Teenagers. They’re rambunctious. They’re rebellious. They’re hunters of the supernatural in the night. At least, mine thinks she is. You got one too, don’t you, Hugh? So, you’re probably going to get it. More than any of the others. See, Hugh, we lost her mother awhile back. Neither of us took it quite well. But, Seline? I mean, who am I to assume to know anything of the connection between a mother and daughter? But Jesus, Lord almighty. She just crumbled into bits. I could tell you all about what came next. The months of dark rooms and uneaten dinners. Pastor sayin to me she needs more church but I’ll admit before God himself, I was this close to taking the darned girl to the best shrink I could afford. Icould not lose Seline, too. Not after what we went through together. But then something happened. And I don’t pretend to be no prophet. I’m no saint. But something real otherworldly transpired when I was at the end of my wits and I tell you, I’ve never been so thankful for anything in my life. You see, my baby girl was carried home on cloud nine one evening after weeks of looking. like she had just personally surveyed Dante’s rungs. My Seline, my beautiful Seline, had found actual shards of heaven. She said an angel from on up high living out in in the desert in one of them steel trailers showed her how to use these divine minerals to see the truth of the world. All be damned, if the second she showed me how to ingest the good news of the mineral, I didn’t start seeing straight this entire damned world. I know what you’re thinking. Ol’ Matty Pigstuy has lost his goddamn mind! Of course that’s what you’re thinking. I got you strung up here in my barn LIKE A GODDAMN PIG! But you’re no pig, right partner? You been coming to buy from ol Matty for years! So what gives? Well, gimme a second here. Let me shove some more of this angel glass into my pipe. Gotta get it real hot, so it can do its jesuit magic. Good god. That feels great. Yeah, baby! Here, I know you’re upside down and that hook in your back gotta hurt something mighty fearsome… But you feel that? You see that? That clarity. Breathe it in deep, like a good sow on the grill….. See? See that? That’s how my baby Seline showed me to see you all. I know what you are, partner. You’re a demon, lurking in the dark. Pretending to be human. Been biding your time pretending to be a good neighbor and loyal customer. Buying my hog for your little watering hole, using fruits of my labor to entice men to hellish means. But my baby Seline is the legendary hunter. She’s shown me. She’s the chosen one. From season one to series finale. She’s going to foul your kind up. That grinding sound you hear behind you is her sharpening that demon-hunter sword of hers. She says she pulled it from a dreamworld after an adventure in another universe. But between you and me? I think that gal’s a bit cuckoo. I made her the goddamn sword. The things we do for our princesses’s though? Right? Am I right!?! Goddamn! Thank you lord for sending me this heaven rock so I can see the way. Goddamn! Thank you lord for making my baby girl your warrior disciple! Goddamn! Thank you lord for showing me Hugh, the bar owner, is my baby girl’s next demon bounty! Or whatever.


Natasha drew the knife from the sheathe to run her gloved finger across it stopping at the tip. She could feel it begin to pierce through the leather as she stopped it before it could pierce the skin. She did not put it away but held it as she looked at the woman in front of her.  “Hello, Natasha,” said the woman.  “Hello, Mira,” replied Natasha.  Natasha had not seen Mira in years as their friendship had drifted apart. Natasha had become the one who would say what Mira, the artist, could and could not create. She looked up at the cabin and the patches of snow that hadn’t yet melted away on its roof as well as the ground. Natasha could feel her boots want to sink into the ground as she approached Mira.  “Your hair has grown longer since I last saw it. I remember you liked to keep it at shoulder length,” said Natasha.  Natasha could see Mira looking through a sketch book as Mira said, “I wanted to try something new.”  Natasha sat down next to her.  “You kept it blonde. It goes well with your blue eyes,” said Natasha.  Natasha said nothing else, and, for a few minutes, there was silence between the two friends. Natasha would let he knife drop into the ground and take it back out only to let it fall to pierce through the ground causing a small hole to form.  “When you cut my throat will you let the snow bury me?” asked Mira.  Natasha let the knife sit in the hole as it fell one last time. She didn’t want to pick it up.  “Mira,” said Natasha.  Natasha heard the book close with a hand touching her shoulder a few seconds later.  “You don’t want to ask why?” asked Mira.  Natasha placed a hand on top of Mira’s. At first, Natasha felt a coldness bite at her gloved hand but soon that changed to warmth.  “Because I know the answer,” said Natasha.  “Is it wrong to love who we want to love? Is it wrong to express that love through art? It is wrong to express it through the written word?” asked Mira.  Natasha took Mira’s hand and held it tighter.  “Mira, you’re getting repetitive in your questions,” said Natasha.  Natasha could see the snow starting to gather on her clothes as they were almost covered by a patchy white blanket of snow.  “Sorry, I guess I started them all the same, didn’t I?” asked Mira.  “Yes,” said Natasha.  Natasha let go of Mira’s hand before standing up.  “You should have created the content they told you to create. You should have just loved who they told you to love,” said Natasha.  “No, I don’t think I’ll do that anymore. Natasha, lets go inside and have a drink,” said Mira.  Natasha had placed her hand on her gun but didn’t draw it.  “Just a drink between us before you kill me?” asked Mira.  Natasha watched Mira get up and place a hand over her hand that laid over the gun. Natasha loosened her grip on the gun.  “One last drink,” said Natasha.  Natasha felt Mira remove her hand to go pick up her sketch book. Natasha followed Mira inside only stopping to look around the room. A simple kitchen, with a dining table not too far from it. She could see Mira still had the same old couch with its teal colored blanket draped over it and the fireplace straight across from it with a television on the wall to the right. She went into the kitchen as Mira had placed down the sketchbook on the counter.  Natasha opened it and began to look through the pictures. They were drawings of couples. Some were same sex couples while others weren’t. She looked at them taking in the forests, the walk through the snow, the cherry blossoms that fell around them, and the couples that sat on the porch watching the moon. Natasha stopped to see a drawn picture of her and Mira.  They sat on the couch hand in hand. Natasha noticed Mira’s head on her shoulder. Natasha could tell this was younger version of herself as her black hair had gone past her shoulders. She still had her green eyes and still stood a bit taller than Mira.  “What do you think?’ asked Mira.  Natasha looked up at her and took her drink.  “They’re beautiful. I like that you chose the couch,” said Natasha.  Natasha downed the drink not wanting to enjoy it. She watched Mira set down her drink before Natasha felt Mira’s lips on hers. Her instinct wanted to go for the gun, but she didn’t. Natasha wrapped her arms around Mira like a rope holding onto her. For a couple minutes they kissed before Mira stopped.  “The world changed too quickly on us, didn’t it?” asked Natasha.  Natasha looked at her wondering why love could be hated so much just because of who people chose to love. All the people she had to kill, and now they wanted to test her loyalty.  “Yes, it did,” said Natasha.  Natasha watched Mira placed the side of her head against Natasha’s shoulder.  “I should have said I loved you before all this. What would you say back?” asked Mira.  Natasha looked in Mira’s eyes as Mira looked up to her.  “I would have said I loved you back,” said Natasha.  Natasha gave Mira another long kiss.  “They’re waiting out there. The Federation sent more with me,” said Natasha.  Natasha reached for her gun but only placed her hand on the holster.  “They’re expecting a test of loyalty. Either I kill your, or I die with you,” said Natasha.  Natasha watched Mira take the book.  “Is it possible to get away?” asked Mira.  Natasha shook her head knowing they wouldn’t make it.  “It’s not likely,” said Natasha.  Natasha held her tight as she briefly saw a round ball like device shatter the window and land a few feet beyond them.  “I love you,” said Natasha.  “I love you too,” said Mira.  Natasha closed her eyes feeling her feet lift from the ground as the device detonated. She held Mira tight as Natasha could feel her body impact the wood its splinters cutting at her with pieces of glass stabbing through her skin. She could feel the heat on her skin her clothes ripped away from her left side, and arm. The cold snow embraced her before chasing away the heat. Natasha turned her head to see Mira lying in the snow next to her.  She could see signs of life, but the damage had also been done. Natasha knew neither of them were in any condition to get up and run much less fire a weapon. She took Mira’s hand as it reached out for her. A gun echoed like thunder as Natasha could feel Mira’s hand go limp. Natasha reached for her gun wanting to at least kill one of the bastards before it all ended.  She grabbed it her arm growing hot from the burns on it that grew irritated by her arm’s movement. She drew it and took aim in a direction facing forward. The shots rang out her clip growing empty until only a click played like a record player. She let her arm fall gaining some satisfaction that she heard something heavy fall to the ground. Natasha looked to her side her last sight being the symbol of the Federation. A red and blue bear against a white background.


