In a distant time, in a distant place, there lived a very old eagle. The eagle had lived a long life, but always thought that he was still a young bird. When his feathers turned ragged and gray, he insisted it was just dirt. When his beak and talons weathered away, he blamed the rocks of his nest for dulling them down. When his wings grew too frail to fly, he lied and said that he no longer wished to soar the winds. The eagle refused to accept his age and pass on, even after all of his other animal friends had gone away. Rhino. Elephant. Giraffe. Lion. All of them were gone now, but the Eagle was stubborn, and stayed. Every day, the eagle would take the long walk down the cliff to the murky watering hole nearby where he would take a drink out of his broken beak, and use his dull talons to dig through the dirt for worms. One such day, the eagle was dragging his talons through the mud when a dragonfly flew out from the marsh. "Sir eagle, I see you here every day but I must ask- why do you dig for our worms when there are rabbits that run through the fields?" "Because..." Began the eagle. "The rocks of my nest have broken my talons. I cannot hunt for rabbits anymore. I can only dig for easier prey." The dragonfly landed on a nearby rock. "That may be so, sir Eagle, but why do you drink from our murky waters? Surely there are many more ponds with fresh, clean, water to drink." "I do not wish to fly anymore." The eagle lied. "I grow tired of the winds and want to walk the earth. This is the nearest pond to my cliff, even if the waters are murky." The dragonfly hovered behind the eagle. "There is no need to lie, Eagle. Your feathers tell the truth. You are as gray as a thunderstorm, and your wings are brittle like dried grass." "I do not lie, insect. My feathers are simply coated in dust, and my wings are as strong as they could ever be. Do not insult me again or I will eat you like these worms." The dragonfly hovered upwards, out of the eagle's reach. "You may try, eagle, but we both know that it is not in your power to succeed. You may have been the hunter of the skies many seasons ago, but now you are weathered and aged. It is time to move onto the land beyond the horizon." The eagle began walking back to his cliff. "I am not an old bird like you suggest. I am noble, strong, and proud, and have many more years left." The dragonfly followed the eagle as he began walking up the cliff path back to his nest. "You are designed to fly and hunt down your problems, not run and hide from them. Do not keep tricking yourself into thinking you are a hatchling anymore." "I know that I am no longer a chick, but I have no intentions to lie down and die." The eagle crossed a log but was halted by the dragonfly blocking his path. "You need not lie down, sir eagle. I simply ask that you understand where you came from. Do you have children?" "Yes." Said the eagle, pushing past the dragonfly. "They travelled north towards more bountiful lands." "And how about a wife?" "Once, but no longer." The dragonfly hovered around the eagle's head. "What of your friends within the savannah?" "They too travelled beyond the horizon many seasons ago." The dragonfly dared to perch upon the eagle's feathered skull. "So you are the last member of your life, eagle?" "Yes." "Then why fight destiny? Why must you cling to a world for which you may provide nothing more? Your legacy will be carried on by your children, and their children, and their children's children. The scratch marks of your talons amongst these stones will forever tell your stories, long after you are gone. You have ensured that the world will remember you, so I ask again: why must you keep walking across the earth instead of soaring the skies beyond the horizon?" As they crested the edge of the rock and entered the eagle's nest, the eagle looked around. His grey, weathered feathers adorned the ragged mess that were the remains of his nest. He did not have the means to repair it, but as the twigs and branches fell away, he could recall distant, faint memories. His wife, with her beautiful feathers. The pair of eggs that sat in the center of this very nest so, so long ago. His friends that would look up towards the rocks and cheered when he flew down to meet them. The eagle's old eyes narrowed as he looked at the dragonfly. "Because I am afraid, dragonfly. I do not wish to forget the wonders of my life. They are the feathers that I scatter among the winds. They are the sun and moon, the stars in the night, and the clouds in the sky. They are my heart, my soul, and everything I was, am, and ever will be. I am afraid that if I move on beyond the horizon, I will lose my memory of everything that gave my life purpose." The dragonfly flew towards the nest, perched at the edge of the rock, and stared towards the sunset. "Sir eagle, there is not much more time for you to remember. I will not claim to know what lies in the land beyond the horizon, but I do know this. If you truly wish to remember, then those memories will never fade. In every world, in every life, you will always have the wonders of your life with you. They will stay in your heart, and move with you wherever you may fly. They will love you as much as you love them, and will never, ever let you forget them." The dragonfly turned to look at the eagle. "Everything that the light touches will eventually crumble in time, but love and memory will persist beyond every obstacle. If you wish not to forget, then you will always have what matters most wherever you go." The eagle stepped forward and ruffled a few feathers. "Then what do you suppose I should do next?" "Fly to the horizon, and proceed to the land that beckons you." "But I cannot fly! My wings are too brittle, my feathers too frail!" "You can." Said the dragonfly, who began hovering in the air. "When fate beckons, the breeze will carry you where you need to go. All you need to do is spread your wings, remember what matters most, and let the winds take you beyond the sunset." As the dragonfly smiled, gave a wink, and buzzed away down the rocks, the eagle took another step forward until his dull, broken talons scraped at the edge of the cliff. He felt the breeze pick up around him, and he flexed his frail wings. For the first time in many, many seasons, he was not afraid of falling. As the wind caught his feathers, they scattered amidst the gust and blew into the shapes of his wonders: His wife. His friends. And not now, but maybe later, after many more seasons have passed, his children. They all beckoned to him, and a smile crossed the eagle's face as he let the breeze lift him into the sky. While his wonders fluttered around him, he too danced in the wind and let out a mighty screech to join in their song of rest. The horizon grew closer, though the eagle's fears didn't return. He may have been on his last flight, but he flew all the way home.


