The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I spent my first night on the island lying close to the fire, waking constantly to chuck on more wood between being serenaded to bouts of sleep by the gulls that swooped over the island. When I woke the next morning, I felt hydrated and warm enough, but now my stomach grumbled. Returning to the forest, I hunted for something edible. During my previous trips I was already aware of the lack of fruits hanging from the trees, or bushes ripe with harvest. Autumn had arrived. Whatever colour filled this forest a few months ago, was now nothing but inedible browns and greens. The only nutrition were small berries on some of the bushes. They were tiny red beads, firm to the touch. As I picked them off the stems, they held their shape, the juice inside unmoved. I lifted one to my mouth and tried to take a small nibble out of the side. My teeth slid across the hard waxy surface as the berry plopped back out of my mouth and into my hand. I tried again, grating the outside with my incisors until the skin pierced. I felt the gentlest release of pressure, yet tasted nothing. No sugar, no vitamins. I could just feel the flecks of floating skin, and the droplets of additional moisture. At least though, they didn’t taste sour or rotten. They were edible. Still, whatever sustenance the tiny red dots would provide wasn’t enough. What I really needed to survive here was protein. I needed meat. I knew how to fish. I was good at it. But fishing required a line, and there was no one here to trade me the string. It would need a hook too, and one man couldn’t form a mine to get the ore to forge the metal to create one simple hook. The end skill, the one I knew, was the last step in a long line of those needed. And without the ones before, I was useless. Above the trees, I could hear the squawks of the gulls. A meal, riding the air currents, taunting me from the sky. If only I could lure one to land. I tried the next day to use the berries as bait, placing a small nestle of them on a rock near the shore. A bright red trap backdropped by grey stone. Yet nothing came. I sat some thirty metres away, nibbling away on my own branch of the thin pellets unable to blame the gulls for being disinterested. If I could dive into the ocean for fish I’d be doing the same. By the time the sun began to fall on my fourth day on the island, I could feel the hunger taking its toll. It was no longer a pain or discomfort. My whole body felt tired, limbs burning energy that wasn’t there, fire burning in hollow arms and legs. With no energy and no place to go, my body had been allowed to wallow in its weariness, and I found myself spending more and more time simply staring into space. I needed a break from the atrophy and so I forced myself to walk to the western tip of the island. I told myself I needed the firewood, but truth be told there was still plenty closer to the campfire, and I had already added enough large logs to the fire that it was now nothing short of a pyre. More in danger of spreading than simply petering out. It was a nice evening for the stroll. The air was crisp, and the light had dimmed to a calm twilight. Soft waves lapped up against the shore, the sea so much calmer than the waters that had brought me here. Maybe it too was tired. My train of thought was broken by something at the corner of the beach. Two seagulls stood squabbling, jostling with each other. They hadn’t noticed me, too busy squaring off with each other. Their beaks were open, preparing to attack. One jolted forward, and the other met it, their beaks clacking like swords. Then they reared their heads back, waiting for the next strike. The one nearest me flapped its wings, hovering briefly above the ground. In the space I could see what had caused the fight. Another gull, this one very much dead. The corpse lay on its back, wings splayed. There were blotches of red, large gaping wounds that had been picked at by the scavengers. Loose feathers littered the nearby stones and a still, beady eye stared back at me. The birds resumed their standoff. This was my chance. I crouched down and began slowly moving towards them, trying to tread softly. The stones shifted and clinked beneath my feet, but the sound was masked by the lapping waters and clapping beaks. I got closer. The birds were only ten or so metres away. The sea seemed to grow louder, the tides slightly faster, the waves driving me on. Do it! Do it! the waves whispered to me. Charge! Run! Kill! I tried to ignore the sea’s agitations. The gulls were still engaged in their dance, their wings outstretched, as they shimmied around the corpse, trying to intimidate the other into submission. I trod on a loose stone. It slid hard against its neighbours, who in turn rolled against theirs. A cascading echo rolled through the earth, the sound running through the cavernous gaps between the rocks and blaring like a siren into the air. The gulls looked up. Their heads turning to me. Then, they flew. Both knew a bloated corpse wasn’t worth dying over. I was alone on the beach again. Just me and the dead stare. I walked over and inspected the corpse more closely. It had clearly been dead a while. One wing bent awkwardly and poked up to the air, while its rigid legs pointed to the sea. Gashes where the other gulls had attempted to get to the offal inside could be seen along its distended belly. Most of all, the bird stank; the odour of decay that rots at the inside of your nose. The gulls’ stomachs could handle this carrion. Mine could not. But it was bait. One I knew they liked. I picked up the bird by its neck, the stiff frame holding its form. A small part of my insides rolled just from the touch and I could feel my oesophegus tighten with nausea as the smell grew closer. I kept my arms outstretched, keeping the carcass as far away as I could, and retreated to the campfire. The next day I set about creating my trap. The bait lay on the rocks while I dug a small crevice ten or so metres away, enough to lie in and try to appear as small as possible. Between me and the target, was the longest branch I could find - a thick and waving trunk. Light for its size, but still carrying the impact of a club. The middle of the branch balanced on a rock, with the rest held in the air. The result was a heavy branch with a single point of friction that,with one quick jolt of my arm, would move with speed and force over the the target. The trap was makeshift, and I was certain an experienced hunter could do better. But I was improvising from what little I knew. One person, with no real knowledge, guessing their way to hopeful survival. I tried to make myself comfortable among the jagged pebbles and stones of the beach. As I peered over the top of my small trench, watching the lifeless feathers waiver in the breeze. I thought back to Alessia, how easy she’d probably find this. She was always a step closer to the source of a problem than I was, a few less levels of abstraction. “I suppose you’d have a better plan,” I muttered to her apparation, under my breath. “You probably used to capture birds all the time.” I imagined her response. The way her tongue stuck between her teeth when she was being cheeky. \*Can you even move fast enough to pull this off?\* “We’ll find out. But I don’t have a better idea. I wanted to tie a knot in some string, but…” \*No string.\* “Exactly. So the branch it is.” \*You reckon you can kill a bird with this thing.\* “Probably not. But maybe stun it. Give me enough time to get over there and grab it.” \*And then what?\* “We’ll ride that wave when we get to it.” A gull landed near the corpse. It tilted its head, eying up the offering, moving closer in short and stuttered steps. \*Be patient\* “I know,” I whispered. The gull arrived by the bait, its head centimetres from the pole. My stomach grumbled with anticipation, but I could see the wariness in the bird’s eyes. I had to ensure the bird gave into hunger before I did. The gull picked tentatively at the corpse with its beak. After a couple of pokes it took a more definitive strike, trying to pierce through the skin. \*Now\* As its head reared back up, I swung the branch. The bird turned to see the pole and flapped its wings in reflex desperation, trying to escape. The pole made contact, but the moment of flight cushioned the blow, and the gull rolled backwards across the beach. I scrambled to my feet, just in time to watch the gull find its footing and take to the air. My lungs deflated as the bird glided across the sea towards safety. Failure. \*You swung the pole too soft.\* “I know. Move the axis back and I’ll get a harder swing.” \*That bird was quick too\* “Exactly. Maybe the next one will be slower.” Buoyed, I set the trap back up and returned to my spot. It took maybe half an hour for the next bird to arrive. This one looked older. It’s chest bulged with years of survival on the ocean. It strode up to the carrion and began pecking at the skin, undisturbed by the pole poised by its skull. I let it relax, get a few pecks in, let its mind concentrate on the meat. Then, wham. With a sharp jerk of the branch, the pole slammed into the bird’s neck and it rolled across the ground. I jumped to my feet and sprinted to the bird. The gull righted itself, shaking its head, as I dived towards it. It tried to take off, but I grabbed a leg, and the bird thudded back to the ground. My fist tightened on the limb as a sharp beak turned and began pecking at my hand. They were pin pricks at first, but then the beak jabbed hard. A spasm of pain ran through my wrist. In reflex, I opened my hand. I screamed, a small amount in pain, mostly in exasperation, as the bird took to the sky and left me. Again. Failure. \*Did you not think the bird would fight back?\* I sat down, checking my hand for cuts. “Not that much.” I sighed. “I’m going to die here aren’t I? Starve to death.” \*Have more faith in yourself. \* “I’m not sure I can do this.” \*Yes you can. You may have grown up some sheltered boy in Kadear, but you’ve survived worse than this.\* “I feel like I should be better at this. Others would be better. You would be better.” \*Humans are social creatures. We thrive off each other. You’re never meant to have to do this alone.\* “So I’m dead.” \*I said thrive. Not survive. But you’ll make it. Until you get rescued.\* “You had better be coming to find me.” \*If I’m around to, I’m sure I am.