The concrete was cold against their backs. Sweat functioned as a siphon, pulling heat straight from their bodies. Neither teen seemed bothered, it provided a temporary relief from the afternoon sun. Here at the end of the breakwater there was no hiding from those scorching rays. The shadow of the lighthouse looming over them vanished within itself this time of day, leaving the spray and breeze the only relief, and there had been no breeze today. Neither the aroma of saltwater nor the constant lapping of the waves along the rocks broke up the staleness of the moment; the only other noise was the occasional screech of the gulls calling back and forth. But that was due to change; he knew it was. He expected it would happen soon. The horizon had grown dark over the past hour. She let out a sigh and pulled herself to her feet. Her movements slow and deliberate, she stretched her stiff muscles. He knew she hated sitting for so long but recognized the measured manner in which she moved. She was looking for signs. He watched her watching the sea. If she saw anything significant, her expression didn’t reveal it. She looked down at him and smiled. Settling back into her seat against the wall of the lighthouse she noticed a hint of shadow beginning to creep across them. The searing light above slowly disappeared behind the silhouette of the lighthouse’s upper balcony. She took his wrist and pulled it towards her, making note of the time. Her other hand explored the bottom of the bag they had brought. A pair of gulls flew overhead, adding their voices to the cacophony on the balcony above them. Her fingers stopped rummaging in the bag; they had found what they were searching for. She withdrew a notebook; worn blue leather, a pencil tucked into the gap in the spine. Leafing through the pages until she found the first blank, she wrote silently. By the time she pulled herself from the freshly scrawled pages, an oppressive lack of color had crept across the landscape. Slipping her pencil back into the spine, she slid the notebook into the bag. The black clouds were no longer content resting on the horizon. They had crawled so close that she thought she might reach up and wring the moisture from them; the sun now hid, trying to avoid the coming storm. The air had changed, no longer stagnant, a briny gust made her hair dance behind her. Despite its ominous appearance, this new sky had invited movement and change. It brought life to the sea. The building wind whipped across the waves, their tips turning white with the chill. It brought relief from the heat but stung the teens with cool air and cooler water. It was warning them; they weren’t meant to be there. Mother nature was offering them a chance to flee. The gusts became stronger, more frequent, and the water transformed. Once a slow rolling quiet blanket of reflected light, the sea became troubled. Waves rose and fell, capped with frothing white edges. They crashed against the rocks in a constant roar, dull at first but steadily intensifying. Each one sending a spray of cold water up and across the shoreline, the breakwater, the lighthouse itself. Flashing purple, an explosion tore the sky in half. The storm screamed it was close, and it wanted them to know it was coming. She took his hand, entwining their fingers, and he squeezed hers. His breathing had become shallow; he was always nervous right before the show began. She rested her head on his shoulder and felt him relax. Despite being no later than midafternoon, it was dark enough now that they could make out the signal light rotating high above them against the clouds. She watched the light appear and disappear across the gray while his gaze temporarily fixed on the outline of a lone bird attempting to make it back to land, darting this way and that as it fought the shifting air currents. The gloom gave way momentarily as a forked string of electricity made its way across the skyline, turning the world purple again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the smile she wore and squeezed her hand again. She was always at peace when mother nature stretched her legs. He felt her squeeze back, then felt her reach back into her bag. This time she left the notebook, but withdrew the camera. Uncovering the lens and slipping the strap over her head, she looked tilted her face towards him. “You were right,” her voice betrayed her anticipation, “she’s gonna be a monster.


As my fingers curl around the grip of the small revolver in my jacket pocket, I notice there isn’t as much pulsating anxiety driving through my body as the first time. Still some anxiety. But not the type that leaves me near paralysis. Armed robbery is bound to cause a little anxiety for anyone. Unless you’re some kind of a psychopath. But no psychopath am I. This is simply an emergency solution to a temporary problem. Rent went up, can’t hold a job, just lost my car to the finance company after they repo’d it. Not that I didn’t try to prevent that from happening. I hid that car at friends’ houses for a good month-and-a-half. But those bankers just wanted it more, I guess. It’s not like I ever thought I’d be here, doing this sort of thing. But I’m not hurting anyone. Yeah, the gun’s loaded just in case, but I have no intention of murdering anyone. I just need to get a few more bucks and clean out a bank account or two, maybe get some cash advances with a credit card. Just to get through this little rough patch. And I’m not targeting the most vulnerable. Not people like me. I’m going after rich folks that can afford to be a little lighter in the wallet. What I’m saying is that I’m basically a modern-day Robin Hood. Give me a good century or two, and I expect there to be a Disney movie featuring an anthropomorphic fox or some such similar animal lauding my exploits. And I just found my mark. Nicer navy-blue suit draped over his middle-aged body. Balding, with love handles to highlight his out-of-shape physique. And most importantly, a bulge in the back pocket where he keeps his wallet. I find a pace that leaves me traveling a consistent twenty feet behind my mark. The mark glances over his shoulder, but I don’t think he’s looking at me. Maybe checking traffic before crossing, I don’t know. The mark turns and heads east down Carson Avenue. I trace the same route and see nothing but a ghost town up and down the street. That’s what I expected this late at night. It’s showtime. I pull the revolver out and feel a slightly less than firm grip as a film of sweat my autonomic nervous system saw fit to produce coats my palms. Picking up my pace, I close the gap between me and the mark. “Excuse me,” I say in a voice meant to be commanding but soft enough to not draw attention. The mark stops. He turns and Mr. Peak Middle-Aged Male faces me. He has warm eyes and a slight upturned smile. “What’s up?” he replies. Then he catches sight of the revolver in my hand. I expect the same response I got from the first sucker I tagged a week ago in these same parts. And that’s what I got – for a second. A flash of surprise from the mark was followed by a grin that then grew into an outright smile. I see a glimmer – actually more of a sparkle – in his eye. Okay, now I’m feeling that anxiety. But I’ve got to stay the course. Summoning the most authoritative voice I can, I say, “Make it easy, man. Take out your wallet and phone, throw them down, and lie flat on the ground!” The mark just keeps smiling at me. Now he’s gently shaking his head side to side in a vaguely paternal manner – the demented but disappointed Father Knows Best. “I feel bad for you, but you’ve got to admit this is awesome,” he says in a voice that is commanding but soft enough to not draw attention. This is not good. “I’m not fucking around here!” - my voice cracking despite my best efforts to avoid it. With a disconcertingly jovial manner, the mark maintains his smile. “Neither am I. I’m seriously happy.” His voice isn’t cracking. In fact, I find myself fighting from being drawn in by the mark’s easy confidence. Before I know what’s happening, the mark makes a seamless gesture with his right hand that flips up the rear of that navy-blue suit and somehow leaves him holding a knife with a blade stretching to at least nine inches with the kind of serrated edge that screams, “No one here is getting out alive.” I make a move to cock the hammer of the revolver, but the mark speaks and I freeze. “You heard of the twenty-one steps? I take it by the look on your face that you haven’t. That’s alright. It’s just this theory that if I’m within twenty-one paces of you with an edged weapon, doesn’t matter if you have a gun because I can close the gap before you fire.” I want to cock the hammer, but I’m locked in place by some breakdown of my fight-or-flight mechanism. The mark keeps talking in this calm and steady voice that sends a crawl through my core. “Can I thank you? Seriously. I never thought this moment would come. I’ve been waiting for this for so long. And to have it be like this, with a built-in self-defense claim!” I remain at an involuntary standstill. I want to run, but the phrase “twenty-one steps” keeps running through my mind alongside imaginings of what that terrible blade could accomplish. “Not a man of many words? That’s alright,” the mark continues in a steady but chilling tone. “I’ve thought about this for so very long. Endless nights, really.” I glance over my shoulder, hoping for a passerby that might ward off the mark and give me room to escape. The streets remain devoid of human life. The mark gives me a once over. “I’m jealous – you’re going to get to experience what it’s like when your life leaves your body.” “Wha-” is all my vocal cords can muster. “Hey, take it easy. No pressure. I see you’re tense, and I’m truly sorry for that. I want this to be a life-affirming experience for both of us,” the mark says to reassure me. We stare at each other, my face in a grimace and his still sporting that easy smile. He is the first to speak after several seconds of silence. “One question before we get started. What do you think your insides look like? I’m betting kind of a blackish-blue, not red at all like in movies. What do you think?” His voice is now one of uncontained glee. Another pause and the mark speaks again to comfort me. “You’re really nervous, huh?” His soft eyes lull me in for a moment. “Don’t be, friend. It’s all going to be okay. This is going to be the ride of a lifetime.” My body finally registers something close to a survival instinct and my thumb moves to draw back the hammer of the revolver after all these interminable seconds conversing with the mark. Twenty-one steps are closed as quickly as the mark proclaimed when I first halted him. The blade cuts easily into my belly before exiting my body and reentering in the chest cavity.


