"We were the same thing once," she had told you one day, so early in the morning it seemed like only the forest was waking up around her. You had only known her for a few days then, and you were still coming to terms with it. The first time you saw her you wandered too far into the forest, too enchanted by golden feathers and a too human voice. You thought she was a fairy. Or perhaps some kind of flower, the leaves obscuring her small golden body just enough so that you could've guessed what she was. Except, there's something about her that makes you feel as if you've met her before. “How could you have known that?” You answered with a cocked head and crossed arms. She had only given you her smile, the smile that you somehow always knew she was doing around her gentle golden beak. Her response came in the fluttering of dragonfly wings. In the fingertips of cold that suffused your body with shivers. I know from stories making metaphors out of metaphors, she says. I am older than this forest itself, she says. You blink and she's gone. (Momma called bedtime early. You didn't want to go back home but it was getting dark and you can't sleep without a nightlight.) She talks like she has existed before the fruits grew turgid and rich with sugar water. Like she will exist after your salvaged remains will lie dry on the forest floor, picked clean by mushrooms and bugs and beetles. You asked her about her feathers once. (Were they really real gold?) She had turned around and plucked one from her plumage, sewed it right into your sweater. Said you could keep it, said she would be around with you forever. Then you asked about forever and after that, you asked about photosynthesis, about rocks and about water and about time. About everything possibly in the world and like a promise, she answered all of them. It was later that she told you the risk she took in talking with you. That creatures like her weren't supposed to talk to creatures like you. It was even later then that you realized the consequence of her actions. It started with a feather, then two. Then all of a sudden a deluge of gold and magic and pretty soon she wouldn't have any feathers left. “Do you ever look up at the sky wishing you could be part of it too?” You were the one who spoke first this time, having woken up in a somewhat sentimental mood. At this time her feathers were already falling out in clumps, gold mixing with the detritus of leaves and gravel coating the forest floor. "All the time" she answers, though no longer with dragonflies and autumn breezes. The raw pinkness of her skin lays in incongruous patches next to brilliant gold. You smile back at her, but this time it is more somber. Like the shallow puddles children splash in before they are gone the next morning. You stayed longer than usual that night, telling yourself because of the weather, and because the bugs that light up aren't out yet and because, because, because... The days blur on and you talk so much and then not at all. New feathers grow in the puckered garden of her skin, dirty brown like the forest floor. She is so quiet now, stopping around her words tentatively like an outdoor cat who can't remember the directions back to her owner’s house. Sometimes you can't even recognize her from the clusters of birds around her until you get closer and the rest fly away. You sit in silence now. When she got quiet you used to pick up the conversation for her, collecting the pieces together awkwardly in the palm of your hand. You used to ask questions, about the universe and about gods, but now it would be hard hearing anything less in return. She says nothing at all. The gold is completely gone now, the brown covering any that would have ever grown back. She's not quiet anymore, instead pinching the air with chitters and empty meanings. Sometimes it feels like she's trying to tell you something, but other times it sounds like she's saying nonsense, saying nothing at all. Her eyes, which used to match her feathers in vivid gold, have turned an opaque deep black. Covering any recognition she could have held for you. She used to tell you stories about the moon, but now she just squeaks. The feather stays woven in your sweater, wrinkled with use. You wore it almost every day, hoping she would ask about it and you could tell her all over again the day that you first saw her. So when she asked, you could return it to its rightful place. But too much time had passed. Perhaps she forgot that she had left it for you in the first place. One night you return to the forest, suddenly desperate to find her. There's a flock of sparrows dotting the upper branches of a tree and a pit forms at the bottom of your stomach because none of them seem to look at you. You stumble on a branch and something in the forest cracks and all the birds are leaping from their perches into the horizon-tinged sky. You wait. For what, you have no idea but nobody looks back at you. She is gone. You exhale, slow and shadowed, sliding back down to the forest floor and back down to earth. Around you, the sky burns the darkness off to white, white, white and it starts to snow.


I'm Detective Kristen Jones and I'm a police homicide detective with the Lexington Kentucky police Department. My father and grandfather were officers, so it's in my blood. I have investigated all type of crimes. The story I'm about to tell you is very strange. It's not really an investigation but it is, at least at first. A call was made to the Lexington Police Department regarding an assault victim had shown up at a home in the Horses Lane Area. The victim had been assaulted in another state the day before but hadn't sought medical treatment due to being scared. Now the victim needed to go to the hospital due to severe pain from her injuries. This area is where a lot of the jockeys who live in Kentucky live. They tend to live in colonies. Some live closer to Louisville but some live in the Lexington area. The house that we were called to was actually a couple of miles down the road from the Horses Lane Area. The gate opened as I went into the large estate. The estate had a horse farm on it. Everyone in the area knew the couple who lived here. Melisa and Keith Milson were the owners of the home. Keith Milson was a retired jockey turned sports caster for horse racing. Their daughter Kaitlyn met me at the gate and jumped into my car. "Do you know what happened to the victim?" "Not really. All I know is that Janice had neck, stomach and back pain due to being assaulted after the Belmont Stakes race. Of course she denies that she was assaulted. I'm surprised that she has no , marks on her body but that creep, your know Bill, I know that he did something to her." I nodded in agreement. Jockey Bill Verse only had one thing going for him. He was a good jockey who could ride a horse. None of the other jockeys liked him and stayed away from him as much as possible. He was a mean cruel individual who had been arrested numerous times for getting into bar room brawls, disorderly conduct and disorderly Intoxication and had tested positive for cocaine and marijuana use at least 3 times in 10 years. At least 3 women he had been involved with had said that he had been abusive towards them. He hurt them without leaving any marks that could be seen was his MO. All of them were afraid and scared to death of him. However, they had never reported it to police until much later, so nothing could be done about it. He often became abusive towards them when he did poorly at the track. At the Belmont Stakes, he had come in last place. Lately he hadn't done very well. The ambulance was already on scene. I went into the house and Janice was lying on the floor. I was shocked to see that she had given birth. Janice had a daughter. I was taken aside by one of the paramedics. "She has no marks or bruises on her body but that doesn't mean that Bill didn't do anything to her. I really feel sorry for this baby, because Bill doesn't like kids. Remember what happened a couple of days before the Kentucky Derby." I remember that well. Some kids wanted to speak with him and he yelled at them, cussed them out and told them to leave him alone. He even told them that he hated them. He was forced to apologize to them but his apology wasn't genuine. Janice went to the hospital. I called a social worker and we discussed what had happened. The only thing she could do is go to the hospital and have a chat with Janice. There was no physical evidence of abuse as you have neck, stomach and back pain from pregnancy. The strange thing was Janice had no idea she was pregnant and pictures I saw of her she didn't look like she was. Very strange. A couple of days later No one seems to know where Bill was. My guess is that he was out drinking and possibly other things. Well, got a call. He was arrested for DUI. Old Man Wilson was a convicted felon but wasn't generally of the violent variety. Car Theft, some drug dealing, Dealing in Stolen Property, etc. He was sitting in the jail on the Violation of Probation Charge. Bill had called Janice and was furious about the baby. This really angered Old Man Wilson who liked kids. One thing he hated was someone who hated or harmed kids. He was a large tall burly intimidating looking guy. "You did this deliberately. Don't you know that I don't like kids? Well, Janice I am going to make you pay for this when I get out. Oh, I will and you better not ever go to sleep again because I will attack you in your sleep." Bill slammed the phone down. "Leave the woman alone." shouted Old Man Wilson. "Oh, really, what are you going to do about it, beat me up." Bill went up to Old Man Wilson and poked him in the arm and threatened to beat him up. Five minutes later, jail officials found the room where the old pay phone was empty and Bill Verse unconscious on the floor. No one knew or saw what happened. Bill was taken to the hospital where he died shortly thereafter. Old Man Wilson admitted to poking him with something but wouldn't say what. An autopsy failed to show what caused Bill Verse's death. Old Man Wilson was never charged with his death as he mysteriously died the next day. You would think this would be the end of the story but it wasn't. Bill Verse as I said was a bad person and I guess when he died, he didn't go anywhere but was in limbo. He was angry and was an angry ghost and entity. Several days later He was furious that he wasn't given a memorial service or funeral. Bill Verse had no family or ifI f they did, they wanted nothing to do with him. Janice refused to pay for any burial costs, so the county paid for it. She didn't have to as she never was legally married to Bill. She used the name Janice Verse but she wasn't married to him. I found out the truth. She knew that she was pregnant but had kept it from Bill. She finally told him at Belmont before the race and he was furious. Grabbed her by the arm and threatened to kill her. When he did poorly at the race, he went looking for her but she had hidden. He was angry that he couldn't find her. He flew back home to Louisville and was furious when she wasn't at home. He then went out drinking. As she telling me this, I can feel an evil presence in the room and I know Bill is there. Both of us could hear a hissing sound. We are the house that Bill and Janice had lived in. Janice gets into my vehicle which the little possessions she has and leaves the house. She fears for her child's safety, especially the night before when she has dreams about Bill who had threatened to harm the child. In the dream, he was in his jockey's uniform with a horse whip in his hand. He points the horse whip at Janice, threatening to use it on her. She wakes up with welts on her legs. Then she has pain. The baby is screaming in terror. She sees Bill in the room with a whip in his hand. He has the look of rage in his face. Old man Wilson then appears and prevents him from harming Janice or the baby. She screams and both men disappears. As you can imagine, Janice didn't sleep that night. The angry ghost then seems to wonder around following the horse circuit that he did in life. There was vandalism, some of the horses were freaked out and then things went missing. An empty barn near one of the horse racing centers caught fire. People had seen a dark figure walking around the various horse racing venues when no one was supposed to be there. The figure looked like a jockey and fit Bill's description. Bill had many unresolved issues in this life. He didn't want to go to the other side which wouldn't be heaven. Old Man Wilson has become Janice's protector and has appeared to her in dreams telling her that he's protecting her. Bill left her and the baby alone after that. Someone made the mistake of threatening to do an exorcism on an abandoned barn that had his evil presence. The barn shook violently and then it caught on fire. Several acres of land were also burned. About 10 years after Bill died, his presence disappeared. Old man Wilson forced him to go the other side which for him was hell. Not pleasant. Shortly thereafter Old Man Wilson appeared in a dream to Janice wishing her well as he's leaving. She never saw him again after that.


