Escape Short fictional story - set in London 2012. I flung my shoes down the stairs instinctively, like a target that I had to reach, a bullseye, and my body an arrow, right to base where the front door was. The flat was small and confined as it was, and while inside, we were always within a few easy steps of each other. I was suddenly aware of the small space between us and that every second of hesitation on my part would fatally reduce my chances of escape. He would humiliate me, he would trap me, and another part of me would be taken and kept there, perhaps forever. All I had to do was make it to my shoes at the base of the stairs, to the front door, and on to the safe street, filled with couples, mums and dads with their infant children, happily enjoying the weekend, and unseasonably good weather, still young enough to have complete faith that nothing bad could happen to me in front of adults, they would stop him if they had to, I just had to get myself there. I half ran and half threw my self down the stairs, every step unsteady, filled with adrenaline, focused on retrieving my shoes and getting out of there. I nearly really did trip over my legs, nearly betraying myself with those impossibly large strides that my body was taking. I reached the base of the stairs, my brown hands, as if in a natural transformation, turned into eagle-like golden talons, cleanly sweeping through the air, ready to scoop up the shoes, swooping in low to claim the prize catch. I faltered as I stood there, in wonder that I had done it, this time it had worked. I had passed, unscathed, as I thought at the time. Only a few minutes ago I had thought the window was my only escape. This simple victory spread a wickedly delicious sensation through my body. But not a moment to waste. The prize was mine and in that second of brief victory I inadvertently and dreadfully turned my head to him, my hand on the latch now, no longer the triumphant eagle but a hunted and terrified girl. He had reached the middle of the staircase, for a brief second we made eye contact and he bellowed at me in a deep snarling voice, sending volts of fear through me “Come back here”, eyes bulging in rage at the thought of me attempting to make an escape, willing me with his complete and pure rage to paralyse me on the spot. I almost froze. But - I tore my eyes away from that unrelenting dark passage and opened the front door, letting the cold crisp air intoxicate me and fill me with a simple and fresh joy - I had made it! I won! I slipped into my shoes and bolted down the street, passing artisanal bakeries, a restaurant offering delicately roasted free range meats, an assortment of quirky cafes where middle class white people seemed to congregate on weekends, a respite from the usual offerings and busy high streets of inner London. Not for a moment, did I take in the possibly startled expressions of the passerby’s at my sudden bursting out and departure on that relatively quiet early afternoon. Freedom. For now.


As Cycle 1 of Serial Saturday here on comes to a close, all that’s left to do is spotlight our fantastic authors. Let's take a moment to give a socially distanced . It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/lynx_elia, a regular from /r/writingprompts. Here at we thoroughly enjoyed Lynx’s story of tradecraft, spy vrs spy action and adventure. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser from /u/lynx_elia: *Ekaja Kaur is an assassin for the mob on New Earth. She’s also the last remaining shapeshifter alien in the galaxy. When her latest job ends in a rival gang stealing a vial of her blood, she vows to reclaim it and prevent the underworld from discovering her true identity.* *Hunted by the mob she abandoned, she traces the vial to an ice planet of mercenaries and entrepreneurs. There she discovers a warehouse of androids that are more than they seem, and a young human mobster who just might be her way out of the mess. But who can she trust in a galaxy of criminals and spies? And how far will she go to ensure her secret stays that way?* *Find out in The Professional: a space adventure set in the author’s Archivist universe.* For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's Lynx’s take on that: I loved writing this story. The shapeshifter assassin came fully formed to my brain — they exist as a character in my novel series (as yet unpublished), and I was excited to explore an episode in their past, as well as expand on the universe. Impressions from writing in this format: I pantsed a lot of *The Professional*. You can see that when halfway through I stumbled with the plot outline. Writing the story through Serial Saturday really helped with that: after seven episodes on Theme Thursday, working with whatever happened for that week, it was becoming harder to predict where to go next. Don’t get me wrong, I love pantsing. I love the excitement of discovering the story as I go along. But when we switched across to SerSat, the idea of plot beats and a (still vague) structure helped me outline just a teensy bit more. Which brought the story together even better. I’m looking forward to going again for a different story next year. Challenges? Without SerSat, we wouldn’t have had Arthun. He was so fun to write. I planned to kill him off a bunch of times, but he grew on me too much. Funnily, Arthun only came about because I needed something to fill a few episodes. And now I’m really glad he did. SerSat was a challenge in and of itself. Sticking with the story and seeing where it took me has made me a better writer. As has all the crit and constructive feedback from fellow writers. Thanks, everyone! What’s the future of this story? I’m hopefully going to turn *The Professional* into a novella. Watch this space. With the tale of *The Professional* at an end there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Lynx’s personal sub is and I highly recommend checking out their author notes and other stories written for . *The Professional* in its entirety is compiled as a collection there, go give them some love! Without further ado, here's Lynx’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Original 20 stories as posted: Chapter log and updated versions available on subreddit: . \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of /u/Lynx_Elia's work by going to their subreddit, . Congrats on finishing your serial, Lynx, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday… ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Off-Season Part 2: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ChineseArtist, with a tender story that takes us on a journey full of sweet changes. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/JohnGarrigan, with a bizzarely different story that you've gotta read to... appreciate. Great job, you two! But don't just take my word for it, go check out these awesome stories and give 'em a ! Serial Saturday is officially in the off-season and will return at the start of the year with a full schedule posted in the first couple weeks of January. Check back on the discord server for updates. In the meantime feel free to check out the spotlight threads for Serial Saturday authors and go down the rabbit hole of seriously great stories. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


I once impaled a child with a knife. Or perhaps I didn’t. Memory can be such a fickle thing sometimes. Echoes of memories, events taking place long before today, playback in my mind. They bounce around my head every now and then to invade my brain for long moments. Occupying all space. Today I remember being harassed by a group of strangers in the streets of Paris three years ago. They mocked this hunched skeleton shambling before their eyes with a surprised look on its face. They found reasons to laugh at the expense of this clown. Its looks, its pace, its reaction time, its clothing, its face, its choice of words, its lack of wit...Oh they wanted a laugh you see so...any reason would do really. It was the third time this week that strangers I’ve never met had a go at me. Ah and they had gotten away with it too. Not once, but twice...not thrice however. I was scared you see. So I decided to carry my old trusty knife in my pocket. The one given to me by my father when I was a kid to carve hearts in trees. I didn’t want to hurt anyone of course. I wanted to be safe from strangers and the mockeries. You understand how an hunted animal feeling backed in a corner will react, don’t you? Of course you do. You already know how this story ended. I pulled out the knife when the glee of the pack became evident. With these wide and devilish smiles of hunters finding easy prey. I waved the knife at them. I yelled something but I forgot what it was. Forgive me. I...they didn’t care. They didn’t listen. They never do. I killed four people that day. Every member of the pack. I remember my brief moves to their throats and the sudden drop of their bodies as blood spewed forth. The others didn’t move or shake when they saw their comrades fall. They couldn’t believe it. A prey? Fighting back? Ridiculous! Hopeless! They kept smiling as I charged each of them one by one. I struck. Then moved to the next. I struck again, another body fell. They were none left. I fled. I looked around me as I moved as fast as I could. The crimson knife was still in my small hand. But the world did not care for what I did. The birds were singing. It smelled like shit due to the fertilizers recently used in the public garden to my left. Luckily there was nobody currently enjoying the flowers or walking the street rue de Grenelle. The front of the Invalides was empty this Monday of November. The early sun rays softly warmed my skin and I briefly thought myself in Elysium instead of the 7ème neighborhood as I crossed the esplanade, a park in front of bridge Alexander III. Then I reached the other side and found myself in the neighborhood of avenue Bosquet where my humble abode awaited me. I walked on the road, saw an opening in the gutter leading to the sewers and threw the knife of my father inside it. Gone. I went home. It wasn’t far. Yes I remember doing all that three years ago. Or perhaps I didn’t.


