I'm not going to go into how. Honestly me trying to explain's like a physicist teaching pottery. Sufficed to say, I was having coffee, on a relaxing Sunday morning and suddenly my Sunday was NOT relaxing anymore. It would have been less totally fucking abrupt if my cat hadn't been chilling in my lap at the time. He does this thing where I sit at the kitchen table and scootch up close to it. Then he kinda meows to let me know he's there and jumps into my lap. I digress. Coffee. Sunday morning. Lucifer, my cat. If you could just imagine a kind of sudden expansion? Like if you pulled the cord on an inflatable dingy. And suddenly a man was in my lap. A full grown man. Now, I'm not a witch, but if I were I'd assume that when you turn a cat into a person they show up naked. Idk why.... It's not a sexual thing. Anyway. Lucifer (my cat) did not… arrive this way. He arrived in a suit. A *nice* suit. It just got weirder from there. Because he was in my lap and he... Expanded so fast? He absolutely upset the table,the coffee, the toast, everything. Upsetting for me, upsetting for the table. But not as upsetting as having an exploded cat on your hands. Exploded is the wrong word. Expanded? You get the idea. God. No one is gonna believe this. Aaanyway. After i became acquainted with the distinctly unusual turn of events there was a serious pause. A LONG PAUSE. we stared at each other confusedly. In shock. Then the chair collapsed. I should have mentioned. My chairs are garbage. Really great for one person, but a dangerous proposition with two smal people. Never mind the two of us. Yeah. So the chair broke and my cat. My person? Reacted as you'd expect. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a gangly six foot two man in a suit try to frantically scramble up the curtains to his favourite hidey-hole, but I have and if it weren't so disastrous it would have been funny. Down came curtains, catman, and several shelves containing not one but two family heirlooms and -of all things- a tray of beads. The sound, the mess, the destruction was biblical. Not to mention the yowling of the catman who... Can he even talk? After that, there was silence. Blessed silence. I think Lucifer was stunned because he just lay there. "What the FUCK just happened???" Ah. So cat people CAN talk. I thought wryly. I added this to my little mental journal of things to note about recently transformed cat people. Then I thought "I'm being surprisingly cool about this..." Is that normal? Should I see a therapist? Lucifer, the man, the cat stood! Shakily at first. And then with a sort of grace. He would’ve been sort of regal had he not then slipped on the beads. I think in addition to his lack of experience with the beads he may not have fully grasped bipedalism. On his back a second time he shouted a frustrated: "FUUUUUUUUUCK" Rightly put out by his circumstance and obvious lack of catlike reflexes. Still sitting in the remains of my chair something clicked in my brain and I crawled over to where he lay. I was still at a loss for words. "How...? What...?" I fumbled "Fuck you" said the man in the suit, with conviction. I sat back. Look at the ceiling. There was jam on it. From the upset earlier. It fell on my face. A satisfying plop. I decided it was time to stop letting the day fuck me over. Something or someone was fucking with me and this was precisely where the buck stopped. Standing carefully, (because: beads) I said: "stay there". Then, with purpose I strode to the kitchen, almost died because again: beads. I poured myself a glass of water, dumped in about a teaspoon of salt I downed it like a shot. Then I took the salt to where Lucifer had stayed (surprisingly) and pouring myself a generous handful and threw it at him. Nothing happened. Not for at least ten seconds. Then Lucifer seemed to shimmer and the sun went out for a instant. Then everything was suddenly normal. Well… not **normal** People in the old days threw salt behind them. That works sometimes, but in my experience if you know where the trouble is you should address it directly. I imagine you're probably thinking it would take a great deal of magic to put the sun out. And you're right. It totally would. Assuming you're doing it for everyone. That said I figured by now that whatever was happening was happening around me specifically. The salt taken care of I knelt down to eye level with Lucifer (currently in the process of popping a seam) and said; "Lucy, can you understand me?" He then gave me a very familiar contemptuous look. "Don't be fucking stupid." Cat person journal entry no. 2: cats like the word fuck. Again, at a loss for words i just looked at him for a second. "Do you want to be a cat again?" "DO yOu waNT TO bE a cAT aGAiN?" He echoed without hesitation. I threw my remaining water in his face. He slapped me. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" I'd just like to pause and note here that it would be manifestly wrong to assume that all cats (given a shot at being human) are assholes. I know it's sort of what we expect when we think of talking cats or people, but I've met plenty of cats who were sweet and tender and nurturing. My cat, like some people, just happened to be an asshole. Reeling a little from the sting I said "No. Don't ever do that again." Then: “Get up Lucy. We're going to find Emiley.” AAAAAAND that's it! Thanks for reading. Thoughts welcome. Pls be kind. It's been a while. There's more to this story. Lmk if you wanna know the rest of it.


Roman Fuller rises from his seat and walks to the platform in the center of the hall. "My name is Roman, and I've killed 217 zombies." The figure astounds the audience; it is by far the highest reported at the support group. "The majority of the zombies were from Glendale, where I live and work. Just like the last guy, I have to complete the required therapy, participate in this support group, and I don't have to serve any time. It's been difficult; I don't think any of us expected there to be a cure for the zombie virus; I'm hoping this group can change people's perceptions of me I look forward to hearing from others, thank you," Roman says as he steps down from the platform and takes his seat in the crowd. Roman is heading to work through Glendale, a town with roughly 10,000 people, though post-zombie apocalypse, it's more like 8,000. A mother with a young child walks by, throwing Roman the middle finger. An elderly woman rolls down her window simply to shout at Roman, "I hope you get shot in the head." As Roman approaches the counter within a restaurant, the waitress throws him an evil eye and says, "Sorry, we're closed for lunch." "You're a restaurant; lunch is what you do," Roman replied. "Perhaps we're simply closed for individuals who killed my sister," says the waitress as she brings lunch to another table. Roman gets the picture and heads back to his work. As he enters the building, the receptionist greets him, "Oh great, the office jerk made it back alive. Lenny wants to see you," she says. "Thanks," Roman says as he walks through evil stares from everyone in the office. Roman knocks on Lenny's door twice; he's seated at his desk and waves him in. "Hey Roman, you know, the business has been on the mend since the end of the apocalypse," he says nervously as he continues. "I know we said everyone would get their job back, but there's only so much financial burden we can take on right now, so we're going to let you go." "You're firing me?" Roman inquired. "No, no, no, no, no, we're looking to maximize efficiency and performance; it was a tough call, we choose you by a hair," Lenny explains. "So you're terminating me based on my performance? Are you certain it isn't because I murdered your parents?" Roman inquired. "Whaaaaaat? Of course not; that's water under the bridge in my case. This is solely for performance purposes," Lenny expresses. "All right, can I at least pack my belongings?" Roman inquired. "I believe it would be best for everyone in the office if we shipped you your things. Avoid uncomfortable farewells. You know, keep in touch; why did you murder my family? Blah, blah, blah," Lenny says. "Yeah, I guess I get it," Roman admits. No matter what Roman did, he couldn't find work, the residents continued to treat him like a murderer, and he couldn't move because he was required by court order to attend the support group. Roman was resolved to make the best of the situation, attending meetings and conversing with other zombie slayers. "You kill one family's Mimi, and suddenly you're not invited to Christmas dinner," one zombie slayer grumbled. "Just because I stabbed your children through the ears doesn't mean I don't have feelings," said another zombie slayer as he sobbed from the platform. Roman had finally made it to his final required support group. He had big plans to leave Glendale and become a commercial fisherman; he would depart first thing in the morning to begin his new life. As the meeting was coming to a close, Doctor Mejia, Glendale's only doctor, comes rushing into the hall, panicked. "They've returned; they've returned! The zombies have returned and have taken over the entire town; we need your help," the doctor said while narrowly avoiding a zombie onslaught outside the door. "Nah, been there, done that, have the zombies come in, they can have some day-old coffee," a zombie slayer jokes, pointing to the dusty coffee machine on the table. "I secured the doors, but they can only hold for so long," the doctor says as he begins to push chairs and tables in front of the door. "What about the cure, the vaccine?" inquires another zombie slayer. "We've tried everything," the doctor says as he begins to move the coffee machine, napkin holder, and creamer dispenser in front of the door. "What exactly are we doing here? Glendale needs us again, and we're just going to sit back and watch everyone perish?" Roman motivates. "But look what happened last time, we became outcasts," says a zombie slayer. Roman walks onto the platform, "Did we get blamed for killing everyone's loved ones? Sure. Did they seize all of our weapons, making this fight even more difficult? Yeah, they did that. Will we be remembered for saving the town this time? Most likely not. But there are zombies outside that door, and if these support meetings have taught me anything, it's that zombie slayers kill zombies!" Roman says, determined. "Wasn't that the point of the support group?" says the support group counselor gently. Roman rushes up to the end of the hall, picks up an American flag, and snaps the wooden handle in half, creating a zombie-killing spike. "Come on, let's go slaughter some zombies!!" Roman says as he marches towards the door. Roman and the zombie slayers wiped out Glendale's zombie population. By the time they were done, there were almost no zombies left. The waitress from the cafe, dead; Roman's boss Lenny, dead; even the receptionist, dead! Hundreds upon hundreds of zombies were slaughtered by Roman and the zombie slayers. After an epic battle, Roman sits on the steps of city hall, and the doctor approaches him with a vile in his hand. "We altered the vaccine; there's a cure again!" exclaims the doctor. "Is that the cure right there?" Roman inquires. "Yes," the doctor confirms, "it's the only vaccine for miles." Roman shifts his gaze to the left and then to the right. He then stabbed the doctor in the head with the bloodied wooden spike he had obtained from the support group hall. The vile shatters into hundreds of fragments as it falls to the ground. "Oh, no, the doctor dropped the cure," Roman said to himself as he kills a zombie woman who gave him the finger as he walked down the street.


