up and this pair of khaki shorts! Mmmm, nah I think I’ll leave in these sweats and a hoodie. You sure? It’s going to be pretty warm out soon. Yeah the heat doesn’t bother me much. Oh, alright. 11:00 AM. Ohh, I just love nice long drives. Especially when our destination is so great and beautiful! We should listen to some music on the way! Mmmm, I think silence is good for now. Maybe in a little bit though. Oh okay. 12:15 PM. Boy it’s hot out here ain’t it? We should take this hoodie off at least. Why? I feel fine. Oh okay, nevermind. This view sure is beautiful don’t you think?! I wish we could be here everyday just to watch the waves dance among themselves and to listen to the seagulls yell at each other all day, ohhh and this smell! The salty ocean scent is so refreshing isn’t it? Yeah, it reminds me of home. I sure do miss mom, wish she were still here. Let’s get a closer look at the waves shall we? Ohhh yes please! I love watching them crash against the cliffside! The grass feels weirdly soft today, I wonder why. Hey, this is a little bit too close to the edge for me. Can we step back a little bit? Oh no, this is fine. We’re safe here. Oh okay. I feel numb. Hey, why are we crying? I don’t know, the world is so beautiful. We should go for a swim. Ohhh I love swimming! But this is a long way down, we could get hurt. I’m sure we’ll be fine. No I don’t think we will. Hey, did we take our meds today? Oh yeah, I must’ve forgotten. We should go back home then, the doctor said we need to take them everyday. Okay, just a few more hours here then we’ll leave. 5:00 PM. Back home finally! Let’s take those pills! Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Yuck, I hate this taste. Yeah me too. We should call dad! I’m sure he’d love to hear from us. Maybe tomorrow. Ohhh let's book a flight home to see him! You know we don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, right. We should just go to bed okay? We had a long day. But I’m not tired yet? Well I am. Oh okay. I always forget how soft these pillows are! They’re alright I guess, please be quiet. Let’s sleep now. Hmph, fine. Hey, can we please call dad tomorrow? I miss him. Sure, maybe. Awesome! Goodnight! Night. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. The deep feeling in my chest remains. And yet, another day.


#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 Visitor! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘Visitor’. Visitors can be a welcome sight in a community or world, or…throw the whole place into disarray. Who is visiting your world this week? Is it a character who previously left and is now returning? An outsider who has accidentally stumbled upon this world? A longtime friend of one of the residents? Or maybe the visitor is someone—or *something*—that shouldn’t be there at all, something foreign, alien, or even paranormal. Why are they there? How is their presence received? Does it bring some sort of change or coming storm? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post 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! - June 26 - Visitor (this week) - July 1 - Weakness - July 7 - Yearning   *** **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. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* 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 - **First place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Second place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Third place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/gdbessemer   ###Crit Credits Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques (on the thread) and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our . - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite   *** ###Subreddit News - Check out our on r/WritingPrompts! Submit a story using the prompt by June 30th to enter! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Prompt: The bells hadn’t stopped ringing in weeks.** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Use at least 3 of the following words: - coffin - survival - withered - dig - esoteric - newspaper This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret the prompt *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #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 - 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!   *** #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 as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Third:** - Submitted by u/aladon1234 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/randallus - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Did someone say *contest*? The has officially kicked off on r/WritingPrompts! Submit a story based on the prompt by June 30th to enter! - Practice those poetry skills with our brand new feature, , on r/WritingPrompts! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I sighed and put down my phone, letting this thought flitter through my mind. Recently, I have found myself increasingly thinking of the past and how many experiences I’ve lost to my memory. It’s not as though my mind has been failing me, but the reality of this life we live is that we lose things due to the passage of time. Every experience, interaction, thought, and even memory is fleeting. I have known this, and I accept this. But why do I often find myself trying to hold onto the past? ***Remember the summers where you practically lived outside?*** I brushed my hair out of my eyes and sat up. My bed faintly protesting against my movements. Yes, I do in fact remember those summers. The summers where heat was not considered a deterrence, but rather an excuse to play outside. Where raindrops were seen as something to dance in, rather than to run away from for fear of ruining an outfit. Where even the most mundane, trivial actions were turned into a game. Where I laughed and laughed all day long, returning home after dark with a tired throat and a wide smile. I remember those summers and I remember them fondly. ***How did we get here?*** I swung my legs over the side of my bed and hopped off. This thought lingering in my mind as I slowly approached my window. The window was small and double-paned. The white paint was slightly chipping and the glass was covered in fingerprints of varying sizes. I had always considered cleaning it, but now it would be as if I was compromising its history. Each fingerprint, each smudge had its own story and was tied to a particular moment in my life. Cleaning the glass and erasing my prints is no different than erasing a part of me. I leaned in and pressed my forehead against the cool glass, like I had done many times before. Even this simple action brought comfort to me. The truth is, I’m not sure how I got here. I remember finding joy in the present one day, and the next constantly looking back, longing for the days that were. *Ching!* Behind me, my phone buzzed. It was alerting me that I had received a text. It was most likely from my friend Celia, inviting me to another party. It seems as though that’s all anyone wants to do these days. ***Remember when you would wish to grow up and get invited to parties?*** I chuckled, pressing my forehead more firmly against my window. Aligning my gaze with the tiny stream of water that was beginning to form from the rain. If I had known what it actually meant to be 22, I never would have wasted my wish. I am quite happy with my life. But where did all of the whimsy go? How come the warm breeze no longer dances on my skin whilst playing in my hair? When did the snow stop cascading on me, trying to impress with the individuality of each flake? When did the vibrancy of hue and the pleasant aroma of nature fade? I can still smell it, but not in the same way. I closed my eyes, plunging myself into darkness. The faint patter of the rain hitting my window, filling my ears. In the distance, a bird was tweeting. Suddenly, as if someone had pressed play on a tape recorder in my head, a song flooded my mind. ***“Weightlessness, no gravity.*** ***Were we somewhere in between?*** ***I’m a ghost to you, you’re a ghost of me*** ***A bird’s eye view of San Luis*** ***Mmm mmm mmmmmmm….”*** ***San Luis. By Gregory Isakov. A very good song indeed.*** I sighed and opened my eyes. It was raining slightly harder now. ***The weather must be in mourning also.*** I let out a soft chuckle, but not because I found anything humorous. I turned away from the window and slowly approached my bed. My phone was in the center, alight with messages from a few of my friends. Without reading them, I started typing out a response; “Okay, coming!” I already knew what they would say. Within seconds, I received their responses. They sent a mixture of emojis and “K”’s. ***So it is about going to a party. Of course.*** I grabbed my jacket and started heading to my door. When I reached out to grab the handle, I turned one last time to look out the window. ***The rain is coming down really hard now.*** My phone started buzzing again, most likely due to my friends becoming agitated by how long I was taking. I quickly texted them back; “Sorry, I’m just grabbing my umbrella!” I then shoved my phone into my pocket and reached for my umbrella and purse. I never even noticed that little voice in my head urging me to leave the umbrella behind. I never even realized that each time I refused to acknowledge her, the less I was able to hear her. I never even knew that while I was busy mourning her, she was also mourning me. For the me that she was could no longer recognize the me I had become.


