Appleton rushed to scratch the message onto the back cover of a magazine lying face-down on a table near the telephone. Scratch—because the pen didn’t want to cooperate; the ballpoint stuck. Appleton’s fingers shook. It was a prank, surely. The conversation had been recorded. He would end up on a website somewhere, the anonymous out-of-touch butt of some teenager’s joke. Yet there was something in the quality of that voice, a voice that didn’t belong to any teenager, that forced the shapes of the letters through his wrist, onto the paper. Even as he felt the fool, he also felt the chronicler. The words could be historic. The words: after a plain “hello” the voice had excused itself and muttered something about a wrong number and galactic interference. Then it had said, exactly, “No matter, you will have to do. My name is Charles R—and I am calling from Mars. First, record the date and time of this communication. Second, please bring it to the attention of one Mrs Mary Clare of 34 Wentworth St, Nottingham. Pass along also that I am doing fine and that, though food is scarce, I have had my fill, and that water is plenty once one digs past the red surface of things.” That was all. Then the phone went dead. The connection had not been good to begin with, but there was no doubt about any of it. Nothing had been made up. There was no uncertainty. Having written these five sentences, Appleton let go of the pen, wiped his forehead and retreated to the safety of his customary evening chair. It was a few minutes after six—his regular reading time—but Appleton gave no thought to books. Today, he sat silently in his chair until the clock struck seven. His neurons fired incessantly. By eight, he had made up his mind: in the morning he would fly to Nottingham and personally deliver the message to Mary Clare. There was only the slight problem of the wife. She would arrive home tomorrow afternoon and find it empty. She would worry. Appleton’s greatest fear was that the wife would worry. She was of good breeding and delicate constitution, and worry might weaken her system enough to allow otherwise harmless bacteria to set up residence, which would lead to complications and eventually a prolonged bedridden death. He shuddered at the mere inkling. Right, he would have to compose a note: “My dear, I am off on a scholarly pursuit. Do not worry. I will return by Wednesday. Sincerely, your devoted husband.” He folded the note and placed it on the dining room table. That, he realized, was more writing than he’d done since his tenure at Oxford. He felt productive again. ## - - - The plane skidded as it touched down, but the flight was otherwise without incident. Outside, grey clouds produced a cold mist that collected drops of water on the brim of Appleton’s hat as he waited by the terminal. Although no one could say so by looking at him, he was nervous. He nearly misspoke while telling the driver the address. In the taxi, he caught himself rubbing his thumb compulsively against his forefinger like he hadn’t done since his rugby days. ## - - - The house at 34 Wentworth St was made of pale yellow brick. It was smaller and set farther from the road than neighbouring houses. A stone path led to the front door, on either side of which bloomed a well-kempt garden. Appleton walked the path slowly, cherishing the smell of wet flowers and realizing that over the last twelve hours he’d developed a particular mental image of Mary Clare. It was something like the opposite of the wife. He stood for a few moments before the front door and deliberated whether to ring the electronic bell or use the bronze knocker. Eventually, he rapped his knuckles against the wood. A woman opened the door. “Yes, hello,” said Appleton. The woman looked suspiciously at his hands, but he wasn’t carrying anything except the back cover of the magazine on which he’d written the message from Mars. “I’m not selling,” he said. “I’m looking for Mrs Mary Clare. I’ve been informed that she lives at this address. I have a message for her from Charles R—.” “Did he send you, the scoundrel?” Appleton blinked. “Well did he or didn’t he, speak up. All these years and he can’t even come back to show his face, sends some other poor fool.” Her eyes studied Appleton’s hat. “Or maybe he’s dead. Maybe that’s what you come to tell me. Last of kin or some such.” “No, Mrs Clare—“ “Simpson, but one and the same as you’re looking for.” “Mrs Simpson.” Appleton fumbled the correction. He’d shoved one hand into a cloak pocket and was furiously rubbing his fingers together. “Yesterday evening I received a phone call. I wasn’t meant to receive it, you see, there was a mistake with the connection. The call was from Mr Charles R—. He asked that I deliver this message.” Appleton read aloud what he’d written on the magazine cover. The woman laughed and stomped her foot. She was in her sixties, Appleton realized. Sections of her hair were greying. The lines under her eyes were deep and permanent. Her laughter was not a joyous laughter. She said, “Whatever trick it is you’re playing, and whoever you’re playing it with, I’m too old for it, you understand? The past is dead. Mr Charles R— is dead. And I deserve to be left to my own peace. Don’t come back here.” But before she could close the door, Appleton put his hand on her shoulder. It was a soft shoulder. Appleton gasped. Never had he been so forward with a woman. “Please, Mr Charles R— is not dead. I spoke to him. I heard his voice. I’m telling you the truth. He’s alive. He’s just on another planet. It’s utterly remarkable!” Mrs Simpson looked at Appleton with suddenly sympathetic eyes and, even as she removed his hand from her shoulder, kept her voice calm: “He’s dead to me.” Appleton’s hand fell limply against the side of his cloak. “There are certain things you do that, once you do them, their consequences are permanent. There is no pretending and there is no coming back. Take care now, Mister.” With that, she shut the door. ## - - - Upon returning home, Appleton’s life returned to normal—at least in all superficial respects: he smiled to his wife, he kept to himself, and, at Six O’clock each evening, he retreated to his customary chair to read his customary books. The magazine cover on which he’d written the message from Charles R—, he placed in a private drawer in the desk in his study, underneath unfinished essays and research into particle acceleration and magnet engine propulsion and other old academic bric-a-brac. For weeks, whilst trying unsuccessfully to locate more information about Charles R—, he kept the drawer unlocked. But, once he’d given up hope, he turned the key and, with one click, banished all thought of Mars from his mind. Or at least that’s what Appleton intended. For there are certain neurons that, once they start firing, are impossible to stop. At most, they can be slowed—their work delayed. They are not obtrusive neurons: they do not prevent, say, smiling to one’s wife or reading customary books. But they are persistent and every so often they make the results of their operation known. This happens most-of-all at unexpected times, as, for instance, when Appleton, having bent to retrieve a particularly large pine cone from the grass, stood up with the complete schematic for the Magna-IV Engine before his eyes, or, upon having been asked by the local lady grocer for his opinion about a recent stretch of fair weather, replied, “My God, Ruthenium!” Once such ideas made themselves known to Appleton, he began putting them to paper. Once they were on paper, he tasked other, more compliant, neurons with dividing and conquering any problems that the papers made apparent; and, once those had been solved, what else was there to do but gather the necessary materials and construct the first prototypes? Appleton kept mum about this, of course. To his physicist colleagues, he was still at work on the same book he’d been working on for the last decade. He was still irrelevant. The wife, as long he smiled to her, suspected nothing. It was only his books that could have given him away—lying unopened on their shelves, their regular Six O’clock appointments long forgotten, their yellowing pages gathering dust—but books by themselves cannot speak. Appleton’s secret was safe. Even as the project approached completion, not one soul suspected. When launch-day finally dawned and Appleton, having composed a note to his wife indicating that he would be away until Wednesday on a scholarly pursuit, packed the pieces and prototypes into the back of a rented truck and drove to an old farmer’s field, from where he would blast off that very noon, the whole world was still naïve to the history that would soon be made. In the field, Appleton worked diligently. He filled the shell of the rocket with each of the separate machines he had designed and constructed. He had a life support system, a navigation system, a communications system. He had propulsion. He had fuel. He had everything that was necessary. Nothing had been overlooked. As the sun rose, it rose on years of endless effort that, today, had physically and for the first time come together in the middle of such a previously insignificant English spot on Earth. By Ten O’clock, the rocket was nearly complete. All that was left was the installation of the final ingenious detail: the captain’s seat: Appleton’s own customary evening chair. That done, Appleton looked for one last time at the earthly sky, its thin clouds moving slightly across an orange sun, then climbed into the rocket and closed the hatch. The pneumatics sighed. The inside air was warm. As he set the navigation, every click and beep audible as if within his own skull, Appleton wondered what became of Mary Simpson. But just as it had come, the wonder passed. He confirmed his intended destination on the small liquid crystal display and took a deep breath. The destination was unbelievable: Appleton felt feverish. He maneuvered into his chair and strapped himself in. Space was tight but he was not uncomfortable. Besides—he thrust a needle into a vein in his arm—he would be asleep for most of the journey. The sedative began to flow. He activated the countdown sequence. When he awoke, he would already be in Saturn’s orbit. ## - - - “Hello? Can you hear me?” The communications equipment produced only a monotonous hiss punctuated by crackles. Appleton scratched his head. He’d programmed the system to link directly to the telephone in his home. The signal was strong enough. It should be working. He tried another connection. This time, there was a faint click and the echo of a voice. “Darling! It’s me. Please say something,” Appleton spoke into the receiver. The voice wobbled. “I hope you can hear me. I hope you haven’t been worrying. I hope I haven’t caused you harm. Please, darling, say something so that I know there isn’t a malfunction.” The echoing voice suddenly came into rather clear focus. “Who is this? And do you want to speak with my mum?” Appleton knew right away that it wasn’t the voice of the wife. In fact, it wasn’t even a female voice. It was the voice of a boy. “My name is Appleton,” said Appleton. “I am attempting to contact the wife. Unfortunately, I may have miscalculated. Nonetheless, if you’d be a good lad and please make a note of the following: I am calling from Titan, which is the largest moon of the plane— “Saturn, I know. I’m not stupid.” Appleton cleared his throat and adjusted his headset. “Yes, that’s mighty good of you. As I was saying, I am on Titan, having only just arrived, you see. But the situation thus far appears manageable. I predict I shall make a fair go of living here.” He remembered his reason for calling. “Right, then, if you could tell as much to the wife, whom you will find living at 11 Golden Pheasant Lane in Beaconsfield, I would be much obliged. Her name is—“ The connection went dead. The communications system went offline. Try as Appleton might, no amount of banging, prodding and reprogramming ever brought it back. ## - - - Phil Jones replaced the telephone receiver. “Who was that?” his mother asked. Then disappeared down the hall without waiting for an answer. Phil went back to the homework spread out on his bedroom floor, whose doing Appleton had interrupted. Geography lay beside history, which bordered an island of English. Phil tried all three subjects—cross his innocent heart, he did—but all at once the history was too boring, the English too imprecise and the geography too much pointless memorisation. He rubbed his eyes. Next year he’d be in high school. The homework would only get harder. T-I-T-A-N He typed the letters almost absent-mindedly into a Google image search. The moon stared at him. Somewhere inside his head, certain neurons were beginning to fire.