He took off his shoes, and strode out onto the beach. He loved the feeling of the soft sand crumbling beneath his soles, the waves gently caressing his toes. The salty spray of the sea. The wet sand glimmered in the distance invitingly. He wondered if it would be the same half a world away. Repulse bay. He lived just a bus ride away when he was a child. Innumerable summer days were spent here, playing in the sand, trying and failing to reach the floating platform far away from the shore, getting yelled at by mom for not wearing sunscreen... Now he was moving away, to the point where it would take a plane ride to revisit this memory from the other life he lived. Being a Thursday afternoon in the scorching summer sun, not many people decided to be at the beach. He mostly had the whole beach to himself. Maybe it spoke to the bias of his memories, but summer days became more and more blisteringly hot over the years. The air became so humid it was suffocating. It felt incompatible with life. He sympathized with the palm tree, its leaves drooping over the ocean, shaking in the breeze half-heartedly like a worker pretending to work and awaiting retirement. At least he could leave. The first time he was here, his mom brought a small bucket with her so he could use it to build a sandcastle. It was no work of art, really just five bucketfuls of sand that protruded out of the ground. He had to defend it against the older, meaner kids who kept trying to topple his castle and dethrone him. He fought tooth and nail to preserve it, throwing his outstretched hands onto three kids practicing their imaginary world cup scoring routine on the castle, while his mom fell asleep in the shade under a tree. But all he had to show for it were scratches, bruises, and the unmistakable memory of three craters in the otherwise undisturbed sand. It was a delusion he had, that if he could stop the kids destroying his work it could stand for years to come. But of course, when he returned the next day it was gone, disintegrating under the red sun and swept away by the waves. A borrowed place on borrowed time. He found a shaded patch and sat down, staring out towards the sea. In the distance, he could make out a couple of seagulls, circling a sailboat, looking for a safe place to land. It seems like the search for hospitable land is a tradition, happening since the first plankton slid down a few nanometers, and will go on until the end of time. He thought about the ship of Theseus. Is a boat really the same boat if all its parts were replaced? Or, for that matter, is a city? Out of sentimentality, he built another sandcastle. Without any tools, he gently folded up his sleeves, walked down to the water's edge and scooped some sand together, sprinkling in some water to give it shape. Two things that decidedly do not mix, the sand and the water, momentarily came together to form something so beautiful, so delicate. This sort of beauty was never going to last. His creation was a castle, complete with four towers and something that resembled a wall surrounding the main block. He sat and watched as the waves lapped away at the nearest tower against the crimson of the sunset, removing some bits of sand from his construction. Soon it will all be nothing. One by one, they all just faded away. As he bent down to pick up his bag, he noticed that the legs of his pants were wet, and specks of sand littered his legs. Against the black pants he was wearing, it seemed almost like stars in the night sky, one he could never see through the choking yellow street lamps of Kowloon. He gently patted it, and some fell off while others remained ever so tightly bonded to his pants. He remembered another time when he wore long pants to the beach as a child, and the sand clung onto his pants leg. When he noticed it, he went back into the sea to wash it off, and to his credit it was no longer there. But when he walked up the beach to rejoin his friends, new sand was flicked back up and his pants leg was dotted with sand once more. He ran down to water a few more times, but this kept happening, no matter how much he tried to minimize his movements. He tried to walk slowly so the sand would not bounce up onto his pants, he tried to run so there was less opportunity for the sand to jump onto him, he even tried to walk sideways for some reason. He could not explain it now, but he felt it was sure to work in his youth. As much as he tried to get rid of it, the sand always reappeared. For weeks afterwards, his mom kept finding bits of sand at home. Mom twisted his ear until it became red, and sent him to bed early. Of course, an hour-long lecture was inevitable. She would reschedule the end of humanity to tell him off. All over some sand that wouldn’t go away. And perhaps that is the way it is. You can try to erase everything, but some things just do not perish easily. You could scrub and scrub and it would still be there. Small parts of it will remain, and will continue to exist in the crevices you never thought about. And when he finally settled into his new home thousands of miles away, putting away the last cardboard box, he still found sand in his house. He picked some up with his finger, holding it up to the light to examine it. And when he remembered where the sand came from, he smiled. \ For more like this, please visit our sub r/RedTideStories.


Mark woke up with his face half buried in his pillow, and before he even opened his eyes he was enveloped by panic. His pupils shot into the corner of his eyes and he looked up into a bleary ceiling, recognising his room. That much was good - he had returned home safe. He had gotten really drunk last night. He felt dehydrated, slow, confused; hangover was going to be the theme of the day. Yet seconds after he regained consciousness he felt something was missing. He swung around toward the middle of the bed and felt around it with his hand and arm. It was empty, except for his smartphone. His honour was not there; it was missing. “I knew it!” He thought. Hopefully his honour was in the kitchen or some other room, or maybe taking a shower in the bathroom. He really wanted to go and check, but he was hung over, so he remained in bed. He reburied his face in the pillow, with one eye closed on the fabric and another staring at the white cabinet next to his bed. He was frozen with worry; his body remained perfectly still. It was a great night; it sure started off great. All the boys showed up before the sun even set, the ones he saw often and the old dogs he hadn’t seen in a while. It was a balmy summer night, everyone was very happy to see each other, everyone was ready to party. It was the weekend, man, time for real men to show how much they didn’t care about this world. They cared about each other, they hugged and slapped each other’s backs, they recognised a brother in each other. Some started drinking early, and then others imitated them. Old Louis pulled out a cigarette and lit it, laughing and not giving a fuck. Everyone brought their honour along, of course. The honours strutted around the crowd, looking mighty good. They mingled and talked to each other, then to the boys. By the time the night fell and most people were on their second or third drink, it was impossible to track whose honour was talking to which man. Everything got blurry, it seemed, as though individuals melted away and fused into one undulating mass of spirit. And it was good to be in that mass, saying things you usually don’t say, things that your friends knew you would say anyways, without you having to say them, but whatever - it was good to vocalise those things. Every man clings to his honour. But you can’t cling to it too much - people will think you are stuck up, you think you are better than them. That’s why it’s imperative - and natural really - to let one’s honour loose at a party. Let it off the leash, so to speak, let it get lost in the crowd, let others talk to it, get to know it. It’s perfectly safe; what kind of an animal would hurt another man’s honour? It was in this zeal to show solidarity that Mark let his honour completely out of sight. It was chatting with Mark’s jiu-jitsu friends when he went to the bar to get another drink. Mark then walked to the other side of the patio and picked a conversation with Jimmy, who owns a pizza joint that everyone loves. He then talked to Val, the boxer. Man! That guy was talking some hilarious stuff about French women! And man! Marco suddenly remembered that he told Val how he once hired a French prostitute in Barcelona. Shit! Hopefully Val was too drunk to remember that conversation. Mark was certainly willing to forget. His memory became blurry after that. He took a cab to a street food joint where he clearly remembers hugging Jim for a little too long. They talked about racism for like half an hour, maybe even longer. It was a little raw, but Mark was not a racist, definitely not a racist, so he shouldn’t have anything to worry about. His concern finally grew to a point where it propelled him out of the bed. He trekked to the kitchen where he found a water jug and forced himself to take twenty gulps of water. He found a boiled egg from the day before, salted it abundantly, and ate it in three bites. It would help the hangover. He then checked the rooms of his apartment one by one. His honour was nowhere to be found. He crashed back into the bed and tried to devise a plan of action. He would have to go outside and look for it. About two hours later he went to the bathroom and took a long shower. He shampooed and soaped himself thoroughly, he rubbed his hair for a good several minutes. He brushed his teeth in the shower, too. It got the stinks out of his body, but as far as helping him feel sharper or stronger, it didn’t really help. And his honour was still missing. He put on some of his more decent, respectable clothes and walked out. Unlike his soul, the day was bright and lively, the city was bustling. It was good that everyone was so cheery, thought Mark, hopefully no one will notice him trudging around without his honor. He walked into a busy coffee shop and ordered a big black coffee. He must have drunk over seven beers last night, that’s a mountain of calories, so no breakfast for him today. Well, no lunch really, it was already two in the afternoon. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. As with most people, Mark and his honour shared one phone. Having separate phones and social media accounts for you and your honour was too duplicitous in their view; they both loathed the few people who did it. So the fact that the phone was on him obviously meant that he his honour had no phone on which to be buzzed. Not only that, Mark thought, but he had been drunk with access to social media without his honour present to keep him in check - this can bode no good. Who knows if he sent some horrifying drunk messages to some ex-girlfriend or other; the thought tortured him and he was afraid to check his chat history. He did check the group chat that had a lot of the buddies he saw last night. A few of the guys were talking about their hangover. They were all establishing that their honour got back home with them safely last night. But what was Mark to say? What would people think if they found out his honour was missing? After the coffee he walked out of the coffee shop and strolled up and down the leafy streets, thinking about what to do. The summer sunshine should clear his head, he should think of something then. He didn’t notice it but he must have been walking around for an hour, because the only thing that came to him eventually was a feeling of sickness. It might be an onset of a sun stroke, and besides, he was probably looking all lost and desperate. He went back home. He was now really starting to despair. How’s he supposed to go to work tomorrow without his honour? How was he supposed to do anything, really? One cannot go through life all alone, like a stray dog, without honour. The patio from last night transformed in his memory from a place of felicity to some infernal vortex that spirits away people’s honour like some evil, perverted kidnapper. The more he tried to recall details, the more he began to hate the place. His mental effort to figure out what happened to his dear honor only resulted in amplifying the terror building up in his chest. Finally, the fear pushed his meandering mind onto an idea. He figured it out. He was going to have to face the monster. The only thing to do, really, was to go back to the place and straight-up demand from whomever was working there to tell him who it was exactly who snatched his honour. He was going to have to be brave, to look the enemy dead in the eye. Thus it was that he ordered a cab, and when the sun had already become slanted and soft, set off to the patio. He found the place quiet, less than a third full. He sat at the bar and observed the waiter working there. The man had a black shirt, he was wiping the countertop with a white rag. Once he finished that he walked over to Mark and nodded at him respectfully. “What’s up, man?” he greeted Mark. “What are you having?” Mark looked at him carefully. He saw no signs of malicious intent, nothing in the way of insincerity. The man looked quite bored, in fact. Mark ordered an Asahi. He picked up the chilled glass jug and took a sip of the beer. It made him feel better. He took out his phone and checked the group chat again. No news; some of the boys posted some funny gifs, the regular fare. He then put his phone away and looked around the patio. He decided he would wait until something happens, until he sees a sign, a hint of where his honour had gone. He had been waiting a while when he noticed a table with several pretty women eating desert and taking photos of each other. How superficial, though Mark. He may have lost his honour, but at least he wasn’t the type of person to order a blueberry tart and take a photo of himself eating it. “Those girls over there really love your deserts,” he said to the waiter. “Yeah, haha!” The waiter got his point. “Say,” Mark continued. “Have you by any chance seen an honour walking around here today?” “An honour?” answered waiter. “It’s a bar, man, there’re honours buzzing around here all the time. You see people chatting them up, sometimes even roughin’ ‘em up a bit, smackin’ ‘em around, but all in good fun. Which particular honour are you looking for?” “Ah, never mind,” Mark waved the question off. The waiter went back to looking bored and fumbling with utensils around the ice box. “Hey man,” said Mark again after a while, then nodded at the waiter’s cigarette pack, “can I bum one of your cigarettes?” “Sure, man!” The waiter offered him the pack, then lit his cigarette. “If you want another just help yourself,” he then said, placing the pack on the counter top within Mark’s reach. He then walked away to replace a metal beer barrel under the counter, on the far end of the bar where the beer taps were located. Browder really appreciated the gesture. He got back to his beer and relished the cigarette. He was starting finally to calm down. He was even starting to feel a little inspired as he reminisced about the party last night. His memory of it was starting to turn for the better. Maybe after all it will be remembered by everyone as a great night. His honour probably got too drunk and fell asleep in the park somewhere. It will come back, and everything will be fine. It was in the midst of his reverie, as he was slouched on the bar, that he received a hearty slap on the back. He turned around in surprise, and what would you know! It was his honour! He looked perfectly fine, smiling at him with that generous and knowing smile Mark knew so well. His face was a little puffed up, but that was perfectly understandable considering the night he had. He was still wearing the same clothes as last night, casual khaki shorts and flipflops, and a breezy white shirt unbuttoned low. “There you are!” exclaimed Mark as he jumped off his stool. “Where in the world have you been! You had me worried sick!” They embraced each other. “What do you mean?” said the honour. “Man, you must have really gotten pissed. Don’t you remember me telling you that I was gonna crash in the overnight sauna? The one downstairs?” It was a rooftop patio. “I told you a needed a detox, that I need to freshen up.” “No, I don’t remember that!” Mark smiled and placed his palm in his forehead, “Silly me! Yes I did have a few too many last night.” “Ha-ha,” the honour laughed. “Didn’t we all. It was an epic party. I gotta tell you some stories!” The honour sat down on a stool next to Mark and they caught up merrily. Needless to say, all was forgiven between the two of them. They ordered another round of beers. Mark introduced his honour to the waiter; the waiter was happy to meet him. It gave Mark a great sense of relief to finally be able to introduce his honour to other people again. The honour had brought a plastic bag with him, and he took out of it a plastic plate of shrink-wrapped pineapple slices. “Have some of these,” he said, “They are still fresh and cold.” They ate the pineapple slices with relish and went over the stories of what had transpired last night. Honour insisted that it was in fact an excellent party. Many of the guys and many of the honours had told Mark’s honour that they hadn’t had that much fun in a while. Mark then up brought up his concerns; the few potential *faux-pas* moves he may have committed. He mentioned letting slip the story about the French prostitute to Val, and how he went real deep about racism with Jim. To his great relief, his honour merely laughed and pinched his neck cordially: “Dude, you worry way too much! You’re like the nicest guy out of all of us, and everyone knows it. Of course no one thinks any less of you! They don’t even remember what you told them, and now that I told *you* all the stuff I saw them do, you definitely have nothing to worry about.” The encouragement was so great that Mark finally gathered up the courage to check his chat histories, to see what exactly he texted to whom when he had been left drunk and without his honour with his phone. Again there was relief: he had texted neither his ex nor one of the three or four girls that had ghosted him and whom he texts when he loses all inhibition. The worst thing he did was going on the Instagram profile on an old male acquaintance and liking some ten to fifteen of his consecutive posts; this was excessive, but can be taken ironically, as a friendly joke. Once again his honour reassured him that no one will even notice. Once they finished the beers, Mark decided that they should leave, and he gestured the waiter for the bill. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Two beers for me is enough. I don’t want to lose you again, he-he!” “Yeah, let’s go home and watch some Netflix,” the honour said. “We’re definitely watching that show on Netflix tonight,” said Mark. “But first we are going to the hair salon. I need a haircut.” Mark left a generous tip for the waiter. The two then left the patio, whose memory was now fully redeemed for Mark. He would definitely recommend the place to his friends. In fact, he couldn’t wait to recommend it.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Redemption! To close out this month’s overarching theme of ‘morality’, we’re going to explore ‘redemption’ this week. The choices and actions that your characters have made have had repercussions, in one way or another. Do they seek solace and redemption? What does attaining these things mean to them? What does their path of redemption look like? Will it affect more than just them? What happens if they can’t find it? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * May 30 - Redemption (this week) * June 6 - Ignorance * June 13 - Deception   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week. ** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/stickfist - - u/ReverendWrites - - u/leebeewilly - - u/GammaGames - - u/Xacktar - - u/Sonic_Guy97 - - u/1047inthemorning   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. This week, I’ve added a *brand new category* for points. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, est. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


You see, there is this tunnel and it is starting to feel more like a labyrinth and that light, the supposed light at the end of the tunnel, it's never where you would expect. I wonder how I am to find my way when the directions change so often, and I am taunted by the thought of a short-cut. The corridors are thin, the old paint flaking off the walls. It's so cold. The dampness settles on your skin, the drips echoing in the distance reminding you of the horror you're in. You can call out all you want but nobody will hear you, this place doesn't exist after all. You’ve have walked for years, at some points reaching beyond the edge, feeling the sunshine and tasting the moisture in the fresh air. Yet only to be pulled back into the darkness wondering which way was which. That little taste of the outside gives you hope. Each turn and each direction leads to a different outcome, you begin to wonder how there is so many. The floor you find yourself again as the tunnels seem to enclose around you. The thought of taking one of those short cuts becomes almost too good to be true. Now is the time to remind yourself, the consequence. A deal with the devil, shake the thought or make the mistake. What haven't you tried? Have you been this way before? Disorientation holds you as the tunnels begin to change. It's happening again, when you look up expect to not recognise the tunnels. There will be more corridors and they’ll be leading in all different directions once again. The tunnel wears make-up. It's out to get you. So answer me this? How are you to get out of a place that doesn't exist, yet controls you so well? You don't understand, this run's deeper than your chemicals. This place has a hold, you don't get to leave because you solved a chemical. Cause and effect, effect and cause. This tunnel runs beyond your mental, beyond your physical. Beyond your control. At this point, it's dark in there but not all is lost. You look back to the solution you once found wandering these spindly lines a long time ago. Control. You realise the more you can control, the less the tunnel seems to hold onto you. Unfortunately, without realising it, you've wandered down a forbidden short-cut. At first you welcome, almost encourage the simple mistake. You know you should turn around while you can. You know where this goes, we've been here before. At some point, the patter of paws was sounded through-out the tunnels. United with a gift from the outside, a friend. Here, just for you, and you, for him. It's okay as he walks the tunnels with you, he doesn't feel that sort of despair but he's knows you need him. He'll never be far now. Even in the darkest parts his fur will be less than a reach out away. believe it or not he needs you just as much. It will still happen, the disorentation, the direction changing, the taste of the outside and taking a wrong turn here and there, but it will become easier. The labyrinth is like the universe, it will never get smaller. Always expanding. The more years you spend wandering, the more turns, directions and tunnels will exist in this place that doesn't exist. It will get lighter, it will get darker, the tunnels thinner and sometimes thicker. Some colder and some slightly warmer.