# <The Last Bavarian Supper Club> WC: 3510 ## PROLOGUE The Parisian night traffic looked pretty from Bette Glass's apartment but she hated the noise. Even drawing the curtains over the tall windows did little to muffle the honking horns of cars and scooters. Tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear, Bette peered through a sliver between the window and the fabric and caught a glimpse of herself, superimposed like a spectre over the City of Lights. She sighed and put on a long coat before walking to the door. Perhaps it was one particularly jarring sound that distracted her long enough to miss a shadow flitting on the other side of the peep hole. When she opened the door Bette was met with a silencer on her temple. Neither Bette nor the bullet were louder than a whisper. Small but deadly, the hole it made barely bled as she fell to her knees, then crumpled backwards in the doorway. With the grace of a cat, the killer stepped over her body and dragged her back in. They wiped the gun with a cloth and placed it in Bette's lifeless hand and searched her coat. A single slip of paper with the number *419* written on it was enough to make the call.   Four kilometers away, Francis DiMarco lit another cigarette in an alley on Rue l'Oie. His eyes burned as he pulled a drag. *Damn the French and their fucking unfiltered smokes*, he thought. He'd been buying *Galloises* for a year now and he still couldn't get used to them. Not like the cheap gas station menthols he craved. These went straight to his head. He was glad they burned fast and dim. He flicked the butt into the dark alley and checked the streets. A quiet night. Only a few buildings with lights on dotted the other side. Walking with practiced stealth, approached an unmarked wood door and knocked four times. "*Oui?" asked a brusque voice on the other side. Francis cleared his throat and wished he could quit smoking. "Islands in the stream, that is what we are," he sang. When the familiar series of locks clacked free and the door creaked open, he stepped inside. The tuxedo'd doorman smiled. "Monsieur DiMarco, so good to see you again," he said. "Are we expecting guests tonight?" "No Martin, no guests tonight. Are the others..." "Already upstairs. We are only waiting for Mademoiselle Glass now." Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's surprising." "May I take your coat?" Martin offered his arm and Francis draped his trench coat over it. The pair walked to a stairwell and ascended to the second floor to *Chez Traversier*. The restaurant borrowed heavily from the American phenomenon of pop-ups, catering to wealthy diners who'd sought new, fresh experiences that were different from the traditional trappings of fine dining establishments or the wrought iron bistros that bordered *Les Halles*. For tourists, they'd say. Each night, *Chez Traversier* opened in a new location in Paris: sometimes in an existing storefront, sometimes in a stranger's kitchen, and never advertised. Instead, the location was conveyed in code within the pages of *Le Monde*. While the cuisine might not have won any Michelin stars, it promised a type of conspicuous exclusivity that many people—mostly the rich—admired and sponsored. Secrecy had been part of its allure. It certainly was for the Supper Club. Tonight, *Chez Traversier* had bloomed into existence in an old safe house once owned by the German Intelligence agency. Francis recognized the unmistakably minimalist aesthetic. In his experience, every spy in the field eventually got a little homesick. Martin ushered him past closed doors where other diners ate in seclusion. French, British, and Yiddish voices filtered through the cracks. Nothing compelling that he could discern at least. "Quite the international crowd," he said. Martin said nothing and instead, opened a white door close to the end of the hallway. Inside, a dozen club members chatted at a long table. Wine flowed from an equal number of bottles. "Bon appetit, Monsieur DiMarco," he said as he left. Francis found an open seat nearest to the window and as he took it, the woman next to him filled a glass with burgundy wine. "I hate this seat." "Am I such terrible company, Francis? I promise not to chew your ear off. Not unless you want me to," she purred with a wry smile. Her hand found his lap. Angelique was never one to mince words nor waste time. "The window," he said with a glance over his shoulder. Amber light percolated up from the street and cast the window panes in shadows. He'd spent most of his adult life observing others, reporting what he'd seen, people who lived, loved, and died while he silently recorded them for his superiors. For him, windows were a vulnerability. "Well *mon cher*, you should try to arrive on time next time. At least you're not last." She pointed to the empty chair against the wall, offering a skewed vantage at the window. The Supper Club was not a meritocracy, and Last Person Lookout duty was generally considered to be the worst way to spend the night. A night with Angelique was a close second. Francis checked the time. It was only a few minutes after meeting should started but the president's absence made him uneasy. He'd been on edge ever since he heard the rumor about the club in Hamburg and he planned on asking questions tonight. The nature of their organization kept members in the dark for everyone's sake. But these were uncertain times. Clarity would go a long way to assuage his fears: what did she know, were *they* in danger? "It's not like Bette to be late." The door opened and Martin appeared with a retinue of white gloved servers. Each man, carrying a plate covered with silver cloche, walked behind a diner and when Martin nodded, placed the first course on the table in unison. As they lifted the covers, buttery steam wafted from underneath. "Tonight we start with fondant potatoes in a beurre blanc sauce, topped with caviar. *Bon apetit*." As the last server exited, Martin closed the door. Conversations died down as the club members tucked into the dish. Angelique closed her eyes as a morsel passed her lips and she let out the softest of moans. She looked at Francis with sultry, half open eyes. "Delicious. Sweet, salty, creamy. I just know you'll enjoy it," she said, gripping his leg like a bear with a salmon. She leaned back and her earring, a small fortune in diamonds and precious metals, glinted with a flash of red light. A laser beam. Francis moved without thinking. He shoved her, hard and fast until she fell backwards to the floor and shouted, "Gun!" Bullets sprayed though the window and found a home in his back. Angelique screamed and crawled towards the exit. As Francis gasped for breath, he watched as more members fell to unseen attackers. "It's locked!" Angelique yelled, rattling the door knob. Smoke seeped in from the crack under the door and sat on the floor, frozen. A man dropped his shoulder and barreled into the door until the room shook. Blood made Francis's voice gravelly. "Stop, they're right-" The man broke through and blue-white flames engulfed his body. A stream of fire spat through the hole he'd made and the room flickered in smoke. Francis struggled to stay conscious but managed to look at Angelique, arms crossed over her chest, still trembling against the wall. *This. This was the worst way to spend the night.*   *** ## ONE No matter what time he arrived, Hektor always managed to find the absolute worst cart in corral at Restaurant Reload. The one he'd selected today squeaked like a colony of rats and wobbled on six partially rolling wheels. It was half covered in chipped paint, rust, and shipping labels too sticky to remove by the warehouse workers who were too busy to care anyway. As he flashed his tax card to the doorman, Bernice hopped on the other end of the cart and held the rail like a playground jungle gym. He couldn't fault her. If he'd been forced to buy wholesale ingredient for the family restaurant as a child, he'd look for a way to play too. His sister Greta had been bringing Bernice ever since her husband left them. Her mother pulled her off and the nine-year old stumbled backwards onto the concrete floor. Greta kept her from falling but shook her straight. "Watch your feet, Bernice! Do you want to break them? You know you're not supposed to jump on the carts." "Yes, Mom," said the child, stretching the words like saltwater taffy. Hektor pushed the cart to a pallet loaded with fifty-pound bags of onions. "How much do you have to get today?" she asked as he wrangled two bags onto the cart. "The usual, Bee." He licked the end of his pen and crossed out a row in a small notepad. The menu at Greens hadn't changed in years. Meat, veggies, and starch. The classic triad arranged generously on a platter simply worked, whether it was beef, chicken, pork or fish. No one would have accused him of following trends. The recipes had worked well enough for his father, back in the days when the old man ran Greens with a meaty fist and bellowing voice. Back then, Hektor, Sr., an imposing man in a permanently stained apron, commanded the kitchen. Suppliers would drive their best ingredients *to him* and he'd check each crate like a military general inspecting his troops. The idea of driving a minivan to a wholesale warehouse would have killed him if he weren't already dead. Greta helped Bernice put on an over-sized orange jacket and walked her into the refrigerated side of the building. Hektor followed and the whir of overhead fans dampened the sounds of the wheels. Cases of iceberg lettuce teetered on a nearby pallet after other customers had pulled them out like bricks in Jenga. Hektor wished he had time to examine the product, to select one with the best looking lettuce, but it would mean more time for Bernice too. The little girl's patience for cold was demonstrably short. The cart wobbled less after it had been