\* A pain gathered at the back of my eyes. The one in my hand evaporated. “We’re not going there, Ferdinand.” I told myself as I walked back to my mark. “We’re going to survive. We’re going to get off this island. And we’re going to find Alessia.” The next bird arrived around an hour later. It was smaller than the other two. Maybe younger, maybe less wise, I thought to myself. It walked skittishly up to the game, aware of the abnormality of a free meal, but unsure of how to assess the danger. The gull bent down and began plucking at the meal, quickly grabbing the flesh and trying to rip it with a jerk of its head. Whack! Just as the bird pulled its head, I swung, the branch hitting it square in the side of its skull. It bounced down the stony bank and I set off in a sprint, moving forwards as well as up. The bird was on its back and struggled to right itself - a couple of seconds of inertia - enough for me to close the gap and jump on it. I grabbed its body and neck, pinning it to the ground. A startled beak squawked in anger, confusion and fear. I grabbed a nearby rock and brought it down fast upon the bird’s head. There was a thud, followed by an injured and hurt call. I raised the stone again and brought it down a second time. Another thud, and a crack. This time there was no reply. \*Reminds you of Outer Fastanet.\* “The stone.” I replied to the air, dropping the weapon to the side. “It’s how they killed those pirates.” \*You didn’t learn it off them.\* I stood back and looked at the kill. “You think it’s instinct?” \*Maybe. Maybe not. Seems like a question you’d enjoy.\* I’d killed fish before. But this felt different. When you hit a fish with a hammer it looks at you with a sort of dumb confusion that it isn’t in water. The seagull fought. It fought for its life and I watched its pupils shrink with the realisation of its own end. I had to do it. I had to survive. But this was the first time. While my brain was still shaking at the act, my stomach grumbled with a different, more immediate message. With no tools to cut the bird, I plucked it as best as I could and then skewered the whole body with a long stick, and balanced it over the fire. I am sure an unseasoned gull - half-cooked and half-burnt over an open fire - was not a great meal. Yet, I had never been so thankful to eat. My stomach groaned with pleasure, my entire digestive system in elation, the frustration of dormancy suddenly unleashed into a hive of activity. For the first time since I arrived on this island I slept with my stomach full. I was going to make it. —————————————————— More days passed. My first kill had become the bait or my second, which became bait for my third. The water in the bushes had dried up, but fresh seagull blood was mostly water and it quenched my thirst enough. Between the gulls and the fire running steady, I was beginning to develop a routine. I was beginning to feel confident that I could survive on the island a little while longer. I reasoned too, that Alessia would likely have the boat repaired by now and be on her way to find me - she \*had\* to be on the way to find me. But if I wanted to make her or any other rescuer’s job easier, I’d need to let them know I was here. The best hope I had for that was the fire. A column of smoke during the day and light at night. However, I only had the one. I needed a second beacon, one on the other side of the island. I had been on the island for about two weeks, long enough to be uncertain of the exact number of days. It was the evening twilight, the point where you can see, but color and depth become a challenge. As I traipsed through the forest collecting logs for my second fire, I was straining to make out branches against the dark forest floor. My gaze was fixed downward as I scanned the uneven ground for suitable branches. Around me, the trees had been rustling all afternoon. A steady breeze had created a constant background shiver through the forest, a persistent auditory blur. I was in a sort of sensory deprivation. Had I been anywhere else, on an island with other people or any animals bigger than the gulls, I might have been wary of being so unaware of my surroundings. But the one plus to my isolation was that I could stare at the ground for as long as I wanted in perfect safety. I picked up one more branch and added it to the pile in my arms, the last stick almost sending the whole collection cascading to the ground. “That’s enough,” I announced to myself. As I looked up I noticed how the trees were shaking more ferociously. Branches waved, for my attention and the leaves sung ominously. “The fire should be fine, right?” I thought to the pile of logs I added before I left. Even a gale wouldn’t blow that out. I nodded to myself in reassurance. Still, the shaking forest tickled the hairs on my neck; a small itch that couldn’t ignore the howls from the trunks around me. \*You know what comes with wind.\* I looked up. The sky was black. Bulbous clouds hung low, groaning with their weight. I could see the light show of sparks flickering in the gloom, waiting to be unleashed. Static clung to the air, ready and primed. “Please, no.” The plea was quiet, too quiet to be heard by such giants. The weight above gave way. Rain poured down as a carpet, the world suddenly more water than air. Within a moment, everything was wet. The ground beneath my feet turned to mud, my clothes drenched through, and the kindling in my arms became waxy and moulted. The fire. I dropped the branches to the ground, and ran back through the forest. Each stride was like running into a wall of water. The cascade dripped into my eyes, blurring my vision as I rushed through the drumbeat of rain. Shaking branches tripped me and blocked me. I kept running, ignoring the slap of wet leaves until the mass of trees began to clear and I burst out into the open. Out of the forest, the rain was even heavier, and I could feel it pushing me down. The weight of a million droplets pounded against my skull until I could feel no other sense. My clothes were heavy, my feet slipped across smooth and moistened stones, and it was a struggle to keep moving under the bombardment from above. Trees rushed past until I turned the corner and saw the bonfire. The strong yellow flame had gone, replaced by gentle wafts of smoke and steam. I ran to it, trying to think of how I could protect the flame. No sheets. No shelter. Nothing but my waterlogged clothes and useless stones. Utterances of denial and vulgarities left my mouth. I looked to the base of the fire. I could see the red glow, a branch still bright with fire. Water hissed as it landed against it and turned to steam; the heat leached from the log. But there was still fire. I began ripping large leaves from the trees and bushes nearby, placing them in a pyre next to the fire, hoping the surface would provide protection. But the leaves were too few. Water and winds continued to pour through my paltry defence. I ripped off my shirt, and held it over the wood. Winds billowed in the fabric, sending water from the soaked shirt onto the wood. The fire let out a pained cry as more of the droplets transformed into vapour. The sky roared, the predator unleashing its fury. And like any good prey, I felt my heart thump in my chest as I cowered in fear, hoping not to be snuffed out. I looked around for something to keep the rains away. Panic and stupid ideas flooded my brain. Could I build a shelter from the stones? Could I drag the fire into the forest? Could I chuck my clothes - my soaking wet clothes - onto the fire as fuel? I bent down to check the base of the fire again, and my panic stopped. No more adrenaline. No more rush of energy. It was all worthless now. Water had gotten through. There were no glowing embers, no flickering flames, no hint of heat. The fire was extinguished. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


It’s been a long few weeks. I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember, well a wannabe writer that is. I promised my wife when we got married I’d pursue my dream of writing. She’s always had faith in me. She was never afraid to pursue dreams, even if it wasn’t always the most practical of things to do. I grew up listening to The Beatles and much like Paul said: I wanna be a paperback writer. The thrill of getting something published sounded amazing to me, but I guess I’ve never been very good. Well, I guess a lot has changed since the day we got married though. I haven’t followed through with my promise yet, so today seems as good a day as any. I’ve been working at this small manufacturing plant for a few years now. The pay is decent but the monotony of it is excruciating. I work a conveyor line. Much like the monotony of my job, my life feels the same way, more-so now than ever. These past few weeks I’ve felt like my body is on a conveyor belt. I feel like I’ve just been dragged from one thing to the next with no end in sight. I haven’t had a chance to even think about what’s actually going on in my life, I just keep moving. Well, like any other day, today was no different. I had just gotten home from a really long day at work. My wife wasn’t home, I really wish she was ‘cause today just sucked. Things just hit a little different today. I never did live much a life of luxury. Anyone who says living in New York is amazing clearly never lived in these tiny little run down apartments. Not that I’m complaining, honestly of all the things in my life right now, my crappy little single bedroom apartment isn’t even close to the top of the list, though I could stand to see less of the medical bills on the table but what are you gonna do? Honestly, There’s not much in this house that I do care about aside from a picture in my kitchen of my wife and I together on our honeymoon. We were both smiling in it. Funny, I haven't smiled much since that day. I’ve found myself trying to read a lot more than usual lately. I find it therapeutic to the mind, not to mention it gets me into the creative thoughts mood. . I’ve been experiencing a bit of an extended writer’s block for the past year or so and just couldn’t find the inspiration to start writing until recently. I just wish I knew what I wanted to write about. I’ve been sitting at my computer every day trying to just start typing but nothing comes out. I’ve been trying to figure out where to start. I’ve had this urge… this hunger to write but just can’t think of what to say. I’ve always prided myself on the fact that words came so easy to me. Not today though. Nothing’s been coming easy today. ‘Well, here goes nothing’ I say to myself again, sitting at the kitchen table, my laptop open to a blank MS Word page. My hands lay on the keyboard but nothing comes. My fingers remain motionless as the screen stays blank. The silence is deafening. ‘Write’ I tell myself again. Nothing changes. My mind begins to focus on the humming of the refrigerator. The buzzing makes me forget everything going on in the world as I blankly stare at my laptop forgetting what I was doing. “You’ve been so negative lately. Maybe you should try to write something a little more positive.” a voice came seemingly out of nowhere. "How the hell can I write something positive when there's nothing good in my life" I continued to stare at my screen, catching a glimmer of my wifes reflection in my computer screen. "I mean look at me, I live in a shit hole, the bills are starting to pile up… What do you want from me!?!" I snapped, my hand balls into a fist, slamming onto the table. “Well there’s always me isn’t there?” She says but I abruptly cut her off. “Don’t even get me started” my eyes roll “You know I’m always here for you. Whether you like it or not…” She says. I can see her smile from the reflection in my computer as she attempts to comfort me. But it doesn’t work.