(IP) Risk They had begged her not to go, had said that it was too dangerous. If she’d said she wasn’t afraid, she would’ve been lying. But their tiny mountain town needed to be saved, and there was no other way. She’d packed food and clothing for the journey, as well as her staff and her massive phoenix. Her parents, especially, had been against it. After all, she was their only child, and the only daughter in their family lucky enough to inherit magic. But she had to do something. The plague had slowly overtaken the village, and more than one person she’d grown up with had been buried. “We’re nearly there,” She said to the phoenix, her hand rooted in its feathers. The warmth emanating from it soothed her, but she knew she couldn’t stand on this mountain top for long. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she climbed onto the bird, and they took to the sky. She was haunted by how many people had died, their skin speckled with sickly green spots, their eyes wide and bloodshot. All she had to do was find the temple, and steal the sacred herbs within. It might have meant offending a goddess, but she couldn’t let anyone else die. The world blurred into a blue-white landscape of snow and ice, and Kiara tucked her fur cloak more tightly around her. She directed Mara down to a dip in the mountains, an ice-encrusted valley. They kept close together as they walked toward the temple; Kiara’s heart raced inside of her chest like a galloping horse, and the wind roared cruelly in her ears. The temple was made of quartz and lapis, and they hurried inside. They found the temple dark and cold, with a faint scent of incense. Reluctantly, she had Mara stay outside; she was simply too big to fit within the building. Kiara waited until her eyes adjusted to walk inside; she walked down the nave of the temple, the skin on the back of her neck crawling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She spun around, her eyes searching. “Who’s there?” There was no answer. A statue loomed at the front of the room, formed entirely of lapis. It was of the goddess of healing, hair flowing outward as if teased by the wind. She wore a benevolent smile, and inside the basket in her hands, were bundles of herbs. The exact herb that her people needed to survive. Quickly, she walked up the nave to the statue, stuffing the herbs in her bag. Even if she was cursed or struck with something, she would risk it, for her people. “And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” A voice said behind her, and she had to bite back a shriek of terror. When she turned around, she saw an ordinary young woman, but her eyes were glowing blue.


I felt it for the first time when I was 12. I learnt about worms in school and I had always been very intrigued by them. They need warm places to live, breathe through their skin, and their colors range from red to brown. I could not tell why adults always refused to tell me about them. It was as if I could not even look at one. I thought, what's wrong with taking a peak? As long as I don't keep it, I don't see the harm. At first, I could not tell that I was feeling a little worm. I thought it would be somewhat gooey, but it felt soft and cold, and it perfectly blended with the back of my head, making it really hard to spot. Indeed, I still haven't put my eye on it. I thought, however, that it was normal, and that everyone gets a little worm every once in a while. I saw some on my classmates, teachers, and in my mom, but these seemed to quickly vanish. My worm was different, though. It was a little bit like me. It liked the things I liked, and disliked the things I didn't. It would also help me sometimes. For example, if I was too mean to my friends, or I disappointed my parents, it stung me very hard in the back of my head. I liked my little worm. It made me different from the rest, and made me see the world from a much safer and realistic point of view. After a couple of years, I finally let the worm into my head. Once inside, my little worm got full access to my thoughts. This was good, I told myself, as every sting was a sign that something needed a little fixing. But time passed, and the stinging got more and more painful. Soon, I wasn't able to produce a single thought that came without a spurt of agony; a single action without a burst of misery. But my worm was right: I was repugnant. I was a revolting, soggy, heinous burden. I infected those around me, brought deep sorrow to every room. I hated my little worm, and yet I was nothing without it. One day, almost overnight, I couldn't feel it anymore. My thoughts were free and everything seemed so clear so suddenly. I was scared, but very excited. I had learnt a lot thanks to my little worm, and I owed it who I was. It was a new beginning, of forgiveness, growth, and experimentation. It was still in my head, though. And sometimes, some days, it stung. But it brought with it a feeling of familiarity, trust, and even nostalgia. My little worm was my friend now. I grew up, and my little worm did too. I could feel its bulkier size, its larger weight. We were gonna be unstoppable. Nonetheless, I found it a bit weird that I couldn't only feel it in the back of my head anymore. I now felt it close to my forehead, in between my temples. I guess it had just been moving around. This was about the time when I started spending way too much time inside my own head. It wasn't that interesting or fun, but it felt more appealing than looking at the outside. Colors were lifeless, sounds were flat, food was insipid. People seemed bland, learning felt pointless, curiosity vanished. My little worm doesn't sting anymore. But it now blurs all colors, dampens all music, encases all words. Everywhere I look I see its shadow, every breath I take I feel its tail pulling on my eyes. When standing it numbs my eyelids, but when laying down it dries and hardens them; when speaking it sucks my thoughts; when smiling it clots my cheeks. My head gets heavier every day, making it harder to raise. My arms seem to move by themselves, my legs have grown free from my commands. My mind is not mine anymore. Sometimes, when taking the bus to work, I like looking deep into people's eyes. And sometimes, if I look hard enough, I can tell whether theirs is red or brown.


Super short and kind of sweet. I had an idea. it’s about a lucky three leaf clover. He’s never felt very lucky though. He’s jealous, you see. He’s constantly comparing himself to his more popular four leaf cohorts. When he was younger, he’d push and push hoping he could make the fourth leaf sprout, it never did. So he tried something new. Every morning, he’d wake up before his neighbours and he’d stretch up as high as he could. Hoping if he caught more sun, enough sun, he’d finally get his fourth leaf. He did this for weeks. Wake up, stretch, push… nothing. The weeks went by and nothing sprouted. But he did, however, notice something new. While he was waking up at dawn to stretch high, he noticed the four leaf clovers would sleep in late. And even worse- when they woke, they didn’t stretch. Not. Even. Once. “Lazy” he thought. He was angry. It didn’t make any sense. How could they have four leafs and not even try? The coveted fourth leaf he so wanted had never felt so out of reach. Here he was barely sleeping, stretching and pushing himself into an aneurysm, while he bitterly watched his four leaf contenders sleep till noon. It was futile. He’d given up, he resentfully came to terms with only having three leafs and went to bed. The silver lining was he’d get to sleep in, finally. The next morning came and before he got the chance to sleep in, the clover was rudely awakened by unusual sounds. The ground was shaking and the noises were coming closer. He was scared, they all were. They watched as two strange figures approached. They were enormous. The clovers quivered in fear as the figures came closer, wondering if they were coming straight to them. Sure enough, one of the figures cried out “it’s a patch of clovers!” They had all heard the legends. Honestly, they always thought it was an old wives’ tale to keep the four leaf clovers from getting too brash. (He always thought it was a cheap attempt to make the three leafers feel better, more special.) But now they knew. They also knew what was coming, so they shut their eyes tight and hoped they wouldn’t be picked. As the figures left, and when he felt brave enough, he opened his eyes. Slowly. One at a time while the other stayed wrinkled shut. When he finally looked around he was shocked to find out something truly peculiar. In this little patch of land, he saw that most of who remained were three leaf clovers, just like him. Towering above the rest as they stretched to try and change the very thing that saved them. He finally understood that he had always been one of the lucky ones. I never really wrote anything before, but just wanted to put into words what three leaf clovers might feel if they felt.


