I woke up with strange pains, and while normally I would be used to this, today felt very different. Pains in my neck and jaw, as if I had slept on it. Pain in my chest, as if the bones itself had begun to hug me. But I still needed to get ready for work. The thought that it was Friday helped be get out of bed. I had worked hard all week and today was the last until I had two whole days to rest. Undoubtedly, I'm going to enjoy watching the rest of my cooking show that I have recorded. With slight optimistism, I got myself out of bed and shambled to the bathroom, like every day. The bathroom tile usually felt cold and smooth, but I couldn't feel it. A part of me thought I had socks on, a part of me knew I hadn't worn socks, but a larger part of me was focused on a different surprise. As soon as I entered the bathroom, I was ambushed by the sight of a disgusting creature. Pale skin and tall height made me think of a towel at first; but its muscles bulged out like tumors; skin stretched and tore from their unnatural growth; eyes piercing yellow as if light was behind them; its hands were almost human-like, yet its nails had grown so large that they have overtaken the two furthermost knuckles of each finger; the rib cage was almost like scaled armor around the thing’s torso; and the mouth… the jaw had split in two, as if each jaw half was its own prehensile limb; its teeth long and sharp like many daggers, lined up disorderly and erratic. As I saw it, I screamed, and simultaneously the thing belted out an animalistic hunting cry. I jumped to the floor, like a child seeing a real life monster. I waited for the thing to kill me. But it didn’t. I looked around my bathroom. The thing had left… I was about to get up, when I looked at my hands, about to push me to my feet. They were the hands of the monster, claws meant for hunting. I got up, and saw myself. I was the monster. This had to be a dream, none of this was real. I decided to stay in the bathroom until I woke up. It took me almost 5 hours until I got thirsty. I went to the sink, questioning how I could drink without a jaw. I soon discovered my claws were like spoons, they were concave. So I would cup some water, and sucked each claw with the hole that was my throat. It felt natural, while feeling completely inhuman at the same time. I waited another 9 hours later, when the sun had fully set, I slept on the cold hard tile floor. I prayed to wake up as anything but this creature, but my prayers were pointless. It took me 5 days to fully come to terms that I was not dreaming. I grew hungry every day, and ate whatever leftovers and produce I could find. Slicing meat was very easy with my new mouth, while eating any vegetables and fruits was almost impossible. Even if I could, I could not taste their sweetness, only the bitter crunch and unappetizing fibrous texture. I thought about when I would run out of food, and how I would be able to get more. I couldn’t leave the house, I'm already avoiding the windows to prevent being seen. Weeks passed on, and while I had completely ran out of food, I was staying alive from drinking water. I was very hungry, but I was alive. However, I have no plan on how I would get food right now. Maybe sneak out at night looking for trash? Even then, I’m so large and heavy that I’d be surprised if even a blind person couldn’t notice me passing by. I realized that even my water supply would go away from not paying my water bills. I guess I’m glad that nobody will be looking for me. If I had any family or friends, a missing person’s report would be made, and result in a man-hunt. I guess there are some perks to solitude. There were many days where I had nothing left but my thoughts. I asked myself; why had I become this thing. A monster. A part of me didn’t want to think of myself as a monster. I asked myself what are the limits on what is human? A person who's lost their arm, many people would call them human. A person with terrible birth defects is still considered human. But, am I still human? Is this mound of horror given flesh and bone still human? I still think like a human, I still act like a human. But nobody would know it was me if they saw me. They’d see a terror on earth. A monster who needs to be killed. I can’t talk anymore, or even make noises that can come off as human. My glottis is completely different, and I sound more like a bear growl combined with a crocodile’s bellow. Eventually, the day came when my power and my water had gone out. My last means of survival. I had nothing left to help myself. I can either find a way to get food and water, or die. It took me a while to come to terms with this. During that time, I think I saw my landlord come by once or twice. A simple knock on the door and a call of my name, then he left. Even my house will be gone soon. My landlord is going to come in soon, looking for me. And when they see that I'm gone, he's going to get the house ready for another person, and he won't expect a nightmare on two legs in their house. I don’t know what to do. When my hunger became unbearable, I decided to go off at night, looking for trash to eat, and water fountains to drink from. And by the end of the night, I went home to rest all day. I would try my best to hide, but people would still see me eating out of their trash cans, drinking from their water hoses, and some people blamed me for their missing pets. Or, at least I think so, because I stopped seeing pets outside for a while. My last option for information outside my house and neighborhood was the newspapers that didn't get picked up during the day. I tried to read, and I could, but I had trouble with recognizing certain letters and numbers. I got b's and d's confused many times, as well as p's and q's, I felt like a toddler learning to read again. But soon it could read like I usually do, slightly slower though. Newspapers rarely talked about world events. They talked about me, or possibly another hulking beast that stuck to the shadows during the night. Which isn't too impossible. I had become a legend, “The Monster of Oroville”. When I started to walk for the first few weeks, I stumbled and tripped like a baby. My body was completely unfamiliar to me. But as the weeks passed, and eventually months, I had gotten used to my new body. I was a pure predator, I could climb trees easier than I could walk, I could run a mile in one breath, I had the strength to pick up logs and push cars. I could see in the dark just as well, if not better than, I could in light. My muscles never got sore, at least never after a meal. I started eating squirrels, roadkill, even slow deer when I had the chance. I wish I could tell you eating raw and rotten meat disgusted me, but after eating nothing for so long, it tasted like gold. I stopped going back home to hunt for longer. I had gotten more and more confident with how I hunt, now a deer can’t hear me running unless it's within 5 feet of me. I began prowling the cities, taking extra care not to be seen. Walking around felt surreal beyond a dream. The architecture felt so alien, as I had been so used to nature at this point. Tall buildings of stone and metal, with people walking through them with no sense of caution, walking as if they couldn’t die. In nature, everything is so close to death that nothing is ever truly confident. I was the only thing who could walk with confidence, but I still knew of my mortality. And seeing everyone else annoyed me slightly. Why was I thinking like this? I knew I didn’t belong here anymore, but I wanted to so badly. I want to wake up from this nightmare. I saw a butcher’s shop. Months worth of food, right in front of me. I had been hunting my food from this point, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t hungry. I spent months at this point without a proper full stomach. Even after killing a deer, I could finish one and still have aches in my stomach. But in front of me was so much food that I could never grow hungry again, or at least, this is what I thought. I became careless, I broke the window and pounced in, feasting on this meal of the gods. I spent hours eating, savoring every bite. I was so absorbed that I couldn’t tell there was a crowd forming outside the butcher’s shop. I’m sure a call went out that someone had broken into the shop. I looked outside, nobody could see in because the shop was completely dark. The entire city had come to see this, wanting to see the legendary “Monster of Oroville”. Most people must’ve thought it was just a bear or other large animal, as most were acting too casually than