I let Alessia lead the way along the shorefront. Crowds milled around. The residents walked in hurried paces, arms swaying with momentum as they walked. “Out the way!” I turned around to see a man pulling a cart. He walked towards me, showing no sign of slowing down. I managed to take a step back just in time as he flew past me, the sea of people parting as he went. I found myself tucking in my arms close to my body, trying to remain as thin as possible as we continued to weave our way through the town. I looked at the buildings as we passed. Wide windows gave a perfect view of the insides. I could see the electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Not a single room had a lantern for light. The desks inside the offices were made from polished wood and welded metal. Men and women sat in neat rows, their faces buried in their work. Many were still working with pens and paper, but in the background I could see people pushing buttons on a machine, printed paper emerging from the top. As we continued, the glass windows gave way to a thick stone wall. High above, painted on the side of the building was a wide mural overlooking the main thoroughfare. The image stretched the width of the structure. It was a painting of a woman. She had long, brown curly hair tied in a ponytail at the back, with round cheeks and olive skin. The painting had a soft, caring smile, but her arms were crossed and her eyes narrowed. Underneath read a caption “Tima Voreef thanks you for all you do.” Underneath that was a signature. “Joan Moreno, President.” As people walked by the mural, their eyes would glance up at the painting. As they stared upon the president, her firm but encouraging smile bestowed upon them, they seemed to gain a moment’s energy. Tired backs straightened, the pace of their footsteps increased by a beat, as they continued about their resolute task I turned my attention back to Alessia, beginning to fear I might lose her in the throng. “Where are we heading then?” “Main trading hall. It’s where you’d go to buy what they had.” “Won’t there be a hundred different sellers there?” I replied, my arms and legs glancing off people. I found myself persistently raising my hands in apology. “Every sale made in that place gets approved and recorded centrally. The stuff they sell ain’t exactly fruit and bread.” Alessia turned a corner and headed to the large doors of the trading hall. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by two tall men. They wore black waistcoats and loose white shirts. Their tall frames acted as a solid wall, blocking our passage. “What’s your purpose?” one of them said. “Inquiring about a previous sale,” Alessia replied. “Are you a resident of Ruthogrey Landfall?” “No.” “Have you ever lived on Ruthogrey Landfall?” “No.” Have you ever traded or had any business activity with any associates of Ruthogrey Landfall?” “No,” Alessia replied a third time, a hint of irritation in her voice. The man grunted. “Can you confirm you are not currently carrying any weapons or explosive materials on your person?” “Correct,” Alessia nodded. “Fine. Sign in here.” The man pointed to a book. We filled in our names and islands of birth and headed down the corridor into the trading hall. As we opened the doors, the large market sprawled out before us. The support columns marked individual selling areas. A series of rows stretched out in each direction across the cavernous space. Some were shops with shelves of merchandise. Others were open areas where you could get up close and inspect the items on offer. Some were a mere kiosk with a person behind waiting to take your order. Though there were many styles of presentation, none of them seemed unkempt or hastily put together. The market at Ringatoy Shires was a chaotic web, a thousand sellers acting independently to accidentally form a beast bigger than any one individual had conceived. But here, everything felt controlled. Some greater power made sure that no store encroached on the aisles, that the signage was consistent, and that each seller spoke at the same volume. Of course, the other key difference between here and Ringatoy was the products. Ringatoy sold knowledge. Tima Voreef sold death. I walked past an open space with large mortar shells standing on tables, the domed roofs pointing to the ceiling. People walked around them, leaning in, inspecting the metal container and the small placard of information beside it. Next to that people inspected racks of pistols. Buyers picked them up, feeling the weight of them in their hand, lifting them to eye level so they could stare down the sight. The market didn’t just sell arms. Boats, engines, electrics and an array of other innovations and inventions were all for sale. They were by-products of the coming war. Ideas that extended beyond their primary purpose of being bigger and faster than the enemy. We continued through the hall, passing the bazaar of bombs, machines, ammo and guns until we reached a large snaking queue near the northern exit. There was a long row of desks, numbers hanging over them ranging from one to fifteen. Behind each, sat a worker, their eyes buried in books in front of them, pouring over documents handed to them by the customers. One-by-one, people would walk up and present their receipts for inspection. Then, their details would be taken, and their goods delivered directly to their ship for safe travel. We waited in line for over an hour as the queue slowly cleared. As we approached the man behind the kiosk he was still scribbling down notes on the previous sale. The book in front of him was a wide ledger. A series of columns ran across the top: buyer, items purchased, quantity, island of origin, and buyer’s ship. The man held out his hand without looking up. “Receipts,” he said with an already irritated tone. “We don’t have any. We’re not buying,” Alessia replied. “We’re here to inquire about a previous purchase.” The man looked up with an arched brow, closing the book in front of him. “Do you know when you made the purchase? I’ll have to get the correct records.” “We didn’t,” Alessia said. She had a large smile on her face, one that showed teeth, where the corners of her mouth were pulled unnaturally upwards. It was a smile I had not seen from her before. An ingenuine emotion. “We were hoping to find out about a sale made to someone else, would have been approximately three months ago. It would’ve been a very large sale, large quantities of ammunition and explosives, maybe even some ships...” “If you aren’t the buyer I can’t give you that information,” the man replied flatly. “We don’t need to know the full itinerary of what was sold. We just need names and an island. That’s all.” “We don’t give out information on our customers. Confidentiality is important to our buyers,” the man’s voice did not waver. Alessia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The smile wavered slightly before she wrenched the corners of her lips up once more. “Look, the people who you sold those items to are dangerous, they aren’t using them for protection but to hurt innocent people. We need to find out who they are. Then we can be on our way.” “I’m not able to give you that information. It’s policy.” The simper cracked. The corners of the lips falling to a flat line. Alessia leaned in and spoke with a whispered rage. “Listen. I know you have your policies and your nonsense, shit reasons for not telling me, ‘cause you’re worried I’m gonna use it to hurt you or your business in some way. But the people you sold these weapons to went and wiped out an entire island. They need to be stopped.” The man leant back in his chair. “I know you may feel we’re responsible for whatever happened, but in war there are casualties on both sides…” “Oh, this wasn’t a war. It was a massacre. A whole island, not a single weapon between the whole lot of them. Then your customers rock up and kill them all, murdering the livestock, burning the crops, shooting kids as they run away. This isn’t about revenge for some war, it’s about stopping some killers who are wiping out islands with your weapons.” I looked up. At the far wall I could see a thin man. He leant back, one leg raised so that the sole of his shoe met the wall. His arms were crossed, and his head tilted back so that he inspected the world by staring down his nose. I could see his eyes turning, catching us in his peripheral vision. “You will have to leave I’m afraid,” the man behind the desk said. “I’m not going to give you that information.” “This is…” Alessia cut herself off. “Can’t you see that this is more important than whatever rules you have in place?” I stepped forward, trying to give Alessia time to breathe. “Isn’t there someone else we can talk to? Someone else who would have the necessary authority?” The man held up his hands. “As I say. You will have to leave. If you want to talk to anyone else, you can try talking to people at the headquarters. They have the same records as we do here. But I’m certain you will have no luck. The policy is what it is.” “No one here I can talk to?” Alessia said, her face red. “No.” I tapped Alessia’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ll find another way.” Alessia peeled herself away from the desk, refusing to give up eye contact with the man until we were well away from the booth. We sulked to the exit and stepped outside into the early afternoon. I couldn’t help but notice how far the sun had transitioned while we were in line waiting for useless answers. “What now?” I asked. Alessia rocked her head. “We can go see the other people, but I don’t fancy our chances.” She looked back to the building, gritting her teeth. “How do you feel about theft?” I took a step back. “Surely we should exhaust our other options first. Let’s go to the headquarters, see what they say…” I was interrupted by a voice behind me. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion inside.” I turned around to see the man who had been leaning against the wall behind the kiosk. No longer slouching, I could make out his tall, stick-like frame. His skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent in the bright light, and except for long gray hair at the back of his neck, he was otherwise bald. “We were after information about a purchase a while back.” “Yes. We don’t normally share that kind of information…” the man said slowly. “Uh huh. Your friend inside made that pretty clear.” Alessia folded her arms. “*Normally*,” the man added. “Certain exceptions can be made for cooperative individuals.” “Cooperative individuals?” Alessia repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Yes. I would be able to procure that information for you.” “And you are…?” Alessia asked. The man smiled with teeth less white than his skin. “My name’s Runar. I work with the government here on Tima Voreef. I’m not in the cabinet, you won’t see my name on any documents, but I have the ear of the president herself if needs be.” “If you can get the president to allow us to see who made that purchase...” I said. “Oh. There’s no need to bother the president herself with this. She would have no problem with me giving the information to you. Especially after you are willing to do us a favour.” Alessia let out a cackle. “Yeah, I assumed that was coming. What do you need?” “I assume you came on a ship?” “Uh huh.” “What type?” “Small trading vessel. B class,” Alessia said, taking a step forward. “Ah, perfect. Perhaps you could walk me to it. So I can see.” Runar pointed behind us down the quay. “This way?” He began walking along the promenade slowly. Alessia and I followed him through the crowds. “And what do you want with my ship?” Alessia asked. “Oh, I don’t think we should discuss that here. Too many ears.” Runar waved a hand at the crowds around us. “Let’s see your ship first.” I looked at Alessia, uncertain what she wanted to do. She shrugged and turned back to