“You’re quite the comedian.” I chuckle a little and begin to type ‘She’s always there for me no matter what.’ “There ya go” I say. “Is that something happy and positive enough for you?” "It's not about me, is it happy for you?" Her voice gets louder. I can't tell if it's because she's moving closer to me or just getting more passionate about the topic. “It is… errr it would be if it were true. Unfortunately you and I both know that it’s not.” “YOU KNOW I’M SORRY” her voice grows, echoing through our house, I’m surprised the neighbors don’t hear it. “You know I would be! You know I WANT to be. It’s not like I Chose…” “I KNOW” I cut her off matching her volume as my hands slam on the table again. A tear slowly begins to flow down the side of my cheek, and I calm my tone. “I know. But none the less you did. And that’s just something I have to live with.” I haven’t turned away from my computer screen yet. I can’t bear to look behind me. Her hand reaches out to touch my shoulder. How I’ve desperately wanted to feel her warmth today “I’m sorry” she says. “I really truly am sorry. I want to be here for you.” “Yeah, me too” I let up on holding it in, as my sobs now become vocal. The sound grows as it can be heard throughout the complex. There's been a lot of crying coming from my apartment lately. The neighbors are probably going crazy with all the fights we've had this week. It's weird, we never fight, in fact our minds have always been so well connected. We knew everything about one another, and always seemed like those cliched perfect T.V. couples. It always seemed like the two of us were perfect for eachother, so why now? Why can't I write something positive like she's always wanted me to do? ‘'The future is not set by the pains of the past' I type exhaling heavily as I do. “How's that for a start? That can be positive right?” I say. My tears stop but my head lowers as I regain my breath. I remove my hands from my keyboard and place it on my shoulder where I felt her touch but nothing’s there. I go back to listening to the buzzing of the refrigerator as I start to remember where I am. I sigh “I Miss you” I say as my tears begin to flow again.


Hey folks, first time posting a story here. I've already got a compendium of short stories written on Royal Road, so I figure I'll share some of the individual ones here. Feedback welcome! For those that don't know, gamelit is a niche genre of story that takes place entirely in, or surrounding, a video game.   Optimus Live VR headset recognized. *Origin Online* successfully installed. Update available. Game must restart. I grimaced. The Day One patch was just a Band-Aid to hold this game together through launch. They had released a glitchy mess, and I was going to make them pay. Back when we started, I had believed in Origin Online. It was going to be beautiful, the most ambitious and technologically advanced free-to-play fantasy MMORPG the world had ever seen. But now, as its flashy intro soared across the pristine landscape, I had to close my eyes. It was like being unable to enjoy a favorite food after it’s made you sick. I’d sat through this intro hundreds of times during testing, probably thousands. They had refused to shorten the unskippable intro sequence, and *still* it went on. I rapid-clicked, as if by some miracle I’d be allowed to skip it. Title screen > New character > Human > Default stats > Default avatar > Default equipment package #1 > Yes I’m sure > Skip tutorial > Start game. Muscle memory allowed me to race through the setup process, clicking where the buttons would appear like precognition . My new boring character spawned into Origin Online’s starting town, if it could even be called that. I was already an expert, with thousands of hours logged in every square inch of this buggy hell hole. All that time exchanged for silence, platitudes , and a crappy paycheck. The starting town was packed with the identical avatars of thousands of other players who rushed through the setup to get their first glimpse of this incredible new online experience. To its credit, OO’s quantum server never skipped a beat. It really was a marvel of technology. Every player on Earth would exist in a single open world, bigger and more spectacular than anything that came before. Except the starting hovel, of course. Who cares about first impressions, right? OO was so hyped that they talked about its progress on the evening news. Distinguished, white-haired men would drone on about world tragedies, scandals, and disasters, then smile as they came to the latest promise that Claud Vanderstint had made about Origin Online. Claud Vanderstint. Even thinking the name made me grit my teeth. I had 48 hours to reach Level 100, and I had to do it before anyone else. The players around me were gawking at the beautiful VR textures, testing the game physics, or rushing toward the first NPC with a quest indicator. I began jumping, backwards, into the surrounding jungle. They had fixed the infinite acceleration glitch, but only by giving a top maximum speed. The solution was rushed and worse, not very effective. Lush foliage flew past me, tiny fantasy animals scattering in my wake. I knew the route so well I didn’t even need to turn my head. I arrived at the fungus field and snatched up red and blue capped mushrooms as fast as I could. My macro combined them as soon as they appeared in my inventory. At early levels, spamming craftables was the fastest way to gain XP. My level indicator dinged again and again. I checked the option to auto-level, automatically distributing points to the default warrior stats. “Choose a power!” said the game. Players earned a feat upon reaching Level 5. I opened the menu and picked Iron Fist from the hundreds of abilities available. Now my bare fists counted as low quality tools. I beelined for a towering oak tree and rapid-clicked to attack it as fast as possible. My upgraded fists made taking down the tree possible, but not efficient. It took twelve minutes of continuous clicking to down it. I shook out my mouse hand as the massive trunk splintered and cracked, its invisible HP gauge reduced to zero. The crash would be investigated by new players certainly. They could help themselves to the Uncommon Wood, I would be back later. I needed a weapon, and I knew just the one. Reverse jumping toward the Doom Ridge Mountain, I passed dozens of other players. They were having fun, exploring this brave new world and sampling all it had to offer. They were like a thousand digital Adams and Eves. I pitied them. They hadn’t sampled the Tree of Knowledge yet. They were happy because they were innocent. I would be their serpent. It took 45 minutes of reverse jumping to reach Doom Ridge Mountain. The scope of the game was exhilarating, until you realized what an ordeal changing locations became. Then you’d look for ways to skip it and just get where you were going. You’d be led to a quest line that unlocked the option to *pay actual money* for a fast travel scroll. Con man. You’re just a typical con man, Claud. Con Man Claud, good alliteration. I’d have to remember that for when I reached the end. Doom Ridge Mountain contained a high-level dungeon. One of my favorites, actually. The blinding smoke, lava bombs, and rivers of molten rock made the environment as dangerous as the salamander tribe enemies. Even cooler was that attempting the dungeon triggered a volcanic eruption that would rain destruction on anyone near the mountain. I hated what they did to this game. This was such a cool dungeon! There were others too, inspired challenges for dedicated players. Relics left by the developers who poured their souls into OO, before they were replaced by cheap labor to rush the game out. I bunny hopped my way up the mountain to the dungeon’s exit. A large boulder blocked the tunnel, and I wedged myself against the seam. I went into settings and cranked my control sensitivity. I began spinning while I jumped against the boulder and the wall, and my stomach lurched at the whirlwind of movement. My avatar began to twist in midair and jittered between the pieces of geometry. I squinted to minimize nausea. Come on, you bastard. *“Where the hell is the player?!” the character location tracker fumed.* *“Well, mostly they’re over here, but sometimes they’re also a little over there,” said the geometry.* *“Nonsense! They can’t be in two places at once! Pick one and put them there!”