Joey pawed the ground a few times, leaving streaked shoe prints behind in the dirt. Ahead of him was a well-worn path through the forest, and further ahead, a section of the gully. He looked down at his new shoes, feeling their power surge through him. It was time to test them out. He crouched, counted down in his head, then took off like a shot. The new soles gripped the ground firmly; he felt his speed increase beyond anything his old shoes could have done. The edge of the gully rushed up to him; at the last moment, he jumped into the air, pinwheeling his limbs as he soared over the chasm. The darkness yawned beneath him; he felt a slight twinge of panic. Had he gone too far this time? Were his new shoes everything he had hoped for? He pushed his nagging doubts aside and focused on his jump. Slam! He finally made contact with the ground, landing on the uppermost slope of the gully; it was only a few feet to flat ground. A couple steps later, he was on the other side! Joey turned around to take in the full effect of his accomplishment. A triumphant yelp escaped from his throat; he had never jumped so far in his life! He looked down at his shoes, the thick leather straps swarming over the breathable mesh interior, looking like the muscles of an ancient gladiator. The olive color used throughout made them look like real Army shoes; the only way they could be cooler was if they were camouflage. His face beamed as he took a few deep breaths; everything was different now. "Nice jump," he heard someone say. Joey whirled around to see his friend, her eyes glowing with warmth. Her beaming smile seemed to shoot right through him. Joey swallowed before taking another breath. "Hi, Molly," he finally managed to say. "I didn't see you there." "Of course you didn't," Molly declared, her smile turning cryptic. She looked down at his feet. "New shoes?" "The best!" he exulted, twisting his body to model them. "These are Merrill Taos hiking shoes, with authentic Tekram soles, tactical nylon shoelaces..." "OK, OK," Molly protested. "I don't need to hear all the 'boy' details. They're neat shoes; I get it." "Sorry," he laughed. "I just got them for Christmas; I'm still excited about them. Did you get anything cool?" "Couldn't you tell?" She struck a dynamic pose, centered around her torso. Joey blinked. "Oh! That's a new pullover, isn't it?" "Not just *any* pullover!" she gushed, reaching behind her head. His eyes lit up. "It's a hoodie! You've always wanted one of those!" "It's not just *any* hoodie," she revealed. "Watch this." With a single fluid move, she flipped the hood over her head, nearly vanishing from view. "Now I get it!" he laughed. "No wonder I didn't see you coming!" "That's not all," she hinted. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her hoodie's kangaroo pocket. Quickly donning them, she pulled the drawstrings on her hood tight, then tucked her hands into her pocket. Joey gaped. "You vanished completely!" He peered intently, but could only discern a faint shimmering in the air. Molly pulled her hands out, dropped her hood, and removed her sunglasses, completely visible again. "Looks like we both had a great Christmas!" he beamed. She looked down shyly, twisting one foot into the dirt. "Uh huh." Excitement swelled within Joey. He and Molly had known each other since before they started kindergarten, and had always gotten along really well. Would they continue to do so as they got older? Joey could only hope. "Your shoes are stupid," he heard a voice say. Joey looked around frantically, finally spotting an older boy some distance away, standing on top of a large boulder, smirking at both of them. Joey and Molly exchanged nonplussed glances. "Eric," Joey growled. Eric jumped down from the boulder and swaggered toward them. Joey and Molly looked at his shoes with growing discomfort. "That's right," Eric gloated. "Your eyes are *not* playing tricks. Check out *my* Christmas present!" With each step, lights in the heels of his white high-tops flashed. Eric strutted back and forth in front of them; Joey's face twisted into a frown as he felt himself burn inside. "My shoes totally dominate yours," Eric sneered. "Anything they can do, mine can do better!" "So what if your rich parents can afford better shoes?" Molly snapped. Eric stopped pacing and took a long look at Molly. As Eric sidled up to her, a mocking grin on his face, Joey felt like he was ready to boil over. "Well, *hello*, Molly," Eric oozed. "Aren't *you* growing up to be a lovely young lady." "Get lost, creep," Molly seethed. Eric reached for her; she slapped his hand away. Eric feigned surprise, then leered again. "Mmmm...I like 'em feisty!" Molly turned away from him, disgusted and unnerved. "Stop that *now*!" Joey shrieked. Eric turned to glare at Joey; Molly looked worried. "Oh, you *like* her, do you?" Eric mocked. Joey could feel his skin burn; Molly looked down demurely. Eric got uncomfortably close to Joey, almost pushing him over. "How about we settle this with a little contest? Perhaps a race through the Curse?" That was the name the neighborhood kids gave to their obstacle course, running through a small portion of the forested forty-acre parcel between their subdivision and the next one. It started with a few loops over creeks and fallen logs, but had grown over time, sporting improvised fences and hidden traps. These days, it was no mere obstacle course; they had taken to calling it the Curse. "It won't be a fair race!" Joey protested. "Just because your parents can buy you fancier shoes!" "I don't think you have a choice," Eric insinuated. "At least, if you like Molly. Because the winner gets the hand of the fair maiden." Molly made a disgusted snort. "I'm not going to stick around and be treated like some sort of *trophy*," she huffed before turning to leave. As she did, she caught Joey's eye, and flashed him a subtle wink. Joey froze; what did she mean by that? And had Eric seen it? He continued to smirk at Joey, his gaze unchanged. Perhaps he hadn't noticed. "Well?" Eric snarled. "Are you down?" "She doesn't like you, you know," Joey shot back. "And you can't make her like you." "Oh, Joey," Eric chided as he put his hand on Joey's shoulder. "Sweet, innocent Joey." Before Joey could squirm away, Eric pulled back. "You're only twelve; you don't know the ins and outs of romance the way I do. One day, when you're fourteen like me, you'll realize that women respond to certain social cues. They prefer tall, rich, older men." He shook his head. "Do you see what I mean? You just can't compete." "We'll see who can't compete," Joey snapped. "I accept your terms." Eric chuckled. "Really? You think you have a chance?" "She'll never like you," Joey vowed. Eric put his hands up. "Hey, no one can control how women think. That's something else you'll learn when you're my age. So here's the deal. If I win, you have to stand aside and let me have my chance. If you win, I'll leave her alone." Joey was surprised by how intensely he was willing to defend Molly's honor. "Deal." Eric clicked his tongue as he shook his head. "You're in for the biggest humiliation of your life." "Let's just settle this on the Curse." Joey looked around. "Should we walk to the start of it?" Eric's lips curled into a haughty sneer. "Let's race to it from here! Ready?" Eric crouched down into a runner's starting position. "Fine." Joey crouched too. He fingered his new gloves in his pocket, making sure they were still there. He didn't get a chance to show them to Molly; they were real woodsman's gloves, with leather running over a polyester sleeve. They kept his hands warm and should give him the traction he needed for positively superhuman abilities. He was confident they would let him climb like Spiderman. "On 'go'," Eric commanded. "3...2...1...*go!*" They both took off running. Joey thrilled as he found himself keeping pace with Eric. He glared at Joey, then abruptly, he pulled ahead as his shoes flashed more rapidly than before. Joey felt his heart sink as he pushed himself harder. It was a clear path to the start of the Curse, now looming before them. Joey could hardly contain his anguish as he felt his effort to protect Molly crumbling before his eyes. Without warning, Eric stumbled and fell, face-planting at full speed, crying in pain. A grin spread across Joey's face as he passed Eric. "You should look where you're going!" Joey called out as he sprinted past his fallen foe. "That's not fair!" Eric whined. He looked around wildly. "What did I even trip on?" He pulled himself to his feet and took off toward Joey, straining to close the gap. Joey reached the first obstacle, a wall made from logs. It was one of the first added by the neighborhood kids, years ago. For Joey, it had always been there. He leaped onto it and quickly scrambled over. He could hear Eric's footsteps behind him; there was no need to look. After a short straightaway, the next part involved jumping the gully; that was the name they gave to the deepest, widest creek in the forest. He swelled with confidence as he neared the edge; with a mighty leap, he pinwheeled his limbs, sailing over the gap and landing on the other side, well past the slope. His heart fell a few seconds later as he heard Eric land. He was catching up! Joey bolted around the U-turn and to the next obstacle, which ran under a simple plywood deck. The crawling hazard wasn't safe during the summer; it tended to attract snakes and spiders. Fortunately, it was winter. Feeling like a real Army man, Joey dove toward the opening, impacting roughly on the dirt. With all the speed he could muster, he flailed his limbs to propel himself forward, counting off the support beams as he passed them. His face broke out into a smile as he passed the fifth one, seeing daylight ahead of him. Joey emerged from the hole and sprinted away, brushing himself off without missing a step. He heard Eric emerge from beneath the deck; he was right on Joey's heels! A thick patch of brush was next; Joey knew it well. Although it grew back quickly, some parts were naturally thinner than others, and he knew how to weave through it. Eric was close on his heels; if he followed Joey's path, the advantage would be lost! Joey entered the thicket and dodged occasionally from side to side, hoping to convince Eric to do likewise. But Eric plowed through a different area, making better time than Joey had expected. Joey stopped his attempt at deception and focused on breaking free of the brambles. Joey heard Eric cry out in pain, followed by a clumsy-sounding tumble. He didn't dare turn around, choosing instead to watch for thin parts in the brush. "What the heck?" Eric complained. "That branch came out of nowhere!" "I can't hear you!" Joey laughed as he finally burst out of the tangle. "You're too far away!" He rounded the next U-turn and toward the balance beam, jumping up to the platform with only a few steps. This challenge made good use of his new shoes. Switching to a side-stepping gait, he crossed the beam quickly, focusing on the aged wood, not the overgrown creek below. The beam shook unexpectedly; Eric had arrived! Based on the way he made the beam bounce, he had also chosen to side-step. Joey felt panic rise in his throat as it seemed Eric was getting closer. The end of the beam was only a few steps away; Joey knew he couldn't slip up now. But just as he was about to jump to the end, Eric body-checked him from behind, sending him flying. Joey watched the platform's rough surface rush up to him. Remembering his years of practice, and the Army movies he loved so much, he tucked his head down and curled into a ball. He hit the platform hard, but rolled instead of coming to a stop. He continued at full speed as the platform sloped away, weathering rough impacts on his knees and back. Despite the deft maneuver, he could hear Eric run past him. Finally, Joey hit the ground and sprung to his feet. He silently thanked his quick thinking and years of experience. He was less happy to note that Eric had increased the distance between them as they both rounded the next U-turn. The rope swing was next. It was just a few old twine ropes tied to a tree branch, swinging over a shallow part of a creek, but the distance couldn't be achieved with a single jump. One had to throw their weight, increasing the sweep of the curve until it was safe to dismount. Joey realized that was the least of his problems as he glumly watched Eric pull ahead of him, reaching the rope swing several seconds early. Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. Running made that more difficult, but he didn't dare slow down now. He managed to slip them on just a moment before reaching the rope. Eric was already swaying wildly, gloating as he watched Joey only beginning to swing. Joey's gloves gripped the rope tightly; he needed every advantage he could get. He threw his weight expertly, gaining distance faster than he expected. Two more swings and he could probably jump! But Eric had reached his apogee, and flung himself from the rope, landing just below the flat ground. Suddenly, his body twisted as he lost his footing and fell backwards. "Stupid branch!" he roared as a short log tumbled from his landing spot and down toward the creek. He quickly picked himself up and scrambled up the hill just as Joey attempted his dismount. He landed closer to the flat ground, but Eric was still a few seconds ahead of him. They approached an improvised bridge over a small creek; both crossed it easily. One day, they hoped to install some monkey bars here, to make it like a real Army challenge, but that was well out of the nonexistent budget of the neighborhood kids, and no kindly benefactor had shown up with a set. Still, something to dream about. Joey was sure his gloves would have helped him cross monkey bars much faster than Eric could. The last obstacle loomed before them. A flat wall, constructed from two-by-fours and held up by four-by-fours concreted into the ground, rose ten feet in the air. It had been put up last spring, to use up the leftover materials from someone's backyard deck project. The kids had been trying to crack the puzzle ever since. The most popular method was to leap as high as one could, grab onto one of the four-by-four posts, and try to shimmy the rest of the height. That took good shoes and strong fingers, and maybe even proper gloves. Joey was sure he would clear it with little effort. But Eric was so far ahead of him. What could he do? Eric launched himself at the wall and tried to clamp his hands onto a post. The force of his collision made the wall flex; Joey's heart soared as he watched Eric get thrown to the ground. He made another leap for a post just before Joey arrived, who sprung into the air and attached himself to a different post. His gloves clung to the wood as if he was Spiderman; he thrilled at the strength of his grip. Both of them climbed upwards. It all came down to this! Eric suddenly faltered. "What the–!" he cried. Joey dared to look down for an instant; Eric's right shoe had come off! Inexplicably, it landed neatly on the ground, not bouncing. For a split second, Joey saw a hand dart away, quickly disappearing from sight. He smiled; Molly had played a dirty trick at the last second! As Eric continued to wail, Joey expertly ratcheted up the wall, and in another deft demonstration of a real Army man move, he flung his legs upward, launching them over the wall, then landed on the other side. It was only a dozen or so steps from there to a rounded clearing they had dubbed the "winner's circle". He sprinted to the circle, jumping at the last second to land inside of it. "Winner!" he exclaimed. Eric, huffing and puffing, emerged from the side of the wall. He glared sullenly at Joey, then sat down to unlace his shoe. Without warning, Molly's face appeared before Joey. The rest of her was suddenly revealed as she flung back her hood. "You did it!" she gushed before hugging Joey. He gratefully returned the hug. They stood together for several moments. Molly locked eyes with Joey. "I knew you wouldn't let me down." Joey smiled. "I could never let you down." Molly's face turned red; she released the hug and looked down demurely. Joey swallowed hard. "Hey!" Eric shouted as he finished tying his shoe.. "Where did *you* come from?" Molly looked coy. "Oh, I've been...around." Eric's eyes grew wide. "Wait! You've been sabotaging me the whole time! Haven't you? *Haven't you?*" Molly smirked. "You'll never know." "That wasn't fair!" he bleated. "Best two out of three!" "There's no point," Molly chided. "You don't have a chance. Women don't like crybabies. Didn't you know that?" "He'll understand when he gets older," Joey cracked. They shared a laugh. "I *know* you cheated," Eric seethed. "I'll get you for this." "I didn't need to cheat," Joey pointed out. "Look how dirty your shoes are! What were you thinking, wearing white shoes in the forest? Everyone knows that, the dirtier they get, the worse they work!" He presented his right shoe, covered with dirt and debris. "While mine just work better and better!" He glanced at Molly as he showed his left shoe. "Natural forest colors, you see." "Just brilliant!" Molly gushed. "You really did get the best Christmas present." Joey locked eyes with Molly again. "I really did." Molly brushed some debris off his shoulder. "I think the big winner deserves a prize. Want to come to my house for some homemade fudge?" Joey smiled broadly. "That sounds great." Without another word, Joey and Molly walked away, leaving Eric leaning against the wall. A small tear escaped and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly. "I'm not crying," he said to no one in particular. "There's something in my eye.