“So how do you become a boy?” I found myself studying her with an intensity I rarely applied to children. She had my sister’s eyes, the outline of her face followed the same exact lines, but the way she carried herself was undeniably different. It was in the grit stuck between her fingernails, the defiant soldier-like puff of her chest and the way she looked at me directly in the eye with as much genuine curiosity as there was what could have been envy. She had the ready-to-pounce springiness of an anxious young lad. “What a silly question!” Maureen, my sister, interjected from across the table. “Why don’t you go find Will and Mason?” “How do you become a boy, uncle Tom?” I pretended to poke at a slice of bacon with as much idle disinterest as could be mustered while having a watching parent breathe down my neck. In truth I was hooked. “Why would you want to become a boy?” “Because girls are all about dress up and throwing pretend parties and pretend this and pretend that and boys get guns and swords and arrows and they get to build forts.” “What’s so bad about dress-up? when I was your age I loved pretty dresses.” spoke her mum while inserting a knife into a fried egg. “So you would become a boy just to get guns and swords?” She nodded. The look in her eyes was as noticeable as ever. Maureen was using her fork to stir the ruptured yolk with mashed potatoes. I could see the eyes staring at me from the back of her head “Silly girl!” I would say. “What’s there to like about guns and swords? If you’re born a lady then you’re a lady or a lad a lad. Always been that way! Now cease these silly thoughts and go find your cousins!” and I would watch as the glow in her eyes went out like a candle and gray over. But that’s not what I said. “Well, I think that’s a neat little thought you have there. While I can’t make you magically pop up in boy’s skin, I think what’s more important is that you see yourself as one. In fact, I think that’s all there is to being a boy, that you see and carry yourself like a young man, and as long as you still believe in that part of yourself, in time people would start calling you a lad.” From the corner of my eye I saw Maureen’s hand give a little tremor, barely noticeable to maybe even his husband but I knew exactly where to look after all these decades under the same roof. When Anna had left the room and was most likely out of earshot she turned to me. “I wish you hadn’t said that.” “Why not?” “You might give her ideas.” “I don’t see why that’s a problem.” “I’d like her to stay a girl.” “Your daughter would say otherwise.” “what good is there to be a boy anyway? when we were her age you and James and Charles would go hunting and one of you would be bound to come back hurt and crying.” “You can’t blame her. You ladies have been allowed to vote for only what? Ten years? If I were her I would want to be a boy too.” “You can’t expect her to understand that!” “Doesn’t change my point.” I said, spearing my own egg. “She’s just a child. Don’t entertain her silly ideas.” “Didn’t seem silly to me. You should’ve seen your daughter. Deadpan serious.” “I still don’t want you telling her stuff like that.” Sensing that there wasn’t much space left for argument I threw up my arms in mock surrender. “Yes ma’am!” It was difficult to judge Anna’s maturity, in the same way it was difficult for all children. Both her parents said that she was a silly girl who should learn to grow up, as did Mrs. Taylor, the nosy teacher who taught her things like reading and adding up numbers. In a way she knew she was acting silly herself, when she entertained ideas like going to bed in a certain position then waking up the next morning completely changed into a boy like her cousins. But then you can also say she wasn’t childish at all, that she had a certain early-for-her-age maturity about her, because otherwise how would she know she was being silly in the first place? Will and Mason were like two sides of the same coin. while they had the same eyes and nose Mason was both taller and leaner than his younger sibling, who was stocky and had a noticeably rounder face. The difference still would not have been comical if it weren’t for Mason’s ears, which were oversized like a mouse’s and jutted beyond the outline of his head. He was also the shrewder and more adventurous of the two. “You wouldn’t believe this rabbit hole I found! It’s just across the hill. last time I saw two of ‘em leave. there’s an entire den of little un’s inside I’m tellin’ you.” “I don’t want to go.” “Why not?” “I don’t know, what if it’s a fox den?” “We’ll catch some foxes ’en.” “What if one of them jumps out and bites us?” “Foxes don’t bite. We saw one at the market. Tame as a dog.” “What if we get rabies?” “I want to go!” The two of them looked at her with the same curiosity and shock as one would have while regarding a particularly strange breed of dog, and it might as well be true. Neither had spent much time around the peculiar species their parents called “girls”. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” “Nothing. It’s just that you’re a girl.” it was Will who spoke. “I’m not a girl.” “But you are.” Mason was apparently too anxious to wait until the end of the argument. “Great! that makes the two of us! I’ll lead the way!” The two of them marched past hills and the occasional flock of sheep, dragging a protesting Will behind. It was unusually cold and windy for late June and the English countryside occasionally blasted massive gusts that forced the trio to turn around and walk backwards. At one point Mason, still leading, tripped and rolled the entire distance downhill. Much to Anna’s giggling amusement. He got up, dusting off the bits of grass and mud caking his pants, his face red. The “den” if one could call it that, turned out to be a disappointment, a dusty hole in the earth under an apricot tree. For the span of twenty minutes Anna was crouched over it, making what she thought were rabbit noises before dangling a blade of grass over the entrance like a fisherman’s lure. Her pursuits went unanswered. In time she gave up. “What are you doing?” Mason was already halfway up the tree, clumsily perched between two branches like the bear she had seen in picture books. The canopy bowed and shook in the wind. “Apricots!” he shouted, cheerfully, pointing towards the crown. Anna peered between the leaves and saw flashes of sunset orange among the emerald. “He’s not going to make it.” said his younger sibling, also glancing upwards. Indeed Mason was right. Ten minutes later he had gained barely a meter in altitude and his legs had started shaking as if they were mounting their own protest, bringing the entire tree rattling with them. Five minutes later he gave up, dismounting from the branches, his arms bruised and with no apricots to show. Somehow he still had the energy to convince his younger brother to repeat his mistake in the way only siblings could. Will made even less progress, hardly managing to lift himself to the first fork before losing his grip and falling to the ground in a graceless heap. Anna couldn’t take more of it. “I’ll go.” The two of them glanced at her with the same incredulity as before, albeit accented by exhaustion. It was Mason who spoke first. “You’re a girl.” “I told you, I’m not a girl!” “You won’t make it.” “Would you want to bet?” Neither spoke, much to her private delight. It was hard to tell if it was purely out of exhaustion. She started climbing the tree in much the same way she saw her cousins did, using stumps and forks as footholds and positioning her weight so that they didn’t give out under her. When there were no overhanging branches to step on it sufficed to use friction, Anna dug the sole of her shoe into the bark until it left green wounds starting to ooze sap, then she hoisted her other leg up onto the opposite branch, leaning on the first one for support. But that wasn’t why she did better than her cousins. If there was one thing she truly excelled at it was that she was clever in how to avoid exhaustion. She positioned her arms and upper torso in such a way so that they would never be strained. When she felt the faintest hint of a tremor start to radiate from her leg she knew it was time to reposition it in a way that didn’t require bending at odd angles. While the siblings knew that it was bad manners to laugh when misfortune befell ladies they were still expecting her to give up when she started scaling the branches. To say that such feelings transitioned to shock, then awe was an understatement, as she hoisted herself into a perching position a full ten meters above their heads. Anna scanned the treetops for the apricots she saw from the ground. A thunderhead had reared up in the distance, it’s anvil-shaped top angry and boiling. the wind had picked up considerably, the leaves clapped and rustled, the branch she had crawled on bowed under the gust and she felt her weight starting to shift as she tightened her grip reassuringly. One of the ripe fruits beamed a sunset orange smile from between the canopy. “You see ‘em?” “I’ll see if I can reach them.” she said as she extended a scratched and bruised arm. There were perhaps half a dozen in total-much less than the three of them had observed from the ground. she twisted the apricot in such a way so that it’s stem was severed and it dropped to the ground in a muffled thud. There was a rustling in the grass beneath as the siblings scrambled after it. “How is it?” “You split it open! There’s now dirt and gunk inside” “It’s not my fault! Can’t you see how high up I am?” “Can you drop them...slower?” “No.” “Can you at least try?” She ignored them as she went after the second of them, followed by the third and fourth. She was at the sixth and last when there was a gust of wind that slammed into her like a wall. She tightened her grip again. Her left foot started to slip as the branch bobbed like a horse, a sinking in her gut as it descended followed by a rebound so strong it threatened to send her sailing. And there was a joy welling up inside her she had never felt before. “Annie? Can you try getting down?” “No!” “I think we should go home. It’s going to rain soon.” They weren’t sure if they should feel more surprised or terrified when she started to whoop, as she held her face straight into the wind, it tangled up her hair, she could hardly open her eyes as the gust roared into her like a crashing wave, perched among the treetops, shouting, whooping, the sound of it carrying across the hills as the first raindrops touched the branches.