Who knew giraffes were omnivores? When presented with food scarcity, they often compete with each other for the highest leaves. Their teeth shape and behaviors for a million years completely align with herbivores. The flat wide molars allow the animal to grind the plant tissue. Break through the cell walls to maximize nutrient absorption. Sure, they are dangerous creatures already with a “kick powerful enough to behead a lion” and can reach speeds up to 40 miles per hour. But no one expected this. Man must pay for his misdeeds when the treetops are stripped of their leaves. We fucked it up.   Namibia, 2028: Our population has exploded in the past 5 years. The Insurgency of Cabo Delgato has spread. The Ansar al-Sunna, a radical faction of Islamic extremists, has successfully made Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Botswana into an Islamic State. The Namibian military was decimated in the Battle of Luanda, Angola. Our country has been flooding with refugees since. We just couldn’t house them all on our own, but our allies gave up. We were deemed a lost cause. We have raided what forest cover we had left for medicines and lumber. ‘People are more important than animals’ our politicians said. It was true to an extent. But it just made everything worse. People were still starving on the streets, children dying from curable diseases, violent crime is the highest in our history. Our water sources are poisoned with our own waste. Almost all water sources have been contaminated one way or another. It was just a matter of time. The desert has spread. Eating up our marshlands and ridding our surrounding plant life. There is a reason the Ansar haven’t come for us, we are not a country but a mass grave.  Then the giraffes. God, we weren’t ready.  It started when the wildlife starting coming into our camps. Exploring for food as the prey was dwindling. We have lost hundreds to lions, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, and wild dogs. They came in droves. Never before has anyone seen these predators working together to stay alive. Divundu became a refugee camp for 3000 people. The cup floweth over here. We lost Divundu to the animals. No one could hold them back. We were their prey. And one day, they stopped entirely. Our environmentalists have become as useful as our politicians. Half-baked answers to questions they have never been asked. Answers to quell the overwhelming fear sweeping the nation. Our people are not sated. They first appeared in Rundu, the largest refugee camp of 150,000 residents. A lone farmer witnessed a small tower of giraffes devouring the last of his livestock. No one believed him. How could they? These peaceful giants have been roaming these lands for a million years and only attack when provoked. A bus of children was found flipped over on the outskirts of town. The bodies of many were strewn about, well, what was left. The hollowed-out corpses and the shaking children whispering ‘the tall ones were here’ added support to the farmer’s claims. The hoove-shaped holes in their chests was the cherry on top. Giraffes were hunting us. God is dead. We had lost track of their population numbers. Our scientists couldn’t understand what they have been witnessing. The gestation period has decreased from 15 months to three. The litter size to 10. Giving birth is lethal to them. The calves claw and eat their way out of their mothers. They reach full maturity in 5 months. They’ve been breeding like rabbits and the current estimate is in the hundred thousands, nearing a million. This level of atavism is beyond us. Maybe they evolved? Certainly not within this time frame? Our villages were no competition. Since the discovery, Namibia has been quarantined. The last of us, 2000 survivors, are hiding in the Karibib Airbase. Without our military, this is the only way to defend ourselves.   USA, 2045: The world is devoured. Eaten alive by these ‘Peaceful Giants.’ The growth in their numbers has been exponential. First, they ate Africa. All life is wiped out. Once again, they evolved. Long known as one of the mammals in the world that are not able to swim. Scientists believed that the long neck of the giraffe and the long legs would not provide enough energy to support its neck while in water. This was no longer the case. Their gestation period shortened, their litter size increased, their maturity is faster, and they are massive. The average northern adult giraffe now measures 50 feet tall. They now have long, sharp teeth adapted to ripping, tearing, and cutting flesh. Speeds up to 80 mph. Built like a tank, it takes a lot to stop them. And they swim. God can they swim. A new species has also arisen. Brevis Fortis Panthera. An average height of 6 feet, razor-sharp teeth, 30 mph, capable of walking on hind legs, complex problem-solving. They have large-scale cooperation. They can strategize. Their sense of smell is extremely sensitive and set to human. THUMBS. THEY FUCKING HAVE THUMBS. They use tools, open doors, start fires, and seem to have their own structured language. Fuck guns. They’re useless against the towers consisting of fifty or more. They stalk the streets foraging for any remaining stray pets. The wild dog packs that ran rampant in the beginning are now gone. We can only hide for so long. The Brevis, nicknamed Short Necks, have been raiding homes, offices, businesses, MILITARY BASES. Everyone’s a gangster until you have a man-sized giraffe aiming an M16 at your head. The Short Necks and the Extra Talls work together. Extra talls are sentries. If they see you or your group, you're as good as dead. They scream and alert all others in the area. If the Short Necks need a door kicked down, they call out to the ETs. If they know you’re inside but can’t find you, they torch the place. Leave no survivors. We don't have enough scientists to research them. We don’t have a large enough army to combat them. We are the holers, the last of our kind.   Giraffica, 2090: Our society is flourishing. After the war, we were able to settle down. With mankind under wraps, our nations have been taken back by nature. All the high leaves we can eat. Our evolutionary advances have slowed a bit but we are still discovering new tribes across the world with different capabilities. In our homeland, our brethren have even taken to the skies. The bats are no longer the only flying mammals. Suck it. In the country formally known as japan, they can fish! Not only that, the newer generations are being born with gills in addition to lungs. The seas are now a reservoir of new foods. I’ve never had sushi before but i heard that Melmon can make one hell of a tuna roll. Our litter sizes are down to 1-2 again and our gestation cycle is almost back to our ancestors. Our growth rate has plateaued and is in balance. Short necks maintain the farms and buildings. They live indoors mostly and have lifelong relationships with their families. We really lucked out when we secured the last of the upright apes. Breeding seems to be the only thing they’re good at. They pushed back of course, but we dealt with the uprisings well. Us Extra Talls have kept many as slaves for harvesting meat. It’s actually a wonderful spectacle to behold. We throw a handful into stadiums and watch as they rip each other apart. Their eyes leak water when they clean the floors and prepare the meat. All in all, things are good. Our wars were well fought and easily won. Giraffe kind is at the top of the food chain. We are capable of making the world better. The ozone layer is fully repaired, the forests are taking back their lands, the reefs are growing and are bountiful with fish. We won’t screw the world up like the humans.   Tall-boi-topia, 3500: We fucked it up. Things are bad now. Right where they started. Except we didn’t expect the next peak predators to be rabbits. Billions upon Billions of rabbits. But they're no ordinary rabbits. They’re the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on! The rabbits’ got a vicious streak a mile wide! They’re killers! They’ve got huge, sharp-- eh-- he can leap about-- look at the bones filling the streets!   Rabbit world, 5000: We fucked it up.