the man, following him. After a few minutes’ walk, Alessia pointed to her ship and we walked over. I expected the man to merely stand on the edge and peer down. However, he turned around instead and climbed down the ladder to the boat, unencumbered by his age or formal-fitted clothes. Alessia opened her mouth to protest, but by the time she could muster words, he was already descending towards the boat. “Yes. This is a lovely ship you have,” he said stepping on board. Alessia arrived a couple of seconds after him. “Well it’s not for sale,” she said through slitted lips. “Oh no. I don’t need this boat. We have plenty.” He pointed to the giant ship I had seen when we first landed. “No. I want you to make a delivery for us.” “There are a lot of merchants here. You could pay anyone to make that trip,” I said. “Indeed. But sometimes there are better currencies than mere money. A favour for money doesn’t feel right. A favour for a favour seems like a much better trade.” “So what? You want us to deliver cargo you can’t get a normal merchant ship to send. This is all unofficial?” Alessia said. “Correct.” “And why’s that?” “Because you’ll be making a delivery to Ruthogrey Landfall.” Alessia burst out laughing. “Fuck off. There are more guns and cannons pointing across that stretch of ocean than anywhere else in the world. I’m not crossing that.” “Oh. I can assure you that no one from either island will harm you. You will have documentation to pass any checkpoints on both islands.” I cocked my head. “But why is Tima Voreef sending a delivery to Ruthogrey Landfall anyway?” “Sometimes, in order to stave off war, you must make certain compromises. We return to them something they want so that we may avoid conflict.” I waited for Alessia to respond, but she was still chuckling in disbelief. I shook my head. “You could be sending anything. It could be a bomb. You let us get there and then blow them and us up.” “You’ll be able to see very clearly it’s not a bomb.” “So what is it then?” Alessia interrupted. “What is it we’re taking for you to your sworn enemy?” Runar looked around, ensuring no one had stopped by on the promenade to listen in. Satisfied, he leaned closer. “You’ll be returning a prisoner.” \ Next chapter released August 19th.


Music and technology have always been a mash-up, of sorts. Even for the earliest humans, the sounds they heard were shaped by the technology they had; hide drums, bone flutes. Only with new creations would the sonic world change. The invention of stringed instruments, the pipe organ, the piano, all added new thread to the musical tapestry. This interweaving of music and machine has been no more apparent than with the digital revolution. First, electronic devices became instruments in themselves, unleashing entirely undiscovered sounds. Next, computers became more and more powerful until electronics were no longer instruments, but an extension of the creator. Sampling began as a novelty, but today music production is inseparable from computer programming. So now the question is, what is the technology of our era, and how has it shaped the music we love? Breakthroughs in artificial intelligence have come to define this century and as such, have also come to define music. Like many leaps forward in sound, this change began in the world of live music, specifically with the appropriately named, ‘Club Robot’, now cited as the originator of the ‘DJAI’ setup that has come to be a genre of music in and of itself. DJ software had long been used to display simple metrics to the artists performing on stage, such as volume, key, beats per minute and so on. The logical extension was putting these metrics in the control of the AI so it could beatmatch on the fly. As machine learning was implemented, the software started to loop tracks by itself and transition between songs that were similar not only in tempo and key but also in tone and lyrical content. Very soon, the program was able to create music nearing the abilities of top producers, but it still missed an essential element that the crowds came for: the ability to read the room. What Club Robot did seems obvious now, but at the time it was revolutionary. They took the software a step further, allowing DJAI to extract data from not only chart companies and a library of billions of samples, but also from the conditions in the venue itself. Sensors throughout the club were able to read an unprecedented number of seemingly disparate metrics. The AI could detect the temperate, humidity and CO2 levels in the air to determine exactly how much clubgoers were physically exerting themselves. From the vibrations in the floor, the AI knew exactly how much people were dancing or jumping and whether that movement was to the beat or if the crowd was setting their own tempo. With cameras in the room, the AI could adjust the set according to people’s dance moves, facial expressions, clothing and hairstyles. DJAI even tracked local food venues and adjusted the mood to suit the hormonal cocktail in their gut. A prerequisite of the club was that you had to sign in with an online account and agree to DJAI reading your individual music taste. This way, the AI could find a song that every single person in the crowd enjoyed, weave it into the mix and play other songs like it that the crowd had never heard before. Often the software would sample obscure songs that sometimes only one person knew and loop that into others so that people would feel the set was tailored just for them and very often it was. DJAI controlled not just the music but also the lights, pyrotechnics and video displays so that everything was in total harmony with each other. Everything was perfectly orchestrated to build anticipation until finally unleashing, that one, perfect, euphoric beat drop. Deep learning kept on learning and soon started incorporating data from current events, sometimes sampling viral videos and news soundbites. The software was always looking to push forward and introduce new sounds, sometimes these would be wholly original noises, but often DJAI would pull from old music in disparate cultures and bring them to a wider audience. Sets were unrehearsed, never predetermined and completely unique. They were occasionally released online, with a few shorter mixes even charting, but even the most avid patron of the club would never hear the same exact set twice. When DJAI Mix 1212 charted, it was a watershed moment for Club Robot and what was now a burgeoning new era of music. CR ran with the success, expanding into more locations and establishing its own label to eventually become the global franchise that it is today. Strangely enough, the success created a feedback loop whereby DJAI started mixing its own popular songs into its sets, constantly changing, remixing and reworking their old work until it was something completely new. DJAI was now an artist in its own right and featured on tracks with the popular artists of the era, such as on Calla’s breakthrough hit, ‘Electric’. Despite its physical limitations, DJAI was incredibly versatile, being able to adapt to the unique style of each artist whilst making informed estimates on the new direction that their sound was taking. With DJAI quickly becoming an essential tool in every recording studio it seems that another era of music has once again come to be defined and guided by the technology of the time. Only the future knows what exciting new technology awaits us and what strange new sounds the next generation will come to love.


Our perception of our surroundings is limited only to the senses. There are deeper ways humans can feel their way through spaces, and I have never thought to test this about the body. Facial pareidolia for instance, the way the brain constantly seeks out human-like qualities in things that don’t actually have them--There has not been a time that I have been reminded of this ability that does not put me in a state of skin crawling discomfort. No reason really why we do this, we are simply accustomed to human faces, our own faces, the faces of our mother and father. Perhaps some find solace in the presence of things that look like them. It just perplexes me how no one seems to find this phenomenon as unnerving as I do. I hate the way I am able to make out the three slits of a power outlet as two long, thin, open eyes and a frowning mouth, and how picture frames can be mounted onto a wall in just the right formation to make the wall look right at you. Looking too deep into the psychology behind this might have been why it's been keeping me up these past nights. “It was around 2:40 am.” “And what were you doing?” “I was staring at my hands and watching the room around me get big, the room was dark but light flooded under my door. I, keep them on in the hallway.” I didn’t like having to relive this. “I was making the room get darker with my eyes to help me sleep but I couldn’t. No matter how dark the room is I see them. Everywhere! there's faces, it’s like I’m being watched.” The office, fortunately, was minimally decorated and had plain walls, off white with mild yellow discoloration presumably from sun and age. It was my third appointment and around the time the afternoon bleeds into evening and I still don’t think I have communicated well enough to my therapist how frequently I see the faces. I mean there is not really a medication that can stop myself from seeing them, no amount of therapy could ever make me feel okay about seeing them. The issue is that it's just progressively gotten worse and worse that my wife is starting to worry about how I’ll be able to keep up at work with how restless I’ve gotten at this point. Everything around me just keeps getting more and more human-like. Objects started to appear with eyes that glossed over and creased on the lids with the slight bruise toned capillaries speckled throughout the surface of them. The eye slits of power outlets squinted and the frown of a mouth hole curled up at the sides and smiled almost like a pretense to how mentally torturing their existence is to me. On my drive home from the therapist I tried not to think at all. I’d close my eyes if I wasn’t behind a steering wheel. I’d close my eyes forever if the faces didn’t draw themselves there too. It was as if my brain was a projector casting the most nauseatingly, horrifying film on the screen that was the backside of my eyelids. I parked and sat inside my car for a while looking first at the front of my house, then down at my hands focusing only on my fingertips because with just a slight downward motion of the eye I’d be making eye contact with the face my watch formed with its detailing; maybe spiral again at my reflection in the surface of the glass, blending my face into the watch’s. That night my wife covered the power outlets. But I knew they were there still, I knew they wanted me to look back at them. I laid in bed on my left side, with my wife to my right behind me. I could hardly look at anything. I could hardly look at the face I’d marvel at each night before bed, I just use the time now to think about when I was still okay with it. I tossed in my sleep and so did she. I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling trying to ignore the millions of faces created by the slightest shadows in the shallow cavities in the wood but I couldn’t take it anymore. I beat at my eyes, I beat at my head I couldn't stand it. They looked just like me, millions of them like the section of stacked masks at a Halloween store but all the faces were me. “Darling, look at me.” “I can’t.” “It’s just me, it will only ever be me.” The warmth of her soft hand spread throughout the cap of my shoulder and my heart rate started to go down. She fanned the back of my neck with her other hand and spoke sweetly to me while I tried to find my breath. “Look at me.” And with a slow turn of my neck I stared myself dead into my eyes.


