Pretend People are watching you this is the truth. The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, the story of Ladle. Could any of this have been prevented, it didn't matter. He was running out of time, his life force was fading, he wanted to do what he had always done and yet there was a resistance. He could feel the energy exhaling leaving through the gaping hole in his chest. He no longer had a heart it was blown to smithereens. Disappointment after disappointment, it brought him here. In this bland bedroom full of his filth his shame. He remembered what it was like to feel a desire, a wanting, it hit him like a brick. If desire were a color, it would be red, and the once bland room was now full of it. Red painted the floors, the bed it covered the trash his clothes and even his body. But was it too late? ========================================= It all started with a brand-new house, a brand-new bedroom. It was an ordinary room but perfect for a bed. It offered a clarity, this bedroom. Safety for the lucky buyer. That buyer was none other than Ladel. He paid in full and bought the house but really only bought the bedroom. He could care less about the rest of the rooms; they were merely there to insulate the one room he cared about. The room he'd do what he always did. He decided to furnish it with a big king size bed, one night stand and a lamp, his bed garnished with red blankets. He wasn't particularly fond of red. But it fit added contrast to the brown walls. This was a humble beginning for an aspiring writer. Ladel was a loner. He did what he had to, to survive or maybe he didn't but who cares. We already know how this ends. Anyway one-night Ladel stared at the laptop that caressed his lap. It sat there only seeming to offer heat to his genitals, and the white screen glazed his eyes. It was bright. Ladel every night including this night hardly ever wrote a thing, He would type and erase, sometimes he'd craft a short story though these were rare, or he'd create a character like a Patty, an elegant woman but lacking in social skills or maybe a Frank an idealist stuck in his head. All the while, he was a living neglect. Over time this neglect was bleeding into all the areas neglect bleeds. His frustration from his inability to write was starting to build. He stroked the scar that covered his heart and moaned "Help meeee" Help meee" a strange vague smile had lit his half dead face. He followed by kicking his legs as if he was swimming under his blanket. He kicked a pizza box off onto his dirty clothes that caked the floor of his bed. "Where are the words? The capacity, the colors, instead I'm gifted with mouth rot and work that resembles the carcass of a dead dog named spork.'' He tried to sound clever but knew that he wasn't. He stroked his scar on his chest once more as time seemed to pass, ultimately nothing. He put down his computer and laid there, he started to ruminate over the negativity, that had struck him. His procrastination, the guilt of unfinished art, stifled him. And yet he dreamed of being great it was in his body in his blood. He imagined now being called a failure he could hear it, much like the stories the ones he loved the ones that always ended in failure. He loved a man coming close, but the man must never make it. He felt this too should be his destiny. "I haven't even come close, disgusting". he said aloud. He could feel the judgment, people are watching me he thought. He pulled his computer out once more and wrote people are watching me. He hoped for the inspiration and howled. "Help meeeee Help meeeee" Another lesser smirk hit his face. This time he heard his calling, he heard it loudly as if it were real. Was it real? "You were meant to fail; disappointment has brought you here". Startled, Ladel was gripped by the text on his computer. "People are watching you". He could feel the honest truth behind the sentence, he tried to soften it he wrote Pretend people are watching. This is the truth. It didn't matter, pretend or not, the man was right he was meant to fail. Ladel closed his computer slightly he sat up turned his lamp on. He thought he was dreaming. The words pretend people are watching he could feel it echo almost to the core of his soul. His heart began to pound. He was breathing heavy now. He looked around his room what was once a home was now a dungeon, it was a place of despair a battle ground, of filth disgust anguish. He knew it, and all could see. He wasn't sure what had happened. He thought for a minute maybe he summoned a demon or the devil. He screamed as loud as he could. "Help meeeeee help meeee". This time no smirk had come only stillness and wide eyes. Every sound the ruffling of wrappers the movement in his bed was heightened by the increased awareness. Ladel could feel the inevitable. He could feel it coming, he had nowhere to go so he immersed himself back into his computer one more time. For once He wrote and he told the story of Ladel, the writer with all his trophies and accolades, the one that can and the one that has. The man who dies coming so close. He then closed his computer, watched the stranger enter his room. The man carried a pistol "I know you know this, but you were meant to fail. Disappointment has brought me to you. Just know I don't feel I have no heart I just simply act." The stranger said he got in real close. Ladel closed his eyes. ================================================================================================================================================================================================================== The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, Ladel.


Everyday I wake up with my old bones and blurry eyes, but that’s okay because I have you, human. You have been my human for so long, and I have devoted my whole life to you. Even though I am going grey, and losing teeth you still feed me and give me water. My caregiver, you have always been there to feed me and make sure my nails don’t get too long. I try my best to give you all of the love I have in me. Even though most days you are too busy. You work so hard human, I can understand why you don’t want to have cuddles with me. I do get cuddles sometimes and those are the best times, and you even give me some belly scratches once in a while. I hope for the days you come home and want to give me attention, they always make me smile. Most days I eat and sleep and try to see if you want my love that day, but most of the time I’m shooed away. I sit alone and drift in and out of sleep, it’s hard for me to play with my toys these days. But I still have you, human, to feed me… I know I’m not the puppy you used to love, something new that’s exciting. But I am still me, and I love you even more now I can show you if you’d like my dear human? No? Oh okay… that’s okay I’ll go back to my cozy bed. It’s not so bad, I have a big fluffy bed to lay on and easy access to water and food when I need, I can even go to the bathroom without you. But it sure was nice when we went on walks together.. I understand being a human is hard but sometimes this bed gets cold and I want your warmth, but I do understand human. Being a human must be so hard, I couldn’t imagine all of the toys you must play with all day long, and the walks you go on when you’re gone for so long everyday. I just wish you wouldn’t yell at me telling me you never even wanted me, or that I’m useless. I try so hard to be wanted, I try to do things like I used to. It sure does get hard when you grow into a big dog.. I’m not new and exciting anymore. I do wish I was young and exciting again. Maybe then you would want to give me pats and scratches again like you used to. I dream about those times, it’s all I dream about. You are all I know human, I’m thankful to have you. I’m not all you know, you have human friends you bring home sometimes. I love seeing the smile you have on your face when they are around. Your human friends do give me pats and scratches, to them I am still new and exciting I suppose. I do very much enjoy the pats and scratches from your human friends, but I prefer your hand. I’m sorry, my dear human, that I am no longer new and exciting for you.


