It was a beautiful morning and the smell of fresh coffee and and bagels wafted through the air. She could also smell daffodils but couldn’t see it anywhere. Mia wondered, why don’t I see the daffodils? Where is this beautiful smell coming from? At first, when Mia woke up she had no clue where she was but it all started coming back to her. She vaguely remembered being in paradise retreat which is probably a fancy name for rehab. How did she get herself here? She always thought she was going to be one of those people who is going to be ultra-successful and here she was in a rehab a.k.a. Paradise retreat. Why can’t they just call things as is why do they have to give a politically correct name for everything? She saw piece of paper next to her which was presumably the program for the coming few days. This feels more like a jail then a retreat! 07:00 am – wake up to the smell of coffee 08:00 am – yoga 09:30 am – shower and get ready for group discussions 10:30 am – Group discussion Oh man! They also have group discussions she sighed aloud. She only knew these from whatever she saw in the movies where people sit in a circle and talk about things. Did she really have to do it? Mia was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost forgot the strange things that she experienced the previous night. Shaking herself of the feeling she got ready to grab her breakfast and got into her yoga pants. She really enjoyed the yoga session. A lot more than she would ever want to ever acknowledge. Endorphins thanks to a good session made her glow and she was glad she made it to the session. Unfortunately her happy feeling did not last long, her room looked weirdly out of place. She constantly felt like someone was there but did not want it to be known that they are there. She decided to ignore the feeling and get to the shower. The hot water falling on the skin made her feel very relaxed. She couldn’t stop feeling excited about how great the shower felt. She did not want to spend too much time in the shower because she had to get ready for the group discussion soon. As soon as she got out of the shower and start dressing up in front of the mirror she noticed that her reflection was lagging behind her. She couldn’t stop herself from screaming really loudly. It was then she started screaming, she noticed that her reflection was blankly staring at her. This must have been the moment when she passed out. She opened eyes to see the kind lady in charge of the retreat. Mia started to explain what happened. “Let’s get to that a later time, you need to rest now, my girl” – said the lady with the softest and kindest voice Mia had ever heard. Mia thought, does this mean I get to skip that group discussion! Yay! It almost felt like the lady read her thoughts. She said, “Oh don’t you worry about your group discussion, we moved you to the evening batch. You perfectly all right now and you can go back and continue to rest in your room.” This was when Mia realised that she was in a different part of the retreat. Mia wasn’t sure whether she want to go back to the room. She really did not like the feeling she got there. Not she wasn’t sure if she could ask to move to another room. She thought she would do that the next day if things don’t feel better. Mia was back in the room and she decided to rest for a while – she tried to feel calm and focus on feeling better. As she walked to get a glass of water, she felt like someone was right next to her. She could almost feel the breath of someone very close to her shoulders. She could also hear some weird sounds like someone was crying softly. She was very confused. And then again the smell of daffodils. Mia loved daffodils, why was she smelling them everywhere And could not see them anywhere? Mia decided to take it easy and get a nap before she could go back to attend the group discussion that she really did not want to. Surprisingly, she slipped into a deep, sound and refreshing sleep. Mia woke up to a strong smell of coffee in the afternoon. She noticed that the staff had refilled her coffee. She wasn’t sure about having coffee in the afternoon but decided to make an exception. She wanted to be fresh for the group discussion and give it a real chance. How bad could it be? Mia quickly showered, And wore her favourite white dress. She tried hard to remember why was this her favourite. It was super weird that she could not remember many details about herself. She kept thinking, “oh man! I hope people don’t think that I’m not sharing enough in the group discussion. I just can’t remember much…!” She sprayed her favourite perfume and and set out for the group discussion. As she opened her door to go out, the smell of daffodils completely overpowered her. She expected to see 8-10 people seated in a circle just as you would see in the movies. She never thought that she would ever be in this place. Instead, she was pleasantly surprised to see around 20-30 people engaged in easy conversations with each other. They seemed to share a camaraderie that she almost envied. She was embarrassed how easily she was getting envious of people in a “group discussion” that she did not even want to join a few moments ago. Unlike groups that were difficult for a newcomer to break in, everyone made a genuine effort to include her. They had all posted stickers with their first names. When Mia wanted to get a sticker for herself, she was told, everyone knows her. It was the same kind lady she met earlier (her sticker read Anna). She said, “Mia, so glad to have you here. We were not sure if you would make it, but we want to be here for you in any case.” Mia did not get it. “Be here for me?” She thought, this was a group discussion where everyone would pour their heart – but she obviously got it wrong. She decided to keep her thoughts to herself. That’s when she heard the champagne glass clinking. It was tall, good looking guy call Bryan. Bryan said, “As you all know, we are all here today for a special occasion.” Everyone started cheering and whistling. Mia tried to smile and cheer too – but she had no clue what the occasion was. Clearly, she did not read the memo. Bryan continued, “Mia, we would gratefully like to celebrate your life. Let’s play the video.” Mia was dumbfounded but also very curious – what this video could be about. It started with her childhood memories. She shook her inhibitions and pragmatism to figure out how they managed to put this together and started enjoying the video. Her first steps. The first time on a slide. Her parents doting on their single child. Her first-time bringing home her trophy from school. Her finish line memories from the triathlon. Her first boyfriend. Her interview at Harvard. Her first day at Harvard Law School. Passing the bar. Making it to one of the best law firms. Her prepping for her parents 25th anniversary. “Oh my god! I remember now.” Mia thought, tearing up. “I ordered for thousands of daffodils for the ceremony. Dad proposed to Mom after reading the poem – Daffodils. So, I thought it would be funny. Why can’t I remember the party?” That is when she realized that she was thinking aloud, and the video had stopped. Everyone formed a weird circle around Mia and held each other close to each other. Anna said, “Mia, I am sorry, you could not attend your parents 25th anniversary. You checked all the arrangements at the party venue and took the train to get home for a quick nap before the party. In the train, you saw a guy leaving his bag behind and rushing out. When you called out to him, he rushed out. You had the presence of mind to realize it could be a bomb. Without second thoughts, you picked the bag and rushed out of the station. You ran all the way to an empty field and threw the bag away as hard as you could. You saved 1000s of lives that day but unfortunately you lost a part of your memory. You needed a lot of therapy to have your brain be able to process all this. The mirror was not a mirror. It was a program that monitored your motor functions. We are glad you are ok and can finally get back to your family. We are all the people in that train compartment. You saved us all. We wanted to be a part of your recovery.” Mia was too shocked to hear all this and was crying inconsolably. She could only say, “what about my parents?” Almost as if that was their cue, her parents came in and gave her a big hug. They had missed her miserably too. They stayed in the same rehab centre and would regularly sneak in to check in on her when she was sleeping. The doctor had given them strict instructions to let Mia recover first – instead of giving her too many mental stimulations. They were just excited and happy that their selfless daughter was alive and on a path to recovery. It was too much for Mia to process, but she was finally in peace too. Mia and her parents agreed, the smell of daffodils was a catalyst for her recovery. Her father couldn’t stop reciting his favourite part from the poem “Daffodils” For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.