fully loaded. Sixty dozen eggs weighed a lot. When the final item had been scanned Hektor looked at the register: $549.40. He scribbled down the number in another part of the notebook where he tracked expenses and then opened a bank bag of cash. Everything was costing more. "We really need to push the specials," he said to Greta as he loaded the last giant tub of mayonnaise. "We can't afford to have a bad week." "When have we ever?" Hektor suspected that she already knew the answer. Being the older sibling meant she saw more of the restaurant's logistics than he did growing up. She was always smarter. As they drove away, back towards Providence and the restaurant, Hektor wondered how long it'd take for her pride to wear out and just sell the damn place. They pulled into the parking lot and the minivan lurched over a pothole. The heavy load, already taxing the vehicle's shocks and springs, made sure that Hektor felt it. He drove around to the back entrance and when he stopped, he gave the keys to Bernice. "Go ahead and unlock the door for me, Bee." She puffed up in her seat and returned a sharp salute. "Yes sir, Uncle H!" As the van door slid open she hopped out and mumbled to herself: "One nine o two. One nine o two." "You got it, sweetie," Greta called. "Just remember to press star after putting in the code." "Got it, Mom!" Hektor watched her spin the keys and he sighed. "She's a good kid, Greta. The best. She shouldn't be spending her Saturday mornings loading lettuce into a walk-in cooler." Greta kept her gaze on the restaurant door. "I know, but be honest. You'd miss her. Even when she's complaining she's still helping out. Pretty soon she'll be old enough to look after herself at home." "How's school going?" "The same," she replied. "Still having trouble making friends." "Having a free weekend could help. Maybe she could do a play date or something." Greta laughed and opened the door. "She's not a child. I mean she is, but she hasn't been on a play date in years. I can't even remember the last birthday party she was invited to." The thought saddened him. Hektor knew they had it rough, just like every other small business owner in town. Food costs and national chains were killing them. The only way to stay afloat was to save where they could, including doing more labor by themselves. He popped the trunk and hefted a case of raw beef. A trill of beeps came from the restaurant backdoor and Bernice came out, propping it open with a brick. "Go help your mother," Hektor said, gesturing back to the minivan with his chin. Inside, Hektor's shoes squeaked on the old tile floor. Overhead florescent bulbs bathed the kitchen in sterile white light and the stainless steel surfaces gleamed. The back of the house at Greens wasn't tiny, but it wasn't grand either. It comfortably fit Hektor, three line cooks, Lucy on apps, and a rotating crew of servers. Most of them had been with Greens for years. In Lucy's case, she'd been hired by his father as a teenager and never left. Balancing on one leg, he kicked the cooler handle and a chill air filtered through the plastic curtain. Something inside had spoiled. "Jesus," he muttered as he dropped the case. His nose crinkled as he sniffed the shelves to find what had gone south. He didn't have to look long. A half-eaten egg salad sandwich sat on top of a soup kettle drop-in, wet and uncovered. Greta entered the walk-in and winced. "Oh, oof." "Who was cleaning last night?" he asked, holding the plate at arm's length. "Barry. Pretty sure it was Barry. Good God, that stinks." Hektor took it to the sink and ran the water as he scraped the mushy sandwich down the drain. Yellow and green egg salad smeared along his fingers and he did his best to hold his breath. It didn't help. The rank odor sat in his nostrils waiting for an opening. He would have tossed the whole thing, plate and all, into the dumpster outside if he could afford it. But every plate counted. The food counted. Everywhere he looked the restaurant seemed to ooze with waste. He looked at the shift chart on the wall and read Barry's name next to tomorrow. Tearing him a new one would have to wait. Lucy arrived soon after he finished rotating the pantry shelves to surface the older ingredients. She tucked her curly gray hair into a net and tied on an apron before stopping at the cooler door. "What died in there?" Hektor looked up from a bin of onions he was going to slice. "Barry." "Barry's dead? Sweet. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Lucy and Barry used to fight like cats until Greta separated their shifts. The rumor was they'd slept together his first week on the job and worse, that he was terrible lover. Lucy held an empty plastic bin and waved it as if the walk-in was on fire. When she returned, it was full of vegetables and a slab of bacon. "Who else is here?" she asked. "Greta. Bee. Why?" She pointed outside. "There's another car in the lot. I didn't know if you were hiring." Hektor put down the knife and onion and wiped his hands as he walked towards the front of the house. The dining room was split into thirds: the bar area in the front, a larger room with booths and tables, and a back room with a large heavy table and bench seating. He remembered serving booze to business men there as a child, when he was not much older then Bernice. Later, his father would tell him that those men in sharp Armani suits were part of the local mob. The "Oak Room" was rarely used these days. He stepped into the vestibule and sure enough, a black Lincoln Towncar idled in the closest parking spot. Tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside but as soon as he unlocked the front door the car's engine turned off. A man wearing glasses and a jacket over a URI sweatshirt stood up from the driver's side. He looked over and gave a little wave. "Can I help you?" Hektor asked. Whoever he was, the man wasn't local. A professor maybe? If he was from the region, he'd learned to drop the Rhode Island accent. "I hope so. I am interested in reserving this space for an event. Several, actually. Contingent upon your services and availability, of course. Are you the owner?" *Reservations*. Hektor felt like he hadn't heard that word in forever and a smile crept over his face. "That's great! Yeah, I'm Hektor Green," he said, offering his hand. Despite the stranger's small slender hands, he had a firm grip. "My name is Brian. Brian Lauer." "Good to meet you! Do you want to come in and check out the, uh, facilities?" Brian dipped his head in a slight bow and said, "That would be delightful." Once inside, Hektor noticed every flaw, chipped table and mote of dust in the room. He prayed that Brian didn't notice. "So what kind of gathering are you looking for? Something big? Fifty, or a hundred people?" "Twelve. Give or take a few. I host a weekly gathering called the Bavarian Supper Club." Hektor smiled but his heart sunk. A dozen people weren't going to save his business. "That's terrific. You won't find better German food anywhere else. And I think you're going to like our back room. It's surprisingly spacious, comfortable, and private." He led Brian past the bar and flipped a switch in the Oak Room, then mentally cursed himself for not dusting it. Brian walked around the table, seeming to scan every corner of the space. As he opened his mouth to say something the radio in the kitchen turned on full blast. Lucy was in a groove. "Will you excuse me, for just a moment," Hektor said. He stormed into the kitchen and ripped the radio out of the wall. "Hey! What the hell, man?" "We've got a guy checking us out for a booking," he barked back, pointing at the swing doors. "Can you keep it down for like, ten minutes?" "Jesus, alright. You scared me half to death." When Hektor returned he found Brian examining a framed newspaper article. His father had been recognized for his service to the community. It had been a while since Hektor looked at the picture of his father with his million dollar smile. "Is that you?" Brian asked, pointing to the little boy in the picture. "Me and my sister. We both own Greens." "That is a blessing, to pass on a place like this to future generations. Your father must be proud." "I'd like to think so," Hektor replied. He did feel like explaining more. "Now, what dates were you looking to book? I can take a look at our calendar now for you." "Next Saturday, if it's not too soon. My group typically dines from seven until ten. I do apologize for such short notice. If it helps, I'd be willing to pay more than your customary deposit." Brian pulled a folio wallet from his jacket and thumbed out three thousand-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" *Mob. He must be with the mob*, Hektor thought. "Y-you're most kind, Mr. Lauer. Sure. We'll be ready for you." "Excellent! And please call me Brian. Only the government calls me Mr. Lauer." They shared a laugh while Hektor tried to suppress his urge to run. Brian took a menu and promised to call later to clear any special requests. When the Towncar finally pulled out of the parking lot, Hektor's shoulders sagged. "Did you book it?" Lucy asked as he returned to the kitchen. He nodded and opened a filing cabinet. "Next Saturday," he said as he opened a three-ring binder. He hadn't looked at his father's Old Old recipes in forever. "Do you know any German starters?" "Nein," she said laughing, holding a finger to her upper lip. He didn't appreciate the humor and flashing the three bills on the counter shut her up. "Are those real?" "I ran the marker on it. They're real. Even have the strip inside, see?" He held one to the light and let her find the security tag running vertically in the bill. "Tell me, do you know what kind of man carries crisp thousand dollar bills like they were twenties?" "No, what kind?" Hektor made finger guns and pointed them at her. "A seriously connected man.