* “Yes!” I was beginning to fear the boulder clip issue had been fixed. I ran down the tunnel to the dungeon treasure vault. The Salamander King who guarded the vault was safely on the wrong side of the door. I pulled aggro on him, but he had no way to reach me. I could hear his distinctive tongue attack. He pulled you into his mouth and crushed you for trillions of damage. Unavoidable, unfair and, in this game, basically criminal. I skipped the mountains of gold and gems, grabbed the Salamander Plate Armor, two Rings of Life Fortification, and a Helm of Endurance. All were useful, but the real prize was resting on the altar—the Axe of Earth’s Fire. “An artifact of incredible power, said to require a wielder to prove their worth in order to hold it,” according to the item description. This ‘test’ was to burn whoever picked it up for an obscene amount of damage. If you survived you were worthy, if not bring on the next contender. I used to think it was a neat effect, but in retrospect it was just another trap. I threw an empty chest at the altar. The chest burst into flames and I looted the axe in the recharge window before the test was active again. A bug meant the axe considered just about anything to be a valid target. I was the one to first discover this glitch. It was early on, when we thought our bug reports mattered. My fellow testers and I had managed to get a generic NPC to survive the test and pick up the axe, becoming its true owner and keeping it out of reach of players forever. It had seemed so funny at the time. Now the Axe of Earth’s Fire was mine. Other players would be picking up their first iron weapons by now, ooing and aahing over +1 gear. I was now the single most powerful player in the game. It would take six months of grinding for someone to match me. I’m not done yet, you son of a bitch. The stone moved out of my way with no trouble. After all I was exiting the vault, so I must have completed the dungeon! Next step, waterfall. Easy to find, as a dramatic natural feature they were everywhere. I reverse jumped to one nearby. Crystal clear water fell from a high cliff, creating a rainbow that made an idyllic place to sit and appreciate the beautiful textures. Lipstick on a pig. There was a chance (a small one, but still) that they’d fixed the bug so my setup no longer worked. I hopped onto the rocks, beneath the waterfall. The rock I wanted was third from the left, every waterfall built exactly the same. I stood on the very edge of it and backed up, pixel by pixel. I fell off. My position had to be perfect. I took a deep cleansing breath. I kept trying. After a few more attempts, I managed it. I stood on thin air, my feet just beyond the edge of the rock. The new players would soon discover the shabby geometry. Maybe some already had, falling through the level or suffocating inside trees. But for me, it was time again to practice patience. I started a macro that made me jump, then attempt to swim, over and over. *“Attempting swim up a waterfall?!” The game’s swim mechanic was aghast. “You have nary the skill level to do such a thing!”* *“Now, now. They can do it,” said the XP tracker, “just for a teeny tiny moment.”* *The swim mechanic harrumphed. “They can swim for that instant and not a second longer!* *“Don’t forget the multipliers for swimming with all that armor.”* *“They can try all day, they’re never getting up that waterfall. Mua-hahahahaha!”* I took off the VR headset and wiped the sweat from my face. The macro would take about an hour to get me to Swim 100. Good time for a break. I had to keep an eye on my screen, though. At any moment a mod might notice me, someone might get a notification something was wrong, and my plan would be ruined. My dinner was a jumbo burrito and milkshake. I needed my strength for the next part. My avatar had maxed out swim. Each jump now carried me several feet up the waterfall before the Salamander Plate pulled me back onto the questionable geometry. I was now Level 10. For my new feat, I chose Fresh Meat. Monsters would now be more likely to notice and attack me. There was only one monster I was interested in. I reverse jumped back to the nearest wood where my prey would be lurking. I had to be careful not to let anyone get a good look at my equipment. The wrong questions could lead to me getting banned, but I needed the gear for the next part. I crouched to sneak as the terrain turned to sucking mud. Trees were sparse and giant insects flitted about so fast they seemed to be teleporting. Fresh Meat pulled aggro on them, but my ludicrously overpowered equipment made the fights no more than a click per bug. As I walked through the muck, I heard a grunting sound. A large, lumpy beast shook off the brown goop and grumbled at me. There you are little pig. Come and get me now. The bristle-backed mud hog charged out of its soupy nest, squealing and slashing with its tusks. I dodged attack and waited for it to attack again. The hog launched into an attack sequence of bites, gores, and headbutts. I blocked the attacks to reduce the damage. Then it exposed its flank to me, telegraphing the attack I was waiting for. The hog spun in a blur, a melee area of effect attack. Intended to be used when the hog was surrounded, but still part of its normal line up of moves. I jumped over the hog as it spun, aiming for its exact axis of rotation, and swung the Axe of Earth’s Flame down on it. The pig died in a single blow, dropping a paltry amount of coin. Dammit. The spinning pig glitch was difficult to pull off. The attack needed to be frame perfect, I needed to be in the perfect position, and it had to be during that one specific move. But it was worth it. There was a strange bug when a mud hog died in just the right way, at just the right time. The fight ended, but the hog’s attack was still considered in progress against its last target. It became an artifact, still spinning, but with no stats. The result was a collision object rotating at incredible speeds and doing damage per frame of collision detection. With a frame rate powered by quantum computing, it resulted in nearly infinite damage per second of contact. Traipsing through the mud, I swatted man-eating bugs from the sky and leapt over pig after pig. I gained enough levels to upgrade Fresh Meat to Seasoned, spawning more enemies in my zone. This was a work of endurance, jumping and striking over and over as time ticked away. I had a dreadful thought. What if the Day One patch fixed the spinning pig glitch!? Ooooh, what a bitter irony that would be. I had fought with them to fix the spinning pigs for months. “Got it! Yes!” I leapt from my chair in victory. I was now the proud owner of a spinning pig. It hovered, perpetually just to my right, ready to kill anything that could be killed. I made my way back to the massive oak I had felled near the starting area. The spinning pig tore down trees and disintegrated foliage as I travelled. I managed to avoid any other players, though I was sure they’d investigate the swath of destruction I left in my wake. With a little maneuvering, I managed to drill the pig into the side of a massive boulder, carving twisted paths to conceal myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do while I went AFK. Alright, time to get some rest. Then we kill God. I didn’t sleep well. I was too anxious about logging in to find my character deleted with a ban notice, or discovering they’d managed to squeeze in an emergency patch. You’ll be done soon, I told myself. It will be worth the lawsuits, the burning bridges, all of it. My character was still in my makeshift pig cave, apparently undisturbed. I breathed a sigh of relief, then started on the next stage of my plan. I returned to the stump of the great oak I’d punched to death yesterday. Trees had a 24 hour respawn cycle, and it was nearly time. I stood on the stump and waited. It was meditative, listening to the birds and animals that populated the jungle. There was time to appreciate what the game had aspired to be. Blood, sweat, and tears poured into an amazing world. I felt a pang, knowing what I was about to do. But amongst all that verdant foliage, all those spine covered monkeys, poisonous lizards, and collectible butterflies, there was still the spinning pig beside me. For all the love that went into this OO, it was sloth, greed, and arrogance that allowed this hog of unlimited destruction. 24 hours ticked by, and the geometry collision detection threw a fit. *“Two objects occupying the same space at the same time?! Absurd! I won’t hear of it!”* *“What shall we do?” asked the physics engine.* *“Send the player away as quick as possible!”* *The physics engine gave a servile bow.* A great tree erupted beneath my feet and rocketed me directly upward. The game world shrank away as the clouds of the skybox rushed to meet me. I passed through them and entered the realm of the game’s final dungeon, The Palace of the Sky King. Instead of falling back to earth, I began to swim. The mechanics for flying hadn’t been built yet, so for now the whole place was considered underwater. Multiple end-game content quests barricaded the doors of the Palace, great beasts and dragons holding keys that would unlock the doors. But, as I had not yet initiated those quests, the entire area was inert. I passed through the gates like a ghost. A nasally voice crackled in my ear. “Sky King intro dialogue here.” “Dammit, Claud, finish your game !” I yelled to no one. The palace was an empty shell. The walls and floors had placeholder textures. But I had to forgive them, at least a little. This part of OO wasn’t meant to be encountered for at least a year. The quests’ difficulty was so great, the devs expected it to take tens of thousands of Level 100 players to storm the Palace together. No one was supposed to be here for a long time. I floated through the palace, clipping through walls, and into the Sky King’s throne room. There, the Sky King sat upon his throne of storms. Composed of light, hurricanes, and raw power, he held in one hand the golden Staff of Winds, the four winds of the earth churning like tornadoes on the top. His other hand held the Sword of Storms, the weapon with which he would smite the world. The weapon I had come for. He was awe-inspiring, the love child of two genius devs who were subsequently fired for “performance-related insubordination”. I was no bigger than a flea to this titan. I spoke a sort of prayer at his feet. “You deserved better than this, you big, beautiful bastard.” The Sky King was unmoved. I turned, aligning the spinning pig to The Sky King’s foot. A credit to his immense difficulty, he took almost three seconds to die. He never moved, not even a death animation. His status simply changed from living to lootable. My XP counter didn’t even twitch. *“Who shall receive The Sky King’s XP?!” the game wondered.* *“No one! He died of collision! He must have fallen! He’s awfully tall you know, long way to fall.”* *“What of his treasure vault? Shall it be opened?”* *“Of course! He dead, isn’t he?”