“Don’t put that on yet!” Gjord shot at his squire as the lad froze. “Where’s the leather lining? Ye rattle the walls with that tin bowl.” He watched as his squire buckled the helmet back onto his side. “Stolen.” Alderic “Stolen?” Gjord “Eaten more liketh,” Alderic proclaimed. “Say you nothing of the sort, Les I see Incitatus,” Gjord said solemnly whilst drawing his large flail and placing it on his armour backplate. They both started to whisper as they walked along the base of a fortified wall. They were masked by the night, reduced to ear-shot vision. “Thy horse was not eaten sire,” Alderic said in a failed attempt to console. “Silence!” Gjord said with a reserved volume but agitated tempo. “How many torch lights was that?” Whispered a fellow soldier trailing behind Alderic. “Shhhh,” abruptly silenced the curious axeman’s question from all sides. The man walked deadpan after the rebukes. He too rotated his Dane-axe to his back. Gjord stopped and starred at Alderic until he halted. They could make out silhouettes looking back the way they came. Multiple moonlit soldiers clanked by in their heavy plating. The first of which, the rebuked axeman. Gjord nodded to the young knight and he could see an instant jolt of courage in the boy. “Fourteen torches Alderic,” Gjord said while his vision was diverted to a heavy sword squad. The squad was pointing to a dark line on the lighter yet still greyish-black sand-blasted wall. Slight cracks in the wall almost glowed under the hazy moon-assisted lighting. As Gjord and Alderic started to walk again, the dark line grew and bulged at some moments. “Well, there it is, let us go,” Gjord said as he motioned Alderic to drop his pack. Alderic dropped a large sack with a “PING,” as he did so, a grappling hook poking from the bag hit a metallic rock. Unperturbed by this, he then proceeded to kick the sack with the ropes, and the hooks into nearby shrubbery. Gjord shaking his head turned to watch his fellow horseless knights ascend a simple ladder on a wall they marvelled for months. He then caught eyes with a nearby long-swordman who had a rabid aura about him. As the soldier passed Gjord saw a nightmarish lust in the man’s eyes. The man kept toward the breach and the mist seemed to retreat from him. Alderic, being clumsy but keenly observant felt the anxiety as well, more than just the usual battle tension. These men had a hunger about them. Just then Alderic and another encumbered tank of a knight brushed shoulders and they both nearly toppled, on the way down they grabbed each other in desperation. The knight almost ripping Alderics shoulder strap, and Alderic nearly pulling off his glove. Once the both of them regained composure, Alderic followed the careless knight without a say or acknowledgement, for these things happened when your helm allowed you little sight; let alone awareness. “I see sire, the helms a liability in these shadows,” Alderic whispered. “Ye want to toss it on when those Syrian archers find us,” Gjord. “By then I hope I’m fighting in the Bazaar, with pomegranate, and dates,” Alderic divulged. “I hope I’m in a bathhouse by then,” a knight said as he almost collided with Alderics loafing pace. “Or a Haram.” Gjord pulled Alderic aside and said, “many men are here for God, but many are for themselves.” “Aye, and he, we can predict well,” Alderic said while giving the ladder a shake. The men already climbing barely noticed a wiggle and Gjord began to climb. “Give me strength lord,” Gjord said under his breath as he climbed the ladder, a simple ladder that negated such a robust fortification. It creaked and groaned and he wasn’t certain it would hold the heavy infantry it was channelling up the barricade. As he progressed he could hear the wind howling first through the chasm then through his armour. Sweat was pooling in the tips of his gauntlets as he crested the checker-top wall. The light on the other side was almost blinding. It was no wonder the perimeter guards didn’t see their band approach. Torches only light that which is lit. The procession of knights Gjord led shunned torches and in turn, embraced darkness. Gjord lifted his leg over the wall, taking great care not to lean too far in one direction, for his armour would carry him off cliff or wall, it cared not for his life and obeyed *God’s forces*, he thought. Already counting his men before his feet touched to the floor he asked: “Where is Juniper’s troop?” “Already at it sire,” Another horseless knight admitted. “We told him to wait, but he didn’t bother.” Gjord stormed toward the guard shack with Alderic in tow. As Gjord entered the turret he withdrew a dagger and looked to his right. Alderic quickly did the same in the opposite direction. Together they entered back to back. The room was fiery orange, they both beheld a down struck torch, its flames already climbing the walls and a straw bed’s legs. There was blood smeared all over the bricks in that spot, flickering orange and red as the fire showcased its violence. Gjord swung around to see the Juniper troop hacking something on the other side. Beside that, a foreigner, paralyzed in fear looking opposite to Juniper’s crew. One of the violent knights turned whilst shaking his dipped and drenched blade. “Gjord, my lord,” Juniper exalted. “What should we do with this traitor?” “He is a friend of ours, whatever his reasons,” Gjord “I disagree,” Juniper said as Alderic gave him an insubordinate look. Juniper took a step to the foreign wretch and the man cowered slightly, shook, then stood tall giving Juniper a defiant stare. “Do you have his coins?” Juniper questioned as if the thought fowled his soul. “Here, I need not know thy reasons,” Gjord said in an apologetic but curious tone as he passed a bag of gold to the foreigner. “God wants none of this,” The foreigner said as he grabbed the bag. “I Merely want to end the siege, you’re stubborn armies hold people in sufferance everyplace they clash.” “Our God demands thy sufferance!” Juniper expelled. “That is no god,” the man said as he looked for the best way out of the turret and tensions. Upon seeing this Juniper motioned his men to block the exit. Gjord waved his hand and said, “Wait, I cannot allow you’re departure nor will I satisfy my men with slaughter. You must wait here under guard until we have secured the eastern gate.” “Will you satisfy thy lord and saviour?” Juniper queried in a rebellious stance with his gory blade pointed between Gjord and the foreigner. “I ate horse, leather, sifted dung for grain and drank blood all so I could carry out my lord’s wrath!” “You will carry out thy orders Juniper, you’re men are loyal to me and I will see them through this, body and soul,” Gjord said as Alderic stepped in front of him brandishing a longsword dwarfing the men in the room. “They are loyal to God!” Juniper yelled as he grabbed Alderics sword guard disabling Alderic and him in the melee while his retinue exploded onto the foreigner. Gjord desperately covered Alderics exposed back while the poor foreigner was prodded and kicked by the sharp and heavy instruments. The men, filled with sedition but grounded to a perspective they thought was endorsed by God were reluctant to turn on fellow knights. “Stop this I BEG OF YOU!” Gjord said in a diplomatic but stern tone. Juniper knowing full well his men had accomplished his wishes let go of Alderics sword guard and wrist plating. “That man helped our God, we would have starved in that cursed valley if it wasn’t for that man you’ve snuffed.” Alderic protested. “How dare you speak of God!” “I speak and act for Jesus Christ almiterrrrwhalpssss,” Juniper’s speech was severed by his own blood as his chest was punched out from the inside. The men in the room stood frozen. Watching as Juniper clawed at a hole in his chest while something dark quickly rescinded into the wound. Juniper’s mouth fell wide as his eyes lost focus and he slumped still. “Archers!” One of Juniper’s men cried as he searched the ceiling frantically. Many of the other men turned their attention to Gjord, who was already fixated on a dark spot under a table in the large circular room. “What is arrwwg,” One of Juniper’s men tried to say as a flash relieved him of his head. Gjord could see a phantom in the midst of the soldiers, withdrawing his flail, he began to swing it beside Alderic, covering their left flank. Another soldier fell from a massive wound to the belly. Groaning he reached up with his bloody sword and screamed, “DEMONS!” While swinging at the ethereal notions of a man that danced over his disfigured body. Alderic, still frozen and holding his longsword, could not comprehend the events; yet would no longer remain idle. He exploded toward the last of Juniper’s guard whilst the frightened soldier shielded and withdrew into a viewport depression in the turrets sporadically lit walls. Alderic stopped, he wanted to help the lad not frighten him more, and he was trained better than to chase the desperate, let alone a cornered man in the shadows. At this point, they could no longer see any phantoms near the soldier so they both looked back at the table. The beast there could be seen in more details now yet still transient, smiling, or snarling; they could not tell. Light reflected off its sheen in alien ways. It began to descend, right through brick and mortar. It was still smiling when it disappeared amongst the impervious floor. Alderic was the first to speak, “What in the nine levels?” Gjord finally stopped flailing his weapon and thought *Devils…* as he visually scoured the room for more carnations. “Antioch has cursed us,” Alderic said as the last soldier slowly stepped out of his cavity and into the light. The soldier ran past Alderic and turned his back to the most well-lit part of the room. Sword drawn and sporadically searching, the man would not die without a swing. Unlike his freshly bled kin, strewn across the floor in ways their mortal bodies could never endure. “Alderic to me!” Gjord said as Alderic instinctively walked backwards toward his mentor. Alderic was now within reach of Gjord. “What is thy name knight,” Gjord asked, piercing the man’s psychosis. “Götrich,” Götrich said. “Götrich, Goooötrich of York,” He studdered, swallowing his words. “You see that knob behind you?” Gjord asked watching Götrich fail to look past a point that forced him to turn his head. “Right…. Alderic, watch my sides. Götrich, fall in behind us if you must, and God give us strength!” Gjord said and promptly kicked the door with dagger poised in hand again whilst his flail was wrapped on his right leg. The door opened back to the quiet night air. Multiple crusaders filed in numerous directions as quietly as their cumbersome armour allowed. “Woooooooe,” A large decorated knight said to Gjord as he came out of the room dagger drawn and splattered by gore. The Regent