WC: 524 Rain pattered the window of the diner hard, as I sipped my coffee. Though sometimes I wonder why I drink it all. So much regular drinking of the bitter beverage made me nearly unaffected by it. I still don’t enjoy the unpleasant taste, I more tolerate it for the high I supposedly get. So, I drink more and more cups of the black drink until I feel energized, or can bear it no longer. But why do I subject myself to such a thing? People add things to their drink, make it taste better, have less of an edge on their tongue, help them pretend they really love it a little bit more, a reason to drink it. But that’s not *true* coffee, is it? Those are things that help you ignore how acrid it really is. I take a sip, and it scorches my tongue. Why not, then, just accept that it doesn’t really matter how I take my coffee. Add as much milk or sugar as my heart desires. Hell, add sprinkles and caramel, and whipped cream on top. Who cares? It’s my coffee after all. I smack my lips, I imagine my tongue is stained brown by now. Either way, whatever it’s advertised to do is not happening to me, that’s for sure. I feel as tired as ever. But, for some reason, I find myself continuously hoping that my black coffee, uncontaminated by the ideas and flavors of anything else, will give me the true effect. A fuller experience, an experience that the first men who ever drank coffee felt. It feels noble, to bear the brunt of the terrible flavor for the reward of breathing life into my mornings. I take a larger gulp, now that it's nearly room temperature. This is the taste my forefathers settled with, the boost of energy they so loved and desired. But this coffee, goddamnit, tastes horrible. I’m sick of drinking it every morning before taking on my other obligations for the day. The taste lingers on my tongue indefinitely. Why not just never drink it again. Smash my mug on the floor, tell the waitress to go fuck herself, and never look back… That’s irrational. That’s not fair to her, or the people who will have to clean my mess out of the carpet. I slowly swallowed more. Maybe if I simply went to another diner. Fancier diner. Higher quality java. Buy my own espresso machine, do it my own way, self-determination. But coffee is coffee anywhere and coffee is coffee made in any way. Is everyone in the world just pretending to like coffee? What did my “forefathers” love so much about this? Was life really that bad that this was the highlight of their day? Built coffee houses to enshrine how much they loved the damn bean? I might as well just- I went for another drink but felt nothing but air on my lips. “Another cup, honey?” My hands slowly lowered the mug onto the table. I gazed at the waitress blankly. Her head gently gestured to the coffee pot in her right hand. “Yes. Yes, I’ll have another cup.


Paula Johnson gets up at 5 am, jumps in the shower, slips on her stockings, steps into her shoes, digs in the pocket of her raincoat, and walks out the door into the rain. She worked as a waitress at the English Muffin, a breakfast restaurant she has worked at since it first opened a hundred years ago. It's just another day for Paula Johnson, who is trapped in a time loop; time passes around her while she remains the same age and in the same job. Everyone around her goes about their daily lives, either leaving for better opportunities or dying. When the clock strikes, 5 am, everyone who had met Paula Johnson the day before forgets about her. Her first day at the English Muffin sparked the phenomenon. When she arrived for her second day, everyone acted as if they were meeting her for the first time. This has been her reality ever since. She's seen ownership change hands, the restaurant modernized, and longtime customers pass away and are replaced by new ones. This morning, Paula walks into the restaurant, checks in on the computer, and walks into the manager's office. "Oh, you're the new waitress, Paula, right? I'm Bob, the manager." "Do you want me to start at the counter?" "Sure, Angelica has been running around all morning; I'm sure she'd appreciate your help." Paula grabs an apron and approaches Angelica, who is struggling to make coffee. "I loathe this stupid machine," Angelica says as she aggressively presses switches with little effect. "There is a trick: you need to wait three seconds before flipping the brew switch. Bob is aware of it but has yet to have it serviced." Paula says as she flips the brew switch at the right moment, and the coffee starts to percolate. "Oh my God, I'm so glad you're here; that dumb thing has been driving me crazy all morning." "Don't worry, it'll be a good day; tipping is generally higher when it's raining. Is it okay if I take the counter?" "Of course, do you want me to go over the menu?" "I've worked in places like this before; let me know if there's anything else I can do." Paula walks up to Mr. Innes, who has been a regular at the English Muffin for the past eight years. "Has Angelica put your bran muffin and home fries in yet?" "How did you know that's what I always get?" "Word travels quickly, Mr. Innes; I'll have that up for you as soon as possible." "I can see you're going to be one to watch; your future looks promising!" Paula smiles as an underlying sadness begins to wash over her. She overcame it and walked to the end of the counter, where a couple was waiting for their order to be taken. It's not like Paula hasn't attempted to escape her daily life; she's tried to flee town, change careers, and even steal money, but her conscience wouldn't let her keep it. The bottom line is that the English Muffin is the only place where she can make money, support herself, and be somewhat remembered. She's tried almost everything to break the spell in the hundred years she's been living this day-to-day existence. She tried staying awake for 24 hours, then 48 hours; she paid a woman to stay awake with her until morning; at 5 am, she forgot who Paula was and freaked out. Finally, she placed a massive billboard of herself with the words, "I am Paula Johnson, remember me!" Every day the billboard was up, people acted as if it were the first day, and it had little to no effect on the spell. Paula was right about this rainy Wednesday morning; it was busy; she had already made her usual amount of tips by late morning. She took a break, drank another cup of coffee, and struggled to stay awake. Bob exited his office and motioned everyone to the kitchen just as she was ready to return to work. "I'm sorry for doing this now, but I wanted to inform everyone as soon as possible. I just got off the phone with the bank, and the English Muffin will be closing permanently." Everyone is stunned, but no one more so than Paula. She's almost catatonic. "It gets worse," Bob continues, "tomorrow is the last day we'll be open." "The restaurant will be closed after tomorrow!" Angelica said as she threw down a rag on a prep table in frustration. "Okay, everyone, I'm sorry I had to upset you with this, but I didn't want you to be surprised; let's have a good rest of today and tomorrow here at the English Muffin." "You're lucky this is your first day," Angelica said as she and Paula went back to the restaurant. "I've given three months of my life to this job, and now I have to start all over." The rest of Paula's shift is solemn, with a lot of thought on all the time she's spent here, but also worry about the future in the back of her mind. The restaurant is about to close when a man stumbles in, drenched. He walks up to the counter, where Paula greets him with a place setting and silverware. "Is it still raining out there?" "Don't worry; I think the majority of it is on me." As she held out the coffee carafe, Paula laughed. She poured him a cup after he nodded. Paula found the man easy to talk to, and even though the restaurant had closed a half-hour earlier, Paula told Angelica that she would lock up. The man asked Paula why she was sad. Maybe she was tired, maybe the news about the restaurant closing had weighed on her, but she chose to use this chance to express her emotions. "This restaurant I've worked at for a long time is closing tomorrow, and I'm not sure what I'll do after that." "You sound like I did a month ago; I had devoted my entire life to my family's business, and when it closed, I had no idea what I was going to do." "When did you decide to go on with your life?" "I stopped making excuses; eventually, you'll spend all of your time doing things in your comfort zone, but it's beyond your comfort zone where memorable things happen." "I desperately want to change, but I'm not sure I can." "Here's what I'll do; tomorrow morning, I'm getting on a train to start my new life; meet me at the station, and we'll figure it out together. The train leaves at 6 am." The man walked out the door, leaving a tip on the counter. Paula returns to her empty apartment, and the loneliness she has felt brings her to tears as she stares at the bare walls. She has spent the last hundred years living another day after another day and had nothing to show for it. Paula's alarm goes off at 5 am the next morning. She hops in the shower, slips into her stockings, steps into her shoes, and walks out the door. She knew it was a long shot, but she'd go to the train station in the hopes that he'd remember their conversation from yesterday. As she approached the platform, she noticed the man from the restaurant scrolling on his phone while waiting for the train. "Hi." The man was confused; he put his phone into his pocket and looked Paula in the eyes. "Paula! I'm so glad you could make it.