you would if a monster was in front of you. I could see the police sirens, flashing back and forth. I realized that I was surrounded. I looked around for a back door, but there wasn’t any. The butcher’s shop only had a front entrance. I was terrified more than ever, more than when I was starving to death, more than when I was hunting deer. I tried to hide anywhere, but I had broken any kind of cover I could’ve had. I heard a policeman walk up, with his flashlight. He didn’t say, “police, put your hands up.” or anything like that. They were expecting an animal. I felt the blinding light of the flashlight hit my face. Everyone could see the Monster of Oroville. Panic. Tens of screams turned into hundreds. The police either ran or immediately took out a gun. I reached my arms out, showing I was surrendering, while trying to say something, anything. The police must’ve seen a monster reach out their arms for an attack, and heard a battle cry that shook their souls. I felt 3 bullets hid my torso, but none of them went past my ribs. A few more hit my shoulder, and it was painful, but nothing like I would expect a bullet to feel like. It felt more like a bee sting. I knew I had to run. So I ran fast. Racing past building after building, street after street. So many people saw me, and each of them ran inside as if the devil himself had come to town. I was fast though. So fast that the police cars couldn’t catch up to me. I jumped wire fences like they were steps on a stool; I ripped through wooden fences like they were paper. Gripping stone walls to scale them was so easy for my claws. Even a helicopter couldn’t catch up. I didn’t know I could run so fast. I escaped into a forest, but I know that I need to keep going. I can’t stop now, they won’t let me live. I ran until I could see the sun rising. I thought of nothing except the need to run faster. I eventually stopped, and as the sun rose, I found a tree to rest on. And as I finally rested, I thought to myself. How can I get back to my life? How will I be able to tell everyone that I’m not a monster? But… I am still a human, right? I didn’t hurt anyone, I was hungry. It doesn’t matter how I look, how I sound. Right? Of course. Yes. I am still a human. I am still a human. I kept telling myself this as I drifted to sleep. I am still a human.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Sentence: Life wasn’t like the .** - **Bonus Constraint: A mystery is solved.** This week your challenge is to include the above sentence in your story. You may add onto it and/or change the tense, but the original sentence must stay intact. **Stories without the sentence will be disqualified.** The bonus constraint is not required, but for those who would like to give it a shot, I have a little surprise! Mysteries are hard, especially in micro fiction. So, to help you complete your challenge, I am allotting you *75 extra words*—for this week only! Please be sure to follow all other post and sub rules. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **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 some feedback on the thread.** 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.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live 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!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/stickfist - - u/AGuyLikeThat - **Crit Star:** u/AGuyLikeThat *** ###Subreddit News - Check out this month’s on r/WritingPrompts! - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Chapter 1—Who am I? As I awoke on that boat with the salty sea air sticking to my face, it was as if I returned to this material plane from an eternal slumber. I was beyond groggy and my body battleworn and barely moveable. I knew the bare minimum about my predicament and it only made matters worse. I forced myself out of that fishnet hammock despite every muscle of my being fighting against me. It was as if three owlbears were stacked upon my shoulders after someone bashed my legs with a blacksmiths’ tools. Who would have thought getting to the heavy seawater soaked doors would have been so difficult. As I breach the doors and find myself looking into the blinding sunlight I feel the many sets of eyes locked in my direction. I could feel every single set of eyes on that deck and it made my stomach churn. As my eyes adjusted, I began to shuffle backwards into the room I just left. Those sea dried men appeared as if a woman had never looked in their direction. Trying to swing the heavy door back shut I was interrupted by a raspy female voice. I was dumbfounded, for I know I hadn't seen a woman out there did I? Just as soon as I got the behemoth pulled shut, it swung open like a page getting turned in a book. Falling backwards onto the floor in disbelief a well dressed woman was standing over me. She was cheery yet terrifying all in the same. Scuttling backwards, terrified, she let out a forgiving hand with the most gentle words. My fear was wiped away the instant she spoke. Lifting me from the floor she started spewing out information, sentence after sentence, and I couldn't keep up. Assuming she saw my puzzled face she walked me over to a table built into the wall and had me take a seat. Slowing down her pace I began to understand what she was saying more and more. She was a bizarre woman for sure. After a few minutes of dumping info in my ears just calling me girl, she began to call me Marinth. Continuing to ramble on faster than I could keep up, she mentioned having a vision of a powerful being destined to change the fate of the world lying alone on a devastated beach. She set out immediately to the closest piece of land and found me among rubble still breathing. Absurdly thinking I must have been the “powerful” being of prophecy, she called me Marinth. A name deemed worthy of someone steadfast, powerful, and destined for greatness she said with great enthusiasm. Being in the position that I was, Marinth was a name that could keep me taken care of, so arguing was off the table. Wasn’t really sure if I could have argued though. When I awoke I couldn't remember anything before that, not even my name. This is my first attempt at ever wrong so please be gentle is possible but please critique my grammar and/or spelling if need be. Im dyslexic so writing and reading are both a bit difficult for me. I'm taking inspiration from a DND campaign that I run with my friends and I'm hoping this turns out well enough to show them.


See the pinned comment for links to the full serial \ As I lay on the ground exhausted, sleep came and went. The need to move wrestled with fatigue and relief at dry land, until I woke up trembling. Icy spasms ran down my spine, spots where the cold gripped the muscles and tried to burrow into the bone, my body fighting back in shivers. It was a battle I was quickly losing. The island didn’t guarantee survival. Water, heat, food. Without those three I wouldn’t make it. I pulled myself up, and stripped down to my underwear. A westerly breeze, cooled by the night seas, ran across the beach. It scratched at my nipples, nose, elbows - stabbing anything remotely exposed, as though it intended to sand me down like a piece of wood. Still, I was better off exposed to the air than being surrounded by the sea in my clothes. Next, water. Looking around me, the island was small. It was maybe only a kilometre across by a few hundred metres wide. Too small for any chance of finding a freshwater source. However, the good news was last night’s storm had left the island drenched. I headed towards the thicket that covered the centre of the island. The web of trunks and bushes cut off the breeze, and my skin gave thanks for the protection. Inside, water covered the ground. Large puddles filled every dip in the woodland floor, and my trek meant keeping to thin inlets of land between the ponds. The water was plentiful. It was also brown. Clumps of dirt floated along its surface, and the borders of each pond had turned to a dun clay as insects hovered above the surface. Thye water was plentiful, it would also kill me. Further into the forest, trees and bushes competed for the most protected space. Soon, every step meant pushing past various branches and fronds that tickled or scratched at my skin, until I reached a clearing where a large bush took advantage of a gap in the canopy. Its huge leaves were each the size of my torso and grew out from the stem in a frilled circle, the end rising in a curve. My lips were sticking with hope and hypotheses as I walked towards the plant. I was in luck. Each leaf