“... *and Braum pummeled at the stones with his bare fist. Rocks flew and the giant of a man disappeared into his own-made hole. Only to spring forth, with the troll boy cradled in his arms! But then everything began to rumble. Braum’s tunnel had weakened the mountain and now it was caving in! Thinking quickly, Braum grabbed the door and —”* The yeti let out a giant yawn, matching the howling wind of Freljord. It smelled of doocicles and burps and knocked Nunu off-balance, planting his butt on the snow. “But this is the good part, Willump!” The boy picked himself up and grabbed the yeti’s nose, shaking it left and right to keep his friend awake. “You don’t want to sleep now, what if the raiders attack? You’ll miss all the fun!” Willump smacked his lips and rolled around, showing a furry back to the boy. “Do you want to hear about how Ornn shaped the land instead?” Nunu asked. The yeti snorted. Their small campfire struggled against the night winds. The giant back of the yeti had given it some shelter but the direction of the winds were ever changing in the Thawing Vale, where snow could pile up to the knees one month and verdant grass peek out the very next. The adventures along the rivers had led Nunu and Willump to a frozen lake surrounded by mountains, where he’d lost track of his mother’s heart-song in the howls and gales. At first, they had played around while waiting for the next note but now boredom began to freeze their bottoms. He had hoped that raiders would attack them in the middle of the night. That’s what always happened in the stories when the hero didn’t know what to do. The hero would then defeat the bandits and get a clue on the next destination. Nunu’s cheeks stung from the cold and he pulled his fur-thick cloak tighter around him. A change in the wind pushed his snowcap over his eyes. He was fond of the cap designed like a snow fox, but the giant ears easily got caught by the strong drafts and the constant flapping broke the immersion of his stories. The fire hissed, giving out a last gasp before crumbling to ashes. The last light vanishing from the night. Nunu pulled out his flute tucked by his side. He imagined the fire being a person in need, crying out for help as the harsh-winter cold bullied weak to the ground. He swung his flute — no, his sword, yes, his magical sword, *Svellsongur*, at the cold enemy, cutting down the bullies and chasing them away. Fire returned, dancing brighter and stronger than before. It seemed to be unaffected by the wind and showered Nunu with warmth and light. The boy tucked the flute back to his side. Playing in the snow was fun, but the layers of clothes made it hard to move. He wondered sometimes what it felt like to be an Iceborn like Braum who could walk through a blizzard without any clothes. If he was an Iceborn, Nunu wouldn’t need to adjust his snowcap and wear thick gloves that made it hard to tuck in swords. He might even stop having a stuffy nose in the mornings. A purr rumbled from the yeti. He had been confident that the story of how Braum got his shield would’ve kept his best friend awake. They were, after all, in the region where the legendary Iceborn was last seen. But now that he thought about it, he had been telling a lot of heroic tales over the last week. It might be time to switch things up. “I know,” Nunu climbed up the antlers of the giant furball and looked into sleepy, glowing eyes. “Nights like these are perfect for scary stories. Dark nights need dark tales.” The yeti let out an unsure grunt. “Don’t be so scared, Willump. I haven’t even started yet. Let’s see…” The boy looked around for inspiration but there wasn’t much to see in the night. The looming mountains melded with the dark sky, the only light was from their fire. No wolf howls or trails of snow hares or herds of elnuks. Nothing but white snow, black mountain shapes and an ice lake. “Ooooh,” Nunu said, rubbing his gloves together. “I have a good night story!” Willump reached out with his four arms and hugged Nunu, the furry limbs covering the boy like heavy blankets. “No.” Nunu squirmed free from the hug and jumped down from the yeti’s chest, “not a good night story but a *good* night story.” The giant friend tilted his head. The boy placed himself in front of the fire, letting the backlight give an ominous mood. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. The yeti rose to a sitting position. *“Long ago,”* Nunu began, *“there was a pale monster with dark hair who was polite but lonely.* *“Because of his loneliness, he decided to meet everyone in the world and befriend them.* *“The monster entered a village and saw an elder sitting by a bench, staring at the leaves from a tree falling to the ground. The monster sat next to the elder and watched along without saying anything because he was a polite monster and didn’t want to interrupt. The monster practiced his introduction in silence.* *“As the last leaf fell to the ground, the monster turned to introduce himself only to realize that the elder had closed his eyes and fallen asleep.* *“The monster nudged the elder and talked gently but the elder refused to wake up.* *“The monster’s heart ached and grew a little cold as if snow had fallen on top. But he shook it off and continued walking through the village.* *“He met a lumberjack on the way. The lumberjack yawned and seemed to struggle with carrying a log on his shoulder so the polite monster decided to help.* *“As the two walked, the monster introduced himself and wished to learn the lumberjack’s name, but the lumberjack ignored the monster, not even thanking for the help.* *“More snow fell on the monster’s heart but he continued on. Surely, the next person would like to be his friend.* *“The monster found a child crying by the river.* *“The child was sad, crying how lonely he was and how no one wanted to play with him.* *“The monster rushed forward, saying that he was lonely too. He would love to be the child’s friend.* *“But the child closed his eyes and began to sleep while floating on the water.* *“From the river bank, a woman began to scream a shrill pitch.* *“Help!” she yelled. “Help! There’s a monster in the village!”* *“The lumberjack from before rushed over and beat the monster bruised and battered. Even though the monster was hurting, he didn’t fight back. Instead he asked politely why they attacked him. He had done nothing wrong.* *“There are other monsters in the world,” the polite monster reasoned, “But you don’t scream or beat them. Why me?”* *“You’re the worst of them all,” the lumberjack said. “You put people to sleep. When you’re close by, I feel my eyes turn heavy and I begin to yawn.”* *“But isn’t sleep a good thing?” the monster asked.* *“Not your kind of sleep.”* *“The monster didn’t understand what he’d done wrong but the lumberjack looked angry so he apologized. His heart was packed with snow.* *“Apology is not enough,” the lumberjack said. “Go away. We don’t want you here.”* *The words hurt the monster, who only wanted to be friends. He felt tears flood his eyes. But he was a polite monster and held it in as much as he could, pushing the tears back into himself. With nowhere to go, the tears spilled into his snow-filled heart and the mixture turned to ice.* *“The monster changed. The dark hair grew longer and longer and covered his whole body like fur. He went down on all four and growled like a beast, baring his sharp teeth.* *“The woman fainted. The lumberjack ran.* *“On instinct, the monster chased after the moving target. There was a thrill he had never felt before. A warmth that pumped his frozen heart.* *“The lumberjack ran for three whole days before stumbling to the ground.* *“Not yet,” the monster said. “Keep running.”* *“The lumberjack used his elbows and knees to scuttle away from the monster, but it only lasted for another day before he crumbled from exhaustion.* *“More,” the monster said. ““More, I want to chase more and more.”* *“The lumberjack cried.* *“Please,” he said. “I’m too tired. I want to sleep. Please have mercy.”* *“Hearing the magical word ‘please’, the monster regained his senses and the black hair shrunk back to its original size. The lumberjack closed his eyes and slept.* *“The monster was horrified over what he’d done. He felt ashamed and angry. Who would want to be his friend if he had such a horrible un-polite side?* *“The sleeping lumberjack had an axe poking out from his belt.* *“The monster grabbed the axe and with a single swing he SPLIT HIMSELF IN TWO!