"Never forget,” is the mantra of that day. These 33 eighth graders from Duke Ellington Middle School, wandering through the newly opened museum dedicated to that day, will never forget- because they never remembered in the first place. They were only one. The youngest were still crawling, unable to communicate in anything but babble. The oldest were running, jumping, talking, even beginning to count. But they were all one-year-olds on that infamous day twelve and a half years earlier, and as such, have never known the world to be any different than it is now. Airport security has always been a hassle, terrorism has always been an omnipresent threat, and there has always been an eerie solemness over the first few days of the school year. Zara is one of the oldest, nearly two then and already fourteen now, but she has no better memory of that day than any of her classmates do. According to her parents, she'd had her own commentary on the events of that day as they unfolded: "What happen?", “I scared", and "no go, Daddy". She had started talking quite early, though, and ever since she has always been either the loudest person in the room or the quietest- no in between. Today she is the quietest; she lags at the back of the small group she has been assigned to, following her classmates as though not quite certain of where she is or what she is doing. She flinches slightly whenever a particularly distressing image comes up, but although her teacher has asked twice if she is okay, all she says is, "I'm fine"- an utterance so simple that she could have formed it on that day. The other students share generic answers to the generic worksheet that they were given, but there is no joking or teasing like there usually is. Even though they were only one, they know how serious this event was, and they know that any idiot who decides to joke about it will be reprimanded and shunned. They will all be obnoxious kids again the second they leave, but they are all able to feel faint stirrings of sadness about this event, although they were only one. Zara feels everything more intensely than average- another eight years will go by before she has a diagnosis for this- but even knowing how she is, her near complete silence today has baffled her teachers and peers. She has a piece of paper folded up in her coat pocket, which she occasionally takes out and examines for a few seconds. Her friend Jessica glances over and is able to catch a glimpse of it- a photograph, an old one but not black-and-white old, of three young men and two young women standing on a pier with the then-standing towers in the background. One of the women looked quite a bit like a grown-up version of Zara, about ten years older or so. “Who's that?” Jessica asks, but Zara immediately folds the photo back up and puts it away, so she decides not to ask again. The group comes upon two recording booths, where people can record their own memories of that day and have their stories become part of the museum. The students pay no attention to it- it’s not on their worksheet, and there are no memories that they can share because they were all only one. Jessica feels a tap on her shoulder. “I’m going to stay here for a bit,” Zara says. The rest of their group has gone on to the next exhibit, but Jessica can copy their answers later anyway. “Okay,” she says. Zara waits in line, and Jessica awkwardly lags behind, wondering what someone who was only one could possibly have to say about that day. She hopes the crueler boys in their class don’t see this; they bully Zara because her sensitivity makes her an easy target, and she doesn’t want to have to go to the guidance counselor's office to support her when they return to school- it seems that Zara ends up in the guidance counselor's office quite often these days. There is a vacancy in one of the booths, and Zara quickly fills it. She hesitates for a moment, taking the picture from her pocket. She places her finger over the image of one of the men, the one standing next to the woman who resembles her. With her unsteady hand, she presses the record button. “Hi, Mr. Goldstein,” she says. “It’s Zara. Robyn’s baby. Well… Robyn's *daughter*. I'm obviously not a baby anymore.” Jessica remembers that when the class was walking around the memorial pools outside, Zara stayed in one place for some time, her finger on one of the names engraved in the marble. The name was Mark Goldstein. On the permission slip each student had been given for this trip, it asked whether their family had been personally affected by the tragedy- if they had been, they could choose to stay home, or they could choose to show up and be treated with kid gloves the entire day as though it would make the slightest bit of difference. Everyone had shown up, and no one had been treated with kid gloves, so the assumption had been that this trip would be a more contemporary version of a trip to the Holocaust Museum or Arlington National Cemetery- a place of education and solemn respect, but not of personal pain. "I'm sorry that I don't remember you," Zara says. "I wish I could. Mommy says my personality reminds her of you- maybe that's because you were a preemie, like me. She says that, when I was a baby, I was afraid of most people that weren't her and Daddy, but I liked you. Maybe I knew somehow that the both of us were miracles." Zara takes a shaky breath that sounds more like a sob. "She says that, when I was little, I used to tell her stories about a man that comforted me at night when I was scared. I told her that he said he and I were special so he had to protect me. The older I get, the harder it is to believe in stuff like that, but… maybe that really was you. I always felt so affected by what happened here- not just to you, but to everyone- even though I was only one when it happened. After all, the youngest person who lost their life here was just a few months older than I was. Her name was Christina, I think- the same name as my best friend from elementary school. She... she was on the plane that... that killed you." The rest of the group have come back to see where Zara and Jessica have gone, and now, unbeknownst to Zara, are listening as she talks to the first of many missing people in her young life. "Uh... I'm starting high school this year," Zara says. "Lilac is starting college. She's going to Columbia- she wants to be a lawyer. She said that she promised you when she was little that she was going to go there one day. She's so happy, but… it still hurts her that you're not around to see it." There are a few older teenagers, alumni of Duke Ellington Middle School, who sometimes meet Zara after school, and Lilac is one of them- a highly animated redhead who always wears an American flag-shaped locket around her neck. Now it is apparent why. “Mommy told me about the bombing… the first bombing,” Zara goes on, “how The Five were all trapped in an elevator when it went off, and you all pried the elevator door open to get out. Mr. Smith and Mr. Bates said that, because you all found a way out once, when the towers fell, they told themselves that you must have found a way out again. But there was no time- the plane crashed right into ParkShed's offices. Eleven employees inside at that moment, and eleven names on this memorial. If they hadn't both been running late to work that day… it would be thirteen, and I wouldn't have any memory of them either." She is starting to cry. “I didn't see much of them or Ms. Baxter when I was little. The ParkShed Five couldn’t bear to face the fact that they were The ParkShed Four now. But when Mommy got sick, they started coming by again, because they didn't want to meet for the next time as the ParkShed Three…" A third of Zara’s class is now watching from a tentative distance, and other museum-goers are beginning to notice as well. It is far from the first tragic spectacle that has happened in this museum, and it will be far from the last, but moments like these are always far more impactful than any artifact pulled from the rubble. “A few months ago, we found out that Mommy’s tumor is growing again,” Zara says. “She doesn’t remember much anymore, but she still remembers you. She… she doesn't have much of a filter anymore either, so she’ll just blurt things out to me that I don’t think she would tell me if she was all there. We were talking about love the other day, and she… she said that she's been in love with three men in her life, and that… just one is still alive. I assume the living one is Daddy, and I know the man she dated right before him died last year, but I wondered… I found this picture, and… I noticed that she's looking at you in the same way that she looked at Daddy in their pictures later. I always knew she'd loved you, but… I never would have thought it was because she was *in* love with you once." Zara's hands tremble so much that she can barely hold the picture. "That would explain a lot," she says. "If part of her was still in love with you all along. But it wouldn't even matter now. You're gone. You've been gone. But sometimes she doesn't even remember that. Sometimes she’ll get confused and think you’re still alive, that none of it happened. Yesterday she promised to take me to Windows on the World one day, and I didn't even bother reminding her that it's gone. She forgets that Grandma and Grandpa are gone now, too. Every time someone reminds her that they’re gone, or that you’re gone, she cries like she just found out. She forgets so much, but when she forgets you, we’ll know it's over. But when she forgets you, it won’t matter anymore…” The recording has shut off, but no one dares to move. Zara’s sniffles turn to sobs. “...because when she forgets you… it won’t be long until you’re together again.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 850 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Innocence! | This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘innocence’. Two weeks ago we took a look at guilt, and what that meant for your characters and the world around them. So, let’s flip that. What happens when one of the innocent are pulled into the storm, punished even, for the crimes of another? Who is to be believed in this situation? What happens to a person’s trust in their friends, their family, their system? Do they stand strong, ready to fight injustice with everything they have, or do they give up, feeling broken and defeated? We, as people, often feel guilt, even when the events aren’t necessarily our fault. But how does that affect someone internally? Externally? How does this change someone? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure.   *** #Theme Schedule: - September 11 - Innocence (this week) - September 18 - Jealousy - September 25 - Knowledge   *** **Most Recent Themes:** | | | | | ***   #Rules & How to Participate Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for participation! - **Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, set in your self-established universe. Use to check your wordcount.** Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. If you’re continuing an in-progress serial (not on Serial Sunday), please include links to your previous installments. - **Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the start of Campfire. Late entries will be disqualified. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to recognize your serial and add each chapter to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. (Please note: You must use this same title every week.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You’re welcome to do outlining and planning for your serial, but chapters should not be pre-written. All submissions should be written for this post, specifically. - **Only one active serial per author at a time.** This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **All Serial Sunday authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s one comment on two different stories).** The feedback should be **actionable** and include something the author has done well. You have until **Saturday at 11:59pm EST** to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our crit sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Weekly Campfires & Voting: - **On Saturdays at 1pm EST, I host a Serial Sunday Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud, hear others, and exchange feedback. We have a great time! (And Campfire is feedback is worth extra points!) You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Grab the “Serial Sunday” role on the Discord to get notified before it starts. - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** Celebrate your accomplishment! Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information.   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points (but its interpretation is entirely up to you)! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by other users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Actionable Feedback:** - Thread feedback (at least 2 required) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) **Nominating Other Stories:** - Voting for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) **Looking for more on what actionable feedback is?** Check out or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | |   *** #Rankings for “Heartbreak” - **First place:** - by u/Zetakh   - **Second place:** - by u/mattswritingaccount   - **Third place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Loki_7000   *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and a few other fun events! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I hung out with my sister today. My sister and I met at the entrance to the cemetery today. We don't hang out a lot, but once a month we make our way, walking miles through the silent twists and turns to the mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery. "How's the last month been? Any news?" she asked as she picks at her split ends. At this moment, I am very jealous of her luscious hair. "Fine" I say, dodging a stick in the middle of the path, trying not to embarrass myself. We typically have to fit the last month of our lives in the short window. We try to keep the updates brief, making sure not to reminisce. I love my sister, but reminiscing hurts too much. Despite our long, hard lives, she looks youthful - her skin less weathered by the sun as opposed to mine, which is covered in sunspots and wrinkles. I’ve aged a lot in the past few years. “How are the kids?” I ask her. Her kids are teenagers now, I take a second to consider that I should stop calling them kids, but the thought quickly dissipates. “I don’t see them too much, unfortunately. You know how teenagers are, always so wrapped up in their own lives. I’d like to say I taught them well, but Mike has always been the strong one. I don’t know how he does it somedays.” “Mike is a good man,” I respond, “and you’re a great mother, Millie” She looks at me with doe eyes as we continue on the path. “No one talks about how hard it is to watch your kids grow,” I turn to her, “just last week my Sara turned 13. She’s starting middle school. At least I get to see this graduation.” She sighs but doesn’t continue the conversation. I think it’s hard for her, too, and I understand. The usual suspects are out and about. The graveyard keeper waves, and I wave back, still pouting from the thought of our kids getting older. The mausoleum comes into view. As we approach, she looks at me and asks “Do you remember the house we lived in growing up?” and I stop in my tracks. I did remember it, very well. We were poor, and we lived by the steel mill. “Yes – I do. Why do you ask?” I look at her, puzzled, as she breaks our unspoken rule. “Someone was dropped off here today and grew up down the road from us. I talked to them earlier today. They had the same brain cancer I did. I know our parents tried the best they could but living by the mill was bad news. I always knew it.” I burst out into tears. I didn’t want to tell her about the article that came out in the paper a few weeks before regarding recent deaths and how the families insisted a study be done on the drinking water in our hometown. We know enough now to know that the environment was the cause of her brain cancer, but that didn’t need to weigh on her. I continued to walk into the mausoleum. I turned to the spot where she stood to tell her that my chemo was unsuccessful, and I’ve only been given a few months to live, but she no longer stood there, her spot replaced with a chill. I walk to the grave on the wall and read the engraving. “Camilla Teeter – Mother, Wife, Sister, Friend. Fighter.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I 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: Summer has (mostly) come to an end, school is back in session, and the weather is cooling. is on its way! Let’s get into the season with a bit of story fun. **Simple Prompt: And just like that, summer fell into autumn.** **Bonus:** Include at least 3 of the following in your story. Points will be awarded for each included action/item. **Note: You do not have to include them all.** | Included Item or Action| Points| |:--:|:--:| |The smell of apples | 1 pt. | | A ball is thrown | 1 pt. | | An oversized sweater is worn | 1 pt. | | The color orange | 1 pt. | | The word “stuffed” | 1 pt. | | A pencil breaks| 1 pt. | | A family recipe is used/mentioned | 1 pt. | | A friendly deer| 1 pt. | | The sound of crinkled leaves | 1 pt. | |A character who dislikes the cold | 1 pt. | | A bittersweet moment | 2 pts. | | A pumpkin patch | 2 pts. | | The feeling of nostalgia | 2 pts. | This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret it *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The bonus is worth an additional 15 points this week! But as always, it is not required, just a fun challenge. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (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 hold 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 Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/DailyReaderAcPartner - **Crit Star** - u/ANDR01Dwrites - **Crit Star** - u/katpoker666 *Crit Stars: Don’t forget in order to receive your credits, you also must have made at least one post on WPC *or* have linked your reddit account to the sub on our .* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


**If the Moon Was My Lover** "If the moon was my lover I'd never uncover My nakedness during the day. The sun might get jealous and angrily tell us to keep our love hidden away." **His Moon, His Lover** Jan the psychercosmemtolergist drank a drink and took a toke and swallowed a couple of pills. A computer was turned off, some clothes were installed, and keys were jammed into the right front pants pocket. A door was opened, the outside world tried to come in, but the inside world pushed it roughly back. A door was slammed, and Jan set off for a midnight rendezvous. Night had seen this scene many times before. She was warm, if breezy. Oak pollen was aggravating asthma and allergies all over the neighborhood, but especially here and now. Jan sniffed and his eyes watered, and he wondered if he would be dying soon. He put on his coronavirus mask. That seemed to help. The sky was scanned, though obscured by buildings and trees and dimmed by streetlights. "Where is she?" he wondered. "She better be there when I get there." And a couple of blocks passed by, unnoticed while preoccupations preoccupied and obsessions obsessed. A low wall caught his attention, blocking his way. There was a fence above it, with hedge behind. The cemetery fence was more decorative than effective, and the hedge had an almost imperceptible gap, well-known to Jan. He clambered through, and made his way to the willow tree. He was almost afraid to look, if she wasn't there he had no idea what he would do next. But the terrible dark shadow of the weeping willow betrayed her presence. His eyes were enraptured by the glory of her face. He removed his mask and his clothing, laid down in the grass, and let her have her way with him. In the morning, the sun angrily rose early, and burned Jan with his beams. The earth was soon covered with roiling rising breaths of steam, and Jan hastily wiped himself off with some dirt and leaves, got denakefied, and ran back home. **Are His Thoughts Trying to Kill Him?** He tried to lay down, but he thought of the moon, and got up to go to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet, but could not perform, because the thought of the moon left him impotent and constipated. So he took a shower, coming out still unclean, because he forgot to wash himself. He had no appetite left, except for her ladyship, so he turned on the news. It wasn't uninteresting, mostly about the latest atrocities of the pandemic. A commercial came on, allowing Jan to return to pondering about his experiences with and possible future with the moon. She of the cold dark sky, so bright herself, sensuous, loving........willing. It was Sunday, and psychercosmemtolergists never work on Sunday, unless they're on call, and Jan wasn't. Lurching back outside, distracted with lunar contemplations, he trod in some dog shit, and because he was wearing sandals it got all up between his toes. He barely noticed. On a bench waited his lovely soul mate, reeking irresistible perfume, and gazing at him with alluring eyes. He passed her by without a glance. In the cafe, a bird-like autistic child stared at him, while holding her nose and wrinkling her face in disgust. An overweight black lady, arms covered with ghetto tattoos, was busy emptying the trash can. She observed loudly, without looking his way "Man...something sure does stink around here!" Coffee cup in hand, he nearly got hit by the bus as he rushed across the street, headed to the nearby park. Two muggers tried to get his attention from an obscure alleyway. He passed them unaware. A poisonous snake slithered quickly out of the way, reluctant to bite the smelly poo-covered foot. He was thinking about the moon so much, you can imagine how it ruined his life. His friends and family feared he had become self-destructive or suicidal. No, what he had become was oblivious to that part of reality which wasn't the moon. But it was skin cancer that ultimately did him in.