\[UR\] It is a difficult task, that of dressing well, especially for exceptional occasions. It requires not only a sense of aesthetics and a good eye for detail, but also a perspective on how one is seen by others, a perspective no mirror can offer. One must be able to look at himself through the eyes of work colleagues, friends, and even by passers. That morning, Mr. Pearson made sure to dress at his best. Once showered and donning his undergarments, Mr. Pearson moved to his spacious albeit sparsely furnished bedroom, opened his wardrobe and meticulously inspected the hanging garments, pulling a brand new cotton shirt he had bought the week before, at his favorite grande boutique: the piece was white with thin pink stripes, traditional Italian collar and double French cuffs. For the cufflinks, he chose the model with a hexagonal shape in sterling silver and mother-of-pearl. A frivolous excess, to be sure, but one he could risk; you only live once after all. Covering the well-groomed shirt, his bespoke navy blue double-breasted suit, confected at a small *sartoria* tucked away at Via Solferino*.* The man who sold him the suit was an older gentleman at the time, probably long dead by now. Once Mr. Pearson entered the shop, out of curiosity rather than any compulsion to shop - although this was still his heyday, when money was not an issue – he was intrigued by the many pictures of men in colorful suits adorning the walls of the humble atelier, atypical for the Milanese style, and ended up spending four hours discussing cloth and cut with the owner. After only two fittings and three weeks, the gentleman had delivered Mr. Pearson the best bespoke suits he ever possessed, and for a quarter of the usual price. The navy blue one was the last remaining exemplar after almost a decade, but still fit him perfectly. For shoes, Mr. Pearson went with a pair of brown leather brogue boots. A gift from his now ex-wife for his 60th birthday, the year before. Mr. Pearson looked at himself in the mirror. He imagined his suits with epaulettes and thought to himself he would have made a fine admiral, like his father had wanted. He looked at the dresser to his right and saw, next to the stack of bills and promissory notes, coiled around the half-empty bottle of Four Roses like a beautiful and exotic viper ready to attack, a green *Hermés* polka dot tie. Perhaps even a fine statesmen, he thought. In another life, maybe. Mr. Pearson combed his hair, strapped on his golden-rimmed watch, and walked through the cloud of sprayed perfume in a careful way, so that every single molecule of the *eau de toilette* covered his body like a veil. He then moved resolute towards the large window in his living room, turned the now old, squeaky handles with his right hand and opened them completely. With his two hands, Mr. Pearson grabbed the outer edges of the window, cufflinks making a clicking sounds against the glass, and with his right brown leather brogue boot Mr. Pearson stepped up the window sill, then, in a somewhat untrained and careful movement, brought his left leg up. Standing on the ledge, Mr. Pearson buttoned his suit, pulled it down to fit the shoulders, and with a swift movement left his whole weight fall forward.


It was a night just like every night in Lothny Creek. As the sun slowly but surely lost its battle with night over the farmer's fields with swaying crops, the vibrant town was swallowed into deep darkness. The moon shed light over the beautiful town. But just because it was dark did not mean there was nothing happening, the radio in the bedroom of Jim and Jill, 5th graders at the local school, played the stations jingle. The tacky brown and cream pattern on their walls felt inviting and homely to them, warming their spirits as they talked about supposed quiz the following day. The cashier at the local Store was just picking up her hoody and locking the dated-looking rusty doors while she pondered the meaning behind the glowing blue and red curved company logo, she decided she would ask her boss at some point. The janitor for the school slowly cleaned round the final messy classroom for the day, relieved he would soon be able to spend some well deserved time with his young grandchildren after he retired. He thought for a while and realized his grandkids might also turn out to be little monsters, like the kids at the school, this worried him for a small second before he got back to cleaning. A rebellious teen prepared to run away from his home as he packed his bags and thought about how his parents didn’t understand him. He was excited to be able to have a sense of freedom, even if people did miss him. He packed a half blue and half green t-shirt with some writing in the center as he thought over his plan. The crops continued to blow in the wind under the moonlight but the silence had increased and started move and flow, the silence soared over the town and penetrated the buildings. In Jim and Jill’s room, their radio had stopped functioning normally and produced no sound, but in fact, there was nobody around to notice it because Jim and Jill’s bed had clothes in it and a crumpled duvet, but no children. The brown and cream walls suddenly looked more intimidating. The local store’s lights stayed on with a key sticking out of one of the dated looking, rusty doors and the logo of the store glowing blue and red into the darkness outside. On the ground, there was a hoody beside a pile of clothes. In the school, there was a bottle of wood cleaner lying directly on top of a student's desk and a moving storage tray rack filled with rubbish blocked the entrance. In one house there was a suitcase filled with clothes, a blue and green t-shirt left hanging out of the case, looking forgotten. Authorities still don’t know what happened, nor will anyone because the government decided to keep the incident out of the public eye to avoid more criticism. Nobody will ever fully understand or comprehend the great disappearance of Lothny Creek.


