I once had this bud from high school, his name was Brandon. He was a tall, muscular football player, he was handsome and had a pretty average personality. I was also on the football team with him and had driven him home when he didn't have a ride so we were kind of friends. I moved though, and I didn't see him at-all until I came back to town for my mothers funeral. It was a sad journey and me my wife and 4 year old twin girls Anna and Anne and baby son called Liam planned to stay there a few days so I could show my family my hometown and just mourn for a bit. The town was small, so no hotels. So I rented a place to stay from some username called 'SulkyBoy34' who had pretty good reviews except some high hippies saying they saw someone moving in the dark. I didn't belivie those kind of things though, and when we got there I was very suprised to see my old pal, Brandon. "Oh, Heya Mark. Didn't know that you were staying here." He smiled, and brought me into a hug. He hugged my family and I joked, "Heya bud. How ya doing SulkyBoy34?". He laughed and said "Brandonfootballgod was taken". We had a nice chat inside the normal home. I learnt he had a girlfriend in France who he was visiting and he was a little low on cash so he was renting out his house. He also told me his girlfriend who he didn't mention the name of was expecting very soon that's why he was going in such a rush. I told him about my family, and we drank coffee together while the twins played and my wife unpacked our bags while dealing with our youngest. I felt bad leaving her to do the work but she assured me it was fine, and wanted to let me catch up with my mate. He had to leave soon though and quickly grabbed his bag and told me he left me a gift for the kids in the basement of his one floor house. I thanked him and my wife told me she would get it so I started to make some food for the twins while preparing formula for Liam. Ten minutes later, I called out for my wife. "Lila..are you alright? need some help?". After she didn't answer I put the girls down but my son refused and started waling so I held onto him and went down into the basement. I took each step carefully not wanting to drop Liam, or alarm Anna or Anne. "Lila this ain't funny anymore." I said again, nearly slipping on some dismantled mop. "What the hell?!" I whisper-shouted. I pushed open the heavy metal door and I could barely see my hand infront of my face it was so dark. I could hear a low hum and I assumed it was the generator or the heating, something like that. I went out a bit further ignoring the pounding of my heart. "Lila?!" I shouted, my voice cracking a bit. I was scared now, but what was I supposed to do?. I sighed, maybe she had left the basement ages ago and I just didn't hear her. "LILA IF YOUR IN HERE TELL ME IM LEAVING NOW." I yelled, and with no response, I turned to leave. Until something grabbed my foot! I turned horrified and frantic to see a slimy and oozing hand latched onto my shin, by now my son was crying sensing my fear and the danger. I felt powerless as I uselessly kicked the hand away while yelling for my wife. I didn't want to leave her in with the..creature but what could I do?. I kicked the hand with my other foot, almsot losing my balance. theres a pained howl from the monster and It lets go, It's now or never. I dash up the stairs, I do look back though. My wife is gone though, the love of my life. The twins are oblivious playing with their dollhouse. "Girls, Daddy has to do something. Look after your little brother please." I told them, grabbing some locks I had packed. I can't renember the reason now but I'm sure as hell glad I did. "Ok!" Anne and Anna said at the same time, not the freakiest thing I had seen that day. "Ok your'e so good." I smiled, my voice shacking and I kissed all my kids foreheads tenderly. Not like me atall, the burly strong football player but I could never see my kids again and I loved them. I locked the basement door, wanting to make sure whatever that hell monster was could never get out. I ran out the house like a crazy person and got straight into my car and made my way to the airport. I know it was irresponsible to leave infants alone but the airport was five minutes away and I needed to kill that son of a bitch. The next flight to France...Leaves in 5 minutes I read. And with red blurring my vision I found Brandon, waiting calmy. I pounced, furious at his peace. I scratched at his eyes, right hooked his face, ripped his hair out did anything I could. I was being torn off him by secruity and exhausted, I stopped resiting. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" Brandon yelled at me, his face red and disfigured paramedics trying to help him, Brandon refusing. "Brandon what have you done....?" I choke, my eyes welling up with tears. He has just killed my wife and now my kids are probably dead because of my stupidity and anger. "What?" he spat at me. "BRANDON MY WIFE WENT DOWN TO GET THE 'GIFT' YOU LEFT US WHICH IS SOME MONSTER WHO ALMOST KILLED ME AND HAS PROBABLY KILLED MY WIFE AND WILL PROBABLY KILL MY CHILDREN. I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS AND NOW YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE YOUR A FUCKING MONSTER THATS WHAT YOU ARE YOU DISGUSTING PHYSCO!!!!" I screamed, my voice red and sore. He stared at me and smirked. He had the nerve to smirk at me...after what he did??. I opened my mouth to yell at him some more but he laughed, cold and cruel. "I don't know what your talking about." He said, eyes so innocent but filled with lies. I collapsed, on the dirty airport floor, I ended up in police custody and my kids were taken to be put in the system, because they needed a 'stable' family. And I wasn't even allowed to go to my own mothers funeral or my wife's. Brandon ruined my life.  Thank you for reading, sorry if there are a-lot of spelling mistakes and rookie errors.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - **For this first week, let’s get to know each other a bit. Introduce yourself! Tell us a little about yourself and the things you enjoy writing!** I’ll start us off. I’m Bay and I *love love love* all things horror, thriller and suspense, whether I’m reading it or writing it! I also really enjoy dabbling in lit-fic. I enjoy exploring atmosphere, mood, and (especially) emotions in my writing and how they affect character behavior. **Additional Questions this Week:** - **What are your preferred genres to write in?** - **Are there genres you’d like to try but haven’t? Why haven’t you?** *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


It was a cold and wet afternoon, typical of January. The whole of her observation was washed out, gray and drab. As she walked down the street in her teal rain slicker, she kept her head down and studied her shoes. The way the water puddles splashed and rippled with her passing was pleasing to eye and ear, and it got her thinking about volumes and object displacement in water. She moved instinctively along, minding no street signs but instead strolling by an internal map of the town that was her whole life. She was born there, eighteen years and three hundred and sixty days to the day, and she knew that innately, too. Her parents were biblical folks and her name came from the Bible, though she herself had concluded the Christian God to be a lie by the age of eight. That was kept a secret, as well as the ritual in which she now partook, for they always insisted she not leave home unattended. Her name is Magdalene Pitcher. The town is New Canterbury, Illinois. The date is January the fifth, nineteen fifty. In five days she will be eighteen and in one hundred and eighty two days she will graduate high school at the top of her class. These were all dry facts that buzzed around her brain like flies, trapped and incessant. Knowing the numbers and the dates and the times unsettled most people she knew, and so she was left alone most days. That was fine, by her reckoning; It’s not that she couldn’t or wouldn’t like people, but all things considered she preferred solitude. She also despised ignorance, more specifically the willful kind, of which there was an abundance in her little world, and that made it easy to not open up too much. She came to her destination, a neat brick building of two stories that sat on a grassy incline. As she raised her head up to take to the concrete steps, her mind was inexplicably pulled to something well behind her. She turned, looking across the street, where there was a little place where her dad liked the coffee and a barbershop that he hated. It was just starting to rain, again. There was a gap between the two, a narrow little alley, and she got the unshakeable feeling of being watched from it. Of course, nobody could be seen and after a few long intense moments the feeling abated, and up the steps she went, not so much gripping the iron railing as she was running her hands down it to wipe off the rainwater. The town library was her castle, her paradise and her shelter, and the librarian Miss Ghariff silently greeted her with a nod as someone who knew Magdalene best. She returned the gesture with one of her own before strolling on, past the desk, into the rows, eager to get lost once again. The smell of stale paper was her perfume, the weathered spines of shelved books her rainbows. It was something of a personal quest to read every single book there, and she took it quite seriously. She was in the midst of Hemingway now, and reached gingerly for “Farewell to Arms”, when