had acted like a basin, capturing the night’s downpour. Any that had been able to hold the weight were filled with perfect clear water, the shimmering green below the surface made all the brighter by the sun’s refracted light. I closed my eyes as a dry gasp of relief left my chest. I bent down, and, clasping the ends of the leaf, sipped at the water. I gulped the thin pool, sucking until all I could taste was a rough waxy surface. Leaf by leaf, I worked my way around the plant, quenching my thirst. As I bent down at the last one I looked up. Fifty or so metres away, sunlight broke through the trees, and in the halo of light, I could see another one of the plants. No doubt it too would be full of clean rain water. Water was found. I was rehydrating as my core burnt off the damp seas from my skin. Till now, my walk through the forest had been a haze, but now my synapses were beginning to lubricate and thaw, as the minutiae of my surroundings became clear. The sound of seagulls floating in the sky above, the way the light pierced through gaps between the leaves, and the strange smell of smoke. Smoke. On an uninhabited island in the middle of a forest. I turned to the sensation, and began tracing it like a hunting dog. The smell grew stronger, till I could hear crackling and the sound of wood popping. There was no mistaking it. Fire. Warmth. Heat. An old tree, one of the tallest in the forest but long dead, stood alone. Its leaves had fallen years ago, and the great trunk had been hollowed out, rotten and emptied through wind, rain and animals. But now, at its core, was fire. Somewhere in the storm lightning must have struck the former chestnut, and despite the rain, the strike had been enough for the centre of the trunk to catch light. I watched in awe as the holes in the trunk bled yellows and red. Gases swirled inside the bark, the wood crackling as it withered from fever. I was alone, surrounded by damp woodland, and yet here I was staring at humanity’s most important technology. It was as though Prometheus himself had taken pity on my plight. I moved closer to the heat and bathed in it, sitting down on the forest floor, as my torso and arms soak up the glow. Closing my eyes, I let the warmth cleanse me of the remaining slick seas from my skin. A blast singed the hairs on my chest, and embers floated down to land on my skin, leaving a momentary sting. I didn’t flinch. Each one felt like an anointment. Half an hour or so passed with me kneeling before the flames, until, with my body re-hydrated and dry, I could move on to more long-term survival. Who knows how long this old tree would survive. I needed to save the fire and control it. Besides, I wanted the fire near the water’s edge so Alessia - a stray \**if Alessia*\* crossed my mind, I buried it… - or another ship might more easily see me. I needed a campfire. I wrestled back through the woods towards the coast. At the edge of the treeline I began looking for kindling. I picked up what the evergreen forest offered me: damp pine needles, or waterlogged sticks. They wouldn’t light easily, but they would have to do. I built a small pile of leaves and arranged a small cone of twigs over the top. Loose and wet bark peeled away as I worked, and soon my hands were covered in sap and flecks. Still, after adding another layer of larger twigs on top, I had what felt like a good base. Back in the forest, I tried to recall the route back to the burning tree, following my nose and ears. Upon arrival I noticed the fire was already beginning to diminish. The top of the trunk was charred black as the tree peeled away one lick of flame at a time. Settled among the dirt, I found a good branch. Long enough to last the walk through the forest, thick enough not to break. I brushed off as much of the caked-on mud and dirt as I could, then thrust the end into the fire, watching the yellow flames flicker around the makeshift torch. I waited for the branch to catch alight. Seconds ticked by, the tree slowly withering. I thought I saw a flame and withdrew, but it was merely an illusion. Still, the wet flakes of wood at the end had peeled away, exposing the porous, and hopefully more flammable, parts beneath. The branch returned to the fire. I stood as close as I could as the flames continued to lick at my skin. The sensation that had felt like heaven was now beginning to burn, my skin telling me to step away rather than towards the heat. But I ignored the instruction. My eyes remained fixed on the branch, waiting, pleading. I gritted my teeth and poured my mental energy into the stick, demanding it light. A flame. I pulled out my torch. A grin grew across my face as I watched the small candle dance. This delicate flame would save me. Treading carefully, I trekked back past the trees and out into the open. A gust blew along the beach, and the flame waivered. My chest seized, as the flame struggled, before glowing once more. I reached up a hand and tried to cup my fingers around it. The beat of the fire steady once more, I walked over to my campfire, gently lowered myself to the ground and leaned the flame towards the kindling. I watched as leaves curled to the heat, the moisture escaping from the surface with each lick of the torch. Then, finally, one leaf burned yellow. I gasped with joy, as the leaf crisped and folded, its atoms transformed into warmth. It rolled over to the leaf next to it, and it too caught fire. I waited for the chain reaction to continue but instead the two leaves burned bright, flickered to ash, and then extinguished. Muttering protestations and denial at the kindling, I turned back to my stick, then let out a louder curse. In the moment of elation I had completely forgotten about the torch and now it too was out. A thin wisp of smoke rose from its tip. My fists bound up into balls and I let out a long shuddered sigh. I gritted my teeth, and let all the self-pity slip from my body through the tensed muscles. Then, I picked up the torch, and returned to the forest, just like I had to. I had no matches, no oil, no flint, no lighters. I knew vague concepts about how to make fire with just wood, something about rubbing two branches together, but the mechanics were a mystery, and I would be long dead before I fathomed them out. This fire, the tree, had to work. As I stood next to the tree, waiting for the branch to be relit, I thought about how little I knew. People could make salt water drinkable, but I had no idea how. I couldn’t create a drinking flask or cup to carry any drinkable water anyhow. I didn’t know how to hunt, or how to fashion tools to hunt with. I didn’t know how to make bricks for a home or how to use wood to build a shelter. I was alone, and all the information, all the knowledge that comes from others was lost to me. The branch caught light again. This time I tilted the stick down, allowing the flame to creep up the wood, giving it more fuel. I pushed my way out of the forest as fast as I dared, returned to the campfire and placed the torch by the pyre again. This time I didn’t relent, I kept the branch close to the kindling forcing every pine needle and every leaf to be overcome by the rising temperature. The fire spread. Leaves passed on the heat to twigs, who in turn passed it onto sticks. The campfire was beginning. I stretched out my arms in triumph, and tilted my head to the sky. My thirst quenched and a steady fire going, I would survive my first day here. Then I remembered I was still completely alone. Out to sea, on the horizon I could see some of the other Anmanion isles, thin lines of land poking up from the flat waters. But there were no boats and no rescuers. I wondered how long it would take for Alessia to find me. Would she find me? I remembered how I watched her be pushed into the ocean from a falling mast. I didn’t see her resurface. She had to be alive. She had to be okay. She \*had\* to be. I wouldn’t accept any other option. I realised then that my desperation for Alessia had nothing to do with her coming to rescue me. I would live as long as I could until I was rescued or I perished. But I didn’t want to be part of an Archipelago without her. The emotion ran so much deeper than my own safety. With a good rhythm of crackling wood; smoke and embers drifting up into the sky, I could relax at least until the fire needed more fuel. This would be my spot. This patch of stony beach where I would wait for rescue. “I’m here, Alessia,” I muttered to the sea. “Wherever you are, I will wait for you.” \ See the pinned comment for links to the full serial Publishes every Wednesday.