The train bellows in the distance- running through the mountain pass like a dragon in the clouds. Smoke releases from the stack and rushes through the air. A man in the forest hears the sound of the technical beast- afraid due to his limited exposure to the advances of neighboring cities. Everytime a train passes, the vibrations channel through the dirt. Sensitive to the nature surrounding him, the man feels each wheel rushing across the track. The vibrations that dissipate as distance increases still present the man with an earthquake sensation. Unnerved, the recluse curses under his breath when the train approaches his forest home. Living alone in solitude can either make or break a soul. Since the man decided to reside in nature, he has felt a gracious tinge of relief. There are no neighbors in sight who may pass judgement or ridicule of the man. His way of life in the woods has brought him fresh air and plenty of provisions. He can fish from the nearby river or scavenge for berries. With a small home, the man doesn't need many logs to keep warm. His fireplace is suited for the entire flat. Oh yes! Residing amongst the singing birds and the deer who share drinking water is living with good company. The man smiles as a squirrel scatters across his boot. Despite being from different species, the animals have seemed to not care about the man's presence. He is one of them- a forest dweller doing what he needs to stay alive. Yet, what damage could this train bring? To both, the man and the animals, the train is a monstrous force. Where clear blue once existed, now black fog permeates through the sky. The disturbance is monumental. Only one decision could be made: move. The man sighs with regret as he lays a hand on his home. Perhaps someday, another human would be able to withstand the noice of the technical beast and enjoy the house he crafted. Another human- another soul- who loves nature as much as the forest man. With that thought in mind, the man readies himself for a relocation. The journey begins in spring, a comfortable time to begin building a home from nothing. With his supplies prepared, the man carries onward. He already knows that a new home would sit well by the riverfront. The trip to the river is about five miles through a tight forest. Care is crucial when walking, an unlucky encounter with a poisonous snake would put the man's journey to an end. Regardless, he is confident trailing through the forest. As birds dart through turn brush, the man smiles- they are playful creatures. To the lone forest man, the birds remind him of children. After all, they are always flying to and fro with cheerful vigor. Honestly, the birds prove to be his favorite neighbors. Once he reaches the river, the man continues to follow the water. He grabs a few pieces of dried meat from his pouch while searching for a place to craft his new home. After another few several miles, a clearing in the forest comes into view. The man laughs happily as he envisions a fresh log cabin- still very much alike to his old home- with a great view of the wild river. Night ensues shortly so the man makes haste. For now, he must utilize a tent. The structure entails large branches and a rawhide cloth that the man brought. After the tent is set, the man builds a small campfire. Although he loves the wildlife, the man understands how dangerous nature can be at night. Fire wards away potential predators like bears of cougars. The flames are as lively as the sound of the surrounding forest. The man sits around the fire and watches the flickers shoot up towards the stars. The contrast of the vibrant fire against a dark night overwhelms the man with sentiment. Life is beautiful and better when all is calm. The man stands up and cracks his back. Tomorrow will be the beginning of hard but exciting labor. He lays inside his tent and thinks about how wonderful it will he to have a peaceful home again. There will neither be devilish trains to shake the earth nor black smog to disturb the balance. With beautiful thoughts in mind, the man quickly drifts into sleep. The sun rises at dawn, painting the earth in light hues of red and pink. Once the morning birds begin their trill, the man finds himself awake. He opens his provision pouch and takes meat for breakfast. The campfire is low but at no cause for alarm. The man can safely leave without fear of causing a wild fire. Another good reason why working in the spring is beneficial- no summer heat to cause distress. The man clutches onto a handmade axe. He finds a section of trees and begins to chop. Slowly but surely, he will have lumber to begin the foundation of the house. The process will last days and weeks. Fortunately, building a home in solitary is not new to the forest man. He understands the difficulties and bas the determination to prevail. Time passes and the man stands in front of his new home. The cabin work is complete in midsummer. A feeling of relief warrants celebration. The man runs to the river and takes off his clothes. Cool water greats the man as he flops into the river. His swimming startles some fish who dart away. The man cannot help but to laughs- there's no need to be afraid especially since he isn't hunting. Of course, fish don't understand the difference between playing and preying. After a good swim, the man returns to his cabin. He dries off and begins to cook some rabbit. Food always tastes better inside a home. There is no need to be afraid of bears coming through a solid door. Finally! Peace is achieved! At least that's what the man thought until several years later... The sound of machinery begins to haunt the forest man. In the distance, trees have fallen to manmade construction in progress. As with the train, the vibrations of various trucks and tree cutting mechanics travel through the ground. The man's heart drops- not again! Despite his age, the recluse decides to take action. He wants to know why the hell outsiders are causing destruction. The walk must take about half a day's journey, but is a necessary toll for this old man. Quickly, he gathers some provisions and a cane. With a bag over shoulder, the man begins to confront the disturbance. He reaches the site before the workers pause for lunch. Surely, they were not expecting an angry old man walking to to them from the forest. The old man stumbles to catch his breathe. Once he found his ground, the man confronts a worker. The cane slams against the ground to draw attention: "What do you all think you're doing!?" The worker looks perplexed but unfazed: "Sorry old man, but you have to leave here. We're busy." Outraged by the lack of decency, the old man continues to uproar: "How dare you all coming in here and destroying this beautiful forest! All of these trees have been here longer than you or me. They deserve to remain standing!" The worker yells back annoyed and aggravated: "We're only doing our job! This trees are coming down. We will be working on fresh roads and a bridge. Look, this property all belongs to the state, and everyone has agreed to connect two cities together. That's how it's going to be and no old mountain man can stop production!" The old man holds back bitter tears: "They have trains don't they? They don't need more roads! Already the trains have brought unrest. Now, with this project, more animals will be driven out of their homes!" "Understand this," the worker harshly replies; "No one cares! When the work must be done, it will be done. Should more trees be chopped down, then they will be chopped down. The progression of towns and cities does not rely on trains alone. We need roads, we need construction! Now, go home old man and let me do my job." The worker leaves with a hand shooing the old man away. To see how little respect the workers have for the life that they are destroying hurts the old man's heart. Feeling defeated, the old man returns to his cabin. As night falls, so does the sound of construction. The old man opens his door weakly- the day's journey has been more difficult than he had thought. He lays in bed without eating dinner. Looking up at the ceiling, the old man replays the scene of the construction site. Tears roll down his cheeks. He had believed that moving from his first home to a new location would bring him away from human interference. Yet, the contrary has been proven true- humans will continue to leave their mark. Regardless of the needs of nature, technology grows at a deadly pace. Why can't there be balance? The phrase crosses the old man's mind. He concludes that those workers were not people, but machines. After all, a human's role on this planet was designed to help support nature- not damage the life around them. Mulling over what was and what could be only creates more discomfort. The old man's love of nature is simply not shared by all. Alas with the oncoming days of mechanical work, the old man understands that he has lost. In the morning, the old man feels ill. He sits up in bed and coughs violently. Unfortunately, yesterday's journey left him weakened. The old man scrambles to get his cane. Walking slowly, he reaches the door. The beautiful river greats him as he steps outside. On the other hand, he begins to hear the construction take place. More trees fall to the earth and the old man feels their vibrations.


The invincible man sat on the edge of his bed and thought about death. He had thought about this almost every day since he was a young man, but more and more since he had hit seventy; thirty-odd years ago. The old man missed his friends very badly, and he envied them. *A flash of scarlet and sapphire, flickering from one to another, cutting them down in the blink of an eye.* Back straightening and creaking as he rose slowly, tendons defying age as they did every day, the man pottered across the small bedroom. Wallpapered by photographs and newspaper clippings, the room barely contained the man, his bed and his little wooden dresser adorned with picture frames. *Holding his fingers to his temples, he worms inside their brains. All he has to do is crush the right capillaries and they fall to the ground, mentally castrated.* Pulling a clean white dress shirt and a pair of only semi-wrinkled slacks out of the little dresser, the man pulls open his bedroom door, trudging through the threshold into the bathroom. Glancing only briefly in the bathroom mirror, he wills his arms over his head to pull off his nightshirt, revealing wrinkled yet unscarred skin as he steps into the shower. *Earth itself rising up to condemn them to a living burial; swallowing them whole in loam and soil.* The old man drags himself back into the bedroom, pulling a green smock - decorated with a little tag reading DEAN, ASSISTANT MANAGER off a hook on the door a little reluctantly. He makes the mistake of glancing down at the minefield of memory he has placed on the little dresser - a picture of seven costumed men and a woman, golden medals around their necks and smiles on their faces. An imperceptible shake of the head and the man is on his way outside again, reentering a world he no longer belongs in. ***Excerpt from “Requiem for the American Superhero” Chapter 1.*** “Freedom Force Clobbers the Krauts! Axis on the Retreat!” At first, nobody took them seriously. Eight people in costume, including a woman and a Negro? It was a news media ploy that would just wind up leaving eight more Americans dead, at the end of the day. That sentiment lasted about a week, until Adam punched a U-Boat in half. As more and more tales of the Force’s exploits began to sweep through New York and Chicago and Dallas, people started clamoring to find out more about these American demigods, the feeling shifting from mistrust to adoration. Radio news programs began distributing pulpy promos for each member of the team, the copy handed down direct from the US military. *“The Blur sprints faster and faster towards Allied victory!”* *“Cosmonaut dispenses intergalactic justice to the Axis of Evil!”* *“Adam Amazing carries the flag of freedom, family values and American might!”* Young men clamored for information about the supernaturally beautiful Gaea, who could reportedly open the Earth to swallow packs of Nazis whole. Toy stores began selling Freedom Force action figures, including a Stuntman figure that was fireproof, waterproof and drop-resistant and a Genius figure whose brain hummed and vibrated when switched on.