that feeling of eyes on her person crept in again. She was alone in the aisle, and nearly alone in the whole of the building, yet there it was, something wandering on the fringes of her peripherals. Was someone following her? Perhaps her parents were right, not that there was much to do about it now. She turned her head first left, then right, then twice more both ways. Nothing once again. It was at that time she spied something curious and unfamiliar. Atop the bookshelf poked the corner of a hardcover, just so that it could be seen only by an attentive eye. Someone had left a book up there, through carelessness or jest, most likely. That upset her, that choice to be rude to a woman that had done nothing to them by giving her extra work. It had to be corrected, and Magdalene quickly decided to do so herself. Thankfully, the shelves came with ladders, and she ascended up, already priming to read the title and author and determine its home through memory. When her eyes met the cover, however, she was suddenly transfixed. It was no book she’d ever spied before, not in the library or anywhere. It was a decently weighted tome, about nine hundred pages or so, by eye. The skin was thick and leather bound, tanned dark brown and rugged. The spine had bands of illuminated gold that ran around to the front, and the latter was like a thing onto itself. The cover was studded with little silver colored points like the heads of nails, forming the impressions of several dotted rectangular borders in a motley pattern. In these borders, at the center of that mystifying surface, was what looked to her a theater mask. It was alabaster white and milky in luster and the size of a large jeweled pendant, like the sort she’d seen in her mother’s catalogues. It had no eyes, a long slender nose and stout full lips, and when she curiously reached out with her fingers she found it raised like a bas reliefs few inches from everything else. It felt smooth like porcelain and absent of dust, and the latter fact intrigued her perhaps most of all. Reason dictated it to be some manner of artwork, personal and handcrafted, and to leave such a thing would be quite the personal coup. There was no lock or clasp to imply a private recollection like a journal or diary, and when she picked it up carefully to study it further, no mark of ownership or hint of a title could be found. Eagerly, she opened the cover, hoping perhaps to find a name stenciled in the margins. There was none, not even a dedication or foreword. Magdalene took the work down in her arms and weighed options. Such a thing had to be precious to whoever idly forgot it. She briskly made her way to the librarian, reasoning the best course of action would be to leave it to Miss Ghariff, but as she strode out of the aisle, she slowly froze. She looked the thing over, thumbing its surface. It was about the prettiest thing she had ever seen, a true work of art that set her mind ablaze with its craftsmanship. To leave such a masterpiece was criminal. Perhaps, at least, she might peer inside? Surely there was nothing wrong about just a peek. Satisfied with her own reasoning, she went to the nearest reading table and gently laid it down, sitting in front of it. She took a breath of anticipation, and, with one last look in both directions, opened it to a random page. A bitter confusion welled up as her eyes studied the contents. The paper was neatly handwritten in a script that was assuredly not English, or even of the alphabet. Approximately thirty or so crisp lines of black text, or what certainly seemed to be text, sat at the top of the page, and from the middle to the bottom was an illustration equally puzzling. It was an incomplete circle, basically full save for the very top. In the center of this non-circle was a dot and through the dot was a straight line segment that came to rest just outside the confines of the unfinished circle. The whole scrawling was done up in a deep red that evoked fresh ichor and the longer she looked the more it seemed to hypnotize with its inscrutable simplicity. Shakily, a hand reached up and the lead finger gently touched that central line and traced it. What pushed her mind to this act she couldn’t say, but something extraordinary occured when she did: The paper seemed to shift and brighten, like embers in a fire! So startling was this impossibility that she pushed the thing straight off the tabletop. The silence that followed was so palpable that she didn’t notice at first that she was trembling like a leaf. She blinked, broken from a trance, and slowly looked down. The book was on the floor, and seemed for all intents and purposes to be fine and ordinary.. Almost staggering, she knelt to scoop it up, and in that instant, she felt it again. That haunting, invisible gaze, and without thinking, she grabbed up the book, and ran, harder and faster than she ever had before. The journey home was a rainy blur. Her lungs felt stabbed and her heart pounded faster than thought. She was soaked too, with the book tucked up to her chest, and her first instinct upon entering her bedroom was to check it well. No obvious tears or water damage, but looking it over reminded her of what she’d just done to have it, and that made her put it down ever so slowly on the bed. Social ineptitude aside, she’d always been extremely well behaved; She spoke when obliged, opened doors for others, and avoided reckless behavior like the plague. Now she’d stolen, and more than likely had been noticed while doing so! This was of course compounded by whatever it was that the book had done, that impossible phenomenon when she instinctively traced the lines of that emblem. Magic was a thing of fiction, like the lands of Oz she’d been read about in her earliest recollections. It had to be a trick, some optical illusion, sparked perhaps by some trick of the ink used, and the sensation of fear naught but compounding bad luck. The deed was done, and she now had the ill-gotten prize, so why not take another look? Magdalene reached a hand down and gripped that fine cover and pulled it open. The pages were jaundiced and softened on the edges and corners. She leafed through the paper, seeing more inscrutable symbols and incomprehensible characters, and it struck her that the ink was inexplicably fresh-looking despite the apparent age of the medium on which it was printed. In places, whole pages were given to illustrations equally puzzling and disturbing. One in particular had her breathless and wide-eyed. It was illuminated in borders of that shiny fresh red flecked with a lustrous metallic she couldn’t name, and in its borders was a thing in the vague shape of a man’s torso. It was black as night, so tall it seemed constrained by the borders, and anorexic in build. Out of its abdomen sprouted no arms or legs, but long black tendrils that whipped in flailing shapes at the confines of the piece, like the latter was a cage. The head, too, had those strange appendages, but they were fewer and evoked the image of the Gorgons of Odyssey. It had no facial features, just a void where a face logically ought to be, and the whole of it was so black it reflected no light shined on it. The strike of thunder outside snapped her from viewing, and she quickly turned the page while her wits were freed. Nothing was right about the book, and it seemed the most logical course of action would be to return, apologize to Miss Ghariff, and hope for forgiveness. However, there was one more thing she hadn’t yet tried, and that reality dogged her. She flipped through the pages again until she found it, that incomplete circle with the dot in the center and the line crossing it. It couldn’t have been real, so she reckoned, yet the thought of repeating it to be sure was petrifying. There was no magic, no presence, just her mind being swayed by some eccentric’s artistic vision. The downpour outside was very loud now, and when she looked out the one small window in her room there was nothing but water and grey darkness. Long moments passed, until finally, she worked up the nerve. Her lead finger gently pointed and pressed to the old parchment, just as before, and slowly, certainly, she dragged it along that line. Just as before, the paper seemed to come alive, and in that instant, she noted that she could actually read the text. It was still in that cuneiform of unrecognizable origin, like it was something she’d forgotten and now suddenly recalled with perfect clarity. So, she moved back to the first page, and she began to read. The text was something akin to biblical teachings, history mixed with allegory and instruction, but it was far from that of King James. It presented the Earth as ancient, far older than anyone she knew believed, and man was but a relative newcomer. Indeed, it asserted that there were sentients much older than man and smarter too, and these beings in fact still lived, though not in the way humanity understood living. They were invisible, imperishable creatures, born from the swirling chaos of the cosmos and came to settle upon the Earth from ancient meteorites. These “Hidden Ones”, were beyond life and death, but craved the former, and so fed on life since life began. Even now they drifted through the halls of civilization, undetectable except to those sensitive few that could peer them in daydreams and visions, and taking as they pleased. Their victims seemed to simply wither and die, giving all appearance to some natural passing like their hearts had simply stopped beating. She rubbed her