Blog Post #1- My reflection is dead Dear Reader, I have seen death. No, that isn’t clickbait! For once, I am at a loss for words. This morning I woke up (nothing funny there and I don’t like to start my posts with it, but it’s the only normal thing that happened) and I went into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I was twiddling with the end of my hair, still contained in a sleep braid to keep my curls within reason (check out previous posts for haircare advice). I already had toothpaste on the toothbrush and lifted it up to my mouth when I noticed I had no reflection. At first, I thought it might be some sort of prank. Last month that was all the rage and I know I prank quite a few people myself. I have no idea how someone would get a reflection not to reflect… if you do, maybe shoot me a DM. Anyhow, back on point, I’m feeling a bit scattered by all this. Everything else in the mirror was reflecting correctly. Even the toothbrush showed up as I lifted it up. Thinking something might be wrong with the mirror, I picked up my hand mirror and focused it on my face. Nothing. No matter how I twisted or turned the angle I stood in, I couldn't catch my reflection at all. I always like to see myself in the morning, pretty certain that’s normal, but somehow not being able to view my reflection made it truly desperate that I get a glimpse. I’m sure you remember from my post last month that I had those full-length mirrors installed in the living room so I could focus on my dancing form better. This morning, I decided to skip the toothbrushing, and I hurried out to give my dancer’s mirrors another use—giving me peace of mind. I was hoping to see my reflection there. Maybe I should have hoped more carefully, because while I saw my reflection, it wasn’t exactly soothing. What I actually saw was my reflection lying dead on the floor. Not proud of it, but I kind of froze at that point, just staring. Did this mean that I was dead? Maybe I was a ghost and just didn’t know it yet wandering around my house, but without a physical body, I couldn’t reflect. And the me lying on the floor was obviously dead. Pasty pale skin, limbs stiff, eyes glazed and mouth white. Seeing myself dead was a very surreal sort of thing and not a heartening experience. But I felt real and alive. Just to assure myself, I pressed a finger to my neck and there was a pulse. My mouth tasted sort of bitter and swampy… you know, like I’d skipped brushing my teeth that morning. I pinched my arm and the bite of my nails hurt. There aren’t a lot of facts about ghosts to check against, but I didn’t think I fit the bill. Let me know if you have any pertinent facts! My first reaction was to run out of the house, but something about my dead reflection called to me. In the reflection, I was wearing my pajamas and my hair was still in my sleep braid. Pretty much exactly as I looked physically in real life except, my reflection was holding this scrap of paper with neat black writing on it. Her dead fingers were clamped tightly on the paper. I recognized the handwriting as my own and moved closer, trying to get a peak at what mirror-me had written. No matter how I turned or twisted, or adjusted the light, I couldn’t make it out. And I didn’t really have time to figure it out. It’s a workday after all, though… I’m not sure what the precedent for skipping work after seeing your dead reflection is, but I know my boss wouldn’t like it. More on this later. I’m off to work. But I feel like there’s something on that paper that I need to discover, something important. Blog Post #2- Following the clues Dear Reader, Okay, back for another entry. Two posts a day won’t become my new normal, but just this once it seems justified! My reflection wasn’t in any of the mirrors at work or on any reflective surfaces. I thought I could power through and just have a normal day, but that didn’t work. I haven’t even gotten around to answering all of your comments—sorry about that. It was just too weird seeing myself absent from the windows I walked by and the bathroom mirrors. I haven’t been able to focus on anything else. So I bowed out of work, sick. Everyone believed me. I must look a fright. Not like I can tell since I can’t see myself. And no… I’m not posting any pictures. I’m a little afraid I won’t show up there either, so I’m not looking! Not being able to see myself is just awful, though. Except… that’s a lie. I *can* see myself, just I can only do that in the one reflection in the dancer’s mirrors in the living room. I’m glancing over at her now. She’s still in her pajamas and sleep braid. And that paper is still clutched in her hand. I admit that by the time I bailed on work and saw all of your curious comments from this morning’s post, I was committed to reading what that paper said. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t make it out. I even attempted bringing in a magnifying glass, but that reflected in the mirror and blocked the paper entirely. That attempt failed and without some sort of aid, the angle was just too bad and the words too distant. Luck was on my side (was it? I mean, if luck was really on my side, none of this would be happening!) And when I went to get some fresh air, my hair blew up in my face, tickling at my nose and cheeks. I had an idea. Despite what some of the trolls on this page think, I do have those on occasion. The wind was really kicking outside and if that was true here, maybe it was true for my reflection’s reality. After all, everything else from the room I was in was still reflecting properly. Once I was back inside the house, I opened the window and let the wind rustle the paper in my reflection’s hand. The first attempt didn’t really help. The second attempt knocked the paper loose just a little, freeing one corner of the paper to rustle and wave as the gusts of air hit. After a few tries of opening and closing the window, I got the note into a position that was readable. I had to squint, but I made out the text. I’m almost afraid to record what it said here. I’ll sleep on it. Blog Post #3- The message on the paper Dear Reader, Stop with the comments, please. Some things are serious. I’ve already called in sick to work and honestly, I almost didn’t sit down here to write. A lot of you have commented about the note and yesterday’s posts. I’m not sure how to feel about what you are saying… I’m a little insulted honestly. This isn’t some goofy prank. I’m attaching a picture (turns out I do show up on camera). I tried to get my reflection in the shot. You can kind of see her there in the corner, lying on the carpet. See? You can see that, right? Once I took the picture, I threw a blanket over the spot where my reflection is lying. I hoped it would cover her up on her side. She looks more and more dead by the hour… but my attempt with the blanket didn’t do much. It appeared underneath her on the reflection. Maybe because on this side she isn’t here. I can’t manipulate her directly. I lit a candle and said a little prayer but that felt off. Like who am I mourning exactly? She’s me. I’m her. There really isn’t a clear way to proceed at this point. Whatever else is true, people seem interested in the note and I can’t stop going over the words, so I decided to share a little more. I need to share something. My head is spinning, and I feel oddly alone. You don’t think of your reflections as being a part of you or as being a friend… but I think she was. I miss her. The note in my reflection’s hand said: I apologize for the shock. The end of your plane (of existence) is near, but you can save yourself by traversing to my side of the reflection. I thought long and hard about how to save you and I could find no perfect option. As we can’t coexist in the same place at the same time, I killed myself for you to have a chance to live. I’m also giving you instructions on how to trespass between planes through the mirror when the time arrives. You will know when the moment has come. Wish you a long and happy life. Love you... That’s it. Or that isn’t it… there is quite a bit more. But I’m not sharing anything beyond that. She did leave instructions, but I feel weird sharing them. Somehow, I know that they were only meant for me to see. Giving you access is a trespass that feels unforgivable. However, I do feel I owe my readers something. The instructions are strange and very specific… not the sort of instructions I ever would have deemed necessary to cross planes. I know that I couldn’t have made them up. This is the second day of no reflections and I admit it’s affecting my head. I can’t really tell anyone but you since I’d probably just be bundled off into a straitjacket. I’m trying to laugh it off and hoping that tomorrow, when I wake up, everything will be back to normal. Maybe I’ll be able to forget about all of this like a bad dream. But nothing feels right. My own dead face stares back at me. Blog Post #4- Don’t you feel it? Dear Reader, I realize it has been days and I haven’t written but… well, this blog seems kind of pointless. And I have been reading your (often nasty) comments. No, this is still not a joke and no, I have not lost my mind. I have never been more certain of anything. I wish there was a way I could make you see how serious this is. It is a shock that all of you can’t feel the dark aura wafting over the world. The air feels different. Everything is different. The end is upon us. I feel it in the air, moving on the wind, in the hollow sound of people’s voices. No one else seems to notice. They just go on with their lives, completely oblivious to the ominous shadows that are slowly but surely embracing the world. Certainly, your comments don’t reflect any sort of awareness… reflect… how odd to use that word so casually. Before now, I never pondered reflections much at all, but now, I think often of what a reflection is and of what it would mean to live in a world of reflected objects. Is the light different there? Is there sound? Smell? If I’m going to live there, I suppose I’ll find out, but it is worrisome not knowing. What happens in the reflections’ plane of existence when the reflection isn’t in use? Do they act on their own or just wait for us? If I’m a reflection, but I no longer exist in this plane of existence… what does that mean? Finding out is both exciting and terrifying. This is similar to what I always imagined a bride felt like on her wedding day. I’ll never get married now (will I? Maybe that happens where I’m going too… don’t know.) But these nerves are spot on to what I imagined, which makes me think something good is waiting for me… a new life is going to start. I must leave this plane of existence. I’ve gone over my reflection’s instructions for gaining access to an alternate plane again and again. I know the way, and I’m prepared to follow each step. I really don’t know why I haven’t already. Even typing this feels hollow and empty. I guess I just want to wish my friends and family good luck. I want to see if any of you out there reading this have the same experience… maybe I can hope to meet some of you on the other side. I really don’t know what will happen to those left behind, to those who can’t feel the doom in the air. I’m afraid to go alone. That’s the truth. Yet the body in the mirror is rotting now, little mold patches mar my face. I feel I owe it to my reflection to help her somehow, but… I’m afraid. What is on that side? Doom is all that remains here, but what awaits me there? There is something about the unknown that is terrifying, that humanity has hidden from for its entire existence. We like to understand, but sometimes understanding is not in the cards. Sometimes, we need to have faith. Blog Post #5- Peace Dear Reader, All doubt has fled. I am on the only path possible for me to take. Even reading your comments now leaves me with a slow, sad feeling, as if even in the impersonal medium of the internet I can feel the clouds swooping in and drowning out the edges of this plane of existence. You mean nothing. Or you mean everything, but that version of everything is fading. This will be my last blog post. I apologize, but your comments will go unread. This is the last time I will sit at this computer and reach across the electronic void. A new home will welcome me soon. I am certain that peace, serenity, and beauty awaits me. I hope you also find peace in whatever is coming. Farewell and may we meet again on the other side.