The air creaked and reeked of sweat and death. Fifteen of them where chained up against the inside wall of the barge, hands and feet bound, with collars holding their necks for good measure. Four of them were already dead, a few more not far behind. The strongest kept their silence and looked straight ahead, trying not to breathe too deeply. Jimenez was the third man along from the only door to the stinking, foetid room they were being kept in. Had he been able to move his arms, he could have touched the opposite wall with only a mild stretch. He *was* able to move his feet slightly, back and forth. It helped keep the pain alive, reminded him that his feet were still there. They’d chopped one of the men off at the knees a few days ago for crying; he was quiet soon after, bled out on the floor. His rotting feet, along with this blood and shit and tears were part of the mixed stench permeating the room. The barge hadn’t stopped for the sixteen, maybe seventeen days they’d been aboard. There were no windows, but a light permanently filtered through cracks in the door frame. It didn’t grow stronger or fade, so it wasn’t the sun. Jimenez had tried to keep track of time by listening for changes of the watch on deck. Sometimes it was muffled, weather depending. Sometimes he had heard it clear. Other times, he was sure he’d missed it, asleep or unconscious. He couldn’t remember why he’d what he’d did. He wasn’t sure if he was a murderer or not. Might have been self-defence. Might have been straight up evil. He didn't know anymore. He only knew he had to be quiet and keep looking straight ahead. Thirty days in the dark without a word, and he’d be free. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen. Footsteps, something thumping along the corridor and then keys jangled outside the door. Time for water, and torture. The guards weren’t allowed to touch the prisoners as long as the prisoners kept silent, but there was nothing in the law to say the guards had to be silent themselves. “YOU FUCKING SCUM! WAKE UP! WAKE UP, YOU SCUM!” The screams of the Water Carrier were accompanied by his fist, banging on the outside of the door frame. The creaking of the barge was drowned out briefly, but the smell remained. Keys jangled again, then dull light invaded the room, quickly followed by more enthusiastic screaming. “You murderous fuckpigs! You evil wastes of skin! You wake up! You wake up! You wake up and you talk to me! You tell me your names and apologise for your fucking crimes and I will give you water! Water is freedom! Water is life! Silence is death for you bastards, so you tell me your fucking names!” The Water Carrier slithered into the room, doing his honest best not to touch any of the prisoners. He held the end of a hose in one calloused hand, the coils of it in his other. His lackey remained in the corridor, poised over the water barrel the hose was connected to, ready to pump. Jimenez opened his mouth, stayed silent. The Water Carrier was wrong; silence was life. He came into the room twice a day with the hose and the water. The prisoners were allowed to drink their fill each time, although they had had no food since the night before they were chained to the wall, one after the other. They would have no food unless they disembarked alive at the end of the journey. Thirteen, maybe fourteen days. The Water Carrier walked to the end of thin room, loosing the hose as he went and carrying on his demands to be spoken to. The last man in the row, the first to walk in, was still alive. He had his head up, mouth open, eyes shut. The Water Carrier raised the hose, nodded to his lackey, and water flowed into the prisoner’s mouth. The man swallowed, spat some up, while the Water Carrier continued to speak to him, softly. The prisoner moved his head around as best he could to wash some of the accumulated sweat and blood and grime off. Kept his eyes closed, then, when he had had enough, closed his mouth. The Water Carrier lowered the hose and turned back the way he came. Smiled. “Come on you fucking bastards! Speak! Speak! Hold your piece and I will hold the water! You will get nothing from me! SCUM!” The last word was spat into the face of the first dead man, number two in the row. The ship had barely made it out of port before he’d broken, yelled “I want out, this was a mistake, I want out!” It was always rumoured that the guards laid money down to be the First Executioner. That each one chose a prisoner, threw some gold into a pot, and whichever one picked the first prisoner to break pocketed the lot. Oh, and had the right to execute that prisoner in whichever way they saw fit. Whichever way it worked, a long dark streak of piss in a guard uniform had ghosted into the room and used a spoon to pry out the yelling prisoner’s eyes. He’d poured something, not much of something, but *something*, into the open sockets and set a light to them, a fucking stupid thing to do on a boat, river barge or not - it was a deep river and an old boat. Whatever the guard had used, the prisoner’s head lit up. His throat broke on the first scream, and his rasping cries continued for another few minutes, until the guard decided he’d had enough fun and ended it with a knife across the throat. The other fourteen of them had looked ahead, or kept their eyes shut. They didn’t say a word. A few of them pissed themselves from fear. Jimenez shat his last meal down his legs and onto the floor, clamped his teeth down on his lips and a whimper. Short, sharp breaths erupted from the remaining men as they struggled to control themselves. Breathing was fine, no matter how loudly; but they were prisoners and had no voice, symbolically. If they challenged that symbolism, spoke or gasped or cried out or mumbled or sang or made any noise from their throat, then they died. And justice prevailed. The Water Carrier reached the body of a man he’d been able to kill himself. Two days into the voyage, the prisoner had calmly said, as the Water Carrier raised the hose to his mouth, “My name is Alberto and I killed my three sons and their mother and I think I should die now.” The Water Carrier had dropped the hose, taken a leather glove studded with metal spikes and hooks from his robes, put it on, and then he had punched Alberto’s head against the wall of the barge until it broke, and then just punched harder. When the hose had come to Jimenez it still tasted of blood from Alberto. He’d drank his fill, and felt better for it. The Water Carrier looked almost fondly at Alberto’s corpse, a smile on his face like a child gazing in awe at a particularly impressive shit. “This man! This man is free! This man told me his name, and now he is free! You, bastards! You bastards are not free and if you do not tell me your name, I will not give you water! Speak your crimes to me! The hose came up, and water spilled down the face of the man to Jimenez’ left. Jimenez held his pose, mouth open, eyes watching the wall ahead. He could see the lackey, from the corner of his eye, pumping up and down at the barrel. Despite the Water Carrier’s words, they were duty and oath bound to ensure the prisoners were watered. Jimenez felt water on his face, in his mouth. He gulped some of it down, tried to spray some out and up, over his cheeks and chin, shaking his head and trying to spit some down his chest towards his aching feet. The Water Carrier leaned in close, never touching, but still speaking. “You evil fucking pig, I know what you did, I know what you *all* did and you’re all going to burn, you’re all going to burn slowly. There’s no freedom for you. Keep your fucking silence, the first thing I’ll do when you get off this boat is tie you to a fucking tree and ram a fire-heated sword blade into your fucking arsehole. Think that’ll hurt? Huh, think that’ll hurt? Best bit is, if I keep the sword there, the heat will cauterise your wound, you won’t bleed out for days. For fucking *days*. You keep your silence. They’ll be warming the coals now, you evil scum fuck.” Jimenez closed his mouth. The Water Carrier moved on. Jimenez leant his head back on the wall, licked his lips. He looked straight ahead, at the wall opposite. A man’s image hung there. The man he had killed. He looked the same as he had when Jimenez had last saw him: eyes bruised, jaw broken. A knife in his stomach. His eyes were open, hard and cold, staring at Jimenez, full of hate and anger. Jimenez knew that only he could see the dead man, just like he knew that the other men were seeing different images, of the people they’d killed. Some would be seeing their families, like Alberto had. Some would be seeing strangers, like he was. This was their punishment, their justice, their guilt trip. Thirty days in the dark to look at the people they’d murdered. To look them in the eyes and see what they’d done. To reflect, to repent. Or to break. The survivors, the hardest of them, would be freed at the end of the journey. They’d be fed and allowed to rest and then there’d be a place for them in the King’s Guard. Maybe they’d be above decks, one day, as another batch of murderers came down the river for a quiet sail. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen.