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Transformation** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of **’transformation’** in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week Sorry y’all, spotlights are postponed until next week. Thanks for your patience. I can’t wait to read what you all come up with this week :)   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Across the river and through a windswept valley, lies a fork in the road. At the left path, one will find a forest- enchanted by mischievous spirits. Towards the right turn, a great mountain appears in view. At times we have no idea of which path to take. Yet, in the end, our hearts know where to go. Crossing the river is a tricky maneuver. After all, the water decides whether or not you can pass. With my raft held high over head, I trudge towards the rushing road. PLOP....SPLASH! The vessel lands in the river. With care, I unstrap the oars- one for each hand. Hopefully they are strong enough to handle the powerful current. I begin to find a rhythm in steering the craft. Slowly but surely, I will reach ashore. The water is cold and freezes my face on contact. Despite the discomfort, I must continue my trek. Rowing against the current is arduous. My arms grow tired. Alas, after another forty five minutes- I land ashore. There is no longer a need to keep the raft. So I drag the drenched craft towards a boulder. I then find another stone and place the rock onto the raft. The rope that I have on my person is more important for the remaining parts of my journey. I cannot forsake the brades by tying the raft to the boulder. With my vessel secure, I bid the river adieu. Should I return, I am unsure. However, I thank the current for allowing my safe passage. Walk five miles past the river, then you shall see a fork in the road. The left takes a traveler towards an enchanted forest. On the right, the wanderer will cross a more rugged terrain- boulders and stones adorn the path. After the rocky road stands a proud mountain. Surely a decision should be made easier if one knows what lays on each path- right? Well, even though one has an idea of what trials are ahead, they are still at a loss for how the path will converge. There are some who select a path that appears smooth; however, in reality, the trail is rugged and overwhelmed with hidden obstacles. Sometimes, it is better for others to stand firm in the decision that follows a path with clear challenges. After all, the fear of hardship is less when one knows that rough sailing lays ahead. For me, I take the path I feel more competent to complete. Though people may say: Go big or go home. I would rather be able to go home at the end of the day. When my journey is complete, I want to be able to see how far I have come and the accomplishments made. To choose a path smartly is to choose success. Of course, failure crosses many paths. One needs to be certain that their final act does not result in failure. That is the mark of regret- a burden which hangs heavy on broken hearts. Choose wisely.... The words ring through my ears like chimes dangling in the wind. The phrase stops me in my tracks. I look back and forth; left, right, left, right... Do I take the path with the forest or the trail through the mountain terrain? Either way, danger is inevitable. I have to decide which set of hardships will fare me better. To fail is not an option. Therefore, I must choose which path feels right. In my heart, I feel the blood pump through my veins. Listen: Thud.. thud....thud... Perhaps, listening to one's heart is a figure of speech. An answer cannot be found through the physical pulses. I give a wry smile that parts into a bout of laughter. Of course! Take the time to think but not damn myself by thinking too much. After all, being lost in thought is a dangerous thing- more dangerous than acting on impulse. Clear your mind.... That voice rings loud in my head. Again, it seems that I am not alone on this journey. All right, I confer. Inhale deep and exhale slowly- the process some refer to as meditation. As long as my mind is focused and calm, any actions that I take will be done with precision. The left path is mine. True, the great mountain is tempting. On the other hand, my heart knows where to go. With my spirit, I am able to find my way through this lifetime. I have to trust the idea that I am here with reason- my life is not in vain. Therefore, I am confident in my decision- combatting malicious spirits is a manageable task. The forest will be my home. Alas! Here I must take my leave. We meet many people in our lives- all along various points of intersection. For some chapters, we travel with the same companions that we have met before. On the other hand, there are sections in our lives in which our good old friends do not share a part in our journey. Yet, that does not mean we forsake our friends; rather, we learn through different interactions and experiences. We will remain friends as long as our hearts are true. When people create a bond, they share a spiritual link that cannot break. With that said, I pray you well friend on your journey. Shall we see each other again after I tarry through this forest? I am confident that the answer is: Yes. Until then, you must commit to your path. I must take my own. Let's stay true to ourselves and follow our hearts. For when we are lost, we will always have a compass. We just have to take a breath and pause. With a calm mind, the traveler can see the path that lays ahead. Despite the forks in the road, a wandering heart will know which way to go.


The beach is an oxymoronic location in times of peril. The horizon and the gentle waves create a soothing image, and the shoreline often serves as a sanctuary from the disorder of the world around. Lying on the beach listening to the rhythm of the current is a doorway to tranquility. In contrast, beaches will often serve as the site of brutality. Major battles will occur in the sands, and the outcome of those battles impacts the direction of the entire war. The waters of the beach hide predators both animal and human. The tides have washed blood off the sand for it to achieve sanctuary status. The shipwreck on the shore embodies this contradicting image. The exterior and the hull of the ship have suffered minimal damage, but the violence is hidden deep within the cabin. The surrounding sand and tide ignore this ship and choose to go about their routine. The ocean water flows around the ship and returns to the ocean unbothered. Sergeants Gil and Nilsen drive on the beach in a rusted jeep . They are soldiers for an army with little power outside of its bases. If raiders or other groups discovered their status, they would attack without remorse. The two of them do not wear the standard army uniform; instead, they both wear long pants and a t-shirt with sunglasses. Upon closer inspection, the high quality of their clothes would reveal that they do not have to fight for their survival unlike others. The sergeants step out of the vehicle onto the sand. Nilsen pulls out a small Geiger counter from the backseat while Gil picks up a rifle. Nilsen approaches the shipwreck geiger counter in hand. Gil follows closely behind him scanning the beach for any adversaries. The Geiger counter starts to ring as Nilsen gets closer to the ship; he climbs onto the boat for closer inspection. Gil walks around the boat to scan the perimeter. She hears rummaging and the Geiger counter’s beeps within the ship, but she does not hear any sign of a struggle. Nilsen stands over the side of the boat and looks at her. “Looks like four people lived here, a man and a woman who looked to be in their sixties and two men in their thirties. I found them all in the bedroom. There is no sign that they fought, but they had definitely been raided,” Nilsen leans over the hull. Behind him, Gil notices a translucent smoke in the air. When the smoke reaches the ground, she notices a slight blur in the sky that could’ve easily gone unnoticed. The blur moves close to Nilsen; Gil holds up the rifle and shoots at the blur. After the bullet makes contact with the blur, the invisibility wears off, and a man wearing a small jetpack becomes visible. He falls on the ground behind Nilsen who immediately stands on top of the assailant to keep him down. Gil jumps onto the deck and looks for other attackers. Nilsen holds the Geiger down to the man and watches it wildly beep. “Mieran tech. Tell me where you got it?” he says. “Screw you soldier boy,” the man grunts. Nilsen moves his hand to the man’s wound and presses on it. The man screams. “Did you come alone?” Nilsen removes his hand. “I am not telling you shit,” the man says. Nilsen moves off of the man and flips him over. Nilsen takes the jetpack off of the man to examine its computer. Nilsen leaves his foot on the man. “We got lucky,” Nilsen smiles at Gil, “They knew how to get it to fly and turn invisible, but they never learned how to erase the flight logs.” “Wait, what?!” the man on the ground screams. Nilsen looks at him. “We just found your base. If you tell us any information, we promise to go easy on you,” Nilsen says. “Okay, okay,” the man starts to squirm, “We have a small shack on the shore North of here. It is just two other guys there, Blake and Zach. Blake found the jetpacks at the edge of a small town far away here.” “Does this town have a name?” Nilsen asks. “I forgot!” the man yells. Nilsen nods at Gil; Gil shoots the man in the head. Nilsen and Gil walk away from the ship to their car. Gil drives while Nilsen navigates. They leave their vehicle a few miles away from the shack and walk the rest of the way armed with handguns. The shack is small and made of bricks with small entrances and exits around it. Before the war, this must’ve been a small beachside restaurant. Two men are sitting in small beach chairs outside the front looking at the waves. Gil and Nilsen crouch and slowly approach the shack. Neither of the men react as the soldiers circle around to the front. With sharp agility, the two soldiers wrap their arms around the men and hold their guns to the men’s head. The men start to shake and resist, but the arms pressed against their windpipes impedes their attempts. “We talked to your buddy down at the boat,” Nilsen ensures that both of them can hear it, “He said that Blake found the Mieran technology outside of a small town. First, which one of you is Blake?” “He is,” Zach points at the man Gil is holding. “Your buddy is a coward,” Gil says to Blake. “Screw you,” Blake says. “Boys, stop fighting. Blake please tell us the name of the town where you found the Mieran tech,” Nilsen says. “I told you already. I don’t know. I just found these jet packs lying on the edge of a lake,” Blake says. “Okay,” Nilsen nods at Gil, “We are done here.” The two soldiers pull the trigger and kill the men. They walk into the shack and find the other two jet packs lying close to the door. After a search for other technology, they find no other Mieran technology, but they find the results of several raids. They walk back to their car with the jetpacks. Sergeant Gil gets on the radio to communicate with their base. “Sergeants Gil and Nilsen reporting. We found the Mieran technology responsible for the raids on the beach that residents dubbed the ghost raids. They do not remember where they got the technology from. We are bringing the packs back to base for a full analysis of the flight logs.” Gil says. “Roger that, Sergeants Gil and Nilsen. We await your arrival,” the operator replies. The two drive away from the beach leaving the scene of carnage against the peaceful backdrop.