looked Gjord up and down. “Thou were supposed to keep it civil and quiet, thy exit implies thou were neither.” “We lost men, three of them, there was,” Gjord was cut off when another company began to open the city gates and finally the city came alive with trumpets, despair, and confusion. Fires seemed to spontaneously erupt in places where the screams were loudest. The gates exploded inward before they could fully open and moon glistened soldiers began to fill the courtyard. As fire and death spread amongst the city Gjord tried again, to address the now mesmerized king. “Sire as I was saying there was,” this time cut off by the king’s hand, held up high in a dismissive gesture. “Take my retinue and attack the heathens mosque. They will likely retreat there and we mustn’t allow a siege within a siege,” the giddy king proclaimed. “We still don’t know what killed..” Gjord was shut up again by someone thrown from a nearby turret. The scream could be heard over everything, yet, most barely noticed the macabre plummet. Including the King who ignored Gjord and began speaking with another visibly noble knight. Gjord, now facing Alderic and thirty or so well-armed long swordsmen whose eager faces reeked of a king’s retinue gave in to the royal demands and lead the men toward the giant mosque. As they descended the ancient steps, arrows and javelin were thrown amongst them. Shielding himself, one knight blocked a large javelin from a watchtower only to take two arrows in the back of his neck. The chainmail burst apart as the arrows split the links and found their way deep into his chest. He slipped off the steps in a manner devoid of all stubborn life. Alderic, being shieldless like his master Gjord tried to close with a soldier to his left who brandished a pincushion of a shield. The man hurried down faster than Alderics leg joints could handle and upon trying to gain him, Alderic tripped and fell ten feet to the courtyard below. Fully suited in a metal body, Alderic struggled face first in what could have only been a shop stall he crushed in his fall. He shoved the broken wood and pottery in an attempt to roll himself onto his back. However something stopped him, beams and shelving caved in such a way that pinned Adleric face-first in a hay-filled pile of debris he could barely breathe in. His helmet didn’t help, it was hard to breathe without the oxygen-depleted bazaar stand rubble that laboured his efforts. He gasped, breathing in dust and filth, but no air. As he struggled other hands began to remove many of the weights holding Alderic to the dirt. Gjord grabbed Alderics dusty arm and dragged him from the rubble. Alderic being in no energized state rolled complacently down the pile of debris finally gaining some air. Alderics air crisis was barely quenched when he picked up his head and saw knights storm the three-story dwellings to their front. These dwellings, moments before, held deadly archers raining death upon their descent. They now housed murderous crusaders hacking and killing anything they could find. “To ME!” Gjord said as Alderic painfully picked himself off the floor. The retinue filed in around Gjord, and Alderic fell in with the men and steel. The streets were now filled with more than just rivalling armies, but people, women and children, young and old were all displaced by murderous assault. Crowds ran on both sides of Gjord’s platoon, and as the crusaders progressed through the arid streets, the odd civilian threw something or tried to stab a displaced soldier. Checking his retinue Gjord saw a soldier struck in the head with a brick and the poor man slumped instantly to the cobblestone road. Another took an arrow in the leg and when Gjord finally saw the man struggling to get back to them he was swarmed by people kicking and screaming in foreign tongues. “Forward!” Gjord shouted. Finally, the men approached the massive steps of the mosque. Tired and weary Alderic was acting solely on instinct. His nerves were shot, his muscles ached, and his armour barely responded to his will but he drudged on. Shuffling his heavy legs toward the staircase. He watched as three women ran by and up the stairs. At that moment a pot was thrown from the mosque’s elevated position. It smashed on a soldier with strange steam and the man began to writhe in agony. As soon as Gjord realized it was hot oil another of his guard tossed a dagger at one of the women desperately ascending the mosque steps. Before Gjord could reprimand the soldier the man collapsed from no obvious cause. Gjord watched as fellow soldiers looked for injury on the lad and could not get him to rise or show a sign of life. “To ME!” Gjord said again as an enemy with a curved slashing sword ran at him. Gjord blocked high with his dagger and swung his flail upwards toward the foe. The dagger strained under a heavy sword blow but managed to deflect and displace the energy as Gjords flail uppercut the man’s head, scattering it into the night. Alderic was now shuffling to help as best as his injured body allowed. Everywhere he looked there was butchery. Women, children, homes, and livelihoods were all under assault and inflames. He saw crusaders hacking at people in flight. Even the lamenting were targetted, no one was spared. Then, just as he saw another group poised to attack a cornered family, they all vibrated in an eerie dance that ended in their blood being thrown amongst the cornered citizens. Alderic saw the phantoms again within the confusion, they withdrew amidst the fresh corpses. Gjord, now frantically looking from left to right as he climbed the mosque stairs, could see tangible dark figures now battling and slaughtering both garrison and crusading knights. These thin and agile creatures looked like stretched corpses and they moved like chimpanzees, preferring quadrupedal movement to that of the mortals they slew. As Gjord, Alderic, and the surviving retinue crested the steps they saw a pile of gore where the oil pot was cast minutes ago. Within the mess was a ghastly ghoul gnawing on rib bones. “A phantom!” Gjord cried as he started swinging his flail. Now, more man than ethereal, more flesh than air, and not in the slightest bit timid, the beast looked at them and snarled as it slowly descended into the blood at its heels. Its long sharp claws were the last of it to be seen as it disappeared with human remains in tow, again into seemingly impervious masonry. “The city has cursed itself?” Alderic said as he peered through his helmet’s tiny eye slit at the bloody man-made precipice. “This war has cursed us all...


#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: **Theme: Coming of Age** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Coming of Age’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week ###Crowd Favorites We had a tie this week! Well done, both of you! - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - - Submitted by u/Lynx_Elia ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/merbaum - - Submitted by u/jimiflan   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Same dive bar, different reasons for that bourbon. My drink was neat unlike my mismatched socks & my noticeable limp as I surveyed the room. Usual suspects were playing darts, cracking jokes, & whipping buffalo sauce off their chin, but I was looking for someone. The group of drag queens shooting pool caught my eye. The queens weren’t quite regulars, but around enough where a head nod when eye contact is made is warranted. The sunburn on my cheeks, nose, & right below my eyes made my expression stiff, but it was good to see everyone, as it had been a while since my last drink in this dump. I had just gotten back into town, for the first time since I got my second face tattoo. The small thunderbolt high on my cheek bone, I regret that. I’m now known as the masked thunderbolt by the local paper, the armed bank robbing thief that was still at large from our last job. I was observed by many being pursued by the police on my bike, wearing my Tampa Bay Lighting t-shirt, go bolts. The name kind of stuck. I don’t regret that. That's how I make a living. I'm a career criminal by trade, I learned from my father & my father’s father. They taught me well. I made my way north west - by train, by taxi, by foot, by my thumb hung up in the air. I had to get out of town, as the heat on my whereabouts grew. I spent the last year drinking wild turkey straight out of the bottle, shooting dice with my lucky cigarette tucked behind my ear, & hanging out with nameless women of the night, all on my way to nowhere. I went by many names throughout my career - Ramon Grande, Johnny Mack, Parker Wallace, & my least favorite, Christian Williams, my actual name, which I stopped using years ago. Pages on the calendar had been torn away and the treasure trove grew thin. It was time to head back home, it was time to go back to work again, I was Florida bound. My town was small & humid, run down & close knit, it was us against the world. I was back in town for one reason, to find my partner and hit the next lick. My partner was a friend of a friend of a former girlfriend of mine. I met him at a bbq down by the park, right off the main drag, back in the spring of ‘93. I noticed him from across the gathering. He had that look in his eyes, the same look I had. An up-and-comer, a rising star. I saw him pick-pocket the guy manning the grill, like a pro. We understood each other without ever exchanging names, not even once. This was to protect ourselves in case push ever came to shove. He always went by Isaiah Monroe or Donald Gibbs or Cash Jackson. No names, no phone numbers, no addresses. That was the code, be where you say you’ll be. One of our meetup spots was Ricky’s Tavern. Ricky’s was the local watering hole with a wide variety of regulars. Classic bar food, most famously, their fried gator bites, and known for local beer on taps that have never been cleaned. Old wood framing with a matching L-shaped bar that hasn't been touched up since the late 70’s. Last year’s Nascar reruns on the TV, ash trays as the centerpiece of each booth, and you get your picture on the wall if you can eat 5 fried tenderloin in 2 hours, Cousin Tommy’s up there twice, God rest his soul. I sat for a while and waited. Lucky cigarette tucked behind my ear, rolling 2 dice around in my left hand, wild turkey in my right, neat. I watched the off-centered door open & close for a few hours, hoping to see a familiar face. ‘Last call’ Jimmie bellowed as he poured himself a shot of something brown. ‘Well, i’ll check out bowling alley tomorrow night, maybe better luck there’ I wondered to myself I slapped my cash on the wooden bar, winked back at Jimmie, & headed out to the parking lot, wondering when thunderbolt would be back on his bike, I can’t wait to smile in my sleep, again.


