This was originally from a writing prompt, but the original prompt seems to not exist anymore, unfortunately. Some swearing and adult themes (mods, let me know if I need to censor it.) Luke sighed in frustration as he set aside the full bucket on his carpet. The rain had finally let up, but he'd been distracted cleaning out the basement most of the day and hadn't noticed the leak in the ceiling until it had soaked through the carpet and part of the bed. He'd just put silk sheets on it, too. Surveying the damage, he started to realize that there was no salvaging the carpet. He'd have to rip it up and probably get it replaced. He did some mental calculations and thought that the emergency fund might not cover it. He'd been preparing to go to a concert with Andrea later that month and maybe they could scrap it…but he didn't want to take that away from her. Maybe he would just eat out less for a little while. Luke spent the next hour moving furniture and starting to tear up the carpet. Part of him wished Andrea was here so she could help him, but he'd rather get this done without bothering her. She was at her mother's for the weekend, and he didn't want to stress her out any more than her family already would. He had been planning for the house to be in perfect shape when she got back, but apparently that wasn't happening anymore. And he wasn't totally unamused by the irony of spending the whole day cleaning the house while ignoring the catastrophe in the bedroom. As he pulled the carpet further back, it occurred to him that he'd never seen the floor underneath, which turned out to be wood floorboards. Maybe they should have the wood refinished and get a rug instead? Most of the rest of the house had rugs anyway, so Andrea would probably prefer it. It didn't seem to be water damaged, at least. Under where the head of the bed had been, a square patch of the floorboards had been replaced with a different plank of wood. He crawled over to it out of curiosity and picked at it a little, and to his surprise it wasn't very well secured. He tried to move it a little more and found that it was completely removable. *What lazy carpenter put this together?* There was a cavity under where the wood had been with supplies in it. Luke stared at the small space for a moment before he realized what he was looking at. This was essentially a secret treasure, probably left behind by the previous owner. Well, it was probably actually junk, but still, he couldn't help but feel a little excited. There was a childish wonder in a discovery like this and for the first time in hours, he wasn't thinking about cleaning or home repair. *So what have we got?* The space was about one square foot and all he could see on top was a small wooden box and some red candles. He examined the candles first and decided that they were, in fact, junk. The box was locked, but the clasp was pretty cheap and he had his tools here anyway, so it only took a minute to unscrew the clasp. He was starting to feel like Indiana Jones uncovering the secrets of the world, not letting the practical knowledge that this was probably more candles squash his dreams yet. Inside the box, there were not, in fact, more candles. At first he wasn't even sure what he was looking at. There were very tiny jars of dried herbs, a jar of ink, and some incense. What stood out most, though, was a small glass vial. It was diamond-shaped with gold lining on the edges. He picked it up and held it to the light to see that there was some brownish red liquid inside. *What the fuck?* He lost track of time staring at it, trying to come up with a non-morbid explanation for what he was looking at, but he couldn't come up with one. The best he could manage was that this belonged to some old fortune teller and it was a fake prop. But why hide it under the floor? Whether he was looking at real blood or not, whoever put this here probably thought it was real. At least there wasn't very much of it, though, so there was that. He put the vial back in the box and set the box beside him. What was left in the space in the floor was a brown book laying on some white cloth. He put the book aside for a moment to look at the cloth and unraveling it found that it was a cloak. It had a gold clasp and was slightly moth-eaten, and outside of the color it very much looked like it would have belonged to a fortune teller. Or a witch. Or a very high quality Halloween store. There was nothing else beneath the cloak in the storage space so he dropped it back in and returned his attention to the book. The book looked unremarkable on the outside. It was very old and faded with a broken spine and yellowed pages. He opened up the first page and found faded handwritten ink. The writing was elaborate and looked like Gothic German lettering, and yet he could read a few words here and there. *What language is this?* The pages were extremely brittle and he had to turn them slowly one at a time. Each page was a block of unreadable text occasionally interrupted by a drawing of peculiar patterns. The shapes were almost hypnotizing in their symmetry. Some were made of sharp lines while others were delicate swirls, and some were simple while others were elaborate. The more he flipped through the book, the more convinced he became that there was an enormous amount of history in its pages. On one page he turned to, a page with little writing but a fairly detailed symbol, a piece of paper fell out. He picked it up and saw that it was…a torn piece of lined notebook paper? Yes, that's definitely what it was. A modern piece of scrap hidden inside this relic. Andrea liked to bookmark with torn scrap, so maybe that's what it was for? The implications of this realization hit him suddenly and he found himself staring at the piece of garbage. Andrea wasn't the only one who bookmarked that way, though, and why in the world would she be hiding something like this under their bedroom floor? He took out his phone and took a picture of the book to send to Andrea. He typed a message asking her what any of this was but halfway through decided to delete it. Whatever it was, if she wanted him to see it, she would have told him. But it might not be hers anyway. Andrea liked things like meditation and incense, but she wasn't especially into mysticism, not to the point where she would have a demon cloak and an antique book under her floorboards. Or a bottle of blood. He looked again at the jars of herbs and the incense. The incense was tied together in a bow in the same way that Andrea stored her own incense. He sniffed at it but whatever it was was too faded. He picked up the herb jars and this time the doubt was almost completely crushed. There were labels on the herb jars in masking tape, written clearly and undoubtedly in Andrea's handwriting. Her distinctive "y" on "thyme" was too unique and he was absolutely certain now that these were hers. He found himself overwhelmed by all of it. There were supposed to be bottle caps and Christmas decorations in this secret compartment in the floor, not something actually exciting. His life was boring, and honestly, he liked it that way. He'd had excitement in his youth and left that behind a long time ago. But this, trying to face the idea that his wife was a witch? What in the world did that mean? No, because this wasn't left by his wife, this was someone else who happened to have Andrea's handwriting and mannerisms. He tried to remember what Andrea had taught him about meditation. *Focus on your breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slowly in. Slowly out.* Whenever a thought hit him about Andrea and spirits, he gently let it go. *Slowly in. Slowly out. Don't think. Don't worry. Just let it go.* The rising alarm slowly faded and after a few minutes he could think more clearly. So maybe it was Andrea's, so what? This stuff really wasn't too strange, was it? Okay, yes, it was weird, but it wasn't bad. The only thing that worried him was that it was in the floor, but otherwise, there really wasn't anything too offensive in this whole discovery. Except the blood. But maybe that had an explanation, too. He returned his attention to the book. There must be answers in there. He couldn't even begin to figure out how to decipher it, but there was probably someone on the internet who could. He searched for forums about antique books and eventually found one dedicated to medieval text. The pictures on the forum seemed closest to what he was looking at. So it was middle English, then. He sent a picture of the bookmarked page of the book to the forum with the caption, "Found this under my floorboards. Can anyone translate or tell me anything else about it?" He put his phone down and looked around him. It suddenly occurred to him that he still hadn't toweled up the rainwater that had soaked through the carpet. He put the occult paraphernalia on the bed and went to work cleaning the floor. After he was done, he checked his forum post and found that he'd gotten a few responses. > LookinForJim: Holy shit that's so cool. Looks like its from 13th century england maybe? > hereforthelolli: fake > bitcherofrivia79: This is probably a replica. Do you have a picture of the cover or front page? Inside cover? He sent the requested pictures to the last user and waited a while longer. > bitcherofrivia79: It looks pretty real. I think the first page talks about supernatural mystics and shit. Sorry I can't really read the text on this one lol. Luke hadn't even considered that it might be a replica. It would certainly be a comfort, but that didn't really solve the mystery of it being hidden. He sent another response. > Lando_1109: Thanks. There was also incense, candles, herbs, ink, and a cloak under the floor. So mystics makes sense. > Fire_Whiskeyyy: uuuummmmm what? > hereforthelolli: fake > bitcherofrivia79: Probably should have mentioned that at the beginning… Luke sighed and put the phone down. He was starting to feel like a lunatic. *What the hell are you doing? Just put everything back and leave it alone. If Andrea wanted you to know about it, you'd know about it. Leave it be.