There was a young royal child who grew up in a small kingdom on the edge of civilization by the name of Robin. Robin was very young, with a mop of curly hair, a habit of getting covered in mud, and Robin was very proud to have recently learned how to do multiplication on paper. The king and queen of the realm lived near a small river, across which was the next kingdom over. Knowing that they did not always have time for Robin, they chose their strongest and most capable knight, who went simply by her initials, MC. The child had to learn both to be a leader and to be kept safe, and so the king and queen asked MC to both teach Robin what it meant to be a leader, follow Robin's instruction, and to keep her safe. Every day before they went out, MC would lead Robin by the barracks, where the kingdom's four other Knights would train. The kingdom didn't have many other knights, few kingdoms around here did, and the world was harsh. For all of them, regardless of blood, MC was, for all intents and purposes, their mother as well as commander (and literally mother to at least one). Every morning, Robin would watch MC go to each one, checking out their armour, spit-shining it where it was needed, helping them improve their strikes and lunges to be faster and more precise, until she was satisfied, and then she would lead them out. Nearly every morning, the Robin would meet at the river, and the prince from the next kingdom over, Codin, would greet them, "Good morning!". Robin and Codin would frequently play together, where their respective bodyguards took a step back to give the royal children room to play. Codin's bodyguards were two massive men, Dex and Don, decked out in jet black armor that they were slow to move in, easily a head and shoulders taller than MC. Occasionally, Codin would brag about a deer that he ordered his guards to kill for him, and show it off. Robin didn't care for the display, but couldn't be one-upped by the neighboring prince. So, Robin asked MC to hunt. MC brought back a large pheasant, which they cooked and ate. "A pheasant? My guards killed a deer! It's much bigger and tougher." Codin bragged, puffing out his chest. "A pheasant is a much smaller target, and can fly away, making it a much harder target. MC has proven herself the better guard." Robin said smugly. MC, Dex, and Don all shared worried glances, knowing no good ever came when their royals started bragging about who's forces were better. "Then how about a dual? MC faces Dex and Don? The guard that runs first loses." All three bodyguards widened their eyes. They all knew that for the honor of the kingdom, if Robin agreed, they wouldn't be able to back down easily. Robin ran over to MC and hugged her. MC saw fear in the child's eyes, and knew Robin cared for her deeply. The three guards sighed, relaxing, just a little. "I know your honor is important to you, MC. And I know you're faster than they are. I can't let him insult you like this! You can win!" The three guards immediately tensed up. None could show fear or concern when honor was on the line, but all three knew this was a pointless fight. Taking stance on the sand, MC stood in opposite of Dex and Don. She drew her twin swords, and pointing them at Dex and Don, "I honor you, and should you fall, I shall sing your praises, as I would ask you sing mine if I fall, but may both of us sing eachother's praises this evening." Dex and Don nodded, "We wish the same." and each drew a swords and in unison said, "En Guarde" MC dashed between the two, deflecting both of their swords. She then swung, and both blocked hers. Both then swung again, the flat of MC's blades touched the chests of the other two knights, while the blades of the other two had the flat on her shoulders, near her neck. MC looked at both of them and herself, "It's a draw, our lieges." "A draw indeed." followed Dex and Don followed. All three guards sheathed their swords, and walked to their respective royals. Something about all this troubled Robin, but what exactly it was that was troubling seemed elusive. Whatever it was, Robin felt that home would be safer now, and started that way. Then came the angry voice of Codin, "A tie? A TIE!?! My guards were obviously the winners! I will not be happy until we know who's better. Again, and this time, someone will fall! MC, Robin, face us! " Robin, the young child, turned red with anger, and yelled, "MC is better, and you know it!" MC went pale. "Prove it to that jerk!" Robin turned to MC. MC slowly drew her swords once again, with a lot more deliberation this time. Codin wouldn't be satisfied until he had seen someone die. That was obvious now. And Robin had yet to learn the prudence that comes from being a leader. MC looked at Dex and Don, and she could see the sorrow in their eyes, as they could in hers. There would be no acting for the young royals this time. No showmanship. The swords clanged, and fast enough that neither Robin nor Codin could see what happened, it was over. Dex and Don were both bleeding, one missing a nose and one missing an eye, but both still standing. On the ground, gasping, a red stain growing around her stomach, lay MC. "I knew my guards were better. See you tomorrow." And with that, Codin marched off with pride, Dex and Don following closely behind, glancing sorrowfully and apologetically back at MC. Robin, the full weight of what had just happened dawning on her, struggled to drag MC back to the castle, finding fear and dread were a source of extra strength. The queen was tending some of her flowers as she often did to pass the time, when she saw Robin dragging MC to the house. The Queen helped carry MC into the house, and put them on one of the castles beds and motioned for her servants to fetch the healer. While they waited, Robin told the Queen what had happened while the child apologized over and over. The castle's healer arrived and looked over MC. "With her wounds, I can bandage them, but there's not much else I can do. If she makes it through the night, she'll live. If not, she'll die." Knowing they were close, after some time of attention from the Queen and King, it was just MC and Robin left in the room together. "Please be okay, MC... I don't want to lose you. I still have so much to learn from you." MC lifted up her hand, and slowly stroked the child's hair, "Oh Robin, I forgive you. Just remember my final lesson, and I will not have been in vain. Protect those you love, but never let others provoke you into violence, nor put your (or their) pride above their lives. In all your actions, thoughts, and decisions, remember to love. And with that, MC's hand stopped stroking Robin's hair. Robin touched her hand, and found it cold to the touch. Many years passed, eventually Robin became ruler of the kingdom. And not only did Robin never see Codin again (by choice), but during all of Robin's reign, none of the kingdom saw bloodshed ever again. `In loving memory of MC, whose bravery, maternal instincts, fortitude in the face of victim-soldiers of a tyrant, and final lesson inspired this story.` `This story is technically fiction, but based on real events, but told in allegory (such as a change of setting to a disagreement between royal children in a medieval setting) form to protect the people involved, and to remove the lesson from any social/political/etc. situations involved. This was done in order to avoid discussion that would draw away from MC's final message. The person whose name was changed to Robin wanted MC's story to be shared, but couldn't bring themselves to do it while they were still grieving. I post it now on Robin's behalf with Robin's blessing. All names, besides MC, were changed to protect those involved. I will not be answering any question about the true identity of any person, places, events, or times involved.