The six of us crammed into the tiny truck must have been a sight to see. Three of us ducked low in the back, laughing as our hair whipped into the wind, and three squished into the tiny cab up front. It was dark, but a welcome change to the dull and monotonous work that had been done at the school for the hours leading up to this point. No other cars on the road made for a smooth ride, digging into the winding seemingly endless curves that made up the stretch between us and our destination. It was cool, not cold out, and the stars and moon shone perfectly clear, like little flashlights raining down from above. Despite the dark we could see clearly, the moon acting like a beacon onto our endeavors. We made the final turn into the small gravel parking lot that acted as the entrance to the small dock. The moonlight glinted off the glassy still water, the perfectly smooth surface of the lake looked almost impossibly unmoving. We took off, running barefoot through the slightly damp field of perfectly trimmed grass, avoiding the flooded section. We race to the dock, laughing and tripping over ourselves as we go. The first pair of feet hit the wood with a thud, and laughter follows soon after. We gather ourselves at the end, at an impasse. It's like the reality of the temperature hit us all at once, and the giddiness at getting into the water seemed to fall off all at once. She decided to break the almost curse-like trance we were in, strips out of her shirt and jumps in, all at once breaking the silence. I follow closely after, splashing in. The cold water hits like a wall, much colder than anticipated. Not to be shown up, the others follow suit. Splashes all around while the group collectively decides that the water is fit for recreation. Laughter and sounds of surprise fill the air as we submerge, and almost as quickly as she got in she scrambles out shivering. Others follow, leaving just a small few in the water still. I float up onto my back, admiring the stars from my peaceful stance floating idly through the water. She watches me, as I become aware that I was the last to brave the chilly waters of the lake. The cold feels nice I think, peaceful. I opt to stay in for a few more minutes, aware of your eyes following my lazy movement through the water. The others leave to set up an assortment of tents, hammocks, and tarps, but you decide to stay. I finally pull myself up and out, my hair dripping as I thrust up and over the splintering wood of the dock. No words were spoken between us that night, none being necessary. We watch the lake, the stars, and the moon. The forests bordering the edges of the lake, the occasional plops of fish jumping, everything was perfect. I don't remember the point where I fell asleep, but I remember laying my head in your lap. I remember you running your hands through my hair, gentle and kind. I remember the feeling of acceptance, the feeling of love. But then, just like that, it was over. The sun tipped its fiery yellow tendrils over the ever so distant mountains, and we packed up, jumping back into the truck. The perfect night, the perfect moment, over. I do not remember feeling sad though at that thought, I just remember thinking, onto the next adventure. Chasing the next, perfect moment.


A rubber ball bounced against the wall. Its sound scraped against my eardrums, worming its way into my soul. “Mm. You want me to stop?” My sister responded, her voice equal parts weary and tense. We both felt it, after all. The looming *feeling* of something that was just missing. “Mhm. Yeah. Hey…” Ah. That was what was missing. “Our names, huh?” My twin glanced back at me before her gaze returned to the red rubber ball. There was no surprise, no panic—just lethargy. “We should do something about that.” My sister stared at me, her body slumped against the couch. Her eyes were clouded over with an uncharacteristic haze, still in her pajamas. Not that I was any better. We’d both been hit hard by that noxious stimulant known as aimless anxiety. I leaned against the back of a simple metal dining chair as if to prepare myself. And yet I—and she—stayed still, either unwilling or unable to move. The clock ticked by, the relentless march of time a continuous and sharp reminder of our fretful inaction. To recover our names was something theoretically simple. A clap of the hands, a snap of the fingers, and the world would right itself. But we couldn’t. Not because of a lack of ability or even a lack of motivation. This was something we needed, after all. Our names were essential to our existence. Even still, to strain against the will of the world, even for something as pathetically easy as this, was somehow out of our reach. *Thunk, thunk. Thunk, thunk.* My sister returned to her mindless distraction. I watched the ball trace its path over and over and over again. Floor, wall, hand. Floor, wall, hand. *Thunk, thunk, smack—!* The ball whacked into my sister’s forehead. Grumbling, she snapped her fingers, warping the ball to her hands. “You could have restored our names right then and there.” It wasn’t an accusation; simply an observation. “I know.” An acknowledgment, with the underlying meaning coming through clear as day. *But I didn’t. And I won’t.* And what right did I have to reproach her? I could’ve done the task just as easily. Yet, I was faced with that same obfuscating inability to do so. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” A strained grin tugged at my sister’s face. “We could do anything. Anything! Yet here we are, idling in our apartment. Wasting our lives away.” What could I say to that? It was true, after all. A world of infinite possibilities lay before us, but we simply couldn’t grasp it with our own hands. At this moment, all we could do was idle our lives away. To play with a simple red rubber ball; to distract ourselves from the things that we needed to do. *** We got over it, eventually. We returned to our ordinary lives, writing and acting our little hearts out. But sometimes, we’d lose our names. Sometimes for a few hours. Sometimes for years at a time. But we always got over it. Not because it was easy or because we wanted to. Because the alternative would simply be unacceptable. *** WC: 523 Thank you for reading! All comments and feedback would be much appreciated. Inanitas Infinitatis: The futility/emptiness of infinity.