* He checked the forum post again and this time had received a longer response. > eofra998: I took some liberties to make it a little more readable, but here's my best guess: > > Would you desire the passion of another > Blend the greens of calamint, thyme, horseradish, comfrey, rue > With rue at half the lot of the others > All dried and prepared untouched for eleven days > Burn the scents of thyme while the sun is risen > And when the moon has risen > Depict the patterning upon the ground > And alight the candles at its ends > Drink the blend of greens > Set the collected blood of the mark in a vessel > And set the vessel at the heart of the patterning > The candles come to end > And while the vessel is sealed, the trance is held > > So to put that into human words, "If you want to make a girl wet for you, do all this super creepy stuff." So…a love spell? That's what this was, right? He looked again at the jarred herbs and sure enough, they matched those listed in the book. That's what this was all about, it had to be. Why would Andrea want to put anyone under a spell? Who would she even need to do that to? Did she do this on someone else's behalf? Was this something from her past that she was ashamed of? There's no way this was actually real, right? Was it even possible to successfully put someone under a love spell? Meditation. He sat back against the wall, closed his eyes, and breathed in. And out. And in. And out. The thoughts were harder to push away this time, but he forced them out. Slowly. In. And out. Breathe. He opened his eyes again and tried to think calmly. He and Andrea had been married for twelve years and dated for a year before that. They moved into this house together when they got married and in all that time had never replaced the carpet. So she must have put this under there twelve years ago. He couldn't avoid the obvious conclusion any longer. There was only one person Luke could think of during that time that Andrea would have wanted to put a love spell on. He tried to meditate again, but no amount of measured breathing could push away the panic. Everything was sorted back as best as Luke was able to get it. He had pictures of everything in the storage compartment, including every page of the book. It probably wouldn't have to be perfectly replaced after twelve years, but he didn't want it to seem like anything had been touched. Even the clasp on the box looked pretty good. Well, almost everything. He knew someone as kind as Andrea wasn't going to engage in demonic rituals, but there was a small voice in his head that wouldn't quiet until he found out for sure. And he couldn't let her know that he thought there was a chance she would do this. He felt guilty for even keeping this from her. But he couldn't bring himself to just ask her outright either. There wasn't much more to do. The house was clean, the carpet was removed, and roof repair was scheduled for two weeks out. Andrea would be home soon and all he could do was wait. He spent the remaining hours following up on leads given to him by the forum posters. It was almost impossible to parse through what was legitimate and what wasn't. Some sources seemed reliable and provided some not completely unreasonable evidence of witchcraft. Others were ad-hoc ramblings that were almost unreadable let alone realistic. There were some other books in the world like his, nearly all in museums, none with more than a page or two online. He was looking up directions to the closest such museum when the front door opened. "Luke!" Andrea called. "I'm back!" Luke went to the front door to see his wife coming in with a rolling suitcase behind her. In that moment, the doubt vanished. She was a small woman with rich, energetic brown eyes and short brown hair that at this moment was falling into her face. She was wearing tightly formed skinny jeans and an oversized sweater, simultaneously hiding and showing off her slight figure. She pushed the hair out of her face and smiled at him, and he was as entranced by her smile now as the day they got married. "The house looks great!" Andrea said. Luke went over to his wife and pulled her into a deep kiss. "Thanks," he said, feeling the smallest amount of flush in his cheeks. "How was your trip?" "Better than usual. Mom didn't bring up children this time, so that was good. How was life without me? Lonely?" she teased. "Always," he answered, grinning. "Um, actually, there was an issue in the bedroom." She walked behind him through the house, her suitcase rolling loudly along with her. "What happened?" "There was a leak in the roof. I called a roofer, but in the meantime we'll have to use a bucket if it rains again." They reached the bedroom and he opened the door. "Oh god," she muttered in shock. He watched her closely as her eyes scanned the room. She seemed worried about it all, but he couldn't really blame her. He was pretty disheartened when he saw it, too. "The carpet was ruined. But the hardwood is fine and I was thinking we could get a rug instead, so maybe it's a good thing." "Uh huh," she said distractedly, walking into the room and over to the bed. Luke had repositioned the bed so that one leg was on top of the plank hiding the spell ingredients. Andrea was standing just near the plank, glancing back and forth between the bed and the floor where she stood. Was he reading into this? Or was she really trying to inconspicuously check the storage compartment? "That might work," she said. "Do we have anything to put over the floor in the meantime?" "I don't think we need to, if we're going to have to move everything again anyway." "Right." Andrea laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "I'm pretty tired," she said. "I'm going to take a quick nap, then we can have dinner." "Sure," Luke said. "We can look at rugs tomorrow." He left the room, closing the door behind him. Andrea was skimming through social media on her phone when Luke joined her in bed. "Anything interesting on there?" Luke asked. Andrea shrugged. "Bianca is getting married again, apparently. Do you remember Bianca? From when we lived in Sheffield?" The name was familiar, but he was having trouble putting the pieces together. He shook his head. "Oh you know, she was married to Cory back then." He remembered now. He hadn't thought about Cory in years, honestly. They were friends when he and Andrea first met, but drifted after Luke moved away. They'd moved here for Andrea's work, and with that Luke had lost contact with a lot of people. He'd made new friends since then, of course, but it was a bit of a strange throwback to the old days. "I had no idea they even split up. You're still friends with her?" Andrea shrugged. "On Facebook. Haven't spoken in years." So much of that time seemed like a different life. Cory was actually there when he and Andrea met. She was a friend of a friend brought along for trivia one night, and he didn't even give her a passing glance at first. And though he may not have noticed her, she noticed him. She came along to every night out she was able to, always trying to sit near him, laughing at all of his jokes. Luke wasn't usually one to pick up on signals, but even he was getting the message. Even then, it still took a few months before he agreed to a date and they clicked. Getting to know her one on one on a simple coffee date seemed to spark a romance that hadn't faded in thirteen years. It had really been a case of opposites attract. They were wildly different people. Luke was intense and a bit of a daredevil, always traveling and trying to meet new people. He was always moving from one interest to another, always finding something new to keep life interesting. Andrea was more reserved and focused. Where Luke was flighty, Andrea was dedicated. She'd taught him to slow down and enjoy life for its quieter pleasures. She changed him, and it really did feel for the better. Honestly, he was never even sure what she saw in someone like him, someone who was so almost violently against the life she lived. "Hey, can I ask you kind of a weird question?" "Sure," she said, still scrolling through her phone. "When we first met, what did you see in me?" She paused, then set aside her phone and looked at him. "What's bringing this up?" He shrugged. "Just thinking about the old days." She smirked. "Well," she said, "my life was pretty bland and you were so interesting. Everyone liked you. You had so many great stories of all the places you'd been, and I couldn't get enough of them. You were a great storyteller, and funny. Well, you are funny." He was flushing again. "And cute, too. The second I saw you, I had to have you." She tilted her head and scrunched up her mouth in thought. "And what about you?" she asked playfully. "What'd you see in me?" He looked over his wife and tried to piece together the specific reasons he loved her. "Hmm. I like your smile. I like the way a room seems empty if you're not in it. I like how passionate you can be, and how beautiful you are. Also, you have good taste in men." She laughed and kissed him. He pulled her deeper into the kiss and held the small of her back, feeling her muscles