Ghosts are just like any of you. We say “good morning” and “have a lovely day” like any normal person. We wave and smile, or at least try to. In conversation, I’m barely there, but trust me, I’m listening. My voice box has recently gone out of order, so you won’t be getting any participation on my end. It’s always a pleasure, though, to hear the latest rundown of the news or stories about your weekend. I’d love to connect with you, but you should know we’re from different dimensions. The life of a phantom ain’t so bad. I’m unbothered and do whatever I want! Floating above you all, I get a wonderful view. Sightseeing has been my newfound passion. During my subway cruises, I get to see a bunch of funny faces. And if I’m lucky, a drunk wacko will dance in the streets. It’s moments like these where a smile feels genuine. On weekends, a seat by the ocean with a good book fills the void that my day-to-day doesn’t. Since my death earlier this year, I’ve lost touch with my emotions. I don’t get scared or excited like I used to. Sometimes, loneliness will creep up, so I look back over old pictures with the kind of fondness a mother has for her child. Memories of my past life give me a sense of accomplishment. Like I truly meant something. But, now that I’m dead, I know I won’t be making souvenirs anytime soon. One day, I hope I can live again. For real this time. Maybe I could meet a girl that’ll spark my heart. I’ve always wondered what it was like to hold someone’s hand as you run off in the sunset. Inspiring! I could only imagine. If I’d magically revive, I would take over the world. I’d fix up my act and save enough money to move to LA. Then, I’d join a band and live like there’s no tomorrow. But let’s face it, I’ve always been one with wishful thinking. This is my life now. Cold and empty. And there’s nothing I could do about it. All the action lies in the underworld. Here, I’ve made friends with millions of bizarre characters. Mummies fall in love with sirens, witches cast spells on tin men, hellhounds give the best cuddles, and demons know how to party. It’s a shame they can’t access the surface as I can. They’re having fun down here, so why would they want to anyway? The burden’s mine. I sail through both worlds but don’t have the strength to pick up a drink in either. I’m just a sad pair of eyes. I like to think I’m a good soul. I have the ability to possess human spirits, and whenever I do, I try to uplift the host’s brain. When I control bodies, I tap dance or sing profusely. It makes me happy to believe I make a positive impact, even if it’s just for a short period. By the end, I’m fulfilled and the mortal is entertained. It’s a fair trade if you ask me. If I can’t live for myself, then I will live for others.


I'm Detective Brian Myers and I just retired from the Lakeland Police Department in Lakeland, Florida. From 1982 to 2020, I've worked as a law enforcement officer. This story actually starts on Halloween morning 1962. Helen Gaines found a baby girl on her doorstep in the wee hours of the morning (someone had rang the doorbell and ran away). Normally the police would be called but Helen never called. She was engaged to be married to an older man who didn't want any more children. From what my father told me, they got into a very heated argument at the park downtown. No one was around but my dad could see them from his patrol car but they couldn't see him. They yelled and screamed at each other while the baby who was in Helen's arms was screaming and crying. Then the older man walked away leaving Helen crying on a bench. The engagement was broken. What the older man didn't know and few people knew was Helen could never have children. Helen told people that the baby's parents had died in a car accident and that she was a distant relative who had been designated to raise her. No one really looked into seeing if this was true. People back then, more or less took your word for it and since the Gaines family was a very highly respected old money in Lakeland, no one questioned what she said. The baby was named Nancy Gaines. Helen never married. She was engaged, once in the early 1950's and then the second time in 1962. When Nancy came to her doorstep, Helen was 30 years old. Most women her age in town had been married for at least 8-10 years and nearly all had children (3 to 4 was the average by the time one was in their early 30's). Richard Gaines was Helen's father and was an attorney. Her mother was a legal secretary and so was Helen. Later Richard Gaines Jr. joined the firm so it was Gaines & Gaines legal services. Nancy was told by Helen which was the truth that she found her on her doorstep. She didn't tell her everything she knew and she knew a lot more than she ever let on but this came out later. Nancy had a very good childhood and was pampered by Helen and her family. Fast Forward 1985. Lakeland and Polk County is a conservative area of Florida. Nancy minored in dance at Florida Christian College (which is in Lakeland). She was on the dance team and as I said loved dancing. Well, she was on a music video dancing in a way which let's just say isn't for kids or family hour.. It only played on MTV after 10:00 pm. Helen was a rather progressive thinker, so she wasn't bothered by the video. Others were and she told them to get over it. Shortly after the video came out, Nancy got pregnant by one of the band members Jason Miller who happened to be from Lakeland but from the wrong side of the tracks. As you imagine, the gossipers in town had a field day with this. Sadly Nancy gave birth to a stillborn child and the relationship ends shortly thereafter. I needed to get to the point as I've go on and on. Anyway, fast forward 1998. New Years Eve, Jason Miller is murdered at a party in Lakeland by the son of a county commissioner who believes that he is getting rid of sinners. Everyone knows that this wasn't the real reason. Kevin Green and Jason Miller have had bad blood since childhood and Kevin was actually jealously over Jason having numerous female admirers and lovers while he never had a relationship with any woman. When I arrested him, Kevin Green offered no resistance. In the patrol car, he told me that he did it and he had no remorse. I just listened and said nothing. He told me this several times and I recorded him with his consent. Nancy Gaines-Moffit was living in Tampa, married with three children. She was sadden by Jason's death but had a really bad feeling about the case, that she would be dragged into it. About two days after Jason died, Helen Gaines died unexpectedly. I had called her and she said she was coming to visit Helen (this was before she died). I told her that she could wait until after the funeral to talk to me but she said she would take to me early Friday morning as the viewing for her mother was that afternoon and the service was Saturday morning at the Grace Episcopal church. Her husband and kids were doing other activities. "I met Jason Miller at my grandfather's law office. He got into trouble for using drugs and fighting. He had a bad reputation, I know. My family didn't really want me to get involved with him but I did. In the summer of 1981, I was living in Tampa doing an internship. I worked days. At night I would go with him to the bar to listen to him play in the band. At that time, we were friends. The sorority that I was in saw the band and we went to see him play on weekends, even though we weren't supposed to be going into bars and associating with people like him. But he had a different girlfriend every week. I never thought I would be his girlfriend but that happened in October of 1984. I was finally free of all the restrictions. Jason was a rule breaker and I followed the rules. I knew the rest of the story as did everyone else in town and since I've already spoken of it earlier, I will not repeat it. A couple of times Nancy had tears coming down her face when talking about Jason. Not totally sure if all the tears were from him or for her mom. She didn't know Kevin Green personally but Jason had spoke of him in a negative way. They hated each other is what she told me. Jason wanted to avoid a trial but some legal group talked him out of it, so now we are going to trial and this really took on a life of its own. The trial was moved from Lakeland to Pensacola. The legal team found out some information about Helen's medical history and Nancy's biological parents which was shocking. They denied that they had anything to do with the information which was published in the National Gossip News but I knew they had. They loved to find dirt on people, especially people who didn't agree with their viewpoints and Helen, Nancy and Jason would fit into this category. What they published had nothing to do with the murder case. Highlights of the comments included: "Helen Grimes was a virgin who was born as someone who had no male or female characteristics. Her family decided that she would be female as they had a son. She didn't find out until she was engaged to be married and promptly broke off the relationship. " This shocked me but the rest of the comments didn't. When Nancy heard about this, she fainted and broke her arm and had to be taken to the hospital. "Helen Grimes lied to the court saying that she would be marrying Harry Malvin and this was the only reason the court granted the adoption. Her family did some legal maneuvers and this was promptly forgotten. Illegal adoption." "Jason Miller was a juvenile delinquent who had problems with drinking, drugs and fighting...... Other personal attacks on Nancy. The last time Nancy talked to Jason was a couple of days after the funeral of their son. They talk for a long time and agreed to go their separate paths. They hugged and went their separate paths. You would think this would be enough attacks but and I don't know how they found this information out but found out that leaving Nancy at the doorstep was a staged event. King Lars of Flowers was named as the biological father and Louise Wren who was a college student in Tampa was her biological mother. Shortly after giving birth, Louise had committed suicide. " I turned on the TV and the news crews were all over Nancy's neighborhood. Nancy was trying to go to work. Her husband Mark had yelled at them to get off their property which they did per police orders but they were in the road. It was only after police threatened arrest that they finally left. The King had no comment nor did Nancy. This craziness went on for about a week and then they finally left poor Nancy alone. But that wasn't the end for Nancy. The defense attorney tried to rip her to shreds emotionally and it did work to a certain degree. The first day she was grilled for 4 hours about her relationship with Jason Green. The second day she was grilled for a hour about the music video which today would be considered to be tame. This never would have happened in Lakeland or Tampa due to the Gaines's family prominence but in Pensacola, this didn't protect her. Why the judge would allow this, I don't know. I couldn't stand this judge and almost got contempt of court when I challenged the defense attorney. I had worked security for the Gaines family every year when they had their Christmas party as there were some interesting characters at the party and they made a issue of that. Had nothing to do with the murder case. Thankfully I had it on tape that Kevin Green admitted that he murdered Jason. He told me this voluntary. Unlike Nancy, I've been in a courtroom for trials, so I know what to expect. The jury saw thru all this and convicted Kevin Green for murder. He got a life sentence. The insanity then stopped.