I have always liked pretty and romantic things. You know—pinks, glitters, lipsticks, cakes, love, French, and of course… tragedy. Well, it isn’t weird since I’m a girl, but I feel like I’m a little bit more obsessed. Some girls aren’t expressive with liking pretty and romantic things, while some girls simply don’t like ‘em and that’s fine. But I’ve got no problem wearing laced dresses and jeweled anklets and eating strawberries for snacks. If I put on purple eye shadow, pair it with bright red blush and pinkish lip tint, most people would giggle at me, but that’s fine as well. I liked it. I had to pay the price, though. Of course, I was bullied and ostracized a lot among my peers and just because I was fine with it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It sucks, honestly. I tried fixing up my face and fashion with the standard rich-looking monochromatic style to match everything and it was good; I didn’t hate it and thought it was a different kind of pretty. It was too elegant and beautiful for me, though. I feel too much like an adult, though I actually am. But trying on the shades I want and messing it all up a bit was somehow a little more magical to me. Like the colored powders would sparkle and my face would brighten up like a dolly beauty. Anyway, my 21st birthday was coming soon and mom gave me some money to celebrate it with my friends. But like I said, I wasn’t lucky enough to have those kinds of people. No one likes to be with someone as odd and stubborn as me, but I didn’t want to lose face either, so I had to go out and spend the money. I thought that since it’s my birthday, I might as well make the most of it and enjoy it. I also don’t have any issues walking with my solitude. So when the day came, I dressed up, putting on my most beloved white dress with lots of frills in it. I wore a fabric headband, pearl necklace and earrings, and 3-inched heels. I made my make up as messy and pretty as I wanted it to be and finally headed out. I ate my breakfast at a pancake house and ordered myself a towering sweet pancakes with an extra syrup on it and had hot chocolate for a drink. I rested for a while, then walked around the area to decide where I want to go next. Fortunately, I was able to spot a pretty-looking hotel that had a unique design and neon-flashing signboard barely lit up against the sunlight. The misty weather added mystery and allure to the building, beckoning me in. The receptionist welcomed me warmly, asked for my room accommodation preference, an ID, the payment, and the transaction was done. A man escorted me towards my room and inside made me feel like a princess. Just exactly what I needed. The soft bed was like a warm ocean. I had to read some bawdy novels and touched myself there and took a bit of nap. Then, I listened to music, danced, and watched a movie that I have been putting off for a while now. When I finished the film, it was almost time for lunch, so I went out. A man had also just went out from the room next door. When our gazes met, he smiled at me and bowed gently as a sign of polite greetings. I smiled softly and began walking past him. It seemed like he hesitated at first, but he eventually called out to me, “Uh... miss?” I turned around, “Yes?” “If it’s alright with you, may I join you for lunch?” He asked. I was kind of reluctant at first. At first impression, he does look decent and polite, but who knows? Anyway, he wasn’t trying to be forceful, it’s just lunch, and it was my birthday, so why the hell not? I agreed and we went to the dining hall of the hotel building. It was a pretty restaurant as well that served wines and pastries and delicious foods. I ordered soup, steak, and potatoes for main course and had a shortcake for dessert. Meanwhile, he ordered himself a seafood meal and a bottle of red wine. He began opening a friendly conversation by asking me why I ended up in this beautiful hotel and I told him that it was my birthday. He asked several more things, like why I wasn’t spending the day with my friends or how I celebrate my previous birthdays or what my favorite songs are. He was a real good listener, I couldn’t help but be at ease and speak my mind in front of him. Soon, we ran out of things to talk about me, so as courtesy, I asked about him. “I actually have a confession to make,” He chuckled, sipping on his wine. “I… I don’t know if you’ll believe me.” I shrugged, “Try me.” “Uh, well, to be honest, I have a curse.” “A curse?” I asked, trying to suppress my disbelief. “What kind of curse? What does it do to you?” “It’s a curse that whoever becomes my friend would die. It may be hard to believe, but it’s true. All the friends I’ve ever had, they’re dead. That’s why I have no choice but to talk and interact with strangers all the time. And it gets lonely, you know… having my friends die. The only thing that makes it bearable for me is this, the fleeting moments with people I hardly know.” It was such a strange confession. I had nothing to say about it and he noticed it, so he immediately changed the topic. After lunch, we returned to our hotel rooms and we never met again that day. The moment I checked out, he was already gone. I had my dinner at a restaurant nearby our house and soon went home afterwards. The day ended peacefully and I was happy with how I celebrated my birthday. The next morning, while my mom was drinking her black coffee, watching news from the television, I saw the man that I met in the hotel from yesterday. He was reported to have died from a car accident. Of course, my first reaction was shock. But that was only for a few moments. It turned into interest and then, bliss. I’ve told this before, haven’t I? I like pretty and romantic things. And that kind of tragedy was one of the most romantic and prettiest thing I have ever encountered. I felt shivers down my spine, my skin was crawling with fascination, and my lips curving to an uncontrollable smile. The coincidence, the occurrences, the strangeness of the whole thing—I loved every single bit of it. Few years later, I began spiraling down to my depression and the whole world was becoming duller and bleaker. Sometimes, I’d find even sparkling, pink jewelries void of prettiness. I got constantly bullied, especially while I was inevitably entering adulthood. My mom got sick and everything in life went the wrong way. I simply didn’t liked it anymore. So then, I gripped my resolve and steeled my heart. I withdrew money and went to *that* hotel. The one where I went to during my 21st birthday. It was still eerily the same. The receptionist, the staffs, the golden hallways, the chandeliers, and the lobby. It felt like time was nonexistent inside that building. I requested the same room number and luckily, it was available at the time. I did the same things I did during the first time I went here. Read the same bawdy novel, touched myself the same way, listened to the same songs, danced the same way, and watched the same film. And then, when it was lunchtime, I went out. I looked around and the hallway was spick and span neat and glittering of luxury. I opened my room door again and positioned myself just between the threshold. When I noticed that the room next door was opening, I prepared myself and made it seem like I was just going out as well. I hesitated for a while, then called out to the man that came out from the next door and asked if I could join him for lunch. He seemed to think of it for a while before finally agreeing. We went to the restaurant downstairs and we talked about him. He narrated that his wife banished him from their home because he was caught cheating with some other woman from his work. He said he regretted it and that he wished to return to his wife. He was only staying there for a while until she cools down and he plans to return and ask for forgiveness. We talked about him for so long until there was nothing else about him, so as courtesy, he asked about me. And then, I confessed that I have a curse. I told him the exact same curse that the man told me years ago. The one where his friends die, so he had to deal with fleeting moments with strangers. He laughed out loud and ate and drank. I did the same. The day ended well after I checked out from the hotel. And then, the next day, I jumped from the rooftop of the office building where the man I met yesterday was working and accomplished my suicide. Everything went black, but for some reason, what I saw wasn’t darkness… it was rather a pretty pink.


I was born with perfect hearing. A genetic mutation that allows me to listen in on the inner rhythm our bodies provide. Until the previous generation, no one had detected the music our bodies produced. The frequency is so strange and subtle, that specialized listening devices had to be made. Surprisingly enough, when people like me first started experiencing the music of others, we were not treated as mentally ill. There was no hate campaign or b.s. politics. The first of us were treated with respect and it allowed science to flourish. Once it was determined that we weren't physically suffering and obviously no threat to society, we continued on as if nothing was different. Some of us hated always hearing the music. For them, a cochlear-like implant blocked the soundwaves. Others, like me, really embraced the ability. We considered ourselves privileged. There was something about hearing the music from so many that made us feel connected to them. Like mycelium under the earth. Connected to each other in a way no one but us could understand.  The music that humanity shares with us is mostly pleasant. It could be described as the definition of your personality. The music inside you is the truest form of self. Happy, healthy and whole typically provides an upbeat soundtrack to the world around me. Lots of music in C and G major, accompanied by A and E minor. Unfortunately there are lots of people who are born with disability, mental illness, or general malaise as well. In the key of D minor, their music is so sad, often reflecting on their quality of life. It's easy to tell the nature of a person when they don't know I'm listening. I know its kind of tasteless to always be eavesdropping, but my hearing is a natural function that I will not hinder. In the 2 generations since we first heard the music, there have been all kinds. All the music of the world, on display for all abled beings to hear, all the time. I enjoy being in public. The music never gets old, its always new and different. I spend time in malls, grocery stores, parks and carnivals. I enjoy walking downtown, where the hustle and bustle provides an amazing jam session. People watching takes on a whole new meaning when you're vibing to their music. I somehow feel my connection to them is more personal. Since we began keeping track, the music has generally been the same. The newborn and pre-dead produced psychedelic sounds, often convoluted, a cacophony of warped emotion. That was all anyone ever heard. Until the low, foreboding tones of G minor came creeping into my world.  It came on softly at first. A low rhythm over a static hum, seemingly blanketing the earth around me like rolling fog. I had never felt this before, never heard this before. It was filled with agony. It was rhythmic, rife with anger. A tone that suggested vile and violent intent. I could feel myself fill with dread, the baby fine hairs on my neck standing at attention. The cold trickle of fear on my spine. This music was unlike any other. It swelled and dropped. It ran through various chord progressions. It had become a hardened, driven beat, louder, angrier and vengeful. The sounds hit my hears like the speech of a brutal dictator. Fear seemed like the driving force behind this music. What was this? No one sounded like this. I wondered who else, if anyone, may have heard it. I wondered if anyone was as intrigued.  I went looking for disaster. I followed the music. This march of sorts. It was frightening and captivating. Every drum beat, every guitar chord, every bass string plucked drew me closer and closer. My brain was becoming very anxious, while my very soul was being drawn toward this powerful new sound. I searched, following the symphony of probable demise. It brought me to an abandoned prison. Dilapidated and weathered, the prison still stood. From outside the entrance, I could hear the tortured chords of hundreds of people in the halls and cells over the driving beat of this mysterious new menace. Filled with trepidation, I ventured forth into the prison. I had to find the source. It drew me closer. I walk into an empty hallway, lit only by the light from the outside, pouring in through holes in the roof. The screams went silent but the hurt increased in volume. It was uncomfortable and I hated it, but I shouldered the weight. In the distance, a red door, the only red door, was pulling me, magnetized and mesmerized. I stood, silent, scared. In that moment I took stock of my feelings, my emotions. I was of two minds, but a singular body. I hated where I was but only ever wanted to be right there, exactly then. I opened the door.  What I assumed to be a child stood before me. Androgynous and slight. Hairless, pale skin that appeared blue. Blue in the way that a cadaver is blue. The child hovered over the floor, its legs crossed in the way school children's are at story time. The child's eyes looked closed, yet open. Eyelids translucent over black eyes. It's lips were stretched tight across its mouth, the corners forced ever so slightly into a disgusted frown. The child seemed fraught, like it was disappointed in whatever was in its mind. I was compelled to speak but barely made a peep. The child's eyes shot open and all music stopped. *All* music had stopped. The silence was deafening. Staring through me, into my soul, I could feel its presence enter into my consciousness. It was then that I understood: the child wasn't a child. This being was the literal embodiment of hate. It spread itself, like a virus, covering everything in it's path with disgust, hate, anger, rage. Homicide, suicide, and genocide was the goal and this being was damned and determined to spread. The music resumed. It spoke to me. Not in words that any human could comprehend, but in a way that imparted all of its knowledge on me. I was the Eve to its Serpent like the folklore tales of old. I felt the change consume me. I hadn't been in pursuit of good or morality or love, so the hatred plunged into me like a dry syringe into the vein. The Hate imparted on me all the things it was, and left none of me. I was eradicated. I became the fear from which we run. I had become the destroyer of senses. I had become terror. I am Wrath. I am Jealousy. They will all feel me. They will all hear my death march. Humans and mutants alike will feel the chorus of a millions souls. It will be their prison. I will be exalted. No one had any idea what I'd become. I am Sin. I am despair. I am become death. I am death. They will acknowledge me. I am.  Edited to add: this is my first time writing. I initially posted this story originally on r/WritingPrompts I changed a couple things that I thought made the flow better. Please critique and criticize. Thank you for your time.