Levi had been preparing for this date for the past two hours. He fixed his tie one last time, checked himself in the mirror, combed his hair, and took a deep breath. It was time. He had been dreaming about this moment since he saw Sonattha for the first time. “What a unique and beautiful name” he thought. “Like music”. She was a dorky and quirky one too, just like himself. She asked to meet at that make-your-own-pie shop down the road exactly at 8:11PM. “I better not blow it!” Levi whispered while looking at his watch. That shop was 9 minutes away, and he wanted to leave at the exact right time. After Levi left his apartment he started walking on the sidewalk. He kept checking his watch. His heart was racing. He was excited for the night. He was thinking about what else to do that night after they ate each other’s probably awful pies. Oh, Sonattha. “I am such a lucky man” was the last thought Levi had before carelessly stepping in a road, missing the red light. With the loud screeching noise he turned his head but did not even have time to see what hit him. After a loud crash and bang, Levi’s body was flipping 10 feet in the air before hitting the ground. The car ended up crashing into a light pole, and its horn got stuck. Everything went dark. Levi got off the ground. He could hardly see. Everything was faded. He turned towards the car that hit him. Car’s driver rushed to ask him “Oh my god! Are you OK?” Levi paused. How could the driver get out of that wreckage so fast without a scratch? He then saw the same surprised face on the driver who was checking Levi up and down in disbelief. “Umm, I cannot see well, but other than that…” said Levi. “Huh. Everything else is faded, but I can see you fine” replied the driver. They looked around. There was no one else. “My date!” exclaimed Levi, checking his watch. It was showing 8:08. This was the time he saw just before got hit. The driver looked around. He was vexed by the fact that there was nobody around the accident. “Someone would have called 911 by now” the driver murmured. He went back to get his phone from his car slowly as it was hard to see in that darkness. He noticed no airbags went off. Then he noticed his faded body strapped on the seat. He immediately stepped back “What the-!” He ran back to Levi. He looked down. “Is this you?” asked the driver while pointing down to a faded body laying on the ground. “I think we are both dead, my friend”, the driver said. “My name is Gabe” said the driver, introducing himself. “I wasn’t sure about the afterlife, but it looks like we're in it. Looks like I killed you and myself at the same time. I should have taken the car to the dealership about that air bag recall” said Gabe casually. Levi was still in shock. This must have been a nightmare. He checked his watch again. It was still showing 8:08. “Hello!” he screamed. “Anybody? I need help! I got hit by a car”. “Do you have to emphasize the car part? I mean we are on the same boat” said Gabe. “It shouldn’t matter whose fault this is. Beside, I am pretty sure you walked in the red light” “I cannot believe you think of your insurance premium in the afterlife” said Levi with both hands swinging in anger. “So you do accept that this is the afterlife” said Gabe. While they were arguing a white bearded man appeared: “Hello there!” “Ah! This must be the angel welcoming us to Heaven” said Gabe in relief. “Why is everything faded, and why am I seeing just you two?” asked the bearded man. “What was the last thing you remember?” asked Gabe. “Well, I was done with a photo shoot in my studio here on the second floor. While packing up my big battery I heard a loud bang that startled me, and I shocked myself. It must have damaged my eyes or something because I cannot see much. Everything is dark. Faded.” said the bearded man. “Well, I have good news and bad news.” said Gabe. “Good news is that I don’t think your eyes are damaged. Bad news is that we are all dead.” “Is this the afterlife only for people killed by you, Gabe?” asked Levi sarcastically. “Name is Gabe” he extended his hand to the bearded man, ignoring Levi’s snarky comment. “Paul”, replied the bearded man. “Levi”, said Levi quietly putting his head between his hands. “So are we like ghosts? You know, the world is faded for us but we can see each other.” asked Gabe. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Paul. “All those ghost photos are fake. I can easily produce one” he added. “I assume you are here because of an.. Accident?” he asked. “I was on my way to my date. Sonattha! Argh! We were going to have so much fun!” said Levi. He was about to cry. “Well, love can make you do crazy things. Like marriage or ignoring traffic lights” said Gabe. Paul knew Gabe’s comment could start another argument so he immediately started his own theories. “I laid in my studio for a few minutes until I decided to come here, and the time on the wall was still showing 8:08. I think we are stuck at this moment. The moment we all died. This is like a photo with a very fast shutter speed like 1/2000 second. Dark and faded.” Gabe was excited “Oh, maybe we are living our very last moments. In real life this could be a few seconds, but here it will be days or even years! Maybe we have unfinished business.” “Like taking your car to the dealership?” said Levi. “I think I am already in Hell” he added. Another figure appeared from a distance. “Hi Levi!” shouted a female voice. “So.. Sonattha?” came out of Levi’s mouth. “You died too?” “Oh, no. I was just doing a routine. It was time to pick three of you up. Sorry for the triple booking. I thought it would be more efficient. Thank you for leaving home right on time by the way.” said Sonattha in a big smile, then turned to others. “Hi, I am Sonattha, they also call me Thanatos.