Prologue: He wraps a sweatshirt around his clenched fist. Takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and sends a quick prayer to the universe. His arm pulls back, and on the exhale, he thrusts his swaddled hand through the windowpane. The air puffs out of his lungs, a burst of relief. The hardest part is done. He gazes around his surroundings; no one has seen. The shards of the window are scattered on the ground inside the dark, cavernous opening he’s created. The pungent odor of the basement emerges, a discomforting mix of mildew, dust, and – decay? He truly believed the legend wasn’t true; he wasn’t going to let this place get the jump on him. He grips the windowsill, using the hoodie to protect his hands from the stalagmite shards of glass protruding from the windowsill, and swings himself forward and down into the dark. Dust rises from where his sneakers meet the cement floor, and he’s in. “This isn’t shit,” he says to himself, underwhelmed. His heart pounds, but gently. Not fear, just a rise in blood pressure. He’s not scared. He’s not scared. The basement, obscured by an opaque layer of dust in the air, is an archive. Stacks of boxes, piles of dilapidated furniture, rows of absolute junk crowd the small space. The ceiling hangs low, so that as he combs the rows of refuse, he is forced to duck beams coated in cobwebs. The smell lingers; it reminds him of the time he saw a long-deceased possum on the way to his bus stop before school. Death and waste. He wrinkles his nose and bars his arm across his face. Deeper, and deeper, he walks toward the back of the basement, looking for it. The ceiling continues to droop more and more the farther back he walks, until he is forced to crouch onto his knees. The ground is wet; his jeans are immediately soaked through where they contact the ground. “Uck!” He swipes a finger through the muck on the floor; it’s a slimy, mucus-like substance. His stomach turns. The darkness is so heavy in the cramped space that he can’t see it, can’t see what’s coating his pants and hands. Willing himself, he raises his hand to his nose and breathes in. To his relief, it isn’t shit, vomit, or anything else he’d been imagining. The smell of mold is still strong in the air, but this stuff smells like metal, like iron. He gets back to work. Byron said that the door would be on the back wall, so he sidles up as far as he can wedge himself to the back of the basement. At this point, the wall can’t be taller than three feet; he reluctantly props himself on his elbows, and feels a sickening squish as his stomach greets the slimy, damp floor. He makes a mental note to kill Byron if this turns out to be a hoax. He guides his hand along the wall, searching for a crevice, a crack, any kind of indentation. Mostly he just feels the dirty coating on the cement wall; this must be the foundation, as low as the house goes. Frustrated, he crawls back and forth across the wall, but he can’t find a single break in the wall, and he’s officially soaked in this awful guck. “Fucking hell.” He feels frantic, angry. “Fuck this shit!” He digs at the crease between the wall and the floor with his fingers. “Where – the fuck – IS IT?!” His fingernail catches, and rips from the nail bed. “MOTHERFUCKER!” he yells, and grips the bleeding finger tightly, applying pressure. His head slams into the ceiling, rattling his shoulders and spine. He rolls over onto his back, pain blossoming quickly through his torso. His temper flares, and he wants to react by lashing out, punching the wall, running away, but the ceiling is so, so low, and suddenly, he feels trapped. The sticky walls close in and bury him, and he feels his chest lock up with dread. His limbs feel heavy and bogged down by the muck on the floor. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, he can’t move, he can’t, he can’t… His ears are ringing and he needs to stop the awful buzzing in his head, so he lets his head slam backward, down onto the floor. Thud. A hollow thud. Not cement, but wood. Not on the walls around him, but on the floor, beneath him. He rolls himself around to his elbows once more. Everything has gone silent. He feels along the space where his head was a moment ago, and he holds his breath. He trails his remaining fingernails up and down, left and right, across the floor and he feels it: a crack, about three feet long, underneath his body. He follows it, and finds another crack at a 90-degree angle. It’s a square. A door. He slams his open palm around the square, and the hollow thud resounds throughout the tiny space, sending dust up and into his lungs. He suddenly feels leather instead of cement: a strap, bolted to the ground. He grips it, and pulls upward, straining. No movement, so he yanks the strap sideways in all directions. It rattles, but it’s clearly stuck. He wrenches his arm into a different, radically uncomfortable angle, grits his teeth, and pulls as hard as he can, until the wooden panel finally gives way with a violent shift, throwing him onto his side. The opening under the panel emits a frigid blast of cold air, and he gazes down into the shaft; it’s pitch black, the darkest space he’s ever seen. And the smell. “Oh god,” he gags. The damp stench of roadkill fills his nostrils. Fuck, he thinks. He has to go down. He can’t turn around. He can’t let Byron think he’s a chickenshit for turning around. But, fuck, that smell. And the goddamn ache growing in the back of his head. He reaches into the darkness, trying to grasp a ladder, a rope, something solid, but there is nothing. That pitch-black darkness is a void. The passage is big enough to fit through, but he doesn’t even know how deep it is, where the emptiness ends. He looks around for something to throw, but the back of the crawlspace is barren, and the piles of junk are far behind him. He awkwardly reaches his arm back into his pants pocket; all he has is his wallet. Well, here goes nothing, he thinks. He rolls his eyes, picturing the many ways in which Byron will inevitably owe him for this, and throws his wallet down into the dark. He waits. He hears nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Fucking hell, he thinks. It can’t really be bottomless, can it? Whatever it is, a crawlspace or a well or a vast empty fucking pit, it has to end somewhere, right? He maneuvers his cramped, awkward body until his legs dangle into the emptiness. “Byron,” he groans. “I’m going to fucking kill you if I die.” He lets his fingers slip from the edges of the trapdoor, and he jumps.