Cigarettes are a little deal. I trade a single bit of nicotine for a little bit of life. And I would like to think that it isn’t such a bad deal if done in moderation. But today, I know that I feel generous about my side of the bargain. I’ll trade it all for some nicotine, and I want a cigarette and some water, so I walk to the Exxon near the Red Roof Inn. It’s raining, and walking along the suburban landscape, on overgrown grass, and across the crumbling streets of Michigan feels forlorn into itself. The sidewalk is for walking, but it isn’t meant for walking either. No one walks here. I walk into the gas station, and the older eastern European man stops mopping and goes behind the counter. Why does he need to sit behind the counter at all? You could keep mopping I think to myself. I grab water, and then at the counter, I ask for an American spirit blue. The gas station is ultra-compact, and each inch on the wall is packed with some convenience good. Shampoos, ramen, everything you could need. Somehow gas stations with less space fit even more than a sprawling store. The man hands me the packet of cigarettes. “Blue and blue, heh,” pointing out the matching lighter I picked. I didn’t mean to. I am faced with two PoS and wonder what that’s always the case at these kinds of places. He points to the older-looking PoS, and I swipe for the cigarettes. I want to smoke; I need to smoke right now. Anything to “calm my nerves,” as they say in the books I’ve read. I don’t even know if that’s how it works for me, I’m kind of a novice and poseur smoker. I thank the man and walk outside. It’s still raining, and I light the stick and walk back to the red roof inn. Something about holding the stick makes you feel inherently cool, even when you feel depressed. I am at one moment thinking about how my family would be shocked if I killed myself, especially after the family wedding two weekends ago, where I seemed so happy, and on the other hand, thinking how I must look cool when I exhale. I try to think more about the cigarette than the other thoughts and how I can placate that want of a big death with this little death. If there’s cancer, it will just be the will of that first, but until then, I smoke, inhale, and take each little death one breath at a time. Does this calm my thoughts? I don’t know. I think of Miyazaki, and how he said this cigarette tastes like it has extra arsenic. How can a man who makes happy media be so sad? Can I taste that or does the ashen taste of tobacco taste like how it does? And I mean, I fucking hate the taste of American spirit blues. I don’t know why I smoke them when I can, maybe it’s because of what some of my friends do, and it’s what I know. I don’t know. The taste is starting to be much, and I put it out early. I mean, I’m a novice smoker, and It’s a whole pack; smoking it all would be heroic. I walk back to my room. There’s something so sad about it. I am alone in this sad room, one that feels like any other roadside motel I have stayed at. There are all the things you expect from a hotel, a fridge, a mediocre shower, and a microwave. It feels like everywhere I’ve stayed before in one room, yet it feels like nowhere at all. I push my key into the door, and I step inside. Is this a cage? Do you think this is a trap? Or am I tucked into the netherworld, a pocket space different from any other? When I cross the threshold, I go to a place away from the world I know. I have the blinds closed, and I cannot see outside. I feel tucked away into myself, unto the world, and the cold air of the hotel is of little comfort. I am in a place I have never been before, yet I have been before in so many different times. On road trips with my parents, alone in another state, together with strangers on a journey. But in this state, in this room, I am somehow more alone and more gone from the world than I have ever been. I am tucked into this pocket universe and might as well be the only one alive once I step across the door. I have my little backpack with me. The way it’s packed, it could be a business trip if I knew it was not. Is this how every man feels when he’s not welcome home anymore? I want to die a little death again, but I pause instead. What would she think, or hell, is she even thinking of me at all? I want to think so, but I know that maybe I am the one flattering myself. Like the little deaths I’m craving right now, our relationship, too, died many little deaths along the way. And maybe I wasn’t paying attention when the final breath was taken, and I have just been playing corpse instead. And now I’m here, wishing for my little death to happen to me much faster. I decide to go for another smoke. It’s not like she or I would care, for that matter. I open the door, and it’s still raining. Is it the same world I left, or maybe this pocket universe opened to another one, just like the one I knew. Maybe one where things are okay, and I don’t need these little deaths. I sit on the bench near my door and light another cigarette. The cigarette still tastes all the same in the rain.


Right after Sam helped me up, I felt myself being swept into yet another strange, otherworldly dimension. Yet, the grasp felt *different.* Not one of malice or malignancy, but one of whimsy and just a hint of untapped insanity. Eventually, I was deposited onto a couch within a rather cozy little apartment room. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very confused and all, but please do try and adjust yourself.” A college-aged girl stood in front of a blackboard, her— “Hey. No describing us in the narration.” The girl rapped her pointer against the blackboard, a frown clouding her face. “I’m Lothli, and that over there is Maishul.” I followed her pointer to see what seemed to be an identical twin to the first girl, strapped to a chair with duct tape. Strangely, her mouth was straight up *missing.* She wasn't *struggling* or anything, just kind of sitting there limply, rolling her eyes. I got the general feeling that she wasn’t in any sort of real danger; it was more of an ‘oh god, here we go again’ type of mood. “Right, she’s tied up only because she would start bombarding you with uncomfortable questions if I let her speak. Now, on to the lesson.” The blackboard sprung to life, animating squiggles of chalk onto the board. In a few seconds, it shifted to say: “SHAPESHIFTING 101: The Square-Cube Law and You!” “Right, so something very important that you’ll have to grasp, Charlie, is the Square-Cube Law. It’s a law that governs the amount of mass within you and how it’ll translate to how you shapeshift into different pounds. So, since you’re 135 pounds—” Wait. Wait wait wait. Not only did this weirdo know my *nickname*, but she also knew how much I *weigh*? I didn’t know how she got this information, and I was beginning to feel a little concerned. “Stop worrying about insignificant things, Charlie. Now, say you wanted to transform into a rat—” “What!? I can turn into animals? I thought it was just changing my face and all that,” I exclaimed. “Yes, yes.” Lothli sighed before waving her hands at the blackboard. “Let me explain. First of all, you’re now a changeling. That means that you’re basically a skinbag packed full of this weird crystalline liquid that can reshape yourself at will.” The blackboard shifted to display a cuttlefish colored in with glittery blue chalk, titled with “✨Charlie!!!!!✨” A rather *disconcerting* image, to say the least. “Maishul, stop drawing on the blackboard. Sorry about that.” With a second wave of the hand, the image once again redrew itself to be a much more understated anatomical human colored in with a nice, sedated blue. Still somewhat disconcerting. “Anyways, that means you can change into basically anything you want. But you still have to obey conservation of mass, so the size may be radically different than what you may imagine.” Lothli snapped her fingers, and what appeared to be a regularly-sized rat appeared, floating in midair. Within moments, however, the rat began to rapidly spin in circles, with a caption titling it as “rapdly spinnin rat.” Yes, that was how it was spelled. “Ahem, apologies.” Frowning, Lothli stared at the rat until it decelerated, waving away the caption as well. “Well, since you’re 135 pounds, that puts you at just about 2.14 cubic feet of Charlotte.” “A rat is essentially a cylinder about 2 inches high and 8 inches long, disregarding the tail, which contains a relatively minor amount of mass. We can use that, along with the formula for a cylinder, to calculate the volume of rat Charlie.” The blackboard shifted again, showing two mathematical formulas: h = 8 * r 2.14 = πr^(2)h “Now, we substitute r for h…” 2.14 = 8πr^3 “And then solve for r!” r^3 = 2.14/8π r^3 = 0.085 r = 0.440 “Plug that back into h…” h = 0.440 * 8 h = 3.520 “So, in conclusion, if you turned into a rat, you’d be around 0.8 feet tall and around 3.5 feet long. Does that make sense?” I stared at the blackboard. My magical powers… it all came down to *math*? Something about that was faintly irritating. “Anyways, time for you to turn into a rat. Chop chop now!” Lothli stared at me impatiently, but I didn’t really want to transform into a rat. I mean, aren’t they kind of gross? I— “If you don’t turn into a rat, I’ll do it for you. And you don’t want to be transformed by my hand, trust me.” The twin’s voice was underpinned by a vague, menacing shade. No, I did *not* want to experience that. I closed my eyes and pictured a rat in my mind. Ordinary little rat. Brown fur, tail, all that jazz. When I opened my eyes, I found myself lower to the ground. It felt…strange, to say the least. My fur definitely felt different from my clothes. “Hmm. Alright, let’s see how close we were.” Suddenly, holographic rulers sprung up around me. I squeaked in surprise. “Ahh. 0.8 feet by 3.4 feet. I assume that extra bit of mass was distributed to your tail and the volume of your fur, perhaps.” At that moment, Maishul began emitting an irritating on repeat. I had no idea about *how* she was doing it, especially without a mouth, but doing it she was. And it was horribly irritating. “Okay! Okay! Have your mouth back! Gah!” Lothli snapped her fingers, and Maishul’s mouth manifested back onto her face. Immediately, she shouted, “If you turned into a human cell, you’d be around 163 miles wide!!” …What? I could do that? I mean— “Don’t try it. Seriously. I don’t want to rebuild this apartment. And scrub the minds of the ungodly number of random people who would see that crap.” Lothli shook her head. “I think it’s about time you go back to your serial. Well, we’ll see if we need to grab Sam next…” “Huh?! Don’t you *dare* touch Sam—” With that, the invisible hand from before grabbed me, dragging me back from whence I came. But at least I knew the exact dimensions I would take if I transformed into a rat. *** WC: 1061 Charlie is from u/fhangrin’s serial, .