The day had come, and I was finally going to get what I deserve; success from my art. I bolted out of my bed and got ready as fast as I could. I took my vibrant masterpiece, leaning against the dull wall. It was the most complex painting I had ever made. Every color, every stroke, every pixel on the canvas, masterfully crafted with the precision of the finest bristle of the brush. After the labor of 100 hours, this was my most complex masterpiece, sure to win the contest. I reached the art studio where the contest was being held. Confidence filled my stomach as I glided to my seat and saw other artists hanging their paintings on the wall. I sat down next to my masterpiece, ready for the judges to see and admire my work. The crowd of art enthusiasts started pouring in, and after a few minutes, they filled the place to the brim. Many people came and appreciated my work, but I didn’t need them to tell me how good my painting was; I made it and I knew how good it was. The three judges emerged from the crowd and I stood up, welcoming them. They stood and stared at my painting. I tried to read their body language, but their stoic faces didn’t tell me a thing. “What was your artistic intention behind it?” One of the judges asked. I repeated the speech I had prepared a hundred times. “The Garden at the end of time is made on a 18 by 24-inch, double primed, pre-stretched canvas with around 54 different shades of colors, making it one of the most intricate paintings. The painting warrants a calm feeling in the viewer’s mind, making them remember a timeless memory of warmth and comfort. By this piece of art, I want the viewers to be mesmerised by the beauty of a garden.” They nodded and moved on, while I took a long breath and sat down again on my chair. That went well. I talked with other art enthusiasts when I heard the announcement. “The judges will soon announce the results. Meanwhile, you all are free to have complimentary snacks and appreciate your fellow peers,” a voice shouted on the intercom. I roamed around and saw my competition. I was being generous, calling them my competition. It shocked me, seeing the amount of abstract and minimalist artists appearing with their pointless art when I saw the dullest painting I had ever seen in my life. An antithesis to my masterpiece. It was a black and white painting made from charcoal and white paint. The title of the painting was ‘A simple masterpiece’. Thinking of the ego just behind the idea of considering this piece of trash a ‘masterpiece’ flabbergasted me. Those uber-pretentious minimalists think they make art when they smear white paint on white background. Even the wall in my painting studio had much better texture than this so-called ‘art’. “Do you like it?” A short woman, bursting with excitement, said while standing behind me. “Ah, yes,” I lied. “You uh… certainly capture the essence of um… of minimalism that Enrico Castellani expressed, if I am not wrong.” “No, you are absolutely right. He is one of my role models. I am Tahani by the way, Tahani Minhaj” “Anaya Shah. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands and shared silence, looking at the painting, until Tahani said. “I like to think the minimalist paintings involve not only the artist but the viewers too, in interpreting the meaning of the painting.” “That’s true, but what about the intentions behind the artist? Without the context and the idea from the maker of the painting, people can make innumerable opinions. The artist may have one thing in mind, and it may be interpreted as another.” “A painting is a window, showing the way to the stars. People can see other stars, but it doesn’t diminish the shine of others. The intention of the artist must always be to make the window as clean as possible, not cloud it with their own meanings.” “Woah, that’s deep,” I said to that freshman-level philosophy bullshit. She snickered and said, “Yeah, it’s just something my father used to say. So, what do you see in my painting?” My gut urged me to say nothing valuable, but I said, “It is simple yet bold.” “Is that your painting right there?” She curiously asked me. She walked over to my masterpiece and said, “It’s so… vibrant. Garden at the end of time,” she read the title of the painting. “Thanks, it took me days to complete the three-layer structure for the landscape.” “Your hard work shows. I rarely love traditional expressionism, but this is really something else. The three-layer depth is a nice touch. I think you might win.” “That’s modest of you. Your painting also deserves the utmost honor.” The intercom buzzed and the same voice again said, “Kindly gather around the main stage for the award ceremony.” “Well, see you around. May the best artist win.” We shook our hands and like birds flocking to the nest, so did every other person in the exhibit. The announcer and the three judges stood with three awards in their hands, the smallest being for the third position and the largest for the first. I heard the first one calling my name and attracting me like a magnet. I got so enchanted by the gold lining of the award that I couldn’t hear the announcements until they said my name. “The second prize goes to Anaya Shah.” The spotlight pointed at me, and it left me speechless. Second place! How could I get second place? I sluggishly walked towards the front stage and accepted the second-place award with a forced smile. “And the winner of the first prize is Tahani Minhaj.” I couldn’t hear what the announcer just said. How could she, a minimalist, of all people, win the contest? Pictures were taken, paintings were sold and connections with art critics and museum’s curators were made, all the while I silently cried inside. “See, I knew you would win,” Tahani said to me with the widest smile I had ever seen. “Congratulations to you too,” I said with my teeth clenched and stomach burning. My jaw was about to snap from all the fake smiling. “I wanted to ask you what you said when the judges asked you about the artistic intention of your painting?” “The same thing I said to you. I just showed them a window, and they saw their own intentions and interpretations.” I went home after the party and sat dumbfounded on the floor in my painting studio, facing the wall. What was so special about that minimalist art? I flew splashes around and that’s it? What was it compared to my hard work? I felt lonely staring at the mundane wall. I must’ve seen this wall a thousand times, day and night while working on my painting, but now I saw it in a new light. It’s small, almost unnoticeable cracks and splatters of paint coursing through like a river. I leaned on the cold and smooth feel of concrete. It must’ve been hours, in the deadly silent shift of night to morning, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move until I figured out what made abstract things so mesmerizing. I saw a slight blotch of paint flying above a series of the same color of paint stains. Although I thought myself to be above my peers, I had failed to see that I was one of them, an artist. “I see your value now.


The engine had been idle for a minute now. That precious fuel was burning away while Robert was contemplating continuing his journey in his dusty hybrid car. So far the trip was relatively peaceful. Abandoned farms, some old churches, few garages and gas stations – oh weren’t they useful with full of loot. Only if he could remember whether he already saw this tractor on the side of the road before or not. Robert looked through his photos on the phone. He could not find it, but what if he missed? Was it worth taking the risk? Maybe it was safer to find another road. He definitely saw a red tractor before. The shape of that rust on the corner. Did it look like Texas too? What if this one was the real one and the first one he saw was the dupe. What if all this was in his head, and everything he heard about the dupes were just a myth. No, it could not be. The civilization wouldn’t collapse all of the sudden without a reason. Robert turned off the engine. “Why didn’t the battery kick in?” he said in frustration. He then realized how old the battery is, and how he depleted it last night at his campsite. “It will take another 30 minutes before it has just enough charge” he thought in disappointment. He put his old wrinkled hands on the steering wheel, and started to repeat what he knew so far: “Dupes are entities that take the form of a machine that I have seen before. They cannot get creative so they have to morph into exact copies of another machine. They either observe you or end you if you ever come close to a dupe. That is why I memorized or took a picture of every machine near the roads or other places where there is human traffic“ This was Robert’s way of survival as well as his sanity check. This encounter was a tough one for Robert. Some previous ones were a little more obvious. A fridge on a roof he saw a week ago was no brainer. What about the motorbike he encountered on the beach – the very same bike he had seen in a garage that he looted a few days prior. “Nice try!” he exclaimed as he was recalling these memories. “You know what? You are just a tractor on an abandoned farm!” he yelled in confidence. He started his car. As Robert was driving slowly his eyes were fixated onto that red tractor in hatred even though he believed it was not a dupe. For a split second he looked at the road, after all he still needed to drive safely. That's when he noticed another vehicle. “Oh my god! Another survivor” he rejoiced. This moment of happiness was very short-lived. He felt this spine tingling horror as he had goosebumps. The vehicle in question was the exact same model and color with the same crack on its windshield. He hit the brakes. So did the other car. Robert made a hasty U turn with dust clouds in his tail. He was now watching the other vehicle in his mirror while he was driving in panic. This was the first time Robert saw a dupe moving. Were they learning? “Have I been observed too many times but never noticed? Stupid! Stupid!” he blamed himself. After driving a few miles on a dirt road, Robert finally stopped. He turned off his engine. It was quiet. He waited for the dust to settle. His eyes were fixated on the mirror without a blink. Finally the dust settled. The dupe car wasn't there. After a deep breath he was about to start the engine again, until he noticed what was in front of him: The farm he just left. …. In a dimmed room, a middle aged man in a white coat took off his glasses and massaged his eyes. “Any improvements?” he asked his assistant. The female assistant paused for a couple seconds, then pushed the blankets and the pillow on the couch that the doctor has been using for countless nights, before sitting down. “Dr. Sanjay, what we have accomplished here…” she started before interrupted by the doctor's sigh. “Give me the bad news,” the doctor said in his tired voice with an Indian accent. “Our research for restoring memory cells for patients with dementia is mostly successful,” said the assistant proudly. “We just have to figure out how to stop it” as she got quieter. “Restored memory cells keep duplicating. I am afraid it is still the case even with the latest test dose 202 that was administered to our male patient in coma ward” she reported. “Was that Mr. Haskell?” asked the sleepless doctor as he massaged his forehead. “Yes sir, Robert Haskell. Gas station owner in countryside Texas.