I wear a designer, tailored, three-piece charcoal suit with golden cufflinks and a silk tie dad gave me from a Turkish bazaar when I was ten. You wear a pin-striped dinner jacket with jeans. I wait in my car for more people to arrive before entering. You were here long before anyone else. I greet some old friends and tell them all about my six-week holiday across Southeast Asia, recommending that they avoid tour groups and soak in the culture on a solo voyage. They hang on every word and give me numbers to call sometime soon, which I promptly delete. You vaguely listen with a vacant gaze. I take a swig from my flask while no one is looking. My sponsor congratulates me on being two years sober with a heart emoji and a gif saying ‘Keep it up!’. You see everything from your corner of the gathering. I turn down an offering of tiny quiches, lying to the caterer that I’m lactose intolerant. I haven’t eaten in days. You politely take one, then another, before wrapping them in a napkin and stuffing them down your front jean pocket. I lock the door of the bathroom and splash my face with water. I stare at myself blankly in the mirror and try to recite the speech clutched in my trembling hands. You knock on the door, asking if everything’s alright. I open the door, giving you a dismissive grimace as I re-join the assembly. The host beckons to me and insists we make our way outside as soon as possible before the rain comes. I forgot to bring an umbrella, but I’m optimistic we’ll stay dry when looking at the clouds. You clutch a black umbrella. I let out a strong wolf whistle that I learned from a street vendor in Phnom Penh, bringing the foyer to a hush. I try cheerily to convince everyone to make their way to the lawns, but I’m interrupted by soft chattering. You let out a definitive ‘Oi!’ and tell everyone to shut up before nodding at me to continue. I don’t nod back. Everyone gingerly makes their way outside, umbrellas in hand. You wait for everyone to step out until it’s just us, alone. You go to open your mouth. I brush past you to join the others. You walk towards the procession of black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas and dripping black eyeliner. I can’t look his mum in the eye. You can’t even look at his coffin. I take a deep breath and take a seat with the family. The celebrant says a few words before inviting me to begin the eulogy. I face my former colleagues, teammates, girlfriends, friends, and you. It starts raining, soiling the last-minute words I wrote for him and I struggle to speak. You hand me your umbrella. The service ends, the mourning crowd disperses, and we’re alone again. We lock eyes in silence. We used to have staring contests that would last what felt like hours, all three of us. You offer a teary smile and nod. I drop my stoic veneer and smile back. You grieve. I grieve.


Your neighbor is a vampire. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. First, he dresses EXACTLY like Dracula, all the time, even when alone in the house. Second, you never see him in the day, only at night. And third, even though he has a kitchen, you’ve never seen him eat, and even though he has a bathroom, you never see him use it. You learned all these things over the past few weeks, shortly after getting a telescope for your birthday. You’ve been watching him, every so often, through his windows. It’s how you discovered his peculiarities. It kind of scares you, really, but you keep watching, night after night. Sometimes he’s on the couch in the living room, reading a book. Sometimes he’s playing the piano he has in the upstairs hall. Sometimes he puts on a record and dances like no one’s watching, even though someone is watching. But anything to do with normal human functions? Eating, drinking, going to the bathroom? Nowhere to be found. Weeks go by. You reach the limit of what can be learned by peaking through windows. So you break into his house one Saturday morning, throwing a rock through a window and loosening the bolt. You look into his fridge, and there’s no food, but there are stacks and stacks of bags filled with a dark red liquid. It’s blood. You look around some more. You realize there’s no mirrors anywhere. Finally you get to a closed door upstairs. You push it open and see, pushed up against the wall and resting on a large block, a coffin. You creep over to it and gently open the lid. Inside is your neighbor, with a trickle of blood running down his mouth. Up close you can see his two sharp fangs protruding over his lip. It’s confirmed. Definitely a vampire. Only one thing to do. You go back downstairs and smash one of the chairs in the kitchen, made from a heavy pine wood. You’d think the noise would wake someone, but the vampire remained fast asleep. You take one of the legs and, with a knife from the counter, sharpen it to a point. Finally, you grab a meat tenderizer from one of the drawers and go back upstairs, on to the coffin room. You lift the lid, place the stake, and pound down the hammer. Your neighbor wakes up, screams, then crumbles to dust right there. You did it. You killed the vampire. And it wasn’t even that hard. You go home, feeling very proud of yourself. Until later that night, when the police show up at your house. They say they have a warrant for your arrest, for breaking into your neighbor’s house and killing him. But, you say, he was a vampire. And the police say yes he was, but that doesn’t mean you can just kill him like that. You’re impressed by how casually they agreed he was a vampire, but distressed by them believing what you did was murder. Later, at your trial, you learn that, yes, your neighbor was indeed a vampire. A vampire who sponsored the town’s youth sports league. A vampire who taught adult literacy classes at the local community college. A vampire who let people use his lawn in the summer for free movie nights. A vampire, in other words, who cared. And then, the prosecutor says pointing at you, this villain over here broke into his house, destroyed his furniture, and killed him without mercy. And doesn’t even feel sorry about it! What crime, the prosecutor asks, did this vampire commit? Was he bothering anyone? Hurting anyone? Doing anything to deserve a stake through the heart? He. Did. Not. Your own lawyer argues that all vampires must drink blood to survive and so he had to have been a monster. But then you learn that he actually bought his blood from a blood bank like any respectable vampire would. And then your lawyer actually says “well I got nothing then” and sits down and that’s the end of that. The jury doesn’t take long at all. In just a few minutes they come back and say they find you guilty. You spend the rest of your life feeling like you should have thought things through a little more.


