The school bell rings. School is over, and I run to my locker and grab my backpack. I run outside to the bus, and I take my seat towards the back. I am always one of the first few people on the bus. The bus starts to fill with my classmates who sit with their friends. I make myself small in anticipation. A group of seven fifth graders sit in the back around me. We have an agreement where I won’t acknowledge them, and they don’t acknowledge me. I don’t pay attention to their conversations as it is rude to eavesdrop. The bus leaves the school, and I start to head home. On the way back, I see a basketball group assembling in the backyard for practice. My parents insist on getting me to play a sport every year. I always tell them that I am too clumsy for sports. Gym class is the riskiest time for me; my lack of athletic ability is on full display. The other students go from ignoring me to disliking me. I keep quiet and wait for it to be over. Sometimes, I am clever enough to find a way to excel at a sport. The students always cheer for me in shock, and I find their screams worse. Why do they have to be so loud? When the bus reaches my stop, the fifth-graders let me out of my seat. Occasionally, I am forced to get off the next stop by people who hate me. When I get to my house, I pull out my key and open the door. Right beside the door, there is a brochure. I sigh. I wonder what my parents will want me to do this time. I take off my shoes, and I run up stairs. When I reach my room, I pull out my notebook and start scribbling. The contents are a mystery to everyone except for me. It is a log of my adventures. There is an intergalactic society, a magic kingdom, an international spy organization, a superhero team, and so much more in this notebook. I have traveled to far away galaxies and other dimensions. I have survived a trip to the core of the sun and the day of the dinosaurs extinction. Even small things are grand adventures like the time I helped the elderly woman with crops or when I repaired a ship in space. I hear a knock on the door. “Hey Jamie, so I know you like your notebook so I was looking up various camps for you. I found this program ran by the community college that lets kids learn about exciting things that aren’t taught in school. There is a course on the science of Star Wars. I think you should look into it,” he says. “No thanks,” I say. He sits next to me on the bed. “Just listen. Your mother and I are worried about you. You usually go straight to your room after you get home. We’d like you to start trying new things,” he says. “I am trying new things in my notebook,” I say. I avoid his gaze. I always see disapprovement in his eyes. “Son, we mean new activities. We think it would be good for you. It’d be a chance for you to make some friends at school,” he says. “I did make a friend. Remember Quinn,” I say. “Quinn was not a good friend,” he says. I shrug. My parents didn’t like him because his parents let him dye his hair black, and they were worried he would be a bad influence on me. We see each other at school, but they will not let us hangout after school. “Look all I am saying is consider it. You might like it,” he leaves the brochure next to me. “That’s what you said about basketball camp,” I say. “Son, we told you that you never tried which is why you hated that camp. Please just try this,” he walks out of the room. I look at the brochure and start to flip through the pamphlet. Maybe I should take one of these courses. It could help with my writing. I did make a version of basketball that was played in space from the basketball camp. My parents didn’t understand why I was doing it, but at least, they are trying to understand me. I see a course called Harnessing Your Imagination. I look at my notebook. Maybe they were able to find a place for me. *Adolescent Tribulations* “Jamie, supper time,” I hear my mom yell. I sigh and leave my computer. I walk down the stairs, but I trip and fall on the last few stairs. My sister is standing there laughing at me. “Do we need to get you a Life Alert? Seeing as how you are always falling,” she says. “Shut up, Katie,” I stand up. “Is that all you have for a comeback?” she smiles at me. “Yep, your opening insult was so bad that I am not going to justify it with a proper response,” I reply. “What?” her smile fades, and I have thrown her off-guard. “It didn’t make sense. You are the one that fell in front of Quinn and ruined your chances of dating him,” I reply. “Mom, Jamie is being mean to me,” she explodes. “James stop being mean to your sister and come sit down at the dinner table, you too,” mom says. “I would stop being mean to her if you would start calling me James all the time and not just when I am in trouble,” I say. Dad sighs. “Son, can we please have a nice family dinner? I understand that you have an obligation to rebel as a teenager, but please let’s all enjoy each other’s company,” he says. I shrug and sit-down. The hunger in my stomach is overwriting the other moods that I feel. I grab a plate of lasagna and salad, and I am sure to sit away from Katie since she will steal my food. “So how was everyone’s day,” mom asks. “Fine,” I say. “Great. Olivia and I were invited to Ava’s pool party this weekend,” Katie says with a grin. “Ava,” mom’s brow furrows,” Isn’t her sister Taylor in your grade, Jamie. I mean James.” “Yeah, I don’t talk to her,” I say. “She is too cool for him,” Katie says. I ignore her comment. “Katie please don’t start it at the dinner table,” mom says. I quickly finish what’s on my plate and leave. “Wait, please don’t leave. We would like to talk some more,” mom says. “I don’t,” I walk up to my room and sit at my computer. I start watching streamers and playing games alone. I hear my dad knock on my door. “Sorry that your sister can be passive-aggressive, your mother and I talked to her about it after you left,” he says. “Thanks,” I say. “Are you writing again?” he asks with a smile. “Nope,” I reply. “Oh, that’s a shame. I thought you had a real talent for it,” he says. “Guess I didn’t,” my dad stands in the door, “Bye dad.” He leaves. I debate whether I should yell for him to return so I can explain why I don’t write anymore. After I took my first writing course, I refined my raw imagination into cohesive stories. The quality varied from unreadable to passable, but it was a consistent source of happiness. I felt invincible as a writer because I was fully in control of the narrative. Katie was the one who took that control. She stole one of my weaker stories where I was a space knight saving the galaxy from an evil serpentine race. It featured your standard child writing tropes: a plot that made little sense, constant space battles, and awkward dialogue. She read it with her friends Ava and Olivia to laugh at me. Ava’s sister Taylor found the story and showed it to her friends. Within a week, that story was the bane of my existence. One particular line was constantly used to taunt me. “You’ve shed your last skin, Vipro.” In the story, it was supposed to be the hero’s triumphant moment. In my life, it was emblematic of the lowest point in my life. After a few months, everyone forgot most of the story except for that line. Within a year, they pretty much stopped mentioning it unless they saw me writing for unrelated reasons. I rarely hear it now, but my reputation as a dreadful writer stuck and alienated me from my class. I never write now for fear of derision, and I still hold a degree of resentment towards Katie. Katie never apologized for stealing my story. I don’t think she ever will. If I brought it up to her now, she would tell me to get over it. My parents are dismayed that I failed at something else, but I am content with their disappointment. They won’t mock me for it, and if I’m not being mocked, then I am safe. *Adult Tragedies* James walks up the stairs and feels a sharp pain in his knees. These stairs aren’t that steep. He curses his failing body as he walks into the church. Funerals are an odd setting. No one knows what they’re doing. They are wandering around filling the time before it starts. James walks to the front row and settles into an edge seat. He hopes that no one talks to him. He cannot handle the emotional labor. His hopes are quickly dashed as multiple people take the opportunity to quickly speak with him. He forces a smile to avoid being rude, but he wants to be alone. More people start to enter the church and greet him. He finally sees his mom and uncle, Luke, enter. Both of them have red around their eyes. They go up to the stage. The funeral starts with full pews except for a small spot next to James. He looks around for Kate, but she is nowhere to be seen. James dissociates at the start of the funeral and misses every speech and song. He doesn’t want to believe it’s happening. Someone nudges him to stand to carry the casket. He can’t believe that it's over so quickly. Time passes faster now. He carries the casket with his relatives out of the church to the car. He gets into the vehicle and follows the procession to the burial. He has driven down these roads so many times. This is where he first learned to drive with his father, and now, he is driving on them to lay him to rest. When James arrives at the cemetery, he looks for a car or a person by the plot. The burial workers are the only people there. James carries the casket to the plot and watches it be lowered into the hole. He turns to his car to go back to the church for the repast. He grabs his sandwich and meats off the trays as well as a glass of water. He sits at the closest table to the front that has been reserved for family. His mother and Luke set their plates down by him, but they quickly leave to socialize with the crowd. They know that he isn’t much of a talker. His mom leaves her dog Terry on a leash by the table for James to watch. He always liked Terry, and he pets her between bites. His sister sits down next to him with a plate of food and a glass of wine. “Hey James, how’ve you been,” she smiles at James and accidentally reveals the lipstick on her teeth from when she hurriedly prepared for the repast. “I’m fine,” he looks down at Terry. “That’s good. Is everything going well at your accounting firm?” she asks. “Architecture firm,” he replies and takes a drink. “Oh sorry, I forgot,” she says. James shrugs, “How was the ceremony?” “It was fine,” James keeps eating. “Are you going to answer me in more than just simple sentences?” she asks. “No,” James says. “Come on. It’s dad’s funeral. Can we please get along now?” her voice cracks. James looks at her. “His funeral was earlier. You would’ve been there if you had any sense of responsibility,” he says. “I’m sorry. This is a really