It’s been four years since I found the dog on our doorstep, licking its cute little paws, and he hasn’t changed a bit since. Mum says it’s strange; dogs don’t live as long as humans do. And they grow old much more quickly. I’ve grown so much since the dog arrived on our porch – I come up to Mum’s elbows now – but the dog looks the same as ever. The shiny black coat, not a hint of greying. Always active and willing to run with me. Mum sometimes worries about him – looks at him strangely. It’s fine, though. I love him and I hope he lives forever. His name is Peaches. Well, that’s usually what I call him. He has two other names – Apricot and Mango. I lie in bed waiting for Peaches to arrive. He disappears sometimes. Runs off after lunch and doesn’t appear until late. Sometimes he doesn’t show up for a whole day. I used to get worried, but now I don’t mind him disappearing every now and then. He’s not a regular dog, I know that. Sometimes I feel like he came just to look after me. After all, he appeared on our doorstep the same day I was diagnosed. Maybe he has other little girls to look after too. So of course I don’t mind him going away for a while. He appears soon, bounding happily and leaping onto my bed. I let him curl up over my chest, and he starts slobbering all over me. I laugh because it tickles. When Peaches settles down, I hold his muzzle and peer at his face. There – his birthmark is just below his left ear. So this is Apricot. Peaches’ birthmark is at the corner of his left eye, and Mango’s over his nose. I give him a kiss on the tip of his snout. “Hello, Apricot,” I whisper. He looks at me like he understands. “Remember when I told you about my bad kidney? Well, I think I’m not going to last very long. Mum says I’ll get better, but I heard her crying last night.” Apricot whimpers and I feel bad. I pull him under my blanket and close my eyes. When I wake up, I’m alone. I’m not in bed, not even in my house. I’m standing, even though I am sure I had been in bed. I’m somewhere dark and shadowy. Miserable. In front of me is a river, its water still and dark like glass. There’s a boat and it carries passengers. They all look so sad. Somehow, I know I’m never going back home. I start shaking. “It’s okay, little girl,” someone says beside me. A man with a gentle smile. He holds a stick with two snakes crawling along it. “Get on the boat and you’ll meet your friend on the other side.” “My friend?” He smiles. “You’ll see. Just give the boatman your coin and he’ll take you.” I’m about to say I have no coin, but the man disappears. I feel something heavy drop inside my fist. I open it; there’s a coin lying on my palm. I do as he said. I can’t stop shaking. I want to go home, but I knew this would happen, didn’t I? Mum has told me, with tears in her eyes, what happens when people die. The boat hits the opposite bank and very familiar faces greet me. Three dogs – no, one dog with three heads! I run to him and hug the head in the middle. He has the birthmark at the corner of his left eye – he must be Peaches. I knew Peaches and Apricot and Mango were one dog! Mum and Dad never believed me; they thought I was making up stories about their birthmarks changing places. Peaches speaks to me. “Hello, little friend.” I laugh. “We wanted to be sure that you didn’t feel lonely. So we went to you when you fell sick and kept you company. Now you have friends here.” I laugh and hug each of them. I’m not shaking anymore.


So this happened today. It didn’t start today but it happened today. It started months and months ago on tinder when I swiped a girl I thought was kinda cute. We swapped Snapchats and then nothing. Until last week when I was feeling especially lonely, I messaged her just for the company. Since then we’ve been messaging everyday, the conversations seem to drag out over multiple days like a chess match played via carrier pigeon, each of my messages carefully thought out to try to be the best I can. I’m sure for her it comes naturally, but for me I make so much effort with each message. This morning I woke to the torrential rain outside. I checked my phone straight away to see if she’d come to her senses and cancelled yet, she had messaged but only to say we would have to push back out meet-up time as she had a problem with her house but she’d get it sorted. I tried to act cool, I went about my normal morning routine and was secretly smiling to myself about how the day might unfold. “You can get here for about half 10” she sent me. It got real then because until this point she had just been a name and a bitmoji on my screen, but at 10:37 she was across the street. She wasn’t the type of girl I usually go for, not that I can afford to be picky, but she was so different to me. But my god she was gorgeous! Long black hair flying around in the wind like it was trying it’s hardest to get away from the gleaming smile on her face. Jeans, trainers and a coat, so simple and yet on her it looked flawless. “Heyyy.” I was gone, luckily when she said it she was putting on her seatbelt so she didn’t see my stupid face extend like it was being stretched from the eyebrows up and the jaw down. Her accent was incredible. My stomach felt like it weighed as much as the car I was in. With my hand on the wheel to hide the shaking I replied “hey, you alright?” With the pseudo confidence rarely seen outside of the intoxicated. I went to drive but I stalled. How embarrassing, how much worse can I get? Oh yeah I stall again. What a great start? Way to make an impression. Third time lucky though I managed to creep the car out of her street while asking for directions out of her estate like I was an Uber and with the professional tone in my voice to match. Half an hour later though I was settled, I had asked all the questions I had thought of before I woke up that morning. Flickering between “so what surprised you most when you first moved to this country” and “what’s your favourite dinosaur” I was just as much a mess as I was 30 minutes ago. I drove her to a small town in the countryside where I had planned on telling her about my experiences there and showing her the river that flows through the centre, the medieval buildings and the history on offer. However, as we arrived I just drove past all that at the speed limit while talking about how I was failing my duty as the tour guide for the day. It’s amazing how differently things work out in real life vs inside your head while you lie in bed at 2am. The romantic meal on the side of a river turned into a very greasy fish and chips ate in the front of my car while staring into a shop window. What am I doing?! Here I have one of the most genuine, sweet, beautiful and charming girls I’ve met in my life and I’m smashing battered cod down my throat like it’s a competition. There’s no way she’s having a good time, she can’t be having fun, she probably only smiles and laughs at my jokes so that I’ll take her home after I’ve spent my time with her. Just as quickly as we arrived we left, it was half way over and I wasn’t ready for that. We listened to music on the way back with the occasional quick short conversation, usually ending in some sort of dad joke by me and her with a smile and a stare that just said “I can’t believe you said that” but in a good way. Back at her house, I made an excuse not to drop her off in the middle of the road but instead to park up, clinging to any hope that she might possibly invite me in just so our time wasn’t over. “So when are you free next?” What?! First of all you *want* to see me again? Even after that shambles of a ‘date’ you want to endure me again? Then the realisation that she wasn’t going to invite me in. My mood went down, up and down again as fast as my breathing must’ve been the last time I was here earlier in the day. “Uhhh, I’m not sure, I’ll let you know later.” How generic. Truth was that no matter what I would’ve made sure I was free for whenever she was but I couldn’t say that to her. I’m not even sure if she liked me or she’s being nice until she shuts her front door and can block me from her phone. But, this time without stalling, I drove away feeling defeated, unwanted and like I just traded an amazing few hours for a whole week of sadness to follow. I couldn’t help myself though, before I made it home I messaged her. Telling her how much I enjoyed meeting her and that I had a great day. You should’ve seen the grin on my face when she replied, reciprocating what I had expressed with the same cheerful texts that we’d been sending before. I forget exactly how we got there but she asked what my first impression was of her and when I asked the same she said “you just need to get more comfortable, you don’t get much credit for” and that was it. She must’ve accidentally sent it or misspelled a word. I had to know so I asked “much credit for what?” “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re really nice, you’ve got a great personality and great features.” I didn’t even know what that meant but I didn’t care. If someone had seen me they might’ve thought I was trying to taste my ears with the corners of my mouth. On the drive I mentioned a game that I was particularly good at, she hadn’t played it or even heard of it before but she downloaded it earlier and I played with her for an hour or so. She sucked, I know she’s new but she was absolutely trash at that game. Yet it was the most fun I’ve had in that game. Next time I see her I have to just be more confident. I really, really wanna see if this is something that could be something more but I just don’t know if she feels that way. Like all the times before, I’m probably setting myself up for a months long misery.


It was a cold snowy day in the middle of January. My dad and I went hiking in the forest at the fabled Algonquin park. The snow was falling with such grace it made the forest look like a scene from a classic Christmas movie. We decided to go hiking to get our minds off of our dog Meeko, who had passed away a week before. As we continued our hike through the forest, we saw something breathtaking. Although I have seen this creature before, I have never been within arms reach of it. The creature had yellowish-brown fur similar to my beige hiking boots. When it saw us it got startled. Its antlers toward over us. Instead of dashing off into the snowy horizon, it just looked at us. It was about the same height as me. As I reached out to touch its seemingly soft fur it sprinted into the distance. As the creature sprinted away we decided to follow it. Although we knew that since the sun was setting we would be surrounded by darkness, we continued anyway. We both knew that we would not get lost as we have been on this path before. While we continued along the path my dad kept on talking about the creature. He said the encounter we had today reminded him of how he would take Meeko on hikes in the forest. It was evident that this encounter with the creature evoked a feeling of warmth and calmness within him that he had not felt since the passing of our old canine friend. As my dad and I continued hiking, we talked more about our encounter with the creature. We talked about why we pursued the creature after it bolted into the dense snow-covered forest. Was it because we wanted to see more of it? Or was it because it reminded us of another furry animal that we cherished? We both came to the conclusion that the creature evoked a feeling in both of us that we had not felt for a while. We wanted to follow the creature because it reminded us of when we would chase Meeko in the same forest. We felt like we were walking with him in the forest. Our hike came to an end when we saw the creature lying down next to some trees. We were both flabbergasted when we saw this because of how much it resembled Meeko. We walked closer to it hoping that it would not sprint off again. It let us touch its soft fur. As I was touching its soft fur all I could think of was Meeko. The creature’s fur felt the same, its fur was the same colour, and its eyes were the same ultramarine colour. We stayed for about ten minutes then hiked our way back to the car. Once in the car, I began to recall the encounter we just had. The encounter brought me joy and happiness. However, this slowly faded away as it only reminded me of what we had lost.