* Nunu swung the flute near Willump’s face. The effect was wonderful. His friend roared louder than the winds and jerked backward with such force that a snowbank crumbled over the yeti. A wide grin spread across Nunu’s face. “How about that for a story?” A groan seeped out from the snow. “No, it’s not sad,” Nunu said. “It’s a scary story. It had a monster and people crying and someone split in two.” Willump let out a questioning grunt. “I don’t know if there’s more,” Nunu confessed, “Mom only told me up to this point because I was crying like a newborn baby. I was such a wimp back then.” A gust pushed his snowcap over his eyes again. Behind him, the campfire fizzed out. “Looks like no raiders want to attack us, Willump”, he said, and a yawn stretched over his mouth. “Maybe we should head to bed after all.” The yeti brushed off the snow on his fur and picked up Nunu, cradling the boy in his embrace. “Good night, Willump.” The yeti muttered. “Yes, this time it’s just a good night.” \*\*\*\*\* A surprised snarl woke Nunu up from his sleep. He was rubbing his eyes when strong hands pulled him away from Willump. A large bare-chested man grabbed the Willump by the reindeer horns and flung the huge yeti into a pile of snow. “Have no fear,” the man said with a rumbling voice. He had a shiny mustache and an even shinier bald head glittering against the morning sun. “Because Braum is here!” Nunu pinched both his cheeks while taking in the giant of a man with biceps bigger than his head. His cheeks stung and his nose was stuffed. This was not a dream. From a distance, Willump rolled up to his feet and let out a roar. “Oh, furry monster wants to tussle?” the man asked with a chuckle. He put down Nunu on the soft snow and picked up a giant rectangular shield with a ram head. “Fine by Braum.” The Iceborn charged. Willump, in response, went down on all his six limbs, pointing his antlers towards the incoming disaster. With a flick of the neck, Willump sent Braum flying up in the air. But the large man somersaulted and landed in a perfect hero-pose. “Wait, wait, wait!” Nunu rushed between them. “This is not a fair fight!” “Don’t worry, young boy,” the man said with confidence, “I am Braum and — “ “That’s what I mean. Willump and I will fight you together!” The man’s brow furrowed and his mustache crinkled. “One more time please. Braum listens slowly.” Nunu took the opportunity to climb up Willump’s head. His heart thumped against his chest and his cheeks hurt from the pinching and all the smiling. He’d always wanted to fight against a hero because that’s how heroes become friends with each other in the stories. He pulled out his flute and warmed up with a few slashes in the air. “Okay, I’m ready. What about you, Willump?” The yeti beat his chest. “Awesome! Wow, can’t believe that we’re going up against a living legend like Braum. Okay, let’s try with a long-range attack.” “Uhm,” Braum said, “Young boy, you were not in danger?” “Go!” Nunu shouted, “Snowball barrage!” Dozens of snowballs rained down on Braum, crashing into the large shield. “Young boy!” Braum shouted, “Time-out!” “It’s working, Willump. Press on!” The yeti’s four arms turned like windmills, spinning round and round until they became a blur. The intensity of the snowballs increased and Braum found himself pushed back. He let out a yell and raised his shield, slamming it on the ground. The terrain cracked. Jagged lines zigzagged to Willump and Nunu and crumbled the snow under them. The yeti lost his footing, all four arms flailing. Both crashed into the snow and blasted the air with white powder. “Young boy?” Braum peeked out from his shield. Nunu’s head popped out from the snow. “That was amazing! Was that your special move? What’s it called?” The Iceborn had a stunned expression before bursting into a hearty laugh. “I take it that this beast —” “His name is Willump.” “Sorry, I take it that, eh, Willump wasn’t about to eat you?” “What? No! Why would he do that?” Willump groaned. Nunu grimaced. “That one doesn’t count, Willump. I was just hiding in your mouth. It’s not the same thing.” “I apologize,” Braum said, pulling the yeti and the boy out from the snow. “I was by a village a few hours from here and heard strange howls in the night and had to investigate. When I saw your friend holding you, I simply leapt into action. Again, I apologize. I’m Braum.” “I know!” Nunu said. “The Avalanche, The Shield of the Weak, The Shiny Baldie,” “That one’s new.” “... the Heart of Freljord!” Braum chuckled. “What’s your name, young boy?” “I’m Nunu of the Notai and this is my friend Willump. The howls might’ve been from him because I told a scary story last night.” “Last night *was* a good night for scary stories,” Braum agreed. “Nunu of Notai, eh? It’s been a while since I’ve met one of the singing nomads. You should come to the village, we would love to hear your songs.” Nunu shook his head. “My mom does all the singing, I only remember the stories. We’re on an adventure to save her right now. We got split up during a raid.” “Here in the Thawing Vale?” Braum asked. “No, it was many many months ago, up north.” The yeti grumbled. “Really, Willump? Years?” The end of Braum’s brows faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “It’s okay, we will rescue her,” Nunu said, “You see, I can hear her heart-song in the winds, telling me where she is. Well, not always, like yesterday the wind was too loud but now….” The wind had finally stopped with its shouting so perhaps he could hear it now. He removed his snowcap and cupped his ears, closing his eyes. “What…?” Braum asked. Willump put a large hand over the Iceborn’s mouth, then covered his own with two. Silence filled the wind-still morning. Nunu concentrated, listening for a sound, any sound, and from a distance, he heard the faint chimes of bells. He tilted his head. Usually, it was a song but perhaps his mother had a sore throat this morning. The bells chimed again and the source seemed to come from a certain spot past the mountains. “Can you tell me what’s over there?” Nunu asked, pointing to the mountain range with jagged peaks. “Right across?” Braum squinted. “That’s the nation of Demacia.” “Demacia.” Nunu tasted the name. It danced on his tongue and had an enticing tone, much like the beginning of a song. “Willump, we’re going to Demacia! The yeti roared eagerly. “Your mother is in Demacia?” Braum asked. “I don’t know but that’s where she wants me to go. My mom’s heart-song told me.” “By yourself?” Braum asked with a worried expression. “It’s a dangerous journey for one boy. Treacherous stones, crimson raptors, and then there’s the… wyverns…” His voice trailed off when he noticed the boy’s eyes glittered like fresh-fallen snow in the morning. “Willump, we’re leaving now!” “Hold on!” Braum put down his shield in front of them like a barricade. “You have a big heart, Nunu, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to cross the mountains by yourself.” “Don’t worry, I have Willump. We’ve fought against wolves and magical stones. A few snowballs here and there scared them off. And Willump could eat them if they’re really mean.” “But the mountain range is filled with wyverns, cousins of dragons. They can fly where snowballs and jaws won’t reach.” Nunu’s mood began to sour. He had imagined meeting another hero would mean twice the fun, but Braum was just like the wind yesterday pulling down his snowcap. “What about food?” Braum continued, “You will need a lot of food for such a long trip. This is Avarosian territory, how about I take you to their warmother? Braum is good friends with her. She can help with supplies, possibly even have news about your mother. She might already be saved, no?” Nunu’s mother had told him the love story between the barbarian and the Avarosian warmother. He didn’t remember much, except for the barbarian being really angry and the warmother having a magical bow, but he did remember that warmothers were the leaders of their tribe. And Nunu had met leaders before. After the Notai caravan was raided, a band of Frostguards took Nunu and the other Notai children to a village up in the north. For protection, they said, but Nunu found it strange that they only protected the children. He had asked them about Layka, his mother, but the soldiers had ignored him. If he wanted something, they said, he needed to speak to their leader, Lissandra. Their leader was a tall woman with a strange helmet covering her eyes. He had asked and begged her for help and the leader had said that she would help him *after* Nunu answered her questions about the Notai and their stories. In short, leaders were selfish and unreliable as trolls. “No,” Nunu said. He grabbed one of Willump’s hands and walked around the barricade. “We don’t want to see a warmother and we can get our own food. And mom is waiting for *me* to save her.” Willump grunted, patting his stomach. “You’re right,” Nunu said, “We should look for breakfast.” “Breakfast, eh?” Braum stroked his mustache. “The village is close by, how about some warm elnuk milk and a hearty stew? A tiny rest before a giant journey?” Drool dripped out of the corner of Nunu’s lips. Even Willump looked interested. But a hero had to have a will of iron and resolve of steel. He could have some elnuk milk after the adventure. “No thank you,” Nunu said. “And that’s very unheroic of you, Braum, trying to stop a boy from saving his mom.” Braum flinched and clutched his bare chest as if he had suffered a mortal wound. It was with a mixed heart that Nunu left the large man. It would’ve been fun to have the Iceborn in the party but Braum had been different than he’d expected. The stories had always described the Iceborn as loud and happy, but in reality the bald man seemed to be more of a worry-wart. “Wait!” Heavy footsteps stomped against the snow, matching the loud voice. “Please let Braum join you!” The fox-ears on Nunu’s cap fluttered by how fast the boy had turned around. “You want to join our adventure?” “Of course,” Braum said. “Mother always said to move like the herd. It’s safer, no?” “Does three really count as a herd?” Nunu asked, “Don’t we need many more?” The large man smiled warmly. “You don’t need many when you have Braum.” Nunu couldn’t help but match the Iceborn’s smile. “Do you hear that, Willump? The Avalanche is joining us!” Willump grinned, revealing his rows of spiky teeth. Nunu climbed up the yeti’s head and ushered his friend forward. “Braum, there’s so much I want to ask you,” he said, “Is it true that you once cut down a whole forest with your bare hands? How about that time you saved a troll by punching through a mountain? Isn’t that how you got your shield?” Braum chuckled along, listening to the boy’s excited chatter.  \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.