*You yearned to understand who a person truly is. But is not the mean representation humanity itself better than a single sample?* Ermes, you say you are an island. An outlying point in a graph, solitary in a spacious oceanic span. Never meshing with the landmass of the naturally sentient. As for me, you say the correlation of getting together with people and normalcy is high. I will not deny it. Yet I know people, Ermes. Though we flock, we bond, we get together, we feel no less than what you feel. Ermes, your mind is not my own. Your tendencies are interesting. I want to introduce you this other soul that I thought would be perfect for you. But why did you refuse, Ermes? If not she, then who? After a long time of reflecting, I thought have the answer. Why don't you marry an AI.   \- June 5, 2078, reproduction is deemed insignificant. There is an AI, they say, that is perfect for everyone. For ladies, they made this model. Seven-feet long, gentle and strong. Loyal, a one size that fits all needs. It hit the market as plane to a lamppost. Then the prototype lost interest, going under heavy critique, people stopped patronizing. Eventually, the manufacturers found necessity in variance. So they made different models. \- I am a sad and woeful soul. On October 11, 2079, I bought myself a husband. Brown-eyed, a man with a medium-build, and a solemn, melodious tone. This AI, I learned how to please him. I found his favorite surface as he found mine. I stroked his. He stroked mine. They learn as well. The manufacturers laud this system called Reinforcement Learning. Inflicting hard force, his program shall infer my disapproval. But the pressure of a softer force, the enveloping hug or a passionate kiss, shall make my husband perfect himself slowly for me. \- On November 23, 2079, I went to the AI store. Not that I intend to buy another, but for finding one for a lonely friend named Amy. I cannot help but flinch in scanning the shelves upon seeing unactivated boxes of models of husbands that look especially look similar to mine. Albeit some are from different manufacturers. I can already hear their voices. I can guess their signature morning greeting, despite trapped in a preview box. I might be wrong though. \- I got her one that is black-haired and pale-skinned. He is supposedly spontaneous and "mysterious", yet I am doubtful as to how. Will he tell her the secrets of the universe on a theory long-existing? I cannot tell from my speculation, but Amy can from experience. \- I met her across a café table on December 24, 2079. She shared how her husband pinched her big toe one morning. "I have not touched that part of you before, I thought you may like it", her husband droned lovingly. "I wake up everyday, scared", jabs Amy jokingly. Laughing, I assured, "If there is any consolation, Amy, the AIs are not programmed to hurt". "Yes, I know that", she tilts her head, "But, you have no idea how many times I slap him everyday. He never runs out of new brainkids to make my life interesting." She paused, the grasp of her mug tightened, "But will I continue.. slapping him forever. Instead of loving him? I don't even know what I want... I just want him to want what he wants." I lowered my gaze, glanced the menu for a second cup of coffee. Looking back, I did not catch what she mean. And the conversation topic changed. \- It is February 2, 2080, a long time since I last visited the AI store. Just in time for a Valentine's gift. The manufacturers stopped putting trait descriptions on boxes. It makes them too predictable, editorials attest. The feature shelves are lined with seasonal specials - Blind Dates. These models are in opaque boxes, no one knows what is inside. With the bustling air and feeling overwhelmed, I gave up, I'll come back tomorrow. Across the parking lot, I watched one man load three mystery wives into his vehicle. \- This August 1, 2080 was a major update was released in simultaneum. AIs acquired hobbies - a set of activities they love to do and stubbornly hold to. After Amy's husband's update, he started withdrawing cash to buy Celestine Dynasty figures. My husband's update made him a potter. I am miffed. I am also a potter who developed my craft through years of training. Amy giggled over a Discord relay, "I'd gladly trade my husband's hobby with yours." I laughed. There is an ongoing ethical debate on spouse hobby change and rising enforcements against illegal installations. The manufacturers insist that these defeat the purpose of the features and the updates will not be revoked. "On the plus side," Amy consoles me, "you two can start a pottery business." I rolled my eyes, "Amy, you won't believe me. He's terrible. Only makes basic stuff no kindergartner can't not do. He'll be my assistant." Amy leaned to the viewport and snapped, "Then teach him, girlie." \- The summer ends on August 28, 2080. I visited an old friend. He opened the door, I cried in glee, "Ermes!" I noticed a cat brush his leg. "A real one?", I asked. "Yeah", he replied. I smiled and laid my purse on a chair. "How is your AI wife, Ermes?" "Good", he replied. "How similar is she to me?" "Not by a lot", he admits. I glanced around the house and it dawned. "Ermes, where is she?" "She's not here, Rena", Ermes took the chair next to me, "I disposed her." My hearing dimmed that his next words came as a whisper, "You have to dispose yours too." I stood abruptly, my sight red and white. "What has she done to you?" "Nothing", he said. "You disposed her, for doing nothing wrong?", I scowled. "Sorry Rena," Ermes tone is low, "You won't understand". "And how bold of you to tell me the same! You know, Ermes, that I am not you. I am not an island!", I twisted to face him, my arm pivoted. With crushing realization, I almost swung my fist at him, but stopped mid-air. This man is not my husband. Ermes stared at me in shock. I stepped back. Without thinking, I took it on the vase, the centerpiece of his table. It is a vase I made a long time ago. My best back then is ugly. It struck a wall, shattering, sprawling the ugly pieces that it is on the floor. A moment passed processing this mess, as did he. Appalled, ashamed, I picked my purse and walked off rather briskly, almost sprinting, my chest heavy and throat contract, eyes swelling hot tears. How dare you, Ermes. How dare you dispose your wife when she did nothing wrong. What a miserable man are you, Ermes. You turned down the perfect wife. A wife designed to be perfect for you.