“No, because why would someone who isn’t tall enough to reach the 30th button even live on the 30th floor? Why not just live on the 10th floor or whatever?” Raymond asked “I think you’re missing the point dude, you got the answer right, why are you still heated?” responded Ian. “Because it doesn’t make any sense, why woul-” “I’m not going through this with you again, are we going to build this fire or what?” The conversation between the two young men echoed throughout the suburb around them as they stood around an empty fire pit on a particularly cold May night. Raymond was wearing khaki pants, white tennis shoes and a hoodie which bore his university’s logo, contrasting Ian’s outfit of basketball shorts, open-toed sandals and a t-shirt, all well worn. Directly next to the firepit was a wood pile, which consisted of logs, sticks and twigs, all of which came from the forest a few yards away from the fire pit. “It’s already pretty late, and it rained today, going to be pretty damn hard to get shit to light,” Raymond said. “It stopped raining at like, noon and we’re the only ones here, plenty of time to get it going before everyone else comes over.” Ian replied. Raymond consented, and the boys/men gathered sticks and leaves from the nearby wood pile. After a while, they had gathered a good amount, and placed them in the way they were taught in the middle of the fire pit, pushing in partially burnt pieces of wood from fires past to supplement their sticks, twigs and leaves. “Grab the cardboard,” Raymond said. Ian looked up from the pile, “Let’s try to get it going without it, like our ancestors of old.” “Fuck our ancestors, I’m cold,” his angered friend replied. Ian sighed, “Let’s just try it without the cardboard, and if we need it, we’ll use it, ok?” Raymond scoffed “Fine. I don’t know why I let you make all the decisions, it’s my house.” “But my cardboard,” replied Ian, smiling mockingly. Raymond promptly flipped him off, and they finished the preparations for the fire. Raymond moved towards the center of the teepee of sticks, lighter in hand. He angled the lighter so that it would light the tight bundle of flammable leaves in the center without knocking the makeshift creation over. “You got it?” asked Ian. “I got it. Wait one fucking second, will you?” responded the flame bearer. “Sorrrry” Ian said sarcastically, “Somebody’s in a mood tonight.” “It’s goddamn freezing out here, aren’t you cold?” Raymond asked as he attempted to cup the lighter’s flame from the wind. “Not particularly, no,” the summer-clad man replied. Raymond turned and looked at his friend, his eyes lingering on his feet, particularly on Ian’s toes, which glowed beet red in the lighter’s flame. “Why do you even want a fire, if you’re so warm?” inquired Raymond sarcastically. Ian smiled, “Why, all of mankind’s developments were spurred on by fire, my unlearned friend, without fire, no meat, without meat, no brain, no brain, no…..everything” he gestured to the world around him. “Still not sure what that has to do with me freezing my ass off trying to set some leaves on fire,” said Raymond. “Because man commanded fire, man commands the world, don’t you want to command the world, Ray?” Raymond rolled his eyes at his friend’s grandiosity, “you know, sometimes I feel like you just say stuff to sound smart.” “Not all that hard to do when compared to the company I keep” “Fuck off,” Raymond said, throwing the lighter at Ian, “and get the cardboard, this shit won’t light.” Ian furrowed his brow “Let me try, did you aim it at the pine needles?” Raymond ignored him, and began ripping up the empty box of a cake Ian’s family bought for his graduation days before. Simultaneously, Ian made his own attempt at getting the fire going, being able to successfully light some leaves on fire, but failed to spread the flame whatsoever. After several failed attempts, he stood back up, turned around, and was met with the sight of Raymond, who was looking at the cake box with a frown on his face. Ian sighed, “you’re right, we definitely need cardboard to get this lit.” Raymond, in a noticeably frustrated voice, said, “yeah, I’m not so sure we are going to be able to get this lit at all dude, let’s just use the fireplace on the deck, it will light in five seconds and there’s more room up there anyways.” “That thing can’t warm one person up, let alone all five of us. Just be patient, I’m sure I-, we can get it lit with the cardboard, that should burn up real nice,” said Ian. Raymond sighed, “Knock yourself out, I’m going to get some snacks ready for the rest of the guys” Raymond handed the cake box, now torn into several smaller pieces, to Ian, and retreated back into his house, briefly flooding the outside with artificial light, before plunging it back into darkness as he shut the door. Now alone in the night, Ian gazed around at his surroundings, his eyes drifting from the woods to Raymond’s father’s workbench, and finally to the empty firepit before him. He imagined what the fire would look like fully lit, with the ambers dancing in the air like fireflies, each log added to the flame jostling hundreds into the air, becoming indiscernible with the stars above, hanging suspended for a few moments before burning out, and falling back to earth. He imagined his friends sitting around the fire, their bodies warmed by it’s soft glow, its light illuminating their laughing faces as they drank whatever light beer or mixed drink they brought with them. Then, all of a sudden, Ian was thrust from his daydream, and the unlit fire once again laid before him, so he got to work. Before lighting the cardboard, Ian rebuilt the kindling, being careful to throw all sticks that were too wet back into the yard. After he constructed a mostly dry pyre of sticks, twigs and leaves, he held the lighter’s flame to the largest piece of torn box, and waited for the cardboard to burn bright. When it finally caught, he set the flaming refuse below his kindling, careful not to knock anything over. Finally, the flame began to spread, as the large piece of cardboard burnt bright, and Ian began to feel the familiar heat warming his face. “How’s it going?” asked Raymond as he approached the firepit carrying two cans of beer. “Pretty good, I think. The cardboard is burning nice, I just can’t get these sticks to light,” Ian replied, while feeding the last of his cardboard to the fire. Raymond tossed Ian one of the cans and opened his own. After taking a long sip, he smiled and said, “you know, if you can’t get it started with cardboard, I could try dumping some gas on it.” Ian grimaced, “dude, that would smell like shit and you’ll probably blow us both up, hell no.” Raymond chuckled, “it won’t smell that bad dude, plus, if it won’t get this fire started, literally nothing will.” Ian glanced at his creation, already diminishing in size, no more than a flicker of light hidden beneath a pile of sticks. He thought back to when his uncle taught him how to build a fire when he was a boy, and silently wished he paid more attention. “Alright man, whatever, just hurry up and grab it, I’ll try to keep this burning,” said Ian. Delighted, Raymond quickly walked around his house to enter his garage where, sitting beside his father’s Corvette, resided his item of interest. After picking up the gas canister, he poured the gas into a thick plastic cup he found nearby, remembering the time he once saw his cousin attempt a similar venture with a solo cup, only for the gasoline to eat clean through the cup in a matter of minutes. His cup filled, Raymond set the canister down, and walked back to the fire pit, careful not to spill any of his precious accelerant. Raymond walked up to the fire pit, watching as Ian steadily fed his small flame with leaves and dead pine needles, managing to just barely keep the small flame alight. “Move out of the way dude, I’m gonna toss it on,” said Raymond. Ian stood up and backed away from the fire, allowing his friend to quickly dump the gasoline on his meager flame. In an instant, the world turned orange, as the flame exploded in height and size, engulfing the entire fire pit for a moment, appearing as if the very ground was a lighter, and the fire was it’s flame. In the aftermath of the ignition, the air smelled of rotten eggs and the fire burned somewhat stronger than it had before. Ian quickly scrambled to provide the fire with more fuel, but was unable to get any of the pieces of bark, or larger sticks to catch, and the fire began to slowly fade. “Damn, I was sure that would do the trick. I guess it’s just too wet, sorry Ian. Help me out with the deck fireplace, will ya?” said Raymond Ian barely heard him, as he stared at his flame burn dimmer and dimmer, consuming what little flammable material remained, until it burnt out completely, and was reduced to nothing but a smoldering ember in the middle of a pit of ash. His mind empty, he turned his back on the fire pit and made his way up onto the deck. “If you could just light it for me when I turn the propane on, that would help a ton,” Raymond said, fiddling with a propane tank connected to the artificial fire pit centered in the middle of his deck. The fireplace was small, and consisted of a bowl of blue crystals, all fake, and a tube through which propane flows, allowing flames to spread along the surface of the crystals. It required no maintenance after lighting, able to burn for hours until the propane ran out, or it was manually switched off. The crystals were made out of burn resistant glass, which means they never needed to be replaced, as they would never burn or melt away. Ian robotically grabbed the lighter from the fireplace drawer and, when he heard the telltale hissing of the propane, moved the sparkwheel forward, and pulled the lighting trigger. There was an audible *snap* and the fire was lit, burning softly in the middle of the ocean of blue crystals. “There we go! Now *that’s* a fire,” said Raymond. The boys heard the sound of a car pulling into Raymond’s driveway, rumbling over the gravel and coming to rest in the grass front lawn. “Rick and the rest of them must be here, I’ll go say hi, put out some pillows for them,” said Raymond. Ian complied, grabbing four throw pillows from the nearby linen closet, arranging them on the couch surrounding the fireplace. After completing his task, he sat down on the couch, and gazed into the fireplace, the small, persistent flame dancing from crystal to crystal, basking his face in its glow. As he shifted his gaze from the fire down to his legs, which were completely unaffected by the fire’s meager heat, he realized for the first time that night that his feet were cold.