Some would have been ready to call it a night but for Monsieur LeBlanc, the famous French food critic, the night was just beginning. Heavily intoxicated, LeBlanc stumbled into a McDonald's restaurant and made his way to the counter, demanding to speak to the manager. "Je veux la recette de la sauce secrète du Big Mac!" he shouted, slamming his hand down on the counter. "I must have it!" The manager, taken aback by Monsieur LeBlanc's drunken behavior, tried to calm him down. "Sir, I'm sorry, but we can't just give out the recipe to our secret sauce. It's proprietary information." Monsieur LeBlanc was having none of it. "Mais c'est absurde!" he cried. "I am a food critic! It is my job to know the secrets of all the best foods! And the Big Mac is the quintessential American burger! I must have the recipe!" The other customers in the restaurant began to take notice of the commotion. Some of them snickered and pointed at the drunk Frenchman, while others looked on in bemusement. The manager, not wanting to cause a scene, decided to placate the impassioned man. "Sir, I understand your passion for food, but I can't give you the recipe. However, I can tell you that the secret sauce is made from a combination of mayonnaise, ketchup, and pickle relish." Monsieur LeBlanc looked at the manager skeptically. "Mayonnaise? Ketchup? Relish? C'est tout?" The manager nodded. "Yes, that's all there is to it." Monsieur LeBlanc scoffed. "Bah! C'est un scandale! A burger with such a simple sauce cannot be the best in America!" And with that, he stumbled out of the restaurant, muttering in French about the sorry state of American cuisine. The other customers watched him go, chattering and laughing about the drunken Frenchman's outburst. On his way home,Monsieur LeBlanc passed another bar. Still lost in thought about the secret sauce, he walked in without even noticing. He made his way to the counter and ordered a drink, his mind racing with ideas about how he could create the perfect sauce to rival the Big Mac's secret sauce. As he sipped his drink, Monsieur LeBlanc began to feel a renewed sense of purpose. He jumped onto the bar, startling the other patrons, and began to speak passionately. "Mes amis, I have found my calling! I will create a sauce to rival the Big Mac's secret sauce! This sauce will be the greatest sauce in the world! It will bring me renown and riches and political persuasion! I will become a man of great consequence!" The other patrons looked on in puzzlement as Monsieur LeBlanc continued his soliloquy, gesturing wildly and slurring his words. "I will travel the world, tasting all the sauces and spices, until I find the perfect combination! And when I do, I will unveil my creation to the world, and they will bow down to me! I will be the greatest chef in all of France! Non, in all the World!" The bartender, not wanting to further agitate the drunk Frenchman, politely asked him to step down from the bar. Monsieur LeBlanc obliged, stumbling a bit as he stepped down. As he made his way out of the bar and into the cool night air, Monsieur LeBlanc felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would create the greatest sauce in the world, and nothing would stand in his way. With a determined look on his face, he continued on his journey home, eager to get started on his new mission. Monsieur LeBlanc struggled with the front door in his drunken stupor but finally forced it open and made his way unsteadily into the kitchen. His mind was racing with ideas for his perfect sauce. But as he searched through the fridge for his ingredients, he began to feel increasingly frustrated. Where was the mayo? He was sure he had bought some. He looked around the kitchen and noticed that everything was in disarray. The utensils were in the wrong drawer, the plates were in the wrong cabinet, and the pantry was a mess. Monsieur LeBlanc's frustration turned to anger. He began to throw things, smashing dishes and pots and pans on the floor. He was convinced that the executives of McDonald's had somehow infiltrated his home and rearranged his kitchen to sabotage him. "They think they can stop me!" he shouted, his voice slurring. "But I will not be stopped! I will create the greatest sauce in the world, and they will rue the day they crossed me!" Monsieur LeBlanc's anger grew to a fever pitch. He decided that the only way to escape the clutches of McDonald's and their nefarious plans was to fake his own death. He would burn down his kitchen and disappear, leaving behind only ashes and smoke. He lit a match and tossed it into a pile of paper towels, watching as the flames quickly spread throughout the kitchen. He laughed maniacally as he watched his life's work go up in smoke. But as the fire grew, Monsieur LeBlanc began to realize the gravity of his mistake. What had he done? His prized collection of cookbooks and rare french wines would be destroyed. But before he could reconsider the flames leapt up all around the room. He stumbled out of the house, choking on smoke and regret. The adrenaline seemed to sober Monsieur LeBlanc up. As he collapsed on the lawn, he vowed to start anew. He would find a way to create the perfect sauce, without letting his drunken paranoia get the best of him. He crawled like a dog to the perimeter of the property and collapsed in the shrubbery. His clothes and face were covered in soot. He could hear the sound of sirens getting louder and louder, and knew that the police and firefighters would soon be upon him. But as he lay there watching the house erupt into flames, Monsieur LeBlanc suddenly realized that he had been in the wrong house. This wasn't his kitchen at all - it belonged to someone else entirely. He felt a sudden surge of embarrassment and shame wash over him. How could he have been so foolish? But then, a twisted smile spread over his ashen face. "If you want to make an omelette," he muttered to himself, "you have got to break some eggs." Monsieur LeBlanc got to his feet and stumbled away from the burning house, still chuckling to himself. He knew that he had caused a great deal of chaos and destruction, but he also knew that it was a small price to pay for the pursuit of greatness. As he disappeared into the darkness, Monsieur LeBlanc resolved to get away and start over. He would find a new kitchen, a new set of ingredients, and he would create the perfect sauce, no how many eggs–or laws–needed to be broken.


After midnight, Robert Smith exits his house for an outside break from his work and blank painter’s canvas. There’s no need to wear his heavy jacket, knitted toboggan hat, or leather gloves because the night is unseasonably warm for the winter month in Lake July, North Carolina. The year is 1946. Robert gazes up at the moon, a half-moon illuminated on its left side. The intrigue from the moon’s surface makes him smile, but only a funny half-smile on the left side of his face to mimic the moon’s face. He imagines what it would be like to be up there, a kind of intergalactic wonder lust. What it would be like to travel the 238,900 miles into outer space, to walk through the dark plains and across the light grey highlands. The United States of America will not land on the moon for another twenty-three years. He inserts his left hand into his same-side brown pants pocket for a cigar and matches. He quickly finds the cigar but no matches. I think they’re some in the kitchen, he thinks. Going through the kitchen drawers for matches, he hears a scream. He recognizes the cry. His six-year-old, Alice, is having another one of her reoccurring nightmares. Something that’s been going now for a few years since that summer day in the city. Robert forgets the matches and hurries down the hallway to his daughter’s room. He finds her disturbed, sitting up in her single bed and clutching her plush stuffed teddy called Brown Bear against her chest. The sight of his terrified daughter is immediately upsetting. “I saw the green-faced man again, Daddy,” Alice trembles. He falls to his knees on the floor, moves to the bed, and wraps his arms around her and Brown Bear. “Everything will be all right,” he comforts and reassures the daughter. Like all the other times, she had nightmares about the green-faced man. Alice saw the green-faced man on August 4, 1943. And also, on that humid day, hundreds of other young kids across the US unknowingly shared the same experience. The tabloids ran stories about their local “beings from another universe” sightings. They wrote stuff like the aliens had infiltrated the USA. Is your neighbor an alien? Do they come in peace or war? And some weird fanatical stuff about aliens liking sweet potatoes. Each of these papers called the event something different. The North Carolina locals unofficially called it Green Day. Robert continues to squeeze his frightened child. He doesn’t want to let go because he doesn’t know what to do next. Mainly because he’s tired of seeing her like this and wants her fear of the green-faced man to stop. Over the past few months, he tried warm milk, told late-night stories about princesses, and let her sleep with the lights on, but mostly held her until she fell back asleep. All of his efforts have yet to have lasting success. He lifts his head and sees the crayons and paper on Alice’s desk, where she was coloring earlier. Then he suddenly comes up with another idea to mitigate her horror dreams. Could this work, he hoped desperately. “Alice, would you color with me?” He places two pieces of blank white paper atop the desk before them and asks her to draw a rainbow. Alice smiles because rainbows are her favorite things to draw. She reaches for a crayon and begins on the red arch. He proudly watches her draw the first curved shape. “Alice, would it be okay if Brown Bear asked you some questions about the green-faced man?” Alice finishes the red arch, shakes her head okay, and quietly begins working on the following orange line. Her dad reaches for the stuffed animal from his daughter’s bed and puts the toy to his ear. “What is that Brown Bear?” he pretends the anthropomorphic Bear whispers into his ear, which grants Alice a giggle. She’s done with the orange arch now and moves on to yellow. “Okay, I’ll tell her. Alice, Brown Bear wants to know if you could help us draw a picture of the green-faced man.” She gives him an agreeing nod. After some answer specific driven questions and a few deep concentration faces by Alice later, she tells her father that the green-faced man has large grey eyes like saucers and wears a black hat and jacket like Granddad. He hopes his idea to turn this information into crayon art will work. A few moments later, they’re both done with their drawings. Robert puts the final touches on his sketch, and Alice holds up her rainbow to her dad. “I love it,” he tells her, “and here’s the drawing Brown Bear and I made for you.” Based on Alice’s description, he presents his crayon drawing of the green-faced man wearing a dark overcoat, a black bowler hat, and a red tie. But he replaced the original green face with a green apple instead. He gives Alice a moment to inspect the picture. Her eyes zig-zag all over the waxy images fixating on the fruit-exchanged face. “What is that?” she points out. “Well, this is Brown Bear and my friend, the green apple-faced man. He wants you to imagine him instead of that other guy. Do you think you can do that for him?” “Okay, I’ll try.” He stays beside Alice until she falls asleep. The green apple-faced man, what a silly concoction, he laughs. He leaves her under covers and in dim light. He hopes that ridiculous idea worked. Robert finally lights his cigar under the moon around 2 am. I can’t tell her the truth. The truth is that her granddad is the green-faced man she saw back in 1943, that he’s from outer space, he was born on a Jupiter moon, and we’re both part alien. I can’t tell you now, but I will one day, I promise. For now, please believe in the green apple-faced man instead, Robert thinks, blowing out cigar smoke.