move through the fabric of her sleeping shirt. Her hands traced down his neck and back, sending goosebumps along his spine. Distantly, he thought of the idea that this feeling was the result of witchcraft, and it seemed so impossible and far away. Whether this was a spell or not, and he was certain it wasn't, it definitely felt real. Gently, he pushed her back into the pillows, moving his lips to her neck, feeling her heavy breathing against his ear. The sounds of her pleasure drove him deeper into the moment, and he lost himself to the passion. - He woke up in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around Andrea's waist. The night was silent save for the gentle breathing of his sleeping wife, rising and falling under his arms. All of this was too familiar to him, and yet the nagging doubt that it might all be a lie gave it a strange, unreal quality. He gently drew himself away from her and slipped out of bed, pulling on his discarded boxers. This uncertainty would break him apart. He would find out, for sure, if there was even such a thing as a real love spell. And when he found out that his wife hadn't put him under one, he would beg for her forgiveness for doubting her, and she might be disappointed, but she would forgive. And he could be free of this distrust in his own mind. He returned to the original post on the middle English forum, finding the translation. A line in the text stood out to him. "While the vessel is sealed, the trance is held." So surely that meant if there was a spell, he could break it just by opening up the bottle, right? That's all it took? His toolbox still sat in the corner of the room. He opened it up, the clanging of the metal breaking the silence. Slowly, trying to not make a sound, he removed the top layer of the toolbox, then set aside a few of the larger tools. Underneath them all was the small vial of definitely fake blood he'd found under the floor. He pulled out the small, mysterious, inconspicuous glass bottle and turned it over in his hands. If all of this wasn't his imagination, when could she have even gotten his blood? He tried to remember a time it might have happened, but it was all so long ago. *You're an idiot,* he told himself. *Why are you freaking out about any of this?* He looked at Andrea, still sleeping peacefully on the bed. Moonlight shone through her hair, providing a halo effect around her face. Why did he have to even learn about any of this? His life was fine. He was happy. He returned his attention to the vial. He took a breath. And opened it. The whole world stopped. The rose colored glasses he'd been looking through were shattered, and life seemed gray and unfamiliar. He looked to Andrea on the bed and saw a stranger. Her eyes were too far apart, her nose too short. She was sleeping with her mouth open, and her hair was a tangled mess, but none of it was charming, none of it was cute. She was lying on sheets he'd bought for his wife, but this wasn't his wife. This was some woman in his home, a woman he never invited in. Luke pressed his forehead into his hands and tried to meditate again, but couldn't even seem to gain control of his breathing. Andrea was the one who'd taught him how to meditate, so wasn't doing so letting her into his head? He tried to remember what he loved about his wife, but he couldn't even recollect those truths that seemed so real to him before. He needed to get out. Now. He jumped up and grabbed clothes from the closet. Could he ever come back? He emptied Andrea's suitcase as quietly as he could, shoving his own belongings in. He went from room to room in the house, grabbing things he would need in order to be away for a long while, and the more he walked through the house, the more he realized it wasn't his. Andrea had picked out this house. It was her dream home. Did he ever even offer an opinion on where they would live? Did he have one? He'd lived in the city before he met her, and that's what he'd liked. That was how he had seen his future. But he left that for her. After quickly combing through the rest of the house, he returned to the bedroom to retrieve the suitcase. He stood at the open door with his arms full of various documents and items, and he realized he was shaking. He just had to go in one more time to get the suitcase and get out. He forced himself in and dropped everything into the case. Her own belongings were strewn around the room and he tried not to look at them. There were blouses he'd bought her, lip glosses he'd tasted. He zipped up the suitcase and stopped for a moment to make sure he had everything. He had money, keys, documents, any trinkets he could find in plain view that belonged to him, some clothing. He had the vial… He should take the rest of the spell items. She would just find a way to cast the spell again if he left it. Maybe she'd find a way to cast the spell again anyway. He went over to the storage compartment and saw that the bed had been moved so that the compartment was uncovered but was now under the bed. He crawled under the bed and removed the plank and to his relief saw that while she'd apparently checked the supplies, she hadn't removed them. He collected everything, not knowing what was important and what was replaceable. In his hurry, he bumped his head on the bed frame as he crawled back out, and he heard Andrea shift on the bed. He slowly backed away and saw that her eyes were still closed. "You awake?" she murmured. "Y…yeah," he got out through a cracked voice. "Come back to bed," she said quietly. A shiver ran up his spine. "Soon." She mumbled and quieted again. He dropped the antiques into the suitcase, zipped it up, and carried it outside. It was a warm night. The three-quarter moon was visible behind the power lines over the neighbor's house. The Ruizes lived there. He wondered what their life was like, if they were happy and in love. What their future was. Luke went to his car and dropped the suitcase in the passenger's seat, then climbed into the driver's seat. The front door of his house banged open and Andrea came running out wearing only a long T-shirt. He locked the door and then looked for his keys before realizing that in his hurry he'd put them in the suitcase with everything else. He was searching through the suitcase when he heard knocking on the window. When he looked up, Andrea was looking at him in panic. "Luke! Luke!" she cried, muffled through the window. "Where are you going? Come back in the house." She pulled uselessly on the door handle. He found the keys and fumbled to get them into the ignition. "I love you. We've been married for twelve years; you love me, too. Please, don't go. Please!" He looked at Andrea's pleading face. She was distraught and beginning to cry. Her hands were pressed against the window and he could see a a sparkle on her hand where the moonlight hit her wedding ring. "I love you," she mouthed. He hit the window and she jumped back. He got the keys in the ignition, started the car, and sped out of the driveway. In the rear view mirror he saw her half naked and crying in the street, but when he turned the corner, she was gone. After driving for what felt to him to be an indefinite amount of time, he finally stopped the car and took a moment to let all of it sink in. His phone had been buzzing nonstop and he'd been drowning it out with top forty hits on the radio. He turned off the radio and his phone, but not before seeing forty-seven missed messages from Andrea and a few from her family. The world was silent but for his racing heart. His entire adult life had been determined by what Andrea wanted, and he'd never even thought about his own needs. She hadn't, either. He tried to think of people he could go to, but it occurred to him that all of the friends he'd made were through Andrea. Who was he without her? Right now, he was a confused, terrified man uncomfortable in his own skin, lost on the side of the road, heading nowhere. He put the car back in drive and set off down the empty street, trying to think of a new destination.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting; there are changes! 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 Courage! As we explore the overarching theme of ‘change’ for March, we will focus on “courage” this week. Courage comes in all shapes and sizes; big and small and dark and light. What fears will your characters face this week? How will they overcome them? Are they heroes of the people or simply heroes in their own mind? What effect will their choices have on the world around them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * March 7 - Courage (this week) * March 14 - Distortion * March 21- Resistance   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but I encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * The deadline to submit your story is now 6pm on Saturday. 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. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. This is mandatory! That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail!   ***   #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Note About Rankings: Rankings are currently suspended due to lack of feedback on the thread. Feedback matters; it’s how we improve and grow as writers. It’s also a requirement for this feature. In the same regard, rankings depend on your nominations, so please make sure you send me a message here on reddit or on discord with your favorites before the deadline next Sunday. Thank you to everyone who has given feedback week in and week out. It doesn’t go unnoticed. I hope to see a lot more participation this coming week.