There lived a little boy who had a hard life. He lived with his mother, but his father had passed away some years prior. The boy was only 8 years old, but he would spend almost all of his time outside, out of the house. His mother was always so reclusive, he found it hard to be around her, and for the most part, he fended for himself. Everyday he'd go out and play around the town. Eventually, he wandered into the park, and up to a hill where a mighty tree lay. It was an apple tree Everyday after school he would come to the park, run up the hill, and hang out at the tree. He would visit this tree so much that eventually, one of the keepers of the park tied up a tire swing to the biggest branch of the tree, and the boy would spend hours swinging around as he looked down at the rest of the park below him. He visited the tree and the park everyday, until one day, he hadn't visited for a good four years. He and his mother had moved house, because she couldn't stand to be reminded of the house her and her once-husband had grown to build their life in. They lived off in another town for some years before eventually, she found it far too hard to be away from the house he had built her and her son's life in, and they moved back. Finally back in his old town, the boy returned to the park, and returned to the hill. To his surprise, the tire swing was still proudly hung from the tree. But also to his surprise, there was an old man there, sitting at the base of the tree, cutting an apple into slices with a dull pocketknife. The boy was confused, granted he'd never seen anyone else up here. He approached the man. The man offered the boy a fond expression, handing him a piece of apple and beckoning him to sit down. The boy complied, examining the man's appearance. He looked almost homeless, tired and dishevelled, but he looked clean, and as if he were in good spirits. The man glanced at the boy, then up at the sky. The sun was beginning to descend beyond the hills. He then began to speak. "One day, you will lose everything you came to know. But you mustn't dwell, you must take your memories and cherish them as you start anew." He said. The boy seemed confused, being only 12, but he nodded contently, accepting the man's word. Once the sun was almost fully set, the boy ran off home. The cycle continued for days. The next day, he ascended back up the hill, the man sitting in his usual spot, with another apple. Again, he offered the boy a slice and a seat. Once more, just like before, the man spoke to the boy. "One day, you will lose everyone close to you. Not to weep, though, for you must cherish their memory and rebuild yourself from the ground up." Again, this left the boy confused, but he nodded understandingly. Like clockwork, the sun set and the boy returned home. Soon, they moved again, as the boy's mother's job was not paying well enough. They moved two states over, and she got a new job. They lived there for the rest of her life, before she too, died at a young age, due to complications following heartbreak. The boy, now 20, moved back to his old home, in his own town. He visited the park again. He climbed the hill, and to his surprise, there was the swing, still hung high in the tree, as well as the old man, underneath with an apple and his ever duller knife. Both the rope holding the swing, and the old man, looked old and weathered, so frail the boy worried that a single touch would make them both crumble. The man, however, looked to be in just as good spirits as ever. The man offered the boy an apple slice, his hand trembling slightly as he did, weak with old age. The boy took the slice and sat with the man, who stared wistfully off into the distance. "It's good to see you again, boy." Was all he said. The boy nodded. "You as well. Have you any advice for me?" He asked. The man shook his head. "None but what I've told you before. When all is lost, do not weep, begin anew." The boy nodded. The sun had set fully, and it had grown dark, so the boy went home. He visited the park the next day, hoping to see the man, but no one was there, to his surprise. So, he returned home, and for a while, he didn't return to the park. A year later, the boy returned to the park, and returned to the hill, only to see the tree had been reduced to naught more than a weak stump. The tire swing had long since fallen, grown into the ground, the rope that once held it rotted away. On the stump sat a woman, who easily could have been in her 80's. The boy approached her, and she looked at him expectantly. "My husband told me you'd be here." She said. Was this the old man's wife?, he thought. "He hadn't much time left in him. He wanted me to give you this." She said, handing the boy an apple. The boy looked confused. "He told me to tell you not to mourn his loss. Plant the seed, grow anew." She said, before getting up, her weakened body trembling slightly as she did so, and she walked away. The boy listened to her, honouring the wishes of the old man he had befriended, and planting the seed. For years, the boy would return to the park everyday as the old stump rotted away, and the new sapling eventually grew to replace the tree that used to be there. The boy was now, too, an old man, in his 60's. He sat beneath the tree, staring out at the dusky sky. He had an apple in his hand as he watched a young boy walk up to him, an even younger boy trailing close behind. They walked up to him, looking at him with curiosity. The man, once a boy, offered the apple to the youngest of the boys and offered them both to sit. They did. The man sighed wistfully, and looked at the boys. "One day, all will seem lost. You'll lose the people and things that mean most to you. One day. But you cannot weep, you must cherish the memories and use that to start new, build yourself back from the ground up." The boys looked confused, but they nodded. The sun started to set, and they went home. As they left, the man looked up at the tree he'd grown, curiosity in his eyes. "Was that what you had been trying to prepare me for all along? To repeat the cycle anew?" He asked, but of course, he got no answer. But the breeze blew the leaves in such a way they made a rustling that could almost be taken as a response, and the man accepted it as such. He smiled to himself and leaned back against the tree.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please 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 Boundaries! This week let’s explore the theme of ‘boundaries’. What are the things that bind us as indivivduals, and as a group/community? What are the things that hold us back? Boundaries can be metaphorical, like expectations, it can be personal, like respecting space or the limits another person will go to, or they can be a literal border. Maybe there’s something physically dividing your characters from another place. How do these boundaries or imaginary lines affect them? What lengths will they go to push past those restrictive walls? What lies on the other side? Is it another world, a person, freedom, or something else? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * March 13 - Boundaries (this week) * March 20 - Hesitation * March 27 - Identity   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 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 inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** 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. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 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 the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **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. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **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 of family friendly 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 catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s 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! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules) Visit us on the Discord for more information. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** #Rankings - - by u/Zetakh   - - by u/nobodysgeese   - - by u/stickfist   - - by u/FyeNite   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


This story's about 2900 words and is about an old man who's been working on something for many years. What it is and why he's working on it are explained in the story. If you have the time, I'd appreciate your feedback. I'm mostly interested in impressions -- what works for you, what doesn't and why. Thank you very much for reading, and even more so if you can spare a word or two :) I hope there's something here that you like!  The Old Man’s Machine By Thomas Bradford The underground complex is abandoned and has been for a long time. Not abandoned completely, but deserted of its original inhabitants. Now it serves as the old man’s home, its concrete ceilings and dark corridors his refuge from the empty world above. He sits in front of a peculiar machine. It is a device he has worked on for decades. Breathing through his nose, the air rustles his long white beard as he stares at his creation, concentrating, before lifting a wrench to the side of the machine’s cylindrical frame. There he tightens a bolt slowly, his muscles moving of their own accord, mindlessly performing tasks of which he has spent his life in the hope of one day finishing his creation. Finally, it seems, he has. The old man lowers his arm, letting the end of the wrench fall to the floor with a soft clang. His movement is tired as he pulls a yellowed sheaf of papers from his waistband. He adjusts himself on the metal stool and holds up one particular page, his eyes moving back and forth from the completed machine to designs he had sketched forty-seven years ago. Forty-seven years. To him it feels like a hundred lifetimes; an incomprehensible span he has become deadened to. Or so he thought. For now the possibility of change has returned, the longing for redemption spreading through his being once again, like water gifted to gnarled roots that for ages have been dried-up and dormant. Satisfied that each bolt is in its right place, that each metal plate and circuit is exactly as it should be, the man lowers the page, his expression unchanging save for a faint hopeful smile in his eyes. He regards his cylinder of metal, his unassuming capsule, one final time, resolving to test it tomorrow. Getting to his feet, the old man walks away. Like a silent watchman, his time machine stands at the ready, waiting for his return. \# His filthy bedroll sits in a dark corner of another room in the complex. This area is as big as a warehouse, with many stairs and catwalks running along its sides. It is under their canopy that the old man rests, his back leaning against the cold concrete of the wall as he sits among his rat-eaten blankets and musty pillows. He idly scratches the white hairs on his chest and thinks of the past. Of the world it created. He speaks to a rusty machine that floats at the edge of the room, its quiet presence like a specter in the shadows outside the muted glow of the overhead bulbs in their circular dishes. “A-lon, activity on surface,” he says. An orange light flickers briefly in the corner of the robot’s rectangular frame. “*Previous expedition to planet’s surface yielded no signs of human life. Long-range scanner detected no presence beyond basic flora and fauna.