My secret was suddenly split open when a cloaked man approached me with my birth name. This name was written somewhere safe, secret in the forest. There weren’t many of us in these recent times, those who honored the trees. The young man approached with his spine pulled up tall and shoulders square with a jar full of opaque, gold, thick liquid in his hand. His vibrant, green eyes bore into me, making the hair on my neck stand on end. There was a glimmer of knowledge, and I felt as if he was a wolf and I a rabbit. I had felt the liquid approaching but was unsure as to how. The tree held my secrets; I suspect the man was aware of this. Let me take you back about 10 years. I was in my early 20’s running from a life of abuse and captivity. In my desperate need for escape, for freedom, I ran to the woods that was warned about in hushed whispers. Looking back, I can see the naivety in my actions; however, I also knew whatever I ran into, even the most feared and hated wood, it was better than where I had been. Once I dashed past the first few layers of the trees the wood enveloped, captivated, enchanted me. Somehow it even guarded my ears from the yells and screams of those who hunted me. This is what the elders of the manor had warned about, this hazed and distant feeling that overcame you once you stepped into the demonic forest. The smell of it drifted into my nose like a warm, muddy day on the farm, but instead of feeling terror the aroma made me feel as if I was being gathered up in the most inviting way. Instinctively, I knew I needed to keep climbing over the roots and stumps to make it deeper into the woodland. With each labored step that took me over branches and gnarled rocks, I was looking upwards towards the sky while tripping here and there. I couldn’t see much of the sky but to me it appeared as a canopy of open dreams. The different hues of green captivated me, they shimmered and shined as the sun leaked through the small cracks between the leaves and branches. It was enough to keep my brain distracted from the conflict growing within me. All my life I was warned that this place was dangerous, that this place would ruin and kill me. As I walked through it, I continued to feel more at peace than I had ever been in the most sacred sanctuaries in our town. This baffled me. According to my teachings I should be terrified now due to the fact that I had traveled for more than a few hours into this forsaken forest. Ironically, I felt the safest I had felt in all my life. I don’t know if the forest protected me or the men had just lost hope of finding me, but eventually I was no longer able to hear the cries of those hunting me. Somehow I knew that it wasn’t just the life of the forest guarding me, the men were truly gone. It felt as if the thick, aqueous, albeit invisible shield that had been protecting me and muffling the noises had disappeared. The most prominent sounds were the wind whistling past the branches and the leaves fluttering in a consuming sound of singing and laughter. Without knowing what the environment and its beings were talking about in the breeze, I could feel they meant me no harm. At the farm the men mostly ventured into the wood to cut down trees for houses, carts, and firewood. They would speak of men being ripped apart by the trees and warn the small children of the dangerous trees. They spoke of trees coming to life and chasing them, murdering them. In my short time in this wood, I did not feel the same terror the men rumored existed. I felt as if the canopy and trunks were opening up and inviting me in. After a few more hours moving towards an unknown destination, I realized I was growing weary after the adrenaline to keep running away from danger had diminished. Coincidentally, it happened at the moment I found a small patch of grass, no bigger than a large bed, beneath five of the most welcoming trees. They were twice my height; bark marbled with whites, browns, and blues; and their swaying branches covered the top of the grass perfectly from any sun poking its way through. I laid down and slept for an unknown amount of time. When I awoke, five trees had become eleven. They appeared to have shifted around me and blocked me in. Their curiosity about my human form was palpable, I am fairly sure humans had never made it this far alive. They were watching me with interest, not malice. “Ummm… hi….. trees”, I eventually squeaked out of my voice box. “Welcome”, their leaves sang in unison in a melodic chorus. I froze. Confused. Did I just hear their leaves talk? “Mhhmmm”, their branches nodded and hummed. Frozen, blank, because my question was not spoken. How can they read my mind? “We are you and you are us” they informed me, but this answered less questions than it created. I must have held a blank, baffled expression. How could these things, these trees be me? How could they be me, I be them, and we be us? This was a confusing moment for me. The trees just continued to sway and dance in the gentle breeze. Still, I felt a complete lack of fear, just confusion. I knew I was still safer here than back on the farm. One of the trees shifted around one of the much larger eleven trees to shyly peer at me with unseen eyes. Needless to say, the humanoid-like movement of the tree caused me to scream like a princess while my vision got very fuzzy and discolored. Next I remember waking up in the lovely soft grass that had somehow grown even plusher. The same tree was bending at the groove where the trunk meets the branches to look down over me. “hhhhhhh——aarrrreeeeeee yooouuuuuu oooooooooook?” The leaves on it breathed in slowly. “Startled, but ok” I told the tree and its leaves. We both looked, if you can call what this tree was doing looking, at each other. I shifted in the grass, sitting up, and looking around to see if the other trees were still there. Nobody else had moved. I didn’t know where to go from here. I didn’t know what to say. The tree broke the silence but instead of speaking aloud I heard him in my heart, or was that my brain? “I want to keep you safe, to protect you always. Let me have your true name to keep within my branches, sealed within my bark, and you will be free of the prison you were sold to”, he pleaded with me in an earnest tone. Without hesitation I told this friendly, young tree, “I believe you, please, take my name”, and so the tree wrapped its branches around me tightly. Its bark sliced into my skin and then itself ripped open. My blood seeped into its sap and its life slipped into me. This is where my true name has been for the last few centuries, that is until the man standing in front of me recently walked into this place. I was simply craving a lovely meal before my journey at the cafe below my lodgings, but this stranger had to make an entrance and an interruption. I watched this man with the jar of thick, golden liquid continues to walk towards me. My face remains flat, emotionless, or at least I hope for the tree’s sake. My concern was about what happened to the tree that chose to have a human as its life mate. Was the tree still alive? Is the tree simply hurt? What happened to my partner? The man clearly hunted me down for a reason, I just hope for his sake the forest is unharmed. The forest was my family after the events in the glade. For the first time in a long time, I do not feel safe. I do not feel safe with my own kind like I did with the supposed frightful wood. “Sit”, he finally demands while waving his hand to a nearby table. I saunter over to the recommended table, and sit at the one next to it instead. A staff member brings a plate of the fluffiest pancakes I had ever seen stacked into four towers, a bowl of scrambled eggs, several bowls of fresh fruit, sausage patties, stacks of toast, sizzling bacon, and freshly churned butter to the table. She sets everything down, lays the place setting with knives, forks, plates, then gives a small curtsy to the man, and swiftly turns and walks away. “Not yet” he commands the young, shaking girl. “Coffee, black for me, some for my guest here, as well as a pitcher of orange juice”, he states without looking at her. She scurries into the kitchen. The man had been leaning on the back of the chair opposite the table from myself. He continued to move the jar of liquid in his hands, never taking his eyes off me. He then steps to the side of his chair and before sitting down, slams the jar on the table causing the plates and bowls to jump off and back down. Nothing spills or falls off the table. He then sits slowly laughing at nothing in particular. “I don’t know about you, but I adore having my pancakes swimming in syrup”, he announces while slowly removing the lid from the jar, “Are you ready to have breakfast, just the two of us? Oh my apologies, three of us” he speaks with wicked pleasure.


I often wonder what others think of me and, whenever I do, it makes me feel anxious. It’s sort of a sinking feeling, where you slowly drown in your insecurities. The best way to avoid this feeling is to be like others because if they see themselves in you, they won’t judge you. I decided to buy a mirror and hang it around my neck so, whenever I meet somebody, they will see themselves. At first the mirror felt uncomfortable but, sort of like glasses, after a while I didn’t even feel it anymore. Almost immediately, my life changed! At parties people actually started speaking to me and those who used to ignore me now wanted to talk to me. Many of these people were also wearing mirrors, and this made me feel more comfortable. I guess I saw myself in them. They reflected my opinions, my taste in clothing, and my sense of humor, and I reflected theirs. “It’s so awesome hanging out with you man,” Andrew excitedly remarked, “we should do this more often!” I’ve known him for a while, however in recent months our friendship suddenly rekindled. We attended many more parties together. One evening, Andrew, myself and a few others were enjoying a few drinks when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a childhood friend entering the bar alone. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen him in so long! That kid is the biggest weirdo ever!” My friend’s remark were followed by laughter, however I didn’t join in. I wanted to go over and say hi, but the weight of my mirror didn’t allow me to move. I wanted to tell my new friends he is a good person, but my mirror prevented me from speaking my mind. I hated this mirror, but I was afraid that if I removed it, I’d be alone again. I wanted to cry right then and there, but my mirror wouldn’t let me. The mirror was getting so heavy I was barely able to stand, so I told the mirror gang “ I’ve got to go home.” I walked outside when, suddenly, I was blindsided by a loud, rambunctious laughter. It was a laughter so pure, it brought me back to my childhood days, when I could laugh for hours without any reason. It brought me back to the days where the joy that created the universe emanated through my eyes and smile. But, although the laughter was so close to me, it couldn’t have been further away from my soul. As I was staring at this group of light hearted adults, something struck me as incredibly odd. It wasn’t that they were all dressed, or acted differently. It was that none of them had a mirror dangling from their necks. One of them connected with my eyes before I could shyly look away, and approached me. “Do you have a cigarette I can borrow?” I always wondered why people used the word borrow for something they wouldn’t return. I gave him the cigarette and struck the liter. “You know, I used to have a mirror as well,” he said, appreciating the cigarette as if it had been years. “What happened to it?” I asked “I slipped once, and the mirror shattered. And not a single person who, all had mirrors, helped me to my feet. I felt crushed at first. But after some time reflecting, I felt a joy I hadn’t felt in years. I no longer worried about fitting in and for the first time, my soul was able to breathe.” “But if I remove it, the people I’ve invested so much time in will leave me,” I said. “You see, that’s what I thought. But you see my friends over there? They were the ones who didn’t help me up that day.