eyes, stupefied. It had to be nonsense, but something about it all inexplicably rang true. She read on. That mural from before was an attempt to capture one of these Hidden Ones in a comprehensible medium, but the book stated outright that to truly capture the horror of a Hidden One’s visage was impossible. Then came the next passage, and here she found herself near hyperventilating, for it told of telltale signs of a Hidden One stalking, and among them? - The sensation of being watched by something unseen and unheard. A knock on the door set her jumping from her bed with a fright. She looked to the window, and saw it had grown quite dark, and a familiar voice called from beyond the door. It was her father, fetching her for dinner. Thus suddenly snapped back into normalcy, she set the book down, and came to the door. He looked concerned, for while it was routine that she remain in her room for hours at a time, he told her plainly that she looked frightened out of her wits. She lied, assured him it was just a horror novel, and quickly made her way to the dinner table, where she did not touch a single edible thing. Her family talked, but it was like they were in another room, muffled and unimportant. She stared into space, unblinking, thinking about Them. Were They here, among them now? She felt nothing in her peripherals, but that did little to assuage the creeping paranoia. It was the brusque tone of her brother now that got her attention, and as they came into focus, she found them all staring, looks of worry on their faces. She quietly said she wasn’t hungry, and asked to excuse herself, getting up before permission was even granted. Back to her bedroom she fled, and with the door shut, she went immediately back to the book. There had to be more- answers, and perhaps, solutions. Why else would someone commit such information to a book that could be read by anyone with the instinctive compulsion to investigate its contents? Time and space melted away, just her and the book, page after page. Magdalene shot up from her bed, sweating and near blind in the utter darkness. Her vision darted about, and found the book still half-resting on her lap. She must have dozed off while reading, and it had to be very late. She stood up and came to the window, looking out for anything. Drenched blackness greeted her, not a star in the sky, and even The Moon was absent. It was in that umbral space, after a long moment of straining to parse any light at all, that her hair stood on ends. She felt it, that gaze, but now no particular direction beckoned. Her heart began to thump, and she turned all around, hoping to somehow dispel the fear by showing herself that none but her stood in that room. It was to no avail, and suddenly, a knock at the door. It couldn’t be anyone, not at this hour. It was a trick, it had to be. They knew that She knew, and that could not be abided. Another knock-knock-knocking. So urgent, and sharp, yet no audible call, though she dare not reciprocate a thing. What could she do? There were no weapons, as if mortal arms could harm Them. Knock-knock-knock. The book had no solutions, and had brought her into Their midst. Was it all a trap? A lure for sport? The knocking grew louder and louder, matching her heart. The window! She grabbed the book, for all the good it had done her, and raced back to that portal. No time to open it, she threw herself forward with the book in her face. All sound was deafened by a great crash, and then, nothing at all. The vanishing of Magdalene Pitcher was the talk of New Canterbury for years to come. Her family only heard the shattering of a window in the dead of the night, and when they came to the source, they found her gone. A neighbor swore that she saw the girl running barefoot and screaming in the rainy darkness as they were roused to their own window following the noise. The librarian too reported how the girl had left the library in a panicked sprint the day of her apparent flight. A search of two weeks proved fruitless, finding only a curious little pile of ashes in the nearby woods, warm from a fire. All that remained of whatever was burnt was a curious little stone, white like porcelain and shaped into a eyeless face. Even now, the locals speak of occasionally seeing a girl running in the dark, barefooted and shrieking of hidden beasts coming for them all. Few remain to tell of the actual event. Miss Ghariff, the neighbor, and indeed the entire Pitcher family passed over the decade, heart attacks, one and all.


The fire was a mistake. Without shelter it seemed the best option to keep the night at bay. Most creatures in the forest feared the unfamiliar though some were drawn to the foreign glow. First came the insects. Together, their chorus filled the forest, all trying to be heard above the rest. They crawled, stung and bit. Sleep seemed impossible despite such exhaustion. Nell sat up and brushed off a spider as it crawled up her leg. She turned to Jeremy who had been keeping watch and found him propped against a stone sleeping soundly. She didn't see the point in waking him to say she would take over for the night, though she was frustrated enough to consider it. They were still days away from civilization and Nell knew sleep would find her eventually. Jeremy kept direction and Nell feared their fate should he make a mistake. A crow landed on a nearby branch and regarded Nell with one black eye reflecting the fire. They sat watching each other. Nell's blinks each became longer and her head fell slowly to her chest. A "caw" startled her awake. Nell found the crow still perched on the branch, thrusting its neck forward as it called frantically. Nell met its eyes again before it took flight passing close enough to the fire to spread the ashes. She watched it disappear into the night. There, two yellow eyes appeared in the void. Nell froze as an outline approached the fire. A long, skeletal cat carried the crow twitching in its mouth. The feathers appeared off-black in contrast to the cat’s coat. Jutting ribs made the creature appear half starved. Large, flat ears were folded together circling the gaunt face, they dropped down covering its eyes. Wide hooked claws protruded inwards from the paws and the cat crept forward on their edges. The creature’s silhouette remained clear as darkness refusing the light of the fire. Nell positioned herself behind the fire and cried out to rouse Jeremy. She looked to him for only a moment as he awoke confused. The cat was gone. "What the hell's the matter?" Jeremy demanded. The color had drained from Nell. She stared into the darkness beyond the haze of the fire. After a time, she replied emotionless; "It was the kingyan. Right there. It saw us." Nell rounded the fire. Two dark feathers sat beside the stones. "You're sure? You haven't slept, Nell. They're legend at this point; a story to keep children from wandering into the woods." Jeremy tried to convince himself as he gathered his makeshift spear and hurried to Nell's side. Nell knelt and with a finger she traced at a faint crescent shaped track left in the dirt. "Did you see its eyes? Nell! Did it look you in the eyes?" Jeremy demanded. "It did. We're dead already." She held a feather, examining it intently. "Get up." Jeremy pulled her to her feet. The feather fell slowly and a breeze took it into the fire. He stood behind her so that their shoulder blades touched. "Eyes open, always. We can't leave a blind spot and we can't lose focus for a moment." Leaning against Jeremy, Nell tried to compose herself. The image of the kingyan haunted her. She didn't believe in them. They were an omen. A perfect predator named the god of death. There is said to be no escape once the kingyan chooses its prey. They show themselves only once, supposedly, giving the dead a final opportunity for prayer. Adrenaline coursed through Jeremy as he stood still searching the night. He regarded the fire for the span of a blink. Without the light they would be defenseless. Thankfully it would not need to be fed again before morning. He could feel Nell shaking behind him. Alone they wouldn’t stand a chance. "We can escape this, I know it." He lied. "Someone must have survived. We were warned." Jeremy began to believe his own words. "The river! We can make it to the river in a day. Nell, don't you give up now. Are you watching the trees?" Leaves shifted in the breeze and the unsteady dance of the flames threw shadows in all directions. Nell pushed hard against Jeremy as they stood back-to-back. Dawn was near. An early bird’s song could be heard over the cacophony of crickets. Shock and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her but underlying panic kept her vigilant. “You’ve heard the stories. What’s the point? I’m tired, Jeremy.” Jeremy knew the legend well. He’d also heard the stories retold with ever-changing details, though some remained constant. He understood her despair. The crescent tracks were said to be the only trace left by the kingyan. Long ago, some thought it would be poetic to create physical representations of their gods. Generations of breeding and experimentation led mostly to mutants that could hardly support their own weight. They died off, either on public display or eaten by the rich who believed they would inherit some of the god's power. The kingyan was different. A fitting avatar for the god of death. Ironically, its creators came to worship the kingyan as the god itself. Only two were made: Kingyan and Yama. They were released into the wild in a bid to befriend