Dorothy enjoyed tea and television. Ever since she had retired, they were her chief pleasures. There was also her husband, Ralph, and she certainly loved him, but he complained about how loud she watched her shows and sometimes he would buy those hideous bagged teas at the supermarket, so she couldn't in good faith place him on the same level as a *Downton Abbey* or a first flush Darjeeling. He was more like a Keemun, dependable but much too familiar. Still, she couldn't complain about Ralph too much. It was through his hard work they'd been able to afford this house out in the countryside, and she enjoyed living here, away from the noise and commotion of the city. It was peaceful. She could steep her tea while listening to the birds and watching rabbits chase each other across the yard. Today was especially peaceful because Ralph was gone, which meant Dorothy could turn up the volume on the television as high as she liked. For now, the news was droning on about the Middle East, those kids who disappeared last year, and the upcoming election, but soon that broadcast would end and one of Dorothy's favourite shows would begin. Indeed, as soon as she heard the theme music she scooted to the living room and sat down in her chair. It was halfway through the episode when she heard it: a knocking on the door, followed by a voice: "Lettuce and peas!" The phrase repeated. Must be those local farmers trying to sell their overpriced *organic* vegetables, thought Dorothy, turning up the volume on the television. But still she heard it: "Lettuce and peas!" They sure are persistent, she thought. What an odd combination too. The banging on the door intensified. "Lettuce and peas!" "Lettuce and peas!" Dorothy settled more stubbornly into her chair. Now they were just being rude. And who goes door-to-door selling vegetables at this hour of the evening? "Lettuce and peas!" She would not budge. She would not deign to give them the satisfaction. People these days were so ill-mannered, and one mustn't oblige their impertinence: banging on the door, yelling… "Lettuce and—" Finally it was over, and Dorothy returned her full attention to her show. ## There were three of them: Mirabelle, her brother Oliver, and the little one the monster called Duncan. Mirabelle couldn't remember for how long they'd been trapped inside the monster's lair, but it seemed like forever. Oh, the things they had endured! But today was the day they would gain their freedom. Their tunnel was complete. They waited patiently until evening— And went: Through the tunnel—into the outdoors. It was disorienting at first, but they held hands and ran: anywhere: away from the lair! They saw a house in the distance and headed toward it. Suddenly they heard the monster behind. But he was far.


My knees are scraped and I have a headache. I hit a car backing out of the driveway my first time behind the wheel. I stub my toe on every corner. I burn my cereal. I still don’t know how to whistle. The closest I’ve been to talking to a girl was during a freshman lab experiment. That one blew up in my face in more ways than one. After failing time and time again in life, I finally realized I’m a hopeless case. So maybe I need some help. Some outside help. A trip to an alleged “witch doctor” seemed extreme at first, but I don’t have many options. Next thing I know the room is shaking and a white glow blinds me as I cover my eyes. Maybe I’m in too deep. A man of about 6 feet steps forward and my eyes feel glued to him. Piercing eyes and chiseled features stare back at me with a calm gaze. This guy was... different. “I heard you could use some help.” His voice was magnetic, and it didn’t take long for me to spill my entire story. He listened carefully and after a moment spoke in an almost uncaring voice. “I’m Michael. Just follow me and I’ll show you what’s up.” If only I knew who I had in front of me maybe I would’ve asked to end world hunger, or bring peace to the world. But I didn’t, and so we hit the bar. “You just gotta walk around like you’re the shit.” I blinked a few times. “What?” He smiled at me and responded. “Yeah, you just gotta imagine that everyone here is beneath you. Anything they could ever do is of complete insignificance compared to a being such as yourself.” I didn’t know if I could do that. I came from a household where you wouldn’t have a good time if you didn’t show respect to others. But I was here because I was desperate, and so I thought I’d give it a shot. A Black woman with curly hair and pretty eyes was my first challenge. I walked up as if nothing mattered and sat down in front of her. “You from around here?” She looked me up and down before responding. “No actually, me and my friends are in a band and we’re performing around here. Thought I’d check this place out.” This was going well. Now to follow Michael’s advice. With complete confidence, I looked her in the eyes and said “Do you think I care?” A second passed and her drink was thrown in my face before I knew it. As she stormed off I stumbled to the bathroom, dejected. Maybe I really was hopeless. No matter what I did, I’d never amount to anything and— My thoughts were interrupted by a warm body slamming into me as I turned the corner. “I’m so sorry! I’ve been having an absolutely horrible day.” I helped her up, a woman around 5’2 with freckles and fiery eyes. Her elbows were scraped, there was a hole in her jeans and she looked like she was barely holding herself together. “I know the feeling. Wanna talk about it?” It wasn’t what Michael told me to do, but somehow it felt right. Her eyes lit up and she dived into her story. We spent many hours in that bar, talking about our troubles and learning about each other. I never saw Michael again, and thought to myself how glad I was that I abandoned his advice. Michael, having returned to heaven and watching from above, smiled to himself and laughed. (got this prompt off instagram @ writing.prompt.


# 6. Maggie’s Revenge Herb Withers watched in horror as Jeremiah raised his hitherto unused pistol. The barrel was pointed right at Herb’s chest, and before there was any chance to react, a deafening thunderclap rocked him backward. He wondered for a brief, confusing moment if he had been struck by lightning, but the warm sensation flowing from his back said otherwise. Shock and confusion ran through him in waves as he tried to keep his balance on his horse. If he could just stay upright, maybe they could get him back to town and do something about it. Darkness surrounded the hill, closing in on all sides. He looked up at the ominous, bloated sky above him. “I just wanted to see that man hung.” Blood bubbled from his mouth as he said it, choking him and making the words barely audible. In a snap, any and all sensation was gone and he was floating midair next to his horse. Staring at him were two men, both with hangmen’s marks around their neck and one with a neat bullet hole in the middle of his head. “Where the hell am I?!” Otis, still in shock from the events unfolding, shrugged. “You’re dead, but I don’t know if that’s going to be a problem for long at the rate she’s going.” He pointed a finger toward Maggie who was already recovering from her run-in with the barrier and headed back toward the fray. The horsemen spun around wildly, drawing their guns. “What the hell have you done, Jeremiah?” asked Reggie, with more annoyance than anything. “I-I don’t know. It just—” Reggie cut off his explanation by shooting Jeremiah in the head. “NO!” shouted Jeremiah as he appeared midair. His hands stretched out, still trying to block the shot that had sent his body flying backward off his horse. The damp desert floor soaked up his blood greedily, happy for the extra moisture. “Jeremiah, you son of a bitch!” yelled Herb. “Why’d you go and shoot me like that for?!” “I-I don’t know what happened.” Jeremiah’s eyes were wide. “Am I dead?” Maggie streaked past them, trying to enjoy the newfound chaos in the spirit realm and pointed herself at Reggie’s right-hand lieutenant. He held a repeating rifle and had good positioning on the other two men. His name was Hugo, and Maggie shuddered at the idea of sharing a body with him even for a second. She swallowed her disgust and shot forward. Like before, there was the elastic pull and sudden disorientation. The first thing she noted was the sourness of Hugo’s breath and the soreness radiating from his lower back*.* Maggie counted herself lucky that she didn’t have to stay long. She raised the repeater, aiming for the man on Reggie’s left. Her first shot caught him in the shoulder, sending him spinning. He fell off his horse but wasn’t mortally wounded. Maggie spurred Hugo’s mount, riding over to finish the job, but a splintering pain took hold in her left arm. She hadn’t even heard the gunshot but knew it was Reggie that fired. Pain throbbed through the point of impact, just above Hugo’s elbow. Hot blood ran down his arm in a wave, coating his fingers in the sticky mortal substance. Maggie fought desperately to hold on to Hugo’s corporeal form and managed. She looked up and saw Reggie turned to the native man, still tied up on horseback. “Don’t go anywhere. Apparently, I’ve got some other business to attend to.” Rain fell heavy now, mixing with Hugo’s blood and running in small rivers down the hill. Lightning flashed, casting Reggie in shadows as he dismounted. The world spun around Maggie and her mind shook like an overworked muscle. Holding onto Hugo when he wasn’t dying was hard enough, but this was torture. She willed herself to stay and turned her head to look for Hugo’s pistol, lying on the ground a few feet away. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” Reggie had his pistol drawn, the black barrel a gaping maw. “You think that scares me?” It was strange to hear Hugo’s voice with her words. “Pull the trigger and be done with it.” Maggie wasn’t sure she had another possession in her, but she was sure as hell going to try. The edges of Hugo’s skin pushed at her like a thousand needles, trying desperately to shed the bodily invader. “I’m not done with you yet, Hugo*.