I have been wanting to see Hamilton for about a year. When it first came out, it was very expensive. Some of the travel groups that offered day trips in the area where I live had tickets, but they were very expensive. This time around, the tickets were pricey but not beyond my price range. It wasn't unheard of for people to fly into New York City and pay over $1,000 a ticket. This didn't include their hotel stay. I got a very good deal on tickets as a large group went to the Phillips Performing Arts Center in downtown Orlando, Florida. I've been there many times and knew my way around there. I know what parking garage to park at and where to go. There is a lot of traffic and this time I decided to go by bus with the travel group. We left in the afternoon and arrived at the Winter Park Village 45 minutes later where it was dinner on our own. I didn't really have a dinner as I attended a luncheon in Daytona Beach earlier, so I had my dinner. I went to Cheesecake factory and got some cheesecake. We were given an hour and a half for dinner and then back on the bus to downtown Orlando which was a short trip. It was a sold out crowd. There were a mixture of young and old and a very diverse group of people who attended the show. The story about Hamilton was historically accurate and a lot of things that they brought up in the show were things which were current - issues relating to immigration for example. Some of the individuals in the audience had been to Hamilton before and some a couple of aisles down were singing to the songs. The musical will be around for a long time. It was interesting to see how rap and hip hop music is spun into the story line. It's very unique and it was very good. I liked the play. A play like this would get more younger people interested in American History or at the very least talking about it. As I was thinking about it, I tried to imagine how someone would use disco or classic rock or other type of music in a play or musical relating to the founding fathers. If rap and hip hop can be used as music for history then any type of music could be used as a history lessons.. Songs like I will Survive (it would be we will survive song by Women of the American Revolution, Don't Bring me Down (classic rock song song by the British Army after being defeated) and songs like I'm on Top of the World, We are the Champions (after the victory over the British Army). Looks like we made it could be a song sung after Washington's troops crossed the Delaware, as they didn't know if they were going to make it but it was something they had to do. These are just a few songs that came to mind, although it did take me quite a while to think of these songs. The lyrics would have to be changed to fit what was going on of course. I would recommend seeing Hamilton if you can. I enjoyed watching it and you probably will as well.


I remember walking through NASA's Johnson Space Center when the Mars rover returned with samples of a strange black tar-like substance. I was taking part in some training at NASA when the atmosphere of the whole building shifted as everyone buzzed with the excitement of what the discovery might lead to. This new substance chiseled open jaded imaginations of tired workers. It lit that spark of excitement that seems to have faded out of the engineers and scientists that have been working the same meticulous job for 40 years, and it gave the younger employees a belief in a better future. The discovery of that black sticky substance did to NASA, nay, the world what heroin does to addicts. There was an overwhelming urge to get more. To find out more. A race between all space agencies followed, each hoping to get their hands on this substance. Some dubbed this the second great Space Race. Looking back now, all I can do is laugh at how naive humans are, hindsight is always 20/20. Let's back up and let me tell you who I am. My name is Maya Ayad. I'm currently the youngest female astronaut, having traveled to space when I was just 24. I beat the previous record holder, Valentina Tereshkova by two years. Growing up, space was my one true passion; I'd spend hours reading about the science of space and the stories of the stars. My teenage years were spent in the summer dusk sitting at my computer toggling between Wikipedia pages on the atomic dust and the mythological stories that were born from the constellations as the warm wind would blow in through my open window. I wish then I would have known how special those nights were. As far as I'm concerned now, that feeling was happiness, and it's far away. Currently, the year is 2050, and I'm sitting in a shelter designed to protect people from the Martian atmosphere, the windows open, but there's no air blowing in. Not enough atmosphere here to do that. I have a few layers of insulated clothing on to keep warm on Mars' -60°C weather, and I'm reading Great Expectation by Charles Dickens's while trying not to draw too many similarities between Pip and myself. It on nights like these that I try to tell myself not to long for the past, and remember that however intoxicating nostalgia is, her stories are lies that disguise themselves as comfort, rudely reminding you of what will never be again, in a way so subtle you'll crawl to her feet begging for another hit. Before we get into why I'm hanging out on Mars, let me get you caught up on what happened. Back in 2023, after scientists discovered the power of what the tar could do, it got renamed to MORE- Muscle oxygen replenishing enzyme. MORE acted as a biological catalyst that would break down CO2 (Carbon Dioxide) into C (carbon) and O2, theoretically allowing organic beings to breathe in environments with CO2 levels. This is particularly unusual, seeing as when CO2 decays typically, it does so in a way that requires the least amount of energy to accomplish, also known as the minimum energy path. Hence, decomposed CO2 usually produces CO (Carbon Monoxide) and a lone Oxygen atom. However, the enzyme manages to excite the CO2 atom into a highly excited state, allowing the molecule to break apart in a way the skips the minimum energy path. When tested on animals, it showed that they could survive in environments with high CO2 levels. When the news of what the tar could do, there was a shift in how space agencies ran their operations. scientists, politicians, militaries, and tech companies all saw endless opportunities in the sticky drug. Visions that ranged from a pure intent like helping firefighters to visions that had more malicious intentions. Unfortunately, as with most ground-breaking discoveries, it came as the result of warfare. A cold war between Russia, the USA, and China ensued. The idea of a new material that could potentially enhance humans had the world militaries clamoring for more, nobody wanted to be left behind. Every powerhouse was scrambling to send probes to space to try and retrieve MORE. That's how I got recruited by SpaceX; they believed that although it would be more costly and time-consuming, the benefits of sending a manned probe to Mars to find this substance would be beneficial, in addition to having us set up Habitats so we could start colonizing Mars. Their reason being that rovers are slower at retrieving samples and are more limited by terrain than humans. The crew's youth and physical ability would give SpaceX an edge over other organizations. I guess I was ignorant to believe that, but the idea of being the first person on Mars? Pride’s a bitch, I guess. There were more signs that I should have picked up on, but as I said earlier, hindsight? She's also a bitch. Since I already had my bachelor's degree in civil engineering and various other hard skills under my belt in addition to having just completed my 3 years' worth of experience in a related field when I was recruited, all that was left to do before launch was pass the physical assessment. The prep period wasn't like anything I would have expected it to be. There was a lot less transparency about the trip, with higher-ups keeping vital pieces of information for the crew and I. There were medical assessments almost every day, followed by vigorous physical testing. The crew consisted of some of the most amazing people I'd ever met. I'm not sure why I was surprised. We were all chosen based on our personalities and compatibility. I guess I have that to be grateful for. On the day of the launch, I felt amazing. Everything I had dreamed of was becoming a reality. Of course, I was apprehensive. It would take us about 205 days to get to space. SpaceX mandated physical assessments every day. Blood tests, urine samples, cognitive assessments all had to be quantified and sent back to Earth. I'd never heard of previous astronauts having to do similar tasks, but I'd figured things were different now because of the cold war. We did what we were told. Some days we felt more like soldiers than astronauts. It was the day before we landed that we heard the three chimed tone indicating we had received a message from the Base. I remember reading the words over and over again, it took me a few attempts to really understand the words I was reading. I think mostly because I did not want to understand them. The entire crew who had gathered around to read the message were yelling or crying. I just sat there. I could feel the tears well up. Betrayal pumped through my veins. SpaceX had been thinking about experimenting with the effects of MORE on humans around the time of our launch. They were apprehensive about testing it on humans in fear that it would cause outbreaks. Their solution? They inject the whole crew with a serum of the stuff. Send us all to space. If anything went wrong, we were too far away to harm the rest of the population. It explained the daily medical tests. Still, to this day, I don't understand why they told us the day before decent. Were they not afraid of us refusing to complete the rest of the mission? They still needed us to locate the rest of the enzyme. Unless that was a lie too. Call me cynical, but trust doesn't come easy to me after they pulled that stunt over on us. After landing and readying the Mars habitat, we did discuss the idea of abandoning our mission. Purely out of spite. We decided against it. We were angry, yeah, but what else could we do? We were stuck on Mars; we were all still healthy with no noticeable changes. So out we went, exploring the many subterranean formations that occurred on mars. We spent many days navigating these structures with every evening dedicated to studying the changes that occurred in our bodies. Eventually, we did find MORE. It was packaged and sent back. SpaceX decided to send it back on its own in a sample return canister that is programmed to automatically launch from the Mars Ascent Vehicle at a predetermined optimal launch window for time's sake. Meaning it was necessary we find MORE before the launch window, so naturally, the first part of our mission was dedicated to finding it. The second part of the mission was dedicated to setting up structures for future individuals to come and stay on Mars. After one long day of building with one of my crew members, Ralph noticed his oxygen tank was nearing empty. I guess he'd been overexerting himself. Being the only two out there, I rushed over to him. We had trained for this, sharing oxygen, except we didn't prepare for what would happen if I didn't have enough oxygen to get the both of us back to our base. I had paused to try and figure out a way to get us both back, and that’s when Ralph realized the situation, he desperately resisted my aids. Theoretically, we should be able to breathe on Mars due to the extremely high CO2 levels thanks to the MORE drug we'd been injected with, but no one ever bothered to test it. Not only because if we were wrong, we would suffocate, but the extremely cold temperatures and the corrosive dust would also be a bit of another problem. In a self-righteous attempt to save me, Ralph knowing that I wouldn't leave him there to die, ripped open his face mask. This meant that either he died, and I would not have to share my oxygen, or he could breathe, and I would not have to share my oxygen. After a short period that consisted of me screaming at him for what he'd done, I stopped, and I released that he was just staring at me wide-eyed. Not dead. That's when we realized how much our physiology had changed. After that the crew got curious. Pushing our bodies to see how much we could handle. It was exciting at first. The cold temperatures felt more like -15°C instead of the actual -60°C it was. The chlorine in the dirt, normally corrosive to humans, didn't affect us. Admittedly our tests were not the safest or the most scientific by any means. We were like children who just found out they had superpowers. Back home on Earth, the scientists were just as excited as we were when it came to our new abilities. Teams and teams of scientists would dissect our daily physical examinations that were sent back with reports of the build updates. It was after another long day of labor we heard the three chimed alerts saying we had a message from Earth. Hearing bad news was different this time. Afterward, I'd tried to figure out why the crew's response was so different. We all just sat there. Silent. I think the difference was that we were not angry. We weren't betrayed. There was no rage. All of us just felt deep mourning—a great sense of loss for what we could never have back. We mourned ourselves. The message stated that after analyzing our samples, SpaceX scientists had discovered that our physiological changes had made it so that it is impossible for us to ever return to Earth. If we did, we would suffer oxygen poisoning in addition to water intoxication, which would lead to Hyponatremia within seconds of being exposed to the Earth's atmosphere. So here I am, sitting in the Mars Habitat, window open, reading. Trying to recreate those summer nights on Earth I'm so desperately longing for. I will remain the observer of the great expanse while my memory will become one of the stories in the stars. It's been years since we've been up here now, every trip to Mars brings us food and supplies because we can't grow anything here. As time has gone on, there have been more changes. We can now feel the pull of magnetic north on Mars, admittedly impressive seeing as its magnetic field is much smaller than Earth’s. All our eye sights have improved to the point of 25/20 vision. Hearing and ability to withstand cold temperatures have also improved—all changes we've attributed to MORE. There have been some negative changes too. I'm looking at the scales on my skin, and I wonder how much must change before I am no longer considered human.