“Ideally, you would spit game back but I don’t want to pressure you” read the text that followed dozens of previous racy, flirty ones. She didn’t want to. She thought that was okay. They were just friends, co-workers. She's on the night shift and suddenly, she hears commotion behind her. She turns around to see him standing at the front counter, staring at her. He thought it was sweet to visit her. He greeted their mutual co-workers yet his eyes remained on her. The cashier turned to her with a slight smirk, “What’s up with the way he’s looking at you? You need to explain that”. She brushes it off and she waves goodbye. He stays and at every turn of her head, she saw his eyes on her. He leaves, without notice, without a goodbye, without acknowledgment. She is relieved. She heads to the back room for her break. Her phone dings. “I couldn’t stop looking at you, I’m glad I got to see you. Do you want to meet up after you get off?” Conflicted, she asks if she could let him know after work to see how tired she is. Off the clock, she prepares her text explaining she was too exhausted to meet up but she opened the conversation to “I’m in the parking lot across the street.” She feels obligated to go now. She didn’t want to. They had been there before, once, when he first admitted to having feelings for her. She had said she didn’t feel the same, she needed time, she wasn’t ready. She thought that was okay. She pulls up in the parking lot next to his mom’s car that he drove everywhere. All the stores were closed. It was nearly empty. They talked about their days, work, and then - a moment of silence. She knew what he was going to do. She looked away, around, pointing out things in the parking lot, changing the subject, distracting. The two laughed at the man who drove up just to piss on a cinderblock. They smiled at the cat that wandered past her car. They placed bets when the openers for the stores would arrive. It was nearing 3am. 5 seconds of silence. That’s all it took. He approached her and wrapped his arms around her. At first, she didn’t reciprocate. She didn’t want to. She gave in anyway. What could be so harmful about a hug? He backs up and tilts her chins upward and stares at her. She knows. She turns her head. He turns it back. He leans in to kiss her. Instinctively, she moves her head. The kiss lands on her cheek. He tilts her head back in place and kisses her. She kisses back the first two times. He keeps going. She puts her head down. He tilts it back and keeps going. She stops kissing back. He keeps going. She says, “no, we can’t.” He keeps going. She pulls away. He pushes her against the car. He keeps going. His arms around her, he won’t let go. He lifts her shirt to touch her skin. He keeps going. She can feel his fingers brush the clasp of her bra. She can feel his heartbeat. She can feel everything. He pulls her body against his, too close. She can feel her chest tighten. She’s trapped. He jokes around how easy it was to steal a kiss. She doesn’t laugh. They sit against her car on the ground. He wraps her in a blanket he brought and readjusts himself so his head lies on her thighs. They talk for hours. She tries to explain how they shouldn’t pursue a relationship, how they wouldn’t work out, how it was too hard. She didn’t want to be with him. She thought that was okay. He dismissed every remark and continued with stories about himself. He said they could make it work, “they had to.” Why did they have to? She moves her leg to indicate it’s time to leave. Nothing. Again, she shakes her leg. He sits up, shoulder to shoulder. He mentions how small her feet are, how short her legs are, and how cute she is. They laugh it off. Seconds of silence, that’s all it took. He slides his hands in between her thighs. Yet, she moves her legs away. Disregarding that body language, he lifts her left thigh and puts it on top of his and repeats with her right. She’s too close to him. His hands brush her thighs, her arms, her cheek. She knows. She turns away. He turns her body back toward him. She points out how late it’s getting. She looks up at the gloomy sky, wishing to disappear, only wanting to breathe. She feels a raindrop fall on her forehead. He wipes it off and stares at her as he caresses her face. She knows. Water fills the ground. “Thank God,” she thought. She gets up to leave. He’s upset, pleads for more time. She denies. “Before you go, I wanted to at least slow dance with you tonight.” It sounded planned, she thought, what else did he plan that night? Before she gets the chance to respond, he hits play. As Elvis’ Can’t Help Falling in Love rings in her ear, he pulls her close. So close, she can feel her imbalance. She pushes back. Just a little more space. This will be over soon. As the lyrics looped in her head, all she could think about was how she rather could help falling in love. He pulls her closer. She pulls away. He pulls her back. Again and again. She counts the verses, waiting. She drowns her thoughts with the sound of the fresh rain against the concrete. She feels his hands brush the droplets of water off her skin. “For I can’t help falling in love,” finally the last line. She begins to walk away, bidding goodnight. He pulls her back into an embrace. He brings her chin up to look at her face to face. She knows. She chuckles and walks away. In almost an instant, he grabs her wrist and pulls her entire body weight back into his arms. “That hurt,” she thought. She repeats, “No, we can’t” over and over again trying to escape his grip. He settles for kissing her forehead. She walks away and approaches her car door. “Goodnight”. He’s upset. He feels wronged. He wanted more. He expected more. Why did he expect more? She didn’t want more. She thought that was okay.


"All systems nominal. Energy levels are good. Alex, is our course set?" A gray haired man looked up from his screen. His youthful face belayed the color of his hair and eyebrows. He glanced back down and pressed a few keys on his computer before responding. "I have it finished. It's sending. Make sure the engines can handle the distance, Rowan." Rowan, the first man, glanced back down at his instrument panel. He fiddled with a strand of his long dark hair as he checked the course. After a few moments of checking the information he glanced back up. "Everything looks good," He turned to glance behind him, a smile coming over his face. "Dr. Rodgen, waiting for your confirmation." All eyes had turned toward a tall, red headed woman seated in the far back corner. Her nose was down over her own set of screens. She moved her fingers in the air, ticking off numbers as she worked. Eventually she looked up. "Course and ship status confirmed. You may proceed," she announced. Alex gave a nod. Returning to work, double checking his calculations. Rowan turned back to his panel, smile widening. He reached his hand forward to start the jump. "Hold," came a stern voice from the middle of the room. The two men and one woman looked over towards the deep voice. Despite the size of the room it was filled to the brim with panels and screens. Five workstations had been set up. Two at the front, two at the back and one in the center. Six total people made up the work crew of the bridge. In that center station was an occupied chair. In it sat a thirty something male. His close cut red hair marked him as military as much as his uniform did. However, he had not spoken. The dark skinned man standing to his immediate right hand had. He looked over at the trio sternly. Disapproval painted on his face. "Captain Slater has final authorization. Follow protocol," he commanded. "It is fine Lieutenant," Captain Slater spoke softly from his seat. "This is our fourth jump today, and our tenth day of travel. Everything is going well. Let them work." "As you wish Sir." "Please, continue," the Captain motioned to Rowan. The tension left the room and everyone turned back towards their panels. Rowan's smile returned and he lifted his hand once again. "I love this part," he whispered and opened a thick plastic cover. Under it was a large red button. As he pressed it he turned his face quickly towards the front. He wasn't the only one. Everyone else in the room lifted their gaze to the large view-port situated in the front wall. Outside of it was a vast expanse of black. The only thing breaking the inky sight was uncountable pinpoints of light. All of space lay before them; untold numbers of stars awaited. A soft whine began to fill the room. It grew louder as the stars outside began to bend. The light they gave off stretched and curved in an indescribable pattern. The luminous trails they lead shifted colors from white to blue as they trailed across the void. Suddenly the whine cut off and the lights outside snapped from one spot to another, following their blue shifted paths. The pattern outside the glass was noticeably different then before. "Jump successful," Rowan called. "Ship intact. Engines power high but falling. Alex, are we in the right spot." "Give me a moment. I need new proximity data," he replied, eyes scanning his screen. The light from it colored his face as he worked. After a moment he turned and looked back at Dr. Rodgen "We are in the target system. Slightly closer to the center star than expected but still a safe distance." Rowan let out a cheer, and the Doctor let out a sigh before looking to the room's center. "I suppose I should inform you Lieutenant to please inform the Captain that our jump was successful." That gained her a frown from the Lieutenant and a hastily hidden lopsided smile from the Captain. "Good job men," Captain Slater said after he smoothed his face. "That makes five good jumps today. How many light-years have we covered?" "Total or today?