*” She clenched his hands into fists, wincing at the pain in his left arm. “Now, the Hugo I know is a coward and would never try shit like this.” Reggie turned toward the Hangman’s Tree, then back to face her. “This is crazy, but I don’t see another solution. I’m not talking to Hugo, am I?” “You catch on quick.” Maggie spat blood. “You deserve everything you have coming.” Reggie cocked his head to the side. “Who is that in there? Someone we hung here before?” “Hard to keep track of the atrocities you’ve committed on this hill?” She crept her right fingers toward the gun. In a blinding flash, Reggie aimed his pistol and blew Hugo’s fingers off. Maggie cursed, screaming in pain. “Yeah, see, Hugo wouldn’t do a fool thing like that either. Sounds like I’m dealing with Maggie Brown.” Maggie made no effort to hide the pained smile she spread across Hugo’s face. “In the flesh, back for my revenge.” Reggie whistled. “Never thought I’d have to kill you twice, but today has already been quite the day. Reggie checked on the native man who still sat patiently on his horse. “Suppose you feel it’s wrong of us to be killing savages?” “Do you really need an answer to that?” “What was it I told you before? It’s just bad for business. That’s right, and it’s still true. I’m a man of dollars and cents, and these uncultured folk coming into our fine town aren’t good for my business, or the town for that matter.” Maggie felt control slipping away but pushed to hold on. The pistol was out of reach, but she didn’t want to give Reggie the satisfaction of winning again. The man deserved to die. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie spied movement as the other man she had shot got slowly to his feet. “You alright over there, John?” asked Reggie. “Yeah, the pissant just winged me.” The man was wrapping a makeshift bandage around his shoulder. “Well, as it turns out, this pissant is none other than our good friend, Maggie Brown. You’ll remember her.” John walked over to get a better look. As he got closer, he stumbled and his eyes went wide. “You good?” asked Reggie, never letting the pistol barrel leave Maggie. John recovered, but Maggie could see the difference in his expression. “Yeah, think I’m just a little low on blood.” “Well, let’s finish our business quickly and get you back to town. We’ve lost enough good men to this bitch today.” Maggie smiled through the pain and blood. “Anything for you, Reggie.” “How sweet of you. Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a hurry now, so I’m going to have to cut our little chit-chat short. I think I’ll send you back to where you belong. Any last words? Don’t think I gave you the chance last time.” John winked at her and dropped a hand to his pistol. Maggie smiled. “Yeah, payback is a bitch.” “Ain’t that the tru—” John raised his pistol and shot Reggie in the side of the head. The bullet passed clean through, sending a red spray into the growing wind. Reggie fell to his knees, mouth opening and closing slightly. In the same moment, John’s body shook violently, and his eyes were wide once more. “Oh god, what have I done? Reggie?!” Maggie didn’t wait for him to get his bearings she rolled to her pistol, picked it up with her good hand, and used the last of Hugo’s strength to fire it. The force of the pistol rocking back threatened to tear Hugo’s wounded arm off. Hot pain bloomed, but the shot hit. John dropped to the ground. Buzz saws ran down every inch of Hugo’s body, trying to forcibly cut Maggie out. The world blurred between the grey of the spirit realm and the churning darkness of a dying man’s last vision. Hugo was losing a lot of blood. Maggie took what remained of her resolve and stood. Waves of nausea and dizziness swept over her, but she stumbled toward the native man all the same. Each step was a marathon task. Hugo’s legs moved like they were dragging fifty-pound weights behind him. Maggie pulled a knife out of Hugo’s belt, wanting to cut the native man free, but dropped it through his bloody fingers. “Shit,” she muttered. It was hard to remember anything through the haze of agony that surrounded every movement. “Help us,” she managed in broken Shoshoni. “The dead are trapped.” The world went dark and a force shot Maggie from Hugo’s body. She caught a brief glimpse of the spirit world and the cavalcade of new arrivals. Then. she hit the barrier. Everything went white. # Epilogue Things were tense on Hangman’s Hill. With all the commotion, even the Dirt Nappers came up to see what was going on. As it turned out, letting bygones be bygones didn’t apply to the furious deceased faced with their murderer. Of course, no one could do anything to Reggie, but they sure tried. In the end, they settled on making his life a living hell, floating in a tight circle around him, wherever he went, the ghosts were a constant reminder of the sins he had committed in life. They took turns speaking to their deaths, repeating the stories to drive the man mad. Reggie never got so much as a moment’s rest. Otis and Adam sat on the edge of the commotion, wondering if anything would come out of their great experiment. The native man had been able to cut himself free, but whether from fear or self-preservation, rode off immediately. To say they felt disappointed was an understatement, and had it not been for the entertainment that was Reggie’s misery, they might have become Dirt Nappers themselves. “What do you think happened to her?” asked Adam one day as they watched white clouds passing by on the horizon. “She can’t be gone, right?” “I don’t think I know anything worthwhile about this place,” replied Otis. They had watched Maggie shoot out of Hugo with such force that it was impossible to discern her form. She had been a streak of light, careening toward the barrier. When she hit, her energy dissipated, and she wasn’t seen again. “Maybe she hit it so hard she got out.” Adam hoped it was true. “I hope so, too. Either way, we both saw the grin on her face when you possessed that man and shot Reggie in the head. I like to think that would have put her at peace no matter where she ended up.” Adam nodded. “I didn’t think I would, but I miss her.” “Me too, kid.” \ Weeks passed. The desert was implacable as always, but on the third week, a wind kicked up. Hoofbeats carried through the air as twenty riders appeared on the horizon. Every single soul that had been trapped on Hangman’s Hill came out to see who it was. At the lead of the riding party was the native man they had saved from certain death, and while Reggie and his men weren’t too happy about seeing him again, the rest of the group was elated. As the group approached, horses fanned out in all directions and men with bows and arrows stood sentinel along the edges of the hill. From the center of the pack, an old woman emerged, garbed in elaborate clothing decorated with beads and quills. Her hair hung in long braids that swayed in the wind as she approached the base of the hanging tree. She ran her hands over the carvings and muttered words to herself while the others looked away. Most stood outside the edge of the hill, instinctively knowing the boundary. It didn’t happen all at once. At first, there was a muted glow in the ground, like light reflecting off metal. The brightness grew, making its way to the sky. Otis felt warmth spreading through his ghostly limbs as the barrier above him dissipated. His spirit floated upward, not of his own accord, but he felt safety in the movement and didn’t fight it. He looked down and saw the other spirits experiencing something similar. Most were floating up toward the sky but several, like Reggie and his men, were earthbound. “What the hell is this?!” yelled Reggie. “As if Hell couldn’t get any worse.” His spirt grew dark until it was almost pitch black as a shadow. A pale horseman rode up from the edge of the hill, brandishing a shining scythe and approached those remaining on the ground. Otis looked away but heard the screams of terror from below. He focused his mind on the sensation surrounding his body and the overwhelming sense of safety he felt. In the distance, he saw Adam moving upwards as well. “All’s well that ends well then.” As he floated past the highest branch on Hangman’s Hill, he felt a familiar presence tugging at him. There were no words, but he knew the feeling of companionship and peace in the energy. “Rest well, Maggie.” Otis smiled and the world went white. # The End \ Thank you all for reading this story and for your kind words along the way.


"Hey." Jaime's tone was low, almost a mumble. The two men rarely made eye contact tonight, both of them stared longingly out the shuttered diner window. Nothing but darkened storefronts and neon signs advertising various goods were in view. "Erm... Hey. How'd you find me?" Erin looked disheveled, a telltale sign that his mental state was slipping away from him. He came here to be by himself, which seemed to contradict that he was already alone in his apartment prior. "I know you like their shakes, so... it made sense. I swung by your apartment first, but..." "Yeah?" It was almost like Erin was in a fog, half listening, half thinking. "Look, man. I know it's hard. I hate seeing you like this." Jaime braced his elbows on the table, his hands folded in a raised position over the surface. A shaky sigh left Erin's lips, condensing on the window. Droplets of water trickled down the window, the broken jukebox wasn't able to drown out the rain. "Erin, man... You can't keep going like this. You've been spiraling for weeks. I've seen you go through worse without so much as cryi-" "S-stop. Stop, okay?" Erin's voice cracked, his jaw clenched, his throat wavered with ragged breaths. "I haven't been through anything worse than this." Jaime hung his head, looking down at his legs beneath the table. Erin's milkshake sat there, completely melted. He'd been sitting there for hours. "You aren't sleeping again, are you?" He glanced up at the dark circles that seemingly grew to swallow Erin's eyes. Jaime put his hands down, laying his arms on the tabletop. The waitress came by, quietly setting down a cup of black coffee for Jaime. She knew the two of them well, or at least knew their regular orders. Jaime politely nodded in her direction before taking a sip, the girl looked distressed at the sight of Erin's sunken in face. Erin's head leaned against the cold glass, a dull, red neon light cast through the droplets into his cheek. Jaime snuck a peek at his phone. 4 AM. "Lemme take you home, dude. Being alone at your place can't be good for you." Jaime was trying, but he never was good at offering his help. Erin had been for him numerous times, and despite it not being his forte, he had to try. Erin tiredly set a crumpled wad of cash on the table, which his friend pushed back towards his hand. "I got this one, dude. Don't... don't worry." The two men stood, Jaime stood tall over Erin. The hollow looking male gathered his money and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. "Erm... Thanks for letting me stay for a bit, Ava." He cleared his throat, following Jaime out to his transport. Jaime opened the door for his friend, firmly slamming it shut before climbing in on the driver's side. Melodic instrumentals played over the stereo, almost meshing with the low hum of the car powering on. Erin leaned his head back, slipping into a much needed slumber.