* A hurricane’s eye appeared behind the throne. It led to the vaults where the most valuable treasures and God-tier equipment would appear. I wasn’t interested. I looted The Sword of Storms from the Sky King’s body and clipped through the floor. Outside the Palace, I swam downward until I reached the normal skybox and began to plummet. Splat. Dead. The pig spun victoriously. The screen went dark and two options appeared: New Character or Continue, in a large green button. I seethed. Here was the core of the matter. I hit Continue, and a new box appeared. “You have chosen continue your adventure! $3.87 has been charged to your account.” They marketed their “Pay to live” system as a way to ensure high-level characters would cycle out over time. But that was where the lies began. Better enjoy it that $3.87 while it’s still yours, Claud. I was revived . Almost there. I unequipped the Sword of Storms and stored it in my inventory, then began scooping up handfuls of the nearest Common item. In this area, that was acorns. Soon I had seven stacks of 55 acorns. For whatever reason, OO really hated the number 55. The odds of glitches increased dramatically if there were 55 of anything, and I knew how to how to trigger a bug 100% of the time. It was on this bug that my whole plan rested. I arranged my inventory so the Sword of Storms was between the fifth and sixth stacks of acorns, then took off my headset and yanked the plug on my computer. The screen flashed white and turned off. I counted to five (superstition dies hard) and plugged it back in. While my computer rebooted, and I started gathering on all the light sources in my room and turned them towards my face. I reviewed my script one last time. I logged in. That wretched intro played again. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Clickclickclickclickclickclick. The Sword of Storms was a unique item, one of the strongest in the game. It had a power that could be used once every 30 days, Wrath of the Sky King. The weather in Origin Online could be anywhere from a pleasant day to a hurricane. Casting Wrath of the Sky King increased the weather’s severity by two steps. Sunny, Cloudy, Windy, Raining, Storm, Heavy Thunderstorm, Tornado, Hurricane, Storm of Judgment. Normally, a player could only summon a Storm of Judgement if they used Wrath of the Sky King when there was already a tornado. But, nestled in my inventory between my stacks of 55 acorns, I had a neat little stack of 55 Swords of Storms. Equip Sword of Storms, hotkey Wrath of the Sky King, cast. I swung the sword in a great arc over my head and the sky began to darken. The wind shook the trees. Wrath of the Sky King affected the entire server at once, except for the wielder of the Sword. But I had to hurry. The mods and devs would realize something was wrong very soon. Equip, hotkey, cast. I discarded the legendary artifact after using it. Poof, gone forever. Now rain poured from the sky in blinding sheets and trees bowed their heads to my power. Equip, hotkey, cast. The clouds began to twist and pucker overhead. Hail fell from the skies. In the distance I saw funnel clouds form and reach their questing fingers for buildings and characters to destroy. Equip, hotkey, cast. Game over, ladies and gentlemen. I smoothed down my hair as arcs of purple and yellow lightning crawled through the clouds. The ground erupted where they struck. Balls of burning ice hurtled down, the rain turned to caustic acid, and the tornados became mile wide monstrosities that hunted their targets. Equip, hotkey, cast. Equip, hotkey, cast. Equip, hotkey, cast. *“I say!” said the weather programming, “We’ve already reached the maximum possible weather severity. Whatever shall we do now?”* *“We follow the rules!” the game’s logic engine replied. “If the spell is used in the presence of a tornado or higher, it causes a Storm of Judgement! I see tornados, don’t you?”* *“Well, of course! But where shall we put the new Storm of Judgement? There’s already one right here!”* *“Oh. I suppose there is. Ah well, just throw it on top of the old one!”* *“Very good! And the others?”* *“Add them to the pile! And don’t forget to award XP to the caster for anything the storm kills!* I watched in awe as the lightning became so dense it hid the clouds. Tornados merged together, as wide as continents. Acid rain fell like with the intensity of a waterfall. Burning hail ravaged the earth in great columns. Everything everywhere died. In less than 30 seconds, I had become the only living thing in Origins Online. My XP bar filled again and again, and small window appeared. “Congratulations! You’re the first player to reach the Level 100! As a reward, we’re offering you the chance to livestream your reaction to every player, all over the world! You’ll have 5 minutes. Please no swearing or your other rewards will be null and void. Click the OK button to begin the stream.” I yanked off my VR headset just in time for my face to appear on the screen, captured by my computer’s built in camera. I smiled at the millions who were watching me right now. Showtime! “Hello, everyone. My name is Rebecca Vanderstint, and I’m the daughter of Origins Online lead creator, Claud Vanderstint. I orchestrated this event to tell you that my father is a liar and a cheat. “I was the principle tester for Origins Online, and I learned things Con Man Claud doesn’t want you to know. For example, everyone knows that resurrecting a character costs money. But are you aware there are invisible stat changes every time you resurrect? That they make you more likely to find rare items, but also make you susceptible to crits and sudden death? Your character becomes more valuable to compel you to pay the ever-increasing fees. And believe me, those fees ramp up fast. OO is the world’s most overhyped pay-to-win. Its designed to be unfair, to rob you, and to take advantage of you for playing it.” I paused to let that information sink in and remind myself not to talk too fast. There’s your game Claud, now for your reputation. “Claud Vanderstint is also guilty of sexual harassment and assault on multiple women on his design team. He has withheld promised overtime pay to employees and fired them when they try to get their money. Their royalties end up in his pocket. And he knows his team of lawyers can drag out a case and bankrupt anyone who tries to bring them to court.” Now for your freedom. “Claud Vanderstint is also involved in tax evasion and fraud. His entire board of directors is in on it. They don’t intend to pay a dime on their profits from OO. Anyone who digs into his finances will find evidence. I swear to testify before any court on any of these claims. Furthermore—" The window closed. Time’s up. I finally settled back into my chair, the muscles in my back sighing in relief. I heard the door to my room open, and I spun around to greet him. “Good game, Dad.


I look at me and her. And him. Back when things were good. Back when he was a boy. Back when things were normal. Back when things made sense. Back when I still felt warm inside. So unlike now. I put the picture frame down, lean back in my chair, and take a swig of whiskey. I try to push away the memories. But they do not yield. They push forth until they engulf my mind, and I feel tears begin to form in my eyes. I try to wipe them away. But they keep on coming. Each one is larger than the last. The memories don't want to go away. Not today. Today they mean business. I get up and walk out of the living room. Then I slowly make my way up the stairs and drop the whiskey bottle on the seventh step. I'm now on the second floor, staring into the open doorway of my bedroom. Where there was once a double bed, there is now a single, dirty mattress on a rickety frame. My bedroom used to be alive. But now, much like all the other rooms in the house, it was just a desolate skeleton of what once was. I barely even slept in there anymore. I mostly just slept in my recliner. Well, being passed out is more like it. I turn away from my bedroom and I look at the door on the other end of the hall. His room. Hesitantly, I approach. I stand there for a few seconds, quietly staring at it. I run my hand down my unkempt face, my beard prickling my palm. And then I rest my palm on the door. I glance down at the knob. I reach for it but then stay my hand. I stand there, looking at my slightly shaking hand. I shut my eyes tightly, and take a deep breath. I'm about to do something I haven't done in a very long time. I grab the knob and turn it. The door opens and I look into the dark room of my son. I take a single step inside, and I switch on the light. It's exactly as he left it. That night. I rub my red eyes and I step fully into his room and sit on his bed. I scan everything in his room. The posters. The clothes are strewn on the floor. The old toy rack. The shelves are stacked with various things. The video game console. Underneath his bed, I see his favourite book from when he was a young child. A book about prehistoric life. He loved dinosaurs. As I stare at the book, I do something I haven't done in a very long time. I smile. It's a small one. But one regardless. I open the book and I start reading it out loud. Every single page. Every single little detail. As I read, I glance at my side, expecting to see him there, wide-eyed, fascinated, taking in every single word and phrase. But he isn't there. I dropped the book on the floor, and I fell atop my son's bed. And I see the memory I hated the most, begin to take shape in my mind. Our annual summer barbecue was two days away. We thought we'd gotten everything ready. But it turned out that we hadn't bought enough sodas. My boy was sixteen, and he offered to head back to the store to buy some more. We gave him the money and off he went. He was talking to the cashier when the bastard barged into the store with a handgun. He shot my boy through the head, and he shot the cashier, and he shot two other teenagers who were there too. The two teens survived their injuries, and the cashier did too. But my boy, my sweet little boy... he didn't. That fucking gunman didn't even take anything. He just shot them all and ran off. He luckily didn't get far though. Some cops managed to intercept him, and he got torn apart in the resulting shootout. God, the memory of the morgue. My wife crying on my shoulder. My son laying on that metal table with a hole in his head. We didn't want to believe it was him. But lying to yourself isn't healthy. You had the face the cold, hard truth. No matter how awful it was. Our son was gone forever. Our marriage fell apart afterward. We just couldn't go on. We were both constant reminders to each other. Constant reminders of what we'd lost. I loved that woman. That beautiful, incredible woman. But I didn't want to cause her any more pain. And she didn't want to cause me any more pain. This all happened five years ago. For five years I've been alone. Hiding away from everything. Hiding away from all the memories and the pain. But today, I did something I thought I'd never do. I faced them both. The memories and the pain. And I finally stepped into my son's room after so long. And I managed to smile. I pick the book back up and put it on top of my son's bed. And then I walk to the door and shut off the light.