death. “Those stories all end the same. It’s watching us. Waiting for us to sleep or turn our backs. We can’t give it an opportunity. We make for the river at first light. This will be difficult. The terrain is rough and our attention will be divided. I’ll stick close and watch our backs. You'll have to call out obstacles and anything that moves. We need to move and see as one. Steel yourself, Nell. We’re not dead yet.” There was abruptness in Jeremy’s tone that revealed disquiet beneath his reassurance. Night lasted longer than expected and day spilled through the canopy slowly. The kingyan had not reappeared but that did not stop Nell from seeing it in every shifting shadow. When the sun’s light surpassed that of the dying fire they left it behind cautiously, pushing through their exhaustion. Their instincts prompted them to run but they would not allow the seeming absence of the kingyan to influence their decisions. It was close, watching and waiting for a moment of inattention. They moved at a measured pace through the unsteady footing of the forest. Jeremy's focus lied behind them, every fallen branch or pitfall threatened to trip him if not for Nell’s direction. \ “Nell, stop.” Nell ignored him and continued to push forward. She knew what he was going to say. Night was nearly upon them and they were unsure how far they were from the river. “We need a fire now!” Jeremy’s urgency convinced her. Often, he needed several attempts, and the sun began to hang dangerously low. “We’re vulnerable. You’ll need to cover every angle while I start the fire.” “We can run.” Nell pleaded. “I’ve not slept for days. I don’t know if I can do this. We must be close. You said it would only take a day.” “I was wrong. You’ve come this far. You looked the kingyan in the eyes and you’re still here. Don’t lose your nerve now. We can’t risk being caught without light.” Jeremy met Nell's eyes for the first time since seeing the crescent tracks. The surrounding area was cleared of deadwood in a frantic effort to prepare for nightfall. The kingyan could be upon them at any moment and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Jeremy’s hand moved in a blur while his bow drill smoked, and to their relief a spark grew into a crackling fire as the crickets signaled dusk. \ Darkness crept towards the fire and soon the nearest fuel was beyond its reach. Jeremy squeezed Nell’s hand before stepping into the night to find the nearest fallen branch. Nell’s breath hung in her chest until he returned dragging an uprooted sapling. A despondent expression told Nell what he would never; they weren't going to make it. Jeremy fed the fire and returned to his position. He wanted to believe they had escaped, that there was no way he could have survived if it was still out there. One story stuck in Jeremy’s mind: A hunter found the kingyan in his snare. Unwilling to approach it alone, he returned to town and gathered all those eager to claim a trophy. Days later the hunters had yet to return. A search party found all eight men dead with identical wounds. Jeremy assumed the story was exaggerated but everything he had heard of the kingyan reiterated its persistence. Dawn was far. He dreaded leaving Nell to gather more wood but he had little choice. The sapling burned quickly and gave off only a faint glow. The kingyan would be upon them before they knew it. Suddenly the crickets ceased their chirping. Nell thought she heard a bell ringing faintly between heartbeats. In an act of desperation, she grabbed the burning sapling as a torch, marched towards a dead tree and held the fire close. The tree ignited brilliantly, illuminating their surroundings. Her gaze followed the flames as they climbed. Bark began to fall, carrying the fire to the forest floor and spreading it along the dry vegetation. Jeremy began to laugh. Strange notches marked another nearby tree as if someone had made a confused attempt to cut it down. Nell grabbed Jeremy’s shoulder hard. She turned his attention up the notched tree. A black tail swayed leisurely in and out of the fire. The kingyan was sprawled across a branch with a crescent claw hanging for balance. With eyes hooded behind its ears, the kingyan turned to meet Jeremy’s stare and tilted its head. Jeremy stepped back into the embers and took another unconscious step as they began to burn through his soles. The kingyan dropped, landing gracefully among the flames. Sharp shoulder blades shifted with every step as it started towards them. Facing Death, a realization dawned on Jeremy: it was imperfect. It had allowed itself to be seen again. This was no god; it was an animal. He held the spear level with a white-knuckled grip, standing between the beast and Nell. Unfolding its ears, the kingyan revealed yellow, slit eyes before pouncing a seemingly impossible distance and landing in front of Jeremy. Before he could react, the kingyan hooked a claw around his ankle and launched itself past Nell in a swift motion. The crescent claw cut deep through his tendon, bringing Jeremy to a knee. Using the spear for support, he spun trying to find it. The fire continued to spread as more trees were overtaken. “Where did it go? Oh my god, Jeremy!” Nell screamed. A sharp pain persisted in his side. Jeremy looked down to see blood beginning to pool. Holding the wound, he tried with futility to stem the bleeding. He held the spear firmly as Nell tried to take it. “I need to try! I won’t just let it have me. We’re so close.” Nell released her grip but held her hand out expectantly. “Get behind me Nell. I know what to expect now. Let’s just hope it comes back while I still have some life left.” Standing on one good leg, Jeremy pressed his bent elbow against the wound in his side as blood continued to pour. Time seemed to slow. Nell’s gaze leapt to every shadow. She stopped to pull Jeremy away from the spreading fire when he stumbled and fell. As she helped him up, Nell’s instincts made her look over her shoulder. There, the kingyan crouched ready to pounce. She dropped Jeremy. Quickly, Jeremy marked the direction of Nell’s attention and planted the back of the spear in the ground, holding it steady. Grabbing one of Nell’s ankles, he pulled hard, sending her crashing to the ground as the kingyan jumped. The spearhead tore along the creature’s jutting ribcage revealing white bone. The wound in Jeremy’s own side tore deeper as he twisted to face the kingyan. It stood before a trembling Nell with one claw raised. Nell raised a hand in defense and squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers grazed the kingyan’s whiskers. Immediately, it let out an incredible cry; pained and piercing. It continued to yowl and bounded out of sight. They had no time to think. Color had drained from Jeremy’s face and he continued losing blood at a steady rate. Supporting him, Nell walked Jeremy to a small tree that was fully engulfed in flames. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy”. After making him lean forward she pushed his wounded side against the burning tree for seconds before pulling him back. His screams horrified her, though they were nothing compared to those of the kingyan. “We need to leave. Now.” Nell stated. Jeremy didn’t have the strength to protest. He was dead. The kingyan had pierced his stomach. Even with the wound poorly cauterized he would not survive the day. The pain was immeasurable. Jeremy struggled to remain conscious and upright when he felt Nell behind him linking arms. “Why are you doing this, Nell? You know I’m not going to make it.” “Just watch my back.” She responded. She leaned forward and his wound pulled open again, though the blood poured slowly. Jeremy tried to support his weight with his one functioning leg, and soon they found a rhythm that allowed them to move steadily. They traveled in their original direction along the edge of the fire and found it had spread far. Morning was upon them before they were removed from its light. \ Soon they reached a steep incline leading to the river. Jeremy realized Nell was right when she suggested they should run for it. “Leave me here.” Jeremy said as he unhooked his arms and let his weight drop. “I can’t leave you! We’re here. We’re safe now.” Tears filled Nell’s eyes. She understood even as she tried halfheartedly to pull Jeremy back to his feet. Jeremy chuckled. “I never asked if you could swim. On second thought, don’t tell me.” He shifted to sit against a tree and Nell handed him the spear. “Go, now! Please just go.” Jeremy pleaded. Nell listened and turned her back on him. After navigating down the incline she spared a final look towards her companion but could see only his shoulders poking out from behind the tree. Cold water made her inhale sharply. Relief washed over Nell as she left the bank and started across the wide river. Jeremy died. Slow. He had time to watch Nell enter the river. He had time to regret his decisions. He sat back against the tree. The kingyan stood before him. In the day’s light Jeremy had the chance to truly see it for the first time. It was magnificent. The kingyan peeled back its hooded ears revealing its eyes. Lowering its head towards Jeremy the creature almost seemed to bow. It held the pose for an extended moment. After sparing Jeremy another look the kingyan moved expertly down the incline towards the river. To Jeremy’s horror it began to swim. In his weakened state he couldn’t even cry out a warning. A ringing turned his attention. A second kingyan passed his wounded side. A bell strung around its neck.