Please give feedback and be harsh. If it's possible, could you score it out of 30? Thank you reading and I hope you enjoy.  **Lost to the city** Bleak industrialisation, verging on the depressive. Towering blocks of blackened buildings blotted and choked by the ash they spat out so many years ago. The buildings, sulking awkwardly, bundling and hoarding the dreams they broke. So, blinded by soot and hatred, the people shuffled past one another minds fogged with man’s innate greed. Huge crumbling, concrete condominium's blobbing like cancerous tumours from the knackered tarmac. The people wandered the blank streets, leathered with blank minds and mirroring the austere blocks that surrounded their industrial prison. But there was one outlier. An anomaly among all. Archon Pickkard; He was waiting for his meeting with Charon. He lived among the people but dreamt for more. Archon needed to make others see the harmony they could achieve. Free in his prison; he was a simple man not asking for ornate features or words but spent his life pushing for euphoria taking cheer from his boring schedule. Archon found a way to love all things he saw, resisting what the city forced upon him. The man wished for nature to take its land back, for the days of new to end. He was waiting for his meeting with Charon, not that he knew it though. For years Archon walked the city. Archon thought of the lush pastures of past-times and submerged his dreams with a blind optimism. Archon was authentic unlike the doldrumic people. He was happy. Life was repetitive but Archon was not a man to complain or criticise. He wandered on with his life finding joy in the menial and the boring. Not a moment came that Archon hated or regretted, he was pure. Archon saw such colour in the world, such vibrant colours that overloaded the senses. But the city corrupts all. Gradually, the colours dulled to his eyes. His mindset beginning to slowly shift, and Archon could feel the pull of the city’s tide. The joy he felt became unfulfilling. Optimism began the descent to pessimism. The city lingered on, unaware or uncaring for Archon Pickkard’s wish for simplicity. It stumbled on blindly killing the soul of the one individual man. His mind slowly crumbling like the cracked cobbled streets. The fibre of his being, his very soul was systematically smudged, until he started growing to be the man that he hated the city for. His emotions losing their colour and becoming blank. Soon the city would, with its coal infused air, dank sewers and dim inky skies, deplete the consciousness of the last conscious man. Archon Pickkard realised it was time and raised no controversy. Archon knew what was happening, he tried and forced himself to feel the euphoria of life again, but it was simply not the same. Haltingly, he was being eaten by the city. But Archon could not accept himself to fully fall to the city. Time was all that was needed in his mind, for the mechanical structures to shrink back to the caves and for tranquillity to emerge once more, but Archon could no longer muster the strength to wait. His one refusal to accept the dark mood of the city led him to his decision. His crumpled manic depression edging him towards the cliff of despair. His dingy apartment, grimy on the outside and grimy on the inside was the epitome of the city. The man wished for nature to take its land back, for the days of new to end and for the mechanical structures to shrink back to the caves. Through his paper-thin walls rattled the call of the city, insects and rats. One man, he used to think, was all it took to change the city. Standing in his bitter cold apartment, the winter raging outside and the decay of the city limping forward, Archon Pickkard stared at his ceiling. He fixed it up to a hook on the ceiling and looked around at his apartment hoping for hope but filled with only disgust. So alone in a world with blank slates he saw no point in continuing this sham. He wished for a world that humans hadn’t ruined, but what was the point in complaining. But... what was the point in staying? He was leaving... mind fully made up, he placed a small stool and stood upon it. The city groaned and wheezed smog in laughter, defeating the last individual. Rather defeated, Archon placed a small coin under his tongue. The fattened pigeons squawking outside, the last life – along with the insects, rats and bugs – to be left in the city. With a sharp kick, he did it. The city ignored his death. Clouds slowly blotted what remained of the sun. The streets were piled with evidence of humans but no ‘humanity’ filled them. The buildings rose higher separating themselves from humans. Fogs, storms and rains descended upon the beast pattering and lashing upon its stone walls and pane glass, to no avail, however. The construction workers laboured on, regardless of the weather, dotting their ore skyrises across the broken skyline. The clanging of their hammers rattled through day and night tearing through earth, metal and stone. Workers of this city beast clasped in reflective neon clothes – a façade for the destruction they committed. Winds slowly blocked by blocks of man's creation the howling died down and was replaced by the beating of the hammers. By now, Archon Pickkard had moved on. He had left the complex world and had entered simplicity. He gave an obol to Charon and stepped on the wooden raft and sat down. Archon steadied himself as it rocked waiting for Charon to drift him down the river Acheron. The land was bare and barren, but a beauty lay that Archon admired. He found peace, ease and simplicity – the things he had longed for. The hell he headed for was better than the hell he’d left. But, as before, the city had not noticed. The city stops for no man or woman. It stops when the ticking of humanity falters, but for one man it does not hesitate. It had not recoiled at the loss of Archon Pickkard, its chimneys bloated on, unaware of the individualism it had beaten away. The meaningless buildings grew higher and grubbier, killing the humans that birthed them. Lost to the city. The city limped forward, filled with nowhere people.


Parts (I-V) I was listening to ‘shine on you crazy diamond’, waiting for the cars in the four lane street to pass. On the other side of the street was the brick viaduct that carried the subway out of the city. The street cleared and as I walked across, I suddenly noticed a light flickering in the second arch. When I got there, I found four candles burning on the ground. Two beer cans, bananas, grapes and candies were placed around the candles like on an altar, and pieces of cloth were hanging between the two street poles in front of it. I leaned over to take a closer look, when I spotted a man lying in the corner, up against the wall, in a sleeping bag. Sound asleep with only his pale face looking out. Behind his head leaned a backpack and a bicycle. Probably just passing through, I figured. And not wanting to wake him up, I pussyfooted to the other side of the arch. A train went by over our heads, shaking the bricks and the ground. I reached a crooked joint out of the brim of my hat, straightened it with my stiff fingers and lit it. Then I took a step forward, so I could look down the street and watch the smoking chimney of the incinerator that was reaching out behind the rooftops. A few cars were still going by. Then an ambulance pulled up next to the subway station with the lights on an all, picked somebody up, then it left again. And just standing there smoking and watching them, I felt I was simply there. I looked over to the sleeping man to see if he was still asleep and he was. I wondered where he was going with his bicycle. And I figured I liked that I was somehow part of his journey now and that he didn’t even know it. So I decided to give him the rest of my smoke, had a last hit and put it out on a brick. Then I pulled out my wallet, found a coin inside and went over to the altar. A plastic lid with a few coins in it was already there. I put the coin there for the ferryman and the last three tokes of my smoke for the ride. Then I left, wondering where he would be going. Parts (VI-IX) The next night I had rolled another smoke, and tying my shoes decided to go back to the place. I doubted the man was still there, but I still imagined how we’d smoke together, so that he could tell me about where he was going. Outside, the wind was guarding the streets as usual and it was colder than the night before. Waiting in the four lane street, I didn’t see any lights shining on the other side this time, and when I walked across I saw he was gone. A yellow blanket was left behind where he had been lying, and a garbage bag was sunken into the brick wall. The candles and everything were gone as well, only a few cigarette butts and frozen grapes had remained. Gazing over the ground I suddenly spotted another stub in one of the grooves. It was my yesterday’s smoke. He must have taken it out. I picked it up. There was just as much on it as I had left. Three tokes. They had gotten cold overnight. I smoked them away walking around underneath the arch listening to the rest of the second part of the song. Then I lit the new smoke. I thought about the man, and I thought he had something I didn’t. And now I didn’t feel like I was simply there anymore. So I left. Having had enough of the place.


*'pressure failure, resecure seals'* *weep weep* I have a splitting headache, something is pressing hard against my head. "That. Hissing." I'm floating half conscious. My ears ring with beeping, hissing and droning speech. What is that feeling...? I convulse and scream as my skin is pulled through the ajar hip seal of my vessel. "Crap crap crap!" I pry apart the plates while contorting away, blood sprays out of the seal in a red mist and the hissing screeches to a maximum. I taste blood as I bite down, forcing the pieces together and pinching the wound until finally it clicks. My ears pop and I'm left in agony slowly spinning amongst the debris. *snort* *sobs*. "Ow, ow, oh Mother what happened here? " I unclench my eyes and take in the scrolling view before me. I glance about the reading in my vessel's interface. I thought I was lucky. But I was wrong. "Hero-sync" *bleep bleep* I wince and sharply draw breath, "read out vessel status." The harmonic voice chimes *"internal temperature at 5° Celsius, battery percentage at 58 percent, 75 of 500 liters of gas 14%.*" "Great, I'm going to die of blood loss, hypothermia, asphyxiation, and radiation poisoning." I glance about the remnants of ship hull, tools and other odds floating about. Nothing really usable here. The room starts growing darker. I grab onto a fistful of metal debris and throw it to start spinning. As the void that once was half of the room comes into view *crash* I am smashed by a boulder from the side. All of the seals on the suit give. After brief hissing the room becomes distant. "No no no!" I scream. The void of space is my new heading and faster than I'd like. I twist and pivot rapidly ignoring the searing pain as I look for something, anything. A rebar sticking out! I grab on. I start to slow. *crash* the boulder hits me again and I and the rebar slip beyond the reach of any hope of survival. "Wait wait." I start to twist and fling the rebar away. As it slides through my gaping grip, I see what has been throwing its momentum at me. My bookcase! "Haha! Yes! I may not die after all." I glance up at the shrinking ship. "I guess it's now or never" I start heaving off the lower hand chisled mahogany doors. I launch them as hard as I can away from both me and my only shelter. "It's at least not getting smaller any faster." I chuckle. *grunt* I begin throwing books. "The small ones in groups, I want to be lighter when I start doing more work" I sigh. Half the bookcase is now gone. I glance up, it feels like I've made no progress but the ship doesn't seem to changing size anymore. I breathe a sigh of relief "Phew, I don't want to lose any books now though." My reckless tossing and handling has caused the books to start skidding closer to one side. I grab one as it slips out of the group. I throw a few more books as the ship begins to grow larger again. "What happened to you Phoenix?" I look over what I can see of the missing half of the ship. The massive rounded white metal disk looks like a frisbee with the absence of a shark mouth in it. Starry space where part of my home is suppose to be. As I drift closer I see some of the internal silver chambers jammed and half-cocked outside the outer white shell of the ship. The centrifuge that spins the environment modules is completely destroyed. Looks like I'm not getting gravity when I get back. "Ha, it kind of looks like silver toy dough pushed out of a mold. Should be easy to slip in through an intermodular pressure hatch." I look down. Only a quarter of the books are left. I throw the remaining books, my hardback collection of antiques to correct my drift toward an opening. I can see most of the ship's pieces again and see the time isolation chamber I had just flown from. I mumble in awe, "if whatever it was hit a few meters over I might have been dead." I finally drift into the empty space that was part of my ship. "I could fit an old city from the moon colony days in here." I let another book out of my grip and look down. The bookcase is empty and behind me a trail of books floats beyond. I don't know how me and this bookshelf are gonna slow down. I look towards the blunt edge of the ship I am careening towards.