The day was young. The sky was dim and overcast, much like an old antenna TV that couldn't find a signal. The snow begins to let down, accumulating pretty quick. Ryan was on his way home from college for winter break. He was so excited, he'd just managed to get this new game his brother Luke had been dying to play, for him. With Christmas coming, gifts in his back seat he was ready to go home and forget school for winter break. As many have learned, sometimes events don't pan out quite how we expect, and this is no different for Ryan. The snow kept coming, changing to icy hail. Ryan's car wasn't exactly the safest on the road and was pretty well… 'used'. And like any other day with it, something went wrong. Only this time it wasn't a check engine light that stalled his car, it wasn't the heat stopped working. No, this time his wiper malfunctioned. Snow piling up fast, he starts to slow down. Perhaps this would have worked if he had only replaced his breaks last month as he intended. His speed declines but in not with any haste . Banging on the windshield trying to get the wipers moving again, he finally has success, if only it had happened half a second sooner. The wipers move only to reveal a tree branch piercing his windshield. A large crash is heard throughout the streets. Ryan's airbags deploy, forcing him back into his seat . The neighbors come rushing out to the scene, Each one of them dialing 911. It wasn't long before an ambulance and fire truck showed up tearing the car apart to free him. Ryan flowing in and out of consciousness only remembers glimpses of the event. He gets put on a gurney and rushed to the nearest hospital. By the time he reached the hospital Ryan was out cold. He doesn't remember much after that, just that whatever they did felt like they poured ice into his veins, all to almost immediately feel like he's been sent through the gates burning gates of hell. Maybe it was PTSD that caused Ryan to change, maybe some brain damage, but the next thing Ryan remembers is being surrounded by family and friends. He mostly kept to himself, and wouldn't utter a word to anyone. Not to mention that after the accident he couldn't move without help. It was seldom that Ryan would leave the living room, and only went places when his family absolutely forced him to go. Really though he was quite content doing nothing sitting in the living room, just knowing he was surrounded by family. Even if he didn't show it. After a few weeks of him being home the contents of the car came back. The Christmas gifts seemed in perfect condition, and Ryan hoped so much these would put a smile on his family's face. Ever since his accident the house seemed kind of glum. First his mother; A pair of earrings in the shape of a snowman. It doesn't seem like much but his mother had always been obsessed with winter. She loved the crisp and cold air, and coming inside for hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. It was all around her favorite season. Before she even knew it she put them on, looked at her boy and said "Thank you Ryan. I love them" her eyes mist over as her boy remains emotionless. His father was next; a new fishing pole. During the summer the two of them would go out to the lake on a small boat, and go fishing. Those were some of Ryan's fondest memories. He absolutely loved the serenity the lake brought. His father started to tear up. "Your mother and I were talking about going up to the lake this year. We thought you'd like it. We thought.... I don't know. We just thought you might enjoy going out to the lake again." To which again Ryan showed no change. Maybe the next gift, the one he was so excited to give would change that. Ryan and Luke were really close before he left for college and this was his attempt to rekindle that. The game he was so excited to share, it had been sold out everywhere. There was a note inside the wrapping 'Hey, I know we havent gamed much since I left but I got 2 copies! Just shoot me a message and we can play!' Luke started to laugh and cry all at the same time and looks right at Ryan. "Yeah we gonna play this now? You havent moved in weeks! Go ahead and pick up a controller!" Luke scoffs storming out of the room. The weather begins to turn from what his mother used to consider a winter paradise to a more tepid heat. Perfect fishing weather. Sure it's a little brisk but that never stopped Ryan and his father from going fishing before why should it now? Ryan's mother makes a nice little picnic set up, his father grabs his new pole that his son got for him, and Luke helps Ryan into the car. Not much chatter on the way there, but they did listen to the new CD Luke got for his brother for Christmas. . The lake was quiet, serene and oh what a view. The sunrise perfectly reflected on the lake front showcasing it's beautiful orange sky. The mother puts out some sandwiches that she made earlier and the father casts his line out, just like the old days. For the first time in a while you could see the family actually enjoying themselves. Spending a day out together was definitely something they needed. But like a days even this one must come to an end. The sun had begin to set. The family all gathered round and hugged each other. "Guess this is where we say goodbye huh.." Luke says in tears "I'm really gonna miss you bro" his father opens the receptical containing Ryan's ashes. "Goodbye son" his parents barely manage to says as his father allows the ashes to float away in the wind.


Heavy rain came down hard against the wet pavement. She was cold, wet, and miserable. Stood out in the rain like this wasn’t how she’d expected tonight to end. Being out here in the storm was much better than being back in there though. A mix of tears and rain clouded her vision. She could barely see, having to squint to check her phone. The Uber was almost there. Laying next to her were a pair of oversized duffels. Everything packed hastily, barely fitting inside the bulging bags, were sat in growing puddles of rainwater and filth from the street. Awful weather for an awful night. The bags took on an odd shape, things poking this way and that. She’d been so flustered and barely had time to pack. That’s not entirely true. She had plenty of time, she just couldn’t stomach being in that flat any longer. She had to get out, even if there was a terrible storm outside. She’d rather take her chances with the rain than be up there. She tried not to think about it. To think about him. As much as she tried the thoughts wouldn’t shift. Playing out the breakup over and over in her head. What if she’d said this instead, or done that? Maybe it wouldn’t have ended that way. So many other ways it could have gone. Maybe in one of them they would still be up there together in the warmth of the flat. Her mind reeled with the countless what ifs that intruded themselves upon her. She couldn’t think straight, it was almost enough to make her sick. She pulled out her phone to try and take her mind off things. She was met with her lock screen, an image of the two of them together. Smiling and happy. Another wave of tears broke free and mingled with the rain running down her cheeks. Through the haze she could see a car pull up in front of her. “Ride for a Lucy Waller?” a gentle voice struggled over the howling wind. Lucy simply nodded, choking back the tears, grabbed up her bags and dragged them towards the boot. Seeing her struggle, the driver jumped out and offered to give her a hand. He was a typical middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a thick beer belly. Waddling over, he took up Lucy’s bags and helped get them in the car. A surprised look wrote itself across his face as he lifted the bags out of the wet and into the dry boot. They were so heavy even he had trouble tossing them into the back of the car. “My word girl, what you got in there? Everything but the kitchen sink I imagine.” The man chuckled to himself as he slammed the boot closed. All Lucy could do was offer him a pained smile and a slight nod. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, her throat was still raw from all the crying. The driver recognised she was distressed and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder then toddled off to the driver’s seat. His comforting pat didn’t help. It was everything but what he intended. If anything, it made her feel awkward and weird. Hands shaking, she managed to pop open the car door and climbed into the backseat, closing the door on the rain and the life she was leaving behind. Through the rain-streaked window she looked up at the block of flats. All the windows were as black as the night, bar one. His window. She’d half expected to see him stood there looking down, a dark shadow peering at her from high above, but there was nothing. The curtains were drawn, and no one was there. She knew he wouldn’t be able to watch her leave, not after how it all ended. She took a deep breath and turned to face the front, telling the driver she was ready to go. The journey home was a quiet one. The driver, after having tried and failed to comfort her once, didn’t try again. She didn’t mind. Leaning her head against the window and watching the headlights streak by was enough to sooth her aching heart. City life flashed passed them in a blur of yellow and grey. People were still out walking, or rather running, in the rain going about their nightly business. A loud wailing grew as a pair of blue flashing lights shot down the opposite side of the road. Then another, and another. The sirens still echoing down the narrow streets long after they’d disappeared out of view. For a moment her heart stopped. Something crept out from her subconscious mind into her waking thoughts. An unsettling feeling washed over her. She was worried that she had left something behind. The sudden realisation startled her almost into a panic. What was it? Surely it couldn’t be anything important, otherwise she would have remembered it, right? It was probably just her toothbrush or something trivial. Something she could easily replace. Unless… Panic truly started to set in, but she couldn’t check her bags, not until she was home. She would just have to wait. The rest of the ride home was stressful. All the while, the only thing she could think about was what she could have left behind and how she couldn’t bring herself to go back to his flat, not after leaving like she did. She just hoped it wasn’t something crucial. The kindly driver helped her unload her bags out onto her front doorstep and with a soft smile he took off. She’d make sure to rate him highly. 