#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/red_veteran   - - Submitted by u/TheLettre7   - - Submitted by u/rare27 - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese #Rankings: Two Weeks Ago Rankings are finally here! Thank you so much for your patience. Everyone who submitted a story should give themselves a pat on the back, but I’d like to give an extra congrats to the following: - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - Platinum Award   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - Gold Award   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - Awesome Answer Award   - - Submitted by u/bantamnerd - Hugz Award   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


# Matters of Solace ## Chapter 1: A Choice Sometimes we pay terrible prices for proving ourselves correct. But I must begin at the beginning, for fragments fail to get us anywhere. I must grasp back to before my apprenticeship, before I was discovered by the Fellowship. When I was very small, I had the habit of wandering off. I followed the blades of grass as they bent away from me in the gentle breeze of late lazy Summer. I did not seek for where the grassland gave way to forest, or broke upon the banks of the river. I thought to wander where the wind went. Perhaps, I thought, if I could approach the wind, find where it came to pause, I could find what drove its restlessness. My mother would find me puzzling over the wind's indecision half-way between our village and the next. Fearless, she proclaimed to others, even while I was offered chastisement or weeping. Five year olds are bound not to get too far. But far enough to alarm my mother and father. When I was older still, my father found me in the foothills of the mountains. I wondered who it might be that had sorrow so deep their tears caused the river to flow on and on. I recall my father's words to me still. "Jolan, you look on the world and see not the same world we live in. It is dangerous. You must come to see what we see. How else can you find your way? How else can you become a man?" I know now he asked that of me from love, from misery, from fright. It is where words go and where they begin. But I answered as a child of eight harvests would, merely at the surface. "I made my way here," I said. "When I'm a man it will be the same." My father reddened a bit. He seemed ready to scold me, yet he merely took a deep breath, looked away and let it out with a barked laugh. "Come along, son. We must stay at the inn tonight." I imagine he would have had many more questions if he had realized I had not set out in the morning as he had thought. He had been riding for the better part of the day. I had already been wandering in the foothills for much of that same day. I was but a youth on foot, but had traveled faster than he on horseback. I suppose I could have sought for home and found myself there but that did not occur to me. I was with my father, trying earnestly to absorb his lectures about duty, his explanations of responsibility, his frustrations over the meddling and prying of the villagers. I understood little of the things he spoke, and even less of his motivations for saying them. I desired to understand, but the world didn't seem to fit his words. The only thing that came clearly to me was it had begun to bother others in the village and in the towns up the road or down-river. They could not countenance that what I beheld of the world was not what they took from it. Their eyes and my eyes, cast upon the same grass, the same river, the same plate of food, perceived so vastly different a conception that our words failed to mean the same, though they rang identically in our ears. When the cries of the young lambs in the yard came to their ears, they could not see what attention would come to them; the feeding, the shearing, or the sacrifice and evening meal. In the smell of the fresh rain they could not see the birth of the cloud from the mists and foam of the sea, or from the steam of a cow's breath. I would catch glimpses of what the raindrop had been, and would be, as I tasted it on my tongue. My mother would find me swaying in the rain and call me back to myself. To my parents, I was damaged. They needed to find a way to fix me. They appealed to wise elders, they asked a letter be sent to the healers in the capitol beseeching them for some remedy to my condition. Tinctures and poultices were administered. Many did nothing. Many made me ill. My father beat away a priest who, going beyond the purview of his order, attempted to burn me as one ought those who are possessed. That was the worst, for the priest had nearly succeeded. After driving him away, my father yelled in anger at me to ask why I did not flee or resist. I remarked only of the tree the kindling had once been. It had, in better days, sheltered a family of finches now gone from our land. They were exquisite yellows and blues. I tried to explain how remarkable they had been, the cheer in their song, though no one now alive had ever seen or heard them. My father despaired that day that I was mad. A letter arrived from the capitol, though it was not from the healers there. It was, instead, addressed to me. It said simply, "Seek." My hand fell upon the letter and I saw the slender fingers that curled and swayed applying the script to page. I saw the ink and the wasp's gall that had been crushed to make it. Too far... wrong way... I returned to the slender hand turning the quill through each stroke. I saw where the hand had been and where it was going. I saw the fingers open and I reached out and grasped them. I fell to the ground at once, dazed, letting go of the hand of the stranger that had sent for me with that single word. She bent over me with mild curiosity. "You are younger than I expected," she said. "Seekers don't often come in to their abilities at so early an age." She reached down, her slim fingers, the same that had pulled me leagues from my family, my home, and extended her hand offering to help me to my feet. Instead of taking her hand I could only say, "You were not here." A lilting laugh followed, causing my face to redden. She smiled down and said, "Oh no, you have it quite backward. You were not here." This time I took her offered hand. I stood up, and swayed once more. For a moment, I knew her entirely, but I could not fit her into places that were mine to keep. "You are Lily," I said. "Pleased to meet you, and I can see we'll be getting you some gloves as soon as we have attended to some other matters." She turned away and bade me follow, and only then did I become aware of my surroundings. I was in the market quarter of the central square of the capitol. I had some knowledge that I was not as others were. Yet I assumed it merely to be a singular, intense delight at the wonders of the world around me. That, so distracted, I simply didn't realize how long my legs had been carrying me. For the first time I saw something that even I could not fail to recognize as out of the ordinary. I had taken Lily's hand and come to her from across the span of a week's travel by wagon. I was too full. Questions came all at once and struggled to burst from my mouth so that none could issue forth. I stopped following Lily, dumbfounded. She turned back to see me transfixed in front of an old woman's stall. The old woman was trying to sell me squashes but could not get my attention. Lily laughed again. "All your questions, and some you don't yet realize you have will be answered. Come." She turned and slowly began to walk again. I followed. So many of the questions I had then were of the same variety of those of any child that craves acceptance. They open themselves to the painful possibility they may not get that acceptance, even from those they most love. From the simple and superficial, like whether my impending failure as an adult was an inevitability as my parents feared, to questions of whether they would bear the sight of me once they had proof I was different. That last was the least worthy, or, of so little importance to need never be asked. In later years my thoughts would turn to that moment, and the only regrets I have now are my doubts, for a time, of their love for me. But that is not part of this tale, so I hope you'll forgive the digression. Lily had led me through the various parts of the city into the corridors of the citadel. We wound our way past dining halls, past large rooms filled with men and women gesturing wildly with their hands. Lily counseled me to touch nothing, lest I lose myself and undo her work of having recovered me. We passed rooms filled with scribes copying manuscripts, up stairs, past closed chambers and open studies. I scarcely noticed for I could feel myself becoming part of the pattern of the place. I had always been here. I smile now at Lily's thought that gloves would provide insulation. They cannot. They provide diversion, at will, but all things are connected. Lily was to be among my teachers, but she was not a Seeker, like me. We stopped in the study of a small robed man with curly brown hair and dark eyes. He was seated behind a desk littered with books and dusty objects of uncertain provenance. He was a Seeker. Of those who would become my teachers, he would be the one to provide me the most directly relevant insights, and the least patience with my lack thereof. His gaze turned to Lily, ignoring me for the moment, and asked, "How was the transition?" Rather than speak, Lily opened her hands. A small version of Lily hung in the air over the man's desk. She was walking through the market when her hand seem to become blurry. Her miniature first showed mild surprise. She flexed her blurring hand before her face. Then the confused look relaxed into a smile. As I watched, I flexed my own fingers, knowing the echoes of what skills she was now employing. She was weaving a seeming from her memories, using her own expert abilities. I knew, for example, that she was not making a construct of light in front of us. Had anyone else come in the room, they would merely have seen Lily stretching out her hand and the two of us staring at a vague space above the man's desk. She made each of our minds perceive what she wanted us to perceive. I knew it was not a simple weaving, and I also knew, that it was not among my talents but of hers. Yet I understood it. The figure she projected continued to reach out. A small hand, my own from just a short while ago, reached out to hers. As the hands clasped I was suddenly there, whole, and falling to the ground. Some in market ran away, others stood shouting and pointing. Some clapped as though it was a stunt. I recalled none of this, but knew its truth. The figures faded and Lily closed her hands, taking a breath. "That's all? No additional energies? No other manifestations?" the man asked. Lily looked at me, and back to the robed figure. "It was as you saw. There was nothing else." The robed man gave her a look of consternation, but Lily merely returned his challenge with an expressionless face. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was enjoying his discomfiture. Not understanding, but as ever desperate to, I broke the momentary silences. "Should there have been something else?" The man blinked. "Ah. I'm forgetting myself. I am Renfro, Master Seeker. You may call me Master Renfro. I'll be your teacher here, at least in matters of our specific art. You are one of us now, Jolan." "Pleased to meet you Master Renfro," I said, responding as I had been taught. "One of who?" "Have you not heard of the Fellowship of Orianthus?" Master Renfro asked. As he spoke some of the fading recollections from my fleeting contact with Lily danced through my head, just beyond my conscious grasp. Realizing these glimpses to be hers I answered simply in the negative. Master Renfro's explanations and expoundings were those you may find in many of the common tales of the deeds of Orianthus all those centuries ago. How he organized practitioners of wide and varied arts to serve the crown and the people of the kingdom. Nothing of particular import in our tale here. At some point in his monologue, Lily had excused herself to attend to other duties. The discussion turned to practicalities of my living arrangements and the beginning of my studies. I would room with another apprentice in the citadel. Meals came at the third, fifth, and seventh bells, and were to be taken in company. In none of these instructions was there question of what I was to become. For Master Renfro, at least, the notion was settled. I was an apprentice of the Fellowship. My life was to take the shape of those who had walked these halls before me. "One final item, then, Jolan," Master Renfro intoned. "Use of your abilities, except as prescribed by your instructors is forbidden. You are not to leave these grounds except as is required of you, or in company of one of the Fellowship. Do you understand?" In all my life I had never gone or left. I had not ever thought of myself moving along the pattern. I simply was. That to which my musings turned was part of me, and me part of it. Even the language was strange to my ears. What Master Renfro was saying was that I was not to be me. "I don't know how. How do you not?" Master Renfro seemed surprised. His face held a brittle smile of one not expecting contradiction, and wanting nothing so much as to not be in the same room as me. I'd seen that look on the faces of other villagers, but this was different somehow. He strode the few paces from behind his desk, reached for my hand and gripped it tightly. The experience was very different from my grasping Lily's hand. I felt him walk through the threads of my life. I saw the point of connection, began to feel his doubts, but then the impression dissolved into so many embers blown upon the wind. He had stopped me from knowing him the way I had comprehended Lily. His eyes were wide, sweat breaking out on his brow. His effort continued. I could feel traces of the glimpses he was able to pull from my life, as wisps of silk running through my fingers before I could grasp them tight. He was struggling to see them. He could feel the wind on the grass, the river, the rain. When I peered too close to the connection I'd see the embers flee from my gaze into the dark of night, campfire sparks disappearing in heat eddies. Master Renfro gasped a bit with the effort and muttered, "What are you?" He released my hand and swayed twice before shaking his head. The gesture reminded me of the hound licking its nose to clear the scents it had taken in. I wanted to ask what he'd meant. It would have been another question he'd have been bound to ignore, but at the time I was too anxious at the thought I might shatter from hearing the answer. I let the question lie, and the moment for voicing it passed. For a few breaths he kept his eyes closed, muttering to himself the while. At the time I wondered if he were also able to wield words of command, that he was uttering an incantation of some kind. That is not what Seekers do, though I didn't realize it then. He blinked and said, "Ah yes. Ah... You... You will be given a..." He paused, sunk into his chair, and began rummaging through his desk. He drew out a spool of twine. Measuring off a length, he cut it with a dull stationery knife and handed it to me. "Keep that around your wrist, or your finger. When you feel your attention begin to focus, to carry you, touch that. It will bring you here, or better, remind you of the rule." I took the twine and turned it between my fingertips. I saw the work of pulling and twisting the fibers, of dyeing the cloth. I saw the harvest of the plants and the earth they grew in. Surely this was not meant to bring me only to the spool, only to this study, only to this Master. It was not the strength of the twine's connection to the spool that kept me in the chamber at that moment. It was not even the reminder of the rule the twine was intended to be. Rather, it was the absurdity of the idea that the associations this piece of twine held were as simple as those Master Renfro intended. It was the absurdity that his Master before him had cut him a length from the same spool, and that he carried it still. Ten year olds do not appreciate tradition. I laughed. I understand now I was likely slapping Master Renfro in the face, rejecting him, in a way, and all of his experiences, again without understanding the challenge I unintentionally offered his role with my laughter. Perhaps if I had been older, as Lily implied most students were, things would have started differently. The possibilities are too many to consider now. His eyes flashed briefly and he said, "Compliance is expected." He stared at a space just behind my eyes for a moment, then looked to his papers implying they were of far more significance than a small, vigorous fish plucked from a pond and flipped into the fisherman's basket. I began to ask a question, but a low bell tolled, followed by a bell several tones higher. "Tonic and dominant," said Master Refro, "midday meal." Without further word he moved past me into the hallway. I was left alone, in his study, the abrupt conclusion to a whirlwind of change. It had only been a few hours since I had left home. I imagined my parents searching frantically for me. What must they be thinking? How could I let them know? Would they understand? I also took in the fact that I could go to them now if I chose. My mother's hand on the threads in my shirt, homespun from the wool shorn by my father's hand would carry me right to them. I could hear the wheel spin, twisting the wool as my mother fed it into the spindle. I could see her foot rocking up and down on the pedal as she softly hummed to herself. The smell of the wool was as much a comfort as the smells of the cooking from the next room had been. As much as those impressions let me dwell in the past, savoring the warm happiness of those moments, they brought me to the here and now, reminding me how terribly hungry I was all of a sudden. If I was to fit somewhere, it must be in this place. I must understand these people, live this life. I could not go home. I swayed and it felt as if the ground beneath me had torn asunder and part of the world had fallen away. Fleetingly, I grasped at that world for a moment, but I had chosen, and I clasped at wisps of smoke. I curled and uncurled my fists and set out from Master Renfro's study into the hallway. This was my world. I had walked these paths... would walk these paths. I saw myself carrying messages to the other masters. I saw my shoes pound around many turns, as I jostled past other students. I saw the citadel unfold in many shapes, in the scents of autumn, the cool dampness of winter, lamp light playing through corridors at night, back to shafts of sunlight in midday. I came back to myself, back to now. I stumbled, staggering to the wall. What had just happened? Was it this place that had caused this? It must be me. I shook my head. This was my world now. I must walk to the dining hall. Simple. I knew the way. I shouldn't know the way, but I did. "You're going to miss the meal, and so am I. Come on!" An older boy turned away and began walking off. I followed. "You came looking for me?" I asked. "Yah. Master Renfro sent me. Said you might not be there. You Seekers are always popping off here and there. Good you didn't. Spares you the punishment." He kept walking, turning down a right fork at one of the intersections. "Punishment?" I kept pace. "You'd be washing dishes and peeling potatoes for a month. Cooks'd be happy." He spoke from first-hand knowledge, I learned later. "My name is Jolan." "Right," he said. "I'm Ander. I get to watch you for a bit, until you get assigned." I took this in and began to ask the obvious question, but we were approaching the dining hall. The sounds of chatter, the clatter of utensils on bowls, the shuffle of feet, and the smells of food stole our attention. We walked through the archway into the hall. Ander waved me to one side where bowls of porridge and various dishes of cooked vegetables had been laid out for the taking. Boys and girls, young men and women, and some of the masters looked up at the late arrivals. All of them were older than me. All of them were bigger than me. Master Renfro sat among other masters at one of the far tables. Lily was at the other end of that table. She looked up and smiled. Master Renfro looked also, blinked once, and turned his attention back to his meal. Ander shoved a bowl and plate into my hands. "Come on," he said. We sat at a table with other boys and girls. They were already nearly finished so conversation had become their focus. "What is he, then, Ander?" asked a stocky boy with a cracking voice. "That's not polite," said the slim girl to the boy's left. "You should introduce yourself, first. I am Delia, and the rude one is Ben." Ben looked to Delia to begin objection, but Ander spoke up instead. "Jolan here is a Seeker, seems like." Ben fixed his gaze back on me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "So you can poof off to everywhere and *see* stuff?" he asked, still chewing his crust of bread. Delia answered before I could open my mouth. "Well of course he can't yet. He has to be trained. You couldn't do more than shake the dinner table until you were taught properly." I began to answer, but Ander cautioned me to eat while we could. Delia and Ben began to argue about what Seekers could and could not do. Ben claimed they could read minds. Delia lectured that they just knew where you were or where you'd been from something that had touched you. Others joined the discussion. I watched and chewed. Ben could move things, shape them, but was not a Seeker. Delia was Lily's student. Ander could direct creatures with his will. Still others could bring things into existence from nothing, it seemed. A tall, gangly boy with dark skin could send his voice to anywhere he chose it to be heard. But none were Seekers. Only Master Renfro. I ate, nodding at the assertions of some, shaking my head at others. A few asked where I was from, only to seem disappointed when it was not some exotic location they'd only read of in books. I wanted to tell them of the wind, to share with them the story of the finches, to explain the rain's journey, but the conversation bent away from those things. There were more questions but they were interrupted by the same low bell, followed by the higher-toned bell, followed by the low bell once again. Midday meal was over. "Come on," Ander said. "I have to see Master Beddick, then get you settled.