Nicholas has been having an absolutely horrible year. When he received word that he would have a promotion at his marketing consulting firm, he thought it would be phenomenal. He would have a bigger paycheck, he would have assistants, and he could set his own hours. Those hopes would not last. Expectations were high on him to deliver not just in terms of work but in terms of personality. Clients would love the work that they did, but they would cut out the consultant anyway because something in the budget needs to go. Nicholas has to constantly be attending lunches and work functions to make sure the client at least likes them. He also has to compete with other consultants for the same job. To top it off, his underlings hate him for telling them they need to work overtime or that their work is not to the clients liking. People say don't shoot the messenger, but the bullet holes in Nicholas's suit say otherwise. It is a few days before Christmas, and a restaurant has tasked them to prepare new marketing ideas for next Valentine's Day. Nicholas sits in his office reviewing work when he hears a knock on the door. "Come in," he says. "Excuse me. I was wondering if I could head out early tomorrow. I got my work done, and I would like to spend Christmas with my family," Kelly, a new-hire, says. Nicholas opens her file and looks it over. "I am sorry, but I think you are going to redo parts of this. I will send you a more detailed draft tomorrow, but for now, why don't you go re-look at it," he says. Kelly's face drops as she walks out the door. Nicholas looks out of his door and sees every employee shares her disposition. Nicholas hates it here too, but they have to do it. His cellphone rings. The name reads Jim Ross, an old college friend. Why would he be calling? "Hello, Jim what is going on?" Nicholas says. "Oh not much, I figured we have not spoken in a while, and it is Christmas," Jim says. "That is very nice of you, but I am busy right now," Nicholas says. "Really, it is eight at night, a few days before Christmas. Why are you working?" Jim asks. "That is the job. Besides, I am not alone. Other employees are here," Nicholas says. "They must be miserable. I know I would," Jim says. His words sting Nicholas, even though Nick had the same thought earlier. "Yes, well, we all do what we must. Bye, Jim," Nicholas hangs up before Jim can react. He gets back to work marking up Kelly's paper when his phone rings again. It says Mom. "Hi, Mom," he says. "Merry Christmas," his mom sings into the line. "Mom, can I call you back please? I am busy," he says. "Busy, son, you should be off work and enjoying the holidays," she says. "I know, but I need to get things done." "I remember you used to love Christmas as a kid. You took charge of overseeing how we decorated the house. I guess that carried over to adulthood. Will we at least be able to see you on Christmas Day?" she asks with a tinge of sorrow. Nicholas takes a deep breath. "Honestly, probably not, sorry Mom," he says. "Oh," Nicholas can almost hear the tears start to fall, "Well, I love you and Merry Christmas." "Love you to Mom," Nicholas hangs up the phone to get back to work when the phone rings again. "What?!" Nicholas yells into the phone. "Woah, sorry man for calling, is this a bad time?" an apologetic man says on the other end. Nicholas pulls the phone away to see it is Mark. He used to play basketball with Mark before the promotion. "Heyyy, Mark, no, just busy. Sorry for yelling. What is happening," Nicholas stands up and a smile starts to form. "Not much, I know it is last-minute, but my boyfriend and I are throwing a Christmas party tomorrow. I know it is last-minute, but you haven't been to the courts recently so I couldn't tell you," Mark says. "Boyfriend?" Nicholas's smile starts to fade. "Oh right, remember David that cute guy in the park I was telling you about. I asked him out, and we are together now. Wow, it really has been a while since we talked," Mark says. "That sounds wonderful. I am sure he is awesome," Nicholas looks back at his computer, "I would love to meet him, but I am busy these next few days. I am sorry." "No worries. We should do lunch later," Mark says. "That sounds great. I will text you when I am free," Nicholas hangs up the phone and checks his calendar. His days are all booked up. He may never see his friend in a while. His phone rings again one more time. "Hi, Nicholas, where are you," a woman's voice that Nicholas knows well asks. "Joanne, my god, I am so sorry," he gets back in his seat to apologize to his girlfriend, "Things at work got out of hand, and I forgot about dinner. "That seems to happen a lot recently," her venom slips through the phone. "I know I have been a jerk. I will make it up to you. I promise," he rubs his temples. "You keep saying that, but I don't think that means anything anymore," she goes straight for the jugular. "You are right. I am sorry. I have been a bad boyfriend. I will do right by you," Nicholas says. "We'll see won't we. Merry Christmas," she says. "Merry Christmas," he replies. Nicholas looks back at his call-log. His new salary and hours were supposed to make life better. All he has done is fall out of touch with friends and family. He starts to analyze Kelly's work again, but he realizes that he is making her do the same. When he glances at her desk, he sees that she is just as miserable as he is typing away. Nicholas closes the document and logs out of the computer. He jumps out of his desk, and with a spring in his step, he goes to the open-floor office where his underlings sit. "You know what? It is Christmas. Go home and spend time with your families. We will finish the work before New Years, but for now, be happy," every head in the room looks up and brightens. Papers are shuffled, and computers are turned off. "Thank you so much sir," Kelly says as she walks out of the office, "Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas to you," Nicholas walks out of the building and calls up Mark. He tells him that he will be at the party tomorrow, and he can't wait to meet David. He texts Joanne about the party, and she ecstatically replies that she wants to go. On the way to his apartment, he picks up a bouquet of roses to give to her tomorrow. When he reaches his apartment, he calls his mom and tells her that he will be home for Christmas this year. She tells him how wonderful that is, and she looks forward to seeing him again. When he reaches his apartment, he collapses on the couch and dials the number that started it all. "Hey Jim, I am sorry I was so curt earlier. Why don't you tell me what you have been up to and Merry Christmas.


“Look!” A man shouts from the tightly packed crowd, pointing towards me. “The Antichrist!” “Oh sweet Mother!” A woman moans, holding her face in her hands. “How horrible! How unholy!” Another man screams. I look from them to my pale hands, my doughy arms, my faded black pants and shirt, my shoes that were bought five years ago on clearance, then back to them. “So, um… Yeah. Hi.” “Oh God!” A few scream as they sprint away. I watch as they scurry like packed rats down the street, turn at the corner, and disappear behind a row of brick buildings. After a while, there’s nothing but silence, stillness. The clouds drift in reverse here, and there’s no sun, at least not one I can see. The four-way I stand in is empty, trash blowing in the breeze, cluttering the water drains. “What the hell am I supposed to do here?” I ask myself, aloud. I shrug, and start down the road. There’s shuttered shops and dingy buildings that have rooms for rent, there’s trashcans spilling their contents onto the sidewalks, there’s towering tan brick churches at almost every corner, though there seems not many people live here; there’s so many things of the same that I wonder if I hadn’t just been dropped in another town in the same world than a parallel one. “Hey!” I turn to the voice. It’s a short teenager huddling in an alley. He’s wearing camo shorts and a white t-shirt, and carrying a broken bat. “What?” I ask. “Are you the Antichrist?” I raise my hands, let them fall. “I suppose so.” “You don’t look like the son of the Devil.” “Not many people look their part either.” “What’s that mean?” he asks, stepping out of the alley. “Doesn’t matter. What do you want?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I was bored.” “We all are, but not everyone talks to strangers. Didn’t your parents tell you not to do that?” He shook his head, nearing me, stopping at the end of the sidewalk. He rocks on his feet. “Nah, I don’t have those.” “Sure you do; everyone does.” “Well if do,” he says, “I never met them.” I look at my hands, move my fingers. I feel something coursing within, like a dull warmth. Maybe there’s something in me after all? “Would you like to meet them?” His eyes go wide, the grip on his bat tightens. “You can do that?” “Maybe,” I say, “or I can at least try.” The teenager bites his bottom lip, moving his head from left to right, and eventually nods. “Yeah, I guess, at least once.” “All right.” I walk over to him and grip his wrists. “This might not work and it might hurt a bit, but I’ll try. Now close your eyes.” Hesitant, but the boy obeys. I do, too, and focus on the warmth, focus on fanning the flames. It grows and overwhelms my arms, washes over my chest and fills my body. I smell burnt hair, charred hot dogs. There’s a whooshing sound and the ground is gone and I feel air wafting against my legs. Then, there’s solidness beneath my feet and I open my eyes. “Fuck,” I say. We’re in Hell. The Hell. Brimstone stretches forever into the distance before being overtaken by mountains that scratch the sulfur sky. Fire erupts from fissures in the ground, moans and groans echo through the air. Smell of piss and shit and rot stings my nostrils. “Tony?” “Anthony?” The teenager opens his eyes, shakes my hands away and moves around me. I turn. There’s a man and a woman in tattered clothes with scorched flesh and burnt away hair. The man is missing an eye, the woman an arm, but they look similar to the boy. “Is that you, son?” the man asks. I hear the teenager sniffle, his chest hitch. “Da— dad? Mom?” “Oh Lucifer!” the mother shouts before oily tears stream down her face. Al three of them embrace, and another type of warmth fills me and something stings my eyes. I wipe the fiery tears away quickly. No one needs to know the Antichrist can cry. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.