Prologue I've always hated the news. My parents however, couldn't get enough if it. To me, the news nowadays was just middle aged men rambling on about all the bad things in the world. And on the rare occasion they did inform the people about something good, they talked about it for 45 seconds and went right back to the usual: a murder, a kidnapping, you get the picture. So when I visited my parents house last week it was no surprise that they had Fox News on in the background. My parents were both politically red but they weren't the kind of conservatives to go rambling on about how the government was putting chips in people or yelling about how terrible democrats are. And that was really nice. I think we can unanimously agree that people who do participate in previously stated affairs are generally more right wing. Personally, I hated politics, if you were wondering. But regardless, we were sitting in their living room when a news reporter started mundanely reading breaking news out loud. Apparently, there was a mother playing with her two sons in her Chicago home when a rock flew through her window. Neighbors reported screaming, and blunt objects strike floors, walls, and people. They heard a door opening, possibly a backyard door, and after this quick three minute terror, they dialed 911. The neighbors did not choose to release a statement, nor have the officers and the Chief of Police, who quickly arrived at the scene. However, the official police report has been released. Apparently, two men with sharp weapons, likely axes, had thrown a chunk of cement that broke of the sidewalk through the largest window. They quickly entered, and did something terrible. They used the axe and chopped off one of her sons arms and leg. They then moved on to the other child, and they drove the axe into the poor boys chest and the other man decapitated him. The later chopped of the mothers limbs and chunk of her skull. They busted down the back door, and left. The motives were unknown, and the late widows husband had died 7 years ago. She was 30, the children were 4 and 6. "Oh my God" was all my mother could say. But, then again, what are you supposed to say. My mother began to sob. She was a very emotional woman. My father tried consoling her, but his eyes started to become wet. "Why don't you leave, son. We need some space. Text us when you get home so I know you make it home alright." We all hugged and said goodbye and drove home. Buy before i left i couldn't help but notice the painting my family has had for years. It was of my ancestors. A man and a princess were forced to sail a ship and they fell in love. I believe they tryed to settle down in the colonies but the British found them. They had one five year old child that was given to the neighbors. The radio was playing one of my favorite songs, but I turned it off anyway. I drove the hour and a half home in silence. And as I drove past the football fields of corn, I realized I hated it here. It was too quiet. I wanted to return to my apartment right in the middle of downtown Chicago. When I got there I settled in by getting changed and making some tea. I then texted my parents telling them I was alright, but it never said they say it. So I called them and it rung for 30 seconds, and all I heard was the dial tones and the same thing here when I call my friends dead phone: The number you are trying to call has not set up a voice mail, At the tone, please leave a message. Maybe they decided they weren't going to talk anyone. 30 minutes go by and I get a call from the North Utica police department. The Tunnels I'm not sure you picked up on that. Long story short, my parents died. The weapons used were long, sharp, and easy to use. They were murdered in their own home crying. They were found in a pool of blood. But that was a week ago. I wish I had time to mourn them, but I'm much too busy. Hell, everyone in Northeastern Illinois was. The murders started the day before my parents died. With the mother and her sons. For the past week, small groups of men were breaking into houses and murdering everyone inside in cold blood. About 650,000 people have died. Nobody knew how many men with axes there were.. The bodys were countless, and you couldn't go out in public without being murdered. Me and some refugees built a small hidden network of tunnels to hide from the murderers. The tunnels reach from the Chase Bank building to the soup kitchen and the subway. They also had secret weapons hidden in fake walls throughout the tunnels such as rifles, pistols, knives, and what we had the most of; axes. We had ambush teams that quickly intercepted convoys. They brought back axes. Sometimes they themselves didn't come back. We have plenty of matches and electricity. However, we needed candles just in case. To solve this, we quickly formulated a plan. They would each bring a 9mm on the subway. If any axemen (oh right! Forgot to tell you. We call them axemen) boarded the subway, our supply team will quickly take care of that. They will later take supplies from stores such as food and candles. About 300 men live here, 270 women, and 400 children all crammed into these tunnels. Everyone did their share here but wait. I can hear something. It sounds like, a giant boom. I decided to go examine, but then I saw axemen. But with new, louder weapons. Chainsaws. That was yesterday. Let me tell you all about it. The Attack in the Tunnels The moment I saw the Axemen I knew we wouldn't survive. But alas, I still grabbed a weapon from the walls. I grabbed a lever action rifle. I was so glad I was in this spot because I knew there were so many unfortunate people who probably grabbed pocket knives or pistols with no magazines. As I slowly approached where I saw them, I realized something. They were gone. But the U-Hauls they stole were still there. Still open. That meant they were in the tunnels. Killing. They were destroying families. Destroying lives. I didn't have much time to think about that though. Although in hindsight that was probably for the better. What wasn't for the better, however, was that an axeman swung his axe right next to me. Well, he did hit me, but the axe just grazed my right arm, leaving a huge cut that would later heal but leave a mark on me forever. I turned around and saw the murderer. His eyes looked scarily human but not quite human. Almost like an American Girl doll. They were blue, with a slight triangle of red in the top of his void black pupils. I couldn't see the rest if his face because of his ski-mask. I quickly kicked him back with my leg and aimed my rifle. Alright. Just aim for him and shoot, not the hard, I thought to myself. As I pulled the trigger, I heard a deafening boom as the bullet left the chamber and hit him right in the neck. I was aiming for the chest, but I couldn't steady myself and aimed too high. He quickly collapsed on the dirty floor as blood quickly poured out his neck like a pitcher pouring lemonade on a hot summer day with neighborhood kids. Before long, he was laying in a pool of blood. I did this, I thought to myself. I took away this man's life. He tried to hurt me but I hurt him myself. And that's a thought I will carry with me to the day I die. But then I saw a man run through the tunnels with an assault rifle, screaming and firing at the same time. He then stopped and looked at me saying, "They're all gone now." I felt so bad taking this mans life, yet heres this guy screaming triumphantly about how he killed however many axemen he killed. I fell to the ground and fainted as blood poured out my arm. The Aftermath After I woke up I found that me among many others were placed in beds in what seemed to be a makeshift hospital. If they placed this many people here, that meant the spots we reserved for the sick were all filled up. As I woke up, I saw that a nurse was running towards me. "Hello?" I said weekly. I felt surprisingly fine, but my voice still trembled. She sighed a sigh of relief and spoke "We were waiting for you to wake up! The doc said you were able to leave the moment you woke up. And besides, you were invited to a meeting put on by the leaders of our little…" She seemed to struggle what to call the shelter. "our little den." Either way, they are expecting you at this very moment." As I nodded yes I saw how my arm looked. It was blood stained around the area the axeman hit and there was a large piece of cloth around it. I slowly got up and walked to the head office. As I slowly walked down the corridors, i saw the victims of the attack. I saw piles of blood that nobody bothered to mop up. I saw people who looked like dollar store guards brandishing AR-15s. I saw children crying, women sobbing, men grieving, and people dying. Everyone looked tired, and the people that weren't any of these things were on the verge of breaking down. I wanted to help these people so bad, but something told me no. I felt so evil. Children were here acting strong, protecting their siblings while receiving news that they would never see their parents again, while I walked through, with a small gash on his arm. I was scared walking through this place. That was so out of the blue. It didn't seem planned. And this is what they caused. What if they launched another attack? What kind of damage could they cause? I had to stop thinking about this. I felt quite queasy. I took my last turn and saw the door to the office right in front of me. Every step I took felt like an Earth shattering boom. As I approached the door, I reached for the handle and turned it as I walked in. The Meeting "Oh! Here you are! Sit down now. We have important matters to discuss." A man in a khaki uniform told me. I noticed a small tag on his breast that read "STRUMMER". I complied. "What happened yesterday was disgusting. About 700 men died, 530 women, and 400 children. We have recently initiated a task force we dedicated to protect citizens and refugees living here in the Tunnels. We have also decided upon a name for the Tunnels. We call it Solsbury. We also have named the task force the SPS. SPS is short for Solsbury Protection Services. The SPS doesn't have much, so we would appreciate any contributions. So far, we have simple blue-gray Dickies uniform with an ironed-on patch. We hope to have more official wear, but we are managing. The SPS is also armed with at least one firearm with variable efficiency. The SPS also carries either a knife or a baton with them." He said all this in an almost robotic voice, as if he wasn't really in the moment. It was like a Text-to-Speech machine, only with a slight Scottish accent and a bit more