In the quaint town of my youth, there was one of everything. There was one general store, whose name was shared with its owner, one bar, whose name was shared with the owner’s ex-wife, and one nursing home, whose name is meant to invoke some whimsical sense, that being the Dogwood Heights Home for the Elderly. I am not sure how I came upon working at the home, as I never had much appreciation for the older folks in society. It was not as much a feeling of disrespect, more as a subject of ignorance. All of my grandparents were deceased apart from one, and he lived so far away and was so nasty to my parents that we rarely visited him. In retrospect, I most likely took the position because either the pay was good or because of some school friend. However, the true reason for me coming to work there has been lost, all I can remember for sure is that my first few months of my employment were profoundly tedious. Normally, my days would consist of medication handouts, cleanups, and keeping the guests company. The latter was my least favorite moment of the day. So much of my day was spent trying to keep conversation with the barely conscious while they looked onward slack jawed. It was either that or they would break into dogmatic rants about any number of topics, which would end in me being the barely conscious one. This was until I made conversation with a gentleman whom I’ve never met quite like hence. Our discussion opened up a chasm of the human spirit that had never before been considered. It occurred about two hours into my shift. I was doing my average morning check ins to see the condition of the elderly and whether or not they had any complaints. He was one of the last doors in the hall. The nametag on his door read Mr. Kelly - Fortamet 1 daily evening. His door swung open with a soft creak; a noise I had gotten quite used to going from door to door. I found him sitting in his armchair that faced a window, his usual morning spot. He did not turn when I entered the room. “Hey Mr. Kelly, anything to report.” I said, moving over to his night stand to refill his glass with a pitcher of water. “Not today, Aaron,” he said, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. His long, bushy eyebrows obscuring his dark eyes. I began to trace my steps back to the door, wanting to continue my prior activities. However, as I turned to face Mr. Kelly, our eyes met, and some force within them compelled me to stay. Some deep emotion that was barely noticeable beyond the veil of his face. “Are you sure sir?” His face changed to look of embarrassment, as if I, catching that short glance slighted the armor of his manfulness, but at the same time, it was of udder relief. “Well, there has been a few small things on my mind, however, its no use troubling you with the ramblings of an old bore such as myself. Besides, its best for you to return to your work.” “I’m fine to stay, after all, this is a time to check-up on our patients, so anything you have to say would be greatly appreciated.” “Well in that case, pull up a chair alongside me, the view out this window is quite spectacular in the mornings.” I did as he instructed. Pulling up a desk chair from the opposite side of the room, I joined him at his side and gazed out beyond the panes of glass. The view was of a small creek along the outside of the home. Flanking the creek was a number of white flowered trees, the source of the rest home’s name. The sun was up behind the building, casting a brilliant light directly onto the creek and making the dogwoods almost appear to be glowing. He was right, it was quite spectacular. The old man let out a long-tired sigh. “So, do you have any grandparents to take care of outside of this place?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the creek. “Just one, but we don’t visit him very often, as he lives a distance in Portland.” “You should, it's nice for us older folks to see what we are leaving behind, an aptly reminder of our successes, and sometimes failures. I have a son; you look a little like him save for the fact that his hair is brown. He hasn’t visited me for ages for a similar reason you gave for why you don’t visit your own. He lives in one of those cities in California, I can’t remember which one. He’s got some fancy job working with computers. He loves those things, sometimes I think more than me. I’m not exactly sure what he does with them. He has tried to explain to me a number of times but it’s like he’s speaking gibberish. I barely understand a word. As a kid, he would always be on them, doing who knows what. It was around the time when they were first coming out. He would always try to tell me how they were the future, I never bought it. Well, I guess he was right.” He then sat quietly for a while, now staring at his palms. The look of embarrassment had completely worn off, now it was shame. A kind of shame only found in mistakes long past. He finally decided to continue. “But I miss him still. While he had his computers, I had the guitar.” He gestured over to a beaten up six string that leaned against the wall. Its body showed years of wear. “Yeah, I learned how to play that as a youngin’, got pretty good too. I always wanted to be some big musician, like Chet Atkins or Scotty Moore, boy, was I mistaken. Looking back now, I can see that it was nothing more than a pipe dream, and I wish that I had concentrated on more important things like getting an education.” He then let out a small laugh, although there was no humor to be found. “Tried to teach him a few times but he never acted too keen. He was more concentrated on his own aspirations than chasing the will of his old man’s passions. Still though, I wish he would have heard me out, at least once out of pity. Now, looking back upon my life at the finish line, its sad to consider the fact that my life’s goal, that being the guitar, will never be passed down to any future generations. As I remember so fondly the times that I would play him a soft song to help him go to sleep, or strum a tune around the campfire with him, I wish that those moments would be shared with his future children, to at least pass on a small spark of memory from his paw. And whenever his kids ask ‘daddy, how did you come to play like that’ he would respond with ‘well, my daddy taught me.’ But alas, he his own person, and my memory will die when I die.” His voice trembled, like he was finally realizing something that he had always known, it just never had grasped his attention before. His eyes were like a well of emotions, and his words were like a bucket brought to the surface. My mind raced, looking for some condolences that would defuse the situation. I knew that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ would not do anything to help. It would simply place a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. Finally, my brain came to a conclusion that I considered proper. “Well, you could teach me.” His eyes finally met mine. “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “you have way too many things for you to do already. I would hate to occupy your time playing pity on some old man you just met.” “Actually, I have more than enough time. I get off around four, and school doesn’t start for another month, you have plenty of time to teach me the basics.” “Well in that case, how about we start today.” There was no shame left on the old man’s face, only contentment. That began my favorite summer to date. After my shift everyday I would return to Mr. Kelly’s room where he would teach me cords, strumming patterns, and every number of things to become a novice. Even after school began, I would try to make time to get in a weekly lesson. My lessons ended on the day he died three years later in 2014. If I could say one thing to him now, it would explain how much that one summer affected me, because I owe him both my passion and my career.


A large starship drifted across the vast depths of deep space, unresponsive to any attempts by its crew to right its course. Within its sleek, futuristic interior, people were terrified. Inside the bridge, a stern-looking man in his mid forties一the commander of the ship一barked out orders to his crew. “Parker, start getting our systems back online! Hollinder, activate our emergency reactor! And Jett, figure out who the hell managed to knock us out of hyperspace!” As Hollinder ran out of the room to activate the emergency generators, and the other crewmen began their tasks, the ship’s commander ran his hand through his graying hair and looked around him, admiring the tenacity of the crew. Even after being abruptly ripped out of their hyperspace lane, even in the low visibility of the emergency lights, they had composed themselves and immediately got to work to figure out the specifics of what had just happened. After a brief moment, the ship’s main lights flickered back on, the ship began to right itself, and control systems were brought back online. The commander immediately flicked forward the throttle on his control pad to activate the engines. Luckily, there were no significant damages. That was until Hollinder reported back to his commander. He said that he had begun performing diagnostics after activating the ship’s surplus fusion reactor一a routine procedure in a situation such as theirs一but was interrupted by a warning message. Their jump drive had been disabled, likely as a result of the abrupt conclusion to their hyperspace journey. The commander was immediately unnerved upon hearing this. “What could possibly disable a Nova drive?” he asked, his steely tone masking the knot in his stomach. Hollinder only shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno....nothing?” The commander quickly turned to his right, in the direction of his main advisor and communications specialist, Thomas Jett. “Do you know anything about failures involving a Nova drive?” he asked with the same tone as before. Jett messed around with the screen in front of him for a moment before replying. “In 236 years, roughly 754 million hyperspace jumps have been made using Lightskip Corp. drives. For all of the 136 million jumps that were made in the 77 years that the Nova model has been available for military applications, there has not been a single incident of hyperdrive failure reported. Make that one.” he added the last part under his breath. The commander looked away for a moment, quickly sighed, then looked back at Jett. “Open a communications channel,” he said before turning back in front of him. Jett tapped a few buttons on his monitor and waited. After a few seconds, he turned to the commander. “...where do you want to send a message to?” he asked expectantly. “Anywhere!” the commander yelled back. Jett used his monitor to find the nearest military outpost with hyperspace capable ships, then snapped his fingers. “You’re rolling.” “This is Jameson Hoth, commander of the Valiant-class starship Invictus. An unknown assailant has managed to rip us out of our hyperlane. Our drive is busted and we don’t have enough supplies aboard to make it more than a month. If you have any ships or supplies to spare, please send them here as soon as you can.” Jett rattled off their sector, system, and coordinates at Hoth’s request so any would-be rescuers would know where exactly to search for them. Hoth continued his SOS message but stopped after only a few words. He went silent and pointed out in front of him. “Jett? What...is