“It - It tried to grab me dad, I swear it did”, Lloyd barely got the sentence coherently, he had begun to breathe heavily, and tears streamed from his face. “Lloyd, do you remember the story about the boy who called wolf?” “Ye-Yes dad, I’m - I’m sorry dad”, Lloyd had heard the story plenty of times at this point to get what he was hinting at. But it changed nothing, he knew that continuing would be useless. “Now get your things and go to your room, supper should be ready soon, alright bud?” Lloyd stood sniffling, tears still running down his cheeks and nose. He hung his head low, grabbed his precious notebook and pen, and marched up the stairs. He was careful not to upset his parents any further by putting his sadness into each one of the steps leading to the second floor and into his room. He got inside, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed, setting his notebook and pen beside him. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks, but the huffing had finally stopped. Heavy dark clouds were beginning to move into view outside. The sun cast its final red beams across the sky as it gave way to night and the oncoming storm. The wind had begun to pick up, swaying the branches and rustling the leaves of the willow outside his window. An occasional poke and scratch could be heard against the panes just as the rain began to violently pour and clank against the window. The willow was like no other he had ever seen; it overshadowed the house in both height and width, and it had grown so dense that the trunk could hardly be seen at any angle. The branches were like the arms of a giant octopus, waiting to snatch up its next meal and haul you up to its beaked mouth. Upside down, kicking, screaming, and crying, clothed, or unclothed, the creature would hardly care. It was cold and mindlessness way of its nature, it needed to eat, and some poor creature happened upon it. Sorry chump, wrong place, wrong time. Once you were over its beak, it would munch on you bite by bite. First hands, arms, until finally it-clunk. His notebook fell off the bed. He had been so enveloped by the oncoming storm and the willow that he hardly noticed one of his most prized possessions had just begun to slide off the bed. He froze, a slow slither begun to move behind him. His heart was racing, his breathing quickened, as he tuned his ears closer to the noise. It wasn't quite a slimy slither but-but dry. He placed his hands firmly by his sides on the bed. The thoughts darted quickly across his head. *Should I turn around?* *Should I run?* *Run as fast as I can down the stairs only to be told by my parents about the boy who called wolf?* His grip tightened around his mattress, pressing his feet more and more firmly to the ground. He turned around. CLAP. All was silent besides from his breathing and the outside world raining against his windowpane. A leaf floated gently down as if from the ceiling. Lloyd ran.


We are sheepherders existing in badlands at the foot of the mountains. In one season we take our sheep, friends we have known since forever, out into prairies bejeweled with carpeting of flowers purple, gold, yellow, white and blue. Everything changes, prairies dry up, then some of us go up different paths with different sheep into the mountains. My older cousin Lucy taught me how to love when neither of us had hair growing "down there." I am now a magnificent, slender, crazy young man. She is somewhat fat, thick hair collected into a piggytail as is the way of our people, popular with the everybody, but not on any boy's list of potential wives. I don't know why that should be, she is absolutely delightful. Her smile makes the wind laugh and her laugh makes the sheep pee. Although my mother and Lucy's father, my mother's brother, and indeed the whole tribe, would not approve of intimacy between relatives, still, since an early age, they have always arranged things for us to be together. When we were told to sleep out in the barn on a cold night when the house was full of guests, what must they have been thinking? Now that I am older, I realized how lucky it is that she did not get pregnant. And now, we are paired together again, to accompany some sheep 20 miles away, high up in a lonely area. There is an icy stream, craggy rocks, we sleep under the stars unless it rains, when we retreat into an ancient cabin full of spider webs. Lucy doesn't care for spiders, but me, I fear nothing! Not really much to do, chasing and controlling sheep is kind of challenging and entertaining. One night, while digesting our simple rabbit-onion-chile-cornmeal porridge, we began talking about the White missionary lady, and her mysterious preaching. I and the other men paid no attention to her nonsense about some White Man's book and ridiculous stories that clearly were impossible. There was this woman who claimed to have gotten pregnant without sex, and her son bragged he was a god! White people are stupid, none of the real humans would ever believe such fantasies. Lucy and a few other women, however, were tricked, and listened to the White woman's lies, and now the infection spread around the village like fleas on homeless dogs. So Lucy couldn't help but ask me, as a way to keep on talking before going to sleep in front of the campfire "Where is God I wonder?" Our shaman has told us the stories of our people. How the stars made love, and sent fairies to earth as raindrops, and the local goddess of the earth woke up, and the fairies grew up as maize. There is no single all-powerful "God," that would be an imbalance of power. What lightning bolt can claim to be "God" when it only exists a moment. What "God" is a fire, that burns out and becomes ash? Still, it is a fair question I suppose. "In the sky, obviously!" I retorted contemptuously. Lucy sighed, looking up at the stars, shimmering and shining magnificently in the cold dark moonless sky. "Where? I don't see him." "Him? No no, all the sky and the stars and the clouds, that is God!" "I just don't see it! I see the Plow, and the Bear and the Dog. But where is God?" I was beginning to like this game. "Ha ha ha, must be Father Sun and Sister Moon then!" Lucy shook her head, and closed her eyes. "No, the White lady said God is always with us. Father Sun leaves us every night! The White Lady said God is unchangeable. Sister Moon grows to a bright happy disk and shrinks to sad blackness, that is not unchangeable." I noticed some eyes gleaming redly up on some tree branch. "Look there, Lucy, there is God!" Lucy snorted. "No, that is only Cousin Porcupine, looking for food in the oak branches." I looked around. Down by the creek there was a rustling noise. "Quick, quick, over there!" I pointed. "Surely that is God!" Lucy stared with a frightened expression, squinting. "Oh, that is only Brother Coyote, following the scent of a rat." "I will show you exactly where God is, then Lucy, but you must promise to keep it a secret." She smiled, dreamily, as I stared into her eyes. "See, God is always there, if you know just where to look.


Four narrow walls frame the room, every visible surface covered by cheap, plastic padding. A compact screen sits embedded in the far end of the room. There was barely enough room to sleep, let alone stand. But, the Coffin House was all I could afford. At least until I could find work. Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead end job as a security guard at Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. Though in retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid corporate augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you paid until you died, and then they'd rip out your ware and slap it into the next schmuck. Better to live as a free man. Still, the streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. Especially with Locust mercenaries hot on my heels. But, I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. Not since I found a hole in the Combat Zone, outside the Sprawl. And I'd dug in like a tick. I hadn't left the room in days, not outside of using the bathroom down the hall. Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a passport, and be halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, and had one foot in the grave, surrounded by cheap gangers. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goons skull cracked open like a grape in a vice. Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent a message. Finally, the notification pings in my HUD. Before I can finish reading Dennis' message I'm halfway out the door. The smell cigarettes clings to the peeling wallpaper, the hallway just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shoots a glance. "Checking out, Nico?" "Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari." She grins, revealing a neon smile, her eyes shifting colors in time with her grill. "Be safe!" A frigid palor hangs above the city, as gusts of wind rip through the streets. Droves of beligerent citizens prowl the streets, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turn up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as fast as I discretely can. My head on a swivel, I pass through the alley and into the Bowels. Dennis' shop shouldn't be far now. A group of gangers eyes me from across the way, and sparks flicker along my cyber arm. 'Don't fuck with me', a message I do my best to project. They stare on, unflinching. I recognize their leathers:Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of it had been spent on a would be mugger, last week. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can see it. Smell it. They think I'm prey, a mark to be defiled and burgled. I slide into an alley, and take off. Before long I hear them behind me. Bullets tear through the air, and I do my best to weave. Pain shoots through my body, as one lands in my shoulder. "Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, maybe take a look at all those fancy augs!" I rip a brick from the wall, spinning into the throw. It connects, embedding itself one of the gangers chests. With a wet squelch he slumps over, and I dive for his gun. His body spasms as I rip the cheap assault rifle from his hand, and launch his soon to be corpse into his allies. The trigger compresses beneath my finger and I fill the alley with hot lead, sprinting away from the crowd. Within fifteen minutes, I lose the crowd. Ahead, I spot Dennis' shop. A small, ramshackle building constructed of refuse and detritus. A neon sign atop the door reads "General Store", flickering in and out. Relics of the 21st century fill the room, tapes and CD's filling display shelves alongside busts of retro celebrities. The scent of mildew and console duster hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of oil and sweat. I spot Dennis behind the counter, forty something, balding and rotund, he's clad in high fashion from several seasons ago. He looks nervous. "Nico! You made it." His eyes dart to the closet, then to me. I can hear it in his voice, he's afraid. "You got my new identity facilitated, then?" As I ask, I move nonchalantly towards the closet. I click on my thermal vision, and immediately pick up a heat signature, jammed inside. "Of-ofcourse, Nico." A stream of lead, pours across the room. I catch two bullets in the shoulder before I pivot away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. I poke my head out, and there the son of a bitch is. Seven feet tall, and chromed to the gills. The kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric augger blush. He sends another volley, and I dart to another shelf, hands fumbling for something of use. Finally, I find it. An industrial pry bar that looks more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatches a stack of buzz saw blades, chipped and pitted. Two blades find purchase in his rib cage. He sprays the assault rifle again, and this time he catches my leg. I see Dennis out of the corner of my eye, running to the door. The buzzsaw blade nearly tears his leg off, and soon the floors are slick with blood. He cries out. I force a chuckle. Soon I'm darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I'm not running head on into my death. He catches me again, twice more in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade takes his hand off. He scrambles, trying to shift his cover. But it's too late. The pry bar finds a home between his ribs. I leave him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood. "You fucked me, Dennis." "I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" His hand breaks beneath my boot, and a glob of spit finds his forehead. I grab an oily rag from the counter and stuff it inside his mouth. "Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?" "Some random street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream." I can barely understand him with the gag in his mouth. With a quick poke, the rag is lodged in his throat. I watch him struggle for air, turning blue while I douse the place in accelerant. The punk in the closet takes off, non verbally thanking me for his life. The flames dance beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I try to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I head back to Coffin House.


