I've been anxious for a while now. Three months to be exact. Three months ago, my mom was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The mood swings, the forgetfulness, the depression; it all made sense the moment the doctor walked out of those doors with a sunken face I'll never forget. After each treatment, mom gets better and then gets worse, and I struggle to hold onto what's left of her. I'm anxious about what awaits us when she ultimately passes. All the pain I've gone through will probably be nothing compared to what I'll feel when I have to travel an ocean away to cremate her. My sister and my dad rely on me as a pillar of support and the past few months, I've felt afraid to show weakness and confront my emotions. There are times when I wish I never had a mom, or that she wasn't important to me, just so I didn't have to live my life in fear of her demise every. Single. Day. Sure, I snap out of those fucked up thoughts, but thinking that made me realize, *I'm more afraid of the feelings I'll face when she's gone than the actual loss of mother.* The fact that I would have no idea how to deal with these emotions is crippling; I'd rather feel nothing than something I don't understand. School is starting to become a chore, so I decide to skip today and head to Central Park. As night begins to fall, the park employees begin to "shoo" everyone away as the park now closes at midnight. In the midst of the commotion of everyone leaving, I decide to take one last look at the pond in front of me, observing the ducks blissfully unaware of the upheaval going on right next to them. Suddenly, I feel a soft hand forcibly turn me around with an accompanying whisper. "Hey! You, son, you lookin' for something?" A large, heavy-set man, with caramel skin and curly hair flowing down his face that parted in the middle to make room for his eyes was talking to me. His large frame was somewhat covered by his oversized black T-Shirt and loose, ripped jeans, but I saw through it. His nose was a little crooked and his soft, pink lips spoke with a slight lisp. I observed him, along with some other dealers making their rounds tonight to sell their last batches of M, weed, and other substances. I thought it was funny he would seem to adjust his glasses every time he started a sentence, as if to add a sense of "professionalism" to his decidedly unprofessional line of work. Normally, I would engage but tonight I wasn't having it, so I ignored him. Or *tried to.* Once his eyes locked into mine, I found myself unable to look away, and, as I'm sure he was aware of this, he begins to speak to me, my attention undivided. "You don't look so good. What's up?" Ah, a salesman who actually cares about his customer, an endangered species. By telling him my feelings, I have nothing to lose; it's not like I'm seeing him again, so I decide to unload my situation onto him. "My mom is dying. I'm scared of that, don't get me wrong, but I'm even more scared of entering the depths of my emotions and being consumed by them. I've never been good with expressing them and... and-" He cuts me off. "Son, what if I told you I could help you with that? I don't sell traditional drugs, you see. I'm selling feelings. Trauma, in a pill. Can you believe that for me?" "Dude, what the hell? Why would I ever **pay** for trauma?" "Son, you look like you work out a bit. When you hit the punching bag, your fists bleed. When you hit that bench set, your muscles across your upper body tears. You take this pain because you know real life is even more painful and you need to be strong to confront it. You give yourself concentrated doses of pain in the gym that you know you'll overcome so that when the real fight comes, you're ready. Day after day at the gym, you tear your muscle fibers and bloody your arms, and you not only do it the next day, but you measure how good your workout was by the amount of pain and soreness you feel the next day. Trauma is like that. Once you go through enough of it and embrace it, it all becomes the same, and it builds you up. You become numb to it. You won't **have** to fear your feelings because you'll have none. How amazing does that sound?" "I.. I-" "Listen son, feelings are a game. You go through it enough and you'll be able to control them. Think about your friends, your family that rely on you to be emotionally stable and to understand your feelings so that you can help them understand theirs. Everyone is always so scared to get hurt, or to be seen as 'damaged goods'. But there's utility in trauma, you see? That's what nobody tells you. It's the fact that **everyone** feels the same feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, and self-loathing is what brings us together. Your experience with trauma is what will connect you to others, an emotional life-line to others, so to speak. But you can't wait until calamity strikes in order to face your feelings, that's *too real*. What I'm about to give you is a warm-up set, so that when you need to do the actual exercise, you know exactly what you're getting into." "What do I buy then? I don't even know the name of the product, or how to use it, or how much it costs..." "Like I said son, it's trauma in a pill, or so to speak. I can't just isolate trauma, since it takes an entire set of emotions to process that. Take the green pill first, that'll give you the feeling of having just gone through something traumatic, a paradigm shift if you will. After 20 minutes, take both the red pill and purple pill consecutively. Those pills'll give you feelings of self-pity and meaninglessness. Eventually you should start to feel numb and experience feelings of hatred directed both inwards and outwards, and by that time you should've cried so much that you just want to sleep. By the time you wake up, your brain chemicals should be re-balanced and you'll be back to normal. And dealing is a competitive field, so I'll just give this to you for free. I need a loyal customer anyways." I swiftly take the pills and head back to my apartment to try them out. I enter my bedroom, grab a small glass of tap water, and slowly tilt my head back as I ingest the pill and chase it down with water. Immediately, feelings of dread begin to overwhelm me. The shock of unpacking something from my past creeps in, followed by intense feelings of self-hatred and regret. What I'm unpacking and regretting, I do not know. Yet, these emotions, appearing from seemingly a vacuum, begin to coalesce as I struggle to wipe away tears. I'm grappling with feelings not only that I'm unfamiliar with, but that are also from an artificial source. I feel overwhelmed and begin to break down crying, throwing my face back and forth onto my pillow, hoping for the clutches of someone, something, to hold me. I stop to look at the the red and purple pill next to me. *Nothing could be worse than what I'm feeling right now. Why not?* My hands shake as I cup those two pills and swallow them. I almost cough it up since my mouth is so dry, probably from all the crying, but I force myself to swallow them. My feelings of utter anguish and despair begin to amplify, and I feel as if I'm mourning something I never had. It's the most empty, forlorn feeling in the world. Eventually, the emptiness fades to black. *2 weeks later* I'm woken up by a call from my sister. I can't understand her well between the tears and sniffles but I know what's happened: mom's dead. I'm shocked, but nothing comes afterwards. No tears, no breakdown, nothing. I know how this is goes, and any feelings that come next are simply part of the script. I take my time and drive to my sister's house where my mom *lived*. My sister and dad are there in tears. As soon as my dad sees me enter the house, he rushes to hug me and immediately goes into a separate room as he begins to break down. My sister wipes away tears and tells me how glad she is to see me. Hours go by of me just comforting my sister on our childhood couch, tears running down her face as I struggle not to say anything dispassionate. Finally, I let something slip. "Sis, when do you think you're gonna be able to go back to work? We can't let this eat our entire lives awa-" "Bhai (*Hindi for brother*), what the hell are you saying!? Do you not feel anything? Our MOM just **died**! How can you think about anything else in a time like this?" "This crying, this mourning, I mean it doesn't mean much. Let's just fast forward to the lesson learned after this. Ya know, life is precious, don't take things for granted, surround yourselves with loved ones blah blah blah." "W-What... bhai what are you saying? That Ma was just some object for you to learn from?" She begins weeping again, struggling to explain to me her point. "Sis, all this... trauma... I know exactly what you're going through. I've felt what you're going through. But it gets better, trust me. Everything, including trauma, happens for a reas-" "Don't. Finish. That. Sentence. Leave, just fucking leave. I can't believed you can be so detached. How can you say you've gone through this!? This is **our** mom, the first and only one we've lost! This is all new to me and it should be new to you too!" Clearly, I was no longer needed, so I left. I thought back to what the dealer said. The utility of trauma in our lives. Whether we can learn lessons and be stronger without going through trauma. What about the ones that don't make it out? My inability to face my feelings has left me unwanted and numb. Is it trauma that truly brings people together? Those are questions I pondered as I began the long drive home.  **End** Based upon a conversation I had with a close friend, as well as my own struggles. I'd **love** to hear feedback and constructive criticism for this piece! It's been a long time since I've written but I wanted to get some thoughts out there in the form of story.