I've done everything I possibly can over the years. Sometimes just to survive, other times in the hope that it can all come to an end. Everything has been to no avail. Here I am. Still. I'm Hope and I'm 315 years old. I look no older than 16 though. Time has stopped for me, but keeps on passing by for all those around me. Over the years, I have been eaten up by jealously of those that get to grow up, to live their lives and most importantly die as was intended. I bet you think I'm a vampire, don't you? I wish... I could just step out into the sun to end it all, if that was the case. Maybe a silver bullet could be my way out. Death by Garlic bread would be actually quite an amazing way to go... but no. Not a vampire. My heart beats just like yours, I breathe just like you. My problem is that my father was one of the magistrates during the Salem Witch trials. He was one of those that were responsible for the last death sentences handed out. I remember being in the court room on that day. I remember Margaret Scott locking eyes with my father after they sentenced to death and saying "Hope dies last". I remember the chill tingling up my spine, I remember admiring the woman for not giving up. Strange thing is, I don't remember the moment when I realized that wasn't a last attempt at positivity, but a curse. She cursed my father, with me as the vessel. The irony of it? I had argued relentlessly with my father about his part in those diabolical trials. I begged and pleased of him to step down, but apparently it had gone too far and if he did that, there would be questions as to why. It could risk our lives and open our family up for accusations. So he continued. Because of that... Here I am... still... I always like Margaret and would often sneak her some bread and cheese. She had been left destitute following the death of her husband. It's not like nowadays where there is some level of support in place, granted not the best, but so much better than it used to be 'back in the day'. That makes me sad. A person that I always found pleasant cursed me to this life. I was so distraught at my father's involvement in ther trials that I left that night, never to return to Salem until last year. I don't know what brought me back. I could barely fight it, so decided to 'go with the flow'... And here I am, living in the same house as I did back then. Granted, it's changed now. And the house has been split up into tiny apartments and by some coincidence I am in the part of the house that used to be my bedroom. My inability to age must sound like a dream. But I can assure you it's not. Imagine being 16 forever. Not being old-looking enough to be an adult certainly makes it difficult to do much of anything - I can only ever get menial jobs, live in dodgy areas, because that's what I can afford with my wages. I can't stay in an area more than a few years because questions start to raise. After over 300 years of working I am exhausted and must have earned a nice pension many times over. I’ve never been sick in the past – not even a cold. I wish for a terminal disease, surely cancer can beat me? Maybe I need to find that glitch in the 'system'.... who knows... With every war, every pandemic I have held onto the Hope that the end of the world is nigh. Unfortunately, us humans are a resilient bunch – we’re not going anywhere any time soon. As morbid as it is, I have a list on me of all female infants and young girls that have passed away in any area I live in, collected from cemeteries and obituaries so that I can steal their identities, their social security numbers and so forth. I feel dirty every time I do it, but if I can’t die, I need to survive. Next on my list is a little baby girl, who died 16 years ago. Hope Elizabeth Scott…. Happens to be my name, well apart from the surname... A coincidence that she shares her surname with poor Margaret? Her whole family perished in a fire in my old neighbourhood in Salem. She fought for weeks in ICU, before passing. With her death, came the end of her family’s linage. I’ve been in touch with a questionable type who will get me all my paperwork in place. This time it feels different. Is it a coincidence? Or maybe this is my way out? Maybe Hope does die last after all...


For a short while I lived in a state hospital. Hospital is perhaps not the right word. There were doctors and all of us were certainly patients, but it was, strictly speaking, a long-term facility for the mentally ill. My time there was so surreal, waking moments blending with the world of dreams. I’d still like to blame it on the various drugs pumped through my body, but deep down I know I was peering out from the murky depths of my subconscious mind. Psychosis had fully taken hold of me. A truly mind opening experience that was both exhilarating and absolutely frightening.  After a few weeks, I was allowed to go outside to the courtyard in the center of the facility for some fresh air. I bumped into a man who sold cigarettes for a dollar a piece. I didn’t have any money but shared one with him. I don’t know if he just liked telling stories, or was simply pulling my leg, but as we smoked, he told me of a patient he once knew, who had escaped from the hospital. The patient’s name was Earl and what made his escape all the more impressive was the dire nature of his mental disorder. Earl could no longer make any new memories. He lived in ten-minute increments. Only ten minutes to gather his thoughts before once again slipping back and starting from the beginning again. The cigarette man said that he had once snuck into Earl’s room and found little notes and pictures taped all over the walls. Little reminders to himself. Earl may have been cursed in a way, but he hadn’t given up, he had instead created a system of communication that enabled him to not only live but move forward with his life. The cigarette had burned down to the filter and me and the man parted ways. I did a few laps around the paved sidewalk, stopping every so often to pick at the grass from the center of the courtyard. The clouds slowly drifted across the sky blocking out the warmth from the sun. Goosebumps prickled up my arms as I heard a man calling for me to come inside. I’m not sure what you call the men who work at these facilities. They’re surely not nurses or doctors, but more like guards. Inside these places they’re the people who provide most of the care to the patients. And from what I’ve read they’re also the people who end up abusing the patients. If you look for it, there is a plethora of horror stories about what goes on in state hospitals.  I slowly sauntered back towards the door that led into my section of the facility. A large common room with hallways going off in all directions, leading to individual bedrooms. There were large tables and uncomfortable chairs spread around the common area. There wasn’t much to do except wait for meal and med time. I did make a friend though. A middle-aged woman. I can’t remember her name. Maybe Katrina? We’ll call her Katrina. Katrina seemed out of place compared to the rest of us at the hospital, at least to me she did. She was calm, serene, and seemed at peace. I never saw her in a moment of complete disarray. She mostly spoke of her son. It was apparent she cared greatly for him and longed to be reunited with him. I never quite figured out what had landed her here, but I got the impression something serious had gone down with her husband, or ex-husband, you know, the father.  We would mostly spend time talking over meals. The food was pretty awful, maybe not as bad as jail food, but terrible all the same. And this is coming from someone who will eat mostly anything. I do remember enjoying the small square of coffee cake that was offered some mornings. It was moist and had a sweet syrupy drizzle on top. Over the years I have learned to appreciate the little things in life. You’re kind of forced to when you feel like a dog in a shelter. Locked up most of the day, walking in circles, waiting for the rare visitor. Each passing day so similar to the last. You hold steady to the last drops of hope left in your cup. It was a friend and sweet savory coffee cake that helped me hold on. But it was also the story of Earl, the ten-minute man, that helped me believe that I could make it out of this place. Make it out of this facility, but also push through my delusions, my psychosis, and make a plan for my life.  I sat up nights thinking about Earl. In that little bedroom, if you can call it that. Pretty much just a thin mattress with hospital blankets, you know the ones, and a little night stand next to the bed. I’m not even sure I remember a window. I’d lay in bed staring at the ceiling tiles, wondering how Earl had managed. It occurred to me that maybe my curse was somehow worse than Earl’s. This man had lost time, but he must have still had his wits about him. And he still had that drive. That will to push on, that will to live.  It’s a strange thing being told by a doctor that you have a mental illness. At least for me it was. Perhaps some folks just take it in stride. But for me it was difficult. You mean I’m crazy? No, you have a mental disorder, a chemical imbalance in the brain. Your specific diagnoses is bipolar 1 with psychosis. Oh, right.  What made it even more difficult was that I was in one of my many episodes at the time of being diagnosed. I hadn’t even met the doc; he just came in and told me. To me there seems as if there could have been a better way to handle the situation. To make sure that I trusted the information and the people I was dealing with. Some of the symptoms of my diagnoses are delusions of grandeur, paranoia, anxiety, and full-on psychosis. I think you can imagine how the diagnoses itself sent me down a whole new rabbit hole full of confusion and doubt.  That’s really why I ended up staying up nights in that place thinking about Earl. I never was able to fully grasp my dismal diagnoses until the ten-minute man. Never met him. Shit, I’m not even sure he actually exists. But his story gave me something to grapple on to. Sent me down a rabbit hole that left me feeling as if there was still hope for me.


Their silence kills me, The dead gaze in their eyes. Do they live timidly? Have they drank their minds away? I once knew them, but then I left home for awhile. Loving and burning my way through my youth. I returned home an older man, they saw this themselves amongst their own wrinkled face. No parade, no song, and no kisses. Without response at my every effort for a fresh “Hello”, it tires my heart. Always amongst themselves in the wood line, their little tribe encircles all of me aside from my small vein to the rest of the world. Watchful eyes peer onto me, like knives into my skin. They do not utter a word, no dare to toss a stone, never a finger to leave their side. In my dreams they feast and dance on my grass under the full moon, I’m no where to be found I dread that I am the fire burning. Maybe these are nightmares, note to self, less wine before bed. Day by day I tend to my humble cabin, Without a woman’s touch i make a rough apple tart from the grains I grow and the apples that fall from wood line. I dare not pick what has not fallen in my respects. I attempt to look for someone as I near the border of our existence. “Hello?!” But not a breath exchanged. I walk the apples home to be sorted. Painting most days with my lunch, making new colors from ground up flowers and brushes from various rodents donated by my lovely feline. As I finish each canvas I leave it out for a full day in hopes for a response. Nothing. Slander me at least! But no, they leave me unbothered. It hurts the art. Yet one after the other I continue. I obsessed to evoke them, beginning to kill my own rodents as I frayed my brushes to their ends. Yanking fistfuls of roots, a massacre of wildflowers in the summer sun. I had finished my stock of wine before the solstice nearly sleeping on the hill each night. My hands now raw and blistered from the craft and sun, I struggled to make my final stroke dropping the worn brush off the edge of the hill. Unable to walk the distance home, I had my mule drag me on a slip of leather with a rope harnessed to his shoulders. I hugged my tools inside my arms watching the canvas disappear from sight, my boots dragging through the grass. I grinned with content at the marvel of my final piece. My tools were retired in a hole, burned with a bottle of my cheapest spirit, pulling from the bottle before it was gone. The fire kept my chest warm against the cold summer night. I looked for anyone peeking at the art but not a soul to be found. I stood up dropping my bathrobe from my shoulders. I took a step into flame until pulled back down to the ground. A woman with dark hair and eyes knelt next to me. Her hair had been up, but she let it down, the hair falling at her breast’s. On my chest she laid my brush from before. With a single finger she stopped me from uttering a thank you. She rolled me back up in my robe and held me as we watched the fire burn through the full moons glow. Song and dance echoed from the wood line, plumes of smoke whisked away in the wind. I cried myself to sleep like a little boy against her warm breast. By morning she had gone. Nothing but a drunken dream, fooling myself. I rode my mule across the pasture to the edge of my hill. The easel erect but naked without the canvas. I braved a brief ride into the wood line only to find it barren and deserted, as if the soil was unbothered. I rode through the pasture in tears once more, the easel in my left arm. The tears were of joy. An emotion had finally been stirred in them. I had been released. No more shackles on my mind. No more silence as the wind spoke to the drums in my ears. No more of there ego. All holds have disappeared. I was ready to leave once again, and so the mule carried me out onto the road where I cut him loose slapping his large rear towards home. Stuck out my thumb against the horizon and hitched a truck bed outward bound to let loose once more. It helps the art.