She was in charge of something, she just wasn’t quite sure what. She had showed up to the set, or stage, whatever it was called - it was neither in fact, it was an air hangar, she thought - and already there were people working. Some were very young, in their twenties. They carried things, mostly. Boxes, thick extension cords, tripods. There were people in their thirties who carried things sometimes but mostly they spoke into walkie talkies. Then there were the people in their fifties and sixties. They neither carried things nor spoke into walkie talkies. If someone wanted to reach them, one of the young people was sent over to deliver them the information. Bill, Jas’ boyfriend, was one of the older people. Whenever Bill looked over at Jas, he would smile his big bright, man-made smile. Though Jas did not feel the same way that Bill did, his smile always did make her loved. When Bill had come up with the idea of making this movie, Jas emphatically encouraged it. Bill had been the guy behind the guy his whole career and though he had won an Oscar for it, he still wasn’t the one that got the real recognition. The Vanity Fair profiles, the calls from A-list actors, the full-time assistant. Bill was a visual effects producer. He would often go on afternoon-length rants about how little this director or that director actually knew about movie making. They had directed some indie film and a studio figured that meant they could manage a blockbuster. Now it was Bill’s job to be the one to actually direct the movie. “You should absolutely make a movie,” Jas said. “You think?” “How much will it cost?” “I don’t know. I need to do a budget. But I can make it cheap. I’ll do the effects myself, after all.” “What do you want it to be about?” “I want to make a World War II movie. That way it’ll have planes and action but I can also make it about my dad.” It took Jas a while to figure out exactly what it was that they were making. It was a sizzle reel, Bill kept saying, but she should think of it more like a trailer. Just enough shots and scenes to make a studio want to make it into a full-length movie. At first Jas just supported Bill emotionally. She would go over to his place right after work and drink tea near him while he wrote. Start coming onto him when she could tell that he was burning out and needed to take a break. She was so proud of him, she would whisper. Eventually though, he started handing her printed off sheets of paper for her to read while she drank tea. At first she had no clue what to say. They were scenes that Bill had told her about, but they were from all different parts of the story. They made no sense without knowing what had come right before that scene, she would say. “Remember that this is just supposed to be the best parts of the movie?” “Yeah,” Jas muttered. “So all I need to know is if you think it’s exciting.” “I just feel like even though there’s a lot of action, all the names they’re using and the things they’re talking about won’t make any sense to an audience.” Bill scoffed. “The only audience that will ever see this is a bunch of suits and they wouldn’t be able to identify a story if a story slapped its dick across their faces.” “That’s gross.” “So what? It’s true,” Bill said while turning back to his computer. Jas wanted to be more helpful than she was but she didn’t know how so she called her friend Jeff who was a producer. “I want to help him, but I don’t even know where to start.” “Is he writing you a role for you?” Jeff asked. “No. It’s a war movie. Also I don’t even want to be an actress.” “What? Really? I always thought you did.” “No.” Jas frowned down into her coffee. “I want to help him like, make it. I don’t know.” “Offer to help him produce it.” “Jeff I genuinely have no clue what that means. Every time I ask you what you do, you never make any sense.” “For you, producing would just mean helping out in whatever ways you’re capable of.” “What if I’m not capable of helping? He asks for notes on his script and I have no clue what to say.” “Well that’s a perfect starting place. Get good at giving notes. Go read a screenwriting book.” “What books?” “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll get my assistant to send you some. She wants to be a writer.” Jas remembered Jeff’s assistant being in her mid-twenties. And she already knows that she wants to be a writer? Later, Jas received a package at her small mid-city apartment with a hand-written note from Jeff. It read, **For next year’s Best Picture Winner.** She threw the card away. Inside the package was a stack of books, all of them about screenwriting, including one with a cute cat on the front hanging from a rope. Jas read through all of them in one weekend. Though she got down on herself about a lot of things, one thing she always had was her ability to read fast. Teachers had always complimented her on that through elementary school. By the weekend, she had taken a half notebook full of notes down from the books, compiled all the pages that Bill had given her, and applied what she had learned to a list of improvements for the script. After reading all those books, so technical and not at the same time, she felt like she wanted to just re-write the pages of script herself but she stopped herself from going that far. She texted Bill and asked if they could hang out the next day. She added kissing face emojis to the text for good measure. After they had made love the next day, Jas sat up and said that she had a surprise for him. Completely unsure of what to expect, Bill sat up as well. He watched Jas’ body closely as she leaned over the side of the bed and pulled up her satchel. She pulled out her stack of papers and flipped to the back where she had her script notes. Immediately Bill’s eyes went wide and his muscles tensed. His anxiety only rose as she went through her notes. “I don’t need notes this in depth, Jas.” “Okay but I feel like the stronger you start this project, the higher chance it has of succeeding down the line. Or something.” Bill’s face fell into the sullen look it so often did. “When you say things like this, it makes me feel like you don’t believe in me.” “No, I want to help. I thought I was helping.” That night they slept in bed together but even in his sleep, Bill slipped away from Jas. As a result, she slept on her back most of the night. “I’m going to quit my job and help you make this sizzle reel full time.” “You shouldn’t do that.” “I can get a job easily once you’re done. But I believe in your movie. It’s going to be a huge success.” Jas lifted Bill’s head and gave him a light kiss. “I believe in you, baby.” Jas quit her job making coffee and threw herself fully into the project. She asked Bill if he wanted to hire Jeff to help make the movie. He declined. Instead, Bill hired some of his friends and his friends’ sons. None of them were producers, but they knew people who could get them low rates for equipment or a guy who had a real World War II plane. And so by the time that they reached the point of actually shooting the sizzle reel, which they were doing in an airplane hangar, Jas had not done much. Occupying half of the hangar where they were shooting was a giant green screen hung from the rafters. It wrapped behind the plane. Sitting inside the plane was one of those actors that looked vaguely like one of those superhero actors but whom would never be cast in one of those roles. Sometimes Jas would go up to Bill while he was directing the action and she would get a peck on the cheek without a glance in her direction. She offered to help the young people carry things or do other manual labor but they all saw her as one of the thirty-somethings who was past carrying things, leaving her feeling rather impotent. At the end of the shoot, which only lasted two days, Jas was the first person that Bill went up to and thanked. He gave her a big kiss and said “Thank you for believing in me.” One of the production assistants who had sucked up to Jas the entire shoot reminded her again that he’s available for any work and that if Jas was producing anything else, she should reach out to him. She took the production assistant’s flimsy business card and thanked him for his hard work. Jas drove the car home while Bill slept in the driver’s seat. The whole time she asked herself the same question she did every night. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Though to the outside observer, this question seems like it makes sense, it made no sense to Jas why she asked herself this question. It was just a string of words in order. When she was a child, she would ask herself similarly insignificant questions like, “So you like to tell stories, huh?” When they pulled into Bill’s apartment’s parking garage, Jas woke Bill gently and got him up to the apartment. They slept together in bed that night and Bill held Jas closely. “Thank you for believing in me,” he repeated one more time before he fell asleep. This night, however, it was Jas to be the one to slip away from Bill’s grasp.


Three spiders of unknown origin were recently discovered by the Insect Research Facility or IRF for short. They look like tarantulas but without it's fur and replaced by black armour, their legs are six inches long, and the spiders themselves are the size of golf balls. Doctor Kaber wanted to see if these spiders are poisonous or not, he decided to use three convicts as test subjects to see what capabilities these creatures have. When the test subjects entered the chamber, a researcher reluctantly unleashed the spiders out from their little container, as soon as they crawled out onto the floor, they immediately started jumping at the subjects like frogs going onto another lily pad. The three subjects yelp in pain as their fangs pierced through their skin like bullets. After a few seconds of this, the spiders dropped dead off them. The subjects lied on the ground, writhing and making horrified moans. This lasted for hours until they were able to get back up again, even though they complain that they feel a little nauseous. Doctor Kaber wasn't done yet, he wanted see the side effects, so all he did now was wait. Day three. The test subjects begin to show symptoms of back pain, complaining that they feel like something is moving in them. Their skin have also noticeably turned into a light grey colour, yet they don't seem concern about it. Day five. One of the subjects began violently vomiting a black tar-like liquid, but the other two show no concern whatsoever. It had been seven minutes before the other two started vomiting the same liquid, they were also suffering hair loss. After hours of spewing, the test subjects began drawing and writing messages on the wall with the black liquid. The messages that wrote said; "IT'S INSIDE OF ME", "WE ARE SLAVES", "GOD CAN'T HELP US NOW". Doctor Kaber's assistant tried to convince him that the experiment must end now and put these souls out of their misery, but he ignored his demands and wanted to see more of it. Day thirteen. The test subjects are now laying on the foul-smelling ground, still breathing. Their skin have turned into a pure grey and their eyes foggy. Doctor Kaber had seen enough, he ordered janitors in hazmats to get rid of the bodies and clean up the chamber. When they entered the chamber, two of the bodies started twitching, then something bursted out from their backs. They were large spider-like legs that had black hardened armour, similar to it's former selves. A few janitors managed to get out, but the other four ended up getting impaled and ripped apart by the legs. Unfortunately, one of the janitors forgot to close the doors behind him, causing the two zombies to escape and wreak havoc in the facility. Doctor Kaber hid under the table with a shotgun in his shivering palms, embracing for anything that attacks him, he took a deep calming breath before getting out from the table with his shotgun pointing at the observation window. He noticed that only one was left inside, the third test subject. He entered the chamber despite the putrid odour, he then looked at the woman who was face-first into the ground. He pushed her over with the shotgun, only to discover that she had a bloated belly, like she was pregnant. Doctor Kaber realised his arrogance got the best of him. Then the belly started to moving, as if something is trying to get out. He points his shotgun and was about to pull the trigger, but it was too late as millions of spiders showered from her stomach like a foundation. They crawled on him as each one inserted their fangs into his skin and died. Eight years later, the IRF building was left to rot but it's still not abandoned.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **The train never came.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week There were a lot of great submissions on the thread this week. While each story brought something unique, there were two stories that I believe stood out among the rest. I hope to see continued participation and feedback this week. - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A fun story about taking a mental vacation from the office. - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - A thought-provoking love story of the moon and the earth.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail.