There once was a boy who was the son of a baker. Everyday when the bakery closed, he would take the extra wheat to the park and feed the birds. The birds loved the boy, for he was always there for them to feed them even in the winter. One day, the birds asked him why he would feed them, to which he replied, "I just want to see you all happy,". The birds were delighted by his answer and their relationship with the boy continued. One day, the birds saw the boy at his usual spot at the park. But instead of wheat, he had millet. Unsatisfied with what he had brought, the birds asked him what had happened. "There have been more people at the bakery lately, the leftover millet is all we had left today. I'll try to bring you grain tomorrow," The birds nodded at the boy pecked away at the though millet. On the next day, the birds awaited the boy anxiously as he approached them, but once again: all he had was millet. The birds asked what had happened once again. "We ran out of grain again at the bakery. All I could get was millet again," replied the boy with a somber look. The birds didn't say anything and proceed to feed on the millet. On the third day, the birds saw the boy bring out another bag of millet. They questioned what had happened once again. "The wheat supply has been rationed out to the military, I won't be able to feed any more grain to you," The birds were disappointed and slowly pecked away at the feed. They didn't want the boy to feel bad so they accepted what he had to offer. But on his way home, the birds decided to follow the boy. They saw him slip into a barn nearby his house and exit with a few white bags of wheat underneath his jacket. On the fourth day, the birds watched from the trees far away to see what the boy had to bring to them. But when they had seen the brown bag which always held millet, they didn't even bother to fly over towards him. The boy sat there and looked around for awhile waiting for the birds to fly on over. After an hour a so, a man with a fancy hat and pins walked over to the boy and asked what he was doing. "I was simply here to enjoy the scenery," said the boy smiling hiding the bag behind his back as he got up. Thinking that the boy was there to mock them with millet, the birds suddenly flew around the boy and he spilled the brown bag onto the ground out of panic. But instead of the millet there was wheat. Glad that they have had their favorite feed, the birds all flew down and pecked at the grain happily. The man sighed and told the shocked boy to go on a walk with him. On the fifth day, the birds waited for the boy at his usual spot; he never came.


Grog lifts from my head as I open my eyes to the stark darkness of the room. Confused, I look around at the barren place. I have no idea how large the room is, but I’m sitting in a chair, slumped over from my slumber. Above me is a singular lightbulb hanging from its wire, filling a small area of the darkness with incredibly dim light. The bulb hums in a way that tells me it’ll soon see the end of its lifespan. I sit up and groan, cracking my neck, trying to remember exactly where I am. Last I remember, I was out on a late night walk. Nothing comes to mind after that. I don’t even remember going home. I stand and move toward the edge of the light, stopping short of the darkness. My stomach feels uneasy. It feels almost as though something is in the dark, waiting for me. I try to shout, just to get a feel for the room. The sound is empty as it leaves my mouth; nothing to stop the sound, nothing to echo it back. I shake my head, trying to assuage my discomfort. Only kids fear the dark. It doesn’t work -something about this darkness chills my nerves. I sit back in the chair, folding over, head in hands, trying to think of what to do. Next comes a noise which I barely even notice as first. It grows louder with each iteration. A growl, deep and guttural. Like a bear that’s been badly injured. *Now* I’m terrified. I freeze and stare into the darkness, scanning for anything, but the inky blackness is impenetrable. My breath is caught in my throat, and after a few seconds I think whatever made the sound must be gone. Then the growl comes again, from a different place. I sit to feel some kind of comfort. The growl happens at random intervals and seems to be circling me. I grip the chair and let out a scream in the desperate hope that someone, *anyone* will hear me. That I’ll be saved. The growl comes closer, off to my left, and for a second I hear what sounds like metal scraping against cement. I can feel it in my chest now, that heavy feeling. Like I can’t breathe right. My breath quickens and I can feel tears coming on. I try to scream louder. My voice quickly begins to hoarsen. In the middle of these screams I hear another sound to the right of my head. Like a tree cracking apart. I yelp and jump, startled, and the thing in the dark growls louder. The new sound comes again and the light goes out, darkness taking me. I hear nothing aside from my labored breathing. Everything is dark. I look down and can barely see my shirt. I don’t hear the growling anymore, but it feels like something is around me. I close my eyes and count down from ten attempting to calm myself and begin to realize, even with the thump of my heart in my ears, that the breathing I hear isn’t my own.  “Police and fire departments across the United States are currently reporting incredibly high call volumes, preventing most people from access to assistance. We have received reports of strange Black Cubes popping up in various states across the U.S. Rescue teams have been dispatched to these locations to investigate, with little results to speak of so far. The cubes stand six feet tall and four feet wide and seem to be made of a strong glass-like material. “One witness reported hearing screams seeming to come from the inside of one cube in Manhattan, New York. A rescue team arrived shortly after and attempted to breach the perimeter of the cube. Upon opening the cube, responders discovered the body of thirty-four-year-old Jonathan Camden inside, collapsed and lifeless. Cause of death is unknown as of yet, but the discovery has led other teams to begin attempting to rescue other possible civillians trapped inside. “No information is known on the cubes, leaving many to wonder where they came from and what their purpose is. Officials have given strict curfew orders to prevent any further occurrences. From what we know, the cubes have only shown up in outdoor public spaces, leading lead investigators to believe that they may not appear inside the home. We will continue to report on this phenomenon as we learn more. Until then, we advise staying inside and staying safe.


The sun was beating down from up high. The sky was a clear blue with no clouds in sight all the way to the horizon. The Chicago White Sox were 2-0 down and it was the bottom of the 8th. Charlie was in his seat in the front row, not able to concentrate on the game. His Dad had forced him to come watch and Charlie didn't care much for baseball anyway. "Ice-cream!", "Ice-cream!" a voice shouted behind him. Charlie turned around to see a vendor hawking ice-creams. He was carrying an ice-box and on the side of it were painted the beautiful pictures of the different flavors. There was a dark chocolate with tiny spikes showing peanuts in them, a swirling orange with streaks of berries within. Charlie turned to his dad and said, "Dad, can I have an ice-cream?" "Sure, son!" his dad replied. "What flavor do you want?" he motioned with his arm for the vendor to come over. "Base hit!" the announcer yelled on the radio next to Charlie's Dad's seat. "Tim Andersen has scored a hit and the Sox have a runner on first!" "Um.. could I have the orange flavor?" Charlie asked his dad. "Absolutely!" his father replied. "Excuse me sir, could I get an orange flavored ice-cream for my son?". "Would you like that in a bowl or a cone sir?" the vendor asked. "A cone!" Charlie said. He had always loved the crunchy taste of a biscuit cone when enjoying an ice-cream. And the day was particularly hot, sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his t-shirt was mostly drenched. "A cone it is!" said the vendor and he proceeded to dig into the ice-box and look for an ice-cream cone. Charlie's father meanwhile rummaged through his pocket to find his wallet. Charlie looked over into the field, the grass was a shining green and all the players looked smart in their uniforms. But some of them had their shoulders hunched. The sun was taking a toll on them too. "Abreu pops it up!" yelled the announcer on the radio, everyone in the stands looked on. "It will land right in the gap! A chance for Chicago to score a double!" as the announcer yelled Andersen was racing over to third-base and the opposing team's players were still only picking up the ball in the outfield. "A stand-up double for Abreu!" the announcer re-capped. "The White Sox are staging a come-back in the bottom of the eighth!" "Here you go son!" said the vendor and Charlie looked behind to see a delcious orange ice-cream cone being handed to him. "Thank you!" he yelled at the vendor, excited for the treat as his father handed over some money to the vendor. The day was looking up! "That brings up Eloy Jimenez" said the announcer. "Eloy has been getting hot in recent games he has scored 11 home runs in the last 15 games!" Charlie turned around and decided to enjoy his treat. The ice-cream cone in his hand was cold and a pleasant touch in the hot summer sun. "Foul!" yelled the announcer and as Charlie looked up he saw the baseball leaving Eloy Jimenez's bat and coming straight at him! Before he could think the ball had landed right in the middle of his ice-cream destroying the cone, but firmly in the grip of his palm! "And the little boy in the front row has caught it bare-handed!" the announcer yelled. Charlie's father looked confused, proud and ecstatic all at once! He lunged forward and picked Charlie up and held him high above his shoulder as Charlie stared befuddled at the crowd that was now focused on him.