human. Another man to my left looked like he wanted to speak, but didn't. I noticed he too had a tag on his breast that read "SKINNER". I felt bad, for some strange reason. It was like he wanted to speak, but was muted like a television. But I didn't dwell on it for too long, as a woman in a very dusty yet elegant skirt spoke. She looked young, but she had definitely been through much, as the wrinkles in her face proved. I noticed yet another name tag, this one reading "PEART". She started to say something, but I wasn't listening. I heard a switch knife flicking open and a smile cross the man next to Strummer. What happened next was easily the most disturbing thing ever at the time the man next to Strummer, who I noticed had a name tag that read "GRAY", brought a small knife up and stabbed Strummer in the neck with it. The worst part, Strummer was still alive. Everyone in this conference room screamed. Gray then brought the knife out as heavy, red blood spurted on Grays face, the table, and many of the surrounding people. Gray then stabbed Strummers heart, instantly killing him. Blood poured out of Strummers neck like water out of a Budha fountain. Everyone instantly jumped out of their seats, but I didn't move a muscle. I was petrified. But then I noticed Peart pull a seven shot revolver out of the waist band of her skirt. Unfortunately, Gray also noticed this and threw his knife in my direction. She pulled the trigger. A large boom filled the conference room, alerting the SPS something was definitely wrong. However, Gray released his knife a little to late and Peart fired a little too late, causing the knife to curve, as it wasn't a good throw. It didn't strike me, although it struck Skinner dead in the eye, causing his head to jolt back. A start of a blood curdling scream started to erupt out of him, but he passed before he could finish. I looked from Skinner back to Gray and saw a large bullet hole in between his eyes. Blood slowly poured out from the wound, causing many more people to throw up. I looked back at Peart, who looked petrified. She was still holding the gun with both hands, the gunsmoke still curving smoothly out the barrel. She dropped the revolver, and fell to the ground, just as I had before. Two SPS guards picked her up and brought her to a stretcher, where they transferred her to two large SPS paramedics, who quickly rushed off with her, her messy bun still in place. As I looked over again at Gray, I saw something in his eyes. It looked like a contact lens. They made his eyes blue, with a small red triangle in the middle. The Noticing This was some weird stuff. That's for damn sure. The first Axeman I see: blue iris, red triangle in pupil. Ok. Whatever. People have weird fashion taste nowadays. Maybe that's what's cool now. I couldn't give a damn. But an infiltration in the tunnels with the infiltrator having the exact same contact lenses? No way in Hell that is a coincidence. As I walk through the tunnels I look at peoples eyes. No lenses. Even the new arrivals from Indiana don't have them, and they are looking good. Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. The Axemen just took over Indianapolis as well. People over their thought Chicago was a safe haven, given it's security levels. What a shame. If only they knew. Nowhere is safe. Last night we all turned on the last news station on, CNN, and witnessed something horrifying. The axemen found the new CNN news room and busted in. The people on the news first had a look of concern, then shock, then forgiveness, and then fell behind the desk. A lone Axeman jumped over in an honestly super clean way. I hate to give them credit, but they are agile. I then heard screams, that stopped scarily abruptly. The Axeman jumped back over, facing the camera. He pulled out something from behind his back. I really hoped he was just doing an immature joke we did back in grade school, where you pretended to pull something out and its just your big, fat, middle finger. I'm half right. He pulls out an arm. Its doing a limp middle finger, and you don't usually get so scared you get angry. Or cocky. Or annoying. Or anything other than scared. Meaning this disgusting waste of oxygen actually positioned the victims hand like this. The arm has blood gushing from the sever point, which appears to be just below the elbow. The fingers fall, but they still twitch. Look, I've read horror. I once read a book called "Sadness" or something of the sort. The main character got his foot cut off. I also think his thumb. But when his foot was off, his toes still twitched. That was a good book. When this ends… no no. If this ends, I'm going to try and find it. But the point is, words aren't scary. Just a bunch of lines. Those won't hurt you. But actually seeing it, oh Lord. This sight is disgusting. I'm praying that my worst enemy never sees this. As the fingers stop moving, he shakes the arm so it waves. He gets closer to the camera, and I see it again. The blue iris, the red triangle. I don't know how I see this. It only was there for about half a second before he slashes the axe at the camera, ending the program instantly. I remember what Mom used to say. "I had a photographic memo-" I stop thinking about it. To think about that, I need to think about my mom. And mom was murdered. By an axeman. The Axeman likely also had a blue iris and red triangle. My attempts to stop thinking about it only lead to more thinking about. I can't. I try to push through the crowd as my eyes get blurry and wet, but they barely even move a muscle. I start to cry. But not that quiet sob where you try to breathe and just choke but more of an ugly cry. I feel the tears hit the ground and splatter softly. Drip drip drip. It starts slowly but slowly gets worse and worse. Eventually I have a small three year old looking at me silently. Great. Children are just watching me cry on the dirty floor. I'm done. I don't politely ask people to excuse me. I run through the crowd, pushing everyone that doesn't see my speeding by like a bullet. I see a man in front of me, with a blue iris and red triangle in his eye. Another imposter. I quickly bow my head down, not out of respect, but to hide my face. When he's close to me, I see his eyes one more time. Yep. Blue iris. Red triangle. I then do the last thing I expected. I punched him square in the eye, almost as if the triangle were a target. As i run by, picking up speed, I here people "ooh" ing and "aaahhh" ing but on more of a concerned way than a fascinated one.I run back to my room and slam the door shut and lock it. I throw myself onto the bed, not bothering to use a blanket. I sob. And I sob and I sob. Mostly out of sadness. Partially out of anger. And for the first time, I grieve for my parents. The Death I woke up later that night to a knock on my door. Its extremely late, and no one should be knocking. I open the door, and see a man in a ski mask looking at me. I back up. He walks in. He pulls out an axe. He raises it. I fall to my feet. He swings the axe. It hits my elbow. Pain that I never knew existed shoots up my arm. He raises it again. He drops it in between my ribs.


A short vague-ish story I wrote to curb my Insomnia, figured I'd post it for Shiggles... Enjoy my weird mind.  **Hello?** Amongst the cover of darkness a lone traveller stumbles upon the scene, wolves slain strewn over the clearing. A lone figure lies unmoving in the centre, the traveller walks over and kneels down. “What have I found here? The lone traveller raises their hand and taps the figure’s forehead and as they feel the warmth of blood, the body stirs to life. **The man lays there, he feels immense pain from his wounds and…. Unfortunately cannot feel any of his arms...** “I’ll be quick, you don’t have much time left…” The traveller spoke out the truth as he would any other, peering down at the man’s visage... **“...….Who….. Who’s there?...”** **The man’s eyes… or what’s left of them… he tries to blink, but to no avail** “I’m a passing traveller… your eyes…” The traveller… slowly traces their fingers down from the man’s forehead down to his eyes… and slowly closes his eyelids. **“I can’t…. See any more…”** **He sputters as he hacks up blood… what can be seen as tears flow from his lost eyes... dyed in the crimson that flows from his wounds** “...…..” The traveller lingers their fingers over the man’s eyelids… as if calming down a crying child, they stay knelt and listens to the man’s final words **“Who are you?”** **The man speaks uninterrupted by his spasms of pain and only manages to speak those three words** “I… you could say I'm the reaper of the underworld… or the lord of darkness… I could even be one of the Gods..” The traveller evades the question with his words. Trailing their fingers down to the man’s neck, **He feels the sharpness of their nails trailing down his face** **“You’re… a.. Demon…”** **Fading from the loss of blood he sputters an exhausted accusation, the vitriol in his voice was palpable** “An Exiled mind you… though you aren’t long for this world anymore mister paladin, you should focus on joining your god before slaying another demon, though I would point your sword at those fools who exiled me first. Their voice was masked by malice, the hate of their own kind seeped out into the surroundings, **The man felt the intensity of the Traveller’s malice and again hacked up a sizable amount of blood** “You humans always seem to have too much blood, how do you even keep it all inside” **Struggling to stay awake, the man thinks of his beloved… the reason he fought and bled for…** “You… hmm.. I see now… why you haven't passed into the otherworld yet…” The traveller places their palm on the man’s chest. **He feels a strange warmth enter his chest, an alien feeling invading his soul as he spasms in pain** “Hold still… I’m doing you a favour… a favour I’ll collect in the future…” **The pain was immeasurable… but as it faded into none, he awoke… in the middle of the field… the traveller nowhere in sight and as he held out his hand to inspect his eyes he saw… a crest on the back of his hand.** “You’ll be needing this” The familiar voice blew in the wind as the man’s sword fell beside him, **As he grabbed the hilt of his blade his crest lit up and…** He felt power… beyond imagination and as he stood up.. With his sword supporting him he walked into the woods, to the main road and towards home, unknown to him that he would bring change to the entire continent. **“Hmm… Indeed It was a good choice to entrust him with my soul… may you bring the fools to their knees, my dear vessel”** **The traveller is no more....