I gazed upon the groups of people in front of me, I looked at the people I once considered my friends. I smile, knowing full well that this would be the last time I see them. They have already made the decision for me; I have already made the decision. I sit down in my little dark corner, thinking about the people I used to care about. They have stopped caring a long time ago, and so have I. But I think about what could have happened, the relationships we could have had. Before I knew it, the bell had rung and everyone was heading back to class after the PE lesson. I go deep into thought. What’s the meaning of life? Why do we exist? Why are some people just there to be someone’s personal punching bag? A while later, we’re dismissed. It’s the last day of school for the year, yet I head home without saying my goodbyes. They don’t need it anyway. I reach home, it’s on the 10th floor of the apartment building. I place my bag down and change into some nice clothes. I turn on my laptop and look at the document I had written long ago in preparation for this. I’ve been thinking about it for years, weighing the pros and cons. Unfortunately, the pros heavily outweigh the cons. I leave the document open and post it on Reddit and my social media. It’s time. I head to the open window and look up at the sky, and then down to the trees. I grab the stool and placed it beneath the window ledge and stand on it. I smile, knowing that I won’t have to live a life of solitary confinement. I’ll be free, free from all my troubles. The people that hate me won’t have to see my face anymore. I’m ready. I let my body fall forward and I close my eyes, feeling the wind against my face. I’ve never felt so free. And, just as how I had come into this world exactly 13 years ago, out of the darkness into brightness, I delve from the brightness into the darkest darkness possible. It’s all over. It’s all over, there is no afterlife, there is no heaven or hell. That’s just something humanity tells itself in order to make the idea of death seem less scary. But deep down, we all know. No matter what people say, death is inevitable. Everyone dies eventually, and one day our names will be forever forgotten. Even if it takes hundreds or even thousands of years, we will be forgotten someday. People are different, in the sense that, we’re able to think as we do. You’re able to read this, people were able to engineer and construct the device you’re viewing this on. We built a society, yet this society will be forgotten one day. If we ever venture out into the stars, people might live on, yet humanity will not. We won’t be the same. Death is inevitable, no matter what you do, it will find you. Humanity as a species will cease to exist someday. As the saying goes: There are two things we cannot avoid in Life, Death and Taxes.


The little dragon was on his way to visit his best friend, the rabbit. As he waded through puddles and happily jumped into any muddy hole he could find, he thought of all the adventures they'd had together. He remembered flying down to the big river with his little friend on his back, splashing around in the water, seeing who could skip stones the farthest. He remembered sneaking out at night to see the stars, staying out until their paws got cold and they got goosebumps all over. He remembered singing little tunes together with their other friends, the doe, the fox and the hedgehog. They'd dance around in the forest, making up new steps for every song. Yes, the little dragon thought, they'd had a marvelous summer! But now, the fall was coming, and as the little dragon felt the fallen leaves crunch under his paws, he wondered if the winter would be just as good. He shook his head. Of course it would! As long as he had his friend Rabbit by his side, everything would be just fine. But when the little dragon got to the rabbit's burrow, his friend was nowhere to be found. “Rabbit?” The little dragon called out, “Where are you?” When he got no answer, the little dragon stuck his snout into the burrow as far as he could. “Rabbit? Are you in here?” It was too dark for the little dragon to see anything, but suddenly he heard the quiet voice of his friend: “I'm sorry, little dragon, but I am very tired. I can't play with you today.” “Oh, that's alright”, said the little dragon, “Rest up. We can play tomorrow.”  The little dragon was sad – he had been looking forward to spending time with his friend. But he understood that rest was important too. So he played by himself for the day, and on his way home, he picked some flowers and put them in front of the burrow. He knew they were Rabbits favorite, and he hoped they would cheer him up so they could play together the next day. But when the little dragon came back the next day, the rabbit was still tired and didn't want to play. “I'm sorry”, he told the little dragon “but I need more time”.  Today, the little dragon was upset. “How can Rabbit still be tired?” he said to himself, as he left the clearing that held the rabbit's burrow. “Didn't he rest all day yesterday? Didn't I bring him his favorite flowers? Why does he still not want to play?” And suddenly, the little dragon got scared.  As he beat his wings in the air, he thought: “What if Rabbit isn't tired at all – what if he is just tired of me? What if he doesn't want to be my friend anymore?” The little dragon started to cry, and his tears fell down to the earth like rain. He was convinced that he had done something wrong. Had he made a mean joke? Had he done something that the rabbit didn't like? Or did Rabbit simply find a better best friend? The little dragon's head was filled with these stormy thoughts all day, while he flew over the fields, forests and rivers of the valley, until he made his way back to his little cave up on a big hill.  But as the little dragon turned to fly home, he spotted his friend the rabbit, sitting in a field with their friend, the doe. And all the bad thoughts the little dragon had during the day seemed to be true. “So he wasn't tired after all!” the little dragon cried. “He just didn't want to see me!” When the little dragon came home, he rolled into a tight little ball and cried all night.  For days, the little dragon barely wanted to get up. He grieved the loss of his best friend. But one evening, his friend the doe climbed all the way up to his cave, and sat down next to him. “Little dragon”, she asked, “Why are you crying?” “Because”, the little dragon sobbed, “Rabbit has grown tired of me”. “Why do you think that?” the doe said, and she sounded surprised. “He doesn't want to see me! He says he is tired, but I know he doesn't like me anymore”, the little dragon cried. And to his anger, the doe started laughing. Outraged, the little dragon reared up, and with smoke puffing out of his nostrils, he shouted, “Why is that so funny? Can't you see how sad I am?” The doe looked at him calmly, and with one last chuckle, she started to explain.  “Little dragon”, she said, “You need to remember. Even though you are still small for a dragon, to a rabbit, you are big and scary. You have sharp teeth, and your claws could carve through the bark of the greatest tree in the forest. The fire in your lungs burns so hot, it can feel dangerous to be close to you. Even for me, it is hard to keep up with you at the best of times. And yet, the Rabbit played with you all summer. That must have been very exhausting. Don't you think he might need to take a break to get back his strength? Otherwise he might not be able to play with you again.”  The little dragon considered the doe's words for a long time. He'd never felt like he was losing strength when he spent time with his friends. But the more he thought about it, the more he understood. “It's like flying for a long time, right? When I fly for hours, my wings get very tired, and I need to rest so I can fly again.” “That's right!”, smiled the doe. And the dragon smiled back at her, for he had realized that he hadn't lost his best friend, he just had to wait for him patiently.  So the little dragon waited. At first, he didn't know what to do with himself. All summer, he'd only played with the rabbit. But the little dragon had other friends – the fox, the hedgehog, the doe, the big owl from the forest, even the squirrel, they all liked to play with him sometimes. So while he waited, the little dragon spent time having new adventures. He raced through the air with the owl, he chased sunbeams with the fox, he searched for acorns with the squirrel, he watched the stars with the hedgehog, and he took long walks with the doe. But he never stopped waiting for the rabbit.  And one night, when the little dragon was lying awake in his cave, he heard a voice call out to him from the bottom of the hill. “Little dragon!” the voice said, “I'm sorry for making you wait. I'm not tired anymore. Do you want to come and play?” And the little dragon stretched out his wings and roared his happiness out into the night. His best friend had rested, and he had returned to him.