A rook, a bishop, and a knight walk into a bar. Each of them takes a seat as a pawn bartender moves in to take their drink order. "Can I get you something?" The pawn bartender inquires. "Just a beer for me," says the rook. "I'll take a whiskey, neat," the knight says quietly. The bishop surveys the bottles behind the bar, unable to make a decision. "We have a wide choice of vodkas," the Pawn bartender says, attempting to assist. "Oh, I'm not sure. I'm in the mood for something sweet right now. Do you know how to prepare a strawberry daiquiri?" The bishop inquires, eliciting a puzzled expression from the rook and knight. "I suppose I could give it a shot," the pawn bartender admits grudgingly. "You're a lifesaver; I've had myself a day," the fatigued bishop exclaims. The pawn moves about making the drinks, and the knight turns to the other two. "Let's get started; I was walking about in an L pattern, like I usually do, when I spotted something weird. The adversary is moving forward on the right side," the knight elaborates. "Oh my God, I'm going insane. All I can see is what's directly in front of me; I've been staring at a pawn's ass for as long as I can remember," the rook adds, a little uncomfortably. "Calm down, hear me out; I believe we should try to switch sides; we're waging a losing battle," the knight says. "Switch sides? Everything looks fine from my perspective," the bishop says. "Yeah, but you're cross-eyed, you ever noticed that you only move diagonally," the knight says. "It's never been done before; you can't simply switch sides. Don't you have any allegiance to the white king and queen?" The bishop inquires. "I did, but there used to be a second knight, and then I witnessed it, the sacrifice, simply to save the queen after she made a foolish decision. Then it hit me: we don't matter to the monarchy; everything is set up to protect them; what about our lives?" The knight snarls. "We're at war," the bishop continues, "and if the white king and queen prevail, we all win." "I'm not sure about that; there was another rook as well. Then one night, the king approaches him and requests to trade positions, mentioning something about castling. He mistook it for a sexual advance, but he was found dead the next morning," the rook elaborates. "That's what I've been saying, the king could have advanced in any direction, but instead, he put his rook in jeopardy," the knight asserts confidently. "All right, I'll consider this stupid concept for a minute; how do we switch to the other side, genius?" asks the bishop. The knight was about to respond when the pawn bartender returned with their drinks, forcing him to swallow his remarks. "Okay, the rook gets a beer, the knight gets a whiskey, and the bishop wins a daiquiri. Is there anything else I can get you?" The pawn bartender inquires. "Oh God, a dose of insulin for this sweet drink," laments the bishop as he takes a sip from his daiquiri. "Please accept my apologies; that was the first time that drink was ordered here," the pawn bartender acknowledges. "It's alright; evidently, the kingdom will be short of sugar for a while because it's all in my drink," the bishop complains. With a shake of his head, the pawn bartender walks away. The knight checks around to make sure no one is listening in on their conversation before leaning in to discuss it with the bishop and rook. "Okay, you know how we wear white, and the enemy wears black?" The knight inquires. "Don't remind me, bishops around the world get lavish and fancy robes; I'm stuck with this white potato sack," the bishop complains. "Yeah, well, the other day, while on patrol, I killed a bishop and stole his black robe. And shortly before I arrived, I killed a black knight and stole his black uniform. Once we've betrayed our side, we simply start wearing black to show the black side; we're with them now," the knight explains. "So, instead of carrying out our oath, we simply betray our kingdom?" The bishop inquires. "I've seen enough of these conflicts to know that we're going to lose; I knew as soon as I saw pawns sacrificed like candy early on. A king who has no regard for pawns has no regard for anyone but himself," says the knight. "This is making sense; we could be the heroes. We would be regarded as warrior gods if we won the fight for the black side!" The rook says. "All right, I don't want to lose this war as much as you don't; you've persuaded me," the bishop adds. "This is great; when are we going to get the black rook uniform for me?" The rook inquires. The knight gives an uneasy grin. "Here's the thing, we need someone to be sacrificed, so the king and queen don't see it coming," explains the knight. "So, who will be sacrificed?" The rook inquires. "You, you idiot, you're the only one without a black uniform," the bishop says. "Look at it this way," the knight adds, "you'll be recognized as a hero, historians will write books about you, tales will emerge about your sacrifice." "I suppose that would be sort of cool, but how do we go about doing it?" The rook inquires. "We'll begin with the queen. When the black side attacks, I know exactly where the white queen will be. You'll sacrifice yourself, and when the queen believes she's rescued, we'll dress in black and murder the white queen. When the king comes down to see what's going on, we kill him as well," the knight explains. "I like that; everyone knows that queen bish is more powerful than the king anyway," says the bishop, laughing. They finish their drinks and exit the bar. As the black queen enters the white queen's chamber to begin her attack, the rook moves into position directly in front of her. The white rook goes courageously to the right and then forward. The black queen kills the rook in no time at all. Then, the black queen turns her gaze to the white queen, who is terrified since she has no way out; she has been cornered. Suddenly, the white knight and bishop appear and take their places in front of the black queen. The white queen smiles because she knows the knight and bishop will make a sacrifice for her. However, it is at this point that the white knight and bishop don their black clothes and attack the white queen. The black queen looks on, perplexed. The white knight and bishop kill the white queen at the same time. They then bow in front of the black queen. "We are now your devoted servants, my black queen," the white knight declares reverently. The black queen is perplexed and kills the white knight and bishop immediately. The white knight and bishop are instantly transported to a ledge perched high above a chessboard. They notice the white rook. "Hey fellas, how did that go?" the rook inquires as the knight and bishop look on, unhappy. "You said betray the king and queen, you said switch sides, you said we'd be legends," the bishop quips cynically. "Shut up; how long am I going to have to suffer in this hell? This game is taking an eternity!" The knight grumbles as the three remain together in chess purgatory until the war is over.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Note: Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! Don’t forget to leave your feedback each week, it is a *requirement.*** 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 Fallen! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘fallen’. People, kingdoms, and worlds; they all fall. Beliefs, intentions and plans can also fall. How does fallen apply to your world? Take a look back at how pride played out in your story. Will the effects of that lead to one of these people or things falling? Pride can be a very dangerous thing if used the wrong way. Will it lead to a complete collapse? How will that affect the people in the world? Will an unsuspecting character step and take charge? Will everything change? Will things ever go back to the way they were? Maybe this is the breaking moment, sending a ripple through their world and everyone in it. 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 will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. This week only, I will post the next 3 weeks, since my fellow Discorders have voted. * July 11 - Fallen (this week) * July 18 - Dissonance * July 25 - Expectations * August 1 - Balance   ***   #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. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) 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.** 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. * **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 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **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 12pm 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 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 catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord 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! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * 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! *** #Last Week’s Rankings While it was another small week, I am so thrilled to announce that for the first week ever, all participants met their feedback requirements! I’m so proud of y’all. I knew you could do it! Great stories as well. There is a lot of work going into each serial and it’s beautiful. - - u/TenspeedGV   - - u/Xacktar   - - u/GammaGames   - - u/Ahoroar   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


No one likes climbing up an old rickety ladder. I try not to be a pussy, but it scares the shit out of me personally. Holding on anxiously, the grip of your hand tightening just to be safe. Exhaling deeply once your feet find the next raised platform and you near the top. Shit... I should set the scene better; small town vibes, but it’s technically a city, but... it’s not really. It's late, almost midnight. The night sky is striking, the moon's beams flying through the sky. Feeling the chills and breeze of the hour. Climbing up a ladder on top of some office building on the hill in the back of the town, that’s a little sketchy, but you kind of feel cool and dangerous for doing something so rebellious, while at the same time feeling a sense of identity from it. I realize that I'm an 18 year-old alone doing something so disastrously sad but try not to let it bother me. The highway speeds by, bustling life right behind me. I’m a little sheltered by trees and fences. In my own little bubble, my own environment and identity conversing. Behind me society still goes on. I wonder if any of them saw me up on this ladder, what would they think? Suicide? Maybe badass? “He’s not like the other boys” they’d think. I walked up the side steps of this old office space- It’s kind of in nowhere land a mile past downtown- to the second story which is on a raised platform that circles around the sides of the building. One time I was sadly dwelling in this area listening to some music that I like to consider indie and emo, because let’s face it, if there’s not skipping hi-hats and an 808 in the song, you can pretend you have taste. And saw that there was a ladder to the roof. I thought, i’m pretty sad and alone. Maybe if I climb this ladder and check out the view on this roof this experience will be a little more than that and maybe even be special. Also I think, going up there might even be… illegal. Wow! Now people probably know I'm distraught, ooh goody. I did end up going up there, obviously, and was it special? Ehh, who cares. Anyway, now it’s a little thing I do to be edgy. Chill on a roof overlooking town, jamming, enjoy the view’s, romanticize maybe bringing a girl or a group of friends one time with me and having a cool cinematic moment where we smoke, get high, and almost die or something. Now that’s a way to live as an 18 year old right? As the pictured scene above dies out in my head a minute after settling on the roof. Reality tugging on my shoulder incessantly reminding me that I don’t have friends and am rather sitting up on the roof with my