*” The old man’s eyes are distant as he listens to the robot speak. His lips move slightly, mouthing each word as it is spoken. The machine’s report has never changed, he knows it never will, yet he asks for it every day. In a way he has become like a machine himself, compelled to a routine of robotic banter from which he doesn’t deviate. “Current state of reserves, A-lon.” The light blinks again; calculations are made in microseconds. “*683 bags dry goods — 406 dehydrated, 277 regular. Freezer holds 308 items. Freezer itself exhibiting increased signs of failure; at current rate it will cease to function in approximately two days, twelve hours, thirty-eight minutes and twelve seconds. Recommend utilizing my hunt/gather protocol functionality in order to secure parts necessary and/or additional unit.*” The old man shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. There’s more than enough dry food to last. Were you able to find what I asked?” The machine floats towards him, circumnavigating a metal staircase to come to a gentle stop several feet from his bedroll. Its frame rests halfway between light and shadow; the overhead glow catches its side and reveals a faded serial number: A-lon686742med-u1. A small compartment in its metal frame opens and a rudimentary arm emerges, its two claw appendages holding a clear glass bottle of bronze liquid. The bottle is coated in a fine layer of dirt, the label visible: black, with white lettering. “*One bottle eighty-proof distilled bourbon whisky.*” The old man cups the bottle, his hand trembling. The days when he’d been thankful that his sole companion’s synthetic voice is non-reproachful by design have long since passed. This frequent request has become merely another part of his routine. He murmurs his thanks as he takes the bottle. “*You are very welcome, Robert.*” The old man says nothing. Untwisting the plastic cap, he lifts the bottle to his mouth. Thick bubbles of air chug through the liquid as he takes deep gulps, desensitized to the burn of the alcohol passing his throat, welcoming the warmth as it settles in his stomach like a dull ember. He lowers his arm, his gaze fixes on the floor as it empties and becomes vacant, and he loses himself for a moment. Then he notices the robot again and waves his hand. “Go away A-lon.” The machine dutifully obeys. The old man takes another pull from the bottle. Minutes pass in silence, his expression unchanged. He thinks of the past. Suddenly the man’s eyes water. He shakes his head bitterly, finally lowering it altogether, as if in defeat. He clutches the neck of the bottle to his leg as he cries, his shoulders hitching in silence, tears spilling onto the rotting blankets. The old man’s heart is heavy and his chest feels like it’s filled with lead. Tilting his head back, he clenches his teeth and rubs a hand across his eyes, wishing for the moment to pass. His nose is running and the mucus is in his beard. He looks ancient, rundown and withered. He is a sorry sight to behold. The importance of this man’s invention, the machine he has crafted in his many years of isolation, cannot be understated. The empty surface of the world above has not always been empty. If one had the ability to go back, to address the past with knowledge of what the future holds, perhaps that world could be saved. Perhaps the old man’s present could be nothing more than a bad dream, and the world could be filled with life once again. For anyone else, that would be the reason. It would be incentive enough to construct a machine to travel back in time, and one could not be blamed for expecting it of anyone with such an ability. For what greater purpose could there be than the world’s salvation? But this man . . . Robert . . . He doesn’t care about any of that. He doesn’t care about the world above. He doesn’t care about those who lived, or those who died. He doesn’t care about the joy they had, the dreams they kept, or the hatred they visited upon one another. He doesn’t care about lost potential for love and kindness, the possibility of wonder, the capacity for creation and destruction and everything in between. The machine he created could be important to the world that was; he created it because it is important to *his* world that *is.* Maybe in the beginning he told himself otherwise. Maybe he even once believed it was so. But even a year in isolation, with ruminations of the past as his only diversion during the countless hours of staring at nothing or lying restlessly awake, is a long time. Over the decades, he has come to know the true reason for his work. Has come to know it intimately, to see its face over and over again, impossible to get away from, useless to try to suppress. The bottle in his lap has always proven a poor weapon against it. It is regret. It is shame. And throughout all these years, it is all that is left to him. The old man wants to sleep. He wants to not stare into nothingness with red eyes for hours, days, and years. He wants to go back and fix it. He thinks back to who he was before — the child he was, then the man. Nothing seemed to work right for either one. It was an odd-shaped life, a puzzle piece that never fit, its only purpose that to be set aside, disregarded and forgotten. It was an awkward existence where the greatest of ideas had a way of stuttering into reality stunted and ill-formed. Luck was never with him; many decisions he made were doomed to be wrong from the start. And like a curse, his wrongness of being finally culminated in a single instance, a terrible moment of which he would give his life to have avoided, if only he could. He is to blame. He, and he alone. But now it seems he can change things. He can erase that blame, make it go away, leaving him free at last, without burden, with a clean conscience at the end of his life. More than anything, he does not want to die with this regret. An air processor switches on, clicking its fan and pulling the old man from his thoughts. He goes to take another drink from the bottle and discovers it is empty, and that he has no recollection of draining it. Disappointed, sad that it’s gone, he pushes the bottle away, a moment later hearing the sound it makes from the shadows as it stops against the other empty bottles. \# The old man rubs sleep from his eyes as he sits down on the metal stool. His creation stands before him, its quiet presence unchanged. It has been two days since he completed it. Rather than try it out the following day like he wanted, he found himself too nervous to go near it. He finally summoned his nerve by telling himself that if he didn’t do this now, then he never would. His fingers shake as he adjusts several dials on the machine; this time his shakes have little to do with sobriety. He sets the numbers, he checks the circuits, he lets his hand rest over the toggle switch. His eyes are wide, his stare intense with a mixture of hope and fear. His dry throat clicks as he swallows. His lips tighten as he steels himself, ready to push the button to start the machine for the first time. For the last time. He pushes the button. . . . Nothing happens. The old man’s heart drops. His mind floods with panic and he presses the button several more times, each time hearing the dry click of the switch inside the small metal box, followed by his rushing breath, followed by silence. He lets the box fall to the floor and runs his hands over the outside of the machine. He checks the myriad of wires, he feels the bolts, he looks at the exposed circuit boards. He sees nothing wrong. “*. . .—obert . . .*” Turning his head, he sees A-lon appear in the doorway. A small red light glows steadily in the corner of the robot’s rectangular body. The old man has never seen it lit up before, and doesn’t know exactly what it means — clearly an error sign of some sort, but he doesn’t know of what. “*. . .—zer ceased . . . function . . .*” the robot says, its speech clipped, the words disrupted by quiet pauses. The old man asks the robot what’s wrong. “*. . . speech . . .—otocol system is . . .—ailing . . .*” The old man nods, understanding what has happened. He is not surprised. It all makes sense to him, in fact. It fits perfectly with what he now knows is the only way this scenario could have played out for him. To imagine otherwise had been foolish of him, and he feels a rueful disgust for ever hoping things could have been different. The freezer had failed. A-lon was malfunctioning, wearing down after all these years. And his creation was a failure. A piece of junk. The possibility of this moment had surfaced in his thoughts throughout the years. Part of him had expected it, but a larger part of him had still believed. Believed that somehow, this time, things would turn out differently. This time he wouldn’t screw up, as he had with every other important thing in his life. This time things would come together, and he would finally succeed. Even if it had taken his entire life, in the end he would get this one thing right. He was a fool. There would be no fixing anything. The machine doesn’t work, and he is too tired to discover why. He is too old, his mind isn’t what it used to be, and he would likely waste away before the capsule’s mess of circuitry trying to discover where he went wrong. It is over, in other words. In the end he failed. Looking at his inoperable time machine with eyes that have begun to water, his stubborn mind slowly begins to come to a reluctant acceptance. He knows that there is only one recourse left to him now. He must accept the end. Accept his failings, his guilt, as best he can before passing on. His stomach pangs with a dull ache as he turns his back on his failed invention, putting it from his sight forever. He leaves the room, heading to his storage of dry food. There he gathers only what he thinks he’ll need, storing it inside a blanket which he then ties off, making it into a bundle which he can carry. He takes a small jug of water as well, wishing it were a glass bottle instead. Perhaps he can locate where A-lon has gone all these years to supply him, he thinks. The old man does not say goodbye to the complex as he starts to leave. It had been a lonely and desolate home to him, and he feels no sentiment in leaving it. A-lon follows the old man as he walks; the man notices the robot behind him just as he is about to leave and raises an eyebrow. He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You stay here.” The old man turns to go, but the robot continues to follow. Again he commands it to stay; again the robot disobeys. Finally, he gives up and instead opens the door, ducking through it and slamming it shut before A-lon can follow, sealing his companion in as he turns the metal wheel. The machine floats on the other