I jerk awake at 8:45 and fall out of bed, crack my head on the side-table on the way down and collapse onto the floor. ‘Ngggg,’ I groan, then force myself up. I’m late. I can barely afford this hovel of an apartment. Regardless of my feeble mental state I’ve got to go. I dress and exit and I’m at work in ten minutes. Breathing heavily, I clock in and head upstairs. As I enter the office, there’s no bored murmur, just the whir of the air-con and heavy silence. Lucy, the office manager is stood addressing the room. ‘He was a great guy to work with, full of banter, such a lad, but a great worker,’ she says then stops awkwardly. I hear myself laughing. Our eyes meet across the room. A hundred heads turn to follow her gaze. The laughter dies in my throat. ‘Is something about Phil’s death amusing to you, Mr?’ Lucy says. ‘Philip Coast?’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, died, dead, Mr, who are you anyway?’ she says. I point at the photo on the lanyard round my neck then peer closely at the writing beside my face. ‘Paul,’ I say, uncertainly and start laughing again. I try to hold it back but I can’t and it bursts out of my mouth. ‘And what is funny, Paul?’ she says, shrilly. I flee the room, still cackling. ‘Who are you?’ she yells after me but I’m already legging it down the stairs. I buzz myself out at reception and jog home at a more manageable pace, unable to remove the smile from my face. I enter the block take the lift up to the thirteenth floor, open my door and shut it behind me. I go straight through to the bathroom and fish in the medicine cabinet beside the shower cubicle. There they are, sleeping pills leftover from that little manic episode last summer. I grab a glass of water from the kitchen and sink down onto the couch in the lounge. I pop the pill bottle and swallow a couple then stare blankly at my reflection in the TV for fifteen minutes before my legs turn to jelly. A wave of tiredness washes over me but I resist, even if unconscious is my purpose. This warmth. It fills me up. My eyes snap open and adjust to the low light. I’m on a metal walkway, suspended high above some kind of huge, empty hangar. I’m face to face with a grey man. The same grey man, with a new face. ‘Who am I?’ I say. ‘See for yourself,’ he says, slips a makeup mirror from the top pocket of his grey jacket and flips it open. ‘Oh, a girl,’ I say, surprised, looking down at myself. ‘Indeed.’ ‘Who, are, you?’ I say, jerkily, feeling out my new mouth. ‘That doesn’t concern you. What is concerning, son, is that you’re only one man. Only one.’ ‘This just won’t do,’ a grey lady says, emerging from the shadows. The same grey lady, with a new face. ‘Agreed, agreed, it just won’t do,’ the grey man says. They embrace then release and, still clasping their hands together, they turn to face me. ‘Where are you?’ they say in unison. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, looking around. ‘No, where are you, really?’ the grey lady says. ‘Son, you’re better off, off this course, see?’ the grey man says. ‘Where are you?’ they say, in unison. ‘Where are you, now?’ ‘Now? I’m at home… on the couch?’ I say, blurrily. ‘Where are you though? Where are you, really?’ they say together, their voices overlapping one another. What the fuck is this? ‘I’m home, I’m home at the…’ I trail off. I can’t think straight. ‘But where are you now, really, inside, in you, where are you, really?’ they say in unison. A flicker in my brain catches light. ‘I’m home, I’m on the couch, thirteenth floor, thirty-three years old, 2:37pm, light through the blinds, tired, really, tired.’ ‘Where are you now?’ they say. ‘No, please,’ I say, the repetition hurts. ‘Where are you, really?’ ‘Only answers. Only answers will suffice,’ my mind says and my mouth opens. ‘Room one two seven, thirteenth floor, Hadfield Heights, N7 6BB.’ My mouth snaps shut and the pain in my brain ceases. ‘Good,’ the grey man says. ‘Good,’ the grey lady agrees. ‘OK?’ I say, hopefully. ‘Did I do good mummy and daddy?’ in the back of my head. ‘Oh yes, dear,’ the grey lady says as I watch my legs walk towards her and sink to their knees. She sits down beside me and ruffles my hair then pats her lap, and I crawl forward and lay my head down. ‘There, there, dear, everything’s going to be fine,’ the grey lady says. My lids are heavy, the blond ringlets of my female-self fall across my face and my breathing slows. Wait. I hear something. My heart quickens and my eyes open. I’m lying alone on the cold metal of the walkway. The greys are gone. Noises all around me, echoing in the hangar. Amplified scraping and scrabbling, a door creaking open, quiet mutterings and footsteps. Something is wrong. I pick up the discarded makeup mirror on the walkway, flip it open and look at myself. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and dive off the walkway. The world rushes up to meet me. Crunch.


You give the man eighty dollars and he says he'll be right back. It doesn't seem cool, but you're jonesing. 10, 15 minutes go by. You're sure you've been burned, and you're quietly cursing the guy who has your eighty bucks fondling the lining of his pocket. Just as you're about to leave, brushing the alley debris off the seat of your pants as you stand up, he appears. He's been gone too long for everything to have gone smoothly. He's walking at an unnaturally brisk pace, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. As he approaches, you can see that his face is dripping with sweat, and he's bleeding from his left shoulder. He heaves up to you and shoves a plain brown paper bag into your abdomen. He says nothing, and never breaks his stride. Somehow he managed to run straight into you and yet keep walking as if you never existed. You exit the alley and adopt the same brisk pace as the mealer had, eager to return to your car. It's only a couple blocks away. You'll make it. You got this. Relief washes over you as you fall into the drivers seat, and the aroma of the burger fills the cabin with the most forbidden smell of all. Real meat. You drive the hell out of there, following every law you could possibly imagine exists - what would your wife think if you even got a ticket in this part of town? There's an old dirt road nearby, just outside of the city, that you used to ride your bike on when you were a kid. At least if someone finds you out here, you can make something up that might sound reasonable. Nostalgia. You park the car, shut off the lights, and wait. And listen. You can see some cars on other roads - most likley teens necking or partaking of less illegal contraband - methamphetamine, cannabis, every flavor of heroin. Just the usual. You're in the clear. You unwrap the burger. It's not exactly hot any more, but it'll do. You retrieve some bbq sauce from the glove box and give the burger a proper treatment. Shit, you think, this stuff is probable cause for a meat test. Why do you keep it in the car? But you know why. Can't have this sort of thing in the house. She might find it. You've come this far and there's nothing left to do but destroy the evidence. Your guy was good this time. It's the real deal. Even the tomatoes are fresh. Fucking better be for $80. You finish the burger and exit the vehicle with a small gardening spade. You dig a little hole and throw the bag and the wrapper in, and set them alight. It doesn't take long for them to be consumed. You kick sand into the hole, concealing the evidence of your crime. As you drive away you wonder how long you can keep this up. This lie of a life, this charade, this bullshit idea that you're fine with being a vegan like everyone else. Everyone cheats, yeah, you're sure of that. Most people do. You just don't talk about it. The real danger is if you get caught. Because you know. You don't like to think about it, but you know. You know where that meat comes from.