###Important Note for Campfire Attendees: **The Saturday Campfire time will be changing soon. I have added a section to the nomination form for you to check off your available/preferred times for Campfire. If you did not fill it out last week, please do so this week. (The form will still open up at the regular time, after the story submission deadline.) If you have already submitted an answer, please *skip the question*.** #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Justice! This week, we’re going to take a look at the theme of ‘justice’. Justice, retribution, punishment; it’s something we all seek out or desire when we are wronged, whether in a legal sense, or in our everyday lives. In some cases we look to our government system to punish those individuals who have broken rules/laws, trusting that those people will be brought to justice. But other times, the community may feel it necessary to take justice into their own hands. What does this look like among your characters? How do they deal with such things? What happens when the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crime? Or when the accussed is judged, or even punished, without a chance to defend their actions? Events like these can divide a community or create a rift in a relationship. How does the accused deal with the situation? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - April 3 - Justice (this week) - April 10 - Kindling - April 17 - Lore   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Sunday at 1pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. for tips on providing feedback. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** - **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open Saturday at 7pm EST until Sunday at 1pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server**, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ###A few notes on feedback I’d like to take a moment to talk about feedback. I love seeing the extensive feedback that so many of you exchange on the thread every single week. It’s warms my little crab heart. So starting this week, I will be awarding “Crit Creds” (to be used on r/WPCritique) to users who go *above and beyond* providing feedback for others. This applies specifically to several in-depth, actionable critiques on the thread (more than 5). **Wondering what makes an actionable crit? Check out these crits previously posted on Serial Sunday:** - - -   *** #Rankings - - by u/ReverendWrites   - - by u/mattswritingaccount   - - by u/katherine_c   - - by u/stickfist - **Crit Star - Awarded 1 crit credit** - u/rainbow\-\-penguin   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: ** **Bonus Constraint (not required; worth 5 pts.) - Story uses second person POV.** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them a comment on the thread with some feedback.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown. (A few adjustments have been made; note that upvotes will no longer count for points). - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback on the thread:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example.   *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   - **Crit Star** - Awarded Crit Credit for r/WPCriique: u/katherine_c *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“Hey, I’ve found a planet over here. I think we should take a look.” “Yeah? Which system?” “Sol 456. Milky Way. 70% water cover, carbon-based life, and incredibly rich in minerals. We give this to Corporate and that’s a nice little bonus right there.” “Go for it. The atmosphere will have to be drained, as they’ve fucked it up pretty bad, but most of the good stuff’s in the core anyway.” “Damn. There’s a message on the planet’s file: WARNING: PLANET EXEMPT FROM HARVESTING - EXPERIMENT ONGOING. CURRENT RUNTIME: 350,000 YEARS. EXPECTED COMPLETION: 6043. WARNING: DESTRUCTION OF THIS PLANET WILL RESULT IN LEGAL ACTION.” “Fucking scientists. Why do they get their hands on all the good ones?” “I know. The experiment is actually pretty interesting, though. According to the papers, the evolution of the dominant species was manipulated by fungus to spread their own spores.” “As if. So they’re like high-functioning carrier bees?” “Kind of. Except their functionality is off the charts. They’ve developed the bulk of their technology by utilising the thermodynamics of atoms. Nothing new there. But they’ve taken it to the extreme. Imagine bipedal apes, essentially smashing things together until something works, but have still managed to actually leave their planet.” “No shit. That’s a shame. Corporate usually pays extra for advanced conscious beings.” “That’s the thing. Says here psychologists are studying them too. They’re not technically conscious. They just think they are.” “Wait. Does thinking you’re conscious not make you conscious?” “That’s what they say. They’re like little self-aware robots, operating under the false assumption that they are able to act rationally. They believe they have free will, and yet every decision they make is completely deterministic and predictable.” “And how do we know that our decisions aren’t?” “Very funny. Anyway, I just thought it was worth noting. What do you want to do about it, then? Move on, or shall we pull one over on ‘em?” “That is a big bonus we’d be missing out on.” “Yeah. They are quite violent. I’m sure they could be convinced to war with each other, given a little nudge.” “And how might we do that? ” “Sow discord between them. They already have an advanced communications system, so that makes the job much easier. They call it the internet. It melds all their minds together to form a cohesive network, so if we tap into that we can make them think whatever we want.” “Would the research corporations find out?” “According to the records, they only visit every 5,000 years or so. Last time they built pyramids - concealed monitoring devices, I think - so the planet’s absence will likely go unnoticed for a while. We’d be long gone.” “Perfect. Sounds like you’ve done this before.” “Oh yeah. Why’d you think I was 5th in the employee rankings last year? For my honesty and integrity? All Corporate care about are the numbers.” “Ha! You’re not wrong. I’ll let you take the lead then, as you clearly know what you’re doing. How’d you wanna start off?” “We’ll spread disinformation. Create an ideological battle, and force them to choose sides through social pressure. They’ll be at each other like frenzied rabbits. In a few decades only dust will remain. We’ll pick up the loot, along with a fat check at the end of the year.” “Amen to that, brother.


My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is April 2 2018, I am sixty-seven years old and I have Alzheimer's. My wife’s name is Margret, and we have three children Stacey, Rachel, and Todd. Stacey and Todd live in Kentucky, but Rachel lives in Ohio about 30 minutes from me. All three of my children are married Todd and his wife Sandra are expecting their first child, and me and Margrets third grandchild in July, they say it’s a girl, but you know it's gonna be a boy. The doctors said that writing down memories to read later sometimes helped Alzheimer's patients keep their memories for longer. I keep the journal to satisfy them and my family. They all worry for me I can see it in their eyes, the pity and the sadness. When I forgot where I placed my keys Margret nearly broke down in tears. It took nearly an hour to convince her that it wasn’t some bad sign or omen, sometimes people just misplaced their keys. It's growing so frustrating to have everyone constantly look at you like you might keel over any moment. The kids used to look at me like a hero now they treat me like a porcelain doll. No one understands, not the children, not Margret, or even the doctors. They might say I have Alzheimer's but I am not going to forget my family. I might have trouble remembering dates or times or even where I put my keys but I will not forget the family I have worked so hard to build. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is July 29, 2018. I am sixty-seven years old, and I have Alzheimer's. Yesterday Todd and his wife brought home baby Erica Grace Vanderbelt. It was a girl, I was so certain it would be a boy, then again Margret reminded me how I thought Rachel was gonna be a boy for most of her pregnancy. Maybe I should leave the gender prediction to the doctors. Speaking of doctors at my most recent appointment they said my memory was better than anticipated. The look of pride on Margrets face was unmistakable. She told the doctor all about how she was constantly giving me memory quizzes. She even insists we watch jeopardy every night. Each time I get a question right she smiles like the sun. Onetime I set the DVR up to play a rerun and got every question right for 10 full minutes before she realized what I had done. For those ten minutes she was the happiest woman on earth I swear. I know Shes worried that Ill forget everything. That one day Ill wake up and not know who she is, but I could never forget her. Margret is the love of my life and always will be. I said till death do us part and I meant it. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is November 16, 2018. I turned sixty-eight today and I have Alzheimer's. My boy brought his lovely daughter over for a visit today. Shes only a few months old but she is getting big already. Her laughter is so wonderful, just like her grandmother's. I just know Shes going to be so smart when she grows up. It’s a strange feeling when your kids go off and have kids, it feels like just yesterday I was chasing my little boy around the yard while Margret braided the girl's hair. The doctors say my Alzheimer's is progressing, but I think they simply don't know what they are talking about. They take every little mistake I make and blow it out of proportion. Last week I missed a turn on the way home from the store so it took an extra few minutes to get home and now the doctors are trying to get Margret to take my car keys away. As though I cant get to the store and back when Iv made the trip probably 10,000 times in the last 30 years. Not to mention the look on Margrets face when they suggested it made my heart break into a million pieces. After all this time of giving her hope and telling her how well I was doing to turn around and make it seem like iv got one foot in the grave well it was just stupid. My name is Eric Vanderbelt today is March 7, 2019. I am sixty-eight and I have Alzheimer's. My daughter came to visit today the one from out of state. She brought her husband and children. It was so fun to get to see them. They all grow up so fast I swear it was just a few months ago that I was holding their little girl in my arms. I remember how she laughed, and it was just like her grandmother's laugh. All cute and bubbly. The first time I heard that laugh was a warm spring day on the front lawn of Baylor university. From that moment on I was hooked, like a melody that you can't get out of your head that laughter repeated in my brain for weeks. Margret does not laugh as much anymore. She says its not my fault, but she says its with tears in her eyes. My name is Eric Vanderbelt, today is September 2019, I have Alzheimer's. Margrets says the doctors think I'm getting better. She is lying. I'm beginning to feel it, the weight of losing everything bit by bit, the feeling of a sweater unraveling. This morning a lovely woman came to visit. I didn’t know her, Marget told me she was my daughter, Stephany I think was her name. The poor thing looked so sad I think Margret wanted me to make her feel safe. So, I played along and pretended to be her father. This seemed to make both of them happy. At one point I even got Margret to laugh again, like before. Oh, how I love to hear her laughter. My name is Eric, I have Alzheimer's, at least that what the nurse lady keeps telling me. I assume Shes the nurse. She keeps bringing me medicine and food. She’s such a nice nurse, and beautiful too. Why I think I might have a crush on her. I don’t remember why I need a nurse or why they do not want me to leave my house, but I suppose if she’s here I don't mind. Sometimes I forget where I am but she always reminds me. She is just so sweet. I think tomorrow I may ask her on a date, I hope she's not married. I'll take her to the drive in and we can split a popcorn, I hope it’s a comedy because she has the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard.