#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! 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.** *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Setting:** **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):**Includes a wedding**(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit.)** This week’s challenge is to set your story at a ruined castle. This should be the main setting of your story. You’re welcome to use it creatively and interpret it as you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/Blu_Spirit **Leave feedback on at least one You can check out previous Micro Mondays .  #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. *** other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. 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. - **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 . - **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 - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **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 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


But when she took me home to her place, the bloody sock was a huge red flag. Red means stop. As we stumbled arm and arm up the stairs to her apartment, I stole a glance at my phone, but dammit, it was dead. She slammed me against the wall and kissed me violently, my hands covered familiar territory as I kissed her back. My heart was pounding as I absorbed the warmth of her lips, so soft and tasting like hot whiskey. She reached in and unbuttoned my shirt as she fumbled for her keys. This was a roller coaster near the top going click click click--no brakes no way to get out, it was all straight downhill from here. It had been a dull night at the bar until she showed up and picked me up. She broke away from our embrace for a second and in one smooth motion unlocked the apartment door and kicked it open. I froze for a second when I saw the bloody sock on the floor. I've never seen a bloody sock before. And yet here it was, just a normal sock saturated with blood. *Lots* of blood. Maybe it was red paint or some sort of varnish? She seemed to read my mind and said, "No, it's blood. One of the painters had an accident and had to go to ER, thank goodness for the plastic...." Maybe I watched Dexter a few too many times but clearly this apartment was wrapped in plastic and -- "Dexter, the TV show, ever watch it?" She said as she held my hand and led me inside. My head started racing and quite frankly I was feeling a bit woozy. Maybe I drank too much. Earlier that night I was sitting at the bar with one of my single friends when she approached and asked if I knew what band was playing. I said I didn't, but to me they sounded pretty good so far. She said her name was Kate and shook my hand and flashed a smile. She had a short black dress and her hair was spiky. She looked to be maybe 25 with sharp green eyes and just the right amount of makeup. I gave her a drink and we made small talk. I recognized her accent and guessed she was from Chicago, she said it was Wisconsin and was surprised I could tell. I was smitten. — As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the apartment, I realized that everything was wrapped in plastic. The tables, the sofa, even the walls. "Um yeah. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea and..." suddenly my mouth went numb as my legs turned to jelly. She helped me to gracefully collapse onto the plastic covered floor. This isn't good. Not at all. "This was a *great* idea", she said "The ketamine I dropped in your drink at the bar should now be taking effect, and this won't hurt a bit. Well maybe a little." She started to laugh as she hiked up her skirt and sat on my chest while casually donning a pair of black latex gloves. "Actually, this is going to hurt a *lot*". Then the lights went out and the music started.