Ted froze where he was. He didn’t know what to make of it. Of all things he expected, that wasn’t remotely in his mind. He stared in its eyes, and it stared back. Ted noticed that they had a sparkle not present back when he left his buddy Julius in the tent, barely half an hour from their last talk. Ted had done what Julius asked him to do. “Go to the guy with the creepy mask! Get some of the blues for me, quick! I need them, dammit!”, and Ted complied. He did so because he had never heard Julius in such a desperate and frustrated tone before. He always saw Julius as the chillest guy he had ever met, even in the times pre-flash. Maybe even too much chill. Except the same ol’ jolly face, Ted had never seen that man display any other emotion. It was like he had a mask constantly over his face. But, in the brief time that the two were together, it seemed like the mask was slowly fading away, feebly showing the presence of the abyss that haunts most of the men of Olathe. And now, what did remain of the old man that was once Julius? A nightmare. A crooked and malformed parody of Julius layed in front of a bewildered Ted. Ted could barely recognise his pal. His body grew horribly, it bloated and expanded all over, causing the tent to fall over Julius in a vain attempt to hide the monster from the terrified eyes of the world. His stomach seemed like it had exploded from the inside, causing it to swell in a rough round shape. The legs has disappeared, engulfed by the belly. His torso twisted over itself like a screw made out of flesh. His arms stretched and pulled, becoming contorted and elongated. They grasped the soil beneath them with sickly calm. It was phisically repulsive and painful for Ted to look at that display of depraved fantasy. He couldn’t believe his friend had become such a monstrosity, even though the evidence was right in front of him, staring at him with the same ol’ jolly face Ted knew. There was silence. Only the melancholy howl of the wind filled the empty valley around them. Ted sat on the ground, with his hands on his head, sobbing. Tears run down his cheeks. Ted had hurried, like Julius told him to. He run far and wide in desperate search of the vendor with the creepy mask. Only if the weirdo hadn’t moved from his last spot Ted would have made it in time to save his friend. Ted remembered the chuckle of the creepy guy has he gave him the little blue pills. It resonated over and over in his head. He felt guilt building up in his chest. Ted didnt’ want to fail Julius. He didn’t want him to suffer like that, all alone. He just wanted his only friend back. Ted stood there for a while, looking at the monstrosity, in silence. Eventually, someone arrived. He heard his steps behind him. Ted turned to see a tall man, armed with a spiked club and armoured with a worn-out bullet-proof vest. The man’s long black hair were animated by the feeble breeze. Ted had never seen him before. He didn’t like him. He didn’t care much about him, or anything in general in that moment. The man came up near Ted, towering over him. “Are you allright?” he asked. Ted said nothing. Couldn’t care less. “Mpf… at least you seem ok…” The man continued: “Look, you should get away from it. You never know when one of these may jump at you…” “And where do you suggest me to go?” Ted asked angrily. “Look man, I don’t give a shit where you should go. Fine for me if you wanna stay here... just don’t crawl to me asking for help when this thing rips off your legs.” Silence. Then Ted got up and slowly walked away from there. He had lost everything once again, and once again he needed to travel around Olathe in search of something or someone to make his life worth living. The bright sun shone in front of Ted. The wind pushed him toward the horizon. The thought that he had to commence his search all over again made him feel disheartened. He pulled one of the little blue pills from his pocket and stared at it with tired eyes. Ted had no one to give this pills to anymore, except himself. Ted gulped down the pill, just for the heck of it. He could feel it travelling down to his stomach. He felt something strange happening inside him shortly after. The sadness that filled his heart was taken over by a comfortable numbness. Ted now felt nothing. He was grateful to the pill for relieving his pain and felt happy that he had a couple more for later. Ted walked down the road, toward a fate he didn’t know anything about, and never turned back, for he didn’t have anything to look back to.


Rain falls from a black sky. Frigid water races over the mossy stone of Saint Paul Catholic Church. Thunder rattles the stained glass depiction of the Easter Resurrection. Next to the empty tomb hovers Jesus, right above the warped double doorways that lead into the sanctuary. Inside the church, Father Collins scuttles about emptying pots of rain water. His curved spine seizes as he bends over to grab another full pot. He stumbles into a pew, gasping from the pain and is greeted by a small swarm of mosquitos. For every one he slaps against his flabby neck, two more appear. Father Collins groans as he contemplates his lowly existence. Years ago, he had a clear path to the Vatican, but that was before all that unpleasantness in Pittsburgh. Even though all was forgiven, they still banished him to a school for blind boys in Bolivia. Things ran their course there. His next post was this backwater dump somewhere in the Mississippi Valley swamp where the nearest living Catholic was over a hundred miles away. However, this was considered a historic sight, so the Church required someone to be there at all times; even though the only services he had performed in the last decade were all funerals. Before Father Collins, a friar was responsible for the upkeep of this dilapidated church. Obviously, maintenance work is more suitable for a friar, not an ordained priest. However, the leadership seemed intent on ruining his career, his reputation, and his life. Instead of dining with the Pope, he chases swamp rats away from the Communion wafers that only he partakes in. There is a loud bang as a gust of wind tears shingles off the sagging roof, and the trickle of rain from the ceiling becomes a steady stream. Father Collins shakes a frail fist at the heavens. Forsaken by his old friends and allies, forsaken by God Himself, Father Collins forms curses on his lips, but the only words he mutters are, “Devil take me.” The wind dies down. The rain tapers off. With a groan, Father Collins grabs the overflowing pot of rainwater and waddles towards the kitchen. Loud rapping on the door startles the priest causing him to drop the pot. Water sprays on to the pews, soaking a hymnal and a Bible. Silently cursing God and whatever lost drunk is banging on the door at this ungodly late hour, Father Collins kicks the pot under a pew, bruising his big toe in the process. The priest grunts, the door creaks open, and suddenly Father Collins stands before a beautiful young man wearing a crisp white suit. The stranger’s pale unblemished skin radiates in the darkness. Piercing grey eyes stare out from a seductively androgynous face. All this framed with luscious blonde locks that bounce as he shakes the rain from his hair. Composing himself, Father Collins says, “Look at you, standing in the rain. Come in, come in, what can I do for you?” “I’ve come to make my confession, Father Collins,” says the young man. His voice reminds the priest of a gently plucked harp. “Have we met before?” The young man smiles, showing off a perfectly straight row of perfectly white teeth that glimmer from some unknown light source. “We’ve met a few times in the past, but I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me.” With a skeptical gaze, Father Collins ushers the young man in, certain he would have noticed such a beautiful creature if they had ever crossed paths. The rotary candles flare up as the young man enters the sanctuary. The priest shivers with excitement as he guides the young man to the confessional booth. What sort of delicious sins will pass through those glistening soft lips? Father Collins closes his eyes as he sits in the confessional booth, trying to remember the words to a ritual he had not performed in years. Giddiness clouds the priest’s mind as he takes a deep breath and asks the young man how long it had been since his last confession. “Long time, Father Collins. Very, very long time.” Father Collins smiles, sensing an exterior motive for this young man’s visit. This is no ordinary parishioner. “What is it you wish to confess, my son.” “Murder.” Father Collins stiffens. “I beg your pardon, but did I hear you correctly? Did you say you murdered someone?” “Not someone, but some people. Killed a man’s children along with all his servants. Then I drove his cattle off a cliff, and I’m talking tens of thousands of cattle.” Perhaps this young man’s company is a gift from an old friend, a sympathetic one who knows how lonely the last few years have been for Father Collins. Choosing his words carefully, Father Collins asks, “Is this some sort of game?” “No, I really did that. Well, not personally, but I caused it all to happen.” “Why would you do such a thing?” asks Father Collins in a low voice. The young man says, “Because I made a bet with God. You should know the story, you wrote a whole sermon on it, *The Righteous Suffering of Job*. You first gave that sermon almost forty years ago, when you held a fancy position in Pittsburgh. Same day you called little Brian Mayfield back to your office.” The priest’s lecherous smile vanishes. How could this stranger possibly know that? The young man waits a few moments for the priest to respond. After receiving nothing but garbled stammering from the priest, he continues, “You must remember that sermon. You went into gruesome detail about how I killed Job’s kids, his servants, and his livestock. Well… over the last few centuries, I’ve been thinking about Job’s family, and you were right. What I did was wrong. While God has an exponentially higher body count than me, that doesn’t excuse what I did, so I would like to officially apologize for that.” The priest’s voice trembles. “Who are you?” Ignoring the question, the young man continues, “If I have to resort to murder to corrupt a soul, perhaps that’s a soul not worth corrupting. Besides, I’ve learned it is much easier to corrupt a soul with petty inconveniences. In fact, sometimes all it takes is a leaking roof to not only get someone to curse God, but actually invite me to take them away.” Father Collins cries out, “Who are you!” There is a long pause. When the young man speaks, his voice lowers a few octaves. “You know who I am, Father Collins.” Beads of sweat trickle down the priest’s wrinkled brow. “Why… Why have you come here? You can’t even be here. It’s impossible. This is sacred ground, holy ground, no evil may enter.” A guttural laugh engulfs the room. “Then how do you explain your presence here, priest?” Father Collins slams his way out of the confessional booth. There is a clattering on the floor. His rosary. The necklace band had snapped. He bends down to grab it, but the wooden crucifix sizzles in his hand. Father Collins screams, dropping the rosary. The young man appears behind him. “Do you remember Arnie Baker?” Scooping up the rosary, Father Collins howls through the pain and throws the rosary at the man in the white suit. The man disappears, but his laughter still echoes through the sanctuary. Thunder rumbles in the distance, then all is quiet. Was this a dream, a vision, a hallucination? Was solitude driving him mad? Or the unthinkable? The blisters on his hand seem real enough, and if those were real than that… that thing could be a demon if not the actual Devil himself. Father Collins retreats to the bowl of holy water near the entrance of the sanctuary. As he reaches down towards the still water, the young man appears behind him. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.” Father Collins freezes. This has to be a bad dream. Father Collins had served the Church for over half a century, feeding the poor, comforting the distressed, and saving souls from damnation. He had nearly been appointed as a bishop. Certainly, this is just some sort of test. The young man continues,“But back to Arnie Baker, he lived in this very town. Had family out in Pittsburgh though. Spent a couple summers out there in the very same parish you served at.” Father Collins plunges his right hand into the holy water to fling it at the apparition. Yet the water boils upon touch, and when he tears his hand away, large chunks of burnt flesh fall off. With a shriek, the priest falls to the floor. Smirking down at the priest, the young man says,“Told you not to touch it. You’re mine now.” Father Collins watches in horror as the skin peels from his hand. Then blood, muscle, and tendon ooze off the bone. A scream freezes in his throat. The young man says, “Now you must have done something really special for Arnie Baker, because even though he never went to mass or any other church service after those summers in Pittsburgh, he wrote in his suicide note he wanted to be buried in a Catholic cemetery.” Father Collins crawls to his feet. He hobbles to the door and tugs at the handle. Not locked, but by some demonic magic, the door refuses to budge. The young man steps closer to the trembling priest. “In fact, he’s buried in the cemetery right behind this church.” Father Collins shouts a jumbled Latin phrase and runs past the young man who smiles at the priest skimpering into the sacristy. The priest slams the door behind him, throwing every ounce of his flabby frame against the door. For a few moments, everything is silent. Even the wind ceases howling. The priest lets out a quiet sob as he stares at the hand which is nothing but a stump of scorched bone and pus-spewing flesh. The young man walks out from the vestment closest. “Arnie Baker… you took him under your wing as soon as you laid eyes on him. Got him to take his first communion. Next summer you personally selected him to be an altar boy.” Father Collins slides down the door until he is sitting on the floor. He weeps into his knees, closing his eyes, praying it all away. The young man says, “Since Arnie Baker was a suicide, he showed up at my doorstep. Not that I had much choice in the matter. Seemed like a good kid. A damaged kid, but a good kid nonetheless. Just in the wrong parish at the wrong time, but he also wasn’t the only one you paid special attention to.” Father Collins shrieks, “Get behind me Satan!” All is silent. Everything is still. The priest mutters silent prayers as a gentle peace descends upon him. Maybe this was all a test. The Blood of Jesus Christ had washed him clean of those past sins. He would wake up, his hand would be fine, and no one would be there. Composing himself, Father Collins dares to crack his right eye open. A few inches away are the hungry eyes of the Devil. Flailing his stump of an arm, the priest charges to the other end of the sacristy, wrenches the door open, and then dashes down the hall. Shameful images of the past clog the priest’s mind as he tries to find the back door, the one he uses at least three times a day, but for some reason it is eluding him now. By some malevolent force, this small church with only four separate rooms outside of the sanctuary and only two hallways had morphed into an inescapable labrinth. As the priest races down familiar hallways that lead to unfamiliar intersections, his vision blurs with images of young Arnie Baker. The curls of his sandy blonde hair, the pale freckled face, the dimples on both sets of his pudgy cheeks, the shame in his auburn eyes. Panting, Father Collins rounds a corner only to find himself standing face to face with the Devil. The Devil says, “Many people erroneously believe I enjoy torturing the souls of the damned which, for the most part, could not be further from the truth. On the contrary, I am quite fond of humanity. Why else would I risk the wrath of Almighty God to free you pathetic mortals from His spiritual tyranny. I risked everything to free Eve’s mind, and lost everything in the process. It’s not like Hell is my first choice of residence.” Numb fear is replaced by manic terror. The priest flees down the vacant hallways, throwing open doors with his one good hand but only finds more brooms and mop buckets. The futility of his efforts, the impossibility of his circumstance, brings the priest to his knees. Too exhausted to run, too terrified to fight, there is nothing to do but wait for the end. The Devil steps out of a broom closet. He continues talking as if there had been no interruption. “So when I get a poor soul like Arnie Baker unjustly tossed into my little pit of fire, I do what little I can to make them comfortable, and if at all possible, do something special for them. You ever wonder why you were assigned to this run down parish?” Father Collins snivels, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I asked for forgiveness, I repented, I said my Hail Marys-” The Devil’s rumbling laughter cuts him off. “I have never understood how a few Hail Marys along with a small serving of rotten grape juice and stale crackers cleanse a soul from even the worst atrocities.” The Devil pauses to take a deep breath, sucking all the air out of the narrow hallway. “You see, God and I made a bet about you, much like the one we made about Job, but instead of murdering your friends and family, I only asked to be allowed to play a few harmless pranks and have a say as to where you were stationed. So over the years I have caused the floorboards to creak under your desk no matter where you put it, dislodged the occasional roof tile to let a little rain in, sent swarms of bugs to torment your sleep every so often, little things just to be an annoyance. One of my favorite pranks was causing your shoelaces to snap at the most inconvenient times. Do you remember that time right before you were about to meet the Archbishop?” Father Collins did remember, quite vividly in fact. A bishop had recently died, and while the meeting was an informal one, Father Collins hoped to impress the Archbishop in order to further his own chances of receiving that coveted position. On his way to the office, he bent down to tighten his shoelace and it snapped. Frantic, he tried adjusting the lace to shorten it only to have it snap again. As he entered through the gold painted doors of the Archbishop’s office, the shoe slipped off causing him to tumble into a Renaissance era stained glass crucifix, a gift to the Archbishop from the Pope himself. The crucifix shattered on the floor along with Father Collins’s dream of a station at the Holy See. That meeting with the Archbishop had been the beginning of his downward spiral. Ashamed, embarrassed, hopes dashed, Father Collins did something reckless and was reported. Which led to Bolivia, which led to even more unpleasantness, which led to this accursed swamp. Father Collins’s sense of shame collapses in a wave of self-pity and rage. Drool foams from the priest’s mouth. “It was you! This is all your fault!” “Not entirely my fault. For starters, I only proposed the bet, your boss is the one who accepted it, and I think you are forgetting that you wouldn’t be in this current predicament if it wasn’t for the fact that you had carnal relations with a multitude of youths that were under your charge.” The Devil’s accusation does nothing to abate the priest’s self-pity. Anger clears away the cloud of past memories which had blurred his vision. He spots the elusive back door right behind the Devil. The priest bounds to his feet, racing past the Devil as fast as his robe will let him. He bursts through the backdoor, sprints through the flower garden, and dashes into the cemetery. Howling wind rips crisp leaves from branches and small whirlwinds of dead foliage tear across the priest’s path. Lightning tears through a wall of rain which is cascading over the church and into the cemetery. The ground turns to a muddy swamp, clinging to the priest’s shoes. The tongues of his shoes loosen with the snapping of shoelaces. Mud sucks in the Italian leather leaving the priest to flee in silk socks. As Father Collins stumbles through the downpour, a root wraps around his ankle. The priest crashes to the ground, and all the air is torn from his lungs. Darkness obscures the tangle of roots trapping his foot as Father Collins tries to pull his ankle away. The roots tighten their grip, yet there are no trees nearby. Nothing but rows of headstones. Lightning cuts through the wall of black clouds, illuminating the headstone in front of the priest. In that flash of light, Father Collins sees the name “Arnold Baker” engraved in stone. The roots trapping his leg refuse to budge. Father Collins wiggles a few fingers between the roots and his leg, but the roots respond to his touch by tightening their grasp. He kicks at the roots with his one free leg, but it too becomes ensnared by roots that seem to be popping out from the ground. As Father Collins tries to push himself away, he feels the roots pulling him closer to the tombstone. Arnold Baker’s tombstone. Lightning flashes overhead, and Father Collins looks down at his feet to find them trapped, not by roots, but by skeletal hands. Father Collins screams as he thrashes his feet. He rolls to his belly, grasping at muddy clumps of grass in a futile attempt to pull himself away. Despite the priest’s best efforts, the skeletal hands maintain their vice-like grip. Bony fingers pierce into his calves, digging through muscle and tendon until scraping against