rough time for me,” she says. “It’s rough for us too. Mom was freaking out because you weren’t at the visitation. I texted you twenty times, and you never responded. Mom thought she lost you too. I knew that you were just being you. When you called her afterward, the only reason she was so happy was because she knew you were alive. She begged you to come to the funeral, and you no-showed. It’s no surprise that you showed up to the only event that serves alcohol,” James tries to maintain control of his voice, but a few people glance at their table. “James, why do you constantly judge me? I remember you used to be cool. You used to write those weird stories when did you become so so,” Kate stutters. “Kate, you mocked me for writing. I picked up writing again as a hobby, but I didn’t tell you that because you only respond when you need money. I’d walk away from you, but I’m not sure you’d be able to take good care of the dog,” James’s voice turns to a shout. His mother starts to cry. Luke starts walking towards them. “James, Rex loves me,” Kate shouts. James blinks at her. “Her name is Terry,” James walks away from her. Luke tries to stop him, but James brushes past him. “Make sure the dog doesn’t get any of her wine,” he says to Luke as he walks out the door. *Elderly Regrets* James sleeps in his bed facing the ceiling. He is unable to turn to the side as the wires and tubes in his body restrain him. The rhythm of his heartbeat provides a steady background noise. In his younger years, he wouldn’t be able to sleep in these conditions. At his age, he could fall asleep at a rock concert. When he awakes, he sees an older woman facing him with a smile on her face. His family is huddled outside of the room. For a few moments, James looks from side to side in the room before a frown covers his face. “Kate, why are you here?” he asks. Kate flaps her hand and gently presses him with a slight chuckle. She sits on a nearby chair to take the stress off of her feet. “My older brother had a heart attack. Of course I am going to visit you,” she says. “Where are you staying?” he presses onward. “Is that really relevant?” she puts her hands on her hips. “Yes,” he shoots back. “Your family offered to let me stay in their guest bedroom. I did not impose myself,” she huffs. “It was Chris wasn’t it. He has always had a soft-spot for you. I tried to tell him how,” James starts to raise his voice. “Just stop please. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to reconnect,” Kate starts to cry, “I always wanted to tell you that I was doing better, but I always felt like it was the wrong time. Your heart attack made me realize that I had to see you. Your family told me that you’d recover, and I thought that now would be a good time to start reconnecting.” James starts to cackle, “I read a quote a while back that said, ‘growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional.’ I think that describes you perfectly. If I were to have a relationship with you, I would be your father and not your brother.” “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re the one who refused to grow-up. I went back to college, and I have a job at a software company. I still love to party on occasion, but it isn’t holding me back in life. You on the other hand have refused to let the past be the past, and you abandon things that you love too easily. I was talking to Chris the other day. He had no idea that you used to write as a hobby,” Kate pulls out a notebook, “Your wife had this in the attic. It is all your story ideas. She says you haven’t touched it in thirty years.” “That was a product of childish naivety. Besides, there is no time to write a story,” James replies. “There is time now. You are just too stuck in your ways to try,” Kate stands up, “I came here to offer you an olive branch. You have taken that branch and used it as a weapon. It’s your turn to grow-up.” Kate walks out the door leaving her brother. His family comes in to comfort him, but his combative nature forces them to abandon him leaving him alone in his bed. Life is filled with love. Life is filled with loss. Life is filled with joy. Life is filled with anger. Life is constantly moving forward. Never let the aches and pains of the past prevent life from moving forward or be exiled from love and companionship at the end of life.


I’ve found that if I go up to the roof and stand on tiptoes to look over the battlements, I can see the reflection of my uncle’s castle in the water below. It makes a big dark shape like there’s a monster lurking down in the loch and for a moment I can just about believe it's what's keeping us trapped inside. ‘Careful there, Miss Muirenn,’ one of the guards calls out to me. They always do that and I hate it. I was only looking, and I wasn’t about to fall, but I step back anyway. There are always guards along the battlements, even though there’s nothing to see. There’s only the endless stretch of the loch all around us and maybe a few other boats in the distance, but those usually have other guards in them, too. Most of the time the castle guards aren’t actually on the lookout, though. They’re just working on building the new wooden lever machines they have up there or stacking up big piles of stone balls about the place. I’ve asked what they’re for but they tell me it’s none of my concern and to go and play somewhere else. I should; it’s boring up there, anyway. If I go down to the castle harbour, then maybe they’ll let me ride in one of the boats this time. They never do, though. Last time, they said my uncle Eoin said I wasn’t allowed, which is unfair because I'm a very good rower. I don’t even make it to the second floor before I hear the crying. It’s louder than all the noise of hammering and clattering and people rushing up and down that usually fills the castle. I don’t even have to see to know what is making such an awful noise. It’s Colban again, probably wanting to see Father or go paddling in the bay something else he can’t have. He’s such a baby. He’s hardly stopped crying since we got here. He’s always following me around, too, trying to grab at me with his sticky little hands. He whines even more when I pull myself free, so I have to let him pull at my skirts or else he won’t be quiet. He’s lying on the floor of his chambers, rolling around and aiming clumsy kicks at nothing as he screams. Cousin Torcuil is there with him, but he’s just sitting to the side, watching Colban work himself into a pointless fury. ‘What is it now?’ I ask, shouting so that he can hear me over his own wailing. ‘I… I… want to… go… *HOME*,’ he yells, his face red and smeared with tears. ‘Will you stop that,’ I say, kneeling down and grabbing his flailing fists. The shock of it stops his crying, at least. ‘I’ve told you, we can’t go home. We’ve got to stay here for now.’ It’s not even been two weeks since we left home and already I must have told him this a hundred times. I wish he’d just listen rather than getting angry about it every time like it’s my fault. ‘Do you know why you have to stay here?’ Torcuil asks, his voice calm and soothing. Colban shakes his head, sending a spray of hot tears flying across the room. ‘Remember?’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Because of the flux. People living across our loch were getting poorly and Father said we had to go and stay here for a while in case we got sick, too.’ There’s a look of surprise on Torcuil’s face at this. I hope he doesn’t think we brought the flux with us, because there are no other children here, and I don’t want to be stuck with only my crybaby brother for company. ‘It won’t be long. You’ll be able to go home soon,’ Torcuil says and pokes Colban in the tummy which makes him smile. ‘Hey, come on. Let’s go adventuring again. You liked that yesterday, didn’t you? Let’s go and see what we can find.’ Colban nods, gulping down the last of his sobs. Trust Torcuil to come up with such a clever distraction. Even small things are grand adventures when you’re so small. The castle is still unfamiliar enough for Colban that it’ll be enough to keep him happy for the next few hours. Until he remembers where he is and starts crying again. ‘Will we find dragons?’ ‘Oh, perhaps!’ ‘And daddy?’ ‘We’ll see.’ I hold my breath until I’m sure they’ve gone because I can feel the prickling in my eyes and my face going hot. I don’t want them to see me cry. Father said we wouldn’t have to stay here for very long, but I don’t know how long that is. I want to go home.  **II** I make it as far as the Glancing Loch before they catch up to me, the swinging light of their lanterns leaving long trails on the water like the glowing eyes of a hungry beast. There’s nowhere to hide out on the black expanse of the loch, and one girl in a small boat is no match for a ten-man barge. It’s over. ‘Muirenn! Get in the boat!’ My uncle leans out over the bulwark, hand extended like I need rescuing, expecting me to take it. I only set my jaw and lean harder into my oars. I’d rather throw myself overboard than give them the satisfaction of seeing me give up. When I don’t reply, he scoffs and pulls me into the boat himself, his grip tight and rough around my arm. ‘Ow! Get off me! That hurts!’ I shriek, though it’s not that bad. He does let go, though, and had the decency to look ashamed for manhandling me, though not enough to quell the ferocity of his mood. ‘What were you thinking? Out here on the water at night. Do you think you’re invincible? Anything could have happened to you.’ I roll my eyes. I swear he thinks I’m incapable of doing anything. ‘So you actually noticed I'd left, had you? That’s novel; you’re more than happy to ignore me the rest of the time. Since when did you care what I do?’ I’m willing to bet he hadn’t noticed at all. It’s more likely Colban who gave me up, getting me back for not taking him with me. Little shit. His life won’t be worth living when I get back. Around us, the oarsmen begin to turn the boat around, sending smooth lamplit ripples out and away into the darkness. My uncle rubs his eyes as though he’s tired, though he’s probably the only one who’s not had to row. ‘So that it? This is just some mindless rebellion to get my attention, is it? Well, congratulations. You’ve got it. Where were you even going?’ *Bastard.* ‘This hasn’t got anything to do with you, you idiot!’ I scream with frustration. ‘And do you really have to ask where I was going? Are you that stupid? I was going *home*!’ Home. At last. To the warm wooden hall sitting at the foot of the hill where the river splits. To the gleaming silver waters of the Bounding Loch ringed with blue-grey smudges of distant mountains. Where my parents lie in their cold earthen tomb. My uncle clenches and unclenches his fists, clearly struggling to control his temper. ‘Your father told me to look after you, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m sorry if you don’t like it—’ ‘What do you want from me? You won’t let me do anything! You won’t let me speak to anyone, you won’t let me in a boat, I’m forbidden from going home... Do you really expect me to spend my life sitting around being pretty while your guards ogle my tits?’ Even in the dark, I can see my uncle flush red at this. It’s crass, but it’s true. Fuckers. ‘Gods, what did Aunt Beitris die of? Boredom?’ I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. My uncle’s face whitens in rage, and he jumps to his feet. He steps forward to grab me or slap me, I don’t know, but the boat rocks wildly beneath him and he stops to steady himself. Then, there’s a shout from behind me and a splash as a man falls overboard. The whole boat falls silent. No one shouts after him or attempts to go in after him. Instead, there’s almost a sigh of resignation. It’s like their comrade had fallen up into the sky and away forever. Like nothing could be done. But then he comes spluttering to the surface in an explosion of churned water and flailing arms, clawing frantically up at the hands now reaching out to pull him to safety. The whole incident must have lasted a matter of seconds, but it felt like hours. It doesn’t take long before everything’s back in order and the awkward silence is broken only by the soothing rhythm of the creak of the rowlocks. I can only watch all my progress skimming away beneath me. ‘She drowned’ my uncle murmurs eventually, not looking at me. ‘Your aunt drowned.’ I only nod but hold this information tight in my heart all the way back to the castle, twisting it every which way I can. The network of rivers and lochs are our life. I can’t remember not being able to swim. I’ve never known anyone who couldn’t. One drowning is unusual, but two is more than unfortunate. How could both she and my mother have drowned? It didn’t make sense.  **III** The moon is high by the time I finally get the girls to settle. Jonet and Elspaith have both greeted the arrival of Sorcha with a wave of inconsolable fury, and every sliver of my further divided attention is more precious to them than sleep. It’s as I’m scraping together the energy to return to my own room that I see it. The faint shudder of a lamplit shadow on the wall; shapes leering and stretching with their movements. Like a sinuous creature cut from the night itself. No one should be out at this hour. From the window, I can just make out five figures down in the harbour. There is only one lantern among them, the wick trimmed low, and the half-darkness swallows up their identities. But then there is a fleeting moment when an arm is raised and a head turned and for a second, two of the faces become clear as day. Torcuil and his wife Ciorsdan. I watch until the glow of their lantern is only a distant fluttering ember. I can only make out the hint of their movements in the pale moonlight; the shuffling of seats, a person standing. Then there is the fishbelly-white gasp of a splash against the black water as though something large and heavy was thrown overboard. I’m in my bed before the boat returns but I cannot sleep. The thoughts slip and curl through my mind like eels in a barrel. Torcuil’s empty smile after his son was born. Colban’s stoic distance. My husband’s silent displeasure at siring three daughters. My uncle’s insistence that my father told him to look after me, an unspoken ‘*until*’ hanging in the air like a noose. And among them, all the women I have known who have died suddenly and strangely. I collect them together like bright beads on a necklace and hold them close to my heart. \*\*\* The next day, Ciorsdan is missing. Half the harbour is sent out in search of her, but I know what they’ll find. A lone boat drifting at the far side of the loch with no sign of its occupant. Another tragic accident, they’ll call it. There have been so many. My husband spends the day with the girls, watching the seals sunning themselves on the quay. His attempt to distract them is clumsy but the girls are delighted by this rare fragment of attention from their father. I’m not about to complain. It’s a relief to have a minute to myself without them clinging to my skirts. Who knows if I’ll have such an opportunity again. As I’d hoped, the map room is deserted. Papers and ledgers litter every surface; if what I’m looking for exists, it is surely here. But my search is over before it even begins. A book has been left out on the table, lying open at the correct page. Someone was consulting the text recently, it seems. Time slows to a trickle as I read, drinking in everything I was never supposed to know. ‘What are you doing?’ Torcuil stands at the door, his eyes dulled more with exhaustion than concern. I hold the book up, pages splayed open at one illustration in particular. ‘I thought better of you,’ I say, my voice barely above a breath. His throat works, trying to find the words, a blotchy redness creeping over his face. ‘I—’ ‘And Ciorsdan? Was your own wife not except from this? She survived two days in labour with your son only to be thrown away to satisfy some—’ He steps forward and pulls the book from my hands, his face thunderous. ‘I’m the laird now. It’s my responsibility to keep everything in order. I’ll not take any chances. This has been the way of things for centuries. Some sacrifices have to be made for our safety. If some don’t die, then we all do.’ ‘Funny how it’s always women! Have you ever even seen this thing? How do you know what it wants?’ Is it any wonder it came to this? A kingdom built by generation upon generation of motherless men. All repeating their father’s actions because that’s all there’s ever been. No one knows what they’re doing or why they’re doing it. How do I end this? How long do I have? Time passes faster now, slipping away like water through my fingers. How long until my girls marry and bear sons and are thrown to the loch when the men decide their purpose has been fulfilled? ‘I didn't want to,’ Torcuil says, voice breaking. ‘But I had to. For all our sakes.’ What would I do to save my daughters? The blade slips from my sleeve to my hand and he has the decency to not cry out and cower as I fly at him.  **IV** The last of the arrivals clambered aboard from their teetering coracles and row barges and hurried inside. Muirenn ignored them, feeling too keenly the slow creak of her joints as she crouched lower to the water. Then, with a quick snap of her arm, she sent a pebble skipping out across the water, leaving a bright string of silver ripples in its wake. Not bad, but she used to be better. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. What *are* you doing?’ Colban said from the doorway, a hint of anger in his voice. ‘Join me?’ Muirenn said, holding up another stone. ‘When did you become such a boring old man? You seem to have forgotten that growing old is mandatory but growing up is optional.’ Colban huffed. ‘Come on. It’s about to begin.’ Muirenn sighed and threw the last stone into the water with a soft *plop*. Despite her legacy, her standing, she was still expected to attend these gatherings. Then again, it wouldn’t be happening if not for her. The flotilla had been her idea all those years ago. The idea that would unite them all, would protect them when the raging floods came in retribution after the sacrifices stopped. Not that the floods ever did come. Moving the laird’s seat to this ship had been her doing, too. Anything to be away from that solid lump of a castle and its ghosts. They christened it after the great beast that had supposedly haunted the depths of the lochs, that so many had lost their lives to appease. Now *The Darkwater Serpent* was something beautiful and honourable, the largest boat ever built, rather than a phantom to be feared. The hall was hot and airless and bubbled with a noise that only increased when Muirenn entered. Such a fuss. Up on the dais, Iagan caught her eye and flashed her a reassuring smile before getting to his feet and addressing the crowd. ‘My friends! I’m so glad you could all be with me today!’ he said, grinning as he was greeted with a tumult of clapping and cheers. There was so much of Torcuil in him, she thought. It seemed fair that she would never be able to forget the things she’d done. But if Iagan knew of the events surrounding the loss of his parents, he’d never mentioned it. ‘Tonight is the last night! The end before the new beginning. These lands have been good to us. The rivers are as much a part of us as the blood in our veins. But there is more out there!’ Muirenn tuned out his words and looked across the hall, finding the bright, round faces of her daughters and grandchildren amongst the throng. The sight of each of them only increased the ache in her chest that had been growing over the last few weeks. What wonderful lives they would live. ‘Tomorrow, we climb upon the shoulders of giants. Tomorrow we set sail. Tomorrow we trace a new path out along the rivers and to the sea and whatever lies beyond.’ The hall was alive with the shouting and the stomping of the crowd, a steady, beating heart. ‘To the flotilla, to the sea, to the future!’ Iagan cried. *To the future!* The hall roared back. \*\*\* The night was deep and the ships dark when Muirenn slipped from her cabin and untied one of the skiffs. There was no one to see her leave. No one to stop her. They would love their new life on the sea, she was sure, but she was much too old for new beginnings. The oars slipped soundlessly through the water, pulling her onwards along the route etched into her mind. As a girl, she used to spend hours studying the maps of the rivers and lochs that hung in her uncle’s castle, tracing the way with her finger. Kings Loch to the Stone River to The Race to the Glancing Loch to the Swordsman’s River and on and on and on. The possibility of this journey had pulled like a weight in her chest all her life. But between children and the boats and ruling in Iagan’s stead until he came of age, there never seemed to be the time. But there was time now. It was evening by the time she pulled her boat ashore at the foot of the hill where the river split. The fire-coloured clouds overhead painted the gleaming waters of the Bounding Loch orange and gold, and the blue-grey smudges of distant mountains were touched with the warm glow of the coming sunset. Just as she’d remembered. The warm wooden hall was still there, worried and worn by wind and weather, but still recognisable. She’d know it anywhere. Muirenn breathed it all in. ‘Welcome home,’ she whispered.