[AN] also themes of psychological realism CW for mention of suicide. On Monday I became invisible. I don't mean that in a metaphorical, psychological, or spiritual way. I have become invisible and I'm starting to go mad.I feared that I had passed at first, but my body was with me. I could touch people, eat, sleep, and feel the wind on my face. I didn't seem to have any supernatural powers like walking through walls. I could very well be dead and since this is my first time experiencing death it would make sense for me to not understand it. For the most part it was just me enjoying my life without worry of being interrupted, cut off, stared at, bossed around, or nagged by people. I frequently almost get hit by oncoming traffic but I don't blame them. Even when I was visible I almost got flattened in this city. People bump into me alot more now and that doesn't make me feel great at all. I try to apologize, but noone can hear me either. For those reasons I avoid going out at busy hours now. I have enough food in my apartment to last for weeks and it's only been five days. On Tuesday, after the initial shock of discovering what was going on, it was like a dream come true. I could still use my phone to give my manager some excuse that is more believable than sudden invisibility. After the fear subsided, I was at peace for a short time. I could still hear people outside my windows being their usual loud, and vexing selves. I could deal with that; I've learned to tune them out. Even though I've tried my hardest to create a quiet life for myself, I can't escape every single person on earth. On Wednesday I thought about this more. Would I even want to escape everyone? I don't have any living relatives I talk to, and I don't really have any friends either. The only people I talked to consistently were my coworkers but I keep them at a distance from my personal life. I come off as a schizoid, but it's not that I don't like anyone. I've learned from a young age that sometimes the cost of relationships outweighs the benefits. This belief has been challenged lately. I found myself missing some things about being visible. Babies would smile at me alot. No reason why. I'm no model, but I'm not ugly either, maybe they see something I don't. Simple, short interactions with people that either made me chuckle or embarrassed is an aspect of everyday life that I'm starting to long for again. Even non verbal forms of communication like gestures, nods, and physical touch are things I never even thought were so important to me. I work at a restaurant as a barback and even though my interactions with my coworkers are short, they are often pleasant except if I mess up on something. Even still, the small amount of validation that I am a human person that takes up space in this world and exists is something I yearn for again. That yearning then spiraled into an almost primal need for someone, anyone to see me. As the hours passed by I started to feel a kind of despair that I cannot describe that well in words. I didn't sleep that night and watched the sun rise, but felt nothing. I started to experience feelings of depersonalisation and derealization for a few moments on Thursday. Let me tell you something, feeling that while also knowing that you are in fact invisible is something you can only understand through experience. Thursday felt a little too surreal. I could no longer keep my existential thoughts at bay. I spiraled further into a depressive state. I wondered why I couldn't find peace within myself. I started to question who I even was. Even without this whole invisibility situation going on, I'm not sure I ever figured that out. One would think this is the best time to go out and “find yourself” but what does that even mean? I fear becoming invisible didn't create these feelings but only amplified them. I suppose a lot of who I thought I was was based on what I did. Usually I'd just go to work, go to the pub, then come home and sip Moscato while watching the tonight show. Obviously that wasn't a good enough answer for me so I started to think of my accomplishments. I was a gifted kid, turned burnt out adult so my accomplishments were mostly in my childhood. I kept hitting walls in my own thinking so I tried to think about how other people felt. I researched online and it seems that most people figure out who they are very early in their life. It's subject to change, but it's mostly built through life experiences and interactions. I've always felt like most people have their very own distinct vibrations. Every thought and belief is like a soundwave that reverberates off the walls that enclose their inner self. I don't hear much within myself. I have no echo within me. Today I thought about suicide. Stood on the balcony and let my thoughts come and go. I decided not to, because if I truly had no idea who I was then before I die I should at least know who I am. If it turns out that I'm just an evil person in disguise, then maybe I should do the right thing. But I really don't think I am. For right now, I guess, I'll just start with my name. I am Zephyr. That's who I am. And if there is any God or deity out there that can hear me or read my thoughts please know that for the rest of my life I will find myself. Right now I'm sitting in an empty seat at a café typing away. Hopefully no one decides to try to sit here. People have been avoiding this seat since this morning. I think I'm truly going mad because I thought I saw a little girl staring at me again. The mother said she likes me. I became visible on friday.


This is the story of the most fabulous man I have ever met. I’m telling it because Mr. Leon Miller would be too humble to ever speak highly of himself. Every once in a while you meet that one person who is the embodiment of true selflessness. No skeletons in the closet like the rest of us. Leon went above and beyond to always help others. Whether it was walking an old lady across the street even if he was running late to work, or fixing some young new driver’s flat tire. Leon did it all. He was a yes man. However his yes’s were true yes’s. Never did give a pity yes. Leon loved to help. He was the neighbor you went to when you needed to borrow some sugar. I loved working at the bank with him. He always made the place feel like you were in one big capsule of adderall. The warm rays that this man generated were so euphoric and welcoming. You forgot all of your troubles when Leon walked through the doors. What a beautiful man. I don’t work at the bank anymore. It was too hard for me to be around all of the money always fighting the urge to pocket just a little. Now I am a taxi driver. You would think it is a grueling job but I truly don’t mind. It doesn’t compare to working with Leon though. It felt like I was working with Jesus Christ himself. Except way less annoying and righteous. Leon has a beautiful family. Why wouldn’t he? Good people deserve good things. His wife Heather was a beautiful soul. Most people say they have a happy marriage, but we all know that’s a farce. It seems like we all love to hate each other these days. Leon and Heather really did have a happy marriage. Like a movie. The kind to make a softy cry. Those two high school sweet hearts who went the distance and didn’t regret it. Talk about rarity. Speaking of rarity, he had a set of beautiful twin daughters who were both heart surgeons in the same hospital. How confusing that must get. A family of life savers. Leon saved my life. I’ll never forget the day I woke up. The luminescent lights were so bright. A constant ringing followed by a series of beeps fluctuated in my ears. The noise became my pulse. As I looked down my feet were strapped to my bed. Next to my bed was a man in a brown corduroy suit jacket with matching pants and a brussel sprout green tie. His fading gray hair looking almost like that of an arctic fox. “Hello James.” The man said to me. “Glad to see you are awake!” From that day forward my life was changed. Rehab never helped me. Eleven times and not one successful result. What I needed was Leon to find me face down in the gutter like that poet Edgar Allan Poe. Poor Guy. Was a literary genius and nobody ever knew it. Not I however. I am no literary genius. Just an ex junkie that an old kind soul rushed to the hospital. My Jesus. Leon Christ. When they discharged me I had no place to stay. Leon took me right in. Heather gave him no dirty look. I would listen through the walls and she would only say, “James is a bright young man that we can fix right up, can’t we baby?” “Yes my love.” Leon would reassure her. That’s just the type of people they were. True selflessness. Leon got me cleaned up and off the streets and I never went back. I don’t even smoke reefer now. I’m not one of those kombucha born again yoga hippies. Just a normal guy with a rough past. Leon did fix me up. After I was all clean and ready he got me an interview at the bank. Of course I got the job. Anyone Leon speaks highly of always gets good things. I don’t know if I deserved it but my savior always assured me I did. I worked at the bank with him for three years and cherished every moment. We were all horribly saddened when he announced his retirement and gave his final day. I know I would miss working with him even though I had an apartment a few streets down. The day before his last we threw him a big surprise party because we knew he would turn it down. He said he didn’t deserve such praise but we all knew he did. Such selflessness. I woke up on the day of his final eight hours at the bank and couldn’t help but notice one salty tear glide down my cheek as I took away my five o’clock shadow in the mirror. Leon had changed my life. I owe him everything and it hurt to know he was leaving. I got in my Prius, listening to Primus and prepared for the saddest drive to work I would take. The only sad drive to the bank I’ve ever had. When I arrived Leon had already opened up shop and was sitting at his teller station. “James my son, I got you a gift.” It was a picture of us in the hospital together. That’s when the levee broke. One salty year turned into a river. On his last day he got me a gift. The picture still sits on my night stand. Girls always tell me my dad looks like such a kind man. I always tell them he is the best. We all tried to keep our spirits high that day while the minutes turned to hours. With ten minutes left in Leon’s final day, a man walked through the door. I’ll never forget his ugly wing tipped shoes and noticeable track marks. His ski mask looked like it was worn to the bone. Like he has made this sort of transaction before. “Everyone get in the floor now!” “Let’s make this quick and easy and nobody gets hurt.” He walked up to Leon’s desk. “Okay old man, you know the drill. Put the money in the bag.” Leon complied. The man must’ve known it was closing time because he didn’t ask for money in the safe. Leon dished out a couple grand and the man seemed satisfied. The wing tipped fellow was oddly calm. When the transaction was finished the man calmly turned to leave. “Have a great day sir. I pray you find god.” Leon said. The last words he ever spoke. The man stopped and turned. “Tell him to find me first.” He raised his gun and pulled the trigger and in the blink of an eye my savior was crucified. That was four years ago and the man was never caught. Such a pity. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t reminisce about my best friend Leon. Good people deserve good things but don’t always get them.