5 stars perhaps. Pushing open the front door with her foot, she hobbled down her dark hallway towards the back of the house. She threw her bags down with a wet slap onto the kitchen floor. Bending down, she opened the cupboard under the sink and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for. Putting on the rubber gloves, she turned to the face the bags, now sitting in a murky brown puddle that was starting to smell. Lucy sucked in a deep breath and unzipped the first bag. A few metallic items clattered against the tiles. Brushing aside the stained tools, she reached in and unfurled the dirty bedsheet. Her eyes stung as a waft of putrefaction escaped from the bundle. Cocooned in the folds of tainted linen were hunks of cooling red and grey flesh. Lucy plunged her hands in, right up to the elbow, and began sifting through the viscera. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Two hands, two feet, various ribs and other bones jostled together between the hunks of meat. But that feeling was still lingering. She’d have to check the other bag. Swivelling in the growing pool of fluids slowly spreading across her kitchen floor, she reached for the second bag but stopped. Her heart sank and she turned ghostly pale. One of the zips was partially undone. “No…” the whisper caught in her throat, her airways tightening. Without a second thought, she attacked the bag, throwing it open. This bag was packed with more care since this one contained most of his organs. Lucy didn’t stop for a second. Her gloves now a bright red, covered in flecks of grey and brown dove into the bag of organs. Where was it? It had to be here. Everything else was here. She grew more frantic, throwing clumps of torn muscle and sacks of wobbly flesh out of the bag in a frenzy. She emptied the bag onto the floor, adding to it with her own stomach contents, but searched diligently nonetheless. Lungs, kidneys, and greying tracks of intestines spilled out and made a dull bloody collage against the backdrop of bright white tiles. It wasn’t there. She couldn’t find it anywhere. She’d left his heart behind. She sat back and cried. Deep howling sobs wracked her body. Trembling uncontrollably, she edged backwards and leant against the fridge. She was fucked. She’d left his heart behind. But she had been so careful, how had she missed it? She made sure to go over the flat more than once, to make sure nothing like this would have happened. It’s not like she meant to do it in the first place. She didn’t mean to kill him. Their argument had got heated, and she had lashed out with the knife before she realised what she’d done. She looked down at her shaking hands. The hands that killed her boyfriend. The hands that, instead of reaching for the phone and calling the police, grabbed for his tools, and got to work. Hacking, breaking, pulling his body apart. Wrapping the pieces in old bedsheets and towels. Stuffing bloody chunks and broken bones into the duffel bags and carrying them outside, away from the flat. She didn’t know what to do but sit there and cry. And that’s what she did. Sat in a pool of her dead boyfriends’ innards sobbing into her cursed hands when something caught her eye. She looked down the length of her hallway and saw, through the frosted glass of the front door, a blue flashing light. A fresh bout of tears ran down her face as a shadow blocked out the light and rang the doorbell.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** The story includes a recipe. *(Note: This should be more than just the use of the word, like including the actual recipe in the story, or having the recipe be a central/meaningful part of the story, etc.)* This week’s challenge is to write a story based on the theme of ’traffic jam’. You may interpret this theme however you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. Use of the image and bonus constraint are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/GingerQuill - - u/oliverjsn8 - **Crit Star:** u/GingerQuill *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I grew up in the 1970's in Northern Virginia, my Dad commuted into DC every day for work. My Mom, Dad, bro and sis and I lived in a little apartment. Since then I've been all over the US and traveled to more than 40 countries - I would never stoop to say we were poor. We had a home, a car, Christmas happened, some years we got to go to the beach for a few days. For sure there were kids at school who had more toys, better clothes, more exciting vacations and parent's with cooler cars. But we got by and we managed to have fun. My Mom did most (all) of the cooking. When my Dad was cooking it was something weird - breakfast for dinner, or frozen turkey TV dinners, he was a good Dad, loved by many but not known for his meal prep skills. But - the man could bake. He baked bread (basic white loaf bread) and he was famous for his made from scratch lemon meringue pie. My Mom almost did most (all) of the grocery shopping. Once my Mom sent him to the store twice in one day - both times he couldn't remember what he was supposed to get. So, he bought a flour sifter. As one does. He was no dummy - his mind was just always full of things like navigation in space, women as priests in the Catholic Church (he was for it), and all of the books every written by George Eliot. Every now and then, when my Mom went to do the weekly grocery shopping (she also kept the budget and knew when we could spend a little extra) , she would find some kind of treat. And, every now and then one of those treats turned out to be a box of Duncan Hines Blueberry Muffin Mix!!! I remember her taking out of the bag and showing it to my Dad. The next Saturday morning somehow we would all be in kitchen early - making muffins! Well, not all of us I suspect some of the muffin making parties were designed so that she could sleep in on a weekend morning. My sister was the oldest and was certain she knew everything. So she was in charge of reading the directions, opening the package, mixing, turning on the oven and telling everyone else what to do. My Dad told her she had to let my brother and I help. He got the job of opening the can of blueberries. I was just baffled by the whole thing. Especially the can. It was just a can, about the size of a cat food can or a tuna can (both of which made me uncomfortable) and it had no label, no markings, just a can. And inside it was this thick gloopy dark purple stuff - I had seen real blueberries and this made no sense to me. No idea, it probably takes 20 minutes to make those muffins, but it seemed like a major undertaking. Eventually though the time would ding! The kitchen smelled like the most amazing bakery in Paris (pretty sure I had no idea where Paris was at the time - but somehow I just knew that). My Dad would put on the oven gloves and pull the trays and out dump the muffins onto the counter. And we'd grab them burning our fingers, rip off the papers and - this is the best part of this whole story - but huge globs of room-temperature butter on them! That weird purple goop had magically transformed into blueberries and the muffins were perfect - I questioned if my sister might really know everything (turns out she doesn't but I love her!). I haven't thought about those stupid muffins in 40 years. They probably aren't very good. Not sure they even sell them anymore, seems like you can buy muffins anywhere these days and they look bigger and nicer and better than those old 1970's muffins. My Dad passed away a couple years ago, right in the middle of Covid. He had been suffering from Parkinson's for several years and was deteriorating. When the time came, the only comfort we had was that he in a better place an no longer suffering. Covid just made it difficult to hold a real funeral, and a proper send-off. I think that's weighed on all of our minds. I try to keep that in mind, but I miss him and get sad sometimes. This morning, like any random Tuesday. I got in my truck and drove downtown to my office. Like any random Tuesday I stopped at the Starbucks in the lobby of my building to pick up a coffee to get me through the morning of online meetings. It was crowded and the line was long. Someone had ordered a muffin and they could not be located. The Starbucks girl was holding it up and yelling "Blueberry Muffin! Who's got a Blueberry Muffin??" I felt like I was hit by a spaceship traveling at the speed of light and was transported back to that little kitchen in Virginia. And we were making blueberry muffins! It was all there in front of me, the smells, the butter, the cat running towards the sound of the can opener as it opened that magic can. I didn't break down, I didn't cry. But when it was my turn and the girl at the counter asked how I was, I said "Oh just allergies, haha!." It was a hard moment - I'm a 50 year old man, we don't do "feelings". But as I walked to my office, it occurred to me - this is one of the first times I've thought about him since he left us - that wasn't just sad. It was bittersweet. But it was happy. Those few seconds were the highlight of my day. It was fun. It was us. It was how we used to be in what seemed like a much simpler time (though I'm sure it wasn't as simple for my folks as it was for us). You can read stuff about grieving, people can tell you stuff. But all you can do is go through it in your own way. It's taken me a few years, but I think/hope/feel I can forget about the Parkinson's and all of that, forget the hospitals. None of that matters. Fuck Parkinson's. I'm going to eat a lot more blueberry muffins.