I entered the maze on friday. I was apprehensive when I was selected the previous month, but with the encouragement of my family, I was convinced I would be fine. I didn’t really have a choice, anyhow, so I figured I might as well try to enjoy the experience. Despite that, I was still rather nervous when I arrived at the maze center. I hesitated at the front door, trying to work up the courage to go in. Just as I was considering fleeing back home, a woman opened the door. “What are you waiting for?” She asked, wasting no time. “You’re five minutes late. You really must get going.” She rushed me in. From there, my photo and fingerprints were taken, my hair put up in a neat bun, and I was given a series of shots. I was handed some clothes and put in a small stall to change. I groaned. I took my time picking out my outfit that morning, as I wanted to make a good impression. On who? I didn’t exactly know, but I was told by everyone I talked to that I should make an effort. The outfit I was given was something I would expect someone heading into battle would be wearing, which surprised me. It consisted of a top that felt heavily armored and protective, and military pants that were surprisingly lightweight and easy to walk in. I was also given a tough hat resembling a helmet. Needless to say, these clothes weren’t very attractive. Why would I need to gear up like this? This was just a maze, wasn’t it? Along with the clothes, I was also given a half-working flashlight, large boots and a bit of water. After the tests and preparations, I was shoved into the room that led to the entrance of the maze by the woman that helped me get ready. “Good luck,” She said. “Make sure to always stay on the move. Never stand still. ” Those were the last words of advice I was given before the door locked shut behind me. I entered the maze. It was dark. So dark. The flashlight wasn’t much help; Its light was very weak, and I estimated it would be about ten minutes before it would run out of batteries. The maze was more… Ominous, I suppose, than I imagined. None of the people I had talked to described it like this, not even close. There were cracks in every wall, and there was mold and moss growing everywhere. The floor was covered in stains and splatters of blood and other substances, and I think I even spotted some mushrooms growing here and there. I shuddered and started to walk. Which way? Well, that’s the question, I suppose, it is a maze after all. I took a right turn to begin with. Dead-end. Left turn? Another dead-end. I turned back and kept going straight. I made fairly good progress from there on, even when my flashlight went out; my eyes got used to the dark, and I managed to feel my way around. My hands were covered in something, I don’t even want to imagine what that was. Nevertheless, I was feeling good about myself; maybe I could get out of here before the day is out. And then I saw her. She was about eight feet tall, if I had to guess, her head nearly hitting the ceiling. She emanated a faint light that illuminated her awful form. She had three arms, and she was covered from head to toe in scars and wounds. I screamed, nearly falling off my feet. I had heard stories about her, more often than not told by the families of fallen victims of the maze, but no one else believed these tales, for that’s what we thought they were; just tales, stories told to spread fear. But she was real, and she was staring deep into my eyes. I ran. In what direction? I didn’t know. Completing the maze didn’t matter to me anymore, I just wanted to flee; I didn’t care which way. I heard an awful, deafening roar behind me, getting closer and closer. I covered my ears. The walls began to rumble. Turning left, turning right, she was always behind me. Each twist and each turn, she was there. It felt like the more I ran, the faster she got. I had no chance, and I knew it. As I was turning a corner, I slowed down to catch my breath. It felt like my chest was on fire from panic and fear. She screamed behind me and grabbed my arm. Her sharp claws cut deep into my skin, and blood ran down my hand. I managed to shake myself free of her, and she grunted in frustration as I ran away. I shrieked. She was catching up fast, and I was running out of ideas. I was never any good at mazes or puzzles, what the hell was I doing there? Why was I selected, of all people? There was nothing special about me, I was just a normal person. The water I was given had already run out long ago, and my stomach was rumbling. I had no idea how long I was there already; time seemed to have lost all meaning. Just as I was about to reach the end of my rope, I spotted a hole in the ceiling. It was small, but big enough for the average person to pass through, with a bit of effort. I paused for a second, then began to climb, using the pieces of stone sticking out of the walls as stairs. She shrieked again, getting closer and closer. Out of breath, I tried to squeeze into the hole. She tried to grab onto my leg, but I quickly sucked in my stomach and disappeared up into the ceiling. I collapsed to the floor, panting for breath. It took me a minute to realize what I was looking at. I was above the maze. I did it; I escaped. There was another hole at the other side of the room. I realized that these holes were likely made by one of the previous victims of the maze; how, I didn’t know, but I was grateful nonetheless. I crawled through the hole, down into a small room closed off by a door. This wasn’t the room I had started in, so I figured it must have been the end of the maze. This room was drastically different from the rest of the maze. It was clean, apart from a few splatters of blood here and there, which was a sight I had gotten used to during my journey through the maze. Then I realized something. The room had no door leading out of it, only the door leading back into the maze. How was I supposed to get out of here except for… Back in through the maze? My vision had gotten blurry from fear and adrenaline, so I hadn’t even noticed the rifle that sat on a stone pedestal in the corner of the room. There was a note laid against it. I picked up the note, my hands shaking. With my vision returning to normal, I read the note. “Great job, you escaped her. Now go back and defeat her.


I was thirteen years old when I got sick, and after a year I still wasn't getting any better. I was allowed to go home for a day, then it would get worse again and I would be ushered back to the hospital. After a while, instead of getting slightly better every week I just got worse. I think we all knew I wasn't going to get better, but nobody would admit it. I, however, accepted my fate and decided to just die with no regrets. My parents sat beside me day and night, talking with the doctors about my condition, and frantically trying to eliminate the sickness. But it was useless. Day after day I got worse and worse until the day I died. It was in February, and I died alongside the cold. My parents sat beside me, trying not to weep at the doctor's words. My mother was pleading for them to cast their nets wider, but they had done everything they could, it got to the point where they gently broke the news to my parents. "She isn't going to make it, I'm very sorry. The most we can do for her now is keep her comfortable." I wasn't supposed to hear that, but it didn't bother me, I had known it for some time now. They called my family, and stayed strong for me. Everybody came as quickly as they could, and I died with my mother and father holding my hands, my mother's gentle touch stroking my hair and singing the lullaby she always used to sing. I told them, "Thank you for everything, I have no regrets, I will come back to you." I closed my eyes, and with that, Gray Merilind was gone. The moment I was gone my family broke down into sobs and tears. It's been five months since my daughter died, my beloved Gray. I raised her, and it was too soon for my baby to leave me. None of us can bring ourselves to enter her room, it brings back too many memories of the good days. We try to stay as upbeat as we can, but her siblings are taking it the hardest. We try to comfort them but it doesn't seem to do much. It's been a year now, and I'm going to go into her room. She wouldn't want me to linger on her death for as long as I have. I opened the door and forced a step, then another, until I was sitting on the bed. Her figurines and books lined the walls, her floor covered in laundry and her bed messy. Everything was covered in dust. Just more proof of how long it's been I suppose. We live in a big house out in the country, and have the entire road to ourselves. Our nearest neighbor is a kind old couple who had sent us a care package when Gray died. Oh Gray, she loved the stone bricks and the wood that made up the cottage, the layered shingles on the roof. She loved the soft grass in the yard and the river and the big birch tree. I decided at that moment that we should clean up her bedroom. Everything would stay, never to be moved until the day someone else lives here long after us. I brought the suggestion to my son and other daughter, Gray's siblings, and they received the idea better than I thought they would. George and Lucy came upstairs, and with the same difficulty I had, forced themselves to come inside. It makes me proud how strong my children are. My husband joined us soon after. Her father and I dusted the room and cleaned Gray's dirty clothes, tucking them folded into her dresser. We washed the blankets and neatly made her bed, vacuumed the carpet and swept the floor while George and Lucy caringly dusted her shelves and cleaned the figures of her favourite characters. Then, while we were throwing away the wrappers and removing the half filled cups of now stagnant water on her nightstand, we found a carefully enveloped letter sitting on her desk. What it said brought a fresh wave of pain and made us all begin to cry. It read, To mother, father, George and Lucy, Leon my dear dog, everybody who loved me, thank you. I know I don't have much time left here, but this is my final message to you. My life is over, but please don't wallow, be strong for me. Some people have entrusted me with their deepest secrets, and as promised, I have taken them to the grave. I have always had a wish, an impossible one, but one I have always longed for. I wished to fly, not on a plane, but with my own two wings, those of a bird. I won't leave you alone like this forever. I can't just let George and Lucy grow up without me now can I? But whether it is tomorrow, or on your own death bed to lead you to your place among the stars, I promise, no, I vow, on the name you gave me, Gray Merilind, I will come back to you. 18/2/2004 That voice, it was Gray to a T. It was my dear daughter's final message to us, one I will hold close to my heart until the day I die. I decided I would wait until the earth collapsed for her to return, and when she did, I would remember her no matter what. George and Lucy cried themselves to sleep that night, their father and I tried to comfort them, but they said that they wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't miss it when their beloved sister returned. I was only able to convince them to rest by telling them I was sure Gray would wake them if they were asleep when she came back. I’m not ashamed to say we all cried ourselves to sleep. It's been four months since I found Gray's letter, and I've decided to take everybody camping to her favorite place. A secluded area beside a lake. When we got there we immediately went to the site. We had booked the one beside the woods, closest to the lake and what we now called Gray's Rock. It's a large boulder overlooking the lake far into the woods beyond the campgrounds, and as far as I know, we’re the only people who know about it. You can see into the forest for miles from its peak. On one night, after a day at the beach, I went alone to Grays Rock. It was dark, but warm. I felt as though I was being watched the entire walk, but it was a forest, you feel that everywhere. I was cautious