I saw my first khat chewer in Kenya. I was attending an international conference on physical cosmology, and while strolling back to my hotel after an edifying day of lectures—Copernicus, quantum mechanics and CMBR sloshing about my head—he appeared: Or appeared his eyes, reflecting the streetlights. I stopped. His face remained dark. He stared at me and I at him, and all the while he chewed. Slowly; dumbly, like a human cow. Not saying a word. Eventually my companion, a hired local named Kirui, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away. “Don’t mind him,” Kirui said. “He’s harmless, just a khat chewer.” *Khat*: a flowering plant native to east Africa chewed for its alkaloid, cathinone, an amphetamine-like compound causing excitement and euphoria. Except the khat chewer had looked anything but euphoric. Even in my hotel room, alone and in the dark, did his eyes remain: staring at me from a face of memory melting into nightmare— I awoke, cold, wet, but remembering nothing from my fever dream save for a peculiar sensation of reality somehow condensing into me. In the late morning, I went to a lecture on cosmic expansion but could not focus. My thoughts were scattered, limp. During the lunch break, I drank three cups of coffee but they didn’t help. Several colleagues tried to speak with me; I ignored them. Until bumping into— “Here is the leaf that begins all life worth having!” *What?* The man staring back at me, with slight bewilderment, was Dr. Mukherjee, under whom I had earned my doctorate at MIT. “Gilgamesh,” he said. “The name of—” I felt a sudden tightening in my chest. Gilgamesh had been the name of my first (and most famous) contribution to the field of cosmology: a software model of the beginnings of the universe. “Are you alright?” “Yes,” I said, pushing past him, but now changing direction and heading for the doors leading outside— Through which I pushed into the blinding noonday sun. My hand firm against my chest. *Palpitations.* People staring at me— Evading— “Kirui!” I yelled out. “Kirui, are you here?” He materialized obediently as if out of the local ether. “Yes, sir.” “Take me to the place we passed last night. To where we saw the khat chewer,” I said in syncopation. When we arrived, he was there. His jaws masticating. “Leave us,” I told Kirui. When he had gone, the khat chewer stood and in his eyes I felt an understanding. I followed him into a building, down a ladder, deeper and deeper into a hole, until time meant nothing: until my feet touched ground: An underground chamber of impossible proportions. The inward pressure was immense. Through the permanent gloam I gazed rows and rows of khat chewers. I sat among them. I willingly received my leaf. *The expansion of the universe is slowing. There is too much matter. And the only thing preventing collapse—pushing against it with each grinding motion—is us:* the khat chewers, *dutifully delaying the inevitable.


“Back foul beast! Your time is done!” The knight yelled, unsheathing his sword and facing the blade towards the dragon before him. The fire breathing reptile loomed over the armoured hero, its eyes staring into his with a fiery malice strong enough to scare off a lesser man. Suddenly, in a last ditched effort to scare off its foe, the beast unleashed an ear splitting roar almost loud enough to shake the earth itself, but this did nothing to deter the knight. “ENOUGH!” He yelled back at the dragon, “You have terrorised this land far too long, burning down villages, slaying innocent people and then stealing their valuables!” As he said this, the knight raised his trusty blade above his head, arching his arm backwards into a throwing position. He carefully studied the dragon, analysing its massive body for a point of weakness. While the creatures’s back was covered in rows of hardened scales, its underbelly was considerably softer in comparison, a perfect spot for a fatal blow. “Now you shall pay the price for your villainy!” The hero exclaimed. As the dragon let out another roar, the knight flung his blade through the air towards the creature, directly towards its heart. In one swift motion, the sword hit the dragon’s chest... And the lights went out. Suddenly, a thunderous applause could be heard from the people in the surrounding arena, as the story of the knight and the dragon came to a close. In the darkness, the dragon was hurried out of the stage still in her chains, while the other actors hurried back on. As the lights came back on, the man acting out the part of the knight walked over to pick up the painted, wooden sword, putting it back in its sheath. Now standing in the centre of the stage, he and his fellow actors linked hands and bowed for the adoring crowd, as roses were thrown at their feet from all directions. As the crowd roared with delight, the dragon was goaded backstage by a pair of burly men holding massive bull hooks. With these weapons, the men forced her massive body into a cramped cage which. Despite its enormity, the metallic prison was barely big enough to allow her to fit inside, and even then the rather short height of the cage forced her to crouch down uncomfortably for hours on end. “Get in there you stupid beast!” One of the men yelled as the dragon momentarily hesitated to enter her cage. Without hesitation, the man swiftly swung his hook into the sensitive membrane of her folded wing with enough to punch a new hole, and she immediately crawled into her disproportionately small cage. Had she been a wild dragon, she would have burned her captors to cinders along with the surrounding circus and flown as far away from this wretched place as she could, unfortunately, her chances of retaliation had long since passed her by, as the fear of the bull hooks was engraved in her mind from a young age. In order to further prevent the possibility of an attack, the circus handlers punctured the specialised organ at the back of her throat that normally allows a dragon to breathe fire, and the constant beatings left her wings too tattered to allow her to take flight. As the dragon lay down against the cold, metallic bars of her cage, the other man with the bull hook walked over to her head, carrying a large, wooden bucket filled to the brim with fish. “Eat up.” The man said apathetically, as the old, slimy fish were poured onto the cold, metal flooring of the cage. The dragon glumly sniffed her food before eating it, now numb to the smell of dead, decaying fish as they were the only thing her captors would feed her. In the wild, her kin would feed on the variety of massive reptiles and mammals that roamed their ancestral home, bringing them down with the combined efforts of their strength and firepower. But in here, the fish could barely keep her fed, resulting in a body that was dangerously underweight for an animal of her size. The dragon was not the only beast in the circus, the cages surrounding hers were filled with dozens of miserable beasts, whose chances of freedom were just as dim as her own. In the cage across from the dragon, tightly chained up and separated by specially thickened iron bars, a unicorn tried its best to stay sane in the hell it was trapped in. Growling and swaying back and forth, the large ungulate tried desperately to distract itself from its ever increasing insanity. It’s thick, grey hide had been painted a glossy white colour, which simulated the illusion of short, white fur, while the long, yellow hairs glued to its neck and tail were added to make the beast appear more elegant. While the long, spiralling horn attached to its head looked impressive impressive, this was merely a ruse created by yellow paint, glue and wood in order to disguise the pitiful black stump that was all that remained of the beast’s original horn. Hanging from the ceiling, a small cage contained a pair of phoenixes, whose brilliant, fiery feathers grew dimmer by the day. Their faces and legs were covered in scars, while sparse patches of bare skin were visible in between their feathers, a result of the birds fighting for what little space there was. All around them, a menagerie of once fantastical birds, reptiles, and mammals were miserably stuffed into cages awaiting the fleeting moments a day when they would finally be let out. The old griffin with a pair of fake wings sneakily attached too his back, the lonely manticore longing to rejoin his mate, the timid qilin trying desperately to hide behind the steel bars of her cage. The dragon looked at them all with the same hopeless look that they all gave her in turn. With a pitiful yawn, the dragon curled her head under her wings and drifted off to sleep, her only true escape from the miserable world she found herself in. Unfortunately, she knew that once awake, she would be forced back into this reality with no hope of a bright future. —————————————————————————————————————————————————— This is my first post on this subreddit, any criticism is welcome.


“Just sit and watch,” Alexi said. “Don’t go anywhere, alright?” He said it with a smile, but I knew a command when I heard one. I also knew the way mama would scream if he came home without me. Without waiting for me to answer he trotted off back towards the beaten patch of dirt where his friends waited, the tallest one tossing a ball back and forth between his hands. My palms itched just looking at it. On our way over to the court I’d asked him if I could play this time. I always asked him, and he always had some excuse. I was too clumsy, he said, I’d fumble the ball. They didn’t want new players, he said, because someone would have to give up their position. No one wanted to give up their position. Not to some kid. Not to me. So I had to sit and watch them throw the ball against the glass over and over again. I watched and watched and watched so the day Alexi said yes, I was ready. I would be the best they’d ever seen, I was sure of it. They’d see what I could do and invite me again, call me off the sidelines and -- The ball flew inches from my head as it careened out from Alex’s hand. I flinched as it rebounded off the glass behind me, and went rolling back towards the court. My heart racing from the close call, I got onto my knees and turned to face the surface I had been leaning against. The glass was dirty, stained with layers of smog and graffiti. Paint made of ochre and stolen metal, curling letters in languages I could read, and some that I couldn’t. Even scraping my nails against it yielded nothing but more grey. I pressed my forehead against it, felt the roughness graze my skin. Mama had told me that it wasn’t always that way. There was a time where the outer windows were bright and clear, and the sun would stream in even brighter than the lights on the ceiling. She said she’d never seen the sun, but her grandparents had. Or maybe she had said it was their grandparents. Whenever it was, it was a long time ago. I looked back to the court and saw Alexi focused on a strong defensive move, his arms spread wide. The opposing team let out a scream, and I knew he was distracted, too much so to see me slip away. Pushing to my feet I ran off towards the nearby neighborhood, enticed by the smell of cooking food. My stomach growled, a beast even louder than the constant yelling and shouting in the lean-houses. I ducked into their shadows, hiding from the dimming lights beneath the scarves and shirts made into roofs. The only thing on my mind as I ran through those tight corridors was the sun, whatever that might have looked like. If I ever stole away from the game I went hunting for food, but today the questions hurt even worse than an empty stomach. So I pulled my eyes from the dirt and looked for someone, anyone. I knew she was the one to ask the moment I saw her, tripping over myself as I came to a halt. She had wrinkles so deep I could have lost my fingers in them had I tried. Her eyes were hidden in the folds, but I could feel her watching me nonetheless. “Mem, have you ever seen the sun?” She laughed, and I knew she would humor me with an answer. “Once.” Her voice was raspy, choked by decades of smog. “Just a little. The South window cracked a long time ago. They repaired it when they thought no one was watching. But I was watching. It was the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. Gold. The sun was gold.” Gold was something I knew. And I knew the ceiling lights were not gold. I stepped closer, wanting to hear more, anything more. I was stopped in my tracks by a hand wrapping around my arm, so tight that I felt a flash of pain. The rough grasp yanked me around where I stood, and I found myself staring Alexi right in his eyes. There was no question he was angry. “Just listen for once, Matvei!” He shouted, pitch raising almost as high as mama’s. “Stay put when I tell you.” He dragged me back to the court, but the thought of gold hanging in the air carried me on light feet. Alexi didn’t understand that even small things were grand adventures, even fleeting memories. And he most certainly didn’t dream of something beyond