#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! 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.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Title:** **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** Someone is hypnotized. *Must be more than a passing mention.* **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit.)** This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the title ‘The Last Witch’ (this should be the title of your story). You’re welcome to interpret it any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/ZachTheLitchKing You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. 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. - **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 . - **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 - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **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 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Did you remember the time we whispered wishes into bubbles as we sent them into the sky? We hoped they would pop in China, so that someone across the world with the same desires could feel our hope, too. Did you remember? Or had it been so long that you’d forgotten? I almost forgot, too, so that’s okay. After years of barely speaking, waving to each other in the hallway, and texting one or two words, it’s okay if you’d forgotten. Because I almost forgot the sound of your voice. Did you forget the sound of my voice, too? “I like you,” you had whispered through the line of trees connecting your house to mine. “I like like you. More than friends. Will you be my girlfriend?” I shifted softly on my feet, feeling the wind whip through my long, blonde hair as fluffy clouds formed in the blue sky above us. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. “I’d rather be friends,” I replied. “Sorry.” We were just kids. I didn’t know what I was turning down. I watched the smile fade from your face. “Oh, that’s okay. We can still be friends. Always still be friends,” he mumbled. The discomfort was evident on his face. Awkwardness loomed in the air around us as we each took deep breaths. Years went by. You understood me more than anyone. We lay in the front yard, the sun beating down on our faces as your little siblings, Riley and Mackenzie, sketched outlines of us on the pavement. To me, you were the little neighbor boy who had a crush on me. To you, I think I was more. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. Love wasn’t a word I understood then, but I think I did love you at that moment. I loved you as my best friend, someone I could count on no matter the circumstances. You stood by me. I liked that about you. Would I do the same? “Tara!” Mackenzie shouted, too young to know an appropriate volume to talk at. “What?” I asked. "Wanna go inside and play Barbies?” You had looked at me with that face, that goofy smile. “Go on, I’ll stay out here with Riley. Lord knows she needs watching,” you laughed, as Riley made a threatening face in your direction. “Mackenzie, don’t you dare break anything.” Kenzie rolled her eyes, grabbing my hand and leading us inside. I looked at you behind my shoulder, beaming. Those were the happiest days of my life. We were running together after the ice cream truck, pushing your little sisters around in that red wagon, and playing with dolls in the cool basements. You were home to me. I never should have doubted that. Over time we grew farther and farther apart. School swamped me. I wanted female friends. I didn’t want to be known as the girl who hung out with only the boy next door. I was wrong about that. You got popular, but that didn’t change you. You were humble, smart, athletic, and kind. I should have reached out. Maybe you should have reached out, too. I guess we both could have done things differently. I see that now. I saw you once. Years after we’d last talked. “So, uh, you’re dating Jakey, right?” you’d asked. I looked down, the same awkwardness filling the air as the day we talked between trees. “Yeah. He’s good, you know?” I replied. “He treats me well.” “Seems like it,” you had laughed. “He talks about you nonstop. He’s right to brag.” Jakey was fine, but when I looked at you, I regretted it all. Your blue eyes, the curly hair, that goofy smile. It took me back to a time when I was happy. It took me back home. Jakey would end up breaking up with me. It was a long time coming. We weren’t happy. You died a month later. Car crash. Your drunk friend was driving and you were blacked out in the backseat. You weren’t strapped in. You died. I’ve never been the same. I see you in bubbles. I see you in ice cream trucks and red wagons. I see you in the tree line of my childhood home. I see you in sidewalk chalk and Barbies. I guess we were always star-crossed. The realization just struck me at the wrong time. We were just kids. I just didn’t know what I was turning down.


Adult Content The clock is ticking, just a few minutes til 5. Andrea taps her foot impatiently as she waits for it to be time for her to leave this hellhole she calls work. The longest part of her day is always these last ten minutes of her shift at the diner, and she can hear her bed calling her name from all the way across town. She longs for the day where she doesn’t have to worry about getting table 22 their fourth round of refills, or forgetting that one rude lady with the orange hair’s ranch. As she’s counting her tips, Andrea looks down at her phone to check the time when she sees a message on her phone. “Still on for 6 o’clock? Can’t wait to see you in that pretty little red dress, dear. ;)” She rushes, finishing up counting the rest of her tips that provide nothing but humility in this very moment. “Fuck, I forgot about this guy,” she whispers to herself as she places her cash in her bag. Her french tip acrylic nails make a loud tapping sound as she frantically clocks out to leave. She hurries to her car and makes her way home. When she gets home, she immediately peels her clothes off and starts looking for her crimson, tight nightgown. She puts on some mascara and some brown eyeshadow to give herself a seductive look, finishing off the look with some lip gloss. She takes another look at the time. 6pm on the dot. “Any minute now,” she whispers to herself. All of a sudden, Andrea gets a Facetime call from her macbook. Andrea’s heart starts pumping so much blood you would’ve thought she just competed in the Olympics. “Fuck.” Andrea pauses and takes a deep breath before getting into character. She clicks the green button to pick up. To her surprise, the man on the other side of the screen is strikingly attractive. A man with deep green eyes and tan skin starts to speak. “Hello princess. Oh my God you’re even more gorgeous than I thought.” Andrea blushes, but does her best to remain focused on the task at hand. “Thank you, love.” She leans in closer to the camera, making sure to show just enough cleavage to keep the man enticed. “Wow, I can’t wait to see what’s underneath that little red dress you got on. Why don’t you take it off for me?” Andrea lets out a slight chuckle. “Not so fast, babe. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.” Men are the lamest and easiest creatures on the planet to her. So eager to do anything just to calm their sexual urges. Take this man, for example. He stumbled across her ad and immediately purchased a session within only twenty seconds of viewing her profile. No wife, no kids, young, rich. He had everything a man would need to find a date, or so Andrea thought. But that’s not important, she reminds herself. What’s important now is to give this guy the show he wants so that her ratings and reviews don’t plummet. “I’ve been so excited to see you, and from the looks of your pants I think you’re even more excited.” The man looks down at his groin where you can see a visible imprint of the boner he can’t conceal. After some flirtatious banter with the man, Andrea finally starts to give him what he wants. She slowly starts to peel the straps from her nightgown off the sides of her shoulders, lowering the top part just enough to get a slight glimpse of her nipples before she pulls it back up to hide them. She loves a good teasing moment. It keeps the clients on the edge of their seats, among other things they’re already on the edge of. After doing this two more times, she fully slips the gown to the floor, leaving her in just a little red thong. “Ohhhh my Godddddd,” moans the man, who at this point is starting to unbuckle his work pants. Andrea rubs on her boobs and nipples as she watches him pull out his throbbing dick. She tries to keep her eyes as seductive as possible while noticing that it’s so big she would probably need a wheelchair after a night with him. Her hands move to the sides of her boobs where she pushes them together and gives them a little jiggle. This makes the man start moaning every cuss word imaginable. When it’s a hot customer like this, Andrea usually keeps her cool, but this man. This man is so attractive that even she is starting to get hot. She turns around and moves her hips, bending over just enough for the man to see the outline of her pussy. “Fuck baby, look how wet you’re getting. I wish I was there to clean it all up with my tongue.” Just the thought of this has Andrea over the edge now. Normally she doesn’t meet up with her clients, however if given the opportunity, Andrea would let him do things to her that she never let her good-for-nothing ex boyfriend of 4 years do. She moves her camera from her desk to her bed, where she gets down on all fours and starts to arch her back, making sure the angle makes her ass look good. The more this man speaks, the more she wants to do things she’s never done for clients. She begins slipping off her underwear as her legs are in the air, making sure her vagina is in view of the camera. This makes the man start stroking his dick a little bit faster and his moans start to get louder and louder. The way his moans echo in her head make her lose control. She pulls out her dildo and starts teasing him with it. She kisses the dildo, making sure to kiss and lick every inch of it. She gets the dildo and starts to slowly inch it down her throat. Once she has all of it in her mouth, the man lets out a grunt she hadn’t yet heard before during this session. The grunt didn’t sound like a moan, and at this point Andrea was just having fun hearing the man moan, she wasn’t really focused on giving him the show he wanted anymore. However this grunt took her by surprise so she sat up and looked at the screen. Andrea dropped the dildo she was holding and let out a scream. On the other side of the screen, was a different man wearing a mask, stabbing her client with a knife. She watched in horror as the killer approached the camera and took his mask off. “Luis what the fuck?!” Her ex boyfriend sets the mask down, taking a seat where the man he just killed was once seated. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. That guy was a fucking loser anyway. And why the fuck have you never showed me your pussy on camera?! All those times I stayed in Jersey you never once let me see!” Andrea rolled her eyes “well that’s because I don’t show pussy for free dumbass.” Luis scoffed, “oh whatever. Here.” He picks up the man’s phone and Andrea gets a Cashapp notification on her phone for $1,000 from Theo Martin. “Now can I see?” Andrea lets out a sigh. “Get help.” She hangs up the phone and proceeds to order her Amazon wishlist. “I guess he’s good for something sometimes, ugh but that guy was cute though.” She sighs to herself and clicks “order.