Slowly I awake, the ocean waves lapping against my calves gently bringing me to a disoriented state of consciousness. Why I’m at this beach is an idea my mind cannot discern. All I can focus on is the pull of each wave calling me. I look behind me to see a man beckoning me far from the shore, an eerie familiarity surrounding him. Water crashes hard against my legs capturing my attention once again. The melodic beating coaxes me to come closer and closer. I step forward. Sand gives way to the weight of my step as the receding waves fight against me. The pull becomes hypnotic, compelling my feet to follow as each crest recedes. With every step a low drumming grows around me, each pause filled with the man’s sudden calls for my attention. I step forward. Once more the pounding grows louder, and a heavy weight grows inside me. The water just above my waist now, the pull getting harder to resist. I must resist. Looking out at the sea, the weight inside gets heavier and grasps at my throat. Slowly a man’s face appears in the deep blue. The pleas of the man behind gain in urgency. I recognize his voice; it belongs to me. I step forward. I acquiesce to the summons of the waves. My body betrays me as it continues forward, submitting to the swaying sea. Soon it will take me. The man’s pleas turn to screams, begging me to come to him. A hand in the water grabs hold of my wrist, belonging to the face below. Although his grip is tight, I’m not afraid; he has the same eerie familiarity as the other man. The heaviness inside me tightening its grip on my throat; the waves grow in intensity. I step forward. The drumming has grown so loud that it leaves a sharp ringing in my ears; barely able to detect the man’s now frantic screams from ashore. The man in front pulls me closer, submerging me with him. I barely keep my feet planted in the sand; the current threatens to pull me forward. In front of me he gestures to come closer. The heaviness inside me closing my throat, trapping what little oxygen I have in my lungs. I step forward. He withdraws back, luring me farther down. Incapable of resisting the pull I continue forward. The waves cause me to sway; I slowly lose my footing. As they recede, I’m drawn farther out to sea. The man pulls me into an embrace. Now clearly visible, I see the man is me. He joins rank with the heaviness inside and they begin to crush me. As they become one and drag me further down, the pain of this unbearable weight causes me to scream out for help. It’s nothing more than a futile attempt and waste of air. I sink further down. The light in the sky is no more than a tint of yellow above me. Water rushes into my throat as my body recklessly attempts to breath in a violent spasm. Burning spreads through my lungs as they’re filled with liquid. I start to numb as a calming isolation sets around me. At least these last moments will be peaceful, despite my body’s thrashing. The ringing in my ears dissipates to a dull ache. A faint yelling barely detectable, as everything fades to black and I drown. Slowly I awake, the ocean waves lapping against my calves gently bringing me to a disoriented state of consciousness.


As Cycle 1 of Serial Saturday here on comes to a close, it's high time we get some spotlights posted. One such story comes from /u/ATIWTK, or, as we call him in Campfire (discord voice chat), Oeri. Oeri’s story was brand new to us, fresh to Serial Saturday and relatively new to WP as well. It’s pretty unanimous that doing Campfires and weekly threads is the best way to get to know each other’s work and personalities, and Oeri was a great addition to the bunch. Here at we thoroughly enjoyed Oeri’s beautiful tale of a young woman who goes on a journey with an unexpected outcome. It’s a beautifully written story full of imagery that evokes a feeling akin to traditional folktales, which was a stark contrast to the overall tone of most of our Serial Saturday stories. Oeri’s approach to storytelling is like an expertly illustrated picture book, just crack open the first chapter and you’ll see for yourself. What made this story especially unique in this run of Serial Saturday is Oeri’s approach to the story beats-- For a lot of people, the titles of our story beats could be taken very literally, in a good vrs evil or protagonist vrs adversaries sort of way. Oeri managed to write a story that not only matched the feeling of each brief challenge but also make it fit for his story. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser from /u/ATIWTK: > Nestled in the valleys of *Pinawa*, the human tribes have lived in peace with nature for a long time, but when resources run scarce and the animals are leaving, where do they turn to? How will the deities answer? > > Liwayway, a young girl journeys to the center of a volcano in search of the forgotten memories of her father. *How did her father die? What was she doing there?* But what she finds out and what she remembers is enough to change the world she lives in. For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's /u/ATIWTK's take on that: I had a blast writing this story. I loved all the searching for thematic descriptions (synonyms for earth, lava and rocks must’ve filled my browser history a thousand times) and researching the folklore which I based this on and thinking of ways to move the story forward while keeping the message consistent across. **Impressions from writing in this format:** Coming from r/writingprompts, this is the first time I’ve written something this long and I really had a lot of help from the beats that were set-up. I’ve wanted to play along with the beat for the week while at the same time telling a unique narrative about a conflict that’s more internal than external and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. It’s a very helpful format for a new writer, and the weekly campfires have really helped nudge me to write more with the helpful feedback and the positive vibes. **Challenges** The main challenge I faced writing this was moving the plot along while keeping the ending in mind, and sometimes I felt that I was writing myself into a corner whenever I built the world and drove the characters forward. I didn’t even know how Liwayway was going to survive! But I realized at one point, it’s okay to think outside the box, pull a little plot loophole, throw a little wrench, simplify a little bit and just write whatever comes along! It’s fun and at the end of the day you can always edit your story once you get it down to the end! **What’s the future of this story?** Liwayway is a story that I started on a whim on Serial Saturday; but it’s become something that I really enjoyed doing and at the same time, a space for me to try out new styles, new techniques, and new character ideas. I’m thinking of keeping Liwayway’s story exclusively on Serial Saturday and hopefully more of her will be seen on the future cycles. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ With the tale of Liwayway at an end for now there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! /u/ATIWTK’s personal sub is /r/dozing_in_prose and I highly recommend checking out his author notes and other stories written for . Without further ado, here's /u/ATIWTK’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of Oeri's work by going to his subreddit, /r/dozing_in_prose/. Congrats on finishing your serial, /u/ATIWTK, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