Places like these are hotspots for business, large rooms, people, food, drinks. We were seated in one of the booths which sided against the wall in one of the cafeteria rooms in the palace. I have wandered through the place striking up conversations with persons who seem able for business. The purpose of my efforts concerns McGregory who sent me here on a singular task. somehow he got his hand on... “150 books, ok, with contents of magicians circles?” The chairman asks sitting opposite of me. He scribbles in his notebook. “Correct” I respond, the man wore a black suit which matched mine except for delicate seams which ran down from his shoulders “What's the sudden influx in interest? They generally don’t buy well except when sold to the military, and they already have their suppliers.” “Very special case this time dear chairman” “I have a story and a theory which turned true. However, they are not cut for every ear.” I lowered my voice and leaned closer to him. “Is this so?” “*Three months ago there was an incident in the old catacombs under central prison*. The news is not out and will probably never be, would cause mass panic. Rumors say that several Law three criminals were released. The fact that something like that happened is already absurd. But the matter of importance is that the cause was an unknown magician, based on the tremors that were sent through the city. *Even you likely felt them.*” “I felt nothing of the sort.” I leaned further across the wooden table, no longer sitting on the bench. “Most likely forgot dear chairman. Irrelevance! When I connect these with the Seely freedom protests from four years back I put one and one together and to make one. After that movement, a group of magicians formed. They committed Law three crimes in secret as a way to rebel and keep alive the Seeley tensions, which got broken up by the military. From here pure speculation let me loose on roads that had me seeking this group, several months ago. *Recently I have discovered their hideout*. Remember the unknown magician that released criminal magicians from central prison. It was this same Seely freedom group.” I stopped to watch him think. The drinks I kindly offered the chairman seemed to be taking effect. The trick is a little scopolamine combined with a sleep causing magician circle, on the bottom of his cup. Takes their guard down for them. “You just need to keep real quite about this my *news*.” His eyes refocused on my face. He slapped my finger off his lips and pushed me back to my seat. I licked the finger which touched his mouth and readjusted my suit. “And what of the books, Philips.” He said looking at me with displeasure. ‘Parently I did something wrong. “Well it's simple sire, every magician needs their circles and the only way to do this is by collecting books. To keep their secret, they would only be able to buy large quantities of books from you. I offer you my books to sell because I am unable to store or deliver them.” I could tell that he liked the last part. His shoulders tightened end and his eyes flicked between his notebook and me. “How much do you give them for?” “25 electrum” “Even if I can get them 10 apiece from traveler vendors?” “But dear chairman you forget that you do not know the location or the participants in this group. I am the only one you can buy from.” I heard him murmur a curse. “Mark them up to 40 and they will still buy it.” “Should I agree, will you inform me of the location of my clients?” “Naturally” He continued his calculations and though he tried to hide it well, I could see the brushes of excitement on his mouth. Both of us knew he would accept. He stood up and said, “I shall send a message if I agree to your terms in a week's time.” As he started his uneven walk I started towards one of the waiters dealing drinks. The deal was done and I was free for the rest of the night. Either the chairman was a fool or the nightshade was right for him. I really did wish that this magician group existed or there was a prison break. Would cause some interest here. But I guess as long as I can create business just a fake story is good enough.


Author's Note: If there's any interest, I'll consider working on this story more. \*Currently Unfinished\*  10 Days Left Smith Berganstein, that’s steìn not stéin, was a fashionable man of the utmost prominence. He worn only the classiest cologne, smelling of sweet and salty ocean breezes, and fitted himself tight with a black and white suit. To top it off an original beaver hat suited his noggin that had been past down in the Berganstein family and concealed the beginnings of balding that too had been past down. His attitude was furious in nature, but his cunning grin and outstanding charisma allowed him to make fine first impressions. In fact Berganstein was an overall well like man with almost no enemies. *Almost* none. However, there was one fellow of the name Johnathan that was sure causing a ruckus. Johnathan, maybe a man of 60 or 70, was quite fit for his age. His tan and abundantly damaged skin was the result of many years of hard labor. Although uneducated, Johnathan was hillbilly smart, having great ways in the automobile and general machinery. Throughout his working years he had done various tasks and settled down on a homestead with a hefty pension. Life was great. Johnathan enjoyed going to the nearby bar and singing with his bar buddies, working on automobiles, and going of adventurous walks with his best friend Rex. Best of all no halloring wife, no money soaking son, no drama talking daughter, and no judgmental in-laws. Only him and his pup Rex, with the whole mid-west fields and valleys to explore. Johnathan was a man of nearly no drama and almost no problems. *Almost* none. There was, however, this “gentleman” who always stank of expensive cigars trying to buy his house for a shenanigan project. Smith Berganstein glanced at his calendar and sighed. It was October 1st and that bloody stubborn man still was putting up a fight. He did the normal, a fresh crack of flint blazed an orange flame that refused to flicker and lit his premium Columbia cigar. He wheezed, coughed, but enjoyed the taste and his nerves relaxed. A few moments past before Mr. Berganstein yelled, quite politely surprisingly, to his assistant Christopher “Any reports on the offer?” Christopher, now going on 18 long years with his boss, was careful with his words, he couldn’t afford listening to another angry break down. “Sir, he has once again rejec-“ “REJECTED? We had offered a *GENEROUS* 3 MILLION DOLLARS. CAN THE SCUM READ?!” Christopher cleared his throat and perused “He has rejected our offer, however Sir, we are making great progress in the city council. It will be only a matter of ti-“ “DO I SEEM TO CARE? A rejection of SUCH AMOUNT IS INSULTING.” “Sir, I hardly believe it’s personal, we believe he has inherited the plot of land through his grandfather.” Berganstein popped a bottle of Brandy and sipped the cool liquid slowly. He turned his chair and looked Christopher dead in the eyes disregarding his shaded circle glasses. “Christopher my good friend and companion. A deposit has been made to the demolish of his house in 10 days. Further more promises for the construction to be done in 3 years will be kept, and why is that Christopher?” “Sir, a Berganstein keeps his promises.” “Good, now shew, I need to call to remind the urgency to our dearest friends in city council.” Berganstein’s drooping irritated face quickly faded to a cunning grin as he greeted the phone. 9 Days Left Was it dawn or sunset? Johnathan rose from his nap completely disoriented from time. Perhaps Johnathan’s second favorite thing about retirement and being alone was the unlimited naps that could span from whenever he chose. Glancing at his phone he confirmed his suspicion that it was indeed dawn. It took only one step and a slight stretch for his entire body to snap and crack. Pain shot down his back, but nothing would keep Johnathan from enjoying a brand new day, neither a Berganstein or petty arthritis. He let Rex outside, a lab mix or something of the sort, and chuckled at the name. It was nearly 10 years ago Johnathan took ownership of the dog from a client that no longer wanted the pup. He absolute hated the name Rex, but the stubborn male bitch refused to be renamed. After serving himself and his mutt a royal king’s breakfast of steaming sausages, oozing syrup pancakes ever so soft, and delicate crispy apple smoked bacon they took a long early morning walk. Ever since all his neighbors became sellouts, Johnathan hated his usual walk to the now ghost town and now instead walked miles in any direction, any direction that wouldn’t remind him of that Berganstein. Upon the return to his house his mood shifted. It shifted hard. He thought this bullshit was over, how much more could this stuffed whale offer? Two men, laced in fine black boots, knocked at his empty wooden inhabitance. Rex growled low and brandished his teeth from his mouth and increased pace. He quickly restrained his dog by the collar, knowing they would use anything, including an assault, to steal his house. “ERRHM, What now? Another offer? Tell him to go off and fap to himself in the mirror! I’m sure he gets so hard looking at himself that egotistical bastard!” Expecting a chuckle, a smirk, heck a change of expression Johnathan was intimidated at both men’s self-control and daunting eyes. “Mr. Beckett,” the taller man said fluently in upspeak “although yes the offer still stands to be taken at anytime you wish we have come to deliver a letter.” “Supplying me with more tinder? I’ll shred it right here, watched me! Like before, watch me!” Johnathan Beckett scoffed sourly. “Ah, ah, Ah, Mr. Beckett,” both men step forward, increasing their intimidation “I’d advise you to control your anger. This letter isn’t from Berganstein. Now enjoy the weather, and please call anytime.” Both men walked slyly at near perfect sink towards their black BMW that shined painfully at Johnathan. Damn Shecklesnachers. Shecklesnacher was the nickname supplied and patent by Johnathan to the crooks and thugs who followed the orders of Berganstein. Officially the group was private security for hire, although it wouldn’t be hard for a child to realize that was hogwash. They were in fact mafia for hire, whose loyalty stemmed only for the coin, but that was just the silly rumor that only those whom committed suicide from two bullets in the head would believe. Puzzled, Johnathan grasped the neatly stuffed enveloped address to himself, predicting the contents were no longer offers rather threats against his life. No threats, not even death threats, would shake Johnathan. What did shake him was who the letter was from. City council, and the mayor. 