In a quiet workshop, bathed in the soft light of a setting sun, there stood an old machine, once the pride of its operator. Bradley, the man who had relied on this machine for decades, was known for his precision and skill, producing work with an accuracy that was the envy of his colleagues. But lately, things had started to change. Bradley looked at his hands with a mix of frustration and sorrow. He remembered the days when every movement, every action, was carried out with perfect coordination. His body responded to his mind like an extension of his will. Together, they had crafted countless pieces, each one a testament to their shared precision. But now, his body stuttered and groaned. The once smooth movements had become rough and unpredictable. Bradley’s mind, still sharp and experienced, was no longer met with the body's former reliability. A slight tremor in his hands, a delay in his reflexes, and the tasks that used to be seamless now required rework and adjustment. Bradley sighed as he fumbled a small tool. It wasn't that his skills had diminished, he was certain of that. He had spent hours meticulously practicing his techniques, only to find them as sound as they had ever been. The issue lay within his body itself, aged and worn from years of faithful service. Each day, Bradley's frustration grew. He knew his body like an old friend, and watching it falter was painful. He tried everything he could think of—exercise, rest, even medical advice—but nothing restored it to its former glory. The once-proud body now seemed to resist his efforts, like an old machine whose joints no longer moved as they once did. "It's not your fault," Bradley whispered to himself, almost as if his body could hear him. "You've given me your best for so many years. It's just... time catching up with us." Despite his understanding, the frustration lingered. He wanted to produce the same quality of work he always had, but the body's inconsistencies made that impossible. The mind’s sharpness hadn't changed; the body had. Bradley’s friends noticed his struggle. They offered advice and assistance, but no one knew his body like Bradley did. They didn’t understand the bond he shared with it, the respect he had for the precision they once achieved together. One day, as Bradley sat in quiet reflection during a rare moment of peace, he realized something profound. It wasn’t just his body that had aged—it was their partnership. The body, in its prime, had magnified his skills, making him appear almost superhuman in his precision. Now, as it aged, it highlighted his own human limitations. Bradley decided that, instead of fighting his body's age, he would adapt to it. He began to move more slowly, with even greater care, understanding that his body needed more patience now. He listened to its aches and hesitations, learning to anticipate its quirks and compensate for them. In time, Bradley and his body found a new rhythm. The tasks they performed weren't as perfect as before, but they bore a different kind of beauty—one of resilience and adaptation. Bradley learned to accept that aging wasn’t about becoming clumsy or imprecise; it was about learning to work with the changes that time brings. The body, though old and worn, still had much to offer. And so did Bradley. Together, they continued their work, proving that precision wasn’t just about perfect actions, but about the perfect partnership between mind and body, no matter the age.


A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony – so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive – defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around – a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them – for anyone, really – to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.


What is a “miracle? A quick “googling” of the words

“miracle definition” on your mobile device’s web browser might elicit the following: 1- a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency. "the miracle of rising from the grave" Similar: supernatural phenomenon mystery prodigy sign 2- a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences. "it was a miracle that more people hadn't been killed or injured" 3- an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something. "a machine which was a miracle of design" I work in the Emergency Room of a city hospital. A city-run hospital is far from the best in terms of the healthcare offered. Not a day passes without some reminder of how underfunded and, therefore, under-resourced we truly are. Dangerously scant staffing is quite common here no matter the shift. Doctors, PA’s, and nurses all seem to lose a little something of the passion they started with, the glimmer of hope in their eyes fading into the fug of the Devil’s breath.

The patients never stop coming. EMTALA laws see to that, though it seems private hospitals always find a loophole, a fucked up legal reason to refuse the drunkies, the meth heads and the heroin addicts that we see on the daily . These are the kinds of patients who come in dancing and singing off key to the symphonic masterpieces blasting in their altered brains. Some of them mistake the people in the mirror for the unforgivable abusers in their sordid lives, and they seek bloody recompense. Others reenact love scenes from a lost past, and expose more of themselves, physically and emotionally, then they ever would in an unaltered state.

Still others seem to come to us whenever they crave attention, and they don’t always care what kind of scrutiny they elicit. A wiry, older woman with stringy, silver hair comes to our ER simply to pick up the phone and scream at the person on the other end, accusing them of all sorts of chicanery and abuse. I’ve seen her come in and out of my damn ER for years, but a Patient Care Associate finally told me recently that there “aint anyone on the other side of that line.”

I’m unsurprised, and I lack the mental bandwidth for more than a brief guffaw at that bit of news. There are still filthy stretchers to clean, and patients are coming in hot in the ambulance or “amb” bay as we all call it. All the patient care associates are stuck on one to one assignments, and I’ve silently been helping them with some of their other tasks while technically hovering within the bounds of my sordid job description.

Neither union rules, nor the expectations of an unqualified and inexperienced supervisor from some dumbass private company stop me from helping out in whatever way I feel I can. I’m no superhero. Nobody who works here is. But those of us who beat the fuck out of ourselves to keep suiting up and showing up to this mess of a hospital know that we make neither money nor a name for ourselves here. Even when exhaustion and despair threaten to overwhelm us, we persist because nobody else will.

Does that qualify as a miracle? Do we, as “salt of the earth” people get to hear anything other than the hypocritical applause of the ignorant who betrayed and sacrificed us during the first Citywide Covid surge?

There are days, I can assure you, when I tell anyone who will listen that it’s a damn miracle I even showed up to work; that my bosses are lucky that I haven’t either quit or set fire to this puss-filled den of iniquity.

I digress, of course. I know that’s not what people want to hear about in a story that chronicles healthcare work. But there are certain realities to a city based healthcare institution, and these truths need to be understood for the next part of this narrative to make any sense.

Some miracles might fall within the second, aforementioned definition of such. The staff here all know the frequent flyer alcoholic patients who seem to live despite themselves.

One such patient of my acquaintance once stormed out of his room for the express un written purpose of screaming at his already beleaguered and exhausted medical team. If one were Marvin the Martian, they would decry the “earth-shattering kaboom” that ensued when a giant ball of excrement fell to the floor between the patient’s legs hard enough to cause rippling in cups of water set on the nearby nurse’s station. That man lived for decades with alcohol and drug addiction.

Another such alcoholic has become something of a local celebrity around my ER. Anyone who’s ever run into him seems to be able to do a semi-accurate impression of his famous “Ah shay, ah shay” speech, wherein he says,

“Ah shay I wanna room widda tee vee so i can sshleep heyah, ya dig?” We staff can all imitate his stumbling shuffle, his glassy, red-eyed stare, and the speeches he makes about his “poor sister” and his “lost daughter.” He is almost a living caricature of humanity’s “stubbing-your-toe while-swearing-at-the-damn-tree-you-stubbed-it-on” existence.

But twenty something years of his addiction has finally started to take its toll. One day, this patient stumbles to a stretcher set aside just for him in a hallway just outside a patient bathroom. When he wakes and shuffles out the door hours later, we all notice the small tributary of thick blood at the head of the bed, and we can tell it came from his open, halitosis-ridden mouth. I glove up and toss his sheets in a plastic bag, shuddering when they land with a wet thud against the bag’s bottom.

Nobody wants to see him die, though we all acknowledge it might be a miracle he’s lived this long.

Perhaps that is the only sort of miracle one might find if they spent but a few days and nights here. Veteran healthcare workers like me, however, have learned the daily, the weekly, the seasonal patterns of this place. Such insight inures one to the most horrific tragedy. Three years on the frontline during the pandemic, for example, have shown me much of humanity’s darkness. Yet I remain here, somehow determined to sifon, through “stubborn-asshole-osmosis,” what little compassion and common sense remains among a burnt out crew.

But the occurrences that shock even the most battle hardened veterans adhere to no conventional explanation. These events are so bizarre and improbable that they defy all sense and reason, redefining cause and consequence. Two years ago, for instance, a seasonal construction worker sans safety equipment fell, according to an EMT’s report, backwards down a nine foot pit. At the bottom of this pit stood sharp shards of twisted metal and splintered wood, lethal tips and peaks jutting toward the sky like scattered stalagmites. According to the EMT, there was “literally no room” for the unprotected victim to fall without getting impaled.

At least, that was how the scene appeared.

Yet this man survived the fall with barely a scratch on him, having landed at the bottom of the pit “like a human hieroglyph.” I had the pleasure of saying goodbye to this man as he walked away from our ER breathing a shaky sigh of relief. Other tales of brushes with death seem to me to be the stuff of future legend. Another one of our patients succumbed to momentary vertigo and fell, backwards, onto the train tracks, landing on his back. An inbound train came barreling along the same tracks toward the victim. As onlookers and good samaritans attempting a daring rescue stared in horror, the train rolled straight over the barely conscious man.

That man also survived with minimal injury, having somehow landed in just the right position for the train to pass safely over him. His extraction from the extraordinary ordeal took quite some time. Yet he was able to leave our hospital alive, relatively intact and singing his praises to the powers that be.

These incidents may certainly be construed as miracles. However, for every one of these incredibly rare occurrences, so many other similar situations end tragically. To this day, I can think of nothing so devastating and demoralising as the keening of a mother who has just lost her child in our ER, or the wide-eyed shock on a husband’s face who loses his wife in childbirth.