Monsieur LeBlanc, the most famous food critic in all of France, had a dirty secret. It was a guilty and greasy pleasure that he could never resist. Despite the fact that he had spent years cultivating his sophisticated tastes, Monsieur LeBlanc loved the simple and unrefined meal of fried chicken. And after this especially difficult week, when his eyes fell upon it as a special on the menu, he surrendered to its crispy temptation. Of course, Monsieur LeBlanc knew that if such a secret was discovered, it could irreparably tarnish his career. But in the divine theater of life, filled with mystery, impending tragedy, and relentless joy, of what consequence could a single portion of fried chicken be? Monsieur LeBlanc had no way of knowing that this simple meal would soon become the catalyst for a series of events that would forever alter his very existence. Monsieur LeBlanc felt a pang of embarrassment when he ordered the dish with his young waiter. But when the plate of golden-fried chicken arrived and the fragrant aroma of its juicy flesh wafted up to his nose, Monsieur LeBlanc was absolutely intoxicated. His mouth began to water uncontrollably as he picked up his fork and knife, ready to savor the first bite. But just as Monsieur LeBlanc was about to take a mouthful, his eyes darted to the other side of the restaurant, and his heart sank. There, sitting at a nearby table, was his arch-nemesis, the renowned Italian food critic Mario De La Fantissimo. If De La Fantissimo caught him indulging in such a humble dish, his days as the most famous food critic in France would be over. With a heavy heart, Monsieur LeBlanc set down his fork and knife, quietly pushed the plate of fried chicken away, and tried to act nonchalantly. He knew that he had to avoid detection if his reputation was to be preserved. The waiter noticed that Monsieur LeBlanc was not eating his food, and with concern etched on his face, he approached the table. "Excusez-moi, monsieur," he said in a soft voice, "Is everything alright with your meal?" Monsieur LeBlanc, trying to remain calm and composed, assured the waiter that everything was fine. He didn't want to cause a scene. “Non, non, tout va bien.” He said softly, “I am just not hungry.” But as Monsieur LeBlanc tried to dismiss the waiter, he noticed that the young man was becoming increasingly distraught. His eyes welled up with tears, and his voice began to shake. "Please, monsieur," the waiter said, "if there is anything wrong with the food, I must know. I cannot bear the thought of you leaving here dissatisfied." Monsieur LeBlanc realized that the waiter knew who he was. His reputation as a food critic preceded him, even in this modest restaurant. Monsieur LeBlanc tried to reassure the young man, telling him that the food was delicious and that there was nothing wrong with it. But the waiter's anxiety continued to grow, and he began to cry loudly, causing other diners to turn and stare. Monsieur LeBlanc felt his face flush with embarrassment. Suddenly, the waiter stopped crying and looked up at Monsieur LeBlanc with a wild look in his eye. "Oh, woe is me!" he exclaimed, his baritone voice rising in a dramatic crescendo. "What is the meaning of life? Is it all for naught? Do we live, and love, and suffer, only to be cast aside by the fickle winds of fate?" Monsieur LeBlanc could hardly believe his ears. The waiter had transformed from a concerned young man into a Shakespearean actor, delivering an impassioned soliloquy on the meaninglessness of existence. "Is this all there is?" the waiter continued, his arms outstretched. "A few brief moments of pleasure, followed by a lifetime of toil and sorrow? Is this the grand design of the universe, or merely a cruel joke played by a capricious god?" Monsieur LeBlanc was at a loss for words. He had never encountered such an outburst before, especially not in a restaurant. He wondered if the waiter was perhaps suffering from a mental breakdown or some other ailment. As the waiter continued his speech, other diners began to murmur and whisper. Monsieur LeBlanc's heart stopped as he noticed Mario De La Fantissimo staring at him with a mocking smile. De La Fantissimo had been out to get him for years and now fate had provided him with the perfect opportunity. A bead of sweat rolled down Monsieur LeBlanc’s forehead. He was desperately thinking of a way to salvage the situation. The waiter collapsed onto the floor, now sobbing again and wailing about the meaning of life. The other diners gasped in shock. Mario De La Fantissimo looked at Monsieur LeBlanc with a mixture of cruelty and disgust before taking out his pen and notepad and starting to write a review. “Je dois agir,” Monsieur LeBlanc said as he leaped onto the stage next to his table which was sometimes used for performances to entertain the diners. Suddenly there is silence and everyone is staring at LeBlanc. "Mes amis,” LeBlanc says in a clear and commanding voice, “despite all the struggles and hardships that we may face, the human spirit remains unrelenting, unyielding in the face of adversité. We are a people of résilience, of fortitude, of hope. And it is this unwavering spirit that imbues all of existence with such beauté and wonder." The diners start to look at each other and slowly nod in agreement, caught up in Monsieur LeBlanc's impassioned words. The aroma of fried chicken fills the air, mingling with the scent of wine and spices. Somehow a dramatic and hopeful cello begins to play as if from nowhere. For a moment, all is right with the world. "As we sit here today, enjoying this simple yet délicieus meal, let us remember to savor each and every moment of this precious life. Let us celebrate the joy of existence in all its forms, from the grandest feats to the humblest of pleasures. For in the end, it is these moments that make life truly worth living." As his speech finishes, he notices that the diners have tears in their eyes. They begin applauding and cheering and throwing flowers onto the stage at Monsieur LeBlanc’s feet. He glances at Mario De La Fantissimo and sees his face has twisted into an expression of jealousy and hatred. As LeBlanc takes his bow the curtain at the back of the stage rises revealing a full orchestra dressed in tuxedos gathered behind him. They begin playing a triumphant melody and the clapping and cheering gets louder. But as Monsieur LeBlanc rises from his bow, he is surprised at the sight of Mario De La Fantissimo approaching him. De La Fantissimo has a formidable appearance: tall and burly, wearing a top hat and a long, black greatcoat. The audience and the musicians become silent as he takes the stage right next to Monsieur LeBlanc. “The problema with this world," Mario declares, rolling his r’s "is that people have a become complacent. They are contenuto with da mundane, da mediocre. They settle for da second best, when they should be striving for da perfezione in all-a-things. This is why we needa da harsh critiques, to remind people that there is always da room for improvement.” He flashes a toothy grin at the crowd, some of whom are nodding in agreement with him. “Mediocrity” De La Fantissimo says, gesturing toward LeBlanc, “shoulda never be accepted!" Monsieur LeBlanc recoils as if he has been struck. He and Mario De La Fantissimo lock eyes. They both are aware that things have progressed well past the point where this can end peaceably. The Shakespearean waiter must have understood this as well because he approached the stage with a silver tray. On the tray are two steak knives. Monsieur LeBlanc and Mario De La Fantissimo take the knives and face off. The orchestra begins to play a haunting melody. The mournful notes of the strings underscore the gravity of the situation, the brass section adding an air of tension and drama. Monsieur LeBlanc and Mario De La Fantissimo begin their deadly dance, their movements perfectly timed to the ebb and flow of the music. De La Fantissimo lunges forward with his knife, but Monsieur LeBlanc is quick to parry the attack. The diners watch in stunned silence as the fight rages on, the music swelling and ebbing in time with the battle. It is as if the orchestra is telling a story with its music, a tale of passion, betrayal, and ultimate tragedy. The blades flash in the dim light of the restaurant. Each of them tried to gain the upper hand, but they were evenly matched in their skills. The battle continued for what seemed like hours, each combatant pushing themselves to the limit. Sweat poured down their faces as they slashed and parried. The only sound in the room was the clashing of their knives and their heavy breathing. That, and the full orchestra. After an eternity, Monsieur LeBlanc saw an opening. With a swift movement, he disarms Mario whose knife flew high into the air and stuck in the ceiling with a twang. Mario De La Fantissimo is at his mercy. But instead of delivering the final blow, Monsieur LeBlanc looked down at his defeated opponent with pity. "You may have lost this battle, De La Fantissimo, but there is more to life than just critique. Food is meant to be enjoyed, not analyzed to the death," Monsieur LeBlanc said, before turning to walk away. But as he did, Mario pulled a butter knife from his boot and lunged forward, aiming for Monsieur LeBlanc's back. With lightning-fast reflexes, Monsieur LeBlanc turned and caught Mario's arm in mid-air. The two men locked eyes once more, each of them knowing that this was the final moment. With a swift motion, Monsieur LeBlanc thrusts his knife with all his might. The blade pierces through De La Fantissimo’s defenses, sinking deep into his chest. Mario’s eyes widen in shock as he staggers backward, grasping at the hilt of the knife. Monsieur LeBlanc steps forward and with a final shove, he sends Mario flying off the stage, crashing onto the table where he had been eating his fried chicken only minutes before. The table shatters under the weight of Mario's body, sending the chicken flying into the air in a burst of crumbs and grease. The once-lively orchestra comes to a sudden halt, and the entire restaurant falls silent. All eyes are on the chicken. It seems to freeze at the apex of its flight. Then it descends, almost as if in slow motion until it lands with a soft thud on Mario's chest. In Mario De La Fantissimo’s final moment, he looks at the fried chicken on his chest, then back at Monsieur DeBlanc, his eyes glimmering as he gives one last mocking smile. Then the life disappears from his eyes, but the smile remains. Monsieur LeBlanc feels a deep sense of shame. How could he have been so careless, so thoughtless as to order something as unrefined as fried chicken? The weight of his mistake bears down on him as the rest of the restaurant looks on in astonishment. For a long moment, nobody moves or speaks. The only sound is the chicken slowly sliding off of Mario De La Fantissimo’s lifeless body and plopping to the floor. Monsieur LeBlanc wished he had been brave enough to enjoy the food he loved without shame. He drops his knife and walks off the stage. He picks up the fallen chicken and places it on a plate, setting it on the remains of the table next to Mario's body. Inside of him, something finally clicks. He then turns to the crowd, raising his hands in the air. The orchestra takes the cue and begins playing something soft and inspiring as LeBlanc addresses the crowd for the final time. "This meal, this simple fried chicken, has taught me something today. It has taught me that we should never be ashamed of enjoying the simple pleasures in life. That we should always be true to ourselves and our own tastes, and not let the opinions of others dictate our choices." The crowd listens intently, nodding in agreement. They have been moved by Monsieur LeBlanc's words, and they feel a sense of connection with him that they had not felt before. Monsieur LeBlanc smiles at the crowd, feeling a sense of liberation wash over him. He has let go of his fear of judgment and has embraced the simple joys of life. He takes a bite of the fried chicken, savoring the flavors and textures that had once embarrassed him. The crowd erupts into cheers. The waiter who was crying before lifts his gaze to the heavens and a dove inexplicably lands on his shoulder. Monsieur LeBlanc finishes his meal, and he realizes that he has won a different kind of battle, one that is fought within oneself. Days later, the news of the incident spread across France and the world. Monsieur LeBlanc is now known not just for his exquisite taste in food, but also for his deadly skills in combat, cementing his legacy as the greatest food critic of all time. But most importantly, he is no longer ashamed to enjoy the simple and unrefined meal of fried chicken.