8 Days Left It felt great to be a winner. Once again the incredible charisma portrayed by Smith Berganstein came in clutch allowing him to fiddle with the strings attach to the local government. His argument was quite easy, almost too easy to pull off, but his lawyers sure earned their salary after this! Under Kelo vs. City of New London undeveloped private property could be seized only if it was for public use, why of course it could be! Mr. Berganstein would build a public park in his plot, besides it really wasn’t the land he needed rather the area above it. City counsel argued that his land was indeed for the most part undeveloped but his house couldn’t be categorized as such. Berganstein then told city council that they were all aware of how out of code his house had become, and it was due for massive reconstruction that would probably need to be demolished. But Berganstein who was known for his generosity offered out of the bottom of his heart to pay not only in full but over 1000% of the land value! And it was so, a notice was sent out to Mr. Beckett, and plentiful gifts were given to the city council members and mayor for there hard work that Berganstein had the only utmost respect for. Besides keeping promises the Berganstein family was known for magnificent parties, both public and private. Deciding not to push his luck Berganstein decided against a public party and invited relatives and employees to a short notice party at his mansion. Despite the short notice, upwards of 50 people lavished themselves in free drinks, smoking caramel dinner hams, and toasted to the highest stock price the Berganstein company has ever reached. In fact, of the few people that didn’t come only one didn’t respond to the invitation. Smith did have a cruel sense of humor. Christopher, although usually bleak looking, looked seemingly displeased with the party but his heart suddenly sunk to his stomach when he saw Berganstein staring right at him. At least the bloke was drunk Christopher thought to himself, maybe he couldn’t even see him. Not a moment later Berganstein waved for his servant to come hither. “Why the long face Mr. Christopher Mac Christy!” the fat man poked before the crowd around him and himself fell under hysteria. “Sir, it’s jus-“ Christopher whispered softly “It’s what?!” “Don’t you think it’s a little early to celebrate, what if he lawyer ups or worst?” “The man’s poor! He couldn’t afford lawyers, be sides what could a man of his age do?” “Sir, people in retirement that have nothing to live for can do crazy things, what if he doesn’t leave?” “What are you suggesting? That stinking man is going to put up a physical fight? Christy the man can’t do anything. Besides, I’ll do what I must, even if it includes ripping it from his bloody corpse!” Bergstein slouched back into his seat, kicked up his feet, threw some trash at Christopher, and quickly engaged back to entertaining the crowd. Christopher promptly left his sight. “That bitch won’t take my land until he rips it from my corpse!” Johnathan yelled at his bar buddies before slamming the entrance door shut. Steward, one of Johnathan’s oldest friend, nodded silently knowing he needed to vent. “That son of a bitch got the whole city council and THE FUCKING MAYOR against me? Can you believe it? For fuck sakes” Johnathan spoke, still yelling, then aggressively plopping his body down into a musty bar stool. Steward gestured for the bartender and pulled out his wallet, hoping buying the drinks would lessen his pain. “No, no, no, Steward! Don’t ya know? Johnathan Henry Beckett will be a millionaire in a week.” He laughed hysterically, while clutching a glass and nearly breaking it by slamming it down. “Please John, I understand you are upset, but what you said is true! My god, I’d give up my house in a heart beat for that money, too bad I didn’t hold on longer!” Steward examined with a grin that quickly faded once he realized what he had said. “You don’t get to say shit Steward! The moment he offered double you sold out you greed-“ Johnathan began to cool down. There was no point of arguing, what was done was done. After a moment of silence, John took his glass and started sipping reluctantly. “Besides John, why care so much about the place?” John took a deep breath and looked up, but the neon lights irritated his eyes. John hated the new bar ever since the one he’d been going to became a sellout. Not a big surprise, he was the only one left, however he did enjoy driving longer to this bar after a good day’s work on his car. “It was my fathers place, and his father, and the father before that, hell I have native heritage! Bet you didn’t know that Steward! You’ll never understand ” Steward realizing he accidentally may have pushed too hard recoiled his hands back in a defensive posture. Steward curiosity was unrelenting knowing that this was only half of the story. He had hoped to learn later that night, but the topic shifted, and it seemed it was any other night out with the boys.


I sit on an old park bench. Although the scene is busy, what you’d expect from a train station in the late afternoon, I find my gaze is always drawn to the one static object, the bulletin board. Each day I partake in this little ritual of mine. I clock out of work at 4:43 and enjoy a relaxed pace down to the station. I place my briefcase on the side of the same old bench and take my usual place on the end. The 5 o’clock train comes into the station, normally at 5:02, and empties itself of its passengers before being filled to the brim with a fresh batch. The train blows its horn promptly at 5:09 and departs the station a minute later. The bustle lingers for a while longer, but slowly the station empties and I’m left alone with myself, my bench, and the station staff. I’ve exchanged a few words with the janitor that most often cleans around this time, but failing to find common ground we’ve settled for trading nods. No one notices me sitting at this bench, day after day, watching the same tired scene unfold. No one approaches me and asks why, nor would I want anyone to. Despite the mass of people who populate the station, this ritual is mine and mine alone. Their presence isn’t what keeps me here. The board is in near disrepair. Its wooden frame worn down by time, the cork board retaining only the slightest hint it once held color. A few papers get added to it, a new play’s debut or a lost cat, but underneath the bright colored posters are relics of an age past. The buried pages, once clean white sheets now brown and curling, were each penned by hand. They contain a list of names, a list I read each time I sit at this bench. I start in the top left and let my eyes gradually droop down the board, giving each letter enough time to be fully appreciated. At the end of each word I piece these letters together, forming a name, which I let silently roll off my tongue. Reaching the bottom of the board I start anew at the top of the next list over. Some names are smudged into illegibility, others are covered by more recent notices, but each one has been dutifully read hundreds of times. I alone remember those which can no longer be deciphered. These names once had meaning to a great deal of people. Once the war ended and the soldiers returned home a list went up on a brand new bulletin. It contained the names of those who were missing. Each day the station would crowd with the families of the board and each member would gaze longingly as the train pulled into the station. Over time families had to give up hope. The looks on their faces around town were miserable, but more depressing were the faces of those that stayed. Each time someone threw in the towel, conversation the next day would freeze. The shared hope of the group waned over the years and the list only served as a reminder of that which was lost. Years passed, decades even, and the list was forgotten about. Now, a sole man makes a daily pilgrimage down to a lonely bench and stares, ever-hopeful, at a few scraps of paper loosely tacked onto a decrepit board. His eyes appear to be still to onlookers, but they diligently crawl over each name. He holds strong through this journey, but upon reaching the last letter he cannot help a solitary tear from escaping his eyes. I don’t have much longer to continue my duty, but I cannot abandon it. For those who were lost, for those who were forgotten, and for those who gave up hope, I read the list.


Officer Nicholson watched the crazy man run around the blood-splattered crime scene, inspecting everything but the dead body in the centre of the room. This crazy man was apparently the best detective on this side of the force. Officer Nicholson was told that the detective was a little eccentric in his methods, and that he rarely ever worked a case with another officer due to his eccentricity, but Nicholson was all for whatever crap the detective had to pull to solve the case. What he was not ready for was an early 30-something adult man to start chatting to a lamp. “Lamp, how are you doing? Haven’t seen you since we busted your dirty rat of a brother. Yeah, his bulb isn’t so bright anymore,” the aforementioned detective said, as if he were casually making small talk about the weather to an old friend, and not speaking to an upright floor lamp, “Now, Lamp, I like you, I really do, but you have to tell me what you know about this. You come across as an honest guy, but something about you seems shady. I got a family man lying dead on the floor in his own blood, what am I going to tell his wife and children? I need your help, Lamp.” “Good-cop-bad-cop routine,” a voice behind Nicholson quietly whispered. Nicholson jumped, turning around to find that the voice belonged to none other than the chiseled, salt-and-pepper haired head of his superior. “Kowalski,” Nicholson replied in greeting, turning his head to look at the man who was his boss. “What do you mean good-cop-bad-cop routine?” “It’s his way of doing things. Cliché, I know, but it gets the job done.” Nicholson looked back to man that was still talking to the lamp, “Are you su-” “Don’t even try to frame Window over there, he has an alibi!” There was a pause. “You son of a bitch, what did you say about my wife?!” Suddenly, the lamp-talking detective grabbed the lamp and threw it against the wall, hard enough to crack the bulb a little but not hard enough to break it. Nicholson stood still, unable to comprehend what he’d just seen. A man, who was among the best and most trusted detectives in the city, had just thrown a lamp against a wall because the lamp had ‘commented’ on his wife. How the hell had this man not been put under disciplinary action yet? A number of questions flooded the mind of the junior detective. He chose the simplest one. “He has a wife?” Kowalski nodded, “I can see how it’d surprise you, but yes. From what our friend over there has told me, she’s a lovely sweet woman.” “Huh”, Nicholson replied, “I’ll take the initiative and assume that she didn’t marry him for his charming personality and dry wit.” Kowalski barked out a laugh, “You might be right.” Before Nicholson could air any more of his numerous questions about this whole situation, the seemingly mental man walked up to Kowalski and proclaimed, “It was the delivery driver. Lamp finally confessed that he’d seen him stab our victim over there, and I found a small drop of salsa, most likely a bit that had dropped onto our murderer’s hands as he was delivering the food.” The crazed man walked out of the room calmly, not saying another word. The door hitting the frame was the only action in the room, until Nicholson started to stare at Kowalski. Kowalski shrugged, “What can I say? He may be insane, but he’s never wrong and he’s actually quite the charming fellow when he’s not talking to the furniture.” Kowalski turned and walked out of the room, following after the eccentric detective. Nicholson shut his mouth that was gaped open in surprise, and hurried after Kowalski and the psychotic detective, eager to know more about his new partner.