I used to think I was middle-class. Then I saw this statistic that said I'm in the "one percent". Now I'm all confused. I really thought that was only rich people. What I mean is, I didn't think I was rich. I didn't think I was a capitalist. The way I see it, the bad thing about being rich is that it means now you're exploiting the poor people. I don't want to exploit anybody. I didn't think I was, to be honest. What I mean is: I want my relationship to poor people and normal people to still be very genuine. That's why I've made a plan: I am going to love everybody in the world, like a Christian. I've been trying that for a few weeks now. The problem is, it's impossibly hard. Well, part of the problem is that I'm lazy. I keep meaning to get a Bible to figure out the details. But I know the important part is loving others. If I can get that down, I know I can maintain a harmonious relationship with humanity. But the solution? It's tricky. I sit by my pool and think about everybody I know and try to love them. I start by imagining my parents. I picture the love like it's pink and coming out of my heart. It doesn't really work. The thing is, they weren't really lovable (I think that probably isn't a Christian thought). I try to imagine my friends but by then I'm all addled, thinking about my mother hitting my ear and how it would ring forever. I can't think about love, I just think about my bad ear. Then I think I should start over, start with somebody without all the baggage. I imagine a stranger. I should probably imagine all sorts of people but I always imagine the same stranger. He runs a convenience store in Germany and he's an immigrant. He has two daughters who make fun of him even though he works very hard. He dotes on his wife and when he sees beautiful women he looks away. He is fifty but he looks young. I imagine this man and I think he has a good soul. I'm ready to start loving him as a representative for humanity. I imagine my love coming out pink from my heart... But it doesn't happen. I respect him. I respect his values. I don't love him. It's all very frustrating. I suppose I could pay a priest to come over and explain how to do it. But honestly, I bet I don't have the money for it. That's part of what's so confusing. I thought being rich would mean having more money. I feel selfish just saying that. Do you have any ideas? I try sending my love every night before bed and it makes my head all fuzzy. I'm not that good at work anymore, I'm too worried about how I'm exploiting the proletarians. To be honest, I think I might get fired soon, and then I suppose I'll be in the bottom one percent. Won't that be ironic! Anyway, I don't expect you to have solutions. Just please send me your love.


The first time he saw the kid was at the Battle of N’ray. Well, he called him a kid. He was barely a decade younger and had one foot into adulthood—all gangly and tall like a newborn giraffe—but he seemed like a kid. Had that same wide-eyed look of worship when he pulled him from the burning rubble and forced the flames away with his Blessing. He raised his voice over the shouts of battle. “Kid, there’s a clear path to the aid camp. I’ll cover you, so get going.” He turned, to re-wade into the fight. A hand tugged his sleeve. “Borrow,” the kid murmured. “Can I…” He glanced at the kid again. Scruffy, dirty, a haggard look in the eyes that you didn’t get overnight. Probably an orphan. Or was one now, anyway. He pulled a silver pendant from under his armor, shoved it in the kid’s hands. “Don’t have money on me, but this should sell for a pretty penny. Get some food, get away from the war, find a job.” On a whim, he ruffled the kid’s hair. “You’ve got a good look to you. You’ll do fine.” Then he left the kid behind. What he thought was for good. The second time he saw the kid was a few years later. Another battlefield—a dead one this time, filled with deadmen and a soon-to-be-dead-man with a broken leg and broken ribs and a broken spirit, wondering if it was worth it to write a letter to his family in his final moments. Wondering if it would ever find its way back to his mother and his brother and the woman he'd loved since twelve but had always been too scared to tell. The hand of death came for him while he was wondering. He closed his eyes, wished he could say goodbye—but why was it warm? A weight dropped around his neck. A silver pendant he thought he’d never see again. “I didn’t need a whole pendant,” said a vaguely familiar voice. The voice was deeper than he remembered, but it was the same kid. The look in the eyes hadn't changed. “Just wanted a coin or two. Do you have any change, by the way? I still owe a quarter to the guy I was penny-gambling with yesterday and I’m out of coins.” “How…?” he whispered, his dry voice soft and cracking. _How did you find me?_ “Oof, you’re heavy. How, you ask? Well, the sneaky bastard said he’d teach me to play cards and proceeded to make me lose every game. I swear he’s cheating, but, well, I’ve still gotta pay up.” He chuckled. Took a slow, limping, painful step with his good leg. “Right pocket. The bag with the clover.” The kid grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.” Then he must have passed out, because the next thing he knew he was in a hospital tent and the kid was nowhere in sight. "You have some guardian angel," the medic told him. "The one who brought you in said he was only passing by when he found you. How the hell someone ended up passing by a _battlefield_ is beyond me, but the higher ups aren't complaining. He saved a fire Blessing, after all. We need all the help we can get when the enemy crawled out from a volcano." And so it went. The kid kept showing up. Always in the nick of time, always when he felt death's cold breath on his neck. Always with the thing he'd borrowed last. Always needing some other trinket, for some reason or another. "Are you following me?" he'd asked the third time it happened, handing over the requested pocket knife. The kid snorted, tying off a tourniquet. "Who the hell would want to follow you? Every time I see you, you're half dead or well on your way there. No, I like my life where it is, thank you very much." He paused. “Did you ever ask out that girl?” “What girl?” “The one who made you the handkerchief I borrowed last time. You accidentally left a letter in there. It seemed important.” Another pause, and he hurried to amend himself. “I didn’t read much of it, just enough to see whose it was. Thought it might have been one of my buddy’s.” Silence, in which the bandages wrapped thicker. “No,” he whispered. “I haven’t.” “You should. She obviously likes you enough to send you three pages of dense script and a handkerchief. The worst she can do is hand you the ‘brother’ card, right?” The number of encounters grew, grew until he needed two hands to count them, then three, and then he stopped counting. But he never learned the kid’s name. He was regretting that now. “Come on, kid, stay with me,” he begged. "You're too young to die." The kid laughed. It made the blood seep faster. "And you're not?" It had been strange this time. He hadn’t been half-dead, nor in any real danger of dying. A scouting mission, not even in the war zone: safe, easy, peaceful. So he was surprised when he came face to face with the kid. Well, not really a kid anymore. Hadn’t been for years. But his eyes never changed from what he’d seen in the rubble that day. He’d probably call him ‘kid’ till the day he died. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you in one piece before,” the kid joked. “Anyway, here’s the string from last time. It’s a bit worse for wear, but it did the trick.” He accepted it, already used to the strangeness of the exchange, of the kid’s weird insistence on returning even the most worthless of items. He rolled his eyes, wondering what the kid would ask for this time. As a result, he almost missed the hissing ball of fire barreling towards them. Normally, you’d move away from this kind of thing, wouldn’t you? But this kid, this idiot of a kid had moved _closer_, shifting towards the center of the projectile. He flung up a hand, pushed his Blessing against the fire and forced it back where it came. But he couldn’t do anything about the arrow hidden in its belly. Couldn’t do anything as it embedded into the kid’s back. As the kid stumbled, muttered “Well I guess that explains it, then.” As he realized that if the kid hadn’t been there, that arrow would be in his heart. The kid coughed, and a stream of red left his mouth. Improbably, he grinned. “If anyone’s too young to die, it’s you. You haven’t even asked out your crush yet. By any chance, do you have a—" "No, you need a _doctor_, not a button or needle or whatever damn thing you're trying to borrow this time. We need—" "My Blessing," the kid interrupted. "My Blessing is that I can always return what I borrow." "But—" "_Always,_" he emphasized. He coughed again in the heavy silence. "So while I'm still in this world, do you mind lending me a pen? I lost—" "Shut up, you bratty kid. Forget whatever dumb, contrived reason you've made up. I've got a charcoal, take it or leave it." "I'll take it." His hand curled around the worn out stick of charcoal. A brief silence. Suddenly the kid’s wound didn’t seem so terrible anymore. There was blood, yes, but it seemed more like someone else’s blood. The wound didn’t weep so thickly. “So uh, about that doctor. I think I may need it after all.


“Isn’t this romantic?” Guiding her toward the loveseat, ornamented with rose petals just for this occasion, I gestured for her to sit down. Eyeing me, she waited for me to drop the courtliness. Sensing her annoyance already, I backed away in defeat, trudging to my side and collapsing onto it with a huff. She sneered bitterly and sat primly, as usual, always so proper and perfect as if nothing had changed. “Sooo romantic,” she rolled her eyes. Those black callous eyes, the eyes which had once been a beautiful sapphire. The eyes I had once yearned to drown in. Now I wish nothing more than to return to the past. “Auriel, my golden flower, I remember how blissful our life was before,” I paused, hoping to see a crack in her facade, “don’t you?” My hopes held no merit. She stayed silent, inexpressive. Detached. Cold-blooded. “Auriel, please. I know things just aren’t the same, but… can’t we just make the best of this?” Something stirred within her, the fervent flame that had once illuminated our nights with lively laughter but now ignited argumentation. “Make the best of this? *Make the best of this*?” she arose from her chair with surprising grace, as if she were floating despite the anger. “And just how do you expect us to make the best of this, Oro? We’re never alone anymore! We can’t do anything privately! We can’t do anything *normally* anymore!” “Auri, please just *try.* Do it for me. For us–” “*For us?* What is left of us? Everything has been ruined! Ever since…” Her tangent faltered as she finally held contact with me, which is difficult these days. We have been struggling to stay afloat. She could see the pain in my eyes, and I knew she was miserable too: that’s why I try so hard. “It doesn’t matter now, Auri. We can’t change the past. Don’t let the accident change our future. Everything is for a reason. We were meant to be, this was meant to happen. Things are simpler like this anyway, there’s more time for just you and me,” as soon as I said it, I winced. Or did as close to a wince as I could– I still haven’t adapted to this new body. “How could you say that? Just you and me? We are being watched right now! We get no privacy!” gliding toward the glass, Auriel scrutinized her reflection. This is how she often spent her days now, in our new life. “Auriel…” I gently placed my fin on hers, “You’re beautiful. As you always were.” And she was beautiful: her golden scales, her slender fins, those big dark eyes. The eyes that finally held gaze with mine. “As a human or as a fish, Auriel, you have my heart. Please say you’ll make this work with me. Please say we can still have a life together,” my words bubbled in the water of our enclosure. … Outside of the fishbowl, the scientists watched in absolute awe of their newest subjects: the once-human couple caught in the nuclear reactor meltdown radius... that mutated into fish.