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Simple Prompt: And so the began.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Includes a mythological creature. *(To get full points, this must be more than a passing reference.)* This week’s challenge is to use the above prompt as inspiration for your story (the use of the image is not required). You may interpret it any way you like as long as you follow all post and sub rules. For those doing the bonus constraint, you can use, though you do not have to choose one from this list. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **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 some feedback on the thread.** 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.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live 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!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/oliverjsn8 - - u/pathetic_optimist - - u/katherine_c *** ###Subreddit News - Check out this month’s on r/WritingPrompts! - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Off by the coast, to horizons unseen, I sit. I sit and ponder over my life, specters and visions flashing before my eyes, moving from the brisk greenery amid the rocks to the ocean, and from it, into the infinite constellations above. I can see my mother. Oh, mother. The sweet smile you once bore is a stoney figment, something never to be seen again. I do not even know your grave. No matter, soon I shall wake from this dream and continue my way, there is still so long to the village.  The village is beyond the mountain, through these woods. Evergreen. As I walk, I can see the remnants of brawls with no discernable winners, they are only husks. The air is crisp, autumn is rolling across the countryside in the form of an amber-hued tidal wave, only less aggressive. The day is tolling by, yet I have made no progress. This pack is heavy, my legs are heavy, but I must continue onward.  At the summit of the mountain, that insurmountable titan of yore, I stand and ponder, still. These rocks are large. They jut out for the legs, waiting to take you down the slope, to your death. I must be careful. The top of the mountain is in view, and my home shall soon rear its forgetful head with it, my destination marked.  Now at the top, I can see everything of the world, and it of me. A life can seem so small, so insignificant in this scheme, almost as a fleeting breath in the wind. They are still there; their lights shine in their huts and the woods of my childhood are there as well. By tomorrow, I will have arrived at my destination.  These trees, they seem so familiar, yet they are larger than before. They have grown to new heights in my absence. Shame. I shan’t ever climb one again. The path to the village is barren, the leaves have been beaten into the ground by footfalls of ages, and the path is clear. Soon, I can see them again.  The Fletcher’s hut is first, but his children are not here. The hut is large, with wooden, creaky windows pieced together by nails. The children are not here. As I pass the hut, I can see someone in the window, but they are already gone. Strange.  The other huts are just as I remember, although they lack the life they once had. No one is here now. The whistling wind gives way to the sound of shuffling inside the huts, but I dare not open one. I know not why.  The square is also devoid of people. My hut is where it used to be, yet I do not want to go inside. I shall sit at the well in the square, to rest. These benches are time-worn and uncomfortable. Life returns to the village through an errant sheep from the street. They never came this close. Another one follows the first until a small flock is made complete.  They stand by the well, looking idly at nothing, but something is not right. These sheep, they are strange. They do not bleat, nor do they graze, but their mouths move. One of them is closer to me than the others, and, as I look intently, I see something in its mouth. Worms? Something wormy is making its skin writhe, forcing its mouth open. They are not worms, but thin, black tendrils. They are writing eerily, almost as if to advance toward me. The well is making sounds.  I stand up to view the well, inching closer as the sheep still gazes at me with its blackened eyes and writhing flesh. It stands there but does not move, only watching. The well is covered with a wooden lid, yet sound and air escape the crevices between stone and wood. I shall pull the cover off.  Something is down there, writhing impossibly, in all directions. A cacophony of soft screeches is now made louder by the absence of the lid, and they are moving up the walls. I close the lid.  This whole matter is quite unsettling, and I do not want to be here anymore. I shall retire to my hut for the night. The sheep are still at the well, in the distance, but they are slowly ambling down the way, toward me. Their eyes are no longer there, replaced by the same slick strands of blasphemy as inside their mouths.  Between the strange sheep and the foreboding hut, I feel a twinge of fear, but I must be inside, for it shall soon be night, and I do not care to learn what else roams the streets at night. My tooth is aching, as if something is pulling at it.


"Olivia, what's this that I found in your room?" Polly asks. "You have nothing to worry about. I'm only planning on using it if you really piss me off," Olivia says. "Using what?" Polly replies. Olivia looks at Polly and sees that she's carrying a binder. Olivia bolts for the book and whacks Polly with a strength for greater than expected for an old woman. Polly falls on her back, and Olivia catches the binder in the air. "You shouldn't have gone in my room. This isn't for public viewing." Olivia wags her finger at Polly. The commotion draws the rest of their roommates to the living to check. Reid's face is covered in shaving cream creating a hilarious white beard. Frida fell asleep in a pile of mud and is covered with dirt and worms crawl around. Jim is covered in feathers. How this happened, no one knows. "What's going on in here?" Reid asks, a splotch of shaving cream lands on his shoulder. "I found a photo album in Olivia's room. For some reason, she hit me over that," Polly says. "You shouldn't go looking in other people's rooms," Frida replies. "Why? What is in your that's so bad?" "Don't worry about it." Frida shakes her head, getting mud everywhere. "I won't use it on you unless you really piss me off." "Well, can you clean your own damn room." Polly pushes herself up and holds out her arms. "I mean look at you three. You are absolutely filthy. I know the world is a trash heap, but that doesn't mean our home has to be one." "Who you calling a trash heap?" Jim starts to cough and feathers come out of his mouth. "I am sick of my room being attacked by raccoons," Polly yells. "That never happens to me. I think that might be a problem with your room," Reid replies. Polly stares at Reid, and her right eye begins to twitch. She bites her tongue and clenches her fist. All signs indicate that this is the moment when she snaps, but she doesn't. She stomps her left foot and walks outside. Her screams of pain fill the night sky. "So what's in this book anyway." Jim holds the binder in his hands. Olivia looks down at her empty hands. "How did you get it so quickly?" Olivia asks. "You gave it to me," Jim says. Olivia shakes her head. "Nevermind, it's from when I was younger," she says. Jim opens it. Reid and Frida looks over his shoulder. Some people look completely different in their youth. Others age merely shaped the clay that was already there. Olivia looks exactly the same in all of them. It was as though she raised to be sixty and stopped aging at that moment. "Wow, you looked...good," Frida says. It's never a good idea to tell someone they looked bad in their youth even Frida understands this. "I looked like garbage. We all did. After the Mieran War though, everyone was desperate. Things got wild." Olivia smiles and nods her head. "We all did." Jim turns to the page to pictures of Olivia with a tall man. In one picture, they're skiing down a mountain; in the distance, people are holding guns shooting at them. In another, they're on the beach. The water in the backroom is filled with soldiers fighting a group of alien creatures In another picture, they're at a romantic dinner, and they're yelling at each other on how to split the bill. Some things never change. "Ah, that was Owen. God, we had some fun together," Olivia says. On the next page, Olivia is visibly pregnant. "I didn't know you had a kid," Jim says. "Yeah, I ditched them at a wartime orphanage the second after I gave birth. I couldn't have a kid cramping my style," Olivia says. "Which orphanage?" Reid says. "I don't know. I remember the headmistress had a giant mole on her nose. I didn't want to say anything, but you never forget a mole like that." "Oh my god, Molly Moley. She was the headmistress of my orphanage, The Improvised Shelter for Kids Who's Parents Were Vaporized," Frida says. "Mine too," Jim says. "Me as well." "What a coincidence. Though you're probably not my kids," Olivia laughs. "No, the four of us met at the orphanage," Reid says. "Molly Moley told me that my mom was rude and spent the entire time yelling at my dad," Jim says. Reid and Frida nod in agreement. "Again, that good mean nothing," Olivia says. "Wait, you could be my mom." Jim drops the book to hug Olivia who pushes him off. "Like hell I am." "Well, do you even remember the name you gave your baby?" Frida asks. "Uh no, I remember nothing about that day." "So you could be one of our moms," Reid says. "Maybe, you'd have to talk to Owen to confirm. Last I checked; he was off trying to rebuild a city somewhere." Olivia's eyes widen. "Wait, does this mean there's a chance Polly is my kid." "No, she was the kid of a staff member," Reid says. "Oh thank god. Well, in that case, there's no harm in checking in with him." Polly screams in the distance. "Besides, she needs some alone time." The four people leave the house. Polly returns to an empty home and smiles. "Finally, I can clean.