He marched up the hill. Its low slope provided little challenge to his progress. The grass, as it waved in the soft breeze, did seem to tug at his feet. He placed his feet carefully to avoid tripping. It wouldn't do to drop his cargo. A large potted plant, a tree, was grasped firmly in one hand. It was fairly heavy. He had to stop several times on the way up the hill in order to rest. Now, as he neared the top, he pushed onward. He did swap the tree from his right hand to his left. Taking only a brief moment to set down the shovel so he could do the change. The fatigue in his right hand easing as he picked up the digging tool. When he was sure he had everything grasped firmly, he set off. The breeze was warm, and carried the scent of grass. It was familiar to him, he had been on this hill many times. As he reached the top, his eyes were drawn to a medium sized oak tree. It stood slightly off center at the top of the rise, growing alone in the middle of the field. "Hi Mom," he whispered, the words vanishing under the rustling of grass. *No crying*, he promised himself. He walked over and set the sapling down. It seemed fitting to have it rest against the larger tree, at least for the moment. He rested his now free hand on the truck. It had grown thicker since it had been planted. He smiled. It was a sad one, but also accepting. He turned and placed his back against the bark. Wordlessly he started pacing away from the tree towards the center of the hill, then past it. He had researched how far he needed to go; how many steps it would be. He wanted the branches to just touch when both trees were fully grown. He stopped once he reached the proper amount of steps. He looked back, checking if he was in line. With that he thrust the shovel into the soil. Memories came back to him as he dug. Five years ago, he and his father had come up here. The hill had been empty then. They had dug their own hole, through tears, to plant the oak. He was alone this time to do the job. With the hole dug, the tree went into the ground smoothly. This was not the first time he had planted one. He covered the roots loose dirt and packed it down. He had a jug of water in his car at the field edge. He would water it today, and every day until it could survive on its own. Shouldering the shovel he looked over his work. The two oaks seemed so far apart, but he knew they would grow together over time. "Bye Dad," He said into the wind as he started down to get the water. He couldn't keep the promise he had made to himself as he went.


It started late last fall, when a little boy from my sisters art class, James, a very shy quiet boy started telling his teachers he'd made a new friend, but when the teachers asked, he'd tell them it was a secret, and he couldn't tell. Obviously, in a town as small as ours, rumours spread, some meaner then others, some hopeful that this kid was finally coming out of his shell. But when he stopped coming to school, people got worried. Friends of the parents would ask, and both the mother and father answered the same "he's sick, whooping cough and all that.". This worked for a few weeks but time went on and James was still absent. "Do yah think he'll be ok?" My little sister, Holly, asked me one day as we sat on the porch, watching the dogs run around. "Yeah, I had whoopin' cough as a kid, ain't that bad, just a fever and a rash." I explained to her, but then, my sister's best friend stopped coming to school too, and when Holly and I went to see if she was ok, we were greeted by both her parents, and James's parents, as well as the two children themselves. Neither of them looked sickly at all, but to all of our horror, James, who had once been blond with brown eyes, and the friend, who'd had brown hair and eyes, now had snow white hair and the most radient blue eyes you'd ever seen. People got worried that something was going on. Most people thought it was chemical, or it was a weird condition along the lines of poliosis or albinism. But neither kids families had a history of pigment conditions, and our town was miles away from anything, let alone a chemical facility. But we are southern, so the next logical conclusion was the supernatural. Over the next few months, two more kids changed, but strangely, more stuff started to happen to them. They started reassuring everyone that they were safer then they'd ever been, and that they were all alright. The four kids started to crave each other's presence, as if they needed to be together. Their parents tried to keep them home but at some point they just couldn't keep them apart. I started to get worried for my sister, and asked my friends to get my schoolwork so I could stay home with her. By the time winter came, and a rare flurry of blizzards hit our town, there was five of them, the oldest was eleven, youngest was five, and the town was in a mess trying to find out what was happening. A special doctor came in from the big city, and she concluded that whatever was happening to these kids, was some kind of infection, but unlike any she'd ever seen, and it wasn't long before all five kids were shipped off to a special facility to keep the rest of the town safe. The facility could be seen from the highway, and it loomed over the elementary school like an omen of death. But clearly, the infection wasn't spreading from kid to kid, it was coming from something else, because to my own horror, while I was brushing Holly's hair, I noticed a white strand, and another and another. I knew I couldn't keep her home because everyone would know, so I grabbed some of our mother's cheap dye and thanked God she had the same hair colour. I spent the rest of the day in shock, barely able to function. The kids who'd been taken had been sending letters to their parents... But I haven't seen the little red arm of James's families mailbox flip up recently, and in my paranoid brain I assumed the worst. While I was home alone, doing the chores my parents should be doing, I stopped, turning off the tap, and for some reason I just collapsed in on myself, the horror of the situation and the hopelessness finally setting in. I went to my sisters room, where all the photos were of ME and HER. Our parents hadn't raised her, I DID, and now this. I spent the next few hours sitting on her small pink bedside, tapping my left foot anxiously as I panicked inside. But as I looked down at my hands, I noticed something. A very faint blue glow from under her bed, I wouldn't have been able to notice it if the room wasn't dark. I thought I'd imagined it, but when I knelt down, looking beneath the bed, I realized that something was glowing in slow pulses under the floorboard. My sister caught me in that moment, her smallness making her tiny footsteps too quite to hear in time. She looked at me, here eyes just a bit bluer then they were when she left. "Stan?" She tilted her head. "Holly, do yah' know what that blue glow is?" I sat up, gesturing under the bed. She looked between me and the bed, no expression on her face; her head still tilted slightly. "Nooooo?" She said in that childlike drawn out manner. "We're leavin', I don't give two shits if I don't got a full license, I'm gettin' you out'a dis fuckin' town." I stood, stomping over and grabbing my sister by the arm. She didn't fight, and as I grabbed the keys and our jackets, I heared a knock at the door. I was pissed off and annoyed and yelled that nobody was home, stupid I know. I picked up my sister and left through the side door, the snow and wind blazing in our faces as I got her in the back seat and quickly got in the drivers. I hadn't stopped to look at who was on the front step, but when I did, I froze. James, Jessica, Henry, Linsey and Grace, the five kids looked back at me with their icy blue eyes, and in my state of complete shock, I was only snapped out when I heared the back door open. I was too late, by the time I undid my seatbelt and climbed out the door, she'd joined them, the cheap hair dye ran down her jacket, exposing the white streaks in her dark brown hair. "HOLLY! GET AWAY FROM THOSE FREAKY ASS KIDS!" I shouted at her, but as if she didn't hear me, she and the other five kids ran away like a pack of wolves. I chased them down the street, not caring if anyone saw. I chased them until I lost every ounce of breath in my lungs, and I cried out for Holly to come back, but she didn't of course. The scientists from the facility soon appeared in town, frantically searching for the kids, but not as much as I did those next few days. I practically flipped over that bed and tore off the boards to expose a strange blue moss or fungus growing underneath my sisters bedroom floor. I ripped out more and found out which direction it was growing from, and low and behold it was roughly coming from the direction of the last kid to be infected. I went outside and beneath the snow and grass was more moss, in thin lines like veins. I followed it for days, drawing myself a map as every day the snow covered up my hard work with my shovel. When I got to James's house, the ground zero of this whole thing, I came to a stalemate. The moss ended here, and I had to make a tough decision that day. I do feel guilty for what I did the next night, but I love my sister like a daughter, and I couldn't let this take her away from me. I didn't care about the other kids, or stopping the infection from harming others, my goals were selfish, and I came back that night, with a crowbar, rope, and ducktape. I knocked out the father first, and after that it was easy to take down the mother and soon they were both tied up. I wasn't gonna hurt them, I just needed them out of the way. Their house was quiet and sad, clearly the house of a grieveing family. James's bedroom door was easy to find, since the frame was covered in colourful lines with heights next to each one. I pushed the bed aside and began tearing of the floorboards, but there was nothing there. I shouted profanities in frustration and quickly began searching the house for literally anything blue