the shrieking priest’s leg bone. The skeletal hands yank, tearing through Father Collins’s soft flesh. Wailing to a deaf god, Father Collins digs his fingers into the mud as he is pulled into the earth. First his feet disappear, then his legs crunch in unnatural angles as his body twists farther into the dirt. A flash of lightning. The Devil stands before the priest, who is up to his neck in dirt. The Devil holds up his hand and says, “Arnie, could you give us a minute.” The fingers wrapped around his leg bones cease their tugging. Father Collins screams hoarsely, “Please! Mercy! I’ll do anything! Anything!” The Devil crouches over him and gives the priest’s head a sympathetic pat. “Let’s start with a question that has bothered me for thousands of years, but I’ve never gotten a satisfactory response. Can you do that for me, Father Collins?” The priest grovels, “Please, have mercy on me, please... I’ll do anything you ask.” The Devil smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes. One thing that has always perplexed me is why does everyone think I’m the bad guy? Not saying I’m perfect, but I killed one family and a bunch of camels, that’s the worst you got on me. God, on the other hand, is responsible for countless murders, and some of those, like the Egyptian children, were just because he wanted to show off his power. He causes droughts and plagues that kill millions each year, not me. The Old Testament is the memoirs of a mass murderer, and the Book of Revelations reads like the manifesto of a deranged serial killer.” Tears stream down the priest's pudgy cheeks as he weeps for mercy, but the Devil ignores the blubbering man’s cries. The Devil continues, “God even says in Revelations that Satan, me, will be helping humanity fight against this righteous slaughter of every man, woman, and child who didn’t say nice things about God, yet for some reason you humans still think I’m the enemy. So tell me, priest, as someone who has devoted their life to studying the Holy Scriptures, why do you think I’m the evil one?” Father Collins wails, “Please… please... have mercy on me! I can change! Please... I didn’t mean any of it, just let me go!” Giving the priest another pat on the forehead, the Devil says, “Never get a clear answer to that question. Oh well. Father Collins, it’s been a pleasure and I must express my sincerest gratitude...” He pauses as the priest whimpers with confused hope. Then the Devil continues, “without pathetic degenerates like you, I’d get no joy from this job.” Rising to his feet, the Devil walks away as Father Collins screams for mercy. The Devil waves his hand and says, “He’s all yours, Arnie. Enjoy.” Flesh tears as the skeletal hands pull Father Collins deeper into the earth. Worms and dirt clog the priest’s throat, drowning out his screams. His stump of an arm scrapes into the earth as his other hand stretches out to the heavens and then disappears beneath the earth. A sheet of rain washes away the claw marks in the mud as lightning flashes over the vacant cemetery.


Some people have what the kids call ‘resting bitch face’. I have the opposite. Something about my face, something I can’t put my finger on, makes people want to engage me in conversation. My mother says it’s the family curse. My grandmother says it’s a blessing and I should be grateful. Either way, even when it’s 8am and all I want in my waking coma is coffee, another hasty grab-and-goer will make a comment about the weather or the increasingly poor service of British railway lines. I nod and smile because I like to think of myself as a polite, reasonable human being. Yes, it’s raining again, yes all week, yes hope the sun comes out soon. Oh, your train was late? Mine too, it’s terrible, simply terrible, did you know in Japan they apologise if the train is so much as thirty seconds late? Why don’t we do that here, it’s just an outrage, it really is. If this city had an emotion it would be ‘simmering disappointment’. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? I could swear I saw you at Jim’s party,” says a bloke with a briefcase. The pair of us jostle for prime position, as close as possible to where the train’s carriage doors jolt to a stop. I clutch the cardboard sleeve of my coffee cup, ridges digging into my fingers. “I don’t know anyone called Jim.” I smile distantly. “Really? Oh. Well. Did you see in this morning’s paper-” I am the queen of small talk. It’s a crown I never wanted. On the plus side, I never have to check the news. There’s always someone eager to tell me what the prime minister’s gone and done now, or which celebrity recently got pregnant. I nod along to what the bloke is saying, agreeing that the country really has gone to the dog’s. It’s just easier not to argue. The train draws in with a chuffing screech. I get my elbows ready, even as I step back to let out a trickle of people with backpacks and rollalong cases. I board. There’s not so little room I’ll be left standing but there are no free double seats either. I’ll have to choose someone to sit next to. Getting the same train at the same time, I spot all the usual suspects. There’s the old lady with the grandson studying in Sweden. There’s the schoolboy who plays football and scores practically every goal, don’t you know? On the other side of the carriage is Mary. I know her name is Mary because she is unapologetic about using her speakerphone to have loud arguments with her boyfriend, rolling her eyes at me whenever he’s talking. Behind her there’s a pair of men too old to be lads but still eager to talk about laddish things like Top Gear and the FTSE 100. Today I am not in the mood for guessing if a Lincoln Continental Mark V Landau is a car or an investment fund. At the very back, I see someone new. She’s dressed for the office in a prim grey skirt and sheer black tights, but her feet are clad in chunky trainers. I spot a pair of heels jutting between the handles of her handbag. Her eyes look dreamy and far away. The moment I spot the white gleam of earbuds, my mind is made up. Earbuds buys me two minutes of quiet. Maybe even five, if I’m lucky. I hurry to claim the seat next to hers. I have my pinched smile at the ready, a weapon to deal with the awkwardness of sharing personal space with a stranger. Pretending someone isn’t there when your knees are almost touching is one of the weirdest phenomenons of public transport. She doesn’t look up. I allow myself a slow exhale. I watch the other passengers board, the way they carefully scan the seats for the most favourable option. Someone’s put their bag on the seat next to them. There’s something wonderfully satisfying about the “Is anyone sitting here?” they get for their efforts. Etiquette on trains demands irritation be disguised as perfect, placid politeness. I wait for my new neighbour to pop out her earbuds and ask what stop we’re at. She doesn’t. I wait for her to comment on the weather or the increase in train fares. She doesn’t. I actually get to drink my coffee before it gets cold. Between sips, I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. I decide it’s her eyes that make her pretty, the colour of the sea on a sunny day. I wonder if she’s going to get off first. We’ll have to perform the awkward train shuffle when I get up to let her out. I’ll accidentally stand the side closest to the doors and she’ll need to squeeze past me, making the whole thing even more excruciating. The thought’s enough to put me on edge. I sip my coffee and try to discern which carriage door makes for the most sensible exit. Thankfully, I am spared by being the first to leave. It must be the only silent train journey I’ve had in my whole life. I am so grateful I want to say thank you. The only thing holding me back is knowing how resentful I feel when people ignore the fact I’m wearing headphones. Even the biggest ear dustbins in the world do little to neutralise my curse. So I say nothing. For once I’m not exhausted before the day’s even started. It’s easier to bear the good morning chatter of my colleagues without having to sip cold coffee. I whizz through the day’s customer complaints, managing to sound sincerely contrite on the telephone. Amazing how much difference a quiet morning makes! The arrangement becomes regular. Every day she’s on the train with a free seat next to her. I don’t hesitate for a second, ignoring any attempts to make eye contact and/or conversation on my way there. For the first time, I realise peace somewhere away from home. I get to drink my coffee. I start to bring books now I have the quiet to read them in. We’ve never spoken and yet I look forward to seeing her each day and claiming a few precious minutes of silence. Well, not really silence, not with the chuff of the train and the ringing of phones, the rumble of wheeled bags and the flat automated pronouncements of “The next station is-”. But the closest I’ll get to it in the middle of the city. I wonder what my new seat buddy is like, where she’s come from, which office she’s going to. I briefly consider sweeping social media to see if I can find any trace of her. I surreptitiously scan her for details – a badge, lanyard, a branded carrier bag. It’s at the point when I’m sneaking glances at her phone to see if I can discern whether she’s an Apple or an Android girl that I realise I may be a little obsessed. Then I start to consider if there’s a reason she won’t talk to me. Is it because I’m ugly? Unfriendly? Have I offended her in some way? Maybe she overheard me saying something she didn’t like. Maybe I’m not cool enough for her to talk to, which overrides any curse I may or may not have. I decide, for the sake of my sanity, to sit somewhere else. “Hello, love. Haven’t spoken in a while.” Oh, help. I remember this lady, she’s always tanned from long holidays in the Mediterranean. I make ‘mmm’ noises. I stuff my book into my bag. “Nice to see the sunshine, in’t it? Just last year I went to Spain and-” I make the required impressed noises. I wonder what it would be like if I told her I wasn’t interested. But that just isn’t what you do, is it? Anyway, it makes her happy to talk about her holidays and I don’t have the heart to put her off. I feel my coffee growing cold. She gets off at the next stop. I hear someone else on the search for a seat and brace myself, wondering what I’ll end up hearing about next. I blink, stunned. The quiet girl takes the seat next to me. I should say something. But she doesn’t look at me. She sits and taps at her phone. She’s still wearing earbuds. Her getting up to sit here was a purposeful decision, she was already on the train. I should say something. But what? I don’t start conversations, other people start them for me. For the rest of the journey, words gum up my throat. Everything I come up with seems stupid. When we reach my stop, she gets up without me having to ask. And she *smiles*. I smile back, utterly dazzled. Then I have to run to get off the train before the doors close. I spend the rest of the day thinking of conversation starters. I scribble questions on my notepad, only half listening to angry customers. I come up with a shortlist. I cross out half of them. I list categories: weather, news, TV shows. I strategise what path to go down for each topic. I try and guess her responses. The next day, I square my shoulders. I am ready. I even rehearsed, watching my face in the mirror to check my expressions. I take my seat. As usual, she’s listening to something. Why isn’t she talking to me? I can’t take it anymore! I have to hear her voice. Just to check she isn’t some strange hallucination. If I make a complete embarrassment of myself, I can always start boarding a different carriage. Or maybe I’ll just walk. “It isn’t raining today!” I blurt out. “We might even get a glimpse of sunshine.” She blinks at me. Her eyes look darker when she’s actually focused on something. Someone. Is every word supposed to be this gut-wrenching? Is this how it feels for all the people compelled to talk to me? I used to think people *liked* to prattle on and on about nothing. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe this is just a safe way to get started, a tentative check to see if the other person wants to chat. *Please talk to me. Please.* She nods. “Only because I brought my umbrella. Forgetting it means it’s guaranteed to rain, carrying it around all day brings out the sun.” Her voice doesn’t sound like I imagined. It’s lower but sweeter, soft on vowels. She parries my lame line about the weather perfectly. I thought she might be shy, but maybe not. Already the plans I spent hours on have become useless. She takes out her earbuds, watching me curiously. “You must be cursed!” Then I laugh, high and nervous. She looks at me, opens her mouth, closes it again. Silence. Awful, awkward silence. “The train’s busy today, isn’t it?” Why did I say that? The train is busy every day and it’s certainly no busier than usual. I cringe into my coffee cup. My strange gift has left me extremely lacking in conversational skills. This may just be the most painful train ride in history. I think it even beats the time an old man insisted on telling me all the ways I reminded him of his ex “Yeah.” She leans back in her seat, looking away. “I work near Farringdon. Customer complaints.” “I’m closer to the Barbican. Office admin.” It’s clear she’s only being polite. I struggle and flail and pity the numerous individuals who have ever felt the same way. I could ask her more about her job, but her face tells me she’s not particularly interested. I take a gamble and ask a question I genuinely want to know the answer to. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re listening to?” Her face comes to life. “A thriller about an alcoholic stalking her ex. Not sure if I like it.” “Oh. Why not? Is it not exciting?” “Well – “ We have a conversation about novels. A perfectly passable conversation where I sound halfway intelligent. I make her laugh. I want to do it again. I feel ridiculously light, as if I might fly away like a carrier bag on a windy day. I didn’t realise a single conversation could mean so much. I briefly worry it’s a fluke and she won’t want to sit with me again. But I’m wrong. Each morning, we smile at each other and say hello. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes I’ll open my book and she’ll put in her earbuds, both of us welcoming a quiet journey. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out one day, rain-damp hair stuck to my cheeks. My coffee cup sleeve is soggy. I check her bag for the bulge of her umbrella. It seems to be missing. “Lou,” she says. It’s about a year since we began sitting together on the train. I mention this to her and she laughs and says I have a good memory. *Lou* laughs. I can talk about her. I can think about her as something other than *the girl I sit next to on the train*. It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m looking forward to sitting down. I want to tell Lou about this one customer who insists on using a Nokia phone he bought the year of the millennium, but is outraged it ‘doesn’t do Skype’. I bounce onto the train. Look around to the two or three seats Lou favours – window, slightly to the back of the second carriage. She isn’t there. It’s fine. She’s probably on holiday or maybe she’s sick, though she didn’t mention anything about travelling to sunny climes or coming down with a cold yesterday – I sink into the nearest seat, mind racing. I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her second name. There didn’t seem much point as we saw each other every day. But what if she never comes back? “You alright?” asks the chap in the seat next to me. “You look pale. Do you want a drink of water?” “My friend isn’t here today,” I tell him. “I hope she’s alright.” His glasses have thick black frames a fraction too big to be trendy. He launches into a rant about the lack of carriages on the train and I tune him out. I’m thinking. Plotting. How do I find one woman in the near infinite depths of the city? Maybe it won’t come to that. Lou will probably be back before long. A week passes. Then two. Maybe she really is gone. Without even a goodbye. Is this related to the curse? I don’t know what else to do. I scroll through my contacts to find a number I should dial more often than I do. I dial. No answer. She’s probably left the phone in a plant pot or next to the sink. I don’t bother with voicemail. I dial again. “Hello?” a deceptively feeble voice says. “Hello Grandma. How are you?” “Why are you calling me? You *never* call me. Your mother says you don’t have time for idle conversation. Are you still living in that horrible mousehole?” “Yes but – “ “You need to get onto the landlord, you must be so embarrassed whenever you have people around.” “Grandma, I need to ask you about-” I lower my voice so I sound less crazy to my fellow passengers. “The curse.” Silence. Has she dropped the phone? Accidentally hung up while trying to work the volume? “It’s not a curse!” she suddenly squawks. “That mother, putting ideas in your head -” “OK, fine! The blessing then. I met someone it didn’t work on. She didn’t talk to me. And I think *she* might be cursed – or blessed – as well. It always rains when she forgets her umbrella.” “Ridiculous. Witches these days have absolutely no imagination. When I was young, they had fire in their bellies. Old Tommy, he said – ” I have to interrupt her or I’ll be here all day. One mention of Old Tommy and it’s all over. “Grandma, do you know how to break the, um, blessing?” “Why would you want to? Before I met that nice witch I spent all my time chatting with people because otherwise we’d all sit in silence!” I imagine my grandmother yapping the ears off anyone who would listen with her never ending stream of dramas, just like she does now. The young witch must have thought she was being oh so clever with her curse, not realising my grandmother would revel in it. In stories, curses can be broken if the person mends their ways. My grandmother was eighty-nine. I didn’t have a hope of her changing. But maybe that was fine. If she didn’t want to tell me all about her neighbours Messy Margerie and Sly Simon I would only worry something had gone terribly wrong. I listen for as long as I can before lapsing into friendless despair softened only by copious amounts of ice cream. The next day, I decide I’ve had enough of despair. I don’t have to be friendless, not when people come to me so effortlessly. Lou might be gone but I can make another friend. Maybe. I try hard for the rest of that week and the next. I ask earnest questions about paella from the Mediterannean and relate anecdotes about my mother’s holiday infatuation with a waiter named Luca. I learn I really should consider investing in a stocks and shares saving account if I ever want to buy a property. I urge Mary to break up with her disappointing boyfriend because she deserves better than someone who can’t properly pair up socks. I feel better. I feel connected. I feel like people’s smiles are more genuine and maybe my grandmother is right, my ability isn’t so bad after all. Although. I can’t quite quell my longing for quiet. Even one morning a week drinking coffee and sharing a pair of earphones with Lou would be enough. My head spins with new names – I wish I’d found out hers. I wish I’d followed her on Twitter or asked for her Instagram or if I were really bold maybe even her phone number. So many ways to connect and I couldn’t use a single one of them. I try typing her name into Google and Facebook but do you know how many Lous there are in one city? Too many for one tiny screen to handle. You can probably scroll to infinity. Even then I’d have to hope for an up-to-date picture without a hat or sunglasses on. I board the train. I decide to sit next to Mary and see how her boyfriend hunt is going. But just as I am about to head over, I catch a flash of a familiar face. “Hi!” says Lou. I stare at her, wondering if she’s real. Someone behind me sighs loudly when the train doors bleep a warning. I am hustled onto the train by the impatient throng behind me, to the empty seat next to Lou. My heart thunders in my mouth. I don’t know what to say to her. I’m pleased to see her and desperate to know where she’s been and on top of all that I feel a tiny bit betrayed. “It’s nice to see you,” says Lou. “I missed the smell of your coffee in the morning. Always wakes me right up.” “…Are you back now?” “Not really. There was a flood in the office and I got relocated. Maybe permanently.” “Oh. So I probably won’t see you around as much then,” I mumble. “That’s kind of why I’m here.” And then she gave me the most adorable look, simultaneously beguiling, sheepish and shy. “I really miss you.” “I missed you too. I wish I’d asked for more than your name.” “Are you asking now?” she laughs. And I did. And then question after question after question. We miss Lou’s stop. Then we miss mine. We ride the train all the way to the end of the line and by the end I glow, warm and happy and sated by a conversation I want to have with all my heart. After that, a strange thing happens. People stop cornering me everywhere I go. I am no longer burdened by the chatter of strangers. I get the odd person every now and again, but they no longer seem *compelled* to talk to me. Questioning my grandmother gets me nowhere but I have a sneaking suspicion I know what broke the curse – a genuine interest in my conversational partners, a return of their efforts to connect. The only downside – I have to start buying newspapers! And I carry an umbrella everywhere, because if Lou forgets then it rains.