Sitting there on the cold, hard, tiled floor, it really put things into perspective. Namely, what I was about to do with a loaded semi-automatic 9mm pistol in my hand, the end of the barrel pointing towards the side of my head. Bracing myself for the loud noise and the bright flash of light, I pulled the trigger and the familiar darkness clouded my vision as I began to slip from this world to the next, and just before I left this plane, I was pulled back, like a fish on a hook. I opened my eyes to find a blood-stained bullet laying on the tiled floor, smoke slowly rising off of it due to the residual heat. I knew this was going to happen. Why did I even think that this was going to work? Of course she wouldn’t let me die. I heard a feminine voice coming from the kitchen. My gaze and attention snapped to the door of the bathroom. It was that same voice I’d heard all those years ago, back when I was young and foolish. It’s funny how the choices we make as teenagers lead to things like this later in life. For some people, it’s a regrettable tattoo or a failed exam. For me, it was immortality, a seemingly perennial life. Right on cue, she walked through the door. She was a very pale, short, slip of a girl, dressed in a black, loose-fitting t-shirt and tight trousers that rolled down to her ankles. Her feet were open and bare, exposed to the cold air of the room, her face was made up of clear skin, framed by shoulder-length dark hair, a black ring adorning her nose, and lipstick painting her lips black. She was pretty. She was cute. She was Death. Let me explain this a little better. The young woman in front of me was the fourth Horseman, the embodiment of death. She had inherited her title from her father, a well-known figure known as the Grim Reaper. Unlike the Grim Reaper, Death actively caused living people to die according to her list because she wasn’t powerful enough to cause passive deaths around the world, but in time she’d grow stronger, and eventually Death would grow strong enough that even the Grim Reaper wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to her. I met Death when I was 19, a young university student obsessed with the occult who decided to try out the funny looking ritual in a dusty old book in the library’s basement. In hindsight, it was a horrible choice. I completed the ritual and, lo and behold, before me was Death, in all of her terrible glory. Oddly enough, Death and I hit it off and we began to have a sort of fling over the Summer, where I would summon her using the book I’d stolen and we’d go on little dates. Dinner, coffee, the movies, that sort of thing. Soon enough, I’d grown bored of Death, who’d lost her mystique quite quickly, mostly because whilst she looked like a goth and while she may be the embodiment of death, she was a very weird and clingy person. I put it down to her loneliness. Killing people and collecting their souls must’ve been a lonely job and she was probably at the peak of her loneliness when I met her. To cut this love story short, Death became smitten with me as I lost more and more interest in her, and she promised me that no matter what happened, I would always live because she couldn’t bear to see me die and pass on from this world to the next, leaving her alone. By her rationale, as long as I was around she would never be alone again. From that day forward, a mere 20 years ago, I haven’t aged. I *can* die but I always come back just as quick, not a single hair on my head disturbed. You name it, I’ve probably tried it. Chainsaw, bullet to the brain, trampled by horses, falling off a cliff, decapitation. Point is, I’ve done a lot to try to die and so far, none of it has worked. Death was watching me, a wide, beaming smile on her happy face, “Hey John! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” I eyed the door just behind her and contemplated running, but it would be useless. She’d find me no matter how far or where I went. “Hey Death, how’s unlife?” Death giggled, “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Mostly boring seeing as I have no one to talk to. It’s quite the coincidence that I happened to be in the area and I sensed that you were close by, I was going to come find you. I miss you.” Coincidence, yeah, coincidence my ass. I cleared my throat, trying to at least sound somewhat excited, “You miss me? I thought you had a boyfriend.” Death’s beaming smile dimmed a little, her brow furrowing slightly, “Of course I miss you. Why would I need a boyfriend when I have the love of my life right here in front of me?” “Love of your life? Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” “No. I love you. You love me too, right?” Her voice took on a sad tone, and her smile all but completely disappeared. While I might not love her, I can’t stand seeing her cry. “Of course I do, you know that,” I swallowed some saliva as I tried to say the next sentence without sounding strained, “do you want to maybe hang out? I’ve got nothing to do, so…” Death’s smile returned, twice as bright as before, “I’d love to! Where are we going?” “I thought we could just chill here, catch up a bit more in-depth.” “Sure!” She exclaimed. Suddenly, her eyes glazed over slightly, a sign that there was someone nearby that she needed to kill to meet her quota, and I knew that she couldn’t see me. “John, I’m really sorry about this but I have to go. Work and all that, you get it right?” “Yeah.” No, not at all. I haven’t worked for over 14 years. Immortality can be a little beneficial in starting up your own business and getting crazy rich off of it. “I’ll be back later tonight though. You better pick out a good movie and snacks.” With that, Death vanished, off to go kill some more people and take their souls. In the meantime, I have to go and prepare for a date with Death. Somebody kill me now, please.


‘Are you, inside?’ I ask, letting the bars drop from my hands to thud solidly onto the wooden floor. ‘Inside, outside, all fucking sides, mate. But no, I’m not wearing your body if that’s what you’re thinking. I am your body, same matter, simple as,’ me says. ‘Where are you, mate?’ ‘I’m, I’m on a train,’ I say, vaguely, staring at him. He’s me but there are differences, lines in his face, a light greying of stubble on his chin, sharp blue eyes where there should be green. ‘You need to wake up, mate, you need to wake up now,’ me says, then he darts forwards and stabs something into my right bicep. ‘I need to what?’ I say. My brain won’t work. ‘Where are you? I can help you, we need to go, you’ve got an infection,’ he says. ‘Infection,’ I say, without comprehension. ‘I think I’m on the train to Manchester.’ ‘Get off at the next stop,’ me says. ‘Now, wake up,’ me says, and I do. My eyes open and I’m leant against the shoulder of an awkwardly polite middle-eastern man, who meets my gaze and smiles, somehow apologetically, as I right myself. I’m on the train, I’m me. Ticket inspector at the end of the carriage, no ticket. I hop to my feet, gingerly testing the ground beneath me, all normal. I wander as far up the train as I can and sit in a corner of the first-class carriage until we pull into a little village station. The doors ding and slide open and I trot up the carriage and outside. Me is waiting for me on the platform. ‘Come on,’ he says, and hurries away. I follow. Over a bridge across the tracks, through an empty ticket office, to a car parked outside. ‘Get in,’ me says. I get in. The engine sputters and sparks into life and we rumble up the street and around the corner. ‘What is this? Where are we going?’ I say. ‘Nowhere,’ me says, exasperatedly. ‘Look at this.’ He fishes in the glovebox, swerving dangerously as he does so, ‘it’s simpler if you just read,’ he says, showering me with A5 sheets. I pick one up and start reading. *INTERDIFECTION: A GUIDE* *Hi Paul,* *I’m Paul 357375486-045372-5-1, your immune response.* I look up, me catches my gaze and grimaces. *You are experiencing an out of body infection, I will assist you with the removal process. Do as I say. Everything will be OK. No questions. All of your lives depend on it.* *Also, no questions.* I look up at me. ‘Not much of a guide.’ ‘It’s simple,’ me says. ‘Shut up and do what I’m told, basically,’ I say. ‘Correct.’ ‘Interdifection?’ ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘But.’ ‘No fucking questions, you don’t know how many times I’ve had this talk,’ me says, ‘Who are you? What am I? What’s wrong with me? Is this real? Christ, is this real? Look at it, touch it, does it feel real?’ ‘OK, so?’ I say. ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘Right.’ We continue on in silence down winding country roads until we reach a small blue bungalow at the edge of a forest. ‘Out,’ me says. I obey. Inside the bungalow is cosy. Tartan tablecloths and doilies cosy. ‘Is this?’ I begin. ‘This is not my house, no,’ me says. ‘I’m borrowing it.’ He trots upstairs and I follow up two flights to the locked door of an attic bedroom. He clicks a key in the lock and we enter. Lights flick on and computer screens blink into life all around us. Each screen appears to show a different image of me in various states of unconsciousness. Every so often a screen warps and shifts to another image of another me, asleep, or passed out, or pissed or whatever. I’m so transfixed I barely notice the two people on the bed in the centre of the room. A man and a woman. They’re restrained, with wires inserted into either side of their necks, snaking down to a machine at the foot of the bed, pumping dark fluid beneath their skin. ‘And these are?’ I point towards the unconscious pair. ‘The owners of the house, yes. Please stand here,’ me says. ‘Right,’ I say, must continue to just go along with this or I will completely lose my shit.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Twist! We’re going to take a look at the theme of ‘twist’ this week. There are so many ways to interpret this particular theme. This can be the point where you introduce a radical change in your story, giving the reader something entirely unexpected. This is one of my personal favorites, as life usually happens just this way. When crafted well, a plot twist can be an opportunity to further pull your reader into your world. How will your characters react to these sudden revelations or unfolding events? Twist can also be more literal. Think of a winding staircase, a twisted tree that could be symbolic, or even a road. Maybe it’s a good time to explore those internal thoughts and feelings your main character has been holding onto. Maybe their mind feels twisted, and they are at a crossroads in their life. The theme can be as literal or metaphorical as you like. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * August 8 - Twist (this week) * August 15 - Silence * August 22 - Complications   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial, prior to beginning. Those links must be direct links to the previous installments (on a feature or personal subreddit).But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings Wonderful stories this week (but that is always true). I was so pleased to see that not only did every author do their feedback, but several of you went beyond the required two. Well done, all! - - u/Zetakh   - - u/ReverendWrites   - - u/GammaGames   - - u/gurgilewis   - - u/stickfist   - - u/OneSidedDice   - - u/Goodmindtothrowitall   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Me has prepared a chair for me, covered in writhing wires. I raise my eyebrows, just a hair. ‘Sit,’ me says. I sit. The wires snake up my legs, and across my chest, wrapping my arms tight to my sides, sliding up over my face. They force my mouth wide open and flood down my throat. An electric shock sings from the tips of my toes to my brain and I zap in and out of consciousness then fall to the floor. The wires recede rapidly and slither behind the computer screens. ‘All done,’ me says, ‘right, I’m just gonna take control for a bit.’ He pulls on what looks like a wetsuit covered in more writhing wires. He throws his head back and opens his mouth and lets them wriggle their way inside of him. He jerks and they recede. ‘What?’ I say. ‘This is the fun part,’ me says. He waves his hand and my hand waves in unison. He jumps, I jump. His mouth doesn’t move but I hear: ‘Hello, hello, testing,’ inside of my head. My eyes bulge and he grins. ‘Time to get you cleared out, mate, this sorta shit is very draining on the through line,’ ‘The, through, line?’ I say, forcing my mouth open, every muscle resisting my control. ‘Let go,’ me says, firmly, and does a quick jig. ‘OK, so now I am, in fact, wearing your body, but look, no lag,’ he says, demonstrating, and we shadow box side by side perfectly in sync. ‘The through line, all of us,’ he says, ‘one of us is infected, all of us are infected, see?’ Me strips my body naked and replaces the clothes with a suit similar to his own. ‘So, as usual, I will be sorting out, literally everything.’ He grunts and slumps to the floor. I try to walk towards him but I’m not in control. ‘Still here, mate,’ me says in my head. ‘Sit back and enjoy.’ ‘Sgnjgtkot,’ I thinksay, I haven’t got the hang of internal diamonologue. ‘Calm down, now I’m in here I can see. Minor leak in the dark-half, mate, you are fucking confused, hey. Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad. Your core is pissing everywhere, no wonder they can smell ya,’ me says. ‘Gnrjrrr,’ I reply. ‘What is it this time? Ugh. Dull, dull, dull, parallesites, zero imagination,’ me says. ‘Right, let’s go.’ I watch from behind my eyes as I run across the heath with unnatural speed and agility. ‘Where?’ I manage to utter, silently. ‘We’re going to visit your grey mates’ me says. We lope across the heath and into the depths of the forest. The stars above are endless, the air is fresh, the moon is high. The trees rush by in a blur. We skid to a halt in a clearing. ‘This’ll do,’ me says and presses a point on the elbow of the suit I’m wearing. Liquid metal washes over its surface, covering it completely, rippling and extending sending out small silver tendrils to taste the air. ‘There you are,’ the greys say, melting out of the trees at the far side of the clearing. ‘Finally,’ me says, with my mouth. He stays perfectly still and I watch as the couple slowly fade across the field, shimmering above the grass, and coming to rest in front of me. ‘You’re ready, dear?’ the grey lady says. ‘Go ahead,’ me says. ‘Son, this is for the best, one takes us to the next, and through and through,’ the grey man says. He melts back and merges with his female companion, until they are perfectly overlaid, fazing in and out of focus, shifting and blurring from one face to the other. They place two palms against my chest, as one, and I feel the cold begin to seep from their fingers. ‘Gotcha,’ me says and taps my elbow. The liquid metal sheen of the suit explodes and a great net of writhing silver tendrils engulf the blurred grey figure before me. Slithers of metal twist and tweeze the pair apart, tearing them in opposite directions. ‘Oh dear,’ the grey lady says, coming back into focus just as strands of metal begin to worm their way into her ears and eyes. ‘Ah,’ the grey man says, as he reappears, then belches up a torrent of silver and collapses. Me presses the point on my elbow again and the metal cracks and goes rigid, then glows deep orange, then red, then white.