It was June 18th, 2045, when Earth’s top scientists at the ISS noticed something unusual, a blip that would one day prove detrimental to the survival of the human race. So when the top brass of the ISS got on the phone with the top brass of the United Nations, everyone knew what was at stake. One question still haunted the High Commissar for the United Earth and First Nations Theodore Milton, one which he posed almost immediately to the unlucky bastard who had to be the one to inform him of the impending crisis. “How the hell is one supposed to fix a fucking star?” Commissar Milton then lamented that on today of all days, on the fifth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres, this would happen. This is when some no-name undersecretary informed him that there was no time to waste. For what a dozen phone calls in search of a straight answer would soon reveal, Earth had, in fact, little time, one year to be exact. On the sixth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres, undulating waves of cosmic energy would obliterate humanity as we know it. And all of this was because a nearby star one day decided to die. The timing of all this felt personal to Commissar Milton. There was the Peace Between Hemispheres Week of Celebration to consider and the North Eastern Quadrant’s biannual meeting. There was the continued rooting out of the radical terrorist group known as The Rescue that had taken hold in the South. Three civil wars were happening on three different continents simultaneously, and a worldwide shortage of silicon was ruining the global supply chain. If there was ever one attribute that was crucial to the continued success of the High Commissar for the United Earth and First Nations and by extension, all of humanity, it was finesse. Everything must be carefully managed. One wrong move or unforeseen consequence, and the whole thing falls apart. Global geopolitics was only ever one slight breeze away from total disaster, nothing more than a house of cards held together with pure will. To say Commissar Milton didn’t get much sleep the following night would be an understatement. The scientists had affectionately named the star, Bright Eyes, which the Commissar didn’t love. Consumed by the world’s imminent demise, he ordered every leader on the “goddamn, piece-of-shit, about-to-be-blown-up” planet in his office by the end of the week. His troupe of undersecretaries knew the enormity of that task would be tough. If anything could grind the world’s government to a halt, it was rearranging a schedule, but they figured that upon learning of the end, the news could put a pep in a lot of prime ministers’ step. Come Friday, the undersecretaries, disheveled, bleary-eyed, and sleep-deprived, had succeeded in rearranging one hundred and eighty three of the one hundred and ninety five leaders’ schedules, corralling them into a large conference hall leased from a real estate company down the street from the United Nations headquarters. When Commissar Milton asked where the other dozen “fucknuts” that couldn’t be bothered to show up were, Undersecretary Riguald simply shrugged, and Undersecretary Williams merely said they were fishing. Surveying the audience one more time, Commissar Milton decided that this would have to do. He made his way to the podium set facing the audience, called for quiet, and jumped straight in. “The world will end in one year,” he said. “I’ve gathered you here as the world’s leaders to find a solution. I want to hear ideas. Nothing is off the table.” To his dismay, many of the politicians were on their phones. Some had formed groups. Others were yelling or murmuring amongst themselves. Some were bellowing as if giving a speech, and others were whispering to what seemed like no one in particular. To say this room inspired confidence would be a lie, and Commissar Milton knew it. It was at this moment that the Commissar mustered all the strength he could, sucked in all the air his lungs could hold, and brought his fist down on the top of the podium in front of him, calling for quiet at the top of his lungs. Remarkably, silence overcame the gathered crowd. The Commissar made one last plea, deciding to change his tac. “The first country to bring me a workable solution in two weeks will get a super special top-secret prize that will be given out next year at the sixth anniversary of Peace Between Hemispheres celebration. That country’s leader will be singled out by name and given the highest honor the world can bestow.” Excitement filled the air as the world’s leaders jumped into action. The Prime Minister of Belarus promised he had a guy that could create a supernova-proof glass dome that would encase the Earth. The Chairman of the St. Marshall Islands drew up plans immediately for a giant mirror that could reflect the energy waves out of the way. Even the Supreme Leader of North Korea got in on the fun, swearing he could build a rocket that could push Earth out of the way. Commissar Milton had low expectations, even directing his troupe of trusty undersecretaries to develop plans B through Z to save the world. Still, he figured the leaders’ excitement was progress, and undoubtedly one out of the almost two hundred politicians at the meeting could come up with something workable. With each passing day, the undersecretaries did worry about the health of the Commissar. They knew the enormity of leading Earth away from destruction had to be taking some kind of toll. \ Two weeks turned into six months with very little to show for it. Getting a flock of politicians to agree on anything was already a challenge, but uniting them under a project that required unprecedented cooperation, seriousness, and resources turned out to be nigh impossible. What became known as Project Blue Dot began in good faith but quickly devolved into nasty spats over who should be required to pay for the project and how credit for the project should be distributed amongst the participating nations. Developing nations expected wealthy ones to front most of the cost while rich ones questioned why they were spending so much money to help other countries’ citizens in the first place. All the grudges long-buried boiled to the surface as the initial breaking of ground on the plan to save humanity stumbled. At six months, with delay after delay and budget cut after budget cut, the Commissar decided to shelve the project in its entirety, allowing all the countries to go their separate ways, off to figure out their own solutions to the world’s impending doom. The Commissar had sent flowers to leaders’ wives; listened steadfastly at dinner after dinner to complaints, demands, questions, and concerns. He had gotten an endless stream of nieces and nephews jobs at every government agency imaginable, helped quell certain coups, helped initiate certain others, had done it all and then some, and all that was left was a pile of countries with worse off relations then when he had started. He immediately called in his undersecretaries to go over the backup plans he had tasked them to come up with in case he found himself in this very situation. The undersecretaries moseyed into the Commissar’s office one by one, shuffling their feet and saying nothing. The truth was that all of the backup plans suffered from the same flaw that had tanked the initial effort. Any strategy to save humanity required unprecedented levels of cooperation, something that humankind seemed unwilling to muster given a large enough scale. So Commissar Milton, now at a loss, did what anyone else in his situation would do. He drank heavily. It was the first time he had drank in a long time. It felt good. He started stashing handles in his desk and around the United Nations compound. His undersecretaries were sworn to secrecy concerning his budding alcoholism, for drinking had become a semi-regular habit for the Commissar, a ritual of sorts calling out to the universe, all in the hope that if Theodore Milton went through the motions enough, then, one day, the universe would show him the way. Bright Eyes was now identifiable during the day. The Commissar had instructed the scientists to make some excuse as to what exactly was giving the sun a run for its money. Meanwhile, the Commissar finding himself as he regularly did, a few tallboys deep on a Tuesday night, suddenly had the great urge to disappear. He wondered if he could pull it off, if anyone would miss him, if things would go on as they always have, if this was his destiny. After draining a beer, the Commissar cut a small incision in its aluminum side. It was something he started in high school for some weird reason and kept up, his singular exciting trait. Commissar Milton blinked, and one empty can had turned into six. How had he come this far, climbed the highest ranks of international government, and stayed sober? This was a serious question for the Commissar, one he’d never considered until now. As people generally do, the Commissar drank a bit in college and then gave it up like most adults. After graduation, he stayed sober, did well in government, was unassuming, steadily climbed the ranks, and reached as high as he could go in the public arena. Commissar Milton phoned his assistant, asking her to remind him where the whiskey bottle some random prime ministers’ wife had given him at last year’s United Nations Solstice Celebration was stashed. In a box in the cupboard, the assistant dutifully reminded him. Commissar Milton made his way to the veranda, poured himself a few fingers worth of liquid gold, and lit up. He couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad that humanity’s last days would be brought to an end by