Five stones stood beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals floated on the wind.  In our valley beneath the sun, where the wind whispered and birdsong coloured the air, the ground was ever fruitful. Flowers bloomed in the spring, and scented the breeze with sweet jasmine. Uncle Benkei worked in the field as we played amongst the grass, and our infancy was filled with love. Our mother and father were taken by a sickness when I was too young to know them, so uncle Benkei brought me and my sister Sakura into his home and raised us as his own. For five years uncle Benkei taught us how to work the land, tending rice fields once nurtured by our grandfather, and his grandfather before him.  On the eve of my seventh birthday, once the sun began to set behind the western ridge, and the fireflies spoke softly in the failing light, uncle Benkei upheld his promise to me, and began instructing me in the ways of combat. Although I was not as naturally gifted with a sword as others my age had been, he sensed the hunger in me. 'Be a rock.' he would say. 'No matter the wind. No matter the rain. No matter the opponent. A rock is unyielding.' I longed more than anything to make him proud. He was tough, uncompromising, and formidable. But he was all that I had, and I loved him dearly.  For uncountable nights, we trained beneath the watchful stars of the moonlit sky. My fingers would bleed, and my feet would slip in the mud. But uncle Benkei never gave up on me. When at last I became seventeen, he bestowed upon me that which was always meant to be mine. The sword of my father. 'If you accept this blade, you make a promise.' he said. 'With it you will protect your family, your home, and your honour. Appear strong when you are weak. Appear weak when you are strong. Be kind to those who need it. Be merciful to the defeated. Choose wisdom over anger.' I made my promise. I was ready.  Two winters passed, and as the trees began to wake, uncle Benkei fell gravely ill. The sickness that once stole my parents had returned to the valley. It was unmerciful, and many perished by its hand. Sakura cared for uncle as I worked the rice field. He was ever a rock as he had been in battle, and clung to life when all others around him succumbed. Though he eventually recovered, he was never again able to stand. That summer, they came.  Beyond the mountains to the north, from the region of waring clans, death marched relentlessly towards us. Oda Nobunaga - a cruel daimyo who sought to unite the country under a fist of blood - sensed an opportunity with our grief stricken valley, and set upon us in the night with cruel intentions. Legions of soldiers, lead by Oda on a campaign of death, slaughtered dozens of innocents as they tended to their sick and dying. Against Oda's minions of cruelty the villagers never stood a chance. Without strength to move, uncle Benkei was unable to fight, and he was forced to take shelter with Sakura behind our house. I stood affirmed and ready, awaiting my destiny in the jasmine field.  From the darkness of the trees, two shadows took form. Swords were drawn. I became a rock. We danced together among a flurry of slashes, and our blades sang in the moonlight. Uncle Benkei danced through me, and my opponents found rest among the jasmine.  The valley was laid waste. Our farms were destroyed. There was no life for us here anymore. I returned to the house to search for Sakura and uncle Benkei.  I found them.  I surrendered my fathers sword to the flames. I had broken my promise.  Seven stones stand beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals float on the wind.


Once upon a time, there was an old man that yelled at a glass of milk. The glass of milk didn’t do anything except being a simple glass of milk. The old man was lonely and lived in a small yurt in the backwoods of northern Michigan. One afternoon, he bought milk from his local grocers and poured himself a nice glass of ice-cold milk. When he took a sip, he started having casual conversations with the milk. It started with small talk such as asking about the weather and asking about its feelings. Then the conversations escalated to talking about the future, philosophy, and life. Two months later, the old man grew tired of the milk. He was still drinking out of that same glass of milk. Inside that glass was the same milk from two months ago. The old man took a sip out of the glass once a month. By now the milk would have turned nasty and smelly but it didn’t. The milk was immortal. It was ageless. That milk could go on for years and even decades without going bad. No one knows why. Even when it was super old and months past its expiration date, the milk still looked beautiful and white. The old man grew jealous of the milk. That piece of fluid could retain its youth and beauty but the old man himself couldn’t do that. Instead, as the old man aged, he had saggier wrinkles, more liver spots, and a receding hairline that went all the way to the back of his ears. The more jealous the old man became of the milk, the angrier he became. He yelled at the milk regularly. Everything irritated the old man about the milk. The angrier he became, the whiter and more beautiful the milk became. Next thing, the milk was glowing and developed a glittery rainbow aura around the glass. After seeing what this glass of milk was doing to his self-image, the old man grabbed the glass and tossed it against the wall but the glass never broke. The milk never poured out. The milk became prettier, whiter, shinier, and…stronger. It tasted better and creamier. It was the most beautiful glass of milk in the world. Odd enough, the old man’s wrinkles sagged even further down his face. He was beginning to look like a Bloodhound with a giant bald spot. The angrier he became, the glass of milk, in turn, became brighter, more vibrant, and more attractive. When the glass of milk became more attractive, the old man became uglier. Next thing, the old man couldn’t speak anymore. His ramblings were unrecognizable. His face was so saggy and wrinkly, he couldn’t speak without lifting his saggy upper lip and chin to speak. The old man eventually turned into a sagging sack of human meat while the glass of milk turned into…well nothing. It was still a glittery glass of beauty. Had the old man learned to shut up, controlled his jealousy over a piece of liquid, and drank his milk, he would’ve been just as beautiful as that glass of milk.


# 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 Darkest Moment This week may be one of the most relatable moments in a story, large or small. The Darkest Moment, otherwise known as the Dark Night of the Soul, is where soul searching takes center stage. This is the moment your hero is beaten, It’s looking in the mirror and seeing an ugly truth. Everything hinges on this moment, and how low it lays your protagonist. They’ve lost hope, and . If there was any appropriate time to have a pity party, . Our heroes are taking stock of their circumstances, and I gotta tell ya, it ain’t pretty. Now’s a good time to start . The Darkest Moment for our characters should reference their stated goals, and overall tone of the story. If your overarching theme is about magical friendships, this installment should show us where the breakdown of relationships threaten that magical, noble goal of harmonious . Make us feel that breakdown when your protagonist sits in their house alone . Even in the coziest of stories a Darkest Moment should be a moment we take a step back to really consider how far a character has come in their story. If your story is about hope, this dark moment may have a glimmer of beauty, a silver lining you can use in the following installment to help your characters dust themselves off and . On the other hand, in the darkest timelines this element may be your character’s undoing-- this could be the night at the bottom of a bottle . This installment should place the ultimate doubt in your reader’s minds about and remind us of what’s really important to this plot. **Things to think about this time around:** For re-invigoration and victory to happen there needs to be a way forward for your characters, whether they know it or not. They’re gettin’ their butts handed to them in this plot, and it’s looking grim. Are your characters sufficiently aware of their predicament? Is there a greater power ? If so, this may be your antagonist’s time to shine. Remind us of why this antagonist is such a threat. . Are your characters lovers or fighters? Show us how desperate or . I look forward to everyone’s Dark Night of the Soul moment. See you on Saturday! **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/17, 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, The Storm: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /r/Ragnulfr, for switching the script on us with a big reveal for our little goblin friend. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Ryter99, with a story that stepped out of the normal comedy comfort zone but still nailed the assignment with a couple tasty burns for those in Jamsen’s path. And honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing’s installment embodied what it means to feel like we’re in the eye of the storm this week with a showdown of powerful magic. And /u/ChineseArtist, who embraced the uncertainty of the storm with throwing us right into the action. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **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: **Raised Stakes** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


Let me start off this by saying: I love crows, but it hasn’t always been that way. When my wife and I first moved to a rural area I was amazed how much the birds ruined the beautiful relaxing atmosphere of the countryside with their squawking. They would splash all the water from our little finch bath, scare away other birds, dig through the garbage if we left the lid off, and were always kicking things out of our compost bin. They were pests. After watching a video online a few years ago of a lady petting and hand feeding a couple crows I fell down a rabbit hole of Corvid videos. Did you know some can even mimic? Not to the extent parrots can or anything, but it's freaky how smart they are. So after doing a little research I went out and got a bag of whole peanuts, like they sell for squirrels. I work from home, so I set an alarm every day to go out and throw a few peanuts where I would see them hang out. It took a little longer than I expected for them to get it, but once they realized the pattern, they’d be here and waiting just before my alarm went off. Instead of being annoyed at how loud and destructive they were, I began to watch and enjoy them. I began to recognize some of our “frequent fliers” and it seemed every year there would be more birds than the last. It was an adventure and I loved getting to know them and building my relationship with the birds. After about two years we would find “gifts” from a pair of the birds at the feeders at relatively regular intervals. Most of them before were small and shiny things, bottle caps, rocks, pieces of metal and foil. We haven't had very many gifts, but every time we got one I would get a rush of excitement. It felt like we had our own little barter system, me and the crows. The last few weeks we had received something different. It was a small piece of flat oval plastic with a chipped green color on one side. I happily put it with the other trinkets on the shelf next to my computer. The next one was a belly button ring with a bright blue gemstone in it, my first piece of jewelry that wasn’t an earring. I carefully placed it next to the piece of plastic. The next gift from the birds was a few pieces of bone. They were small, long, and from what I assumed to be a tail of something they must have scavenged. When I showed it to my wife, she said it didn’t look like tail bones, “tails look like vertebrae I think,” she said. We began to google bones of different critters we have around here, raccoons, opossums, deer. They were dainty, but not like bird bones. I kept it on the shelf next to the rest of the gifts. Curiosity faded as life went on, until I received a second green piece of plastic and showed that to my wife too. Her face went a little pale as she looked at my most recent offerings. “Those are nails,” she said pointing to the plastic. “Acrylic ones you get from the salon.” She wiped the dirt off one and was horrified to see a natural fingernail stuck to one side. Picking up the second, newest nail, we saw about half a nail on the flip side. “So they stole somebody's fake nails? They just swooped down and took somebody’s nails?” I asked quietly, but looking at the belly ring and the small bones I already knew the answer. We called the police and filed a report. At first it felt crazy explaining, no, we didn’t just happen upon these creepy things, yes, birds have been bringing them to us. I showed them the other small things in my collection and some photos on my phone of the birds nearby while I was feeding them. They took macabre trinkets and thanked us, saying they’d be in touch if they needed any more information, or if we should get any more gifts from the birds. Like I said, we live in a rural area and don’t have a lot of neighbors. We have trees and farms and wild animals. Did our “murder” find one of their own? I’m not sure how far the birds fly each day, but it keeps me up at night to think they may also be feeding from where they found these things.