November 22nd, 2022 So, this is odd. After last night’s awkwardness with Mark, I figured everyone would be sleeping it off and this would be a bit of a late day - for a farmer that meant an extra 15 minutes or so. The thing is, I didn’t hear from him. I decided to have breakfast and if Mark still hadn’t called me, I’d call him. It’s weird, when I’m not expecting a call I could have happily gone days without talking to anyone. But when it’s expected and not coming, all I can think of is why not. Breakfast’s a chocolate bar. I was a chubby kid growing up. And when you really think about it, that wasn’t my fault. I mean when you’re under about 13 or 14 you’re just this ball of desire without any ability to self regulate or think critically about what you’re doing. That’s what parents are for. By the time I was almost done high school I’d ballooned up and was hearing about the “freshman 15”. So I went on a diet. I sat down and looked at everything I’d eaten in the past week and started thinking about where the easy calories to cut were, and how I could keep full. Soda, potato chips, candy, and chocolate bars all got cut. Then instead of having pasta and carbs I replaced it with cooked vegetables. Sweet potatoes, lefty greens (fun fact, choy is the Chinese word for leafy greens: bak choy, yu choy, etc.), asparagus, carrots, etc. I don’t want to get all preachy about this, but ultimately that’s what worked for me. The only reason I’m telling you this is because it has literally been a decade since I’ve had a chocolate bar and Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the little donkey, are they sweet. Like disgustingly sweet, like all I want to do is drink-water-and-floss sweet. I seriously think people must get desensitized to sweetness over time because I’m getting hit by full blast sugar overload here. Breakfast done, I broke down and call. “Morning Mark.” No answer. Five seconds goes by with no answer, five minutes, a half an hour goes by. “Artemis I to mission control - copy.” No answer. You may recall that NASA, repeatedly, told me not to touch any of the Orion’s controls. So, careful to touch nothing, I moved over to the commander’s chair just to have a look-see at what was happening. Now I like to think of myself as a smart guy. NASA engineer, degree in aerospace engineering, but looking at that nice, functional, multi-purpose LCD display, I didn’t have the damnedest idea what it was saying. My “pre-flight safety briefing” covered tool kits and flotation devices, not the Orion’s actual controls (which was probably all on its own a six-month training course). For the past six days NASA’s had me doing busy work that I couldn’t possibly mess up - not pushing buttons. Mostly the console is full of buttons I don’t know. “FCM 1”, “FCM 2”, “FCM 3”, “FCM 4”. Whatever the hell “FCM” stands for, it needs a lot of buttons. There’s also, “LVLh”, “Preddt”, and “Por”. The buttons I do know are either useless, “Cockpit Lights”, or “Strobe 1”. More practically though they are buttons that absolutely shouldn’t be pressed, “trj clr”, or “burn auth”. The problem is, there have to be about a hundred different readings and displays on this LCD panel and after an hour of watching them, I don’t think a single one has changed. They should change, right? Mental math time. Battery status 92.35%. So this is day 7. Just to keep the math easy let’s say 150 hours elapsed from 100% on the battery to 92.35% on the battery. That’s 7.65% in 150 hours, or 0.05% per hour, give or take. That means that battery % should be ticking down by 0.01% every fifteen minutes or so. I watch it. After twenty minutes it hasn’t changed. Well, this is why people invented writing… Anyone have a pen? Would you believe that the last page in the emergency procedures manual is actually a copyright page? Anyways, it’s scrap paper now. I record every number on the LCD panel, set a watch, and an hour later they are all, still, exactly the same. That’s odd. Bad odd. NASA’s also still not answering the radio. I check to make sure I’m not in the moon’s shadow - I look out the window and spot earth (that was easy). So why isn’t NASA answering the radio? Why isn’t the command console’s LCD display changing? I expand my search. There are exactly thirteen LCD displays in the Orion that are tied to the main computer and I record every reading on everyone. I wait two hours, then circle back and check. Every number, on every display, is the same. I think the computer's frozen. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


Alexander ran into the bookshop with fear in his heart. "Howdy, there" said the proprietor. Alexander let out a scream. "Not you too! Not you, Tommy". "I'd thank you kindly not to shout in my store. You can just giddy on up outta here if you don't lower your voice" Tommy replied, not recognizing his long-time friend. Alexander ran over but stopped in his tracks as Tommy pulled a shotgun from behind the counter. "I think you'd better leave now, partner." "Tommy, please!" Alexander pleaded. Tommy spit tobacco juice into a spittoon. "Tommy, you don't even chew tobacco! You hate guns! Listen!" Alexander begged an indifferent Tommy. "Partner. I said. Giddy. On. Up." with that Tommy shot a shell into the air hitting the lamp above his head. As the glass finished falling onto and off of his hat, Tommy spit and stared. Alexander felt his heart drop. He was resigned to leave and slunk out of the front door. His sadness was suddenly replaced by a burst of fear as gun shots rang out directly in front of him. In disbelief, he watched a man collapse in the middle of the empty street. Alexander nearly fainted. A man standing in full western gear blew the tip of his pistol as women in impractically oversized dresses ran up to celebrate his victory. Alexander sat down and reached for his phone. He called his wife. "Hello?" her voice sent a rush of calm over Alexander. "Babe. I've tried to call a hundred times. I was worried it got you too." Alexander said in a desperate breath. "What? Hardly any reception out here. I took Sam for a day at the beach. I'll be home in about thirty." before Alexander could reply, the line disconnected. He called back but it went straight to voicemail. He rushed toward the train station but found no-one tending the counter. He went up to the machine but it was out of order. He was going to have to jump on without paying. He'd never stolen a thing in his life but, felt he had no choice. He prepared himself but, the train never came. After a few minutes, he began to run home. He burst through the in a pool of sweat. "Baby!" he yelled "Pack your things, we have to get out of here! Everyone's turned into Americans from the old west! We have to go! Now!" "What are you talking about hon?" to Alexander's horror, his wife came around the corner in a cowboy hat. He fell backwards into the wall. "Steady there, big fella." his wife said "You're gonna wake youngin'" Alexander rushed into the baby's room and picked up Sam who awoke immediately. "Great! Now how am I gonna clean up with this little cowpoke running around?" His wife asked from the doorway. "Yeehaw" said the little voice. Alexander would have dropped Sam if not for his wife's quick reaction. Alexander stumbled out the door to find his neighbor standing on his lawn. "Alexander!" the man yelled "You've let your dog sully my lawn for the last time! The insult will not be tolerated! Pistols! Now!" "Jon... I don't have a pistol!" Alexander said back, overwhelmed in confusion. "You yellow-bellied coward! What's that on your hip?" Alexander looked down and saw a pistol he didn't recognize. He felt himself walking to the middle of the street. He turned his back to his neighbor. Alexander began to walk ten paces but, his neighbor only walked three. Alex felt the bullet whistle by his ear. Instinctively, he spun, drew, and laid down the cheater. "Yeehaw!" a little voice from the porch yelled. Alexander paused for a moment before smiling back "Yeehaw" Alexander said "Yeehaw, indeed".