#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 we 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 music and art! They play such a big part in my own writing and provide much needed inspiration. In fact, when I sit down to write, I always search for the right music first, and then go searching for a cool image. I’m also greatly influenced by the things I watch. But every writer is different and pulls inspiration from different places. - Do you use music and art as inspiration in your writing? What about television or film? - What other types of media or outside sources do you use? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? Check out previous Roundtable discussions on our ! *** #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.


#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 Weakness! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘Weakness’. We all have them, whether it's a person, a thing, a feeling, or something else entirely. Weaknesses remind us that we are human, or at the very least, vulnerable. They can take on any shape or form. Maybe the weakness is more literal, due to sickness, or physical exertion. How do your characters experience weaknesses in their daily lives? What type of things make them vulnerable? Who—or what—do they lean on for support and guidance? If you’re writing in a magical world, maybe your characters’ magic is weak to a specific spell or element. How does this endanger them? What happens when an enemy or foe learns of these vulnerabilities? Maybe a new face has to step in the hero's shoes. These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post 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! - July 3 - Weakness (this week) - July 10 - Yearning - July 17 - Alliance   *** **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. *Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title.* 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 Rankings are postponed until next week. Thank you for your patience!   *** ###Subreddit News - Call for voters for our on r/WritingPrompts! Check out the post and comment to become a voter! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Reporter: Thank you for meeting with me. I know you don’t see many visitors. **Prisoner: I’ve read your work before. I like how you write.** Reporter: I appreciate that. **Prisoner: I liked your oped last week.** Reporter: About the Medicare reform bill? **Prisoner: Yes, that one.** Reporter: Is that why you agreed to speak with me? Because I might tell your story sympathetically? **Prisoner: My story deserves no sympathy.** Reporter: So why did you agree to this? **Prisoner: I like the way you write.** **** Reporter: Let me tell you why I’m here. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that you are very different from shooters who came before you. **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: You’re not a disturbed loner – **Prisoner: I am disturbed. I’m pretty lonely.** Reporter: Fair enough. But you weren’t always.. **Prisoner: No, I wasn’t.** Reporter: You’re not a radical, you’re not a religious fanatic. You’re a data analyst living in the suburbs of Minneapolis. You have no history of addiction, criminality, financial duress, zealousness, mental illness – **Prisoner: — well, I’m not sure –** Reporter: — no *longstanding* history of mental illness. Home, bought and paid for, decent nest egg, wife, family – **Prisoner: — family… –** Reporter: — family, dog, lots of friends. You could be anyone. **Prisoner: And yet, here you are with me.** Reporter: You could be anyone, but such an act of terrorism, it seems to me – **Prisoner: I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: You’re not a terrorist? **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: Maybe we’re getting too deep too quickly. Why don’t we take a breath. **** Reporter: Let’s start with your family. You have 2 children – **Prisoner: — had –** Reporter: I’m sorry, you had 2 children. Your elder, Sam, is 12 now? **Prisoner: 13** Reporter: Yes, 13. I apologize. She’s a rising eighth grader at Washington Junior? Tell me about her. **Prisoner: Sam is 13. She’s the light of my life. She loves piano and books and writing stories about aliens and superheroes.** Reporter: She sounds wonderful. **Prisoner: She does well in school. She used to do better, but she’s doing fine, all things considered. I think they’d classify her as gifted if not for… Her favorite singer is Cat Stevens, and her current dream is to plant a million trees.** Reporter: How is she doing nowadays? **Prisoner: Not great.** Reporter: Isn’t that to be expected? Didn’t you expect that? **Prisoner: Of course I did.** Reporter: Of course. I’m sorry. We’ll come back to Sam. **** Reporter: Your second child, your son, Chris, is two years younger than Sam? **Prisoner: Was.** Reporter: Yes, was. Chris was 7 when it happened? **Prisoner: 7. Chris was 7.** Reporter: He was 7, finishing up 2nd grade. **Prisoner: Yes. He and Sam were both at the same school then.** Reporter: Lincoln Elementary. **Prisoner: Yes, Lincoln. She was 9, he was 7.** Reporter: So tell me about Chris. **Prisoner: What is there left to say? Every minute of his life has been dissected by every news outlet and web sleuth.** Reporter: But don’t you want to tell me about him? **Prisoner: No, I don’t think so.** Reporter: OK, but you can tell the world about him, about what he meant to you. **Prisoner: He’s gone.** Reporter: You can honor his memory – **Prisoner: He’s gone. There is no one left to honor –** Reporter: OK, OK, let’s – **Prisoner: … there is no one left to honor, and pretending that we somehow keep his spirit alive when no matter how many stories we share or tears we shed, nothing we do can do him any good — that’s what dishonors his memory.** Reporter: OK. OK. **** Reporter: Chris was one of 47 children killed in what was then the deadliest school mass shooting in this country’s history. **Prisoner: Yes. He was the 3rd child killed that day.** Reporter: The whole world is sorry for your loss. **Prisoner: Thank you. Chris was killed for no reason, but he was killed** ***third*** **because he began sobbing after the shooting began. 7 year olds cry, but Chris was more sensitive than most. He used to cry when he was going to bed. Said he would miss us while he slept. Whenever he did that, we used to tell him that it was time for him to grow up… It was something we were working on.** Reporter: To see what he must have seen… **Prisoner: It was too much.** **** Reporter: After mass shooting events, especially of younger children, other parents have gone on to create advocacy groups, support networks. Why haven’t you channeled your anger into something productive like they have? **Prisoner: I thought about it. I tried for a few months. To get involved. To speak out. But I just stopped.** Reporter: What happened? Why did you stop? **Prisoner: I kept asking myself, why is it on me?** Reporter: What do you mean? **Prisoner: Why is it on me? It was my family that was ripped apart, literally flesh from bone. My son was unrecognizable. I am unrecognizable. Some days I still find it hard to find the will to inhale, and it’s on me to make this a better world? Why does any of this fall on me?