Though I feel I’m nobody to intrude upon such private agony, I’ve still held silent space for such tormented individuals. Even listening with empathy to such despair leaves psychic scars that run deeper than I can bear to describe, even to my own wife.

I leave my job at the ER in one piece everyday desiring nothing more than to be with my family.

My family is both the love of my life whom I was lucky enough to marry three years ago, and the son she bore a year ago. I’m grounded when I’m with them, and I endeavour to strive for them even when exhaustion threatens both my body and my spirit. Upon my return home from work, my son greets me with a smile and laugh that melts my heart and makes me giggle every single time I see it.

I live for that moment, and despite the many challenges of raising him, I begin to comprehend just what a miracle my boy’s very existence is to me.

How do you define a miracle?


I know how. The sheets stinks. Its me. Its my life. My urine, and the damned sweat. The bed's drenched with it. My feet reek of dead corpses, they're... not mine! My toes are cold. On the left, on the right, at the rear of this goddamned bed they're gathered. Sad, distant people. Some relatives with blank faces I don't care a bit about. Another three or four disappointed persons I used to call friends. We've got a company! And who the hell asked the priest to come over?

All right, Boss. It is time for da confession. You've busted me. Not one - two cancers. Both terminal. Hey, hey, listen up! - that's not the end. My right foot gangrenes, but the doctor is happy: he ain't gonna chop it off. No point digging in. There's a tumor in my throat and another one, smaller – in the first mother fucker. Is it lurid? Hell no! A logic symbiosis. Day after day I'd hammer myself with tobacco fumes, cold beverages in empty rooms, useless promises. I'll change. Oh, but I will! On a sunny day like this surely I gonna do it.

I didn't have to. God got sick and tired of waiting. Too bad. Detective Chinasky crushed a fly on the table and moved on. I did the same to the ant who had the audacity to crawl onto the laptop while I typed my story. These patient creatures have visited our house three summers. My Mother believed their crusade had something to do with the icebergs down South.

Willie's got cancer, and he still... hates Her. The good old blast, weed, coke WITH speed, promiscuous broads, drinking till you forget what hour of the day, the damned day itself – it doesn't matter was it on Monday morning or Saturday evening you've started rolling down the hill... The saddest part is – I don't have books. I don't need them. I don't read for three years. At all. Those few authors did push me further. I've lost the only desire I had. And here I am strapped into the rag of death like some stupidly fallen angel. Pathetically poetic. Dear Bukowski – damn you were right! There are too many of us: the over-drunk poets, those poor never ever published poets. Some of them are good, really good, but the lame writers, the dull writers I hate in my bones. You Starbuck miscreants, you obedient serfs! Please! Stop, cease to exist. Die today horribly and terribly. I'm begging you! I should add – hallucinated editors, de-caffeinated agents, oh, you! Your Twitter feeds... I hate chu all!!! Too bad? Visit Amazon's bestseller list. You know what you are. Those faces carry the burden of a man I've once been. They don't have to. Told them many a time. What can I do? Even if you could teach a monkey to wash potatoes, still - she'd be a monkey. Not a sous-chef, right? On the neck of our eldest-one coils that stupid know-all snake. Yin and Yang? Fuck me. Nadia likes to smoke. On her left arm, or shoulder, or both, hangs-on her partner. I donno, man. Damn tired of making everyone happy. Named Cindy. That name alone... Stop punishing me, God! I'm dying. The internet personalities care for a bunch of dogs and a team of cats. Both species get along better than the citizens. Cindy's mother did loose a bet against breast cancer, and her daddy went down due to domestic drinking. These zoomers, well, they're happy. They should be! Cindy's father last will wasn't modest as mine. A castle on the hill, a bag of gold and a responsible daily routine. Among those replete animals they keep three or four maids. Rich fellas, huh? To hoover the corners and nurture foster-kids. Geez, they have adopted four of them. Brad Pitt must be proud... Fight, goddamn it! What – have you lost your balls??? Unchain your demons as I didn't mine. Too bad. Cindy donates to charities for Africa, my stepdaughter's donated her life to Cindy. Or sacrificed. Cindy likes to inhale deep, Nadia likes Cindy. The lover of my stepdaughter shreds her tears harder than my blood and kin... ¬ They live somewhere in Palm Springs. Yep, we're close. My little brother, the infamous wino's here. All right! Married the second time. Could chu believe that? He's brought out into the daylight a 5-year-old son with his mommy. Their snot – from the first verbal marriage. The biological-one pulled-off an act of bravery, the cunt. She had left Ted for good, she decamped Los Angeles also, so my brother didn't have a chance to think things through. Ted doesn't slap Bobby. He's still moved by discounted liquids as our daddy, and nobody could deny... Fucking hell, man! His wife's name is Cheryl. Okay. Both of you - do your thing. I wish you luck.

Dear Gretchen's left the stock player. She did catch the stock player with someone. He did drag that someone home. Whooo-hoo! In the shadow my sister hides her son. Down syndrome. And tears on her face.

Our middle one's taller than her mother. She's a dancer. Her moans I'm afraid of the most. Diva had managed to unchain Snapchat afterall. She rents a studio, makes good money, gets thousands of propositions for a deep-throat. Nothing serious. Her last hubby did find someone taller something. That name, I know. That name suits perfectly perfect for her studio. 'Diva's Street Dance'. Should you expect more, be my guest. Too bad.

My Little-One's sleeping in the stroller. I'm trying not to think about Her. Well, yeah. I've been a shitty father. Here's the thing. This one's been adopted. I've managed to convince my wife there are better things in life than being sucked into IKEAian discount vouchers. She believed me. She did it three years ago, just before the Great Fall. Why, why? Weren't there three enough???

What about Amanda, my biological daughter, my own kid? She's here, She's five and a half... Could I've made things worse? Why are you here? Those weary palms, those tired eyes, exhausted presence. They say mother's love is the strongest thing in the world. My birth-giver, my dream-crasher is sitting all shoulders, a small, crumbled creature. Throughout those years She's changed, changed completely unrecognizable, gotten old, the life has abandoned Her. But I see something else. I sense guilt mixed with hatred. She's screaming at me, praying. My Mother's soul got grey surpassing the hair. She blames me, my Mother blames Her son for he didn't manage to become the person She had believed he would.

Mother, its not your fault.

PLEASE, FORGIVE ME. Your glance is tearing me apart. I know I'll go soon, I feel dandy: the sight of Yours makes me cower. Donno what it means. All kind of folks crouch down in fear, in cold. Your eyes, that glance. An immeasurably bottomless abyss. An invisible wall overwhelmed between us. The wall we have built ourselves.

My entire life I honoured You with my lips, but my heart were far from You.

The One and Only, my Magnificent Little Woman, my sweet Wife, the Mother of our daughter, my Warmth, my Shelter, my Rage. There's this lonely despair in Your eyes, a way worse than my Mother's. She had stopped fighting Herself years ago, that's true, but You – You're just getting there. I have lost You for ever. Please, have mercy on me.

Is it the right time to ask for it – both of them! - when one deteriorates into a half-dead? Stupid idiot.

Henry pours me a decent amount of it. As if I cared. Nadia and her mother helps to sit the daddy up. Your eyes are dry. Nadia's face overclouds due the stench. A green mucus I cough out on her sleeve. Cindy's about to throw up. Yeaaaah! Welcome to the SkidRow, bitch! I hit the glass. Damn, my last booze. Can't believe what I've become. But? No but! Look at me, Ma - I'm dying. Leave those regrets for me. I don't need your permission. Father, I've never been the same since you died. Is it a good thing? You tell me. If we meet. Red Label melts down smoothly. Red Label! What a taste. Hell, why can't chu bring with cha the treasures of this world downstairs? Oh, Holy Cat, take me to Your cradle: cuddle me, murk for me, kiss me. Kiss my eyes, lick my nose, and moan, moan! Let's moan together for those who had lost their toes in the Crusade. Pray for me! Beware of sharp bends, my pervert companions, my freaks and accomplices, my filthy devils. I love some of you, I do, though I hate pretty much everybody. Yet, follow me through if there's no way out.

But! But beware of sharp edges here and there. Keep an eye on them day and night. Don't forget your closets. Don't clean your closets. Long for the time with your closets.

Love your closets! It is easy to drown in the Jordan river, so damn easy to dive in and never come back. Are you with me? Do you hear the birds chirping? The torn birds. Morning already It is the morning. Its 4:53 AM, again. Fucking great.

Shit! Almost forgot: Shave me. Shave my face, my legs, my armpits also. Don't touch my beer-tits. Put on a black Armani suit, a grey tie, a white shirt, no sleeves. Fuck sleeves! Shoes – black only. Cover down my face with a yellow fedora. Arrange expensive oils - I donnno what for - ignite candles, but don't pray. Keep rolling the best beat of THE WU TANG CLAN, "It's Yourz."

My last wish goes like this: “Throw my body on the curb. Leave it on the curb. Summon up the ravens. Scatter out the remains in TikTok.” Engrave on the tombstone these: “The faster it comes...” Now I'm ready to die.