side, motionless, lost without someone to direct it. Left without a voice or purpose, perhaps it will never move from that spot for the remainder of its artificial life. The dim lights of the underground complex continue to glow, illuminating a facility that is once again abandoned. Just as it was less than forty-eight years ago, now it is again, and perhaps now will forever be. In a room tucked away in a back corner of the complex sits a curious machine, its lights and dials dark. If one were to look at it and deduce its purpose, they might discover that the only thing keeping it from working is a lack of power. A simple adjustment to its power cord would fix this problem. This theoretical person might also suspect that the creator of this strange contraption had already used the machine himself, and disappeared into the infinite stretches of time. It probably wouldn’t occur to them that the dead device was merely the last example of a lifetime defined by stupid mistakes, of messing up anything and everything it encountered. \# Tears stream slowly down the old man’s face. His eyes are rimmed with red as he shoulders the makeshift pack on his back. As he limps through the dark corridors on his way back to the surface, he feels as if he is reaching the end of a very long dream, one that should have ended differently. Everything feels wrong, like things were not meant to be this way, but they are. The urge to make things right is still within him, but it is useless now, impotent, with no path forward and no chance of being a reality. The old man doesn’t want his life to end underground. This at least is something he can fix. He wants to see the sky. He wants to breathe the open air. Maybe once he is above ground, he’ll see another human being again. This is secretly his last desire. Although he is old, and facing the end, the capacity for hope in his heart has not changed. His pull towards irrational longing is the same as it ever was, and he hopes to see one person in particular again. If not in the past, then here in the present would be enough. He wants to see this person and say that he’s sorry. That he always was, and he will die being so.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Quote: “Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” – Eleanor Roosevelt** *Bonus Constraint (worth **10** extra pts. this week) - Story is told entirely through dialogue (no exposition).* I want to try something a little different this week. Use the above quote as inspiration to your story. The sentence does *not* need to appear in your story (but you’re more than welcome to, if you like). The bonus constraint is not required. The interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. You have until 2pm EST Monday to get your feedback in. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **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. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points (required) - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A response to the following prompt: *You are stuck living in the void with a banished immortal. You don’t know why they were banished, but you try your best to make their days less lonesome.* \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You don't walk in the void, you really can't do much of anything. You would think that when existence gets stripped of its fancy clothes it would become more simple, an unloading of sorts, but it is quite the opposite. Existence is one of those really funny things that becomes more confusing the more time you spend with it. I'm beginning to feel that society as a whole is just one big attempt at running away from the enigma of living. I don't remember how I ended up in the void, nor does my neighbor. It's the type of thing you forget after a while, a physical fact that ethers away with the rest of the things that you could once grab. "How long have we been here?" I asked the phantom once. "I can't remember." "I think about this a lot," replied it. "I think that's an impossible question." We often dance these type of conversations together, utterly meaningless in all senses of the word, but we too want to forget we exist, even if that's all we have. "How did you come to that conclusion?" "I propose two pieces of evidence. The first being that we have both forgotten about time, so proof inside of tangible evidence, and the other being that time requires things to stick itself to. Time is like the ripples in a pond or lake, following things that misbehave inside of the water's still beauty." "Are we not doing such now?" "I think we are the water." Then we disappear into silence again, questions and answers followed by deep quite. I would tell you for long we'd be quite for, but I think we just established that such a question is beyond me personally. Sometimes I struggle to recall what I was before the oblivion. In my frustration I ask my friend, who I've become quite dear to, about theirs. "What were you before this?" "That's a little complicated." "I think we could use a little bit of that now." "Well, I still am what I was, so I can't tell you without being bare." "That's not true, everything changes. What were you?" "You change, even in a place where time finds a hiding spot, you are changing more than you know. But me? No, I don't change. I suppose you could call it my curse, among other things." It didn't sound like a curse to me, but I understood that my apparitional friend probably knew more about such subjects than myself. I was feeling less and less competent with every conversation, as void moved to void and time spun with hands I did feel quite different. I knew one thing though, this poor spirit had been here longer than me, and that made me sad. As I changed, in whatever way I did, I took it upon my duty to try and keep my friend company. That was all they had. "Hey, have you ever lost anything special to you?" "Anything?" "Well, it could be a person too I guess. Just anything that left its mark on you." "Too many to count." "And that hasn't changed you?" "... Can I tell you something?" I was excited at this prospect, it felt like theatre in a dark room. Granted, I was feeling very very strange at this point, and was having trouble focusing on my neighbor, but I gave it my all. "Please." "I don't know if you've ever thought about this, but what would you say if I told you life was like the rain. Pulled down from those abundant clouds and splattered onto the ground in violent, unpredictable ways. Not because it needs to rain, or because something is making it rain, but merely because water let loose will fall. What would you think about that?" I was in a weird trance, a strange dizzy that felt like thick fog, but I still heard. "I'd say... I'd ask how life came back to the clouds." "Well, there's a sun. A sun that soaks them back up to be used again. Not killing the rain, you can't do that. But just turning it back to mist, so that it can fall once again." Dizzy, "Wha... What?" "I'm sorry, this is confusing, but I like you a lot. You've given me such good company. Just do me a favor and next time you see the sun, remember how sad it is that it has to melt even the most lovely snowflakes back into air..." I lost sound of my friend. Strange feeling of dizzy, not scary. I'm not scared. I'm not... I need to talk to my friend. He'll be lonely, poor soul... Dizzy... Was I? Was I helping him? No... Dizzy... I feel... Cloudy...


Hello everyone, just recently got recommended about this forum, and I really like it. This is my first ever attempt to write something, a 1900 word urban story, need all the feedback I can get about writing. Also English is not my first language so sorry about the poor choose of word and grammar.  **UNINSTALL** January 5th 2005, finally my package has arrived. The pirated copy of The Sims 2, bought from some forum I found online. I rushed to my room to open the package, inside there was 3 plain DVD disc. “The Sims 2 1/3” written with marker pen is the first DVD, I inserted to the DVD-ROM of the pride of my life that time, an all-black intel Pentium 4 CPU with 512 MB of RAM. I open the DVD folder, and then double click at the installation apps. The installation started, and while waiting a text arrived from Lisa my computer science lab partner asking about our MS Excel project. “I’ll get to it tonight” I text her, can’t risk my computer to crash if I open MS Excel now. “Ding” suddenly my speaker rang, “Please insert The Sims disc 2/3, then click continue” the notification in the screen said. I guess I’m stuck here, can’t risk missing the notification for the third disc. This piracy activity was a high-tension event for me. After inserting the third disc, the installation was successful, the manual text in the DVD said to copy the file in the crack folder in disc 1 to the installation folder. “I’m such a great hacker-man” I told myself proudly after copying the cracked folder. “It’s 7 o’clock, have you done it?” Lisa text me, so I replied “I’m doing it now”. Guess the game have to wait a bit, I then open the excel file of our project “The Body Mass Index Calculator” where you just put your weight and height then the file will count your body mass if it is: underweight, normal, overweight or obese. The formulas are very basic, but we have some trouble to automatically change the result cell colour according to the BMI category. It was Lisa idea, so people can have more awareness if their bodyweight is overweight or obese by changing the cell colour to red. Took me an hour to finally figure out the excel formula, but then the moment of truth. Time to open the game I just installed. I really loved The Sims, and they said this sequel is far much better. I clicked the icon, then the loading screen appear. The green crystal graphic, the loading music it was so amazing for me. I ended up playing it until way past midnight that day. Playing the best game of my high school days. “You look so pale dude” Lisa said to me in computer class the next day. “Yeah, work all night to complete our project.” And of course, playing The Sims 2 after that. “Aaaw, my hero. OK you can just sit down while I’ll do our project presentation.” “Fine by me, I’ll cover you if you can’t answer anything” I said to her. “Again, my knight in shining armour always ready to save the day.” She laughs, while walking to her laptop getting ready to do our project presentation. Her smile while saying that really brighten up my day, feels like I'm wide awake again. Lisa is a cheerful girl; we’ve known each other since primary school. We hang out in a same “gang” but actually I never really talk to her privately like in this project. We usually just hang out together with all our other friends. This project really makes me adore her, a fun girl, know exactly what she wants, and she always makes me feel that I’m a cool guy, which I know I wasn’t. I watch her doing our presentation with such confidence, I swear I can see her shine, or maybe it’s just the effect of sleep deprivation. After class, Lisa talks to me “Thanks man, you’re awesome. Sorry