“Sir, while you were in your nine am meeting there was a call for you.” “Who was it?” “The name left was Terry…” “Terry, did you say Terry?” “Uh, yes. They left a message for you, but no return number, here it is” Reads: ‘John, it’s been too long. I’m sorry for all that’s gone on between us. Please get back to me as soon as possible, I’d like to make things right.’ *No return number and I don’t have Terry’s phone number. Hmm.* “Patty, please cancel all my plans today, and hold all my calls. I need to step out to attend to an important situation.” “Yes sir.” An Hour Later: *Is it strange to bring flowers? I mean, in this day and age there is nothing wrong with a man bringing flowers to another man, and we’re family. I’m sure Terry won’t mind, even if he finds it strange. I really don’t know what else to bring him, candy? No he hates candy. Well, he* did *hate candy, but it’s been so long, what if he started loving it.* *Hell, I don’t even know if this is where he still lives. And I’m just going to show up, after 15 years, what if he’s not home. What if he’s home with a family, with a lover? What if he kicks me off his property? Well what the hell would he expect? Leaving me a message like that at work, with no return info. But I can’t wait or waste this time. I’ve been waiting too long to hear from him.* *Is this it? 218 Sparrow Way? I’m fairly certain that’s correct. Once I get closer I’ll remember, this area does look familiar. I remember his place being set a little farther back from the sidewalk, lots of trees surrounding it. If Terry still lives there I know he wouldn’t have touched those trees. Damned hippie type he is.* *218 Sparrow Way, this is it. It looks the same as always. It’s the place I remember. Unclench your jaw, John, this is a good thing. Is it? What if me coming is too much of a surprise? What if this just makes things worse? Oh lord what the hell am I doing? Breathe. Terry reached out to you, and it’s about time you buried the hatchet. You’re here, just pull the trigger.* *Oh lord, Terry, I forgot you had that ridiculous doorbell installed. What tune is that? Where have all the flowers gone? Heh, always the idealist, Terry. No answer, maybe a knock will do it.* **KNOCK** *Still nothing. Well, I don’t even know if this is Terry’s place. If I peak through a window I think the trees will cover me. I don’t need anyone thinking I’m some kinda sick peeping tom.* *This has got to be Terry’s place, I see mom’s old sewing machine and that awful china hutch Aunt Linda gave to him when she passed. There’s a car in the driveway, and a set of bikes beside the house. I guess he could be out for a walk. I guess I could wait, park myself on the stoop for a couple minutes.* *This gives me a chance to prepare what I want to say. What the hell should I say? What pleasantries can you say to your brother that went betrayed you, what…15 fucking years ago? The brother you’ve spent the past 15 years fighting with? Spending all this time spewing insults, to deafening silence? The last thing I told him was that I’d put him in the hospital if he fucked up our family again. That OUT OF NOWHERE he wants to reconcile, make up for all he put us through? Do I tell him how angry I’ve been, I am? Am I angry? Fuck I don’t even know how to feel. Maybe I should just go? I’ve been waiting for ten minutes, he’s probably not here. Then where the hell was he when he left that message? The cars are here and the lights are on, maybe he just didn’t hear me knock and ring. He does like to have his music loud. Maybe I should just go in. I used to be able to do that. It’ll be like the old days.* *That’s pretty lucky for me, the door’s unlocked. Wow, this place hasn’t changed much. Look at that, our last family picture. That was what, Marion’s birthday? Feels like an eternity ago. I should really call Marion, catch up. Well, fuck! I didn’t know Terry has been to Australia, mom never said anything about that. Well, maybe she didn’t know either. I don’t see any kid pictures, Terry the perpetual bachelor. Where the hell is he? Maybe I shouldn’t go any further until I know he’s here.* “Terry, its John. I’m sorry to barge in on you. But I got your message, you didn’t leave a number, so I thought I’d stop by to see you, I brought… uh… flowers!” *Oh damn, I left them on the porch. I’ll grab them later.* *He really mustn’t be here, unless he’s in another room, maybe the kitchen. Table’s got breakfast but no one’s in here. What the hell, Terry?* “TERRY ARE YOU HERE? IT’S JOHN!” *Typical, he’s gone but left his door unlocked. He’s so fucking flaky, nothing ever changed with his guy. Well, whatever I’ll leave my flowers and note. He’ll call me back if he’s serious. Can’t believe I wasted my d… What the hell?* *The back door is… open? Why would he leave the back door open? What the hell is going on here? He calls me, leaves the house, but keeps the doors unlocked and* *open.* “TERRY WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, IT’S JOHN, SHOW YOURSELF DAMNED IT." *I swear to god, if this is another fucking run around I’ll make good on my words and send him to the fucking hospital or the fucking morgue. He would do this, bring me out of work to waste my time. Typical Terry. No wonder no one wants anything to do with him. I should have called mom, she would have talked me out of this.* “TERRY ARE YOU HERE OR NOT?! IF THIS IS A JOKE TO YOU I’LL BREAK YOU’RE FUCKING NOSE AND KNEES, I SWEAR TO GOD!” *Where the hell is his room? If he’s in there I’ll fucking kick his ass, if he’s not I’m trashing it. I’ve had enough of this. Fuck it’s behind the front room, if he’s here he’ll have heard me, I don’t give a fuck anymore I’ll kick that door in.* *…* *What...* *There’s blood everywhere, it’s leaking from under the door.* “T…Terry… are you in there?” *John, you need to calm down. Breathe. Hyperventilating and freaking out won’t help. What should I do? Okay sit down. You need to act. What’s the right thing? What id Terry is hurt in there? There’s so much blood if he’s in there he’s not okay. What if he’s dead? What... what if he hurt himself or killed himself? Good lord, what if someone else hurt him? The doors are unlocked. Fuck, open the door. You need to open the door and check, you need to call the cops this would be a fucking crime. Jesus fucking Christ, John what the fuck is going on?!* *But, if I open the door, what will I see? If I call the cops what will they ask? The angry estranged brother who basically broke in to find his dead brother? They’d fucking never believe it. If I open the door I leave my prints on it. Fuck that, never mind that, what if I open the door and someone’s on the other side who fucked with Terry and they’ll fuck with me? What, what if it is Terry. Waiting for me. He’s pulled some serious shit in the past but he couldn’t…* *Jesus Christ John do something time is wasting. Do something do something do something DO SOMETHING. My hands are shaking. I don’t know what to d…* **CREAK** *OH DEAR GOD.