Every night is dull, but this night is particularly bleak for Teo. Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers, a day for friends, a day on which he has neither. He sits alone in his quiet apartment, the pipes rattling as somewhere, someone takes a shower before going on a date. Teo imagines it; there would be candles, roses, smiles, and warm hearts. There would be a joy he hasn’t known for years, and a connection that aches to his soul. It is 7pm and Teo finishes a measly dinner which has gone cold as he laments his isolation. Lying in bed, he fantasises about the warm touch of another man, strong hands gripping his waist, soft lips brushing his face. He blushes in the dark at such a ridiculous thought, skin tingling and a heat between his legs. He rolls over to face the mirror reflecting the bed frame and the darkness that lies below it; the monster who resides there shifts slightly, uncomfortable at being perceived. Teo laughs to himself, a ridiculous idea forming in his head. “Monster under the bed,” he murmurs, “will you… be my valentine?”. The darkness shifts again, nervously. Silence. It was a silly idea anyway, Teo thinks. He rolls onto his back and sighs. A faint sound reaches his ears. “Really?” the darkness whispers. Now he sits up, Teo was not expecting a response. “Well… yes, I guess”, fumbling for words, “we could… have dinner?”. Teo feels a rush of excitement, a strange excitement, but excitement nonetheless. Teo sets the table, this time for two. He has only two chairs but that will be enough. He wonders if the monster likes wine. He may as well pour two glasses. Then Teo gathers the odd socks from atop the dryer and arranges them on a plate as delicately as he can muster. He rips out a few pages of his dream diary and sets them aside the plate. Will the darkness need a knife and fork? Teo is unsure so lays cutlery for the monster anyway. He only has one candle, but it will do. “Dinner is ready,” Teo says, speaking as confidently as he can, “please, have a seat”. Ever so slowly, the monster seeps out from beneath the bed, across the floor, and glides into the chair. Teo cannot see a face on the monster, just a swirling mass of darkness, but also, something else. There is an electric energy in the room. Teo and the darkness sit across from one another, alone together in the small apartment. Teo makes a toast to Valentine’s Day and they both sip the rich red wine from cheap plastic glasses. With full bellies of socks and steak alike, the two wobble with wine-laced steps to the bedroom. “Thank you,” whispers the darkness, “no one has ever asked me to dinner before”. The monster’s lonely existence has been brightened, if only for a night. “Thank you for being my Valentine,” Teo smiles, “I had a really nice time”. The darkness slides back under the bed, vibrating with an energy it has never felt. Happiness? Similarly, Teo climbs into his sheets, feeling full and relaxed. Another idea. “Would you like to sleep up here tonight?”, emboldened by the wine, “there’s quite enough room”. Hesitant at first, the darkness isn’t forthcoming. It can sense that Teo’s question is genuine, though, and slowly climbs up onto the bed and tucks beneath the sheets. Together they lie like teenagers at a sleep over, talking much about nothing and enjoying every moment. There is a warmth surrounding Teo and the darkness and they both feel at peace. “Goodnight”, says Teo. “Sleep tight”, whispers the darkness.


Apples and Figs A wizened and gnarled apple tree, ages old, towers towards the sun. In this field trees of all varieties coexisted, with a smattering of tall grasses and flowers dotting the expanse. For as long as anyone can remember it grew. The apples it produced were not especially juicy nor crunchy, they weren’t perfect for pies, no one sought them out specifically for juicing. It simply was, it had been, and it would be for a while longer. Many trees such as this exist across the world, they were nothing noticed. Many greater trees, visited yearly for harvesting, existed as well. Below this tree in question, a statue had been placed. A young woman reaching both arms above her head in a futile effort. Years of neglect had caused moss and lichen to clamber randomly across the surface. Originally grey, her skin and clothes had become tinted brownish green as if someone had dumped mouldy syrup on her. The tips of her fingers strained against her hands to stretch just a millimeter more. She stood on her toes, barely making contact with the ground as they pushed her calves to their limit. Blank eyes, her mouth a thin line, only flared nostrils betrayed any emotion. If not for the location, it would appear as though she were straining to touch the stars. Unfortunately now the statue only looked to a limb of a mediocre tree, the sky blocked by its wilting canopy. Every year as the apples ripened, she reached towards the bowing branches. Bright green turning to bright red as they grow. But the height of the branches would never allow her to grab any, even the lowest hanging fruits. Even if she were to reach she would never be able to grab one, only graze it. The only hope for the stony maiden was for an overripened apple to fall into her outstretched palms. If one happened to be skipped by the hungry animals, it would become too heavy for it’s weakening stem to hold on to the branch. She had no choice in the matter, she was given whatever happened to be above her. When this happened, the bruised globe would slowly dissolve, birds coming to peck it, squirrels ripping bits off, maggots and flies crawling across it. Eventually what was left of the skin would slip through her fingers, drop to the ground, and mould back into the dirt. If someone had been around to observe these events, they would have seen the expression on her rocky face. Unchanged. Unbothered. She was used to the routine by now, each year the same thing. Perhaps in the beginning she would have wept with hunger. The seasons wearing at her resolve, causing her to question *why* she was still striving for something she would never enjoy. She may have wanted to leave, see what else there was to reach for. Of course, in the end, she was a statue. And statues do not stretch, grab, want, need, strain, look. She could not consider why it was that her arms would never rest at her sides, or why the expression on her face would never change.