The king was only a young prince when war came to his lands. The castle, which was usually bustling with merchants, maids, craftsmen and soldiers, quickly became quiet when the smoky sky of battle appeared on the eastern horizon. The children, the old and the weak were the first to leave. Hurriedly pushed onto carts together with their belongings, they ventured off to find sanctuary elsewhere. The young prince watched his older brothers polish their armour in the empty courtyard. He watched the soldiers bid their spouses farewell, and watched his father pace back and forth in his warroom, beard greying with worry. When the smell of the slain reached the castle the prince understood that soon the time would come for him to leave behind the secure walls of his youth. Even at that age the prince knew what loss meant; he had lost his mother to illness only a winter before. She had left this world too soon, and the prince had not been able to say goodbye. He thought about her and her pale, breathless face as he climbed the winding stairs to his chamber. He had to say goodbye this time. From his tower the prince could overlook the endless fields and pastures, villages and lone farmsteads that were his fathers kingdom. It was nearly summer. In happier days the first sunflowers would be blossoming and turning their bright faces towards the castle. Now the bloody glow of fire turned the clouds red, and the abandoned fields basked in their gloom. With a heavy heart, the prince opened the window and let in the foul air. Then he carefully lifted the fishbowl from his windowsill, and held it close to his chest. With a feeling of relief he beheld the delicate, almost translucent scales his little petfish. They twinkled like silver stars, and seemed to be the only thing around him not yet touched by dread. The little fish lifted his tiny head above the water and looked up at the prince, his lord and friend, wondering about the grieve in his eyes. The prince wondered what words of comfort would ease the pain of their parting. He could think of none. He did not want to poison the mind of his beloved pet with words of war and sorrow. He did not want to think of what he would become when he left. So at last he turned to the little fish and said: ‘It is time you lived among your own kind, my friend. I cannot take care of you anymore. I will not be a child for much longer and I will have other responsibilities soon. I have to leave for a while.’ *When will you be back?* ‘I don’t know,’ the prince said. ‘But I promise I’ll come see you first.’ Then he hesitantly lifted the bowl from his chest, and let its contents spill out of the window, into the channel that surrounded the castle. ‘Be good now and wait for me,’ he whispered as the last glimmer of silver disappeared into the deep dark blue. The prince was gone. So was everyone else. The castle was empty. War ravaged the country. Dark and lonely nights turned into years. Where once sunflowers blossomed, the earth now trembled beneath heavy iron boots. Forests were torn down to light mighty forges, and metal, black with blood, screeched together with the crows that filled the sky. Blood and sorrow watered the wartorn lands, and nothing would grow, leaving the surviving people to turn on each other in their hunger and despair. Even the animals fled. Yet one fish remained, forever waiting in the inky waters surrounding the fallen castle. The scavenging crows called him the guardian, and that he became. More years went by. When there was nothing left to destroy, even war itself left the kingdom. And slowly, very slowly, life started coming back. Small saplings of oaks and ashes broke through the scorched earth, small animals dug holes in the riverbanks, birds and deer followed. The desolate fields where sunflowers had been trembled, became a wild forest. The guardian in the water felt the spirit of the world return and eager he awaited the sound of feet on the castle bridge. Yet none came. Round and round the guardian swam, feeling the channel shrink around his body. There were none like him, creatures of the water fled from him, birds dared not sing anymore when he surfaced. How lonely he was, waiting desperately for a friendly word, a gentle touch. Only at night the world seemed to be friendly again, when the forest went silent and the sky lit up like a tapestry of diamonds. The moon did not fear him, and so the guardian would lift his mighty head above the water to feel her gentle light. His beloved castle had fallen into decay. The roof had collapsed, trees grew through stone and spiders weaved their webs across broken windows. Even the beautiful flowers on the bridge had ruthless roots that ate away at its stone until it too, eventually collapsed. Never more would there be the sound of familiar feet on the castle bridge. And deep in the dark blue waters, the guardian grieved, and waited. *When will you be back?* One day, a great raven came from the north. She had had a long and lonely journey across many a snowy peak and frozen desert. The warm breeze of the southern wind was unfamiliar to her, the green woods strange and unsettling. She loved the cold white silence of its birth, the bitter lands where no cruelty could ever be hidden and no life was sacred, yet she had longed to see the world. And so she arrived and rested on the broken battlement of what was once a mighty castle. How strange it seemed to her, this great stack of stones. What purpose could it serve, what creature might it house? The raven flew and hopped around the castle, but could find nothing but strange southern birds, mice and spiders. Yet in the great hall she came upon a familiar image, the first familiar thing she had encountered in this strange country. On the wall, in dusty disarray, hung a painting with the likeness of a creature the raven knew well. These were the creatures that shrouded themselves in iron and gold, shouted like crows and used pointed sticks to kill one another. The raven knew this creature, it had waged its wars in her homeland too. One of the creatures depicted on the wall particularly struck her memory. It was the tall one, with a greying beard. Had she not seen this creature just days ago, on the northern road? At nightfall the ravens suspicion became truth. From the tallest tower she watched a man arrive at the broken bridge. He was ancient, his hair white as snow, his limbs were thin and his face bore the marks of a hard life. Around his shoulders a purple cloak was draped, the sign of kingship, now faded and threadbare. Yet the man still stood tall, taller even than his father before him, and in his eyes the light had not yet died. The young prince became a soldier at the age of twelve, the very night he left the castle. He saw his father fall in battle that same year, and then he watched his brothers fight and kill each other over the spoils of war. At eighteen he was all alone. He became a king in exile, but misfortune took his crown again and the road became his home. He was a warrior, he was a rogue, a hireling and a thief. He was a refugee, and no one at all. He knew many names, and left them all behind. It seemed as though the Gods had given up on him, but through glory and misery he battled on, losing hope but never heart, even though the faces of those he’d lost and killed haunted him at night. In foreign lands he slaved and fought, full of burning passion under the blistering sun of the south, cold and uncaring through the hard winters of the north. He choose loneliness over love and carved many regrets into his heart, but he became king again. Now he was ancient, for the gods where cruel and would not let him sleep. Had he been a good king, a good father to his children and subjects? He did not know. He had more scars left than memories. His skin withered around his bones and his mind became clouded. Things that were important he forgot, and things that were buried in the fog, suddenly came back to him. One morning he had woken up with a glimmer of silver on his mind. Though he could not remember what it belonged to, he knew it to be important. It had not left his minds eye ever since. He had felt himself drawn to the river, as if something was calling him from afar. And he had listened to the call, left behind the comfort of his riches to follow a raven south. One last journey. Now he collapsed at the foot of the broken bridge, his weary mind overflowing with memories. Childrens laughter on sunny days, hunting parties, his fathers eyes, his mothers touch, his brothers playing in the yard. The sound of wooden swords, click-clack, a dark rumour of what was to come. Now the wind rustled the trees that grew through the roof, and there was no way to travel those final steps to his old home. The water, dark and still, barred his way. He was forever shut out. A salt tear formed in his grey eye, rolled down his hollow cheek and fell into the water. A moment of complete silence. Then a tremor that shook the earth. The castle groaned, as though it had been woken up after a long rest. In the deep something moved, something monsterous made its way up, up up... Suddenly a great dorsal fin carved through the surface, splitting the blue in two, making its way to the broken end of the bridge. Yet the King did not flee. A torch had been lighted in his mind and cleared away the fog. He remembered. And so did the guardian, who’d never forgotten. It was a summer evening when they were reunited. The swallows flew low over the water, the sun still warmed the earth and the first stars appeared in the west. Even though life bustled on around them, time slowed when the guardian lifted his mighty dragonhead above the water and looked at his lord and friend once again. *I knew you would come back.* ‘You waited…’ *Of course.* ‘So many years…’ *Has it been that long? I have forgotten time. But not your eyes. Not your voice.* The Guardian softly lowered his head, let it rest on the lap of the old king and closed his eyes. Though his teeth were large as daggers, the king felt no fear and laid his hand upon the old head. *Have I done well?* The guardian asked. ‘You have been the very best. But I have failed you. I am so sorry.’ *You can never fail me.* ‘you have been alone for so long, and now that I’m old, I will be gone soon and you will be alone again.’ The great eye of the guardian opened, a black pool with golden speckles. *Fear not, for it is I who will say goodbye this time.* ‘No… you are not yet old. Your kind can live for a thousand more years.’ *I do not wish for such loneliness.* ‘I do not wish you dead.’ *There are no more wishes. I am ill with an old poison. War will kill even a hundred years after it has vanished.* The king was silent for a long time. He caressed the monster in his lap, and looked at the broken castle. The moon started to rise above the line of trees and towers, crickets and frogs sounded their choir and the world was calm. Large shadows crept out from under the old walls, creatures of the night climbed out of nests and watched with glittering eyes as the moon swept her light over the broken bridge. The scales of the guardian became silver once more. ‘Then let me go with you,’ the king said at last. ‘War has ruled en ruined my life, I will not endure more loss because of it.’ *If you wish, my lord.* ‘It will be my last wish, my friend. Take me home.’ Softly the guardian rose from the lap of the king. A primordial monster he looked, towering over the broken bridge, but when he curled his tail around the kings fragile body, there was nothing but gentleness in his touch. The guardian lifted the king from the bridge as if he weighted nothing, and softly, without so much as a sound, they both disappeared in the deep, and the water closed above their heads as if nothing had ever disturbed it. The raven on the tower waited the whole night, eager to see the wonderous creature of the water return once more. But it did not. It never would again. And even after a thousand years not a trace can be found of either guardian or king. The memories that once filled the castle have disappeared too, as there is no one left to remember them. Even the castle disappeared. Only if one searches underneath layers of bracken and earth, one can still find its hidden ruins. And maybe, if the ancient Gods will it, one can see a raven circling overhead, searching, waiting. Hoping for one more shimmer of silver.


#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: *We’re going to have an award week! Get your keyboards out, get a nice beverage, and put on your A-Game. Good luck to all, and remember: feedback counts for points! I will be awarding the following:* - *First place - Platinum Award (gives Reddit premium for 1 month and 700 coins)* - *Second place - Gold Award (gives Reddit premium for 1 week and 100 coins)* - *Third place - An award of my choosing that gives 100 coins.* **Prompt: As day became night, he started to understand the truth.** *Bonus constraint: A metaphor is used. (If you use a larger metaphor, you may add a note at the end of the piece in spoiler tags, explaining what it was.* This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.) #This Past Week’s Rankings - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 ###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.