The Ghost Child There once was a child named Wren, an eerie looking boy of 8. He had long raven black hair and grey eyes, giving him the appearance of a shade or a dark villain. He was thin as a stick and pale as a corpse. He lived in a house at the far edge of the town, a miserable part of the neighbourhood. He had no family nor friends. His parents died when he was young and no relative was willing to take care of him. He tried making friends but made none. Anyone who saw him would always run away because he looked scary. Every time he tried to be friends with kids his age, they would be pulled away by their frightened parents or guardians. They were so afraid, they thought they looked at the Devil straight in the face. They would always warn their children not to get near him and tell stories of the "Ghost Child". As the story became popular throughout the town, the more people would turn away and scorn him. He could never go outside during the day but only at night, for fear that he would be killed by them. He could only see the outside world through the boards on the barred windows and watch the other children play. By nightfall, it was safe to leave his refuge. He begged on the streets for food. Never cared for money because he never learned how to use it. In lonesome nights, he would visit old shops or rummage through garbage to beg or look for something to eat. Most of the time, he would be met with a stone to the face or a stick on the arm but there are others that took pity on him and gave him scraps. However, that wasn't the only reason why he would wander around. He would sometimes search for toys and dolls, thrown away by others. Broken and abandoned. Just like himself. He would take them home and fix them up. It was the only thing he felt comfort with. There were plenty of toys on the old shelves around his room. Stuffed animals, meticulously mended, as if they look like it came from the shop. Dolls, excellently repaired, like it was created by its maker. It continued like this for about four years. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* On the night of his twelfth birthday , he finally snapped. The weight of infamy is too heavy to handle. In bitter despair, he wailed in agony. He had a toy in his hand, still unfinished. He threw it across the room. It broke when it made contact with the wall. He threw a tantrum and his screams can be heard outside. It continued for a whole minute. Then he stopped. The walls, already dilapidated, was riddled with holes. The bed was attacked with the tools he used for repairs and several pieces of wool flew from it. His eyes stared emptily on the ceiling then down to his worktable. A pair of silver scissors, gleaming in the moonlight, shone in his eyes like a star. He took it and examined it closely. Simple in design and sharp to the touch. These were the scissors that he mended the toys with care. And the ones that will end his misery. He pointed it to his chest, right on his heart. But before he could do it, he heard a voice. "Stop!" it cried. A girl's voice. He froze and dropped the scissors. He turned around and glanced at the doorway. A little girl wearing a blue ballerina's attire was by the door. She had short hair, white as snow, and golden eyes, the color of honey. She was not alone. A couple also stood behind her. A blonde woman in red with grey eyes and a tan skinned man with raven black hair. Wren had not used his voice when his parents died. It sounded coarse and gravelly yet retaining the child who owned it. "Mom?". She nodded. "Dad?". He nodded. He slowly approached them but hesitated to touch them. *They were dead.* He knows this. He saw them die. But it felt so real. He touched their hands. They are there. He couldn't hold back the tears and neither did they. The parents bent down to hug their son tightly, and Wren did in return. "That's not all, Wren," said the mom, in between tears. "There other people waiting for you outside," said the dad. "And they want to be friends with you." He could not believe it. *Friends?* He abandoned that hope long ago. Who would be friends with the Ghost Child. The girl led them outside the room and he could see the inside of the house. It's not the old gray walls and empty halls that he was familiar of, it was the complete opposite of it. The halls were colorful and everything looked new. The house feels warm and comfortable. But that's not all. There are also people there. A lot of unfamiliar and strange faces, and they are all smiling at him. It seems they are glad to meet him. Wren was baffled by their reactions. *Why would they be glad to see a child of a specter?* They went to the dining room. He could smell the wonderful food prepared in it. And it was a feast. Roasts, soups, sweets and garnishes galore. The table could barely stand due to the weight. He was seated at the middle of the table with his parents at his side. From the kitchen on the left, a cake was brought in. It was lit with a candle and it was placed in front of him. He looked at his parents to ask what is it for. "It's your birthday, Wren," said Mom. "It's for you." She held his cheeks. "Our little friend." He blew the candle and they all cheered. It was the best night that he could ever wish for. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* It was morning outside and the light brightened up the gloom. The people outside, woke up and readied themselves for the day. The children went to school and the adults go to work. However, a handful of people stood outside an old house. They heard a scream the night before and they decided to find the source. Others speculated that it was a demon or a ghost but others knew it was the fabled "Ghost Child". They quietly entered, lanterns and axes at the ready. Searching the halls and rooms for the phantom. A man stumbled upon a room with the door slightly open. He motioned for the others that he found it. They opened it. And saw the "Ghost Child". Or what remains of him. The child was slumped over a pool of blood and a pair of scissors, pierced in his heart. Surrounded by dolls and toys. He had a smile in his face. And it was proof that he was only a kind child, deserted by a cruel world. (First time posting here.


I walk through the abandoned city, it is quiet out here. It isn’t night and the sky isn’t black, but it doesn’t feel like daytime either. The clouds are heavily overcast, a permanent dull grey sky like a looming presence above, the dreary atmosphere always giving the impression that the light is about to run out. No roads lead to the abandoned city, no birds tweet around the empty high-rise buildings and no rats rustle and scuttle along the ground. There is silence, save for the occasional passing gust of wind, travelling in a purposeful direction, the movement of condemned souls who never made it out, forever trying to escape this labyrinthine grey hell. I arrived by bicycle, riding through the uneven wasteland which surrounds this haunted former abode of civilisation. The nearest settlement is three hours out by bike, a depressed little village with all of the emptiness of this abandoned city yet none of the grandeur. Such is the personality of all that surrounds this hallow place. My destination is the city centre, that plaza of horror where all of this began, where so many before me have tried to venture, where from none have returned. I go by foot, my bike long invalidated by the sea of broken glass which scatters the outer limits of the city. I have no map, and the city is like a maze, the tall buildings enclosing around me, enveloping me in a monotone scene of terror. Yet I know that I approach the centre, that my direction is correct, I feel heavier and heavier the presence of this city, the air becoming thicker to walk through, more solid. The buildings themselves grow taller and become more terrifying. Faces begin to cover the walls, I scarcely noticed it at first but now I can’t escape them: tens, hundreds, thousands, more. I turn around and look back, the scene behind me now reflecting that ahead of me, faces everywhere, human faces. All depicting some image of abject horror and agony, faces trapped mid-scream. No painter painted these faces, no vandal graffitied them onto the bleak stone walls, these are real faces, faces of the damned. This whole abandoned city carries a foreboding aura, invokes a domineering fear in the mind, but only now does it begin to unsettle me, that latent fear in the pit of my stomach beginning to bubble and rise under the oppression of the surrounding supernatural: I look around and see a million silent screaming faces, and a million silent screaming faces look back. I can’t turn back now, I am so close to my goal. I break into a light jog, and then into a run, the fear rises, and now a sprint: I will get this over as quickly as possible. The city grows darker, a shade by shade of grey at a time, and the buildings loom ever taller, but still I run. The thick air drags against me, I am running through what seems a solid, a force pressing against me, the soul and terror of the abandoned city, my footsteps pound but they do not echo. I come to an eventual halt, I can feel my heartbeat throughout my entire chest, neck and head, my chest feels tight, my neck constricted and my head as if it is about to burst. My vision is unfocused, something in the grey is ajar, the faces remain on the walls but they are no longer at the forefront dominating my consciousness, the presence of the city is manifest, almost corporeal. A gust of wind passes by around me, perhaps even through me, I cannot tell, but inside of it I hear for a fleeting second a distant scream, a wail from the depths of this overland abyss. I look around but every direction is the same, I wonder if I am now in the centre, there is nothing identifying about the plaza around me, but there is no longer any single direction more pervasively terrifying than the rest. And then I see it, an anomaly up ahead, a lone building with no frozen faces upon its walls. I approach: there is no door, not even a window, only a vertical crack in the stone rising from the floor to about a metre and a half high. It is a deep crack and scarcely wide enough for a human to fit through, but I crouch and squeeze into it, this is what I came for, I know it somehow. It is dark around me, and the crack is too narrow for me to look back or turn around, in fact it grows tighter the further onwards I struggle. Just before me I see a light, a small window gap in the stonework, I no longer feel fear, I feel elated. I try to reach further forward to see the marvel through this gap, stone pushes against me, it swallows me up but I poke my head through the hole at last. I am stuck. The sensation of elation is over and I am paralysed with fear, no, not with fear, I panic, I can’t feel my body, my hands, my feet, I can’t turn my head, I am in agony. My face begins to freeze up, I scream but no noise escapes from me. I look ahead, I see the side of a building, a wall covered in faces, I concentrate closer, they are all my face. My face, the one I am looking through, not the ones opposite me, is locked but I can still move my eyes. A figure walks through the streets below and I notice a peculiarity: he is me. I call to him, to me, but a jet of wind rushes past and carries my call I know not where, but still, I call to him, noiselessly, we all call to him. To me.