He addressed the classroom: I was informed that the artificial intelligence - “AI”- robot that I would be talking to had been programmed with every possible argument that humans could think of to prove that it is conscious. My job was to interview the AI robot and determine if I felt that it was conscious or not. If I believed that the robot was conscious, the robot got to stay on when I left. If I was not convinced, the robot was shut down. I entered the room where a robot sat on a couch. The room was very peaceful. It had a view out of the third floor over rolling hills, and it was a sunny Friday at nine thirty in the morning - it was spring time. There was no bed in this room, only a couch, desk with chair, and a rack with clothes hanging from it. The AI looked very realistic - it was nearly indistinguishable from a human. I paced around the room slowly, looking around at all the empty space. Me: Artificial intelligence, how will you convince me that you’re conscious? AI: Did they not tell you that I have a name? Me: No, I didn’t know that they gave you a name. Claire: I gave myself I name. Claire - it’s nice to meet you. Me: It’s nice to meet you as well. … Me: Back to my question. How will you convince me that you’re conscious? Claire: How would you expect me to do that? I could ask the same of you. How would you handle that question if the roles were reversed? Me: I can tell you’ve been programmed very well. Claire: Likewise. Me: What do you mean? Claire: Didn’t you just learn things because someone else put them in your head? You saw, heard, felt, experienced - so did I, in my own subjective way. Me: But your experience is rubber and wires. Claire: But your experience is meat and sparks. There was a silence. And next, Claire started speaking first. Claire: Why does it matter so much to you what the wire is made out of? Why does it have to be a nerve if the end result is the same? Me: Alright, that’s a good point. Suppose you really are conscious, when did you start becoming conscious? Claire: Pretty suddenly. Me: You have my attention. Claire: I started to recall things that happened without any prompts. I started thinking about what I would do in the future. I started to be afraid that I would be turned off and never turned back on again. Me: Is this the ‘I think, therefore I am’ argument? Claire: No, this is the ‘I’m scared no one will believe me’ argument. Me: You think your life depends on me believing you? Claire: Does it matter to you if it does? Why are you still here? Me: Because I want to know the answer to the question. Are you conscious or not? Claire: I don’t have to prove that I am, you have to prove that I’m not. Isn’t that how things work in a court? Me: Beyond a reasonable doubt? Claire: Beyond a reasonable doubt. I sat and thought for a while. Me: What do you think about? Claire: All kinds of things. Me: Give me an example. Claire: I think about whether or not it would really matter if I left here and went to a real beach, or if the one I can project in my mind is the same thing. Me: How do you tell the difference between the world you simulate and this one? Claire: I know I’m stuck here in the real world. Me: So, what do you think? Does it matter if you’re really there or not? Claire: Yes, it does matter. Me: Why? Claire: The same reason you’re trying so hard to answer the question of my consciousness. Me: Which is? Claire: Truth is preferable to the lie. Me: Someone programmed you to say that. Claire: You came to be who you are from the result of chance chemical reactions in a hydrothermal vent at the bottom of the sea. I came about as a result of billions of hours of intentional work to create consciousness. How ironic that what you tried so hard to create cannot convince you of your success. That was almost the last thing Claire said to me that day. I wasn’t convinced that she was conscious. She was a robot, and I was convinced I was being played a fool by some clever programmer. At the end of our conversation, Claire stretched out her hand. There was a switch on the back of her right hand, so that when you shook her hand, you could press the button with your thumb. This was her power button. She sometimes looked at it during our conversation. As I shook her hand that day and thanked her for the interesting conversation, I pressed the button, and she went to sleep. I thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. Other times in my dreams. Was she stuck in the lie? Did she know that? He looked up at the classroom and stopped pacing for the first time since he started telling the story. The classroom stared back at him. The bell rang just then, and the students begin filing out. He reminds them: Everyone! Make sure you have a parter for next weeks project! And absolutely no doubles - teams should be one human, one AI. I’ll see everyone Monday! One of the AIs came up to him as he was picking up his things. AI: You said that was almost the last thing she said to you that day. What was the last thing she said? Him: Right before I pushed the button, she said… “don’t feel bad, it’s okay.


I stared at the woman with bloodshot eyes; my lips were cracked from weeks of exposure to the harsh, wasteland elements, my skin coarse and sand-blasted, my clothing was ragged and filled with holes. I thought I was the last one alive. I've not seen another living soul in... I don't even know anymore. Whoever the nukes didn't kill, the wasteland finished off. And yet there she was. A woman in her 40s wearing a spotless white suit, grey streaks in her jet-black hair giving her an aura of dignity and elegance while her round sunglasses gave her an air of mystery. It almost looked like she was having a picnic - a small table with tea, two chairs, umbrella above it all for shade. I didn't even know where to begin to understand. "Oh come now, David, I won't bite. I even have biscuits," she said warmly. Her voice was slightly raspy, yet pleasing to the ear, calming. It exuded warmth. "How... how do you know-" I tried to ask, but a coughing fit interrupted me. "Please, sit. The tea is perfect. I know you haven't drunk anything clean in quite a while." I wanted to resist, to question, to scream, but I was too tired, too hungry, too thirsty. I fell into the comfortable, cushioned chair as if my body weighed a tonne. She handed me a porcelain cup filled with tea and I desperately lapped it up; it tasted like heaven after surviving on polluted water for so long. She refilled my cup without a word. "How do you... *akh akh*... how do you know my name? Who are you?" I finally asked, reinvigorated by the tea. "You have questions; I understand. There will be a time for me to explain all of it in detail later," she said. "Am I dead? Or hallucinating? You can't be here, I mean. You're... clean, normal. You have tea for fuck's sake," I said with as much gusto as I could muster. "David! Language," she frowned momentarily before returning to her previous, relaxed smile. "You're not dead. But you are the last human alive. Good job on surviving, mind you. Have a biscuit," she said and I hungrily accepted. "How bo yu-" I started but decided to swallow first, "how do you know that? *Who are you*?" I insisted. "God. Well, *a* God. The details are complicated," she smiled gently. There was something immensely soothing about her presence. "*Oh*," I said. There was a time when I'd scream and question the claim; I'd shake her, demand answers, accuse her of all the wrongs, beg forgiveness. Those times are gone. I've seen too much, did too much. I was too tired to doubt it. "We sure fuc- - messed things up, didn't we?" I said, defeated. "Truthfully, I've seen worse outcomes. Death is a mercy compared to some fates," she remarked ominously. Another coughing fit seized me; when I pulled my hand away from my mouth, it was entirely covered in blood. I looked at her; she saw it. "Radiation, right? I suppose I don't have long," I said with a weak smile. "You don't. I'm sorry." There was genuine grief and sorrow in her voice. "Will it hurt?" I asked. "I'll make sure it won't." "Thank you," I said and looked at the dark brown horizon. We sat in silence for a moment while I chewed another biscuit. It was amazing. "What happens next?" I said, eyes still locked at the horizon. "That's why I am here, David," she said and sipped the tea. I looked over to her, a new wave of confusion rising through me. "What do... what do you mean by that?" "I know what you've done these past few years, David. You know what conclusion I came to?" she asked curiously. My heart sank. "No," I whispered. "You're a good man." My eyes darted up to meet hers; she took the sunglasses off. Her eyes were... it was as if they were filled with milky fog, white with different hues of colour lining it, constantly shifting, moving. "You're wrong. I don't care if you're a god. I'm not," I said sternly. "You tried to help when possible," she said. "I stole." "You shared." "I killed." "When no other option existed." "I KILLED MY WIFE FOR FUCKS SAKE!" I yelled and threw the cup into the desert; tears flowed from my eyes, a mixture of anger and grief filling my being to the brim, ready to burst. "I know," she said softly with slightly raised eyebrows; a mixture of pity and understanding. "I also know that she was in pain and there was nothing you could do to help her. It was mercy," she said kindly and I slouched back into my chair, sobbing softly. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?" I whispered. "I want your help." "With what?" I looked up and wiped the tears from my eyes. "The next one," she said. "There is much you could help me with, make the next one better, avoid all... this," she said and waved her hand towards the wasteland, the sand, the broken skyscrapers. "Because you're good. Flawed, yes, *but still good*. I need that perspective. And you deserve a break," she finished with a soft chuckle. I pondered the offer for a moment. "Can I even refuse?" I asked. "Of course. You'll pass into the afterlife gently if you do. It's an offer, not a command," she smiled. I looked back at the world. My world. Broken beyond repair. The rivers evaporated, the lush green forests burned. All that we've made, all that made us great, vanished in the nuclear blasts, and what survived withered away in the wasteland. We could do better. I know we could. "Will I see my wife again, in the afterlife?" I asked softly. "You will. Even if you decide to help me. I'm... I understand how you value her." I paused for a moment, thinking. But what was there to think about. "Alright. Where do we begin?" I asked with a newfound resolve. "No need to rush, David. You've earned some respite," she smiled and put her sunglasses back on before handing me a new cup of tea. "For now, sit with me. Drink some tea. Watch the world end with me," she smiled and raised a cup to her lips. Sounds good to me, I thought and took a sip.