"Miss..." The new worker paused trying to figure out how to say Danny's last name. "Gator....Hunt....were?" "Gatourhuntswere." She corrected the teen. "Gay.... Tour... hunthswere." He tried again and handed Danny her blueberry pomegranate frozen yogurt. She took the frozen yogurt from him, and got a small whiff of the treat, which sent her flying into the past. "Fro Yo at death dow!" Twenty employees sang together while they tried to clean up the mess the last group party made. Danny was only here right now because she promised her father they'd come here right after the funeral. She even booked the place for her family for three hours, though she was pretty sure they were not going to make it ten minutes. She cleared her throat loudly hoping to get the attention of the workers. A few turned her way and smiled cheerfully. "What can we get you?" Three of them asked at the same time. Danny pulled out the piece of paper her father left her family. It included the orders he wanted them to get. "Four berry tarts," That was for Aunt Trisha, Uncle Dave, and their two kids; Tate and Dill. "Eight candy canes one with extra mint." Those were for Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Liliette, Uncle George, and their kids; Hannah, Anna, Rhena, and Phil. "Three cake batters," Those were for her sister, Jill and her husband, Tom, and her mother. There was one last one, "And one umm... blueberry pomegranate." That one was for Danny. The one that seemed most in charge shrugged and went to go make the frozen yogurts for her. The rest of the workers went back to singing their odd song, "Fro Yo at death dow! Of course that's after the ice cream, and cheese we stole! Then we'll go get a troll!" They continued to sing while Danny stood their awkwardly. "Here's your frozen yogurt." The guy handed her the sixteen small cups with yogurt. Danny started to grab my wallet out of purse when the man stopped her, "On the house, for Waldo." Danny froze when he mentioned her father's name. "You look just like him." He explained when he saw her shocked look. Danny smiled trying to hold back her tears. She put down the rest of the frozen yogurts while she waited for her family. The temptation came to much and she carefully took her frozen yogurt and took a small bite, but got a good whiff of the treat to remember what it smelled like for the next twenty years. She even started to sing the Fro Yo song under her breath. "Fro Yo at death dow!" "Of course that's after the ice cream and cheese we stole!" "Then we'll go get a troll!" "Because the ice cream song is lame," "We'll get great fame." "Hey!" "While we don't scream for ice cream...." "Everyone will gleam as we hand out our double cream Fro Yo's....." "Hey!" "Fro Yo at death dow!" "Oh, the Fro Yo at death dow!" "Hey!" "Hey!" "Dough!" "Hey!" "Fro Yo at death dow." Danny closed her eyes trying to hold back her tears. Her father loved to sing that song around the house. Though her mother claimed to hate it, deep down she loved it as much as her father because it made him happy. "It was your father who made it." On of the workers interrupted her thinking. "Yeah?" She said. "Yeah," The worker put his arm on his shoulder. "You helped too, but you were so young you probably don't remember. You would go around the place singing anything that rhymed together." The worker stopped to laugh. "It was very impressive!" He paused for a second. "I'm sorry for your loss, Waldo was my best friend. He was all of ours..." "Yeah," The youngest employee ran up to her and started singing something very familiar. "I love my dad because he ain't bad." "I love my dad because knows how to make ice cream. "I love my dad because he screams for me." "I love my dad because his him." Everyone started to join in the song, singing softly. They put down their brooms and towels to sit around her to sing my dad's part. "I love Danny, she's the cutest." "I love Danny because she's great." "I love Danny because she loves me." "I love Danny because she's her." Danny wiped the tears off her cheek, getting ready to hear the next verse her and her father wrote together. "I love Fro Yo because Danny made the song." "I love Fro Yo because Daddy made the treat." "We love Fro Yo because it's means you and me." "We love Fro Yo so don't try to be mean." Danny knew this next verse it was a like a broken record in her head, it was the part she loved to sing." "Bean likes Fro Yo though he can't eat it." "Bean likes Fro Yo because Dad does." "Bean likes Fro Yo because Danny does too." "Bean likes Fro Yo because he eats off the table when we aren't looking." Bean was Her childhood dog. Why she had only this part memorized she had absolutely no idea. Maybe because she was only a child when she sung this song with her father and she loved Bean? Danny really didn't know, but it doesn't matter now because she knows the full song and will always sing it. "Ma'am! Ma'am!" The young worker screamed at me bringing me back to the present. "Huh?" Danny mumbled. "You okay? You were dazing off?" "I'm fine," She smiled and walked away eating her favorite Fro Yo flavor, blueberry pomegranate and humming to her favorite song she wrote with her father as a child. Except she changed a few things, "Danny loved Dad because he cared," was added on to the song. Danny also kept on singing her father's second favorite song, Fro Yo at Death Dow. She visited him every other day bringing him new frozen yogurts to try because even though he's dead, Danny knew somewhere he was scarfing down blueberry pomegranate frozen yogurts.


This story contains depictions of violence, self-harm, suicide, and psychosis. — Verity Castillo was hers.

She knew where he worked—Westlake Recording Studios in LA, or at one of his home studios in Manhattan or The Hamptons.

She knew what he smelled like—Gucci’s The Alchemist’s Garden, cinnamon and Patchouli oil with rustic accents.

She knew his favorite color—mauve—and his blood type—O-negative, the same as hers (what intimacy!) —and his date of birth down to the second —September 21st, 1998, at 8:13 PM London time.

She was familiar with every facet of Verity’s being, understood him intricately, as a neurosurgeon does the human brain. She had a tattoo of his name below her breast and the outline of Verity’s birthmark—a spotty, amorphous thing—on her heart. They were more than acquaintances, she and Verity. Certainly, she was more than a fan.

God, “fan.” Just the mention of such an inconclusive and understated label chilled her to the bone. It stripped her of her efforts, robbed her of the countless hours she’d spent slaving over Verity’s discography, his interviews, his social media, unreleased songs and leaked photos. To call her a “fan” was laughable. It was infantilizing. Verity was her entire reason for being, her heart and soul, the ache in her stomach and the bounce in her step. During his now-infamous drug scandal and subsequent decline from the spotlight, she’d gone mad with want. Verity’s absence in her life had been an addict’s withdrawal, caused her to spasm and scream, sob until her throat ached with the same agony her wrists did, tortured her in a hellish inferno she thought only death could remedy.

I’m bleeding for you , she remembered thinking one gruesome night, gripping the blade that had pierced too deeply. This is all for you, my love.

But Verity returned, so she decided to live.

Since “Heroin-Gate,” as Verity’s fans often called it, he’d skyrocketed to A-lister status. She didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, a larger fanbase meant more screaming teenagers to appease with music, but on the other, the thought that more people so much less devoted to Verity— fans without true comprehension of his personhood, his depth— believed themselves to be on her level made her sick. Only she knew what it felt like to be saved, like an atheist converted, by Verity’s music. His eponymous debut album had dragged her out of hell, and his second and third records had kept her there.

Friends had come and gone, and there was Verity. Years had passed, and there was Verity. She greeted the sun, and there was Verity, a constant, always. Verity deserved his success; she knew that. She should be thrilled for him. She shouldn’t care about his other devotees, and right there in line, shivering from an early-night chill, she decided she didn’t. These fans could have their delusions. She knew what was real: she and Verity. They were subliminally entwined, stepped to the same romantic rhythm, saw the world the same way. Verity was hers. Who cared about everyone else? She’d been in line since 8 AM yesterday, the second to arrive (though she’d bribed the girl in front of her to switch with $100 and her portable charger). And now, it was finally happening. She was entering the arena. Where Verity was.

The idea that she and Verity were in such close proximity to one another sent a euphoric tremor down her spine, one only the frigid metal barricade could subdue. She curled her fingers around the barrier and wept. Soon, this fence would be the sole separation between them.

United at last, she thought, and dried her damp cheeks with her palm.

She wondered what Verity would wear tonight. Usually, he donned black skinny jeans and one of his various oversized t-shirts, but on rare occasions—in his favorite cities, she thought—Verity draped a white button-down around his broad, muscular shoulders and unbuttoned it throughout the evening, revealing the slick skin above his happy trail, the V of his hipbones… If I see his abs up close, I’m going to combust.

She squeezed the barricade tighter, if possible, and prayed for time to speed up and then slow down, stop, at just the right moment. “I love your shirt! Where did you get it?” A girl with short blonde hair and craterous dimples beamed at her, pointing to the colorful needlepoint blouse hanging loosely from her torso.

“I made it. It’s supposed to look like Verity’s mesh vest from the ‘If I Love You Now’ music video, but I messed up the sleeves a bit.” “No, it looks good! And I should know.” The blonde placed her hand over her heart and giggled. “I’m probably half the views on that video.” Suddenly, uncontrollably, she felt a rush of white-hot anger bubble through her stomach and up her throat, heating her skin in its ascent. The fury climaxed at her lips and poured out, a biting arctic chill and an eruption of crisping magma all at once.