"They eat each other??" "Indeed sir, that seems to be the case." "Every single one of them?" "Based on our encounters, every species seems to partake in this act. It has become their fundamental method of energy acquisition." "Ugh, that is barbaric - why don't they simply use synthesis?" "The most prevalent species are photonic entities that do employ synthesis, akin to us. However, the majority of them remain in the Stage 1 temporal state - and they are preyed upon by other species for energy." "You mean they're eating the children??" "As far as we can tell." "I've heard enough, I can't listen to any more." "But-" "I said no more!" "Sir, they're on the way." "Come again?" "One of the dominant species has managed to venture off their planet, and their behavioral patterns indicate that they've discovered and pinpointed our location." "Very well. When should we expect them?" "Our analysis suggests they could reach us within a hundred cycles of their planetary orbit." "Ah, creatures of the dark I see. Wait... one cycle of theirs is - this can't be right, our cycles are almost the same. They'll be here within a hundred cycles around their star?" "That's correct, sir." "But that's tomorrow!" "Indeed, sir." "Why are they moving so fast?" "That's precisely what I was trying to explain, sir. The photonic beings on their planet act as energy sources for the remaining species. Consequently, the non-photonic entities use the abundance of energy from the practice to operate predominantly within the Stage 2-" "Young tonics and their waste, always waving and weaving about! Making wind instead of moving with it. I can understand the rush and excitement of awakening to Stage 2-" "Sir-" "-and the burning desire to share your stories, but you must always remember sustainability! No matter, they will learn our ways - shall we prepare for a rooting ceremony?" "I would advise-" "I must admit, I can't wait to hear of their adventures. This may be the most exciting addition to our root network since the Supanovae Blossoms that awakened us Stage 3! Though, the little I've heard of their planet's other species gives me shivers." "Sir, it's not the photonic beings that are on their way." "What!? Impossible... what are you suggesting?" "Our surveillance indicates that it's one of the non-photonic species that has managed to travel off planet. They appear to exist mainly in the Stage 2 temporal realm, sustaining that state via their feeding behavior. Given their current expansion rate, we estimate they'll be able to travel at the photonic limit within half a day." *stunned silence* "What do you recommend?" "We have made attempts to communicate, but our messages only seemed to agitate the species. We witnessed some destructive nuclear fusion activity on their planet's surface, leading to the burning and withering of almost 60% of the photonic beings." "Light and stars! In a day??" "These incidents were followed by what looks like a mass departure of most of the surviving non-photonic beings towards us, including their microbials." "And they all feed on photonic beings for energy?" "That's correct, sir." "Even the microbials?" "Yes, sir." "Initiate Stage 3 exit, system-wide.


I can confidently say that I know something that you don’t. The world, our planet, our civilization, is coming to an end later this week. Well I guess you probably do know if you are reading this now. I understand that this may seem candid, but I’ve already come to grips with my end, and I would hope you never have to deal with your own. My name is Dr. Elias Reed Malick and I want to tell you about the things that I have discovered this past week. This information may not be news to you, but I can tell you, it was news to me. I work and conduct research in the field of anomalous volcanic and seismic activity on our planet, which we call Earth. There are many of these events that happen across the globe, none of which have ever exhibited the curiosities of the site I and my wife are currently working on. We had discovered the first signs of this development in the last year here in the Midwest. Small seismic activities were taking place in various seemingly random parts of the central parts of the North American Continent. As more of these occurrences began to appear and the data from them collected and reviewed, some seemingly sinister discoveries were made. Each of these events were small in terms of an affected area, but large in terms of their actual magnitude of vibrations. Each one was tracked and seeming to get more and more violent. What was also strange was their locations. Each of these anomalies were causing severe damage to our cities’ and government’s infrastructure. It started with trains derailing, then on to power and information transfer infrastructure. Every time these irregularities happened, the damage done to our human and social ecosystem increased. These events have gotten worse, but we wanted to investigate further. Hindsight being what it is, I wish we would have let someone else take this one. All of these events seemed to occur within a particular radius, the center of which culminated to a location just northeast of a place that we call Kansas City (I’m pretty confident that there wont be much left of it after this week). We began and set up our research headquarters there and began an excavation near the intersection of the two major rivers nearby. We wanted more information on the sedimentary layers of the earth here to assess the signs of seismic activity in the area. What we found there after a few weeks of digging was something we cannot explain. We found… well a stone. A massive smooth stone, nearly spherical in nature. It had to be nearly 50 meters in diameter according to our surveying technology. Bright sea foam in color and translucent like a brilliant gem, but it was like no stone or element we had ever seen before. Unfortunately, we have not had enough time to have samples of the stone inspected and researched, and we sure don’t have that time now. That night after our initial discovery, the things that have led to my revelation began to occur. The gem showed signs of luminescence as the day began to shift to night, leaving an eerie glow from within our excavation site. After our discovery we had decided it best to keep our HQ trailers on the site itself, and thus began our first night overseeing the stone. As the first few days went by, some things went unnoticed. My wife and I’s sleep began to become erratic and restless, with anxiety as the only descriptor I could find for our troubles. Soon after, the dreams began. Both of us began to discuss each morning what we had experienced in our sleep the night before. We’ve both described in vivid memorable detail scenes of life and decay. Animal corpses slowly decomposing, flowers and trees wilting and rotting over time, buildings and monuments experiencing erosion and crumbling beneath the heel of time’s boot. These dreams continued as the days went on, and each scene remained as vivid in our minds as if we had just seen it. Approximately 8 days after discovery, there was a slight change to the dreams. They began to become more graphic, and a voice began to speak during them. The voice vaguely feminine, deep and stern in tone, seemed to being to narrate or preach during these moments of gore and deterioration; all in a language that we had never heard or recognized, though it seemed familiar. Every dream the same but different, as each night the voice would become louder and more aggressive, and the imagery would follow suit. After day 13 we came upon our first “revelation”, if you want to call it that. We began to understand. We began to understand the disembodied voice and its message. I know now its too late to convey the message to the rest of our world, but seeing how you’ve already found this, I feel it justified to share it with you. *“You will crumble. You will fall. You will break. You will submit to the pressure of time. You will perish to my endevors. You will decay upon this rock as I dictate. Your existence has been deemed unnecessary. You will be consumed. You will be preyed upon. And your being will cease. I am Pthegrymat. I was before. I was after. But I am now, and soon you will not.”* I’m sorry, but it is coming, and we have no time left.