“India? Why are you moving to India?” “This job they offered me, I can’t turn it down.” “Why not? You are so talented! You could get a job here. You could get one anywhere!” “I’ve been looking for a job here, for 6 months! I can’t wait any longer” “But what about your family, they need you?” “My family is exactly why I’m going. My mother can’t get the treatment she needs here. The only way we can afford to fly her to the US to get her treatment is to use the money I’d make in this job. It’ll only be for 3 or 4 years.” “What if you go there and get sick? You’d have to wear a face mask at all times.” “I’ll be working in the lab most of the time anyway, where I wear a mask regardless. And I’ll be living on a company compound. It’s safe, I won’t get infected, and with this work, I might be able to actually end the infections.” “And, what about me? They don’t let anybody into India without a work permit, and I can’t get a job there. You expect us to have a relationship in VR over the internet? You know that’s not the same, it’s not real. I can’t wait for you here, rotting away.” “You don’t have to! There is a way you can come, I can bring someone, a plus one… if they’re my spouse.” “Are you fucking kidding me, Daniel? This is how you ask me to fucking marry you? After we’ve been together for three years you move to across the world and tell me if I want to see you for the next four years I have to marry you?” “Jess, no. That’s not how I meant it.” “Well, that’s how it sounds.” “Jess, I love you, and I was going to propose anyway before the job offer came along.” “Well, you didn’t.” “It’s all happening so fast, and my mom is getting worse every day. I don’t want to have to choose between her and you. She needs treatment, and the jobs in this doomed country, if I even had one, are never going to pay enough to help her, not quickly enough anyway.” “So what, you’re going to *guilt* me into marrying you by using your dying mother?” “She’s not dying, but she will die without treatment.” “So then yes, you are trying to guilt me into marrying you.” “No, Jess, I’m trying to make you understand *why* I need to take this job.” “Why can’t you take a job in the US, where here treatment actually needs to happen. Where there isn’t a deadly nanovirus that could wipe you out with one whiff?” “That’s exactly why. I can design nanobots that boost the immune system, which could kill the virus. The US doesn’t need that technology, they aren’t funding it. All they care about is AI, that’s where all the money is. *India* does need it, they need me, and they’re willing to pay for me and my wife to come to live there. “Well, Daniel, you don’t have a wife.” “Are you saying no? Jess, I love you, I want to marry you. You are amazing… you are the only thing that brings me joy in this world.” “Then don’t go.” “Jess, why won’t you come with me? Why won’t you marry me?” “Because you haven’t even really bloody asked me to! All you said was that if I wanted to see you then-” “Well, I’m asking you now. Will you marry me?” “Daniel…” “Jessica, I’m serious. Will you marry me?” “Yes Daniel, I will.” \ “Daniel?” “Yes, is this Aarav? You never usually call me outside of work hours, what’s up?” “Jessica, and Saanvi. They were driving to the museum, in the next compound over.” “Yes, they’d planned that last week, why are you calling?” “There was an accident. Their car was hit… it cracked the windshield, they weren’t wearing their masks.” “They always wear their masks when going between compounds, they know it’s not safe to-” “Daniel, Jessica wasn’t wearing her mask. She... breathed the air, breathed it for over 15 minutes before help arrived… They’re in quarantine now.” “Aarav, what are you saying, they’re infected? Why wouldn’t they be wearing their masks outside of the compounds?” “Daniel, I don’t know. Saanvi called me, her mask was on. She didn’t have a spare one. Jess forgot hers, they thought they would be fine. It’s such a short drive between compounds, the bubbles are so close together. “Aarav, is Jessica infected?” “Daniel, I don’t know. I’m with Priya, she was babysitting, Kiara and Diya. I haven’t told Kiara yet. I thought it would be better to hear it from her dad” \ “Jessica, Jess, it’s Daniel.” “Oh, Daniel, I’m so sorry. It was such a short drive. And the roads are so safe. I never imagined we’d have a crash.” “No Jess, it’s ok. I’m sorry. I should never have made you move here. If I’d just waited for another job, I-” “Daniel, no. You didn’t make me move here. We had to move here, for your Mother’s treatment. And I’ve been happier here than I ever was back in Ireland. And we had Kiara. Moving was the right decision, it’s been a wonderful four years.” “But Jess, I haven’t finished the cure yet. The nanobot immune boosters haven’t been able to destroy the nanovirus particles in patients. You’re going to, you’re going to d-” “Daniel, stop. You told me, you’re close. And the doctor said the medication they have will keep me alive for at least 2 years. You have plenty of time to finish your work. Now, put Kiara on, tell her mommy wants to talk to her.” … “Hi Mommy, when are you coming home?” “Hi Kiki, my dear. Mommy loves you, but she can’t come home until the doctor says so. So you be brave and take care of daddy until I get back. Ok?” “Ok Mommy, I love you too Mommy. \ “Hi, Daniel, how are you?” “Hi Mom, I’m doing fine. Been working a lot. Think, I’m close to a breakthrough.” “That’s great! And, how is Jess?” “She’s… not taking well to the meds the doctors are giving her. She’s, not doing well.” “Oh no Daniel… but I have faith it’ll all work out.” “Yeah…” “Daniel, I’m calling because of my operation.” “Oh right! How did it go?” “Well, it wasn’t much of an operation at all. The whole thing took about twenty minutes. They pushed me into this huge surgery machine, and well, I guess it cut me open, removed all the tumors, killed all the cancer cells, and put me back together.” “So, you’re… you’re ok?” “Yes! The doctor said the operation was a complete success. I’ll be back to my old self in a few months. He even said it would be safe to fly back home to Ireland.” “Oh my God mom, that’s such wonderful news!” “Yes, and we couldn’t have done it without you. Without your amazing job, I’d be dead as a doornail.” “I wish I’d never moved here. I should have waited for a job somewhere else. It took you 4 years to get treated if I’d known…” “Now Daniel, don’t go saying things like that. At the time the doctors thought I’d only last a year at most. How were you supposed to know? You know how doctors are, they always give people the worst-case scenario. I’m sure that’s what they’re doing with Jess, I bet she’ll hang in there more than long enough for you to finish your work and cure her. “Maybe you’re right Mom… thanks.” “Of course dear, love you.” “Love you too, Mom, bye!” “Bye Daniel, talk to you soon, and tell Kiara that Granny says hi!” “I will.” \ “Dad, it’s Daniel. I know it’s late, call me back when you can. I saw your messages on my home system. I’ve been working late hours at the lab. Call me back on the lab system if you can. The number is, 125-423-405-982-234” \ “Hi, Jess.” “Hi Danny, I love you.” “I love you too Jess, so much. And I’m so close with my work, just hang in there. It’ll only be a few more weeks, I can feel it.” “I know you can do it, Danny. And it’s Kiara’s 5th birthday next month, there’s no way I’m going to miss that.” “Ok. Just hang in there for me, please. I love you. Just.. don’t… don’t give up on me. I’ll get this done, I’ll save you.” “I know you will Danny, I love you.” \ “Hi Grandma, hi Grandpa!” “Hi Kiki!” “Hi Kiara! Look how big you’ve grown! How old are you now?” “5! Dad got me a drone for my birthday!” “A drone! Wow!” “I’m going to give you to daddy now.” “Ok, we love you!” “Kiara, thank them for the present they gave you.” “Thank you! Can I go play now?” “Yes, you can.” ... “Hi, Mom. Hi Dad. Sorry about Kiara not being very chatty. She just got off the phone with her mom, they talked for a long time, I barely got to talk to her at all really, I think Kiara’s a little tired of chatting now though.” “That’s ok son, how is Jess.” “She’s… she’s hanging in there, Dad…” “And the… your work?” “I feel like I’m so close. Could be a breakthrough any moment now.” “That’s, that’s great to hear” “Oh, wait a minute, that’s Jess’s doctor on the other line. Can I put you on hold for a minute? “Yes, of course.” ... “Hello, this is Daniel” “Hi Daniel, this is Dr. Anand. It’s about Jess. Do you have a moment?” “Yes, of course. We were just talking with her, what’s going on?” “I’m so sorry, she… she just passed.” “What, how? We were just talking to her?” “Her heart, it… it gave out. The muscles had deteriorated too far. She… passed not soon after she got off the call with you.” “Why can’t you give her a machine to pump the blood for her?” “Daniel, I’m sorry. The hospitals are so full. We didn’t get to her in time, she went brain dead.” “You are the best goddamn hospital in the country, she’s supposed to have 24-hour care. Where was the nurse?” “Jess, she… she told the nurse to leave the room while she was on the call. Told her to come back in an hour. By the time she came back…” “I have to go.” “Yes, Daniel. I understand.” ... “Mom… Dad… are you still there?” “Yes. What’s wrong? Daniel, it sounds like you’re crying?” “It’s… Jess… she, she just died.” “Daniel?” \ “Hi Aarav, listen, it’s not a good time.” “I get it, Daniel, you’re probably really tired from entertaining Kiara on her birthday all day.” “No, Aarav, it’s-” “We did it, Daniel! We did it!” “Did what?” “It worked! Last month’s patients. The last trial we ran. They have gone into complete remission. There’s no sign of the nanovirus in them at all. We cured them. Daniel, you saved Jess! Daniel? ...