The heart monitor beeped steadily, the mountains and valleys of a heartbeat painting a line of life. Overhead, an AC hummed as it pumped filtered air into the room. A door slid open with a whoosh and a nurse entered. She walked to the bed, compared her charts to the machines standing guard and made a few notes. As she leaned down to check on the drainage bag, the patient stirred. She paused, staring at the sleeping man, his chest rising and falling with the machines, his mouth closed around the tube keeping him alive. He stirred again and she straightened, checking the machines, then her charts again. When he stirred a third time, she called for the doctor. Patient 13705, known to his friends and family as Jesse O’Hian, had been in a coma for three years, 7 months, 23 days. The doctors at St. Mary had given him a 1 in 3.7 million chance of waking up. As the team rushed into his room and gathered around his bed, Patient 13705 struck his chance. Dr. Glascow was the first thing he saw. The old man’s weathered face smiled at him like a welcoming angel. There was a ringing in Jesse’s ear that sounded like the brakes of the 6 o’clock train. His lips were stretched and dry and something tickled the back of his throat. “Good morning Mr. O’Hian,” Dr. Glascow was saying, his voice fighting against the ringing in Jesse’s ear. “Absolutely lovely to see you today. You’ve got a breathing tube in, so be careful. We’ll have that out in a bit, we’ve just got to make sure you can breathe on your own.” Jesse looked down as far as he could to see the blue and white tube snaking across his chest to one of the machines standing next to his bed. It reminded him of a worm, like the ones he would use when he would go fishing. Dr. Glascow ran him through a series of tests. Satisfied, he ordered the nurse to shut off the breath machine. The switch was flipped, and Jesse felt his chest go flat. There was a sudden rush of panic and then he took a deep breath, his lungs straining with the effort. The air was cool, and it tingled, unlike the stale, warm air from the machine. The nurse hovered over Jesse. “Now then, just relax. You’ll feel a gagging sensation as I pull this out. Just try and ignore that.” She smiled at him, grasped the breathing tube with her gloved hands and in one swift motion, pulled the tube from his throat. He gagged as the plastic slid over his tongue, leaving a chemical taste behind. The empty space in his mouth felt foreign as he worked his jaw up and down. Dr. Glascow and Ms. Hyatt continued running through their checklist, removing tubes and needles from his body. As each one left his body, he became more and more aware of himself. His limbs were heavy and felt far away, as if they were connected through wires over some great distance. He stared at them, trying to close the gap with his mind. “Are you aware of what day it is?” Dr. Glascow was asking. Jesse shook his head, the motion like a rocking wave. The room swam around him and he squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s the 10th of June, 2046. A beautiful day, I might add. We’ve been having such good weather lately.” The doctor smiled at him, a row of white tombstone-like teeth showing between his lips. “Now, now, don’t get too worked up.” The doctor put his hand on Jesse’s arm. It was warm, and brought a sudden close awareness of the space between Jesse and his arm. “See, you’ve been in a coma for the past three years,” the doctor continued. “It’s quite normal to experience some confusion after waking up. Much has changed since your accident! Do you remember the accident? Nevermind, that will come in time.” Jesse watched him get up and look over the charts Ms. Hyatt handed him. “We’ll monitor you for the next 48 hours, and if you’re doing well, you’ll be released! I’ll be sure to notify your ICE contact and let them know you’re awake.” There was a flurry of motion as doctor and nurse got Jesse comfortable, explained the catheter use and showed him how to order meals if he felt so inclined. When the room was finally quiet again, Jesse stared at the ceiling, finding shapes in the speckled ceiling. Shapes and voices spun in his head, a spiral of sounds and colors that made no sense. Occasionally, he saw someone’s face in striking clarity, or heard a distinct voice. He recognized none of it. In the midst of all this was a slow, distorted voice, singing a single line over and over: “Nobody knows, the trouble I’ve seen…” + + + + + + + + + + The sunlight glared down on Jesse as his wheelchair left the hospital. He threw a hand up to shade his eyes. A pair of long legs walked over to him, sultry and tan. His eyes travelled up to find the legs attached to a woman with dark sunglasses and an even darker frown. Even behind the glasses, her gaze struck him. “Has he got anything else?” the woman asked, looking at the nurse pushing Jesse’s wheelchair. “No ma’am. There were no personal effects other than what he has on him.” The nurse indicated the bag Jesse held. “I trust you can take it from here?” The woman jerked her head towards a red car parked on the curb. “Help him in the passenger side.” With the nurse’s help, Jesse made his way into the front seat of the car. It smelled of oiled leather and pine. The seatbelt clicked into place as the door shut and for a brief moment, he was alone in the stillness. Shortly after, the woman got in the car, started the engine, and pulled away from the hospital. “Did they tell you anything?” she asked, settling back as the car went into auto-drive. Jesse shook his head slowly. “There was an accident.” His tongue still felt clumsy and awkward after three years of disuse. The woman made a noise in her throat. “Nothing else? Well, that’s unfortunate.” She was silent for a moment. “I’m Cara, your cousin. My father was your Uncle. You’ve got an apartment in the Apotho District.” She cleared her throat. “How do you feel, Jesse?” He frowned. “I don’t know. How should I feel?” Cara made a face like she was frustrated. “I mean, do you feel anything? At all? Emotionally, that is.” Jesse thought for a moment. “At times, yes. It’s very…confusing right now. I’m not sure what’s what.” His cousin nodded. “That’s good,” she mused. “Should I be feeling something?” Cara turned in her seat to face him. “A lot’s changed since your accident, Jesse.” “The doctor said the same thing.” He moved to face her more, the leather seats creaking beneath him. “What does that mean?” “Do you remember anything, Jesse? From before your accident? Anything at all?” He shrugged. “I think so. I get flashes of faces, voices, colors, sounds…it’s overwhelming.” The car slowed to a stop at a light. They watched the pedestrians pass, their faces all relaxed. No one was in a hurry, there were no horns blaring, no one yelling for someone else to move. Jesse frowned. “It’s too quiet,” he murmured. Cara let out a small sigh. “You’d better get used to it. It’s like this everywhere now.” “What happened?” “They made us all equal.” Jesse stared as the car proceeded through the intersection. “Equal. What does that mean?” His cousin gestured to the people walking the sidewalks. “We’re all the same now. The playing field has been leveled, for everyone. From the moment we’re born, we all have the same level of skill as everyone else. No one is smarter or faster or better than anyone else.” “How?” was all Jesse could ask. Cara shrugged. “No one knows the exact science behind it. There’s an additive to the air we breathe that alters our chemical makeup to balance us out, to make us all the same. Things have been better since then.” Jesse snorted, an unfamiliar feeling. “How is that better?” “Oh, that’s just the coma talking.” Cara chuckled. “Just give it a few days and you’ll see. The technological and societal advances we’ve made since the additive has made things much easier. No more poverty, no more greed, no more war. You’ll see, Jesse. You’ll see.” + + + + + + + + + + If you’d like to read part two, you can find it at the link in my profile.


Before the story starts, I just wanted to say that this is my first attempt at writing something and I'm not too sure what to tag this as but I think this is the best tag. I guess I should also say that the tone in this bit of writing is dark throughout the story. Any feedback would be well appreciated as I am just starting out. The Ridge As he stood there on the ridge of the mountain, he looked out on the world beneath him. In the far-off distance, he could see people getting on with there day, but from up here they were just specs that looked like everything else. The place that he was staying, he couldn’t remember the name of it, he just knew that it was the place that would help him decide. As he stood up there on the ridge, he looked out and he could see everything. He saw the beauty that was the natural landscape, not man-made massive skyscrapers, it was the beautiful mountain ridges and trails. The long forests that anyone could get lost in, the inland loch with the sun shimmering off its surface and creating the perfect reflection. He breathed out and decided that he had had enough. He sat down in quiet contemplation and thought about his decision. He knew it was the right one but he couldn’t not think about what he’d leave behind. He’d leave behind his loving wife, his family, his friends. People that had got him through hell and back before, but this time he had to do this on his own. He thought about the other things he’d miss, the small things. Such as the wisdom he could learn from reading books from the present and the ancient past, music that influenced him all through his life and helped him in his worst moments and finally, but the weirdest one he thought, he’d miss just getting to laze about doing nothing, knowing he could and probably should be doing something. He decided that tomorrow was the day, the day he would disappear forever. He hadn’t done anything of note, nothing to get him in the annals of history. He hadn’t given great political speeches like Cicero, he hadn’t given the world one of the greatest live performances like Queen, he had just existed. He had a few regrets but that was his biggest. All of the media he had watched and consumed and loved, had shown people, ordinary people, coming from nothing to rise up and become something greater. A beacon of whatever they stood for, love or hope were the usual tropes. So, he descended down the mountain, and went back to the small bed and breakfast he had booked. As he lay, for the last time, on the soft bed, that wasn’t even his, he couldn’t sleep. He knew what he was doing tomorrow and the worst part was, he was excited. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to do it right that second. But eventually, sleep took him and he had the best rest he had ever had. Just before he slipped into this rest, he was only thinking of one thing. Earlier his mind had been racing but by just laying there staring up at the wooden ceiling, his mind calmed, his heart slowed and he knew what to think of. He could only think of that view from up on the ridge. It was about midday when he was finally ready, he had spent the morning preparing for it to happen, and he was on the verge of making it happen. So, he set off up the mountain trail again, for the last time. When he finally reached the summit, he put his bag down and kneeled at the edge of the ridge. He firmly planted his hands down on the ground and knew this was it. He looked out at the beautiful landscape for one last time, before getting up. He grabbed his bag and turned around. He saw some people were getting close to the ridge, so he scurried down the opposite side of the ridge. Finally, not on any trail or path he was told to go on, he was free. He was free from it all and he was finally at peace and he smiled. As he descended into the wilderness, he came upon one of the forests. With a smile and a feeling inside him that he had never felt, he took his first step into the forest. Never to be seen from again, never to be heard from again but he would always be there.