a bright light in the sky. The phone was the first thing Commissar noticed as he awoke. The sun was just peaking over the horizon. The phone rang again, the noise piercing a hole in Commissar Milton’s pickled mind. He fumbled for the it for a minute, willing himself to answer. “What,” he said gruffly. “Uhh, sir,” an undersecretary on the other end said, “I have Professor Laura Donagen on the line for you.” The Commissar rubbed his temples, the pain throbbing harder than ever. “Who,” he growled. “Uhh, Professor Laura Donagen? She says she’s a scientist and can help.” It took the Commissar a moment to realize what the undersecretary was saying. “Put her through.” The Commissar waved over an aide to clean up the remnants of last night, including the half-empty bottle of whiskey and an array of cigarette buts that littered the floor beneath him. His wife would be home soon, and the only thing he hated more than conflict were questions. He was of the belief that questions were a direct attack on one’s capabilities. Good leaders weren’t asked silly questions like where were you all night or why do you look like death, or when was the last time you interacted with your kids. The Commissar didn’t hear the first hello from Mrs. Domner. It was only after a few minutes that he realized she was on the other line, politely waiting for him to finish up whatever it was he was doing. Knowing this, the Commissar dove right into the meat of the business to end this call as soon as possible. “Professor Donagen, I’m told you have a solution to this whole end of the world business.” After a bit of back and forth, the grand idea involved personal energy domes handed out to every adult on Earth. The point of these domes was for a human to sit inside them, protecting them from a supernova’s dangerous gamma waves. The domes were completely transparent with a hinge at the top that held it all together and functioned as a door to fit an adult and small child inside snugly. The transparent material was flexible, almost more like a see-through sleeping bag than a hard surface. Having already developed a workable prototype, Professor Donagen and the undersecretary assured him that this solution was vetted by several reputable organizations and individuals worldwide, thoroughly tested in the Hades Supernova Lab in Berlin and that the best part was that this solution wouldn’t require buy-in from countries and governments. It could be mass-produced. Additionally, these energy domes were cheap to produce, making the cost of providing one for everyone on Earth surprisingly affordable and a relatively quick process. The Commissar did wonder how effective these energy domes could be. At best, they sounded like one of those sketchy products people sell with infomercials on late-night TV. It didn’t take long, though, for the Commissar to agree to the plan. While he didn’t fully understand all the intricacies, the world was four months away from the end. Being picky wasn’t helping anyone. \ Two weeks away from the supernova, eighty percent of the world’s population had been given an energy dome. Governments were all too happy to help and chip in money. It was a solution that required very little of them, and they could still look like they were supportive. Professor Donagen dove straight into the project, distributing the prototype across the world for companies to mass-produce. Each energy dome came with detailed instructions. Precisely fifteen minutes before the scheduled time that the energy from the supernova is expected to reach Earth, one must undo the flap of the energy dome and slide it around your body. At five minutes, close the flap and seal yourself inside. Each dome comes equipped with a specialized filter that could scrub the air and allow oxygen to flow freely into the dome without contamination. Additionally, the Commissar gave a pivotal speech, officially announcing the world’s imminent demise to the public. After employing a few thousand well-paid influencers to hawk the product, almost complete buy-in was assured. The polls didn’t lie. Commissar Milton saw his highest approvals a week before the end, the highest of his career. The media had played ball surprisingly well too, opting not to tear the solution to shreds. TV hosts promoted the pros of energy domes and brought in expert after expert to bolster the public’s confidence. Any little bit of dissent was written off as harmful, unneeded, and anti-human. Professor Donagen and Commissar Milton talked regularly, often multiple times a day. The truth was that for a dyed-in-the-wool scientist, Professor Donagen made for a remarkable business leader. Ramping up production to a global scale in two months, repurposing old factories, recycled material, unemployed workers, and the world’s expertise to accomplish what some in the media were saying was a miracle. On June 16th, 2046, two days before the supernova everything was in place. Energy domes had been distributed to every human on Earth. The Commissar still wasn’t sure what to make of Professor Donagen. She had grown up in relative poverty, just like all the other towering figures of history. She was the first in her family to go to college, studying a dual major in molecular physics and bioengineering. She worked at Star Orbit for five years out of college, designing durable structures and component parts for use in space travel. From there, she moved to the Hades Supernova Lab in Germany, where she worked with a team that studied the effects of extremely high levels of Gamma waves on various compounds. Before she was plucked out of obscurity by Commissar Milton to save the world, she was working for the government of Northern Brazil, having embedded herself deep in the ruins of the Amazon rainforest studying the effects and durability of various rare plants and minerals. The Commissar sat at his beautiful oak dining room table considering a plate of medium-rare steak along with a pile of potatoes and greens, a last meal of sorts set before him. His head was in hyperdrive, filing through all the checks and balances, making sure everything was in order. His home was dark. He had told his security to go home and be with their families, figuring even his enemies wouldn’t try anything tonight. His wife had left weeks ago and took the kids, saying that if the world was going to end she “sure as hell didn’t want to spend her last days with you!” He looked down again at the meal before him. The Commissar had specially requested it. Nowadays, meat from an actual cow was a rarity. Most food came from labs. There wasn’t enough room for cow pastures anymore. In fact as the population ballooned with each passing decade, there wasn’t room for much of anything anymore. Even seeing a squirrel outside a zoo was a rare event these days. If the Commissar could will the food into his mouth, he would, but something was stopping him, a nagging feeling that he had missed something. He had debriefed with Professor Donagen that morning. Everything was in order. At least ninety percent of the world’s population would be saved from this disaster. Contingency plans were put in place to deal with changes in the environment. Rarely was the Commissar amazed, but these last few months had succeeded in rendering him in awe. The whole of humanity came together. We would know in less than a day whether or not all this had worked. His heart was like a drum. The meal still sat untouched before him. The Commissar got up and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. On his veranda once again, the energy dome unpacked and ready, High Commissar Milton thought about his father. He wondered what he’d be thinking at this moment. Would he be disappointed in him? Would he be proud? Commissar Milton wondered why everything he and Professor Donagen had achieved in the last few weeks had come together so smoothly. A small part of him was thought about tomorrow morning, minutes before Bright Eyes explodes, him getting into his energy pyramid, sealing it tight with a glass of whiskey in hand, closing his eyes, taking a drink, and feeling the effects of enormous amounts of gamma waves turning his body into dust. The worry sat heavy, like a thick black goo, lodged on to the back of his skull, his head spinning a yarn about a world-renowned scientist pitching an idea to a desperate politician; about a woman who had already, long ago, developed a distaste for humanity, born from a mind that thought too much, that questioned too much and was left wanting; a darling scientist becoming possessed many years ago by an intriguing thought: Do humans deserve to live? Every day that question burrowed a bit further into the scientists’ mind like the paranoia worm now eating away at the Commissar’s, nagging, changing, altering the course of a destiny neither one could ever imagine, one that would lead Commissar Milton into the highest ranks of power and the Scientist to an underground group called The Rescue. And like any good villain calling out into the unknown, one day, the universe answered back, telling this renowned scientist that it would set the ultimate cosmic bomb if she could convince the world that it was a dud. The Commissar stared at the wood-paneled ceiling fan that sat above his bed. It turned lazily, pushed by the faint breeze from a nearby open window. He was better than this, he thought. Worry was natural. Tomorrow will be fine. Humanity will be fine. I’ll be fine. Looking out, the Commissar noticed the haze that had settled in. Bright Eyes had turned the entire sky a misty white. The Commissar headed to bed, deciding to turn in early, opting to get as much sleep as he could before the big day.