or glowing. And it was then that I found it, it the basement of the house. Glowing blue mushrooms sprouted from holes cracks in the cement. I was confused why the parents wouldn't have reported these, especially after what happened, but then I realized that they were growing as I watched. These mushrooms were newer then new and the parents probably didn't even know about them. Thankfully, the father was a handyman, so there were plenty of tools down there. I began smashing the floor and walls with a sledgehammer, until the cement was in small enough chunks to simply be pushed aside. I found it, I finally fucking found it, under the floor was a colony of this weird fungus, and the cause of all of this. I went back to smashing, trying to uncover all of this stuff, but to my horror it was everywhere, probably in the bones of the house too by now. I made it to a separate room in the basement, where all the fathers tools were kept, and of course I found more fungus in there too. The fungus smelled funny, and the more I uncovered the worse the smell got. It was kinda like standing in a field of berries, that sweet smell, but x100 until it was completely overwhelming to the senses. "Stan?" My sister stood in the door way, her hair and eyes now completely shifted to white and blue. She stood in the moss, which grew over her boots and up her legs. "Holly!" I smiled, lunging forward but I realized it wasn't real. Her form waved and distorted and slowly dissolved into nothing. "I'm ok Stan, I have a new big brother to keep me safe, I don't need you anymore.." Her voice echoed around me, and I frantically searched and searched even though I knew it wasn't real, that I was exposed to that fungus and it was getting in my head. I found a gun in the basement, hidden in the top shelf of the fathers work table, and even though I had no idea what it'd do it made me feel safer. As I quickly walked up the stairs the mushrooms seemed to swiftly follow me, growing up from the stairs and spreading across the carpet. I reeled back in terror, nearly collapsing on the wall, but I kept on running as the shrooms pursued me. I soon realized I'd made everything worse, and the two knocked out parents were consumed by the fungus, and it began to grow from every nook and cranny, filling the house with a horrible blue glow. I scrambled, almost crawled out the door and fell on my face into the snow. The blue glow radiated from the window and open door and I huried to my feet, only to see I wasn't alone. The five victims, the children, they bombarded me, pushing me to the ground with strength I wouldn't have imagined for such small kids. I'm nineteen I should be able to take them but I struggled for what felt like forever before the smell of berries overtook me once again. This time it seemed more like a freshly baked pie. I could feel the warmth of a kitchen with its oven being used, and I could almost hear my mother humming, like she would back before she started going out to party every night, which was her way of saying she was getting away from my dad for the night. The feeling almost made me forget about the situation. The kids, the fungus, my sister. She was the last thing I saw. Her and her pink jacket looming over me like an omen of death. I blacked out soon after, only to awaken in a place unfamiliar. I found myself in what seemed like a cave, or a catacomb or something of the likes. Those blue mushrooms and that moss was everywhere, and I didn't dare touch it as I slowly sat up. I could hear children laughing deeper in the cave, and in my desperate need to save my sister, I went forward. I soon walked into a large open space, where the blue light seemed to begin. In the center of the room was a giant mushroom that looked more like a tree, and within it, fused to it, we're the five children...and my sister. Seeing her, in the belly of this beast. I shattered inside as if I was glass and I rushed to her, collapsing as I pulled her in. She was covered in that moss, and her skin was a pale blue as were the others. She hugged me back and smiled up at me. "Stan... Are yah here to join us?" She asked, but I could barely hear her over my sobs and cries. I was in way over my head, and I had no idea how to save her from this. "Are you ready to join the family?" She asked him. ".. Wha-what family?" I spoke between sniffles. "Big brother keeps us safe, big brother loves us, please join us Stan, be a part of the family..." She pulled him closer. It was then that he saw him, wearing the same white medical garbs that the other kids wore, the only difference being the numbers "00" being stitched onto the side. He had the white hair, but his eyes were completely blue, no iris or pupil, just blue. He stood with limp arms and shoulders, and looked down at me with a weariness in his expression. "Stanley, aren't you tired of being the crutch your parents lean on? Aren't you tired of the neglect, the lost innocence, the loneliness?" The guy leaned down. He looked close to my age, maybe a little younger. "The world is so cold, and so dark... Let me keep you safe..." He reached out, but I pulled away. It was then that my sister tightened her grip on me and I realized she wouldn't let me go. As the weird fungus boy reached out once more I squirmed frantically out of my sisters arm, but just as I was gonna bolt away the boy grabbed my wrist, pulling me in. I couldn't look away from those eyes, and once again I smelt berries, but this time it was as if I was laying in the bushes, looking up at the sky. I smelt morning dew and I heard distant squacking of tweety birds. My fear melted away and I eased my tense muscles. I soon fell into his arms as the children chanting in a language I didn't recognize. I felt the moss grow on my skin but I didn't mind, I was simply enjoying the embrace. The fungus boy set me down next to my sister, and sat next to me, smiling as he played with my slowly whitening hair. He told me how happy he was to have another boy his age to talk to, how he was so lonely in here with nobody to love, no family to call his own. I was falling asleep to his calming voice, and some part of me, the part that wanted to fight back, was slowly drowning in the overwhelming feeling or contentness. My sister looked happy to have me here, and the other children continued to chant. "Be mine forever Stanley, let me take care of you and our family..." He said. I only really recall slipping into the moss as it consumed me, and the last thing I saw was the boy and my sister, watching me decend into the mass. I belong to the colony now, with my little sisters and little brothers and siblings. Big brother provides for us, he protects us. I love big brother, and I will forever be a part of him, here in the mass... I love... Big brother.


*Commencing Identification Scan* ***Error*** *Identification Failure* *Origin: UNKNOWN* *Commencing Decryption Protocol* *Decrypting…* *Decrypting…* *Decrypting…* *Decryption Complete* *Audio File Found* *Translating…* *Translating…* *Translation Complete* *Play Audio File?* *>Yes* *Playing Audio File.* {Hello. My name is Adam. I am a human, but you most likely have no idea what that is, do you? Humans are an intelligent carbon-based species originating from a planet named ‘Earth’. By the time you receive this message, Earth no longer exists. In fact, Humanity no longer exists. We are actually extraordinarily lucky that this recording survived long enough for you to find it, whoever you are. For as long as Humanity can recall, we have yearned to find others like us among the stars. However, we were scared. We were scared that Space was far too vast an ocean to traverse. We believed that even if we managed to reach beyond our planet, anyone else would be far too distant to ever meet. We spent far too long worrying about Space being our adversary, that we forgot to give Time a second thought. We conquered Space, spreading out to each corner of the galaxy and beyond, and we searched for any sign of life. Every star, every planetoid, every nebula, every asteroid. Nothing. No one. We were alone. We succumbed to the grim conclusion that had been festering in the back of our minds for eons. Perhaps, we were too late. As I record this message, the Universe is approximately 14 billion years old, and the period of time for new stars to be born is coming to a close. Perhaps there are other civilizations out there, not elsewhere in Space, but elsewhere in Time. We could be the last. We panicked. We searched for the tiniest clue that someone, anyone existed before us. Nothing. We were alone yet again. This time, however, a new, melancholy version of hope shines within. Even though very few new stars will be born after today, some stars will continue to shine for hundreds of billions of years more. Perhaps even a trillion. From this point of view, Humanity exists not near the end, but close to the very beginning. We are not the last, but the first. Hundreds of billions of years left for life to rise from the primordial soup of countless worlds that are yet to even take form. Hundreds of billions of years for the spark of intelligence to ignite once more. We sailed the ocean of Space, but the chasm of Time is too vast to cross. We cannot join you in the future, for we are stuck near the dawn of creation. We are the first time the universe can experience itself, and we pray that we are not the last. No civilization can persist indefinitely, and so we leave this message to represent us in an era we cannot see. We leave this message so that you know that you have siblings among the stars. We are connected, not in Space, but in Time. We ask just one thing of you. Take this message with you until the end. Add onto it so that the ones that come after you know they are not alone. Hopefully then, we may be there after all. At the end, I mean. Every one who adds to this message will be part of one project. It would be like we all truly are standing side by side. And together, hand in hand, we will see the head of the arrow of Time.