tight-nit set of problems instead. There’s something so cruelly refreshing about the night. It’s like, yeah you’re alone... but also, yeah, you’re alone! Everything seems in reach but so hopelessly far away and the moment the big bright ball of reality rises back up, your short vacation of fantasy and idealism is gone and the dread of reality is back up, and now everyone can see you and look at you in all your glorious misery. The day time sucks dick. Another little tid-bit: I like to dress up when I go out alone at night. I’m very hopeless and romantic, but you must respect it. Aesthetic continuity is important, it's a real thing. If you saw Harry styles not in his cool celebrity clothes but instead in your dad's jeans, white air monarchs and a tucked in short sleeve plaid shirt. Fuck he still might look cool but, it’s just different. Whenever I'm actually laying down on the roof, looking up into the stars. Attempting to relax. Anxiety always grabs me by the dick and gives me a fist full. I try not to let it bother me. Why would they have a ladder drilled onto the side of the building as an access to the roof if it wasn’t safe. It had a paneled roof like a regular home would, but it looked dense and solid. I’d been thinking about death a lot, I really wanted to end my life. Anyway, you may be wondering, what’s my problem? Why am I this vampire? Well if I was so vulnerable, open and cheery I wouldn’t be here would I? And if i’m not here, then who am I? So silly of you to ask. If you see a lowlife like me, maybe someone your age, presumably under 30- because at that point I’d just call it- and think what do you do? I’ll give you a rundown. Psycho-analyze them… assume everything and make a game out of it. How many weirdo’s can you guess correctly? I’ve never tested it, but it sounds fun. See how I’m good at making serious things funny and humorous, that’s a sign. I do that a lot. If I were to approach me, well- first off be hot, it’s a disgusting truth but it helps a lot. To be truthful just, be honest. Portray a genuine image of yourself and I think the other will- through the forces of who the fuck know’s- feel that energy and do the same back. We are all so fake- by the way I’m no longer on the roof. I’m now biking down the empty streets to my old middle school. It’s a blissful experience. To be free in your pain. Just the act of riding down a street alone at night, it’s a shedding of some of that pain. It gives me control. I worry about people seeing me out, why should I worry at all? It’s my truth, it’s how I feel. They can go fuck themselves if they judge. LIVE YOUR LIFE. Dishonesty really is a disease, it causes physical pain, mental pain, it ruins lives. It's self inflicted pain too. I never thought I was important enough to be truthful to people just because my life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. So I was fake to everyone, so no one ever knew me, and I stayed alone. I enjoy biking down the halls of my old middle school listening to radio head, but it’s a process of healing, sometimes it feels like self-condemnation. It’s not really a choice either. I’ll be up late distraught and unfulfilled, seemingly locked inside the box of my house, desperate for any way to release my displeasure. I’ll usually look for drug’s- I never have any- then I’ll decide I need to get the fuck out of this house. Exploring the old campus, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of these room’s. I used to go here… I used to be here 5 times a week. I was a lot shorter back then. I have to wonder how my old teachers are doing. Living the teacher's life most likely. Whatever that is. Teacher’s actually have it pretty good, yell at kids, joke around with a bunch of dumbasses. You could also just be overtly cruel and that’s totally cool too. The spectrum of teacher’s is quite a spectrum: you have the god’s, the ones who are precious and amazing, and also those that seem more fictional and cruel than Michael Scott as CEO of dunder mifflin. I had a favorite teacher in High School, she was great. She had a daughter that was a freshman in my senior year which was a weird twist. When your weird short sort of nerdy english teacher’s daughter is a self described influencer on instagram and is almost the epitome of the white girl tik tok influencer culture it’s just a weird thing. No shame or anything, I just grew close with that teacher, she helped me a lot. Near the parking lot of the school the flagpole kept making a loud bang. It was scaring the shit out of me. The harness for the flag, a great assistant to patriotism everywhere wouldn’t shut the fuck up and was being blown by the wind towards the pole and smacking it. I don’t know how American that is. Anyhow, with any flash of light I’m scared it’s a person, It’s around 1am at a middle school so I usually presume it’s merely my manly anxieties behind the thought. Until I saw some girl walking up a hall. Now normally you see a girl, you run, right? Well I've put the practice into strategy before but my hope was that she wasn’t normal, because she was here. I’ve never really identified with normal, I’ve so wanted to but normal is scary. I don’t know how to communicate with it. She was walking up the hall in black stone washed jeans, her legs dragging slightly. A green beanie on, and an oversized flannel. I gave it a second of thought and quickly decided to not talk to the random girl. Who the fuck walks around a middle school campus alone past midnight. Jesus christ women. See atleast im riding a bike, it’s a more explainable activity. I did pass by her though. Anyone else get the dilemma of whether to look at someone's face when you're walking by them? I’ll be honest, I'm not the perfect picture, I'm no mona lisa. As far as I can tell I’m in the mid-tier of fuckable, which is a weird tier to be in. It’s like is it a yes or no? Why is it a niche thing, where if there’s alcohol and someone feels pitiful towards me it’s a yes, but if it’s a more normal encounter it’s a no. I decided to look at this girl in the face. I'll admit she wasn’t cute at all. I need to complain about that because if this is my coming of age film why the fuck is random weirdo girl coincidentally walking the halls at the same time as me this late at night not fucking hot. It’s bullshit, I’ve said it many times but once again I've found proof that there is no god. I did get a whiff of weed as I passed her though. I’ve had a few interactions with the substance, don’t mean to come off as a total badass, but I’ve been in the vicinity before, I’ve taken a few hit’s. And the idea struck me to go approach her and ask if I could hit her usb port or whatever the fuck. Of course The Smith’s was playing in my ear’s which is literally the soundtrack to being alone and desperate at night. Which convinced me that weed is what I need. So I turned back around and peddled towards her. “Hello” I whispered… (anxiety) She pulled out her earbuds which reminded me to do the same. “Uhh.. hi?” I stuck my hand out, and about 5 seconds after I realized I had my hand out. I then asked myself why I had my hand out… I couldn’t give myself an answer and pulled my hand back in then put it into my pocket, as smooth and cool as I could. “Any chance I could smoke whatever it is you're smoking?” “Wow, ok, sure. What are you doing out here.” “Ohh you know” “I really don’t” “Ok well what the fuck are you doing out here?” “I live like a couple blocks away. I just can’t smoke in my house” “Well, that makes a lot of sense. So you have friends and stuff? Your life isn’t in shambles i'm assuming. Right?. Right?” “Um, yeah.” “Wow. Ok, that's good I suppose”.... “So can I get the pen or whatever your smoking” She nodded and handed it over to me. “Just don’t run it dry, only a hit or two” “Don’t worry about that I’m biking home and I’m a bitch boy- I have no tolerance at all.” Quick mental confession: not that I keep this a secret, but my mouth doesn’t work that well. Atleast that’s one reason I give to why I haven’t made out or smoked a lot. I think she could tell because the look she gave me while I was hitting her pen was… distinct? Smoking is supposed to have a cool aesthetic to it. You breathe out the smoke into the air and hold it all french and shit. In her head she was thinking that I was holding her pen like I was about to rub one out of it into my mouth. I sucked that shit in and exhaled it like a dragon. Which if you smoke, then you know is poor technique. So I started coughing loud as shit. My chest was feeling it too, i’m still of course playing it cool and sly, because that’s what I am, of course. “FUCK YOU SATAN” I yelled- it fit with the coughing “JESUS” “Sorry for that, I'm a bit of a zealot. Jesus too I guess.” … “Well thanks for that I’ll be on my way. Busy day, busy life.” I walked away “Peace” she said. What is this world, who raised these kids? I didn’t even get her name, better yet who wrote this ‘story’? I never have that good a time when I’m high. Maybe I'm semi allergic because my chest always has a meltdown. My noggin will be feeling pretty nice and all but my chest will be squeezing itself to shit. So it only took me ten minutes to be feeling that little symptom. It got me thinking about shit and how I often want to lose my shit. I’m not referencing a hard fought battle with constipation against the belligerent bile. I mean lash out, do something crazy- now I want a drink too. I’m not saying that it's crazy, I just want one. The crazy part would be posting on instagram writing something vaguely suicidal, maybe extremely edgy. There’s one thing I find that I have in common with hitler, I want to die by blowing my own brain’s out with a gun. It’s not funny though, it’s a very lame joke. The only problem with lashing out, such as writing some possessed semi-platonic message to some girl referencing all the shit I deal with then regretting for months, is that I’ll still be alive most likely. Then I’m just embarrassed and alive, which isn’t positive. Fuck it. I’ll do it right now. I'm calling this girl that I’ve been talking to. To preface, I’m neither straight nor horny. Take that what thou wilt. As Shakespeare famously wrote. This girl's name is… well I don’t want to expose her so I’ll give her a fake name. Her name is going to be Sam. She’s beautiful, she’s an artist, she’s radiant, and I don’t think she’s normal, which is great. She has an amazing eye for aesthetic, she’s so fucking cool, I want to talk to her every fucking second and drive around listening to music all night with her. I think she’d understand me, I think she’d get me. Probability reason’s the opposite, so are my anxieties. What to do. Stay alone in my void or try to do something. Times are always ticking. It won't be next month, but next year if I’m still alive something will’ve changed dramatically in my life. I’m the most nihilistic fucker I know so the former is more believable. I’m starting to get angry. “Fuck.” I mumble Louder! Then again louder. I can’t do this. I can’t drop my baggage on this girl. What am I going to tell her, the truth? It doesn’t change it. My weight is my weight, It feels attached to me. Clay brick’s surgically inserted into me. All indicators point to say nothing. I can’t do it, I just can’t. She won’t get it. She won’t get my sickness or my depression or my torment or my misery. This world needs to be lonely, it needs to feel fickle and futile. It borders even family, it border’s everyone but me. There’s a permanent port of exit and entry. They keep everyone out there and wont let me step a toe outside those lines. It’s only a matter of time before I end it all, because I don’t think anyone will understand, and I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The only energy to motivate me otherwise is that of desperation, and it gets me right to that check point, before nihilism and dread and anxiety gush me over with the perfect amount of poison to keep me trapped for another day.