The five cent coin found himself in a dark void, the light of the living room shone in the distance of every direction. But the coin could not reach for it for he was just that. “Welcome,” whispered a gentle voice from above. The coin turned to the direction of the voice to see an unshapen mass, a shadow in the dark looming above. Rock solid and grey, the mass had surely been here since before the coin was minted. “Who are you and where have I fallen to?” Said the coin. He had never seen a place so hollow of life and light. “You have fallen behind the sofa, where all useless and unwanted things go. I was once gum, and you were once a coin.” The coin was aware that he was a coin, but the gum didn’t look like the pristine, powdered sticks of gum he had spoken to in the many pockets of jeans it had seen over the years. And she definitely lacked the fresh spearmint scent the coin had come to recognise. In fact, the wad of gum glued stuck to the underside of the couch smelt of nothing at all. The gum recognised the coin’s confusion and spoke; “I was once pristine like yourself, how I was created to be. Now, misshapen, and ugly, I have been extracted of any flavour I once held. I now spend my days here, with you.” The coin became a little duller after hearing this. To be created for a single use a single time is a most unfortunate fate to be handed. “With me?” Said the coin. “I may have fallen just as you, but my falling was not from a purposeful discarding but a small setback. An accident,” touted the coin, trying his best to conceal a wobble pushing its way into his words. The coin looked at the gum and then his own tainted, but otherwise acceptable sheen. Flecks of sand and animal hair jutted out from her bulbous skin like scabs, she was inedible. If anyone was to see her, or God forbid, accidentally feel her, they’d recoil away in utter disgust. He thought himself lucky. They sat in silence for a time, with no concept of day or night. The living room light was always on, always teasing in the distance. Any day now he would be found. Someone would find him under the couch in a desperate search for spare change and he would return to the coin purse again. He would change hands countless times, always with a handful of other, heavier coins than himself. Time went on and the coin’s grooves grew thick with muck and dust. Green oxidised flecks began to form around his rim that spread, plaguing his entire body with irreversible scars. There came a time when his numbered value was no longer decipherable. Occasionally something new would be lost behind the couch, the company was appreciated, though the Lindor wrappers weren’t much for conversation. The coin could hardly blame them, they of course were far less worldly than himself. And so the coin spent his time reminiscing on a life of travel and wonder that now felt so far away. He had been to many places, Before, he longed to be more, to hold the weight of a two dollar coin, the breadth of a fifty cent. Now he only wished to be spent at all. “Do you miss it?” “Sometimes.” She breathed a tender chuckle. “I am simply grateful not to be the dust bunny. He was created only of neglect.” The gum’s voice rasped, for she had not spoken much in a long while. “At least for a moment, fleeting as a poppy’s bloom, I was sweet.” “But you were so small?” “And you were not? I am not so sure of the price of gum nowadays, but it must surely be more than that of a five cent coin.” The coin had nearly forgotten just how unimportant he was. He was surprised at how seen this made him feel. A miniscule piece of a far greater whole, he realised that he had been *something.* And that *something* was small, and essentially obsolete. But a coin will always be a coin.


Chains wrapped around her arms holding her down, Chains wrapped around her throat keeping her in check, Chains around her body holding her still, chains tying her legs together making sure she doesnt run. Every move she makes is watched, be it slight movement or big movement. Always ordered around, told what to do, how to feel. I have only known her for a short time but I can see the chains holding her back. She shows a smile on her face when she is around people but I can see through it, the cold heartbroken eyes that are hidden behind a mask of smiles, The tears running down her cheeks. I want to help her, I can help her… I can't help her. She is too far from me. I won't be able to make it in time, but if I stop now who knows what might happen, I have to try, even if it hurts. I can't let her fall any further into the darkness. I asked her if she wanted to hang out after school today. Luckily enough she agreed! Now I just have to show her the light that is left in this cold world of darkness. Although I’m not too sure what exactly I'm going to do I know that making her happy will help. I took her to a theme park! We went on many rides and won her many prizes. It took a while but eventually I was able to see her smile. It was filled with tears and genuine laughter but it was beautiful. The genuine happiness on her face almost put me in tears too. I invited her out again to go someplace else to which she agreed. She came to school this morning with red marks and bruises on her, when I asked her what had happened she just said she had gotten attacked by bullies. I know she was lying but I can't bring it up. Bringing it up will only cause problems for her. For the past week I spent every day after school with her. Taking her out to places, watching movies together and eating lots of yummy foods together, It was the best. After school on friday she said she wanted to talk to me about something. So I suggested we head to the roof of the school. When we got there she broke down in tears telling me about the physical abuse she has had since growing up from her parents, The unrealistic expectations put on her by her parents, the emotional trauma they caused by their cold words and how although she has friends I am one of the only people she can consider an actual friend. She told me she was thankful for me spending time with her, but before she could say anything else I hugged her tightly, we embraced each other and I told her in a soft loving tone “Although there is much pain in the world everything will get better in the end, I understand your pain as I have gone through it all too. You may think about ending it here and there but I assure you there is much in this world to live for.” She then asks me “Can I live for you?, Can you show me the rest of the light in this world?’’ “I would love to but my time is already up.” I reply She looked up at me with a confused expression to which I smiled back at her and said “Unlike you I ended my suffering long ago, and I am only here now to make sure you don't make the same mistake.” She held me tightly while crying her heart out as I slowly start to fade away “I don't want you to go! I don't want to be left alone again!” she wailed I tell her not to worry that I will always be with her, as I point to her heart. I then hold her cheek and kiss her lips as I completely fade away into nothingness. As I am drifting off into an eternal slumber I think to myself, Did I save her? Will she find happiness again? Then a smile crosses my face as I realise how stupid I am for thinking I didnt.