Silvia blinked for a moment, as her eyes adjusted to what she was seeing. Her head throbbed as she brushed her fingers against the rough metal surface of the heart shaped locket. It's golden exterior, dull and dented, the dingy old bauble having seen far better days. Gingerly holding it up to her ear she could hear a faint ticking inside. It made her nauseous. "What do you think you're doing?" It took a moment to register the sound, her mind still reeling. She turned to find her sister shuffling impatiently near the door. "It's almost time for another security sweep. If there's nothing else in this vault, we need to leave." Silvia closed her eyes and tried to focus. "Yeah I...uh sorry Vee. Got a little distracted. I found something made of gold and it seems to be mechanical. It may be worth something, but it's the only usable thing here." She takes one last look at the necklace before shoving it in her pocket. This locket seems oddly familiar, she wanted to examine it longer but if they got caught by Reagan and his men something like that would be the least of their concerns. "C'mon" Vee beckoned, peaking out of the door to the vault "No one is out here yet, there's still time to get back to camp." Silvia stands up, wobbling a bit from another sudden wave of nausea, and gives one last look at the inside of the otherwise picked over vault and meets her sister at the door. Vee gave a curt nod and they walked back into the interior of the bank, climbed back into the maintenance vent, and scrambled out onto the roof. The sun was just beginning to set, they had left just in time. They didn't say much on the way back to camp, the two of them working in tandem to keep lookout for any of the heavily armed soldiers that patrolled the city. The dilapidated buildings and burned out cars littered around this part of the city provided more than enough cover to remain in the shadows. Ducking down through the street, skirting through alleyways, and when needed dropping down into the sewers, all things considered it was a relatively quick escape. It took them roughly an hour to get out of the city proper and into the dense muddy woods on the outskirts. Within a few minutes they came to a cave. Hidden amongst a large pile of rocks they came to a door and Vee offered a swift sharp knock. A light knock back was the only answer. Clearing her throat Vee responded, Guided by his patient hand We will salvage what we can We stay the course and here we stand We are the children of Atavan At this the door swung open and a small boy, about 7 years old looked up at them in disappointment, his small hands wringing the bottom of his tattered old superhero shirt. "It's just you two." He sighs, rolling his eyes and stepping out of the doorway. "Did you see my dad out there? He went salvaging and he isn't back yet." Silvia leans down, and gives him a soft pat on the head. "Sorry Danny, we didn't see him on our way in. I'm sure he'll be home soon though." "I hope so, he's been gone a real long time..." Vee interjects with a deep sigh "He's fine! Your dad's probably just wandering around drunk, he's always drinking this time of day anyway." Silvia gasped "Vee, he's a kid! Whats wrong with you!" Danny smiles sadly. "It's ok Sil, she's right. He does drink a lot, I guess. I don't mind it, as long as he comes home safe. You two go ahead, I'm gonna stand guard until he gets back." Vee just nods and turns away, walking toward the camp, while Silvia ruffles his hair and gives him a soft smile. She rushes up to her sister and is able to catch her halfway down the corridor. "Why are you always so mean?" Vee stops but doesn't turn to face her sister. "What exactly is mean about telling the truth?" "It won't kill you to be kind for literally a second of your life. You know how hard this is, sometimes people need it!' "Sometimes people need a reality check." At this, she does turn and stares directly in Silvia's eyes. "I don't want Danny to think for a goddamn second that his dad's behavior is acceptable. If he learns now he won't grow up to be like him and he'll be better off." "But it's not our place to talk down about his father. He is only a child, Vee! And if the council had a problem with the drinking they would have …" Vee cuts her off angrily "The council left us for dead and so did Atavan! Stop pretending they're coming back or that they even care what we do here. The only ones looking out for us are us. You’re just as naive as he is, and you both need to grow up and learn what the real world is like." "Vee… I…" Silvia blinks away tears. "No” Vee sighs “We have work to do. If you need me I'll be in Gareth's tent debriefing him on our salvage today. You clean off that thing you found and figure out what to do with it." . . . . . . . Silvia wiped her brow and dropped her cleaning rag. The locket was now polished, though still looked a little rough for the wear. Its hinges seemed to be perfectly intact despite the denting and damage but there was no latch anywhere on it. It clearly seemed like it could be opened to access the inside. She got a small flathead screwdriver, wedged it into the seam, and softly pried it open. Inside the locket was a faint blue glow and two identical watch faces. On the right face the numbers on the watch were strange. There was a combination of letters and numbers that seemed to constantly shift as the hands spun past them even some letters she didn't recognize that had to be from other languages. On the left face the numbers rotated slowly around the hands. Still shifting and changing but rather than the hands moving, the numbers themselves were in constant motion. She picked up the watch and touched the left face, when she heard a scream. Silvia clutched the locket in her hand and rushed outside her tent. Everyone else in the settlement was either already standing in the middle of camp or coming out to investigate just like she was. She caught Vee's eye as she came out of Gareth's tent, and they exchanged a frightened glance. The stomping of boots could be heard coming from the entrance to the cave. A group of soldiers, fifty or so strong clad in the city's insignia of a dragon, entered the camp. All of them impossibly large in their thick plate armor, holding heavy artillery rifles. In the front of this group dead and center was a hard faced man with slicked back jet black hair and an ornate tattoo of a dragon on his face. To his left, two soldiers were half walking, half carrying a man in chains who seemed to have been beaten. As they got closer she could see it was Danny's father. To the man's other side Danny struggled against the grasp of a soldier who was carrying him under one arm. Vee pushes her way to the front of the crowd and aggressively addresses the man. "Reagan, how did you find us, and why are you here?!" At this he laughs and signals his soldiers to halt. "Well hello beautiful. I'm here because I found this-" He snaps his fingers and the guards throw Danny's father to the ground. "-half drunk buffoon wandering around the edge of my city." He puts a heavy boot on the man's face and he sobs and slacks under the weight of it. "The only reason I didn't kill this pathetic excuse for a man is because he led me here." Danny screams and struggles "Dad! You let go of my Dad you monster!" Reagan signals and the guard throws Danny to the ground as well. Vee rushes to his side. She makes sure Danny is ok, and then stands between him and the soldiers."What do you want with us?" He scowls and steps up to meet her. "I'm sick and tired of you little rats scrounging around my city looking for crumbs. This time one of you has taken something valuable to me. And I want it back NOW." "I don't know what youre talking about!" "Oh you know exactly what I mean. The Amulet you stole. If you took it, you know damn well what it’s worth. I want it back right now and I will kill each and every last one of you little rats until I find it." "Please, we don’t know anything about an amulet. Leave us alone." Vee whispers, her voice cracking. Reagan scowls at her and snaps his fingers at the guard. "Fine. If that's how you want it. Kill them. Start with the kid." A soldier raises his gun at Danny, and before anyone else can move or speak, he fires, and Vee jumps in front of the bullet. She falls to the ground in front of Danny, and every denizen in the camp panics. The soldiers fan out, people are running and frantically searching for escape. The sounds of gunfire and pain ring out in the cavern. Silvia desperately pushes through the crowd to reach her sister, the herd of desperate people pushing against her like a turbulent current. By the time she finally reaches them, Danny has his shirt on Vee's stomach and is desperately trying to stop the bleeding. "Sil… she… she won't wake up. What do I do, she won't wake up.." She sits down next to Danny and holds her sister's hand. It's warmth is slowly fading. "No… Vee please. You gotta hold on. I know how stubborn you are. If anyone can make it...if anyone can..'' mid sentence she feels her sister's hand slack in her own. She holds her sister's hand tighter, her tears blurring her vision. "No…oh god no…Vee, why did this all have to happen? I don't understand." Silvia looks up at the panic and chaos around her, slowly realizing she's still in the middle of an invasion. Her eyes come across Regan loudly arguing with a guard. "I need that Amulet, when you shoot them search their fucking pockets for it, don't just stomp over them like some kind of moron. If you break it we'll have nothing. We need it intact!" Silvia looks down at her left hand, despite everything the locket is still held fast in her grip. She opens it and stares at the glowing faces. He wants this so bad, there has to be something it does. Some way to use it. She puts her finger on the hour hand on the left face of the watch. "You! Hey what is that you've got!" The soldier yells, holding up his rifle and pointing it at her. As he pulls the trigger, she softly turns the hand of the watch, and prays for something to happen. . . . . . . . Silvia blinked for a moment, as her eyes adjusted to what she was seeing. Her head throbbed as she brushed her fingers against the rough metal surface of the heart shaped locket. She covered her mouth with her hand, stopping a sob before it could escape, tears streaming down her face. She's inside the vault again. "What do you think you're doing?" She turns to her sister weeping, barely able to speak "Vee...I'm sorry… I'm so so sorry." "What are you talking about? It's almost time for another security sweep. If there's nothing else ….