Once upon a time, there was a woman that misplaced her house keys. She couldn’t find a way into her house. She looked underneath the doormat but it wasn’t there. A few weeks back, she lost her original house key and used a backup key. She never created a copy nor did she found her original key. Now her backup key is gone. Every square inch of her home was heavily secured from the doorknob to the toilet. Even the fridge had security and so did the water sprinklers and the air conditioner. Breaking into the house was impossible. The woman couldn’t come up with any else to do except to break in. At first, she tried to throw a brick at one of her windows. The windows were bulletproof and ended up shattering the brick. She tried to pick the lock in her home but the doorknob electrocuted her. Poor woman. She forgot that the chimney also has security. She climbed onto the roof of the home so she could Santa Claus her way down the chimney. But then she forgot the chimney had motion detection security. Every time someone tried to enter the home from the chimney, it spewed out black smoke. And so that was what happened. After being nearly knocked off the roof by the smoke, she came down and walked towards the back of the home. There was a problem. The back of the house had a fence that was covered in thorny vines and hissing venus flytraps. She also had three giant black panthers and a teacup Yorkie securing the back of the house. They were all gazing at her ready to come at her if she made it over the thorny fence. The house wouldn’t budge. That was when the woman had to be creative. She tried everything. She tried knocking the doorknob off the door but the doorknob was made of solid steel and wouldn’t come off the door. She rented a crane so she could break into the house with a wrecking ball. It didn’t work. The house was destruction-proof. She planted dynamite around the house and waited for it to blow up but the house stood still. The house was bomb-proof, tornado-proof, earthquake-proof, zombie apocalypse-proof, black hole-proof, radiation-proof, waterproof, floodproof, and the firey-pits-of-hell-proof. Nothing could destroy the home. Getting ready to give up and sleep on the lawn for the night, someone opened the door. It was her husband. The husband stepped outside after hearing some “noises.” When he saw her, he waved. “How’s your day?” The house was noise-proof so even if there was a war going on outside, no one in the house would know. She yelled back, “You were in the house the entire time!” The husband was too deep in his Doritos to notice his wife outside. She was livid. Her husband stood there staring at her while munching on a bag of Doritos in his Dorito-stained shirt, “Oh…You should’ve rung the doorbell.” The woman growled and stormed into the house with her smokey face, soiled clothing, and hair. Not a single word was exchanged that day after that embarrassing hour. That night, the husband slept on the couch.


\--**Niccolo Machiavelli** Patricia: It was his words that bled a nation. Assuming he even spoke at allbut let's say that he did Mosheed: Okay, but was it *his* words that challenged the sanctity of this nation? Or was it perhaps *his audience*? Patricia: Why not both? Mosheed: Because at the end of the day, as powerful as words can be, it takes the actions of a million to get a million going. One man isn't enough Patricia: He started it. Mosheed: And his people will finish it severely Patricia: But if we take him down, we won't have to worry about their vengeance Mosheed: A few figures down the line are prepped to take his place, and with them the same targeted audience, just at different venues Patricia: We can stop the spread of communism, what makes this any different? Mosheed: First off, we haven't stop the spread of communism at all. it's in our backyard, what makes you think it didn't go through the backdoor? Patricia: Countering Terrorism is on the top of our list. Mosheed: Can't win at tennis by not serving back Patricia: What? Mosheed: Think of Wimbledon you simpleton Patricia: Your metaphors make no sense Mosheed: You'll understand later, depending on how I explain it to you. Despite your age and experience, you bare witness to old tricks with the freshest of eyes Patricia: you love attacking me, dont you? Mosheed: Not at all. This was merely a test of strength Patricia: Strength? Mosheed: Mental Strength. You can test *me* if you want Patricia: No Thanks. I've grown tired of your tricks. Mosheed: Mental Exhaustion doesn't deter the validity of these tests Patricia: I dont care Mosheed: I promise you will Patricia: Mosheed... Mosheed: He will inevitably uncover dishonesty and lies; history has no place for them. Patricia: The Quran Right? I recognize that quote. Mosheed: Good girl...You know, I never understood non-believers. There is without an umbra of unsureness, a supreme being hovering over us right now. Besides our own free will, who else holds the power of life and death in their hands? The government does. The government *Is* God Patricia: Then who would Mosheed: Who would serve as the Prophet? It could be anyone of us. Anyone of us could be The Begotten orator...The Professor of Religious texts. Bible Isn't a word, it's an Acronym. B.I.B.L.E, meaning Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. Those instructions revolving around creation, and destruction. Patricia: Hmm...that's interesting. Mosheed: My grandfather could've been Robert Oppenheimer, but he decided to become a doorbell salesman.


First time writing in almost 10 years, this is a plot line I have that I've always loved, which I've re-written in a different way so I can see what my writing is like ten years on. Thank you! —— There are those sounds again of birds chirping and cars humming. Rays seeping through the uncovered gaps in the curtains begging me to finally wake up and get out of our bed, I feel a chill and slight melancholy - but why? I shrug it off, coffee time. I have a week off, bosses orders I’m not sure why he’s being so kind as I haven’t had a week off since I started my job. I sluggishly put my dressing gown on and head to the kitchen to see what I can muster up. “You’re finally awake, are you?” giggled a sleek silhouette behind the counter. “I’m not sure what you mean!” I paused, with a smirk. “You’re right, I just feel different today, sorry” “Don’t ever be sorry, do you want some coffee, love?” As the shadow began pottering away. My wife, my muse, my soul-bound lover. She always knows what to say, always knows what to do when I’m depressed - but why do I feel so alone right now? Life’s many mysteries I assume and plop myself down on the settee. Everything is so dark today, I can barely see my own wife but I feel her there and that’s good enough for me. The warmth of the coffee passed my lips as it filled my soul again with life. “Hun, as usual this is a great cup of coffee” I yelled from the living room to the kitchen not taking my eyes off this morning’s football results. Silence. She must have gone to get ready for our morning walk. I can’t wait to see her in one of her cute navy dresses she’s always spinning and twirling in, like a natural ballerina. “Where do you want to walk today? I was thinking of the riverside by that old church you’ve always liked - “ I pause. I feel a vibration within my pocket, who could possibly be calling me today? No one usually calls me on my days off except my wife, and of course she’s right here. I dig into my pocket and slip out my mobile with a reluctant sigh. “Hi honey” the voice shakily starts. “Morning, mum. Are you feeling okay? This is unusual” I inquisitively ask. “Do you not remember what day it is?” my mother has a concerned tone in her voice now. “No, it’s just my day off. Charlotte and I are just making coffee” I start to hear a soft sobbing on the other end of the phone. “It’s the 5th of June, your wife’s funeral is today” she quivers. “That’s impossible, she’s in the kitchen making breakfast” I chuckle. I brought the phone down to my chest. Mothers do say the darndest things sometimes, I wish she wasn’t playing such a cruel joke so early in the morning though. She knows how I get when I haven’t had my coffee yet. I took a deep sigh and placed the phone back to my ear, all I could hear was the sniffling and sobbing. Mum bursts out crying and all I heard was: “Charlotte is dead, Nick. It’s been two months and she's not here anymore. Look at the shadows, Nick. Look at what they really are!” I hear a sudden break in the telephone connection, she hung up. My heart rate is increasing now, I start to slowly look from the counter that I hung my head, to the corner where my wife was supposed to be. Just a cupboard, nothing else. That’s when it all came back to me, each tear at a time… it came back. Piercing sirens and blinding blue lights, shouting and crying with a car now slowly being lost to the blue abyss. I was frozen, out of body and out of mind… reliving a Hell my brain must have locked away for my own safety. I clutch my chest where my heart would be with an ache, not a dull one, but a million knives slicing at my will to live now. My throat is closing up, I can’t breathe a simulation of suffocating but it feels real. This explains the week off, this explains the sorrow I woke up with. My journey through life in these two months was nothing but a walk in the darkness, I never saw where I went, I never saw where I left, all I thought about was her. But I’m here now, Charlotte. I'm beside you. I’m at your grave, I’m sorry. I love you. The gravestone read: 1991 - 2020 Charlotte Bishop ‘Heart of steel, as a wife and as a lover.