/////First Submission, howdy y'all!///// “Miranda, this is control, how are we looking?” Miranda was chewing on her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration as she focused on steadying her trembling hands. “I’m fine control, just… just being extra cautious.” “Roger, take your time captain.” She rolled her eyes, but out here there was no one to see it. Take your time, captain. No worries, captain. The whole world is watching, captain. She bit her tongue though, in no small part because she knew every word would be recorded and memorialized for all time. She took a glance at the heads-up display projected on her helmet’s visor - Aside from slightly elevated heart rate and blood pressure readings, everything was green. She let out part of the breath she was holding, then focused in on her hands again. She was still holding the long, braided polymer cable that connected her to her only lifeline. She looked back over her shoulder at the Herald, which she’d landed about sixty yards away. She could see that the cord - and all of the anchor points she’d placed along her path so far - were secure. The small landing pod was scarcely big enough for the measuring equipment it carried, let alone the sole occupant expected to travel down to the surface with it. But beyond it, hovering silent in the void of space, was the vast bulk of the Ascendant, the pride of the United Planetary Navy’s research fleet. Sleek lines and polished white bulkheads reassured her that she was far from alone out here, despite how it felt inside her tiny space suit. She returned to her work, retrieving another alloy stake from the toolbox she’d brought with her. She clipped her tether into the loop of the stake and then set it against the rocky surface of the asteroid beneath her feet. After ensuring that her mag-boots were set to maximum strength she swung the heavy tungsten hammer she carried. The impact drove the stake in easily, while nearly lifting her from the surface. Thankfully, her boots held. She gave the stake a firm tug and, when it refused to budge, bent to retrieve her tools and instruments. “Control this is Miranda. Stake six embedded, proceeding to target.” “Roger, good copy.” Minutes ticked by in silence as she worked her way painstakingly across the harsh, rocky surface. Yard by yard, stake by stake, she made her way to what her team had dubbed ‘the entrance.’ Finally, she’d made it. A short distance before her stretched a perfectly circular void in the rock. She looked at the lip of the hole as she drew nearer and was in awe of the razor sharp, impossibly precise edge. Her in-suit sensors did a quick scan of the opening and confirmed what she already knew. The circle was perfect, variance was 0.00% along the entire shape. No mortal instrument could have crafted such perfection, she’d seen laser drills less precise. She activated her mapping software and a wire diagram projected itself over the hole, measuring it’s diameter and depth in an instant. It was 31.4 feet across and… that couldn't be right. Her diagnostics weren’t giving her a stable depth reading. The number simply kept growing until it blanked out. eRR. She rebooted the program. eRR. “Uh, control, I’m getting some odd readings here.” “We’re tracking, captain, running shipboard diagnostics on your suit. Standby” Standby. Miranda quirked an eyebrow, what else was she going to do, pack it in? She was by herself on a rock floating in outer space. Of course she was going to stand by. “Suit is reading green across the board, you’re good to proceed.” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “Roger, good copy control.” Miranda closed the last few feet and was greeted at last with the reason they’d come all this way. The hole emitted a pale blue light that washed over her as she leaned out over the edge. Not so far as to risk falling, but enough to get a good look. Instantly her suit’s communications suite spiked. Every band, every channel, every signal that humanity had learned to listen for jumped clear off the charts. Tiny alert lights and warning indicators populated her heads-up display, prompting her to take a few steps back. They quieted instantly. This was it then. The Source. Fifty-four years ago, before the United Planetary Navy was even a pipe dream, humanity had suddenly and loudly been informed that they weren’t alone. At 7:31 PM GMT, on April 12th of 2066, every communications satellite, television set, and computer on Earth had been bombarded with… everything. The signal had been strong enough to blot out every form of communication on the planet, and had lasted exactly six minutes. Within days, world governments had convened a series of special meetings, and within weeks the signal had been traced here. To this otherwise unremarkable piece of interstellar space. All the world's instruments were trained on this spot and the scientific community was baffled to find this, a completely stationary asteroid, alone in space billions of miles away from anything else. It shouldn’t exist, it couldn’t exist. And yet it did. What’s more, the signal remained. It no longer drowned out the earth but it shone, a steady beacon to those who were listening. The Source galvanized mankind, revealing to all the world that the issues which had for so long divided them were petty, trivial compared to the knowledge that something was out there. Work was done in decades that would have taken individual nations centuries to accomplish, progress and innovation flourished as never before. All leading to this moment. “Miranda, do you read us?” She blinked, her eyes dry, unsure just how long she’d been standing, staring off into space. “Sorry, yes, I read you control.” “Thank God, we thought something had gone wrong,” the voice said, clearly relieved. “What happened? We lost all comms with you.” “The signal flood projecting from the entrance is too powerful for my suit, it overloaded everything, please advise.” Silence. “Control?” “Standby, captain.” God how she hated that phrase. Miranda waited as patiently as she could as seconds turned to minutes. “Captain?” “Yes, control, I’m here.” “Captain, this is Admiral Colin Reeves, UPN Commander.” Miranda’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her flippant response, this was one of the most important men in the world, he’d designed most of the equipment she wore. “Y-Yes sir!” “I’m talking to you now not as a superior officer, but as a fellow human being. We don’t know how this ends, we don’t know what happens in that hole. No one can rightly ask you to go down there, knowing you’ll be totally isolated. We can pull you back, consider other options. No one would fault you for-” “I’m good, sir.” She surprised even herself. She hoped her voice was steady and cleared her throat to speak again. “Sir, I’m ready. I’m here. I’ll do it.” “Then Godspeed captain, we’re all behind you.” Miranda heard a faint beeping and noted mentally that her heart rate was in the yellow, 130 beats per minute. She silenced the alert and closed her eyes, focusing solely on her breathing. After a few moments she opened her eyes again and stepped to the very edge of the entrance. She hammered one last stake into the ground, clipped on her tether, and then leaned forward over the opening. With her mag boots on max, she could walk down the edge of the tunnel with relative ease, so she took a tentative step down into the unknown. She held tight to her tether with one hand as she made her way down the tunnel. She felt the familiar tug of gravity as she approached the light below. That wasn’t possible either, this tiny asteroid should have had such a negligible gravity field that she shouldn’t have felt a thing. She grew closer, and it grew stronger. As she approached, she could see a thin membrane, like the surface of a massive bubble. It was the source of the light and, theoretically, the signal stream as well. She could see herself reflected in the shimmering surface as she got closer. She looked at her HUD, everything was still normal. No temperature spikes, no unusual radiation, just the mass of communications signals and the strong gravimetric anomaly. She was a foot away now, maybe less, and the gravity was strong enough that she felt as though she were suspended from the sky, hanging out over the pool of light and mystery. A moment of fear passed through her heart, chilling her briefly. But how could she give up now? She took a breath, closed her eyes, and fell forward into the unknown.