Some people said it was a monstrous eel. Some people said it was a landlocked sturgeon, an ancient creature touched by **dark magic**. Others said it was some sort of mutant, an abomination that should never have been. All were agreed, however; fishing for the **demon fish** was **folly**. All were agreed that is, but one. A local businessman heard the tales: reports of ducklings sucked under Deepdale Pond’s surface, tiddlers hooked by local children plucked savagely from their lines. He suspected the demon fish was no more than a big pike. He took the other stories; whispers of a curse befalling anyone who hooked the demon fish, a darkness falling over them and their endeavours, as superstitious nonsense. The demon fish was a pike and the businessman was going to prove it. One Saturday morning the businessman – an experienced fisherman – set himself up on the bank of Deepdale Pond. The pond was big, more of a lake in truth, but he had the whole day to move up and down the waterside, to search for the monster pike in every reed bed and deep pool. Dog walkers, picnickers, children with dinky little rods, all asked the businessman what he was doing with such bulky tackle as they visited the pond throughout the day. When the businessman explained that he was out to catch the demon fish they warned him off his charge, but he would not be deterred. As night began to fall the businessman found himself fishless and alone by the waterside. But he wasn’t going to be beaten. All the visitors to the pond throughout the day, surely their clamour had simply put the big fish off? Spooked it into hiding? But now it was dark and calm the businessman might finally be able to claim his prize. Knowing now was his best chance, he reached for his bait box and attached the biggest, smelliest mackerel fillet he had onto his hook. He cast it out into the deepest part of the pond and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. A monstrous take and the businessman was in, line screeching from his reel as he fought to keep the beast at bay. It had to be the demon fish! Moving along the bank to get the best purchase and keep the fish away from snags, the businessman gave as good as he got. He wrestled the fish this way and that, all in an attempt to tire it. Minutes past, then an hour, then longer. Still the fish would not relent. The businessman even started to doubt the fish was a pike. Pike were ambush predators he knew – sprinters not distance runners. And this fish had serious stamina. Just as the businessman thought it would never give in, the fish finally allowed itself to be pulled towards the bank. Even in the darkness the businessman could see its immense flank break the surface; by far the biggest fish he had ever caught. But he couldn’t quite make out what the fish was. Just a couple of feet closer and he would have his identification. A few inches more, an inch, and then, *TWANG*. With one last burst of energy the fish powered towards the deep water and snapped the businessman’s line clean. Close, but not close enough. Back home and without an identification, witness or photograph, no one believed the businessman’s story. And that simply would not do. Not after all he’d been through. The next Saturday he was back with better tackle and more bait. But wherever in the pond he tried, and whatever bait he used, nothing. Night bought no bites either, nor did the next morning. So the next weekend he came back again, and the next, and the next after that too. Soon he found himself fishing the weekday evenings, and then during the weekdays themselves. His business began to dwindle, and then fail. He didn’t care, the demon fish had one over him and he needed to settle the score. His wife told him he was becoming obsessed, she left him. That didn’t matter, the fish was more important. Soon the businessman was spending more time at the pond than anywhere else, all to no avail. Next he stopped sleeping, eating, all to give himself more time with a bait in the water. It couldn’t go on. Finally, sick with exhaustion, the businessman collapsed by the side of the pond. A dog walker found him the next day and, half-dead, he was rushed to hospital. The **demon** fish had **won again**.


I went to the corner convenience store with a $20 bill in my pocket and an urge for some Doritos and a Snickers bar. Who knew that a single trip as insignificant as that would send me down a rabbit hole so deep I would spend years climbing out. There I stood, staring at the frosted over freezer door, the florescent tube inside flickering as they do, wondering why I was so mesmerized by it. I initially had my back to the door, trying to decide between Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese Doritos, when I felt something trying to pull my attention away from the blue and red bags on the shelf. At first, I figured it was just a case of ADHD mind games, but as I remained planted in position, still trying to make a simple decision that seemed harder than ever, that feeling kept tugging, yanking, trying to get me to move. I then realized what the feeling was; it wasn't something in my head, but something I know everyone has experienced at some point in their life. It was the feeling of someone staring at me. I looked up from the shelf, seeing nothing but a sea of other shelves, beyond which stood the front doors with the checkout to the left. The guy at the counter was staring up at a TV in the corner, facing away from me altogether, so it certainly seemed it couldn't have been him causing the feeling I was still experiencing. My peripheral told me there was nobody else around the small store but me, so I quickly spun on my heels to face whatever was behind me, only to find nothing but a wall of freezer cases. They were all mostly frosted over, but the one directly behind me was completely opaque, frost thick on the inside of the door, only letting through the tiny bit of light that was coming from the failing tube inside at the top of the door. It was also the only door that had a flickering light. Knowing there was no possible way that someone could have been standing between that freezer door and my body, I had a sudden shiver run up my spine. After the door swung closed behind me, making a soft thumping sound, the cold began to subside, as if it were nothing other than a fan blowing cold air just inside the door itself. I touched the frost on the inside of the door only to discover that it wasn't even real frost. It was like that stuff they spray on windows so you can't really see through them, only it was more realistic looking from the outside, like it had little crystals in it. I heard a banging noise somewhere in the distance, like that of a heavy metal door shutting. I wasn't sure exactly why there was some sort of hallway leading from what was supposed to be a freezer case, but nonetheless, I was in it and I surely wasn't turning back at that point. The curiosity got the best of me, as it tends to do. I was about to start walking down the hall, which turned a corner after a short distance, no way of seeing what was around the bend, when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I had a fight or flight moment, but then I froze and didn't know what to do. The steps were getting closer and closer, about to turn that corner and all I could feel was my heart attempting to beat its way clear out of my body. I would have sworn it sounded like two people walking in unison, until I realized that it wasn't two people. It was a women wearing heels. Click-clack, click-clack. I was on the verge of backing out, going through the door to avoid whoever was coming toward me, but again, my curiosity got to me. As she turned the corner, I felt like I was about to pass out from the...excitement? No, anxiety. I should have known the feeling well by that point, but there was so much going through my mind that I couldn't focus on just on thing, even what I was feeling. She led me down the hall, which seemed to go on for far longer than the building was wide, into a small room that had only two chairs in the center and a pot with some plant about three feet tall in one corner. She walked to one chair and motioned to the other for me to sit in. As soon as I sat down, the lights dimmed and a screen turned on, seemingly inside of the wall. The woman sat across from me, staring directly at me the entire time, while some short clips of events throughout my life played on the screen. I turned to her after a few clips and before I could even separate my lips, she pointed to the screen without saying a word. After some time, an amount I am completely unsure of as there was no clock, no window, and I was too scared at that point to even think about pulling my phone out of my pocket, the clips caught up to present day and then continued past, apparently showing me my future. I was glued to the screen at that point, watching things happen to me, around me, to my family, things that I never would have expected, but made perfect sense. I saw myself becoming the exact person I loathed. "You have an opportunity here. You can either take it or leave it, but you must decide now and now only. Once you make your choice, there's no going back, so I'll give you a few minutes to think it over." The woman stood up from the chair and walked to the door, opening it and walking out. There was a loud clunk from the other side of the door after it latched closed, leading me to believe I had been locked in. I sat there, too confused and anxious to think straight. The only thing I could concentrate on was the dimly glowing rectangle where the now defunct screen had previously shown me things that I endearingly remembered before turning to a future of shame. I knew in that moment that I couldn't let myself become the monster that she showed me. I wouldn't let it happen, no matter the consequences. Fate wouldn't keep its hold on me. As she walked to the door I hadn't noticed opposite the one we came in, she gestured for me to walk through. "Your choice is made once you step over the threshold. This is your last chance to turn back and follow the path as I showed you. Or you can have true free will, of course at a cost, but you already know that." I walked over and stood in front of the opening, which had a bright light on the other side blocking the view of whatever was there. I thought I was standing there for maybe a few seconds, but then she cleared her throat and said, "You've had plenty of time to choose. Now you must act." I took a step forward, placing one foot over the threshold, at which point, the woman