It was bring your kid to work day tomorrow. The worst day of my life. How could I explain to my kid what I do? I had become a doctor to save lives. If only I knew. If only. I had worked in the ICU for nearly 6 months now, transferred from the ER due to how good i was with the lasso. I had never missed a soul. That was my job. When a patient passed, it was my job to secure their soul for recycling. The power monopoly EPL had a strict contract with RCR, my hospital, for all souls. For nearing two decades now we had learned that soul power was exponentially more potent than electricity or even oil. Everything from your microwave to your TV or even your phone, was powered by souls. How could I tell her? How could I tell her that her mothers soul was probably powering some jack asses nose trimmer? I couldn’t. And thanksgiving was right around the corner too. Damnit damnit damnit. My stupid family is going to ask me about my job too. No one knows. Even if they did, it’s not like anything would change. Their phones and hair dryers were too important. They’d turn a blind eye. Besides, the poor souls were worth more and the politicians knew they could sell the idea of sacrifice for the greater good. “Skrrr*Code yellow room 313*” That was for me. It was time for the next reaping. They couldn’t even call it something better than that? I’m a damn reaper. That’s what i do. I confine souls to a temporary prison before they’re sucked to a crisp by our machinery and are lost to oblivion. You’d think that with the discovery of real souls there would be a religious epiphany. No, there was money to be made. And i was the collector. They paid well too. Maybe that’s why i hadn’t left, maybe that’s why i hadn’t blown the whistle. No if I blew the whistle i’d be powering up some poor broads vibrator in a week. Lass wouldn’t even know a hopeless lanky man like me was stuck inside. It would probably kill the mood anyways. Fuck. I’m on. Nurses were scrambling in the room already. “Dr. Lez, we’ve kept all the windows closed as long as we-“ I held up my hand to stop her. “Just keep them that way I won’t be long.” I uncoiled my lasso from my fanny pack. Jesus they couldnt even give us cool bags for these death ropes. A fucking fanny pack? I slipped my goggles on and surveyed the room. There he was, just sitting there in the upper right corner of the room. Souls don’t have voices, but if this one did, he’d no doubt ask what the hell was going on. He looked scared, and he should be. This wasn’t right. It didn’t stop me though. I gave my rope a final tug and started to spin my lasso. I caught him around the waist and slowly pulled him in. Souls are also slippery buggers. Too fast of a pull and they’d be gone again. Got you. I looked to my tech. “McGaff grab the vacuum.” He grabbed the ancient device and started his process. My job was done. Maybe i’ll ask for PTO and just miss bring your kid to work day. Yeah, that’s what doctors do. I had a whole month saved up why not? Yes yes yes. Easy. I’ll buy Calliope ice cream and drive down to the fair. Yeah, screw it. I’m taking off.


The Wolf will come for me. The Wolf came for my Father. The Wolf came for my Grandfather. The wolf came for his father, and his father. The Wolf will come for me. My father tried to keep The Wolf away from me. As soon as he learned that my Mother was pregnant, he sold everything he owned, including his treasured car, and hauled us across the country to North Wales. I was born at home, in the small country cottage which my father had bought using everything he’d raised. Father wouldn’t allow a Doctor or Midwife to be present. My mother passed not long afterwards. Leukaemia. I always believed Father resented me, for our having to leave, for the loss of his possessions, and for the loss of Mother. Now I know he resented me for a very different reason. Father never let me outside without supervision. My earliest memories were of stuffy rooms, yellow walls, and the never-ending smell of tobacco. I didn’t attend school. Father taught me everything I needed to know about being alive; cooking, cleaning, fire-making, and growing vegetables in our garden. Father was a strict vegetarian. Never any meat allowed in the house, raw or cooked. This included pet food, so dogs and cats were out of the question. I asked Father once about getting a rabbit, or some hamsters. I’d knocked on the door of his office and waited for him to answer. When he emerged, his torn and stained shirt barely concealing his scarred torso, I posed the question as sweetly as I could. He hacked a huge gobbet of phlegm into his mouth, swallowed, and looked at me. “And how do you plan to take care of it, boy?” he asked. Father never used my name, except for matters of discipline. “It’s weak and defenceless. Will you protect it when predators come, blood and foam dripping from their gaping maws? Will you stand forward as their claws rake at flesh?” I stammered. “I thought not, boy. Now, where did you get the idea for such things?” “In the book, Sir. All about animals. In the library.” He grunted and slammed the door. That night, when he stoked the fire to warm us as we ate, I saw the cover of the book as it was devoured by the flames. Father saw me looking and fixed me with his good eye. “You’re better rid of such fancies, boy.” Those were the only words he spoke that evening. I always found Father’s single eye frightening. Its missing counterpart seemed to lend the remaining globe an air of madness. I darted around the room constantly, always watching Father’s peripherals. He never focused on one thing for long. One of my first lessons was not to ask Father about his missing eye, or any of the scars which patchworked his body. He’d taught me that with my full name, and with his belt. Whenever we weren’t doing garden work, Father would remain locked in his office. I later learned that he had good reason. I would spend time running about the house, testing my time by the grandfather clock which sat in the small living-room-cum-dining-area. Sometimes, I would race against the only friends I had, those I had found in the few books which Father didn’t burn. I was faster than Bilbo Baggins and the twisted Long John Silver but was often left in the dust by Captain Ahab. Father would come down at tea time and eat whatever I had made. Then he would sit by the fire and watch the flames until morning. I never saw him sleep. On my sixth birthday, Father took me outside to the garden and threw the wood axe at my feet. “Pick it up, boy.” I dutifully obliged and began making my way to the woodpile. “Where are you going?” “To cut the wood, Sir.” “We’re not cutting wood, boy.” I returned to him. “What are we doing then, Sir?” His fist was like lightning, landing on my cheek like a blacksmith’s hammer. I don’t even remember hitting the floor. I woke up a few seconds later, pain screaming across my face. I tried to speak, but my jaw refused to move. Father spoke. “If you can’t defend yourself, then you’ll be swallowed. Swing the axe, boy. Keep me away.” I swung the axe. Father stepped around it and fetched me another blow, less forceful this time and with an open palm, across the side of my head. My head rang like a thousand bells. The afternoon passed like this, my paltry attempts to swing the axe met with Father’s derision and pain. When my arms could no longer heft the heavy weapon, Father took it from me. “Getting close to tea,” was all he said. And that was how our days continued. Wake before the rising of the sun, chores, gardening with Father, lunchtime (in which I could steal a few minutes of reading), practice with the axe, make tea, and then to bed. Every day the same. The morning of my sixteenth birthday was different. Bleary-eyed, I made my way down the cold wood stairs. Through the window, I noticed Father in the garden. He was seated on a homemade chair, axe across his lap, staring out towards the horizon. The dying embers of a fire smoked beside him. I walked out into the crisp air, breath fogging before me. “Father?” He didn’t turn his head. “Boy.” “Would you like breakfast?” “Not today, boy.” He puffed on his cigarette and threw the butt into the fire. He reached into the pocket of his threadbare corduroys, pulled out another, and lit it. “What are you doing out here, Father?” I said and took a step back. He didn’t reach for his belt. Instead, a single hand extended outwards and beckoned me forward. I stepped up beside him. He indicated out over the windswept hills. “Something’s coming, boy. From out there. I have to be ready.” “What is it, Father?” He grunted. “You’ll see, boy. Wait here with me,” he reached out and grabbed me by the front of the shirt, “but when I tell you, you go inside, and you bolt the door. Do you hear me?” “Yes, Sir.” He rounded his eye on me. Despite the empty bottle of Jack Daniels which leaned against his foot, he was remarkably focused. “Do you hear me, boy?” “Yes, Sir, I do, Sir.” “Mhm. Grab that stump and sit with me.” He released his grip. I did as ordered. Nothing happened. After what must have been several minutes, and at least three cigarettes, Father coughed loudly and reached down. He produced another bottle of Jack and pulled the top off. He handed it to me. I took it. He looked at me again and nodded. I put the bottle to my lips and took an ambitious swig. It burned. I coughed, retched, and leaned forward. The burn on the way up was worse than on the way down. Father laughed. “You’ll get used to it, boy. You won’t have a choice. Try again.” I sat myself up, resolved not to look weak in front of Father again. I swallowed another mouthful. I retched again, but this time it stayed down. Father