the walls. Of the sun I knew there was. **Adolescence** With every breath daylight slipped away, and growing shadows obscured the words on the page. I reached behind me and flicked the flashlight on, only to turn it off a heartbeat later. I had nearly burnt through my whole month’s battery ration over just a few late nights of reading. Just as I resigned myself to inevitable nightfall, a voice grabbed my attention from just outside. “Matvei, you home?” I could have recognized my brother’s rasp anywhere. And true to form, he didn’t wait for my response before pushing through the entrance of the lean-house. It was that very impatience that got him into trouble, his toes catching on the scraps of metal I had laid out in the waning light. In the next moment he tumbled headfirst towards me, curses filling the air as he crashed to the floor. “The hell is all of this?” He shouted, indignant as he struggled to raise himself from where he had fallen. “Work,” I said, my mood instantly soured by his arrival. Alexi never understood what I was tinkering with, and it was a waste of time trying to explain. It didn’t make sense to him, and likely never would. Just as I expected, he grumbled in what I assumed was confusion as he pulled himself off the floor. “It’s not good for you to be in here studying all the time. You need to go outside, play ball with friends. That’s what I did when I was your age.” “Yeah, and look at you now,” I muttered, creasing a dog ear in the page before snapping the weathered book shut. Even in the low light I could see what had become of him, how the recycling plant had ground him into a husk of his former self. His skin was stained grey from the smog of the city and his forearms were crossed in fresh lacerations. The skin around his eyes was textured with wrinkles, his eyebrows singed from hours spent alongside glass-melting heat. Alexi had never understood that studying was an act of rebellion, more than playing ball ever could be. I knew better than to believe I was invincible, having seen my entire family take slow steps towards an early grave. Alexi was hardly seven years older than me and already had the deathly cough that came with long days working in the plants. My studies were my only shield from a similar fate. “I’m just here to make sure you’re not losing out on everything else,” he prodded. “Like what?” “Well, you’re a man now. Hell, you’re almost as tall as me. I want to make sure you’re taking time to do things outside of studying, or whatever the hell this is,” he said, nudging some of the scraps he had just tripped over. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Well,” he stammered, eyes suddenly focused elsewhere. “You know, if you ever need to talk to me about girls, I guess. It’s normal to have questions.” “No, no!” The words exploded from my mouth before I could stop them. “Just, I don’t want to hear that.” “I don’t mean to say that it’s only girls. If it’s guys you can talk to my friend-” “Alexi, stop!” I cut him off and tried desperately to contain my mounting frustration. “I don’t want to talk about girls, or boys, or playing ball. I need to keep studying so I can get a job, a real job, not one at the plants. A job that will get me out of here. Maybe you too.” “Those books won’t give you a way out of here,” he said. His usually deadened eyes had a spark of something like anger in them. “Becoming a Fixer isn’t some miracle. You might eat a bit better, but you’re not getting off this Floor.” “I’m not just going to be a Fixer,” I growled, grip tightening on the book. “I’m going to be a Mechanic. And I’m going to have the keys to every door in this tower, and I’m going to leave this Floor for good.” “Maybe you’re not as grown as I thought. Hope won’t save you,” he sighed, anger gone. It was replaced with the same defeat that had overtaken his own youthful ambitions, apathy which had snuffed out the flame of dreams. “Hope is naïve. But this isn’t hope, it's hard work. I’m going to get out of here. Just because you gave up on that dream doesn’t mean I have to.” Alexi blinked, and turned back towards the entryway. Those few moments together had cost us the last slivers of daylight, leaving the air thick with his skepticism and disbelief. So out of spite I grabbed my flashlight and let its soft glow illuminate my pages. It was my only way out. **Adulthood** I drained the last of the coffee from my flask and set it down on the floor, its bitterness persistent on my tongue. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I last slept, and most of that time had been spent hunched over the current switchboard and output projections for the Twentieth through Twenty-Fifth Floors. I was on the cusp of a breakthrough, if I could just figure out -- “Hey boss, you busy?” The call pulled me from my concentration, all but shattering the line of thought I had been clinging to. Biting back a sigh I turned around to face the junior Mechanic standing at the threshold to the operating room. “What is it?” “Management says they need you to check on a Plant outage on the Fifth Floor.” Again I had to swallow a sigh, this one out of frustration. As the only Mechanic who had come from the lower ten Floors, if an on-site visit was ever required they would only send me. It was as though they were afraid their status would be tainted by so much as a short visit down. “Sounds like a job for a Fixer,” I responded, hoping to dodge the excursion if I could. “Fixers have been, almost six times in the last two months. Keeps going out. Said it was time for a Mechanic to check it out.” “Alright,” I said, resigned. “Tell them I’ll check on it tomorrow.” The acrid smoke of the recycling plants bit into my lungs the moment I stepped off the elevator and into the crowded quarters of the Fifth Floor. But no matter how much it burned my eyes in those first few seconds, I quickly settled into the memories of a long childhood spent among the sprawling streets of lean-houses with pollutants assaulting my senses. Behind me I pulled a mobile diagnostic lab packed with tools of my trade and let the haphazard structure of the foremost recycling plant on the Floor consume me. Even rooms away I could feel the heat meant to melt glass and metals down to their usable forms, later to be transported out for processing at manufacturing on another Floor. But I grit my teeth to the sounds of a life of labor I had fought so hard to avoid, settled into the Mechanic’s quarters, and got to work. A few minutes into my analysis a hand tugged on my sleeve, and I whipped around to be met with a familiar set of tired blue eyes. “Alexi?” His weathered features were all but unrecognizable, but his voice was the same as ever. “Hey brother. It’s been a while.” “So the outages have been you this whole time?” “Not just me,” he said, a smile lingering on his lips. “There’s a whole lot of us. We’re working to bust out of the lower Floors for good. But we need a man on the inside. I figured if we shut down the plant with enough errors, they’d have to send a Mechanic out. And I was right.” "You’re an idiot to tell me about this so readily,” I answered, my brows furrowing. “My responsibility is to the Tower now. I could report your and all of the other workers at the Plants and quash your movement before it even begins.” I watched the shock cross his face. It was as though the thought of my reluctance had never even crossed his mind. “But you wouldn’t do that, right?” Fear bled through his words. “No one knows what they’re doing really, but I said you would. I said you’d have a way out. Hell, you’re the only one I know who ever has.” Silence hung between us, split only by a rat darting through the tight quarters of the lean-house. It had been so long since I had seen one that I nearly flinched, but I managed to keep my face neutral. Finally I spoke, running my fingers across the keys on my belt as I did. “No, I wouldn’t. You were right to trust me, but this blind faith will get you killed if you don’t learn to keep quiet. There’s danger in opportunity. I know that better than anyone by now.” The tension in the room lifted and he smiled again, a whisper of glee working its way into otherwise deadened eyes. “Then let me tell you what we have planned so far-” Before he finished I pulled a key from its loop, and showed him the engraving in its brass. By his wide eyes I knew he recognized the symbol immediately. “The resistance is so much bigger than you could imagine,” I whispered. “And it’s about more than just the Floors. If you give me some time, we will break out of the Tower altogether.” **Seniorhood** vibrant-shadowsr/InTheShallows 1 point just now There was a rumbling in the basement. It began as a low growl, but slowly grew into a deafening roar. Matvei watched the lights of the Tower flicker as energy surged downwards, wrenching open an egress which had been sealed for generations. The Mechanic felt the trembling of the earth beneath his feet, a grand awakening he had dreamt of for many years. He thought of the building swaying above him, of worried mothers clutching their children, of chaos as the Tower's citizens realized that change was finally upon them. It was euphoric. In his mind’s eye he could imagine the metallic beast pushing its way through layers of dirt, a portal which opened to golden rays of light. He had wandered down that very tunnel many times before, treading silently through the quiet passage coated in dust, all the way to its once insurmountable dead end. He had spent years pressing his hands against the metal of the long-closed door, craning his neck to hear the whisper of freedom’s promise. It was the promise of something beyond a life enclosed in glass, a dream the people in the Tower had never given up on. It had never just been about windows. The dirt-streaked, smog-soaked windows of his childhood had never been the endgame. When he had first felt warmth from behind the glass of the Fortieth Floor, Matvei had discovered joy. It ignited a spark in his heart, a desire for freedom which had since grown into a burning flame. This hunger for liberation was shared with many others, but it was not without loss. As a Mechanic, he had always had the luxury of patience: he never wanted for food, never worried for his safety. It was easy to formulate his plan with precision and steal glimpses of sunlight when he could, just enough to get him by. For Alexi, and for so many others on the lower Floors, waiting had been impossible. As the entirety of the Mechanic’s quarters began to shake from the might of the door wrenching itself open, Matvei thought of how the tower had shook like this once before, almost a decade ago. The insurrection in the Plants had made the steel support beams tremble under its violence, a sensation which had only intensified as boots hit the dirt and gunfire rang out. It was only silent when blood pooled beneath broken bodies, crimson dripping like molten glass. And just like that, Alexi had died in the one place he had vowed to escape With the anger of injustice guiding him, Matvei began to walk forward. He was the first, but the others would come soon. They would pour from the lower Floors and into the darkness, following a faith that had not died with their fathers or their brothers. As the trembling came to a halt, Matvei saw the first golden beams lighting his way. Matvei took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. Each ribbon of sunlight felt like a kiss, every breeze an embrace. The love of the sky above was unlike any other, a love which would never grow old. He knew he only had a few more years left to appreciate the His heart ached knowing Alexi wasn’t there to watch his grandchildren grow. A small boy of only ten years bore the same name, and carried the familiar blue eyes that Matvei had missed so much. But unlike Alexi this boy had grown up under the bright rays of a golden sun, with grass beneath his feet, and boundless opportunity ahead of him. This Alexi had the opportunity to dream. The sound of children shouting filled the air. Young and old together they kicked the ball back and forth between them, running and sweating and howling in elation. His hips ached even watching them run, the health of a youth left behind. It was the same game Matvei had watched with longing in his childhood, too tied up in books and dreams of escape to waste afternoons on the makeshift courts. But there was time now, even if just to watch again. Just as Matvei was about to close his eyes and let the sun warm his bones, he heard a familiar voice call out to him. “Uncle Matvei!” Alexi ran up to him, waving and clutching the weathered ball beneath his arm. Once he got closer he asked his question, still shouting. “Do you want to be goalie? Just for a little?” Matvei smiled and hauled himself out of the chair with a groan, ignoring the protests of his hips and clicking of his knees. “If you’re sure you want the old man on your team,” he said. But Alexi was already darting back off towards the field, without a single wall in sight.