“Fine, then. What’s the drummer’s name? In the video.” She prodded the blonde’s chest with her pointer finger. “Verity hired him as a replacement for Florian since he was out sick with pneumonia. What’s his name?” The blonde’s lips curled downward as her eyes narrowed. “What?” “Gregory. The drummer’s name is Gregory.” She was shouting now. She knew she had an audience, but what did it matter? This was important. Who cared if people knew how loyal she was to her Paramore? In fact, the idea of new eyes aroused her. She felt her confidence grow as each phantom gaze kissed her flesh. “If you really were half the views on ‘If I Love You Now,’ you’d fucking know that.” The blonde made a curt noise at the back of her throat.

“Jesus. I was just making conversation.” And then, under her breath, “Freak.” No, not a freak. Devoted. Enamored. Love, his love.

She contemplated continuing their argument, but it was useless. She’d never be able to convince this girl that she wasn’t a freak but the love of Verity’s glorious life. “All those girls he’s dated, the tall models with big lips—they’re not his. Verity’s supposed to be a serial dater, but he’s not. It’s fake! It’s all for show. He’s waiting for me.” She’d only laugh louder, glare with more intensity, and who needed that? No, it was alright. This blonde could think whatever she wanted; Verity knew what was real.

The opening act was alright. She felt nothing toward them, no excitement, no longing or lust. She’d return home that night and remember nothing, not their songs or how they looked or which gaunt and ghostly boy played bass. They were only there to introduce Verity, to sing flat notes every so often and dance awkwardly around their mics so that when he did mount the stage, Verity was even better than she’d remembered.

She cheered when they finished, not because she’d enjoyed their performance, but because it was over.

On the other side of the stage’s curtain stood Verity, and soon, she’d see him up close. His high cheekbones, his tanned skin, those ebony lashes and pink, pink lips. Lips she wanted to kiss the life out of. Lips she would soon touch.

It wasn’t a matter of if but when.

Minutes ticked by, and she felt the air around her become molasses. Waiting was a slow, painful death. She felt nausea pool in her stomach and prayed the floor wouldn’t crumble before Verity appeared. She’d be alright with death, would welcome it, even, if only she got to see him in the flesh, golden in the light of the arena.

The lights dimmed, shone purple and blue; she held her breath until her face matched and released ice and magma from the confines of her throat, a shrill squeal, an anticipatory battle cry.

A single spotlight showered Verity’s microphone stand in glitter and fire.

And then, as if an apparition, an angel, a god, there he was, just for her, only for her. Verity.

Tears streaked down her face. The first few chords of “Tonight, Baby” rang out like a church hymn, and she placed both hands on her chest, wheezing as if her heart was failing, and maybe it was. In this moment, she did feel like she was passing on, floating above the crowd to the heavens, sprouting wings as she rose. Every inch of her skin tingled, every hair on her body shot up straight, and as Verity sang his first lyric, she knew her life was complete.

“We’re here. All of us. The chosen ones, the few.”

But it was just her. The arena was empty, and they were alone, she and Verity. He’s looking right at me, she thought, and a wave of bliss washed over her. He’s singing to me. Right to me, to me, to me, to me… Her vision blurred, and she gave in to fate. — She woke, disappointed. She felt light and dizzy in a way only a living person could, and that meant she’d see a sunrise without Verity’s piercing eyes staring down at her, without hearing his silky voice croon the words to her gospel. Wait. Verity’s piercing eyes staring down at her… The last things she remembered were those eyes, those gemstones glistening in gold glitter, and now she was here, she was…

She sat up. Canary yellow walls imprisoned her in a barren and unfamiliar space. There was a brown leather couch, headache-inducing LEDs overhead, and no sign of Verity’s gemstone eyes.

To her right, a manual clock read “10:10.”

Two hours after the concert started. She’d missed it. It was over.

Death would have been far too kind now, she thought. Put me out of my misery, she thought. Life is pointless now, she thought. I’ve been looking forward to this my entire life, and now it’s over; I may never see my love again. I should die, I should die, I should die… Across the room from the cot where she lay sat a foldable table with an array of food for crewmembers. There were cups of fruit, pretzels, and chocolate chip muffins, but she only cared about the vanilla cake at the end. And the knife beside it.

She stood, entranced by the metal blade, and walked toward it, her sneakers dragging on the coarse carpet. She’d bought these shoes for the show, the perfect combination of stylish and comfortable—great for waiting in the queue—but now they meant nothing. What use did they have, what purpose, other than slowing her down?

She removed the shoes. She kept walking.

Her fingers curled around the base of the knife, as it had all those months ago, and she stared at the warped reflection of her mouth in stainless steel. That mouth, what use did it have now? She’d missed her chance to sing along with Verity, to intertwine their voices until they were one. Maybe she’d start with her mouth and kill the rest of herself afterward. Her mouth, and then her eyes, and then, and then, and then. The fire in her body had dulled. Hot embers remained, glowing in her fingertips, seducing her. Fade, fade, just like the fire. Let it all go away.

The door creaked open just as she brought the tip of the blade to her face. “Hey, hon. We’re sorry you missed the concert. There’s someone here to see you—” The door slammed. She dropped her arm—and the knife—to her side and saw a graying woman with a lanyard draped around her neck. And beside her, him.

Verity. He had come to see her. He had come to be with her.

“It’s you,” she said, and stepped closer, one, two, three times. His eyes were even more beautiful in person. “I knew you’d come for me.” “Honey, put that knife down,” said the graying woman, but the words met her ears hollowly, as if they hadn’t truly been spoken. A wisp, a memory of speech. “Please, just…” He’s shorter in person. He wanted to meet me halfway. Four, five, six. When our lips meet, I won’t have to stand on tiptoe.

He spoke.

“I… hi. I was just— I saw you faint. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” He’s stuttering, he’s frozen. Nervous to meet me. Nervous to meet the love of his life.

Seven, eight, nine. “Finally,” she said. Her voice was not her own, not anymore. Soon, Verity would suck it out of her body and make it his. “We meet.” I worship you. “Please,” Verity croaked. He wants you. He wants you. He wants you. “Please.” “Say my name,” she uttered. “I want to hear you say my name.” He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t speaking. Why was he standing like that, with his hands out in front of him like a shield, with his eyes wide and unblinking, with his lips taut, with his shoulders shaking? Why weren’t they one yet? Why could she still tell where her body ended and his began?

Why wouldn’t he say her name? “Say it!” She screamed. She was something inhumane, but he could fix her. He could make her human again, bring her back down to earth. All he had to do was say… “I don’t know it!” He cried. He was trembling, all of him, and she realized with a sudden, horrible clarity that it wasn’t in awe. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your name.” “Yes, you do,” she groaned, and she felt her eyes bursting from their sockets, her limbs crumbling, falling away from her. She felt the ceiling come crashing down, and her knife burning in her grip. “You do, Verity. See? I know your name. Verity. Verity Castillo. You love me. I love you. Say my name.”

The graying woman had gone. Where? No matter. They should be alone for this.

“I don’t know it,” he repeated, tears streaking his cheeks, staining them red. “Just tell me your name, and I’ll say it, I’ll say it. Put the knife down, please. Don’t hurt me.”

Liar. Liar, liar, you’re lying, why are you being like this, Verity?

Stop being like this, Verity. I love you; you love me. Say my name. You know my name.

You know me. Every song you write, every lyric you pen is for me.

You’ve described me in every way. I have brown hair, blonde hair, blue eyes, green eyes, a black dress, a white ballgown, a band tee, skinny jeans— say my name.

You know me. You created me. You are my creator, my god.

I’ll be blonde for you. I’ll be European. I am your songs.

I know where you work. I know how you take your coffee. I know who styles your hair and what it smells like. Your birthmark is on my heart and your name is on my chest. I know you.

Attention, that’s love. I pay attention. I love you. Say my name. Say it. Say it. Say it.

Ten.

The knife crunches on impact. She’d never heard the sound of piercing bones and muscle. It was melodic, almost. Like the haunting last notes of a ballad. Like a song, a song, a song. Verity’s mouth fell open, and she watched his eyes dim. What color were they again? Gray, the color of corpses, maybe. They hadn’t been gray before. They were now. Gray. Ten. Ten steps, ten, ten, ten. Say my name.

“Please,” Verity breathed, gasping around the knife. She drew in his words, took his voice. It was hers now.

“I would never hurt you,” she labored, maybe a bit belatedly. “Never. I’m the love of your life, Verity. We own each other.” His blood was slick on her hands. She touched two fingers to his chest wound and smeared it onto her cheeks. Metallic and red. That was Verity. They were one.

Where did his body end? Where did hers begin? This was euphoria. This was heaven.

“I would never hurt you.”

The knife left his body in a sickly suction, and she admired her work. Hot, alive, metallic, and red. That was Verity. Verity was on her dagger, on her skin. This was her dream.

She could die happy.

And she would.

“I love you. I would never hurt you, my Verity.” And as the door flung open, she plunged the knife into her heart, relishing that same crunch of muscle and bone—music. They had made music together, in their final breaths. She smelled like him, like Patchouli oil and cinnamon and O-negative. What a way to go. What a way to exist, to be remembered, to be loved.

Where did her blood end? Where did his begin?

Her eyes shut. She imagined skating in their pools of O-negative. The same. They were the same, she and Verity. It would have been perfect. If only he had known her name.