The last bullet left the muzzle of his rifle with a deafening bang. It took with him all his hopes of survival. He reached for the sharp knife held at his boot strap. He wasn't going out without a fight! Life has changed in the past three weeks. A stray dog drank a rare chemical that had leaked from a pharmaceutical company . The dog got violent and bit almost every residence of the neighboring town resulting in everyone turning into zombies overnight. The government took immediate steps to control the situation by imposing lockdown and bringing in the military. Yet, the zombie count was increasing exponentially and it was declared an emergency. One night, I was in my room studying for my upcoming exam when my elder brother rushed in and told me to turn on the news channel on TV. The news showed that the zombie apocalypse has begun in our city. Both of us were concerned about our mother. My mother is a widowed police officer who has recently been sent in a mission to evacuate the residence of a housing society. We tried to call her but all the communication system was down. My brother wanted to go out looking for her but I stopped him as it was not wise to go outside in such conditions. Suddenly, someone rang the doorbell. My brother went to open the door but I stopped him telling that it might be the zombies. My brother assured me that zombies don't have brain and hence cannot ring the doorbell. He looked through the peephole to find out who it was but couldn't see anything as it was covered in blood. Arming himself he slowly opened the door. It was our mother, who was heavily injured. Her whole team was ambushed by the zombies in that society. She was the lone survivor of her team. She told me to lock all the doors and windows properly. She asked my brother to check for any zombie bite in her body. Luckily, she wasn't bitten by the zombie. My brother nursed her injuries. The zombie apocalypse had been completely spread in our city. The government set up a council to take an immediate decision. The leader of the council proposed to send a missile and burn the city to ashes killing all the zombies. However, many of them protested as many survivors were still stuck in the city. Suddenly, they recieved an information that the zombie apocalypse has begun in many other cities too. Three days later, a news came out that the government has fallen and the public are on their own. Soon, power supply, water supply and supply of other basic commodities got cut off. People started coming out of their houses in search of help; instead got turned into zombies. We managed to stay in our house for ten days. But, food and water ran out four days ago and we were starving. My mother saw an overturned truck containing packed noodles and decides to step out. She brought the food packets and fed us. She then revealed a startling fact. She had been bitten by a zombie and might turn into one any time soon. Therefore, she wanted to take us to a safe place before that. My brother and me were crying silently. We went to the police headquarters and armed ourselves with various kinds of weapon. Our mother quickly taught us how to shoot a gun. She also told us to only aim for a headshot and also instructed us to do the same to her as soon as she loses her human feelings. We then drove in a car to the nearest air base. My mother spotted a private jet and decides to take us in it. Unbeknownst to us, few people were already hiding in the jet. They threw us out as they soon as they found that my mother was bitten. Hearing the sound, the zombies ran towards the base and started attacking us. They entered the jet and attacked the people in it, instantly transforming them into zombies. My brother ran to a different direction and distracted the zombies. We realised that he had decided to sacrifice himself to save us. We both started crying. My mother tried to stop him but he doesn't listen. He entered a godown while simultaneously shooting down the zombies. The last bullet left the muzzle of his rifle with a deafening bang. It took with him all his hopes of survival. He reached for the sharp knife held at his boot strap. He wasn't going out without a fight! He then realised he had entered a godown with explosives. He activates a bomb killing himself and the surrounding zombies. Me and my mother run back to the car and escape from the place. I then realised the fact that everyone turned into zombies immediately after they got bitten except my mother. My mother survived the bite for more than four hours. We then go to a R&D centre where my Mom's friend works. Fortunately, her friend was still uninfected. Her team did a couple of tests and found out that my mother's serum is immune to the zombie. Using my mother's serum, within two days, a drug is developed which not only made people immune to the zombies but also turned the zombies back into humans. The drug was mass produced and sprayed all over the world by planes and ,therefore, ended the Zombie apocalypse.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: The Second Wind After the rollercoaster our characters have been on for the past couple of weeks, they are finally catching a break with renewed energy for the task ahead of them. It’s been a series of knock downs the past couple of weeks. Are they gonna take that? No. They’re not six feet under yet. (.) Just like the Giant Sequoias, our protagonists need to feel the fire before they can thrive to see a new day. This is where the heat of battle brings out a new strength of resolve in full force. The beat following this one is Victory, and this installment should show how hard-won that victory will be. Do we sense a little bravado in our main characters as they get ? Maybe a little. Maybe the horse is l (what’s their secret? Is it Mane and Tail? I bet it is). But we don’t mind By the end of this installment we as readers should feel that if our hero is goin’ down, it’s not without a fight. , ‘cause we’re ! Our characters still have some gumption in them. They’re tackling their challenges in a new way, doubling down on their commitment, this time This is another opportunity for us to that didn’t seem important at the time, and now could be vital to a resolution. We’ve been knocked down but is that gonna stop us? Nah. Just like Mostly Dead Wesley, . So get those little plot children out there, and **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/31, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Re-Invigoration: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, as he delivers a knife twist to the gut when this mouse noir tale turns personal. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ATIWTK, with a subversion of expectations in a way that is truly refreshing *and* satisfying. And two honorable mentions: /u/Xacktar, for keeping us on our toes with a story that has stepped on the gas and won’t let up with the djinn and unfortunate victims. And /u/lynx_elia, with a story that makes us wonder if this is all a subtle Among Us story, but way better. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ 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 post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Re-invigoration** Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


A loud knock on the door woke me up. "The rent!" said a voice sharply from the corridor. I pull myself up from the couch slowly, shaking off the confusion, before darting towards a pre-prepared envelope I left on my desk. I must have fallen asleep while watching the news about the pandemic again. I make my way towards the entrance while still struggling with the disorientation before carefully slipping the envelope under the door. I feel it snatched from my fingers halfway through, followed by the sounds of impatient footsteps echoing away from me. I don't know how long he was waiting, but he probably came back to my door as his last stop at this complex. I straightened myself up while staring blankly at the door - or rather, at the only semblance of human interaction I've had in a while - pondering the time when I will have to make a choice between rent and food. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when I noticed a post-it on the door. "Don't go out", it said in no uncertain terms. When did I leave it there? I make my way to the refrigerator to pour myself a glass of water, stopping to take a mental inventory of how much food I have left, my hand firmly grasping the door handle while my eyes gaze at the emptiness inside. My trancelike state was interrupted when out of the corner of my eye, a view from my kitchen window grabbed my attention. My neighbour from the adjacent complex, with whom I exchange an insincere half smile whenever we cross each other's view, was being dragged out of her apartment by two men in suits. Was she being evicted? Her struggling and face contorted by pain and hopelessness rendered the scene all the more eerie due to the silence of it - broken only by the sound of my refrigerator's motor, slightly straining from the door I left open. I knew I should be sad in that moment, but the guilt of my indifference at her distress was washed away by my own weariness and powerlessness to help. I tried to muster a tear, but nothing came as I stood there observing a now empty dwelling, a stark reminder of my loneliness. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, dimly lit by my nightstand lamp. I always found its warm luminescence comforting during lonely nights. I used to hear the arguments of the couple with whom I share a poorly insulated bedroom wall - from the tidbits of information I could gather, their quarreling had to do with his insistence on scrounging up food from nocturnal expeditions while she implored him to wait for government help. Now all I could hear every night was the sound of her lone crying. The thought of reaching out to her dissipated as I turned to the side and stretched my arm out to turn off the lamp, closing my eyes and shutting myself out from the world. I was washing myself up with soapy water after my morning task - toilet paper having become a luxury at this point - when the sound a box being dropped at my doorstep and a businesslike knock had me sprinting towards the door. "Wait!" I shouted, positioning myself at the peephole like a child anticipating the return of his parents. The soldier in full hazmat suit stopped mid-step and turned his head towards the door, his face hidden by his hood's reflective visor, his shape distorted by the lens. "Last month's delivery only had about 2 weeks' worth of supplies!" I protested. "That's all we have to give, if you're not happy, I can take it somewhere else!" his cold muffled voice replied, as he crouched to pick the box back up. "No, please! Stay - I mean, leave it there!" He froze for a second before getting back up. "Don't come out until I'm gone!" said he with an authoritative finger pointed at my judas, before anxiously getting back to his deliveries. I sat down Indian style, listening to him complete his task, before his footsteps receded out the building. I waited a while longer, for the sounds of neighbouring doors opening and closing to stop, carefully paying attention that nobody was approaching my own supplies. I did notice the sound of my neighbour with whom I share a bedroom wall grabbing her box in a hurry, with the absence of meowing from her usually very vocal cat worrisome. I struggled to pull myself up, partly because of the numbness in my legs, partly because of the hunger. A quick inspection through the aperture showed a now quiet hallway with the sight of my goods still there providing a sigh of relief. I grabbed the box expediently before slamming the door shut, its weight much lighter than the previous shipments. In my hurry to open it, I omitted wiping it down first; my stash of disinfectant wipes was dwindling anyway. My excitement was stifled when I took a look at its contents. I only had about a week's worth of rations and a single soap bar. "The rent!" said an impatient voice from the hallway. I picked myself up from the floor, observing my surroundings while I regained consciousness. In my haste, I had already eaten through a day's worth of food already; the sour stench of bile filled my lungs as it didn't agree with my weakened digestive tract. What a waste, I thought. "One second!" I made my way to the living room before rushing back with an envelope in hand. Kicking the box of supplies out of the way, I paused before slipping it through the crack; this was going to be last payment I could afford. I pondered telling him about my situation when the envelope was suddenly snatched from my fingers once more, leaving me with the scuttling of departing footsteps. I made my way to the kitchen to grab a mop to clean up my vomit, when I noticed that the vacant apartment facing it was once more occupied. The curtains that were usually always open were now drawn. All I could see were two silhouettes dancing - no, not dancing... slithering. I stood there mesmerized by their movements, until they abruptly stopped. One of the silhouettes outstretched an arm to turn off the lights, the apartment once more drowning in shadows. The landlords never bothered to replace the burnt-out lights that illuminated the narrow alley between our buildings. All I could see now from my first-floor window was a chasm of endless darkness, a reflection of my own state of mind. The hunger must be getting to me, I'm starting to see things. It has been weeks since my TV antenna stopped receiving, but that hasn't deterred my nightly attempts at getting a signal so that I could get an update on the progression of the virus. I would've gotten my information online, were it not for my Internet connection being one of the first casualties of my current financial situation. My attempts of communicating with the outside world were also fruitless prior to having my phone line cut. Who could I call for help when nobody answers? No signal seemed to be going out. Or coming in. The last time I had an update on the virus, it had crystallized into a pollenlike substance. We were told to keep our windows and outside doors shut and taped up to avoid any infiltration, which I did diligently. Perhaps too diligently, as the stale air irritated my throat and caused me to occasionally cough. I peeked through my curtains and waited a while. The pollen that had fallen days ago had all dissipated and the air was still. I decided to take a chance and unpeeled the tape around one of the windows before cracking it open an inch. I bent down and closed my eyes as I took in a lung full of fresh air. The slight breeze on my face reminded me of the pre-pandemic days: the feelings of freedom and being carefree. I started to crack a smile when a gust of wind abruptly snapped me out of my daydreaming. I hurriedly closed the window and resealed it again as a cloud of pollen was making its rounds between buildings. I sat down on my couch, defeated, on the verge of tears. I had no desire to die, yet no will to live either. I feared death and hated living; I was stuck in limbo. A month had passed, the rent was now due. A payment that I knew I couldn't make. "The rent!", said the landlord, in a voice that was different from usual. "Uh...", I replied through the door, trying to come up with something to say. "THE RENT!", he sharply cut me with. I was taken aback by his lack of empathy; surely I wasn't the only tenant that was struggling during these times? Noticeably frozen by him, he corrected his demeanour: "Your rrent iss due..." he reiterated calmly in oddly stretched syllables. I slowly approached the peephole to take a look, my vision greeted by a featureless hooded cloaked figure. Sensing my attempt to take a glance at him, he bluntly attempted to peer back through the judas. I jumped up in shock at the sight of a serpentine eye staring back at me. "Yourr rrent iss duue..." he repeated while raking long fingernails across my door, scratching away the paint. "I'll have it tomorrow!" I blurted out in panic. The strange figure was now hunched over, a mouthful of sharp teeth scraping at my doorknob, while a thin tongue extended itself and wrapped around it, trying to jiggle it open. I backed away from the door while holding it closed with my hands, putting my full weight behind them, which was almost nothing at this point. "I'll have it tomorrow, I swear!" I shouted, drowning out what little logical sense I had left. I heard him withdraw from the handle while I waited for a reply - nothing but silence. I turned my ear to the door and listened carefully - nothing still. I worked up the courage to take a peek again; he was already gone. No footsteps. I was about to back away, when I noticed scratch marks on the floor near my neighbour's door, the signs of a possible scuffle. It must have happened during one of my blackouts from starvation. I'm going crazy. I know that now. I had learned how to tune out my neighbour's nightly wailing and fall asleep regardless, but tonight was different. I was kept awake not only by the stress of trying to come up with a solution for tomorrow, but my neighbour's sudden silence was also deafening to me now. I picked up my phone, which was now a glorified boombox that only played whatever music I already had on it, and headed to the living room. I set myself in a fetal position on the couch while scrolling through my library of songs, scrambling to find one to break up the quietness. I closed my eyes and hit play. ♫ A candy-colored clown they call the sandman Tiptoes to my room every night Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper "Go to sleep. Everything is all right." I close my eyes, then I drift away Into the magic night, I softly say A silent prayer like dreamers do Then I fall asleep to dreams, my dreams of you ♫ A ringtone woke me up from the couch. I grabbed my phone and looked at it in puzzlement: "One Missed Call". When did my service come back? My train of thoughts was interrupted by a draft on my skin. The front door! I rushed to it, paralyzed in horror at the sight of my door wide open. No signs of forced entry, it must be the landlord with his set of keys. Not daring to peek outside, I slammed the door shut and locked it up again. I backed away from the door slowly, thinking about my next move. A wisp of air and sharp punctures on my neck are the last things I feel before collapsing on the ground.