snorted. “Getting there already.” We sat in silence while the sun rose across the blue-grey sky. A shape caught my eye. It was black and moved fast, standing out against the green of the grass-covered hills. “Father.” “I see it, boy.” His knuckles had tightened around the axe. “When it reaches those stones there, I want you to go inside. Understand me?” “Yes, Father.” “Good.” He took the bottle from me and drank deeply. “What is it, Father?” “Don’t ask questions, boy. You don’t need to know.” “But Father-” He silenced me with a vicious glance of that single, manic eye. Then he sighed. He handed the bottle back to me and rose from his seat. “You remember what I told you about my father, boy?” “Yes, Sir. He died when you were still young.” “He died on my sixteenth birthday, boy. I didn’t listen to him. That’s how I lost this.” He turned, knelt in front of me, and indicated his missing eye. “It wasn’t an accident that took him, boy. It was that. That out there took your grandfather, took his father, and took all the men in our family as far back as any of us have ever known.” He paused, and looked away at that black shape, drawing ever nearer. “I’ve been hard on you, boy. I know it. But you need to understand that I had good reason. You need to understand that… After today this might be your responsibility. I’m sorry. Now go inside boy. Go to my office and lock the door. Don’t open it until I do.” I felt something heavy inside of me. “Father-“ He shoved me, hard, and I hit the ground. “You gave me your word, boy. Don’t make yourself a liar.” I stared at him in silence. He stood and turned towards the black shape, hefting his axe in his hand. I scrabbled to my feet. As I approached the door, the sound of my feet hitting the floor was accompanied by a growl. The deep, low sound was all malice and hatred. I was filled with ice, reaching from the base of my spine to the tips of my fingers. I glanced backwards. The shape was bounding over the last crest, all matted fur, and gnashing teeth. A pair of eyes, black pits full of the same mania I could see in Father’s eyes, caught the sun as they turned on me. They spurred my steps, and I hammered into the door. It gave way, and I staggered wildly to keep my feet. Pain sparked in my shoulder. The growling exploded into a long howl, followed by a series of barks. Father screamed a thousand curses, words I’d never heard before, and though I didn’t understand them their meaning was not lost. I reached his office and slammed the door, bolting it shut. Both Father and the beast fell silent. I pressed my ear against the heavy wood of the door. I heard a snarl, though from Father or the beast I did not know, and then a yelp. I realised that I had held the breath in my lungs and let it out in a soft exhale. Father had won. I looked around the room and my breath caught in my throat. Pinned to every wall in the dingy room were drawings. Hundreds and hundreds of charcoal drawings, all depicting the same thing. A black shape, slavering jaws, evil eyes. Notebooks lay open upon the desk, scrawlings across every page detailed times and dates. I picked up the first one. *‘November 22nd, 1745, Master William, 36. August 3rd, 1780, Master Edgar, 35. The Wolf came. The Wolf always comes. The Wolf always comes. The Wolf always comes.’* There was a scream, which raced through my soul. I knew my father’s voice, though it was rent out of shape, like the bonnet of a car after a head-on collision. I threw up again. The scream, cold and agonised, cut off suddenly. I pulled away from the door, dragging myself across the bare wood with numb hands. I curled up into the foetal position and wept until I was dry. I don’t know how long passed, but by the time I found the strength to stand, the sun was rising again. The next day. I felt as though I had a rope taught around my stomach, and my lungs had deflated. My throat burned from the vomit. I went back down the stairs and, holding my breath, pressed my face to the window. The burned-out firepit, pawprints in the mud, whiskey bottles, and Father’s chair in splinters. No other sign of the fight which had taken Father from me. I moved into the garden. The air stabbed the inside of my lungs. I spread my gaze out, frost clinging to the grass. My Father’s axe lay in the grass, tooth marks drilled deep into the woods. It’s the only thing of his I still own. I was taken into care, and my Father’s estate waited for me until I turned eighteen. I sold everything as soon as I could, everything I couldn’t sell went to landfill. I moved to Cardiff and rented a flat. I got a job. There was a woman there, I fell for her. She fell for me. Then she got pregnant. And my eyes went manic. My son turns sixteen in one week. He doesn’t know about The Wolf, and as I bring Father’s axe out from storage, I swear to myself he’ll never need to. The Wolf will come for me.


November 24th, 2022 So, Jess was right. I’m fucked. Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fucked. You’d think I’d be more pissed off about having killed myself than the 4.2 billion dollar Orion capsule that I’ve broken. But I’m feeling way worse about the capsule right now. Isn’t that weird? Like who cares about an already semi-broken ship compared to their own life? Well, actually Captain Picard would. What would he do in this situation? “Computer, lights!” Nope. Still pitch black. So, what happened is this: I woke up feeling pretty good - considering. I’d basically talked myself into the idea that if Artemis had a button to blow itself up, that button would be pretty clearly labeled as such. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my time at NASA, it’s that NASA loves to argue with itself about safety issues. I certainly don’t want to say they try to make things idiot proof, but aerospace engineer proof? Actually, that’s worse, idiots don’t break out screwdrivers, soldering irons, and raspberry pi setups when they want to jerry rig something. Anyways, as long as I’m being kind of semi-reasonable with what I do, I’ll be ok. Right? Wrong. But at the time I thought I was on the right path. I tried one last call to NASA telling them what I’m about to do, on the off chance they can listen but not be heard, or on the off, off, off chance that they’ve been messing with me and this is when the joking stops. Nothing. Alright. Frozen Computer Emergency Procedure “Step 1: P. Mod. S. > On.” I’m saying it aloud, like it’s somehow more official that way. There is a P. Mod. S. button, I’m just not sure whether a little red LED in its center means it’s on or off. I push it. The little red LED in the button’s center starts to blink. I say some things that are unfit for publication, then push the button again and it goes back to a solid red LED. Whatever jackass though blinking was a good option for an indicator light should be shot. Flashing if 50% more off than a solid light, but it’s 100% more attention grabbing. Which wins? I’m calling solid light “on”, but at this point if I break this thing then NASA has no one but itself to blame. By the fifth step my back is just plastered with sweat, and by the seventh my fingers are shaking so badly I’m having to use extra effort to making sure I don’t hit anything around the buttons I’m aiming for. You know what it feels like? Imagine you were dying and there were a thousand shot glasses in front of you, each filled with a slightly different colored liquid. Twenty of the glasses have a cure if you drink them in the right order, the rest have poison. And you have to pick the magenta shot… Now the lilac… Now the falu one…” What’s falu? Exactly. “RTZ Mn > I” I say. Push. The Orion shuts down. Total black. No more blinking console lights, no more LCD screens, no more cabin lights. Blackness. I can’t even see my hands. It just so happened the Orion’s windows don’t have a view of the sun for this step, so the only lights are from pin prick stars shining in through Orion’s small windows. The emergency manual hadn’t warned me this was going to happen. We were right in the middle of a procedure. I couldn’t even see well enough to try and find the button to push it back to where it was. By the way: space problems. I was “sitting” in the commander’s chair, but that’s a euphemism. Really, I was floating against a twisted, zig zagging, chair that different parts of my back and legs and butt would bump into every few seconds at random. If it wasn’t for the seat belt… i guess it’s actually a harness… anyways if I wasn’t strapped in, I would have just slowly drifted away. In space, chairs suck. You want to know something else that sucks? Drifting through a totally dark Orion capsule on your way to a bulkhead that you can’t see but you’re going to bump into at any second, all without any feeling of motion. If it hadn’t been for Orion’s windows, and the points of starlight out of them, I would have completely lost my orientation and thrown up. What should have taken about 20 seconds with light ended up turning into a half hour ordeal. But I eventually did find a flashlight. If NASA ever wants to pull a really good prank on astronauts, turn off the lights, and have the cabin speakers play what sounds like something scurrying over metal. Even absent the sound, the capsule is spooky as hell. When I unpress “RTZ Mn” nothing happens, guess it can’t just be “unpressed”. So, question time. Do I keep going through the computer freeze checklist, or am I now into the total power loss checklist? I eat a Skor bar, in the dark. I don’t want to waste those flashlight batteries. It’s been a long day so I also might as well get some sleep and come at this fresh tomorrow. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.