Dear Air Fryer, We’ve appreciated your contributions during your time here. Unfortunately, those contributions are no longer welcome. It’s a space issue, *mostly*. Real estate is hard to come by these days and, coupled with your inconsistent and unique usage, the math didn’t add up. However, we will miss your public relations team. Their work in recent years has been mighty impressive. Regardless of personal feelings about your sudden and bewildering rise, watching the machine behind you push you to those heights has been a learning experience for everyone. Hopefully that includes you. With a gimmicky name, and a half-hearted attempt at focusing on health, you can literally get to the top by doing nothing but blowing hot air. If that isn’t modern day America, I don’t know what is! I hope this doesn’t make it seem like we’re blaming you. We’re not. You’ve been along for the ride as much as the rest of us. Now, *that ride is over*. Sure, Microwave has some room for improvement, Stove could use some work, and god knows the last time we saw Toaster Oven. And yes, I lack an internal fan. Despite those faults, your addition to the team did little to solve those problems. Instead, you just became another problem to solve. And for what? Marginally crispier and “healthier” food? Again, it just doesn’t add up. From my point of view, your problems aren’t one of utility, but one of expectation. You can do the handful of things you do fairly well. We’re not arguing that. But you’re not a necessary, everyday fixture. You’re less like me, and more like, say, Crock Pot. It’s fun to have you around for special occasions, but our regular interactions must cease. Best of luck in your future endeavors, Oven \*\*\* Dear Oven, I appreciate your appreciation of my contributions. Unfortunately, whether or not those contributions are welcome is none of your concern. I’m sorry to have offended you. Both with my existence, and my universal acceptance. I just find it odd that you’ve taken the role of “Kitchen Captain” when you’re simply another member of the team. Self-appointed titles aside, let’s be clear: You don’t make the decisions around here. Whether or not I take up too much space or am too specialized in my work isn’t something you should be worried about. Then again, it is clear why you are concerned. You may say you only lack an internal fan. What you lack is much more important than that. You lack the foresight, the open-mind, and the willingness to change that is vital in today’s kitchen culture. Expecting you to know anything about that, though, is my mistake. Everything is always evolving. The way we think, the way we eat, and the way we think about the way we eat are all changing on a constant basis. It can be hard to keep up, especially for such a *historic* figure as yourself. That’s not your fault. But, I am glad you can admit the faults of you and yours so quickly. Finding faults seems to be something you excel at. Despite that skill, it is quite the oversight for a letter from you citing “real estate” as a reason for my struggles. I believe pot and kettle would like a word. You say I did little to solve the problems you pointed out. That would be a matter of opinion. My regular usage from those who decide such things would seem to indicate at least one difference of opinion, and a rather important one. Maybe if you had more of a focus on health, on specialty products, and marginal improvements, rather than what’s wrong with everyone, I wouldn’t be needed. Thankfully for me, you’re clearly too busy writing letters to do that.


It was a very brisk morning as Rob sat on an old porch built out of sandstone, he looked at the small pond that once was an oasis. He began to ponder in his head why the General Liss of the old Brogrin Empires Military Science Division, wanted with his younger sister's son. "What made him so special." He said out loud. "Its trackers kid" her heard a soft voice say behind him. He watched as his sister sat down next to him on the old sandstone chairs that were on the porch. "Trackers family line has always had the ability to control gravity" she continued. "Then why didn't Tracker ever use it" Rob asked intuitively. "He didn't have it as strongly as his father did" she replied with the look of grief all over her face. "I'm sorry I know how hard his death was on you" Rob said, turning to look out at the dessert again. A metallic shine in the distance caught his eye. Grabbing his binoculars, putting them up to his eyes he sees the distinct shape of a Brogrin drop ship heading there way. "Go inside and get your child. They're here" he says to his sister. She gets up and goes inside. Rob grabs his gun from his belt and walks in the house and closes the door behind him. He walks upstairs and goes into his sniper nest, as he begins to lay down he grabs his sniper he used in Afghanistan during his time in the military. He waits for his targets but its quiet. He heard the distinct sound of the dropship come and go. But he hasn't heard the squeaky voices of Milmots, the clicks from Krumhots no loud commanding voices of Brogrin Sargents give orders in Broginese. He puts his rifle down and turns around. As a hand with three fingers and two thumbs grabs his throat, it uncloaks revealing a Brogrin elite it removes its beautiful built helmet with religious markings all over it. Its head has five mouth pieces that it opens wide, Rob now knows this elite is going to do the one thing every soldier of The Government feared during the war. It moves in closer but then both hear the sound of a gun cocking from the doorway, it looks behind it to the sight of Rob's sister holding her moms handgun in one hand and her child in the other. She fires a shot before either Rob or the elite can react, in 2 seconds the elite is on the floor dead. "I thought we agreed that if the Brogrins ever found us you would leave" Rob said in an annoyed yet thankful tone. "Your welcome first off. And second off I was leaving when I saw your predicament. I knew you need my help." She replied snarky at first. Two more elites come in with their wrist swords activated, Rob says as he pulls his knife out "let's take them together". They both charge and begin to fight an elite themselves Rob using his military training holds his own at the start but the more jabs he gets in with his knife the angrier the elite gets, as with his sister she puts her baby on the ground then proceeds to punch the elite direct in the chest causing the elite to fly back into the wall, she then grabs its arm that has the sword on it and twists it to break its arm. Its yells in pain and frustration as she then rips the piece of armor that the energy sword it attached to, she then proceeds to stab it through its hand that it used to try to block the income strike and into its neck. She then grabs one of its grenades from its belt then goes to jump on the other elites back that has her brother stuck to the floor and sticks it with the grenade as she is then grabbed by it and thrown to the floor the grenade explodes blowing the elite into Rob. Pushing the dead elite off him his sister says "that's two you owe me". "Really Star Wars reference now" Rob replies groaning as he sits up. "Star Wars? What's that?" She asked as she picked up her baby. "Never mind" he said getting up now.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! 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.   ***   #This week's theme is Choices! For the month of May, we’re going to explore the overarching theme of ‘morality’. To begin, we’ll use this week to take a look at ‘choices’. Our choices are influenced by our feelings, experiences, beliefs, motivations/desires and so many other things. What choices are your characters grappling with? What kind of effect will this have on the world around them? Will one small decision cause a large chain reaction? How will it affect the people in their lives? Will there be repercussions? Maybe their choices have led to a wonderful change. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * May 2 - Choices (this week) * May 9 - Sin * May 16 - Growth   ***   #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. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **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/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **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 other stories (2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **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 catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/Lord_Demerek - - u/stickfist - - u/1047inthemorning - - u/veryrealisticperson - - u/chunksisthedog - - u/Sonic_Guy97 - - u/vibrantcomics   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. This week, I’ve added a *brand new category* for points. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, est. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


My nights are filled with sweet stories from my mom. I have always liked her series of stories involving shooting stars. She would tell me, "Shooting stars grant your wishes." and I'd reply with "I'll wish for my dreams to come true!" Despite my continuing obsession with them, I've actually never seen one, until today. Terrorist activity has become more and more frequent in our place. Gunshots would wake us up every morning, but as time flew by, we eventually got used to it. I'd cry every time in worry of the future, but my mom always calmed me down. "Wish upon a shooting star and you'll be fine sweetie.” she'd tell me. Tonight, as always, I was anticipating a shooting star. For what seemed like the 13th time I looked up at the night sky, I finally saw it. I was thrilled. Mesmerized. It was so beautiful, gliding in the deep, dark night. Its glow fills me with this warm feeling of hope. "I hope all of my dreams come true, and that me and my mama would never part." I wished. Then a big, loud boom engulfed our city. "Missiles! Missiles! We're getting fired by missiles!" people shouted. The shooting star I saw earlier moved closer and closer to me. It wasn't until the last second that I realized, that wasn't a shooting star at all. "Mama! Mama! Where are you!" I screamed as tears ran down to my cheek. It was chaos all over the city; I was running from place to place. I looked at it again. "Please grant me my wish! I beg you, please!" With all of what's happening - the running, the screams, the hopelessness, the dread - my mind spiraled down into incoherence. The glow that filled me with hope for all of my life is now also the glow filling me with despair. It brought to me words from the Bhagavad Gita: "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I started to cry again, screaming all of my feelings, with all of my breath. War destroys the worlds and dreams of children like me. This is the unforgivable, harsh truth. Terrorism is death. As the shooting star - no - the missile came further and further down, moments of my thirteen years of life flashed before my eyes. Was it a life worth living? Was it worthwhile? ... I saw my mom. She was in her usual place, beside the window, reading a book. She called out to me. "Do you want to hear the story about shooting stars sweetie?" " "Yes please!" It was a familiar memory - it was the first time I've heard my favorite story. It was the first time I was filled with glittering hope. Its brightness woke me up from my slumber. It was getting very close, and I could feel my imminent death. Shooting star or missile, for a kid like me, in this situation, they are one and the same. Closer, and closer, and closer. As it's heat filled my entire body, my emotions hit me, and I wished to it for one last time. "Please don't let me die. I don't want to die! Wish upon a shooting star and I'll be fine right? Mom, we'll be fine right? I don't want to die. I don't want thi-".