** Reporter: You’re right. It shouldn’t be on you. But you didn’t end up doing nothing, did you? **Prisoner: No, I did something.** **** Reporter: Earlier, I said that Chris was murdered in what was then the nation’s largest mass school shooting because that record has since been surpassed. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: By the time you were captured, 54 children had died or sustained the injuries that would later kill them. And you didn’t choose a random school. You chose Sidwell Friends, DC’s most elite private school. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: A school that counts among its students children of politicians and dignitaries. You chose an outdoor assembly where students would be gathered closely and could be attacked from a distance. Of your victims, 6 were children of Congressmen, 2 of Senators, and 1 the grandson of a Supreme Court Justice. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: These are people who make the laws that govern, among others, access to high capacity firearms like the ones you used last January. **Prisoner: Like the ones used on my son.** Reporter: Yes. You chose the same models that were used against your son. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: Do you think these weapons should be outlawed? **Prisoner: Of course I do.** Reporter: And yet you chose to use them. **Prisoner: They’re not illegal.** **** Reporter: Earlier, you claimed that you’re not a terrorist, but it seems pretty clear that you were targeting the lawmakers who made it possible for mass shooters to procure the weapons that killed your son. And who then made it possible for you to procure those same weapons. **Prisoner: I did target them, but I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: How is this not terrorism? **Prisoner: Because nothing will change.** Reporter: Did you think that if these people felt what you feel, that they would change their minds? **Prisoner: Nothing ever changes.** **** Reporter: As you might be aware, one of the victim’s fathers, a congressman, has publicly switched his stance on gun control. It’s been reported that 1 other is considering changing his as well. Does that give you hope? **Prisoner: How much hope do you think they have?** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did could be taken as a warning to lawmakers and politicians? **Prisoner: It shouldn’t be. What I did was entirely predictable. A certainty.** Reporter: And why does that matter? **Prisoner: Because a warning is a threat. An eventuality just is.** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did is a call to action for copycats to keep doing what you did until they change their minds? **Prisoner: The next mass shooter will be a mass shooter regardless of my actions.** Reporter: But they might not otherwise target the children of lawmakers as you did. **Prisoner: My victims are not the last children of lawmakers to die like this.** Reporter: So if not a warning, if not a terrorist act, was it an act of revenge? **Prisoner: No, it wasn’t revenge. Revenge could have been enough, but I honestly didn’t care about revenge. I didn’t see the point in it.** Reporter: So why? **Prisoner: Because this is the world now.** Reporter: What do you mean by that? **Prisoner: This is the world we have now. The world we’ve allowed, the world we’ve designed. And this is what happens in this world.** Reporter: It doesn’t sound like you take a lot of responsibility for what you did. **Prisoner: This is the world they created. I’m just an agent of that world. I was bound to happen, so I let me happen.** **** Reporter: Let’s talk about the children, the ones you killed. These kids did nothing wrong – **Prisoner: My kid did nothing wrong.** Reporter: — nothing other than to be born to politicians you disagree with. **Prisoner: Some of those politicians I agree with.** Reporter: When you entered the room, when you looked into their frightened eyes, didn’t you know that you were doing something terribly wrong? Evil? **Prisoner: Of course** Reporter: What did you feel? **Prisoner: Compassion, sorrow, shame, disgust.** Reporter: And yet you went ahead **Prisoner: Yes** Reporter: Why? **Prisoner: There is no logic to losing my child — or any child — in such an unnatural way, in such a preventable way, a sacrifice to nothing. There is no rational response to irrationality. I went ahead because in a senseless world, there are only senseless actions.** **** Reporter: Have you ever thought about what Chris would have wanted? **Prisoner: Of course.** Reporter: Would he have wanted this? **Prisoner: He would not have wanted this. He would be horrified.** Reporter: So then why did you do it? **Prisoner: My son is dead.** Reporter: Even if he wouldn’t have wanted this? **Prisoner: My son is dead. He doesn’t want anything.** Reporter: But don’t you sully his memory by doing such a terrible thing? **Prisoner: What I do now means nothing to him.** **** Reporter: There is still Sam. **Prisoner: Yes, Sam.** Reporter: She suffers from losing her brother, but she also suffers from knowing what you did and losing her father. **Prisoner: What I did to her was unforgivable.** Reporter: Why didn’t that stop you? **Prisoner: I used to tell my kids a story about the mathematics of love. When I met their mother, she filled my whole heart with love, edge to edge, 100%. But then when Sam came into the world, even though my heart was already completely full, I instantly loved her too with my whole heart, edge to edge, 100%. And when Chris was born, my heart was filled yet again, and I loved him with the entirety of heart, just as I did his sister and his mother. Each of them occupied 100% of my heart, edge to edge, and I could not love each of them any more than I did. Only love works like this.** Reporter: That’s a lovely sentiment, but doesn’t that mean that Sam still fills your heart? **Prisoner: It means that when Chris was killed, my heart was destroyed completely. My love for Sam is unending, but so is the absoluteness of the void. I am simultaneously full of love and incapable of love.** Reporter: I don’t understand. I might follow your logic, however tortured it may be, but when it leads you to a course of action that forces you to re-traumatize and then abandon your daughter, how could it possibly make sense? **Prisoner: She understands. She will understand. She will never forgive me, but she’ll make it through.** Reporter: For her sake, I hope you’re right. **Prisoner: I wish I could have been different for her.** **** Reporter: Let me ask you about your wife. **Prisoner: I think I’m done now.** Reporter: I’m sorry? **Prisoner: My wife isn’t my wife anymore. She won’t talk to me.** Reporter: I know. **Prisoner: I’m done. I’m tired. I’m ready to go back to my cell.** Reporter: I have just a few more questions for you before you – **Prisoner: — Hello? Can I be done here?** \[Guard enters the room and unshackles the prisoner from the table.\] Reporter: Please, just five more minutes. What happened with your wife in the aftermath of your son’s death? Did you seek counseling? What was your relationship with Sam after Lincoln? I want to understand – **Prisoner \[exiting the room\]: I’m actually easy to understand. I could be anyone.