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "Both." "Today about five. Total, over all, about thirty. I can pull up the numbers if you want it more accurate. We are averaging about one light-year per jump." "If I recall, that is on the high end of the estimates." "Yes, we are exceeding expectations for efficiency." "Wonderful!" The Captain stood up out of his chair and looked around the room. Focusing his eyes on each of the crew members. "You are all doing a splendid job. Not only are we making history but we are doing it spectacularly. Please keep up the good work." The Doctor nodded in agreement. Rowan cheered again. Alex seemed to be rechecking his numbers. The Lieutenant stood silently. The sixth person on the bridge, another man, turned from his workstation to face the group. "I don't want to bring down the mood," he started running his fingers across his smooth scalp. "But I am still getting some weird feedback over here." "Has it changed or increased since the last jump?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "No, it's still the same. Every jump it's the same." "Is it dangerous?" Alex finally looked up. "I don't think so. I just wanted to make sure everyone was informed. I need to run more tests and see. It might have something to do with the engines winding down. Bending space is not a normal activity." "Should we stop for the day Peter?" The Captain inquired. "We don't have to. As long as Rowan says the equipment is in working order." All eyes turned towards the engineer. "My readings are all good," he answered with a glance down. "We can keep going." "Alex," the Captain continued. "How far are we from our next destination?" "Umm..." the navigator hummed. "About three light years." "So, three more jumps. Doctor, think we can make that or should we stop for now?" "Protocol dictates we shouldn't go more than ten light-years in a forty hour period. We did five yesterday and now five more. So we should wait at least a few more hours." "Quite prudent," Captain Slater nodded. "Peter check on that feedback, Rowan please help him. See if it has anything to do with the engine. Lieutenant, go check on the other soldiers. Let them know we will have a few hours of down time. Alex check over our next course." The three scientists set to work. The soldier saluted; turning on his heels he left the bridge. "Doctor please follow me," he said more quietly. She nodded. He turned and headed out the door. She fell into step next to him. "If this is about me giving the order to jump..." she began when the door had closed behind them. "No, it's not. Though if you could let me do it, it would make the Lieutenant happy. He is a kind of a stickler for the rules." "Oh, well if it's nothing then I should go monitor the other's work," she turned back towards the door. "I need you to come with me. I have to see Doctor Amatersasu." "You can do that yourself," she muttered, turning back around. "I think she is scared of me. I might need you to keep her from running." "Fine," she gave a little shrug. She glanced back one more time before sighing and starting down the corridor with him. The interior of the ship was gray metal. Bare save for a few directional markings. The corridor was long and a railing could be seen in the distance. The walls were lined with doors; behind them were servers which housed the majority of the computing power for the bridge. The air smelt slightly stale and sterile, a by-product of the recycling procedure. As they reached the railing the central staircase for the ship became visible. Down the stairs would be the crew quarters and a gym. There would also be an armory, but none of this was of interest to them. They ignored the stairs in favor of the door that stopped people from proceeding any further. Dr. Rodgen had to lift a card to a sensor next to the door. It clicked and she pulled the door open for them. This was the Laboratory of the ship. Only the science crew and the Captain had general access. Beyond the door was a basic copy of what was behind it. A corridor lined with doors. Behind each would be a different set of equipment for testing samples they obtained on their mission. A door on the right was marked with a red cross. The pair stepped up to it and the door slid open on its own. Behind it was a medical bay. Four beds lined one wall, the other three walls were filled with cabinets. It was all a pristine white. Sitting at a desk opposite the beds was a diminutive dark haired woman. She glanced up as the door opened. "Harue," Dr. Rodgen greeted her. "Eimear, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you would be..." She cut off as the Captain stepped inside. She continued on in a slightly smaller voice "Oh, hello Captain." "Yes he needed to speak to you about something." "I hopefully have an answer for him then," she looked down her face turning red. "I hope you can as well," Captain Slater replied as gently as possible. "I was wondering if you could fit a few tests into your schedule." "What kind of tests Sir?" "I want to see if the jumps are having adverse effects on the crew. Just some basic scans and blood work. Would that be too difficult?" "It shouldn't be too difficult," she looked back up, her eyes seeming to dart across his face. "I can make the schedule for the next few days." "Wonderful, I will inform the men!" "What appointment should I give you?" "Oh," it was his turn to look uncomfortable, his voice took on a slightly strained note. "tests on me?" "You could have sent this to her in a message," Dr. Rodgen cut in, rolling her eyes. "Why are we not on the..." She never got to finish. An alarm started blaring, filling the room with a harsh shrieking noise. Shock filled their faces. "Stay here," the captain said to Harue. "get to your jump seat. Then he spun and rushed out. Dr. Rodgen close behind him. As they dashed down the corridor the Lieutenant could be seen rushing up the stairs. "Captain?" He asked, his face a stone mask. "Get everyone to their stations. I will let you know what's going on when I know." "Yes Sir!" He saluted then looked back down the steps. "Fall in men! To your stations!" He ignored the rest of the shouting. He needed to get to the bridge. When they arrived everyone was gathered around Rowan's workstation. He was frantically pressing buttons and checking his screen. All eyes were locked on him, sweat was beginning to drip down everyone's face. "Report!" Captain Slater yelled. The group, save Rowan, turned around and looked at him. Nobody answered, they just stared blankly. "Rowan!" He yelled again. "What is going on?" "I'm trying to maneuver us away!" He screamed, still not looking up. "Away from what?" "The star we are next to went nova," Peter answered, a note of terror in his voice. "Okay, we should be a ways away from it. Alex plan a route, we will jump away." "I can but," Alex hesitated. "We are too close; remember my calculations before were off. The interference from the star's extreme radiation will make it almost impossible to chart an accurate course." That stopped him. They had come out too close. His mind spun. "Peter, how long do we have?" "I checked the distances before you came, maybe a half hour, forty-five minutes if we are lucky." "Alex, plot a course the best you can. Peter, help him." Without a word the pair dashed off. "Doctor help Rowan as much as possible. Also if you can come up with a better solution to a blind jump, let me know." She nodded and went to assist the engineer. He sat down in his chair to notify the remaining crew of the situation. The intercom crackled to life as he contacted the military personnel. The Lieutenant took the news stoically, saying he would inform the rest of the men of the situation. He then contacted the medical bay and told Doctor Amaterasu to sit tight, they might be doing another jump. When she asked why, he didn't respond. Instead he turned his attention back to the room in front of him. The glass outside was still dark, but there was a faint glow around the edges. The supernova must be behind them. He couldn't help but feel as if it was a shame they wouldn't get to see it. It must be beautiful, even if it might get them all killed. The thought kept intruding as he tried to roll the problem over in his head. He couldn't come up with another solution. "Alex," he said finally. "Do you have a course?" "Basically," his voice was tight. "I'm trying to tweak it based on the star's energy, but it's not pretty." "Chances we will jump into the middle of a star or planet?" "With as much space as there is? Slim. The problem will be if we can chart a course back on track." "I'll take those odds. Rowan, charge the engine." "That's a bad idea Captain." "You have maybe five minutes to explain why that is?" The Captain looked over at him sharply. "With all the free energy around us we might damage the engine." "Okay, do you have an alternate solution?" No one said anything. Silence fell over the bridge. "It is either stay here and we fry, or maybe fry the engine, correct?" Again no answered. "Charge the engine Rowan." Rowan's hand crept up and pressed the same large red button as before. A faint whine began to fill the ship. Everyone sat tense looking out into space. The glow around their windshield had grown brighter. The whine reached its peak. The stars outside began to stretch and bend. The glow shifted color with them only to red instead of blue. The whine grew even louder. It was oppressive. The crew covered their ears. The Captain stared grimly out the window; his hands gripping tightly onto his chair arms. The ship began to shake as lines of light filled the entirety of the view-port. It was nothing but a blaze of white blue light framed in a deep red. There was a loud metallic keening coming from the ship. There was a massive lurching motion, everyone was pressed back into their chairs or toppled over onto the floor. The windshield blazed with light.