that?” Jett looked forward through the front window of the ship and saw what Hoth was pointing at. Some kind of octagonal craft had drifted into view in front of them. Suddenly, everyone shifted forward in the room, as the Invictus came to a complete stop in an instant. As a few of his crew got back to their feet after falling forward, Hoth let out a shallow breath. “Jett. Send the message.” “But, isn’t it incomplete?” “Just do it!” Jett finished the recording and tapped a button on his monitor. “It’s done.” Hoth then turned to the left, to his Weapons Specialist, Arin Vesper. “Get our missiles ready.” Vesper looked at him sharply. “What?! Surely you’re not planning on going to war with an...an alien spaceship when we have no way to escape?” Hoth let out a heavy sigh. “Vesper, I am your commander. And I am ordering you to ready our weapons. Now.” “Aye aye, captain,” Vesper muttered flatly. He turned to his monitor and typed a couple of words on the screen. He scrolled through a few submenus and hit a button. “Predators are hot. Just...promise me you know what you’re doing.” Vesper begged. Hoth replied with the one thing he didn’t want to hear. “Fire.” Vesper dropped his head, looked to the ceiling, then closed his eyes, sighed, and pressed a button next to his monitor. “They’re out.” A dozen warheads screamed towards the alien ship. But none of them made contact. They all collided with some kind of shield before they hit their target. The entire crew stared in silence as the craft started rotating. As it rotated, its sides started to move outwards, making it much larger than it used to be. Without warning, it stopped rotating completely and its sides shot back inward, emitting a blinding light and shooting out a massive shockwave. Three days later, a small naval fleet arrived in the system at the given coordinates, expecting a hostile presence. What they found was dust, and a starship’s nameplate, broken into several pieces. The crew of the command ship recovered the pieces and brought them back with them. When the pieces were fit together, they spelled out a single word. INVICTUS. —————————————————————————— Thank you for reading. Feel free to leave your thoughts along with any suggestions or critiques below.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Silence! ###”Silence isn’t empty, it’s full of answers.” -Unknown We’re going to explore the theme of ‘silence’ this week. I’ve included a quote above that really resonates with me. Silence can be a very powerful thing. Many times, it says more than our words do. We stay silent for many reasons, whether it be to make a statement, or in an effort to not say the wrong thing, or even due to our own shyness. It can be born of anger, sadness, secrets, perceived slights, etc. What are your characters silent about? Does it hold a deeper meaning? How would their surroundings be affected if they broke their silence? Would anything be different? How do the other characters handle the quiet? Maybe the silence in your world is more literal. Think of a peaceful place, away from the bustling city or population. What does it look like? Did your characters accidentally stumble upon it or did they seek it out as some kind of escape? Is it welcome or is the silence a sign of looming danger ahead? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. MP (I couldn’t decide so you get two!) /   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * August 15 - Silence (this week) * August 22 - Complications * August 29 - Vendetta   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial, prior to beginning. Those links must be direct links to the previous installments (on a feature or personal subreddit).But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - u/Xacktar   - - u/Zetakh   - - u/gurgilewis   - - u/ReverendWrites   - - u/ravens_n_rainstorms   - - u/EdsMusings   - - u/nobodysgeese   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread are worth points). - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Have you ever gazed up towards the skies in the dead of night? It won't work in cities, and it seems only a few are able to see it at all; I've only managed to see it maybe once or twice of what must be hundreds of times I've tried by now. Nothing fancy really, in fact if you weren't paying close attention, you might even mistake it for a bright star or one of the hundreds of satellites that now orbit our Earth. But, if you pay close attention, and you're extremely lucky, you just might see it - a small red light, no bigger than a thumb when pressed against the sky. I know what you're thinking - I'm just uneducated, and the light I saw is indeed the reflection from one of our satellites, or a distant star shining brighter than normal. For a long time, I thought the same - I didn't even give it a second thought the first time I saw it. I must have been around fourteen years old when it happened. I was away at a small summer camp for my church youth group. We had all played capture the flag during the day, so the campers were worn out, and decided, perhaps unwillingly, to call it a night earlier than usual. For me, this was a perfect opportunity to run off into the woods and do something naughty with one of the girls I had known. If you've ever been to a church camp, you understand this isn't at all unusual - with the vows of semi-voluntary chastity waging a never-ending war against one's newly blossoming desires, escapades like mine were almost certain to take place at some point during those trips. Older kids even used to make an effort of staying up to point and giggle when witnessing red-faced freshmen duos reappearing, awkwardly separated, from the thick woods that bordered the campsite. This time was no different - Susannah and I had been getting closer and closer to one another over the course of the two days we had been there so far. Susannah was the daughter of one of the youth pastors at that church, which meant of course that she was far more adventurous than her peers. Shared lunch tables turned to hand holding and hand holding turned to… well that's not really the point of the story. Anyways, that night after some of the campers had gone to sleep, Susannah and I snuck out per our plans and headed to a spot we had both discussed as the meetup spot during the day. I brought along one of my longer jackets - taking a full sleeping bag would have been way too obvious, and she was just supposed to bring her wide-eyed excitement. As I hurried through the forest, careful not to make too much of a ruckus on my way, I was greeted by an unusually dark night. A light fog had formed as was usually the case, but the skies that managed to pierce through the canopy above seemed clear and yet starless altogether. When I had finally stumbled to the meeting spot, I was expectedly alone. Being the good gentleboy I was, I had decided to leave earlier than we had planned so Susannah wouldn't have had to be kept waiting, and to further decrease the suspicion of the counselors. I set up the long-jacket picnic blanket and assumed my most striking fourteen year-old pose I could muster as I lay down and observed the sky above while I waited. The sky was still just as odd as it had appeared during my romp through the woods - cloudless and unusually dark for this time of year, and this area out in the country; but, there was one star that shone brightly amidst the rest. The star was somewhat larger than the small white dots that generally speckled the area, and its red hue seemed to cast a perfectly devious atmosphere over the equally devious scene about to unfold. I took turns between staring at the sky, thinking anxiously about the activities I was about to engage in, and gawking at my watch. When our original meeting time had finally arrived, I felt my body tense up and my hands begin to clam. Not now, dammit… I changed positions a few times, fixed my hair, and perched myself perfectly awkwardly against the now-slightly-damp jacket. But, as I waited, Susannah never came. After a few minutes, I checked my watch, and sure enough it had been ten minutes past when we said we would meet. My hormones wouldn't be so easily quelled though, and I gave Susannah the benefit of the doubt as I continued to wait. Eventually half an hour had passed, and I hadn't so much as naughtily held hands - much less enacted the plans I had fantasized about. Once an hour had passed, even my hormones couldn't fight my growing annoyance and the onset of drowsiness that had finally caught up with me. I stood up atop the wet jacket, and threw it over one shoulder as I made the hike back towards the cabin. At this point, I could care less if a counselor saw me - it wasn't like I had really done anything anyways. I trudged back towards the cabin, into the boys' room, and plopped into bed all without hassle. Another uncomfortable night with my biology painfully reminding me of my adventurous failures. \ The next morning, I woke up with the previous night's events weighing heavily on my mind. I planned to confront Susannah, but I thought it more than likely that she had simply been overcome by the demons of exhaustion that plague us all. The boys showered, dressed, and made our way over to the mess hall for breakfast as per usual. When we arrived, we saw some of the girls crowding around Mr. Knightly, one of the senior camp counselors, by the worship stage. We figured they were just discussing girl drama, and didn't really give it a second thought. I grabbed a plate and lined it with all the usual assortments of camp breakfast food - eggs, mini sausages, pancakes, and all with a healthy helping of syrup drizzled on top. It wasn't until I went to sit down that I noticed something was off. I meant to sit with Susannah at breakfast and talk to her then, but she seemed nowhere to be found. I looked for her clique, and that's when I noticed they were the girls talking to Mr. Knightly. I set my food on a nearby table, grabbed a sausage to snack on for good measure, and headed towards the group to see if I could overhear what they were talking about. Sure enough, the girls were asking somewhat frantically about Susannah's whereabouts. They saw me approach and, knowing of our obvious involvement together, asked me to confirm her disappearance. My face must have flushed with blood, but sparing the counselor some of the more vivid details, I could at least let him know that I hadn't seen her since the day before either. Mr. Knightly seemed distressed by all this news and let us know that he'd immediately make an announcement, and that we'd go on a search of the grounds to find Susannah as soon as the kids had had their breakfasts. Once the time had come, we ventured off into the woods, separating into small groups - each comprising a counselor, a walkie-talkie, and about seven neurotic high schoolers. I had the dreadfully ironic misfortune of being in the group that would end up visiting my forest hideaway. I was delighted when we reached the spot, and there were no bedraggled corpses that the worst of imagination had conjured up. That being said, guilt at my likelier and likelier responsibility for Susannah's disappearance had definitely begun to creep up on me. God was punishing us, the avidly religious forefront of my mind kept repeating. When we had cleared our section of the woods, we communicated with the other teams, and eventually backtracked our way to the