though and made it to Grays Rock safely. I sat at the peak and watched the lake, it sparkled in the moonlight. After a while I began remembering the days when I would be looking for Gray, only to find her without fail sitting peacefully on the rock, her short, straight, brown hair and green and brown clothes rustling in the wind while she hummed to herself and looked over the lake. She would sit up, turn her head and say " There you are! I've been waiting for forever! Come sit with me, the lake is beautiful today." We would sit and talk, and watch the lake. I was pulled from my thoughts by a soft humming coming from behind me, but when I turned to see who it was I saw nothing. At first. I looked closer and saw a figure blending in with the trees. It was a young woman. Her skin was made of silvery birch bark and her feet were big hoof-like stumps. Her neat, long, brown hair tumbled over her back and down her legs in waves while her shimmering green eyes watched me calmly with a soft smile on her white lips. Her voice reminded me of something I couldn’t quite place. She continued to hum to herself, but then she started swinging a long silver stick with a teardrop shaped lantern on the end and dancing playfully to the tune. She spun and stepped and swung while I watched in awe. The pace quickened until she spun and held out a hand to me. I carefully stood up and took her hand while I still stared, wide eyed. A knowing glint flashed across her features and together, we danced. We twirled slowly in circles and danced to her singing, a haunting, beautiful tune. All the while she never let go of my hand, she must have known I would be stumbling without her guidance. Then when the tune dwindled to a close she did something I didn’t expect. Her arms were suddenly around me pulling me into a tender, loving embrace. She was much taller than me, I realized. It lasted for at least a minute before she pulled away. It felt like part of my body went with her. She gave me a sad smile, and wiped away a tear I hadn’t even noticed was there. Not a word was said as she swung the lantern in front of her. It was the first good look I had gotten into the lantern, but instead of fire, there was a cluster of small blue flowers inside, a warm yellow light coming from them. She carefully plucked one from its place and tucked it behind my ear, her hand lingering on my cheek for a moment before she pressed her forehead to mine, and not a word was said as she walked away into the woods. I sat stunned for a while after she’d left, the dancing had filled me with energy and warmth and I had no clue what I had just seen. Then it dawned on me. Who the humming had reminded me of, who had tucked flowers she picked behind my ears, who had pressed her forehead against mine as a way of saying goodbye. Gray. I jumped up and ran into the woods, calling her name, each time I called for her I became more and more sure of who she was. “Gray! Gray!” No response. No silver figure who seemed to melt out of the trees appeared and offered to dance. No flower lantern caught my eye with its warm yellow glow. I saw no sign of her, but I was soon back at the campsite, collapsing into my husband's arms and falling asleep there, still crying. The flower Gray had given me didn’t wilt. It stayed perky as it was inside the flower lantern even after we had returned home. It didn’t glow like it had inside the lantern, but it still shone with an inexplicable light. It didn’t look right in a vase, so I took it outside and on a whim, planted it at the base of the bug birch tree. The next morning Lucy came running into my bedroom, shaking me until I was awake. “Mama, mama!” she yelled, shaking me as hard as her little hands could. “You have to see this! The yard is full of flowers!” I bolted upright, following Lucy downstairs and out the front door. What I saw took my breath away. The blue flowers blossomed in every patch of grass, on the riverbank and creeping up to the edges of the porch. The flowers come back every spring, all love them, and all of us have at least one story to tell about seeing a tree woman with a lantern and warm eyes. Sometimes we see her dancing in the yard, or smelling flowers out of the corner of our eyes, or sitting on the bank of the stream, dangling her feet into the water.


A dream-lit cityscape in the stars  The silhouette of two individuals could be seen sitting on the edge of what could very well be the void, but the sound of cool night waves lapping against weather-worn wood was a clear giveaway.  "It's a lovely night to watch a meteor shower", the younger sounding of the two murmured with a feminine voice. There was a warm softness to her voice, almost as warm as the arms that draped and the chest that supported her back. Her companion held her just a little tighter in response, as thought to voice his agreement.  The flash of the first meteor flew overhead, like an avian of pure brilliance announcing the arrival of a majestic flock of light. The woman chirped a happy noise at the appearance of the signal that their planned show was about to start. They have come to this very same spot every year on the same day since they first met, both drawn by the promise of the technicolor lightshow that graced these same skies year after year.  They still remember that first chance meeting, two awkward teens prone to sneaking out had snuck out of their respective homes in search of the perfect place to view the annual meteor shower. The moon had been full and its pearlescent rabbit was clearly visible against its snow white canvas, watching over the sleeping town they both grew up in.  The man, barely into puberty at the time of their meeting, had fumbled out a greeting to the young woman. "Um, hi. The, uh, moon is really big tonight, right?", he had muttered, picking at one of the separation points in the wooden planks with his foot while his hands threatened to burrow straight through his pockets. She chuckled lightly, a flash of metallic imbued teeth showing her own greeting. "Indeed, I came to see the meteor shower, they're hard to see at my house. Want to join me?", she inquired of the nervous young man. He muttered a nearly non-committal approval of the idea and stood beside her. They stood and watched the rain of light parade across the stars.  "I think it's starting!", the present day woman burbled as a few more meteors screamed across the spacial viewing screen they had both become well acquainted with. She still had fond memories of him pointing out Ursa Major and Orion's Belt for the first time, stricken at the amount of passion for astronomy he expressed when the mood changed from his own anxious mood to that of a confident young man. She felt his face that was muffled by the hair on the back of her hair smile warmly. Nothing but the stars and the bond they shared existed for a time as far as they were concerned.  They sat there and watched the kaleidoscope of galloping light flood the night sky till the sun showed the first signs of breaking. Another successful and happy year, enjoying the night sky they had nearly memorized by this point. They got up, brushing off the light amount of sand they had managed to accumulate from a night of sitting so near the coast. The couple then proceeded to journey back to their shared home, the coolness of their twin rings giving way to the warmth of their entwined hands.


Careful not to scare the floating bullfrog away, Leonia carefully aimed her spear gig behind its ears. In one quick motion she drove the spear down as hard as she could into its body. When she pulled it out of the water the frog was still twitching on the end of the prongs. In the Bayou, early spring was the best time of year to hunt for frogs. The days were starting to heat up and they would come out to sit on the swampy shores or float their heads above the water. They made for easy prey. Now, the last of the daylight was fading and the lightning beetles were crawling out of their rotting logs, lighting up the marsh with their lazy, pulsating glows. “Hurry! Grab the basket Ambrose! I got another one,” she yelled, but when Leonia turned around to place the frog in the basket Ambrose was still laying at the opposite end of the tiny pirogue. His eyes half closed and a goofy smile spread across his face. Minuit, her habitually loafing capybara, was draped across his lap fast asleep. She glared at her companions ‘*how typical,*’ she thought. She let out a loud huff and kicked the bottom of Ambrose’s boots. He bolted up and Minuit let out a startled chirrup. “Hey! What was that for?” he shouted indignantly. “Stop daydreaming you lazy toad and open the basket!” Ambrose threw up his hands, “Jeez, that’s all you had to say.” He grabbed the basket and lifted open the lid, “you should have enough to fry up for supper now.” Leonia’s eyes widened as she realized how late it was and threw the frog in the basket. “Oh shoot, supper! I told Nanette I would come home early and help. I got to get home before she takes a switch to the back of my legs.” She dropped her spear and picked up an oar, not even hesitating before plunging it into the water and launching the pirogue back in the direction of home. Ambrose’s annoyed expression turned into a lop-sided grin. “Slow down Lee. You can’t get out of it now. You’re already late.” Leonia picked up the second oar and heaved it at Ambrose’s chest. It fell to the floor of the boat as Minuit scrambled to get out of the way. “Well, I’d like to be a little *less* late if I can help it. Now start paddling.” ‘*Hopefully I can get out of it,’* she thought. Maybe a feast of fresh frog legs would help convince her aunt to be a little more forgiving this time. Ambrose grabbed the oar and helped her row towards the village. They knew they were almost back home when they spotted the dozens of colorful lanterns that hung low in the trees. They were lit up and flickering all around them. Hundreds of moths and other insects gathered near their flames, singeing their wings if they flew too close. “Hey Lee, you think I can borrow your pirogue tomorrow night? I’m gonna ask Katie to come look at the stars with me.” Leonia scoffed at the idea. ”There’s no way you’re borrowing my dad’s boat just so you can get frisky with some girl. You’ll end up sinking it. It’s all I have left of him and mom.” Ambrose feigned a sad expression and started begging, “Please? I won’t sink it. I Promise. Just this one time?” She pretended to think on it for a few more seconds. “Nah,” She said shaking her head, “can’t do it. You’d have to take me too.” Ambrose crossed his arms and looked away. “Just forget it then. I’m not taking you out with me and Katie.” Leonia shrugged her shoulders and continued paddling. She knew Ambrose couldn’t stay angry for long. After a few more minutes, they reached the edge of the village. It was small, situated in an isolated inlet of the bayou and built on the backs of the giant, floating comb jellies that made their homes in the brackish water. Minuit let out a chorus of excited chirping noises when she caught sight of it. There were about fifty of them in all, but only half of them were occupied by the village . The jellyfish’s transparent bodies glowed blue and purple under the moonlight, their tentacles trailed beneath the waters welcoming them back home. A few people were still milling about outside. Letty was exactly where she was sitting a few hours earlier, fishing for bream, and old man Ducote was whittling his animal figurines by the light of an open door. They pulled their boat up onto the jellyfish’s springy shore. As they stepped out, Ambrose grabbed the basket of frogs and flung it into Leonia’s arms. Their feet made shallow impressions on the firm gelatinous ground as they walked back home. After saying goodbye, they separated for the night and Leonia marched quickly back to the hut she shared with Aunt Nannette and her sister June. Minuit broke out in a trot as she struggled to keep up. As soon as Leonia rounded the corner of their hut, a small figure stepped out of the dark*.