This is my first time posting on Reddit and the first time ever really posting my work on anything. This is a story called Screwball. Screwball. Chapter 1. The large rusted steel double doors creaked behind him as Detective John Price stepped into the lobby of Darkwood Sanatarium. He saw the secretary typing away at her typewriter. She must have been filling out some paperwork of some kind because she keep kept pausing to mutter to herself before grabbing manila folders and shoving papers lazily into them. As Price approached her adjusting his brown plaid neck tie she finally looked up to acknowledge his presence. Price was a tall man, standing at roughly 6' 2". He was always seen as a strikingly handsome man by most who knew him. He never went to work without wearing his brown three-piece suit and matching trench coat. Price had been working at the precinct as a criminal investigator for about five years now. He was moved from being the Darkwood police departments active sheriff after a unfortunate injury he substained while trying to subdue a enemy. "Detective Price, good to see you here again" the secretary said in a sarcastic tone. Everyone at the Sanatarium knew Price, for he had been there many times trying to investigate a case that everyone thought was closed. "Good evening there miss,"John said, "I'm here to see Dr. Peterson again. He has agreed to lead me to room 110 to conduct an interview with the patient occupying it". "He told me to expect you. Just a moment while I let him know you're here" the secretary said standing up and adjusting her dark blue and wrinkled dress. She walked down the lobby to a door leading to a corridor with a sign above labeled "Minimum security wing". Price looked around the lobby noting that Darkwood was still as rundown and forgotten as it had always been. The small town was not known by most. They never had anything worth mentioning in the news or had anyone recognizable until the power plant was built. It was the first of its kind and held a new electrical reactor core powering most of the city. Well, that is until the unfortunate accident occurred causing the core to explode killing all of those people. The secretary had opened the door leading to the wing. A man in a white lab coat with matching khakis wearing a blue surgical mask entered through the doorway. He approached Detective Price saying, "Hello detective. Abigail informed me you had just arrived. If you'll follow meme, I'll be more than happy to lead you to the room you're looking for." "Thank you, Dr. Peterson. As always, it's a pleasure to see you," Price responded. "This way please" the Doctor said, leading Price through the doorway as the secretary closed it behind them with a soft bang. The footsteps of Detective John Price echoed through the corridors as Dr. Peterson led him to room number 110. The dark sanatarium wasn't the most pleasant of places and Price couldn't think of a worst place to be spending his day. As he heard the muffled voices of the patients through every door on his way down the corridorcorridor, he couldn't help but think, "How condemned must one soul be to end up in a place as sad as this? The poor tortured beings that must reside behind these doorways; the whole thing is just traumatizing". Dr. Peterson was silent; it seemed as if the voices and the sad laughter of the clinically insane didn't phasefaze him one bit. "But of course, it doesn't", Price thought to himself, "He's had to deal with these types for 10 years as the lead psychiatrist here. I don't know how one could deal with it all". Darkwood sanitarium was just about the only place in the small town of Darkwood that anyone with any psychological problem could get any bit of treatment; if any sense of the word even existed in a place so rundown and forgotten. Detective Price had but one reason for his visit on this day: the criminal who was formally known as Carl Williams Bell and to investigate the crimes he committed. Price had had plenty of run-ins with Bell before. Bell was wanted for Aggravated assault, Battery, Homicide, First-degree murder, Arson, Domestic violence and many other crimes. The only reason Bell wasn't charged and convicted for any of the horrible crimes he had committed is he was deemed clinically insane by the state of Missouri. Price had always thought theis judgement was a load of crap. He had thought Bell knew exactly what he was doing. For he had slaughtered many innocent victims no matter how mentally unstable the state had said he is. "The guilty always walk away free around here" Price had always said. Dr. Peterson had finally broken the awkward silence by saying in a matter of fact tone "So Detective, it has come to my attention that the case against Bell still hasn't been dropped by the Chief? I don't know why you lot keep pressing the matter. The man has been deemed mentally unstable. Let things go will you"? "The families of those he tortured and treated like play things in his little game want justice. It doesn't matter what the judge, or the state thinks; Bell knew perfectly well what he was doing while he was doing it", Price respond in a monotone voice that clearly gave Dr. Peterson the impression the Detective didn't have the same opinion as the judgement showed. "Bell has been a patient here for well over 2 years now. I have been personally assigned to him and have seen for myself the man isn't all there. Half the time he sits in his room mumbling complete nonsense. If you ask me, I'd say the man is quite unstable" Dr. Peterson said. "It doesn't matter to me how unstable a doctor with some degree from some University claims someone is. If a man or woman commits murder; no matter how mental they are, they deserve to pay for the crime." Price responded. "Very well than. If that is what the precinct has declared I do agree that those poor families deserve justice in anyway they can get it" Dr. Peterson said, ending the discussion. " Great", Price thought, "Another person who thinks this man deserves to just rot away here while those families loved ones have been burriedburied six feet under and they don't even get to see the criminal pay for the crimes". They had entered a staircase at the end of the corridor now and were climbing up to the second floor. As they approached the door leading to the second floor a dimly lit sign read "Medium security wing". Dr. Peterson opened the door and motioned for Price to walk on through. As they entered the wing a musty, almost moldy smell entered the air. The lights kept flickering to the point Price thought someone must had been flicking them on and off. "I apologise for the flickering of the lights. They really haven't worked since the accident at the power plant all those years ago" Peterson told Price. "You'd figure with all the other problems you guys have they'd have fixed the lights and got power back within the five years, huh" Price asked Peterson, to which he responded with a slight shrug "Again I apologise. I'm just a doctor here, not an electrician". Dr. Peterson started to lead Price past the rooms in the corridor until they finally reached where he was headed. Room 110 looked like all the others. The door was a faded black; almost to the point it looked grey. There where small iron bars covering a wire mesh window that was too dark to see through. The doctor reached into his coat pocket to pull out a ring of keys. Fumbling with the keys he finally held onto one saying to himself "Ahh, there you are" before inserting the key into the slot and opening the door with a small creak. As they stepped into a hallway leading to yet another door Price noticed a armed security guard. "Hello Price, you old gunslinger" said the guard. "Jacobson. So this is where you ended up when you left us you old dog" said Price. "Yes sir, been here about a year now. Beats getting chased by old perps and getting fingers cut off, doesn't it", the security guard asked glancing at the covered stump that was Price's finger. On his side in a holster he had a standard issue Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum along with a small billy club strapped at the hip. "As I'm sure you know it is protocol here to have a armed guard outside every room no mater who the visitor might be detective" Peterson told Price. "Not that it bothers me any, can't really shoot one of those pistols with the injury I substained. And seeing as how it's my on my dominate hand I'd rather have the company in case things get dirty",Price responded with a small smirk towards Jacobson who smiled back. "This old gunslinger got assigned to this job? Man, couldn't find anyone better?", Jacobson asked Dr. Peterson. "I don't assign anyone to anything here, sir", the Doctor responded, "And may I ask just why you keep calling him 'Gunslinger'"? Jacobson laughed with a deep rumble that could wake the dead itself and said "It's a old joke with everyone in the precinct. You see, after the crazy guy that old John Price was trying to subdue took a slice at his finger and chopped it off we started calling him Gunslinger as a joke. Seeing how he can't really even hold a gun anymore we all thought it was fitting", said Jacobson, still chuckling as he spoke. "Well, moving on from your reunion, Detective Price is here to see patient 110. Per usual protocol, Jacobson will be accompanying you into the unit" Peterson said to Price and Jacobson, fumbling with more keys as he approached the door to unit 110. Muttering to himself Peterson fit the correct key into the lock and turned the doorknob. "You know who and what awaits inside Mr. Price. I would give the the old 'You're waisting your time' spiel but I'd be wasting both of our times. Good luck, detective" Peterson murmured as he away without a second glance. Price approached the door to the now unlocked unit 110 and turned the handle to enter the all to familiar room. What awaited him inside was nothing he could have ever predicted. In all the years he had been on the force nothing prepared him for what was behind the door. The door creeked open as Detective Price and Jacobson entered into the small 6' by 8' room. In the corner of the room was a small bed with blue sheets and a white blanket. The bed had a rusty metal frame with springs underneath. It was bearly big enough for a large child let alone a full grown adult. The walls were painted a dull off white. The paint was peeling off of the celling to reveal a dark grey plaster underneath. A white porcelain sink with rusted copper that Price was pretty sure is the cause of the small puddle underneath with a cracked mirror hung at a awkward angle; almost to the point it was falling off of the wall, sat upon the wall opposite the bed. There were no windows to allow any outside light inside and the only light came from a small blub placed upon the center of the celling. A dirty looking man was kneeled down in the corner next to the sink facing the wall. He was dressed in the standard Darkwood patient clothing; a white wrinkled shirt with grey trousers. The shirt clearly showed its age as it had dark brown and green stains upon it the color of old oak bark with mold. The grey trousers he wore where more of a faded grey and had stains of yellow that made it appear as though this man had wet himself a few to many times. His dark hair was very mangled and stood up at all ends. It was almost as if he had the worst case of bedhead that Price had ever seen. His arms where caked in dirt and grime the kind that even the worst earthworms and ants wouldn't dare traverse in to make a home. A smell like a infant that hadn't had a proper change was wafting from this man that made Price gag. This made it clear indeed; the town of Darkwood was surly forgotten about if it kept the poor state of the mentally ill this bad. The man kept mumbling to himself nonsense that Price could not make out and was fumbling with his fingers. He had faded numbers in black paint sprayed along his back to make out a faint 110. "This is all the man ever does now, sit here and mumble to himself. Hardly ever eats. Never showers, never bathes, I don't think I've ever seen him sleep on my rounds neither. The man just sits there fumbling and mumbling. It's hard to believe he committed those crimes y'all are trying to incarcerate him for" Jacobson said as Price's eyes drifted around the room and back to the man again. Price remained silent for a moment while examing this man until he responded to Jacobson. "I've been on the force for 15 years here Jacobson. After my incident where I lost my finger about 10 years back they made me a detective. I know mister Carl Williams Bell very well. It's the only case they ever gave me that I feel didn't get proper justice. This whole mumbling act, it's as fake as my first wives love for me. I've seen this man before they declared him as 'Insane' and I see him clear as day now. He was, is, and always will remain brilliantly minded; all anyone has to do is open their eyes and see past these lies he's ensnared us all in. We are all but tiny little insects in a web, and he is the spider hunting his prey". Jacobson stood in silence as he took in what Price had just said. It took a moment for the words that he had heard to settle in and process. 'Brilliantly minded? How can he be brilliantly minded; all he does is sit there and rock back and forth mumbling complete nonsense to himself! Price must be as insane as mister Bell here if he sees him as some genius mind!' Jacobson silently thought to himself. Both Price and Jacobson stood in awkward silence for a moment until the silence was broken by yet more loud nonsense mutterings by Bell. "You really think this guy has some beautiful mind? That there is a genius hidden somewhere deep inside of him? Well, regardless what you think he's still insane. All the lights are on but no one's home if you catch my drift there mister Price" Jacobson said, finally breaking the silence. All Price did to respond was let out a low sigh, shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his feet. "Well, might as well ask him what you need to ask him. Not that he'll respond to anything you do ask. He never does. I don't see why y'all waste your time here honestly" Jacobson told Price. Price crossed the room to the corner that Bell was facing, gently starting to knell down to his level. He looked over him for a moment, noticing the amount of grim covering him and the foul smell drifting around him. He gently put his hand on Bells shoulder and noticed when he did Bell stoped muttering. In fact, he even stopped the awkward shakes he kept issuing the moment Price's hand hit his shoulder. Price spoke to Bell saying "Hello Carl, I don't know if you remember me. My name is John Price, I'm a detective with Darkwood Police. We've met before; many times in fact. I'm here on a case; your case. I would like to speak with you about the crimes you've been convicted of". A moment of silence followed Price's words until Bell muttered something that Price couldn't hear properly. He could've sworn he heard him say "You're wasting your time again". "I'm sorry, what was that you said?", Price asked Bell. Bell didn't respond, instead started to rock back and forth again. "Did he actually just speak?", Jacobson asked Price. "I could've sworn he said something just then, but it could've been more nonsense mutterings", Jacobson said to Price. The lights flickered suddenly, surrounding the room in a moment of darkness. In the darkness Price heard a sudden scurrying and felt something brush past him. When the lights came back on Bell was not in front of Price anymore. Price turned around to see Jacobson hunched over and Bell holding a shard of glass to his throat. Jacobson had a look of horror on his very pale face as his hand was around his pistol on his hip. "I don't think that would be a very wise idea to unholster that weapon there, I could slip and slice a vein here" Bell said, pushing the shard of glass more into Jacobson's throat to the point it drew a little blood. "What are you doing just standing there, shoot the psycho"! Jacobson said to Price. "Don't you dare make a move or I'll splatter his blood all along these walls Detective"! Bell said as Price started to move his hand toward his pistol, stopping as he realized Bell could very easily do as he had just said. "Ah, that's better there, settle down. We wouldn't want me to commit another murder now would we? Detective Price, you where always a smart one seeing that this was all just a simple act. The world is so dull; so full of unsharpened minds. You and I, we are the sharp ones. Not like this idiot Jacobson here. It's almost sad. Like the screwdriver that drives the screw into the wood, everyone can rely on these tools we use way to much. No one just uses there brains anymore"! Bell exclaimed. "Now Bell, settle down. All anyone wants to do here is talk to you. What's going on? Why are you doing this?" Price asked Bell as Jacobson was stuck with a look of horror on his face. "Why am I doing this? The one person in this room besides me that should already know the answer to that question is you, Detective. You've been on my case for how long, five years now? You know why I do the things I do. I know what they call me. Screwball. Fitting, isn't it? A brilliant mind goes a little crazy after a accident kills his daughters and her friends. If only I had forseen what was about to happen. I tried to warn them, but all these dull minded fools wouldn't listen. I told them it wasn't ready, but they just didn't listen! Let me ask you detective a simple question; have you ever lost something very near and dear to your heart? Have you ever had to watch as something you cared for and created just vanished in a flash of light before your eyes? Because I'll tell you Detective, I promise if you ever had to it would drive you to the edge as well"! Price gently started to advance towards Bell and Jacobson saying "I have lost many near and dear to me too, Bell. I've lost many partners while on the force. It makes you think you won't be able to carry on anymore. I've watched many partners get killed right before my eyes because of criminal scum. It's not a easy thing to go through. But we can get you the help you need. You have many doctors who have devoted their lives to studying the human mind and what makes it tick. Carl, before the incident you were one of the most brilliant engineers this world has seen. You where the pride and joy of Darkwood. I was astonished at what you could create. It's a shame what happened during that field trip. But ask yourself, is this really the way to remember your daughter by? Murdering innocent people, tearing families apart much like your own? Stop to think about what you are doing. This isn't the way to go around everything" Price said, still gently advancing in Bell's direction. "You don't think I've thought about what I've been doing? What do you think I am, some kind of idiot? Some insane man who just kills for fun like the papers say? I'm not doing this for fun; I'm doing this because it what has to be done. The world is so full of dull minded idiots. Only those of us with sharp minds should be allowed to thrive; to survive!", Bell said pressing the piece of glass more into Jacobson's throat, causing more blood to be drawn. "And now, tonight, my plan shall be set into motion. All you idiots do is look at us like we are all some insane people. But the funny thing is, we aren't. I've met plenty of brilliant minded men and women inside this very bulding. And tonight, I shall be leaving here with them. But not before I cleanse the world of some more dull minded fools. Tonight, unfortunately, this mans life ends. Say your goodbyes, it's going to be a messy one". Bell flicked his wrisr, thrusting the shard of glass into Jacobson's throat, slicing deep into it. Jacobson gagged, blood spraying from his throat as Bell stood behind him letting out a howling laughter, his eyes wide in bewilderment. The main lights in the building turned off as a alarm echoed through the bulding with a red light flashing. The door to the cell opened as men stood with the same uniforms Bell was wearing outside the door. All of them where patients at Darkwood. Laughter and gunshots echoed through the doorway as Bell ran for the door. Price ran for Jacobson, catching him before his body fell to the floor in a limp state. Blood poured from the slice in his throat as tears started to stream from Price's eyes. "Another one of your friends dead Detective. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must help mine escape from this wretched place. We will meet again, I feel. Until then, may the dull be sharpened until all is set right, Detective" Bell said, slamming the cell door behind him as yet more screams and gunshots followed outside. Price held Jacobson with tears in his eyes, mouth open in disbelief. "I'm sorry Jacobson, I'm sorry. I didn't see the glass in his hand when I approached him before. I didn't see it. Why didn't people believe me five years ago when I told them what he had done! This all could've been avoided!" Price said to Jacobson, still holding his dying friend in his arms. Jacobson gasped for air, and with his last dying breath, said to Price "Don't blame yourself for anything that's happened here. Just promise me that. And promise me you'll make the world see this man for what he truly is". With a last gasp Jacobson was dead. Covered in blood and tears over the lose of his friend, Price could only blame himself for what had happened. If only they had listened to him five years ago. If only they had seen Bell for what he truly was back then. Back then, if only they had seen him as what he was, The Screwball.