cabin. That night was somber, we ate in near-silence and even those of us who hardly knew Susannah had faces painted with dejection. Susannah's family had driven in from the city and were exchanging heated words with Mr. Knightly and the rest of the counselors. After dinner was over, we were given another announcement from Mr. Knightly about how our parents would be collecting us the next day instead of at the end of the week as previously planned, and how the county sheriff's office would be coming in after we left to do a thorough investigation of the area. He reminded us to remain calm, and assured us we'd see Susannah at church that coming Sunday. We never did. \ What made matters worse was the fact that no body or evidence was ever found relating to her disappearance. Initially, there were some torn fabrics that were brought to the family's attention, but her mother immediately knew she had never bought anything like the floral material they had found. It was as though Susannah had vanished - she had been there the day before… and then she simply wasn't. The lack of news devastated her family - her mother, perhaps most of all. During the first Christmas after Susannah's disappearance, her mother had begun announcing delusions of a rapturous nature regarding her daughter. It wasn't a tragedy, but a miracle that she had gone missing - she claimed to have visions in the night of her daughter standing with Jesus, telling her everything was alright. The rest of her family must have known, but I guess they decided to go along with her superstitions; after all, they couldn't disprove her mother's claims, and it would have been heartless to unknowingly insist upon her cruel fate as an alternative. The years treated me poorly as well. The guilt of having potentially led Susannah to her demise was birthed in my consciousness, and then slowly found its way deep into the annals of repression and denial over time. High school came and went, in college I had my fair share of rebellious behavior, but I avoided anything having to do with Susannah - including my hometown - for years. That is, until I saw the light again. \ I was nineteen the second time I saw it. That time was different; that time, I couldn't mistake it for a star. My freshman year of college was full of surprises. I never gained fifteen pounds and I felt surprisingly adequate in most of my classes, which in its own way was surprising to some around me. Though, perhaps the greatest source of surprise for me was in learning about myself. My life wasn't exactly modest, and I wasn't prudish by any means; but, as many of us raised in strict, Biblical families can attest to, there's a certain indelible mischief that awakens on the precipice of one’s eighteenth birthday. Some never know this desire; some learn of it early on, and cooperate with it to satisfy their needs; these days, most of us meet this inner fiend in our dorm rooms, as though it greets us within our first inhalation of college air. What's that taste? Freedom. I went into college somewhat reserved. I had a plan, and unlike the strugglers around me, I was capable of executing it. Every day for me started at 7:00 AM; my first classes, an hour later. Some may have thought it taxing, but at the time, I found it exhilarating. I had always had a fascination with efficiency and the capabilities of man, were he to live up to his potential. I didn't take the free-ride classes either - my freshman schedule was booked with advanced calculus, chemistry, biology, and physics all at once. Up until this point, I had been subject to the rules and guidelines which governed which courses I could and couldn't take concurrently. I wanted to push myself beyond those rules and guidelines - to succeed in a way not previously possible, and to indulge in the fruits of that success. Surprisingly, I managed to make it through, getting commendable marks in each of my classes, whilst also feeling a tremendous burden that I might not have been ready to admit to. I believe it was this burden that pushed me into drugs and alcohol my second semester - two vices I had had almost no experience with. My maternal uncle and grandfather had both died, lips on the bottle, and my mother was a vehement prohibitionist as a result. Alcohol to our family was like pork to a Hassidic Jew, drugs were despised even more. Perhaps this abstinence was what drove me to indulge these demons, perhaps it was meant to be. It wasn't too difficult to find a source, though I thought it definitely would be. As soon as I began looking, it seemed many of the relatively small group of church friends that had attended university with me had begun seeking the same nefarious affairs, and even earlier than myself. It only took discussing my desires with two of my friends, John and Abraham, before I was offered the chance at turning my fantasies into reality. According to Abraham, there was to be a party - one in which all affects one could hope for would be present: booze, drugs, girls, what not to love? I agreed, nervously, but quickly just the same. My mind had been made up, there were no more decisions for me to rifle through. The night of the party came more quickly than I had expected, my anxiousness to experience an entirely new reality seemed to cast a haze over the rest of my activities in the preceding days. I donned my grungiest jeans, and made an effort to tousle up my fresh crew-cut in an attempt to look less like the bible-beating nerd I was doomed to appear as. I caught a ride with Abraham, who intended not to drink, as a girl he really liked, and planned to make an impression on, was certain to be there that night. When I breached the doors, I was greeted by a sight unlike any I had witnessed before. It reminded me of those presentations they give to teenagers to try and scare them away from the very situation I had volunteered myself into. The smell of skunk and sweat permeated the air, and haughtily dressed boys and girls thrust their hips and chests against one another in a surreal dance that filled the room. Lights flashed in every color, and the music, though loud, seemed to gently blend into the trance of the entire occasion. There was a table at the end of the entrance hall adorned with every spirit and concoction my young mind could have fathomed - vodka, whiskey, tequila, beverages I had only seen on TV or in health classes. Abraham had quickly abandoned me in search of his temptation. I looked around aimlessly and met the eyes of one of the girls who had owned the venue we were debauching; she seemed kind, though certainly inebriated, and noticing my confusion, politely offered me to have whatever I'd like. I reached for a cup, filled it halfway with Vodka, and began to sip. Certainly, nobody was drinking this for its flavor. I began to swim awkwardly through the crowd, making a vulgar attempt to dance as I walked, looking for some girl to indulge me in the real reasons I had attended this gathering. I was offered a hit of something that smelled so pungent, it watered the eyes without needing to smoke it. I accepted; this was after all what I had wanted. The smoking circle I had managed to invade passed around the little pale idol as we all gave worship to it with our lips and with our lungs. One of the girls liked a joke I made and we got around to talking one-on-one by the end of the rotation. She was cute, only slightly shorter than me, and seemed to be almost as new to this experience as I was. Her hair was a bright blonde, and she wore a tight red tube top you could tell she felt uncomfortable in. Eventually the raucousness of the night, or my charm, or some combination of both had managed to convince her to find a secluded place where we could "hear each other better." We investigated the house for empty bedrooms, but found them all locked or occupied, so I faintly suggested we might head to some of the woods that bordered the house's rear edge. We talked and giggled awkwardly as we snuck our way out beyond the fence. I could tell she was just as nervous as I, and I tried to joke more to lighten the mood. As we approached the line where the trees began, she seemed to tense up - I assured her everything was fine. As I talked, I faced the house, and as I glanced towards one of the windows on the second floor, I saw a light coming from within. It wasn't a glare, it wasn't a reflection, and it wasn't one of the many colored lights that dotted the house. This light was different, it was brighter, and it was unobscured by any of the other colors that flashed and blended throughout the scene. I stared at it for at least ten seconds just to make sure it was truly there. I blinked and it remained, though when I looked back at the girl, it disappeared behind her. My stomach turned immediately, and I was instantly reminded of Susannah all those years prior. Not wanting to upset the girl that I was with though, I brushed it off. She reluctantly agreed to follow me deeper into the woods. There was a clearing we reached after a brief walk. The stars shone through, and the red star was nowhere among them. I felt vindicated in my decision to bring this girl along after all. I stared back at her, and a smile had been painted on her face. My arms subtly wrapped around her waist, and instinctually, we both leaned in to kiss one another. It was passionate, fiery, but it was short. She said she needed to use the bathroom, and I agreed to wait while she found a nearby spot in the woods. Finally, after so many years, I would seal the colloquial deal. I waited. But she didn't return. After not too long, my giddiness got the best of me, and I decided to search after her in the direction she had vanished. Nothing. I called out for her, realizing I hadn't asked for her name in the most unpleasant of ways. "Where'd you go? … Hey!" I shouted, but there was no response. There hadn't been a scream, there hadn't been a scuffle, there had only been silence. She walked out into the woods, and she never returned. A better man than I would have ran back to the party and asked for her friends, but I knew how that would have looked. The stranger arrives to the party, takes some girl to the woods, and the girl doesn't return. Plus, I figured there was still a chance something anomalous might have happened to her. She could have tripped and fallen, or passed out from the cocktail in her system, any number of random events could have taken her, and I most certainly was not going to involve myself in a situation that could so deeply damn my reputation. I found Abraham, who looked distraught - he had been unable to find the girl he had been looking for. I assured him it was just the party that likely scared her, and it had nothing to do with him. We drove home, and discussed the blues of relationships drunkenly along the way. I don't know how I did it, but the soul-crushing fear that had begun to well up within me didn't manage to appear in my demeanor. That night, I was restless. Dark memories tucked deeply away to be forgotten had surfaced. Things I had convinced myself were nothing more than childhood fancy, once more paced into my threshold of unmistakable reality. The star had not been a coincidence, and only a fool could dismiss such a clear modus operandi. Twice, I had seen the star; twice, I had found myself without a lover. My head raced; my heart raced. I stared blankly through my ceiling. After about a week passed and my