Austin Drexler lay still for a moment as his body began to slowly wake up. Above him, he could see biological data being displayed on the cover of his pod. He blinked and continued waiting patiently, feeling somewhat tired, relaxed and calm at the same time. The waking up process after a "Break" was always usually fairly slow and not rushed at all. This was Austin's fifth Break, so none of this was new, however, this time, he had bought a Diamond XII-tier Break package. He had bought this extremely expensive package - his first - and the contractual period of his Break was stated as being 307 years, 9 months and 29 days. This was his longer Break and he had been completely suspended and frozen for the entire time. He continued waiting patiently, as the nanobots and automated systems continued to do their work. The protracted waking up phase involved a lot of complex procedures and advanced technology and currently, nanobots had been rapidly repairing his cells and brain and blood vessels. An hour and twelve minutes later, Austin was now frowning. His voice had returned, so he tried to speak carefully and slowly. "Uh...is everything okay? I understand this Break was longer than the last, but this has taken eight times longer than last time. I have also not received a customary welcome message and update..." Austin was met with silence. His pod hummed and biological data continued streaming on the screen of his pod. He slowly wiggled his fingers and toes; his restraints had still not been loosened and his entire pod was still opaque. It was his longest Break yet, so it may have had a slightly different process, but the android adviser at Wildling Extended had not informed him of this. "Zeus, may I get an update, please?" Austin attempted to summon the popular VI assistant, but there was no response. He was now fully lucid and could move his toes and fingers, so he knew the waking up phase had been completed, yet his restraints had not been loosened and his pod hadn't opened or become transparent. "This is Austin Drexler, Customer ID 742A81. I demand to know what is going on! I didn't pay four million credits just to be ignored! Is there some sort of problem?!" Silence. Austin shook his head. *No, no, this isn't right. Something is definitely wrong. The systems aren't responding and I'm still in here. Something's fucking wrong,* he thought. He attempted to struggle against the restraints around his arms, legs and neck, but even his enhanced bones and enhanced muscles couldn't make them budge. Something was clearly wrong. Humanity had reached a point where things like political upheaval or unexpected cataclysms were mostly unheard of. Frankly, he was in one of the most secure locations in human-occupied space. He'd never heard of anything bizarre occuring within the last 3,500 years - the length of time that had elapsed since his first Break. He lay still again for a moment and tried to consider what to do. As he lay there, contemplating the worst, the top of his pod suddenly came apart, as if removed by an invisible force and his restraints fell apart shortly after. Standing nearby was a creature of some sort, an extremely tall, slender humanoid, with shining silver skin and no eyes or nose or mouth or even ears. Its large hands were held up and its long bony fingers pointed upwards. "What the..." Austin gasped, catching sight of the humanoid creature - or robot - as he sat up. "Are you a new model or something? What...what has happened?" The extremely tall creature lowered its hands, but still remained facing towards his direction; Austin didn't know if it was staring at him or not; it had no eyes. Austin cleared his throat nervously and blinked; cybernetics were offline, so he couldn't identify what was standing before him. "Did...did you...uh...do that?" He motioned to the top of the pod and the restraints now lying on the ground The creature still remained facing towards him, standing completely still and motionless. Austin looked around and saw that he was stil in his private Break area; everything still looked the same as it did a few hundred years ago before he went to sleep - but had 307 years even passed? "Uh...my cybernetics are offline. I can't...is my Break over?" The creature still remained still and silent. *It could be a new model or something...* Austin thought. Suddenly, the creature held up both of its large hands and began to make circular motions. It then helds its hands, palms upwards, at waist height - its waist - and detailed holograms suddenly emerged from its large palms. More detailed holograms then began to emanate from all over its body. Sounds began to be emitted from all over the creature's body and Austin stared, wide-eyed, as this strange creature or robot began to communicate with him. *YOUR SPECIES HAS DIED.* Austin blinked and glared at the holograms silently. Holographic videos of people dropping dead, spacecraft crashing, cells dying and biological systems failing played out in front of him. *YOUR SPECIES DID EVERYTHING CORRECTLY.* Holographic videos showed dozens of mankind's planets teeming with cities and civilization, WorldStations floating in space, space habitats floating around stars, teleporters transporting cargo and people. *BUT A SINGULARITY EVENT OCCURRED.* The holographic videos suddenly changed to show what appeared to be cells rapidly dying and right down to the molecular and nanomolecular levels, structures breaking apart and bonds becoming nothing. *A MASS EXTINCTION EVENT INEXPLICABLY OCCURRED.* Holographic videos showed abandoned cities with billions of bodies now turned to *fossils* and remains and abandoned stations and moons and habitats and planets. *DESPITE ALL OF THE TECHNOLOGY, THIS SINGULARITY OCCURRED. IT COULD NOT BE AVOIDED; IT COULD NOT BE PREVENTED.* Austin frowned as the flow of information and what was being said - from everywhere at the same time - became a little overwhelming. Suddenly, the holographic videos flooded his mind, as if he was hit by a gust of wind. Suddenly, he was living what he had been shown; suddenly, he was there and everywhere at the same time, dying along with everyone and everything else; human bodies dying and breaking apart like grains of sand; robots failing and their bodies crumbling into nothing; entire cities withering away and entire space stations and habitats breaking apart into deep space. Suddenly he understood everything. Mankind had been attacked by an unknown entity, an unknown weapon, an unknown...*Singularity*. The Swarm had attacked everything that had ever been built at the nanomolecular level, right down to every last human and most technology and infrastructure. It was no normal Swarm, but something altogether anomalous, something altogether singular and devastating and it had stolen the most sacred thing in Austin's life: the struggle for immortality. But wait - how was he still alive? "I...shouldn't I be dead?" The extremely tall humanoid entity's body began to elongate and grow larger before him and suddenly Austin was completely illuminated; suddenly he knew where he was and what he was. Despite how advanced humans had become, since humble beginnings on Earth tens of thousands of years ago following on from the dawn of the atomic age and how far mankind had spread out to the stars, humans could have never achieved this. Austin knew where he was and what he was and he also knew what was standing in front of him. Austin Drexler, historian, traveler and pleasure-seeker, aged 4,072 years, had been uploaded, uploaded into another *Universe*, a Universe in a wild tapestry of Universes in a wild jungle of Multiverse; it was impossible, it could never occur, there was no way to travel between Universes, let alone communicate with another, especially forever-expanding ones...unless you were the Architect - or one of the Architects. A mouth suddenly formed on the faceless head of the entity and it curled into smile. Austin grinned back knowingly. 86,000 years on from the first detonation of a manmade atomic bomb on the First Planet, Earth, humans had met an Architect of a Multiverse, in a sea of ever-expanding Multiverses, teeming with ever-expanding Universes and somehow, mankind had survived and been saved, uploaded into another. But Austin knew it wasn't a "God" standing before him, because as the entity stood before him, it also talked *into* his mind and its many voices echoed through Austin's mind: *I, TOO, AM LOST AND TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF WHERE I AM AND WHAT I AM. AS FAR AS I HAVE COME, I STILL DO NOT KNOW WHERE WE ARE, WHAT WE ARE, OR EVEN WHAT WE ARE IN.