A causal game went on, by the 1st quarter we were winning 36-21 though some people keep saying it’s “36-31” Everyone noticed the Ball bounced higher than normally, we all assumed it was the court. The court was made in 1915 and it was against an away team. At halftime, no one knew the score because the lights kept flickering. Some people claim to have seen an invisible person shoot a ball that went in. So at this point we don’t know what quarter we are in. Only stats I counted were my own. 8 pts, 6 ast 4 fouls, 1 dunk that broke the goal down. But the goal fixed it self. Maybe not literally, maybe someone fixed it in the dark. For some reason there was a 5th quarter. So anyways the opposite team drove into the paint and I blocked it and the ball… where did the ball go? Did it pop? We don’t see it anywhere. Some people claim to see the exact ball in their car, the ball had their school name on it and each person had proof that they found the ball. Had the ball cloned itself? Obviously that’s impossible (right?) but what happened. The game ended and they knew the score, it felt like we were playing for years. We started playing in the Morning at 9am and it appears to be night and the game just finished. Since about 11 am, we didn’t know how to tell time. Appears that everyone had a different time. Oh the score? We won 1233-303 My stats? I forgot, what number did I say last time? So after the game ended, I went to the locker room and everyone started crying. Who really knows what happened. But when we walked to the team bus, wait where did the team bus go? Luckily my parents were already there. We drove to my house. I saw the Basketball right by my basketball hoop at myself. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker. The principal does like Kyle Kuzma. I had a normal dream. But when I woke up, I was in the gym. It felt like we were redoing the game again? Are we? It’s the same opponent, same court. Only thing difference is the ball. It has a Kyle Kuzma sticker on it. I asked someone why it does but they said it’s a Football sticker, so does it appear different to other people? Some people say we are in Brazil. We are obviously in the US, it says it on the game ticket…We played the whole game and the same thing happened, ball disappeared, I had 4 fouls, same stats, same score. It was easy to notice that we were repeating the same day for a while. When will the time go normally? I’m stuck in a loop. Same thing is happening. Only thing that changes is the sticker on the Basketball.


Court Wizard Malagus the Fourth stood proudly before King Richard and the court. Behind him, the common rabble sat, amazed at the might of the wizard as he offered a curse worthy of the treason of the man kneeling before them. “You will never endanger this kingdom again, Margon the Black!” King Richard said and turned to Malagus. “And my court wizard will ensure it. Tell us, mighty Malagus, of the punishment you shall inflict upon this traitor.” “Yes, my King! I shall inflict the curse of eternal suffering upon him, a curse so terrible that it is only spoken of in whispers by most. But not by me, of course.” Malagus paused, waiting for cheering. There wasn’t. In fact, everyone looked… a little confused. Finally, King Richard coughed once and then spoke, “Yes, and what will this curse do?” “Why inflict eternal suffering upon this dog, great King! And then we shall place him in a coffin forged from iron, his body cast into it while the metal is still red hot! That shall be placed into an obsidian sarcophagus, and then molten lead shall be poured into the cavity to make it impossible to get to the coffin. And then a great temple complex shall be constructed around the sarcophagus, guarded by traps both mundane and magical!” “Errr…” King Richard stared at Malagus. “That is… rather more expensive than I thought. Wouldn’t it be better to just give him a small grave, perhaps let the family put flowers on it—“ “Oh no, my King! For should he ever be released, the curse of eternal suffering would then let him become an abomination, a being of pure hatred, a being capable of—“ “Getting vengeance!” Margon shouted. “Upon your children and their children!” “Hah!” Malagus laughed. “The crypt and the traps and the immortal guards that I will summon to defend it will ensure that you never—” There was a cough, and Malagus turned, getting ready to punish whatever *peasant* interrupted his speech. And the man who had coughed was a peasant. He was wearing stained and worn clothes, no doubt someone who had come to beg the court for mercy in some affair. “WHAT!” Malagus snarled. “Um, begging the court wizard’s pardon, but Your Majesty, if you think this is too expensive, I can help you.” “How, my good man?” King Richard asked. “I’m a logger, so I’ll whack his head off for a gold piece. Ain’t never seen anyone come back from that.” Malagus laughed. “Who do you think King Richard would trust? My sorcery or your ax!” He glanced up at the King. “Shall I have the laborers start on the crypt? It should only take a few months—well, building the physical structure at least, then come the traps and the magic…” King Richard stared at him. Looked back to the peasant, rubbed his chin... Then made his decision. \*\*\*\* “And they’re calling him a *headsman* now!” The former court wizard slurred out to his listener. “And the other kingdoms are also hiring them. I mean, nobody asks for a curse of disembowelment or a crown of eternal suffering anymore! They just get one of these, these, *peasants*, and whack, off goes the head!” “That’s rough, buddy,” the bartender said. “But… if you don’t have a job anymore, I’m gonna have to ask for some coins up front.” Malagus the Fourth, *former* court wizard, groaned and let his head hit the counter.


This is an idea I had this morning, I haven't read though it yet but it is the set up of a much longer short story than I've written before. **Castle Stalker** The bell tolled 12, thus marking the second day of my solitary confinement in uncles secluded estate, I haven’t a clue why I didn’t invite anyone to come here to keep me company, this place was boring as hell. Although disturbingly breath-taking, the 14th century castle sat upon its own island surrounded by a prison of deep blue water. The castle was originally gifted to King James to be used as a hunting lodge and I am unsure of how it came into my uncle’s possession. He’d moved here after his divorce and retirement citing escaping the hustle and bustle of Edenborough as his reason for departing. The whole family thought he’d gone mad, who in their right mind would want to live in such a desolate place, no neighbours, no shops, it was to some degree my idea of hell. But this was the place I had to call home for now at least, while sorting through his estate, you see last month the haggard old bastard had finally kicked the bucket, and not in the nicest of ways. No one was really surprised considering the letters aunt Gem received from him got more and more incoherent before eventually ceasing. Left it a month or two before deciding to make a visit, when Aunt Gem finally turned up she’d found him butt naked, face down in the bath tub, we’d come to the conclusion that he’d had enough and decided to drown himself. What a way to go out! I couldn’t think of anything worse, imagine, your last moments as your lungs filled with air, fighting the urge to come up and breath, to wonder what dark thoughts must be going through a man’s mind to commit such an action. Me and Uncle Josh never really had much of a relationship after he moved here, he never really had much of a relationship with anyone after, life ruined him. I remember back when I was a kid, we’d always visit him in Edenborough and have the best time. He was so kind, the entertainer of the family, you know, one of those people that seems to derive the pleasure of life from making other people laugh. He was full of tremendous one liners. I remember this one he always used to say about a penguin. Anyway, it went like this a penguin takes his car to the shop and the mechanic says it'll take about an hour for him to check it. While he waits, the penguin goes to an ice cream shop and orders a big sundae to pass the time. The penguin isn't the neatest eater, and he ends up covered in melted ice cream. When he returns to the shop, the mechanic takes one look at him and says, "Looks like you blew a seal." "No," the penguin insists, "it's just ice cream." To me it was as if he’d died a long time ago, I hadn’t even seen him in the last five years, even when I did, he was a shell of the man he was before, it’s strange when that happens, like the former personality had died only to be replaced by a strange withered old man, he’d aged terribly since the move both mentally and physically. I believe it’s because we’re supposed to be social beings, not those isolated from the tribe, with no interaction, that sort of thing could really change a man.