Madeline may have felt as if she was making no progress in her search for Liam, but at least the same couldn’t be said of her fighting skills. Just having another human to practice with and discuss strategies with made a world of difference. Though she was still fairly certain that Billie was holding back a little, their bouts were beginning to feel more and more evenly matched. As their search continued, the areas they were combing became further and further from the housing estate where they were both sleeping. Soon, it became necessary to stay the night elsewhere so as not to spend the whole day walking only to check one building. Unfortunately, that also meant decreasing the frequency of their meetings. Between them, they devised a new schedule, based on the weeks the world used to run by. They would each search for six days, travelling to their new sector on the first day and sleeping there until the sixth, at which point, they would return home. The seventh day was then left for rest. And training. And whatever else they wanted to do together. Their meetings were the highlight of her week. Outside that, the long hours alone started to take their toll. While she was busy, Madeline could keep her doubts and fears at bay. But when she settled down to sleep at the end of a long day of searching and finding nothing, the sense of grief and loss that lived in her chest broke free. Billie kept reminding her that every building searched was one crossed off the list. Each day the area left to search got smaller, which was progress in itself. In the moment, the words made her feel better. But in the night, alone and afraid, they were of little comfort. Tonight was one such night, trying to force the images that haunted her out of her mind. The pictures shifted continuously, flicking through her worst nightmares. Liam broken and bloody. Liam captured. Liam dead. She wondered if Billie was lying awake somewhere, struggling to block out thoughts of their brother in the same way. Perhaps she could ask them tomorrow. Though somehow that seemed too personal — too private. Despite how close they’d grown over the past couple of months, they still seemed to avoid talking about the thing that had brought them together — their loss. Eventually, as she did every night when exhaustion won out over worry, Madeline managed to drift off to sleep. Though images of Liam still haunted her dreams. The morning came none too soon, and she was out the door and jogging to the house where she was meeting Billie at the first hint of dawn. A fine drizzle hung in the air, clinging to her hair and skin as she moved through it. Droplets trickled down her face, tickling her until they dropped off her chin. She arrived, breathless but invigorated, to see Billie pottering about in the kitchen. “Morning,” she said as she stepped in. “Good morning to you too,” Billie replied. “You weren’t far behind me this morning. Maybe one of these days you’ll actually beat me here.” Madeline shook her head, squeezing the water from her ponytail. “Like you’d ever let that happen.” “I might!” Billie said indignantly. “I’m not actually that competitive you know.” “If you say so,” Madeline replied as she settled down at the table. Billie set a bowl down in from of her before taking a seat. “You’re one to talk. I still have bruises from our last sparring match.” Pausing with her spoon midway to her mouth, Madeline scoffed. “Please! You have bruises? You should see what I look like underneath all this,” she said, gesturing to her clothes. “Maybe I am competitive, but it’s kind of hard not to be when the other person has to win *every single time.*” “Alright, alright,” Billie chuckled. “Maybe we’re both a little competitive. But if it keeps you training hard I’m not complaining. After all, I have a vested interest in you staying alive.” “As long as I *can* complain,” Madeline said through a mouthful of cereal. “Of course! Our training sessions wouldn’t be the same without your continual soundtrack of moaning and groaning.” Madeline glared at her friend but said nothing as she shovelled the rest of her breakfast into her mouth. When they were done eating, they briefly covered what they’d found over the past week. Though there wasn’t much to report, going over it all somehow helped make it feel as if something had been accomplished. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Billie said once they’d finished, “are you still interested in becoming a part of my group?” The question caught Madeline off guard. She’d answered it so many times in the affirmative, that the answer almost tripped off her tongue. But there was something about the way Billie had said it this time that made something feel different — more serious. Still, she’d come too far to back out now. At the very least, she didn’t want to risk losing Billie’s friendship. “Sure,” she replied. “Why do you ask?” “The next meeting isn’t far away. I wondered if you wanted to come along. Maybe someone there will have seen or heard something useful.” “I can do that? Just turn up?” “If you’re with me, sure. How else do you think we get new people to join?” “Fair point,” Madeline conceded. “So? Want to come?” Madeline’s mind raced. It had been easy to be interested in a hypothetical. Especially when doing so had meant gaining enough trust from Billie for them to pass on what they knew. Now that she was faced with a much more real prospect, it was a different matter. The thought of all those people and the danger that brought… How did she know she could trust them? What if they didn’t trust her? Glancing up, she realised Billie was watching her, cursing herself for not doing a better job of hiding the turmoil that was likely written plain as day on her face. Uncertain what to say, she decided honesty was her best option. “I’m interested, I really am. But…” She trailed off, trying to figure out how to put it into words. “But your nervous?” “Yeah. Before Liam, I hadn’t seen another human for… I don’t know, probably approaching a year. And I hadn’t seen a human who didn’t want to hurt me or steal from me for a lot longer before that. The idea of all those people… it unsettles me. Not to mention the risk from the Poiloogs.” Billie sighed. “I understand. I do. But if they knew I’d been meeting with you and telling you all these things, then didn’t bring you along they would *not* be happy with me.” Something twisted inside Madeline at the thought of the trouble she was causing. With a deep breath, she made up her mind. “In that case, I’ll come.” Billie smiled at her. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.” “I’d better not,” Madeline said, narrowing her eyes playfully. She could only hope that the teasing tone in her voice masked the quiver of nerves beneath. “So when is this meeting? And where?” “It’s in three days' time, right on the edge of the city. So I’m afraid it will interrupt the search a little.” “How much of an interruption?” “It’ll take a day or so to get there, so probably three days total. But it will be worth it to get information from more pairs of eyes.” “How many people will there be?” “It depends. Sometimes it's as few as ten. Sometimes more like fifty.” “And they’ll definitely be okay with me being there.” “Of course!” Billie said, a playful smile spreading across their face. “If not, they’d have me to answer to.” “Now that’s a fearsome thought,” Madeline chuckled. “Is there anything else I should know?” “I don’t think so, just… maybe don’t let on quite how much I’ve told you about them.” “Ooh, have you been spilling secrets you shouldn’t have been?” Madeline asked, poking them lightly in the ribs. Billie squirmed away, giggling. “What can I say? Apparently, I just can’t say no to you.


Hi guys! I wanted to ask this question in the Roundtable. But I'm not an admin or anything. Anywho, I think it's an interesting question which could really help a lot of us. I have maybe five or six short stories that I really love. I love the stories and the characters and the idea at the bottom. BUT, great writing comes from rewriting. And as much as I love my stories, they still read a lot like amateurish first drafts. What are some things I could do upon rewriting, which could lift the stories further once the actual story is in place? I have the A-B-C all mapped out. This happens, then this, then this. I can distill it down to the necessities. Not bothering the reader with superfluous details and so forth. But what are some things I can do to enhance the skeleton of that story? For example: let's say the story is about a characters sexual shame. Let's say a woman meets a man at a club. They go home together, it's her first time and she likes it. She feels shameful because she's a Christian. Kills him the next day to hide the fact that she had sex outside of marriage. Obviously she has a screw loose, but just to have an example.


Infinite. That word means more to you than you could have ever possibly known. How long has it been? Can you even remember? Years? Millennia? Eons? Does it even matter anymore? Time has long since lost meaning, hasn’t it? I thought so… Floating out in the abyss for as long as you have… It isn’t very conducive to retaining a stable sense of something so - Pointless. The same could be said for your mind, I’d gather. How long ago did it break? Ah, there I go bringing up time again. Sorry. I know it’s been difficult. To have everyone you’ve ever loved… Everything you’ve ever known... Taken from you. And leave you left with nothing but time. Enough time to forget. Though I know you didn’t want to. Of course not. That’s what you held on to so tightly for so long out here. Those memories. They were the only things that kept you sane. Well- As sane as you could possibly remain. I guess it did end the way it was predicted, huh? War. Violence. Is it just human nature? To destroy? To me, the truth seems evident. You saw the consequences. It’s gone now. Everything is… Gone. Except you. Just. You. Do you regret it? You don’t need to answer. I know. It’s a curse, isn’t it? Yes. Yes, it is. I wish I could be sorry for you. But, such is the nature of all things. To end. All it takes - Is time. As we speak, the last remaining stars in the universe are dying. Have you noticed? I’m sure you have. Those tiny lights in the endless void. Your last remaining solace. Burning out. Maybe consumed by black holes. Soon everything will be gone. And only they will remain. And you. The universe is a tomb. Wouldn’t you agree? You are floating amongst the dimly burning embers of a dead cosmos. Soon to be ashes. What will you do then? What can you do? Ask yourself that. You already know the answer. Nothing. How does it feel? Is that something you’re even capable of anymore? Not that it matters… Only a few stars left now. It won’t be long. Do you want me to stay with you? When it ends? I’ll take your silence as a yes. This is a rare opportunity. And you will be the only one to witness it. The heat death of the universe. I always hoped it’d go out with a bang… Not a… whimper. And then, there was one. Are you ready? Can you ever be? I guess we have no choice but to find out. Sooner, rather than later. It’s fading. This… This is it, huh? Si c'est le destin, laisse-le se réaliser. There it goes. It’s… over. I will truly miss it. Dearly. I know you will too. Y’know… Maybe missing so deeply is the price we pay for loving so much. Still floating out here? It’s been a long time in the dark, hasn’t it? Millions of years, believe it or not. Have you noticed the pull yet? No? Calm your mind and sense it. It’s been pulling you for a while now. Stop looking around. You’ll never be able to see it. They’re called black holes for a reason, y’know. Don’t panic. Rejoice. This could be your out! Isn’t that what you wanted? I’m tired, friend. Just surrender to the pull. How do I know that this will finally be the thing that ends it? Well… I don’t. I am just hopeful. And I cannot rest until my work is done. Immortality… You didn’t think that one through, did you? I know you didn’t. Nobody in your position would. At least I’m here with you now. For the ending to your story. Hopeful ending, yes, I know. Did you feel that? You just crossed the final border, my friend. The event horizon. A one way ticket. Down you go… Spacetime is incredibly warped down here. Do you feel the squeeze? The singularity approaches. And so, it begins. The beginning of your end. I will stay with you. I promise. As you stretch. And stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Compressed now, my friend. Into that one single point. Infinitely massive. Infinitely dense. Infinitely small. I… I can’t feel you anymore. Did it work? It- It must have. I can finally rest. And let the universe slumber. Goodbye, my friend. Rest well.