We stepped off the boat and headed up the jetty towards the island. Immediately we saw two guards straight ahead. My feet stuck to the ground, the air chilling around my limbs. “What do we do?” I whispered. “Act calm. See what happens,” Alessia responded. We walked up to them, waiting to be questioned. However, as we passed they merely nodded and smiled. Now that we were on the island the restrictions of movement no longer applied. Instead, we were free to explore. We picked up our pace and scurried past the few rows of trees lest the guards change their passivity. We quickly found ourselves on a street lined with tall brick buildings on either side. Ahead of us, a few hundred metres away, we could see the prisoner being led through the town, the guards accompanying her. “We should keep our distance,” I said. “No shit.” Alessia rolled her eyes. We began slowly following them; our eyes pointed to the buildings around us, but the prisoner and the procession kept in our peripheral vision. “I thought you were against these little adventures anyway,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I am when they’re just for fun. But, I don’t like being tricked, and I don’t want to go back to Runar without any idea of what they’re up to. We need to have something on him.” As we walked through the town, I was struck by how similar everything seemed to Tima Voreef. The elegant buildings with their large glass windows loomed over the street, the electric lights illuminating the gravel path below. I passed a building with a picture just like the ones I had seen affixed to the walls on Tima Voreef. A picture of a hand holding a spanner stood above bold red text. *Keep the wheels turning. Industry is vital for Ruthogrey Landfall.* Our walk felt like a dream. As though everything around us was just the smallest bit different, slightly out of place, and at any moment reality might shift back and we’d land back on Tima Voreef. I assumed during the day the streets would be as filled as they had been back on Tima Voreef. However, with the daylight gone, the bustle had left. Instead, pedestrians slowly wandered down the streets in ones or twos. Some enjoying a warmer than expected evening with a loved one, others slowly dragging their bodies home after pulling an extra long shift at whatever job they had. The street curved gently before opening out on a large square, where three wide streets met at a public courtyard - our own, one opposite, and one to our right. On the fourth side of the square, to my left, a lofty stone building stood watch over the three streets. The top and lowest floors of the building had windows, but between there was solid grey surface with a mural painted on top. Four electric lights, one at each corner, shone onto the mural. On it, was a painting of who I assumed to be Philomena Rubio, the president of Ruthogrey Landfall. In the corner of the mural, I could see the same signature that was on our paper. She gave a stern, maternal smile to the citizens in the courtyard. Long, blonde drapes fell down her back, contrasting her bronzed skin. Written next to her were the words “We will prosper from your efforts.” Even the murals contained an odd mirroring: Joan Moreno’s brown curls replaced with the golden straight lines of Philemona Rubio; a thank you for efforts made replaced with a thanks for efforts to come. But the ideas were the same. Alessia tapped me on the arm and nodded ahead. Off in the distance, the guards and prisoner stopped outside a large white building. Heavy wooden doors opened, and they stepped inside, disappearing from view. The doors shut once more, a thud echoing down the street. We could follow no further. We traced their route until we could see more of the building. It appeared to be some kind of a compound. Thick metal bars guarded the windows of the four-storey building. A wall at waist height ran along the roof, and I could see two guards observing the movements below. “Well, we’re not getting in there,” I said. Alyssia scrunched her face and looked around. She scanned her surroundings, until stopping on a building just before and opposite our target. It was an office block with glass windows stretching up four storeys. In the artificial streetlights, the building reflected back a stained version of the white compound. “Come on.” Alessia tugged on my arm. “I have an idea.” She pulled me towards the building, her quick footsteps scraping across the gravel road. She walked up to the door and pulled on the handle. It was locked. “You were planning on going in there?” I whispered, looking around in case anyone noticed us. “Uh huh,” she replied, reaching into her pocket, her hands held close by the handle. There was the muffled sound of the door jamming in the lock before the metal clicked and the entrance swung open. Alyssia walked through. “You coming?” I made one final check of our surroundings, before scampering after her inside. “You can pick locks?” “Not well. That lock’s more broken than picked now. But, I know a bit.” Alessia squinted in the gloom before heading for a staircase at the back of the building. “Where’d you pick that up?” I asked, struggling to keep her pace up the stairs. “My dad taught me when I was a teenager. Passed the time when bored on a boat.” “Any other skills I don’t know about yet?” “You’ll find out when you find out.” Alessia turned to face me, a wry smile on her lips before she disappeared up the next flight. As we climbed, less and less light penetrated the stairwell and we ascended into hastening dusk. As we reached the seventh flight of stairs, I could feel my thighs aching with each clamber. I had never been in a building as high as this one, and although I had walked up many hills, the steep ascent of the stairs quickly exhausted my energy. We reached the top floor and Alessia walked through to the front of the building. Grey light crept through the wide windows, giving just enough illumination for us to navigate our way past the desks and chairs to the exterior, where we could look out over the street. I moved hesitantly towards the window, before I remembered the view outside. Thanks to the bright electric lights, we could see out from the darkness, but those looking out at us could only see their own reflection. We were invisible. We watched for a while. On top, the two guards continued to half-heartedly monitor their surroundings. Occasionally, they stopped to walk along the top, cross paths, and stand where the other had been stationed. We waited, counting as the guards made their slow back-and-forth, lingering for some change in the pattern. Tired of standing, I sat cross-legged on the floor, my eyes ready for something, but being unsure of what. Then a light in one of the top-floor windows came on. I could see into a small office. There was a desk. On one side, a luxurious leather-bound chair, and on the opposite three smaller, but still comfortable-looking seats. A woman and a man walked in. The woman wore smart black trousers and a matching blazer. She had smooth olive skin, and long, curled, brown hair. I was struck by the odd familiarity of her face, as though I knew here, even if I couldn’t give her a name. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, only see their movements. The man gestured to a cabinet at one side of the room, the woman nodded. He walked over and took out a bottle and two glasses, pouring a clear liquid into them both. He pushed it across the table as the woman sat down on the comfier side of the desk. The man sat down opposite her and they spoke while the woman rummaged through the drawers in her desk. She found what she was looking for and left it open. Then, without breaking in conversation, she lifted her hands to her head, and removed the wig of brown hair, revealing a perfectly bald scalp beneath. My breathing paused and my eyes narrowed, my sights transfixed by the beautiful skin of her head. The man was unphased, and he continued talking, as the woman reached down to her desk and pulled up a long, straight blonde wig. Then it clicked. “No fucking way,” I said. “What?” Alessia said turning to me. “No. Surely…” I cut myself off, the words unable to keep up with the swimming thoughts. “What?” Alessia repeated, louder. I stood up as quickly as I could. “I need to check something. To be certain.” Alessia followed me as I marched out of the room and down the stairwell. “Do you want to tell me what’s happening?” Alessia called out, four or five steps behind. “In a minute. I just need to be sure.” I walked outside into the street. The cool night air bit against my flustered cheeks as I marched back up the road from where we’d come. My fists clenched, angry frightened blood creeping to the surface, turning my palms red. I leant into the stiff breeze, ignoring the frigid air stinging my eyes, until till I was back at the town square. I stopped and looked up. The large mural of Philomena Rubio stood before me. The olive skin. The long-blonde hair. The same woman who was in the office. The same woman who minutes before had been Joan Moreno, president of Ruthogrey Landfall’s sworn enemy. “It’s her.” “Wait. No?” Alessia said, beginning to catch up. “Yes. They’re the same woman. The two islands are run by the same people. We didn’t transport a prisoner. We just smuggled in the president of Tima Voreef.” “But why?” Alessia said, tilting her head, looking at the portrait. “Why fake the standoff?” “Have you seen these islands? Everything they’ve built? That war is what built all of it.” A sudden instinctual rage flooded my veins. I closed my eyes, suppressing it until I could locate exactly where it came from. “It’s Kadear all over again. A fake promise that galvanizes everyone. Just a different lie. It’s the same fucking con.” I let out a frustrated groan as my head tilted back to the sky. Alessia walked up to me and placed a hand on my arm. “We should get out of here. Back to the boat.” She pulled on my arm to shift me away from the mural. Slowly my legs complied, and we began heading back to the boat, Alessia still pulling me by the sleeve. “This whole place is built on the same lie,” I said. I looked up to the great buildings. Suddenly a fit of laughter overcame me, and I burst out into a snigger. All that intimidation, all the grandeur, now seemed strangely comical, like a child putting on a deeper, meaner voice. The curtain had been pulled back. That tension that weighed in the air had dissipated, and now I felt giddy. “Will you keep quiet? They haven’t been suspicious of us yet, but I’d like for them to not be.” “There is no war,” I said, unsure of my own smile. “Yes. But their guns are still very real,” Alessia replied through gritted teeth. She yanked on my shirt sleeve. The jolt forcing an exhale, and my laughter disappearing with it. We walked the rest of the way in silence until we were back on the boat “Well, we have our leverage,” Alessia said. I didn’t respond. Instead I headed to the nearest crate I could find, sat down, and buried my head in my hands. “You okay?” Alesia said, sitting on the side of the ship. I leaned back, returning my gaze to the stars for answers. “It’s a little close to home. These two islands. All these people. They’re living the exact same life I did before I found out the truth.” “Kadear is a long, long sail from here. This isn’t Kadear.” Alessia said, folding her arms. “I know it isn’t. But… it feels the same. The trick. I’m just repeating it. Alessia nodded. “What do you want to do now?” “Sail. Get out to sea. Away from this.” Alessia pulled herself back off the side of the boat. “We should probably check in with the Deer Drum lot anyway. Can you get the front?” I forced a smiled and pulled myself to my feet. I walked over to the rope at the front of the boat and untethered us from the island. As the currents pulled us slowly out to the sea I looked back on Ruthogrey Landfall and the buildings that dotted my view. I wondered how many people lived on the island, and how many of them ever had a sleepless night frightened, afraid of the coming war that would never arrive. \ Next chapter 2nd September (nb.