(this story was inspired by the metro series) I was scared It was pathetic honestly, I wasn’t even the one about to get shot in the head in fact I was going to shoot him in the head, so why was I so afraid of something that wasn’t even going to happen to me?, I was scared of the fact that this will be the first human life I’ll take. I lay in bed that morning dreading what was to come, dreading the knock on the door to tell me to get up and shoot a man, all because we found out he was a traitor, it was even worse because he was my friend I didn’t want to do this god please, I prayed to whatever god still existed until I heard a knock then a voice telling me to get up, it was time. I followed him in the dimly lit tunnels that we called home, children running and playing while their parents watched, or friends getting together for a meal, and people begging for just a coin to put something in their belly, but I wasn’t focused on that instead I focused ahead on the taller man leading me to that place, we finally arrived he turns the crank and the metal door opens with a creak and inside I see our leader standing, a revolver resting in his hand, I look ahead and almost puke at the sight of my bloodied and beaten friend tied in a chair, his ragged and heavy breathing made me worry that he could die any second, but he wasn’t dead yet. The general nodded at the taller man silently telling him to leave us be, he nods back and closes the door, the only sounds left in the room are the breathing of my friend in the chair and the light above flickering every once in a while. The general looks me dead in the eye and hands me the revolver, “do it” he tells me “kill this traitor to show your loyalty to our group”. I take it and slowly walk up to him, he looks up at me and smiles, I see no hate in his gaze I sense nothing at all, I only see regret and sadness, I put the revolver against his forehead and cock it, “do it” he says in a whisper, my hand shakes “please” he begs tears streaming down his bloodied cheeks, “I’m okay if it’s you” his voice is breaking now, and he looks straight at me, I choke back a sob and close my eyes as I finally steady my hand and pull the trigger. I wish that was the last, but he was the first of many more I’ve killed so many I’ve lost count, killing changes a man eventually you become used to it but is that a good thing? To be so comfortable taking another person’s life, they could have had a life, friends, family maybe even children and you come along and take it from them. I took only one more life after that, my own.


Granny was delighted by the robot that would carry kittens across the polished floor. We, her grandchildren, had done good. The Roomba Evolution was not cheap, but it was the most advanced robot in human history. Nevermind military-machines. We call those Deathbots. Deathbots are disqualified, they only know one thing. So when a Deathbot got loose, it went global viral live. It happened on a quiet Sunday morning. A Mark I had gotten refurbished by some disgruntled-character in his backyard workshop. It was bound to happen sooner or later. We heard gunfire and soon there were police sirens. The news followed the progress of the Mark I. It moved about on six legs like a murderous insect. It had a machinegun and a homemade buzzsaw weapon and several strong sharp claws. It couldn't be contended with, until Police could bring in anti-robot drones. That could take awhile. All the cops did was drive through the neighborhood using their speakers to tell people to get indoors. For seventy minutes the rampage continued as injuries and casualties accumulated. Granny almost became its final victim. The Deathbot found her asleep and deaf on her backporch. It blew through the fence and started spraying bullets at a cat running along the edge. Then, as the cat escaped unharmed, the Deathbot identified Granny as its next target. While it reloaded it approached her on its spindly spider legs and revved up a buzzsaw weapon. Roomba Evolution saw this and already alarmed by the noises, identified the Deathbot as a dangerous intruder. It opened the sliding glass door and barreled out at the Deathbot at top speed, ignoring its safety protocols. The tackle happened midair and both machines landed awkwardly on the lawn. Grass got churned as the Roomba Evolution fiercely defended its Granny. The armored Deathbot was much stronger and faster and better armed and knew how to fight in melee combat. Severely outclassed, the Roomba Evolution was directed by a protocol to preserve itself. It ignored this protocol, noting that if it stepped aside the attack on Granny would resume. It picked up a broken fenceboard and tried to catch the spinning blade. It worked and it thrust the board between the legs of its opponent and tripped it. As the Deathbot righted itself the Roomba Evolution recalled a move it had seen the cats do while playing and it jumped up onto the Deathbot and pinned it. As the Deathbot threw off the Roomba Evolution, it aimed its machinegun where its enemy would land. Armor piercing rounds tore through the Roomba Evolution and tore apart more of the backyard lawn. The domestic robot twitched and sparked, rerouting power to the functions needed to get back up. The Deathbot had almost turned back to Granny when it noticed the Roomba Evolution was trying to get back up and continue fighting. It mercilessly pounced and finished off the opposing machine. Suddenly two police drones hovered on either side of the backyard. They shot close-range darts at the Mark I Deathbot and temporarily disabled it. Police flooded into the backyard and apprehended the machine. That Christmas the Roomba Evolution, despite the expense, became the most sought after gift in human history. Already it was no longer the most advanced robot; but instead it had won our hearts as it fought to the end to protect its owner.


"So," he starts, breaking the silence that has been swallowing them up whole on that park bench for who knows how long. Both are sat down on each end of that bench that held so much memory. Funny how they specifically sat here, knowing the memories they made were unforgettable. The same place they sat, looking at each other with so much love and admiration, talking and laughing endlessly before... but not the same people, for they can't look at one another without seeing the other as a complete stranger. "So," she breathes, fixated on looking at the snowflakes that were falling before them. "Why did you call me here?" she says, almost in a whisper. He was silent for awhile. He pursed his lips and thought hard. No matter how many times he's practiced this in his head, nothing will fully prepare him for this moment. He exhaled, and finally decides to looks at her. She still looked so beautiful. "I regret it," he admits, with so much pain in his voice, he continues, "I'm sorry for leaving you but... I miss you." This time, she was silent. Nothing could be heard on this cold and lonely night except for their breathing. It was cold. She was freezing. He was waiting for a reply. "How can you say that? After leaving me?" "I know what I did before. I regret it so much and I'm really sorry for what I did. But I couldn't get you out my mind. No matter how hard I tried, you were all that I can think about. Everyday, I regret my decision of leaving you. I thought for sure I didn't love you anymore, but I was wrong." "Then, what do you want to do?" The question hung in the air. He paused for a while, not knowing what to reply with. Finally, he settled on an answer. "I just... wanted to tell you how I felt." There it was again. Silence. "It's been years, you know?" she chuckled bitterly. "You left me devastated and it was so hard to forget you. I couldn't forgive you for what you did and everyday I had to struggle with the fact that I wasn't enough, that there was something wrong with me. Do you know how hard it was to live knowing I wasn't enough? That I could've done something to make you stay? You broke all the promises you made to me. I believed in you, Johnathan." her voice shook, and he looked over to her to see a tear slide down her cheek; his heart was crushed. She looked back at the man--"I loved you."--at the man she no longer felt the same way she did before. And that was when he knew that there won't be another chance, another shot. "So," he starts. "So," she says. "I guess this is where it all ends, doesn't it?" "It ended a long time ago." He swallows, trying not to let her see how hurt he was. "Right. It did." Oh how they were both so familiar with the silence. For a while, they just sat and admired the pretty white snow falling around. From start to end, the distance between them never lessened. "Is that all?" "Yeah." he says, fully knowing he had something else to say. 'I still love you.' he thinks, 'Say it.' "Well," She stands up from the bench, "I'm happy we were able to talk. Thanks for everything, Johnathan." 'Say it. Say it. Say it before she goes. Say it, idiot. Say it.' But she was already walking away, back facing him, leaving him alone under that streetlamp. Was this how she felt when he left her before? Would she stay if he told her he loved her still? He'd no longer know. He knows she had moved on, but just what if? Could things have ended in a different way? "Idiot." Well, here comes another regret he needs to live with.