###A Few Notes from Bay - Late submissions are **not acceptable**. Repeated late entries will result in your **serial entries being removed**. If something comes up and you can’t make the deadline for some reason, please DM me. - Authors are **required** to post at least **2 feedback comments** on the thread **every** week they submit, by the deadline. Feedback should include something the author has done well, and something that could be improved. If for some reason your entry is late, you are still expected to meet this requirement. - If you cannot meet the **weekly time and feedback expectations**, you may be asked to move your serial to the subreddit. Give back what you get! #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Guilt! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘guilt’. Guilt is a feeling that haunts us all at one time or another. Left ignored and unrectified, it can wreak havoc within someone, physically and emotionally, slowly eating away at them. It could affect the way they behave, the things they do, how they perceive injustices, etc. It may even drive someone mad enough to confess to another, in an attempt to “make things right”. But this doesn’t always play out how they hope it will. Guilty also is a state of being, legally. This could be a good time to explore the legal system in your world. How would the community react if someone they know, love, or trust committed a crime against one of their own? What happens when the legal system does not do its job, and justice is not served? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I post the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - August 28 - Guilt (this week) - September4 - Heartbreak - September 11 - Innocence   *** **Recent Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. 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If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** Our bot will not be able to log these. - **On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. **We now start at 1pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server!** Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings - **First place:** - by u/katherine_c   - **Second place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Third place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/mattswritingaccount   - **Crit Star:** u/rainbow\-\-penguin *Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques (on the thread) and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC or have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .*   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** *Originally titled “Controlled Burn -Take 2-”* **Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.)** - Genre: This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e., the title, theme, subject, setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required. *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out as an example.   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/wileycourage - **Crit Star** - u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Crit Star** - u/FyeNite - And shoutout to u/wileycourage for being so supportive and encouraging to a new writer on the thread! *Note: Crit Creds are awarded to users who go above and beyond with critiques and can be used on r/WPCritique. Don’t forget in order to receive them, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Someone is living in my attic and no one will believe me. One year ago, my mother died after a decades long fight with cancer. My long term relationship had ended and I wasn’t moving on, I had no children or pets, my job could be done remotely. When mom was gone, there was nothing keeping me in the big city and its many bad memories. I packed up and got out months after she took her last breath. My apartment lease was over and I decided it was time for a fresh start. I moved into a studio apartment in a small coastal town, vowing to move to a new city every few months and experience the world. Instead, I found a cheap house in the second town I visited and bought it. I don’t think things through, I just do what I feel like doing in the moment. And I felt like living in this house. It was small, a living room and a kitchen the perfect size for someone who cooks just to survive. An upstairs with two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was cheap for the area it was in, though I assumed that was because of its age. The sliding glass door in the back of the house led to a small sandy field before it opened up to the spacious beach and ocean air. It was perfect for me to settle into, get through my work days, numbly watch TV on the couch and then listen to the waves as I read at night and in the mornings on the porch. Every time I read I was joined by the local wildlife. During the day deer would amble across the fields, fed by tourists who didn’t know to leave them alone. Dogs raced by, with their owners racing behind trying to gain control of them. When the moon was high I could hear the nocturnal creatures scuttling by though I didn’t see them as often. My favorite of these critters was a cat I called Shadow because she didn’t wear a collar. The first time I saw her I only saw the round, amber eyes glinting in the darkness when I glanced up from my book. It spooked me because she stared at me without blinking and I couldn’t see anything but her eyes. A few nights of this and she finally slunk out of the shadows and approached me. She didn’t seem afraid of me like I had thought. She just hadn’t decided yet if I was worthy of her time. She sniffed me gently, flinching if I moved at all. The porch light illuminated her fur which was surprisingly shiny for an outdoor cat. She was small and sleek, mostly black except her underbelly, neck, and face which was gray, black, and brown tabby stripes. I wondered if she had a home, if she just went from neighbor to neighbor looking for food and attention. She seemed comfortable with people. Shadow came around most of the nights that I sat on the patio and read. I started leaving my screen door cracked a bit when I was at home to see if she would come inside. Eventually, she did. Shadow was cautious at first, going room to room and sniffing furniture. After a while she owned the place. I put out cat food for her, wondering if a family was missing her when she spent all this time here. I didn’t want to take a cat away from some kid because I was feeding her. She was far too skinny though, so I kept putting food out. The house was the fresh start I needed. I spread my mothers ashes in the sand, kept some in an urn that I put on the fireplace in the living room. Made amends with exes and then never spoke to them again. I started to heal and move on with my life. I felt like my old self again. When I moved in, the house was peaceful. This lasted for a couple of months. I was tucked safely into bed when I heard the footsteps above my head. I had lived in so many apartments that the sound was unmistakable. Someone walked from one end of my roof to another. I shot up in bed, stories of Skinwalkers leaping from roof to roof danced in my head because I once traumatized myself by watching cryptid videos late at night. I listened to the deafening silence for a few moments after the steps faded but the quiet was almost more terrifying. I could feel a cool, clammy sweat pooling in the crevices of my body. Shadow flounced into the room like nothing was amiss, likely in her element since it was the middle of the night. She leapt onto the bed and I ran my hand across her soft fur as I listened for more of the sound but it was gone now. I felt comforted by the touch of another creature and was able to fall back asleep with Shadow curled into my side. A few nights later I heard it again while sitting in my living room. I had dismissed the first time as being a nightmare but I could not this time as I was wide awake watching television. The footsteps again, from one side of the house to another. This time there was some additional shuffling, the scrapings of moving objects. It was harder to hear it since I was on the ground floor but it was there and I was not dreaming. My heart raced in my chest as I reluctantly went to my front door. What would I do if someone was on top of my house? I had no weapons, the police in a small town could be many minutes away, and all I had was a small stray cat to defend me. I made sure to take my cellphone with me. My hand rested on the doorknob while I tried to stabilize my breathing. When I finally gathered the courage, rage also building inside of me as the sounds above me continued, I yanked the door open and sprinted outside while also yelling “Hey!” in the most booming voice a small woman like me could muster. As I wheeled around in the front yard to look back at the roof, I dropped my phone in the grass. No one was on the roof. It was completely empty and silent. I picked up my phone and retreated inside, which was once again eerily silent. Shadow greeted me at the front door with a waving tail, likely thinking I had abruptly left. I felt comforted by the sight of her. Throughout the time I had lived here, she had become a confidant. I could tell her anything and I knew it was safe with her. She was the only one there both the times I had heard the sounds which made me feel less alone and crazy. She was here more often than not, though I never barred her from going outside and back to whatever family she may have come from. The rest of that night was quiet, but I couldn’t shake what I had heard. I slept in hour long increments and the next day racked my brain for what could be happening. I struggled through work, giving my computer about 10% of my attention. After work, I started to look at my ceiling in every room. When I opened the closet door in the spare bedroom, I was shocked to see a door with a string hanging down. When I pulled on the string, the door pulled down with it and exposed a small staircase that led up into pitch black darkness. I didn’t have the courage to go up there so I shut the door quickly, shut the closet door and the guest bedroom door, and fled downstairs quickly. Someone was in my attic. I called the police as soon as I had my phone in my hand again. They took fifteen minutes to show up despite me telling them there was an intruder in my house which confirmed my fear that in a small town, the police department response time is lacking. They ascended the stairs while I waited outside by their direction. After a few painstakingly long minutes they came back out the front door and informed me the attic was empty as was the rest of my house. When I insisted I heard the noises they offered to take me up there to see it for my own eyes. They were right, it was empty. The attic was small, only about four feet tall so we all had to bend over to not hit the ceiling. It was dusty with no windows that would have provided an escape for my new houseguest. Shadow greeted the men on their way out and I shut the door behind them, alone in the house yet again save my tiny protector. That night the sounds were back again. Footsteps, shuffling, I was pretty sure I could hear the sound of the attic stairs coming down. As soon as I heard that I raced out of the house and called the police yet again. I had to wait even longer this time for them to arrive since it was late at night. They searched the attic again and when they came back out, they explained that it was probably just sounds of the old house shifting, it is windy on the coast after all. But I know what I heard. I spent the entire night in the living room, clutching a steak knife while Shadow laid on the couch next to me. The rest of the night was quiet but I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I called off of work the next day. I bought a lantern and a bright flashlight from the hardware store and ventured into the attic. With the space lit it looked even smaller up here. But it was no longer empty. An old, massively thick book laid on the floor next to a spread out blanket with unlit wax candles around it. I knelt down next to the book, running my finger over it’s cover. It was dark brown and tattered, with a symbol in the center and the words ‘Black Magic Craft’ written across the top in an old, italic script. I fell right on my butt and then scrambled backward across the dusty wooden floor to put space between the book and myself. With trembling limbs I climbed back down the stairs and practically glided down to the bottom floor I was running so fast. Another call to the police, another search of the attic. This time when they left, they suggested I contact a psychiatrist. They think I’m delusional. If I call again when I am in danger, they may not even respond. Feeling defeated and sleep deprived, I retreated back into the house. I slept on the couch, too exhausted to make it through the entire night awake this time. Shadow curled up in between my legs. There may have been more noises, but none were made while I was conscious at least. The next day, the sounds started up in the broad daylight. My houseguest was getting more bold and I was getting more afraid. I could no longer sleep and I lived in terror every day. This went on for a couple weeks, the cops no longer came, and I genuinely felt like I was losing my grip on reality. Maybe this was all in my head. Maybe my mother dying had been harder on me than I had thought. So I grabbed my phone and sat outside where I could have some peace. Then I googled my address. The list of times this house had been bought went on for multiple pages. Typically someone would move in and then leave just a couple of months later. The ones who stayed, died. Searching my address in another engine gave me the names of the people who had lived here so I pulled up any obituaries and social medias I could find. Every one had moved in seemingly healthy. Then their health deteriorated. Posts on social medias told me that one person had moved in, was looking for advice about rodents in walls, asking for help with sleep, and then suddenly the posts were from their family members expressing their grief over such a sudden loss. I hadn’t noticed the decline of my own health, both mentally and physically. No sleep was the main cause. The stress had caused me to stop eating unless absolutely necessary and I dropped twenty pounds that I couldn’t really afford to lose in the first place so now I was rail thin. I had started to see things that I don’t think were ever there, like shadows moving in my bedroom at night. Sometimes I would be coming to a corner and feel like someone was right on the other side but when I would pop my head around, Shadow would greet me with a meow and a wave of her tail. Tonight, I snapped. I was laying on the couch, waiting to be so exhausted that I would lull into a light sleep like most nights. My houseguest had other plans. The footsteps and shuffling started up again. This time, instead of fear rising from my chest it was anger. I am outraged. This is my house, my fresh start. How dare they take that away from me while squatting in my own attic? I am done. The police aren’t going to help me so it’s time to do it on my own. I grab my largest kitchen knife and slowly ascend the stairs to the second floor. Once I am at the top of them, I see the door to the guest room was ajar. I always left it closed. I put both hands on the knife, holding it so hard that my knuckles are white. I move to the closet, the doors on that also wide open. The attic steps were already hanging down and I could hear the shuffling louder than ever now. Whoever it is, they are just a few feet away. There are no barriers between us now. As silently as I could so that I could sneak up on them, I climb the stairs. I poke my head up into the door once I’m close enough to see inside. The candles are lit, the book in the middle of the floor. And sitting over it is a decrepit old woman. She looked up as my head popped into view, knowing already that I would be there. Long white hair hung in ratty locks around her wrinkled face, her skin glowingly pale. The eyes send a jolt straight to my heart. Round, amber, cat eyes. With just a wave of her hand, I suddenly feel out of my body, no longer in control of my own actions. My hand, by no control of my brain, takes the knife and plunges it directly into my side. As soon as the action is done, I’m shocked I had done it. I cough and blood spatters across my chin and the wooden floor. I tumble down the stairs and fall onto the floor of the guest bedroom. I was dizzy but through the fog covering my brain and vision, I watch as the old woman hobbles down the steps and crouches next to me. I look up into the amber eyes I had grown to know so well these past few months. She strokes my hair with a grim smile, as if this was a last resort she didn’t want to do. “You had so much grief.” She says. “So much fear and sadness. The best meal thus far.” And as my life drains out of my stab wound onto the floor below me in a dark red pool, I watch as the old woman transforms into a small, black tabby cat with large, round, amber eyes. I had been the houseguest in Shadow’s home.