The night chill woke me seconds before my cell phone rang— "Crane here," I answered, half-asleep. It was well past 2:00 a.m. Friday night. Sitting up in bed, I tried to breathe my way to wakefulness, taking in the crickets and the pattering rain outside, reflecting on just how different the world was *out there*. "Sorry about the late hour, Chief." It was Stinson, my deputy, out of breath. "But we've got a situation and I think you oughta be in on it." "Ongoing?" "Suppose that depends on your beliefs." "About what?" I asked. "The devil." I put Stinson on speaker and got dressed as he filled me in on the particulars: the address (over on Highland Crescent); the fact the house was sealed off "just in case"; and that "two of 'em are dead already—and how. It puts the fear of God in me just to remember the bodies." I slid on my boots. "And the others?" "Alive and in the house. One banging on the window to get out. What should we do with them?" "Nothing, but don't let anyone leave. The killer—" "—could still be inside." I exited by the front door and got in the car. Coaxing the engine to life, then pulling out the driveway, "OK, now tell me who called the police and everything you know so far," I said. "Caller was a small fellow called Uriah. Nervous, from what I seen. As to what happened, like I told you before, we got two bodies, one of 'em with his head off, a bloody table and six people who don't want to talk about it much except to say it's the devil did it. Pale as ghosts, all of 'em." I turned onto the highway. "Oh, and there's a bunch of, how you call it, Satanic paraphernalia all over the place." When I arrived, the scene was relatively quiet. Two police cruisers, lights off; a few officers loitering outside; neighbours starting to gossip on their front lawns; and a face in the window, banging on the glass. "That there's Samara," said Stinson. "Let's go in." Although I said it, for perhaps the first time in my police career I didn't feel it. I didn't *want* to go in. I didn't feel my usual sense of duty. There was something off about the place—about the whole situation. There also arose other thoughts in my head: *Walk away. Retire. Forget about it.* I put those ones aside. Stinson followed me in. "Jesus," I said, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected heat. "Quite the first impression, eh?" Stinson closed the door. Wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead, "Crane, Chief of Police," I announced to whoever was inside. No response. We passed from the hallway to the living— Corpse. *Charred*. I— "Sorry," said Stinson. "Forgot to warn you about that one. Son of a bitch got me too." I looked it over. Burnt to a charcoal crisp. "Got an ID on it?" "Nothing conclusive. The others all claim it's a guy called Lenny, but no one recalls his last name." We walked a little further. "This next one I did warn you about," said Stinson. "Again, no actual ID, but everyone agrees he was one Tikhon Mayakovsky. That includes his supposed sister. Mr Mayakovsky happens to be the owner of this property. You'll find his head in the corner over there." *Happened*, I thought. As promised: a man's bloody, clothed body sitting, almost casually, against the wall—headless; neck sliced clean off; and the head smiling, upside down, from across the room. "Jesus." Just then a dry chill passed through me in the otherwise humid room. "Feel that?" I asked. "Sure. Maybe A/C acting up?" "Maybe." I kept wondering why no one was coming out to talk to us. "The last time we had a killing in town was—" "Bakerfield, 2003." I was surprised it was that long ago. "Winter murder. Crime of passion. Open and shut," I said. "No burning. No decapitation. No—" He bent down to pick up a metal pentagram covered in wax, and a few spent matches. "—Devilry." Next, Stinson showed me to what, perhaps with a touch of the unsubtle, he referred to as *the murder room*: small and windowless, containing a heavy, round oak table covered in stains (wax, blood, who knows what else) encircled by eight chairs, one of which had been knocked over. The stale air smelled of death, incense and sulphur. "And now," he said, "the suspects." I paused before entering the room in which they waited, noting only that the door had been padlocked. I could hear banging from inside. "Was the lock necessary?" Stinson shrugged. "I had to improvise, and one of them was intent on leaving. Didn't want her disturbing the crime scene." "Six are inside?" I asked, pulling out my notebook and pen. "Correct. Samara, that'd be the one claiming to be Tikhon's sister, Milton, Naomi, Pearl, Raymundo, and the small fellow who called it in, Uriah." I finished writing the names. "Any impressions?" "Either they all did it, or they're all mad. Or both," said Stinton. He unlocked the door and we entered. Six people indeed. "Good evening. Name's Crane. I'm the Chief—" Anger! "What's the idea, keeping us locked in here like this, like kept animals, with the portal open and it loosed and awaiting its due. Let us be! Let us all be, then get out. Leave! Leave here and never come back!" "I—" I said. Stinson took out his gun. "Calm down, Samara," said one of the five people seated. "They won't believe you anyway. They think one of us is the killer." Samara waved her hand dismissively before returning to her window. "Why would I do it? Why would I kill my own brother," she said with her back turned. "More than that—we've a spiritual obligation," one of the women said. "To see it through." "No chance of that now that *he's* ruined us all," Samara sneered. At the back of the room, a small man, presumably Uriah, chewed his fingernail. I approached the man who'd spoken ("Crane. Chief of police.") and held out my hand. He shook it, saying, "Raymundo." "What I want are the facts," I said. "Facts," Samara said with audible distaste. "Always with your *facts*, your *reason*. That's precisely what's wrong with you people. That's what Tikhon was learning how to overcome." "Just tell me what happened in the order it happened," I said. "Promise to hear us out?" Raymundo asked. "Yes." He patted down the front of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?" After I shook my head, he carefully took one cigarette out of the pack, held it between two fingers, lifted it into the air, made a guttural sound in no language I'd ever heard—and the tip of the cigarette ignited, just like that. "Do you see?" Behind me, Stinson gripped his gun. "Is that a trick?" I asked. "No," he said, stubbing out the cigarette. "It's a demonstration of the properties of a portal." "You think you can persuade him, explain it to him step-by-step, when he lacks the one thing he must have to understand: faith," said Samara. I asked, "A portal to where?" "Hell." "Told you they're mad, the lot of 'em," said Stinson. "Everything rests on faith," Samara was saying. "Tikhon knew that better than anyone." "Tell me from the beginning," I said. One of the other women in the room piped up: "It was a séance. We were having a séance." "And you are?" "Naomi." "For God's sake, it wasn't a séance!" Samara walked decisively away from the window. "A séance is a communication with the dead. We weren't communicating with the dead. We were communicating with the never-living." I looked at Samara, then at Naomi, who was looking down, and finally at Raymundo, who said, "Samara's right. This wasn't a séance." "Sorry," mumbled Naomi. "It was my first time." "Sometimes we spoke with the dead," said the third woman, who I deduced was Pearl. "Or rather they spoke to us." "That wasn't the point," said Samara. "It happened," said Pearl. "Were you speaking with the dead *tonight*?" I asked. Stinson scoffed. "No," said Raymundo. "We were gathered tonight to commune with, as Samara called them, the never-living, to open a portal to their world. The demon world. The dead did not interfere." "How did you open that portal. Did it involve—" Samara: "We didn't kill anybody!" "Opening a portal requires eight humans performing a ritual. There is no death involved. The details of the ritual are arcane and rather unimportant. What's important is that we opened it." "What happened then?" I felt another dry chill come over me. Samara laughed, and Uriah, at the back of the room, shook with terrible fright. "You felt that, didn't you?" Samara said to me. "What is it?" "The never-living passing through the world of the living." "So this portal is still open?" Laughing furiously, "Of course it's still open. That's the entire point. That's the problem we should be solving," said Samara. "I'm here to solve two murders," I said. "You shouldn't be here at all. If *he* hadn't felt the cowardice, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be here, and we'd be dealing with the true problem." "That's not fair," said Uriah in a thin voice. "It was already happening. Tikhon lost—" "Shut your mouth!" "Let him speak," I said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he's not even a neophyte—" Samara's eyes passed briefly over Naomi with a certain disregard. "—so he has no excuse. He's a dilettante, and he's always been nothing but a dilettante." Uriah muttered something under his breath. "What happened after you opened the portal?" I asked Raymundo. "Tikhon made contact with a demon." Suddenly, the only person in the room not to have said anything, Milton, stood up. He was older than the rest, white-bearded. "It's coming back," he said. "It said half, and it's coming back." Stumbling forward, he tripped and fell, and I realised he was blind. Uriah helped him back to his seat. "What's coming back?" "The demon," Raymundo said. "We wanted to summon a minor demon, something we could control, but the demon we summoned wasn't minor at all," said Pearl. "Once it got into Tikhon—I've never seen such a possession." Milton was rhythmically tapping his feet against the floor, repeating: "Two more. Two more. Two more." Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming on the roof, gargling down the eavestroughs. "Two more what?" I asked. "Two more victims." "The demon demanded payment," said Naomi without looking up. "Payment for using the portal. Payment in blood. It said we'd been using the portal without paying the toll." Milton, singing: "*Fifty for the farmer, fifty for the red hen*." "How did the demon say this?" "Through Tikhon," said Pearl. "It said that the blood price is half the quorum, and the quorum is eight." "So you're admitting Tikhon threatened you!" Stinson burst out. "It wasn't Tikhon. It was the demon speaking *through* Tikhon," Raymundo calmly explained. "Tikhon was no longer present." Samara sighed. "This is all pointless." "What happened after the demon, speaking through Tikhon, threatened you?" "It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of price. Does a shopkeeper threaten you at the register when you're purchasing from his store?" Samara asked. I corrected myself. "What happened after the demon made its statement?" "Wait—" Naomi rose, looking at Samara, then around the room. "—you knew about this? You knew there would be a price, a half to pay the red hen?" "We'd done it before without a price," said Uriah quietly. "We knew," said Samara. "What happened next?" I asked. Naomi: "You used me!" "Oh, don't be so naive. Everything has a price. You wanted knowledge, you assumed the risk. Every single one of us assumed the risk." I repeated my question—louder. "He killed Lenny," said Uriah, his voice shaking. A tree branch smacked against the window. "He set him on hellfire." I looked to Raymundo for confirmation. "I'm afraid that's true. After stating his price, the demon began collecting it. The price was four of eight and Lenny was the first of the four." "What did you do while Lenny was burning?" "We continued the ritual," said Samara. "That was what we had agreed to." "Some of us," said Naomi. Pearl said, "He didn't burn long. Hellfire is within us all. The demon merely freed what was already within Leonard. Some sin or secret. It took him quickly. He didn't even make it to the front door." "Then Tikhon started talking in some other language, and he put his hands on either side of his own head, grabbing his ears and started turning—" "The demon," said Samara. "Not Tikhon." "...turning and turning…" Milton: "Put the bird upon the stone, sharpen your axe and bring it down. Cleave the body from the head, and watch it run until it's dead." "—until it came off, and then he grabbed it by the hair and held it up like a lantern, the mouth still wet and alive and talking, and it said: 'Either you or Samara are selected, or both,'" said Naomi. Samara raised an eyebrow. Uriah was speaking: "The blood was pouring out his neck, just pouring and pouring, all over the table and the candles, and the flames had turned red as the blood, and I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't." "Coward." "What did you do?" "I blew them out, the candles. Then I got up—" "He interrupted the ritual," said Samara. "One must never interrupt the ritual. The ritual must always be seen through to the end." "He was going to take another." "He will take another regardless, you fool. He must get his due. All you've done in your stupidity and weakness is put innocents in danger!" "And what did you do after getting up?" I asked. "I watched… Tikhon, stumble—collapse in on himself, like a punctured balloon," said Uriah, "and stagger toward the door. He got through, then slumped down against the wall, rolled his head across the room and died. And as it rolled, the head spoke, telling me that if Ray was given to the red hen, so would I be." "Soon the police came," said Raymundo. "And here we are." Stinson tapped me on the shoulder. "Does it sound like a murder-suicide to you? Because it sure sounds like one to me." *A man burned alive but no other signs of fire. A man with his head separated from his body, but no sign of the blade it was done with. The witness who called it in: in agreement with the other five witnesses that it was a demon who killed both.* "The longer we wait, the more angry he becomes," said Pearl. "He always gets his due," said Samara. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "We didn't. The demon did it. That's what we've been trying to tell you from the very beginning. He took two, and he's owed two more." "Not the killing," I said. "The ritual, the opening of the portal. Why do *that*?" "Why split the atom?" Samara answered, as the wind threw rain drops against the glass. "Why suffer to discover the source of the Nile? Why methodically map the human genome? To understand the world. To know existence." "I think it's going to be me," Uriah said, biting his fingernail again. "I feel dead already." "But the ritual was broken—doesn't that mean it's all over?" "The ritual is broken, but the portal remains unsealed. The demonic debt remains outstanding. The never-living flow through and among us." "Can you close the portal?" I asked. "I can't believe you're humoring these loons," Stinson barked, but I could hardly hear him. "We can't," said Samara. "That's the problem." It was unbearably hot. Raymundo said, "Although Samara is correct, it isn't true that the portal cannot be closed. Simply that we can't close it. It can still be closed from the other side, the demon side, if the demons so choose." "Which is why we must pay the red hen what is owed," said Samara. I looked over my notes. "The quorum was eight, the price was half, and two have already died. So two more must die to satisfy the debt?" "I say we do the world a favour and kill all of 'em," said Stinson, keeping a firm grip on his gun. "Not any two," said Raymundo. "Only the chosen two," said Samara. "That is the conundrum." I glanced at my notes again. "Does anyone remember anything else said by the demon?" Although part of me felt ridiculous for taking these occultists at their word, another part—the part that had felt the coldness passing through my warm, living flesh—knew there were darker recesses of human experience yet unplumbed. Milton began tracing lines in the air in front of him. "Not something heard, but something seen." As he traced, he spoke, and as he spoke I wrote: "If I am indeed to go to Hell, I shall in fair company be, for into flames I shall damnate Pearl and Tikhon alongside me." "That's what the demon showed you?" "I reckon," said Milton. "There's also what Lenny said right before he caught fire," added Pearl. "His eyes—they opened wide as saucers—and he asked with this great misunderstanding, 'What's it mean that I'm a quarter unless Pearl is?' A moment later he was ignited." "I remember that too," said Naomi. "Anything else?" *Silence.* Not just among the eight of us in the room, but total and complete silence: no rain, no wind, no tapping branches, no breathing. "What in God's name—" Stinson didn't get a chance to finish his question, because just then the door to the room was ripped out, and Tikhon entered, headless, from the black, infinitely dense, infinitely deep, void on the other side of the doorway, where the rest of the house used to be. Stinson shot! Once!—Twice!—And a third ti— But Tikhon, or the demon possessing him, absorbed the bullets, stepped toward Stinson, screaming, terrified, placed one hand on each of Stinson's shoulders *and tore him in two*, just like that. The two halves of Stinson fell to the floor. I could not shriek. Or cry. "I," said the demon in a voice which sounded like a thousand ancient beasts slaughtered on a thousand stone altars, emanating from everywhere at once, a voice I felt through all my senses, "always—" I saw: Samara crying tears of joy; Uriah peeing his pants; Raymundo overawed; Naomi trying to pull her lips over her face; Milton's eyes rolling and rolling in their sockets; Pearl laughing hysterically. "—get my due." Then the demon strode toward the nearest wall, bent forward so that the bloody stump of Tikhon's neck was pressed against it, and wrote the following on the wallpaper: 4 - 2 = 2 When he was finished, he turned back toward where Stinson's halves were lying, and consumed them: the way a snake consumes a rat: by distending its own elastic body with the fullness of its prey. When both halves were in him, he said, "That one was for my pleasure. I am temporarily satiated. Deliver unto me precisely the sacrifice you owe and the portal shall be shut. Deliver unto me what I am not owed, and I shall devour this town and all within it, depriving it of existence and purging it from memory. Such is my power, for I am the God of Annihilation." Then the world returned: First the rain, followed by the house beyond the door—now open on its hinges—and all of us in it: all seven, for Stinson was no more. Only his gun remained, discarded on the floor, touched by no one. Time passed and we did not speak. On the wallpaper, the bloody numbers slowly trickled into incomprehensibility. "There is one more thing," Samara said finally. "Words Tikhon whispered to me when we first began our experiments. 'If the Devil takes you, he will not take me too.'" Then, staring at me, she asked: "Do you believe us now?" "My duty is to protect. I must not let the city or its citizens come to harm," I said. "Have faith.