said, "So be it." As I lifted my other foot to step fully into the white space beyond, the woman started swinging the door closed behind me and as it was latching shut, the light dimmed and I was again standing in the convenience store, staring at the Doritos in the back aisle. The following days were spent considering that the whole thing was some weird hallucination that I had, but I hadn't done any drugs that would have caused that. It wasn't until I received a call from my work, the HR lady on the other side, explaining that I would need to come in later in the day to fill out paperwork for my severance, as I was being laid off. That was not in the visions that the woman showed me. Then, as I was driving to my newly obsolete job, my car made some truly awful noises before coming to a halt and bursting into flame in front of me. Again, not part of the visions. I ordered an Uber with the little money I had left in my account, signed the paperwork, and took another Uber home. When I got there, my apartment had an eviction notice on the door. Confused and a bit angry, I walked down to the office and inquired about the notice. I was told that my unit was deemed unfit for living due to a rotting water main. One more thing not shown in the visions. Was this the cost of my decision? Was there more? I had hit rock bottom, or so I thought. I was sleeping on a friend's couch, having literally nowhere else to go, considering I had no car and only the last paycheck I was given as a measly little severance. It was only a matter of a couple weeks before said friend decided that she no longer wanted me in her life, as I was a loser and didn't deserve her compassion. She gave me an old duffel bag that should have been thrown in the trash long ago and I packed up what little I had left. She had given me less than an hour to pack up and get out, which was easy enough, but still hurt nonetheless. That was absolute rock bottom for me. I had almost no money left, having given her half of what I had to contribute to food and utilities, but apparently that wasn't good enough. I had nowhere to go, nobody to call, given that my entire family had disowned me by that point. It became clear that free will had a higher cost than I ever would have imagined. Then I remembered, fate was blind to me. I had to force my hand in every way going forward, make my own choices to keep my life going. You'd be shocked at how easy it is to skate through life when fate has an eye on you, even when it feels like you're having to work hard at it. Trust me, having true free will is much more difficult. It took me a good minute to brush myself off and get back up, but once I did, there was no going back. I had found a shelter that was willing to give me a cot three nights a week, as they were over-booked and couldn't offer full-time residency. I took it, knowing it would only be temporary anyway. As I spent my day wandering the city, waiting for my cot to free up for the night, I started seeing signs for help wanted in all sorts of storefronts. I had heard there were a lot of places hiring, but I worked at a large corporation and never really cared or needed to notice the signs before. I walked into a book store that had one of those signs and filled out an application. I only had a cheap phone with a small amount of minutes left, so I had to avoid any calls to keep my minutes in case the store called for me. Within a few months, I was manager of that book store, was making good money, and was able to move into a small apartment nearby. A few months later, after making some adjustments to staff and changing some policies, I had that little book store attracting more people, a broader group of people, and it was making more than double the money on a monthly basis than it was a year prior. In return, the owner doubled my salary, which allowed me to move into a much nicer apartment a few blocks over. I was also making enough money that I started my own donated book library system that utilized old newspaper vending machines. People could take books for free and then drop them off when they were done, at any of the locations around the city. Or people could just drop off their used books any time. People began to donate money to a non-profit organization I had set up to maintain the library system, and the more I put into it myself, the more they would put in. An eye for an eye. Every single thing I did to better myself and the world around me ended up coming back to me ten fold. I was bringing in so much money between owning the book store and running the non-profit, that I was donating more than I could ever spend in a lifetime. I'm now one of the richest people in the world and no matter how much I give away, donate to causes, spend on ventures created purely to help people, the more I keep brining in. It's getting to the point where I can't find a bank or investment firm with enough FDIC coverage or manpower to deal with the level of money I'm cycling through. So give more. Then get more. And give even more. It's a vicious cycle. One day, for the sake of experimentation, I literally gave every cent I had to my name, billions of dollars, to a group of orphanages, and by the next day, I had checks flowing in that were more than double what I had given. I can't make it stop! I'm starting to think that the only way to end this is to just stop giving. Take the money and run. But that's exactly what I was trying to avoid in the first place. I walked away from a life of riches, being one of those pathetic people who just hoards money and cares only about themself. But I'm at a point where I'm tired. I want to relax; it's just too much work to keep up with the ebb and flow. But I know that this is the person I chose to be. Am I sure I made the right choice in that weird room somewhere in the depths of...well, a place I don't even know exists for real? Yes. I am sure of it. I know the path that led me here was the path I chose to take, and I am truly grateful to be a better person because of it. But I can't keep up with it. It's a blessing and a curse. If only I could find that woman and ask her if it's possible to give this blessing to someone else. Although, would that just put it back on me even greater? I wouldn't want to find out.


On the edge of a small dirt town a small boy stood staring into the back of a wandering cart that had made base just out of his little town. The man who owned the cart was bartering goods from it, selling off food, seeds, lines of cloth, and most importantly books. After the hordes of men and woman had finished their dealings, the man took a moment to crouch down by the boy, staring into his eyes he watched the glint from the arching sun in the sky. “What does your eye see boy?” The boy looked over to the back of the cart, scouring its contents from his low angle, only able to see what laid at the edge, his brow furrowed and he walked up to the cart clambering inside the seller wandered over to see what he was doing. The kid carefully stepped between things his eyes softened and his interest started to wane. “Is this really all you have?” A distinct distain in his voice. The seller laughed to himself, looking at his feet he cleared his throat and looked back up to the kid with one final sigh. “Do you not see, anything, worth your time?” Heas scrunched up their nose as they started to move things with their foot as their interest was fading. “Your stuff sucks this time.” “Your townsfolk seem to think otherwise, they bought a lot off of me this trip.” “Well that is because they bought the things that they need, not the things that are useful.” “I would say food is very useful product.” “Nope, food is needed, it is not useful.” “How do you get to that conclusion?” The seller laughed. “Because, if you don’t have what you need you die, if don’t have what is useful, you can’t live.” Heas started to search with a new vigour, moving everything around the cart he searched. The seller was stood back with his eyes open wide, he muttered under his breath. “That is, actually great. I might steal that.” “You have to pay if you want my words.” The seller looked up to see Heas staring at him with his hand out, expecting a coin. “You know what? I can do you one better.” The seller walked past his cart and walked up to the side of his pack animal. He stuck his hand in the pouch on her side and pulled out a book. By the time he turned Heas was already as his feet, looking up with anticipation. The seller knelt down and presented the book to Heas, but not handing it over. Heas ran his finger over the ornate cover of the book, tracing the intricate ridges his eyes were alight. “Now, I need you to listen up Heas.” The seller watched Heas staring at the book, so he tucked it away, bringing Heas’ eyeline to his own. “You need to listen Heas, this book is worth more than this town to the right people, but to a common idiot it is worth the sum of the components and labour it took to make it.” “What is it?” “It is a book about an ancient language. Not only will it teach you how to speak, and write in this language, but understand the culture of who they were.” “Why is it worth so much? We have lots of books like this.” The seller smiled, he kicked out his feet and sat flat on the ground. “Do you know how magic works?” Heas shook his head. “My family say that magic is a crutch for people who are too weak to actually survive in the world.” “I think your family are very stupid, and are afraid of the power of magic.” “Magic is for weak book nerds, so I am going to be a fighter, big and strong.” Heas said flexing his tiny arms. The seller laughed, pulling the book out again. “The way that magic works, is by pulling the meaning of words from a culture, and imbuing them with your very energy to cast spells. Being a spell caster requires a lot of fitness until you are able to make your own source of mana. But you don’t need to worry about that right now.” Heas scrunched up his face, pushing his lips together they puffed out a little. “So, you are saying that magic is for strong, and smart people?” “That is exactly what I am saying Heas.” “And fighters are just strong, and not smart?” “Umm, not really. They are smart and strong too, but the difference is that someone who can cast spells can change the tide of a battle. But it does not matter how good of a fighter you are, you will only ever be one man. With magic you can be so much more, you can harness the power of culture, which is like having hundreds of lives helping you fight.” Heas’ eyes lit up a little, but he was still not sold. “But if I am studying