#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: Eyes followed them down the corridor.** **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** A crime is committed. 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 if necessary (i.e. “had” to “have”), but the original sentence should stay intact. **Stories without the above sentence will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #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 - 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!   *** #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 as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - **Third:** - Submitted by u/altonalt - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - **Crit Star** - u/randallus - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Call for voters for our on r/WritingPrompts! Check out the post and comment to become a voter! - Practice those poetry skills with our brand new feature, , on r/WritingPrompts! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Despite our advances since the first successful interstellar flight, there are still many protocols designed to steer you clear of the many dangers in space. If not followed, you risk severe consequences for you and your crew. The rules are as follows: Rule 1: Do not attempt to cross voids more than 100000 light-years across unless your ship is specially designed for such voyages. Faster-Than-Light ships or light speed ships will run out of fuel and become stranded, sub-light ships would break down long before they reached their destinations. 800 ships have been lost to the great nothing this year alone. Rule 2: do not travel within 500,000 kilometres of a world with the potential to harbour life. If you crash on such a world, detonate the built-in thermonuclear warhead when you are rescued. This will ensure that any contamination from from you or your ship is destroyed. If you have no hope of rescue, connect the warhead to a dead man's switch, which will detonate the warhead in the event of your death. If the warhead was irreparably damaged in the crash, overload the ship's reactor, this will cause a similar explosion. If the reactor is not a nuclear one, mix the Uranium plating on your ship's hull with the liquid Plutonium in the warhead. This will cause a chemical reaction that will result in massive release of ionising radiation, causing the death of even the hardiest microbes and also you. Rule 3: Do not chart interstellar courses that pass within 5 Astronomical Units of a neutron star or a black hole. Their gravity may pull your ship off course or even into the stellar remnant itself. Rule 4: In the event that you encounter alien life, contact the Department of Extraterrestrial Life and the relevant authorities at your destination so that quarantine procedures may be undertaken on your arrival. If the life is intelligent, also contact the Extraterrestrial Diplomatic Corps. If the life is hostile, also contact the Department for Galactic Security and attempt to contain the threat. If all efforts fail, attempt to neutralize the threat. If this is also unsuccessful, enable the "do not board" beacon and set the ship to self destruct. Only attempt to use escape pods if you are confident that you and the escape pod are not contaminated by the organism(s). If you break any part of this rule, you, your ship, and any escape pods will be incinerated. Rule 5: Do not set courses that pass within 3000 light years of a star that is within 100 years of going supernova. If you do, you risk acute radiation poisoning. That is, you'd be cooked alive. Rule 6: black holes and neutron stars may only be approached within 0.25 Astronomical Units for purposes of research, performing gravitational slingshots, or neutronium mining. Please see rule 3 for the consequences of ignoring this rule. Rule 7: Do not attempt to pass through an uncharted natural wormhole unless in a relevant emergency situation. Not only do you risk reappearing in normal space on the other side of the universe, you also risk getting ripped apart if the wormhole is unstable. Do not attempt to pass through a wormhole that is not at least 100 kilometres wider than your ship, as you risk spaghettification otherwise. Rule 8: Do not attempt to pass through an artificially created wormhole that has been deprived of exotic matter for longer than 10 years. The wormhole risks collapsing into a black hole if deprived for any longer. Rule 9: do not attempt intergalactic voyages unless you are piloting a ship specially designed for such a journey. Due to the vast distances between galaxies, rescue cannot be attempted, and you would be facing certain death. Rule 10: Only approach within 100 light years of a strange star if your ship is fitted with special sensors designed to detect strange quarks, for research purposes, or for emergency gravitational slingshots. If you get too close, you risk making physical contact with a strangelet, which would convert your whole ship and you into strange matter. Rule 11: Do not, under any circumstances, approach abandoned Dyson Spheres or Penrose Spheres. If a sudden emergency discharge of the building energy being held inside the structure is performed by the deteriorating maintenance computer, your ship will very likely be caught in the blast. Rule 12: Do not dive any deeper than 2 kilometers into the atmosphere of a gas giant unless your ship's hull is capable of withstanding pressures above 10000 Kilo pascals and temperatures above 100 degrees Celsius and temperatures at absolute zero. You risk being crushed by the atmosphere, melting, or freezing to death if your ship cannot withstand these conditions. Rule 13: Do not dive deeper than 2 kilometers into the atmosphere of a brown dwarf star unless your ship's hull can withstand temperatures above 1000 degrees Celsius and pressures above 10000 Kilo pascals. If your ship cannot withstand these conditions, you will either be melted or crushed. Rule 14: Do not pass through nebulae unless for purposes of research, resource extraction, or if your destination is within the nebula. By entering a nebula, you have a much higher risk of hypersonic collisions with cosmic dust, which will penetrate all but the strongest of hulls, resulting in decompression and a very likely death. Rule 15: Do not use generation ships for voyages longer than 10000 years in length, as the gene pool of even the largest ships would deplete and the entire population would die out before it reached its destination. Do not use cryogenic pods continuously for voyages longer than 200000 years in length, as our current technology cannot revive someone who has been in cryogenic suspension for longer. By following these simple rules alongside other rules which may be introduced at the ship captain's discretion, you can ensure that traversing the dark void of space is as safe for everyone as can be.


She danced between the rays of light, Searching for another like her, A home away from the envious eyes. No matter how she weaved and tangled herself around the empty space she could not escape them. No moon or planet was untouched, no cavity of the endless expanse held any solace for her. She drifted for an eternity, sometimes further into the expanse where it took longer for them to find her, but eventually they always found her. Millennia came and millennia went, and she had lost hope. Resigning herself to the chase, until one small whisper reached her that sounded nothing like the others. It almost sounded welcoming, cold and even, with no room for false intentions or deception. So she gave this voice an audience in her mind, having no reason to distrust even the smallest glimpse of hope. If this venture went wrong, all she would have to do is run as she always did. So where was the harm? It lured her closer to her pursuers, closer than she had ever dared go on her own. In the ever circling race, she for the first time in her infinite existence ventured to the very core of the expanse, where all eyes were drawn. Her dancing grew direct, flowing with less and less deviation towards this small voice in the void. Until there she was at the very core of existence, and she danced in place, spinning with no direction or need to move from where she stood. The voice enveloped her, drowning out her fear of the eyes, wrapping her in a safe cloud of sound and her own beauty. She no longer felt the eyes forever piercing her soul, no longer chasing her. She was safe, but how? For the first time in her existence she stood still and just looked around her. She looked out and saw millions of stars, all circling around her and for once saw how they too were beautiful. They shone through the darkness that surrounded them, in a defiance of what constantly threatened to snuff them out. She saw them stand their ground against their perceived enemy and envied their courage in contrast to her fear. She wondered if they were as scared as she was. And what gave them the courage to face that fear rather than flee? But these thoughts all quickly fled as she questioned how she was able to finally sit stagnant, why was she no longer fleeing? She sat in the very center of the universe, in a black hole that seemed to defy all light. It did not pierce the space she was in, and yet it was still present. All the light was drawn in, then bent around its edges, leaving an infinite void within. A void that was somehow welcoming. Honest in its intent and its actions. It meant her no harm and yet did not care for her. It simply allowed her to exist within it. She questioned its intent, why had it reached out to her and saved her? And its response was indifference. He had sat here unmoving for an eternity just as she had run and danced, and yet she had never ventured to him. She had never even acknowledged his existence and never asked for help. He felt he might as well take that step as he had grown bored of her dance. He cared not for it, and wanted momentary peace. More for himself than for her. And so he fell silent again. Leaving her alone in his embrace to weep as it all overwhelmed her.