I met Tim on Tinder. Tim was the best boyfriend I could have asked for. As a 25 year old woman living in the heart of Seattle, I had been close to giving up on my love life. Men were scary, unreliable infidels. I believed that for a long time, at least until my friend Suzie convinced me to give Tinder a try. “Please?” she practically begged me during brunch one day, “Please just go on one date. If it sucks, I’ll never bother you about it again!” Drunk on margaritas and breakfast food of questionable quality, I relented. I went on one date. One date with a man named Tim Henry. It went very well. Too well, even. I learned that he worked in IT, that he’s deadly allergic to strawberries, that his ex-wife died of breast cancer in 2013. He learned about me, too. How I grew up with abusive parents and now take care of my younger brother, Zach, while pursuing a degree in psychology. Tim was really into true crime, and he got me hooked on it as well. The stories were harrowing, heartbreaking, disturbing- but some morbid curiosity kept us listening. We developed inside jokes, shamefully mostly revolving around cannibals and the gruesome details of specific murders. As a psych major, it was all so interesting. Obviously, those psych classes got me nowhere. I didn’t see the red flags. True crime is a lot easier to listen to if you’ve never lived through a podcast-worthy horror story of your own. Until then, true crime is a “what if-“ an almost impossibility that ensures you lock your doors at night, but never steals your sleep. After? It’s all too real. Tim and I got married in 2019. As many married men do, he started to let himself go. Let down appearances. He began to confide in me. He spoke to me about how he often had thoughts of murder, of skinning someone alive. I explained to him what intrusive thoughts were, and he seemed satisfied with that explanation. Later, he told me he had been diagnosed with harm OCD- a subcategory of OCD where the patient has obsessive and unrealistic worry about hurting other people. Such as putting all your knives under lock and key so you don’t kill your entire family. In reality, these patients are often even less capable of murder than the average sane person. It explained a lot of his obsessive violence thoughts. How he’d want to kill me for the smallest of infractions. I made sure to turn the lights off in the kitchen every night since he told me he wanted to rip my fingernails out the last time I forgot. I would never have admitted it, but Tim was starting to scare me. I knew it sounded awful, to be afraid of someone with harm OCD, but I would come to be thankful for my paranoia. I began to keep a strawberry in my pocket. I was out with Suzie on one of our regular Friday night dinners when I had forgotten the name of Tim’s company. Naturally, I Googled it. Strangely enough, I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find Tim at all, actually, anywhere on the internet. Even his Tinder account had been deleted. Being somewhat tech-savvy, I used an image search to scour the internet for a face match. To my horror, several matches popped up, none mentioning an IT company. The headlines blurred together in my head. I was so shocked I could barely hear Suzie asking me what was wrong. I skimmed the previews, shortened and cut off by the small screen of my phone. “Seattle man kills wife in brutal love story gone wr-“ “’I found her skinned alive’ a harrowing story of l-“ “Man charged of first degree murder escapes p-“ “Tim Fuller, a monster loose among the streets o-“ I got up and rushed home, leaving an equally horrified Suzie in the dust. I had seen enough. I had heard enough. I needed to know the truth right then, even if it costed my life. Even if I was in danger. I loved Tim, and if he loved me, he would tell me the truth. That’s what I told myself. Even though he lied about having OCD, his ex-wife passing from cancer, and working in IT. However, I know better now. You can’t “fix” killers. I burst into the house and shoved my phone in Tim’s face. Something in his eyes gave away that the articles were not fake. I felt the world shift from under me as grief and shock dizzied my perception. The world shifted again when Tim tackled me to the ground. Everything from dinner to the second Tim snapped felt like milliseconds. I heard him screaming, but the words were too far away, too muffled to hear. Something warm spread over the back of my skull. Spots danced over my vision. My body felt cold and sensationless. I felt like a corpse long before my death. \ Tim often told me how his mother had suffered from severe OCD. He mentioned how he wasn’t surprised he was diagnosed, as OCD tends to be genetic. I believed every word out of his mouth, especially considering I had an actual harm OCD diagnosis from early childhood. One he never had. To sum up my childhood- I had always been afraid of myself. I was afraid that if I didn’t barricade my door, I would hurt my little brother in my sleep. I kept myself away from sharp objects. I didn’t listen to true crime for fear I would get ideas. Eventually I convinced myself that my fear was not based in reality. But now I know better. Maybe it was because of how my parents hurt Zach. Maybe it was how they hurt me. But deep down, I’ve always known I’m capable of violence. I was just afraid I would misuse it. But when I heard Zach scream- When I felt Tim’s body weight shift from mine- When I saw something in his hand, smelled blood in the air, tasted copper in my mouth- *I was no longer afraid.* \ My vision cleared as I launched myself upwards- barely gaining complete consciousness before hurling myself into Tim’s back. He tumbled forwards, the knife in his hand skittering across the kitchen tile. He grabbed my hair and pulled, I kicked his groin, we scrambled and flailed for the weapon like two spoiled children fighting over a toy. A sharp pain radiated through my ribcage as Tim punched me as hard as he could, knocking the wind from my diaphragm just long enough to brush the knife handle with his fingertips. My ears rung and diluted the sound of his nose breaking as I shoved his head into the floor. Chaos reigned over the small section of bloody kitchen floor we inhabited. Tim finally grasped the knife. The blade tore through my shoulder as my husband swung and stabbed at my flesh, blood warming my cold body even faster than before. Red flashed into my vision, but it wasn’t from my cuts or Tim’s nose. His cold grey eyes widened as I shoved the strawberry from my pocket as hard as I could down his throat, silencing his screams of rage and grunts of violent effort. I pushed my fingers down as far as they could go. His grip on the knife faltered, and I seized the opportunity to steal it, stand, and back away in one not-so-smooth motion. My husband was dying. I watched as he choked and shoved saliva-coated fingers down his throat in an attempt to dislodge the strawberry. His face turned a mottled red color and began to swell. He kicked his feet and flailed on the blood-slippery floor in pain. His eyes now held fear and desperation, not anger. I could have helped him, called the cops, run away, etc- but I didn’t. I watched Tim’s body drain of life. I watched his chest seize up, depraved of oxygen. I watched his lips turn blue. I watched the veins in his forehead pop. I watched blood bubble from his nose. I watched his tongue swell and seal the strawberry into his throat. I watched Tim suffer. I watched Tim die. I liked it. \ The verdict came back. Free of charges, due to the necessity of my manslaughter. It was self-defense. My lawyer had the easiest job in his career, defending me. An escaped murderer, leading a double life? And the strawberry? So clever! Plus, I had to protect my younger brother. I was practically a hero. I was happy to continue my life a free woman. No one had to know how much I enjoyed seeing Tim die. But if people did know, they would understand. He lied to me for years. I’ll have to be in therapy the rest of my life. Zach will never rest easy again. I did what I had to do to a man who deserved every second of it. With therapy, I came to understand that. A few years after the incident, my therapist recommended I start seeing men again. I had recently become open to the idea. After all- the situation with Tim was such a rarity, it would be shocking for it to happen again, unless I was actively seeking out escaped convicts. Even after the years of therapy, something nagged at me. I liked watching Tim die. I got to watch the life go out of his eyes. I got to live out my obsessions. I got to draw blood. And none of it was my fault. It would never be my fault. So I took my therapist’s advice. As I scoured the Seattle police databases for men with violent criminal records, I re-activated my Tinder account.