Brilliant white evaporates before my eyes, the tendrils languidly dribble back into the suit. I reflect the stars momentarily as the metal washes over me, then it drains away into nothing. Me jogs my body back across the heath to the bungalow, bangs in through the front door and heads upstairs. He gathers his body up from the floor and presses a point on his chest. I slump down at his feet and he wakes, pushes me to the side with a boot and stands. ‘I’m, me?’ I say, looking at my hands. ‘All fixed,’ me says. ‘No leaks, no more blind hopping about fucking with normality.’ He peers blearily at one of the screens, ‘I’m sorry, mate, I’ve gotta go,’ he says, ‘looks like 172465988-795822-8-4 has a case of rogue particles again.’ ‘Right,’ I say, rising to my feet. ‘Right,’ me says, awkwardly, ‘this path’s a hugging path, yes?’ He embraces me, patting my back and smoothing my head. ‘People hug,’ I say, dazed. ‘Good, OK, well, you gotta go,’ he says, and harries me from the room. I wander out of the bungalow and stop on the gravel of the driveway as a whirr begins behind me. I look round and the entire house blinks out of existence and a giant, silver sphere appears in its place. A tiny door opens in the side of the sphere and my clothes are unceremoniously chucked out. They land all over where the roof should be, hanging flat against thin air. ‘Sorry, mate, forgot,’ me shouts, waves, ‘bye,’ then the door closes and the sphere disappears and there’s just the bungalow with my clothes scattered all over the roof. I feel a chill breeze bite at my nethers. I am completely naked. Thankfully there’s a ladder at the side of the garage, so I rest it up against the house and clamber onto the roof. I teeter across the angled surface, tiles shifting beneath my bare feet, slipping on wet moss. I collect all my belongings together, wrap them into a tight bundle and make my way back towards the ladder, then I freeze as two people, a man and a woman, walk out of the front door and crunch out onto the gravel. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ the couple say in unison as they catch sight of me. The couple who were passed out in a bed, full of wires, not a moment ago. I turn on my heel and leg it up and over the roof and skid down the other side, skinning my feet on the tiles. I vault off the gutter and down onto a patio, tweak my ankle and hobble the length of the garden. I throw myself through a mercifully thorn-free hedge and head for the forest. Eventually I stop and pull on my clothes then double back, dodging quickly by the bungalow and jogging through the village. The winding roads eventually lead me to the station and I hop on the first train anywhere. I’m exhausted. As soon as my body makes contact with the seat I sink into unconsciousness. I see myself, and myself again, in lines, moving in and out of time with one another. The lines bend around me, arcing above and below in great, gently revolving rings and spheres. The floor is liquid, shifting hexagonal patterns constructed from various iterations of my face. One foot forward sends a ripple through the floor and faces merge and dissipate. It all moves together. Another step and the entire endless, fractal expanse, tears and reshapes and expands and contracts around me. It’s all me. I begin to run, through a black tunnel lit with my eyes, through a tulip of squirming bodies, exploding back in on itself, my features twist and blur with every step. I’m coming apart. Faster and faster. I am a part. It’s all me. Whirling in unison. The whole universe, curled up tight inside of us. Looking back at itself. Who am I? I open my eyes. ‘Here I am.


# [SF] BELLA Turning the bracelet over and over in her hands, Bella, sitting on the corner of the bed, took two large deep breaths. She was risking a lot just holding the smart bracelet. She took another deep breath and opened her mouth to issue the command. Before any sound came out, she heard a noise and instinctively she threw the bracelet to the back of the drawer and covered it with her underwear. It was silent now. Had she heard the scraping of shoes on the floor or was it a door being opened? It didn’t matter now. The sound had vanished and when she turned around there was no one there. Bella stood, straightened her clothes, then went to join the others in the leisure room. Liam came up to embrace her, almost as soon as she had entered the room, and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. She knew it was just for show. The affection didn’t seem to come so quickly once they were in their room, alone. The two of them joined the others on the battered old fabric sofa. It must be a hundred years old, Bella thought, as she squirmed and moved about, trying to get comfy. The others sat back, looking relaxed and at ease. Bella couldn’t stop thinking about what kind of germs could be on the sofa. It had been almost one year since Bella and Liam had arrived at the organisation’s headquarters and she was feeling increasingly claustrophobic. Although they had joined their local branch of the organisation separately, it was together that they had moved all these miles to settle at the headquarters. Bella had joined the organisation just to spite her mother who she seemed to be at constant logger heads with over one thing or another. Usually over what she was wearing or who she was choosing to befriend. Bella, who had always had a rebellious streak thought that attending one of the organisation’s meetings would anger her mother. She was correct and the angrier her mother became, the more meetings Bella attended. Liam, on the other hand, attended the meetings for the cause. He was from a poorer area of town to Bella and the growing divide between rich and poor angered him. He was very angry at the government and Bella often heard him declaring statements such as, “Destroy the director,” and “Anarchy rules.” The Director was the leader of the country and Bella had thought he was quite a nice man. She must have been bad at reading people because everyone here hated him. She had thought Liam was passionate about the cause and she knew her mother would despise him. So, when Liam had invited her to a protest Bella didn’t think twice about joining. The thrill of attending something she could get in trouble for excited her and she enjoyed the fact that she was one of the only members who came from the richer side of town. Everyone wanted to talk to her and ask her questions about all sorts of mundane everyday things. She adored the attention. Liam, it became apparent, wanted her attention the most, and she was quite happy to let him have it. Thinking back, Bella wasn’t sure she really knew what the organisation stood for in those days. She attended the meetings purely to annoy her mother and relieve the boredom of her normal life. In the early days, Bella merely followed Liam’s lead by joining him on protests or accompanying him to meetings. The change was gradual. At first Bella had turned up to the meetings, hung around for a bit, then once she was bored returned home. The rules were so insignificant in the beginning that she barely noticed them. Rose, one of the ladies that had been a member of the group for a very long time happened to mention to Bella that the group preferred it if you didn’t use social media too much. Bella didn’t take much notice. Then Liam had discussed with her the ins and outs of owning an android. He mainly mentioned the negative points. It resulted in Bella and her mother having an explosive argument when Bella wanted to disconnect the household’s robot. By the time Bella and Liam had become a couple, Bella had stopped using any social media and was not in contact with anyone other than the organisation’s members. She had even quit her studies as Liam said the government were using the online teaching platforms as a way to brainwash students. Bella didn’t think she could be easily influenced by the government, but Liam was adamant, and she wasn’t that interested in studying to go against him. Today, as Bella sat on the sofa in the leisure room, the noise from the chatter and from the scraping of chairs as people sat down or rose to leave, was making her head throb. Finding it increasingly hard to listen to anyone, Bella make an excuse to leave and went in search of somewhere quieter. Finally stumbling across a small room at the end of a corridor, it seemed the perfect place to escape. There was a large armchair in the corner and all the walls were covered head to toe in jammed packed bookshelves. Bella quietly closed the door behind her, hoping no one had noticed her enter the room. She wanted to be alone. To have complete peace and quiet. Sitting down, she risked the germs on the chair. It was comfy, really comfy. She felt like she might melt right into it. Bella took off her sweater so she could fold it into a makeshift pillow and rested her head against it. She felt tired. The headquarters was not a place anyone could easily find sleep. Even on a night-time when Bella and Liam were alone in their room, Bella could hear footsteps and muffled voices as people passed along the corridors at all hours. Liam, of course, seemed to have no problem sleeping and could go from wide awake to practically unconscious in what seemed like an instant. As she rested her mind drifted back to the Smart Bracelet. If she could find a way to sneak out of the headquarters building without being noticed then maybe out in the surrounding grounds, the bracelet would find a neighbouring internet connection. That’s if there was any connection close enough as the headquarters was situated so remotely, she could walk for a whole day and not find another building. Bella desperately wanted to contact her mother. She didn’t care if her mother shouted or screamed at her. A tear rolled down her cheek and Bella wiped the wet that had landed on the back of her hand. She wondered if her mother would charge across the country to bring her back home. Or perhaps she had demolished those bridges and her mother would simply have nothing more to do with her. Hearing thundering footsteps, Bella sat up, alert on the edge of the chair. The door to the small room swung open and there stood Liam, red faced with anger, two halves of a broken bracelet in his hand.