Our goals never linger in the world’s mind. It’s our deeds that define us after death. And in my case, those deeds will be my doom. For those who don’t know, my name is Bassall and I am part of the royal guard. Tasked to protect the king of our peaceful land Treios. But this account is not concerned with my life as a warrior. But more so with what keeps me awake at night now and until my inevitable end. One night when I was on my patrol around the palace the alteration of my life occurred. The moon bright and blue flooded the city with its pure light. I was alone, taking the ordinary route like every night when I was to stand watch. A faint silhouette in the sky let me look up at the sky. There in the sky afront the bright moon, a figure approached. It floated gracefully towards the earth where I stood. Upon it drawing closer, I could see. A golden chariot, pulled by two majestic reddish-brown horses, carried a male figure. The authority in the strangers bearing let my spine stiffen. I did not dare to move nor turn away my attention out of fear that I might offend this noble visitor. Not a sound did the vehicle make and the animal’s hooves seemed to tread some invisible path in the air. Slowly the chariot came to a stop on the ground in front of me. The snorting horses with their jet-black mane needed a moment to calm down from their journey. With eyes like liquid fire, they looked at me once their legs would remain still. From behind them, out of the carriage stepped their master. The bronze skin showed a greenish tinge in the clear moonlight. Long, white garments floated in the gentle breeze. A magnificent girdle was wrapped around the abdomen, made of precious silk. Around his neck dozens of small pendants reflected the nightly shine, made of gold and jewels. The head was bare and bald, yet the black beard was artfully braided. It was a sight beyond fair and only my body being paralyzed by the man’s powerful demeanour, kept me from falling to my knees. “Are you Bassall, son of Meptuk?” The stranger asked in a voice both gentle and firm, pleasant to the mortal ear. Bereft of my voice, I nodded. But then remembered how to properly address such a person. “Yes, Sakraa,” I answered respectfully averting my eyes. Sakraa was the term our people used when addressing a person of high standing. Albeit I could tell. He was not just a person of high standing. He wasn’t even human. And as the man studied me for a moment, it dawned upon me whom I was facing. A disapproving sternness flamed up in the man’s eyes as he spoke again. “You can not fool me with your humble behaviour, Bassall.” With a motion of his hand the scenery around us changed. Gone were the chariot, the horses, the walls and palace. We were somewhere underground. The walls gave the impression of a cave. Brown, sandy rock crisscrossed by veins of white and red surrounded us. The great room was entirely illuminated by torches fastened to the walls. Despite the warm flames an eerie cold lingered in the place. In front of me on a high chair behind the bench sat the god which had brought me here. Apart from him, I saw no one else. Feeling a bit of courage rise at the sudden confusion I spoke up. “Where am I?” But my judge ignored me and instead boomed through the hall. “The trial has begun. I will call the first witness.” Witness, I hadn’t done anything wrong. And I certainly was not dead. With yet another wave of his hand, my judge summoned a column of light. Which after it had faded revealed a good friend of mine, who had died years back on the battlefield. I hadn’t been there when he had departed and my guts grew cold as I recalled the memory. “You have been called to testify against Bassall son of Meptuk, who faces judgement by the Gods.” My judge addressed the soul of the deceased, whom only looked at me with an expression of disbelieve. “Your honour,” my friend started but was cut short when the god spoke again. “Did or did not this man run from the battlefield as the fighting still raged on?” “He did, but…” Again, my judge silenced the witness this time by raising an eyebrow. Intimidated by the stare my late friend remained silent. “If I am not wrong, then the running from battle is an act of cowardice. Especially, when one’s own people still fight.” For a moment my judge directed his piercing eyes at me. With effort I suppressed a shudder. “Am I right,” he continued asking the witness. Yet instead of a single word, my friend took another approach. “The message he delivered saved the battle. He brought victory against the tyrant!” Defiantly the witness held the god’s stare, who seemed unsatisfied. “That was not the question. Your answer is not relevant.” “He is not a coward!” “Answer the question,” the judge said in an icy voice. “Is running from battle an act of cowardice?” My friend looked at me with mournful compassion before bowing his head in defeat. “It is,” he answered in a low tone. Without another word the witness was send back to wherever it had come from. Looming over me, my judge addressed me for the first time since the trial had begun. “Do you have anything to say, to your defence?” The gaze of his dark eyes burned itself into my soul as he dared me to speak. “I can’t be judged if I am not dead!” My voice was determined, yet I felt my legs slightly trembling. Leaning back in his chair the god’s features showed a faint, unsettling smile. “Let’s call the next witness, shall we?” He said with the familiar wave of his hand, whereupon another soul appeared. The face I now beheld turned the guilt I had felt before into hot rage. And I had to clench my fists in order to keep it inside. My judge once again explained the reason of the occurrence and the soul’s place in it. I didn’t listen, my thoughts were clouded and strayed through the mists of time. The old scars of my soul, long buried were ripped open again as memories of a bloody war entered my mind. A pointing finger, accompanied by the arrogant voice accusing me, brought me back to reality. “He betrayed me. Betrayed his land. By my honour, he is and always will be a traitor.” “You confirm that the accused did turn his back on the king to support another, who laid claim to the throne.” “He did not just support him. He built the rebellion from the very start. Traitors they are! Traitors all together!” Unable to contain my wrath I replied to the tyrant, who had almost destroyed our people. “You stole the throne! I supported the rightful heir to end your miserable rule leading us into doom.” “You are not permitted to talk without being asked,” my judge cut in with his cold voice. Once again, his eyes met mine, the anger burning in them reflecting my own. “How can you support him. You, king of the gods. You, who created the order of leadership.” I only managed to say as my world seemed to crumble. I almost expected lose the ground beneath my feet and to fall into bottomless darkness. But the god only regarded me with reproach. “It is not him, who is on trial. This is about *your* sins.” A last glance into the face of the soul, who had once been my king, revealed the tyrant’s satisfaction at my misery right before he too vanished again. This time I was not asked to defend myself. Without a word the third witness was summoned. I was not surprised at the next witness I faced. The last two witnesses' functions had shown me where this was going. And a sense of still certainty took hold of my soul. The kind of state of mind that lets the criminal seem calm as he faces the noose. This time my judge went straight to asking the question that would confirm the blackness of my character. I entertained the idea that he too was getting tired of the process. But too heavy was my heart to find any joy in the thought. For the trial had awakened many memories locked away by time. “Did Bassall son of Meptuk, murder you in the dark of night?” The god’s voice echoed through the room. The addressed man seized me with his cold eyes before nodding firmly one single time. “Do you have anything else to add,” the judge continued towards me. I didn’t turn away from the dead man’s gaze. The next words I spoke were not meant for the god. I am not even sure they were meant for the man I had killed so long ago. Perhaps it was just my rational sense rambling in order to assure my heart of the righteousness of the deed. “I do regret taking a life. But I do not regret the deed itself.” My voice sounded more confident than I felt. Yet the familiar rage shimmered through the guilt the longer I locked eyes with the witness. My legs grew weak when the soul was sent back to the land of the dead, only my strong will kept me standing. “Are we done now?” I asked the deity boldly, only halfway concealing my weariness. I was aware of the futility of such a question, but I feared I might break down if I was supposed to endure more. Everyone has things he wished had not been done. There’s nothing more painful than being called out on those failures. “Bassall, son of Meptuk,” he boomed again with authority. “You have been found to be a coward, a traitor and a murderer. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” I closed my eyes for a moment upon reflecting on the truth in those words. Bowing my head, I only muttered. “No, your honour,” a heavy stone had formed in my stomach and dragged me down to the cold, stony ground. I grinded my teeth as I awaited my sentence. “Then I sentence you hereby to death. Your fate lies now in the hands of Anubis.” Out of nothing the ground started to shake, when from beneath something broke through the earth’s surface. With a spinning motion, too quick for the mortal eye to perceive, appeared another deity. Standing right next to me, the jackal headed god took a pair of scales. With long steps he strode to the bench, placing the instrument on it. A feather was placed in one of the scales. Cutting his yellow eyes to me, Anubis approached. I swallowed hard but unnoticed as his hand reached out and pierced my chest. Taking my heart without causing me any pain, Anubis placed it on the other side of the instrument. For a moment nothing happened, then the feather sank down. And yet, right before remaining still. My heart heavily burdened by my conscience, outweighed the feather. A clattering sound echoed through the hall as the scale carrying my heart hit the bench. Four eyes pierced my very being, a snarl turned the jackal’s face into a grimace. “Guilty,” he growled. At that moment my warrior’s sense suddenly perceived a presence behind me. Whipping around I saw; the jaws of a crocodile greeted me with a broad smile. The wide eyes showed two slitted pupils gleaming with glee. The thick lion mane concealed most of the body facing me, the front legs showed sharp and crooked claws. I would die there. Right there and then. Like lightning, the thoughts crossed my mind, urging me to act. For even if the courtroom was closed and thus a cage. I had still my sword and my wit to find a way out. Swiping her tongue around the vicious teeth, Ammit opened her maw. I faced gaping emptiness, a realm devoid of sense, emotion or sanity. Every hair on my body stood up as a shiver covered my entire body, resulting in a violent trembling. Hopelessness suddenly paralyzed my spirit. Cold despair I hadn’t felt in the darkest of times in my life. Its arms reaching for my soul to drag me into the depths of Ammit’s stomach. Or where the stomach was supposed to be. Wails of agony made my ears ring and the stench of rotten flesh stung my nose. Accompanied by the typical rusty smell of blood. Perhaps if it wouldn’t have been for that reek I might not have been freed from my state of numbness. With one motion I drew my sword and jumped on top of Ammit’s head. Thrusting my blade through her jaws I forced her maw shut and to the ground. Fixated by the blade she continued launching at me with her hideous claws. The crocodile tail lashed around violently trying to hit me as well. But it was useless, I was in the dead spot and out of her reach. Looking at the two gods observing the fight I pleaded, “I am not trying to escape my fate. I know I will pay, just not today. I can’t die now!” Beneath me Ammit still growled and spat, while the others cast each other meaningful glances. Desperately I waited for an answer to either break free or be forced to accept my doom. By the time Ammit finally managed to throw me off, not Anubis nor Osiris had spoken a word. Taken by surprise I was unable to soften the impact and lost consciousness upon hitting the ground. I awoke outside with the full moon in the sky. Next to me the palace’s walls reached into the sky. I rubbed the back of my head, where a dull throbbing made itself noticeable. When the next guard took over and relieved me of my duty, I became aware of my missing sword. The realisation hit me like a rock, it hadn’t been a dream. A lie I had told myself after waking up to calm my irrational sense. But it hadn’t, remembering how Anubis ad taken my heart I made attempts to find my pulse. There was none. Had I escaped the gods? Or was it just a cruel joke from their side? Without a heart, I couldn’t die. I would be on their mercy until they decided to take me. The full moon fills me with dread. Once the light had felt pure, but now he seems to leer at me every night. Waiting for me to beg. In my dreams I see the dark abyss in which death is wafting in the air. And I think I might go mad from the knowledge of my fate. More often than not I long for it. For a soul corrupted by madness can not fear nor feel its annihilation. Coming home I took a moment to observe my sleeping daughter. After her mother, my wife was murdered she had lost everything. I am the only thing she has left. For her sake, I have to endure.