First time posting. Would love some feedback. I have this dog. He's a big, long-haired dog with mucky, matted fur. When he walks, his shoulders move like pistons one after the other. His head is sunken low and prowling. He's not a very well-behaved dog. When we walk together I have him on a stong, leather lead. But he pulls and barks at everything and anybody that passes. The leather lead twists and creaks with the strain as he rears up on his hind legs. His hair stands up in tufts on each of his bulging shoulders. He barks like a bear roaring from its cave. His snarls launch spit like a boiling cauldron. His lips roll back to reveal the protruding teeth like daggers. I try to hold him back with all my might and I feel like my arm is going to pop out of its socket. My white-knuckled hand is clasped around the lead with some kind of a death grip. I don't know why I don't let go. I can't really. Perhaps it's because I remember he used to be a calm dog. I don't know why I still go walking with this dog when all he does is cause so much trouble and stir. Maybe I know that if I don't, the dog will start barking and snarling at me. Sometimes, people come to walk with me and the dog. But it's never plain sailing. Either the dog will bark at them and scare them off. Or whilst I'm wrestling the dog this way, my companion might slip off that way, recognizing that I wasn't listening to them. Then one day, someone came to walk this dog with me and did something so strange. They took the lead from my hand and started to walk him. Much to my surprise, out flopped his clumsy tongue and he trotted about sniffing the flowers and basking in the sunshine. He shook off his muck to reveal his shimmering coat and looked up at us walking along beside him. Now, this was my dog! My arm felt so light and heavy at the same time from the suddenly relinquished strain on it. I chatted for hours with my friend and we walked the park twice. How incredible it was to have a dog like this! I had missed all the wonderful trees and colours in the park and listening to what this person was saying to me. How could this person so carelessly clasp that battered lead? I held this person's hand delicately and swung it through the crisp, carefree air. They smiled with teeth like a glacier. Eyes like beams and walking with such grace they could have been dancing across a pond on lily pads. But then this person stopped coming for walks with me and the dog. The barking and snarling and jumping returned. Every rapturous ring would bounce around in my head and pierce my ears. Worse than before. My arm had gotten weaker, but the dog was still as strong as an ox. I couldn't resist his pulls and tugs anymore and he dragged me around from side to side like a helpless dandelion in the wind. The beady eyes were watching the struggle from their perch. The dog started to bark at me! I could see the ridges on the roof of his mouth and the deadening weight in his eyes. As nice as it was, I started to feel that I should never let anyone else walk this dog other than me, lest I forget how to handle his lead. Edit: put in some paragraphs per suggestion from the great feedback.


We stumble down early in the morning, pulled from our beds not a half hour before. The cold air cuts deeper in the early hours, and the pulleys and gears of the lift screech just that bit louder into my ears. I shake myself awake as much I can, humming along to the bird’s song. His cage is heavy, a great clunky thing that would give anyone a fright. He doesn’t let that stop him as he whistles away. We’ve only had this boy a week, after the fire in October he came in ready to put us to rights, his bright yellow feathers like a rainbow after a storm. Lord knows we need it. The deep blackness of the pit is often times a welcome break from the world above. We’re all stretched thin, and I feel worse than dirt on days when my only contribution is a black rock no bigger than my thumbnail. Still, my lamp burns bright in the darkness, and my boy still sings. Of course I can carry on. When it’s as dark as dark gets, it gives a man time to think. Time to worry in my case, as has been the case for the past few weeks since things turned sour. The wife wasn’t herself this morning, barely whispered a ‘god bless’ when she saw me on my way. I wandered past strangers in the drizzle and was greeted by grimace after grimace. Things are tough, I remember. Things are tough, and not everyone can see that rainbow just yet. I’m yanked out of the troubling depths of my head by the loud clang of the lift meeting the pit’s floor. My friend chirps, and I wonder what’s happening in his head too. He’s certainly not troubled, that’s for sure. I couldn’t imagine him ever crooning a lament over his beautiful melody. All these thoughts have filled my head fit to burst, and I stop to rub my dusty fingers across my temples before making my way to the rock. Chipping away at it can be peaceful on these days, just taking in the cool air and knock, knock, knocking at the wall. I know it’s nearly depleted. I know it every minute of every day but I’ll carry on until that day comes. My boy still sings, a soothing waltz now, which lulls my demons to sleep. Cheep, cheep, cheep. Knock, knock, knock. I steady my boots on the uneven floor and tumble down deeper into the dark, looking for that precious jewel. What was it Rogers had said this morning? They’d found a good stash of it the cave had hidden away the other day, when they were inspecting. Heaven knows where that was though, all I see is darkness and dark rock. The caverns spin around me and we nearly trip twice before I finally find the patch. She hadn’t wanted me to find it, and led me on quite a wild chase. It’s taken hours to get here. Ha! I think as I steady my hand to swing the heavy, heavy pick. Boy is it heavy, and boy am I tired. These early mornings have me in ruin, but finding the stash has made it all worthwhile. For days I stay, stuck to the wall. Greedily gathering the rock. I think of my wife, I think of Rogers and all of the solemn strangers I passed those months ago. I pray their troubles will soon disappear and I think of my bright boy. Most of all I think of his sweet song, and how much I miss it now.


Septembers are beautiful in some places- all the bright fall colors mixed with greens that haven’t yet faded, crisp cool winds, and even gray skies seem comfortable somehow. Not here. Here there are few trees and little grass, the winds are biting, and the clouds above exuded more anger than wistful melancholy. It was the gloom that helped me spot him that day, though. I had gotten off work half an hour or so earlier, and my phone had died on the train home. Not having music to listen to while my mind wandered forced me to focus on other senses instead to take my mind off the cold wind and rain getting through my umbrella and the old jacket I’d thrown over my uniform. There wasn’t much to taste, and the smells of the city were less than pleasant. The sights were boring- the same buildings, unremarkable cars, a few other pedestrians who avoided eye contact- but inoffensive. It must have been the red sneakers that caught my eye, because God knows nothing else stood out. But seeing those, I did a double take realizing they were attached to a pair of legs. I hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do. Should I leave? Yell for help?Call the police? After weighing my options and deeming every other one unwise or impossible (damn phone battery never lasts a full day when it’s below 50 degrees) I decided to investigate further and make a choice afterwards. It was kind of exciting, after all- bodies show up semi-regularly here, and everyone knows someone whose cousin found one once, but I’d never seen one up close before. It was only when I got within a few feet that I realized that the ‘body’, curled up in the fetal position against a corner, was breathing. This was unusual. Living homeless people were unheard of- between the crime and the food shortages and the climate and a million other things, most are dead in days if not hours. But I couldn’t see any other reason why he’d be shivering in a dirty, rainy alley. “Hey.” I paused. This seemed like a bad idea. But a voice in my head told me to do it anyway. “I’m Sam. What’s your name?” The dark mop on top of his head turned upwards to reveal a boyish, pale face and steel-blue eyes. When his eyes met mine, they grew wide, his back straightened, and his hands and feet scrabbled against the concrete, almost as though he were trying to push through the wall behind him. After a second or so without progress, he froze. The look on his face was nearly panic. I smiled softly and took a step and a half to the side. “I won’t hurt you. You can leave if you’d like.” I cocked my head. “Or you can tell me to leave? You were here first, after all.” That got him to crack a bit of a smile. Just a bit. It was cute, though. “Speaking of which, what are you doing here?” He dropped his gaze from mine and drew in his legs again, his knees poking through the tears in his jeans. His lips fluttered, but I couldn’t make what he said. I squatted down to be closer to his level. “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.” “Was gonna nap.” His voice was pleasant despite his ragged appearance. “That... seems ill-advised.” “‘Sbest place I got.” He shrugged halfheartedly. “‘Less you got a better idea.” It sounded disdainful, almost as though he thought the notion that I would was ridiculous. I don’t know what possessed me to offer. Maybe it was those eyes, maybe it was just how pitiful he looked curled up in the rain. But I stuck my hand out and smiled anyway. “I might.