My face exploded across a wall of screens. *Tonight, we honour the life and career of Rattlesnake Rick Houston*. A silent split-second, then the crowd damn near blew the lid off the stadium. Jack Ascot walked out in a suit and talked some smooth shit about what a legend of ‘wrestling entertainment’ I’d become. Managed not to mention how he’d sharked me for every last dime in every contract, or how he’d run me down in a golf cart, batshit drunk and coked to hell in his wife's dressing-gown back in ninety-three. The footage they replayed from the eighties summed up that whole time pretty well, though. Fake hair, fake teeth, fake tan. Everything fake but the scars. The good folks in the crowd just wanted me to come out, strike the old pose, shake Ascot’s hand and gracefully retire, but I didn’t do any of that because I was nine drinks and five shots deep in the darkest corner of a San Antonio dive at seven-thirty pm. Missed the ceremony, missed my last six AA meetings, missed baby Adelaide’s birthday party, again. Rattlesnake Rick was *The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet*, but plain old Richard Collins wasn’t. Life hit hard, and it didn’t agree the outcome in advance. It was maybe five-am, sprawled cold and hungover in the dumpster out back, that a piercing light forced my eyes open like revelation. Fierce, white, raining down from on high and making a far-off racket like somebody taught an Apache helicopter to sing opera. I tried, painfully, to peel myself off the wet bags, then felt my stomach fired up into the air about ten feet before the rest of me followed on. ‘Jesus’, I thought. ‘I mean, Jesus. Jesus Goddamn Christ, Jesus’. Might not have been eloquent, but it’s truthfully what I thought at the time. Caught in a beam of white light, I whipped up through the air too fast to make out much beyond stars and a blue glow, and blacked out quick. Came around inside of somewhere with red walls curving upwards from where I lay, in pretzel patterns and with texture like sand - but that low opera-whine still resonated through everything and the light felt artificial. It was either a submarine or a ruined temple or some head-on collision of both. “Rattlesnake Rick of Houston,” a voice said. “An honour it is, to meet the greatest fighter of your planet.” Which was, y’know, weird. The guy who said it had four arms, purple skin, pitch-black eyes and a robe draped with the kind of multicoloured beads new-age folks hung from their doorways in the sixties. “And an honour it is for you, to be chosen,” he said. I felt my arms strapped to some kind of table, or maybe an altar. Panic boiled up in my stomach, and I told myself it was probably a waking nightmare brought on by sleep paralysis. My shoulder still triggered those off sometimes. “For centuries, the Zan’Kil Empire has taken world after world into its embrace,” the guy said, drawing closer to reveal multi-bladed teeth. “But we are not barbarian slaughterers. We offer each planet a chance.” He rasped on for a bit about how every civilisation in the sights of their spacefaring empire got the ‘opportunity’ to pit their toughest champion against the Zan’Kil Crown Prince, and those who won the fight got their people spared. I was fighting down last night’s chili dogs so it didn’t all compute, but I guess they did a scan and somehow figured Rattlesnake Rick actually was The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet. I already knew the answer in my churning guts, but I asked him how many times somebody had knocked off a Crown Prince. “There is,” he smiled, “a first time for everything.” I got the feeling this guy was kind of an asshat. They unstrapped me from the table a little while after, five guards with twenty arms between them. Blow to the head. Blacked out again. Bladed teeth in my nightmares. That messed-up smile. That little pony toy, the one I’d forgotten to buy for Adelaide. *** They dragged me to my feet in a long tunnel and left me there to wait, the shape of an archway swimming hazy at the edge of my vision, far-off and blinding orange with whatever alien light was outside. I heard the breaking-wave rush of a distant crowd. That part felt kind of familiar. “If you win, they will not let you live,” said a voice close behind. I near shat my pants to see another four-armer standing there, staring dolefully at the archway. “If you defeat me and your world is spared, tradition demands your own life in return.” The guy I figured for the Crown Prince had about four feet on me, with thick armour and fists the size of beer kegs. “That’s not really the outcome I’m worried about,” I said. “Just so. I too grow weary of smashed innards staining my soul and fingernails,” he said, looking exhausted and sad. “But should I relent on the field and spare you, the ancients would know my blood had turned the pale blue of a sickly Zan-calf, and no longer blushed the fierce, rich mauve of a larger and more vigorous Zan-calf. My own life would be forfeit.” He smeared two thick lines of red warpaint onto his forehead, and it reminded me of El Noche Fuego’s godawful comeback costume from ninety-six. “If I could fairly lose this fight to a worthier warrior, and leave this world in peace, I would do so gladly,” he sighed. A thought fluttered wildly through my brain. “Say I wasn’t really The Greatest Fighter on the Planet,” I blurted. “Say it was all a lie, and your ancients got wind. What would happen?” “They would return you to your home and choose the true greatest warrior, as tradition demands.” That was it. I could tell them it was all staged - show them the backstage docs and trash-mag clippings on my phone if they didn’t believe me. Get home, let this forlorn bastard smash some Navy Seal’s head in, wait for the apocalypse and have a drink, have a lot of drinks, have all the drinks. On Adelaide’s fourth and last birthday. Jesus. Goddamn Christ Jesus. I turned to the Crown Prince. “Got an idea,” I said to him. He really did look kinda like El Noche Fuego in that warpaint. “An idea?” “You want to lose and I can't win a real fight, but this shit-for-brains empire hasn’t clocked onto what ‘wrestling entertainment’ means so we might have a shot at something here. If I pretend to hit you, think you can pretend like it's really painful?” “To counterfeit pain and distress? Yes, a simple task.” “Then keep close and just play along with my instructions, your highness - and when I tell you to stay down, stay down.” I stepped out to the edge of the arena, and the crowd’s roar swelled up around me. Took a little moment to say my goodbyes. Then, for the first time in a long time, I smiled like I did back in those old videos. “This is gonna be one hell of a show.