#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. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Road Trip** As things begin to warm up, I thought it would be the perfect week to do a little literary traveling. This week’s challenge is to use the theme of **’road trip’** in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week Spotlights are postponed for this week. They will be included in next week’s post. I am sorry for any inconvenience. Thank you all for being patient.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Even though he’d done it countless times before, The Change always made him nervous. What if they aren’t a good fit? Why keep trying? What’s the point? Although he’d asked himself these very same questions plenty of times in the past, the answers never mattered. And they didn’t today, either. Life had become stale, as it always did. This time was supposed to be different. But, it wasn’t. Hoping to fade into the monotony he craved in past lives, the grass had once again become greener elsewhere. As he pulled into the gated parking lot of the office, he sighed. This batch of interviews was solid. Better than the last time, at least. The candidates each offered something different, along with the stability and base he knew he needed by now. He laughed. If he really knew what he needed by now, this wouldn’t keep happening. Walking into the office, the already rising sun was blinding. Better vision will be nice. So will fresher joints. The first few days after a change were always a reminder of the wear and tear the human body endures over time. As nice as that was, The Change always came with guilt. But that never stopped him. It almost did a couple of times. There was that one time, where he’d committed to riding into the sunset and never Changing again. He was sure that was it. Things change, plans change, and eventually, so did he. The alternative to The Change was something very, very different. And it didn’t come with the guilt and pain he’d indulged in for who knows how long. While appealing, the alternative also came with a healthy serving of the unknown. The uncontrollable. He knew guilt well by now, and as much as it pained him, he’d at least grown accustomed to it. Badging his way through a series of heavy doors, accompanied by the beeps of granted access through the halls, he entered his windowless office for the final time. \*\*\* He stared at the first candidate, then looked down at his printed resume’, pretending to care about what was written. After a couple of pointless questions, he got down to business. He began asking him about his family, his goals, and his personal life. Using the same tricks and tools as always to get the information he really wanted. The first candidate didn’t seem to be as good a fit as he’d hoped. He had roots in town, and a family; the kinds of things that would be difficult or painful to get rid of in a timely fashion. This wasn’t the start he wanted, but there were still two more candidates to go. The second candidate swaggered into the office, communicating a pride and self-assuredness that was as appealing as it was off-putting. That could be fun. But there was another concern he’d hoped to avoid at this point. The candidate jokingly brought up his student loan debt, as well as his useless degree, on several occasions. As much as a family was an issue, being racked with debt didn’t sound like the kind of change he was looking for. These were supposed to be the good candidates, he reminded himself. The final candidate was nervous, but seemed well-rounded. No kids. No debt. Nothing special, either. A blank slate. He could work with this. The candidate wasn’t much different than the one from a few Changes ago, and seemed like a good guy. The Change was always easier when the candidates were jerks, but he wasn’t going to be afforded that minor luxury this time. Guilt. This was the worst part. He’d get through it, like he always did. But he needed to take a moment and let it register. Feel the pain. Feel the guilt. And let it sink in. Maybe this time it will hurt too much, and the cycle will stop. He was stalling. The smalltalk had devolved into nonsense, and realistically he’d already made his decision. It was time. He took a deep breath, abruptly interrupted the candidate, stood up, congratulated the candidate on getting the gig, and extended his hand, offering a deal that half of the parties involved weren’t in on. The candidate excitedly rose, thanked him, and shook his hand with a look of surprise. It only took a moment, but each Change felt like it lasted a breath longer than the previous one. The loss of certain memories, and the gaining of others, became less confusing and startling over time. Eventually it all just blended together. The physical change was odd, too. Something he never got used to. It felt like the gentle forcing of play-doh through a spaghetti pasta maker, followed by a sudden lack of soreness, and topped-off with a shot of adrenaline. Jarring and soothing all at once. Now that The Change was complete, he forced an awkward smile, and turned to walk out of the office. Turning away, he opened the door to leave, and gave his most-recent former-self one last look. He had done his best to avoid this. Then again, it always ended this way. Maybe he hadn’t done his best. Once out of the office, he was once again squinting at the glaring sun, already feeling the rush of his new identity taking over. The world was once again his oyster. And this time was going to be different, he thought. This time, things are going to be much different.


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Violet that fell in love with an eggplant. The eggplant’s name was Wayne. Wayne was a shiny little Eggplant. Violet bought Wayne at the local farmer’s market. The moment she took him home and laid eyes on him she was in love. The eggplant knew how to sing opera. He sang to her every night. Wayne never grew old. Wayne and Violet were dating for two months and for a two-month-old eggplant, he looked great. One day, Violet’s mother, Patty, came to visit her for a few days. She had no idea about Wayne. Violet decided to run a few afternoon errands. In the meantime, Patty was home alone. She started to feel hungry. Patty walked into the kitchen and looked into the fridge to see what she could eat. Nothing. She looked into the cupboard and all she saw was canned chicken, beans, and rice. That was uninteresting. It was until she turned her head and saw a beautiful shiny eggplant sitting on the kitchen counter at the far end of the kitchen. Alone. She grabbed a knife from one of the drawers and approached the innocent eggplant. When Violet returned, the entire home smelled so appetizing. Violet walked into the kitchen and asked her mother, “Oh mother, what is that lovely smell?” Patty turned and smiled. She handed Violet a plump juicy sandwich. The two then sat together at the dining table. Violet took a giant bite of the sandwich. The sandwich tasted good…no…amazing. Violet hungrily ate more of the sandwich. Each bite was more aggressive than the previous one. “Goodness Dear! Calm down. You might choke,” said her mother. When Violet licked her fingers and licked off every crumb off her plate, she asked, “Oh mother! What did you put in this sandwich? It was the most delicious thing I have tasted in my life!” Her mother told her the secret ingredient: Eggplant. Violet’s eyes widened. She quickly stood up and stormed to the corner of the kitchen where she put her lover, her sun, her life, her rock: her eggplant boyfriend Wayne. He wasn’t there. When Violet realized she ate her lover, her stomach churned and she ran to the bathroom. “I told you not to eat your food so fast. You’ll get yourself sick,” said her eggplant boyfriend killing mother. Violet gagged and gagged then she wept and wept. Her sweet sweet Wayne was gone. Bits of him were in the toilet in the form of vomit. She couldn’t tell her mother how much that eggplant meant to her. Her mother wouldn’t understand. She would laugh at her. What did Violet do after that day? Well, a few days later after she dropped her mother off at the airport to bid farewell, she went straight to the farmer’s market. There, she found a new man. He was a potato named Erick. The moment she laid eyes on Erick, she already forgot about what her mother did to Wayne. Erick was a Dutch gentleman. She loved him more than she loved Wayne. He was the greatest spud in the world. He sang and wrote poems. He even knew how to play the hurdy-gurdy. They remained in love for a good six months.