#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, a theme word, a 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: **Sentence: The door hadn’t been there yesterday.** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **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 spotlights. - **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.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **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. - 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 and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write to submit nominations!   ***   #Spotlights: Two Weeks Ago I sure had my work cut out for me, catching up on two weeks worth of stories! You guys consistently surprise me with your unique interpretations of the theme and your creativity. Fantastic job over the last two weeks. And a double thank you to everyone who joined in for our Campfire today. I couldn’t have done it without you. ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/jimiflan ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - - Submitted by u/ravenight #Spotlights: Last Week ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/Leebeewilly ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/Thetallerestpaul - - Submitted by u/Dunyazatde   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Amy sits on a park bench across the street from The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry, a diet organization that her sister joined over six months ago. Amy is suspicious as she observes individuals come and go with some sort of prescription. The issue is that her sister, Kerri, joined the organization and then subsequently devoted her entire life to them. Kerri had separated entirely from her life, disowning her family, blowing off her friends, and spending long periods of time working for the Sisterhood. Amy had a sneaking suspicion that the Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry was a cult. Amy spotted Kerri walking down the street a few weeks ago; when Amy approached her, Kerri brushed her off, calling her a "sabotager." To the organization's credit, Kerri looks great; she's shed about 50 pounds, is healthy, and even appears younger! But Amy can't get her mind off the feeling that something isn't quite right with that organization. In her research, she discovered other stories similar to her sister's: of people who wanted to lose weight but ended up disowning everyone in their lives and now work for the diet organization. Amy devised a plan and spent the last few weeks bingeing on cheesecake, burgers, and pizza, gaining over ten pounds in the process. She was going to The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry to gather the dirt she needed to persuade her sister to leave. Amy walks into the building; encounters the sound of soothing music, and is met by a young, skinny, supermodel-looking woman. "Welcome to The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry; how may we assist you today?" The receptionist says. "I'd want to join your weight loss program," Amy adds, looking around for Kerri, who isn't there. "Of course, we provide a free evaluation of your mental, physical, and metaphysical health. I'll have one of our sisters bring you back for a closer look," she says as two more supermodel women accompany Amy into the back. Amy waits in one of the most luxurious exam rooms she's ever seen. Another supermodel appears, this time a doctor. Amy was subjected to a battery of examinations, including a physical examination, a psychiatric evaluation, and, for some reason, an algebra exam. They give her a complimentary bottle of their supplements at the end of the examination; this is the prescription she'd seen folks leave the facility with the other day. As she walks back to her apartment, she mulls about whether she should take the supplements. All she could think about was Kerri; if she wanted to find out what was going on, she needed to join the cult. Amy took the prescription as directed, and the pills tasted just like her favorite foods. Amy began to lose weight, eliminate wrinkles and other symptoms of aging, and develop abs, which was surprising given that she hadn't exercised since the Clinton administration. Amy remained determined, and the moment had come to gather some dirt on this group. She needed to refill her prescription, so she had to return to the office. This time, to refill her prescription, she had to participate in a group discussion with other organization members. They used no names, like Alcoholics Anonymous, members had to resign themselves to a higher authority; in this case, The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry was that higher power. Finally, Amy saw a hint that this was indeed a cult, and her suspicions became confirmed. Amy feigned she needed to use the restroom before darting out into the on-site dormitories, where she knew her sister might be. She kicks down the doors one by one. Every room has a supermodel, but none of them are Kerri. An alarm can be heard as Amy goes on a rampage, but she isn't getting anywhere. Amy resorts to her final option and pulls out a gun as security closes in. "I need to see my sister, Kerri, right now!" Amy insists. Three supermodel physicians appear and attempt to calm her down. "Of course, we'll get your sister Kerri right away," one of the supermodel doctors offers. "...and, give me some more of those pills, they made my underarm fat disappear, and they were delicious," Amy states. "I'll get you some right away," offers another supermodel doctor. Amy needed to validate her concerns; she knew this was a cult and that brainwashing took place. "Hey you, Brooklyn Decker's twin sister doctor," Amy remarked to the last remaining supermodel doctor, "show me to where you keep the files." "Of course, follow me," the supermodel doctor replies as she walks Amy to the main office. Amy sifts through their files, looking for the proof she needs to persuade her sister to leave this place for good. Unfortunately for Amy, the only thing she discovered was that The Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry was a highly benevolent organization. They created a fitness schedule for orphans, gave celluloid cream to veterans, and sent exercise equipment to Africa for overweight elephants. Amy had about finished going through every file in the office and had discovered nothing when her sister Kerri arrived. "Amy, what are you doing?" Kerri asks as she walks into the now-trashed office. "This is a cult, and you must escape. I know that evil is going on here," Amy tries to convince. "What are you talking about? It's just a weight-loss clinic; everyone here is polite, friendly, and looks like they belong on the cover of a swimsuit magazine," Kerri elaborates. "I miss you, Kerri; why did you abandon me?" Amy inquires. "Every time I came over to your place, you just offered me junk food, sugary drinks, or sweets. I couldn't be around you anymore; you are what does Sisterhood of the Perpetually Hungry call a sabotager," Kerri explains. "But I miss you; I'm always unhappy because you're not here," Amy explains. "Why don't you join us? You can join my team; we stand outside TGI Fridays, Applebee's, and Denny's and hand out cards to people who ordered too much," Kerri explains. "Do they really want me?" Amy inquires. "Without a doubt. Not to mention that if you work here, you get free prescription refills. We're going to all have six-pack abs!" Kerri exclaims with zeal. Amy and her sister hug as the supermodels around them applaud the touching moment. Two supermodels are hidden behind one-way glass, opposite the main office mirror. "Look at that, another soldier in our army," exclaims one supermodel. "Yes, it's only a matter of time before we take over the world. Hail Satan," the other supermodel says.


I scroll through pictures I’ve backed up from my phone. I have thousands, but in every lineup there are pictures of my boys throughout my myriad of randomness. Every grouping they grow subtly, nearly invisibly to the normal eye. But I see it. I see the time between. I’m gone so much. They say parents never see their children actually grow, age, get bigger and smarter because they are with them nearly every day of their growing lives. I see my two boys grow every time I see them. They are three and five, almost four and six and I have been away from them for the majority of their lives. I watch them grow from a distance. I am more lucky than my father who did not have video chat and the technology of worldwide instant communication that we have today, but that’s a tiny grace in the life of an absent father. I get to see them age through pictures or a phone screen. Every time I interact with them is a joyous heartbreak. Every time I delve through my photo vault I am reminded of how much I love and miss them, how much of their lives I miss and memories of theirs I will never be a part of. Their first steps and words, a loving story passed to me by my best friend and love, my wife. They’ve hit the age where memory sticks, and I’m terrified of their memories without me. I hope they are happy, I know they are given so much love… but do they truly feel my love from a distance and through a screen? I remember my life growing up without my father present, and that put a huge gap in my heart that took me most of my life to figure out and fix who I am because of it. Am I doing that to my boys? Will they carry this hole for the majority of their lives? Will they perceive my absence as a loving sacrifice or will they see me as the father who was never there for their scrapes and problems? Another photo, another memory of a time I was there and the painful stab of reality that I am yet again viewing these from a distance. I try to pass on wisdom from afar. I try to bribe their love with boxes and mailed gifts from around the globe. One day I will be there, but they will be too old to sit on my lap, to cuddle with me the way a toddler can. That warm pure innocent embrace without specific memory. They are passing the sweet innocence of childhood into their cognitive years and I am never there to directly shape and sculpt their personalities. I try to lie to myself and believe that I do this for them, I do this to provide for them and give them a life of opportunity, meals that aren’t ramen and broth soup. College funds to give them the option of an education if they so choose that route. Money doesn’t buy happiness but it does provide for an easier start and an easier life. I try to believe that I am not there in order to provide that opportunity most children don’t have. I hope everyday that I’m not making excuses for my own mind, but I know the truth and know that there is a part of life that cannot be replaced with the provisions of an absent father. I think of them every day, I miss them every day, and I’m torn on the reciprocal. I want them to miss me, but I don’t want them to feel the pain of missing me. I want them to be amazing people and shape society for the better, but understand that in doing so, they will have been able to build that strong foundation without me. They will be great men, and I fear that I will not have been a part of that foundation.