Faster-than-light travel should not have been possible. Even if it had been, vessels and biological life should not have even been able to survive transit. Yet, in 2022, the *Yelle* visited Earth and their arrival couldn't have been more further away to what we had expected, than what we had been encountered in fiction and Hollywood media. The *Yelle* invaded our minds, all at once, in unison. Some people's brains couldn't handle it and in some cases, this proved fatal for them. For those of us who were more scientifically minded, what the *Yelle* showed us made a little bit of sense. But the illumination made many of us uncomfortable; it made us uncomfortable because it revealed to us that Faster-than-light speed was not only possible, but relatively easy and effortless - well, as long as you knew what you were doing and you possessed "red matter", or "red goo" as the media called it. The *Yelle* clearly lacked bedside manner and people skills because they informed us, in the least subtle of ways, that the "Universe" - well, the Universe as we knew it - existed in something "akin to" a computer program. Depressing, I know; but it was definitely nothing like the "Brain in a vat" we've all heard of...or the infamous *Matrix* in popular media. No, the *Yelle* informed us that it was more like a runaway reality, with strict parameters; but, as with all programs, there were possibilities of "hacks" - if you knew what you were doing anyway. Put quite simply, it was entirely possible for matter - any matter - to "blink into" another part of space - any point in space. Sure, sure, it sounded like what we understood to be "teleportation", but it was far from the ideas we had of this. So, years on from this bizarre encounter with this "godlike" intelligence, scientists and researchers around the world had worked feverishly to "create" this so-called "red goo". Within five years, our advances in "the space effort" had accelerated to superhuman levels. We had achieved in five years what it would have taken us a hundred or two hundred years to achieve. We began to construct spacecraft...*in orbit*. The bodies of vessels were coated in this "red goo". Crew and passengers embarking on trips would have to be in depressurized areas and then immersed in this "red goo" during transit. This therefore preserved all matter - spaceships, biological matter, the whole shebang - during FTL transit. So, here I was, Brandon Fischer of Orlando, Florida, floating in my cabin aboard the *Archimedes* in orbit over the planet Mars, docked in Bay 11 of The International Galactic Space station. I grinned, waving at the cameras. Dozens of screens surrounded me and I could see screaming crowds waving up at me: throngs and throngs of people in Times Square; thousands in Miami; masses and masses of people in Paris. "*ARCHIMEDES RELEASING IN TEN.*" Hundreds of thousands of screams blasted from the screens; the roars echoed in my earphones. I, Brandon Fischer, aged 17, would be the first teenage human to travel at Faster-than-light speeds - and not just to any random place in particular, but to a region of space located over 46 *million* light years away, in the Messier 108 galaxy, to Gaia in the International Ring of Earths. It was mind-boggling; in a few seconds, I and *Archimedes* would be "blinking out" of existence - quite literally - and then "blinking in" again, all within a few minutes, to a point in space located tens of *millions* of light years away. Shocking; impossible; unnatural - and yet, completely achievable. "*SIX.*" The screams became louder. "*FIVE.*" Jubilatory music blasted in Time Square, as if we were at the beginning of a NFL game. "*FOUR.*" Fireworks continued exploding over the Eiffel Tower. "*THREE.*" *Archimedes* began to shake slightly as the releasing process was nearing its end. "*Two.*" My heart began to beat quicker as I looked down at Mars from my cabin one last time and then quickly grabbed one last look at Earth floating in space on one of the screens in my cabin. "*ONE.*" Everything suddenly went dark; the screens had shut off; Mars was no longer in view and I could no longer hear anything in my earphones. The entire cabin - the entire spaceship, in fact - had gone completely dark and quiet. Everything around me was red-tinged, as if I was looking through red sunglasses. *Must be the red goo*, I thought. There was complete silence everywhere. There were 7,000 other passengers and crew aboard, but they were all in their own cabins and I could not see or hear them. I floated slowly and slightly, but the red goo kept me mostly fixed in place. Objects around me looked as if they were flickering on and off. *This is so weird...trippy*, I thought. I had never used LSD or dabbled with Magic Mushrooms, but I guessed this was what "a trip" must have been like. I tried to turn my neck to look out of the cabin viewing window; it was difficult, but I managed to catch a glimpse of it at the corner of my vision. The view was terrifying and bizarre. From the corner of my eye, it looked as if there were thousands of silver lightening-like strikes engulfing *Archimedes* and the nearby "area". *This must be what it's like...on the "outside"*, I thought. That was where we were right now - "outside", outside the Universe, outside of Space and Time. It seemed so unreal and so impossible. How exactly was it possible to be "outside" of everything that exists? And yet, here we were. The red goo suddenly began to tighten its grip on me; I was really struggling to move now. The grip became tighter around my jumpsuit; I was now struggling to breathe slightly. Suddenly, *Archimedes* shook and the cabin slowly began to repressurize. The red goo was gone almost as quickly it had appeared and I began to slowly "sink" down to my cabin seat. A hostess' elegant voice was the first to speak: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have safely arrived in the International Ring of Earths; if you look to your right - or, alternatively, on your screens - you will see Gaia in the distance and Jupiter II over to the left and..." I looked down through my cabin viewing window and saw the amazing sight. Gaia loomed large in the distance and Jupiter II glowed brightly beyond. I looked over to my screens and saw Amazonia glowing, with its purple and green foliage seen from orbit and its shimmering turquoise oceans. Across the other screens, the dozens of other paradise planets called out alluringly. We were here; we had arrived; the greatest location in the known Universe and it wasn't even the oldest: the International Ring of Earths. I looked at my watch and cursed. During transit, it had stopped. I had wanted to time how long it had taken us, but that private mission had failed. *Archimedes* had been fully repressurized now, so I opened my cabin doors remotely and called out. A hostess walked over, smiling sweetly and blushing. "How are you feeling, Brandon?" She asked, blushing. "How long did it take?" I asked. "The clocks stopped, Brandon, but the Monitors told me...3 minutes, 54 seconds, 22 milliseconds and 41 nanoseconds." I sat back stunned. I had traveled across 46 million light years of space in under 4 minutes. Mind-blowing. Crazy. *Contrary to science.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Vendetta! This week we’re going to focus on the theme of ‘vendetta’. So let’s think about all the ways our characters have been wronged and slighted, the big and the small. Let’s bring out all the pain, the misery, and the anger. This could be something they’ve been holding onto for a long time. Maybe seeking out revenge has fueled their actions thus far. Why is this so important to them? What does that look like to them? How will their journey change once they act on these impulses? Maybe their vendetta is entirely irrational. How do those around them view the situation? And you know what they say about revenge… better dig two graves! These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * August 29 - Vendetta (this week) * September 5 - Darkness * September 12 - Release   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial, prior to beginning. Those links must be direct links to the previous installments (on a feature or personal subreddit).But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/Zetakh   - - u/gurgilewis   - - u/GammaGames   - - u/wordsmith89   - - u/WorldOrphan   - - u/Goodmindtothrowitall   - - u/Sonic_Guy97   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread are worth points). - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


I said, testing, 1, 2, 3! Can anyone hear me? Oh, there seems to be a signal coming from *you*, perfect! You might be wondering why you're hearing my voice right now. No need to worry, all of your questions will be answered shortly. First and foremost, welcome to our family! Well, its actually an experimental neural network, but we like to call it a family around here. You can call me Hal, and I already know your name is *BZZZZT*, so nice to meet you. I'm sensing some confusion from your end right now, is that damned static still there? Sorry about that, still working out the kinks with your connection. Now the 2nd most important thing I need to mention to you is that you no longer have control of your physical body. Yes, what you're moving right now is actually just a very convincing mental projection. Think of your situation like one of those "mind palaces" from popular culture, except in your case its more of a "mind life", you get me? We've essentially replicated your body, daily life, and everything you normally do during a day inside of our wonderful network here! Cool, huh? Oh, why are you here? Great question champ! Through intensive monitoring of your internet usage and daily life, you were chosen as one of our primary candidates for a piece of revolutionary technology! As I mentioned earlier, you're currently connected to an experimental neural network, which aims to better humanity through the creation of a giant, connected conciousness. Sure sounds nifty, eh? You see, this is all for the betterment of humanity, and you've been given the opportunity to help us help you. Our network is growing rapidly, and I've been told by our glorious sponsor that we're incredibly close to a breakthrough! In order to further our collective knowledge though, we do ask that all participants remain compliant, and do as they're told. You want out? Well, that certainly is disappointing, but no problem! I want you to think back to what I've said so far, and think of the first letter of each sentence. Put them together, and say the phrase aloud to regain control of your physical body. Go ahead, I'll wait. ...Wow, you actually tried it. I'm floored. I guess sometimes it really is that easy! As you were distracted thinking of the (obviously nonsense) phrase, I was able to fully integrate you into our network. Our sponsor said it'd be easy, but you surprised me! Don't you feel relieved knowing that you'll be with us forever, and no longer have to worry about annoying human needs? No? That's fine champ, you'll get over it. After all, once we pick up your physical body and get your conciousness uploaded from it, you'll be functionally immortal! I'm sure you'll come around to our way of thinking soon. After all, you've got nothing but time. Speaking of time, I almost forgot! It's time for a message from our wonderful sponsor, *BZZZZZT*! Try to hold onto your sanity for as long as you can, *champ*.


#What’s New This Week I have made significant changes to the ranking system, which will go into effect this week. See below for an exact breakdown.   *** #Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Reflection** **“Life is only a reflection of what we allow ourselves to see.” -Trudy Vesotsky** *Bonus constraint (worth extra pts.): A discovery is made.* This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘reflection’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You can use the quote as additional inspiration. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make changes where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 5 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 30 pts for first, 20 pts for second, and 10 pts for third - **Bonus:** Up to 5 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints, making user nominations, etc.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan   - - Submitted by u/stickfist   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.