I can’t help to much in the formulas.” Again, with her cheerful personality. Her way of talking and the way she looks at my eyes while I’m speaking to her really makes me feel noticed. Is this my first high school crush I asked myself, but I immediately think “how can a beautiful girl, that everyone likes in school will like me.” Maybe this is the effect of listening to much Emo songs and their sad, rejected, melancholy song theme. “So, what are you doing after school?” She asks me, waking me from my thought. “Probably having a nap, I really need it. Why?” I asked her back “Yeah, you look pale. Actually, I was going to ask you out.” she said, blowing my mind off because I just been asked out by the coolest girl I know. “Maybe you can share some of the formulas in Excel so I can be more of a help next time” She continued. Of course this was about the project, what else would she ask me out for. “I think I’ll pass today, maybe some other time. I’ll share my formulas collection next time” I said to her, then we said goodbye. After school, I turn on my computer then start playing The Sims 2 again, I remember that year I can spend 4-5 hour a day playing. The game got so much freedom, you can create characters, design your dream house, and be everything. Playing this game is one of my happy moments growing up. A week after the project, Lisa texted me. “Hey, your kind of missing after school are you OK?” Wow, she noticed I’m not hanging out anymore after school, I texted back, “been busy doing some little project so stuck in my room.” Then I received another task from her “I bet your project is going to be awesome, can I look?” “Maybe when it’s ready” I replied, knowing I would never tell her that my project is playing a video game. Sometimes later at school, Lisa comes to my table. “Hey, you want to watch Lord of the ring together”. Wow, this girl is asking me to go out to watch my favourite movies. I really wanted to say yes but that time I was really addicted to the Sims 2, and going home to play was all I can think off. “Sorry, still got this project I’m doing” I answer, and yes this was going to be one of the epic bad decisions I make my whole life. Choosing to play a game over going out with this awesome girl. She looks disappointed, but then smile and said “OK, good luck with the project.” “Hey maybe you should get more sleep, that pale look doesn’t look good on you.” She said to me while walking away. Again, this girl just hit the spot, I can’t believe she notice me not getting enough sleep because of my gaming habit. After that we started to grew apart, she started to get busy with other friend and me with my The Sims 2 addiction. Sometimes we pass by and said hi, but no more real conversation. Until we finally graduated. We went to different college; I took the math major and she was studying public health. It was always her passion; she cares so much about people that she wants to prevent them from getting sick rather the become a doctor to heal the sick. That's why we have the BMI project. When she tells me about this, I was so amaze that this word was coming from a high school student the same age as me. While all I can think off is playing video game all the time. I never heard from her again after graduation. October of 2008, I was busy at campus when suddenly I received a phone call from my high school classmate. It was a very shocking news, that Lisa was involved in a car accident. She was going home with her boyfriend, the police suspected that her boyfriend was DUI and crashed a road separator at high speed. They both didn’t survive the crash. The funeral is going to be held this week. It’s been a few years, and I have a few dates in college but Lisa is still my dream girl, I still think that she was the perfect girl, and I remember crying that night after receiving the news. At the funeral, everyone I knew in high school was there. Everyone was talking about how she brightens up their life, and how she was the best friend they ever had. It was such a beautiful funeral for a beautiful soul. I wanted to cry, but I made a promise that in the funeral of the happiest person I ever know, I will say goodbye to her the way she always speaks to me, with happiness. And so, I said goodbye to my friend. “She really likes you, you know” Jamie said to me after the funeral. Jamie was Lisa best friend. “She tries to get closer to you, but you kind of shut her down.” She continues. This really shock me; I was too childish to realize it that time. To addicted to my video game, that I could not get the hint from Lisa. I just found out that I was the one rejecting the girl of my dream at her funeral. After the funeral I went home, it’s been 2 years or more since I come home. I know I need to fix this antisocial way of life. After catching up with my parents I went up stair. My room was just the way I left it; I sit down on the side of my bed trying to process everything that happens today. When then in my sight, there it was: my high school best friend, the black computer I'm so very proud off covered in plastic case to prevent dust. I plug all the cable in then turn it on, and The Sims 2 logo – the green crystal is still on the desktop. Then I remember the project I was telling Lisa I was doing. The project that makes me ignore her. So, I open the game, again that loading screen brings back all of high school memory. I open a save file and there she was. Lisa was there as beautiful as ever; I remember spending a whole weekend making her Sims to look as similar as her in real life. Even the way she smiles in the game really reminds me of her smile, every time I told her what I think we should do in our school project. She was there, and I was there in Pleasentview, the neighbourhood’s name of The Sims2. We are a married couple with 2 children. Our house was so big and white, with white fences. I work as an astronaut, and she was a painter. This is the project I could never told her; she will think I’m a psycho in high school if I told her I’m making her as a character in The Sims 2 and marry her. And so there it was, Lisa and I as a married couple in the game, I decided to play the game all night that day. She was really happy in the game – I was really happy in the game. Suddenly it was morning, and I decided to stop. I said goodbye to her. Kiss her one last time in the game and I close the game. I look at the mirror and my face look so pale because of no sleep from playing the game all night and remember what she said that day. “Hey maybe you should get more sleep, that pale look doesn’t look good on you.” I smiled and talk to my reflection, “Maybe you’re right”, and then uninstalled the game. After that I said goodbye for the last time, “Good bye forever my friend, my Lisa.


Sarah loved her friends and all the fun she had with them. Their latest fun activity was to race their bicycles as fast as they could down to the ice-cream truck in the park. Sadly Sarah couldn’t participate. She still used training wheels, you see. Her friends could go so much faster and didn’t have to stick to the paths so when Sarah caught up they had already got their ice-creams and she was always left behind trying to get one. Soon enough Sarah got fed up and begged her parents to teach her to ride but they were always too busy. She felt so lonely every time her friends rode off on their bicycles. She wanted to do that as well. Suddenly, Sarah had an idea. She grabbed her bike and dragged it into their garage and snuck into her father’s toolbox. She didn’t know what she was looking for and the pile of tools was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but she was determined. She spent her afternoon picking up tools and trying them on the bolts of her bike. Eventually, after several hours she found what she needed and got to work removing the training wheels. The bolts were on so tight she would’ve thought they were tightened by the Hulk himself. But after much pushing and pulling they came loose and a sigh of relief escaped Sarah’s mouth. The extra wheels were discarded on the floor as if they were broken toys. Sarah ran back into her house and yelled to her mother, who was busy typing on the computer, that she was going out with her friends. Her mother only grunted back a sound of acceptance and didn’t even turn to look at her daughter. Sarah grinned a mischievous grin and ran back to the garage, picked up her newly renovated bike and pushed it out onto the street. After a tiring walk to the dilapidated car park next to the park she paused. Her nerves were wrought but her determination prevailed as she pushed through it and got on her bike. She almost immediately fell over and bruised her arm. This was going to be much harder than she thought. Try after try, fall after fall, bruise after bruise, she almost gave up but eventually she managed to cycle a few metres. It wasn’t much but it was a step in the right direction for Sarah. So she hopped on her bicycle and tried again. This time she went a few more metres. The next go a few more. Until she was cycling anti-clockwise around the car park. This was a massive achievement for her and she was so proud of herself, but it wasn’t the end to her struggles. Next she had to tackle right hand turns. “This will be a cakewalk,” Sarah said to herself. However this was no ride in the park. As soon as she attempted to turn right she fell off and grazed her knee. She sat up as blood trickled from the wound, she wanted to cry but she knew there was no one there to comfort her and she didn’t want to be stopped so soon. Sarah stood up, picked up her bicycle, and jumped back on once again. A little bit of blood wasn’t going to stop her. Sarah peddled and peddled, trying a right turn again and again, her knee was stinging but her stubbornness to finish and motivation to learn kept her going. Soon enough, after many wobbles and falls, she finally got it. She was overjoyed! She could finally ride her bike with her friends. She felt like she had climbed Mount Everest. Nothing in the world could bring her down. She couldn’t wait to show her friends when they went to the park on Saturday. As the week came and went, it was agonisingly long for Sarah. She was so excited and almost told her friends multiple times, but she wanted to surprise them so much she managed to keep it a secret. Soon enough it was Saturday. She woke up early in the morning and got ready. They were supposed to meet at ten but she got there at nine so she could make sure she hadn’t lost her groove. After an hour of tentative waiting and looking at her watch as if it was going to jump off her wrist and run away, her friends arrived. They all rode up on their bikes and Sarah was there to meet them. It was quite a surprise for them as a week before there were pink little training wheels on Sarah’s bike and now there were none. She excitedly challenged them to race down to the ice-cream truck, and though surprised, agreed. As they raced down together as a group Sarah no longer felt alone and was happy to be able to race and play with her friends again.