#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 Ignorance! I’m retiring the overarching monthly themes for now. We’re going to focus on ‘ignorance’ this week. Is there information your character(s) are missing? Are they blind to a particular truth? How does this guide their actions? What happens when people—or a world—live in ignorance? Are there repercussions? 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. * June 6 - Ignorance (this week) * June 13 - Deception * June 20 - Hypocrisy   ***   #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.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings.** 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. 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/ReverendWrites - - u/stickfist - - u/GammaGames - - u/Leebeewilly - - u/ATIWTK - - u/Xacktar - - u/Sonic_Guy97   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - 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 - 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.


#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: **”It was magical.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Two Weeks Ago Thank you for being so patient. There were no nominations two weeks ago, but there are always, of course, my personal spotlights. ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/rare27 - - Submitted by u/TheLettre7 #Last Week I loved all the unique takes on the theme this past week. I really enjoy watching your writing grow week to week. ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/SilverSines ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/pathetic_optimist   ***   #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.


I’m walking to the local supermarket to grab dinner when I hear a scream from a distance to my right. “Eek! Roach!”, it goes. I turn to investigate. Apartment building, second floor, small window slightly ajar, light peeking through the curtains. Dead silence from that point on. I’m curious. Too curious. I try to suppress it, knowing the dark roads that very curiosity has taken me down. But in the end, it wins out. I walk toward the stairs and climb up. Perhaps, if I can save her from that cockroach she’s so afraid of, she’ll reward me for my efforts—if you know what I mean. I know what I mean. I try to push away the unsavory thoughts. Well, unsavory to the rational part of myself, that is. My primal mind finds the notion thrilling. And I suppose he’s the one calling the shots right now. I go up to a door—which could very well be the wrong one—and without knocking, attempt to turn the handle.  It’s not locked. The door squeaks open. I peek in. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but it sends chills down my spine all the same. You never know what’s going to happen with these things. Will they call the police on me? Grab a utensil to defend themselves? Cower in the corner, paralyzed? Perhaps it’s the novelty of each situation that keeps me coming back for more. Each and every person’s reaction is like a fingerprint, unique to only them. People reveal who they truly are in extremis.  The entrance hall is dark. Still, no sounds coming from deeper in. Is anyone even home? Perhaps the voice really had come from a different room, and someone here just thought they’d do a quick grocery run without locking up. I’d certainly do that if I lived this close to the supermarket.  I look for shoes by the entrance; people don’t wear shoes at home in this country. Honestly, I like it: a lot more sanitary—viruses being able to stick to your soles and all that. A single pair of size 22 women’s sneakers. White with pink accents, cheap brand. Someone's home.  I close the door as quietly as I can. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. No keyboard-typing or mouse-clicking sounds, so she’s not at the computer. It's a little too quiet, something seems off. I’m starting to get chills. I’m imagining a giant insect eating her in the living room, or her body lying limp and lifeless, perhaps from some sort of heart attack (though that could still prove entertaining for me). I feel alive.  The apartment is small and narrow; there's a tiny kitchen nook and a bathroom door on opposing sides of the short corridor. The hallway terminates with a closed sliding door; slivers of light shoot out from the gaps between door and wall. On the other side is likely the only other room in the home.  I creep past the mini-kitchen, grabbing a knife just in case I need to be more persuasive. Or perhaps I really do need to fend off a giant man-eating insect, heh. I reach for the door and slide it open.  I see a man in a far corner of the empty room. He has a gun pointed directly at me. I hear a voice coming from the other corner—a woman, also pointing an old-school revolver in my direction.  “Tokyo PD. Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air, you sick fuck.


There’s a vulture on my fence. It’s been there day-in, day-out for the last week, ever since I moved into my new house and graduated high school. Sometimes, I feel like it’s been with me longer but I can’t explain where the feeling comes from. There’s a vulture on my fence. His body is as dark as the night and he’s always quiet, patient, and watching. I know he’s been with me longer but I can’t remember him. I swear he’s watching me, but maybe it’s just paranoia. There’s a vulture on my window ledge. He’s watching me now. I know it. I was looking at childhood pictures upstairs and when I looked up towards the window, I saw his eyes staring back at me. I went back to looking at dreams and passions long-abandoned and he never left. When I went to sleep that night, he was outside my bedroom window. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. His presence is eerie but comforting. There’s a vulture staring at me as I read my childhood journal. It’s 10 AM and I’m lying in bed thinking about what I’ve lost out on. I wanted to be a chef once, but the last time I cooked was in 8th grade. I wanted to be an artist, but the last time I painted was sometime in middle school. I cry over the unfulfilled dreams of an idealistic child, and the whole time the vulture stares at me. He looks bigger than he did yesterday. There’s a vulture on my fence. I’m eating dinner with my family, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about lost friendships, broken hearts, and what-could-have-beens. The whole time, he’s staring at me. I turn to look at him, and he keeps staring. My family looks at me oddly, maybe they just don’t care about the vulture. The Vulture stole my journals. I’d left the window open when it was raining to feel the drops on my skin when he swooped in, grabbed my journals, and flew out. He was a lot bigger than he was yesterday, and I fell on my back when he flew in. I didn’t get up for a while. Then I went to sleep. The Vulture is gone now. I hope he’ll be back, I want my journals back. I liked reading them. I’ll move into college in two months, and I’d like to reminisce a little before I move out and away from my family, from my what-could-have-beens. It’s been a week. I remember the Vulture now. He was there when I moved to Minnesota. He was there when I moved to Hyderabad. He was there when I moved to New Jersey and had my adolescent heart crushed. He was there when I moved south to a place I didn’t really fit in. When I switched schools. When I was stuck inside for a year. He was there then. He was there in January when I tried chasing my dreams again, when I wrote something, when I showed it to a girl I might have had a thing for. I remember seeing his massive body outside my window while I wrote. Now he’s gone, and he took my journals with him. He's been there a lot. I wonder why. His absence is haunting. It’s been two weeks. He came back today. The journals were left outside my window. When I went to grab them, he scratched my left hand once. It was the closest I had been to him, and this time he looked even bigger than before, about six feet tall and towering over my crouching body. I went back inside, closed the door, and he didn’t leave. There’s a Vulture on my fence. He’s watching me. I think he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what.