Surfacing \ Readying his shocker spear, rhythmic waves bounce the jockey up and down as another whine of migratory drones fly overhead towards the shore. “Hurry up, coaster… we don’t have all day”, crackles the patrol captain from the jockey’s ear-bud. “Oh don’t mind me, I just LOVE the smell of putrid fish and toxic runoff. I’d be out here forever if you’d let me,” the jockey replies snidely. Just one more catch container to fill with fish before nightfall. He needed this haul to be complete or it would be another week stuck on land. The jockey looked toward his spear tip noticing the exposed wires from the hilt and dulled-edge of the blade. Scanning the murky water surrounding him, he spots the familiar yellow glow of a leader fish roughly 25 meters below. The jockey pulls in a deep breath, cocks his arm back as he’s practiced all his life, and with the downward motion of his hauler craft he chucks the spear into the water with a splash. The spear’s homing sensors flicker with electricity as the blade punctures the glowing fish. The jockey waits for the soft thud of the usual electrical pulse that can be heard upon a successful catch. No thud. The spear isn’t returning. The smaller pack fish around the leader have scattered. “SHIT shit shit shit… no…” In a flash, the jockey jumps out of his saddle on the craft. He zips up his wetsuit, throws his breathing mask and goggles on and steps to one side of the craft. He can still see the diminishing remnants of the faint glow below him as the misty sky above grows darker. The jockey dives headfirst into the water swimming as fast as he can towards the leader fish. *Please don’t let this happen to me again,* he thinks as he comes within a few meters of the dying fish. He grips the handle of the spear and feels around for the controls as the final sparks flicker within the 100 lb fish. Frantically clicking the squarish button on the hilt of the spear, the inflatable won’t deploy. Panic sets in as the jockey looks up at the dying light above the water. Coaster horror stories flood into his mind as he grapples with the impending dread of being submerged in complete darkness while night takes over. *I do NOT want to meet whatever fish come out down here after dark*. He’ll have to swim. Gripping the spear with both hands, the jockey begins to kick his legs furiously, propelling him and the fish towards the surface. Dragging the huge fish for what feels like hours, he finally emerges from the infested void. Climbing on to the wireframe cargo carrier attached to the back of the craft, he starts to pull the fish out of the water. The fish is frustratingly heavy as he drops it into the remaining empty catch container. The container appears almost empty with one lone leader fish. It’ll have to do. The spear in his hands is broken and will need extensive repairs. The jockey lets out a frustrated sigh as night falls. He presses the dispatch button on the craft’s center console, notifying a drone to come claim his haul. After the drone buzzes off, he pilots the craft back towards shore and notices the numb blisters that are starting to bubble on the skin around his hands. In the chaos, he forgot to wear his protective gloves. *Being a coaster is going to kill me,* he thinks as the soft, bluish glow of the city beyond the dock slowly appears through the fog in front of him. \ I wanted to write something that was action packed and hinted at some interesting world building. Would love any criticism! This story began as a part of the exercise done in this lecture about writing short stories: This lecture is amazing and gave some of awesome foundations for how to write a short story.


We all sit back and watch the world destroy what we have built. We have all worked hard to pay for the very things they choose to take away or place out of our reach. Our children grow up to an understanding that this is how life works. They are reinforced with the ideas that it must be ok. The very people they look up to do absolutely nothing but stand aside and watch. At a certain point, individuals become unknowingly numb to the process in which they are being controlled. It is easier to sit back and watch everything take place as it happens; Wind down a ominous path that was not self-chosen. You have to stop and ask yourself, “But is it really…easier”? It’s all we know. We haven’t experienced any different so we cannot answer that question with any type of validity. So while we watch and wait, our minds think otherwise. We take account the reality of what is happening and we plan accordingly. We do what we can to stay on the path we believe is and should be an honest and fair for humanity. For every action there is a reaction. We didn’t set the curve but it can be flattened by using critical thinking, manipulation, and leverage. You turn the same game being used on you against your opponent without them being aware. It is then when succession begins to occur. Sometimes the enemy will even contribute to your success, not realizing it is to be used against them. And unlike others before us that have tried to manipulate our circumstances, we practice in a way where there is never harm nor hurt. We often go go through our day to day routines waking up and following the same patterns. These patterns have been embedded into our thinking. We complete the same mundane tasks only to achieve the same results. There must be moments of clarity to break this consistent pattern and question what exactly is our goal and how do we achieve them. We must have an awareness that although we stay on course to do what we have been taught is needed to achieve goals, there are several variables set in place form outside sources to keep our goals from being achieved. There are so many hidden underlying algorithms set in place to of set our productivity without us even being aware. There is fine print in life that has been constructed not only to confuse the ones that take the time to analyze it, but usually discourage many from continuing to proceed. Life choices should not be this difficult, but it has been developed by those beyond our knowing to keep us in a place that pre conceivably has been selected for us. Only a certain few will get through this process and to the other side. The beginning of your journey should be to learn to enlighten yourself to the truth of the reality we find ourselves fighting against. We will not suffer from repercussions because what we do is law abiding and safe. Now it’s time to rethink your strategies in life and chose what you really want.


###Attention: The SerSun deadline has changed! **Serial Sunday Campfire has moved to 1pm EST (Saturdays). That means that the deadline to submit your story is now Saturday at 12pm EST - this is for all submitters, not just Campfire attendees. The feedback and nomination deadline is now Saturday at 11:59pm EST.** #Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.   *** #This week's theme is Kindling! This week’s theme is ‘kindling’, which is most commonly defined as easily combustible sticks or twigs that are used to start a fire. This could be an adventure for your characters, a night in the woods, using their survival instincts to scavenge for food and start a fire to keep warm until sun up. Maybe this ‘firestarter’ is more metaphorical. Think about the words that get under our skin, the actions that spark reactions. The domino effect of certain events that very much feel like a blazing fire, or the beginning of one. How does one small thing trigger the next? Is there one character who seems to start little fires everywhere they go? How does this make those around them feel? What happens when a little spark becomes a raging inferno? Can something good rise up out of the ashes? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form! - April 10 - Kindling (this week) - April 17 - Lore - April 24 - Mask   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.   *** #The Rules: - **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme.** You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you **must** use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed. - **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** - **Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings. - **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories).** The feedback must be **actionable** and should include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!   *** #Reminders: - **If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit.** - **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. The time has changed! **We now start at 12pm EST.** You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join! - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. - **There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server**, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including posts and Campfires!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2. **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)* ***So what is actionable feedback?*** Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: - - -   *** #Rankings In case you missed the announcement at the top of the post, please be aware that the Serial Sunday submission deadline is now on Saturday at 12:00 pm EST. The deadline for feedback and nominations is now Saturday at 11:59pm EST. - - by u/stickfist   - - by u/mattswritingaccount   - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/Hades_Sedai   - **Crit Star - Awarded 1 crit credit** - u/rainbow\-\-penguin - **Crit Star - Awarded 1 crit credit** - u/katherine_c   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.