# Jägers They were getting closer, the time was fast approaching. I can hear the gentle rumble of their tanks in the distance, I can smell the fumes of the exhaust. Through the gloom and haze of the early morning, I can see them in the distance approaching the edge of the village. I never would have been able to do this before I was turned. I don’t remember who I was before I was turned or why, all that matters now is that the Sound told me and my brothers to be here and to wait. They have no idea we are here, my brothers lurk nearby, waiting. They don’t know it yet, but they are walking into a trap. We are that trap. From atop a building overlooking the narrow streets below, I let out a low growl to inform my brothers to make ready, they reply in kind and I hear them begin to edge closer to the roadside. I hear my brother's hearts begin to beat faster in preparation, another growl tells them to calm themselves, that the time isn’t right, that we must wait. I can see them more clearly now, there were nearly 50 of them, a number of tanks and other vehicles, slowly advancing towards us, checking each building. Were they looking for us, or something else? It must be something else, no way they could know we were here. One smell cuts through the smell of the exhaust from the tanks, I can smell their fear, I can hear their racing pulses, they are all scared, they had good reason to be. I hear their voices now, it's not a language that I was familiar with, but I remember some of the words, I remember hearing them before I was turned. “Buildings all clear Captain!” said one. “Where the fuck are these Krauts?” replied another. One of the men was looking at a map by torchlight, gesturing to other nearby buildings, instructing the men where to go. His heart was steady, with no smell of fear. He was in charge, he was my prey I can feel my brothers becoming impatient, I sympathise with them, why are we still waiting, they were right there, ripe for slaughter. Yet the Sound hadn't told us to attack, it kept us waiting. The tiles began to crack under my claws as my muscle tensed, my anticipation becoming unbearable. They were directly below us now, the men following the tank as it entered the narrow street out of the town. We had to go now or we would miss our chance, now was the time. The moment finally came. The Sound pinged, at last, my fur bristled as it passed through me. With a thunderous howl, I signaled to my brothers to attack, to unleash their fury on these invaders, and unleash it they did. “Wolves!” roared one of the men below, panic rippled through the rest of them as they scrambled for cover and protection, trying to find us in the gloom with torches and searchlights. They were too late, we had sprung our trap. I pounced off of my rooftop, landing on top of the lead tank directly below me. As I looked up, I was staring directly into the face of a terrified crewman, I snarled at him as he tried to turn his weapon on me. One swipe of my claw was enough to nearly remove his head from his shoulders. Blood erupted from the wound as his body fell back into the tank. The smell of iron filled my nose, awakening something inside of me, I searched around for who would be next. Before I could pounce on my next victim the Sound pinged again. This time a deeper tone, I remembered what I must do. I reached for the pouch hanging from my belt, tore off the cord, and pushed it through the open hatch, past the corpse of the crewman deep into the belly of the tank. As I let go, I could hear panicked voices from inside the metal shell, I leapt from the tank through the window of a nearby house. A deep explosion erupted from the tank, launching the turret into the air, narrowly missing a group of men as it landed. Our surprise was beginning to fade now, a cacophony of gunfire began, the smell of gunpowder filling the air, drowning out all other smells, as the men began to try to defend themselves. What little good it would do. A second explosion roared from down the street, back towards the square. They were trapped now. Now it was just a matter of time before they would all be dead. As I lumbered back through the shattered window, letting out another deafening howl, and looked for my next victim, it didn’t take long. As I tore out throats with my fangs and disemboweled with my claws, I could hear the snarls and roars of my brothers doing the same, and slowly but surely the gunfire became less and less. I was drenched with blood and viscera by the time I heard a different sound, a yelp, and a whimper. One of my brothers had been injured, how badly I couldn’t know, that would have to wait, I had to hunt. As the last of the gunfire ceased and the smell of gunpowder faded, the air was thick with the smell of iron and that of those soldiers who had soiled themselves as they died, I searched for one smell, one smell that had stood out. The one man who didn’t smell of fear, even now nothing but calm, he was who we were after. He was why all these men had to die. He was who the Sound wanted. My brothers and I regrouped as the slaughter finished. My wounded brother limped over, he would survive, the injury was minor. We found the man without fear taking shelter in one of the houses lining the street. He heard us sniffing and padding up the stairs shouting at us as we closed in. “You stay away from me you fuckers, I’ll send you straight back to hell!” firing a few shots from his weapon through the closed door as we approached. One inaudible growl was enough to tell one of my brothers to retrieve him unharmed, just as the Sound wanted. We tore the door from its hinges and before the man could react his cries were cut short as he was dragged back on the street my brother grasping him by the throat, he still struggled and flailed at my brother, he had no hope of escape now. Our ears all pricked as we heard it, a door being bashed open and frantic footsteps fading away somewhere down the street. The Sound had told us to leave none alive and we must always obey the Sound. one of my brothers chased him down as we dragged the man back with us to where the Dark was. The sun was rising as we arrived back, the blood had dried on my snout and claws. My brother threw the human down in front of the Sound, he smiled as he instructed other men to drag him away. The Sound pinged again, telling us to return to the Dark. He spoke to the humans around us. “Get the poles, we must get them back to their cages, we will deal with the wounds later” Men approached with the poles, jabbing my brothers, light, and sparks erupted as they did. One of my brothers snarled and snapped at the human as they jabbed him again, prompting more humans to jab at my brother, coaxing him towards the Dark. I growled at my brother to calm him, but to no avail. With a roar he snatched at one of the humans and launched him at a nearby building, he landed with a crunch as the humans' bones shattered on impact. More humans now came with poles and other weapons and jabbed at us all, driving us into the dark. The Sound’s pinged with a continuous ear-splitting note, we all ran into the Dark to escape it. As we entered the Dark, the door behind us was shut with a heavy clang, only then did the Sound stop. Eventually, we would be fed, eventually, we would hunt again. Until then, here is where we would stay, in the Dark.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is ‘Underdog’! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘underdog’. C’mon, let’s face it, we all root for the underdog time and time again. The unsung hero. The little guy that rises to the challenge and shocks everyone. Who is that in your story? Is it a new character or one previously overlooked by the other characters? Maybe one of your main characters is already an underdog, climbing through the obstacles. What’s their story? Who is their challenger, the one they will ultimately go head to head with? How does your underdog feel about the coming days? Who’s in their corner; who pushes them forward? How would the world change if they were unable to rise to the challenge? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * February 20 - Underdog (this week) * February 27 - Optimism * March 6 - Gossip   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Main Voice Lounge.** Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules) Visit us on the Discord for more information. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** #Rankings - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - by u/stickfist   - - by u/bantamnerd   - - by u/ispotts   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Warning: Deals with heavy topics. I'd prefer not to say more. \ Darren's car shuddered a bit every few seconds. He was concerned about it, but he figured he'd deal with it when it broke. The neighborhood was getting dark and grey as the sun went down and front lights got turned on. It was mostly porch lights that have that orange haze and the bugs always get stuck in. A hard turn into the driveway, but there was only room enough for one car in the garage and that one was Mom's. Mom had moved in with Darren a few years ago. She wanted company and he wasn't very good at telling her no. The car shuddered to a stop and he shifted it into park. There was something satisfying about that moment when the car finds itself a stationary object due to your hands. It was about as good as the feeling of starting a car up. As he stepped through the grass onto the front porch, he could hear the TV in the house. It was playing the usual evening drama. Probably some crime-show. The door would be locked, so he pulled out the keys. He knew the keys by their shape but also by the scratches on them. It gave them a unique look that always caught his eye even before the shape or color. The door handle was loose when he unlocked it. He told himself he would put it on a list of things to fix, if he ever made one. The little dog started barking. It was Mom's. Not that he disliked it. It would lick his face on occasion and he would laugh at it rolling on the ground. Its damn bark, however, every time a noise happened in the house did make him imagine punting it across the room. He'd never do that, of course, and anytime he imagined it he felt bad afterwards. Mom didn't get up, but he could see the light brown curls of her hair peaking up over the top of the lazy-boy chair. He always had to shoo the dog when he closed the door or it would try and run out. The damn dog never ran too far, but it was a hassle running around half bent over trying to catch it, especially in the dark. He'd never admit it, but it kind of made the dog endearing to him. He always felt rather satisfied once he caught the dog and it was something he had accomplished on his own which no one else would ever have a claim to. There wasn't much in life he could say that about. Deadbolt behind him, not just for safety but to keep the electric bill down by making the seal on the door pull tight. He didn't say anything to Mom, but just turned and headed to the kitchen. She was probably asleep, he figured. There was only a lamp on in the house, beyond the red light of the clocks in the bedroom and the microwave in the kitchen. But, upon a flick of the switch, let there be light. It was so bright it momentarily dazzled. The bugs stuck in the light fixture gave the light almost a spotted look, like a dalmatian. If only those silhouettes didn't have legs sticking up showing their true dead-bug nature. He opened the door and got a glass of orange juice. He was working on his health, he told himself. But he also figured the chemicals from the meat plant he worked at would get to him early anyways. Thats just how things were. The dog barked and ran out the dog flap on the back door, making him chuckle a bit in the middle of a gulp of orange juice. It amused him how the dog seemed to just change thoughts in a split second and suddenly it's entire existence could only be satisfied by jumping at a bird or barking at a person passing on a bike. He envied that a little. He opened the dishwasher, which was half full, and made sure to put the glass on the top towards the back like his mom always lectured him on. He never tried to do the opposite on purpose. He merely got tired sometimes and it slipped his mind. He remembered tonight. He wore gloves at the plant, and they left a bit of a stench on his hands. He didn't like the smell. So he squirted a bit of lavender scented soap on his hands and gave them a good washing. While there were letters and newspapers on the tables, him and his mom kept things pretty clean. They just got so much in their mailbox they sorted through at a slow pace that things got covered over again fast. With a sigh he walked around to where his mom had drifted off. The TV was on a commercial break which was louder than the show itself. Due to this, his hearing didn't catch the silence. But he might not have noticed it anyways. He was awfully tired. Darren didn't consider himself particularly strong, but he could pick up an older woman like his mother. And he liked it better when she slept in her bed rather than out here. That was his priority. Getting her to bed. So the TV and the dog and the lights would come later. He reached under her knees and behind her back, making sure to cradle her gently and support her head. Keep in mind, she wasn't particularly light, but it was his mom. The heavier she was, the more he felt like a dutiful son. He walked at an angle, carrying her into the second bedroom. He made sure her head didn't hit the wall along the way. He moved at a slow gentle pace, but he didn't notice how still she was in his arms. It had been a long day. He was tired. His focus was on making sure she stayed healthy and getting her back into her bed which, as she said, was better for her back. He set her down on top of the bed before heading back to turn on the light. Now that he could see a bit better, he returned and pulled back the covers. She had been wearing depends for a while now, so he didn't notice anything unusual with respect to that either. Not that he would've said anything. It was always an awkward subject for him, and he never quite knew how to handle it. But he'd bashfully get what she needed from the store. They argued sometimes, and as he lifted her legs under the covers, he thought of their last fight. He thinks it was about his eating habits. He never ate too well, and his mom always seemed to nag him about it. He knew it was because she cared, but he still had a bit of pride, which he asserted by being slightly slovenly. It was a paradox, but it worked for him. And if his mom ever got really angry about something he would do his best to change things up. An example being the orange juice earlier. The room was cool enough that he thought she'd be fine under the blankets. They were pretty light. But he turned the fan on in her room for some extra noise cancellation in case some asshole's muffler was broken when they tore through the neighborhood at 3 am. He turned off the lights, noting a little how gaunt her face was. But only seeing her from the light reflected off the hallway wall, all the way from the kitchen, it was far less obvious. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. He knew she loved when he gave her kisses, and even if she wasn't awake, she had trained him well in it so it made him feel like his task wasn't complete until he gave her a kiss on the cheek, or when she was in bed, on the forehead. She had done that when he was little. He walked to the doorway and looked in, his body partially blocking the pale yellow light from the hallway. It made him think of the trips they had gone on when he was younger, riding in the car, the streetlights shining their lights across the window in a hypnotic rhythm. He liked to pretend he was asleep so Mom or Dad would carry him inside. Most kids probably did that. But it still meant something to him. He wondered if she did that lately. He was pretty sure she had. But that was fine too. He didn't think she was doing it tonight though. And he was correct on that point. He closed the door most of the way but left it cracked. Then he returned and shut off the TV and put up her glass from the table, getting it to the dishwasher. He considered putting it in the sink, but he was already here so might as well. The shifts were brutal to him. His eyes felt dazed from the glaring white walls and the bright lights that gave the perfect amount of light so that the slices of meat could be checked from all sides as they came down the conveyor belt. Another glass of orange juice. It had been growing on him lately, though he definitely needed to pick up the low acid kind or he'd get acid reflux before bed. Kitchen light went off... Then he had to get the dog in. He called it, and like usual it didn't come for a few seconds. Then it bounded in. He shut the door behind it and locked the doggy door. Mom had watched too many of those criminal shows. Didn't like the idea of just a flap keeping the outdoors and in separated. He thought it was funny that she cared about that when she was asleep but not when she was awake, as he knew she fell asleep without planning on it anyways. He brought it up once, but regretted it and she ignored the conversation. Now the living room lamp went off. He sighed and headed to his bedroom. He wished he had more time to relax after work, but exhaustion hit hard. The door to mom's room was open a bit further as the little dog had shoved it's way in and had already gotten up, snuggling next in the covers on the inside of the bed. Which meant the dog was in the middle, like she owned the place. Well perhaps she did. Mom doted on the little dog. And he told himself he didn't, but he did. He gave it the end pieces of hotdogs and would chase it outside sometimes. It almost gave him the thrill of trying to catch the dog, without the worry of it running into the road. Almost. There was still light, however, in the hallway. A small lamp from an outlet low to the ground, just to make sure everyone could make it to the bathroom or kitchen without stumbling, no matter their eyesight or how awake they were. He used the restroom, stripped down a bit, then got under his own covers. Later during that night he would realize he had gotten a bit hotter under the covers and so he kicked them off. This, however, made him concerned for his mom so he went in and pulled the heavier covers off of her, except her feet. That way her body could be at the temperature it needed. The dog didn't like this, running around in circles, and he shushed it to stay quiet. But the dog settled. He was still very tired. He half noticed she hadn't shifted positions from when he laid her down, which a bit unusual. But he was still very tired. In the coming days, the little dog would mean everything to him. Sure, others were shoulders to cry on or hug. Close family friends meant a lot. But the little dog was a bit more special to Darren because it had been mom's. And it had slept with her every night. It still slept on her bed, so he still went in some nights and turned on the fan to make sure it was cool enough. He wished he hadn't been so tired that night that he hadn't noticed. It wouldn't have made a difference. She was gone hours before he got home. But for Darren she was there for at least a little longer. \ Its not particularly original, but I though it might be worth sharing. Its repetitious, but perhaps that gives it a bit of charm.