“Welcome to Umbrella VR 2.!” the splash screen burned into her retina as she opened her eyes from a groggy sleep. Farah closed her eyes again and waited for the system to boot up. And then smiled when the swatch of colors and ribbons spread apart, displaying the world around her, as she always knew it. Another beautiful day! The landscape of different fantasy realms stretched out as far as the draw-distance could render in her VR goggles, starting at her feet, extending over the various kingdoms, castles, and floating islands, and ending in a light blue, smog-less sky. She was so thankful that she was given these goggles so many years ago, and thankful even still that they were solar powered so she never needed to take them off. An odor of rotted meat hit her nose. She scrunched her face and quickly inserted the nostril enhancement plug. Ah, that was better. Instead of rancid meat she smelled the sweet aroma of pastries from Mr. Mulligan’s Pie and Magic Wand Shop. She waved at Mr. Mulligan and his goblin ears perked up. He smiled back. A hobgoblin popped out of the sack of flower and waved. So adorable! Across the cobblestone street was a shift in the environment and a series of smiling bipedal robots were carrying crates into a donut factory with magical butterflies fluttering around the entrance. The rainbow smoke that shot out of the factory’s chimneys was a breath of fresh air. She checked her watch. She needed to be at work in the Ivory Castle between 12 and 3PM. Only three hours to get there! Only three hours to enjoy the warm weather, the beautiful colors, and wonderfully diverse characters. As she made her way towards the underground mole tunnels, where villagers were making their way into the circular door embedded in a hillside. But before she could head down a digital apparition appeared. The circular door glitched and changed to a subway entrance with busy pedestrians hurrying down the stairs. Her stomach flipped upside down. She swallowed the nausea. Then the glitch stopped and she smiled and continued down the hole in the ground, walking next to talking rabbits, smiling ogres, and a trio of bearded wizards. The dirt tunnels opened into a tiled floor with dusty, cob-webbed lanterns that looked ancient and creepy. Farah, despite having no experience with fantasy games, enjoyed the different sights, even though she saw it every day. Under the marching feet of the creature pedestrians sat a pot-bellied halfling who held a sign that read “Have a good day and some bread!” Farah shouted “I will!” and continued on, taking a handful of the halfling’s bread as she went. Only if everyone could be so kind, everyone in the real world at least. “The real world.” She almost forgot what that meant, except for the few times that the VR glitched out. Eventually she’d need to get a new model, one that would never mess up, so that she would never see the real world again. Why would she want to? The real world was filled with cruelty and horrible images of poverty, smog, and worse yet, judgmental stares. The real world could use a little whimsy and lot less anger and violence. This world, the one she created using her goggles, was the real world. Farah didn’t like to think about it too long and reminded herself that it was all harmless fun. The people boarding the underground trains would give her judgmental stares but at least she didn’t have to see them. Instead, she saw a cavalcade of forest creatures and fairies loading onto a large minecart that would take them on a wild adventure through subterranean valleys, scary dungeons, and ancient lava pits. How exciting! She stepped onto the cart and stood next to a gingerbread man who gave her a wink. The man, who looked tasty and sweet, also smelled of ginger and cinnamon. His armpit seemed to smell the best so she stuck her face in close and took a whiff. Another fairytale creature bumped into her shoulder. To her pleasant surprise it was a big, old porcupine. She smiled at him and he responded in kind, “Good day! Would you like to eat a bag of tricks, you lovely little witch!” The porcupine held out a bag of candy. Farah licked her lips and reached for the bag but the porcupine man pulled away. “Mother duck! You can’t have all my candy.” said the man. She looked down. Her mother had always told her not to feel sorry for herself but she couldn’t help it. “Self-pity is death.” her mother said. And: “No one will ever like you if you don’t like yourself.” Farah’s mouth turned upright as she agreed with her mother. She ran past the porcupine man and grabbed his candy bag, running off the train when it pulled into a stop. The porcupine didn’t really need it. It was only candy. He shouldn’t have offered if he didn’t want to give it away. Her heart thumped as she made it to the elevator. The porcupine wasn’t far behind but the doors closed right as his quills appeared between the closing doors. She looked inside the bag and realized they were all sweet tarts and quickly tossed it aside. She thought about the cookies her mother used to make and missed the sweet aroma. When no one else mattered and everyone else abandoned her, her mother was the only thing she had left and now she was gone too. The therapist once told her that she had attachment issues, attaching her sense-of-self to her “guardian figure.” But Farah never saw it that way. Why should she blame her mother for something society did to her? For the constant ridicule? For the distain, shame, and humiliation? At least now, with the goggles, she didn’t have to see them. It didn’t matter to her that her faults were exposed, only that those who were watching had little brains and hateful hearts. It wasn’t her fault. It was theirs. The sweet smell of oranges hit her nose. She turned and saw a furry goblin facing the corner of the gold-plated elevator. Orange juice was leaking down his leg. Strange place to squeeze an orange she thought. She was going to ask for some but instead left the elevator when it opened. Another apparition caused her to blink. And in that instant, she saw a skyscraper and then a castle as the glitch corrected itself. The Ivory Castle! A flock of tropical birds flew overhead, soaring in the sky and creating colorful ribbons from their blazing tails like chemtrails. Despite the name the building was made of marble and was tall and thin, with three spires tipped with gold trumpeter statues on each. She smiled widely and actually felt like she was part of something bigger, something important. The huge wooden doors were welcoming with their yellow glowing torches and the palm trees on each side. Inside the castle, over the moat that replaced the sidewalk, there was a parade of vibrant and playful characters having a party in the lobby, like they always had when she arrived to work. Drinks and chocolate pastries were being exchanged, furry animals were bent over with laughter, a cyberpunk warrior was flying around the chandelier in a jet pack with a pirate primate swinging after him; it made her forget about her worries, causing her to forget that she was even wearing VR goggles. She forgot what it felt like to be noticed, to be recognized and examined. She forgot what it was like to be picked apart, piece by piece, for someone to choose which parts for the best and which parts should be discarded. In that moment she didn’t have to worry that someone would try to change her or that someone would try to sabotage her existence simply because of who she was or what she was. But she didn’t forget everything. She checked her watch, walked over the wooden bridge, and waved gleefully at the hippopotamus doorman. The eight-foot doorman waved back and with a large, open smile pulled off her goggles and slammed them onto the concrete, breaking the device into small pieces and shards of glass. Farah looked up at the human doorman, her stomach churning when she heard the trumpeting car horns and emergency sirens, and frowned. The doorman with his heavy overcoat and thick moustache frowned back. He cursed at her and demanded she leave the property and reminded her that she didn’t work there anymore and hadn’t for several years. The rectangular glass building stretched into the sky above, dominating the blue with rigid, bland architecture. She closed her eyes and let the breeze stab at her exposed cheeks. This was the real world and it was painful. Ahead, past the doorman she looked at her reflection and saw a wretched, hunched over woman staring back, a face she didn’t recognize. She felt the tattered, brown shawl in her fingers and muttered the word “monster” to herself. It was okay if she judged herself. She knew that she was better than anyone else. After all we all make her own realities, she decided. “Why do we divide ourselves?” she asked herself. The doorman arched his brow. “Self-pity. Yes.” And she finally admitted, “Self-pity is death.


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