to know things from the book, I can’t work out to get strong.” “Yes you can.” The seller dropped the book on the ground and started to do push ups in front of it. “You can do this, if you find a way to hold it up higher you could practive punching, and sword swings, or even crunches. You can do so many exercises with a book. When you get good at reading you can even run while reading.” “I am good at reading.” Heas said with a huff. “I know you are my small friend. So here is what I am going to do, put your hand out.” Heas put his hand out, and the seller put a single gold coin in it. “Now, do you want this book?” Heas nodded slowly and smiled. “Okay, now my question to you, are you a common idiot?” “NO!!” Heas said, gripping his coin he slammed his fist down. “Listen carefully, if you are really as smart as you say you are you will get this.” Heas focused, but he was still mad that he was asked if he was stupid. “Are you ready?” Heas nodded. “If you don’t know how to fight, you die, if you don’t know how to cast magic you can’t live.” Heas’ eyes rested from their angry glare, his eyes looking up and to the right. “Now I ask you again, are you a common idiot?” “No?” He said, unsure. “Then in which case, if you want this book. It is a hundred, thousand gold.” “Yes!” Heas said hastily. “I did not get what you said, I am so dumb. Can I please buy your book?” “Oh, I didn’t realise that you were a common idiot, in which case, it is one gold coin.” Heas paused, then thrusted his hand out with the coin in it. The seller took the coin and with a grin, he handed over the book. “When I come back around, I expect you to be able to cast magic. Take very good care of this book, a smart boy like you will understand its true worth. I believe in you Heas. I believe you will be taking over the world someday.” Seasons came and went then came again, many times. Finally during the cold months the seller fought his way through the snow, leading his animal he pulled the reins from the front to lead his reluctant animal. But he could see the lights of Heas’ town burning in the night. His breath was thick and visible, and each time he inhaled it would cold burn his throat. He paused for a moment as he struggled to get his breath back. Before he moved on, his beast bellowed and pulled against his reins, the seller struggled to contain him as he felt the snow around his waist melt away. Turning back around he saw a shrouded young man standing in front of him with his hand raised out, steaming pouring off of his body. The seller was too tired to grasp who he was looking at, all he was thinking was that he was thankful for the help. After struggling with his beast he made his way up to the young man, removing his own hood he spoke. “Thanks friend, did not think I would see a magic user here, this small town aint one for the likes.” “That would be the case if wasn’t for you.” Heas removed his hood to reveal his aged face, and the seller grinned uncontrollably, he touched Heas’ face examining him carefully. “You have grown so much Heas, it has been far too long since I have seen you.” The seller paused for a moment and squinted. “You look tired, no exhausted, but somehow worse.” Heas sighed heavily pulling the book from his robes. “I have many things to tell you about the time that has happened in-between now and when you left. Come, let’s get you into the inn.” Heas lead the seller through the town, Heas was radiating a warmth that brought a semblance of life back to the seller, if only a little. As they walked through the town the seller watched as others seemed to turn their head from them as they moved through the town centre. “Is there a reason I am getting the dirty eye from these others?” The seller whispered over Heas’ shoulder. “It is not you, it is me.” There was a long pause, and the seller was about to break it but decided to hold his tongue, knowing that he would get his answers soon enough. With his goods stowed, and his animal looked after Heas and the seller sat in the inn, sitting by a dim candle light in the small room that was rented. “All right, let’s here it boy. What has happened?” Heas sat on a small chair in the room pinching the bridge of his nose he sighed, and scrunched up his face. “There has been so much, and honestly it is why I am leaving, I was actually walking out when you arrived.” “Is this because of the book?” “This is because of things this book has enabled me to do.” The seller nodded and leant forward from his sitting position on the bed. “Don’t let me hold you back, let me know everything you want me to know.” “As you can tell, I look older than I am. I have aged visually much faster, probably because of the fact I have not slept in nearly two years.” The sellers eyes widened just before he looked down to the book in Heas’ possession. “I am so sorry I have given you this burden.” The seller said as they took in how haggard Heas was. Heas’ face did not change, but tears started to roll down his cheeks. “I appreciate your concern, but if I had the option to go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t. I could never give up what I have been given. While I have misused my power, I can bring the balance back, but I have learnt so much from the abuse that I will never regret it.” Heas adjusted themselves in their seat, sitting in a more relaxed position. “Once you left, I ran straight back to my home. I packed a few things, and headed out to the woods where I started practicing. I studied this book cover to cover several times before I even attempted to practice magic. It only took a week to do this, and by the time I was prepared to cast magic from it I had an in-depth understanding of this culture, so the spells flowed from me. Despite doing as you said, I would quickly run out of energy to cast spells, only being able to cast two to three spells an hour, and they were not complicated spells, very simple ones, very beginner friendly. So I spent a few months running every day, but I also did a lot to expand my mind, trying to improve my mana pool. It did not matter how hard I trained, I always fell pray to sleep, exhaustion, and so that was my first goal.” “You thought you could eliminate the need of sleep?” “That is exactly what I thought I could do, instead I just removed the ability to sleep. At first I would feel tired, but pushed through it. Then the desire to sleep kicked in, and when I finally decided that I should sleep, I quickly found out it was not possible and I have been trying to undo what I did since that moment.” “But after two years, still nothing? That does surprise me, you are a smart boy.” “I am actually a common idiot, something I truly believe. The more I have read the more I believe that. The amount of records of spell casters doing what I have done, and burning out still young is an overwhelming majority of beginner spell caster stories. But unlike them, I believe I have a resolve that will not be broken, I have not focused on what is hard about my situation, instead I spend my time learning and exercising. Strengthening my body and my mind. I am giving myself the best chance of fixing myself by staying busy. But those options are limited now, so I am moving out to join the imperial guard training ranks. Hoping to gain access to new knowledge, and put my sleeplessness to its proper use.” “It makes sense, but it makes me sad that this is where you are going. You sound so old Heas, you have lived so much more than kids your age, and appear to be under such an immense amount of stress. You don’t have to push yourself, you can relax.” “I can’t relax, each day I don’t figure out my sleep is another day of unbearable exhaustion with no release. And each day I stay here is another reminder of the fact that I have killed.” The seller’s mouth opened and closed a few times, only creaky groans escaped his mouth. “I don’t expect you to say anything, there is nothing to say. I opened a portal by accident which a couple of the other kids fell through, their screams were so horrible that I closed the portal with no attempt to get them out.” “That is why you get the looks.” “Exactly, no one can prove I did anything, but in their hearts they know I killed them, and as the only person to cast magic in a town who shy’s away from magic, it has just distanced me from everyone else. This is why I am leaving, I have lived under their hateful gazes for too long, and I am sick of it. As a spell caster I will be welcomed to the guard with open arms, there is no need to stay here.” “I understand, I do wish you the best of luck, and If I hear anything in the world I will get the information back to you.” “No you wont. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change anything, not because I am better for it, but because I am addicted to the power. I hate you, and this is the last curtesy I shall give you, you gave an un-imaginably powerful weapon to a child, and even now I am still a child, but having to deal with something that most adults would not manage to cope with. I have had my childhood stolen, and I will never forget your negligence around giving me this book. But the more I am involved with it, the more I see that this culture has a culture that lends itself to magic extremely well. Almost like it was designed for it, unlike other cultures who have the capability of magic, but almost like the ability was crammed in.” Heas held the book high and stared at the seller. “Where did you find this, because no spell caster should have it.” “I stole it, I was near an excavation of an ancient ruin. I did not know the true price of this book, but I knew it was something I could barter with a spell caster. But I figured if I got you into magic you may come with me one day, and the magic would help me far more than any magic could.” “You are a stupid, ignorant, and harmful to those around you.” “I am a trader, everything I do is calculated moves to try and get the biggest possible returns. It has always been that way.” “You say that like the child I was should know that, I was smart, I can see that. But I would never notice when being taken advantage of. You are a hurtful fool, and lucky that my hatred has gone from the desire of vengeance to a pity for you. You will never hold something this valuable again, and you will never understand how to be human. Goodbye seller, if you are lucky you will never see me again.” Heas wandered from the room leaving the seller alone, staring at the wall he felt the warmth of the room fade with Heas gone. His eyes glazed over, then sharpened again as he licked his fingers and snuffed the candle.