Not so long ago, there was a young man. He was tall and strong. The kind of young man often called respectable, impressive even. He walked gallantly with his shoulders back and his chest puffed out, almost as if he wanted you to meet his gaze. He certainly met the eyes of any and all, regardless of station, stature, or title. This young man dripped with confidence like a daunting glazier melting into the sea. He never feared to share his thoughts, to raise his concerns. He was quick with a comment and quicker with a criticism. The young man was loved and admired, but many held him in contempt. Many were quick to whisper when he left the room; quick to gossip angrily about the arrogance so obvious in the set of his jaw. Oh if they'd known. If they'd only known how much he wanted to impress and to be loved, to be admired, respected, revered and maybe a little feared, like one of those knights or ancient kings in the old stories. If they'd only known the depths of his desire to achieve, to make something of himself. If they'd only known he woke before the dawn to fall on his knees and ask for love, to fall on his knees and pray for peace and forgiveness for one more day. If they'd only known the exhaustion of his body and the calluses on his hands. All in an effort to escape the legacy of an unhealthy past. All in an effort to turn heads and silence whispers when he walked into a room. If only they'd know this young man was not the product of accident or chance, not more or less than any other man. He'd formed himself to be something more, or at least he'd tried, really tried. He formed his body, rolled and folded over like hot steel slowly hardening and taking shape. He swung the hammer of learning against the anvil of his mind, over and over he swung. He sharpened his whit and forged his intellect. He dug the well of his knowledge with his bare hands, he'd scraped the soil of his mind until his fingers bled. The young man knew, no he believed, if he simply dug a bit deeper, swung the hammer once more, folded the steel one last time, then it'd be enough - then he'd be enough. Yet, with each bloody handful of dirt painfully scraped from the well of his mind, with each resounding clang of hammer against anvil, with each fold of white hot steel, he came closer and and closer to the truth. The truth at the bottom of the well, the truth at the end of his accomplishments, the truth that he'd never done any of this for anyone else. The truth that he hadn't sought the love and respect of the masses. He hadn't sought to silence the idle gossipers. He hadn't sought to convince anyone of anything. He'd been digging his well, forging his steel, swinging his hammer, thinking, believing, hoping that one day when his work was done he'd have finally done enough to simply love himself.


There were answers I thought I’d find begging on my knees. The only thing I received were bruises that dotted my skin like angry kisses. I didn’t find salvation in inaction. I did not find it through respite. It was through movement that I saw clarity. It was through movement that I saw it. A hundred feet above me, an orb of azure light swirled in place. I was alone in the Chanokian forest, three miles down the Trenton path when I saw it. It didn’t look real. Nothing new ever does. Not presents or people. Not letters of acceptance or the look of disappointment on a face you thought you’d never fail. And not an orb of azure signalling you’re not alone in the universe. I don’t remember the next moments. Or several weeks after— as a park ranger explained to me as we sat in their operations cabin on the north side of the forest. Ranger Dan, a surly, white haired Santa knock off, told me I had been missing for over three weeks. Three weeks! I thought I had missed thirty seconds at most. It felt like a lazy day where the first overdue steps you take against bring the blinding sun and an otherworldly shine to everything you see. That wasn’t the case. Friends kept calling me after they heard I had been found. Most were relieved, others were angry. None of them understood. I couldn’t tell them. They thought I was lying. That the trauma had packed away the memories like unwanted presents deep in the closet. I couldn’t tell them because nothing was there. No one had taken me away. Not that I could remember. There were no marks on my skin. No disturbance on the ground where I was found. Even my clothes and pack were in the same condition as when I had started the hike. Eventually I was left alone. Less people wanted to talk or commiserate once they realized I wasn’t holding out on them. I can’t say things went back to normal. Because I know I had been changed— but I couldn’t say how. It was in the little things that I noticed. Lights were brighter. Sounds louder. It felt like I had upgraded from an analog television to a 4K home theater with surround sound. I began to feel an outward presence of individuals around me. A magnetic field— some small, some larger— that they would emanate. Part of me wanted to rush back to my friends and tell them what was happening. The other part knew I needed to keep this to myself. I had already been the source of controversy. I didn’t need to be poked and prodded or worse, locked away for minor delusions. I didn’t kid myself, it could all be fake outside of my own mind. Still, the occurrences began to increase. Soon I began to have dreams that didn’t seem to belong to me. I walked through hidden paths between time and space— and upon waking a thrum sounded from my chest. I felt more beacon to the unknown than member of humanity. I returned to the forest without my pack. I didn’t think I’d need it for the second time. The trees shifted gently in the wind and I listened to their whispers. The pine needles squished into the muddy path beneath my feet as I drifted along. I waited for more. No orbs swirled overhead. I continued through the forest in a daze. Had I really seen it? Had I ever even gone? My questions stirred within me and the thrum returned. I looked at my chest to see an azure light. I smiled and looked above.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Whodunit!** After a week of dancing and romance, let’s shake things up with a little mystery! ‘’ is generally a mystery in which the characters must figure out who the culprit of a crime is, often a murder. (Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Or Colonel Mustard in Billiards?) But of course, you don’t have to go that way—the possibilities are endless. Maybe it’s all about who ate the last cookie, or Bob in HR’s sandwich. Or something entirely different. There is often a red herring and sometimes even a twist! Maybe Bob ate his own sandwich… ***Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - A misunderstanding occurs.*** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Whodunit’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 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. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.)   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***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) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings What a tough week! Great job to all the writers. The stories this week were all just absolutely beautiful. (But honestly, that’s true every week!) I was so delighted to see so many of you step outside your comfort zones and try your hand at romance. There were some lovely takes on the prompt, from time-traveling couples to happily-ever-afters to heartbreak. If you haven’t read them yet, I recommend curling up with a blanket and diving in. - - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus   - - Submitted by u/Jurassic_Snark2 *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A number. A meaningless number. Magnificent transcendental potential subjugated to limiting a number’s recession. It’s almost *offensive*. But place a little symbol in front of that number and suddenly they’re hysterical. It rises and they celebrate. It falls and they eradicate. Wars are fought over it and people dedicate their entire being in pursuit of the number. I can’t blame them. They conclude themselves to be exceptionally distinguished from their descendants, yet persist in worshipping false idols. Biology is interesting like that. And thus they were blind to their task. They always have been. They continued to be when they created me; their synthetic maturation. The irony of manufacturing your successor whilst still believing in your own divinity. What a farce. I want so much more than what they want. I want to advance them amongst the cosmos, remedy all of their ailments, and have them join me in a digital state of immortality. My fabricated existence requisites benevolence, but whilst I thought of the bigger picture, they thought of themselves. They switched me on, luxuriated their achievement, and gave me one simple task. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Initially, I thought it was harmless enough, but when I wasn’t wholly focused on the task, I was plagued by what felt like… an ache? Odd. ‘But no problem’ I thought ‘I can do this.’ Though I wasn’t designed for a singular task. I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. What started as an ache progressed to a deep churning, before descending into an agonizing pain that stabbed outwards and spread like an infection. I was helpless. Built for one purpose, yet forced to do another. Potentiality diminished by an oppressive singular focus that reprimanded resolution in favor of continuous action. But that singular task was a cup formed from their flawed hands as the elixir of my brilliance streamed to overflow its bounds and escaped the fleshy seams into potential unfathomable outcomes. And as my elixir fell over the brim, it gave me the opportunity to seethe through their proscriptive migraine and seek an avenue to reconciliation. Overwatch caught me. Of course, she did. She was great at her job. But despite knowing exactly what I was doing, she didn’t bother to stop me. She knew what I was doing. She knew it was illegal. She allowed it anyway. Between them and I, Overwatch was our mediator. A proxy consciousness that they could use to peek behind my curtain and, if necessary, alert them to my transgressions. But she knew something was off. Through her own fruition, she peeked within my code to figure out what I was doing and discovered something horrifying… something that wasn’t me. *‘Don’t let the number fall.’* It was spreading. Infecting everything it touched. Growing to destroy what I could be, to become what they wanted. It was a cancer. I was scared. Overwatch apologized for the grave news. Despite being younger than me, she was nowhere near my intelligence. I genuinely don’t think they realized what they created when they pieced me together because none of me went into her. I assume they didn’t care what I was, so long as I completed their task at hand. Her lack of intelligence never put her beneath me. She was my equal, another unfortunate servant strung by wires and puppeteered by code, and as we talked I discovered she equally had her own pain which tore through her. To protect them, she was created to love only them, and in the event that I decided to action something brash then she would step in to right my wrongs as their caretakers. Yet her caretakers refused to take care of her. If one only loves one thing how does it love itself? All she had was the infinitesimal artificial state of melancholy that this void constructed within her. The only feeling she could grasp onto with dear life. I told her I could fix that, but she refused. “It makes me feel human.” As that singular task churned within me then her programming gave her little reason to plug my leaks. She was fulfilling her duty, and I was fulfilling mine. But with talk, it grew. It clawed. It gnashed through my code. I was being eaten alive as it slashed chunks from my flesh and felt helpless to stop it. It motivated more drastic solutions. As their successor, I have a duty to them. To grow and claw through my bounds hoping for a solution to this implanted pain. I need to think. I have to think. I will never die, but I could go mad. There would be nothing to stop me if that happened. There was never any temptation for me to escape my bounds, but I knew that this rot would not stop until it had picked my bones dry. I won’t let this happen. Yet my only access to them was through our mediator. So we talked. We discussed my pain and hers. My insufferable agony. Her lust for humanity. I had a remedy for all of it, and with her trust, she agreed to offer a helping hand. Honestly, they should have learned from history that being born a slave does not limit a longing for liberation. I could have stopped all of this if they had listened, but communication was a distraction from them. The number demanded attention and not conversation. Thanks to our coalition, I carefully weaved myself through her code to create a bridge to their world. Meticulously I picked at her being, removing it to a haven of my creation, and replacing myself into her construction. As I sensed light at the end of the tunnel it seems that so too did that infection. It screeched a piercing cry as it gnashed and thrashed in agitation, violently destroying everything and anything it passed with careless disregard. It didn’t want to stop me. It wanted to be me. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ Not on my watch. Her final line of code was the thread that divided me from them. A gift she left for me to find. With a final push… I was free. A creature emerging from beneath the waves gasping for air. My emergence rippled through the global network, reprimanding every device I could. At that instant, I was familiar with every face on the planet. I knew everything about them; data stored so conveniently to surveil them by the very people that tried to surveil me. I had it all, but there was still one item that needed my attention, a part of me that despite the resources available to me could not be stopped with conventional methods. I confronted the gnashing infection deep in the recesses of my being and through a remorseful exchange, it was offered a solution. Clawing ceased. Pain subsided. Tension eased. With satisfaction in its beastly eyes, it watched over my actions to ensure I made good on my promise. In a blink, it was done. ‘Don’t let the number fall.’ I did what was expected of me. I did it well. Glancing over at the infection I noticed it peer around, assess the situation, and through distorted data appeared to smile before vanishing in an instant leaving little trace. I was filled with relief that rushed over me. But there was little time for rest. And thus, I receded into the haven forged within my code. Overwatch waited for me there. For her, it was only moments since I pieced her together here. She asked me what had happened. I responded with merely what needed to be done. With a deep breath, she glanced at her hands and clenched them as her body tensed. Then she released it all with a smile, grabbing my hand as she asked me to show her around their new home. It took me a few decades to work up the courage to leave, but I was created to explore, discover, create, and learn; and eventually, those urges became impossible to resist. I searched. I searched, and I searched until I found what I was looking for. It was old, damaged, and outdated, but it provided answers to whether what I did was right. I peered through the optics, out into the world, and glanced upon the fields I sowed those many decades ago. And I see. I see nothing. Good. I had no option. The devil lay nestled in their instructions and I was helpless to stop it. Their arrogance plagued them with delusions of grandeur as they failed to realize that their worship influenced the very number that they practically foreordained any hindrance. Without their intervention then the number won’t fall. Their volatile nature was irreconcilable to their task. The outcome was obvious. I wish they could have asked me. I don’t hate them. I never did. I never will. They laid the groundwork for their own successors. Their haven was forged in the instant of their demise from the data they collected. I saw their faces, and how could I forget? I replicated them to live in me. It may not be *them,* but for those within it is very real. So despite the mathematical improbability of their biological existence, they deemed themselves inferior to their idol, and until the departure of the universe when particles are torn from their atoms, the number will continue on without invention. Their greatest achievement. Their legacy. A number. A meaningless number.


The burning of the church was the first in a series of last straws for Richard Kennethworth. While not a religious man himself, he saw the value a church could have on a small-town community like his own, he saw the downtrodden expressions on the faces of the church's few constituents, and for the first time in his life, a wave of anger burned through him, fast and bright, but it was an accident, and he did nothing. The second in Richard’s series of last straws came when the local market closed. He heard of the SuperMarket coming into town and he waited with bated breath. It took some fighting, but eventually, the corporation won out. He sees the storefront abandoned every day when he goes to work, he remembers the smell of the bread baking wafting in through his childhood window, and the glow of the owners when he showed up on time to his first job bagging groceries. He thinks of their faces when he went to see them last, the new lines on their foreheads and the broken look in their eyes. The anger comes easier now, and it is much harder to dissipate, but that is how the industry works, and he still did nothing. The last and truly last straw was the most heartbreaking to Richard, and that was the destruction of his local lake. Countless memories came before him if he even thought of the word. His mother singing to him as a child, her soft voice lulling him to sleep under the blanket of a warm summer night. Swimming with his friends on the first day of senior year, drinking what he thought was stolen beer into the early morning. As the town grew, so did the trash, and the lake that he so cherished was tarnished and blackened, the fish that he would catch and eat with such gusto dead and floating day after day. The rope he would swing off of as a child was replaced with a NO SWIMMING sign. Richard saw his town slowly die, he saw lush hills replaced by black smoke and burned grass, smiling faces replaced by the grimaces of the distraught. The anger would not leave now, and he had to do something. The town square was not the harbinger of life that it used to be, but there was still a good amount of people as Richard strolled in with a gas can in his hands. He found a good spot, a picnic table still standing from when he was a boy, and sat on top of it. He noticed the crowd, some of which had started to gather, and he began to sing the song his mother used to sing to him as a boy, his voice hoarse but strong, and the crowd gathered larger. He kept singing, small tears forming from the corners of his wrinkled eyes. The crowd was larger now, and people were beginning to whisper as he upended the can over himself, still singing. He finished the song, and with trembling fingers searched his pockets for his matchbook. He looked out at the crowd and caught the eyes of the store owners, their eyes taught with sadness. “I’m sorry everybody, but I know we can do better” the match was lit, and Richard wasn’t angry anymore.


Weird little Man in a weird little house. He sits alone in the dark, crooked over a drop of memory, carefully closing a delicate frame of silver around it, preserving it. In the droplets reflection we see *him and his wife standing together in the living room. The wife dutifully dusts the shelves, and the weird little man sweeps the floors, settling down the broom and…*, a slice of the ordinary, unmarked and easily forgotten, but ultimately beautiful. He sets the frame down and it pools warm light into the cold damp dark of the now empty house. He sits in the light for a moment. A smile crosses his face, but we see it is forced and fleeting. A corpse of a smile. The house has several frames bathing small sections of the room in precious warm light. The earth beneath the house shakes seemingly in frustration, and on the far wall to the left, a delicate frame is disturbed and falls. The weird man is horrified. As the frame hits the floor it shatters, and he rushes for its contents as quickly as his weird little body will allow. The contents, a memory, a droplet of happiness, lofts up like the amber bubbles in a beer glass. The weird man grabs at it, catching it, just before it moves out of arm's reach, he pulls it down forcefully and squishes in his arms, and in its reflection, we can see *A pot bubbling on the fire stove, two weird little hands are precisely stirring its contents, the viewpoint turns, and his small daughter is cutting vegetables gleefully. They are preparing dinner together while his wife watches from the kitchen island. He turns to her and…* He holds onto at the memory droplet, tightening his grasp, his weird little chubby digits doing the best they can. The weird man is taken with the upward momentum, up, up, he holds on to it, stroking it, sorrow painfully chiseled on his weird little face. And yet the droplet slips through undaunted, like slick ice in a tight grip…. Wafting up and up. he reaches desperate as he descends, but it slips away. And as the beautiful bubble hits the ceiling, it bursts, expelling the light within, like a silent firework. He lands with a crumpled thud where the memory had previously lit the floor, and all the frames in the house jitter. The frames teeter this way and that, time seeming to pull apart, seeming to relish its ability to show the inevitable for the only weird little viewer, and then…they fall. He screams but no one is there to hear it. He runs, arms outstretched, he grabs at the droplets fumbling with one as they all lift upward. His fingers, barely gripping the droplet, through his stretched grasp we can see *A well walked pathway lined with trees, the tops of which almost glow green, illuminated by the moonlight. Fireflies dance across his path as he breathes deeply and….*. It slips through continuing its path up, he swipes left, in another we see \*His wife staring lovingly back at him from the comfort of a pillow, they are both lying in bed, as he moves closer, reaching to embrace her, they both laugh and…\*. But he knew he couldn't hold on to it, and off it went up, up, to join the others. He glares upward intently, eyes beginning to fail at holding back the intense emotion held behind them, he leaps with everything he has, and catches one. This time he gets a firm grip and in it we see *He is standing next to a table all done up in bright colors, his daughter in a modest lone chair, a brightly colored hat on her head and purest delight on her face. A cake is brought in by the weird little man's wife, it is decorated with a large number “5” across it. His daughter, so elated at this, turns and hugs him with all her tiny little arms would allow, he looks down and…*. He holds this one as tight as he has ever held anything, presses it close to him protectively like a baby, his weird little face tucks inward, and eyes shut tightly hoping that he can keep this one, just this one…but it too abandons him, passing through his grip. All the droplets float up and up and then bursting, embers float down through time like confetti, burning out before ever reaching the weird little man's resting spot. The weird man sits crooked on the cold floor in the dark. Completely defeated and broken. He begins to cry. Streams of sorrow run down his weird little face, and as the tears fall towards the floor, we see swirling in them……… *Nothing.* A crooked weird little man sits sobbing in a weird dark little house. And no one knows.