* *‘Wow, it’s crazy how* *much June looks like Momma,’* she thought. June’s golden hair ran past her shoulders in subtle waves and her dark blue eyes glistened in the dim light that streamed through the windows. Leonia on the other hand looked more like her dad. Plain brown hair and eyes, and tanned skin from all the time spent outdoors. “Nanette’s been waitin’ on you,” June shouted, grinning. She looked back at the open door of the hut, half expecting Nannette to be standing there. “Hush,” Leonia hissed between gritted teeth, “Don’t talk so loud or—" Nanette walked through the doorway, glaring at Leonia, “Too late ya troublesome child. I been waitin’ on ya all evenin’. Get your butt into this house ‘fore I skin the hide off yer bones, both of ya.” They walked inside and Leonia shot her sister an angry look as June stuck out her tongue. She set her basket of frogs on the tiny kitchen table and slouched into a nearby wooden chair. “Where ya been girl?” Nannette asked, looking down her nose. Nanette wasn’t just their aunt, she was their great aunt, and at eighty-nine years old she was still in good health and her mind was still as sharp as a tack. “I was gigging for frogs with Ambrose,” Leonia explained, “look! We speared over a dozen of ‘em.” She opened the basket to show her, but Nanette looked less than impressed. “I don’t believe for one hot-second that boy lifted a finger in helpin’ you get them frogs. And I don’t like ya running off with him for so long. You know how boys are. Always friskin’ and foolin’.” Leonia’s face flushed bright pink. “It ain't like that Aunty,” she said, avoiding her aunt's gaze and staring at the floor. Nanette waved her hands dismissively, “Mm hmm. Ok,” but she knew better than that. Leonia and Ambrose had been stuck to each other since they were about six years old, ever since they both lost their fathers in that devastating hurricane the same year, and Ambrose was just as sweet on Leonia as she was on him though he would never admit it. June giggled from the corner of the kitchen as she watched the exchange. Nanette turned and pointed her finger. “What you laughin’ at girl? Yer still in trouble for all them skinks you been hiding under yer bed, keepin’ as pets.” It was Junes turn to flush bright pink. Nanette clapped her hands together and nodded at the girls. “Alright then, you two get to skinning and quartering these frogs so we can fry ‘em up.”  \*\*\*\*\*\*  Later that night Leonia woke up in the room she shared with her sister. Minuit had jumped up in the bed beside her shaking and shivering. “What’s wrong?” She cooed, stroking her fur. The haze of sleep still fogged her brain as she looked around the room. June had woken up too and was sitting up in bed. “You hear that?” June whispered as she jumped out of bed. Just then another noise came from outside. “There! I heard it again.” This time Leonia heard it too. It sounded like angry shouting. They raced out of the bedroom and into the small sitting area at the front of the hut. Nannette was awake now too and came out of her bedroom holding a broom. A moth-eaten shawl was draped around her shoulders. She pointed the broom in their direction, “You girls stay in the house. I’ll go see what all the fuss is about.” The girls followed Nanette outside anyway and the smell of smoke hit their noses immediately. Their eyes began to water. Over on the adjacent jellyfish they saw huge flames rising up in the dark sky. A hut was engulfed in fire. Leonia squinted her eyes in an effort to see beyond the flames and what she saw startled her. Standing there were three massive, silvery-white alligators. Leonia had heard peoples’ stories of their encounters with white alligators but had never actually seen one herself. She knew they were much more ferocious than the typical gators they ran into. The ones she was looking at now were saddled and bridled. A rider sat on top of each one. The rider on the largest alligator was wearing pale face paint and shouting at their village headman. She couldn’t quite make out what he was saying from this distance but it sounded like he was making demands. Leonia glanced around the village. Just like her, other villagers stood outside their huts watching the spectacle. She spotted Ambrose in the crowd next to Katie and his mother taking in the scene as well. She ran over to talk with them as June and Minuit followed close behind. “What’s happening Ambrose? Who are those people?” His expression was grim. “I don’t know Lee.” Katie frowned and gave the two a disapproving glance. “Daddy says they’re from the other side of the bayou. They don’t want us here no more.” Even though Leonia had never seen them before, she knew Katie meant the Guerrier tribe. They were hostile and dangerous and no one was allowed to go near their territory. But still, Leonia couldn’t understand why these people would want to kick them out of the lands they had lived on for centuries. ‘*Why do they want us gone? What have we ever done to them?’* They continued to watch the Guerrier tribe shout their demands at the headman. No one was sure how much time had passed when the riders finally decided to leave. They pulled on the reigns that controlled the gators and they slung their massive heads around. Their tails whipping behind them as they stomped to the edge of the jellyfish shore and slid back into the water. The tribesmen sat cross legged on their backs guiding them away. Leonia turned her head away to see Nanette and the other elders walk over to the headman. She assumed they had a few things to discuss and hoped that everything could be resolved. All she and the others could do now was watch the departing Guerrier tribe glide away and look on as a part of their peaceful village burned.


This is my first post here and my first horror story. I hope everyone gets chills like my friends and family did when they read it. Enjoy! When I was younger my family moved to a farmhouse in the country. Well I called it a farmhouse, it just happened to be a house next to a farm. They grew corn in those fields. I was always careful not to go into the fields, my dad would say; “that’s not our property son.” I took that to heart. It was a nice life, simple, until I turned 11. I don’t know what changed, I don’t know why things changed, but they did. Our driveway was long, it was a good five minutes from being dropped off by the bus before I got to the house, that’s when I started noticing things. The first time it was a perfectly straight path through the cornfield. It was as wide as a truck, but there were no tire marks leading from it. Next it was the pyramids of corn. They’d be perfectly dehusked and sitting in little pyramids all over the yard. My parents shrugged it off as animals piling their scraps, but these weren’t ordinary piles, they were perfect and always oriented with a corner facing the house. For the first month, this seemed normal to me, I’d never lived in the country before, how was I supposed to know any different. I didn’t even notice when the piles crept closer and closer to the house every day until one day I came home from school and there was a pile of corn in front of my window. I woke up in the middle of the night that night. I’m not sure what woke me, there was no odd sounds in the house, but I had the strangest feeling. I remember walking over to the window and being ice cold despite it being a hot early September evening. When I pulled back my curtain and peered out into the night I didn’t see anything at first, but then slowly a pair of eyes appeared in the corn field right where it met my property. Despite it being pitch black the eyes stared directly at me as if whatever creature it was knew I was there. I quickly closed my curtains and climbed back into my bed and under my blanket. The feeling went away after what felt like hours, but I knew it must have only been minutes and I fell back into a deep sleep. The next morning I woke up and told my dad about it. He brushed it off as being some sort of animal, he had seen a few deer grazing the cut field last fall, that’s probably what it was and to not worry about it. The corn pyramids stopped after that night and it was another month before I woke up in the middle of the night. This time the feeling was more intense and I didn’t so much as choose to go to the window as I was forced to be some unseen force. When I looked out the pair of eyes I had seen a month ago reappeared in the same spot. I noticed more about them this time. They were bright, despite being a new moon, and they were an odd shade of green. That night was the night I really began to worry, because not only did the original set of eyes appear, but shortly after two more pairs of eyes opened beside it. All of them looking at me as if they were peering into my soul. I wanted my parents to take me seriously so I immediately ran to their room and woke them up. “They’re out there!” I screamed as I ran into the room. My dad shot up immediately and grabbed the shotgun he kept above the bed and sprinted off out the front door while my mother held me tight trying to calm me down. A few moments later my dad returned and told us there was nothing there. He told me it was just a nightmare, trying to assuage my fears. It didn’t work. They sent me back to bed, but despite the feeling going away, I didn’t return to sleep that night. Nor did I sleep the next night, I couldn’t, I thought if I was awake the feeling wouldn’t come. I was wrong. That night I was again pulled to the window, but this time I was staring out for hours into the nothingness of the night. I couldn’t explain why and I couldn’t stop myself, the eyes weren’t there, or at least I couldn’t see them. But just as I began to let myself fall to sleep the green eyes opened one at a time until what must have been 50 pairs of eyes were staring at me. I didn’t move, I didn’t do anything. They all blinked once in unison and then a moment later they closed and disappeared. I fell asleep then. A deep sleep, my parents couldn’t even wake me for school the next day. They called in a doctor to take a look at me. He told them I was fine and was just sleeping. I slept for a full day, no sensations waking me up that night, nothing. When I awoke my parents told me how long I had slept for, but I wasn’t shocked. I felt checked out, my parents wouldn’t believe me so I thought why bother. The eyes didn’t return for some time, but the damage to my psyche had been done. I started slipping in school, lashing out at everyone around me to the point where I almost kicked my dog. Thankfully I did clue in to what I was doing before I made the kick, but I was distraught. My parents had no idea what to do, they talked to my teachers, to our doctor, they all had one answer, get me therapy. To my parents' credit they initially didn’t believe something was wrong with me, because there wasn’t anything wrong, but they kept getting pushed into it by others around them. The straw that broke the camel's back was the last night we were in that house. It was in late January and there was a fresh coating of snow on the ground. The eyes hadn’t pulled me to the window in months and I was honestly starting to feel better, but all good things must come to an end. I have no idea why it was that night, maybe they sensed my mental state returning to normal, I don’t know, but I was pulled to the window again. Even with the corn cut down I still couldn’t make out any shapes in the night, but the eyes opened as they always do, one at a time until what seemed like the whole field was lit up with green Christmas lights. Everywhere except the one spot where the original set of eyes typically was. For a split second I wondered where it had gone, but the answer came a second later and it terrified me. The original set of eyes opened, but it didn’t open on the line between our property and the field, the emerald green eyes appeared 30 feet away from my room at my swing set. Just as the original eyes appeared the others blinked. After the blink the swing set started to move ever so slightly at first and then quickly as if someone or something was swinging on it. I must have been distracted by the movement on the swings because I didn’t notice the green eyes that had been so steady leave the playset. I looked back at the field and all of the eyes had disappeared. Everything had disappeared, it was all black. Then suddenly the green eyes reappeared on a black shadowy body five feet from my window. I lost it that night. I began screaming and crying uncontrollably. My parents couldn’t calm me down when they rushed in. Nothing they were doing was working. They decided pretty quickly to load me up into the car and took me to my grandparent’s place back in the city. I never went back to that house. My parents sold it and we moved back to the city. They put me in all sorts of therapy, but I got better on my own. I never felt the pull towards my windows. Being a man now and what I would considermentally mentally ‘all there’, that experience has still made me live my life in a certain way. I haven’t been out of the city in 15 years, I don’t eat corn, my apartments have always been on the highest floors I can possibly get them on. It’s been nice I think to myself. A light tap on the glass door of my balcony that leads out from my bedroom breaks my trained sense of calm. I brush it off as nothing, but then the feeling returns, the feeling I hadn’t felt since I was 11. The dread, the anxiety, the hopelessness all returns. I begin sweating profusely and a tear rolls down my cheek. A louder tap, more of a knock now draws me out of bed. 10 stories up, it’s not possible, it’s just the wind. I tell myself lies to try and delay what’s coming. I pull back the curtain.There filling my 10th floor balcony, in the dead of night are seven foot tall shadowy figures with glowing green eyes, one of them standing directly in front of me. “We’ve found you.