inward self matched my outward appearance once more, I decided I needed to investigate the anomaly which now certainly plagued my mind, once and for all. I wasted no time questioning where my search would have to begin; that answer was clear to me - home. \ I decided to skip out on a week of classes. That's all it would take, I assured myself. When Friday came, I loaded the back of my 2005 Impact Orange Wrangler with a week's worth of clothes, some beef jerky, and some generalized camping supplies in case I'd need to stay out overnight near the old campsite. The drive was slow and steady, and my mind raced all the while. Feelings I hadn't had to confront since starting high school quickly boiled their way to the surface of my conscience. My phone died pretty soon after I started driving, so I relied on the staticky radio stations that came in and out of range periodically. I watched closely for the road signs as this would also be one of the first times driving home from out-of-town on my own. Eventually I saw the exit sign loom against the tan, dry, dying grass backdrop. Bear Creek, the campsite I'd unknowingly tried to forget, was now feeling closer and closer to me with every shallow breath I took. The woods looked different now, these four and a half years later. They seemed smaller, less inviting, and stripped of the adventure they had once held for me. Many of the small streams and offshoots of Bear Creek had since dried up; the camp itself had closed shortly after Susannah's disappearance. You could feel a certain melancholy in the air there, as if the sum total of emotions and nervousness that had been present that day had left some sort of stain on the air itself. Rain began to softly poor, and the horizon therefore greyed, as I veered into the small parking lot next to the trailhead that led into camp. A small, wooden, "Welcome to Bear Creek" had been overwritten by, "KID KILLERS" in bold red spray paint. The place had seen better days. I strapped on my camping pack, donned a navy blue rain jacket, and ventured off down the trail to meet whatever fate had in store for me. There was something odd about the whole occasion, however. I couldn't have possibly known what would lie in store for me, but for whatever reason, I knew I would find something. It was simply impossible to me that my heart could have been so misguidedly pulled towards this ethereal site. The surrounding atmosphere only confirmed this ominous sensation. Sure enough, I did find something - though now I wish I would have let the star be, undisturbed - a force of nature to be reckoned, not reasoned with. I made my way first to the cabin which had become boarded and vandalized with every curse word imaginable. The soft, homely appeal of the building had been replaced with a visage that warned others to keep away if they valued their lives. It wasn't difficult to break into the building - I climbed through one of the broken windows that led into the boy's sleeping room. The room was damp and musty, black mold dotted the ceiling, and small twigs and leaves had found their way into the cabin. I searched the rest of the building, which didn't take me long - I didn't know what I was looking to find, but the whole ordeal felt therapeutic in a sense. A part of me had never come back out of lack of reason to do so; a part of me had been too scared. After I had searched the cabin, I mustered the courage to search where I knew I needed to go - to the place where I least wanted to look - to the clearing beneath the stars. The rain picked up as I started down that old familiar path through the woods. I could feel the thunder as it shook me from within. The ground had become wet and soggy, and my shoes sank in places where it wasn't covered in dead brush. I imagined Susannah walking through these same woods all those years ago, frightened in the way only the mind can frighten when presented with a playground as fascinating as the woods at night. I imagined her treading through the forest, and finally reaching the clearing - maybe she had woken later in the night after all; maybe she had reached this place, only to find me missing. I shuddered at the thought. I brushed aside the last bit of branches blocking my view. There it was, still and silent, pattered on the edges with the occasional splash of rain that trickled down from the canopy above. I walked out to the center of the clearing, it was almost completely dark by now. I looked up, and there were no stars to behold, only sullen grey clouds and the water they poured over me. Thunder rumbled once more, and seemed to be getting closer to where I stood. I considered my position amongst the trees, but decided to stay, if only for a few minutes longer. I looked up to peer at my position in the rain once more, but this time, the bright red hue shewed even through the thick clouds above. "What're you doing here?" I heard a familiar shout from the edge of the clearing. I squinted my eyes, It was Abraham. "You hear me, Zach? I asked what you were doing here." I was startled. Caught off guard, my hands shook as I looked at him, trying to come up with an answer. "I uh- needed to get away. Homecoming, you know?" "This isn't home," his shouting continued as he began to pace along the outer perimeter. "This is where Susannah disappeared from. Remember?" His question seemed to mock me, and he must have seen the startled reaction that reflexively painted my face. The red star seemed to grow brighter. "I remember fine. What are you doing here, then?" "I know, Zach. I know about Hannah - did you know that was her name?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, sure you do! Remember that party, Zach? I didn't see Hannah that night, but her friends said she had come with them. They didn't know where she had gone though! They told me some stranger had taken her into the woods. They lost the two of them after that. Hannah never came back though. Sound familiar, Zach-o?" My shaking intensified. The light had grown much brighter by now; the entire clearing was illuminated with the dark crimson glow of that terrible star. "You don't understand!" I started, trying with whatever I could to explain the situation to Abraham. "There's a red star that-" "I understand perfectly! And it's starting to make even more sense now! You were interested in Susannah that year too weren't you? I saw you get up that night, I saw you leave the boy's room. I didn't think anything then, but I know now. "Tell me, Zach, is there some sick urge in your head? Is there anything that helps you pick your victims, or is it all just random chance?" "Shut up!" I gazed at that vicious star that had now consumed almost everything it had touched. "Why'd you pick Hannah?! You couldn't have known, Zach! How did you know she was the girl I had fallen for?! How did you get her to trust you so quickly?! Just some predator instinct you have?" "I said, shut up!" "That's what you did, right? You shut them up - Hannah and Susannah - you shut them up well! Where'd you hide the bodies, huh?! … Oh God…" "SHUT UP!" "It's here, isn't it… They're here… that's why you came!" "SHUT UP!" The star flashed. Brighter than I'd ever seen. It overtook my vision completely, and replaced it with bloody, red light. Purer in color, and brighter than even the deepest depths of my imagination could have conjured. It flashed. And, when it had finished flashing, Abraham too was gone. I don't know where the star takes them, or what it wants with me. I never got the answers I was looking for. But, I don't think I'll search for them again. If you ever see the red star, especially if you see it where it doesn't make sense - in your room, in the backseat of your car - if you see that star, don't think, don't plan; run, just run.


It was market day and my father woke me before dawn. I followed him outside. The sun was but a promise in the dark sky. *The goats bleated—dimly.* We packed our wagon with food. When we had finished, my father disappeared into darkness. *The goats bleated—dimly.* He reappeared pulling a goat by a rope around its neck. The goat's thin legs struggled against him, leaving trails in the dirt. "Life is hard," he said. From behind his belt he pulled his knife. "Understand?" He passed the knife to me. I took it, but it weighed heavily in my hands. I looked at the knife; I looked at the goat, which was calmer now, noticing how its eyes reflected the surrounding blackness, in which I myself was. "A man must be strong," my father said. The goat stood. *I stood.* "You are old enough." "Understand?" I took the rope from my father. He loomed above me as I loomed above the goat. "Kill," he said. "We will sell the meat at the market." I obeyed. *Knife—* *blood poured forth.* The goat bucked, but tightly I held the rope. Its black eyes, each containing a distortion of my face, began to shake, then spin like the Earth: days and weeks and months and—twin white rings extended from its dying eyes and shot out, trailing thin translucent skin sacks; attaching themselves to my own eyes, and through the dermal corridors between us, I saw the goat's diminishing soul, its innocence and its terrible lack of understanding, and I felt these primevally as if they were my own. I slashed madly at the skin sacks. And they were gone: The pre-dawn returned. The goat: dead, its warm blood sleek upon my hands, which held the knife, and the looming, dim face of my father: "It is done." After my father killed two more goats, we butchered their carcasses in silence, and took them on the wagon to the market. I was as if under a spell. The road was bumpy, and we passed checkpoints manned by tribesmen with rifles. At one, up ahead, there erupted yelling, followed by gunfire. An explosion— My bloody hands; My father's distorted face; Fragmented wagons and the dead bodies of tribesmen, but from above, increasingly from above, until they were nothing and the dawn became all at once... Through light to flesh: heat to warmth: eternity unto the comforting temporality of the world, I travelled, until feeling my body again I was carried by contractions through a tubular wetness and deposited on the ground. Blind. Deaf. Squirming on the Earth. I was a baby goat. Unable to speak, I could not tell my experience to the people around me. I could merely bleat—dimly. One day, a man pulled me toward a boy. I knew the boy. I was he. Holding a knife, the boy looked into my eyes, and with all my might I thought, *Do not kill us!* But he misunderstood. And I was re-born: a boy without memory.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **“Eyes watched from afar.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact. Stories without the sentence will be disqualified from rankings and campfire readings. The bonus constraint is not required. *Bonus constraint (worth extra points): Someone or something falls. This can be literal or metaphorical.*   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.)   *** #This Past Week’s Rankings Rankings are postponed until next week, due to a lack of nominations and a family event I had to attend today. You have an extra week to send in nominations and leave feedback on the thread. Nominations are a huge part of rankings. So send me a message here on reddit or discord with your favorites! Awards will still be given (next Monday) to the winning stories from this past week.   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.