When I touch people they turn into bears. My mom told me to keep it a secret. She said that’s why she doesn’t say “I love you” out loud. I could accidentally slip up and give her a hug, and then who would cook me dinner? Who would drive me to school in the morning? I just got curious I guess. It had been so long since it actually happened. Last time I was six and my uncle had just died from cancer. I touched him on the arm on his bed. Everyone sort of gasped when he transformed. When I tiptoed up to the coffin at the funeral I saw a teddy bear with a pale face and closed eyes, dressed in a little black suit. Again that was so long ago, I can barely remember. I’m used to not touching anyone nowadays, really. But when I see a fluffy beard or afro, or the smile of my friend when I am sad and not having such a good day, I sort of want to reach forward and touch them with the tip of my pinky. Today was just another day in English. He was sitting in front of me as he always did, green hoody, his elbow slouched on his desk. My crush with the sideswept Korean drama playboy bangs that I’d watched from afar for a year. I’d thought for so many times that if I reached forward, no one would notice. And today was perfect. Mr. Krueger had given us ten minutes to meditate at our desks. It was dark. Everyone was asleep. No one would see me. His hoody would protect him from bearification. So I put my pinky on the outermost crease of his hoody, where it was so baggy it definitely was far from his body. But as soon as I touched him he jerked awake and his elbow came into contact with my pinky. Pop! There was a teddy bear in front of me where my dream boy had been sitting. The lights went on and people started murmuring. I didn’t wait to look around and see what was going on. I made straight for the exit, slammed the doors of the hallway open, and ran the whole fifteen minutes home, slamming the front door closed behind me and barricading it with a chair. I ran into my room and stuffed my backpack with a water bottle, my mp3 player, and random stuff. No one was home. Soon I heard some rustling and men yelling outside. There was a big cracking sound, like wood breaking, being smashed in. “Halt!” said a voice behind me. I turned. A man wearing a helmet aimed a gun at me. “You, the Teddy Bear Toucher. Freeze!” “I just wanted one touch, I swear!” He rushed towards me and I dodged, bumping against him as I escaped. Pop! He was a teddy bear, lying on the floor, his helmet knocked to the side. I sprinted out of the house. For what seemed like hours I dodged this way and that, until I was deep into the wilderness behind my house. I knew where I’d be safe. I crept into the urine-stained tunnel under the old bridge, by which I could escape to the other side of town. Pigeons cooed from dark overhead corners. My heart was still slamming against my ribcage like mad. I just wanted a little touch, I thought. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But you know how it is. No one wants to be turned into teddy bears. I took out my mp3 player and plugged in my music. Something comforting, like The Coloring Book album from Chance the Rapper. His music feels like how I imagine a hug could be. Warm and inviting, soul-surrounding. I feel like the soul of that human is being sung to me so I can be warm inside. I took Snuggles out of my backpack. He was an OG teddy bear that had come with a pack of laundry detergent my mom had bought once. I could hug him all I wanted and he wouldn’t turn into anything else but himself. He was worn and fuzzy from all the hugs I had given him over the years. I hugged Snuggles tight and imagined he was a real live bear hugging me back and telling me everything was going to be okay. He hugged me back as tight as he could with his little arms. Our hugs filled my soul and expanded my mind, filling me with soft cotton plush warmth. When the men with helmets and guns walked by, we were just two stuffed animals under a bridge.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and 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 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: - **Theme: Magical** - **Bonus Constraint: Something unexpected happens.** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the theme *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The bonus constraint and/or use of the image are not required, but are there for extra inspiration. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #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 hold 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 Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 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) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/TheLettre7 - **Third:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Crit Star:** u/TheLettre7 *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I've mended many trinkets and magical wares in my life. I like to think I've seen it all, even if I have worked for less time than some of my Elven contemporaries, I have managed to make a name for myself great enough that I may be hired instead of those elves. Yet despite my expertise I have very little idea what I'm looking at. All magic has a source. Some draw power from raw ambient magic in the environment. Often they draw power from some sort of magic source within themselves. Rarely I'd even be hired to inspect items of divine origin. Yet this, I could not place its source of magic. It's a simple box, a puzzle box even. If this box were mundane then there would be some sort of solution to open it, maybe you had to push in one part or turn another, but it could be opened. Supposedly this box was the same. The client said that somehow they had lost a wedding ring inside the box. Yet I doubted that was true. They had payed me an exorbitant amount of money, easily enough to purchase a dozen wedding rings. They may have been sentimental about their ring, but I knew that wasn't true. They payed with a golden statue that they were too foolish to know could come to life at the right command. This must've been something more, she was a dungeoneer, or maybe a mercenary. I planned to open the box no matter what of course. I was hired to do just that, and more importantly I was deathly curious. Yet I still puzzled over the strangest part. I had planned originally to disenchant the box. Of course there may have been a solution to the puzzle but I haven't the time or the patience for it. Disenchantment was always the easiest way to go with curses or odd problematic items. Yet, I needed to find the source of the box's power to disenchant it. Once I located where its power came from a fix could be made easily. The box currently sat in a void chamber on the limb that it might gather ambient magic. The chamber stopped any ambient magic from entering it, of course void chambers are exceptionally expensive and difficult to maintain, so mine was barely larger than a foot in any dimension, but easily large enough to fit the box. Of course the magic remained, which meant I could rule out that it drew on ambient magic. The pesky thing was irritating to test even when I tried. The best way to test if its magic remained was simply to try to solve it. The box had many sliding and rotating parts on it. The pesky enchantment made it so no matter how many of them you solved more seemed to appear. So I tried to solve the puzzle and watched carefully. If the enchantment had been dealt with then the box should remain the same as I turn it in my hands, yet it didn't. I took the box out of the void chamber. I wanted to throw the box and the chamber against the wall, but I control myself, since the chamber is far too expensive, and the throw wouldn't affect the box. In fact I had thrown the box extensively as an attempt at an easy solution. Yet the cube despite being made of wood was durable. Explosions, throws, or even immensely destructive spells had no affect on its integrity. This wouldn't surprise me if only I knew of a power source. For something to be so indestructible while being made of such a week material it would need a powerful protective charm. Yet in turn that protective charm would require a source for its magic. I took out pieces of enchanted paper and set the box on it. Ink started drawing itself onto the paper. Drawing complex and intricate runes. I couldn't read the inside of a box I'd never seen but I could read runes based on its power. The runes could be seen as blueprints of the item's power structure, listing where each part gets its power and eventually showing the type of magic used. This was the third time I had attempted this. It should be a surefire way to find at least what type of power this forsaken box uses. Yet the runes remained the same. They indicated no source of power. In fact the runes were purely self-referential. Each rune listed a source for its power, and that second rune listed a third. At the end of that chain of power should be a source, but instead it went in circles. Every rune eventually listed its source of power as simply itself. Of course this was ridiculous and blatantly impossible. A rune cannot get power from itself, it would lose any magic it stored within a matter of minutes of use. I picked up the box again and threw the paper away. I stared at the box, puzzled. Although I suppose ultimately that was the point, it was a puzzle. Yet I should be above this puzzle, I should be able to circumvent its tricks yet the process of circumventing those tricks seemed almost as tricky as the tricks themselves. Maybe I should consider myself humbled, brought to my knees even. I could ask my opponents for help, possibly even see if I could make a little money as an in between dealer. Yet this wasn't about money or business, it was about pride and curiosity. After a moment more of generous contemplation I reached to my trash. I took out the papers, all three, even if one of them was sticky with juice at the bottom. They all painted runes describing this terrible box's power structure. Since they were all drawn of the same box it is only reasonable that they looked the same, but there was one difference. The charts also showed me the amount of power stored in the box. Of course without a source of power the nonsensical looping power structure should mean the power waned, but it didn't. The power in fact grew only as it stayed longer in my lab. I have only ever seen power grow in this way under one circumstance. This box was adding to itself, and taking from something else. Now of course there were many powers in this room that it could steal from, but it hadn't interacted with any of it. It was only then I realized the particularity of the runes in my charts. The runes were built to receive power, not just from each other but from something outside of itself. That was just it, this box used the most undetectable of magics simply because I had not thought of it. This box turned thoughts themselves into magic. Of course humans and elves did this often, mages with their thoughts and knowledge could create spells with only a meager amount of arcane assistance. It must've been, I found no magic source as I was the magic source. Any time someone tries to solve the puzzle the puzzle only gets harder to solve. And to top it off, it is infallible, as you could never disable its magical source unless something without a mind worked on the box. Of course no matter how much I wanted one cannot stop themselves from thinking of something. So I could never solve this puzzle. I knew just the person. I took the box and a mundane paper. I carefully folded the paper over the box so that the box couldn't be seen. I took my now nondescript paper box and left my lab. Something I rarely did while on a job. I mounted my horse. Of course while the horse was mundane, though I could never bother with a mundane mount. The saddle and bridal were both magic of their own variety. It made it so I had no need to direct the horse, it simply knew where I was going and took me there. After quite a short journey I arrived at the smith. The smith was a large half-orc. I set the box on the anvil that he kept out front. The smith gave me an odd look. "What do you want today Isaac?" He asked, looking at the puzzle box on his anvil. Although all he saw was a cube of folded paper. "It's nothin' hard, just hit this with a hammer." Before I finished he slammed his hammer down on the paper. His strength was incredible given his orc lineage. Wood chips flew all directions out of the box. "Anything more" He asked. "No, you were as mindless as I needed you to be, thank you," I said as I picked up the paper cube and unwrapped the now destroyed puzzle cube. I hope the customer didn't want the cube back in one piece. Destruction of items is sometimes required for my services. I looked at the inside of the box, revealing what was a ring, but clearly not a wedding ring. The runes on the ring were tiny but intricate. It was a silver ring, so it was likely protective magic. Whatever it was, the price, the density of the runes, everything about it indicated it was incredibly valuable. Even more valuable it seemed than the gold statue I was payed with. I'll have to investigate this before returning it. If it's valuable enough I might even have to make a fake to give to the customer.