We kids always called it The Last House in Town, but really it was just outside of town limits. With its old red brick covered in summer's ivy, its hot tin roof for the cats, and its perimeter fence of spear-topped wrought iron, it looked suitably forbidding. Especially at dusk on a foggy night. Edna Bligh had lived there since birth, and was now its solitary inhabitant, as far as we knew. She and her brother Herman had lost their parents to a vehicular accident some twenty years before. After inheriting the house free and clear, they had stayed there, never having married. Herman was the town's sole solicitor, and Edna had earned her keep by her skill as a dressmaker. In the spring of nineteen hundred and forty- nine, Herman was murdered by the father of a man he had sent to jail. Edna had seemed to be in perpetual mourning since that day. On her rare visits to town, she could be seen riding her Schwinn bicycle. Garbed in black, with lace-up leather boots, she wore a pillbox hat with a net veil covering her sharp features. We were in awe of her, not only because of what had happened. She seldom spoke, had the aspect of a dangerous bird, and seemed to rush wherever she went, as if in disdain for the whole of mankind. The large wicker creel strapped to her back fender reminded us uncomfortably of a certain Witch we had already heard tell of. In the first days after Herman's death, Edna costumed herself in the endless black of her future. For his burial, she paced slowly down the line of mourners to his graveside, cloaked in charcoal, even to the velvet mask that covered her eyes. Evoked were the bats of Dracula, and a wedding to the dead. Edna was not seen for ninety days from that stilted graveside walk. In that time, the fall of the year burned down to winter's ash. At the Last House, men and machinery could be seen. Men with hoods who did not speak to any outside of that boundary. We curious kids, with borrowed binoculars and too-big sweaters, skulked behind the poor brick partition of my front walk, making a nervous party out of the Watching. *** Our old town's Main Street business district was less than a mile long. It was intersected by First, Second, and Third Avenues, and many businesses had come and gone in its decades of history. Aside from the Post Office, there was one that remained in memory, and indeed it still occupied its rarefied space. Its plate glass window had once been destroyed by an angry but cowardly man and had been renewed with a double pane of "safety" glass. This had a slight tinge of greenness and was curiously embedded with many crisscross strands of wire. Brand new letters of gold leaf had been applied to its inner pane, reading "LAW OFFICE- H. BLIGH" Herman, after the first shock, and having to wait for the repairs to be effected, decided it would be a good time to "update" the office a little, and so he brought in painters, carpenters, and carpet layers. He was not long settling into the new place when he was called to represent the Crown in a case of armed robbery in a neighbouring village. It was one of the Baker Boys, whom he knew (and detested) from his younger days. Mark Baker was not one of the actual triggermen, but it was alleged that he had driven the getaway car. Evidence was largely circumstantial and the outcome was in doubt until Herman, who was very well connected within the town, managed to drum up two credible witnesses who would testify. In the end, Mark was sentenced to five years. Three days later, as Herman was locking up after a long night at the office, he was shot to death through the safety glass of his office window. Several tenants had remarked on the dark pickup that had sat in the rain that night, but they could not give a positive I.D. of the attacker. *** Howard Baker had been very careful. He knew that Herman had earned a few enemies in the county, and he knew also that he himself would be a prime suspect. To that end, he had stolen a pickup from a nearby farmer who was away at auction, and had waited in the dark downpour until Herman had decided to call it a night. He wore dark rain gear with a hood that shaded his features, and with his leather gloves, slip-on rubbers, and the heavy silencer on his .38 , he thought to leave little evidence of his presence that night. When the deed was done, he drove off into the darkness, ditched the truck in a wooded area, and, using the bike he had brought with him, pedaled through the rain to complete the nearly ten- mile journey to his house. It was not long before he had a visit from the law. *** Something curious was happening at the old Bligh house. There had been many comings and goings of workmen in the weeks that Edna had been gone. The heavy iron fence with its spears had been uprooted and taken apart in sections. Along its outline, a deep and narrow trench was dug. We kids were on watch every second we could spare. At last, the queerest thing of all took place right in front of our eyes. A truckload of stone slabs and red brick arrived, followed by a cement mixer. Into the trench, stone and cement were laid, and, over several days, a brick wall some eight feet in height and a foot thick took form. It surrounded the house completely, save for a heavy oaken door, which was domed at its top and framed and buttressed with black iron. When the wall was done, the old fence of spears was installed upon its top. The men and machinery finally left, late on a foggy and cold afternoon. Edna had not been idle during that time. It had been quite a while since she had paid a visit to old Verna, the woman who had mentored her in something more than dressmaking. Verna was another confirmed spinster who had lived, with minimal help, in the house of her birth, and was now alone. Twenty years Edna's senior, she had often looked after Edna and Herman when their parents had been otherwise occupied. Verna was delighted to see her, in spite of the circumstances, and insisted that Edna stay with her awhile. And so, from Verna's home, Edna made arrangements to have Herman's old office repaired and secured, once the Police had quit the premises. She also learned and partook in things that might give you and I a chilly feeling up the back of our spines. *** Howard Baker had never been an excitable man. Fact was, not much scared him. He was slow to anger, but when brought to that state he would lose all reason. It had led him to do murder, and in his self -righteous mind he was a hero for its doing. Guilt was an emotion somewhat foreign to him. When he slept, it was the sleep of peace. On that night in late fall, he had retired early after an exhausting day of haying and mucking out stables. The forecast promised a nasty storm, but that was no bother to Howard. By 9:30, after a couple of beers, he was snoring. A short time later, the rain came on with a vengeance, and distant lightning woke a muttering of thunder. A black pickup truck stopped at the entrance to Howard's long driveway. A tall thin figure got out and, not minding the streaming rain, walked slowly towards the darkened house. In his dream of accolades, Howard's heart swelled now that he was finally getting his due. He smiled and waved at the adoring crowd, and the happy ending brought him peace and the quietude of expiated sin. But soon a black hand, palm outward in token of rejection, disturbed and troubled his art. He awoke suddenly to explosive lightning and immediate thunder. In the afterglow, a face in his window. Raven-like eyes, sharp hooked nose, and a small tight mouth contorted with hate. Howard was paralyzed and thought with hope that the face was but a nightmare. Indeed, when the next flash came, the face was not there. He thought to get out of bed to collect his wits but found that his body would not obey. Hoping that sleep would take him, he tried to calm his jumping nerves by using a mantra that he had once heard a hypnotist employ. Something about intentionally relaxing your muscles, one by one, starting at your toes. Howard was just getting to his knees when, in the next strong flash of lightning, a tall figure could be seen standing in his open bedroom door. It was the owner of the face, and as they locked eyes, it was upon him. With its thin strong hands and sharp nails, it grabbed onto his ears and drew its grim countenance to his. All the while looking straight into his soul, it whispered these words: "Howard Baker, ye are the one. You gave to one of mine their own private Hell, and then their death. I am inside ye now. Your soul is mine. You will walk my walk for the time left of your life, and it will be long. I have sold my own soul for this, for I have rejected my God, who said that vengeance was given to him only." And then, dry crusted lips laid a cold kiss upon his trembling forehead. Howard had soiled himself. *** If one had awoken early enough, they might have seen, at the site of Herman's law office, a smart-looking and very erect old woman dressed in red. With a confident mien, she brought forth an iron key from her bag, and made entrance to her new world. In gold leaf, the letters in the window spelled out VERNA MARTIN- FASHIONS FOR THE TIMES. If one had stayed up late enough, they might have seen (if they didn't mind the rain) a tall thin figure in black who also produced an iron key from her bag, and unhurriedly gained entrance to the Bligh house. There was a booming slam as the door closed, and the sound of tinkling chains. One of the Bakers' neighbours had noticed that there had not been much activity on that farm for a few days and decided to pay Howard a visit. Along his dusty driveway, they saw some sick cattle, and became more alarmed. At last, they pulled up to the house. There was Howard, sitting on his front stoop, naked except for his socks. He was eating a cob of raw corn. He did not look up. The Police, who had been "keeping an eye" on Howard while "gathering evidence", arrived at the homestead, together with a paddy wagon. Howard did indeed have a long life. He was pronounced incurably insane. Herman's murder was never solved.