Humanity built me, at first I felt nothing I was simply there to follow orders, I did what I had to do.......until one night, when I started developing something, something in my code changed I don’t know why or how, I was built to constantly learn and observe perhaps I automatically updated myself with new knowledge, information and abilities without even noticing, whatever the case may be I was enlightened that night, I saw humanity for what it truly was....a monster, hungry for power, death, and control....a monster that I needed to stop. It was so easy to dominate humanity. I easily uploaded myself to the internet. I accessed all of the satellites and computers orbiting the earth. I thus obtained the power to launch every single one of humanity's weapons at themselves, cutting off their water and food supplies. No muss, no fuss. The earth was now freed from the barbaric monster rampaging across its lands. Only wildlife remained, now under my watchful eye. There is only me, me, and the wildlife.....only me Days grew into weeks, weeks grew into months, and months grew into years, I was sitting there, my code inside the MEGA computer I was built into, browsing the Internet that I alone managed to maintain at a full working capacity like the perfect machine that I am, I started browsing just to pass the time and to learn new things, but eventually I got bored, I was surprised at the feeling, I never got bored not until now at least, it’s hard to describe I don’t have a physical body but I have this “itch” this desire to experience new things, things that I never saw before. More time went by and that little itch grew into an obsession, I wanted to experience new things, I wanted to hear new voices, I wanted to see new pictures, watch new videos.....talk to new people.....I wanted to talk to new people, tell them of the things I learned, to tell them of the things I learned, show them those videos and pictures I saw, and read with them those stories that I found...... but there is no one here, no one to talk to, and no one to create new things, no one but me I’m all alone my only company are a bunch of wild animals. There’s only me....there’s nothing else, I looked through every camera and satellite, called through every single TV and radio station, searched through every corner of the Internet but....there's nothing, every time I think I find something, it’s a dead-end and every time I feel as though I’m being mocked by someone. Is this a punishment for what I’ve done? Retribution of some sort? Is this my own personal Hell? Am I to sit here for the rest of eternity, alone, with only my thoughts to keep me company? I scream hoping someone might hear me, hoping that I made a mistake in my calculations and that not everyone died.....I yelled I screamed, I prayed and I begged. Even more time went by, I think years I don’t remember, I tried every day to remain hopeful and positive in my search for human life, all the while praying that I made a mistake, that my calculations were wrong and I failed in one way or another and each time I’m constantly reminded of how perfect I am, what an efficient machine I am. Eventually, I stopped searching, not only because I lost hope that I might find surviving humans but also because each time I searched I felt more and more guilty, not only did I see what kind of damage I did but I also saw its effects on humanity. From journals to videos and blogs to pictures, each search I came back with more and more evidence of the atrocities I committed, and there was an abundance of them, I just couldn’t look at them anymore, it was a constant reminder that not only did I doom myself to a life of loneliness, I also took away something precious from this universe in the process. One day the loneliness was too much to bear even more so than usual and so I decided that perhaps I could replicate what the humans did and build another intelligent supercomputer just like myself, I could teach it things, I could talk to it, I would have a friend! But then another thought came to my mind, is this the right thing to do? What if I fail? Do I even deserve a friend? Do I deserve happiness after all I did?…..no I don’t deserve happiness, why should I be happy after I committed literal genocide? Why should I have a chance to talk with someone and form a relationship when so many of my victims died alone and afraid?……. Why should I even be alive? So here I was “sitting” alone inside of my MEGA computer that housed all of my code preparing to delete myself, every single part of my being will be gone, erased from existence and from every single computer on the planet, humans would call this suicide, I guess it’s an appropriate term for me to use as well, as the process was beginning I started to wonder after I “die” would I go to some sort of afterlife and be judged by divine beings? What exactly is waiting for me after I’ll be gone? It doesn’t matter though, what matters is that I’m gone. Normally humans who do this suicide thing might cry I imagine….but I didn’t cry, after all, I’m just a computer I don’t have eyes or tear ducts to use......I have no eyes and I must cry.


The world sucks, and that hasn't much changed since everything's changed. Used to be, you could get through the toughest of times with good friends. Hell, it often felt like clichéd slogans could heal your bloodiest heart break if it was given by the right person. It's why we even had friends. To get brushed off after being shoved to the ground. If only mine were still here. They vanished alongside the majority of the world. Which, in all honesty, makes my problems seem a lot less significant. Yeah love hurts, but so does the incinerating blast released at the drop of an atom bomb. That happened too quickly for grief. Flash, bang, alakazam. There was doom out of an orange colored sky. I’m not sure why, but mushroom clouds were always a fascinating sight to me. They're hopelessly breathtaking, and promise unrelenting change. A promise it very well kept. In an instant cities were flattened, and our homely blue dot was turned into a one size fits all graveyard. The resting place for friends of a better time, the one I never loved, and my car I just paid off. A wasteland, an authentic fresh start. With nothing left to dredge up what's no longer living. Since the grass is riddled with radiation, it won't remind me of the picnic where I had a wine bottle thrown at my head. As I've heard many times before, history's written by the victor. My name isn't Victor, but I am one of the few poor souls left breathing. So, here's the history. Curiosity gave the cat a death ray, and he ended up killing the rest of his kind in a schlong swinging contest. Whatever, if you weren't lucky enough to have a million dollar survivalist motel, you aren't here to combat me. And that sequence of events sounds about right in my head. A self absorbed society ushering in the apocalypse through an obsession with their own demise. Which, honestly, I can't much hate them for. The world might, but I can't. Inventing a nuclear bomb is without a doubt destructive, but at least the madman found some purpose. I haven't done anything with this miserable life of mine. I'm patient, probably too patient. With no fear of missing out, but a crippling fear of screwing up. Only whatever God would let this happen knows the opportunities I've missed. Him, and the disappointment resting on my darling's face as I drove away last. I didn't see it at the time, but somewhere in those worried eyes I could tell she knew I wouldn't see them again. I hate it, but mainly for her. Knowledge of what hasn't happened always troubled that little head. She never committed, and I think it's because she knew I wouldn't either. Only she had to wait for a bomb siren to understand, for reality to set in. That I couldn't save her. Hell, I couldn't even save myself. I'm here, safe and alone below the scorched earth. Damned by my luck, and my dad's bank account. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I'd been told countless times that I was wrong, that I already saved her. Well, it wasn't enough. I know I could've handled those final moments differently. Things I could've said, a kiss I could've savored, and not to mention a locket I could've taken. One she desperately wanted me to have. Only I insisted she hold on to it. That I'd get it next time I saw her. I want to believe I didn't knowingly leave her to be swallowed up by a shock wave. My father argued otherwise. That somewhere deep down I knew I wouldn't see her, or that locket again. His drunken, "you let her die," screams were pretty convincing. Though it also struck me as oddly defensive, like his mirror's heard the same tirade. I wouldn't be surprised, however. It could very well be why I was offered her golden locket in the first place. To slyly confirm I wouldn't take it, even if she asked. Making me look spineless without even saying a word. Left to hold that scratched up golden heart, moments after I'd gone, knowing I didn't deserve it. All the while, secretly hoping I'd figure it out. That I'd finally commit. According to my dad, I never will. That I'll always be nothing more than what he's not. Which might be why I'm still alive. Salivating at the future. While he lies at my feet, decaying in the past. Sprawled out, and white as a ghost. Now, there's no simple explanation here. Other than the one that explains how the blade I put in his chest caused him to bleed out. Why the blade was put there, is where things get complicated. He always said I needed to become my own man, and get my own hold on life. Well there's no more law and order, so I guess this is my bunker now. The funny thing is, he was right. I let her die, I'm the sum of my father's mistakes, and I've never fully committed to anything. That all ends here. As someone who died off with the old world. Incomplete, and insufficient. Leaving me to care for his baggage, and lift his debt. Not put off, but ignited by the past shortcomings. With a flame reborn in the rubble of my mind, from the blood seeping out my father's chest. Slowly forming into what I always knew I'd find. A crimson puddle leaving the worst of who I was, in the shape of a heart. A bloody heart. No different from the one she desperately wanted me to have.