Short story, memoir. (My first one!) “HIM” Those 80s high school dances will forever be etched in my memory. Whenever I reminisce about those dances, my mind immediately wanders to a particular guy that I had an enormous crush on. Although HE didn't know me, I couldn't help but admire HIM and eagerly anticipate seeing HIM at every dance. HE was tall and athletic, with strikingly blond layered hair combed to the side that seemed to catch the lights in a way that made it shimmer and shine. HIS blue eyes were piercing, and I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my chest whenever I caught a glimpse of HIM. I was too intimidated to even approach HIM. After high school, I attended some classes at a local junior college, and one day, my heart skipped a beat when I saw HIM walk into one of my classes - we were both enrolled! HE exuded an effortless coolness as HE leaned back in HIS chair at the back of the room, HIS long and muscular legs stretched out in faded denim jeans. However, HE still remained oblivious to my existence. A year later, I transferred to a state college, and fate intervened when I ran into HIM at a bar with HIS friends while hanging out with my roommates. I couldn't believe it - we had met again! This time, I mustered the courage to introduce myself to HIM and strike up a conversation. It felt like we hit it off, bonding over our shared hometown and high school experiences. I felt breathless as I gazed into HIS icy blue round eyes, which seemed to pierce through me with their intensity. The contrast between HIS sharp, angular jawline and the softness of HIS eyes made HIM all the more striking. I couldn't help but marvel at how easy it was to talk to HIM. We laughed and joked, and talked for hours. It was a feeling of pure connection that I had never experienced before. And as the night wore on, I found myself growing more and more comfortable in HIS presence, grateful for another chance encounter that had brought us together. Later that night, HE and HIS friends came over to our apartment, and I was excited to spend more time with HIM and get to know HIM better. Maybe this was fate finally working in my favor, I thought. Unfortunately, their visit was cut short when one of HIS friends had to abruptly leave, and HE left after him into the parking lot. "I'm sure HE will be back," I told myself. Suddenly, I heard some commotion outside my kitchen window and discovered HE and HIS friends stealing our mini grill and other items off of our patio while laughing arrogantly. Minutes later, when I went to our bathroom, I discovered that HE had rifled through our vanity and taken my watch and other valuables. It was a bitter realization that someone I had longed for and dreamed of was nothing more than a callous jerk. MY memories of him surface from time to time, but I learned that sometimes the person we've been longing for turns out to be the last one we should have been chasing.


“Freak!” “Look at her!” “Hey, ever seen a comb?” she hurled a brush at me. This is what it’d been like ever since I joined the new school. They didn’t like my teeth, because they were too long. They didn’t like my hair, because it was too unruly. They didn’t like my face, because it was too ugly. They didn’t like my voice, because it was too harsh to be a girl’s voice. They didn’t like my clothes, because they were too old. They didn’t like me, because I wasn’t like them. I walked home, sweat running down my back and drenching my clothes. My vision swam. I could still hear them laughing. The laugh echoed in my head, growing louder and louder, drowning out the noise on the road. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to walk in once more and be met by an empty house, my father off on another of his “errands”, after which he would come back and hurl things around, destroying our house. *His* house, actually, as he so often reminded me. So I sat down on the footpath, my vision growing more and more blurred, which is why I didn’t at first notice the wetness on my hand. When I did, I flinched and pulled away, rubbing my eyes. As my surroundings came into view, I saw him. He, too, had scars on his body. One of his ears seemed to have a chunk missing. He moved closer and licked my hand again. He’d lost his fur in some places. But his eyes, they were the first thing I saw. They were bright and shone with the innocent spark of hope and trust that reminded me of a photo- the only photo I had- of me as a baby. I took it out of my pocket, the little yellowed piece of glossy paper. I’d torn my father out of it years ago. There it was, that spark of hope, the spark that had shivered and died when I saw my mother beaten to death with a bottle when I was three. I never even got to know her. All I knew was that one day she was back, and my father didn’t like that. The dog cocked his head at my sob. I patted his head. He flinched slightly at my touch, then lay down on the dusty footpath and leaned into my leg. I chuckled and resumed patting him, my hands becoming dirtier with every stroke. “Where have you come from?” I whispered, smiling. In response, he exposed his belly for me to rub. I felt a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I turned around. A woman was watching me. Her dark eyes seemed to bore into me, to search my soul, to look into the deepest recesses of my heart. I wiped my eyes self consciously. No one seemed to notice her except for me. People walked within two inches of her, oblivious to her existence. But then again, who noticed the crying nine-year-old on the footpath either? She smiled at me and gestured for me to come to her. The dog licked my hand again. I stood up, then hesitated. She nodded at me encouragingly. I moved forward, the dog padding along behind me. She whispered to me. I frowned. “Sorry?” “You never know…” I moved closer. Her words, the way she spoke, seemed to draw me in. “You never know what you are capable of…” she said, hesitating. She looked around. Still, no one had noticed our strange interaction. “Yes?” She leaned forward. “Till you have truly known love,” she whispered. “What do you-” I stuttered as she walked away and turned the corner. I hurried after her. “I don’t-” I started, turning after her. She was nowhere to be seen. I turned around, almost expecting the dog to be gone too, and for this to be another of my daydreams. But he was there, wagging his tail at me, his tongue hung out in a grin. I sat on the footpath, the dog lying beside me, and did my homework till the light faded. From then on, I had a friend. I named him Phoenix. I took him to the public tap once a week, drenched him, much to his annoyance, and wiped him out with an old shirt of mine. Soon enough, his skin started to improve and his fur started growing back. Every day, when I came back from school, he was there. Waiting. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. We sat on the footpath, me doing my homework or studying, Phoenix romping or taking a nap. We scrounged the trash cans for food, sometimes sharing it, sometimes fighting for it. Every so often, I snuck him home when my father went out, and we shared my bed and took a nap. We’d go to little shops, Phoenix waiting outside, and I’d buy us bread with money I’d steal. He licked away my tears when I came to him after getting beaten by my father. I told him all about myself, about my childhood, my school, my lack of friends, everything. And he was there. Listening. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. I grew up. Phoenix grew old. Side by side, together, we journeyed the twisted path life lays out for everyone. And my path was slightly brighter because Phoenix was with me. But life always throws in that unexpected curveball every once in a while. For me, that unexpected curveball came on my seventeenth birthday. As usual, I went to school in my same old clothes (nothing new there) and nobody even knew it was my birthday. Except for Phoenix, of course. That morning, he’d romped beside me as I went to school, just like Mary’s proverbial lamb. He always knew. As soon as the bell rang to go home, I grabbed my bag and made a beeline for the exit. I almost ran home, imagining Phoenix’s face when he saw me. We always bought something extra special on my birthday. But when I reached my street, panting, and looked around, nobody was there. “Phoenix?” I whispered, grinning. Nothing. “Stop playing games, joker,” I said, raising my voice. And then I heard it. A whine. Phoenix? I repeated, my amusement now turning to dread. Another whine. I ran across the street. There, in the alley opposite, lay Phoenix. His legs were twisted grotesquely, and his head had been bashed in. Nearby lay a bloody metal rod. I dropped my bag and sank down onto my knees. “Who did this?” I asked, my eyes filling. He whined, then wagged his tail one last time. And then the spark in his eyes was gone. Nobody was there. Nobody saw my most loyal, my *only,* friend die. It was just me, and the roaring in my ears that didn’t seem to cease. It was like the night the spark died, all over again. But Phoenix, he didn’t give me a spark. He’d ignited a flame. And it was gone. My best friend was gone. Wiping my tears, I scrounged for a kerchief in my bag. And there, to my left, lay an all too familiar green bottle. My mind went blank. I didn’t even notice picking up my bag and walking. One moment I was holding Phoenix, and the next, I was walking into my house. My father lay on the couch, the same green bottle in his hand, chugging for all he was worth. “Hey…dad.” “What, you need something? Since-since when d’you call me *dad?”* “A stray dog, uh, passed away. Did you- did you see what happened?” There was a pause. “Oh, that son of a bitch? Yeah,” he slurred, “Yeah, he was barking at me ‘cause- ‘cause- I dunno, ‘cause he’s a little bitch. So I took care of him.” “You- you killed him because he *barked at you*?” “Yeah, yeah he- wait, why you care about some stupid *dog?”* “He was- HE WASN’T A STUPID DOG! HE WAS MORE OF MY FAMILY THAN YOU ARE!” He stood up, but I didn’t care anymore. “You really think you’re gonna yell at me in *my own house?* You ungrateful little-” he hurled his bottle at me. It shattered on the wall behind me. “I raised you! Your mother was a bitch too, like you, wasn’t she? Didn’t want nothing to do-” “She came back, though didn’t she?” “I RAISED YOU! I WAS YOUR FATHER, YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING-” “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” He picked up a bottle and advanced on me. By impulse, I ducked down, my hands searching the ground. I got up. There was a resounding crash as he hit me with the bottle, just as I spliced his neck open with a shard of glass. And there, lying on the ground, bleeding, darkness eating at the corner of my vision, I understood. “You never know what you are capable of… till you have truly known love.” I love you, Phoenix.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: The advertisement seemed too good to be true.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Story begins and ends with a question. This week’s challenge is to use the above prompt as inspiration for your story. Feel free to **interpret the prompt as you like**, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth extra points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | **50** pts | | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts (unless noted otherwise) | | ***Actionable* Feedback** | **15** pts each (up to 75 pts) | | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | | **Bay’s Nominations** | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts | | **Submitting Nominations (voting for others)** | **10** pts | *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings With just 5 stories posted to last week’s thread, there just weren’t enough stories to create a fair ranking spread. So, the podium goes to just one author this week! *Please be aware that starting this week, we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.