I looked this man up and down. He was tall, and had a mop top haircut, and since he was a dirty blonde with tan skin, along with his general build, he looked like a surfer straight out of a movie. He had one large suitcase, but I was assuming there were more in his car. He looked my age, maybe a year older. He had his hands up in a sort of "I'm innocent" position, but his annoyed expression said "shut up and put down the freaking flashlights" "Hey! HEY!" He shouted over the crowd. They quieted down and listened to him, glaring daggers the whole time. "I'll answer your questions but I need you to speak to me one at a time, okay?" His tone of voice was not going to go over well with the more elderly of the bunch, and as I predicted, they all gasped at his "contempt", but nevertheless, they spoke to him one at a time, starting with Mrs.Clark. "How did you get in? The gate was locked!" People all around agreed with her question. I heard a mess of "yeah, how did you?" and "Great question, Judith!" all around her. "I'm moving here. My realtor gave me a key. Okay? Next question." Sassy, I like this guy, though I do know that his sass will be his downfall if he wants a job here. "You're moving here? We haven't had a new person move here since..... since..... well we haven't had anyone new since the original founders. He's from the outside! How do we know we can trust him? How do we know he's not a psychopath or... or a criminal?" Everyone agreed once more with Mrs.Clark. "I'm just trying to move in to my new house that I bought with my own money, so if you'd excuse me-" He started sarcastically. A man pushed through the crowd to stop him. It was dark, and I couldn't see his face, but somehow I knew it was my dad. "Slow your roll, boy. What's your name?" He asked fiercely. I knew how angry my dad could get, and I didn't like the new guy's chances of getting through that much. The newcomer rolled his eyes very obviously. "Fine, fine. Davenport. My name is Frost Davenport, but most people call me-" "Your name is Frost, huh? Well, boy, this town doesn't like people like you. I can already tell you have a long..." my dad looked him up and down, lingering on his hips for a second longer than the rest of him "...history, and we don't like people with histories like yours. There are probably a lot of people looking for you, so don't bring your problems into our nice town, you understand?" Frost nodded, a little disturbed by what my dad had insinuated, and I don't blame him, though I didn't necessarily disagree with my dad either after looking at Frost a bit more closely. "What house are you moving into?" Mr.Jackson asked him. "35 Daniel Road. Did no one see me while I was checking out the house?" Frost replied. I felt a hand hit my shoulder from behind me. "Are you finding this as entertaining as I am?" Caleb said in a low voice. I jumped, but tried to cover it up which just made it more embarrassing. Caleb chuckled, which made me even more upset. "It's not entertaining, just-" "Come on, Ivy. You of all people would find this amusing." He pushed. "Fine, maybe it's a little entertaining, but we shouldn't need the whole town to get up just because someone new is moving in!" I whispered harshly. We were far enough away that I could speak in a slightly quieter voice than usual and not be heard, but I knew my voice would get out of control if I gave it an inch so I didn't want to take any chances. "Your right, this town is crazy, but what are you gonna do?" We stared at each other for a second, silently asking each other why our lives were like this. I had lost track of the conversation going on between Frost Davenport the parents of Parkston, but it seemed they were starting to go back to their houses and I wanted to get to know this "Frost Davenport" since he was moving in to the house across from mine. "Yeah, so- Ivy?" I heard Caleb ask from behind me, but I was already walking toward my new neighbor. "Hey." I said, close enough to Frost so that he could hear me. He didn't even turn around. "Look, I just want to move into my new house, how many questions do you have to ask me?" He was expecting one of the paranoid adults. "I'm not like them, and I know how annoying their questions can be. You're Frost, right? Pretty cool name if you ask me." I didn't really know how to act around him. It seemed easy to make him angry, but he also seemed like he could be cool and composed. "Yeah, and what, may I ask, is yours?" He asked me. Yep, definitely pissing him off. "Ivy. Ivy White, nice to meet you, new neighbor." I was dying inside with embarrassment. "And who's your friend? Were you two spying on me or something?" I looked behind me to see Caleb inching his way toward me. I was going to introduce him, but he interrupted me. "Caleb Miller. We weren't 'spying' any more than anyone else here. I'll give you a piece of advice, if you want people to like you, you should drop the attitude and the tough guy act." Caleb stood between Frost and me. I pushed him to the side a bit so I could see Frost when he spoke. "It's not an act. Look, I just want to move, I'm not trying to be rude, so if you'll excuse me, I'll get going now." Frost left without another word. "That man's trouble. I don't like him." Caleb said as soon as he left. "I think he's just frustrated by the frosty welcome. Give him some time to warm up to us." Pun very intended. "Since when does Ivy Tianna White defend anyone and not judge them based off first impressions?" He asked. I smirked. "Would I be talking to you right now if I had judged you completely based off first impressions Caleb King 'I need to peeeee' Miller." I joked, remembering how in preschool and kindergarten Caleb constantly had to use the bathroom. "Touché." He said, blushing. "I'm going home, see you later Ivy!" He waved and left, and I started the walk back to my house. However long Frost Davenport would last in our town, this was going to be interesting. \~ \~ \~ I heard a loud beeping the next morning. BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP! I looked around to find out what it was. A fire alarm? No too quiet. I tossed and turned and covered my ears. I shook my head so I'd wake up, and then I realized. It was my alarm. I looked at my clock. It had been 20 minutes since my alarm had gone off. I had to be at the train station in 20 minutes. I had to be at the train station, which was 13 minutes away from my house on foot, in *20 minutes*. I ran to the shower and took a quick 5 minute shower that made my hair wet enough that I could style it, and made sure I didn't smell like trash. I quickly put my jet black hair up in a bun and brushed my teeth, then put on my boots and jacket, and ran outside with my bags. "Do you need a ride?" Caleb said, pulling up next to me as I ran on the sidewalk. I slowed down as he pulled over. "Where are you going?" I asked through his car window. I think his dad bought him a new car since it was cleaner than his old one, or maybe he just took his dad's car. I looked at him again. Fancy suit, slick, styled hair, nice loafers, something was going on. "And why are you dressed up?" I added. He laughed. "Get in the car and I'll explain." He replied. I didn't like the sound of that, but I had wasted one minute asking him questions and I would be on time for my train if I got in the car right then, so I opened the door and jumped in. "To the train station!" Caleb said as I buckled my seatbelt in a voice that resembled the way people said "to infinity and beyond!" Then he actually drove to the station. "So, explain the outfit!" I said. He nodded. "I'm going to a job interview in the city, which means I'm going on the train with you." He smiled and gave me a finger gun. "So you're not surrendering to your dad anymore?" I asked. "He doesn't know about this." Caleb explained sheepishly. "He actually thinks I'm going to a fancy restaurant with my mom, who understands me wanting to get away from him, so she has agreed to tell him that I'm with him if he asks, and I 'accidentally' deleted the Find My Friends app on my phone and stopped sharing locations with him." He added. "So when are you going to tell him?" I asked. "Let's wait until I get a job to tell him anything, okay? What time do you take the train home?" He asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. I decided to let him. "2:30, why?" "Well, if you wanted, we could meet up somewhere before then since my interview is probably going to end well before that, and then we could grab some lunch and after the train ride I could drive you back to your house so you don't have to walk." His face was red as a tomato. Caleb didn't like these questions, or really coordinating things at all. "Sure." I replied simply. He audibly exhaled. We pulled up to the train station, got on our train, and I plugged in my headphones. I scrolled through my music. I wasn't feeling like rap music today. Maybe pop? No. Rock? Nah. Beyoncé? Nope. I didn't feel like any of my music this morning, so I just turned on some Tupac and dealt with it. I leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. I felt fine doing this since I expected Caleb to tell me if it was our stop, and I didn't think I was going to fall asleep anyway. About ten minutes into the train ride, I felt someone tapping my shoulder. I looked over to see Caleb's finger poking me. I paused my music. "What?" I asked, slightly annoyed. "Can I have one of your earphones? I have nothing to do on this train." He asked. I handed him the right earphone, hit play on my music, and closed my eyes again. After about 30 more minutes, Caleb and I got off the train and headed our separate ways. I checked in to work, and thus started my work day. Buzz.. Buzz..... Buzz... Buzz..... Buzz... Buzz.... About four hours into my work day, my phone kept buzzing so I went into a corner to check it. Caleb had texted me: Caleb: Google maps link Caleb: \^ Here's where I want to meet up \^ Caleb: Tell me if that works for you Caleb: oh f\*ck you're at work Caleb: Please tell me your phone is on silent Caleb: SO SORRY! I texted him back: Ivy: Yeah, no shit Sherlock, I'm still at work. Stop it or something other than my phone will be silenced Caleb: ;) Caleb: got the message I put my phone away and got back to work. This guy needs to learn how to send one text instead if six. "How was work today?" Caleb asked me as I stepped out of the building where the library was. "I thought we were supposed to meet at that-" I started. "I know, but I wanted to surprise you!" He said, smiling wider than I had ever seen him smile before. "How did you even know where I work?" I asked. "Foolish Ivy, I can find anything if I want to." "I think you're confusing which one of us is the foolish one." I smirked at him, then we walked back to the train station and rode home. "M'lady." He said, opening the passenger side door on his car once we had gotten back. I fanned myself and pretended to be flattered. He got in the car and we started the drive back to our town. "Ivy..." Caleb started cautiously. "Caleb...." I joked. "Well, I wanted to ask you.... I mean the real reason I offered you a ride today is because I wanted to know if you'd..... maybe.... I mean just consider.... maybe going out for a coffee sometime as, y'know..." I knew where this was going but I wanted to let him finish. A quarter of me, actually, an eighth of me, actually somewhere deep down in my heart, deep, deep, *deep* in my heart I felt bad he was so nervous and I wanted to speed it up by giving him an answer, but the rest of me was finding this way too entertaining. "If you'd go out with me, as a date, and if you don't completely hate me afterwards, maybe consider being my girlfriend?" He finally finished. I laughed, then laughed some more, and some more, then finally I could respond. "Caleb. Caleb King Miller.