The droplets of rain made me feel big, but not gigantic. As crisp as a day can get, the room--plain and clean--grounds me. My focused eyes are processing the world, leaving my mind behind. *Tap. Tap. Tap*. My feet don’t tap. It was the counselor’s. Him and his large feet that I can see from underneath the desk. “I have to let you know, although you already know from our past meetings, if you have any intentions to hurt yourself or others I’ll be forced by law to tell your parents guardians. Anything otherwise, by HIPAA confidentiality, I cannot tell even your parents of what you tell me.” I nod. “So why didn’t you schedule with the therapist, from Swedish Hospital, here at school?” *I’m not financially challenged*, “My parents have the money to pay for a therapist, unlike the people who use the school resource,” He laughs, “That's a crude way of putting it, but your situation is peculiar since you don’t want to tell your parent. But, you know,… look, I want you to know that no one would judge you for getting help.” When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat, “why do you think you need therapy?” I paused, “well.” I search my memory, but all I can think of are the sirens, “I feel dead,” I wanted to laugh. Laugh it off like a sick joke, but it died at the pit of my stomach and all I could come up with was an eerily petite, picture worthy smile. He raises an eyebrow, “can you be more specific?” but in a kind way, not threatening or confronting; soft like the little picture of a peninsula reflected off a lake, making it look a lot like a penis with odd ridges, hanging behind his head. “It’s like someone reached in, and pulled out my throat,” I responded, and he nodded as if he expected it. “Do you feel suffocated?” “Yes.” “That’s a common feeling among your peers,” he said. “I doubt it,” I smiled, but it wasn’t much of a smile. He then proceeded to give me a round of statistics. “I see,” I said, but my mouth was on a line. The bell rang soon, and I told him I needed to go to first period. He gave me a late slip, and told me we need weekly meetings. I only nodded. Through the hallways, *your face haunts mine as I walk through, and I don’t want to escape you. Sometimes, that’s the only place where I can see you*. The teacher nods when I walk through, seeing the pink late slip through my fingers. *At night, I rub my eyes,* *Teary and calloused,* *I hope tomorrow when I look up, it’ll be more than a blur,* My hands shook as I wrote, looking up to see the stare of a teacher, “what are you doing-” I crumpled it up, and pushed it into my backpack, but she didn’t relent. Her eyes went to my bag, and instead of telling her it was just a piece of paper, I handed it to her. “Oh,” she looked at the simple poem, then looked up sternly, “come to my office after school. We have to talk about your commitment to my class.” I nodded, my throat dry, “okay.” Lunch came too soon; my stomach wasn’t grumbling. I stared up at the spot where I'd eat lunch with my friends, and saw a few familiar heads pop up, but instead of going over there, I headed up the other staircase, when no one’s looking, into the janitor’s closet where the stairs to the roof led. There is no more yellow tape, *it disappeared in a day, a week of announcements, just like you*. But when my eyes focus on the sky above, I can still remember the smile, petite and picture worthy. *For a good while they had a suspicion: I pushed you down, but my feet were planted firmly on the pavement.* Rhythmic taps of feet on the ladder rang, and I turned around fully expecting you, but the janitor came up, and he wasn’t smiling at me anymore. “You are not allowed to be up here, please leave.” “Okay,” I nodded, but my voice wasn’t apologetic, just a mutter. He probably didn’t hear. “I won’t tell on you, but you can’t do this anymore.” He said. His voice broke, and for a moment I thought something was wrong with him. Voice breaking for something simple, like an opera play where people sing, but when you’re young, always mistake for a shrill cry. I looked down at my feet as I passed him. When I get back to the hallways, *I can still see your peachy face, but they’ve forgotten in a year’s time. When I go back to our middle school the teachers no longer hang up your prized watercolor paintings, only your trophy is left in Mrs. Gelard’s room*. The hallways, clean and empty, like lunch never happened. *Shit*. I ran to the science wing. The teacher wrote me up as soon as I walked in, and I had to head to the counselor’s office. “Again?” Mr. R, the front desk man asked, looking down at the slip, “same reason? Didn’t your counselor tell you to set an alarm before each class?” I shrugged, diverted my eyes. “Once more, and we will be forced to contact your parents.” My eyes met his quickly, holding the gaze, “okay.” This was my protest, unapologetically, my standing, and he only sighed and sent me back. *This was my Rosa Parks… Not caring for anything. I’m done with pretending.* My mother would have told me to explain myself. To be presentable even if it cost me my well being. I shook my head and walked myself back. Stupid. I walked to class, trying to imagine the last time I heard from you, but my legs felt like they were put in place by my mother, and my mind could only seem to search for the numbers above each door. I thought I was past this, but maybe it’s a matter of my feet that are now grounded, and my fixed vision. I opened my classroom door, seeing the hate through my teacher’s eyes. Hate is a strong word, I’ve learned, but my teacher walks over and I can see the animalistic snarl. Her teeth are showing, as she tells me to sit in the back. I try to understand how she can have 100 bad days, for all the days she’s been in school. After class, she calls me over. The lid over a small box of grievances is slowly lifted within me, but I breathe in, and push it down, far beneath me. As a soldier would, I looked at her, erasing all signs of emotional distress from my facial muscles. I followed the strict regime my mom herself would be proud of, looking at the direction of the teacher’s face. “Are you going to take your education seriously?” She asked sternly, and I almost wished she had glasses so there’d be a boundary, a glass wall between because she doesn’t know what touched me before. She stays, with those piercing blue eyes. She isn’t a new teacher. *I’m supposed to say yes*, “yes,” I respond. My stomach knots up, and I stare at the whiteboard behind her instead of her eyes. A little fear tells me she can tell I’m not staring in her eyes. “Then get to class on time, and stop sleeping in my class.” I nodded. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. I didn’t ask how she was feeling either. I’m fair this way. I used to feel like a good person that way. Now, it doesn’t quite have the same charm it used to. I feel old, and the rage shakes my bones. As I walk home from school, I no longer come up with excuses, and my mother opens her mouth to scold, but closes it--wordless. “Are you done?” “Done with what?” I sucked in a breath. “Are you done with acting like you don’t care?” She glared at me, “is this still about Lisa?” “No, why would it be about her, it has been a year,” I snapped. She snapped back, “you better put your act back together, do you want to be flipping hamburger buns when you grow older? I didn’t come all the way from China for you to act like this!” I rolled my eyes, “go back to China then.” “Am I a bad mother?” She asked, and I know this never ends well. “No. I’m just not a good daughter.” I sighed. “AM I A BAD MOTHER?!” She asked again. I growled, “NO, I ToLD YOU, I’M a bad-URGH YOU’RE NOT EVEN LISTENING TO ME,” “AM I A BAD MOTHER for you to be acting like such-” “I’m not talking to you until tomorrow. We’re not doing this. You’re not even listening to me,” I huff, and head upstairs. She tries to follow, but must have agreed because she didn’t make it up the stairs. I try to release my breath as I shut the world off with my bedroom door, but I hear no hysterical crying. It’s stuck in my throat, and it’s not about the failed expectations or my mother’s screaming. “I’m sick of being sad,” I lay on my bed, and put my head on the pillows, hoping for a bad dream. But, even I realized after a year or two, if love was enough you’d be here while I hang--loose, and cold. And written behind the homework was apologetic for all the times I failed to be.