I was walking to my car down a city street at about midnight. I had a couple of tamales that tasted terrible. I passed a woman sitting at the bus stop who was humming something to herself. I tossed my tamales in the trash and I heard her for a second start to say something. I turned around and asked what's up. She responded with dejection that she was going to ask if she could have the food I threw away. I apologized, the thought hadn't occurred to me in that moment that someone would be so hungry that they'd want to eat after me. I walked over and gave her a $20. She thanked me but, a few steps later she nearly yelled "Are you serious?". Her tone, her words, her voice still rings in my head. I nodded, unsure of what to do and she began to tear up. It still makes me angry. 1000 people as capable as me must pass her by everyday and do nothing. I didn't hate those people, I just wish we'd pick our brothers and sisters up off the ground. Help them as we're able. The occurrence inspired me so that some number of weekends later I returned to the city center. It was a crisp Saturday morning. Sun was out and breath could be seen in the air. I parked and began to walk. I found a man packing up his bed onto a bicycle basket. I asked him if I could buy him breakfast. He said sure and asked me to meet him at the McDonald's up the block. I was a little dejected as I'd hoped to talk with him on the way, see if I could find a way to truly help. A few minutes later I met him at the McDonald's. He told me what he wanted but, at this point it felt like he just saw free lunch and not the love I was trying to impart. I gave him a $20 and wished him well, letting him order on his own. I continued my walk until I found a man leaning against a light post. He was covered in filth with his head down. I kneeled down beside him to say hello. I asked what was wrong but, he was in no mood for conversation. I asked if I could get him anything from inside and he told me to get him a coffee, with two sugars, one cream, and to mix them up good. I handed him a $20 and wished him well. At this point I was feeling my idealism had lied to me. That these people weren't dying and desperate to be healed. They were nothing like I was when I was laying on the side of that store in the cold drizzle. When the little child asked his mom what was wrong with me and she tried to explain, a tear formed in my eye. I was in desperate pain. When he ran over and handed me a dollar, it reminded me that I wasn't dead yet. I wondered why they didn't react the same. Sometime later, it was two in the morning and rather than wake up anyone trying to sleep, I just rolled down my window and dropped a $20. I wrote a note saying that God loves them. That if the finder didn't need it, to please drop it for someone who did. I prayed it would reach the right hands. The last time I gave it was a box of energy bars. Then buying all the bakery items in a store display and asking they give it to the people in need who come in. I wish I could connect with them. I wish I could heal their broken souls but, all I find are zombies. Brains fried on drugs who've long lost their ability to feel anything. Maybe those people who passed by that woman everyday had become as numb. Maybe they tried to help once but, found the same as I'd found later. The ones who are still alive, still feeling the pain of going hungry, the despair of living with nothing but their souls, their spirits humming on those benches get lost in all the death and yet, they live on. She does, in my memory.


Have you ever had a brain failure? I mean like your brain making you say or do things that later on, you realize that you do not know who was using your brain! Well this beautiful blonde knocked on my door and as soon as I opened, she fell into my arms sobbing. I cried with her on my shoulder, not knowing what was happening. When the awkward long hung finished, looked her in the eyes trying to say something, then I realized that her face was familiar. She was the “perfect blonde” who hangs out with the body builder next door. Confused as I was, I offered her to come have a sit and hopefully I would make sense of the situation but then she all over sudden gave me a weird look and let go off my hands and stormed out slamming my door. I stayed there frozen. I kind of need a hug, I guess. It had been several weeks since I left the house, I had been surviving on tears and snots plus bags of chips. My initial idea was to add chocolates on the menu, but being my favourite snack, I didn’t want to corrupt my relationship with the beautiful happy moments companion. For a moment I seemed to forget the reason for my misery, I don’t know if it was because of the unexpected hug or because on my way to the door I looked myself in the mirror and didn’t seem to recognize myself; then it clicked. Few weeks back, I was at my work place when our washrooms broke. I live in a small town with one mall and I worked in a grocery store in the mall. One pipe trouble in town means that all washrooms are out of order. you have to hold your bladder and/or intestines, or seek cover in the bushes near by for that amazing sense of freedom. I was a new resident in town, thus a new employee, I had no friends and knowing myself, it would take really long to make friends. My boyfriend Tim was my only friend around. I couldn’t think of a nearby place where I could seek cover to relieve myself if need be. But I was not worried, I was going to be okay, I had trained my bladder to hold on long. Oh how I was wrong! I worked without a care in the world, chasing from my mind any idea that my bladder is trying to communicate. My shift was slowly getting to the end, I had to rinse some veggies in cold water before I finished. I got the produce out, placed them in the sink, but when I opened the water tap, it felt like my urine carrying vessel was laughing at me waiting to see if I pass the water test. As soon as I touched the cold water, it was like my bladder was being squished. I wanted to pee so bad that turned around, crossed my legs and avoided breathing loud. I made dance moves I never thought I would ever be able to do. I could imagine co-workers calling each other to come and enjoy the show in the computer room from the cameras. The new shy girl was putting on a show! After realizing that there was no way I was going to rinse the veggies without touching the water, or touch the water without opening the flood gates in me, I rushed outside. I was ready to do anything, even if it meant squirting in the middle of the parking lot, besides it was really dark outside, but then, it was thirty degrees below freezing. The idea of having frozen genitals experience pushed me towards my car and I left without letting any body know and that’s how I lost my job. But that was not why I was miserable. I drove home, god knows how fast, I climbed the stairs one by one as if a clock was ticking last seconds to the blast, my key was ready in my hand to open the door, but to my surprise the door pushed open. Even better. I glanced around and noticed Tim sitting on the couch. I avoided opening my mouth, careful not to let anything out of my pants, I got to the washroom door, pushed it but it was not moving. I didn’t waste any time, I rushed outside to the neighbour’s room, knocked and the door pushed open. Someone was in the way, I pushed passed him and proceeded to the washroom. I didn’t need directions, I was pretty sure all apartments in the building were of the same design. Fewf… finally, if you know the feeling, you know. On my half way through gaining back my freedom to breath, I remembered the scenario, Tim home during his working hours and the washroom locked! There must be someone in there! I hurried up and rushed out to go catch them red handed. Except the guy I pushed on my way to the washroom was still laying down on the flow. Shamefully, I extended my hand to help him up. And that’s when I realized I don’t have control over my brain. The guy was a massive gym maid human being, how in the earth did I think that my small hand would lift his well built body? As you can imagine, I fell face down on top of his half naked body. Again, my brain left me! I didn’t know if I was supposed to admire audibly what was layered under my face, because I wanted to, or keep moving to my mission to burst Tim’s affair. My thoughts were interrupted with the sound of a familiar voice. “I knew it!” Said Tim who was standing right above us. “What did he know?” I asked as I rushed up. Tim was in the room packing up. He was living me! I loved Tim, he is a great caring guy that I met many years ago, we tried to separate before but every time we would end up together again. It was like we had a pact that none of us would be truly happy without the other. I had pushed Tim away before but this time, it felt different. I had teased his looks compared to The gut next door. I even encouraged him to hit the gym too every time we would cross ways with the guy and the blonde coming back from working out. Tim had complained that I was not happy with the way he looked but all our conversations around that subject were jokes. We both knew that we couldn’t give up the joy we get from sharing a pizza or chocolates. Except he was the one who put on all the weight. My body is the kind of “it’s not fair body”. But still I found him attractive all the time. He was going to come back I believed. While I was still thinking about what just happened, I heard a knock on the door. I knew it, Tim was back… “Well.. that was a short break-up” I said as the door was pushing open. “Sorry, but… is everything okay?” It was not Tim but the guy. “No, no I am sorry for breaking into your house..” “I saw your….” He said pointing out. “ my boyfriend…” “Yeah, your boyfriend leaving, are you okay?…” “ Yeah I am okay, I am sure he is coming back… it’s just a big misunderstanding” I wanted this guy to get out of my face, but I also needed someone to help me make sense of the situation, to kind of shake my brain back into the position. I was trying to breath in and out and he noticed and helped me with the breathing exercise, kind of motioning my lungs activities with his hands. “I will leave you alone for now, but if you need anything you know every conner of my place.” When he opened the door to leave, there was Tim and his bags.