The phone rang late one night. She choked on her tears; didn't yell or scream. Her two children slept upstairs; innocent; dreaming. She gave them one last peaceful night. They'd have heartache their entire lives. She gave them one last peaceful night. One last peaceful night to dream innocently. Before her children stirred, she went to their room and sat down on the chair between their beds. Her husband sat in it two nights earlier as he read them bedtime stories. She struggled in desperation, wondering how to tell them about their father. Then they woke up. And she told them. And she stayed strong for her boys. She had to be stronger now that their Dad was gone. And she held them tight and kept her tears inside. When the phone calls from loved ones stopped coming and the news reporters left and her kids wept and slept restlessly upstairs, she was sitting alone on the couch. And she cried all the tears she held in that day. She wondered what life her children would have. She wondered what life she would have. She wondered why this had to happen to her family. Why did it have to happen to her? Years later, the widowed mother found love again. She married and her husband took the kids under his wing. He didn't always treat them perfect, but he cared about them and cared for them and was there for them when they had questions that only a father could answer. She didnt have to do it all by herself anymore. No more lonesome struggle. She didnt have to cry alone. She had a shoulder to lean on and he had a big heart and she was at it's center. And the tragedies of yesterday gave way to a beautiful future. The kids were in their teens. Their friends were always over and they were always welcome. She treated them with love and care, the kind of love and care only good parents can give. She talked to them when they seemed down and fed them when they were hungry and gave them a place to sleep if they needed it. She was like a Mom to her kids' friends. Those neighborhood kids appreciated it more and more each year they got older. When they were young, they didn't know how lucky they were to have someone like that in their life. As they grew older and saw more of the world and met more people, they realized how special and rare it was for someone to treat them the way she had. And they were thankful. Then the kids were grown up and they visited less and less and their friends didn't stop by as much and for the first time in 20 years, her house was quiet. And even though she missed her sons more than anything and missed some of their friends enough to think of them, she enjoyed the quiet. A woman who loves her children as much as she loves hers is deprived of peaceful sleep when they live so far away. But a woman who loves her children as much as she does supports whatever decisions they make and whatever dreams they choose to chase as long as they're pursuit is good and honest and worthwhile. She supported her sons and their dreams wholeheartedly. And her whole heart hurt because she was so far from her kids. Her younger son lived, and was a cook at, a spiritual community nestled somewhere in the mountains of northern California. Her older son studied audio/visual production in Rhode Island. He graduated and moved to New Jersey for a media job he scored in New York City. She helped her older son move to his apartment in New Jersey. He didnt talk to her much after he moved. He had a busy life: New job and a new apartment in a new state. For a kid who grew up in small town Massachusetts, a job in New York City was a big deal. She was proud of him. He was a good kid doing good things. She was only as worried about him as any good mother would be. Then she got the call that no good mother should get. The living have to carry on; they won't ever forget. His family and friends carried his casket to the altar. He wasn't catholic, but his mother was and this was the way she chose things to be. She deserved that choice. And after the proceedings, her son's friends came to her home like they did when they were teenagers. Everyone had heavy hearts, but they were bearing them together. They laughed and cried and told stories and cried more and some drank to calm their nerves. And then the services, wakes, and burial were over and she spent alot of time with her younger son who'd returned from California. Then he flew back. And she spent most of her time with her husband. He tried his best to comfort and support her. She still couldn't believe her son was gone. Her son died three years ago. On the anniversary of his passing, a few of his friends, her, and her husband go out to breakfast, then visit him at the cemetery. They leave flowers and shed tears and tell stories and smile. They remember him. She still sees her son everywhere she looks. She swears he reaches out to her. She sees owls too often to be coincidental and it all started after he passed away. She saw the first one after the wake. It landed on their mailbox and raised its wing like it was waving, then turned its head, and flew off into the night. She's visited psychic mediums, hoping her son will reach out. She got a message once at a show in Worcester, but it wasn't from the medium. She sat down for the show and turned around and saw one of her son's friends there, sitting behind her. Of all the shows and all the different seats at that show, her son's friend was at that show and happened to sit behind her. That was a message. It gave some comfort. Some things are too coincidental to be coincidence. Three years of mourning. Three years replaying beautiful memories over and over again in her head. It would never be easy, but it could be better. She wished she did things differently. She wished she tried harder. She wished she asked a question she never would've thought to ask her son in the first place. And she realized, from time to time, that it wasn't her fault. It was tragedy. Another tragedy. Another loved one lost. Another pain to bear. But she will never break. She's had to be strong before and she is strong now. She's strong because she has to be: She's been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. She doesnt give up. She's fighting. And she will pull through. She's experienced tragedies that would break a person. She carrys on. She fights. She survives. She keeps going. Never stops. Her strength is inspiring. It's true and real and honest. This is a true story. The story of a strong, caring woman subjected to tragic events who chose to live outside, but in sight of, their shadow. Me? I'm one of her son's friends; one of the ones who goes to breakfast every year and visits him. The one at the psychic show. The one with a drink to calm his nerves. I heard the news about her diagnosis and I wondered how life could be so cruel. How could all that happen to someone so kind and caring? I dont know. It shouldn't. But it has. In writing this, I've realized something profound: No person becomes as strong as she is without facing extreme difficulty. And in writing this, I've changed the way I see her story. I don't see her as a victim of life and its cruelty. I see her as an indomitable survivor. She never gives up. We'd all be better people if we were as strong as her. I hope you'll think for her. Think true. Focus. Please. Then keep reading. She's going to survive. She's always found fortune in life, love, and happiness, even after tragedy and challenge. She is an inspiration.


The man walked through the streets and thought about his life. All his life it had been a struggle. He had anxiety, struggled to find a job and keep it, had only had sex a little, and learned how to drive a car late. He did manage to make it, but barely. His parents telling him that he was a failure didn't help either. And although he did have happy times, sometimes it seemed to him that he was struggling to exist. He worked at an ordinary job living an ordinary life. As he walked along the road in the hot summer day he wondered about everything. There has to be more to life, he would tell himself sometimes. There has to be a meaning. He could not and would not be an Atheist. He didn't believe that the world and the Universe were that hopeless. He believed in something, but he didn't know what. None of the spiritualities of the world made since to him, so he believed n something else. There were times when the depression had kicked in, but it didn't last. This time though; this time felt like the end. The next day, he was walking on the road as cars drove by in both directions, The depression had come and it was not going to go away this time. He didn't care about life anymore. To him it seemed like am endless struggle. Nee had reached his end. The he saw something,. He turned to his left behind him. There was a man walking in his direction. It was an older man who wore a brown cloak. He stopped and waited as the man got closer to him. When the man had gotten pretty close, he stopped and looked up at him. Is jaw dropped as he was looking at the old man's face. He had white hair, a white beard, and three brown eyes. “Everything will be okay,” said the old man. “This is temporary and it has allowed yo to see things in a new way.” The other man was shocked and could not speak for a moment. Who was he talking to? Was he talking to God? The real God? “I...I...How is that?” he asked the figure. The old man's eyes glowed a bright blueish white light now. “Most people never think about these things. They are so caught up about daily life that they never stop and think about what is out there,” said the man. He reached over and touched the younger man's soldier, and the younger man saw a vision. He saw the atom, how the electrons moved around the nucleus because preset patterns., then gluons, how they were charged and held the physical world together. Then it was as if his vision zoomed out. He saw space. He saw the stars and their planets, and many different alien races. Hen he saw the galaxies. Everything had preset patterns and order. Life was across the Universe. And the one true God watched over all. For the first time in a while, a smile formed across his face.