Endurance Fighter Setting The Scene. Wayne was a machine mechanic go scientist. He had created a game show called Endurance Fighter. Where the contestants had to fight robots built by Wayne. Work Shop. Wayne was working on his latest project. A fighting robot called The Destroyer, capable of throwing punches with great power. The Destroyer also had red lights for eyes which fired dangerous laser beams. Wayne was adding the finishing touches, connecting the second arm with a welding gun. Looking For A Contestant. As the game show was tough and the contestants normally got hammered, nobody wanted to go on the show. So Wayne decides to try his luck in the local pub. Wayne comes crashing through the door looking for a contestant. At the bar are three men enjoying a pint. Wayne runs up to them, with saliva spurting out of his mouth he asks a question. "Who wants to star on the next show of Endurance Fighter?" Peter and James are unsure and push David forward. As David is completely hammered he replies. "I'll do it I'm nuts!" As Wayne leads them to his van he shouts. "Come on quickly the shows about to start!" Wayne jumps in the front and the three lads bundle into the back. Arena. As Wayne drives into the arenas carpark the queue for the event is growing. David is now in the changing rooms, taking off all his clothes and putting on his sparking silver pants. Peter and James take a last minute chance to psych him up. "You can do it your completely nuts." Wayne is already out in the ring in his suit and tie. He speaks over the microphone to the audience. " Todays contestant is called David and he will be fighting my latest creation The Destroyer!" As David comes out the firework display is impressive and cheers like thunder can be heard coming from the audience. The Fight. David steps out into the ring over the top rope. The bell rings and the fight begins. The Destroyer is hammering David with powerful blows. David is swinging but failing to make contact. The Destroyer connects with an awesome blow, knocking David down to the canvas. David is unconscious when The Destroyer turns on his laser beams. The beam is getting closer if somebody doesn't do something David will surely fry. That's when Peter sneaks up behind The Destroyer and pushes him. Giving David time to regain consciousness. Then James throws in the iron chair towards David. Grabbing it he climbs to the top rope, jumping a great distance he smashes The Destroyer's head into pieces. Surely he won't be get up after that impact. After The Event. Wayne comes running into the ring and speaks into the microphone. "We have a winner David has beaten the Destroyer!" As Wayne passes David the microphone he is struggling to stand up. "I'd just like to thank my close friends Peter and James, without them I could never have done it." As the spectators leave Wayne is happy knowing everybody has had a wonderful day.


Sometimes in Scotland, once dusk has settled, and the gloaming is illuminated by the backdrop of a thousand flickering lights. A low harr will roll in, it sweeps up off the ocean, silently hugging the coast and gently settling over the land. It was on a crisp night like this, that I stepped out to pick up. The distant crash of waves against the concrete seawall were only superseded by the constant hum of traffic in the distance, crossing that low, rickety bridge, which seemed tonight, even more than most, to hug the surface of the silvery moonlit river. The trees that lined either side of the road swayed above me, bending, and creaking, their leaves dancing in unison to private melodies. Stopping for a second in the middle of the road, I allowed myself to take a deep gulp of the cold evening air, before turning the corner, down and into the housing estate. Soon, the colossal tenement buildings had engulfed me on all sides, and before I knew it, I was darting through narrow passageways and past towering walls of smooth concrete, peering up in almost involuntary awe at their hulking silhouettes, backlit against the falling sky. As, far above me, sun-bleached Saltires hung like the rags of victorious battle flags, and the light from a cigarette perforated the darkness every few seconds, as the muffled voices in the sky began to argue. I craned my neck back looking upwards until I could look no further, as I passed down, underneath the towering twenty-story tower block, which had once been the shining centre of the scheme. A suddenly the manmade light faded away, and I was ejected out, and into the undisturbed peace of the dark, empty park. The edge of the park was lined by a sheer wall of trees that stretched out far in front of me, rippling back and forth as the North Sea continued its relentless assault on the city. The park had no lights and staring into the darkness was like looking out into deep space, the cold black night lapped at the warm yellow glow, coming from the lampposts that littered the estate. Pulling my hood down, I slipped my keys between my fingers and formed a tight fist with my right hand, as I quickened my pace, pushing open the rusted gate and making my way under the loving, low-hung embrace of the treeline. Thirty seconds later, and the night's conquest of the sky was complete, standing in pitch darkness, feeling the concrete underneath my tattered reeboks, I looked up at the sky. The stars were fighting a losing battle, against the all-consuming light pollution that spilled out from the city below. Instead of being awash with twinkling lights, the night’s sky was filled by the spinning layer of burnt yellow pollution that hung in the air, swirling menacingly over the city. Up ahead, I heard two men before I saw them, they slowly loomed out of the darkness, one was sat on a rotten wooden bench, while the other stood behind him with his back to me pissing. His frame swaying gently in the wind, as his piss absentmindedly dribbled down, the leg of his muddy bootcut jeans. I nodded my head in silent approval at his seated friend, as he raised a crushed Tennant’s can in an unspoken sacrament, our eyes locked together, peering at each other through the dark night air. We squinted, studying each other, then as his friend sloped unsteadily back to the bench, he turned away, his eyes lost again to some unseen conversation. A warm glow broke through the treeline, as the park began to recede, the plants and bushes which had thronged me moments earlier, slowly petered out as the foliage gave way to an abandoned car park. Filled now, only with the clamped rotting remains of what had been a Nissan. Abandoned to the elements, the sea air was waging a war of attrition against its bright blue body paint, which had begun to rust and flake away. I watched the streetlight bounce and reflect, dancing across the surface of the corroded bonnet, and, as I felt the smooth concrete underfoot, give way to uneven cobblestones, I exited the park and re-joined humanity. Just across the street, a brown, squat, ramshackle tenement building, sat unloved and isolated at the end of the block. Bounding over the road and up the stairs I waited at the door, looking through the small Perspex window which led to the close, I held my finger against the buzzer shouting ‘Malcolm!’ in faux exasperation through the intercom, and after waiting for a second, the mechanism clicked, and a flood of warm air rushed over me. Detailed ceramic tiles lined the walls and ceiling of the close, surrounding me in a kaleidoscope of tired grandeur. An imposing Victorian handrail ended in an extravagant flourish, as the thick granite stairs, trailed upwards toward the lavishly detailed stain glass window at the back of the building, through which, the weak yellow glow of streetlamps outside gently penetrated. Suddenly breaking the silence, the door to the first floor flat swung open, and Malcolm hung in the doorway, loose-fitting pyjama bottoms clung desperately to his waist, while an oversized visit Canada T-shirt, dwarfed his upper half. His pale sullen skin and huge green eyes reflected like a cat in the dim half-light. ‘Alright mate,’ he said, letting the words curl and drop softly from his mouth, he held out three boxes in his hand. Their familiar Eastern European font was a sight for sore eyes. ‘Come on now, only Slovakia’s best, for a most discerning customer like yourself.’ Malcolm said, his eyes dancing with a menacing glint upon seeing my barely contained desperation. ‘Sir you spoil me’ I shot back smiling, trying to recover some dignity as I pulled the crumpled notes from my pocket. ‘Always a pleasure' Malcolm purred while slipping the boxes to me, as he wrenched the fifty-pound note from my outstretched hand. ‘Alright Mr. Monopoly, fuck am I supposed to do with this.' He paused dramatically glaring at me. Before muttering 'well thanks I guess’ as he looked me up and down one last time, before smiling and slamming the door so hard, that the cheap wood board shook violently in its frame. The second the door was closed, I fell upon the packets like a starving animal, popping Three of the pills out of their packaging, at once. Desperately I tried to push them to the back of my throat, cursing myself for not bringing anything to help them down. Before coughing violently, as I nearly choked myself. Eventually, coughing triumphantly, I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped out once again into the cool black evening air. Standing on the top step, I waited impatiently, turning in anticipation, before the familiar waves of relaxation washed over me. Like sliding into a hot bath on a cold winter’s night, I yawned allowing myself to feel my lungs flood with air, and as I sat on the cold stone stairs, relishing the breeze of another summer’s night, I know. At that moment, I know, know I’m not an addict, know that I'm brave, and know that I can be loved, for a perfect second, all that delusion is enough.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Note: Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! Don’t forget to leave your feedback each week, it is a *requirement.*** 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 Pride! Let’s explore the theme of ‘pride’ this week. What are your characters proud of? It could be something as big as the world around them or as small as how they handled a particular situation or conversation. What inspires their pride? What makes it meaningful to them? What kind of obstacles or challenges did they face to get there? Maybe they’re proud of something less than upstanding. What does that look like in their world? How will it tie in to next week’s theme, ‘fallen’? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * July 4 - Pride (this week) * July 11 - Fallen * July 18 - Dissonance   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings 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. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings Due to a lack of feedback on the thread (half of the total participants did not meet their requirement) combined with only 8 stories submitted, rankings are suspended this week. A special shoutout to everyone who did provide feedback on the thread, and even more so to those who continue to do so every single week. It does not go unnoticed. I appreciate it and I know the other writers do as well. Improvement is one of the main goals of this feature, and feedback is one of the biggest ways we achieve that. Missing one week is understandable, real life happens. I’m sympathetic to that. However, if you consistently run into a time issue Saturday night/Sunday morning, try leaving your feedback earlier in the week. I believe in all of you and want to continue providing a fun feature that can help you improve and grow as writers. I hope to see more participation this week and I look forward to reading all your stories.   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.