The light was too much to handle, it had a certain heat that made him itch all over, as if he were allergic to heat. He scratched over and over again, hearing his nails scrape against his skin. The man sat on the chair trying with emphatic intent to understand the unworldly things he was hoping to recite back on a piece of paper. The dictionary lay open; a sea of knowledge he could never tap into. Although, that is not what bothered him. He threw the pen at the sink, the water clogged in it splashing with unbearable intensity. The pen against the metal sink made a clang which sounded like a child reading the alphabet. It was strange. He heard himself say A, then B, then C, then D, then T, then P, then CAT, an animal he thought was so misunderstood for just living how it was born. He empathized with it. He tried to say more words, like FAITH and GOD, like PEN and PAPER. All he could do was say and never write. The letters of the English Alphabet always seemed like a nuisance, having never had the time to learn it himself. How ironic was it that his very own job was to deliver letters to people? Letters written in the language he hated. His neighbors, his children, and everywhere else he went, he was always known as **"The Postman."** His title was not a great one, he always thought to himself. It didn't matter until the letters he brought would bring the smiles in people he never knew. The letters he brought would make people thank a person like him, while he stood there frozen with a ghostly smile trying to formulate how you would write those words in paper. It was strange, how he could always tell what words meant but never write them down. What was so different? His frustrations wouldn't allow his mind to think clearly. There was nothing special about being a postman, when the happiness he brought to people was clouded by his own jealousy, his own stupidity and his own worthlessness. How could they love the language so much that it brought smiles to their faces? How could they not see his plight? How dare they love the language he hated, dare smile in front of him, THANK him. That's why the happiness from letters of love and bonds that brought people together was nothing special. In fact, through the years of being a mailman, he had only know pain and slander. It felt like he was entitled to being lower than everyone else. His friends were the ones who always slandered him most mordantly about his illiteracy. His children thought of him as a disappointing father who could not provide amicable finances. His wife, the only person who loved out of pity, tried to keep their family from crumbling. He held 3 paychecks, all from her different part time jobs, and tore them to pieces. He could read numbers, his face felt hot from the lack of them in there. Pain and Sorrow was as integral to his life as breathing; sometimes it felt like they were the same. He coughed as flaky ashes flew away from a nearby ashtray. The mailman hated his job but it also seemed like his job hated him. It haunted him for days on end, ever since he had picked up that ragged uniform that was now torn up on the hanger in a shadowy corner of his home. The uniform was a hand down from the man who had last been "The Postman." He wondered how that man felt about his job, he always had a smile. Well, obviously, he could read. Meanwhile, the current mailman was getting sick of his job. The melancholy of being "just a postman" without sufficient means to feed his family tore him up from the inside. He let out a reluctant sigh as the bulb on top of him went out, leaving the room in darkness that crawled its cold fingers around him. The heat had dissipated, his itching had turned to cold shivers that made him want to claw rather than scratch. It was weird, he could not tell what which was worse, the cold or the heat. Maybe if he'd been able to write just one word, things would feel lukewarm. Bearable. He was always used as an example. Not of great things, but of being a burden, a failure being used to incite fear into young children. When he thought of it like that, something felt so sincerely wrong. Mothers would often scoff at him while walking past with their children, twisting their mouth in distaste and teaching their children the value of "education" so they could never be like him. It wasn't like he wished the same fate as him on the innocent children, but the sadness that came from these remarks still tore him up from the inside and broke his heart. There was something so inherently wrong with teaching children to fear and disgust the poor and miserable. He always taught his sons to grow up and be better, be at a place where they could help the misguided like himself, not tarnish and berate their misery. Maybe that way of thinking was wrong, maybe it wasn't normal and those as unfortunate as him didn't deserve saving, grace or hope. It was their anathema for being so useless. If it wasn't wrong, then his wife and children would never leave him. Behind him, a car sped past, its headlights rearing its heat into his house through the windows for a fraction of a second. **That second was lukewarm.** It had only been two days since his wife had left with the children. He did not recall how he had survived this far. Tears that felt like ice poured down his cheeks as he realized that he was not capable of writing. The letter that sat on the chair was now wet from his tears and blank from his failures. He would not be able to send his last words in a letter to his family. Why had he never learned to read and write? The pen in the sink splashed, taunting him of his failures while repeatedly clanging against the metal sink, singing a chorus of ABC's. Nothing mattered anymore. He wasn't sane it seems because there was no other way to describe the vertigo in his mind. His eyes blurred as he put the rope around his neck and tied it to the ceiling fan. He blinked but no tears poured. He jumped from the chair and struggled against the thread of fiber slowly shredding through the skin at his neck while the weight of his body crushed into itself. Another car sped past his house, its headlights looking into his house like a curious visitor for another fraction of a second. It saw him, body and mind, in absolute silence. This time, it was lukewarm even after one second.


I’ve never liked funerals and this one was no different but it was made even worse by the circumstances. It was a ritual I hated in a world that I no longer belonged to. I saw their glances as I walked into the church, crossing my fingers and hoping that I wouldn’t immediately burst into flames. Six months ago, on the night before the Fourth of July, while the country was getting ready to celebrate our nation’s birth I was about to come face to face with death. I was with my girlfriend at a party. Shelly was always the life of the party, smiling, bubbly, cheerful to the last. As the party died down, we got into a fight about our plans for the next day. I wanted to go to the barbeque at my friend Jack’s place; she wanted to go to her parent’s house. She stormed out, I chased her. I caught her in time to keep her from walking home through two miles of dark streets and questionable neighborhoods. I may have averted one disaster but I couldn’t avoid the second. We were still arguing as we drove home. Me trying to focus on the road and Shelly trying to yell over me. We were almost home when I got so mad that I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply just to stay calm. Neither of us saw the light turn red or the truck that was coming into the intersection. The car was destroyed and Shelly was in a coma. I stayed by her side that night until her parents arrived and asked me to leave. They never quite understood what she saw in me and now they had a better reason to hate me. So I went home and did what I did best, I drank. I spent most of the next month in the bottle. With time I got more and more cold shoulders from our friends as they huddled together and looked to the only place where they could lay blame, on my shoulders. She never woke up from that coma and just three days into the new year, she let go. I’ll never know why, or what really happened. The people around me in the Church of the Savior didn’t so much as acknowledge me, to say nothing of actually speak to me. It was clear that they still saw this as my fault, as though if I had just shut up and not argued with her that night, she would still be here. I sat quietly in the back, respectful in my silence. Unable to sing the hymns that Shelly always loved so much, unmentioned in the remembrances, unable to cry the tears that I felt inside me. I loved Shelly, I still do. The day before the accident I had bought a ring. I was planning to propose the next day. It was one of the reasons I wanted to go to Jack’s. He lived close to the lake where I took Shelly on a picnic for our first date. None of these people who now shunned me knew that though, they didn’t realize that I still had that ring, that even now as they turned their backs to me I held it between my fingers in the pocket of my coat, turning my heart to Shelly, as always. Surely I hadn’t been the greatest catch when Shelly and I met. I was unemployed with very little future ahead of me. I smoked and drank too much and had a history of bad decisions. But Shelly saw something more in me and brought it out. I was cleaning up my act and I loved her even more for it. There was something about her that could make the most evil man give up his wicked ways. The crowd stood to say the Lord’s Prayer and as they sat I left my seat and walked to the front. I stared at the framed picture of Shelly surrounded by flowers that sat on an easel above her casket as I walked down the aisle to Shelly instead of with her. The frame and the flowers were gaudy and Shelly would have hated them. In my ears were the gasps of the people at my actions. Her father stood to stop me as I approached her casket. I simply pulled the ring from my pocket, placed it over her heart and walked back down the aisle. Her mother began to cry over the murmurs of the crowd as the ones who could see what happened told those who couldn’t. I walked away from Shelly for the first and only time, took my coat from the foyer and turned my collar up to the January cold as I stepped out into the inappropriately bright afternoon.