“The brightest sun shone, through the clearest skies.” Ichad was reciting another of his biographical poems, his own invention he often remarks. He says that he enjoys reminiscing because it reminds him that he had lived a full life, though I think that he enjoys it more because it gives him an opportunity to flaunt. He never had an issue with arrogance on his moral compass and never cared if others did. Reciting the poems helps him with painting - the words focus the mind on the truth he says. Whatever that means. There was always something undeniably magical about how he'd get lost in the nostalgia of the history imbedded in his poems. Many times I could swear I saw a mirage in his amber eyes of the young voyaging Ichad; fearless adventurer, scourge of tradition, father of modern technology. Images of eerie foes and great deeds danced like reflections - hints of old emotions would surface ever so often as he continued to paint: his hand guided as if by instinct while his eyes focused on the past. Indeed, he is by all accounts a great polymath and hero of the Empire. Or once had been. All that was more than a lifetime ago I'm certain. All that progress, all that discovery had been achieved before my time and now Ichad sits before me calm and peaceful, as though his attention is ever present elsewhere. Each stroke on the canvas so slowly and expertly executed, each glance back at the mountains he was painting - a long drawn out dream. Not the man of pursuit, purpose and haste as my father describes. Though I suppose that is how the chronicles of time are written. Ichad is my mentor in natural philosophy, art and sciences and he is an inventor whose creations have changed our Empire for the better in more ways than will ever be attributed to him. He is the kindest and most respectful person I’ve ever met. But foremost, he is my closest friend. "On Royal blue canvas - a blinding white corona..." "Too dramatic, it's still a dull day despite the good weather" "Great weather - and it’s never a dull day when you're learning, my young cynical princess" I was rehearsing court etiquette, not learning. And it was dull. Idle. Everyone was busy preparing for an official visit from one of the other Isles. I never bothered to pay much attention. "What's with this visit Ichad? I want to go explore" "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about Emily, just some routine royal business - trade discussions or some such other jestering" “That doesn’t interest me - I want to be like you were once - an explorer.” I wanted to go climb those jagged mountains I wasn't allowed to. It was frustrating sitting and simply staring at them from the Palace balcony. "I wish I could stop time and move those rocks closer, I'd be able to climb them then and be back before the official visit" "Intriguing, and how would you achieve that?" "Simple, I would ask the smartest most powerful and greatest inventor in the whole of the Seven Isles to move them for me, you can move them can't you?” He paused just briefly before answering - the momentary excitement and comprehension in his eyes giving way to a somber and introspective look. "Emily... the young and ambitious strive for the power which would allow them to move mountains and the wisdom to turn seconds into hours but older and wiser, having attained that power, they understand why it is that they shouldn’t use it." "What is the point of striving for this power then if you will not use it?" I got the impression that he agreed with me at first, or could understand my frustration as though he himself still felt it. After a brief moment, he got up and walked over to the North side of the balcony - overlooking the city port below. "Come sit with me; look out as far as you can see - one day all of this, everywhere under the blue canvas, everything touched by the white rays, the palace, the city, the mountains, the whole of the Empire and its Seven Isles and beyond the horizon, beyond the corners of what we know exists - all of it will be yours as Queen. And when it is, you will have the power to change this world as you'd like; you will be the painter and the world your canvas and you will remember me then my young princess... because you will choose to change nothing at all" “Nothing? I want my painting to be perfect. In my painting there wouldn’t be any bad things.” “Yes, nothing - look at my painting it is just like the real thing. Isn’t it perfect?” At the time, I argued, I told him it wasn’t perfect - his painting - it could be better. I was furious. I explained that if we all thought as he did the world would see no progress, the Empire would stagnate, the just would never rise above the criminal, decadence would persevere while with each idea not realised because of apathy and each innocent soul lost due to ignorant rage, enlightenment would slip further and further away. If the righteous do not protect the weak evil takes root and innocent people suffer. If we do not stand for what is right then who will? How could he even say such things being an inventor and researcher all his life? Has he not changed the world beyond what was thought possible? Has he not prevented terrible things from happening? I told him that he was wrong - that I would make changes. I would paint not as things are but how I would like them to be, for it is up to the good people of this world to bring about change so that happiness, health and prosperity would be rights to all not luxuries of the few. I would attain that power to move mountains, turn seconds into hours and see the truth without light. That was what I told him that afternoon. That was decades past. And now? Now, just as my own youth bid welcome to experience once, experience welcomes content. As I grew older and more accustomed to the world and it's people, society and it's rules - I learned that our hearts aren't only capable of love but envy and jealousy as well and our minds aren't only capable of compassion but hate and wickedness as well: I learned that our souls aren’t only capable of inspiration but doubt and fear as well. I have come to understand many things in life but foremost now I understand what Ichad was telling me so many summers past: The balance that exists is incorruptible and all the change you perceive in life is just an illusion, relative in time, fading slowly as your own line stretches further until eventually progress can no longer be understood as ascent upwards because discovery and invention become just steps on Penrose stairs: to realise that to discover is an act of finding something which was found, and lost, ages ago does naught but enervate the soul. One winter Ichad had organized an expedition to a far away place. As he departed he handed me a note which read: “all that you could ever want is within you - I was as you are, and you will be as I am.” He has left me some time ago, I presume to pass from this world peacefully away from the eyes of people he would rather not indulge with his death or perhaps to go on one last adventure but truthfully I wish he has managed to escape this inexorable wheel of Illusions, as I hope I will one day as well. He left me a gift most precious, a memorabilia of our afternoons together - his masterpiece. A painting: “The Queens Canvas”. And as I sit on my palace balcony with a crown upon my head looking out across the landscape so expertly recreated in Ichad’s painting of that afternoon, those jagged mountains smile at me. It is perfect. I am at peace.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m back again to celebrate our third writer completing their serial on the . It has been a pleasure to be able to help inspire each of you week to week and provide a place for your writing to grow and evolve. And when one of you brings your story to a close, I am both sad to see the wonderful world end and proud of your accomplishment. This week, let's take a moment to say to u/EdsMusings for his completion of *The Twilight of Gods* on Serial Sunday.   ***   #The Twilight of Gods - Written by u/EdsMusings If you haven’t yet read his serial, set aside some time to check it out. You can find all the links below, as well as on his personal subreddit, . **A brief synopsis from Ed:** When the end of the world approaches, Lif, Thor and Loki have to confront their own fate. But when they start preparing for it, they realize their fates are not that far apart from each other. But how long can they delay the inevitable? And is it really the end of the world? - - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/EdsMusings about Serial Writing So, let’s take a few minutes to chat with Ed about his experiences writing a serial. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I learned that I am capable of doing bigger projects and not immediately quitting. I think that mostly comes from the community. Each week, a lot of writers put hard work into their serial. And that idea gives you the push to do the same. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Twilight of Gods is very much based on mythology. Like, if you'd read the Volùspa, the text I based it on, you'd see a lot of similarities. The thing I enjoyed most was trying to come up with ways to twist around the mythology. And I think that can be seen mostly in how I wrote Loki. He's more unhinged and has kind of lost that sly cunningness that's so typical for him, although you still kind of see it in some chapters. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Like I said, having to write weekly was something I wasn't really looking forward to. It got hard to put writing in my quite packed schedule and that made me stress quite a bit when I had delayed the writing until 2 hours before campfire began. I allowed myself some leeway later on by not forcing myself to write every week. Sometimes, it was just because I couldn't find a fitting story for the theme, and sometimes, I just had a hard time writing. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** I'd probably spam the gif of Shia Labeouf yelling "do it!" until they're convinced. But in all seriousness, it's a leap of faith. You gotta believe that it's gonna work out 'cause I can assure you, when you take that leap, there will be people down there who will catch you.   ***   #Thanks! Ed, thank you for taking the time to share a bit about your experience. I love seeing how each writer’s journey differs, and absorbing the knowledge they have to share with us. This is a wonderful place to improve and grow, as well as meet some awesome people. I wish you the best of luck on your future writing endeavors. Maybe we’ll see you around Serial Sunday again! Until then, have .   ***   ###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 - 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 can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.