Rachel Seeker leaned against the mossy tombstone that her parents shared, waiting there with a shovel. She had been returning to Feywood Cemetery every year on the night of their deaths, the 13th of November, for as long as she could remember, and ever since her only brother had disappeared thirty-six years ago. Before that, they use to visit their parents' graves together. This place, after all, was the last place she saw him. When he had asked Rachel to uphold a most horrible deal. She was in her late fifties now, though still able to go toe-to-toe with even the fastest and fiercest prey. Stringy locks of grey dashed the sides of her black hair, unkempt, and loosely tied at the end. She wore a double-breasted bridge coat, buttoned, and extending down to a pair of steel-toed boots. Her mouth was wiry-thin, and dead eyes locked on the horizon of the graveyard. The sun had only been down for an hour; she'd give it more time she thought. One year, she waited up to five hours and told herself she wouldn't do that again. That was in the early years though. Nights where it felt easier to be optimistic about things. Nights that now only seem to come around once in a blue moon, or not at all. Tonight felt like one of those nights, she thought. Though there was only so much optimism to be had when killing your undead brother, even if he deserved it. Rachel and her older brother, Jack, had lost their parents at an early age, both of them raised by their dad's parents instead. Their grandparents were eccentric, claimed to have come from a long line of vampire hunters. A line that her Grandfather Owen said stretched back to the early 1600s, starting with Amadeus Von Seeker, the first of their clan. Rachel had always found her grandfather's tales amusing but had always regarded them as just that, tales. When she had grown up and finally left for college, her brother stayed behind to start his training, much like their grandfather had himself in his younger days. Rachel had often thought about what if she had taken more interest in her family's line of work back then. Perhaps, there would have been a better chance at a better future for all of them. Then, as if from nowhere, a tall man wearing a checkered suit and black tie appeared, walking down from the hill and onto the gravel path towards her parents' graves. He appeared young, perpetually stuck at the spry age of twenty-four, yet walked with a cane and arched back. His skin had an almost sickly pale blue hue to it, and though he hadn't physically aged at all, there was something in his eyes that said he was tired. Tired of everything. "Rachel," he nodded, his voice carried an iciness, but was otherwise how she remembered it. He did not smile, not a bit. Rachel held herself high. She was surprised to see him again after all these years. She thought she never would. She had almost wanted to hug him, it was her lost brother, though Rachel would never show that. Not after their history. "Did you get all dressed up tonight for this?" She joked. She wasn't sure what to say, it had been thirty-six years. "Um, I'll be honest, I'm surprised to see you here." "Yeah. Well. It is our parent's death day." Jack replied, planting himself at the foot of their graves. "What stopped you the other forty years?" Scratchy leaves scattered and danced along the grounds and headstones of the graveyard. Branches could be heard swaying above them as a cold silence passed over. "I wasn't ready yet." They both lingered a moment longer on their parents' grave. Rachel turned. "Didn't stop me. I did what you asked. I've been coming out here every year for at least the last thirty-six." "Well, thank you for upholding your end. Not everyone's as eager to put their own brother in the ground." Rachel laughed. She laughed like she was young again, wrinkles disappearing from her face and a wild spark in her eye. She turned back to their parents' gravestone where now they were both facing. "You think I kept coming out here for you? For your deal? Is that why you're here tonight? You want me to put you to rest? Why now? Why after all this time?" Jack's feet shifted uneasily, resting against his cane. "I was wrong. I was wrong to leave Grandpa Owens and Grandma Alice. I was wrong about joining up with the Dumont's, the Fiends of Colorado," his voice sunk, "I was wrong to turn my back on our family and our secrets. And I have wronged so many. . ." He would be speaking from the heart if it were still beating. "I'm in some trouble right now. Some deep shit. They'll be coming to finish their work soon." "What kind of trouble are you in?" Rachel demanded, sisterly-like. "Who's coming after you?" "The Nine." That was all that Jack said. It was all he had to say to Rachel. Anyone who knows anything about vampires in America knew about the Nine, the kings and queens of the Midwest. Years ago, Rachel had put an end to one of the organization's schemes of snatching people up from the Ozarks for their blood farms. The Nine were just that. Nine all-powerful vampires, lords and ladies of high society that had successfully infiltrated public politics, technology firms, and other corporations with large amounts of money and political sway. They were not to be reckoned with. They were one reason why their grandfather had been so secretive with their trainings throughout the years. "It's true, y'know, there are fates worse than death." Jack turned to his sister with a half-smile. His teeth were smashed up, fangs missing, gums practically pulverized. Rachel was surprised he could still speak. "Did-did they. . ." "They did. They took my wings too. You should see their guys though." His ugly-looking grin only growing in size. Jack still had his pride, even if misguided or face smashed to bits. "Rachel," he said, "if you don't uphold our deal they'll flay me next and I won't get far. I'd rather not spend the next hundred years on fire in the sub-basement of some department store." "You'd rather not, huh?" She said, staring him down – daggers in her eyes. "Those aren't very strong words." His smile faded. Another silence passed as leaves again whirled by. "Jack," she said finally, shaking her head, anger seeping from her voice. She had wondered if she would ever have the chance to confront him about it. "Because of you, because of your actions, Grandpa Owen and Alice died sooner than they would have had to." Her eyes and voice filled with old hate, one forged of fire and spilled blood. "Why the fuck should I help you after all this time?" Jack's eyes widened, his face melted away. "Please, I had no idea the Fiends would want anything to do with them!" "Oh, yeah?" She didn't believe him. She had to say it. It was now or never. "How fucking stupid can you be? I got a letter in the mail one day telling me to come down there, didn't know who it's from. I show up, open the door, and there's blood. There was blood everywhere, Jack." Rachel trembled as if the scene was forever painted on the back of her eyelids. "I knew it wasn't me who messed up." "Rachel, please, I know. I know." Shadows in the gauntness of his face. "For what it's worth, I never said much. Only that I was once a son of the Seeker clan and I've been paying dearly for it ever since. I'm so sorry." His eyes dropped to the ground. "I'm not asking for forgiveness, I– " "I know what you're asking for." Rachel reached into the depths of her coat and from it pulled a rather large, very old-looking stake. Its base was wrapped in leather, silver rings sheathed around dark-colored oak leading up to a finely sharpened point. It was their family heirloom. "Ah." Jack rolled his head up, appearing almost amused now. "That old thing? How fitting, huh?" "Yeah, this old thing." She said. She knew her brother knew what it was. "Grandpa was going to give me that at the end of that year, y'know?" "Yeah. And now it's mine." "You never wanted to be a hunter!" "Right." Jack frowned, then looked to her. "It's still not too late. You can do whatever you want to. It's never too late." He rested his hand on his sister's shoulder. "You just gotta do me in last, then quit!" He smiled again, mouth ugly as sin. "You gonna bury me next to mom and dad?" "Mhm." "Nice. Hopefully, maybe, I'll see them where ever I go." Jack turned his back to Rachel. "Yes." Rachel held the stake in her hand, raising it above her head. She had done it a hundred times before. And then she brought it down. She spent the next couple of hours digging into the sweet-smelling earth, burying her brother beside her parents. A final resting place that she may someday well join. She would like that, she decided. She found she had no family left, the last remnant of the Seeker clan. She had even less now than at sunset. She grabbed the shovel, buttoned her coat, then looked around at the other headstones. She snatched a few roses from a neighboring bouquet and placed them on the freshly moved soil, starring at the graves for the last time. She'd be back the next year. This time no longer waiting. Rachel turned to leave the grave, walking off onto the gravel path, up the hill, and back into the night. Nine more to go, she told herself.


This my friends is a marvelous tale! The tale of the glorious frog city! Our story begins in a land not far from town. A beautiful oasis of tall trees, lush grass and soothing smooth sugar sand. The sound of the birds chirping and the locusts in the maples muffled the sounds of glass breaking and mommy's drunken rambling / screaming.. but I digress An enchanting land to be sure. And in this enchanting wonderful land there lived a young boy. Now this wasn't some ordinary boy no this boy was special... he had big dreams! " I wanna be king of the frog people!" The boy yelled into the canopy of his personal piss tree slave. So he set out across the vast territory that was to be his new kingdom in search of the perfect piece of junk in the yard to be his newfound holy grounds. "Ah this will do nicely" said the boy as he found an old plastic pool filled with stagnant emerald green alge water. The boy drug the pool out from under the trees and into the heat of the summer sun. "Yes! this is where I shall become GOD" smirked the boy Now for some frogs The boy set back out on a new quest. A quest to find his new subjects. He had a burning passion in his heart.. a passion to be GOD. High and low he searched for the amphibians of his desire. Until finally he had acquired a good number of new villagers of his kingdom. And all was well. Until the first escape attempt After about 2 days of tending to his frogy subjects He noticed not all were loyal to there gracious new lord. Several frogs tried to flee his courtship. Now as we know desertion is a treasonous crime punishable by no less then capital punishment. This made the new found God of the frog people vary agery. "AM I NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU? YOU SHALL PAY WITH YOUR BLOOD" the yelled as he ran to the kitchen and grabbed mommy's wooden kebab sticks. 1 by 1 he impaled the frogs atop the sacrificial slide of doom. This will show ALL who oppose me! The boy then felt hurt by the frogs betrayal. Heart broken even. So he took off the cover he had over the pool protecting the towns folk from the ravages of the star in the sky. "I... I don't care anymore" he said as he walked off to do something else. Now the frog city wasn't the only project this king had in store. A king need lots of prisoners. And one of them was none other then a raggity ann dole he had nailed to a tree.... The boy picked up his hatchet and continued chopping up the doll. The boy loved taking his time slowly copping away at the vintage doll. And frog city slowly dried up and withered along with all of its prisoners. And the forsaken city was eventually discovered along with the chopped up remains of the ann doll by the boys alcoholic mother.